“We will look forever. I know we will solve the mystery of BURNT BABY!” - age 10
Years of reading Nancy Drew and Boxcar Children books had a profound effect on my imagination. At nine years old I memorized Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” and would repeat it to myself every night in bed. I don’t want to say that I was morbid. I wasn’t morbid. I never lit animals on fire or wanted to paint my bedroom black. But I DID enjoy a good murder mystery. When I was ten, one such mystery found itself in the backyard burn pile of our newly purchased home: The Mystery of the BURNT BABY.
My Mom’s backyard was a fantastical place when we first moved in. It had overgrown bushes we used as forts and old gnarled trees that looked like hands. At night I would peek out my window and see the finger branches reaching out and snatching up a squirrel or low-flying bird. It was awesomely terrifying. There was also a long forgotten burn pile that up until BURNT BABY day, we had stayed away from. It was ashy, dark and near the back of the yard where monsters were most likely to live.
One day, sometime in the fall, our cousin’s came over to enjoy the backyard shenanigans. Each of us had a stick and we began poking them into the burn pile. My sister (who has always been the most fearless) got right in there and started picking out little pieces of who knows what (clothes, papers, shards of glass, poisons). You know, stuff for kids. About 10 minutes in, she came up covered in soot and holding a strange piece of seared cloth. It could have been anything; a dishrag, a shriveled up phone book. But for some reason, we immediately assumed it to be BABY CLOTHES. All of us started digging in this sick pile until we unearthed another shocking indication; negatives. After holding them up to the sun light, we saw that they were old baby pictures. My cousin Greg dove into the pile and picked up something that looked like a charred banana peel. He put it slowly up to his nose and sniffed it with dramatic emphasis. He turned his head to each of us and declared, “It smells like…BURNT BABY!”
We all started screaming and ran back towards the house. We attacked my Mom demanding she call the police, because there was clearly a baby body in the burn pile. She was surprisingly calm considering the situation that was unfolding. We couldn’t understand why she didn’t want to cal the police! Had she been involved somehow? Was this “burnt baby” the reason we got the house for so cheap? How did Greg know what a burnt baby smelled like? There were too many questions left unanswered. We spent the better part of the next two years discussing the mystery and digging for clues. “Burnt Baby” took over our young lives and we did find a few other pieces of evidence.
Evidence 1: A few days later, I found a key in the yard. It was unanimously decided that this was the key to the lock to the secret underground trap where the baby had been kept until its fateful demise.
Evidence 2: An old looking soda can turned up. Somebody was watching us and drinking old soda. We were getting too close to the truth.
Evidence 3: A few weeks after the initial discovery, the four of us spent the night at my grandma’s condo. My cousin Jessica and I were staying up late in the guest room. I looked out the window and saw a flickering light coming from a condominium unit across the street. I told her I saw somebody moving in the shadows under said light. Jessica, always the realist, explained intelligently (at age 10) that it was probably just the dark playing tricks on my mind. I explained to her that she should take this more seriously. This was obviously the baby murderer, and we were his next victims. It is well known that people who murder babies move onto older children as they become more proficient at murdering. We were the perfect targets to try out his newfound skills.
Evidence 4: My sister Haley pooped her bed. She had never done this before, and I was confident it was because she was slowly being poisoned.
Evidence 5: I found a piece of well-cooked rope somewhere near the burn pile. Do I even need to say it? The rope that the baby was tied up with, obviously!
My sister and cousins grew bored of “burnt baby” much faster than I did. My imagination has always run rampant and being a detective was my go to career move when asked “what do you want to be when you grow up?” Even after the attention had faded, I would occasionally write about it in my diary. There are entries spanning three years! I’m sad to say that I never did solve the mystery of BURNT BABY, but to this day I check out friends and neighbors burn piles. I can’t help it. When recently purchasing my first home, having a large and tangled/ somewhat creepy backyard was a must. Knotted trees, overgrown ivy and thorny bushes hiding secrets are my weakness. I bought the house with the worst possible yard. It’s been the bane of my husbands existence, and my secret indulgence.
I planted a garden this spring, and during my excavation of the land- I found an archaic looking garden tool. It was made entirely of heavy metal, and looked like something out of the dark ages. I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about the burnt baby murderer once I uncovered it. My thought process went exactly like this-
“What the fuck is this? Oh wow… COOOL! OLD GARDEN TOOL! Somebody has gardened here, in this exact spot, hundreds of years ago!... Or did something else and tried to bury the evidence…man, this thing is heavy. Really heavy. Heavy enough to hurt somebody… This reminds me of burnt baby… Woah, my mom’s house is just around the corner. Oh yea, I’m keeping this.”
Parents, when your kids are “finding clues” to things in your backyard and digging up your flower garden- don’t deny them the fun. I was allowed to explore all aspects of my imagination (even the more gruesome parts). Doing so helped me retain some of the magic of childhood, even in my adult life. Nothing makes me happier than finding a relic buried deep underneath my front porch, or coming across a black and white picture of strangers. I never really wanted to solve the mystery of “burnt baby”, I just wanted the story to keep going. Much like life, it wasn’t the ending that I was excited for, but the surprise twist around the next corner. When everyone else has grown up and forgotten how to believe in what was never there, I strongly suggest taking the opposite stance. I continue to trust in the power of a good story and because they are constantly unfolding around me, my life will never be boring. I can only hope the same for my children…Maybe I’ll throw a couple of dolls in the burn pile though, just to get things started.
Love,
Courtney
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Suncoast Trilogy
Shane
“Shane works at Suncoast too and is the epitome of adorable! He’s 17 and isn’t going to college until later. We flirt NONSTOP and yea, he totally likes me. OH! He also just got arrested for drugs, but we can overlook this minor flaw.” –Age 15
Remember how much fun your job was when you were in High School? The shift was short, the responsibility minimal, and your $200 bi-weekly paycheck bought a shit ton of Old Navy pajama pants. Suncoast was more fun than I could have imagined. I learned a lot about life, and close to nothing about good business practices. It was a subsidiary of the dying Tower Records Company; a video store nestled in the darkest corner of the mall, just waiting to go bankrupt.
::sigh..:: Shane.
He was the reason I applied for the job to begin with. I was passing by Suncoast when I saw him laughing behind the counter…H O T. I walked in and asked if they were hiring and the manager replied with “Yes! Do you want the job?” I became an employee a couple of days later and began my quest to make Shane fall in love. We were young, hormonal and trapped alone together in an infrequently visited cave. It wasn’t long before we were making out in the back-room atop piles of Pokémon cards. Once I found out he played the guitar, we were officially dating.
Suncoast became a second home and left an impression on what “work life” could be. To the dismay of many bosses, I have treated most workplaces similarly; as a hunting ground for new friends and lovers. Suncoast was our Empire Records with an uglier cast. Because of this, an astonishing number of life events happened at work, and Suncoast was no exception. Shane and I had our first kiss, we visited the store before heading to my senior prom, and shortly after my 18th birthday I lost my virginity there; under fluorescent lights and the approving card-board grins of Erin Brockovich and Tigger.
Anime
"I’m RICH now, I GOT A RAISE! $5.32 PER HOUR! WooHoo! I’m considered a key holder too, although I have no keys. OH! Also, busted out a perv today, it was a good day.” – age 16
During my three years of dedicated service, the store churned more managers then it had customers. And the customers we did have rarely purchased anything, because the prices were outrageous and the selection so limited. We did have one draw that brought in a specific type of customer like the pied piper; a mammoth collection of Anime Porn. This wall spread the width of the store, and saw more people than all other aisles combined. 8 rows of busty and scantily clad power-puff girls beamed down at hopeful teenage boys. They would stand there for hours, plotting how to scrape up $49.99 so that Sailor Moon’s slutty cousin could bounce in the background while they emptied out their Jergens bottle. To a fifteen year old girl, this was hysterical. I loved hiding behind the sales counter until some pimply faced kid walked up. They would look over both shoulders, to make sure they were alone, and pick up a particularly savage anime movie. I gave them a few seconds to enjoy the synopsis before I would pop out and scream,
“THERE’S NOTHING LIKE A GOOD TENTACLE RAPE, EH?”
It never got old.
Lewis
"Lewis, the NEW manager is HILARIOUS. We all laughed today about Carl getting fired for stealing- OH THE IRONY!” Age 17
Carl, our manager, was a round-faced weirdo who stole gift cards and tried using them at other stores across the state. When confronted, he cried and sputtered about “feeding his family”. One day he was shamefully escorted out by security and never heard from again. Lewis, a quick witted 21 year old stepped up to the managerial plate. Lewis disregarded HR policies and provided the biting sarcasm that our little store had been lacking. Prior to managing the Suncoast he had been arrested for dumping a milk concoction into the return slot of a Family Video.
The reason for the “irony” of Carl’s termination was we (the rest of the staff) had been stealing from Suncoast for the better part of a year. It got so bad that it rivaled an underground drug cartel, but we dealt in v.h.s tapes and movie t-shirts. Sure, they had measures to prevent internal theft, but most of them involved spying on your fellow co-workers. This does not work when everyone is doing it. We were all under 21 and most of us were either friends or lovers or both. We were supposed to pat each other down (not in a sexual way, as learned from the training video) every night after close. You step outside, lock the gate, pat each other down, and give the camera a proud “thumbs up” for a job well done and no merchandise lost. We went through this charade nightly; patting each other down while videos were tucked into our pants. We would peer deep into backpacks filled with Bose headphones, and then give the congratulatory “thumb’s up” to the camera. We performed our show with such charisma that we were called out during a region conference call as a “team to emulate”. It was around this time that I was personally awarded “District Employee of the Month”. To celebrate I stole an entire collection of the X-files, because hey- I’d earned it.
