Grilled Tuna Melt Sandwich

Someone at work asked me one day  the secret to the  success of my 30+ years of wedded bliss for a total of 35+ years with the same guy.  My initial response was my personal relationship to Jesus Christ as my Savior and Lord, but she wasn't satisfied with that answer.  She wanted a more specific response.  Something more believable.  More ACT-ON-able.  After three months, I've finally come up with one good response:  Grilled tuna melt sandwich.  I'm not too crazy about making a grilled tuna melt sandwich (GTMS).   

At first I counted making a GTMS a privilege.  When we first started dating and Jim told me he really liked it, I learned how to make it by watching his mom prepare it for customers at the cafe his parents owned.  Then I would go home and try it out on my brother and his best friend, who were more than happy to be my tuna melt guinea pigs.  Once I perfected my technique, later in our relationship, I would make it and take it to his work for his lunch.  I made it for him at least once a week for at least a year.

After we got married, and I was working two jobs and going to college, my tuna melt making days dwindled to once or twice a month until the kids came.  Then I would make them for the whole family.  One day I noticed that the kids would scrape off all the tuna, and it was then I realized that I could actually shave a few steps AND a few minutes in prep time by altogether foregoing the tuna and just making grilled cheese sandwiches, which the kids seemed to like better, and Jim didn't seem to mind.

One Saturday, as I was making grilled cheese sandwiches for the kids, Jim asked, "Could you make mine a tuna melt?"  At first I was irritated, because it required dirtying a bowl,  a grilling pan, and several utensils; two slices of perfectly buttered-on-both-sides bread, a can of drained albacore tuna, mayonnaise, and a slice of American cheese.  It also involved making sure one side of each slice is grilled just enough to melt the butter, while the other side is grilled to just to the right golden crisp, while making sure the tuna is not too hot, but the cheese is melted just right.  Annoyed as I was, I made it anyway.  From that day, whenever the kids got grilled cheese sandwiches, Jim got a grilled tuna melt sandwich made JUST the way he liked it.

One day, about ten years into our marriage, Jim did something that hurt me, and he knew it, but he didn't do anything about it right away.  He just went about his usual chores, as if nothing were wrong.  After a few (ok, MANY MANY) minutes of seething, stewing, and storming, I did what I usually do after many many minutes of seething, stewing, and storming:  I sought Scripture,  and to be honest, I did NOT like what I found.  In essence, I was supposed to PRAY FOR the person being mean to me, be kind to him, do something nice for him without expecting anything in return, use a soft answer, and use words fitly spoken.  NOT WHAT I WANTED TO HEAR, LORD!  

Then, in a what sounded like a whisper, I heard, "Make him a grilled tuna melt sandwich."

"I don't think I heard you right, Lord.  That, or YOU didn't hear me right.  HE was mean to ME, for no reason.  I am the victim here, God."

"Make him a grilled tuna melt sandwich."

"But Lord, I am so mad at him, I don't even want to be in the same room with him, let alone make him his favorite lunch!"

"MAKE HIM A GRILLED TUNA MELT SANDWICH."

So I made him a grilled tuna melt sandwich.  In the process, I recalled the other times I made it for Jim:  the first few times when he came over for lunch, on Saturdays when he worked at the tennis courts, at the beach while camping...as I gathered the ingredients, put them together, and prepared them over the heat of the stove, I was reminded of all the great times I risked throwing away if I chose to let my anger control my actions. By the time each side was just the right touch of golden crisp and the cheese was melted, so was my icy heart.  

I made a grilled cheese sandwich for myself, and then I took both sandwiches and two glasses of Kool-Aid on ice out to where Jim was.  His eyes lit up in surprise when he saw the GTMS.  He set down his rake, took the tray and set it on the nearby picnic table, and held open his arms.  I walked into them, and he wrapped them around me, and said, "I'm sorry for being a jerk."

From then on, whenever we would get in a fight and it was CLEAR that Jim was in the wrong, I would make him a GTMS.   It helped me move the focus from feeding  MY anger and to feeding HIS hunger.  The process gave me time to cool down, and helped me remember what was important. 

So, if she were to ask me again today the secret to the longevity of my marriage, I would say without hesitation:  Grilled tuna melt sandwich.

The Perils of Learning a New Language

Just after we started dating, I invited my boyfriend, blonde, blue-eyed 6'2 cutie of German descent, to attend a family reunion.  I warned him that he would probably be one of three or four non-Pinoys, but I assured him that I would be his personal interpreter and that I would never leave his side lest the elder aunts converge upon him...

Before the reunion, said boyfriend asked me to teach him some appropriate Tagalog phrases, as the ones he had learned from neighborhood Pinoy friends might have been a tad sketchy.  So, I taught him the basics:

Magandang uMAga = Good morning.
Magandang HApon = Good afternoon.
Magandang gaBI = Good evening.

He proudly pointed out that they all began with MAG and would not be too hard to remember.

I also emphasized the importance of adding PO after every greeting to signify a sign of honor and respect.

