Unexpected Treasures

Ten days or so before Precious Daughter was born, my stepfather had bypass surgery. We actually crossed paths in the hospital. I stopped in to visit him right before having my daughter by cesarean section.

Two weeks after Precious Daughter was born, my stepfather, having been released shortly before, decided he was putting the family home on the market and moving in with one of his sons. I remember my friend M calling me to tell me there was a Dumpster in front of the house and my step-buttheads were loading the thing with everything they could grab.

Ironically, this was the first day I would have been permitted to drive after delivery. I got in the car and the blasted thing wouldn't start. M came to my rescue and drove me over there with Precious Daughter in her car seat carrier thingy. That damned Dumpster was already a third full, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was still under weight restrictions, and my belly felt too raw to go Dumpster diving anyway. I hurriedly salvaged some things I could carry and took them home. Over the next few days, I had The Oracle's help, and eventually my sister, V, who was living out of state, got over there as well. By then it was pretty much too late. A good chunk of our childhood goodies were long gone.

I was digging in the basement a couple weeks ago, looking for the furnishings to my sister J's old doll house. I've been slowly trying to make the basement a kid-friendly play area in hopes of getting their perpetual clutter out from underfoot in the living room, and the empty doll house was a big enticement to play down there awhile. I found the furniture in a box and started pulling out the items that seemed sturdy enough to witshtand B's brute strength.

Anyway, in the bottom of the furniture box, I found a kinda-crusty brown wallet that must've belonged to my mother. I nearly pitched it aside, but as a last-minute afterthought I opened for a quick peek at the billfold. Hey, you never know, right? What jumped out at me had me squeal in delight and brought my kids running.

This was the wallet I carried in 1983, when I was a junior in high school. Before any of you can complain about me posting our "Almost a Swan" photos, I found this underneath the wallet in the same box and scanned it just for you. Take a look at this frightmare!!!

Dear Lord, I am almost ashamed to admit that this is me with too much fuzzy hair and those horsey hard yellow teeth. No amount of bleaching has made them any whiter.

The only redeeming thing about this photo is the Gunne Sax blouse. I was a junkie for Gunne Sax, and I had at least three of these things. I even had a "vintage" Gunne Sax formal gown that belonged to an aunt or some such thing, and I always dreamed of wearing it to my prom. Instead, I wore it in the school's musical production of Barnum, because it perfectly fit the timeline in the story. When I ripped out the hem and stained it with stage makeup, that was the end of my prom gown.

And I can see that the Blogger spacing is going to go all weird, and I'm not going to fuss with it. This is going to be a long post, and I'm not going to fiddle with formatting.

See that guy on the left? I carried a huge crush on him until he graduated. He was my first-ever kiss (on the cheek, waiting for the "late bus" after school), and I rode that bus home in the clouds. He, unfortunately, had this weird timeline in his head that every girlfriend carried a 90-day warranty, and he ditched me without much cause to move on to the girl in the nxt group of photos. She happened to become a good friend of mine. Oh, I envied her! But then, 90 days later, he dropped her too. In my mind, I then called him Fickle F, the F standing in for his last name and not the four-letter word.

The guy on the right? He was, at the time, close friends with the guy on the left, and if memory serves me well (it rarely does, but it tries), he was the second guy to ever kiss me. And while FF never bothered to write any sentiment on the back of his photo, the guy on the right did. "Hi. I love mountain climbing." R. I guess I need to mention here that I was a rather well-endowed teen. I'll leave the math to you.

This is my friend, V. The bummer here is that, much like the chicken and the egg, I can't tell which photo came first. V has this fabulous soprano voice, one that I truly didn't appreciate until a summer stock production. I think it was Hans Christian Andersen story, but I'm not really sure of that at all. I just remember that in a scene involving a chorus of vendors in a marketplace, she sang out, "Buy my fresh fish, my fresh fish" over and over. Such a simple line, but, wow, when I heard it coming off the stage like that (instead of next to me during choir practice) I was floored.

V. was also my house mate during our choir trip to Germany, and I have bunches of stories from that experience for other posts.

On the left-hand photo it is written: "Wie geht's? I just realized I wrote this upside-down. Oh well. I'm different. Mee-may-mah-moe-moooooo. You are one of my 3 best friends. the other two are Suzanne & my cat. Neither of them tell my secrets, either. Time 2 go! Your friend," V

The photo on the right is much more short & sweet: "Well, here's the picture you wanted. Now you cant' say you feel left out. I'll CU next year!" V.

So, V, which came first?

I don't know why these two friends aren't smiling in their pics, because they were (and still are) rather happy people.