When looking through my old diaries, I came across a “Nightly Closing Checklist” that Lewis had created. Please remember this was posted in our backroom:
1. Count the money
2. Laugh at the fact that Carl got fired for stealing
3. Vacuum
4. Suck the genitals of your co-workers
5. Re-stock the shelves
6. Mock the payless girls
7. Steal the required number of movies
8. Laugh about Suncoast thinking they’re some kind of corporate juggernaut
9. Pat each other down
10. Laugh one more time about Carl
11. Lock the gate.
Store Closed.
Sign off.
“Shane works at Suncoast too and is the epitome of adorable! He’s 17 and isn’t going to college until later. We flirt NONSTOP and yea, he totally likes me. OH! He also just got arrested for drugs, but we can overlook this minor flaw.” –Age 15
Remember how much fun your job was when you were in High School? The shift was short, the responsibility minimal, and your $200 bi-weekly paycheck bought a shit ton of Old Navy pajama pants. Suncoast was more fun than I could have imagined. I learned a lot about life, and close to nothing about good business practices. It was a subsidiary of the dying Tower Records Company; a video store nestled in the darkest corner of the mall, just waiting to go bankrupt.
::sigh..:: Shane.
He was the reason I applied for the job to begin with. I was passing by Suncoast when I saw him laughing behind the counter…H O T. I walked in and asked if they were hiring and the manager replied with “Yes! Do you want the job?” I became an employee a couple of days later and began my quest to make Shane fall in love. We were young, hormonal and trapped alone together in an infrequently visited cave. It wasn’t long before we were making out in the back-room atop piles of Pokémon cards. Once I found out he played the guitar, we were officially dating.
Suncoast became a second home and left an impression on what “work life” could be. To the dismay of many bosses, I have treated most workplaces similarly; as a hunting ground for new friends and lovers. Suncoast was our Empire Records with an uglier cast. Because of this, an astonishing number of life events happened at work, and Suncoast was no exception. Shane and I had our first kiss, we visited the store before heading to my senior prom, and shortly after my 18th birthday I lost my virginity there; under fluorescent lights and the approving card-board grins of Erin Brockovich and Tigger.
Anime
"I’m RICH now, I GOT A RAISE! $5.32 PER HOUR! WooHoo! I’m considered a key holder too, although I have no keys. OH! Also, busted out a perv today, it was a good day.” – age 16
During my three years of dedicated service, the store churned more managers then it had customers. And the customers we did have rarely purchased anything, because the prices were outrageous and the selection so limited. We did have one draw that brought in a specific type of customer like the pied piper; a mammoth collection of Anime Porn. This wall spread the width of the store, and saw more people than all other aisles combined. 8 rows of busty and scantily clad power-puff girls beamed down at hopeful teenage boys. They would stand there for hours, plotting how to scrape up $49.99 so that Sailor Moon’s slutty cousin could bounce in the background while they emptied out their Jergens bottle. To a fifteen year old girl, this was hysterical. I loved hiding behind the sales counter until some pimply faced kid walked up. They would look over both shoulders, to make sure they were alone, and pick up a particularly savage anime movie. I gave them a few seconds to enjoy the synopsis before I would pop out and scream,
“THERE’S NOTHING LIKE A GOOD TENTACLE RAPE, EH?”
It never got old.
Lewis
"Lewis, the NEW manager is HILARIOUS. We all laughed today about Carl getting fired for stealing- OH THE IRONY!” Age 17
Carl, our manager, was a round-faced weirdo who stole gift cards and tried using them at other stores across the state. When confronted, he cried and sputtered about “feeding his family”. One day he was shamefully escorted out by security and never heard from again. Lewis, a quick witted 21 year old stepped up to the managerial plate. Lewis disregarded HR policies and provided the biting sarcasm that our little store had been lacking. Prior to managing the Suncoast he had been arrested for dumping a milk concoction into the return slot of a Family Video.
The reason for the “irony” of Carl’s termination was we (the rest of the staff) had been stealing from Suncoast for the better part of a year. It got so bad that it rivaled an underground drug cartel, but we dealt in v.h.s tapes and movie t-shirts. Sure, they had measures to prevent internal theft, but most of them involved spying on your fellow co-workers. This does not work when everyone is doing it. We were all under 21 and most of us were either friends or lovers or both. We were supposed to pat each other down (not in a sexual way, as learned from the training video) every night after close. You step outside, lock the gate, pat each other down, and give the camera a proud “thumbs up” for a job well done and no merchandise lost. We went through this charade nightly; patting each other down while videos were tucked into our pants. We would peer deep into backpacks filled with Bose headphones, and then give the congratulatory “thumb’s up” to the camera. We performed our show with such charisma that we were called out during a region conference call as a “team to emulate”. It was around this time that I was personally awarded “District Employee of the Month”. To celebrate I stole an entire collection of the X-files, because hey- I’d earned it.
When looking through my old diaries, I came across a “Nightly Closing Checklist” that Lewis had created. Please remember this was posted in our backroom:
1. Count the money
2. Laugh at the fact that Carl got fired for stealing
3. Vacuum
4. Suck the genitals of your co-workers
5. Re-stock the shelves
6. Mock the payless girls
7. Steal the required number of movies
8. Laugh about Suncoast thinking they’re some kind of corporate juggernaut
9. Pat each other down
10. Laugh one more time about Carl
11. Lock the gate.
Store Closed.
Sign off.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
The List
" List of things NESSESCARY for a good boyfriend:
1. Funny
2. Hot
3. Rockstar
4. can read
5. Cowboy" - AGE 15
FINALLY! A diary entry that has stood the test of time. I'm not even embarrassed by it. I'll admit that some of my "qualifications" were a bit specific, but on the whole- a solid list. I'm proud of my fifteen year old self for putting "funny" in the top ranking spot. It has, and always will be the epitome of attraction for me. I've had on the whole, 11-12 serious to semi-serious boyfriends. They may not have been hot (by societies standards) but they were all hilarious people. Growing up an ugly duckling, I understood early that looks will fade (or not be bestowed on you whatsoever). Humor though, stands the test of time. So congratulations fifteen year old me!
That being said, "hot" is placed ahead of my potential mates literacy levels. For somebody who spent most of her time reading, this is surprising. Also, I didn't say "he can discuss the religious symbolism in Dylan Thomas' poetry". No, my standards were much lower. All I put was "can read", it's not even capitalized! I was fifteen years old, and I'm certain I didn't know a single person over the age of five who couldn't read. Yet here I was, expecting nothing more than "can read". I would like to point out this also falls below "rockstar", which let's face it- is exactly how it should be. Rockstar's are awesome and who cares if they can read?? They can croon, and pull off decades of wearing nothing but jeans and chuck taylors. As your lead singer boyfriend dedicates a song to you on a dirty bar stage whilst simultaneously throwing back a shot, do you think you care about his scholastic apptitude? The answer is "Fuck No". Speaking english isn't even imperative at this juncture. He just DEDICATED A SONG TO YOU. No girl can resist the calloused hands of a mediocre guitar player. I was barely out of puberty and I knew that. I can only think of one boyfriend who wasn't in a band. (Well two, if you count my first boyfriend Aaron, who is now gay. But he DID sing in musicals and it had the same effect).
I attempted dating "non-musicians". You know the type; financially stable/independent men who own a button down shirt, and a bed that's not just a mattress on the floor. But they all bored me to tears. I could always pay my own way, had my own bed, and if worse came to worse- I could buy them a nice polo. I had no use for these average joe's. There was no passion, no angsty hermit vibe and definitely no spotlight. I may have grown up awkward, but I've always loved the spotlight. Even if it's my man's spotlight and I happen to fall inside of it, that's fine with me. Rockstar's always have spotlights, even the bad ones. And I would immerse myself in the rays of those neon florescents. It is glorious.
I'm proud to say that I married a rockstar. I basically dated musician after musician until I found the most talented one. I wasn't aware of this at the time, but I'm pretty sure that's what happened. We met and there was instantaneous attraction. How could there not have been? He had a twin-sized mattress he kept against the wall that he only pulled down when he had "ladies" over. He owned more pets than chairs and his clothes looked to have come out of the trash bin at the good will. I didn't see him sober for the first 3 months that I knew him, and he only slept at odd intervals, but never at night. Occassionally I would find guitar picks and/or quarters embedded in his back from him passing out on the floor of his living room. He was a dream come true. And then, AND THEN he sang. He sang and it was the most glorious sound I had ever heard. Girls swooned when hearing him, he was mezmerizing. He sang, and he wrote a song about his unrequited love for me, (titled "Secret Heart" in true angsty, rockstar fashion) and that was that. I loved him. He was everything I had dreamed of.
His name is Ian and he's my husband. He now sleeps on a king size therapedic, wears ties and has a respectable sales job. BUT he's in a band, and it's a good band and he is phenomenal. I go to every show I'm allowed into (staying true to my groupie self), even when I have to get up early for work. Because when he sings it melts my heart. Plus I have to be there to beat down any younger versions of myself who might try to seduce him. Skanky groupie bitches.
