Archive of ‘Judy Blume’ category

Are you there God? It’s me Colleen.…..Just Kidding.…

Gen­tle­men, or should I say ‘man’ because if any guy is read­ing this it is like­ly my hus­band, the fol­low­ing post may make men uncom­fort­able; there­fore, pro­ceed with cau­tion.
Turn­ing 13 is a mile­stone for young wom­en. We look for­ward to the dis­tinc­tion of being grown up, the excite­ment of going to high school, dri­ving, buy­ing cigs… the 1990s that was a big one, and final­ly mov­ing out of the house in just a few short years. WTH is wrong with kids? The teenage years are awful days filled with oil, and hair, and awk­ward bod­ies and changes.…I just threw up.…Why do we need the­se years? But then again, being an adult is cer­tain­ly noth­ing to hur­ry. Sure, hav­ing your own chil­dren to live vic­ar­i­ous­ly through is a nice perk, but God the 20s are a bitch filled with bad jobs, ques­tion­able dates, hang­overs (so very many hang­overs) and a myr­i­ad of bills that no one real­ly wants to pay. If I knew then what I know now, I would have paused at around 8 years old. Not a baby, but a rea­son­able sized girl who could read, write and ride a bike….not well….but that is anoth­er sto­ry for anoth­er day.
What a cute boy. Wait, what?
That is a killer pose, I can’t believe the agents passed…
Becom­ing a teenager means being dis­cov­ered as a mod­el or mega tal­ent. In my case, I thought sports illus­trat­ed swim­suit issue.
March 16, 1992, my thir­teen­th birth­day, brought none of the spoils that most girls found. No, I didn’t get a Swatch phone or a boom box; there were no Guess Jeans or that perm that I had begged for. (Thank you mom for that, although I am still angry about not hav­ing bangs) Oh, no, I got the chick­en pox. A nice fat case of itchy sores all over the out­side and INSIDE of my body. They were in my eyes, my nose, my mouth. I sin­cere­ly believed that there was no way that I would see my 14th birth­day, this was sure to be the death of me.  Mid­way through my week from hell, my dad ran into a friend’s mom at the bank and said, “Well, she feels bet­ter, but damn she looks ter­ri­ble, so she won’t be back to school for a while.” Per­fect. The sin­gle perk to my quar­an­tined state was that I would be able to spend my final days watch­ing reruns of Press Your Luck and it just hap­pened to be MTV’s Spring Break, so I had Daisy Fuentes and Pauly Shore to keep me com­pa­ny.
Eye­brow wax­ing is option­al, the nat­u­ral look was in
In between chants of No Wham­my, No Wham­my and TLC’s “Ain’t to Proud to Beg” on what seemed to be a loop on MTV inter­rupt­ed only by “Save the Best for Last” by Vanes­sa Williams, I decid­ed to do a lit­tle read­ing. I have nev­er been, nor ever will be a big read­er. But I quite frankly got bored with TV and need­ed a new diver­sion.  I turned to my good friend Judy Blume for some insight into the life of oth­er awk­ward girls. Judy had always peeked my inter­est and I can dis­tinct­ly remem­ber read­ing snip­pets of Just as Long as We’re Togeth­er about Jere­my Drag­on and his hairy legs that meant he was more “expe­ri­enced.” I think that I went to col­lege believ­ing that was a real sign of a true Adonis.……idiot.…..
I had heard that read­ing Are You There God, It’s Me Mar­garet sent some kind of super­son­ic sound wave right into your uterus and to get things mov­ing toward “wom­an­hood.” But, I was cer­tain that it was just sev­en­th grade folk lore, so I dove right it. Hor­ri­fy­ing. OMG what was wrong with this girl try­ing to make her boobs big­ger and she real­ly want­ed her period…..Thankfully, Judy and Margaret’s voodoo didn’t work on me. I walked away unscathed. Two weeks went by, the phys­i­cal scars of my bout with the pox had healed, but the emo­tion­al dam­age done by that book, well that would take years and years of ther­a­py to recov­er.
Pop­ping that leg is elon­gat­ing and sexy
April 8, 1992 was a big day, my youngest broth­er turned sev­en and my mom took the boys, Nani and I out for the occa­sion and head­ed to Burg­er King. Clad in a killer pair of white Guess shorts, a white but­ton down with navy blue stars and large gold but­tons and a pair of Navy Coast­er Bow Shoes, yes I know you wore Sam and Libby’s I wore Coast­ers from Payless….the hor­ror….. I head­ed straight for my mother’s Red Pon­ti­ac Trans­port that the kids at school affec­tion­ate­ly referred to as “The Dust Buster” mor­ti­fy­ing. I didn’t feel great, but cer­tain­ly noth­ing that a big fat greasy Whop­per couldn’t fix. Upon arrival, I head­ed to the bath­room and at that moment I damned Judy Blume and that b@#$h Mar­garet to hell forever. There was no deny­ing what had hap­pened, but WTH was I going to do. I began to get woozy and at one point hit my head on the stall wall. The 33-year-old me is inter­ject­ing here. Real­ly, Colleen? I was act­ing like a gun­shot vic­tim, or at the very least like some­one who had been shanked in pris­on! Appar­ent­ly my flare for the dra­mat­ic can’t be snuffed.
