Milk It, Girlfriend!
Welcome home, Maddie-Moo! Now we really have something in common besides both being girls: nasty scars of our very own! I have made mine my friend. I see it every day, say hi to it. Yo, scar….wassuuuuup? Can I get you anything? Some vitamin E oil, maybe? You’ll be happy to know that it doesn’t speak back to me. I’m pretty certain yours won’t either. But, hey, it’s all yours, baby girl; so if you want to talk to it, you go right ahead.
Now, listen up, home-kitty, your wise ole’ auntie has a wee bit of advice on how you can milk this surgery thing for all it’s worth. You probably won’t ever get another sweet opportunity like this any time soon and time is of the essence since you’ll be up and kickin’ it in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.
Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t about whining or torturing your parents into getting you a flat screen T.V. or an i-Pod Touch. It’s about gently persuading those around you to wait on you hand and foot, feed you grapes, scratch your back, fluff your pillows, and fetch your fuzzy slippers, stuff like that. It’s simple. It’s all in the eyes and it will serve you well when you become a w-o-m-a-n.
Here’s how it goes; you see something you need, let’s say, in your case…. a big frosty glass of 2% milk (after all, you are from Illinois and you are still a kid). You’re flat on your back and you don’t want to get up. You simply look around for the nearest human, stare them down until they look your way (which they will because humans become uncomfortable when stared at) then make your move. Widen those baby blues to the size of saucers while simultaneously turning down the corners of your mouth ever so slightly. If you can coax your peepers to water a bit, then you’re golden. You don’t even need to speak; people will come rushing to your side straightaway. But don’t forget to croak out a weak “thank you”. It will set you up nicely for the next time. But more importantly, minding your manners while you’re manipulating is mandatory. That’s my charm school motto. Feel free to us it.
I have to tell you – my little sugar beet – that you are one brave cookie and I am achingly proud of you and wish I could be there to hang in your groovy upstairs bedroom and talk fashion but things just happened too darn fast. You know I love you to pieces and yes…okay…fine! I love your sister, too! But please give her a poke and tell her to pipe down. I can hear her corn-fed lips flapping all the way out here on the Left Coast! Geez!!!
P.S. Now don’t you worry about that hair business. Short is the new long!