In Which I Reveal How Ricky Schroder Became My Nemesis
I’ve always been a big girl. My mom claims I came out talking and eating and I haven’t stopped doing either one for very long, since.
Because I was hopelessly chunky, I wore women’s clothing from about the time I was 9 years old. Cute, frilly, bright, little girl princess specialness? Hardly. Sensible, rugged, stain-resistant, wash and wear? Yes. As I got older, this meant that wearing what the popular girls wore wasn’t an option, even when I desperately wanted to. I outchubbed Guess? jeans and Esprit sweatshirts. I poured out from under crop tops and over the tops of stirrup pants. I DID have some legwarmers, which just served to bulk up my already bountiful calves, and plastic “jellies” shoes which made my sausage-like toes sweat up a storm. I started to want boys to notice me, but, unless they were superhorny for their own mothers, it wasn’t likely.
One time, when I was about 13 years old, a boy DID notice me.
We attended Catholic church at the time. Like with most things we tried as a family, we dabbled. We didn’t have both feet in, but it was nice to feel like we belonged somewhere. We moved a lot and didn’t get very close to people, so it was comforting to know that god would always be our neighbor, even if he couldn’t help me get my kite out of a tree.
At the time I was attending catechism, which is like Catholicism class. The goal is to get confirmed, which I seem to remember being like a graduation from catechism and a declaration to everyone that you want to be Catholic. Like I said, dabbled. The problem with catechism ended up being that I was sassy, and had a lot of questions. In my opinion, anyone who would answer every query with “god” was not trying very hard and certainly not taking my questions seriously. I was frequently being asked to wait outside until my parents came to pick me up.
During one of my outside times, I went to the Catholic elementary school swing set while I waited for my mom to pick me up. I was wearing a light yellow, heavy cotton, knee-length full skirt with buttons all the way down the front (that I had unbuttoned about 1/4 of the way up from the bottom, as I was starting to figure out what the girls who had boys falling all over them had that I didn’t. skin.) and a button up white cotton shirt with pastel stripes. I looked like I had been violently raped by Easter and left for dead. I sat quietly on a swing and made designs in the dirt below me, using the white hurache sandals that I wore with white nylon socks that folded over and had lace around the edge. The kind that little girls wear with party dresses.
“Hey,” I heard out of nowhere, and looked up from where I had been writing my first name, combined with Kevin Bacon’s last name.
“Hey,” I answered.
A Ricky Schroder-looking boy sat down on the swing next to mine, without saying another word. We sat side by side, quietly. I was dying inside because I’d never been this close to a boy I wasn’t related to. Neither one of us really moved for what seemed like forever.
Eventually, Ricky Schroder started to swing. At first just a little, but then he went higher and higher. I knew I probably shouldn’t be swinging in my good clothes. Plus, I was really outside because I was in trouble. But I imagined our swinging would eventually synchronize and we would kiss mid-air and how could that happen if I was worried about staining the clothes that I despised, anyway? No way. If this shit was going to work out, Hollywood movie-style, I had to take a chance.
I started swinging, too, being careful to tuck my skirt between my knees so that I didn’t show my goodies to god. I went higher and higher, faster and faster, until, finally, I was swinging as high as Ricky Schroder was. Now, if we could only synchronize for the big kiss.
It took a minute or three, but we were nearly swinging in unison. One more swing ought to do it. We went up, back down, and swung back. As we did, I heard a clang and went flying backward like some sort of reverse superhero. I remember the panic of zooming, ass first, through the air with no control over where I was going. I hit the dirt and continued my backward motion in a tumble through the dirt. I finally stopped; bloody, dirty, and dazed. I looked up and realized that the chain holding the swing to the top bar had broken and the boy was slowing down, finally coming to a stop. He didn’t immediately get up from his swing, and I noticed him shaking as he sat there.
“I’m okay,” I said, not sure at all that it was true. I knew I had rocks embedded in my palms, scratches on my elbows and down my arms, and my ass was throbbing. Plus, I was beyond humiliated. When you are 13, a tiny trip feels like the end of the world. This, this WAS the end. Finally, a snort escaped him. “I don’t care. You’re fat,” he said, now freely laughing out loud, close to busting a gut. He got up and walked away, leaving me sitting on the ground, tears making muddy streaks as they fell down my dirty face and on to my momclothes.
I decided then and there that being noticed was a terrible idea and practiced blending in like it was my own religion. I did that for the better part of the next 16 years or so. In some ways, I’ve outgrown it now, but I’ll also never forget what it was like to have my Hollywood-inspired romantic notions come crashing down. Literally. And I fucking hate Ricky Schroeder now.
HeatherVonsj@gmail.com
Holy crap, I hate Ricky Schroeder now too!! Kids can be so frickin’ mean!!! karma is a bitch and I’m SURE he grew up to live in a trailer with his girlfriend and he is 300lbs and drinks a lot of beer…this just has to be true because I just won’t except any other story.
.-= Colleen´s last blog ..iphone Love =-.
Twitter: MFAMama
/ Jun 12 2010
“I looked like I had been violently raped by Easter and left for dead.”
You’re awesome. And ohmahgawmarsha how did you ever survive that? That WAS the end and yet you’re still here.
RESPECT.
.-= MFA Mama´s last blog ..we have a winner! =-.
Very sad to hear a child treated as such even though I know it happens a lot. Been there, been the butt of that.
The being raped by Easter was classic.
.-= Mike´s last blog ..Not Interested =-.
