Valentine Tribulations of the Third Grade

They are all
staying away
from Joey’s chair.

In art class we all made pouches from paper plates, and we decorated them with construction paper hearts, little white paper doilies, and lots of paste. We hung the pouches from our chairs with red ribbon, awaiting all the little mini cards and lollipops and conversation hearts that would come from our classmates on Valentine’s Day.

The third graders are running around the room, depositing their Valentines in the little pouches and goofing around.

Joey has already finished handing his out. He’s back at his desk, sitting in his seat, waiting. A pouch hangs from the back of his chair too. But his pouch is empty.

The rule, of course, is that if we choose to bring in Valentines, we must bring one in for each child in the class.

Joey is sitting there, looking hopefully around the room, hoping that someone, anyone, will drop a Valentine in his pouch.

But they are all staying away from Joey’s chair.

They are all kind of watching, too, out of the corners of their eyes, to see if anyone will give Joey a Valentine.

I’m sure a few of the kids have brought in cards for him. I’m sure that a few of them, especially those girls who always do exactly as the teacher requests (I am one of those girls), I’m sure at least they have a little mini envelope with JOEY written on it.

Maybe they're not giving him the best card in the set. Probably not the one that says Be My Valentine, or the one that says You’re the Coolest Valentine! Certainly not the one that says I’m Sweet On You. But maybe the one that says Have A Great Day or something like that.

But it seems like now, with all the cruel, condemning third-grade eyes on them, all those obedient girls - they have all chickened out.

And forget about the boys. They’re not giving him cards either.

I’ve handed out most of mine. Only a few left in my hands as I walk slowly by the last few seats.

CHRISTINE… ALEX… DANIEL…

I’m almost to Joey’s desk.

I never tease Joey. My big brother is fat. I’m constantly sticking up for him out on the playground. He gets into a lot of fights in elementary school because the kids tease him all the time.

So I’m not a teaser. I love my brother. And I feel bad for Joey.

But kids never want to be on the receiving end of taunting. That’s why they’re so mean to each other, I think. Because if they were to stick their necks out and defend someone, then they might end up being teased themselves. Even if they sit there quietly, minding their own business, they might end up being teased.

So they usually strike first. Let everyone know that they’re on the “cool” kid side, not the “loser” kid side.

I don’t join in on teasing. I’m a quiet kid. I mostly just mind my own business.

Of course, it helps that I’m not a fat kid, or an ugly kid, or a kid that has trouble with schoolwork, a kid with a big birth mark on her face, or a kid with dirty clothes. I don’t have any obvious abnormality that will set me apart from the persecuting masses. So I mostly fade into the background. I’m shy, so I like it there.

So here’s the thing: do I call attention to myself today, by placing a card in Joey’s Valentine pouch?

Just think of what they will say. “Ewwww! Tammie likes Joey!”

Tammie and Joey sittin’ in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G!
First comes love! Then comes marriage! Then comes a baby in a baby carriage!

I take the card that says JOEY and go back to my desk.

Some kids are starting to empty their booty onto their desks and eat the candy. Joey has nothing. He is sitting there expressionless.

I think of my brother, over in his 5th grade classroom. I wonder if he’s gotten any Valentines today. He probably has. Even though he’s fat, he’s outgoing and he does have friends.

But Joey looks so vulnerable sitting there, with no friends to defend him.

I’m back on my feet.

No, I’m not planning to make some big show of it. I’m not going to march over there with righteous strides and condemn the rest of the class for ignoring our classmate.

I’m trying to figure out how to do this as quietly as possible.

I’ve got a handful of candy from my pouch and Joey’s card. I’m not sure what my plan is exactly.

But then I see Steve (the loud, red-haired class clown) steal someone’s lollipop and start running. All the girls are chasing him. The boys are in on it, and a big monkey-in-the-middle thing has started.

I seize the opportunity and drop my card in Joey’s pouch, along with a handful of candy, while everyone is distracted. I don’t say anything to him. I just drop and run.

I’m back at my desk before anyone notices.

I nonchalantly watch the classroom shenanigans for a moment or two, and then I look back over toward Joey.

