Let's Go To the Zoo, Part Two

I tried to tell Bunny that the fucking zoo fucking sucks, but she didn't believe me. She'd been to the fucking zoo and had a perfectly lovely time, save for the somewhat chilly March weather (she's from California, and thinks we're all nuts for living on this coast, where your car gets snowed in and you have to wear jackets and whatever the hell).

So I allowed myself to be talked into going back to the fucking zoo. We'd go during the week! In the morning! Noah is old enough now! The pandas aren't such a big fucking deal anymore! It's gonna be great!

So we packed up snacks and sippy cups and loaded up the offroading strollers and drove to the fucking zoo.

The beginning of the day. Full of promise and hope and overwhelming skepticism.

That arrow, by the way, led us to a non-stroller accessible walkway with a bazillion stairs. That was possibly in the jungle. Where those screeching ink-shooting dinosaurs that killed Newman probably live. We opted to hike up a small hill to a different entrance.

About halfway up the hill I started wheezing. And sweating. And cursing at Bunny in foreign languages that I do not speak. About three-quarters of the way up the hill we noticed the signs that said pedestrians were forbidden on this road, and also there were about a dozen tour buses barreling down the road right at us.

You know how they say mothers sometimes get superhuman strength when their children are in danger? Yeah, that totally didn't happen, and I just glared at the buses and made them stop until we finished slowly trudging up that damn hill.

Needless to say, we were not starting off well. The sight of three hundred million billion other people milling around the fucking zoo didn't help either.

"SEE? THIS IS WHAT I WAS TALKING ABOUT," I yelled at Bunny over the din of of the crowd, as we attempted to push our strollers through a wall of people in matching red shirts and name tags, even though they were not part of the same group. It's just that every group there decided to wear red shirts, pretty much defeating the purpose, and giving the fucking zoo an unfortunate bloody-mass-genocide vibe.

We trudged uphill to the visitor's center. The ATM machine almost ate Bunny's card. We paid $2.50 for bottled water and discovered the biggest flaw in our plan: in order for Max and Noah to actually see the animals, we had to take them out of their strollers. And then we had to put them back in, and each time we went through this process the boys protested more and more about going back into the stroller.

We saw the top of the panda's head. The elephants were all going to the bathroom, and at first I wondered aloud about the deformed one that had TWO trunks, oh my God, what's wrong with it, until I realized I was actually looking at its wang.

We saw a lot of animal wang, actually. I don't even have any animal photos to post, since honestly, I have no interest in being THAT KIND OF SITE. (I'm already the number-two Google result for "mucus plug pictures," thankyouverymuch.)

We also saw two orangutans fighting. Or so we thought, at first.

Nope, they were fucking. It was...pretty awesome, since every adult brought their kid to the display, took a second to process what they were seeing, then hustled over to the next window, all oh my goodness, oh my GOODNESS!

Bunny and I stayed. Of course we did. Because we are 12, and also, it was the first time we were able to enjoy a damn exhibit away from the crowds. I almost wish I'd brought my video camera, because dude, YOUTUBE SENSATION.

Noah liked the elephants and I think the tiger, but they only had girl-lions and I told Bunny that girl-lions were OF NO USE TO ME, since Noah only recognizes the boy-lions with the manes. So I didn't bother showing him the girl-lions. (We'd created some guidelines by this point for what was worth a stroller extraction and what was not sponge-worthy, so to speak.)

I took a picture so I could show him later though. And since this one is wang-free I can post it.

Can you not just feel the excitement? Can you sense the magic and wonder?

Here's Noah seeing an elephant for the first time, clearly blown away by the magnificent sight of the enormous beast and...

Whoops, nope. He's got his stroller strap there. Never mind.

The highlight of the entire day was a cow. A COW. It was at the petting zoo area and Noah freaking lost his mind over the damn cow. It did not moo, however, which disappointed Max, who before yesterday thought he knew what the cow says, and now feels that perhaps his refrigerator magnets have not been entirely truthful with him.

I thought Noah liked the goats too, but upon further reflection of the photographic evidence, I see that it was probably not so much about the goats.

ABALL. OHMIGOD WE WALKED THREE MILES UPHILL BOTH WAYS TO SEE ABALL.

By this point we'd been at the fucking zoo for a whopping hour and twenty minutes.

Aaaaaand time to go.

The end of the day. Exhausted. Disillusioned. Sticky.