I wanna be a friend of yours, mmm, and a little bit more…
You’re awesome. Thanks for sharing your story.
I fucking hate Ricky Schroeder now, too! He’s mean and sleeps in a car.
Twitter: jennytalia2009
/ Jun 12 2010
Wow, if the Ricky the fucktard could see you now!
THE coolest kid in bloggyland
And you KNOW he’s a fat, balding chronic masturbator, who couldn’t even walk to the park anymore, let alone get on a swingset
Fuck him
Love you!
x
Twitter: hessleman
/ Jun 12 2010
Well, I never liked him anyway! What a tool. That you survived that is incredible–that you can relive it for us, so vividly, is amazing. You are unbelievably badass.
i hate teenage boys.
Tiffany -
Well, I like mine. And a few others. But they can be horrible. ESPECIALLY the handsome blond ones.
Cincy -
Oh, sister, my iceberg is ginormous. But thanks for saying that the tip is badass.
Jenny Talia -
I googled “hate Ricky Schroder” and my blog is near the top, right under his wiki and imdb pages. I’d say THAT is the best revenge, no?
Sassypanamama -
And the way he kicks tiny puppies? Unacceptable!
CAM -
Thanks for reading my story. Using childhood pain to educate and entertain? Don’t mind if I do!
Mike -
I felt so fat. Thing is, I totally WISH I were that fat now. I didn’t know from fat! Thanks for commenting.
MFA Mama -
OMG, and I totally tried popping the collar on the Easter rape shirt but I couldn’t pull that shit off. Still can’t. xo
Colleen -
Okay, does he own the trailer or rent? Because, if he owns, he’s still doing better than I am. Oh, and don’t let him marry that girlfriend, either, or I lose again.
Twitter: litanyofbritt
/ Jun 13 2010
What an asshole! Get me his address so I can punch him in the face. And then sit on him.
I don’t blame you for hating Ricky Scrotum. Obviously, he inflicted serious psychological damage.
By the way, here’s my favorite line: ” I looked like I had been violently raped by Easter and left for dead.” I laughed hard at this one.
Great blog.
Twitter: pattypunker
/ Jun 14 2010
fuck ricky schroder!
love me a sassy-ass catholic school girl.
Fuck Ricky Schroder and his stupid baby face!!!!!
Oh, but I’m sure his Mommy thought he was a good Catholic boy. What a little asshole. If it makes you feel any better, once, when I was about 15, a guy I had a semi-crush on called me “elephant thighs.” And he was several years older. I was crushed. Some guys never learn, do they?
Twitter: greeblemonkey
/ Jun 14 2010
He would tell you he is RICK Schroeder.
Once and asshole, always an asshole.
Twitter: sandiegomomma
/ Jun 14 2010
This hurts my cold black tarry heart. Because I know it’s happening to other kids right now as I write. And because it happened to you. And because you are so much better than Dicky Schroeder and I want him to see you now.
San Diego Momma -
I’m TOTALLY nothing to see but, yeah, I wish he could READ me now. Haha. And no one should have to remember this sort of this thing for 25 years.
Aimee Greeblemonkey -
When I wrote this, I wondered who would be the first to say “It’s Rick now”. YOU WIN! Haha. Yeah, we should try to find him and tell him “No, YOU’RE fat. Jerk.”
The Sweetest -
Ouch! “Elephant Thighs?” Fuck that. Just when you feel less awkward and horrible about yourself, this shit comes along, telling you “Don’t get too sure of yourself.” I hate it.
Jane -
Haha. Fuck his face! Thanks, for having my back.
pattypunker -
Fat is in the eye of the beholder. Also, there was something wrong with that swing, right? Because I was not that big!
Vodka and Ground Beef -
Thanks! “Ricky Scrotum” made my day!
How I wish my family had just only dabbled in Catholicism. Although all those nuns jumping out of the bushes with paddles made me quick like a crafty mongoose so I guess there were some advantages to the constant unprovoked attacks.
Ricky S. clearly did not follow the value code of the Catholics which states that you should only laugh and destroy the lives and spirits of young people if you are wearing a habit or a collar.
What a jackass.
This story makes me want to put on my wool kneesocks and teach him a lesson except I’m old and infirm now so he could probably outrun me.
Twitter: AngryTrvlGurl
/ Jun 21 2010
I would have popped up off the ground, tackled him, sat on his face and screamed, “FAT! YOU HAVEN’T FUCKING SEEN FAT YET!” And then maybe rubbed dirt in his eyes.
You’re a trooper.
Angry Travel Girl -
Oh, darling, I was so beat down at the time that he was just reinforcing how I felt about myself. Better(ish) now. Thanks. xo
dufmanno -
I’d like to see you in those kneesocks. Purely for research purposes, of course.
Oh, I can so relate. I wore the girl equivalent of “husky” clothes that looked just like my mom’s (which she thought was great). Also, I had to go to catechism until 10th grade, when I finally had enough and refused to go any more. So I win! But you also win, because you lived to tell the tale on a real blog. So there.
physicsmom -
He’s probably a bajillionaire and married to a supermodel. If I don’t know, it’s all the same to me. husky girlz 4 lyf!
What an ass! I loved this post so much that I passed it on to the other chubs in my life…some of the best people ever! We’ve been through the shit and come out as better people and snarkier than ever! Fuck you, I rule!!
…and I totally feel the, “I wish I was as “fat” as I thought I was back then now!
ctall -
Tell all your chubs that all their Ricky Schroders will get their comeuppances.
You DO rule. Thanks for pimping me.