On the day of the reunion, the aunts and female cousins were gathered in the living room, ready to meet the new boyfriend, who stood there confidently while I made introductions.  I held my breath as he began his well rehearsed greeting; I assumed his momentary hesitation was due to his trying to remember which one he needed to use for the time of day, which was a little after noon.

"Mag..." he began, "Mag...mag..." he slowly recited...and then suddenly with a bright smile, "Maghubad ka!" he beamed.  I gasped, and he turned and saw the look of horror on my face.

"Po!" He immediately recalled.  "Maghubad ka PO!"  He corrected.

Thereupon the aunts and cousins exploded into raucus laughter and advised me to hang on to this one.

He had just told one of them to take her clothes off.  Po.

On Stepping Back

“The Pilot’s transmission is out, it’s going to cost $5k to repair it.  The Accord is leaking radiator fluid, mechanic says all the hoses need replacing, it’s going to cost $400.  The kids are totally without transportation, but Pastor Ron sent out an email asking for help…”  I announced to my husband Jim after talking to my daughter.    I knew what I was going to do about it; now to just get him buy into what I wanted to do about it.

“What are we going to do about it?”

“We wait,”  he says. 

So, while HE waits, I pray.  I tell God, “Lord, we have four vehicles in our driveway, and two and a half drivers.  It’s really a no-brainer, but he needs to hear it from you.”

The next day, I asked him to call our daughter Jennifer, knowing that when he hears her voice, God will use it to whisper to him, “Let them use the silver car.”

“What’s new?”  I ask.

“Pilot’s getting towed back to their house, Accord is at the mechanics but will be back at their house shortly.  Email’s been sent out asking for help.”

By this time, my patience was starting to run out.  Why should the pastor have to send out email asking people to loan a car to perfect strangers (O.K., so church members aren’t exactly perfect strangers, but they may as well be, compared to immediate family) when we have a perfectly working car sitting unused in the garage? 

So, as gently as I could, I ask, “Why should Ron have to solicit help from church members when we have a perfectly working car sitting unused in the garage?”  He just looks at me, and then wordlessly gets out of the car to get some milk, while I wait in the car stewing.

While I stew, I talk to God.  Conversation goes like this:

Lord, You’re going to have to talk some sense into him.

Try again.

Lord, he’s not listening to you.

Not even close.

What... I’m [emphasis on I’m] not listening to You?

Now, you’re talkin’.

So you’re saying I’m the one with the problem of not listening to You? I’m the one who’s been praying and talking to you from the start?

That’s the problem.  YOU’ve been doing all the talking.

Then it hit me.  I’d been doing all the talking, telling God what to do, what to say, when to say it.  I wanted US – Jim and me – to be the heroes, to be the good guys, the ones to save the day for our kids.  That was our job – or so, I thought, until God gently reminded me that is HIS job. 

Good thing He knows me and knows that eventually, I’d come around, sometimes quick enough to where no one has to get hurt.  So my prayer changed.  I thanked Him for keeping my mouth closed, for keeping me from doing what I wanted to do.  I thanked Him for keeping Jim from doing what Jim wanted to do.  Then I asked Him to help me trust Him – to trust that He is doing something bigger than providing the kids with a means to get around town.

This morning we received word that a couple from the church answered the help call.  They had just bought a brand new car, and had a much older one just sitting in their garage.  They decided to drive the older car and loan the new one to the kids.

The loaned car is a 2012 Ford Focus.

The Ten Commandments of Marriage

Ten Commandments of Marriage

Current mood: content

Category: Romance and Relationships

I wrote this for my friend Jackie about 15 years ago, and have recently found it. Thought I'd share it with all y'all.

Thou shalt have only God before each other. Your relationship to God should be the only one more important than your relationship to each other. No one else, not relatives, parents, children, nor friends, should come between the two of you.

Thou shalt not make unto thee any ideal images of each other. Accept your spouse as he or she is, not how you would want him or her to become. Let God be the One to make the changes in both of you. Don't place undue or unfair expectations on each other.

Thou shalt not take the vows you have spoken in vain. Your marriage vows are more binding than any contract you will ever sign. They are spoken before your friends, family, and your God. To take them lightly would make a mockery of what God has made holy.

Remember thy anniversary and keep it holy. Yes, holy. Holy means set apart. Each day with each other should be special, but set this day apart to remember and rekindle the fires of your early times together. What you do or give does not have to be expensive, it just has to come from the heart.

Honor thy spouse's mother and father. Remember, anyone who could love your spouse as much as you do can't be all that bad! Keep them in your prayers, as God will use them to give you wise counsel just as He would use your own parents.

Thou shalt not kill thy spouse's self-confidence. Words spoken carelessly can kill motivation or confidence. Instead, choose your words wisely so that you may build and lift each other up. Then back up your words with actions that show how special you think your spouse is.

Thou shalt not steal time from each other. Your time spent together is special and you must guard it carefully. Do not let the matters of the world take away from your joy in each other.

Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy spouse. Put-downs and insults, even in jest, can wound deeply. Instead give well-deserved praise and avoid criticism. Remember that "constructive criticism" rarely is. Speak highly of your spouse to others, and the only person who should hear your complaints about your spouse is your spouse.