We drove back to Bunny's house for lunch and playdate cocktails, and amused the boys for HOURS by chucking balloons at the ceiling fan.

I emailed Bunny this morning about weekend plans (we're aiming low this time, I think. perhaps we will make aballs out of tin foil and teach the boys how to fetch) and mentioned that despite showering TWICE already, I still felt a little zoo-stankish.

She emailed back: actually, you do still smell like monkey sex house, but it works for you.

The fucking zoo, man. Literally.

Blogzillas

Last night I attended my very first book-launch party. No, I did not write a book. Someone else wrote a book. And then someone else decided that inviting social dorkwad idiots like myself to the launch party  was a good idea. (Bloggers. We're ruining ALL the best parties these days.)

So. Let's recap the evening, shall we?

5:00 pm Okay. Jason will be home in a half hour to drive me to party. And pick up Bunny, who I am dragging as my plus-one. Plenty of time to put on pretty new dress, some makeup and pull hair into easy half-up, half-down, pulled-back-bangs look.

5:01 Notice red scaly patch of eczema-like rash on cheek. Random! Weird! Apply lotion and plug in curling iron.

5:04 Remember to turn curling iron ON. Whore.

5:05 Notice red scaly patch on cheek has morphed into some kind of angry red hive. Itchy. Ignore.

5:06 Start curling hair. Achieve perfect half-up, half-down, pulled-back-bangs style on first try.

5:07 Remember dress has to go over head. Dammit.

5:10 Notice hives all over neck and chest. Dying? Ignore.

5:20 Hair not cooperating. Each attempt at half-up, half-down, pulled-back-bangs style getting poofier and ridculouslier than the last.

5:21 Apply makeup. Hive on cheek practically glowing in dark and developing opposable thumbs.

5:28 Put on awesome shoes that Bunny patiently approved on Monday's playdate when I carted eight pairs of shoes into living room and made her see how each and every pair looked with pretty new dress, which I also made her approve at the store. Wonder if I maybe get on her nerves a little bit ever.

5:30 Check on Noah, who has wandered away from the television and is in the backyard. Bad television babysitter, bad!

5:34 Jason arrives. Collect child from backyard, purse from under couch, head out to car, trip and eat it on the pavement.

5:45 Pick up Bunny, who emerges wearing a perfectly executed half-up, half-down, pulled-back-bangs hairstyle. Whore.

6:00 Arrive at party, which is taking place at Ralph Lauren. As in, Ralph Lauren The Store. Where there are clothes. Expensive clothes I cannot afford.

6:01 Expensive clothes I cannot afford + me + high heels + wine + social dorkwadocity = oh, fuck.

6:02 Wine.

6:03 Bunny and I cower in corner by some polo shirts.

6:05 We discuss what kind of reaction we'd get if we each grabbed a nearby mannequin and made them fight each other.

6:10 Wine.

6:11 Oh look! There's champagne! Can I have that too?

6:15 We notice two girls hovering nearby and wonder if we could try to make friends.

6:16 "But what do you say?" Bunny wonders. "Hi! Wanna hold hands? Wanna make out? DO YOU LIKE MY SHOES CIRCLE YES OR NO?"

6:20 The girls wander away, probably to talk about the two snobby girls by the polo shirts.

6:22 Catch glimpse of legs in mirror, count fourteen bruises in about three seconds. Sexy.

6:23 Red hive on cheek still there, is now walking upright and upgrading my RAM.

6:30 We decide to wander into the back room where the author is signing books.

6:31 We back out of the room in terror, since it appears the party has been segregated into the Thinnest and Most Gorgeous Women Ever Who Also Wear Chanel Couture and...the rest of us.

6:33 Bunny asks me to explain for the millionth time how exactly I got us invited to this?

6:35 Whatever. The front room is where all the wine is.

6:36 It occurs to me that I may be the only person eating the twee and delicious bite-sized hors d'ourves, and also that I am okay with this.

6:37 - 7:59 Wiiine. Blleee! Blooog! Shooes. Sssbaby. Talk talk talkity am brilliant witty thin. Also probably can fly. Wheee!

8:00 Party over. Gift bags. Bunny and I head out to go eat some damn pasta and cheesecake. I think I cry at some point over something. Possibly when there is no more cheesecake. Hail cab, sucessfully navigate our drunk asses home.