So basically I got the best of both worlds. What young girls don't realize is that if you stay with a musician long enough, he usually grows up. Sure, you might have to buy your own dinners/flowers/his dinners for the first couple of years, but who cares? The music will carry you further than any trust fund. If you're patient and expectant, a musicians ambition may surprise you. In other words, don't knock it till you've tried it.
Oh, and one more thing- Please notice that number 5 on my list reads "cowboy". This is a wild-card, but I'm glad I put it on there. Because if you're boyfriend isn't a musician, and he's not a cowboy either... You've been jipped.
1. Funny
2. Hot
3. Rockstar
4. can read
5. Cowboy" - AGE 15
FINALLY! A diary entry that has stood the test of time. I'm not even embarrassed by it. I'll admit that some of my "qualifications" were a bit specific, but on the whole- a solid list. I'm proud of my fifteen year old self for putting "funny" in the top ranking spot. It has, and always will be the epitome of attraction for me. I've had on the whole, 11-12 serious to semi-serious boyfriends. They may not have been hot (by societies standards) but they were all hilarious people. Growing up an ugly duckling, I understood early that looks will fade (or not be bestowed on you whatsoever). Humor though, stands the test of time. So congratulations fifteen year old me!
That being said, "hot" is placed ahead of my potential mates literacy levels. For somebody who spent most of her time reading, this is surprising. Also, I didn't say "he can discuss the religious symbolism in Dylan Thomas' poetry". No, my standards were much lower. All I put was "can read", it's not even capitalized! I was fifteen years old, and I'm certain I didn't know a single person over the age of five who couldn't read. Yet here I was, expecting nothing more than "can read". I would like to point out this also falls below "rockstar", which let's face it- is exactly how it should be. Rockstar's are awesome and who cares if they can read?? They can croon, and pull off decades of wearing nothing but jeans and chuck taylors. As your lead singer boyfriend dedicates a song to you on a dirty bar stage whilst simultaneously throwing back a shot, do you think you care about his scholastic apptitude? The answer is "Fuck No". Speaking english isn't even imperative at this juncture. He just DEDICATED A SONG TO YOU. No girl can resist the calloused hands of a mediocre guitar player. I was barely out of puberty and I knew that. I can only think of one boyfriend who wasn't in a band. (Well two, if you count my first boyfriend Aaron, who is now gay. But he DID sing in musicals and it had the same effect).
I attempted dating "non-musicians". You know the type; financially stable/independent men who own a button down shirt, and a bed that's not just a mattress on the floor. But they all bored me to tears. I could always pay my own way, had my own bed, and if worse came to worse- I could buy them a nice polo. I had no use for these average joe's. There was no passion, no angsty hermit vibe and definitely no spotlight. I may have grown up awkward, but I've always loved the spotlight. Even if it's my man's spotlight and I happen to fall inside of it, that's fine with me. Rockstar's always have spotlights, even the bad ones. And I would immerse myself in the rays of those neon florescents. It is glorious.
I'm proud to say that I married a rockstar. I basically dated musician after musician until I found the most talented one. I wasn't aware of this at the time, but I'm pretty sure that's what happened. We met and there was instantaneous attraction. How could there not have been? He had a twin-sized mattress he kept against the wall that he only pulled down when he had "ladies" over. He owned more pets than chairs and his clothes looked to have come out of the trash bin at the good will. I didn't see him sober for the first 3 months that I knew him, and he only slept at odd intervals, but never at night. Occassionally I would find guitar picks and/or quarters embedded in his back from him passing out on the floor of his living room. He was a dream come true. And then, AND THEN he sang. He sang and it was the most glorious sound I had ever heard. Girls swooned when hearing him, he was mezmerizing. He sang, and he wrote a song about his unrequited love for me, (titled "Secret Heart" in true angsty, rockstar fashion) and that was that. I loved him. He was everything I had dreamed of.
His name is Ian and he's my husband. He now sleeps on a king size therapedic, wears ties and has a respectable sales job. BUT he's in a band, and it's a good band and he is phenomenal. I go to every show I'm allowed into (staying true to my groupie self), even when I have to get up early for work. Because when he sings it melts my heart. Plus I have to be there to beat down any younger versions of myself who might try to seduce him. Skanky groupie bitches.
So basically I got the best of both worlds. What young girls don't realize is that if you stay with a musician long enough, he usually grows up. Sure, you might have to buy your own dinners/flowers/his dinners for the first couple of years, but who cares? The music will carry you further than any trust fund. If you're patient and expectant, a musicians ambition may surprise you. In other words, don't knock it till you've tried it.
Oh, and one more thing- Please notice that number 5 on my list reads "cowboy". This is a wild-card, but I'm glad I put it on there. Because if you're boyfriend isn't a musician, and he's not a cowboy either... You've been jipped.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
The Birthday
“Well, I’m 18 now and officially the most embarrassed person ALIVE!!!”
God Damn it.
I blocked parts of my 18th birthday from memory until I read this page. Usually I can look back on the embarrassing moments of my life and laugh, or think “ohhh that wasn’t so bad.” This is not one of those times. Honestly, this might be the only memory that forms instantaneous puke bubbles in my throat. Even as I type this, I’m sipping on Alka-Seltzer and swallowing long-forgotten pride. Ok, here we go-
My birthday is June 12th, so I didn’t turn 18 until after we had graduated. The last day of school I told everyone about my party. It was going to be in my Mom’s backyard and there would cake and no alcohol because I was a square. I expected my group of friends to be there and maybe a few stragglers. There ended up being a shit ton of people and for the first two hours it was a blast. Shortly after the fun part, three specific and terrible things happened. Let’s go through each of these in bloody detail.
My guests and I were grilling burgers outside when an angelic mist rolled in, I thought I heard harp strings and suddenly MATT rounds the corner of MY backyard. (For you faithful followers, I’m referring to the same Matt who made an appearance in “retard”). Matt was the love of my high school heart. What was he DOING there? I suppose I had invited him, but not in a million years did I think he would show up. He sauntered in with his bff’s Ben and Danny. I suspect they’re the ones that dragged him to the party. I was on better terms with them, considering I didn’t turn into a drooling, fat, hopeful troll when they were around.
I immediately darted inside for a hairbrush. I don’t know why. A hairbrush!? Yea, unless that hairbrush could comb away four years of awkward encounters, it probably wasn’t going to help. I ran for it anyways, because I had nothing left to lose, or so I thought.
#1 Terrible thing:
First things first- some fucking genius decides that we should all play VOLLEYBALL. Let me reiterate that I have NO athletic skills and hate sports of all kind. I’m also terrified of flying balls. It was going to take all of my energy not to scream anytime the ball came over the net. But, Matt was going to be on my team, so I had to suck it up.
I ran around and flailed my arms a couple of times, pretending to “just miss it”. Unfortunately, there’s a little thing called serving, and it was now my turn. I saw no way out, so I made my way to the back of the grass court. The first time I threw the ball into the air it landed near my foot, untouched. Biffed. The second time I managed to nick the ball and also hit myself in the throat with my serving hand. I choked and spat because my hand was in a fist. I had managed to punch myself in the throat.
I was hoping this would be the end. Usually you get two turns to serve, and if you can’t manage something by then, you’re out. But everybody lobbied for me, “She’s the birthday girl! Serve it again Courtney!” I wanted everyone to fall down dead. Couldn’t they see what torture this was for me?
I get back in position, trying to see the light at the end of this volleyball hell
tunnel and I threw the ball up as high as I could. It came down hard on my wrist and (terrified) I smacked it away with my open palm. It flew magnificently through the air, and completely sideways. Matt was slowly turning around to see what had happened just as the ball smashed into the side of his face.
I let out an asthmatic gurgle while his head spun sideways from impact. Everyone started laughing and cheering. I ran over to him, blaring “OH MY GOD I’M SO SORRY, I’M SO SO SO SORRY! OH MY GOD!” He said it was fine, rubbed his damaged ear and walked towards the house. Needless to say, the volleyball game was over.
#2 Terrible Thing:
Shortly after the volleyball catastrophe everyone wanted me to open presents. Okay, now THIS was something I could do. I can accept gifts graciously and there isn’t a lot of hand-eye coordination involved. I figured it would be a safe place for me and all my guests. Everything was going smoothly until I opened up a rather flashy looking card. Out of it fell a 5x7 of Matt in skin tight pants, promoting his ass to the camera. I don’t remember who the sender was, but whoever gave me no warning. I snatched up the picture and put it face down on the floor. People started grabbing for it, asking “What is it? Come on! Show us!” I frantically looked around the room and decided I was going to eat the picture. Instead I made a snap decision and screamed, “IT’S A PICTURE OF ME NAKED!”
I don’t know why I did that. I could have said it was anything but I went with me, naked. This was no better than what the picture actually WAS, but it worked. Nobody wanted to see it after that. I stole a side-glance towards Matt. I don’t know if he had seen the picture, or if he was just thinking how gross it was for one of my friends to give me a picture of myself naked as a birthday gift- but either way he looked disturbed.
