The Best Time I Exposed My Secret Shame

Disclaimer: There are real names, people, and feelings referred to in this entry. Very real.

When I was a young woman, not yet burned by love's cruel flame, I was very much in love with a boy in my class named Matthew Leyva*. Matthew was the smartest boy in the class, he talked to me, and he had really big teeth which I fucking DUG. He was really good at basketball (or, I assumed he was good, I still don't know how basketball works) and consistently made me feel like an idiot. This was the likely model for the rest of my romantic experiences, but that's probably besides the point. The point was that I was in deep, and I hadn't yet learned to be brazen and tactless so I kept my distance.

As most little girls (and grown, sad women working at catering firms in Downtown LA) do, I used to doodle his name. Mrs. Leyva. Mr. and Mrs. Matthew Leyva. Mr. and Mrs. Jessica Matthew Blatter. I tried out different fonts, generally sticking with bubbly graffiti (how de rigeur) or loopy, Bronte-esque signatures. I had imaginary fights with him over the bills and the kids' soccer practice, and we always made up by going to sleep without pants, which is how I assumed grown ups did the sex (I have yet to be proven wrong on this account). I really really loved him.

Until one day, after two years of a strong imaginary relationship, I decided that I was done with Matthew Leyva. I was too busy with times tables, much too preoccupied with my goals of Spelling Bee victory to be messing about with boys. I was too old, he was too young, we had grown apart. He also probably only knew my name because there was a total of 70 kids in our graduating class. Whatever the source of our irreconcilable differences, I was done. I threw away the doodles, and decided to start fresh under an alias (thus began the fateful 2 days when I forced my mother to call me Elizabeth until we both tired of it). I decided to let go of my Hootie and the Blowfish obsession, as I no longer felt the song, "I Only Wanna Be With You" spoke to our relationship. I also started to realize that I was mistaken in thinking that the lead singer looked anything like him, partially because Matthew isn't black.

Enter David.

My brother David didn't care much for me growing up. Our relationship could be defined as torture with a hint of Stockholm syndrome, as any attention from him was devoured with a desperation so heavy and defined it could be identified in the outline of my shadow. So when he approached me one day to ask who Matt Leyva was, I was at once both elated and petrified. How does he know? Is he as interested in my life as I am in his? Are we FRIENDS???
"Why?" I asked.
"Who is he?"
"Why," I persisted.
"Jessica, just tell me who he is. Do you know him?"
"He's a kid in my class, WHY DO YOU ASK, BROTHER?"

It was at that moment that he produced a doodle which I had hidden away in a cupboard and forgotten to destroy. There it was, sparkling in gel pen ink, puffy and inflatable writing proudly declaring "I ONLY WANNA BE WITH YOU, MATT LEYVA." David sang the words with delight as I looked on and felt my soul slinking out of my body, the mortification washing over me as slowly and painfully as tar. I sputtered to respond but there were no words; I had been found out. My heart was crushed and my secret exposed, not only that I loved someone who never thought about me, but that I also genuinely liked Hootie and the Blowfish.

It was the moment when I learned to keep my mouth shut about affairs of the heart when in the company of family. And while the memory is as sharp today as it was at that moment when I first understood the genuine desire for death, I promise you my brother has no recollection of it.



*Absolutely his real name. Look it up.

The Best Time I Lost A Spelling Bee

Listen, I don't mean to brag, but I've lost a LOT of spelling bees. I'm pretty good with words. Not "Oscar Wilde at a game night featuring Catchphrase" good, but pretty good. I started reading fairly early (likely the cause of my heathen political and religious views later in life) and generally consider myself to be a reasonably well-read person. So between 1st and 8th grade, I participated in almost every spelling bee that De La Salle could throw my way and was consistently thwarted by curve-balls like these:

The word: Debris.
What I heard: DA-BRLIGHSIN.

"Jessica, spell 'debris.'"
"I don't know what that is."
"Would you like me to use it in a sentence?"
"OK."
"We picked up debris on the sidewalk."
"That told me nothing."

Normally I was an alternate who never had to actually go on stage to spell arbitrary words to a fleet of children who, while not the brightest, were smart enough to know that spelling bees are a waste of time. In 7th grade, however, I was front and center, competing against my best friend (the irritatingly more intelligent than I) Stephanie Crawford.

"Stephanie, the word is IN-TER-GER."
"Please use it in a sentence."
"The number 65 is an IN-TER-GER."

As would be discussed for years to come, everyone in our class knew what an integer was. We also knew that you don't just throw an extra R in there to spice things up. But there sat Mr. More, our Renaissance Fair (and cross-dressing) enthusiast history teacher, with his long white ponytail and permanent sneer, repeating IN-TER-GER as though we were the idiots. Stephanie opened her mouth.

"I-N-T-E...R-G-E-R. Integer."
"I'm sorry, that's incorrect."

INJUSTICE! TREACHERY! FOUL PLAY! He mispronounced it on purpose! Simply to foil a 7th grade girl in a spelling bee. I was more panicked than ever; not only would he certainly do worse to me, I was far less intellectually capable and much more sensitive to embarrassment than my friend (despite my rap years).

"Jessica, spell 'vaccinations.'"

Are you fucking kidding me? I thought. What's your game, More? No way are you pitching something simple like 'vaccinations' after The Interger Affair of 2001. My heart was racing; I was elated at having such a simple word and could feel success tugging me foward, hear the roar of the crowds, see the neutral, head-nodding approval of my parents!

"Vaccinations," I began quickly. "F-A-C--"

My god. I have been foiled by my own hubris, I thought, horrified. I knew I was done. But I'd be DAMNED if I didn't demonstrate that I knew exactly how the hell to spell 'vaccinations.'