He has candy on his desk, and he is smiling at me.

I smile back.

Accidental Junk

Okay, how shall I explain this… When you want to see it, it looks amazing! Like Excaliber! Full of power and strength, not to mention the glistening promise of coital bliss to come.

But when you don’t want to see it, or it catches you unawares, dear God! It looks like a big ol’ mess. A big ol’ scary, ugly mess. Sometimes it even looks quite frightening, especially if the area in question is not well-groomed.

Let me give you an example.

I’m in college. My housemate Tracy and I are on our way back from the park, where we’ve spent the afternoon playing Frisbee. Naturally, the Frisbee is just the bait. What we really want is for the cute boys to come over and ask if they can join in.

And if they don’t make the first move, well, they might find a Frisbee on their laps, or in the middle of their baseball game, or in the spokes of their mountain bikes (hopefully causing only minimal injuries). All completely unintentional, of course. Yes, the Frisbee is our ticket to Cute Boy Conversation, and we’ve mastered its potent use.

There’s no shame in our game.

Not that the boys don’t have their own little games. Of course they do. That’s why they all go out and get puppies and tie little red bandanas around their necks and parade them through the park. Oh believe me, this works like a charm. Gets me every time.

So our shameless flirting session is over. Phone numbers have been exchanged. We throw one last giggle and toss our hair, and we’re on our way back from the park.

Two blocks away from our apartment, there’s a man (we’ll call him Dick) sitting on the stoop in front of his house. For those of you not from New York, stoop is a regional term meaning “a small porch, platform, or staircase leading to the entrance of a house or building” (thanks thefreedictionary.com). Not to be confused with schtup.

So basically, Dick is sitting on his front steps in his yellow 70’s shorts with white piping and a stained Home Depot t-shirt.

But this was really more of a stoop. There are nuances.

Anyway, Dick is holding up a baby boy who’s about 9 months old (we’ll call him Baby). Baby is unsteadily standing there in his little diapey and t-shirt (it was a hot day), facing the sidewalk. Dick is holding onto Baby’s torso as Baby bounces around and flaps his arms, squealing at the passing cars.

Baby is adorable, so Tracy and I stop to say hello.

Both Baby and Dick are quite receptive to our little visit. They both have big smiles on their faces. Baby is flapping his arms quite wildly now as we coo at him and tickle his little belly.

“Hi Baby! Hi Baby! Aren’t you a little cutie pie? Yes you are! Yes you are!”

Suddenly and without notice, I straighten up and begin marching hastily toward the apartment. I’ve got to get as much distance between me and The Situation as I possibly can before any sound escapes my lips. If anything audible were to let loose, it might sound like a cross between a wounded buffalo and a yelping dog.

I’ve got to be quick. I can’t hold it back much longer.

I’ve left Tracy behind, abandoned and completely ignorant of what lies just behind Baby, not 3 inches from Tracy’s cooing, open mouth.

It’s… it’s…

It’s Dick.

Unauthorized Dick.

Not quite sure if it’s actual frank or just beans. But there’s a big ol’ mess hanging out the side of Dick’s little yellow short-shorts.

“Hi Baby! Hi Good Boy! Who’s a good little boy today? Who’s a…”

The cooing stops abruptly. I hear the footsteps gaining on me.

And now that Tracy has caught up to me, we are running. Running and screaming like two scaredy-cat girls being pursued across the playground by a dreadful boy holding a big, ugly worm.

Actually, it’s almost exactly like that.

We do not stop running until we are safe inside our apartment, doors locked.

“Ewwwwww! Ewy-ewy-ewy-ewy!”

But now I wonder, was this just an honest slip?

Or did Dick know he was hanging out of his shorts? Imagine that. I bet he was using Baby to lure the girls in to see his naughty bits and pieces. A shock and awe campaign like no other.

Pretty ballsy, too.

We Should Have Been Friends

When I was 5 years old, I found a friend to play with while my father was playing a softball game. We were the same age, and we were both wearing dresses and barrettes in our hair.

We were happy to have found each other, because a softball game lasts a really long time. We played on the swings, in the sandbox, and on the seesaw, giggling all day.

