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I have a weakness for cute things. Especially girly cute things. I don’t remember my first exposure to Sanrio’s Hello Kitty, but I know it was love at first sight--not have-Hello Kitty-officiate-at-my-wedding-like-they-do-in-Japan love, but a deep-seated affection nonetheless. In the late ‘70s, when I was eleven, our local strip mall got a kiosk-sized storefront dedicated to things Sanrio. I almost went into diabetic shock from the sweet adorableness of every single thing in the shop. There were pencils, erasers, socks, earrings, keychains, and all manner of other precious wee things in the shape of or patterned with that cute red-bowed feline or her friends. Since I started at nine earning my own money housecleaning and babysitting, I was fortunate enough to make a few select purchases. And my favorite item was a see-through, plastic Hello Kitty purse. I was so excited to take it to school that I didn’t consider what the reaction would be. Here’s how the math went: No one else had a plastic purse, I didn’t get whatever gene makes a person cool enough to pull off starting a trend, and mocking ensued. It actually still stings a little after three decades. But, a year later, one of the girls who did get that elusive popularity gene started carrying a plastic purse and then they were everywhere. I still don’t get it. In Robert Munsch’s Stephanie’s Ponytail, Stephanie has the opposite problem--everyone copies everything she does when she wants to be unique. Maybe our therapists are friends.

http://www.amazon.com/Stephanies-Ponytail-Classic-Munsch-Robert/dp/1550374842

http://www.indiana.edu/~reading/ieo/bibs/munsch.html

After weeks of subsisting on energy drinks and rice cakes, my body's been craving fresh fruit or vegetables, maybe even a tomato, which I hate, but that's how strong the craving's been.

I lucked out tonight, pulling into a fast food joint that I didn't know had salads. Pre-made, but still, Gorgonzola, cranberries, sunflower seeds, and vinaigrette--what else do you need? Maybe one of those corn bread rolls. I love corn bread.

Leaning toward the cashier, I asked, "How much--"

"The corn bread comes with the salad," he said.

My jaw dropped. This guy was a mind reader. "How did you know I was going to ask that?"

He laughed. "You kept looking at the pan!"

Nonverbal cue! Body language!

Let me rewrite the last part of the scene:

I lucked out tonight, pulling into a fast food joint that I didn't know had salads. Pre-made, but still, Gorgonzola, cranberries, sunflower seeds, and vinaigrette--what else do you need? Maybe one of those corn bread rolls. I love cornbread.

I tilted my head, searching the pan for the biggest roll. Then a different server moved in and swiped the last few. Oh man! The pan was empty.

It's way to early to run out, I thought. They have to make more. I looked up and scanned the menu to see how much a roll cost. Corn bread . . . corn bread . . . corn bread--couldn't find it.

Leaning toward the cashier, I asked, "How much--"

"The corn bread comes with the salad," he said.

My jaw dropped. This guy was a mind reader. "How did you know I was going to ask that?"

He laughed. "You kept looking at the pan!"

Talk about wearing your heart on your sleeve (in this case, my stomach)! This fast food worker reminded me once again of the power of nonverbal cues. It's amazing how much we reveal without uttering a word. We can lend this sort of impact to our characters, make them real actors, not just talking heads.

In any case, I always give myself away. I blush easily and startle with a big shake and a Whoop! Don't even ask me to play poker. I know better.