print-friendly version	MIDDLE SCHOOL, SPRING 2003, SEATTLE

Miss Faith Proctor

The Perils of Pampering
Faith’s Day at the Spa
—by j.k.pulles

Never again! I have never in my life been subjected to such torture. Faith Proctor here again to tell you about my day at the spa. You may remember that after leaving my rural Massachusetts home to meet my distant relatives in Washington, D.C., I encountered a great many wonderful things in your modern cities. I've already told you about my fascinating trip to the mall. Well, after visiting the mall, my cousin Melody told me that our next visit should be to the spa. She said, "What use are our great new clothes with- out a makeover?" Eager to try all of the exciting things the city had to offer, I quickly agreed to a "makeover."

We entered Vittorio 's the next morning. They sent us to a beautiful lounge, where a woman handed us robes and sandals. Immediately Melody began removing her blouse! I gasped and said, "Melody! Have you brought me to a house of ill repute? I will not be a part of this!" Melody laughed and explained that we were supposed to undress and put on the robes and sandals. Imagine! Walking around in front of strangers in your bathrobe! I nearly ran right out of Vittorio 's for fear that my virtue was in danger. Melody finally convinced me to stay, so I reluctantly put on the robe and sandals. Clutching the robe tightly around me, we left the lounge and entered a small white room with two tables. After a moment, two men came in the room and handed us each a white bedsheet. They then asked us to remove our robes and lie on the tables. "I knew it!" I shouted. "This is a brothel! And to think, you even expect us to make the beds! I have never in my life been treated with such disrespect!" Melody grabbed me and calmly explained that these men were professionals. They expected us to lie on the tables and cover ourselves with sheets. They would then lay their hands on us and make our sore muscles feel better. "Oh!" I said. "I under- stand. This is that new religion -hands-on healing. My Mama told me about these people. Well, I 'm not going to change my religious beliefs, but I suppose if these men are men of the cloth it would be okay for me to remove my robe." An hour later I was completely relaxed and willing to consider this new religion!

It was only then, after they had lured me in, taken my clothes, and relaxed all of my muscles, that the torture began. Melody and I were ushered into another small room with several reclining chairs. Two women entered the room and asked us to sit in the large, comfortable chairs. One of the women approached me and began to put a hot, sticky glue on my face. "What is that?" I asked. The woman told me it was wax! "Wax!" I gasped. "You 're making me into a human candle. This is a human sacrifice! Run, Melody, run!" I couldn't understand why Melody just sat there. Laughing, the woman told me to please sit back down. She said she was simply removing hair from my face. I sat back in the chair, still not completely understanding what was about to happen. After applying more hot wax to my face the woman grabbed strips of paper and put them on top of the wax. After a moment, the woman told me to relax and, grabbing the edge of the paper, she ripped it from my face. "AAAAAH!" I shrieked. "Why are you doing this to me? I will not succumb to your torture—I will not join your religion!" I struggled to get out of the chair, but the woman kept applying the horrible hot wax. I passed out as she began applying the hot wax above my eyes.

I woke up some time later in a dim room with my feet in a toilet. Reclining in a large, leather chair, I was surrounded by hundreds of tiny bottles of colored liquid. A woman came into the room and told me she was going to give me a "pedicure." "A pedicure? A cure? Oh thank you! Finally, something to soothe me after that excruciating hot wax torture!" She sat down on a small stool in front of my feet. She pushed a button and the toilet started to gurgle and swirl. I jerked my legs up and away from the flushing toilet. The woman asked me to please put my feet back in the water. "No thanks," I said. "I've already been covered in glue and I don 't want my feet sucked into a toilet." The woman looked at me strangely but agreed to turn it off. Once the swirling stopped, I slowly lowered my feet back into the water. Just then the woman pulled open a drawer and began to remove shiny silver scalpels and scissors from the drawer. It was then I realized her diabolical plan. I jumped from the chair, pushed the woman down, and ran screaming through the hall. The woman began to chase me with her torture instruments. Slipping and sliding on wet feet, I searched frantically for the exit. Turning left and right, down hallway after hallway, I finally saw a sign that said, "Tranquillity Pond, this way." I was sure that was the answer. The sign would lead me back to the nice men of the cloth from the white room and they would help me. I heard the woman behind me, calling my name. Faster and faster I ran, bursting through the door to the Tranquility Pond and flying headlong into a pool of mud. Mud splashed all around me covering the woman and one of the religious men standing over the pond. I was mired in a pond of mud, but for the first time in weeks, I felt at home.

Well, I 'm willing to try almost anything once, but once was enough for me. No more hands-on healing, hot wax torture, or gurgling foot toilets for me. I'll stick to beauty the old-fashioned way—with a pinch to the cheek and a touch of powder to the nose.

In Other Words...
Mistress Goody’s Column of Advice on subjects other than politics and war.
Respectfully based on the Rules of Civility
—by t. powell harris

In 1745, in the colonial frontier town of Fredericksburg, Virginia, thirteen-year-old George Washington recorded The Rules of Civility in his workbook, probably as a dictation exercise. These “guidelines for the respectable gentleman” would influence him throughout his life, guiding him in both social and professional situations. Translations and variations abound, but all stress etiquette, chivalry, and courtesy, often rather elusive concepts in the 21st century.

	Mistress Goody

Fortunately, there is one who understands the rules well; in fact, she still recommends their use today. Let us recall a character from the past to offer advice on life, love, and learning. We give you the “Toast of George Town”—our own Mistress Goody, always informed, always respectable, and very, very good.

Mistress Goody,
There’s this really cool group of kids that I want to hang out with. Sometimes they do mean things to people. Like once I know they broke into a teacher’s car. They didn’t take anything. It was just a practical joke, sort of. My mom says I shouldn’t want to be associated with anyone who might lead me into trouble one day, but I think it’s all about a little fun. What do you say?

Rule 56: Associate yourself with men of good quality if you esteem your own reputation. For ’tis better to be alone than in bad company.

I think you get Mistress Goody’s point!

Mistress Goody,
At the lunch table most everyone eats and talks at the same time. I think that’s pretty gross. What do you think?

The rules of dining etiquette are quite clear; let them guide your acquaintances in all their culinary endeavors:

Rule 90: Being set at meat, scratch not neither spit, cough nor blow your nose, except when there is a necessity for it.

Rule 100: Cleanse not your teeth with the tablecloth, napkin, fork, knife; but if others do it, let it be done with a pick tooth [i.e., a toothpick].

Mistress Goody,
My very best friend just broke up with her boyfriend. But now he asked me out, and she’ll just die when she finds out. Should I go? What should I do? He’s awfully cute.

My, my, this is a distressing dilemma. Mistress Goody recalls a situation of her own. It was 1796 at the George Town Ball. I cut quite a stunning figure that evening in my green taffeta gown and brocaded mules. Miss Prudence Petticoat of Philadelphia was pursued by a most evocative gentleman, but when her dance card was full, he pursued me! I’m afraid that a most unladylike tiff ensued in the ladies’ powder room shortly thereafter . . . but I digress. My advice to you, my dear, is found in . . .

Rule 22: Show not yourself glad at the misfortune of another.

To join the gentleman in frivolity so soon after her heartbreak is unconscionable, not to mention terribly tacky. It certainly shows little regard for your intimate friend and calls into question your upbringing. Heed also . . .

Rule 110: Labour to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience.

Have you misplaced yours, my dear?