That Time I Wanted To Be Like Buffy The Vampire Slayer

There was a time when I wanted to be like Katniss Everdeen. There was another time when I wanted to be like Lance Armstrong. And yet another time when I wanted to be like Meg Ryan. If you’ve read those posts or at least somewhat know me, then you know that none of those attempts went well. And before all of those mishaps, there was the time that I wanted to be like Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer is one of my all-time favorite shows. (And curse you, Netflix, for removing it and taking away my instant access to the Scooby Gang.) I love the story lines, the dialogue, the kick ass female roles, the wonderful, witty Joss Whedon brand of humor. And Angel — oh my. Aside from what happened to Joyce Summers, there wasn’t much to dislike about that show.

In 1998, my dorky high school freshman self had one goal, aside from marrying one of the Hanson brothers — to be like Buffy the Vampire Slayer. This was rather problematic, though, as we had nothing in common —

I was not to be deterred, though. (And not being deterred is basically the root of all of my mishaps.) One day I was flipping through a magazine when I saw my Buffy connection: her signature black boots. Well, boots that looked like her signature black boots, anyway. Those went on my Christmas list that year, along with requests for various band t-shirts, a combination safe, and the Buffy the Vampire Slayer soundtrack. I later realized that a black leather jacket would help pull off the Buffy vibe, so I added that. I briefly considered adding a crossbow to the list, but figured that wouldn’t fly.

(For the record, I’ve since made plans to purchase a crossbow, but my husband vetoed it. He thinks it wouldn’t end well. Party pooper.)

I didn’t get the jacket (I purchased that on my own later) or the combination safe, but I did get the black boots, soundtrack, and some other stuff. I was happier than a kid on Christmas. Oh, wait! (Yeah, that was corny.) After we finished opening presents, I dashed off to my room to try on the $40 fake leather high heel boots that came up just a few inches below my knee. After I zipped them up, I stood up, looked down, and admired myself.

Dorky pajamas + slayer boots = high fashion.

I know what you guys are thinking — you only wish you looked this cool in high school!

Or not.

Naturally, my next step was to parade myself back to the living room and show off my boots. And this is where things got dicey.

So, in addition to not being very coordinated, I had also never worn high heels, and the heels on those boots must have been three inches. Attempting to walk in heels when you’ve never done so and aren’t coordinated results in walking like you’re drunk, and this is the sort of thing that really cramps the style of an aspiring vampire slayer.

After some stumbling around, I made it back out to the living room, showed off the boots and mentioned how much I liked them, and went back to my room, where I took off the boots and silently fumed over how much I sucked at walking. (The lack of walking abilities still causes me to fume 19 years later.) Throughout the rest of Christmas break, my routine was to put on the boots, practice walking, throw them in the back of the closet in a fit of rage, and repeat.

Considering that I still walked very much like a drunk in my boots, the smart thing to do would have been to not wear them out in public, right? Trying telling that to 15-year-old me. When the first day of school after winter break came around, I was determined to show off my boots. Much like Rudy believed in himself, I believed that somehow, if I had my chance to show off my boots, that I’d do them proud. My feet and legs and sense of equilibrium would magically come together and I would carve out my place in history.

Since we lived at the end of a really long driveway, my grandmother would drive us to the end to wait on the bus in the mornings. When she saw me stumbling in her back door, she suggested that I wear my sneakers. I insisted that I could walk just fine — a phrase I would come to repeat quite often during my rum drinking sessions as an adult — and kept them on.

When the school bus rolled up, I slung my Eastpak backpack over my shoulder and tried to walk up to the bus as smoothly as possible.

And then I had to go up the rather steep bus steps. This is where things went south:

Yep, I fell up the bus, so to speak. After I got up and got myself together, I did a short walk of shame to my seat, where I tried to ignore the snickers and guffaws, and told myself the rest of the day would go better.

It. Did. Not.

