humans are funny

Category: nineties

  • Beware of the love caused by sweater terriers.

    It was a time when love mattered most: Addison, Illinois. 1990. Me. A Latin Lover with hair gelled to look like a bird’s nest. A freckly fresh-faced boy aggressive with his lips. A love triangle.

    The echoed hallways of Fullerton Elementary.
    As I debated with the Latin Lover over whether Brandon Walsh should really go for Andrea Zuckerman, Freckle Face interrupted.

    “All right, Laurenne,” he said. “You have to choose.”

    I threw him a look of despair. “Choose?”
    I began to sweat and could feel the tears about to plunge from my eyes. “Choose? That’s like asking me to choose between air [dramatic pause]… and water.”

    The Latin Lover, perplexed, ruffled his bird’s nest hair. “You mean you’re in love with both of us?”

    There was a long silence. “Yes,” I said. “Yes. My fourth-grade heart beats for you both.”

    Upon hearing the truth, my saddened lovers retreated to their classrooms. I fell to the floor, my heart screaming. It yelled to me that it burned for them both equally. But something… some unearthly element enveloped my soul and said, ‘Freckles. Freckles!’ So, I listened. Not to my heart but to my guiding light, the light that said, ‘You must invite Freckles to your New Kids on the Block party this weekend.’

    And that I did. It was a decision I would regret for eternity.

    A nightmare ensued that night. As I embraced the screen to see if I could feel Jordan Knight’s fluffy locks through the nineties pay-per-view technology, a hardened jealousy overtook my fresh-faced lover and his aggression reared. He stormed out, never to be seen again.

    But it was too late. The Latin Lover wouldn’t take me back. And he, too, stormed out of my life.

    Both true loves were gone. Gone! My air and my water had vanished. Without a trace. (try repeating that really dramatically) Without a trace.

    Until 2010.

    That’s right. They’ve both reappeared, and I can finally breathe again. Breathe again. Yes, I can finally breathe again.

    And I owe it all… to Facebook. I have to say that I haven’t been quite a fan of Facebook up until now. I like it and all, but I have calculated that it has stolen 4,561 hours of my time since its invention. I would have been an astronaut and have 12 best-sellers by now if Facebook had never come to town. Do I really care that a coworker from 4 jobs ago is drinking a PBR on the beach? Or how awesome your wedding was even though I haven’t spoken to you since kindergarten? Yes, I guess I do. Because there I go looking at your pictures. In fact, Facebook has distracted me away from so many thi–

    But I’ve put that all aside because I now see the reason Facebook was invented: to finally reunite me with the true passion of my fourth-grade love. Freckles lives in Buffalo and the Latin Lover sells phones not far from my hometown. Both have girlfriends and don’t seem at all interested in talking with me about whether or not Brandon Walsh should have ended up with Andrea Zuckerman. I thought you were supposed to look back at life in hindsight and share the true knowledge that twenty years can bring.

    Sigh.

    At least I have my closure. I have been waiting all these years, putting off marriage and relationships and love in the case that these lovers reappear. And now that they’re back, I can finally move on. Thanks, Facebook. Thank you.

    Adrian and Jesse: If either of you want to watch a NKOTB concert, I’m here. I’ll always be here. With a VHS.

    Of course I was caught in a love triangle! Amazing hat, hair to match, and terriers on my sweater.

    I got too cool for diaries by the time of the triangle, but this illustrates what a romantic I was: Thanksgiving 1987. Weather: sunny I Love and Like Robbie he looks at me all thru school oooo I love him. But he Dosen’t no it. I think he likes me to. (smiley face) he’s kind of cute Robbie always plays football after lunch outside. I love you Robbie Amy likes you to but she moved Cari like’s you but she to young I’m just Right [Incidentally, Robbie never reciprocated my beautiful love. Burn.]

  • 911: Expired Mambas & Crotchless Pants!


    Home. Is it where the heart is? Or is it where your pager is? For me it’s the latter. And that pager has friends.

