Vintage Amber: The AT&T commercial that bore absolutely no resemblance to life as I knew it in the mid to late 90s

This was one of my favorite commercials when I was in high school because it depicted my romantic ideal as well as my technological ideal. 

As I've mentioned before, (non homeless/non elderly) guys didn't show any interest in me until I was in my 20s, so the back and forth between Larisa Oleynik and her romeo--with his perfect '90s-boy center-part--was totally foreign and almost unfathomable to me. I didn't get the internet or a halfway decent computer until I was a sophomore in high school, so all of the technology in this commercial seemed very futuristic and confusing. Though I now have a boyfriend and a pretty sweet MacBook, I still have some trouble relating to/understanding this commercial.

So maybe things are different when you're younger (or super cute), but as an adult, if I were to send a guy an "I miss you soooo much" email right after seeing him not only would he not email me back but he would never talk to me again. Also, this font is soooo large. Is this what all emails looked like in the '90s? 

I like that their font choice correlates to their gender. Hers is cursivey and girly while his is bold and masculine. I'm glad that we've made so much progress when it comes to fonts and gender roles.  

I don't think I could pull this off. Wait, let me try.

I was wrong. Nailed it.

 Is this a scanner? A fax machine? Do fax machines work like scanners? I actually think this commercial would be very erotic if they were just faxing each other all night long.  

What is this face? I think that he thought that he was going to get a naked pic. I do remember hearing that email in the olden days was primarily used for sending naked pics.

Did computer screens used to go black right after you sent an email (by pressing the "send email" key)? 

So this is what guys like. I'm starting to understand why I failed so horribly with the opposite sex. 

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Vintage Amber: The 1991 news story that confused everyone at my day camp

That morning, some kid who I didn’t really know—but who probably had a rat tail since everyone had a rat tail that summer—ran into the wood paneled activity room of our day camp and rather loudly announced the news.

My heart sank.

Pee-wee was a really important part of my life, quite possibly the most important part of my life (I had all the toys, my very own Pee-wee’s playhouse, and of course watched the show EVERY Saturday).

How could this loud-mouth kid be so cavalier about such positively tragic news?


Unfortunately, the kid didn’t know why Pee-wee had been arrested—either his parents had shielded him from this crucial bit of info or he didn’t understand what indecent exposure was—so for the rest of the day, the group of 7 and 8 year-olds that I was kickin’ it with that summer speculated about how Pee-wee had managed to land himself in the pokey. 

At one point, a boy came up to us and said, “I heard Pee-wee robbed a bank.” 

This seemed logical. So logical, in fact, that I repeated it with complete certainty when my mom came to pick me up that afternoon.

A day or two later, I found out why he’d really been arrested. Because I didn’t know that there were porno movie houses or that there was even a thing called porn, I thought that he’d “exposed himself” at a run-of the-mill theater while watching something like Beauty and the Beast or City Slickers.  

Anyway, I didn’t find what he’d done too appalling, as I had recently become obsessed with flipping the bird to no one in particular whenever I was in dark public spaces (movie theaters, Space Mountain at Disneyland, et al.) 

I guess I sort of connected our two transgressions in my mind—perhaps thinking that he’d done that thing he did to achieve the sort of exhilaration that comes with being a super sneaky scofflaw.  

Ultimately, the most disturbing part of the whole incident was finding out that Pee-wee Herman wasn’t Pee-wee Herman at all. He was some dude named Paul Reubens.  

I don't think that I've ever been as thoroughly disillusioned.

Where were you when you found out about Pee-wee?  

Vintage Amber: Guys I Stalked in Middle School

I'm a collector of toys, books, comics, burritos, and Star Trek memorabilia. I used to study the World Almanac. When I really dig a movie, I'll watch it over and over until I know every line. I need my bedroom to be the way I need my bedroom to be! It only stands to reason that this sort of obsessive behavior would spill into my love life.


I say "love life" but what I really mean is "unrequited love life" because it wasn't until very recently that males started to find me attractive--my "awkward stage" refuses to just be a stage and insists on being my life. As everyone knows--either from personal experience or Lifetime movies--when unrequited love and obsession meet, the result is always stalking. So yeah, I stalked some dudes. 


I stalked some in high school and a few in college. But my stalking heyday (and I'm talking about quantity and not the absurdity or craziness of the stalking) was in middle school. Most of these guys were in my band class, which just adds another layer of pathetic to the whole thing. 