"F-A-C--Oh, JESUS CHRIST. It's V-A-C-C-I-N-A-T-I-O-N-S. And I know I spelled it WRONG the first time. God." With that, I unceremoniously stormed off the stage; I might as well have screamed, "SEXUAL CHOCOLATE" and dropped the mic. But something happened as I made my descent into the crowd: applause. Resounding applause and approving laughter. I received slaps on the back and handshakes, we passed around cigars and champagne, chanting, "OH JESUS CHRIST" repeatedly. I'm pretty sure I even saw the panel of teachers smile when I threw my arms up in incredulous defeat.

To this day, I can't go to the doctor without maniacally spelling "vaccinations" in my head, just to make sure I remember how. And at times when I'm feeling particularly lost, depressed, or insecure, I take a deep breath and think At least we can be certain that there is only one R in "integer."

The Best Time I Ever Choreographed A Dance Routine

When I was in 3rd grade, I loved few things as much as I loved pretending that I was cool, and as the kids say, that I didn't give a fuuuuhh. Point in fact, I gave many fuuuhhs and still do. I suffered from paralyzing insecurity and shyness which I covered with excessive, albeit affected, confidence. Something that is maybe important to know is that my sister's husband, Kevin, was the coolest human being I had ever met. Kevin was so cool, I believed him when he told me that his naturally curly hair was the product of tiny rollers that he wore every night. I believed this for years, and have a hard time to this day shaking the glorious image of him teasing out his curls with Aqua Net every morning. One of the coolest things about Kevin was that his taste in music was (for lack of a better term) THE SHIT. So when the school's annual talent show approached and my desperate need to appear more relevant than I was made me turn to Mimi and Kevin, who in turn introduced me to Blackstreet's "No Diggity."

I selected my partners with care; they needed to be fun and not have a problem with being bossed around by a be-freckled monster. Natasha was soft-spoken and whiter than I (we were inexplicably best friends) and Gabrielle just wanted to have someone to play with her every day. Next came the challenge of convincing--nay, forcing--them to dance to my cooler-than-cool song of choice. In 3rd grade, it turns out, that simply meant telling them to do it with conviction. The costumes were the strings section of our orchestra. Not wanting anyone to forget that we were the coolest bitches around, nor that we were the whitest, we chose jean shorts and canary-yellow floral print tees with brimmed hats. In case you missed it, we were dancing to Blackstreet, and once again we were in 3rd grade.

We took our place on the improvised-stage in our school's outdoor pavilion. Lined up with our heads down, we waited for the third "Mmm-mmmm" to lift our heads in succession; the body language conveyed nothing short of "shit's about to go DOWN." I don't remember all the moves, but I do remember our dramatic swivel toward the audience and my severe annoyance with Gabrielle who was smiling like an idiot. Didn't she know cool girls don't smile? Didn't she realize that we were by no means av-er-aaage? And Natasha, always moving one beat ahead of us, speeding up dance moves that were supposed to be sensual and dripping with attitude! This song was about presence, it was about having no doubt! It wasn't until the applause erupted and we were panting in our end-pose--leaning back to back with our arms crossed over our concave chests--and that we were a hit.

Nevermind that we were children in Mayim Bialik hats and jorts who had just earnestly danced to "No Diggity" with the seriousness of Baryshnikov. It was magic, and my only regret is that we never got to perform my fantasy encore presentation of Montell Jordan's "This Is How We Do It."

Fuck You, Hemingway.

When Hemingway had writer's block, the story goes that he would sit down (presumably once he found a space amidst all the empty wine bottles and letters from Gertrude Stein) and just write the truest thing that came to his mind. Today I decided to break my writer's block and give ol' Hemmy a try. Here's what I came up with:

"Stories that end with, 'and it was SO funny' should never have been told in the first place."

I know why you did it. Everyone was talking and laughing and you were there, waiting to jump into this very subtle double-dutch game of wordplay. You sat there, sweating, panicking, tuning out of the conversation in order to come up with your very precious contribution. Something moving? No, the other people seem to be enjoying themselves and this doesn't feel like the time to share your grandmother's last words. A significant statistic? Hm. You don't actually know how many people per year lose limbs from deep-frying turkeys at Thanksgiving, and it would be the ultimate embarrassment if Steve knows and calls you out on it because fuck that guy.

They are all laughing and ordering another round. You shift your weight in the squeaky booth, uncomfortable with how long you've been silent; they must be noticing that you haven't said a word in the last 4 minutes. The beers arrive, but this is no time to be drinking and dulling your social senses. This is the time to look alive, be sharp, kill them with your wit. And then Steve clears his throat, ready to say something he's obviously been waiting to say but your silence is too uncomfortable to bear for the length of another person's story. You jump in.

"Hey, remember that time that we all went up to Big Bear?" You have their attention, a few smiles of recognition. Yes, they remember that weekend. But dear God, you went too fast too soon! What were you going to bring up? GET YOUR HEAD IN THE GAME. There's no time, you've gotta play it fast and loose or that dick Steve is going to talk about when he got into a snowball fight to the death and shit, that's a good story.

"I just...remember when I went to buy 30 pack but left it at the store and then we had to go back and you guys were all, 'Dude!' and it was SO funny?"

You get a chuckle. A pity chuckle at best. Somewhere in the distance you hear a faint "Oh, yeah..." and you give yourself a little breathy laugh because what a hilarious memory for you. But the momentum has hit a roadblock and you have to bury your face in a beer to pretend like you don't know you kicked it into drive and jammed it into the wall against which it is currently crushed. You sit, smiling, emitting a soft, "God, that was hilarious. "Dude." Haha."

And just like that, you've teed Steve up for the snowball story and you know what? Fuck that guy. It's not that good of a story.

But it really is.

HEMINGWAY, WHAT HATH YOU WROUGHT?