7:30 am Wake up, filled with vague sense of a headache and that I embarassed myself in front of the wife of the guy from the Thievery Corporation because she's probably a little sick to death of the goddamn Garden State soundtrack, and also that I accidentally gave the cab driver bad directions back to Wisconsin Avenue. I hope he is okay.

Edited to add: Hey look!

Sunglasses. On the top of my head. ALLNIGHTLONG.

The Many Loves of Amalah, Part Fin

SO. I TAKE IT Y'ALL LIKE SEEING INDULGENT BABY PHOTOS AND SUCH, EH?  AND SEVERAL OF YOU REQUESTED MORE? WELL, I WILL GIVE YOU MORE. BUT I WILL NOT STOP YELLING BECAUSE I AM AN OVERLY VERBAL THREE-YEAR-OLD WHO IS REALLY PISSED ABOUT SOMETHING.

Specifically, many of you requested "mall bangs" photos. And really, I looked. But I could not find any mall bangs photos. This is not to say that I did not wear mall bangs, because I did, and lo, they were multi-layered and gravity-defying, but I just don't seem to have any photos of said bangs in my possession.

I did find one photo of me with about half my hair pulled into a ponytail on the side of my head, and I may also have been wearing a fanny pack in this same photo, but you know what? I'm not going to post that one. I embarrass myself for your pleasure enough as it is. No one needs to see half-head ponytails and fanny packs.

Besides. There's enough mockery-inducing material in this little gem:

(Click for bigger version, duh.)

THAT, my friends, is a newspaper clipping from February 1997 about the re-release of the original Star Wars.

It is also a glimpse into the first date between Amy Corbett, 19, of Levittown, and Jason Storch, 20, of Newtown Borough.

Yes. Our first date made the newspaper, for we were that important. Also, we were stupid, because we didn't realize that you had to buy tickets for Star Wars waaaay ahead of time.  So we bought tickets for Jerry Maguire instead, and Jason casually assured a second date with my fabulous self by buying Star Wars tickets for a show the next day. Sneaky!

And there happened to be this random reporter hanging around the theater lobby, looking for Star Wars freaks to interview. And behold, the freaks, they were us.

For the record, the whole "Maybe I'll dress up like Han Solo" quote was a JOKE. A JOOOOOKE, as was my "Oh, would you please" response, but apparently, SARCASM DOES NOT TRANSLATE INTO THE AP STYLE.

And "self-admitted Star Wars maniacs?" The hell? I believe I copped to being a "big fan," but the word "maniac" was never used.

Anyway, after our Big Interview, we were walking to Jason's car to go get dinner or something before the movie, and the reporter shouted at us.

"BY THE WAY, ARE YOU DATING?"

To which I cheerfully replied, "Oh no! We're just friends!"

And then we got in the car and I realized that Jason looked absolutely crushed.

Why did I not realize that we were on a date?  Because I'd known Jason since like, junior high. He didn't want to date me then, even though I had super-hot permed bangs, so why would he want to date me now?

Well, possibly because I no longer owned a bathing suit that looked like this:

(In case you are too busy and important to read the entire backstory, a quick recap: Jason and Josh were best friends. Nicole and I were best friends. I liked Jason, Jason liked Nicole, Josh liked me so I transferred my liking of Jason to Josh, Josh was sort of not quite entirely stable, I broke up with Josh, he went more unstable, I took him back only to get dumped a few weeks later for some girl who rode my bus.)

(And apparently, my dear friends Not A Clue and No Idea hung out with us sometimes.)

Lord. Church youth groups are such SOAP OPERAS. No wonder we were known for putting on super-melodramatic musicals together.

I believe this play was about some kid with cancer who was totally upbeat about it because he had Jesus in his heart, and he helped all of his friends come to terms with his death through song because Jesus is awesome and also, it's pretty easy to feel great about Jesus when YOU AREN'T THE ONE DYING OF CANCER.

Or it was a play about some kid with cancer who was totally bummed about it because he didn't have Jesus in his heart, but all his friends helped him come to terms with his death through song because Jesus is awesome and also, it's pretty easy to feel great about Jesus when YOU AREN'T THE ONE DYING OF CANCER.

And the guy in the suit is an angel who Teaches Everybody Lessons. Probably through song.

Regardless, I look spectacularly awesome in my over-sized tee, as does Jason in what appear to be sweatpants of some kind.

Anyway, flash forward back to 1997. A few weeks before the whole Is This A Date Or Not A Date Date, Jason and I bumped into each other at Barnes & Noble. It'd been YEARS since our last pool party or theatrical performance together, but we recognized each other instantly. (I was actually there with this guy.)