Later, when the players were taking a break, I went to see my dad, and she went to see her dad, who was on the opposing team.

Dad and I shared a turkey wedge with lettuce, tomato and mayo, my favorite. He had an RC Cola, and I had a Yoo-hoo. And of course, I had Twinkies for dessert. Always Twinkies.

Someone on our team came over and said teasingly, “I saw you! I saw you playing with that little black girl!”

“So?”

But he continued, “Yeah, I saw you playing with the little porch monkey.”

I didn’t know what that meant, but it didn’t sound nice. And I think even someone else joined in too. And my dad just raised his eyebrows and nodded his head a little, not completely playing along with them, but not standing up for me either.

And I started to feel embarrassed, like I’d done something wrong.

When my dad’s team went back to the dugout, and her dad’s team went out on the field, she came over to the bench where I was sitting and sat down right next to me, ready to resume our games. I felt like I shouldn’t be seen with her, like they were all going to talk about me and laugh at me.

They might even point their fingers and say “I see you!”

So I moved away from her to the other side of the bench.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just don’t feel like playing anymore.”

But that was two lies in one. I did feel like playing some more. And something was very wrong.

It's a good thing we're not all destined to repeat the mistakes of our fathers.

So to the little girl on the bench at the park, with the pretty little barrettes in her hair, I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. I’ve remembered you my whole life, but I hope you don’t remember me.

Hollywood Hotties Ain’t My Thing

“So what’s your type of guy?”

I don’t know how many times I was asked that question when I was single.

“I don’t have a type.”

“What about movie stars? Who do you have a crush on?”

“I don’t have crushes on movie stars.”

I really don’t. I never did.

Well, maybe in the sixth grade when I saw the movie The Outsiders. I thought Matt Dillon was hot. And I was smitten with C. Thomas Howell.

“Stay gold, Ponyboy. Stay gold.”

I loved that movie. All those guys were gorgeous, and they were cool because they were dirty boys that wore leather jackets and ripped jeans. I’m sure I fell asleep many a night dreaming of kissing Matt Dillon.

But as a grown woman, I just don’t get infatuated with famous people. I lived in Brentwood, California for a while. I would see famous people quite often. I even met a few at parties and clubs. But they were just people. I never got all googly-eyed over them.

“C’mon, there has to be someone. Brad Pitt?”

“No, a friend of mine interviewed him once and she said he had really bad body odor.”

“Tom Cruise?”

“Hell no! Arrogance is the ugliest thing to me.”

“Just name someone. There has to be someone you think is hot.”

“Okay then… Jon Stewart.”

“What?”

“If I have to name someone, it’s Jon Stewart.”

“Why???”

“Because he’s intelligent, witty, and funny. Those are qualities that attract me.”

So that has always been my standard answer to that stupid question. Jon Stewart. It usually leads to some discussion, since he is not an obvious choice to most people.

Over the summer, Sean and I are visiting his “new brother” in North Carolina. That’s a whole other story.

Well don’t you know, we get into one of these conversations about who has the hots for whom.

Angelina Jolie always comes up as a clear choice for the men. Brad Pitt and Matthew McConnaughey are mentioned by the women.

“What about you, Tammie? Who do you have a crush on?”

“My husband.”

“No, in Hollywood. Or on TV. Who do you think is hot?”

“I don’t go for Hollywood types.”

“Oh c’mon, there has to be someone.”

My husband knows my dirty secrets (well, not all of them… yet), so he tries to help me out: “She likes Jon Stewart.”

“Jon Stewart? Why?”

“Because he’s intelligent, and witty, and funny. That’s the kind of guys I go for.”

“Yeah, but so is Dr. Ruth!” the new brother calls across the room.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on now. See that’s completely different.”

“No, it’s not!”

“Yes, it is. Because I like my women HOT.”

That shut him up.

A Proper Send-Off

Charlie comes running over. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Is Scruffy okay???”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I had been walking around the yard with the dogs.

Butchie, the lab, loves when I join in on the Morning Sniff. It shows a unified front when the entire pack patrols the property together, marking all the standard posts. My two old boys and me… no one would dare trespass into our territory.