    When most people sail away to college, their high school bedroom mysteriously transforms into a study or guest room. The previous occupants, Mr. Bear or Miss School Girl Uniform, get shipped away to Goodwill in hopes of taking root in another high school room. But my little sanctuary, upstairs and away from all the goings-on of the household, was quickly abandoned and forgotten. It probably spent years yearning to become an inviting study filled with books and beanbag chairs. Or perhaps it would have been happy with a simple upgrade from a twin bed. But no one ever noticed. And eleven years later, it is exactly how I left it that sad day in 1998 after listening one last time to Sarah McLachlan’s ‘I will remember you’ and caressing my cheerleading jersey.

    This room is now like Pompeii, its contents solidified by eleven years of dust: The crusty shot glass collection. The Zimas hidden in a corner, expired and ashamed. The bored teddy bears who no longer bother to come alive at night. The journals filled with detailed commentary on what Robbie Novak was wearing throughout the entirety of third grade (usually a red sweater that I thought looked ‘totally cute’).

    Now here I am, making this room my home again, twin bed and all. I find myself acutely aware of my odd surroundings. The big box of scrunchies and the thousands of loose photos from Cancun Spring Break 1998 are reassuring reminders of how far I’ve come in these 11 years. I no longer drink Zimas. I’ve even surpassed Schmirnoff Ice! I’m no longer dating the dumb quarter back or certain that Addison Trail High School’s Homecoming Court is the most important monarchy in the world. I no longer get drunk in parking lots by mixing any liquor into a Snapple bottle. I no longer wear catsuits. I no longer think flip flops are weird. I still love Sarah McLachlan, and ‘I will Remember You’ still chokes me up every time.

    Even though many adults still drink spiked Snapples in parking lots, I’m gonna say that my moving on has me steeped in a big pile of adulthood. I am an adult. My friends are getting married and pregnant. And I’m…. well, I’m strapping myself in for some months of living with my mom. That’s what happens when you blow all your money on traveling. But I swear, I am an adult! And it shall be reaffirmed as I throw everything from childhood away. Everything. I thought about donating my pager and jelly bracelet collection but decided it might be an insult to needy people. I have immortalized the following items right here in this blog so that I will feel better about never seeing them again. Here’s a look at my pager and his friends– A FINAL GOODBYE:

    I won this box of candy on The Bozo Show in…. 1988. It’s almost my age! And sadly, it’s still good. I wouldn’t trust the ingredients in them things.

    I must have been a civil rights activist in a previous life because I defended them as a child in a big fat racist town. Some hairy jerkwad pulled this baby down during every party I threw, and I always just put it right back up.

    We labored over writing this for some time, especially the title. For all future cheerleaders, remember that ‘excepting the challenge’ is the key to winning.

    I was in love with Gerardo because he claimed he was rico and suave-ay. I wish my old self could have told my young self that men who wear bandanas are NEVER suave-ay.

    I once told my fourth grade class that I was secretly friends with Debbie Gibson. They didn’t believe me. But I’m still hanging on to the possibility. Deborah… call me! We have the same hat!

    There was a time when my friend, Dana, and I would wear matching daisy dukes, half-shirts, and black Reebok high-tops to traipse around town festivals, bowling alleys, and malls. We tried to meet boys with cars and collect numbers. She has two kids and a husband now. What do I have? These numbers.

    Michael Jordan fruit snacks – I thought these would be worth money one day, so I saved them. Man, I had quite the eye for rare valuables at such a young age. Jordan fruit snacks anyone? Surely they’re on Ebay for thousands so why don’t you just Paypal me $200 and we’ll call it even?

    That’s right. These pants don’t have a crotch in them. And they cost me $60. Long story. Long, sad story (Please note that these were purchased after high school. And worn with shorts).

    I dug this out of my grandma’s house when I was eight and thought it was so dirty. I mean, a penis! I showed it to all my girlfriends every time they came over. This penis thing, I knew, was something important.

    Goodbye, pager. We shared some sweet 411. But, by gosh, it’s almost a 911 that I still have you.