Thou shalt not covet thy spouse's triumphs. Instead rejoice in your spouse's every accomplishment. Marriage is not a competition, it is a commitment for better or for worse!

Thou shalt not commit adultery. End of discussion.

JoAnn Hammer

WifeSense Wednesday: Off the Wall

CHAPTER 7 

I woke up that morning…well, I didn’t actually  wake up because I hadn’t slept at all that night.   Who could sleep when you had a date with Bud Stud?  OK, so it wasn’t a date, more like an after school  field trip -- to a German movie with the German Club.  The plan was for him to pick me up, and we would all go to Carl’s, Jr. and then to Ventura College where a German movie was playing.

After that first note, we started writing each other letters;  not love letters per se, more like “I-think-I-might-like-you-like-a-lot-lot”  letter, and we’d exchange them during second period.  He also started walking me to my classes, and even carrying my books.  A couple of  times, after school, he came over to my house during weed pulling time, and he helped me weed the lawn.  He got more weeds pulled in ten minutes than I did in ten days.

He even met me at the Ventura County Fair  on the day of the parade – we had arranged to meet at the gate where the drill team was going to be dropped off .  He told me that he had won a stuffed animal, but he gave it to Alice.  He bought me lunch, but didn’t  buy any for himself – he said he wasn’t hungry  (I found out later that it was because he was broke).  We walked around in companionable silence until it was time for him to be picked up, and that was the end of that.

As a senior, Bud Stud had last period dismissal, but one day, he surprised me by meeting me at my locker after my last class.  He took my books from me, and began walking  me toward  the girls’ locker room where I had to get changed for drill team practice.  When we stopped just outside the locker room, he shoved the books into my arms, and before my face could register surprise, he leaned over quickly, kissed the side of my mouth, and then took off running.

The next time I saw him, he asked me if I wanted to go with the German Club to watch a movie on Friday night, and handed me a permission slip.  The next day, I gave him the permission slip signed by my dad, and told him I’d love to go.

The morning of the German Club movie was Oktoberfest, and I had the morning free from class.  The first hour, I had free, but the next two I had to work at the Drill Team’s Orange Julius booth.  We had agreed upon a meeting place, where he was already waiting when I got there.  As soon as I said hi, a pair of  boys with fake badges accosted me with a warrant for my arrest, which said someone had purchased a fifteen minute jail time for me for having long hair. 

Actually, it was two back to back sentences, both purchased by Bud Stud.  To give him credit, he stayed outside the jail talking to me the entire time… he said he like having me as a captive audience.  Once I was free, we walked around the quad and looked at different booths until it was time for both of us to serve in our respective booths. 

We agreed to meet again at lunch, which we did, and sat together on the grass in the middle of the quad.  When the bell rang, we got up to walk to class, and right by the stairs where we usually parted ways at this time, he stopped and out of the blue asked, “Would you go out with me?”

“Where to, and when?” I answered.

“I mean would you be my girlfriend?” he clarified.

“I have to have my parents’ permission,” I replied.

“O.K.” was all he said before he left for his class.

He was waiting for me at the end of class, and handed me a slip of paper.  “Here,” he said, “I’ll pick you up at 5.”  And then he was gone.

The slip of paper was another  German Club field trip permission slip, but the part that  said  “my child has my permission to attend the German Club field trip to Ventura College  from  Friday, October 20, 1978  to Friday, October 20, 1978” was crossed out in red ink.  Above it, in the handwriting I’d grown to recognize and love, also in red ink, it said, “JoAnn Cajiuat has my permission to be Jim Hammer’s girlfriend from Friday, October 20, 1978 until October 20, 1979.”

I got home and  handed the permission slip to my dad.  “What’s this?” he asked.

“Jim Hammer  asked me to be his girlfriend, and I would like to say yes.”

“It’s fine with me if it’s OK with your mom,” my dad replied.  I  hugged him and kissed him on the cheek after thanking him, and ran into their room where my mom was putting on make-up.

“Nay (Tagalog for Mom), Jim Hammer asked me to be his girlfriend, and I would like to say yes, and Tay (Tagalog for Dad) said it was OK with him if it was OK with you.”  Then I handed her the permission slip.

She laughed, got a pen, and signed where it said  “Parent Signature”.  Then she said, “You can be his girlfriend for a year.”

I thanked, hugged, and kissed my mom, and then ran upstairs to get ready for my “date”.  But before I started, I took down the other pictures off my Wall of Fame, including Bud Stud’s.  I ripped up the others, but Bud Stud’s – I mean Jim Hammer’s – I pinned back on my wall, the one right next to my bed.

I was indeed his girlfriend for a year.  Or two.  Or thirty-two.

That was 32 years ago.  Today, for lunch, in celebration of the day he asked me to be his girlfriend, Jim “Bud Stud” Hammer took me out to lunch – at Carl’s Jr. where he took me for our first dinner date, right before the German Club movie.  I’m still his girlfriend, and he is still my Bud Stud.