I always operated at the creepy but harmless level and, thankfully, never ventured into those treacherous I'm-super-psychotic-and-if-I-can't-have-you-no-one-can waters. But still, I stalked a couple of guys pretty hard--and these were in the pre-Google/Facebook days, so if you were going to stalk someone, you actually had to go out into the streets and do the leg work.


The middle school stalkees nearest and dearest to my heart are Kris C., Brian, Michael, and Chris P. 

Kris C.

Height: Shortish
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Hazel
Instrument: Trumpet
Year of Crush: 8th Grade
Intensity of Crush: Super Kamehameha
Intensity of Stalking: Mild


The Lowdown: Kris was a "rocker" which meant he wasn't a "rapper" or whatever. I don't know. The social hierarchies and nomenclature were weird in middle school. In any case, he wasn't popular, wore Airwalks, and was rumored to be a Satanist because one night before a band concert he was seen "worshiping the devil." 


Contrary to popular belief, Kris was extraordinarily sweet, probably the sweetest boy in our grade, and a lot cooler than almost everyone else in our school. He was also gross. But in a hot way. You know, like Johnny Knoxville. He once had me watch him shove an entire Q-tip up his nose. Swoon!

The Stalking: By the time I started to like-like Kris C. we were already buddies, so I really didn't have to stalk him that hard. But I did make a special effort to always be near him and even manipulated a friend into inviting him to a party that was originally supposed to be an all-girl affair. Every day after school I'd sprawl out on my bed, listen to "All My Only Dreams" from the That Thing You Do soundtrack and cry (literally) about how much I lurved him.

The Aftermath: In true middle school fashion, I had someone tell him that I liked him. He said that he only liked me as a friend. Naturally. After middle school he moved to Virginia or something. We're friends on the Facebook.

Brian
Height: Mediumish to Tallish
Hair: Black
Eyes: Brown
Instrument: Clarinet
Year of Crush: 7th Grade
Intensity of Crush: Super Kamehameha
Intensity of Stalking: Hardcore

The Lowdown: Really, there wasn't anything noteworthy about him but I think he smiled at me once during P.E., which was enough to seal the deal. In Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Jim Carrey says, "Why do I fall in love with every woman I see that shows me the least bit of attention?" I can relate to that shiz.

The Stalking: I'd rush out of class at the end of the day to make sure that I was halfway down Grand Ave. before Brian got his bike from the bike rack, and then I'd wait there for him. Once I saw his neon green bike off in the distance, I'd start walking, so it didn't look like I'd just been waiting there for him. When he passed me, I walked as fast I could behind him while trying not to look like I was walking as fast as I could behind him. I was going, like, six blocks out of my way just to make this happen because I lived in a totally different direction.

In addition to this, I had my friends report back to me on things they saw him do throughout  the day. One industrious girl, Julie, found out that Brian had a big white dog and I treated this as if it were some crucial piece of intelligence.

One day, when I was following Brian down Grand Ave., he yelled, "Stop stalking me!" The friends who were with me laughed but I was incensed. How dare he accuse me of something I was so clearly doing?

The Aftermath: I got over Brian the summer between 7th and 8th grade. After 8th grade graduation, my BFF peer pressured him into hugging me.



Michael
Height: Tall
Hair: Black
Eyes: Brown
Instrument: Not in band
Year of Crush: 8th Grade
Intensity of Crush: Pretty Intense
Intensity of Stalking: Moderate to Heavy


The Lowdown: Michael was one of those unbelievably adorable boys and was loved by all girls. He was a new kid and new kids are always ten times more desirable than all the old, played out kids you've known for the past couple of years. 


The Stalking: There was a lot of your garden variety staring and lurking but the highlight was when I very cooly opened up the "Students of the Month" display case (which had fortuitously been left unlocked) and stole his picture. 

And....

I still have it. Aaaaaaahhhh! I'm such a creep. 


The Aftermath: The BFF developed a crush on Michael and he actually showed some interest in her. It almost broke up our friendship but I'm glad it didn't because that would've been super lame. I haven't heard anything about him since middle school. 


Chris P.
Height: Shortish
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Brown
Instrument: Trumpet
Year of Crush: 7th and 8th Grade
Intensity of Crush: Super Kamehameha
Intensity of Stalking: Hardcore


The Lowdown: Chris P. had curly hair, a huge mole on his cheek, and a schnoz. I can't resist any of these things. Whenever I told someone that I liked him, they'd either ask, "Who's that?" or "That guy with the big nose?"


