Monthly Archives: June 2016
During my epic summer between 7th and 8th grade, besides turning into a lobster, my mom dragged me along to help install her artwork in a gallery in Salt Lake City. Did I mention my mom was an artist (still is) and I was her slave labor?
Yes, I learned to crawl under an A-Frame at the Polk Street Art Fair. Yet another detail that made me completely non-relatable to the popular girls and therefore would be expunged from my public biography.
My mom was terrified of Mormons, so we spent all our free time at the most amazing place I’d been to in my life – the four story Super Mall at South Town – that had super high speed Ms. Pac Man and who do you think beat the high score within 10 minutes? Duh, me. I’ll still challenge any of you to a Ms. Pac Man off and I mean it.
But the best thing about the mall was it had a movie theatre. And that is where it happened. My life would never be the same.
I saw Pretty in Pink.
(If you have somehow lived this long without seeing Pretty in Pink, I feel super sad for you and jealous of you simultaneously. Watch it. Then rewind it and watch it again. But if you really must, this blog may be the best summary I’ve ever read.)
I felt like John Hughes gave me a roadmap. To world domination. Most girls saw that movie and longed to be Andie, the pouty outcast girl who bit her lip a lot and made her own ugly ass clothes.
Hi. I’d spent my whole life as an outcast – why the fuck would I want to attract attention to my weirdness? This girl made no sense to me.
I wanted to be Benny Hanson. Steff’s super popular mean girlfriend. She was the best!
Attention must be paid! Note that:
- Benny’s so gorgeous she doesn’t even need a girl name.
- Benny looks even hotter when she’s being mean.
- Benny has an amazing sense of humor. I mean, Jim? Who thinks of that?!?
- Benny’s hair is amaze-balls.
- Benny’s make-up is super amaze-balls.
- Benny wears rolled up blazers with shoulder pads like no one’s business.
- Steff is her boyfriend.
- Steff is so hot all he has to do is speak one word and I’m a tinglefest.*
- Steff is approximately 8 million times hotter than Blaine. Puh-lease.
- Steff has cocaine, weed and alcohol.
- Did I mention Steff has cocaine?
- Steff would never make her have sex in a horse stable. As if Benny would ever put up with shit (literally) like that. I mean, has anyone ever thought about Andie’s first time being to the smell of horseshit? And I thought my devirgination sucked.
Andie got the boy at the end – after high school was over. When being popular doesn’t even matter anymore. I mean, what was even her goal in life?
I think it was to frustrate every teen in the 80’s by making the world’s ugliest prom dress after a long built up and completely misleading montage.
Come to think of it, I didn’t want to be pretty in pink. That wasn’t even putting the bar high enough; it was burying the bar. I wanted to be supermodel in anything but pink. I hated fucking pink. I wanted to be the opposite of pink – tough, bitchy, invincible.
Pink was stupid and weak and vulnerable. I would never be like Andie. I don’t even think she cared about being popular. She just walked around pink all the time. That would never be me – again.
I laid out my outfit for the night before my first day of high school. Special attention was paid to emulate Benny. A blazer with shoulder pads, big hair, pegged pants and all three Swatch watches with swatch guards.
There is was – my failed venture at a resting bitch face. Yes, I was as anti-climactic as Andie’s trash bag prom dress.
My best attempt at Benny replication was about as pathetic as Andie’s entire stupid life. But don’t take my word for it, let’s see what Benny herself has to say about my attempt:
*I refuse to accept that the man who calls himself James Spader is actually the same actor that played Steff. And if you bring it up, I may pull out my inner Benny Hanson.
Sandy and I heard the sure fire way to be deemed losers in high school was to still be virgins. In hindsight, this reasoning had a few holes – no pun intended.
I imagined a virginity checkpoint that all freshmen had to pass through before even being allowed to go to homeroom. We’d have to drop trow and a white-gloved senior, perhaps even the senior class president himself, would do a rudimentary pelvic exam.
