Doodling Hearts On My Trapper Keeper

I love my husband. He’s awesome and cracks me up every day. But right now, I have a new crush. He’s a 12-year-old boy named Adam Goldberg, and he’s fictional. Sort of.

The real Adam F Goldberg was 12 years old in 1980-something, and was the dork who always carried around a VHS recorder, capturing the shenanigans and hijinks of his suburban ‘80s family. Now he’s the almost-40-year-old writer and executive producer of ABC’s new sitcom The Goldbergs, which recreates those same shenanigans and hijinks in 22-minute capsules. Episodes are built around footage from those vintage tapes, glimpses of which we are treated to during the closing credits.

The show is brilliant and funny in a Wonder Years-for-the-Gen X-crowd way, but it’s the actor playing Adam who has stolen my heart. Sean Giambrone plays the kid who is the aggregate of every boy I went to middle school with in the mid-1980s. He’s my neighbor down the street with the Midwest accent who thought his new Lightning Bolt t-shirt would finally make him popular. He’s my other neighbor whose prized possession was his Lego Millennium Falcon set. TV Adam Goldberg is the real Adam Goldberg reliving his childhood on film, and he is magnificent. He’s innocent and genuine, excited and hopeful, frustrated and confused. And he’s so darn cute.

“Hey mom, take my picture, I want to remember this outfit forever!” Adam yells to his mom after his grandfather (“Pops”) buys him a new pair of back-to-school  Z.Cavaricci pants.

(Don't try to deny the existence of the same scene at your house featuring OP cord shorts, Duran Duran fedora, or "Frankie Says" t-shirt...)

When Pops takes him to the movies to see Poltergeist, Adam is so scared of his clown doll at home that he fakes a tummy ache in order to sleep in his parents’ bed at night.

I just want to pinch his cheeks, give him a Fruit Roll-Up and juice box, and challenge him to a game of Missile Command.

To me he’s the nice boy who held the door open for me in the school library. He’s the boy who didn’t notice the three girls giggling at him on the bus because he was too busy drawing the Star Wars logo on his spiral notebook. And he’s the kid who didn’t understand why his dad was always yelling at him for everything because he was basically a good kid who sometimes got too excited. Come on, he’s 12.

I live for this show. I don’t know how this millennial actor has so expertly perfected a persona from an era long before his birth, but somebody owes him a lifetime supply of Whatchamacallits and a subscription to 3-2-1 Contact magazine for his achievement. He wears a home-made Tron costume like a true Gen-Xer, and seems to genuinely understand the zen of the Karate Kid.

TV Adam Goldberg, my 7^th grade self is leaving an intricately-folded note in your locker, written in sparkly purple pen, asking if you like me. Check the 'yes' or 'no' box and meet me by the bus stop after school. 

Luv, Me. 

Sail On, Silver Girl

The summer between my 6th and 7th-grade school years saw a horrific crime in my hometown. In July 1983, a 17-year-old high school senior and her 14-year-old friend were picked up by two men while hitching a ride to the beach. By the end of the day both were raped and the older of the two, Lynn Carol Elliott, was murdered while trying to escape. Her friend narrowly survived, found by police bound in the rafters of a house. Lynn's heroic attempt ultimately saved her friend's life and, as we came to learn, put an end to a serial killer's heinous obsession.

Today, almost 29 years later, Lynn's killer is finally paying for his crime. After spending 28 years on Death Row, the monster will finally be executed, much to the relief of thousands of residents past and present. We cannot say "finally" enough. The anger and heartache have continued to broil all these decades because of how badly it rattled our community.

When the news first broke, I read the newspaper and wondered if Lynn was related to the boy in my class with the same last name. A front-page picture of him and his mother at a court hearing soon after confirmed my connection. "This is such a small town and everyone is about two degrees away from everyone," said a friend recently while discussing the case.

But it's not the crime I want to write about. It's Lynn.


I never knew her, but I will never forget her. I have thought about her a thousand times since 1983. When I've walked alone where maybe I shouldn't have, I thought of Lynn. When I took a self defense class in college, I thought of Lynn every day. When my roommate said she could walk home after work in the dark because "it's not that far," I thought of Lynn and made sure I was there to give her a ride home.

Lynn's senior portrait is indelibly imprinted on my mind. She's one of the most recognized faces in the city of Vero Beach, Florida, despite having been gone for nearly 30 years.


Every year on the anniversary of her daughter's death, Lynn's mother, Jeanne, has published a memorial in the local newspaper. "Sail on Silver Girl," it always reads. Every year those of us who saw the full story emerge comment to each other on the mind-boggling frustration of seeing yet another year pass without justice for the family.

So while today finally delivers some retribution for the Elliott family, I hope that they will also know the legacy their daughter continues to sustain. Many of us girls DID learn from her tragedy. We took cautions to heart because of her. And we continue to be the influence on younger generations of girls to protect them from ever meeting a similar fate. Lynn will not be forgotten, I promise you that.

