Denise's Great Idea

Like most girls that grew up in the 80's and early 90's, I was a huge fan of the "Babysitter's Club" book series by Ann M. Martin for much of my youth. I first discovered them at the end of 3rd grade, when I randomly picked up a hardcover copy of "The Truth About Stacey" at the library. I instantly became enamored with these glamorous teenagers and the awesome adventures they had. I was already a fan of reading, but after getting into the series, I immediately became a huge, unapologetic, nerdy bookworm. I'd never be seen without a book, and nine times out of ten I'd be holding onto a BSC novel. My parents would comment about how I always had my nose in a book. I felt like they were nagging me, but I think they were relieved. Every month I'd beg them to take me to Target or Wal Mart so I could spend my hard earned allowance on the latest title. I'd be giddy with excitement every time I realized a new series (Super Specials, Mysteries, etc) would come out. I knew the characters as well as I knew myself.

Of course, like all good things, I eventually grew out of the series. By sixth grade I moved on to R.L. Stines' "Fear Street" collection, and my huge stacks upon stacks of BSC books got pushed to the back of my closet to make room for horror stories about people falling and their heads making a sound like the "cracking of an egg."

I hadn't put much thought into the BSC lately until I wandered around a local used book store the other day. Like my trips to my local record store, I only go to the book store once ever few months, but when I do, I spend hours searching every corner to find a few old gems. While perusing the nonfiction section, I noticed a small closet-like cubby of children's books. On one shelf was a huge stack of BSC books. Instantly amused, I picked them all up. They were only a dollar, after all. When the girl behind me in line side eyed me and asked if they were for me, I lied and said they were for my niece. I didn't need any literary snobs judging me.

When I got home, I began to feel the same giddiness and excitement I felt as a child when I checked out a fresh copy at the library. I thought reading them would be a nostalgic, if not hilarious, trip back to my youth. Maybe after getting into a few chapters I'd suddenly find a flood of childhood memories coming back to me. In a span of three hours, I read a book I'm pretty positive I never read as a child ("Dawn and Little Miss Stoneybrook"), one I definitely read a zillion times as a child ("Welcome Back, Stacey!"), one I probably read as a child but don't have any real definitive memory of ("Jessi and the Superbrat") and one that came way after my time ("Krisy's Worst Idea").

Unfortunately, I soon realized that it's just a bunch of bull shit about stupid teenagers who act/speak/think nothing like real 13 year olds, and shitty brats they all love an uncomfortable amount. It didn't have the same lulz or imagination that I remembered as an eight year old. I was so disillusioned with the contrived writing, that I continued reading only for the opportunity to try to pinpoint the exact time when everything went wrong in my life. Or has my adult cynicism just ruined the last of my youthful innocence?

By the way, fuck you, Ann M. Martin. I will never forgive you for giving me a completely distorted and medically inaccurate depiction of diabetes. You know what you did.