In an effort to gather all my writing in one place, every Monday I post articles that originally appeared elsewhere, or work that has been gathering dust on my hard drive. This piece was originally published in 2002 by the The Morning News and later by Fray. Thanks to Rosecrans Baldwin, for the edits. Renewed apologies to my high school boyfriend, who is irritated every time this article sees the light of day.

Dad Was a Soprano

If you’ve taken the Universal Studios tour, you may remember when the tram rumbles over a bridge and a giant robotic shark pops out of the water. It is the very robotic shark used in Jaws, which is to say, a rather large shark with fierce metal teeth.

As the shark surfaces, the tour tram tips sideways, threatening to drop passengers into the pond. The effect isn’t especially thrilling for an adult, but it’s enough to terrify a four-year-old who fears only three things: snakes that swim up through the toilet and wait for you to pee so they can bite your bum, slithery things that hide under your bed at night, and sharks.

I took the studio tour with my dad. He was a big guy who liked to whistle and drum his enormous thumbs against the steering wheel when he drove. Dad had a deep voice, a full beard, and a conspicuous fondness for Hostess snack cakes. I remember sitting next to him at the back of the tram, swinging my legs, and picking absently at the hem of my sundress. Everything was just fine. It was sunny outside and we were headed over a pond while the tour guide quacked along about Murder, She Wrote. My dress had a little red sailor knot in the front that I could tie and untie, easy as pie.

Suddenly, our tram lurched sideways and the shark lunged from the water a few feet to my right. I did what any little girl would do when faced with gnashing robotic shark teeth: I screamed like my hair was on fire. It was a long, healthy scream that lasted much longer than necessary. When I finished, everyone on the tram turned to stare at me.

The blood rushed to my face, and I looked up at my dad with brimming eyes. He put one hand on my back and held the other to his throat:

‘Ahem,’ he coughed. ‘Excuse me.’

Grandpa Still Has the Tape

When I was twelve, my aunt asked me to sing at her wedding. I’d never been in a wedding before, and I was thrilled. I practiced the theme from Ice Castles in front of my mirror for weeks. I delivered the last line particularly well, singing passionately, with dramatic pauses and my best vibrato. ‘Looking through…the eyes…of looooooooooove!’ I was stupendous.

When the day came, I stepped up to the podium, twisted my hands together and exhaled. The church seemed bigger from there: My aunt and new uncle stood at the altar with the minister, and they looked oddly exaggerated, like giant cake toppers. The pianist started, and I began to sing.

‘Please…don’t let this feeling end. It’s everything I am,’ I scanned the rows of pews in search of Mom and my big sister, Raina. Raina is six years older than me, and had already moved out of the house. Because of the age difference, we’d never been especially close. As a toddler, I ruined one of her favorite books with my crayons. I was banned from her room from that day forward. When she moved out, Mom said I could move into Raina’s room; I was amazed to realize I didn’t even remember what it looked like.

My sister had driven down for the weekend to attend the wedding and visit. I found her and mom about five rows back from the front, and I smiled at them. Mom smiled back, but Raina crossed her eyes, and stretched the sides of her mouth open with her fingers. This was hilarious. This was comedic genius. My breath hitched, but I looked away and tried to concentrate.

Raina smelled blood. Eventually, my eyes wandered back to her. She had pushed the end of her nose up with her index finger, and was lying in wait. When we made eye contact, she snorted. She snorted loudly, in the middle of church, with Aunt and Uncle Cake Topper standing solemnly by.

I whooped into the microphone, right in the middle of a verse. Raina gasped, then grimaced at me apologetically. I was in hysterics. I tried to struggle on, but there was no calming myself. I was up there, before God and country, guffawing through my aunt’s wedding ceremony.

Grandpa stood at the back of the church with his trusty camcorder. It was his new toy, and he’d promised my aunt he’d tape the ceremony for her. The lens was trained right on me. ‘Grandpa gets the job done,’ I thought. This, I thought, was very funny.