20 October 2010.

 

 

Makin' the Moves

CHAPTER 6 

Bud Stud couldn’t wait to get home from the beach so he could get to his yearbook.  According to Alice, two girls thought he was cute.  He  knew one of them – she had been in a couple of his Spanish classes with Mrs. Ontiveros, but he also knew she had a boyfriend.  He’d seen her at the park with Juan, and after that fiasco at the prom, he had made up his mind to stay clear of girls with boyfriends.

He turned to the sophomore section of the yearbook, looked for her name, and at first glance, he thought to himself that his parents would never approve.  His friend Rob flat out said, “NO WAY!”  His folks expected him to someday date a nice All-American girl – preferably blond and blue-eyed like himself.  Nope, this was NOT going to wash with his parents, but he thought he’d ask around anyway.

None of his buddies knew her, but from what Alice had said, she was squeaky clean, didn’t have a boyfriend, drives a van with “JESUS SAVES” in red, glow-in-the-dark lettering on the back.  Not a problem, as long as she doesn’t push religion down his throat.  She was also on drill team, and they were practicing at school everyday for the rest of summer until school started.

So, he and a couple of his buddies went to Channel Islands’ campus to watch the drill team practice, and sure enough, there they were, and there she was.  She looked nothing like her yearbook picture,  but his friends still didn’t think she was worth his time.  But hey, SHE liked HIM.  She had his picture up in her wall.  That right there demanded he MAKE time to learn more about her.

One of the perks of being vice-president of the German Club was that he got to work Registration, and got to register for classes early.  He had seen her at the orientation meeting, so he knew she would be working at the Foreign Language table with Mrs. Ontiveros.  He’d already registered for a class with Mrs. Ontiveros for Spanish 3, but he found out that she was taking Spanish 3 with Mr. Varnava, so while she was on a break, Bud Stud walked to the Foreign Language table and asked Mrs. Ontiveros if he could switch classes.  It was a lot easier than he had thought, because Mrs. Ontiveros was grinning at him from ear to ear when she switched his homeroom to second period Spanish class with Mr. Varnava.  “She’s a very sweet girl,” winked Mrs. O conspiringly.

On the first day of school, he was early to Mr. Varnava’s class, and sat at his assigned seat.  He recognized people as they trickled into the room – Gale, Norma, Gricelda, Debra – all nice girls.  Then SHE walked into the room, looked at the seating chart, sat at her assigned seat:  front row, in the center of the class – and began chatting with Gale.  He walked quietly to Mr. V and asked for permission to sit behind her.  Mr. V nodded with a grin, and  he picked up his books, moved to the seat directly behind her, and sat down.  This was going to be a great year.

A few weeks later, he decided he was going to take a chance and make his move, but he’d never done this thing before.  At least not since sixth grade, when Lucrecia became his “girlfriend”, but he blew it when just as she closed her eyes for their first kiss, he had run away instead. 

So now, how does one tell a girl he likes her?

*******

“How does a guy say that he likes a certain girl?  Was that the way?”  the note began.  I had found the note tucked in my Spanish textbook, written in pencil on lined notebook paper in neat, rounded cursive. 

 

I was on cloud nine, ever since the day Bud Stud asked the teacher if he could move his seat to the one behind mine.  He never said much, except to answer a question in his marginal Spanish. 

I looked forward to Period Two, which was homeroom and therefore fifteen minutes longer than other classes, and it was also Spanish 3.  Sometimes, when the bell rang at the end of class and I stood up, I’d feel a sharp sting in my scalp, and I’d find a strand or two of my hair wrapped around the screw at the back of  my chair. 

Sometimes I’d get up and feel unfamiliar weight on my head, and as I would spin my head around, pencils would start flying around me…tied to single strands of my hair.  Sometimes there would be only one pencil, but more often than not, there would be three or four or more.  I’d look around, but no one would make eye contact with me, and most especially NOT Bud Stud.  Even Gale would just smile at me.  So, I would walk out of second period trying hard to hide a smile, with my head held high and pencils hanging from my hair.  Sometimes a pencil or two would fall to the floor, with a strand or two of hair still attached to it (hmmmm…that might explain my lack of hair now!), but I didn’t care.  I picked them up, and during third period I’d carefully remove the other pencils from my hair, and add them to my ever-growing pencil collection at home.

So, after weeks of silent, speechless torture, instead of my hair tied to the chair or pencils hanging from my hair, there was this note, and it said he liked me.  Bud Stud liked ME.

Chapter 7:  Off the Wall

Beach Buds

CHAPTER 5
I had to be at work by 3PM, but it was only 10 in the morning, so I decided to take my siblings with me to the beach.  It was the end of July, the summer between my sophomore and junior years in high school, and we hadn’t been to the beach much, and school was starting in a month, so today was as good a day as any.  In fact, registration was in three weeks, and Drill Team practice started in a week, which meant this was my last week to go to the beach.

I had gotten my driver’s license in March the second half of my sophomore year (never got held back in school, only “back started” since the Philippine and American school years did not coincided, and whereas I should have been placed in 6^th grade when we moved to Guam, they put me in 5^th grade instead supposedly because of my limited English), and so gone were the days of riding bikes to Bubbling Springs or to the Library.  My family had a white 12-passenger Chevy Sport Van with 18-inch, red reflector  “JESUS SAVES”  lettering in the back.  I became the chauffeur of what was dubbed The Hallelujah Mobile (THM). 