I did make it off the bus, but I stumbled all over the halls of that damn high school. Wearing those high heel boots to school is probably one of the top regrets of my life, right behind getting the same haircut of the chick with the short hair from the first season of Survivor. (Y’all, I had serious haircut issues back in the day.) At the end of the day, when it was time to go home, I made it up the bus steps without falling again, but I’m sad to say that I didn’t make it back off in the same fashion:

The boots were put back in the box. They were rather scuffed, so there was no way I could take them back, either. Over the next few years, I’d dig the box out every so often and put them on, hoping that I’d magically be able to walk in those heels, but that never happened. Eventually the box disappeared, and I assume that my grandmother must have donated them to Goodwill.

Let’s all take a moment and raise a pretend glass for my dead slayer dreams.

Who did you idolize in high school?

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#AtoZChallenge: ‘H’ is for Hanson Wallpaper

If you’re new to this blog, then you’re probably thinking, “WTH, Hanson? Those MMMBop kids?” right now. If you’re a regular here, however, then you’re probably (and rightfully) thinking, “Them again? Crazy stalker person.”

My theme for the challenge is Blast to the Past, and considering that I’ve been a fan of those guys since I was 13, it was inevitable for them to show up here. I’m not here to convert anyone into a Fanson in this post, though. After 20 years of trying, I’ve finally realized that most people don’t have good taste respond to my Jehovah’s Witness like tactics. Instead, we’re going back to 1997-1998 at the peak of my Hanson obsession to take a look at what guaranteed that interior decorating would never be career option for me.

Back when I was an awkward teenager (which really isn’t that different from being an awkward 34-year-old), I loved getting magazines like Tiger Beat and Bop. They had all the stories and pictures of the cute musicians and actors that any tween/teen girl could stand. (Hello, JTT, Rider Strong, Will Friedle…Brad Pitt was in there, too, but I didn’t get what was so great about him until 2005.)

When Hanson blew up, they had centerfolds and pin-ups in these magazines regularly for at least a year. And my grandmother bought me pretty much every one. I’d always promise not to ask for a magazine before we went grocery shopping, but I’d still make my way to the aisle with the magazines. After I picked one out, I’d carry it around, looking longingly at it as we walked down aisle after aisle, and she’d eventually say, “Go ahead and put it in the cart.” Her enabling my addiction obsession meant dozens and dozens of pin-ups, centerfolds, and full posters of Hanson. From the title of this post, you can probably guess what I did with them — I hung up every single one.

Just to keep the doodling easier, I drew it like this. FTR, all four walls had photos that were probably not more than a millimeter apart, making legit wallpaper.

So much cringe happening there with the Hanson wallpaper. I would often remove all of the pictures and reorganize them by size or guy or whatever. And this is where a slight problem came in. Want to guess how I hung all of those pictures? With thumbtacks. Tape would be too damaging to those valuable pictures and wouldn’t hold up well when I rearranged everything, so I used 2-4 thumbtacks to hang each picture.

Let’s just say that the walls didn’t look so great after I took down the photos…

My dad discovered that his drywall had been screwed up one day when he came in and saw me redecorating and saw that hundreds upon hundreds of tiny holes had been poked in his walls.

He was not impressed with my cleverness at preserving the integrity of my posters.

This was one of those situations where what I did was so bad that my dad was so mad that he didn’t even flip out. He told me that he had the right mind to make me spackle every single hole and left, muttering under his breath. When he put the house up for rent a couple years ago, I half expected for him to tell me to get my butt over there and spackle the walls, but he didn’t. (And to my brother — if you read this and do buy the house, I’m not spackling those walls for you.)

For the record, I presently have no pictures of Hanson hanging on my walls — just a few autographed guitar picks in a frame. (I do have a Lord of the Rings poster and a Wonder Woman poster, though, because clearly I have no intentions of being an adult anytime soon.) After a year or two of being obsessed, I threw out all of the Hanson pictures. Some years later I tossed the Hanson scrapbook. And a couple years after that, I stuck my Hanson t-shirts in a storage bin. (No, I wasn’t one of the cool kids in high school, in case you’re wondering.) Now I’m just obsessed without a bunch of embarrassing pictures.

So, which famous person/people were you totally crushing on in middle or high school?

Thanks for joining me for the April A to Z Challenge! If you’re participating, please leave a link in the comments section so I can check out your post. If you’ve got a cringier story than my Hanson wallpaper, by all means, share it below.

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