I decid­ed that there was no way that I could escape this and I head­ed into the din­ing room to find my entire fam­i­ly with crowns on. Awe­some. Please let’s draw as much atten­tion to our table as pos­si­ble because the­se peo­ple clear­ly all know what has hap­pened and are already talk­ing about me. I turned to my moth­er and very qui­et­ly said,
“I think I just got my peri­od,” hmm, there was no think­ing about it, idiot.
“That is just great. That is won­der­ful,” she said with this alarm­ing smile on her face.
The flow­ers, sym­bol­ic of the bloom­ing young woman.….feel free to vom­it.
Was she nuts? What was so great about this? It was dis­gust­ing. It was painful, and I was ready to call it a wrap 10 min­utes in. My moth­er, the fab­u­lous wom­an that she is, is a con­sum­mate pleaser. She passed me a pack­age from her purse and pro­ceed­ed with the birth­day par­ty with­out miss­ing a beat. I couldn’t believe that she was tak­ing this so casu­al­ly, this was a cat­a­stro­phe. She knew I was read­ing that book, was this part of her grand plan? Did she know the pow­er of Judy Blume and she didn’t pro­tect me? How could she? Despite my hor­ror and feel­ing that she had total­ly turned on me, I was deter­mined to keep this between the two of us. Oh my God, was she going to tell my dad? I would choke her in her sleep. He can’t know about this. I am gag­ging now just think­ing about it.
Look at that guy, he does not want to know!
Once we had fin­ished eat­ing, we all got back into the dust buster and head­ed home. As we approached our neigh­bor­hood, my moth­er did the unfor­giv­able. She pulled into Tar­get and asked us all to get out. What was she doing? She couldn’t pos­si­bly be doing what I thought that she was doing! No, no this was not hap­pen­ing! We all got out of the car and head­ed toward the door. She wasn’t real­ly con­sid­er­ing shop­ping for those things. Not here! Not with my broth­ers! Not in my neigh­bor­hood where some­one could actu­al­ly see me! OMG, I was hyper­ven­ti­lat­ing. She was so casu­al, so calm, as if noth­ing was wrong. Like this was a per­fect­ly nat­u­ral, nor­mal occur­rence. I hat­ed her. I hat­ed Tar­get. I hat­ed birth­days. God I real­ly hat­ed that B!@#H Mar­garet!!!
I fol­lowed her sheep­ish­ly down the aisles as she pranced through the store. She looked like Dorothy on the Yel­low Brick Road, click­ing her heels, skip­ping along and wav­ing at all of the munchkins in the store until she turned down the aisle clear­ly labeled, “Fem­i­nine Hygiene.” Again, I am gagging……I looked around to make sure that no one saw me, and quick­ly slipped down the line. WTH was she doing? Com­par­ing brands? Prices? Coupons? OMG!!! Grab a bag and let’s get the hell out of her.
“Which one would you like?” She sang mer­ri­ly.
“Uh, please just grab some­thing so we can go. Please! I don’t care. I just want to go. Please!” I begged…and begged…and begged…..There was anoth­er wom­an com­ing down the aisle and I could not make eye con­tact. I was going to melt. I could die. Just as I began to evap­o­rate. The sweet lit­tle birth­day boy exclaimed,
“I know what those are. Those are the pink your preg­nant blue your nots. You got pink. Colleen’s preg­nant. Colleen’s preg­nant.” The hor­ror.
That was 20 years ago this past East­er Sun­day. Between the ER vis­its, vom­it­ing, and beat­ing my chil­dren with bats, I was remiss in remem­ber­ing my “spe­cial day.” I real­ly wish that I could have cel­e­brat­ed it like Rudy and Claire on the Cos­by Show. Do you remem­ber that shit? Bizarre! As young wom­en, we prayed that it wouldn’t come again, that we would be one of the lucky ones that had an irreg­u­lar cycle. Now we pray like hell that it comes. If we are 10 min­utes late we are run­ning for the EPT. Sure­ly I am not the only one that keeps preg­nan­cy tests on had all the time….right….right? But, as I think about my life today in com­par­ison to 20 years ago, I wouldn’t change a thing. After all, if it weren’t for that dumb b!@#h Mar­garet, I may nev­er have had the two loves of my life…….so I real­ly can’t complain……..right now…….about that anyway…….I can always com­plain……
The smile that make their eyes dis­ap­pear time.