So Jason tracked down my email address and really just wanted to get back in touch with his old friends and only came over to my house that day to fix my computer and then it was taking longer than he thought so he suggested we go get some lunch and then the movie theater was RIGHT THERE so why don't we see if we can get Star Wars tickets? See? So not a date!

God, I was so stupid. But hey! We cleared things up right then and there that yes, this was a date, and it was actually going awfully darn well, so why don't we kiss or something because OH MY GOD, I HAVE LOVED YOU FOR YEARS AND YEARS.

And then I think everybody knows the rest of the story.

The Many Loves of Amalah, Part Four

Read Parts One, Two and Three right heah.

(Hmm, I’m starting to get into the realm where maybe I should consider making up names for these people. I mean, I know there are septeventy billion Joshes in the world, but I prefer not to get sued by the one out there who knows how to Google and maybe happens to be a big lawyer or something.)

(Although I know for a fact that this Josh is not a big lawyer, because I know how to Google. But more on that later. Plus, Miss Doxie will be my lawyer and she will kick yo’ass to the curb, boy.)

Anyway.

It was sometime during eighth grade that Josh asked me out. And unlike every boy I’d met up to this point, he meant it. He wanted to go OUT. On a DATE. And he CALLED ME. On the TELEPHONE. Swoon.

My parents? Were not too thrilled. Josh was in ninth grade. He looked older than that though. He worked out. His bedroom was actually the entire finished basement of his house. He had a fridge down there. And couches, plural. His own phone line, television, VCR, etc. He was cool, cats. But amazingly, they agreed that we could go out on a date.

As long as they came along. And Josh’s parents came along. (Oh, how I am cringing as I write this. See, here I go: cringe.)

We ate dinner at Friendly’s. I think there are still Friendly’s around, though they seem much more white-trash than I remember them being growing up. But then again, I probably was too. Anyway, at Friendly’s you could get a clown sundae. (Cone for a hat, whipped cream puffs for hair, Reese’s Pieces for a face, and at the bottom of the sundae was a lot of hot fudge and more Reese’s Pieces. Oh my god.)

Of course, I did not order a clown sundae on my date. But I did get ice cream. And French fries. Sigh. How innocent and non-crazy-teenage-girl I was back then.

After Friendly’s we went to a movie. I shit you not: We saw Beethoven. Luckily, we were not required to sit with our parents. AND we were allowed to sit several rows behind them. And there, during Beethoven, with my parents a few rows away, I got my first kiss. And if this weren’t all corny enough, I seriously did see stars and like, leave my body for a few seconds.

So after this, Josh and I kissed at every possible occasion. Behold, there was tongue. We wrote love notes; I borrowed his clothes; it was disgusting. We lurved each other.

Of course, stuff went wrong. He started to bug me. He was needy and emotional. His home life, beyond the awesome basement setup, was pretty awful. Mother Issues of Livia Soprano Proportions. That’s all I’ll say about that. (Except for this: According to Google, Josh now lives in a major city far, far away and works as a personal trainer. Specializing in pregnancy fitness. Yes, really. Read into that what you like.)

He also wore these turquoise madras plaid shorts all the time. Ew. They were so hideous. The church youth group took a trip down to Orlando that summer. (Holy HELL, I just remembered Amy went with me on that trip. So I guess we were still trying to be friends at this point. It definitely wasn’t going well. I distinctly remember fighting the urge to slap her across the face more than once.)

By the end of the trip, they were both working my last nerve. Amy didn’t like Josh and kept ditching me to meet random guys with some other girl. Josh was extra moody and depressive and wore the plaid shorts EVERY OTHER DAY. God. One morning, after being awoken several times by Amy’s hotel escape and re-entry attempts the night before, I decided that maybe I needed to break up with both of them.

I also decided that if Josh wore the plaid shorts that day, I’d take it as a sign to end it right away. Sure enough, he wore them. I finally asked him why the hell he didn’t pack more clothes. But before I got up the nerve to tell him we were over, he went and got himself nearly killed at the beach.

A wave hit him hard and knocked him underwater, where he hit his head or something and didn’t resurface. A lifeguard pulled him out and he was sent to the hospital for neck X-rays. He was fine, but being the distraught girlfriend kind of suited me.

I did break up with him sometime after the trip. For two weeks. He was inconsolable. He called me every day. He cried. He talked about his dad’s gun. He brought a bullet to church. Jason and I discussed our concerns about him. He broke me down and I took him back.