If he felt a hymen, you had to go back to Middle School. Forever.
Determined to have a start fresh at my new school, I was ready to give Skater Boy the time of his life. After all, we had already practically lit our jeans on fire dry humping and personally tripled the price of Carmex stock from making out so much.
We had a duty to Wall Street. Hell, we had a duty to America.
Roughly two seconds into my no-longer-affiliated-with-Middle-school-in-any-way-shape-or-form self, I jammed my hand down SB’s pants knowing the magical moment was about to occur.
Tragically, there was a hitch I could’ve never anticipated – SB had morals.
Dammit. Three months of dry humping down the tubes. So I dumped him flat. A burgeoning whore’s gotta do what a burgeoning whore’s gotta do. And I needed the next level – I couldn’t keep humping pillows forever.
Ends up, the answer was in my own front yard. Literally.
My house was the third house off a rather steep dirt driveway. The house below us was Gary’s. We’d known each other since the tragic day we moved from Reno to Sparks. He was a super nice 17-year-old in dire need of an Accutane prescription.
Sandy and I were sitting on the front deck letting the Sun-in and lemon juice do its magic when we heard the thump thump thump of 2 Live Crew’s We Want Some Pussy coming from Gary’s backyard followed by a SPLASH and the sound of girl’s laughter.
A few hours later, the laughter turned into moans. Sandy and I found a peephole in the fence.
And there it was with an audience of empty beer cans – sex. And not just sex – hot tub sex. And not just hot tub sex – group hot tub sex.
The next day, I stalked Gary for three hours to accidentally bump into him mowing the lawn in dolphin shorts. And yes, I was wearing full make up and a very short skirt.
He shut off the mower to greet me, always the gentleman.
“Did you have a party last night and not invite me?” I said, ever so coyly.
“Nah– just kickin’ it with the MGD crew.”
MGD… MGD…. Manly gigantic dildos? Midget gorilla dancers? I had enough working knowledge of cool by now not to ask, just nod like I’m in the know.
Which is exactly what I did. He squatted to meet my eyes.
Side note: their lawn was terraced so I was looking up at him. This information will come in useful very soon.
“You’re a good girl, right? You don’t party, do ya?”
“I party all the time!” I squeaked, failing miserably at trying to contain my enthusiasm.
His smile grew. He leaned in closer to me, at which time one of his balls AND the tip of his penis slid out of his dolphin shorts. His junk was directly in my line of fire. It was like that time I saw a dead body fall out of a burning car. I shouldn’t have looked, but once I did, the image was burned into my memory forever.
So there we were, just me, Gary and his junk. The exchange that followed was totally Charlie Brown’s teacher. All I know is that Sandy and I scored an invite to party with the MGD Crew that night.
We waited until my parents fell asleep and snuck out. Ten minutes later, we were guzzling MILLER GENUINE DRAFT (duh) in Gary’s hot tub with his BFF, Rob. Rob was super hot and went to Reno High. He was my new boyfriend, he just didn’t know it yet. Start new school as a rad mysterious freshman with a senior boyfriend? Check.
I was going to rule.
I slid in close to Rob and got my flirt on full-tilt. At first he was a little fazed about the minor details… like that I was 13 and he was 17, but that was nothing 2 or 12 more MGD’s wouldn’t fix.
He would be mine, oh yes, he would be mine.
By the end of the night, Rob and I were totally making out in the hot tub and Sandy had disappeared with Gary.
It. Was. On.
I motioned to Rob with my prunified finger to follow me into the house. I led him to Gary’s bedroom and onto his twin bed. We fumbled around awkwardly until we both somehow ended up naked.
Then the door opened – and there stood Gary and Sandy, half-clothed and sweaty.
Now, under normal circumstances, in a five, yes five, bedroom house, if one bedroom was occupied with a couple about to make magic, one would assume the other couple would simply relocate.