More Than Chocolate

As a general rule, 7th-grade boys are gross. They smell funny, their voices are changing, and they think they're cooler than they are. Straddling the age between kid and teenager, they're still wearing boy scout uniforms, but stuffed in their pocket is a crumpled page from a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition that they swiped from their uncle's garage. Their idea of humor is fart jokes, shooting girls with rubberbands, and stepping on the backs of our shoes to give us "flat tires." Charming.

But Ryan was different. He was my 7th-grade boyfriend in 1984. A preppy boy with green eyes and freckles, he played tennis and wore one of those braided rope bracelets. I had my eye on him in 6th grade but it wasn't until 7th that I mentioned my affinity for him to a girl at the busstop. The loudmouth promptly told everyone at the busstop, and upon reaching school that morning went directly to Ryan to tell him that I thought he was cute. Nothing is secret in 7th grade. I silently prepared to have my affections rejected.

To my surprise, that didn't happen. In fact, Ryan said hi to me in the hall. And then I started running into him more between classes. We wrote notes back and forth. He'd walk me to class, and hold my books while I went to my locker. Sometimes he'd call me in the evening. He was a really sweet boy, genuinely nice, and never once made fun of me or blew me off. He was my introduction to the Nice Guy. When I cut my hair, he told me it looked nice, which is funny because it looked like a boy's haircut to me. And he didn't care that I was 6 inches taller than him.

Best of all, on Valentine's Day he gave me a great big heart-shaped box of chocolates; so big that every other girl could see me carrying it (yesssss!). And every girl on the bus was suddenly my best friend--the ones who'd previously laughed at me when they found out I liked Ryan now wanted a piece of my prize. Sorry, suckers.

In our yearbook he signed, "Love Always, Ryan" and drew a heart around the words in red pen.
As it turns out, the last time I ever saw him was the last day of the 7th grade school year. That summer my family was out of the country for a few weeks on vacation, and when we returned I called Ryan to tell him about my trip. His phone number was disconnected. I like to think that he tried to call me before he (assumedly) moved away, but this was pre-voice mail, pre-caller ID, and my family didn't have an answering machine.

This photo was taken on that last day of school. I grabbed a friend to snap it just before Ryan got on his bus home.



I eventually married another Nice Guy. My husband is a genuinely sweet, honest, thoughtful man. It took me a while to find him, but I knew he existed out there somewhere. I knew since way back when that the Nice Guy was worth searching for. So today, on Valentine's Day, before I have a glass of wine with my lovey and cuddle on the couch, I give a quick thought to Ryan, wherever he is, and appreciate the hope he gave me about the existence of men worth holding out for.

Not So Divine Design

A few years ago I was in my mid-30s and deep in the pit of the career blahs. I needed something new and was having difficulty figuring out what to do next. After scanning several local college handbooks and watching a lot of television, I enrolled in an interior design program, much to my mother’s delight. She’s fascinated by my uncanny ability to remember colors, so somehow this translates into me being the next Laura Ashley.

Clearly, my mother had forgotten my first foray into interior design.

The year was 1984. I was in 7th grade when my humanities teacher assigned us the task of designing our dream home. We were to make ourselves architects, landscapers, and decorators. Anything that was luxurious, futuristic, innovative, or just plain cool was to go into our dream house. The sky was the limit, and creativity was encouraged.

It pains me to see now what I valued then. It hurts so very badly to see what I thought was pretty…or stylish…or even not utterly ridiculous. Let’s take a little tour. We’ll begin with the floor plan:



Yes folks, it’s a trapezoid. That was me trying to be…funky? Being different for the sake of being different was my motivation. Nobody else will think to do a trapezoid, I’m sure I reasoned. This shape lends itself to awkward corners and narrowing closets, and not much else. I guess I didn’t realize they don’t make furniture with 75-degree angles.

Notice the oddly-shaped dining room on the right, with the bathroom directly off of it. Everyone’s dream is to hear a flush during the salad course, right? Notice, also, that the kitchen is on the opposite end of the house from the dining room. One has to walk through the family room, past the pool, and up three steps to get from kitchen to dining. I guess the word “convenient” escaped me. And yes, that’s the pool in the center of the home. But what’s truly awesome is that you enter the pool from the second floor. The walls of the pool are Plexiglas, so you can see into the pool from the main floor. Brilliant! (Pretty sure the Atlantis Hotel in Nassau stole the idea for their aquarium from this project.)

On level two we find the triangular master bedroom, complete with triangular closet and triangular bathroom, where the door cleverly opens directly into the seat of the toilet. Minimalism at its best! No wasted space in that pesky bathroom.




See the bedroom in the upper left corner? “It looks like a Tetris piece,” said my husband. There is literally nowhere in that room to actually place a bed.

Now let’s move on to the luxury furnishings I chose for my casa ideal.

This picture was labeled Guest Bedroom. Ok, who wants to stay in the brothel room?



Check it out, I was gay-friendly before I even knew what that meant!