And I was actually very glad that I did, because things were great and so was all the kissing.

Sometime that summer it was decided that he would transfer from public school to my hellish private school. I was not too happy about this. I knew that as soon as a new good-looking guy showed up in our little pond, all the popular girl piranhas would swarm in and I would get dumped.

My classmates thought I was lying when I showed them Josh's picture. No way could a dork like me get a hottie like him. If he came to my school he'd end up wondering the same thing. He swore that would never happen. No one would ever replace me, ever. Ever!

Yeah. It happened. About a week after classes started. He did it over the phone. We both cried and I thought we could work things out. The next day he finalized the heart-ripping-stomping-squooshing by our lockers. Our lockers were practically next to each other. This had been super-exciting on the first day of school, but now I realized that this was going to make my freshman year a living hell.

Next up: Amy goes to hell, in more ways than one.

The Many Loves of Amalah, Part Three

Or, Church Youth Groups Ruin Young Lives

After seventh grade, you might say that I had it coming. A nice big cosmic slap of karmic retribution across my snooty little backside. In eighth grade, it came.

My school lost its lease at the end of seventh grade. The public school district needed the building back. My school did not really have its act together and didn’t start looking for a new building until like, July. Not surprisingly, that didn’t work out too well and the school closed its doors. (Or, “the school did not reopen its doors” if I’d like to make that sentence a TRIPLE negative. Boy crazy in English class much?)

Amy was sent to a Catholic school in Trenton, N.J. Markthew and his family moved away, I think. Mattark and I were sent to another small Christian school about 25 miles away that my parents really couldn’t afford. A few other random dorks were sent there too—just enough to taint the entire batch of “LBCA transfers” and cause our new classmates to view us as one indistinguishable bloc of Loooosers.

Mattark and I spoke on the phone once or twice over the summer but when school started we didn’t acknowledge each other at all. Whatever. He’d developed a slightly vicious case of acne over the summer anyway. Yeesh.

Not that I was one to talk. I’d joined a church youth group over the summer because I just wasn’t getting enough God at school. About a week before school started, we went on one last beach trip. During a barefoot walk across the beach, I stubbed my toe on some girl’s heel in front of me.

I might as well have kicked a brick wall. Apparently? This girl had feet built like army boots. Reinforced with steel and self-defense mechanisms. Her heel was really and truly super-hard. I know. My toe shattered on impact. Shat. Terred.

But still, a toe, right? Buddy tape it up and it’ll be fine? Not this toe, baby. I needed a whole cast shoe and still walked with a bad limp. I wore this cast shoe on the first of school.

Adding to my debut: wearing jeans for the first time to school and managing to do it all wrong (tight rolls? what?), and (oh, my god) PERMED BANGS.

My rocking big poofy Aqua Net bangs? Had been PERMED by an overzealous hairstylist who insisted that the perm would make them bigger and easier to style. It didn’t. It made them look even more ridiculous than the regular ridiculous style I wore but at least THAT ridiculous style was still considered cool.

So: Permed bangs, the stupidest injury story EVER, post-school-uniform-fashion trauma, plus braces and no boobs to speak of.

Anyway.

I did not meet an Amy at this school. Well, I did, but she was way too cool for me. I met girls with names like Edith who had unhealthy fixations on the music of Andrew Lloyd Webber and teddy bear sweatshirts.

This school was founded by the Mennonites and was in the middle of Bumblefuck, Pennsylvania. I think stray cows wandering on the soccer field were a recurring problem. We learned Creationism and Abstinence and had to memorize Bible verses every Monday. They finally let girls wear pants the year I started, although you still had to wear skirts on Wednesday for chapel and OH MY GOSH DARN GOLLY it better be no more than two inches above your knee. There were no dances or sports for girls except field hockey, tennis and cheerleading. You know, ones that you wear skirts for.

(Ok, I’m exaggerating. There was a softball team too. Shut up.)

The school also had a huge clique problem. Probably just like my old school had, but I’d never noticed because I was in one. Huh. Girls were MEAN. Boys were CRUEL. Teachers played favorites and looked the other way. By the end of eighth grade there were about nine girls with eating disorders, two with depression and at least one who cut herself.

(I sure do bring the funny some days, don’t I? Holy hell.)