But no. They laid a sheet down on the floor right by us and proceeded to do the nasty. And the best part is that it made perfect sense at the time.
Yes, Sandy and I were devirginated in the same room at the same time.
I assumed after how horny I was and how good dry humping felt, that actual sex would only feel way better, so I was surprised when it felt like I was being stabbed in the vagina with a dull knife.
Why did people look like they were enjoying sex in movies and hot tubs?
And that’s when it hit me, as he stabbed me repeatedly – I could’ve just lied. It would’ve been far easier to lie than lay.
The spring of my eighth grade year was the stuff of John Hughes movies. That is, if John Hughes movies took place in lame-ass towns with mostly unattractive people.
I spent most weekends on Brie’s father’s 80-acre ranch riding horses and falling in and out of love with her. I had to protect my Inner Core – even from myself. Was I gay? What did this desire mean? Why was I still so boy crazy?
I vowed to just be friends with Brie. I was already too weird to also be gay. I mean, I was starting my life over in less than 6-months, there would be no point in being a pariah out of the gate.
But as much as I convinced myself I didn’t like her, the more tingly I got. Downstairs. You know the kind of tingly of which I speak.
I had to distract myself. Chain smoking, soap operas and getting fucked up with Sandy only took care of a small portion of my carnal desires. I felt a kinship when I’d watch a little weirdo dog hump the shit out of her special bear.
Because I started humping my pillows. Full-on. Oh, if those pillows could talk.
I met my pillow replacement at a skate jam. Yes, a skate jam. And not just a skate jam – a skate jam ALL BY MYSELF. I overheard Scooter and my molester skaters talking about it, so I decided to go. Brie had a horse show and Sandy had weekend detention. Guess Sandy’s life really was like a John Hughes movie.
Skater Boy (SB) was super tall and super skinny. His bangs covered half of his face. He had freckles across his nose from long hours skating half-pipes. Sometimes he wore eyeliner. I could die.
He went to the OTHER middle school, Dilworth – aka The Dill Pickle, Dildo, etc. – so he had no idea who I was at Sparks Middle and he didn’t care. When our eyes met through strands of bangs, all we had was physical attraction with no bullshit in between.
I was so stoked that I didn’t fold to Tina’s threat to hack my bangs. Short bangs would’ve ruined my destiny.
We had a good hour of eye fucking before he finally popped up his skateboard and walked my way, as Toy Doll’s Nellie the Elephant came on. Epic.
And then we were making out and dry humping. On his bed. On park benches. On my bed. Under jungle gyms.
We made out and sprayed Sun-in on each other’s bangs and then we made out some more. We made out until our lips cracked. We took Carmex breaks and made out some more. All I wanted was to be with SB, watching him Ollie, listening to T.S.O.L. and The Violent Femmes and, of course, making out.
An entire spring of endless kissing and dry humping to punk rock climaxed perfectly. He looked me deep in the eyes, as he applied more Carmex.
“Let’s go to each other’s proms.”
Bam. All my dreams came true.
I only had to endure one more week of middle school with all the assholes, bullies and frenemies – because Marie and I got variances to totally awesome Reno High. What made RHS totally awesome? It was the farthest away from Sparks Middle, that’s what.
So prom was my final FUCK YOU to Sparks Middle School and every last person there because I was about to become a Reno Husky while they were all becoming lame-ass Sparks High Railroaders. I mean, what kind of mascot is a train?
SB skated circles around the three asshole skaters from English. They knew of him from jams. SB was a legend, like Tony Hawk, only not famous or rich or as good of a skater.
I couldn’t wait to show up with him on my arm. Then they’d see. They’d see that they missed out. That I was rad. That they missed their chance to be with totally awesome badass me.
Too bad suckas.
Mom took me shopping for my dress. I picked out the tightest one she’d approve in FUCK YOU red.
I went to SB’s prom. It was fun, but the true triumph was MY prom.