So we packed THM with blankets, straw mats, towels, and a cooler full of junk food and we headed to Hueneme Beach, picked out a spot, set up camp, and began our favorite sport:  boy watching.  To my dismay, we had forgotten our pair of binoculars, so  my ever resourceful sister Jean fashioned one by touching the tip of her forefinger to the tip of her thumb on either hand, putting them together, and began scanning the shore with her makeshift binoculars.

“Hubba-hubba” she crooned, “Fox alert along the edge of the water.  Two of them!”

“Lemme  see,” I shrieked, as I grabbed her binoculars, nearly knocking her sideways toward me, and I peered through her hands. 

“Make your own binoculars,” she laughed, and yanked back hers.  “I think that’s Rick Dionne!”

Per Jean’s instructions, I fashioned my own pair of binocs and scanned the shoreline.  Sure enough, there they were, Rick Dionne and another fox, kicking the water as they walked along the edge.

“Oh my gosh, that’s Alice!”   exclaimed Jean at the very same time I gasped, “Oh my gosh, that’s Bud Stud!”

Alice was Jean’s classmate, and Bud Stud’s photo currently occupied the Far Left spot on my bedroom’s Wall of Fame.  In case you forgot or haven’t read,  there were five photos on my Wall of Fame, ranked in order, Far Left being the one that, should Serendipity cause him to meet me, was most likely to get a yes if he proposed marriage.

For a while, we just enjoyed boywatching (ok, so I drooled and imagined myself walking barefooted on the beach, hand in hand with Bud Stud) for a little bit, and then Jean got bored.  She jumped up and announced, “I’m gonna talk to Alice.”

“Alice! Alice”  Jean called, waving her hands over her head.  I watched in horror as Alice turned around, and ran toward Jean.   They met halfway, exchanged a few shrieks and giggles, and then Alice and Jean were both running toward our blanket.

“What’s this I hear about you being in love with Bud Stud?” asked Alice.

“I’m not in love with him, I just have a huge crush on him,” I clarified, “but YOU CAN’T TELL HIM ABOUT ABOUT IT!”

“Why not?”

“Just ‘cuz!  Besides, I just think he’s cute.  I don’t know enough about him to be in love with him.”

“Liar!” accused Jean.”She has his picture on the wall in her room and she watches him pass by our house every day with googoo eyes!”

“I’ma go tell him” grinned Alice.

“Alice, please don’t,”  I begged.  Then I covered my face with the current classic literature I was reading and lied down, hoping the sand dunes would hide me from Bud Stud’s line of sight.  I didn’t think Serendipity would be  kind enough to strike me dead with a lightning bolt on a cloudless day at the beach in the middle of Summer.

To my great consternation, Alice announced again, “I’m telling him.  He needs to know!” and off she ran.

My sisters gave me the play by play of what was going on, but I wasn’t listening, I was too busy planning rest of my life.  Maybe I could go live with relatives in the Philippines.  Maybe I could join a convent, then dismissed the idea – one had to be Catholic to become a nun.  Maybe I could…

“They’re gone,” announced Jean.

With a great sigh of relief, I took the book off my face and sat up.

There he was, along the edge of the water, just standing next to Alice, who was pointing at me.

And then he lifted his arm, held it up for a few seconds, and waved.

Serendipity.

Chapter 6:  Making the Moves

He Couldn't Believe His Luck

CHAPTER 4

He couldn’t believe his luck. 

He had taken a chance and gone to the Fifties Dance hoping she would be there.  The only other time he’d gone to a high school dance was at Sadie Hawkins with Norma.  Norma was fun, a great dancer who didn’t make fun of him for not knowing the latest dance moves, and who didn’t press against him during slow-dances.  To him that meant she was a nice girl.  It didn’t even bother him that he had to wear overalls and a plaid flannel shirt – everyone said their Sadie Hawkins pictures looked cute.  He had had a blast that night – Norma was a friend and there was no pressure of unspoken expectations, because when she had asked him if he would be her date for Sadie Hawkins, she had emphasized the “I’m asking as a friend” part. 

This night was different.  This night, he had gone stag so he wouldn’t have the encumbrance of a date in case things went the way he hoped.  He wore his letterman’s jacket over a white t-shirt, and rolled up the pant-legs of his blue jeans, and proceeded into the gymnasium sporting what he hoped was an Arthur Fonzerelli attitude in a Richie Cunningham look. 

He had scoped the gym until he could see the lay of the land with his eyes closed.  To his left were the folded up bleachers, and in front of them were groups already formed, with girls in ponytails and poodle skirts and guys in either leather or letterman’s jackets and rolled up blue jeans.  Occasionally he would hear an explosion of laughter or an eruption of high-pitched screams, and he was reminded of a scene from Grease. 

To his right was a set of bleachers pulled out for seating, and already a few couples were hot and heavy and the lights hadn’t even gone down yet.  Right past the bleachers was “Arnold’s” – what the promoters of the danced had decided to call the concession stands.  He looked at the price list, and breathed a sigh of relief knowing that he had plenty to cover what he might need for the night.