The Stalking: There were two shining moments in the Chris P. stalking:


(1) My friends in middle school were awesome but they were also enablers. One of them pulled some Ocean's Eleven crap, managed to figure out Chris P's locker combination, and then gave it to me. While everyone was in the lunchroom, I broke into his locker and saw that the green sweatshirt he wore every day was lying there, just waiting to be fondled. I grabbed it and sniffed it for a minute or two. In my mind, this was a victory, a major triumph, and it looked like this:

In reality, I'm sure it looked more like this:

(2) During lunch, Chris P. threw away the paper baggie his french fries were in. After he walked away, I fished it out of the garbage can...

 and kept it in a little box in my room.


The Aftermath: Chris P. and I became pretty good friends, probably because I got over the crush and never told him about the locker incident or the french fry bag. We went to different high schools and talked a couple of times on instant messenger. This is where things get a little weird. One night, when I was in 10th or 11th grade an instant message pops up on my computer screen. It says: "Hey, Sheena. Do you want to cyber?" Obviously he'd instant messaged me when he meant to IM this other girl we went to middle school with. I typed back, "Uh...what?" He promptly signed off.

Vintage Amber: My Secret Shame

My secret shame is behind this closet door.


No, it isn't the junk precariously balanced on top of the other junk precariously balanced on top of the layer of junk I affectionately refer to as "The First Terrace of Mount Purgatorio." 

As a matter of fact, I'm rather proud of the way that I've managed to jam 30% of everything that I've ever owned into such a small space. And yes, I do believe that I should be given an architectural award for "Best Makeshift Guitar Hero-Box Shelf" and then another, supplementary award for the Jenga-master skill that I demonstrate every time I yank something out of the back of the closet without causing a "comical" junk avalanche.


My secret shame is this Ben Affleck collage or...

As far as secret shames go, this may seem a little tame. But just look at that thing. It's psychotic. There isn't any artistry, it's just a manic jumble of floating Affleck heads and bodies.


I created Affleckollage in 1999, back when I was a 16-year-old sociopath and even then I was ashamed of it. This thing terrifies me because I don't like Ben Affleck and never have! Who devotes an entire afternoon to methodically constructing a collage of a man she doesn't like? A crazy person, that's who. I'm sure there's some weird, wild-eyed cult leader with a similar collage (possibly of Casey Affleck) framed and displayed in his weird, wild-eyed cult leader foyer.


Because I don't dig "The Affleck" and think that almost everything he's done post-Voyage of the Mimi (including that time he kissed Jennifer Lopez's butt) has been pretty lame, I'd liken my relationship with Affleckollage to that feeling you get when you accidentally pee on yourself. Not the itchy wetness, though, now that I think about it, there is a little of that, but I'm talking about emotions, I'm talking about that intense combination of embarrassment and Eeyore-esque self-loathing (where you're like, "Oh no, I hope no one notices that I've urinated all over myself," while also thinking, "I'm such a loser. I don't even know how to use toilets").


Affleckollage isn't something that I wanted to make, it's something that I was compelled to make. It is--and this is hard for me to come to terms with--my heart's triumph over my brain.

(Here is a very scientific diagram that I drew to illustrate the battle between my heart and my brain.)

You see, even though I say that I don't like Ben Affleck, a part of me must want to marry him and have 40 or 50 half Amber, half Affleck babies. This scares me. 

Usually when I open the closet, I don't see Affleckollage--it's taped to the door, so my back is obviously turned to it--but when I do happen to catch a glimpse of the monstrosity, I experience several different emotions within about 30 seconds, a phenomenon that psychologists and Affleck scholars have labeled...


"The Seven Stages of Seeing The Affleckollage That You Created With Your Own Two Hands When You Were 16 Years Old."

I know, I know, I know. You're thinking, "Amber, it's been more than 10 years, throw Affleckollage out and stop torturing yourself." But I can't. Affleckollage keeps me humble. Whenever I'm walking around town, wearing my designer jeans, feeling like awesome incarnate, I just think "oh wait, I have a Ben Affleck collage in my house" and remember that I'm not that cool. 

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Work was ultra boring yesterday so I drew this especially for you. 

