Today I was thinking of high school dating relationships.
(And I just tried to spell relationships as relashonships. What the heck? Phonics can oftentimes be helpful, but thank goodness the computer keyboard has a backspace key!)
(And really? As long as we’re talking about high school, blah, blah, blah, and backspace keys, I just want to throw this out there: I am plenty old enough to remember a time when computers were not the norm, and when we had these things known as electric typewriters. You know, the vintage things that the boy will someday grow up and sell in his pawn shop? And I have to say that I big-puffy-heart love the computer’s backspace key a whole lot more than I loved the correction tape of days gone by, which had to be inserted into the typewriter just so. Technology. It’s a beautiful thing, people.)
(Except for computer programs meant to help balance your checkbook. Regardless of all the grief Hubs gives me on how! much! easier! such a program would make my life, I really just want my check register, my pen, my antique calculator, and my cup of chai tea when I balance my checkbook.)
(And HOLY SMOKE-O-RAMA! I just forgot that I had a cup of chai tea, brewing on the kitchen counter! It has been brewing for about forty-five minutes now! My short term memory is shot, people. I can remember that Theresa was blasting Starship’s We Built This City in her green Dodge Horizon when I slammed my finger in the passenger door in 1989. Yes, it’s true. I can remember what song was playing on the stereo when I slammed a car door on my finger and nearly whacked it plum off, in the year of our Lord, nineteen-hundred-and-eighty-nine, but I cannot remember that, just forty-five minutes ago, I started brewing a cup of chai tea.)
(It was fine, by the way. The chai tea, I mean. A little strong and in desperate need of a few seconds in the microwave, but it was fine. The finger was eventually fine, after about two months of trying to heal it up with splints and large bandages. I slammed it in the Horizon so badly, Theresa, who had been sitting in her driver’s seat, had to actually get out of the car, walk around the front of it, and come open the door so that I could dislodge my left index finger. I may have just laid there in the snowy driveway, moaning and groaning and dying for a while, because if there’s one thing that I am incredibly gifted at, it’s dramatics. And also maturity. But really, everything was a blur after my finger received its freedom from the big metal door.)
(I also had a test in Psychology 101 that morning. Oh, yes. After I hobbled inside the house to learn that my finger was somewhat still attached to my hand, Theresa helped me sop up the blood, and she drove us to class. I took my test, with half of a roll of Bounty paper towels wrapped around my left pointer finger.)
Where were we?
Before all the parentheses spilled onto the page?
High school dating relaSHONships. That’s where we were.
I remember them fondly. I’d tell Theresa, “Listen, I need to borrow your Guess jeans, because Mr. X and I are going out to dinner tonight. It’s our ONE MONTH ANNIVERSARY!”
One month in high school equalled dolling yourself up in borrowed-Guess jeans, a Shaker sweater, white leather boots with the fringe down the back (Oh, how I loved those boots!), and my Swatch watch. One month equalled a little extra time with the curling iron, as well as a little extra Aqua Net, so that the bangs would stand just a little bit higher. One month equalled buying a new compact filled with purple eyeshadow, because it EXACTLY MATCHED the Shaker sweater. One month equalled a dinner which cost a week’s salary, a movie afterwards, and a Black Hills Gold necklace, because that was what Mr. X would give you.
(Sadly, I have a small collection of Black Hills Gold necklaces…)
Then, four weeks later, I’d find myself asking Theresa again, “Listen. Can I borrow your neon pink OP shirt? It’s our TWO MONTH ANNIVERSARY!!”
Two months in high school equalled dolling yourself up in a borrowed OP shirt, an acid-washed, denim mini skirt, the white leather boots with the fringe down the back (Oh, white boots! You were so good to me!), and a wrist full of jelly bracelets. Two months meant that you’d sit in the Hair Wizard’s chair at the salon, so that your spiral perm could be redone, and you’d come home and put three additional layers of Aqua Net on top of what the Hair Wizard had already done for you. Two months meant that you’d have a picnic dinner (which you laboriously packed beforehand, after agonizing over the menu for three entire weeks) at the park, and you’d reminisce about how it had been the greatest (JUST THE GREATEST!!) two months of your entire life, and you’d begin picking names for your future children. Since you already had the Black Hills Gold necklace (which you naturally wore with the neon pink, borrowed OP shirt), you’d end up getting a dozen red roses.
