Erica Schultz-Opinions are my own

Well, thank you for sticking with me for this story. I know these types of stories usually happen on Gail Simone's feed

PSA: I'll be at @fanexpocleveland.bsky.social this weekend, so if you're there, come on and say hi and maybe buy some books.

YOUUUUUU???!!!

ARE!

WHO!

TLDR, I taped up the rip in the poster, I put it on my wall, and I've NEVER found out who sent me that Rainbow Brite poster. It's been 40 YEARS!

WHO ARE YOU, RAINBOW BRITE POSTER SENDER?!!

to me? Who could have known where I lived? Now that I think of it, it's kind of creepy, but it was the 80s, and we didn't think of things like identity theft or stalking...at least when I was 9 yrs old.

I turned it around to see the image, and I couldn't believe my eyes!

It was a promotional poster for one of my favorite shows at the time!

RAINBOW BRITE!

But I hadn't sent away for this. Who could have sent it

but the poster wasn't that big, so it wasn't sounding like thunder or how they'd make that sound in plays. I'm thinking of you, King Lear.

If I had to guess, it was probably just bigger than a sheet of 400 strathmore comics paper. That's approximately 11x17 in for the uninitiated.

from hitting the linoleum floor and making that sound that would alert Mom who was just in the next room.

I turned the paper toward myself to get a look at it. It made that sound that posters made from that non archival slick acidic paper,

I was able free the poster. The blank white side was facing me as it unfurled itself, like a dance celebrating its freedom from the confines of that mailing tube.

I had to steady it with both hands, as the tear was growing. I clenched my heels together to keep the tube

sitting on the floor now, in child's pose, as they call it these days, holding the tube between my feet.

I used my right hand to try and twist the poster back to its original position to try and make it thinner to be removed easier.

Slowly, but surely,

released the corner that I had started to rip, and plunged my left hand even deeper into the white mail tube that bore my name!

I gripped a side of the paper that was still intact, and I shimmied it up the side of the tube. I was

My heart sank, dear reader, and there was a moment where I thought about abandoning this entire adventure. But I wanted mail. I wanted to feel important. I wanted to feel like I was a big girl. And this was a big girl mail, so I just had to see this through!

I steadied my breath,

and I was able to get a grasp on a corner. I slowly lifted my hand from the mailing tube, inching the paper little by little toward the mouth of the tube. When it felt like I had gotten a corner free, I got too excited, and pulled too hard only to hear the sound of the paper ripping.

So I scrunched my hand into a wedge shape, kind of like what you would do if you were playing with a sock puppet. I plunged my hand into the deep, dark, depths of that mailing tube. I felt the slick paper on my fingertips,

"if I lose my hand, this will make a funny story when I'm older."

Obviously, I did not lose my hand. I did think that I should play it safe, though, and I put my left hand in the tube. If I was going to lose a hand, I wanted to at least be able to finish the story I was writing at the time.

the silicone non stick tongs we have today. These were metal on metal tongs. Despite them not working, I DID get a glimpse of something on that paper. It was colorful and rainbowy. That just fueled my curiosity.

So I was gonna chance it. I looked at my little hand and thought,

and caught sight of a pair of tongs. They were small enough to get into the tube, but not so large as to get stuck...I hoped.

I got the tongs and slid them in. The paper wasn't easily grabbed, though. Every time I thought I had a corner, the tongs would slip away when I pulled. These weren't

So I thought about it and looked around the kitchen. There had to be something that could help.

I thought about trying to open the whole tube like a pillsbury roll package, but I wasn't making pigs in a blanket, I was trying to find out what this adult official looking mail was!

My eyes drifted

but stopped. Remember, about 3 minutes had passed since I got my arm stuck in the junk drawer. Did I want to get my hand stuck in the mailing tube? Nope.

Thankfully, as I'm writing this, I wasn't cursed as they were. Maybe you shouldn't dig up old people's stuff!

Anyway, the tube was opened, and I looked down it like it was a kaleidoscope. All I could see was something rolled up and put inside.

I was about to put my hand into the tube,

It wasn't a lot of pressure because the blood was just returning to my arm, but it was enough to hear that familiar pop. It's like when you open a Pringles can. This pop felt like when Carter's crew opened Tut's tomb for the first time!

to get my arm out. It was painful, and I may still hold the physical scars. I still hold the emotional scars. But I got that damned screwdriver!

This thinner head flathead was JUST THE RIGHT SIZE!

I deftly wedged it in between the lid and the tube, and slowly put pressure on it.

This is gonna sound REALLY dramatic, but it was kinda like that movie where that dude had to cut his own arm off. I obviously didn't cut my arm off, but the thought may have crossed my tiny mind at the time.

Who knows how much time passed, but it felt like I dislocated my shoulder

Linda and everyone hiked up to this scenic place to take the perfect holiday card photo, and she dropped the camera and caught it just in time, but her hand was stuck.

Well, my arm was stuck. And I was starting to lose feeling. And, of course, I used my right arm. I'm right handed.

If you're of a certain age, you'll understand that reference.

The problem was that my hand was now stuck. I was practically shoulder deep in this drawer, and I had twisted a bit, so my arm couldn't just slide out.

It was like that Bob's Burgers episode where

Those twist ties have tiny wire in them that can slice you if you hit them at JUST the right angle.

Finally, after groping, and bleeding a little (another aside, my not yet published autobiography will be titled, Sorry For All The Blood), I felt the thinner tip of the screwdriver. YAHTZEE!

I slunk my arm all the way back to the a dark part of the drawer that couldn't come to the light because of the aforementioned broken runner. I reached around like I was trying to get a Nerf dart from under the couch. I patted the bottom of the drawer. I slid my hand and learned that was a bad idea.

him. It was hit or miss. BUT I had gotten that screwdriver for him to fix the washing machine the previous weekend. When he was done, he told me to put it someplace accessible, so I put it in the junk drawer. It HAD TO be there!

Okay, so I engaged in some more Oscar-level coughing while I rummaged through the drawer looking for the thinner flathead that I KNEW was in there.

How did I know? Because when Dad would fix things, I would always want to "help" him. It was my way of trying to have a relationship with