My 15 minutes were over before I even hit grade school

Recently, Kathy of the Junk Drawer Blog asked her Facebook friends if they had ever appeared on television. Tons of people replied, and many of them had made appearances, particularly on local news or shows. Reading their comments took me back to 1975, when I made my television debut. Does "debut" imply that there were subsequent appearances?

When I was growing up here in Lexington, Kentucky, everyone watched a local talk-style show—it covered events and celebrities, human interest stories, and the like—hosted by a lady named June Rollins. Each Christmas, Ms. Rollins would select a group of children from a kindergarten class to appear on her holiday special. For her Christmas 1975 show, June chose Eastland Day School to provide her with the requisite number of cute kindergarteners. Enter yours truly.

When the representatives from the show called the school, they noted that, “the kids have to be able to sit still and be quiet for the length of the show.” I always toed the line at school (based on my mother’s threats of a punishment worse than death if I misbehaved), so I was one of probably ten or so kids chosen to appear on the show. To our great delight, my BFF Shannon was picked, too. Squee! We were so excited. While our teachers taught etiquette lessons and gave stern warnings about not embarrassing our fine educational institution on television, my aunt made me a special dress just for the program: a ruffled denim pinafore with red flowers, which I wore with a red turtleneck and knee socks. My mom shined up my saddle shoes and procured the perfect red ribbon for my ‘do. I was all ready for the big day.

Sadly, many of the memories of the “big day” have not stayed with me for the last 35 years. (Except every detail of what I wore. Tells you a lot about my priorities, huh?) The main thing I remember is waiting. Lots and lots of sitting, and waiting, and being quiet. All very difficult things for a group of five-year-olds already jacked up sky-high on pre-Christmas hysteria. At last, the show began. Ms. Rollins must have been a masochist, because she aired that bad boy live. Live, with a bunch of holiday-hyped kindergarteners. We all sat cross-legged on the floor, looking adorbz, trying not to fidget while June did her thing, and waiting for our chance to tell her what we wanted for Christmas. When she came to Shannon and me, it was like we had made an unspoken pact to take over the show. We would. Not. Stop. Talking. While June tried to steer the conversation to some of the other kids, we just kept ramping it up, going on and on about the gifts we had asked Santa to bring, until Shannon issued the coup de grace: “And guess what else I asked for! A DOLL THAT PEES!!!” (That was kind of scandalous in 1975, kids.) Shannon wore an expression of exhilaration and triumph; I fell over in a cascade of giggles; and June Rollins looked like she was hoping that the floor would open up and swallow us both.

After the show, my mother was appalled that I had participated in such a performance. But, she was also very glad that, at least, I was not the one who uttered the offensive sentence. That was the beginning, and end, of my television career. I spent the next couple of years begging my mom to get me a gig on Romper Room (LOVED that show), but she always quickly changed the subject when I mentioned it. At the time, I couldn’t figure out why, but now I’m pretty sure I understand. She didn’t want to give me the opportunity to embarrass her on a national scale. I already had the local audience covered.

How I became the butt of a joke

In my last post, I promised an embarrassing school story; it takes place when I was in fourth grade. A couple of things to keep in mind as you read: I had really bad taste in TV shows when I was nine; and, all evidence to the contrary, I am actually a good speller.

At some point during the year, my teacher, Ms. Marshall, gave us a creative writing assignment. I was not short on imagination as a kid, but I usually found creative writing kind of frustrating, often because we were supposed to write poetry. (I don't like to write poetry, and I'm terrible at it.) This assignment, though, was different: we could write about a favorite book or TV character. Since I was a little TV junkie, that was right up my alley. I chose to write about one of my favorite shows, The Dukes of Hazzard. (See? Terrible taste, I told you.)

Since I had imagination to spare, I didn't just write a standard Bo-and-Luke-car-jumpin'-yee-haw-adventure story. Instead, I decided to expand the role of one of the lesser-known characters--Enos, the hapless straight-man deputy to Sherriff Rosco P. Coltrane. (I was clearly ahead of my time! I'm talking about early Duke-boy fanfic, here.) I crafted my story with all of the enthusiasm of Ralphie writing his Red Ryder BB-gun essay. There was just one problem: since I was only nine, and I had never met anyone named "Enos," I didn't know how to spell it. Following years of advice from teachers, I "sounded it out" and decided it should be spelled A-n-u-s. Oh, yeah. You read that right. I turned in a story about a horrible country-bumpkin-stereotype TV show...featuring a main character named "Anus."