If you don't know who this guy is then you're making my heart sad right now. The only way for you to smooth things over is to give me buckets of cash. 

Vintage Amber

I remember myself being this pint-sized wunderkind but every essay, test, journal entry, etc. from my formative years suggests otherwise. This letter to God was tucked into the pocket of my ninth grade binder. I would’ve been thirteen years old at the time.

As I’ve mentioned before, I went to Catholic school, which explains why the letter is addressed to the Lord but I was still very new to Catholicism, which explains why I’m asking God to hook me up with some guy.

I’ve chosen to abbreviate the name of my beloved for sociological reasons but I’ve maintained all of the original spelling/grammatical errors and annotated the whole blasphemous debacle.

Pay special attention to the rapid disintegration of my mood.

Dear God,

Today was the coolest day of the school year yet. We had an activity schedule. So that means a modified day. Because it was the junior americana fair. I almost caught a fish (1). We played our instruments in front of the school (2). And I believe I saw P. scoping me out (3) a few times (got to be optimistic sometimes)(4) Angela and Allison thought they saw him looking too, but I don’t know. He is so cute. I love his deep voice. It’s so cute (5)!

Then after school I went to a football game. It was boring and the team we were rooting for lost, but I got to be with all my friends. I saw one of my best friends, Robert (6). The only bad things that happened were that my other close friend Allison didn’t come to the game. And that the guy my best friend is in "Love" with got a concusion. All in all it way a pretty good day. So God thank you. But one thing. P. might have gone to the dance and I’m afraid if he ever did like me he might not anymore. Because there could’ve been some fine girl and he falls in love with her. So God I have a special petition (7). I really, really, really like P. I’ve really liked guys before but this time it’s foreal. He’s cute, seems sweet, he likes basketball, he’s smart, tall, and popular (8). I love his smile. I’ve never had a guy like me back ever. God you have given me so many things for which I am very grateful (9). But I really like P. Do you think you could possibly make it so he’d like me back. Thank you.

I don’t really want to say I love you P. because I don’t know him that well. But I know I really like him. And I love everything about him. I feel like such a dork. He probably doesn’t even know I am alive. Well anyway I’m getting real depressed now. So I’ll talk to ya (10) latter.

Love always,

Amber

(1) Oh how I yearn for those simple days when almost catching a fish brought such joy.

(2) I wonder if I was going for the double entendre because the sentence structure here is very bizarre. Why didn’t I just say, "the band performed"?

(3) I don’t think I’ve ever said the phrase "scoping me out" aloud so its usage here was most likely an affected nod to Clueless or some other cool, late 90s movie/TV show.

(4) I don’t understand the use of a parenthetical statement in a confessional letter to God. Actually, the whole letter was probably unnecessary since God is omniscient etc.

(5) I’m embarrassed that God had to read this.

(6) I don’t remember ever having a best friend named Robert.

(7) Yeah, God. I have a special petition.

(8) These are still the qualities that I find most attractive in a man. If a guy doesn’t "seem sweet" or if he isn’t "popular," I’m not interested.

(9) Antiquated syntax is something for which I am very grateful.

(10) Saying "I’ll talk to ya" where "ya" is God just seems really profane to me. "Ya" should be capitalized, right?

Folded inside of this note was another one with "what I would write to P." scrolled across the top. This is what it says:

Dear P.,

Hello. What’s up. Nothing much here.

And that’s it. I don’t know if I got bored with all the letter writing or if that’s really all that I would've written.

Addendum:

Surprise, surprise, Mr. P. never got around to professing his love for me. He did, however, end up dating one of my buddies.

Vintage Amber

I found this grainy naked photo of me in my prototype phase (circa 1984). That jam box in the background is (1) pretty dope (2) alarmingly close to the water I’m being bathed in. 

Vintage Homework Assignment

Every ninth-grader at my small parochial high school was required to take a class called “Christian Lifestyles.” It was essentially just a human sexuality course but I imagine the curriculum must have been created by the local diocese. Looking back at this assignment—dated Oct 28, 1997—it’s clear that my school was a lot more progressive than I remember it being. 

I like how definitive I am here. 
I'd like to think that I was making some sort of political statement by leaving this one blank. But I'm pretty sure that I just couldn't find the answer in the book. 

If I could ask my 13-year-old self one question it'd be, "why did you write your 'R's' like that?" Not cute.