hannah's bedroom
deborah's "new" room

thursday thirteen - no prom with carl

    Little rascals11. I cannot believe summer is already in the back-stretch. School starts in a couple weeks and I'm kind of sad about that. I noticed this morning as I was leaving the house that my iris leaves are browning. I need many more hot hot days. I love the heat.

    2. Deborah is at camp. I haven't heard from the little doll. Obviously she's having a great time and not missing us. No surprise there.

    3. With Deborah away, we've been updating her room. The painting is done, but I'm struggling pulling together a "pow" affect. We may have to settle for it just looking fresher instead of being pow-wy. I've got another 24 hours to make it pow-wy, so maybe I'll pull it off. It's hard to tell right now.

4. I read an article recently about old-fashioned values. By this article's criteria I am stinkin' old-fashioned - I mean really old-fashioned. However I was not old-fashioned in the world wide web area. I twitter, facebook, blog, email, flickr and a few more things too. I'm old-fashioned and internet hip both. Evidently they aren't in the same package too often.

5. In the same article, two people were quoted as saying something to the effect of, "If I left them in my past, there's a reason. Why would I want to reconnect?" This of course was in response to Facebook's ability to reconnect folks. I found it sadly fascinating that these people don't seem to have "innocently drifted away" from folks from their past. It's not like we're all connecting to people we disliked in the past.

6. Nearly all of my cousins are on Facebook. That's kind of cool. I haven't seen them in years and years, but we are connected through Facebook. I like that.

Little rascals 7. When I was a teenager, a cousin (Paul), tried to set me up on a blind date with his friend Carl. The intention was for me to go to the prom with Carl to make his ex-girlfriend jealous. It sounded adventurous to me, so I agreed. As time progressed, but still way before the prom, I started putting pieces together about Carl. I learned his last name and instantly recalled him from first grade. Once in the line going to PE, Carl punched me with his fist in the stomach so hard it knocked the breath out of me. Once I learned this Carl and the blind date Carl were the same Carl, I thought something like, "When hell freezes over I'll go to the prom with that ugly twerp who punched me in the stomach."

8. I guess I didn't want to admit my weakness (I'd been punched) to my cousin, so instead I lied. I told Paul that something had come up. By golly, a girlfriend was getting married and I was a lucky bridesmaid and all us bridesmaids were going to Ft. Smith for dress fittings on the very day of the prom. Doesn't that just suck?

9. Just a couple weeks ago, Gordon and I were in the mall walking past a wedding store when I remembered this elaborate lie. I told Gordon about it and, as usual, he couldn't connect with my crazy female-ish dysfunction. He just stared at me in disconnect mode and then spoke profoundly, "That's lunacy."

10. So, back to the high school drama: I told Paul no-can-do on the prom thing and Carl himself started calling me asking for details about this wedding and dress fitting event. I knew enough about the mall in Ft Smith to know the name of a wedding store. I told him the name of the store. A while later he phoned back and told me the wedding store doesn't have reservations for us and that he knows I'm lying.

11. So you tell me, does Carl sound like someone you want to go to the prom with? Me neither. Firstly, he's never apologized for being a wretch of a first-grader. (Of course, I didn't actually give him the opportunity since I was never honest about my gross disinterest in him because of his hitting me in first grade.) Secondly, he checked up on me as if he had a right to demand that I go to the prom with him. Thirdly, the very thought of my firstly and secondly made me sick to my stomach. I wasn't going anywhere with him. Period. However, I never just stated the facts but stuck by my lie. Strange -- even I can't understand that.

12. So 25 years later, yesterday on Facebook, I wrote my cousin and told him this story explaining my lie. It felt good to come clean. Therefore, I have one more reason to like Facebook.

13. In the movie "Little Rascals" there is the cutest scene where Spanky is trying to get Darla to hate Alfalfa so they will break up and he can have his best friend Alfalfa back. Spanky, pretending to be Alfalfa, wrote Darla a letter: "Dear Darla, I hate your stinkin' guts. You make me want to vomit. You are the scum between my toes. Love, Alfalfa." That's the letter I'd send Carl if I could go back to first grade.

Comments

dianeschultz@windstream.net

Val, that was funny. I chuckled out loud as I read. Gordon's response is priceless.
And your comments about the little rascals at the end of the article remind me of a letter you wrote when you were in CMA. Do you know which one I am talking about?
By the way, when I pulled up your blog to comment (I usually read your blogs from my RSS feed in Outlook), I thought, "What a cool site. I really need to ask Val about this site." Then it finished coming up and I saw these headlines on the side: "Gay and Lesbian Magazines," "Am I with a Gay Husband," etc. So now my question is, "What kind of site are you on, Val?"

valerie dykstra

Yes, I very well remember the letter to Roger R. That remains the best practical joke I've ever been the butt of. I've written about it; I'll see if I can find it for you.
The ads on my blog are my coffee money generator. I'm sorry to say that sometimes my net nanny blocks my ads from my viewing. That always scares me. You can send sis some money by clicking on a few of my innocent ads. Consider it buying me a cup of coffee.
xoxo

mindi bartell

Valerie, this was SO funny. I've missed keeping up with your blog this summer.
CJ and I used to quote that Little Rascals line to each other quite often. :)
Carl sounds pretty creepy. I think you made a good decision to avoid the stomach punching twerp.

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