Anniversaries, in high school, were a month-to-month thing.
And usually, somewhere just after that FIFTH! MONTH! ANNIVERSARY!, you had broken up and moved on to someone else. You retired the original Black Hills Gold necklace, and you prepared yourself for borrowing the Guess jeans from Theresa and getting another necklace from someone else.
Anniversaries, in high school, were big deals.
And do you know what else?
I think that anniversaries can be a big deal in the blogging world, too.
Because really? One year ago today, when Hubs was out of town, I held my breath and navigated through Blogspot’s long list of instructions on How To Start Your Own Blog by myself, and I did it, which was a major stinking accomplishment, because the computer and I never tend to get along well together, and Hubs is usually required to do some serious intervention to save me from an all-out, computer-induced, Gone-With-The-Wind type swoon.
One year ago today, I started a little blog, and I called it Jedi Mama.
I had no real expectations that I’d actually stick with it, because my commitment levels for things like that are usually quite low. It’s my Adult-Onset ADD; I forget things easily, and I can never commit, and sometimes I just give up on things. I forget that I have a cup of chai tea brewing on the counter. I forget to pick up kids that I’ve been asked to collect after school. (TWICE, PEOPLE! I DID IT ONLY TWICE!) I’ve forgotten that I have a Facebook page. (ALL THE TIME! I DO THAT ONE ALL THE TIME!) Brownies. (I LEARNED WE’D BE SEWING AND SELLING COOKIES! I WANTED TO LIGHT THINGS ON FIRE! MY TIME SPENT IN THE BROWN UNIFORM WAS TWO MONTHS!) Pregnancy. (I GAVE UP FIVE WEEKS EARLY!) Scrapbooking. (I COULDN’T KEEP UP WITH IT! I’M A SCRAPBOOKING DROP-OUT!) Scentsy wax. (I CHANGE IT CONTINUALLY! I CAN’T PICK JUST ONE, SO I PICK THEM ALL!)
Clearly, my track record seemed to indicate that perhaps the blog and I would part ways after a couple of weeks. I’d return the Letterman’s jacket; he’d give back the recorded cassette tape filled with songs like Love Bites and Every Rose Has Its Thorn and Sister Christian and All Out of Love and I Want to Know What Love Is and How Do You Talk to an Angel. I was worried that my chances of getting to the point of the Black Hills Gold necklace just wasn’t going to happen last September, when I started this blog.
(And, as a side note meant only for Amy M., I have to tell you this one thing, Girlfriend. I have had How Do You Talk to an Angel going through my head for a couple of weeks now. Thank you for that. It won’t go away. As in, it will! not! go! away! I’ve woken up for more than ten days in a row, singing it to myself. You’re precious, Darling.)
Eventually, though, we all move on from high school. We go to college. Our smashed fingers heal themselves up. We date basketball players. We get still more Black Hills Gold necklaces. Theresa makes a move to Rival Town. You no longer have access to her closet.
And then we graduate from college, and we meet THE ONE. That one guy whose eyes are really blue. That one guy who doesn’t mind (too much) that you called his Camaro a Mustang. That one guy who is going to stick around forever.
So I told him this: “Listen, don’t buy me a Black Hills Gold necklace.”
Oh, I did, people. I told Hubs those exact words. I just didn’t want another one.
So really? He bought me A RING, people. It had two Black Hills Gold leaves on it (Such a humorous boy!), and a big shiny rock, smack in the middle of it. And we decided to stick together forever, because he appreciates my dramatics and rids the bathroom of really large spiders. And because I do laundry.
And this blog? I think it’s turning out to be a lot like that last guy — like that Hubs guy.
The blog and I have had twelve (TWELVE, PEOPLE!) one-month anniversaries.
I think the blog and I might just stick it out for a while yet.