Amy had no problems at Catholic school. She was French-kissing random boys within weeks and went all Trenton white-girl ghettofabulous with the acrylic nails and the bling. She flashed the nuns and shoplifted hair accessories.

(At this time, Amy Elizabeth exits stage left, never to be seen again but often to be Googled. No luck.)

I focused my social energies on the youth group at church. I made friends with an older girl named Nicole who introduced me to the world of Older Boys. One of these Older Boys? Was named Jason Storch, and oh. My. God. I loved him. He was tall and dark and handsome and funny and nice and cute and smart and cool and omigosh he totally just looked at me. Squee!

Nicole asked him (on the phone, while I hovered nearby in terror) if he’d take me to some banquet thing the youth group was having. People got dressed up and took dates and then sat around and…ate…dinner, or something. I don’t know. It seemed monumentally important at the time.

Anyway, Jason didn’t want to take me. He had a crush on Nicole, who had a crush on Todd, who was dating some total skank who showed up at church wearing belly shirts and ripped jeans. To church! Heavens! To betsy!

Jason didn’t go to the banquet with anybody and that was fine with him because he was cool and mature enough to Not Care About Stupid Shit Like Youth Group Banquets. Oh Jason.

I, of course, was devastated. My life was over! The futility of it all! (Yes, I was in the drama club. Why do you ask?) My boyfriend-attracting-ability had obviously peaked in seventh grade and no boy was ever going to like me again, ever. I was going to die alone, unkissed and unmadeoutwith and probably fat.

Luckily, Jason had a friend named Josh.

Next Up: Josh. Duh.

The Many Loves of Amalah, Part Two

I saw Mean Girls this weekend. I love Tina Fey. Almost as much as BluePoppy loves Tina Fey. And almost as much as I love Mindy. It must be the glasses.

There’s been a lot of weeping and gnashing of teeth around here lately over the often-unbelievable cruelty of children. Which is true. Kids are ruthless little bastards. Teenage girls are also ruthless little bastards, only with 97% less repentance, remorse and body fat.

I wasn’t really any different. If I’d learned anything from Allison, the Original Queen Bee to my Wannabe, it was how to be a Mean Girl. So after reading Part Two you probably won’t love me so much. But I don’t care because I think the shirt you are wearing is totally ugly. And didn't you just wear it last Thursday? Jesus.

I had absolutely nothing to do with boys for the rest of elementary school. Boys were yicky players of sports who would hit you in the head during dodge ball or grab your crotch as you came down the slide and this was if they LIKED you, so pffft on them.

I transferred to a new school for seventh grade. It was, like every school I went to, a small and very strict Christian school. (The mouth I currently speak with and yes, even kiss my mother with, developed much later. A simple “Oh my God” would get your ass fucking TANNED at these places.)

I met another Amy at this school. She was Amy Elizabeth to my Amy Beth and we? Were totally popular. We were both funny and super-skinny and could do awesome things with our bangs, a curling iron and some Aqua Net.

We created a cartoon character named Elvin Pretzel, an Elvis-like rock star who still lived with his mom and had bad BO but was still “the hottest thing to hit Memphis since Roy Orbison.” We also wrote, composed and recorded a highly-ambitious musical production called “Les Miserables: Elvin Style” and its sequel, “Les Miserables II: The Hunt for Jean Valjean.”

We found each other beyond hysterical. (I have obviously not changed at all.)

We were The Amys. Even though seventh graders were the baby scumbuckets of the school, everybody knew The Amys. We were cute and funny and knew all the best crank calls and could keep a prank going for weeks. (We kept telling everyone about The Best Movie Ever called “Red Rain” that they just HAD to see and we’ve seen it like, five times already and you’ve TOTALLY got to go this weekend, promise? And of course the movie didn’t exist. We just used it as a cover for when we got caught gossiping about somebody. Some girl’s dad was in rehab for cocaine? Oh no, not you. The main character in Red Rain. It’s so sad. You should totally go see it.)

We could also be incredibly, unbelievably and relentlessly mean to other girls. Two in particular. One of which went to Penn State and I recognized. I looked her up in the student directory and emailed her and asked if she was the same girl I went to junior high with, even though I totally knew she was. I was hoping to soothe my conscience and apologize for being such a bitch. Her response: “Nope. Not me.” I definitely deserved that.

Anyway. I’ve digressed to gresses unknown. The point is: I had a friend named Amy.

Sometime before Christmas, Amy was approached by a boy who was friends with a boy who liked me. Did I like him?