On the left is my friend A. I met A during band camp. A knew how to be funky and cool long before Molly Ringwald made it popular. She twirled a silk in the band front and I played instruments despite the fact that I couldn't read a note of music. I played sousaphone in my freshman year and moved on to glockenspiel after that. I hid my dirty little can't-read-music secret well, playing by ear until I got a unique bit of sheet music for the 1812 Overture. My piece was for the glockenspiel, but the other "dingalings" had music for bells, xylophone, and marimba. The band director wanted it that way, and I finally had to confess my sins. He was shocked but impressed, and I spent my study-hall periods for the next week or so sitting in his office while he gave me the starting note and hummed the damned music. Gimme a glockenspiel today and I could probably still play it.

Again, if my faulty memory has any accurracy at all, FF up there dropped V after 90 days and moved on to A. Then he graduated and stopped messing with my friends. :)

A's sentiment: "Maybe someday I'll think of words to write on this picture. Fer sure!"

Okay, A, now's your chance!

Next to A is S (I'm sorry if this alphabet soup is confusing, but I don't want to go splattering names all over cyberspace). S was also in choir in the alto section. Again, I have no idea why she's not smiling. She's always bubbly and extroverted, even on a bad day. At a high-school dance, I danced with a guy I don't remember, but I do remember that he smelled really good. I told S she had to dance with him just for his scent. She walked right up to him and did.

S writes: "I think you're a deer (BA-HA-HA). I hate this picture, so I might as well give it to you, okay? You call me. it's XXX-XXXX. I can't wait to sing Rudolph when we go caroling. Love ya," S.

These girls are still two of my closest friends. On the left is SD. She was the "new kid" during sophomore year, and at the beginning I was thoroughly irritated by the fact that she was the only one scoring higher grades in Biology than me. She was irritated by me because I was so...irritating. Really, I am a flaky airhead. We rode the bus to school together and wound up becoming best friends, and we still see each other on occasion.

She looks exactly the same. Not a wrinkle or an extra pound in sight, even after two kids. She might color her hair, but I'm not even sure about that.

The skinny girl on the right is M. M and I lived a few houses away from each other and have been friends since we were puny kids. 32 years. It staggers me when I think of it. M's parents are like a second set of parents to me. Her baby sister is like my baby sister. If anyone can blackmail me off the planet, it's M. But, heck, I could blackmail her too. That's why she put nothing in writing on the back of her photo.

My wallet confession would no be complete without this:

First, I am not the person who did this. I know my memory is lousy, but I know that much for sure. My memory must've blocked out the guilty party, because I can't remember how or why it left my wallet in the first place and came back full of holes. I do remember it being returned to me in this condition. B rode the bus with me until I met SD. B was (and I assume still is) a sweet-hearted girl who had fewer social skills than I did. She got herself into more messes than I care to think about. She also fixed me up with the worst blind date of my life, which is fodder for yet another post.

In summary, she really tried to be a good friend, and she really drove me out of my mind with her ways. Sometimes I was a good friend in return, others not so much. that's probably the best way to put it. But I know for sure that I did not put the holes in that photo. Does anyone out there know who did?

Ah, yes. R the Motorhead. I dated R for two years. He was a year ahead of me and lived a good hour's drive away. He drove a '66 Chrysler 300, an awesomely huge car that first opened my eyes to what a classic car was. His stepfather had a whole fleet of antique and classic Chryslers and Packards, and in fact drove us to the above prom in a classic limo.

This is the pic from his senior prom. My mom made my gown. See what I told you about my endowments? I remember sitting at the table looking at pasta with tomato sauce and wondering what brain trust came up with that menu for a roomful of high-school kids in fancy dress. I took that top ruffle and jammed it down into the front of the dress to keep from dripping on it. Then, like a heathen, I tucked my napkin into my cleavage to save my gown.

Two months before my senior prom, R dumped me. Why? First, he said it was because I wouldn't "put out." That mountain climbing comment up there may make you think otherwise, but I really was a nervous nellie when it came to boys, and I didn't let my hair down until long after graduation. Just ask FF's ribcage.

R's other reason for dumping me was because my friends were "too weird." This coming from a guy who's idea of a date was loitering in the mall parking lot with his friends. Really. All the guys would park their cars in a circle. The guys stood around talking and smoking while the girls sat on the cars like hood ornaments. It was clearly the weirdest thing I'd ever done. Way weirder than any of my antics during The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

In his next breath, R then had the nerve to ask me for another girl's phone number. I gleefully refused. When I told her about it, she later confessed to me that R made a pass at her during someone's party, but she was afraid to tell me because she thought I'd be angry with her.