I giggled, sang a word or two, giggled more. My aunt looked stunned and vaguely sympathetic. Well, as sympathetic as can be expected of a woman in a white veil when things don’t go according to plan. My uncle, like everyone else in the room, was suddenly fascinated by his shoelaces. It was horrible. It was hilarious.

Grandpa moved slightly to the right, so as to better frame his shot.

I forgot where I was in the song; the lyrics were gone. I found this amusing. Riotous, really. Mom was furious with my sister and began elbowing her in the ribs. Raina’s expression was alternately giddy and horrified. As my mom poked her, she mouthed ‘I’m sorry’ over and over. My sister was a trout; a gasping, penitent trout. I began convulsing, tears streaming from my eyes.

Grandpa refocused.

I snorted and coughed my way through the song. The pianist had panicked almost immediately and started playing at a roller-derby tempo, so I tried to keep up between gasps for air, ‘Please, don’tletthisfeelingend, it’severythingIam…’

I faced row after row of bowed heads. Some family members were trying not to laugh themselves, others simply fixed on the floor and waited for the song to be over. I wiped my eyes, stood up straight, and belted, ‘Looking through…the eyes…of looooooooooove!’

The last piano note died out, and the church was pin-drop silent. From the back, I heard a soft whirring. Grandpa looked up, gave me a satisfied nod, and flipped the viewfinder shut.

His Mama Raised Him Right

My junior prom dress was perfect. Bright pink satin, almost crimson, with a full skirt and three-quarter sleeves. It had a flounce underneath that was edged in satin, and it swished when I walked. Swished, I tell you. It was exactly what every sixteen-year-old wants, a dress that is different, distinctive, and indisputably normal all at once.

The day of the dance, I spent hours getting ready, carefully paging through my hoarded magazine clippings. I steamed my pores, perfected my pedicure, and silky-smoothed my legs. My mom helped me curl my hair, and stuffed tissues next to my ears where the hot rollers burned. After she zipped up my dress and left me in my room, I actually spun around to watch the skirt flare. I did a few practice cancan kicks. A-cha-cha! The flounce had a reassuring rustling sound that made me sigh.

My boyfriend and I went out to eat before the dance with a big group of friends. I ordered pasta in a cream sauce with vegetables al dente. As I was trying to spear a particularly undercooked carrot, my fork slid across the plate, collecting a mound of fettuccini and depositing it on the bodice of my pretty-princess frock.

For a moment, I had trouble breathing. The table paused in awestruck silence. I looked around at all the wide eyes and decided to laugh instead of sob (though it was a very close vote). Everyone at the table guffawed with relief. Everyone, that is, except Sean Anderson. Sean Anderson was appropriately, endearingly horrified. As my boyfriend and the rest of our friends laughed along with me, Sean rose from his seat, gathered me up, and ushered me to the women’s restroom.

He pretended not to notice the tears standing in my eyes by the time we got to the bathroom, and asked me if I’d like him to wait while I got cleaned up. I shook my head; he nodded and returned to the table.

The dance was mercifully dark, and I enjoyed myself. In the photos from that night, I’m facing my boyfriend and peeking over my right shoulder in a way that would seem kittenish if you didn’t know about the Texas-shaped cream stain on the front of my dress.

A few years later, my boyfriend went off to college and didn’t write. Sean sent letters once or twice a week and called me when he was feeling homesick. When he came home for Christmas break, we pawed at each other for a few weeks before abandoning the attempt as misguided.

I’m still glad we gave it a shot. He was the first real gentleman I ever knew up close, and one of the few I’ve met since.

In an effort to gather all my writing in one place, every Monday I post articles that originally appeared elsewhere, or work that has been gathering dust on my hard drive. This piece was my first for The Morning News and first was published in 2002. Thanks to Rosecrans Baldwin, who edited this piece.

A few years ago, I had a group of girlfriends who met every Wednesday to chat over a few glasses of wine. I used to write up partial transcripts of our conversations here on Mighty Girl, and this particular week I asked everyone to help me complete a freelance assignment. (Names changed for good reason.)

