JESS DU JOUR: MONEY -- THAT'S WHAT I WANT

Moolah. Dough. Cabbage. De Niro. Lira. Pesos. Dead presidents.

Whatever alias you choose, everyone recognizes these words for money. Even my 8-year-old sister Callie understands what I am referring to when I rattle off this list of money's nom-de-plumes. Money, or the lack thereof, has recently been my downfall.

My troubles originated in my gas tank. Actually, the problem was with my fuel gauge -- it kept telling me that I didn't have any gas.

Every few miles I would glance down, grimacing as the needle got closer and closer to the no-money-so-you'll-be-walking-soon mark. In most cars, this mark is expressed with a great big "E." My car actually has the words "You'll be walking soon" printed there. And when I'm getting close to running completely out of gas, my gauge starts laughing at me and emitting little sing-song taunts like, "Ha, ha, ha, hope you brought your tennis shoes," and "Nanny-nanny boo-boo stick your head in motor oil." Really.

Umm, OK, so maybe mine just says "E" too, but it's an evil, menacing "E," I assure you. And it scares me when I run out of gas. But especially this week because I am running dangerously low on funds. The two Checkbook-Holders in the Big House stopped doling out funds months ago and told me to find a job. At the time, I assured myself that this was not a problem because I still had plenty of money left in my reserve savings accounts (a bunch of quarters in a big jar in my room). I always fooled myself into believing that I had enough. Inflated with false financial confidence, I would tote my quarters to lunch with me in a Ziploc baggie.

And, admittedly, the quarter system sufficed for quite some time:

"Yes, sir, I DID eat a lot of pizza. Yes, I know I'm paying in quarters, sir, but they're all here -- all 43 of them. See? All right here in this little baggie. One, two, three, ... "

One day, my quarters ran out. I was down to nickels, dimes, pennies, and coins from other countries that had been tossed into my money jar. Tip for thrifty readers: You can by lots of Tangy Taffy with Canadian dimes; store clerks can never tell.

But there came a day when even the dimes, (Canadian and otherwise), ran out. I was coasting down hills in my car praying that I would make it to the next Citgo, and my gas gauge was laughing all the way. I was scraping change out from under my car seats and (gasp) eating in the cafeteria instead of going out for lunch.

I started making up fundraiser drives for myself. I wandered around campus shaking a can hollering, "A few spare pennies for my llamas? Come on, donate some change, help save the llamas."

My efforts were fruitless. No one at Jackson High School cares about llamas. I am gnawing on granola bars and other inexpensive pre-packaged items from the school cafeteria, and I am still coasting back and forth from my house to the school parking lot.

Some say that money is the root of all evil. I say that, presently, I can't even AFFORD roots, or pizza, or gas, or llamas or anything else.

~Jessica McCuan is the editor of the Jackson High School newspaper, the Squawler, and begins an internship at the Southeast Missourian this summer.