So, what does a good fourth-grade teacher do, when faced with a situation like this? When Ms. Marshall handed back my graded story (I think I got a "B"), she included a note for my mom. I was completely freaked out, of course; notes from teachers are never a good thing, and I wasn't the type of kid to get in trouble, anyway. I didn't open the note, but gave it to my mom, with great trepidation. I was expecting my mom to explode, and she did--but it was laughter, not yelling. Ms. Marshall had laughed so hard at my story that she simply had to write a note to tell Mom about it--and to advise that Mom explain to me why "Anus" was not an appropriate name for a literary character.

So, that's my little tale. My mom, grandmother, and teacher all had a good laugh, and I was left feeling indignant that my spelling error overshadowed what I thought was a literary masterpiece. Fortunately, that bad experience did not cause me to lose interest in writing, and I love blogging. Now, though, I make sure that I check my spelling very carefully. Spelling mistakes like that one could lead to some REALLY embarrassing Google searches.

The Gym Class Chronicles, Part 2

At the end of my last gym class recollection, I had just administered my vault-routine coup de grace (although not on purpose) to a spunky student teacher. I managed to finish 8th grade gym class without any other major mishaps, but it was still far from a good experience. Let me put it this way: there was a kid in my class who had CP, and used crutches to walk. He used to get picked for teams BEFORE me. I was always the very last one. Ninth grade was blissfully free from gym class, and I was in heaven. I had a great time that year.

Imagine my dismay when I found out that gym was a requirement for sophomores! My teacher was a lecherous basketball coach whose sole goal in each class was to meet the maximum possible number of cheerleaders sitting on his lap. Since most of the junior varsity cheerleading squad was in my class, and Coach H. was therefore well-occupied, I learned the fine art of making up excuses not to "dress out" for class. While my mom was pretty strict about academic grades, she had suffered through gym classes herself, so she was usually willing to sign an excuse note. (I had a lot of "back problems" that year.) My friend Richie and I managed to dress out just enough to keep a "C" in the class; the rest of the time, we sat at the top of the bleachers and made fun of all the suckers who were down there on the floor, sweating and getting yelled at.

When I was forced to participate, it was often a nightmare, as usual. Our class was combined with another group of sophomores for most activities, and their teacher was pure, unadulterated evil, in the form of a cheerleading coach. She yelled at me, in front of the whole class, because I screwed up a complicated football play, even though I had never played (or watched, for that matter) tackle football in my life. Coach V. was vicious. Once when I presented her with my (fake) excuse note, she yelled, "You big WEENIE! My girls cheer with BROKEN ARMS!!!" Of course, I did not say what I really wanted--which would have included my opinion that most of her "girls" spent a lot of their time acting like idiots, so I wasn't too surprised that they would cheer with broken arms.

My biggest clash with Coach V. took place on the school's running track, and it involved a pole vault. Specifically, she wanted me to pole vault over a bar that appeared to be about eight feet off the ground, and, remembering the disaster of my last vault, I flatly told her no. Having mustered up the courage to refuse the pole vault, I also disabused her of the notion that I would be participating in the hurdles. Couldn't these people see that I was not only short, but fat as well? How the fudge is a short fat girl supposed to jump over anything that hits above waist-height? The laws of physics simply do not work that way.

I guess Coach V. wrote me off as a lost cause after the Track & Field unit, because she (mercifully) left me alone for the rest of the year. Toward the end of the year, I had what became my best gym class moment ever. We were working on the square dance unit, which was something I could actually do pretty well. (Do high school kids still learn square dancing, I wonder? Is it just a Kentucky thing, or do kids everywhere learn it? I thought it was lots of fun.) When the teachers matched us up with partners, they told us we would dance with the same person throughout the entire unit. I promptly ended up with a guy named Dennis, who was easily one of the ten most objectionable people I've ever met in my life. He saw that I (the fat, unpopular girl) was going to be his partner, and erupted in a stream of compliants so bitter that Coach H. finally gave in, and picked another partner for Dennis. My face burning, I hoped that my next partner would be at least a bit more gracious. I heard Coach H. say my partner's name, but I couldn't believe it until he walked over to take my hand. His name was Jeff, and he was the cutest, most popular guy in the 10th grade. I saw all the girls looking longingly in my direction, and said a silent prayer that Jeff would be as nice as he was good-looking. You know what? He was even NICER than he was good-looking...and he was really good-looking. He was sweet, friendly, funny, and unfailingly polite, and we had a great time dancing together. I doubt that he ever knew how much better he made a chubby, nerdy girl feel, just by being kind for a few weeks.

We weren't required to take gym class after sophomore year, so I was able to eliminate that little slice of hell from my life. Some people continued to take "Advanced PE" all the way through senior year, which could, I believe, serve as evidence that they were certifiably insane.