Me: I have to write an article. Will you guys help me?

Erika: What’s the article for?

Me: The Morning News. I believe I’ll be the first contributor with breasts on the site.

Diana: Cool. What are you doing the article on?

Me: Well, I was supposed to do it on bad date experiences, or kinds of men to avoid, but I just feel like I’ve read those a million times.

Mary: And they’re never good.

Me: Yeah. ‘Men bad. Women good.’ So I decided to do it the other way around. Like, meanest thing I’ve ever done to a guy.

Erika: Meanest thing?

Me: Yeah, like who were you meanest to?

Candice: I haven’t done anything bad, but I have a friend who did something pretty bad.

Me: What?

Candice: Well, she was dating this much older guy…

Me: How much older?

Candice: Much, much older. Like she was nineteen, and he was in his forties.

All: Yuuuck.

Candice: Yeah.

Me: You know something weird is going on when the age difference is that extreme.

Candice: Yeah. It was a weird relationship. Anyway, they had this really bad breakup. So she called his boss at work and pretended she was younger than nineteen.

Julie: Whoa. Serves him right though.

Me: When you’re 40, you don’t date someone who can’t have a beer with you.

* * *

Me: What about you Sam? Meanest thing?

Sam: The meanest thing ever?

Me: Meanest thing you’ve done to a guy.

Sam: Oh, I don’t know. Well, I did sleep with three of his new girlfriend’s ex-boyfriends.

Me: What? Sorry, it’s taking me a moment to parse that.

Sam: [laughing] I know. To be honest, it wasn’t intentional. But your mind plays tricks on you, when you’re not…healthy. [laughing]

Me: So how did that happen, exactly?

Sam: Well, he was kind of a jerk to me. I was so in love, you know, and I think he was sleeping around. Well, I don’t know if it ever came to fruition or whatever, but stuff happened.

Erika: With this chick?

Sam: Yeah. So when they started dating, I promptly went and slept with three of her ex-boyfriends within the next couple months.

Me: Oh, man.

Sam: I think it was a subconscious thing, but I did find out all the bad stuff about her.

Candice: Like what?

Sam: I mean, all her ex-boyfriends didn’t like her. She was very princess-y. Oh! And I also found out she had never had an orgasm.

Me: You’re kidding me!

Donna: They told you that?

Sam: Well, yeah. I was sleeping with these guys.

Me: But none of this is mean to the guy in question, really.

Sam: Yeah. It was indirectly, I guess. How about the guy who wouldn’t go down on me, and I told him it was a major character flaw?

Mary: What was his response?

Sam: He was like, ‘Well maybe I’ll do it for my wife.’

All: [derisive laughter]

Alyssa: What a weirdo.

Sam: Yeah. He was cute though.

Me: How long had you been dating?

Sam: Not very long, it was like the third time. At first I wasn’t sure because, sometimes, you know, it takes awhile.

Alyssa: Why wouldn’t he?

Sam: I don’t know. Grossed out, I guess. I think he was gay.

Me: Whaaat?

Sam: [whispers] I always think men who don’t like pussy are gay. You know? Most guys love it. [laughter]

* * *

Donna: OK, I have a good one.

Me: Kay.

Donna: When I was younger, there was this guy who I used to correspond with. We would email back and forth and we actually kind of fell in love that way, right?

Me: Yeah.

Donna: But he was friends with the guy I was dating at the time, so nothing happened. Then I broke up with the guy a few months later, and pen-pal dude came to town. Anyway, he was going off to college and he was a virgin.

Lannie: Sweet.

Donna: So I took care of that. [laughter]

Donna: But then, he left, right? I didn’t hear from him for, like, months. No phone calls, no notes, nothing, right?

Me: Oh, man.

Donna: Yeah! Keep in mind that we used to correspond constantly, so I was really hurt. Upset about it, of course.