#3 Terrible Thing:
And this is by far the worst. After presents and before the cake, Danny (one of Matt’s friends) asked if he could check his email. I instantly had an ominous feeling about this, but was uncertain as to why. I said, “sure” as he sat down and clicked on the POWER button. Matt and Ben came up behind him and just as the computer was starting up, I realized what that funny feeling was. I spun around, but it was too late. There on the computer desktop wallpaper…was Matt. And it wasn’t enough for me to just put a picture of him on my computer. Oh no, I had it TILED all the way around the screen. He and his best friends were now staring at 400 images of Matt’s face. Worse yet was that it had been captured while he was in the 8th grade, before I even knew him. He didn’t even seem aware that the picture was being taken. It looked like it was taken on the sly by some sort of stealth photographer. It appeared as if I had stalked him for half his life- taking pictures whenever I could with my spy camera.
I squeaked and turned bright fuchsia. Danny quickly clicked on something else and the embarrassment montage disappeared. I started laughing nervously and ran up the basement steps to go outside. Ben followed, and I don’t remember what kind of uncomfortable exchange we had. I tried to blame the picture on the person who had given it to me, but he looked skeptical. I think we all just decided to let it go, because there was nothing to say that would make it better. At this point, I was officially the most awkward teenager on the planet. Nobody said anything to me about it, not even Matt. I had acquired enough regret in one evening to last a lifetime, and I’m assuming they thought that was punishment enough.
Sometime later we were goofing around outside and Matt “accidentally” knocked my disposable camera into a bucket of water. He left immediately. I was certain he was just reacting to that evening’s traumatizing events. How did he know where those birthday pictures would have ended up? The way things were going, it was logical for him to conclude that my next step was to tattoo them onto my body. Could I blame him? No. Everywhere he looked that night, there was another creepy picture of himself he had forgotten about. I would have “accidentally” thrown my camera in a bucket of water too.
Here’s the kicker though; this story has a twist ending. About an hour later Matt returned to my house of humiliation, and he was carrying a small bag. Inside this small bag was
a disposable camera. He had felt so badly about ruining my camera that he went out and bought me another one. He apologized profusely and told me happy birthday. I thanked him, without looking him directly in the eye (because come on, you read the story). As he walked away I was smiling like a crazed clown. Somehow I mustered up some courage and cried out “BYE MATT! THANKS! SEE YA LATER!” He waved back and turned the corner. It didn’t erase everything else that happened, but it definitely put a polish on it. That was the last time I ever saw him in person, and honestly, I hope it stays that way.
God Damn it.
I blocked parts of my 18th birthday from memory until I read this page. Usually I can look back on the embarrassing moments of my life and laugh, or think “ohhh that wasn’t so bad.” This is not one of those times. Honestly, this might be the only memory that forms instantaneous puke bubbles in my throat. Even as I type this, I’m sipping on Alka-Seltzer and swallowing long-forgotten pride. Ok, here we go-
My birthday is June 12th, so I didn’t turn 18 until after we had graduated. The last day of school I told everyone about my party. It was going to be in my Mom’s backyard and there would cake and no alcohol because I was a square. I expected my group of friends to be there and maybe a few stragglers. There ended up being a shit ton of people and for the first two hours it was a blast. Shortly after the fun part, three specific and terrible things happened. Let’s go through each of these in bloody detail.
My guests and I were grilling burgers outside when an angelic mist rolled in, I thought I heard harp strings and suddenly MATT rounds the corner of MY backyard. (For you faithful followers, I’m referring to the same Matt who made an appearance in “retard”). Matt was the love of my high school heart. What was he DOING there? I suppose I had invited him, but not in a million years did I think he would show up. He sauntered in with his bff’s Ben and Danny. I suspect they’re the ones that dragged him to the party. I was on better terms with them, considering I didn’t turn into a drooling, fat, hopeful troll when they were around.
I immediately darted inside for a hairbrush. I don’t know why. A hairbrush!? Yea, unless that hairbrush could comb away four years of awkward encounters, it probably wasn’t going to help. I ran for it anyways, because I had nothing left to lose, or so I thought.
#1 Terrible thing:
First things first- some fucking genius decides that we should all play VOLLEYBALL. Let me reiterate that I have NO athletic skills and hate sports of all kind. I’m also terrified of flying balls. It was going to take all of my energy not to scream anytime the ball came over the net. But, Matt was going to be on my team, so I had to suck it up.
I ran around and flailed my arms a couple of times, pretending to “just miss it”. Unfortunately, there’s a little thing called serving, and it was now my turn. I saw no way out, so I made my way to the back of the grass court. The first time I threw the ball into the air it landed near my foot, untouched. Biffed. The second time I managed to nick the ball and also hit myself in the throat with my serving hand. I choked and spat because my hand was in a fist. I had managed to punch myself in the throat.
I was hoping this would be the end. Usually you get two turns to serve, and if you can’t manage something by then, you’re out. But everybody lobbied for me, “She’s the birthday girl! Serve it again Courtney!” I wanted everyone to fall down dead. Couldn’t they see what torture this was for me?
I get back in position, trying to see the light at the end of this volleyball hell
tunnel and I threw the ball up as high as I could. It came down hard on my wrist and (terrified) I smacked it away with my open palm. It flew magnificently through the air, and completely sideways. Matt was slowly turning around to see what had happened just as the ball smashed into the side of his face.
I let out an asthmatic gurgle while his head spun sideways from impact. Everyone started laughing and cheering. I ran over to him, blaring “OH MY GOD I’M SO SORRY, I’M SO SO SO SORRY! OH MY GOD!” He said it was fine, rubbed his damaged ear and walked towards the house. Needless to say, the volleyball game was over.
#2 Terrible Thing:
Shortly after the volleyball catastrophe everyone wanted me to open presents. Okay, now THIS was something I could do. I can accept gifts graciously and there isn’t a lot of hand-eye coordination involved. I figured it would be a safe place for me and all my guests. Everything was going smoothly until I opened up a rather flashy looking card. Out of it fell a 5x7 of Matt in skin tight pants, promoting his ass to the camera. I don’t remember who the sender was, but whoever gave me no warning. I snatched up the picture and put it face down on the floor. People started grabbing for it, asking “What is it? Come on! Show us!” I frantically looked around the room and decided I was going to eat the picture. Instead I made a snap decision and screamed, “IT’S A PICTURE OF ME NAKED!”
I don’t know why I did that. I could have said it was anything but I went with me, naked. This was no better than what the picture actually WAS, but it worked. Nobody wanted to see it after that. I stole a side-glance towards Matt. I don’t know if he had seen the picture, or if he was just thinking how gross it was for one of my friends to give me a picture of myself naked as a birthday gift- but either way he looked disturbed.
#3 Terrible Thing:
And this is by far the worst. After presents and before the cake, Danny (one of Matt’s friends) asked if he could check his email. I instantly had an ominous feeling about this, but was uncertain as to why. I said, “sure” as he sat down and clicked on the POWER button. Matt and Ben came up behind him and just as the computer was starting up, I realized what that funny feeling was. I spun around, but it was too late. There on the computer desktop wallpaper…was Matt. And it wasn’t enough for me to just put a picture of him on my computer. Oh no, I had it TILED all the way around the screen. He and his best friends were now staring at 400 images of Matt’s face. Worse yet was that it had been captured while he was in the 8th grade, before I even knew him. He didn’t even seem aware that the picture was being taken. It looked like it was taken on the sly by some sort of stealth photographer. It appeared as if I had stalked him for half his life- taking pictures whenever I could with my spy camera.
I squeaked and turned bright fuchsia. Danny quickly clicked on something else and the embarrassment montage disappeared. I started laughing nervously and ran up the basement steps to go outside. Ben followed, and I don’t remember what kind of uncomfortable exchange we had. I tried to blame the picture on the person who had given it to me, but he looked skeptical. I think we all just decided to let it go, because there was nothing to say that would make it better. At this point, I was officially the most awkward teenager on the planet. Nobody said anything to me about it, not even Matt. I had acquired enough regret in one evening to last a lifetime, and I’m assuming they thought that was punishment enough.
Sometime later we were goofing around outside and Matt “accidentally” knocked my disposable camera into a bucket of water. He left immediately. I was certain he was just reacting to that evening’s traumatizing events. How did he know where those birthday pictures would have ended up? The way things were going, it was logical for him to conclude that my next step was to tattoo them onto my body. Could I blame him? No. Everywhere he looked that night, there was another creepy picture of himself he had forgotten about. I would have “accidentally” thrown my camera in a bucket of water too.
Here’s the kicker though; this story has a twist ending. About an hour later Matt returned to my house of humiliation, and he was carrying a small bag. Inside this small bag was
a disposable camera. He had felt so badly about ruining my camera that he went out and bought me another one. He apologized profusely and told me happy birthday. I thanked him, without looking him directly in the eye (because come on, you read the story). As he walked away I was smiling like a crazed clown. Somehow I mustered up some courage and cried out “BYE MATT! THANKS! SEE YA LATER!” He waved back and turned the corner. It didn’t erase everything else that happened, but it definitely put a polish on it. That was the last time I ever saw him in person, and honestly, I hope it stays that way.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
The Mile
“I will run the whole mile, and all the magic will be in me and I will run the WHOLE MILE!!!” - age 9
Have I ever mentioned I was a fat kid?