He had scanned the gymnasium until he found what he was looking for:  the short, blond ponytail bobbing up and down as she animatedly told a story to the girls around her.  He headed in her direction, and found his buddies near the group of girls.  As he joined his buddies, he positioned himself so he could keep his eyes on her while participating in whatever guys talked about in these gatherings  which, if he were to base it on THIS conversation alone, was a whole lot of nothing.  Occasionally, she would raise her face to meet his eyes, and smile at him while continuing to talk.  On those occasions, his brain temporarily shut down, and all he could feel was his heart trying to beat itself out of his body.

He heard someone make a few announcements and the music started.  He decided he would throw caution to the wind and bust a few moves if he had to, but he was waiting for the first slow dance.  He would then walk to her, not say a word but just hold out his hand, and she would take it, and they would start dancing.  He knew she had an on-again, off-again boyfriend, but rumor had it they were in the off-again phase, and his goal was to change that  off-again to off-for-good.

As his luck would have it, the first slow dance was a ladies’ choice. He couldn’t believe his luck when he found himself dancing with her, her body pressed close against him and her forehead almost touching his as she looked into his eyes while they danced.  Not a word was said, but her eyes and smile said it all. 

The song ended, and another one began – a fast one – and the two of them didn’t even leave the dance floor.  He didn’t remember where he got the moves, -- all he knew was that she was dancing and laughing and dancing and laughing, and his heart sang.

After a couple of songs, he asked if she would like a drink or a malt – she said a malt sounds good, and so he floated towards Arnold’s, ordered two malts, and walked back to her.  The rest of the night had been a blur, but it was a happy blur. 

Later the next week, he had asked her to the junior prom.  She had told him then that she had a boyfriend and that they had an understanding about dating other people, and he had said that was okay.  He couldn’t believe his luck when she said yes to the prom.

In the weeks that followed before the prom, he walked her to her classes, carried her books, bought her treats for lunch or snack.  They got to know each other, and the more he learned, the more he liked.  He had decided that at the Prom, he would ask her to be HIS girlfriend.  He was lab partners with Bill, the supposed boyfriend, but Bill never gave any indication that he was upset over the turning of events.

The night of the Prom finally came, and the anticipation of the previous weeks was nothing compared to the anxiety of the minutes before meeting her parents.  Never mind his luck that he still didn’t have his license so his dad had to drive.  Never mind that his tux was a little too baggy and the arms were too long because his parents insisted they knew his size, but they were off  by a digit and a half.  Never mind the fact that when he finally saw her in her prom gown,  words left him and all he could do was stare, and that he had to decline when her mom told him to pin her corsage on her dress when her gown was only held up by spaghetti – no, vermicelli – straps.  Never mind that the side of his oversized slacks were almost wet from his having to wipe the sweat off his palms every ten seconds. 

Luck had been with him from the beginning and was not going to abandon him now; it was with him during dinner, because he didn’t make a fool of himself or spill sauce on his tux; it was with him on the ride to The Prom because he didn’t spew all over her gown, even though he felt like it;  and it was with him as they sat down after getting their pictures taken.  They had moved to the area where other couples sat, most of them already involved in some heavy public displays of affection.  He took the seat right next to her, and with every ounce of luck and courage he could muster, he slowly lifted his arm and laid it gently on the back of her chair, waiting for the right moment to ask her to be his girlfriend.

He couldn’t believe his luck.

“We need to talk,”  she exclaimed as she rose abruptly, took his hand, and led him to a hallway where more couples engaged in affectionate displays, oblivious to the strangers that had just brushed past them.

He couldn’t believe his luck.

************

He didn’t remember dancing even ONE dance at his junior prom.   He hadn’t expected to get home in the wee hours of the morning like he’d heard some people were doing, but neither had he expect to be leaving the prom early.  Like three hours early.  He had left her in the hallway to look for his dad, hoping his dad had chosen to wait in the parking lot instead of going home to get a TV show or two in before playing chauffeur again.  When he found his dad, all he said was “I’ll be right back, we’re going home.”  He went back inside to get her, and she silently followed him back to the car.  He didn’t remember opening the door for her like he had done earlier that evening.

When they got to her house, he got out of the car, helped her out of the car, and while she paused in front of him as if expecting some gesture of affection, like a hug or a handshake or something, he said, “Goodnight!” and got back in the front seat and slammed the door.  He didn’t even walk her to her door.

I heard about it that following Monday – how Bud Stud had taken her to The Prom after weeks of carrying her books and walking her to her classes, how he was hoping to ask her to be his girlfriend at the prom, right after taking pictures, and how she had said shot him down before he could even get off the ground.  She had only been making her boyfriend jealous, and that it was beginning to work. 

I cried for Bud Stud, for his heartbreak.   I just couldn’t believe his luck.  

Later that Monday evening, Bud Stud was back on the Far  Left spot on my Wall.

I couldn’t believe MY luck!