Amy and I didn’t talk about boys much. I believe she had a crush on an older boy and I’d long stopped viewing boys as part of my species. (Particularly seventh grade boys. This was during Gulf War I and all the boys thought saying “I scudded” after they farted? Was the funniest thing ever.)

But Amy reported back to me and together we determined that it would be a good move for me to like this boy back. His mother was the band conductor and Amy and I were angling for the banner girl spots in the marching band. He was incredibly smart and bookish but not completely nerdy. He was top-tier honor roll (the school had three honor rolls to distinguish the brilliant from the super-smart from the merely dumb lucky). He had curly blond hair and glasses that were not altogether awful.

I cannot remember his name. It was either Mark or Matthew or something Mish. We’ll just call him Markthew.

Amy scurried back to Markthew’s minion and ta da! A seventh grade “item” was born. We had never spoken before, and really wouldn’t afterwards either. Amy joked that she should have negotiated a dowry.

I was pleased and waited for the making out to begin. The clandestine meetings out behind the gymnasium and the gifts and the whatnot. We said “hi” in the hallway a lot and one time he gave a note to his friend to give to Amy to give to me. He always required two layers of insulation in any relationship dealings.

One time, I sent a message across the proper communication channels that maybe we could sit next to each other in chapel. Amy had already devised a plan of bringing a jacket along to drape over the armrest so we could hold hands. I got a long letter from him explaining why he just couldn’t sit next to me in chapel (ever!) or talk to me in the hallways (EVER!) that didn’t explain anything. But it did talk about how much he liked me and how pretty I was. Swoon!

And then he gave me a Christmas present, live and in person! It was a box of turtles (the candy, not the…oh you know. Shut it.). He delivered it to me just after the bell rang for Christmas break and I was packing up at my locker. He said, “Here.”

I stood up to thank him and realized that I was at least half a foot taller than him. Oh my god.

Amy and I discussed it in much detail over Christmas break.

I’d say stuff like, “I just don’t feel very fulfilled in this relationship. He’s so closed off, you know?”

She’d say things like, “You need to be with someone who appreciates you. I just don’t think he really appreciates you.”

And I’d say, “But I don’t want to hurt him. He’s so sensitive.”

And she’d say, “He’s not taking your feelings into consideration though. He just ignores you and expects you to be happy when you’re doing all the work.”

(Thirteen-year-old girls and Oprah. Bad, bad, bad.)

I also turned 14 and got my first period over Christmas break. I was way too mature for him, obviously. It was time to move on. Adult relationships. Actual talking and kissing. Markthew had to go.

Amy, of course, delivered the news. By the time I’d made my final decision our opinions of him had plummeted. What had we seen in him? He was short and kind of pudgy and he stammered sometimes when he answered in class. He played the clarinet, for fuck’s sake. Plus he hadn’t even attempted to figure out a way that we could possibly arrange to maybe kiss. Totally. Gay.

So Amy marched up to him before homeroom and told him, “Amy doesn’t like you anymore.” And then marched off.

It was a success. Everybody knew by second period. Markthew disappeared. The next day, he wore black and kept telling people that his girlfriend totally "dumped him like trash."

“Girlfriend!” I shrieked when someone reported this to me. “He was scared to death of me the whole time we went out and now I’m his girlfriend? Puh-leeeze.”

It wasn’t long before another person approached me to report that someone else liked me. (Again, he was either Mark or Matthew. Mattark, then.) Since the friend reported directly to me, cutting out the entire buffer layer of Amy, I took this as a good sign. Plus? This guy was tall. Tall!

Mattark talked to me. He called me on the phone. We had absolutely nothing to say, but still. Talking. He walked me to class and sat next to me in chapel EVEN THOUGH we were in separate homerooms and technically supposed to sit with our homerooms. He was a badass. He came over to my house once but my parents kept us under constant watch so there was still no kissing. But he made an attempt and that made me happy.

Meanwhile, Markthew was coming undone. He quit band. (Band!) He mouthed off to a teacher when he didn’t do his homework. Amy and I had to tread lightly around him because of his mother and our upcoming marching band banner girl appearances, but we were still Mean. Amy would randomly tell him I liked him again and then pretend that he was making it up when he mentioned it later. He became a regular character in our comic strips…complete with mouse ears, a tail and a penchant for choosing cheese over females. He got suspended for two days after being heard to say the word “bitch.”