Honestly, I’m a fat adult too. There was a four year period where I was svelte, honestly and truly in fantastic shape. I weighed about 130 pounds, ate nothing but vegetables and worked out religiously. This was age 18-21 and I have never looked better. I have since defaulted to my old ways and can’t seem to get a grip on my health. Running and working out was a lot easier before 50 hours/week jobs, mortgages, dogs, husbands, book clubs, and college. I hope to someday find the strength I mustered right out of high school. I cannot wait to relish in the sweat of a good work-out. Until then, give me the remote and back to back episodes of Dexter (the closest I get to heart-pumping action).
This diary entry was written the night before the dreaded elementary school MILE. For those of you unaware, (weird home-schooled kid) all students had to run the mile once a year. The lack of training leading up to the mile was completely absurd. All year long we’d stand around, waiting for our chance to kick the kick-ball or take our one swing at the softball. At the end of the year they would say, “Alright good! You’ve kicked a ball around 4 times, now go run a MILE.” I suppose most children can easily run a mile, chock full of sugary sodas and that vibrant childhood energy. I was not one of these kids. I was a sloth. I sat at school all day and hid from my chance in kick-ball. When I was home I would read until well after bed-time, or write plays and force my sister to act in them. I would use Dads’ recliner for the “director’s chair” and eat bugles off my fingertips, screaming “HALEY! FACE FORWARD, YOU’RE THE WORST ACTOR EVER! DO IT AGAIN!”
This was my child-hood; eating, reading, writing and NOT running a mile. Even when we got a trampoline- I spent most of my time laying on it instead of jumping. There’s nothing like baking on a trampoline in the sun of summer while reading a mystery novel. It’s heaven. My sister and her friends would come over to bounce and create dance routines, and I would go inside annoyed. Haley also took every type of dance class possible and had an array of physical, extra-curricular activities. The closest thing I got was horse-camp, which consisted of sitting on a horse until lunch.
I hated the mile. There was absolutely nothing good in it for me. I was short, fat and not the charming person I am today. I would run around with everyone for the first ten seconds and then have to fall back. My lungs would hurt, my knees would ache and I was always in last place. I would curse under my breath and pray that everyone in front of me would trip over a land-mine. It was the ultimate humiliation.
The worst part was the gym teacher’s torture of the slow kids. As other (faster, less fat) children finished the race, he would line them up against the building to scream taunts; “RUN COURTNEY! YOUUUUU CAN DO IT! PRETEND I HAVE A CANDY BAR!”
The truly embarrassing memory of this entry was my “prep work” for the mile. After a year of sedentary living, I would start stretching the NIGHT before the big to do. I’d stretch, pour myself a glass of water and somehow think this would help me. I would take little sips in-between stretches and look in the mirror, giving myself a pep talk “Yea, you can do this! You are going to RUN THE ENTIRE THING!” I would throw a couple of flailing punches to give myself that “tough girl edge”.
I’m sure I was putting on this whole charade when I wrote this. I can tell it was dark, because my hand-writing is atrocious. I was also calling on MAGIC this time. I’m guessing the previous year’s “stretching/ glass of water” combo hadn’t paid off, so I was looking for something more serious to bring me to the finish line. I was definitely on the right track, because nothing short of magic would have gotten me to run that entire thing.
The next day I would be sore (from the one day of stretching) and start with a big, healthy bowl of cinnamon toast crunch. Afterwards, I would drag myself to the bus stop with a couple of pop-tarts in my pocket (for extra energy) and try to psych myself up. Unfortunately, it would be the same every year; a lot of build up with terrible results. There was the huffing and the wheezing and the immediate shaky-legged walk. I would walk across the finish line in last place, and sometimes vomit. I rarely cried though and would even try to laugh at myself a little. Whatever magical energy that enveloped me the night before would be long gone. I knew I would never be any good at running, or hand-eye coordination, or eating carrots. Even then my body was too round, breasts already spilling out of a B cup and stretch marks glowing on my thighs. There would be no gold medals in my future, not in athletics anyways. I accepted defeat as graciously as a nine year old can; with thrown up pop-tarts in my hair and a half-cocked smile.
I want to believe this intense humiliation helped me become a better person or gave me the ambition to conquer my fears, but it just had the opposite effect. Now I hate running and everything that goes with it. No need to go through all the motions of gulping for air and throwing up at the finish line just to achieve mediocre results. No way. Heck, even when my husband ran his first half-marathon, I supported him by sleeping in the car and rolling out just as he crossed the finish line. The runners were wind-blown and covered in sweat, but I still managed to look worse with my uncombed hair and seatbelt-face imprint. While we were waiting for the results, I stole some of the participant’s doughnuts and leaned back in a folding chair. My husband was off talking “runner’s world” with another participant when a lithe, older gentleman came over. He glanced at my matted hair and mouthful of doughnut and skeptically asked, “I didn’t even see you out there, it was a toughie… how do you think you did?” I swallowed my doughnut, took a theatrically fatigued slug of water and said, “It was a good day for me…Pretty sure I finished first.”
Have I ever mentioned I was a fat kid?
Honestly, I’m a fat adult too. There was a four year period where I was svelte, honestly and truly in fantastic shape. I weighed about 130 pounds, ate nothing but vegetables and worked out religiously. This was age 18-21 and I have never looked better. I have since defaulted to my old ways and can’t seem to get a grip on my health. Running and working out was a lot easier before 50 hours/week jobs, mortgages, dogs, husbands, book clubs, and college. I hope to someday find the strength I mustered right out of high school. I cannot wait to relish in the sweat of a good work-out. Until then, give me the remote and back to back episodes of Dexter (the closest I get to heart-pumping action).
This diary entry was written the night before the dreaded elementary school MILE. For those of you unaware, (weird home-schooled kid) all students had to run the mile once a year. The lack of training leading up to the mile was completely absurd. All year long we’d stand around, waiting for our chance to kick the kick-ball or take our one swing at the softball. At the end of the year they would say, “Alright good! You’ve kicked a ball around 4 times, now go run a MILE.” I suppose most children can easily run a mile, chock full of sugary sodas and that vibrant childhood energy. I was not one of these kids. I was a sloth. I sat at school all day and hid from my chance in kick-ball. When I was home I would read until well after bed-time, or write plays and force my sister to act in them. I would use Dads’ recliner for the “director’s chair” and eat bugles off my fingertips, screaming “HALEY! FACE FORWARD, YOU’RE THE WORST ACTOR EVER! DO IT AGAIN!”
This was my child-hood; eating, reading, writing and NOT running a mile. Even when we got a trampoline- I spent most of my time laying on it instead of jumping. There’s nothing like baking on a trampoline in the sun of summer while reading a mystery novel. It’s heaven. My sister and her friends would come over to bounce and create dance routines, and I would go inside annoyed. Haley also took every type of dance class possible and had an array of physical, extra-curricular activities. The closest thing I got was horse-camp, which consisted of sitting on a horse until lunch.
I hated the mile. There was absolutely nothing good in it for me. I was short, fat and not the charming person I am today. I would run around with everyone for the first ten seconds and then have to fall back. My lungs would hurt, my knees would ache and I was always in last place. I would curse under my breath and pray that everyone in front of me would trip over a land-mine. It was the ultimate humiliation.
The worst part was the gym teacher’s torture of the slow kids. As other (faster, less fat) children finished the race, he would line them up against the building to scream taunts; “RUN COURTNEY! YOUUUUU CAN DO IT! PRETEND I HAVE A CANDY BAR!”
The truly embarrassing memory of this entry was my “prep work” for the mile. After a year of sedentary living, I would start stretching the NIGHT before the big to do. I’d stretch, pour myself a glass of water and somehow think this would help me. I would take little sips in-between stretches and look in the mirror, giving myself a pep talk “Yea, you can do this! You are going to RUN THE ENTIRE THING!” I would throw a couple of flailing punches to give myself that “tough girl edge”.
I’m sure I was putting on this whole charade when I wrote this. I can tell it was dark, because my hand-writing is atrocious. I was also calling on MAGIC this time. I’m guessing the previous year’s “stretching/ glass of water” combo hadn’t paid off, so I was looking for something more serious to bring me to the finish line. I was definitely on the right track, because nothing short of magic would have gotten me to run that entire thing.
The next day I would be sore (from the one day of stretching) and start with a big, healthy bowl of cinnamon toast crunch. Afterwards, I would drag myself to the bus stop with a couple of pop-tarts in my pocket (for extra energy) and try to psych myself up. Unfortunately, it would be the same every year; a lot of build up with terrible results. There was the huffing and the wheezing and the immediate shaky-legged walk. I would walk across the finish line in last place, and sometimes vomit. I rarely cried though and would even try to laugh at myself a little. Whatever magical energy that enveloped me the night before would be long gone. I knew I would never be any good at running, or hand-eye coordination, or eating carrots. Even then my body was too round, breasts already spilling out of a B cup and stretch marks glowing on my thighs. There would be no gold medals in my future, not in athletics anyways. I accepted defeat as graciously as a nine year old can; with thrown up pop-tarts in my hair and a half-cocked smile.
I want to believe this intense humiliation helped me become a better person or gave me the ambition to conquer my fears, but it just had the opposite effect. Now I hate running and everything that goes with it. No need to go through all the motions of gulping for air and throwing up at the finish line just to achieve mediocre results. No way. Heck, even when my husband ran his first half-marathon, I supported him by sleeping in the car and rolling out just as he crossed the finish line. The runners were wind-blown and covered in sweat, but I still managed to look worse with my uncombed hair and seatbelt-face imprint. While we were waiting for the results, I stole some of the participant’s doughnuts and leaned back in a folding chair. My husband was off talking “runner’s world” with another participant when a lithe, older gentleman came over. He glanced at my matted hair and mouthful of doughnut and skeptically asked, “I didn’t even see you out there, it was a toughie… how do you think you did?” I swallowed my doughnut, took a theatrically fatigued slug of water and said, “It was a good day for me…Pretty sure I finished first.”