Scruffy, the little white cockapoo, can’t see much anymore, and his hearing isn’t very good. So for him, patrolling means sending out pings in every direction to see if he gets a hit. Sure, it looks like he’s barking incessantly at nothing, and perhaps some of the neighbors find it a bit annoying, but he knows what he’s doing.

He is feared by squirrels, rabbits, and even a few select deer that have made his acquaintance during the daily 6 am tour of duty. He’s got a pretty bad-ass rep around here.

Both noses go up in the air. They smell it. I see the white fur in the grass and immediately started clapping my hands to lead the boys back into the house.

Then I go to get Sean. There are many reasons for a woman to get married, but the main one is so you don’t have to deal with gross stuff.

“Honey, can you help me?”

There are many reasons for a man to get married too, but the kind of lovin I give my dear husband is the main one. I gave him real good lovin just a little while ago.

So he cheerfully responds, “What’s up?”

“There’s a dead opossum in the yard. We have to take care of it right away so Scruffy doesn’t try to eat it.”

He knows when I say “we” I really mean him.

And he knows Scruffy would probably be chewing on dead opossum corpse in a second if given the chance. We’ve caught him eating dead rats before, and dead birds, and even his own crap. Even Butchie’s crap, and that stuff is hard core. Surprisingly, he does not find most vegetables palatable and will spit them out.

Sean gets a big shovel from the garage. We head for the back yard.

“Are you gonna bury it?”

“Nope.”

He positions the shovel beneath the fluffy white fur, lifts the carcass, and heads for the back of the property.

I’m following a few feet behind him, sickened yet oddly curious and excited.

As he nears the woods, he positions the shovel behind him. With a few running steps, he then catapults the animal about 30 feet into the air. It lands in the bushes with a loud thud.

Although in retrospect it seems wrong, we are in an uproar.

“Holy shit! Did you see how far that thing went?”

“Did you hear it hit the ground? Oh my gosh, that was hysterical!”

Our neighbor Charlie had been involved in some early morning yard maintenance. He had grown concerned when he saw us walking into the back yard with a shovel. Both of our dogs are pretty old.

Seeing a white fluffy creature launched into the woods had only confirmed his fears.

Charlie comes running over. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Is Scruffy okay???”

“Charlie! Do you really think I would give my best friend of the past 15 years a send-off like this? You were a good dog…. Whoosh!”

“Well I would hope not!”

It was a mistake, of course, throwing that animal into the woods. It was a large beast, and it was the middle of July. For the rest of the summer, no matter where we were in the house or yard, we always seemed to be downwind of its foul, deteriorating remains.

I kind of wished something would eat it.

A Date Should Include Making-Out

He appears without warning from behind a tree, brandishing a handgun and pointing it unsteadily in our direction.

“Freeze!!! Drop your weapons!!!”

As I raise my hands above my head, I shoot Chuck a look that pierces his skull and burns out the little area of his brain that had thought this would make an enjoyable afternoon.

This day was just not going the way I had planned.

Let me set the scene for you. It’s 1987. I’ve succeeded in teasing my hair to lofty new heights with a combination of Aqua Net and Aussie Mega-Scrunch Mousse. I’m wearing black stretch capris, black granny boots, and pink slouch socks that match my pink, gray and black sweater. I’m also sporting earrings that are large, dangling pink stars.

I know this all sounds rather hideous, but my tiny ass (it was just a modest bubble back then) looks smokin’ in the stretch pants.

I’m sitting in the passenger seat of my boyfriend Chuck’s car. It’s a little blue Toyota something-or-other (I’m not good with cars). He’s survived many car accidents in this little beauty, and it shows. Every corner of this vehicle has been smashed, bashed, and dented in. The back window on the left side is completely gone, but he has woven a formidable replacement out of layers of duct tape.

And on the hood of the car, the crowning glory: a white body outline (a crime scene staple), as if someone met their maker right there, cursing out this reckless lead-foot teenage hooligan with their last screaming breath. From the looks of the car, you consider for a moment that the body outline might actually be real.