This last bit is hard to see, but I found some other interesting treasures that my fellow grads might remember. A hall pass, my "club" cards for J-Hall, a never-redeemed "kiss coupon," and, most regrettably, my membership card to the Kiwanis Key Club. (More blog fodder.)

Oh, no, Key Club. I can't talk about it. I can't. Not yet. Let's just say that during my year as president, they needed to change their slogan to: "Confont Direction, Discover Confusion."

I'm going to work on a transcript now.

That '80s Music

KellyJean had a fun entry on her blog yesterday and asked her loyal readers to do something similar. Well, heck, rather than work like I should, I'd much rather do this.

My favorite song from the '80s? Lordy, I have hundreds. There were so many fun and different groups at the time. Culture Club, Huey Lewis and the News, Fleetwood Mac, Yes, The Who, my tastes really ran the spectrum of what was available.

These days, however, I find that when I hear Hall & Oates on the radio, I exclaim, "wow!" and I start singing along.

Hey, does anyone else remember that hour-long radio program,"For Headphones Only"?

For some reason, I can't get YouTube to post here today (clearly I'm messing it up), so here's my favorite '80s song for today.

Say it Isn't So

This song always makes me think of my senior year in high school. What I find even funnier is that at the height of their popularity, Hall & Oates were in their late 30's. How awesome for them.

As you're poking around on YouTube, take a look at "Method of Modern Love," also by Hall & Oates. This one really cracks me up over his dancing, big hair, and the like. We'll just forget the fact that I tried to dance that way myself, also wore big hair, (although my friend M wins the prize for that), popped my collars, and wore noisy color combinations.

My very first job out of high school was working as a file clerk for a cemetery (hmmm... this could be a post all its own). I'd have stacks and stacks of file folders, letters, and 3x5 cards of different varieties to stuff into drawers, and I'd throw myself into my work with the radio playing along, dancing from drawer to drawer during my task. What a great way to pass part of my eight-hour day. It sure beat sitting at my desk and answering the phone.

Too Easy To Lose Touch

Yesterday I received an urgent call from the firm I work for needing a transcript now. To my horror, I'd barely started editing the job, and I had to have it finished by 3:00. Thanks to The Oracle, who happened to take the day off, I was able to get my job finished right before he left to work a sporting event in the evening (his seasonal job).

I was thoroughly frazzled and (naturally!) had nothing in the fridge. My in-laws were at the house to meet with the architect designing their in-law suite (if they ever sell their house). After the architect and The Oracle left, they took pity upon my starving, whining children and treated us to dinner at a nearby diner.

While there, a lovely woman approaches me, puts her hand lightly on my shoulder and says hello. I am ashamed to admit that I drew a total blank on who she was until she gave me one of her fabulous smiles. Oh, my heavens! The lovely woman is my friend, T. I hadn't seen her in quite a while, at least a year or more. Well, okay, part of why I hadn't recognized her is because she lost 93 pounds. She looks utterly fabulous, and I am very, very proud for her.

I met T in 1995 when I started working for a neighboring township. She also worked there, and we "clicked" from my first hours on the job. During the remainder of her employment with the township, she helped me tremendously through some rough emotional times, and I like to think I was able to return the favor.

What's so awful is that we lost touch shortly after she moved to a house one mile away from mine. Her telephone number is burned into my mental Rolodex despite the fact that I only used it a dozen or so times since she moved in, and yet we rarely see each other unless it's by accident. You'd think that getting together for a Rita's Water Ice (mango, please) should've been easy being so close, but it never happened. Why, exactly? We still exchange the occasional email, we talk about getting together, but no meeting ever materializes.

I feel terrible over this. In the last ten years, I only need one pathetic hand to count the number of times we saw one another. Our lives have undergone a good number of changes since then, so that's probably how this came to be. Still, T has clearly undertaken a number of things to improve her life and health, and I was nowhere in sight to lend a hand or an encouraging word. Simply put, I suck as a friend.

Back in middle school, I remember a teacher expounding on the notion that we have many acquaintances in our lives, but we should consider ourselves lucky if we can claim to have one or two true friends in this life. On a rough count, I can claim four without hesitation. How did I get so lucky? I clearly can't claim much effort toward cultivating and caring for my friendship flowerbed. On occasion, I'll send an email or pick up the phone, and sometimes we're successful in getting together for a bit. I know that these people would drop everything and be here for me in a heartbeat if I needed them. I'd be there for them too, without question.

When I think about my thoroughly-neglected friendships, like mine with T, I am amazed that there's still something really good growing there. I guess all the bull[censored] that precipitated so many discussions in her living room made for some mighty rich soil.

Hey T, are you in the mood for a little gardening?