Sunday, September 19, 2010
TUNA
“I’ll tell you one thing diary! That FUCKING tuna fish gang is gonna get it!!! AHHHHHH!” ~ AGE 15
Let me explain.
My friends and I were seated quietly in the newly built commons area. “The commons area” roughly translates to, “A student cafeteria so vast that it would take a week to find a murder victim”. Prior to the commons area, we had an open campus. This had provided better ambience when discussing scholastic bowl or Spanish club. But now we were stuck with all drudges of high school society. It was a clamoring, fluorescently lit food arena, and I hated it.
There were occasional spats and brawls at some of the more “lower track” tables. This is to be expected when you shove together 900 students of different backgrounds. They rarely made it over to our side of the room, but that day was different. I remember I was contemplating how I was going to seduce Mr. Mittelstadt (my English teacher), when a tuna fish sandwich came flying through the air. My back was turned, so all I saw were my friends’ wide-eyed expressions as the soggy, stinking lump punched me right in the ear.
And I mean, PUNCHED. My head flew sideways and tuna went everywhere. Students at the surrounding tables were assaulted with fishy shrapnel. Normally brave boys screamed and dove for cover. It was a fucking tuna fish hand grenade.
The fish bomb was thrown by a group of hood rats sitting half a mile away. They weren’t aiming for us, but the sheer mass of the tuna threw it off its intended course. I think one of them even mouthed “sorry” before engaging in hysterical laughter with the rest of the group.
I then proceeded to lose it, hard.
I shoved back the metal chair with unnecessary force, the bottom plates screeching against the tiled linoleum. I picked out the clumps of tuna that were sliding down the side of my hair and flung them to the ground in disgust. With a grunt, I spun on my heel and began line backing it towards the assailants. I heard one of my friends say, “Oh my god, Courtney’s gonna get us killed”.
~I want to stop here and mention that although I’m 5’4” and the opposite of athletic, I’ve always been down for a fight. I’ve been surprisingly lucky, because people rarely want to fight back. This was my reputation amongst friends; I was the first to go into haunted houses, flip off road-ragers and tell somebody they could shove their bad attitude back from whence it came. When a senior girl wrote “Maybe someday you will be as pretty and popular as me” in my yearbook, I wrote in hers: “I hope you get cancer and die in a fire”. THEN she had the audacity to cry about it. I have calmed down over the years and only become the hulk on desperate occasions. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does: run. ~
I arrived at their table, winded (fat), and spat out-
“Who the fuck threw this GodDamn tuna sandwich?!”
The conversation went as follows:
“Nobody! We don’t eat tuna… not like YOU” (riotous laughter)
Apparently the culprit didn’t want to admit to eating tuna, despite numerous health benefits.
“Well, obviously you don’t EAT tuna, because you THREW it across the room. So, tell me WHO THREW THIS DAMN SANDWICH!”
One of the boys stood, holding up his ridiculously baggy pants and said,
“Girl, you wanna get yo’ ASS kicked?”
I was DYING to get my ass kicked. I was eager for it. I wanted to be assaulted with a tuna sandwich and then punched in the face so bad I could taste it. Then I could sue for a million dollars. The emotional stress of the tuna fish alone should be worth half that. I was thinking about whom I would invite to my personal island if that happened when I screamed,
“I DON’T CARE IF I DO GET MY ASS KICKED, BUT I SURE AS HELL AM GOING TO FIND OUT WHO THREW THIS GODDAMN FUCKING FUCK FUCKING TUNA FISH SANDWICH!”
I slammed what was left of the sandwich down into the middle of their table. Bits and pieces flung everywhere. Half of them groaned, one of them screamed and they all looked at me with new found respect. I know this because three seconds later their leader cried out, “This white bitch is crazy, fuck this”.
Six pairs of eyes glared at me as they walked out of the commons. I glowered back, shooting them with invisible rage bullets. Afterwards, I calmly walked over to the “commons security guard” (Mr. Stash, who happens to be my step brother in-law) and explained to him the situation. I threw in a couple of tears for effect. He stormed out, presumably to give them all a well deserved detention or in-house. I’m not sure what happens actually, because in all my years of schooling, I never received either.
I don’t remember much beyond that point. Apparently I had payback plans for the aptly named “tuna fish gang”, but they have since dissipated from my memory. And really, what could I have done? Had a “tap dance” dance off? Subject them to a poetry slam? Hosted a trivia night and made them look like fools? It’s unlikely they would have even R.S.V.P’d. No, my high school bullying abilities were severely limited. I’m guessing the only thing I COULD do was create an elaborate and impossible revenge plot, stew on it for a week and then write it in my diary.
THE END
Let me explain.
My friends and I were seated quietly in the newly built commons area. “The commons area” roughly translates to, “A student cafeteria so vast that it would take a week to find a murder victim”. Prior to the commons area, we had an open campus. This had provided better ambience when discussing scholastic bowl or Spanish club. But now we were stuck with all drudges of high school society. It was a clamoring, fluorescently lit food arena, and I hated it.
There were occasional spats and brawls at some of the more “lower track” tables. This is to be expected when you shove together 900 students of different backgrounds. They rarely made it over to our side of the room, but that day was different. I remember I was contemplating how I was going to seduce Mr. Mittelstadt (my English teacher), when a tuna fish sandwich came flying through the air. My back was turned, so all I saw were my friends’ wide-eyed expressions as the soggy, stinking lump punched me right in the ear.
And I mean, PUNCHED. My head flew sideways and tuna went everywhere. Students at the surrounding tables were assaulted with fishy shrapnel. Normally brave boys screamed and dove for cover. It was a fucking tuna fish hand grenade.
The fish bomb was thrown by a group of hood rats sitting half a mile away. They weren’t aiming for us, but the sheer mass of the tuna threw it off its intended course. I think one of them even mouthed “sorry” before engaging in hysterical laughter with the rest of the group.
I then proceeded to lose it, hard.
I shoved back the metal chair with unnecessary force, the bottom plates screeching against the tiled linoleum. I picked out the clumps of tuna that were sliding down the side of my hair and flung them to the ground in disgust. With a grunt, I spun on my heel and began line backing it towards the assailants. I heard one of my friends say, “Oh my god, Courtney’s gonna get us killed”.
~I want to stop here and mention that although I’m 5’4” and the opposite of athletic, I’ve always been down for a fight. I’ve been surprisingly lucky, because people rarely want to fight back. This was my reputation amongst friends; I was the first to go into haunted houses, flip off road-ragers and tell somebody they could shove their bad attitude back from whence it came. When a senior girl wrote “Maybe someday you will be as pretty and popular as me” in my yearbook, I wrote in hers: “I hope you get cancer and die in a fire”. THEN she had the audacity to cry about it. I have calmed down over the years and only become the hulk on desperate occasions. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does: run. ~
I arrived at their table, winded (fat), and spat out-
“Who the fuck threw this GodDamn tuna sandwich?!”
The conversation went as follows:
“Nobody! We don’t eat tuna… not like YOU” (riotous laughter)
Apparently the culprit didn’t want to admit to eating tuna, despite numerous health benefits.
“Well, obviously you don’t EAT tuna, because you THREW it across the room. So, tell me WHO THREW THIS DAMN SANDWICH!”
One of the boys stood, holding up his ridiculously baggy pants and said,
“Girl, you wanna get yo’ ASS kicked?”
I was DYING to get my ass kicked. I was eager for it. I wanted to be assaulted with a tuna sandwich and then punched in the face so bad I could taste it. Then I could sue for a million dollars. The emotional stress of the tuna fish alone should be worth half that. I was thinking about whom I would invite to my personal island if that happened when I screamed,
“I DON’T CARE IF I DO GET MY ASS KICKED, BUT I SURE AS HELL AM GOING TO FIND OUT WHO THREW THIS GODDAMN FUCKING FUCK FUCKING TUNA FISH SANDWICH!”
I slammed what was left of the sandwich down into the middle of their table. Bits and pieces flung everywhere. Half of them groaned, one of them screamed and they all looked at me with new found respect. I know this because three seconds later their leader cried out, “This white bitch is crazy, fuck this”.
Six pairs of eyes glared at me as they walked out of the commons. I glowered back, shooting them with invisible rage bullets. Afterwards, I calmly walked over to the “commons security guard” (Mr. Stash, who happens to be my step brother in-law) and explained to him the situation. I threw in a couple of tears for effect. He stormed out, presumably to give them all a well deserved detention or in-house. I’m not sure what happens actually, because in all my years of schooling, I never received either.
I don’t remember much beyond that point. Apparently I had payback plans for the aptly named “tuna fish gang”, but they have since dissipated from my memory. And really, what could I have done? Had a “tap dance” dance off? Subject them to a poetry slam? Hosted a trivia night and made them look like fools? It’s unlikely they would have even R.S.V.P’d. No, my high school bullying abilities were severely limited. I’m guessing the only thing I COULD do was create an elaborate and impossible revenge plot, stew on it for a week and then write it in my diary.