All: [sympathetic sounds]

Donna: So he came back to visit or whatever, and I was really niiiice, and we started hooking up. We got all hot and heavy, and then I was like, ‘OK, you need to leave.’ He was like, ‘What?’ And I said, ‘I haven’t heard from you in months, then you come back and expect me to be all fine with it?’

Lannie: Right on. You’re the one who made him a man! [laughter]

Donna: I know, seriously. And he was all confused and stuttering, ‘You’re just gonna leave me like this?’ And I was like, ‘Yep.’

Mary: Good. That whole blue balls thing is such a myth.

Donna: Yeah, he was pretty much limping out though.

Alyssa: Was this after he had…made sure you were satisfied?

Donna: …Yeah.

All: NO WAAAAYYY!

Lannie: Oh that is the best.

Donna: Yeah, it felt pretty good.

* * *

Me: Your turn Anne.

Anne: I’ve never really been mean to anyone.

Erika: Never?

Anne: Not that I can think of.

Me: Like never, ever?

Anne: Not really. I wish I were more vengeful when someone screwed me over. I’ve dated some real dickheads.

Me: What about guys who repulsed you and you told them you weren’t interested, but they just kept coming back like the plague?

Anne: No.

Me: Oh please, you’re gorgeous. That has to have happened to you.

Anne: Aaaaah.

Me: I don’t believe you.

Anne: Actually, I do have one. But I’m afraid you guys will think I’m a slut.

Alyssa: Oh, now you have to tell. [Anne covers face with hands]

All: Tell! Tell! Tell!

Me: None of us are going to think you’re a slut, come on.

Anne: OK. [anxious] Oooooohhhhhh! It’s really, really bad! OK. [exhales] So I used to live with this one guy, and he had this super-hot best friend who used to come around all the time.

Donna: This can’t go anywhere good.

Anne: So his brother was also really hot.

Me: Oh nooooo.

Anne: Sooo…So all of us went out one night and we decided to try ecstasy. I’d never done it before, and it totally affects me. Like, a lot. So we’re dancing for a while and then we decide to go home, but I can’t find my boyfriend anywhere. We looked around for like an hour, and finally we just gave up and went home.

Me: Uh huh.

Anne: So I’m in the living room with these two gorgeous guys and I order them both to go sit on the couch. Then I just kneel down in front of them and [covers face with hands] give them both a hand job at the same time.

[stunned silence]

All: AAAAAAAAAAA!

Me: You are kidding me!

Donna: Holy crap! With his brother?

Anne: The worst part is, he was married.

All: WHHHHHAAAATTT?

Lannie: Who, the brother?

Anne: Yeah.

Donna: Ahem, you’re in trouble with the married lady over here.

Anne: I know. I knoooow. [covers face] It was so terrible the next morning. Like, ‘Oh my God. What just happened?’

Me: What the hell did happen?

Anne: I don’t know, I just felt like such a porn star. It just…sort of…unfolded.

Me: Oh my god. That’s amazing. I would so never expect to hear anything like that from you. Anne? Cupcake-baking, freckles on the nose, smiley Anne?

Anne: I know, I still can’t believe it happened.

Lannie: You were livin’ the dream, girl.

Me: Was it good?

Anne: Yeah, it was totally good.

Erika: The brother was married?!?

Anne: I know. Well, not that this makes it any better, but they really shouldn’t have been married in the first place. I actually think he got a divorce a few months later.

Me: Where the hell was your boyfriend anyway?

Anne: Well, that’s an even better part of the story. Turns out that he was out getting crack.

All: WHAT?

Anne: Can you believe that? Yeah, I mean I understand a little pot or something now and then, but when you get into heroin or crack… We broke up.

Me: Did you tell him?

Anne: No way. He still doesn’t know. I wish I could go tell him now. He was a jerk to me.

Me: Why didn’t his brother or his best friend say anything?

Anne: They’re not gonna tell. They’d get in more trouble than I would.

Me: I guess that’s true.

Alyssa: You totally win the story contest.

Me: Oh, man.

Anne: I know. I don’t do ecstasy anymore.