No Sleep Til Brooklyn is booming through the sound system. Chuck knows every word.

I’ve been waiting all week to hang out with my boyfriend. We planned on seeing a movie. I’m pretty sure that after the movie, we’ll park the car behind the theater like we always do and have a hot make-out session. That’s the part I’m looking forward to.

“Why are we going this way?”

“Malaney called me. He wants to come to the movie with us.”

Ladies and Gentlemen, we’ve got ourselves a third wheel. My plan has been foiled.

“Are we still gonna see Who’s That Girl?”

“Nah, Malaney wants to see Predator.”

A dude movie. How romantic.

Billy: I'm scared Poncho.
Poncho: Bullshit. You ain't afraid of no man.
Billy: There's something out there waiting for us, and it ain't no man. We're all gonna die.

Oh yeah, this shit has them going. They come out of the movie all juiced up on buttered popcorn, Milk Duds, and dangerously high levels of testosterone.

We head back to Malaney’s house to get some BB guns. You heard me… BB guns.

Then we park the car (you know, the one with the body outline) at the end of a very residential street. We are heading into the woods to play Ambush.

What’s Ambush, you ask? I don’t freakin’ know. Malaney gives us a head start.

Reminder: I am dressed like an extra from a Madonna video.

We dart down a trail and scamper up an embankment. I’m skewering dead leaves with the heels of my granny boots. We duck down between some boulders which form a cave-like area. We have a perfect view of the trail below us. Chuck has the BB gun aimed and ready. We wait.

We wait.

We wait for quite some time. Sparrows have begun nesting in my teased mane. Malaney has obviously taken a different trail, and has most likely found himself a similar vantage point. I’m sure he’s got his gun aimed too, ready and waiting.

And waiting.

“This sucks. Someone’s gonna have to make a move in this stupid game.”

We begin our covert mission to uncover the hidden Malaney Hideout. Maybe we can sneak up on him from behind and fire a BB at his ass.

I’m not sure how stealthy I can be in heels. “It’s all fun and games until someone looses an eye,” I whisper.

Chuck’s not listening. He’s spotted something.

Suddenly, shots are fired. Our position has been compromised!

Chuck and Malaney have sprung into action. There are diving rolls, dashes behind trees and rocks, peals of laughter, and BB’s flying everywhere. There’s even some cursing to coincide with the sting of the BB’s.

I am staying a safe distance away, in the middle of the trail, with my arms crossed, pouting. I bet I look quite fetching standing here, with the trees all around me and a nest in my hair. And he’s not even noticing.

I’m not very happy with this date.

I guess from the perspective of the elderly couple on Crestview Drive, it did look a bit menacing: Two men with shotguns... yeah, shotguns! leading a young (cute) girl into the woods. I suppose I would have called the authorities, too.

When the children finally grow bored with their Predator games, we start up the trail toward the car.

He appears without warning from behind a tree, brandishing a handgun and pointing it unsteadily in our direction.

“Freeze!!! Drop your weapons!!!”

As I raise my hands above my head, I shoot Chuck a look that pierces his skull and burns out the little area of his brain that had thought this would make an enjoyable afternoon.

The boys slowly lay their weaponry on the ground. We all have our hands above our heads. A painfully obvious rookie is pointing a gun at us with a precariously shaky hand.

And my hair looks so good today. I even did my nails.

I decide that next week I'll make Chuck take me to see Dirty Dancing. That should increase the odds of a post-movie make-out session. And decrease the odds of anyone wanting to join in.

It would be many years before I looked favorably on the prospect of someone joining in...

*wink*

The Worst Thing I've Ever Done

Okay, we all do stupid things in our lives. Especially in our relationships. I’m sure everyone can look back on some wrong committed in a relationship and shudder. And then you file it in the back of your brain and leave it there, hoping it will get lost and fade away.

Well screw it. I’m pulling out my shameful file and posting it. Let me tell you about the worst thing I’ve ever done…

It was a relationship I had during college with a guy named Chris, who would eventually become one of my stalkers. But that’s another story.

Chris and I are dating for a few months, and we become attached pretty quickly. Scarily, obsessively attached. Well, he is anyway. I’m just enthusiastic because he’s a nice dresser and he knows how to dance.