Chapter 5:  Beach Bud

Heartache on the Dance Floor

There he was, standing on the other side of the gymnasium, wearing his letterman’s jacket, talking to some girls. Bud Stud, the one guy who has remained on the Far Left Position on my Future KISA Wall of Fame.  The reason I lost a ton (O.K., 40 pounds) of weight, because I walk three to four times as much every day for over a year just so I could walk right next to or right behind him to class without his knowing it. I’d had a major crush on him since the first time he wore that letterman’s jacket to school and rumor had it that he was coming to the Asian-American Club-sponsored Fifties Dance stag, so I made sure I was working the concession stand that night so my dad would let me go to the dance.

My friends all knew I was crazy about Bud Stud, and  tried to talk me into asking him to the Sadie Hawkins dance, but I chickened out, and he went with someone else. At the Fifties Dance, I watched him from across the gym floor when I wasn't dancing, and even when I WAS dancing, I always knew where HE was.

On the first "Ladies' Choice" my friends finally convinced me to go up to ask him to dance. Summoning all the courage I had, I memorized where he was across the gym, threw caution to the wind, and began the long trek across the gym, but with my eyes on the floor.  I was on my way to helping Serendipity fulfill her purpose.
    About three-quarters of the way, something made me look up, and there he was, the love of my life (he just didn’t know it yet), slow dancing with this girl (whom I knew to be just using him to make her boyfriend jealous!), and the music hadn't even started. A cannon ball hit me in the chest, dropped in my stomach, and began forcing its way back up. I ran to the bathroom and promptly threw up from the heartache.

The rest of the dance, I worked the concession stand, and I even served him as he ordered two malts, one for him and one for her (and no, I did NOT spit in her malt, much as I wanted to). The two of them danced together the rest of the night, while I served malts and Frito Bellies to a sea of strangers.  I didn’t dance again the rest of the night.

I spent the rest of  that night crying after I removed Bud Stud from the Far Left Position and demoted him to the farthest right, and I cried into the rest of Saturday and Sunday. But   Monday morning was the start of a new week, and after claiming God's promise in His Word that He knows the plans He has for me, I made the decision to move on.  No more walking the long way to my classes just so I could walk beside him.  No more “From Your Secret Admirer” boutonnières on Fridays.  No more gawking at him as he rode past my window in the afternoons between 3:45 and 4:35.  Bud Stud was history.

Well, not entirely.  He remained on the Wall of Fame even after he asked and took THAT GIRL to the Prom, and even after he asked her to be his girlfriend.  He SHOULD have come of the wall and should have ended up in a pile of ashes in my fireplace, but he didn’t.  After all, she DID turn him down, and she DID break his heart and he ended up going home alone from the Prom.   

There was still hope for Serendipity.


Chapter 4:  He Couldn't Believe His Luck

Bud Stud

CHAPTER 2

“Susan, Susan, who is that fox with the letterman’s jacket?”  I shook and tapped my best friend as we stood in the lunch line, pointing to the fox with my chin as Filipinos are wont to do.  The hunk was about 12 people from the window, which meant I had that much more time to unobtrusively stare at his shiny blond hair, a beautiful contrast above the royal-blue-and-off-white of his leather letterman’s jacket with the woolen “C” over the left chest, indicating he is a Channel Islands athlete who has proven his mettle in his sport by earning a letter.  I didn’t know what color his eyes were, but in my heart, I just knew they would be bluer than the blue on his varsity jacket! 

“That’s Bud Stud! (OK, so Bud Stud wasn’t his real name, but I changed it to protect the not-so-innocent…we had a guest speaker come to our school one time, and picked him out of the crowd and dubbed him Bud Stud and the name stuck).   I’ve been trying to get you to notice him all year!”

Apparently, Sue had been pointing him out at lunch time almost every day since the beginning of our freshman year, but I usually responded with a perfunctory “neat.”  The difference that day was that he was wearing a letterman’s jacket -- one of my requirements for a potential KISA – Knight in Shining Armor.

“Well, I’m noticing now,” I replied.  “ What do you know about him?” I demanded.

“He’s a sophomore, he went to Blackstock, and he lives in our neighborhood. You know where your street bends and ends into that cul-de-sac?  Well, he lives at that cul-de-sac.  He’s really nice and he’s really cute. He’s taking college-prep classes, and seems to be the all-around decent All-American kid. Oh, and he skateboards and rides his bike around the neighborhood a lot.”  Sue was a veritable encyclopedia of Bud Stud information.

That day, after asking around, I also found out he was an only child, didn’t have a girlfriend,  was a little shy, and his letter was in golf.  Oh well, a varsity letter is a varsity letter.  It was the jacket that looked good, and I couldn’t wait until I got to wear it a some football game someday.  I made a mental note  to find out all I can about golf, so that when Serendipity did her job and caused us to meet, I would impress him with my knowledge of golf.  I also ended up taking Beginning, Intermediate, and Advanced Golf classes as my P.E. electives for three consecutive semesters.

By the end of the week, I knew Bud Stud’s class schedule (it paid to have a friend as an office assistant, and even more if you helped her with her homework), I knew the routes he took to his classes; I knew where and which one his locker was (I drew the line at knowing his locker combination – after all, the guy deserved SOME privacy), and I knew that he liked to order the fish fillet sandwich for lunch, and occasionally the tuna salad with thousand island dressing. 