We showed up late because I saw in movies that cool people did that and I was about to find out why. When we walked into the cafeteria-converted-into-dance-hall with SB on my arm, everyone I needed to take notice took notice.
I looked hot. And SB was always hot. I figured out fast the people I hung with said volumes about me.
The cafeteria still smelled like Ore-Ida crinkle cut fries and tater tots. We danced all awesome and shit under the disco ball and got busted making out by the chaperones.
We left early because that’s what cool people do to let the world know that this shit was boring.
SB was really good at being bored – a tactic that I soon mastered.
The next day, the three skaters groped me in English and I was too bored to care. Tina called me a whore in History and I yawned. My frenemies talked smack over lunch, but I was too distracted to pay attention.
Fake boredom was as powerful as vodka and much more attainable.
I made sure my bored look was the stuff of great art by the time I hit high school. The only other thing I needed to do was lose my virginity and I would officially be hot shit.
The last week went by with no fanfare; it just ended. No caps, no gowns, no ceremonies. It was just over.
Now Sandy and I had an entire summer to lose our virginities.
PS. Please don’t mistake my Skater Boy with Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8ter Boi.” My SB didn’t need numbers and misspelling to be rad.
PPS. Someone please tell Avril that she’s about as punk as a pink Gucci handbag.
Marie was my friend, too, but she was totally against me drinking and smoking. She liked Sandy, but she worried about me. We would always have Duran Duran, but I remained that girl with her. She was my first friend to belong to the Mantle Layer.
I now placed people in layers. Or strata. Rings. Whatever. It looked a lot like Earth:
I started labeling people by layer, so I knew who I could trust. Everyone started as Crust and would be treated as such until they proved themselves worthy to get closer to my core.
Only Sandy was in my Inner Core. And sometimes my mom. But that was it.
I studied like I’d never studied before. It was hard, but not impossible. Moving to third world countries spontaneously as a kid made me adaptable.
My first report card GPA was a 3.14.
It was clear that I was never going to fit in at Sparks Middle, so I quit trying to fit in. I turned 12 in November and being that much closer to 13 gave me even more strength. I was practically a grown-up.
My second GPA was a 3.50.
I didn’t give a shit what all the assholes thought of me because I was already better than them in my mind. I picked Reno High as my next school. Yeah, this time I did the picking. It was the coolest, richest school in all of Reno that happened to be the furthest away from Sparks High.
I upped my game. I started making friends with the outcasts, the bullied and those who couldn’t afford to wear Benetton and Guess Jeans. If I could help just one loser become a badass like me, I’d done my job.
I was walking down the school hall one crisp morning, when the perfect opportunity found me.
“Horse fucker! How do you like that horse dick?!?”
I turned around and saw the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen in person, running down the hall and crying. I threw on my invisible superwoman cape and chased after her.
She was huddled on the very same concrete bird shit stoop where the blue banana incident occurred. Full circle, man.
I came close to her and she flinched, like an abused animal. The warmth of our breath gave our words shape.
Brie looked like a mix between Marilyn Monroe back when she was Norma Jean and Bridget Moynahan. Her lips were full, she wore a D cup by the seventh grade and she had a mole in just the perfect spot above her lip. She even looked beautiful when she cried.
I was a year ahead of her. She was a bit too voluptuous, a little too pretty and a touch too smart. Ugly ass bullies hated chicks like Brie. Her name alone caused those gargoyles to glow red with anger.
Brie was a fancy cheese that no one living in Sparks had probably ever even eaten, not a name. But her real problem was – she told the wrong person that she lived on a horse ranch (on the weekends) and rode horses.
Thus – she was a horse fucker.
Once they sniffed out uniqueness of any kind, the bullies would find the stupidest thing to brand on us. (Like when I was a dog fucker and a dyke.) She was the perfect project for me. I’d experienced her pain and broken free. I was older and wiser.
I also felt like I wanted to kiss her the moment we met. And I’m talking make out, not peck. On this very day, on the poop stoop, I realized that I might be gay.