THE END
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Retard
“Oh my god oh my god oh my god!!!!! Today is the worst/best day OF MY LIFE!! I HAVE NEVER been so embarrassed! I called my special needs kids “retarded”. On a positive note, Matt touched my shoulder! AHHH! SO, there I was- crying because I had called them retarded…” - age 17
Sweet Jesus. Remembering this day makes me physically ill. This exclamation-mark riddled excerpt is an emotional rollercoaster. I hope you all enjoy reading this, because it’s getting excruciating…
My senior year I offered to help in the special needs room for one hour a day. There were a handful of us who did this: my friend Jenny, a girl named Summer, and Matt. Oh, Matt. He was the one I put on a pedestal, my day-dream king. Matt: the glorious love of my high school life. I’m fairly certain he starred in many girls fantasies. He was an easy crush to have, because who WOULDN’T love him? He was athletic, smart, witty, AND wanted to help the special needs kids?! He was a living and breathing, movie-teen heartthrob with a heart of gold. We were friendly acquaintances and saw each other outside of school on six specific (and extensively documented) occasions. All of which will be divulged at a later blog date. Matt recently became a doctor, so at least I had good taste.
On the day in question, we had been playing “hang-man” with the class. It was my turn at the board and I was filling in the spaces for the word “cotton”, the current vocabulary word. Being grammatically derelict, I spelled the word “cotten”. One of the students (who performed at a 2nd grade reading level) pointed this out, and I said “Ugh, I’m so RETARDED.”
A strange energy filtered in. I immediately knew, and desperately wanted a do-over. My face went from red to magenta, and I was about to turn back and pretend nothing happened when somebody yelled “BAD WORD! HURT WORD!” Another chimed in repeating, “NO, NO, NO, NO” while pointing a chubby finger in my face. Justin, a sweet-natured downs syndrome boy whispered, “You shouldn’t say that” and hung his head over and over in exaggerated shame.
I swallowed hard, fighting a synchronized puke-cry-scream. I had managed to misspell a third grade level vocab. word whilst simultaneously using derogatory slang. Fantastic.
I explained they were right; nobody should ever say that word. I feigned regaining my composure as they promptly guessed “cotton”. The bell rang shortly thereafter, and I was dismissed into the hallway to shed embarrassed and well-deserved tears. Jenny followed, laughing at my misfortune while trying to comfort me. I remember leaning my forehead against a muddy red locker and wishing I could climb into it. Of course, still being hugely fat, THAT was out of the question. It was during this low point I felt a hand patting my shoulder. I looked up and there was Matt, with a genuinely concerned look on his face. He smiled majestically and said “its okay, it could happen to anybody.”
Angels began their harmonious song.
I whimpered a “thanks” and he went on his way. As I watched his back-pack bounce down the hallway, Jenny and I turned towards each other. He rounded the corner, and we instantly jumped up and down in teenage girl elatedness. I let out an exasperated/ relieved sigh, raised my arms triumphantly and declared to whoever was in earshot; “WORTH IT!”
Sweet Jesus. Remembering this day makes me physically ill. This exclamation-mark riddled excerpt is an emotional rollercoaster. I hope you all enjoy reading this, because it’s getting excruciating…
My senior year I offered to help in the special needs room for one hour a day. There were a handful of us who did this: my friend Jenny, a girl named Summer, and Matt. Oh, Matt. He was the one I put on a pedestal, my day-dream king. Matt: the glorious love of my high school life. I’m fairly certain he starred in many girls fantasies. He was an easy crush to have, because who WOULDN’T love him? He was athletic, smart, witty, AND wanted to help the special needs kids?! He was a living and breathing, movie-teen heartthrob with a heart of gold. We were friendly acquaintances and saw each other outside of school on six specific (and extensively documented) occasions. All of which will be divulged at a later blog date. Matt recently became a doctor, so at least I had good taste.
On the day in question, we had been playing “hang-man” with the class. It was my turn at the board and I was filling in the spaces for the word “cotton”, the current vocabulary word. Being grammatically derelict, I spelled the word “cotten”. One of the students (who performed at a 2nd grade reading level) pointed this out, and I said “Ugh, I’m so RETARDED.”
A strange energy filtered in. I immediately knew, and desperately wanted a do-over. My face went from red to magenta, and I was about to turn back and pretend nothing happened when somebody yelled “BAD WORD! HURT WORD!” Another chimed in repeating, “NO, NO, NO, NO” while pointing a chubby finger in my face. Justin, a sweet-natured downs syndrome boy whispered, “You shouldn’t say that” and hung his head over and over in exaggerated shame.
I swallowed hard, fighting a synchronized puke-cry-scream. I had managed to misspell a third grade level vocab. word whilst simultaneously using derogatory slang. Fantastic.
I explained they were right; nobody should ever say that word. I feigned regaining my composure as they promptly guessed “cotton”. The bell rang shortly thereafter, and I was dismissed into the hallway to shed embarrassed and well-deserved tears. Jenny followed, laughing at my misfortune while trying to comfort me. I remember leaning my forehead against a muddy red locker and wishing I could climb into it. Of course, still being hugely fat, THAT was out of the question. It was during this low point I felt a hand patting my shoulder. I looked up and there was Matt, with a genuinely concerned look on his face. He smiled majestically and said “its okay, it could happen to anybody.”
Angels began their harmonious song.
I whimpered a “thanks” and he went on his way. As I watched his back-pack bounce down the hallway, Jenny and I turned towards each other. He rounded the corner, and we instantly jumped up and down in teenage girl elatedness. I let out an exasperated/ relieved sigh, raised my arms triumphantly and declared to whoever was in earshot; “WORTH IT!”
Sunday, September 5, 2010
First Boyfriend
"So then Aaron said, "Will you go out with me?" and of COURSE I said yes, and then he was like, "that was EASY!" It was the cutest thing ever, and that all happened Friday May 22nd, 1998. Aaron is the FIRST boyfriend that I've ever had, and I REALLY like him! I would use the word "love" but somehow I just feel strange saying it. I do really really like Aaron, but we haven't kissed yet. I have a feeling that we won't for awhile..." -- Age 15
This appears to be a normal entry by a hormone riddled teenager. However, it is made hilarious by the fact that Aaron is gay. He decided he was gay IMMEDIATELY after dating me. I was the only girl he's ever been with and our relationship lasted all of two months. We never kissed, even with ample opportunities. He had a beautiful singing voice, a hot "chili bowl" haircut, and I adored watching him act in the school musicals. He would also write me notes in gorgeous hand-writing, and give them to me in-between classes. My favorites were the ones with his drawings. The one I'm looking at now is illustrated with a "rainbow", a "bunny", a "flower" and a "hammer". I suspect the "hammer" was added last minute, in a regrettable attempt at manliness. It appears on the back of the note and is hastily drawn. Unlike the "bunny", which has different levels of shading and employs the use of colored pencils.
Nobody would ever confuse Aaron for a straight man nowadays, but at fifteen- who can tell? Voices are changing, hair comes in patchy and experimentation runs rampant. I broke up with him at a friends birthday party and to his credit, he REALLY acted put out by it. Although now I think he's made a name for himself as a stage actor, if that puts anything into perspective...
Four years later he attended a prestigious music college (ironically where my husband graduated from) and made lots of friends. I received numerous late-nite messages from him exclaming, "People really want to meet you!", "NOBODY believes that I had a GIRLfriend!". Considering the circumstances, I took this pretty well. I chose to look at it from the "glass half full" angle. Instead of thinking, "I'm such a troll that I've made a man swear women off entirely", I would think "I'm so freaking charming that even the GAYS wanna date me!"
One last update: After our tumultuous relationship ended, Aaron wrote me a letter. He wrote that "he never shared his faith with me, and that's why we didn't work out". I highly doubted that was the real problem. Five years later, during one of his visits home, I asked him about the letter. He responded with, "ohhhh, did I say "because I didn't share my faith?", because I meant to write "because you don't have a penis."
AAAaand SCENE.
This appears to be a normal entry by a hormone riddled teenager. However, it is made hilarious by the fact that Aaron is gay. He decided he was gay IMMEDIATELY after dating me. I was the only girl he's ever been with and our relationship lasted all of two months. We never kissed, even with ample opportunities. He had a beautiful singing voice, a hot "chili bowl" haircut, and I adored watching him act in the school musicals. He would also write me notes in gorgeous hand-writing, and give them to me in-between classes. My favorites were the ones with his drawings. The one I'm looking at now is illustrated with a "rainbow", a "bunny", a "flower" and a "hammer". I suspect the "hammer" was added last minute, in a regrettable attempt at manliness. It appears on the back of the note and is hastily drawn. Unlike the "bunny", which has different levels of shading and employs the use of colored pencils.
Nobody would ever confuse Aaron for a straight man nowadays, but at fifteen- who can tell? Voices are changing, hair comes in patchy and experimentation runs rampant. I broke up with him at a friends birthday party and to his credit, he REALLY acted put out by it. Although now I think he's made a name for himself as a stage actor, if that puts anything into perspective...
Four years later he attended a prestigious music college (ironically where my husband graduated from) and made lots of friends. I received numerous late-nite messages from him exclaming, "People really want to meet you!", "NOBODY believes that I had a GIRLfriend!". Considering the circumstances, I took this pretty well. I chose to look at it from the "glass half full" angle. Instead of thinking, "I'm such a troll that I've made a man swear women off entirely", I would think "I'm so freaking charming that even the GAYS wanna date me!"