I also knew the route he took to school.  Someone would drive him to the railroad tracks, and then he would walk the tracks to school.  In the afternoon, he would walk the tracks back, and someone would be waiting for him at the end of the tracks and drive him home.  I quit taking the long way to and from school, and I, too, began walking the tracks to and from school, shaving a mile each way from my pedestrian commute.

That week began my two-year investment in the Channel Islands “Islander Drill Team” Friday Fundraiser.  Every week, I spent a quarter on a boutonnière for him, which would be delivered to his second period class, and signed only with “from your secret admirer” (Of course, once in a while I also spent a quarter on Jim Woodward, the one with the Camaro).  After second period, I would rush out to my next class which was right above Bud Stud’s next class, and I could watch him from his locker to his class, wearing the boutonniere I got him. 

In the afternoons I would race home and finish up my chores and do my homework as my siblings and little cousins played outside, usually riding their bikes or rollerskating up and down the street.  Then I would hear my little cousin race up the sidewalk yelling “Ate JoAnn, he’s coming!!! He’s on his bike!” and I would race up the stairs, fly into my room, position myself at my window, and wait as Bud Stud rode by either on his bike or on his skateboard, his long blond hair flowing behind him.  Sometimes, when he was on his ten-speed, he would leisurely ride by, his hands hanging at his side, as if he silently commanded the handlebars to go where he wanted them to go without having to hold them. 

For the next year and a half, Bud Stud was on my Wall of Fame, and while the others were constantly rearranged in positions two thru five, Bud Stud occupied the Far Left Position.


Chapter 3:  Heartache on the Dance Floor

The Knight Stalker (or How I Got Pictures for My KISA Wall of Fame)

CHAPTER 1

Up until junior high, I had this little section on the wall of my bedroom next to my bed that I secretly called my “Wall of Fame”.  It wasn’t labeled, but I knew what it was, and I constantly maintained and updated it.  The Wall of Fame held five photos (O.K., magazine cut-outs, usually from Tiger Beat Magazine) of the celebrities I imagined would have fallen head-over-heels in love with me if they ever had the fortune of serendipitously (O.K., so I didn’t know the meaning of the word until high school, but “coincidentally” seemed a tad too impersonal) running into me in the future.  At one time, the wall included images of  Gregory Peck (fell in love with him in To Kill a Mockingbird), Randolph Mantooth (John Gage in Emergency!), Cary Grant, Rollie Quizon (he was a teen heart throb in the Philippines), and Rollie Quizon (yeah, I had his picture up twice).  Whenever someone new came along, or one of the famed ones did something I didn’t like, off  the wall he came, and up went another one.

When I got to high school, my eyes beheld an ocean of good-looking guys, and I knew my girlish infatuations on the celebrities were over:  these were real, flesh and blood man-boys, and the odds of a serendipitous encounter with one of them climbed a few notches.  Armed with a Kodak 126 Instamatic Camera, I began what these days would probably be grounds for a legitimate restraining order:  Knight Stalking (taking stolen pics of and following my future Knight in Shining Armor – KISA – around).  My freshman year, I would take his picture, and then wait until my family took a trip to K-Mart, where I would leave the film, and wait again with bated breath for the next time my family went to K-Mart so I can pick up my prints. My Wall of Fame shrank a bit, as I could only afford the default 3.5 X 5.5 prints from Kmart, but it still held my top five picks (pun intended).

During my sophomore year, one of my friends, Caroline, was a photographer for the yearbook, so all I had to do was point out my newest “crush” and the next week, a new 8x10 black and white print of my future KISA hung on my Wall of Fame, which grew (because the pictures grew) and moved to the piece of wall directly above my window;  it the last thing I saw before I turned off the lights, and the faces were the first to greet me as I woke up in the morning.

Through the years, my Wall of Fame included the likes of Baldemar Zacarias, the shy but oh-so-dreamy brother of my drill team captain Celina; Bill Dimalanta – he was just dreamy; Jim Woodward (he had a Camaro), Bud Stud (as he was later dubbed and the name stuck), Steve Solano (OK, Steve was MUCH older than I, and I only saw him at Christmas when I sang with The Living Christmas Tree and he was a singer for The Kids Next Door), and  Number Twenty-One.  Number Twenty One (that was his varsity baseball number, although he was also on the varsity basketball team) was on my wall until I learned he had gotten a girl pregnant and ended up marrying her.  Married men who were not celebrities did not belong on my wall. 

The future Knights jockeyed for position in the hierarchy of my affection:  they were ranked in order of my preference from left to right, Far Left being the most likely to get a yes if he proposed to me on that particular day.  They came off the wall and were ceremoniously burned in the fireplace (some were cut up into tiny little pieces first) whenever they did something fallworthy, like getting a girl pregnant, flipping me off in the school parking lot, smiling at me and calling me Rosabel, things like that.  Oh, and taking another girl to the prom and asking her to be his girlfriend.

Did I mention that these guys never knew they were on my Wall of Fame?  That was probably because none of them even knew I existed.


Chapter 2:  Bud Stud