The honor roll for the second semester came out in June. I’d moved up the honor roll to the top tier. Amy cracked the middle tier. Markthew’s name was nowhere to be seen.

“We’ve destroyed him, Aim,” Amy marveled. “Totally destroyed him.”

We both stared at the list for awhile, giggling and feeling immensely pleased with ourselves.

Next up: Amy gets her bitchy ass knocked down a few hundred pegs.

The Many Loves of Amalah, Part One

After reading all your lovely comments about dickweed ex-boyfriends and Lauren’s charming little story of young love gone haywire, it's obvious I have many, many more days’ worth of entries about my History Of Lurve With The Boys to share with y'all.

So today? Lurve, first-grade style. Heartbreak, Betrayal and Cabbage Patch Kid Lunchboxes.

Flashback (Wayne's World style) to the first day of first grade. I am riding the big school bus. I am gazing lovingly at my yellow Cabbage Patch Kids lunchbox. Oh, how I love it so. I also love my new socks with the pink lace around the ankles. I love my new pack of colored pencils. I love myself.

Suddenly? There’s this BOY sitting next to me. He just got on the bus and then boom. Sitting next to me in all his boydom.

Hi, he says. I’m Matthew. He sticks out his hand. I do not take it. He’s kind of big. Stocky. A bruiser. I am tiny and wee and probably would have snapped in two had this kid sat on me.

Undeterred, he asks me my name. I tell him. And with that, he fell in love.

He was in the first grade too. In my class. Somehow? We were considered boyfriend and girlfriend by our very first recess. He wrote me notes and proudly left MATTHEW LOVES AMY doodles out in plain sight.

I generally ignored him. I had been pretty popular with the boys in nursery school and just took it for granted that boys “liked” me in “that way” or whatever. They were useful when you wanted to play house and needed a Daddy. Also: cooties and mud and such.

(I was also technically in a pretty serious long-term relationship with David, my next-door neighbor, who also loved me. His brother would don a black shirt with a folded tissue tucked in the collar and marry us. Then David and I would rush to see who could declare divorce first. Then we’d get married again. It was adorable.)

But then I met Jason. (No, not the current Jason. The first in a long series of other Jasons, Johns, James and Joshes that I would date. Seriously. Had a thing with the J names. But we’ll discuss them in future entries.)

This Jason was beautiful. Oh my gawd. He had curly blond hair and blue eyes and dimples. He was a child model for fuck’s sake and had the J.C. Penney back-to-school circular to prove it. All the girls loved him.

I would sometimes chase him around the playground and try to kiss him. One time I caught him and kissed his ear. He had very nice, clean ears.

I have no idea what Matthew thought about all this. I don’t think there was any kind of scandal or Earlobegate or anything. Matthew still asked to sit with me on the bus every day. Most days I let him and we argued over things, like whose house we'd live in after we got married. Other days I was off with my friend Allison Last-Name-Withheld-Because-She-Was-And-May-Still-Be-Evil building forts out of our books and bags in the back row seats.

He bought me a heart-shaped box of candy for Valentine’s Day. We held hands sometimes too.

But. Then. I got on the bus one afternoon and Matt and Allison were in the back row. I walked back to sit with them and they both stuck their legs out across the seats and told me I couldn’t sit there. I started to sit a row ahead of them. Allison said those seats were saved. I moved up a row. Matt said those were saved.

(Now, I was a smart kid but I was not a smart kid. Rather than tell them to go eat boogers or whatever my version of “fuck off” was at that age, I let the humiliation continue. I kept walking back towards the front of the bus trying to sit down. And every time one of them yelled, “That’s saved!” I got up and moved again. Dumbass. And crybaby.)

It went on like this for days. Matthew sat with Allison and I was not allowed anywhere near them. Matthew told me he didn’t like me anymore. I cried. Oh, how I cried. I cried so hard on the bus one day that a fourth grader noticed and said disapprovingly to Matthew, “You must have broken Amy’s heart.” He just shrugged in response and I cried harder.

I moped about it off the bus too. One day at recess Jason the Gorgeous Golden Child came running up to me. “Doncha wanna chase me today, Amy?” he asked, already crouched in position to bolt the minute I said yes.

But instead, I shook my head no and wandered off to sulk on a swing. Jason just stood there, dumbfounded.

Sigh. Oh, Allison Last-Name-Withheld-Because-She-Was-And-May-Still-Be-Evil. You were my very first archenemy.

And Matthew Smith. You were my very first love.