We are having a little spat. I can’t recall what it’s about. All I know is that it starts to become irrational. There is no sense in continuing an argument with an irrational person. You just have to walk away and resume the discussion when both parties are calm and in a better frame of mind.

That’s my way of thinking anyway.

So I declare, “That’s it. I’m going home. I’ll call you later.”

Chris subscribes to a different approach, called Never Leave Until It’s Settled.

So he says, “Oh no you don’t! You’re not going anywhere until we work this out!”

“Uh, this isn’t going to be worked out right now, because you are a crazed lunatic and I’m leaving.”

“No you’re not!” he says.

“Yes I am!” I am grabbing my purse and heading out of his bedroom.

He leaps from the couch and positions himself in the doorframe like Vitruvian Man. This is supposed to block my exit. I duck under his arm and head for the stairs. Again, he dives in front of me and tries to block my escape. Again, I duck under his arm.

I run up the stairs like a gazelle being pursued across the veldt. He is chasing me, yelling, “No! You can’t leave! We have to work this out!”

But by now I’m out the front door and in my car. I’m locking the door and rolling up the window as fast as I can. And then immediately doing the same on the other side of the car as he tries desperately to get in.

“Open the door!”

“No!”

“You can’t leave!”

“I have to get the hell away from you!”

Now he’s standing in front of my orange Vega hatchback. He’s blocking the driveway. I start the car.

“I’m not moving. You have to stay and finish this.”

“I’m already finished with this.”

“I’m not letting you go.”

I shift the car into drive and I slowly roll up to where he is. I’m not even applying the gas; I’ve merely removed my foot from the brake and I’m rolling.

He adjusts his stance as he attempts the Herculean feat of holding back my car. I continue rolling forward.

“Get out of my way.”

“No! I’m not letting you go!”

He is backing up as he tries to halt the car. I can see the veins popping out of his head as he strains to keep me from moving. I do not stop.

Since the driveway is a steep hill, I have to gently apply the gas to continue. It is taking every ounce of patience in my body not to mow him down. I think I hate him.

He is shuffling backwards faster now as I begin to accelerate, but he’s still attempting to keep me there through the sheer force of his manly power. Finally, he gives up and does the only thing he can do.

He jumps up on my hood.

“Get off!”

“No!”

“Well I’m not stopping!”

I continue driving up the hill to the road. It’s about 11:30 at night now, and there’s no traffic on Jean Drive.

Good thing, because now I’m driving down this winding back road with a man on the hood of my car.

I decide to stop and give him one more chance. I feel that I am dangerously close to blowing an O ring if I can’t get the hell away from this idiot.

“Chris, listen to me. Get off of my car. I hate you and I’m going home.”

“No! You have to stay and talk to me!”

“Get off!”

“NO!”

I floor it. He is gripping onto the hood for dear life. I’ve seen spiders do this quite well, little bodies blowing in the ever-increasing wind as little spider feet (do spiders have feet?) stay firmly planted on the windshield. But I've never had the pleasure of seeing this act performed by a dumb-ass soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend.

I feel like I’m going to go insane if I can’t get away from deranged human being.

I’ve got the car up to about 40 mph now. And I do the only thing I can do: I slam on the brakes. This sends him careening onto the roadway. But Spiderman doesn't even need a stunt-double. He executes perfect tuck-and-roll form!

Then he grabs his leg and starts writhing in pain. “Help me! Help me! I think it’s broken!”

I know he’s faking. I drive around him and go home.

I know I probably sound like a callous bitch at this point, but hold tight. That’s not even the end of the story.

I live across town. 45 minutes later, the doorbell rings. I turn on the light to see who’s out there. It’s Chris.

“Hon, I ran all the way over here. We have to talk.”

“We are not talking tonight. Leave or I will call the police.”

“Can you at least give me a ride home?”

Yeah right. All that work to get away from him, and he wants me to drive him back home. Not a chance.

“Go away.”

I turn off the light and go to bed.

NOW maybe I’m a callous bitch.

He’s probably still in love with me.