Well look at that. I go all the way through November, posting like a, um, crazy posting lady, and then December hits and whammo! I drop off the face of the earth. Did you miss me? Huh, huh, did ya?
My lack of posting has nothing whatsoever to do with the end of NaBloPoMo (that word never stops sounding dirty, does it?). I have only one thing on my mind these days, and that is weather and traffic. I guess that’s two things. Whatever. The point is. I think of nothing and do nothing that is unrelated to traffic and weather these days and really, who wants to read about traffic and weather? I mean, isn’t weather what one talks about when there’s nothing left to say? It’s like, the banter that you say to people who you don’t have anything in common with. It’s right up there with how about those Mets or did you hear about Britney or TGIF. And I don’t want to do filler-talk with you guys.
So, instead, I will hearken back and tell you a little story about a boy named Taco. It’s a holiday story. Ready?
When I was in 10th grade, I auditioned for varsity choir. The choir in my high school was supposed to be a Really Big Deal and making it in at all, much less as a lowly 10th grader, was nothing to sneeze at. And if you were a star in this choir (which I never was), that was better than being a star on the football team, or the class president, or whatever other bullshit high school popularity thing you may have up your sleeve. It’s only now that I see how weird and unusual this is. What kind of high school deifies the kid who can sing a Mozart mass the best? Isn’t that kind of strange?
So I made it in to this weird little culty club, and there was this tenor that sat in the row behind me. I called him Taco. I called him Taco because the word sounded punny when paired with his last name, and also because then I could make all sorts of lewd taco-related jokes with my friends about him (taco meat, taco meat between the shell, sour cream…high school humor rawks). Taco was a senior. Not only was he a senior, but he was the best singer in the choir. He was that guy. He was my Jake Ryan. I was mad about him. Cuckoo for cocoa puffs insane.
I can’t tell you, even to this day, why I was so in love with him. I was not one to go gaga over boys like that. I dated them, thought this one or that one was cute, but I wasn’t a groupie type. I thought girls who tripped all over themselves over a boy were stoopid. But the power of Taco was too much for me. I can honestly say that I have never in my life, before him nor after him, ever, obsessed so acutely over a dude like I did over him. All I can attribute this to was that perhaps my pubescent hormones just kicked in and he happened to be the target? I don’t know.
I befriended Taco. He sat behind me in choir every day, and we would talk. I still remember the conversations we would have. There was nothing to them. At all. For instance, we had a whole running conversation about the colloquialism “you can like it or you can lump it.” We thought this was hysterically funny and would say it to each other about any situation. Deep, right? And I would go home, every night, and write in my journal every word that he ever spoke to me. Every word. Not only that, I would write down what he was wearing, every single day. I still have this strange catalog of Taco happenings. “He was wearing his acid washed jeans today and boy did his ass look NICE.” Ladies and gentlemen, this may have been the first thing the future librarian ever catalogued. Taco’s outfits. What’s the LCSH for that?
Although I never got my hands on Taco for real, there were moments that we shared that were so full of messed up teen sexual tension of the Welcome to the Dollhouse variety that I feel like we almost had a relationship, in a way. I had thrilling moments with Taco. For instance (and I can’t believe I am about to tell you about this one as it makes me look slightly pervy but who wasn’t slightly pervy when they were 15?), the number 69 was a big number for us in high school, as I am sure it is for everyone in high school. We used that number for everything, because we thought it was SO FRICKIN’ HILARIOUS. Examples…
Teen #1: Dude, when do you have to go home?
Teen #2: Six or nine o’ clock. Either one.
Haw haw haw haw haaaaaaaw!
Teen #1: God that test was hard. I know I failed it.
Teen #2: I bet you got about 69 percent on it.
Haw haw haw haaaaaaw!
You see what I’m saying? It was 69 everything. Extra funny points if you could slip in saying sixty-nine to an adult with a straight face without them realizing what you were doing.
I was not above such tomfoolery. I said the magic number as much as the next person. Except the difference for me was, I didn’t know why it was so funny. I had no idea what 69 meant. Isn’t that sweet and innocent? I want to pat my 15-year-old head like a little fuzzy puppy for that. I knew it was something dirty, but I didn’t exactly know the details. I thought it was something slightly sexual, but had no idea what it was for reals.
So you know what I did? I tried to flirt with Taco by confessing to him that I didn’t know what 69 was. And I asked him if he would please explain it to me.
That day in choir, we all stood up to sing. And when I sat back down after the song was over, there was something on my chair. It was a note! From TACO. Oh my word. We were acquaintances, not friends who wrote each other notes! He was taking the acquaintanceship to the next level. What did it say?
The note didn’t SAY anything. It just had the numbers 6 and 9 drawn out next to each other, and then, next to that there was a…drawing. Of two people. Two people who were doing the sixing and the nining. To each other.
Taco. Drew me. A diagram.
I crumpled up the note and freaked the fuck out. THAT is what 6 and 9 is? Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod. I was mortified beyond mortified. How could I ever talk to Taco again? I thought I was going to die. Not metaphorically die. Literally melt into the floor and croak.
But you know what else? Besides the imminent kick-the-bucket-ness? The note gave me a thrill. Taco and I had shared a moment. A freaky deaky, jacked up, non-sex-but-sexish moment.
I know what you’re thinking right about now. You’re wondering what the hell I meant when I said at the beginning of this story that it was a “holiday story.” What kind of weirdo holiday am I talking about, is what you’re thinking. This is not a Hallmark Channel Original type story. This is bordering on the Skinamax channel. Hold on, though, I haven’t gotten to the holiday part yet. In fact, I think I may have to hold off on that part of the story, because this post is getting way too long and I have to go and you know, live my life and stuff. So I will finish telling you about Taco and the holiday part of our flirtation next time. Wow, I don’t think I have ever done a two-parter blog post before. Look at me, being all wordy!
Until next time then, my friends. Taco, Part II. Sorry to give you only part of the story and run. How much is left, you ask?
About 69 percent.