I can only surmise that I chose this living room ensemble because my neighbors down the street had this exact set and I liked hanging out at their house. I cannot fathom any other excuse for choosing this rustic tartan cabin-in-the-woods theme.

Although, I do recall having an affinity for swinging saloon doors and perhaps I thought this furniture would work with those. Wow, did I just admit that out loud?


The dream bathroom…just…No.

It appears all of my décor was taken straight from the JCPenney catalog, so this phat pad wasn’t entirely a pipe dream. I can remember my mom telling me that if I put effort into finding good deals, the dream could someday become a reality.

I think we can all be thankful that some dreams never come to fruition.

As for my recent venture into design school, I quit after one semester. I'm much better at writing about style than I am at trying to create it.

The Slam is Mightier than the Sword

Hanging out at the school bus stop one morning in 6th grade, I was introduced to the concept of the slam book. Hand made out of notebook paper strung together with yarn, the slam book was a book of opinions. Each page had a person’s name at the top, with each book containing 20 or 30 pages with names. The book was passed around classmates, and each person was to write their opinion on the named person, but instead of signing your name, you were assigned a number. So a page might have “Jane Doe” at the top, and then several comments below ranging from “quiet, but sweet” to “stuck up!” and “conceited!” signed by #12, #7, and #14.

Slam books were popular because as you were filling it out, you could concurrently see the opinions of everyone who’d signed before you. You’d learn everyone’s true feelings about each other. But, if your name was on one of the pages, the anticipation of seeing what was said about you was nerve wracking, and the fallout could be devastating. Girls who had been to your birthday party only a month before were now saying (in print!) that they think you’re “weird” or “she thinks she’s so special but she’s not!” Girls who didn’t know you at all suddenly had nasty things to say about you. And, the numbers-as-signatures were useless because page 1 of the book was the list of signers and their assigned numbers, so you very easily could check to see just who #12, #7, and #14 were.

Teachers did not tolerate slam books, and with good reason. They were nothing more than horrible collections of meanness used to humiliate others. The creators of the slam books were often the more outspoken girls who had the ability to attract a following out of intimidation. That type of girl would create the slam book and make half of the names her own circle of friends—who of course would have nothing but praise for each other--and the other half would be the quiet, chubby, poor, or otherwise easily threatened girls who didn’t have a group of their own to stick up for them. Those girls were then ripped to shreds in this makeshift Who’s Who of the schoolyard.

I can remember one slam book being passed around, the creator of which let me read the book but didn’t want me to sign in it. It was as if the book was a meant as a warning to me, a “see what I can do if you don’t stick to my side” kind of thing. Morbid curiosity got the best of me; I read it, and found out who she and her friends had decided to hold under their collective thumb and harass that month. You bet I didn’t want to be next on their list. These opinionators huddled in groups in the cafeteria and bus stop, well aware that their strength lay in their numbers. At those times, they were powerful.

I was never a member of the controlling crowd, and I was lucky enough to escape being one of the perpetual punching bags. I was carefully balancing the line between the two, always well aware that one bad move on my part could destroy my social standing, modest though it may have been. Methods of self preservation in middle school fluctuated. Some days you had to speak up and out, other days lying under the radar was imperative. Friendship circles changed weekly and you often found yourself straddling two competing circles, forced to choose between them. And the slam book was the social register of middle school.

It occurred to me recently that some folks never outgrew the habit of pseudo-anonymous print bullying. But now, instead of crudely fabricated paper books they utilize the internet and leave disparaging comments on personal blogs or social networking web boards, and none of these are intelligent or useful remarks.

“You’re obviously miserable!” was a recent commentary on this blog. This judgment was then repeated by several cohorts of the original poster, all delivered under the cloak of the anonymous comment option (which has since been disabled). Their medium has changed but their sentiments have not. In person these opinionators still huddle in groups at social events, still well aware that their strength lies in their numbers. They still tell each other who to like and who not to like. Their power, however, is questionable.

Much to my dismay I came across a website that is an online slam book. According to the site’s homepage, “You can SLAM, bitch, moan, complain, vent, whine, inform, protest, post funny pictures or videos, make fun of or prank ANYONE OR ANYTHING here AND we will index it for the world to see.”

Wow.

How is this not libel? Full names and pictures are printed with disparaging remarks against people both famous and not. I won’t give the name or address of it because I refuse to promote such a useless waste of bandwidth. But its existence and popularity prove that public humiliation is a marketable domain, revolting though it may be.

The writers at both ages and of both media are cowardly, afraid to attach their names to their opinions and publicly own them. They are doing no one any favors by voicing them, and so often their insults are unfounded, untrue, and utterly undeserved. What motivates them…jealousy, rage, a need for revenge?

No one ever said we had to be friends with everyone we ever meet. But for everyone’s sake, we all need to realize that choosing friends is a personal decision, and everyone has something to offer to someone. Public teasing is juvenile, hurtful, and tactless.

This is true whether you’re 11 or 38 or 60.