One last update: After our tumultuous relationship ended, Aaron wrote me a letter. He wrote that "he never shared his faith with me, and that's why we didn't work out". I highly doubted that was the real problem. Five years later, during one of his visits home, I asked him about the letter. He responded with, "ohhhh, did I say "because I didn't share my faith?", because I meant to write "because you don't have a penis."
AAAaand SCENE.
Monday, August 23, 2010
“Macaulley Culkin, I WILL marry you someday!”- age 6 ½
Can you really blame me for this one? Macaulay Culkin was:
a. Adorable and
b. Loaded
The embarrassment isn't about what I wrote, but what I did with it afterwards. I ripped out this procamation and hid it in my most spiritual place; under my dollar store unicorn figurine. Nightly I would touch the slip of paper while simultaneously touching my window, willing for it to come true. I hoped my intense energy would flow through my body and into the land of fullfilled wishes. Sometimes I'd make my arm shake "uncontrollably", to really drive the point home.
I never truly believed in God. But I suspected there was something beyond my window that with the right amount of begging/pleading/persuasion would make my dream come true. This was honest, unrequited love.
Once my nightly ritual was finished, I would get into bed and fantasize about our future together. What I remember most is how terrible I was at it. I never imagined him showing up in a limo, buying me fancy clothes or anything else movie stars are prone to do. Instead, he was always transferred into my school (in Detroit of all places) and became immediately impressed by my READING SKILLS. Yes, my reading skills. This is 100% true.
I would like to mention that in my first grade class there were only a number of us who could read fluently. I was one of those students. I was very shy, awkward, ridiculously tall and hugely fat. But goddamnit I could read circles around those ass-holes. So, it's only natural that my fantasies involved this endearing quality. It would usually go something like this:
::LIGHTS UP::
Macaulley sits in his desk looking dreadfully bored. He is resting his head in his hand. Courtney gets up to read aloud from "Amelia Bedilia", because everyone else is an idiot. She's the only one who can regale the tale of this problem-causing maid and her inept grasp at the english language. It's probably a cleverly disguised commentary on the dangers of hiring foreigners, but that's lost on six year olds. Slowly Macaulley's face begins to brighten. He can't believe what he's hearing! Courtney is pronouncing every word precisely, reading at a surprising speed and even using different inflections for all the characters. His hand falls away from his face and he is now sitting erect.
"She's amazing" he says quietly, but loudly enough so all the prettiest girls hear and become instantly jealous. When Courtney finishes the last few sentences, Macaulley stands up and starts the slow clap. Everyone else joins in, even the jealous girls. Courtney bows and makes eye-contact with Macaulley. They run towards each other, knowing that they've finally found what they've been looking for their entire lives. All six and a half years. He throws his arms around her and they run out the back door together. All the students gather at the window to watch the new love birds climb to the top of the jungle gym...
This is where it would end. I didn't really know what happened after hugging. I knew there was the OBVIOUS climb to the top of the jungle gym, but other than that I was baffled. I would usually end it there and then start the fantasy all over again. The only thing that would change is the book I read aloud to the class. All of them being at least at a third grade level.
My prayers went unanswered and luckily we did not get married. Because Macaulley Culkin hit a "creepy phase" at about 15, and he hasn't really grown out of it...
This was my first diary entry that made a lasting impression, and unfortunately it's the least embarrassing. Please let me know if you also loved Mr. Culkin when you were a kid... I'd like to feel less weird about it.
Love and Unicorns,
Courtney Wick
Can you really blame me for this one? Macaulay Culkin was:
a. Adorable and
b. Loaded
The embarrassment isn't about what I wrote, but what I did with it afterwards. I ripped out this procamation and hid it in my most spiritual place; under my dollar store unicorn figurine. Nightly I would touch the slip of paper while simultaneously touching my window, willing for it to come true. I hoped my intense energy would flow through my body and into the land of fullfilled wishes. Sometimes I'd make my arm shake "uncontrollably", to really drive the point home.
I never truly believed in God. But I suspected there was something beyond my window that with the right amount of begging/pleading/persuasion would make my dream come true. This was honest, unrequited love.
Once my nightly ritual was finished, I would get into bed and fantasize about our future together. What I remember most is how terrible I was at it. I never imagined him showing up in a limo, buying me fancy clothes or anything else movie stars are prone to do. Instead, he was always transferred into my school (in Detroit of all places) and became immediately impressed by my READING SKILLS. Yes, my reading skills. This is 100% true.
I would like to mention that in my first grade class there were only a number of us who could read fluently. I was one of those students. I was very shy, awkward, ridiculously tall and hugely fat. But goddamnit I could read circles around those ass-holes. So, it's only natural that my fantasies involved this endearing quality. It would usually go something like this:
::LIGHTS UP::
Macaulley sits in his desk looking dreadfully bored. He is resting his head in his hand. Courtney gets up to read aloud from "Amelia Bedilia", because everyone else is an idiot. She's the only one who can regale the tale of this problem-causing maid and her inept grasp at the english language. It's probably a cleverly disguised commentary on the dangers of hiring foreigners, but that's lost on six year olds. Slowly Macaulley's face begins to brighten. He can't believe what he's hearing! Courtney is pronouncing every word precisely, reading at a surprising speed and even using different inflections for all the characters. His hand falls away from his face and he is now sitting erect.
"She's amazing" he says quietly, but loudly enough so all the prettiest girls hear and become instantly jealous. When Courtney finishes the last few sentences, Macaulley stands up and starts the slow clap. Everyone else joins in, even the jealous girls. Courtney bows and makes eye-contact with Macaulley. They run towards each other, knowing that they've finally found what they've been looking for their entire lives. All six and a half years. He throws his arms around her and they run out the back door together. All the students gather at the window to watch the new love birds climb to the top of the jungle gym...
This is where it would end. I didn't really know what happened after hugging. I knew there was the OBVIOUS climb to the top of the jungle gym, but other than that I was baffled. I would usually end it there and then start the fantasy all over again. The only thing that would change is the book I read aloud to the class. All of them being at least at a third grade level.
My prayers went unanswered and luckily we did not get married. Because Macaulley Culkin hit a "creepy phase" at about 15, and he hasn't really grown out of it...
This was my first diary entry that made a lasting impression, and unfortunately it's the least embarrassing. Please let me know if you also loved Mr. Culkin when you were a kid... I'd like to feel less weird about it.
Love and Unicorns,
Courtney Wick
Saturday, August 21, 2010
The Introduction
A great writer once told me that “whatever you wouldn’t want your friends and family reading, THAT’S the stuff that will make you famous.” Admittedly, it’s pretty good advice. Nobody wants their Mom knowing about hilarious masturbation antics or a sexual attraction to your cousin, but it does make for a damn good read.
I’ve decided to take this suggestion to heart, regardless of the (most definite) consequences. A few days ago I stumbled upon my diaries/journals from age 6 to age 23. I asked for a diary on my fifth birthday and have been an avid journal writer ever since. For those of you that haven’t been, congratulations! Because reading your own attempt at philosophy, circa age 13, is nauseating. It is sincerely awful. I flipped through hundreds of pages in throbbing shame. It is self-centered, overly dramatic, angsty garbage. I puked no less than 7 times.
For those of you who did keep journals, even half-assed ones, I strongly suggest burning them. Just burn them. Celebrate being an adult with a bon-fire of broken bindings, latches and childhood dreams. It’s better than re-living it, you have my word.
In short, I’ve decided to keep a weekly blog, updated every Sunday by Midnight. Instead of burning my shameful, acne-ridden past- I’m going to post it for all to see. I will muse on one line a week, taken from different periods of my discomforting, little life. No editing will be allowed, all miss-spellings and awkward views on current events stay in place. Think of this blog as a cautionary tale against allowing children to write.
It won’t be easy and I won’t enjoy it, but I hope you do.
Thanks and Sincerely,
Courtney R. Wick
PS: NO names have been changed to protect the innocent, because nobody leaves adolescence with their innocence in-tact.
I’ve decided to take this suggestion to heart, regardless of the (most definite) consequences. A few days ago I stumbled upon my diaries/journals from age 6 to age 23. I asked for a diary on my fifth birthday and have been an avid journal writer ever since. For those of you that haven’t been, congratulations! Because reading your own attempt at philosophy, circa age 13, is nauseating. It is sincerely awful. I flipped through hundreds of pages in throbbing shame. It is self-centered, overly dramatic, angsty garbage. I puked no less than 7 times.
For those of you who did keep journals, even half-assed ones, I strongly suggest burning them. Just burn them. Celebrate being an adult with a bon-fire of broken bindings, latches and childhood dreams. It’s better than re-living it, you have my word.
In short, I’ve decided to keep a weekly blog, updated every Sunday by Midnight. Instead of burning my shameful, acne-ridden past- I’m going to post it for all to see. I will muse on one line a week, taken from different periods of my discomforting, little life. No editing will be allowed, all miss-spellings and awkward views on current events stay in place. Think of this blog as a cautionary tale against allowing children to write.
It won’t be easy and I won’t enjoy it, but I hope you do.
Thanks and Sincerely,
Courtney R. Wick
PS: NO names have been changed to protect the innocent, because nobody leaves adolescence with their innocence in-tact.
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