my, how far i've come...

My last post about Supervalu has ignited my supermarket memories… and I think it’s time for a story about my first boyfriend. Ready?

C.J. Specklepecker was my first boyfriend. (His real name, although quite similar, has been disguised because this, of course, is a completely fictitious story… Special thanks to Jillian for helping me come up with this crafty code name.)

I first spotted him after I noticed my shoulder, roofed with a cold cut, and then looked in the direction of the evil cackle. There he was, throwing olive loaf from behind the deli counter, pelting me as I loaded Scones in the Irish Foods aisle. There he stood, mouth agape with devilish laughter, in all his redheaded glory.

We spent weeks in the smoke break room drinking .35 cent French Vanilla coffee from the vending machine. He flirted with me, while I listened, as disinterestedly as possible, hiding my heated infatuation as best as I could.

At 17, I had already figured out that boys want what they can’t have. He had a girlfriend, but he didn’t have me. I knew there was a connection between us. Plus, who wouldn’t want me? I mean, how can you not be attracted to a girl in black pants, a white button-down and supermarket vest complete with name tag.

Since every relationship is a learning experience, here is what I learned from C.J. Specklepecker.

1. Everyone should date a redneck once. High entertainment value.

2. Montecarlos are the best, cheesiest car ever (the old, old model ones)

3. Having a goal or two in life is actually quite important.

4. It is possible for someone to pee their entire name, first, middle, and last. And with a last name like Specklepecker, this was quite impressive. He peed mine once too… how romantic!

5. And finally, if I stalk someone, I may actually get caught.


A few weeks after the olive loaf episode, and supermarket-vest-deep into my infatuation with the owner of said ammunition, I looked him up in the phone book. I picked my friend, Lauren, up that evening and threw a bandanna and a ski mask in her lap. “We’re going stalking,” I said. I wore a denim train conductors hat, and I drove with the heated insanity that only someone in supermarket-love could.

Stalking was a semi-regular occasion for us, and we always made our rounds, seeing what all the boys were doing, but this one was of especially dire importance. It was also the first time disguises were utilized and the safety of the car was deserted. Most of the stalking had been driving by a house or maybe, if we were especially daring, a 7-11 or a bowling alley.

My car hit the side of the trash can as I pulled up a few houses down the street from his. I was loony with anticipation. We hopped out of the car, made our way into the shelter of the shrubbery, and peered in the window. There he was, wearing a big black Adidas t-shirt, sitting on the couch with the girlfriend. My stomach jumped. I got nervous that I might jump through the window and strangle her, so I gestured urgently for Lauren to head back to the car.

Just then, he got up and brought the garbage outside. We froze amidst the shrubbery. He looked around. Then he put the bags in the cans. We were terrified we might be caught, but then he stuck his hand down his pants and did the man belly/junk rub while letting out a large belch. We knew we were safe.

About 20 feet away from him, being scratched by an evergreen, I realized that this was the beginning of something beautiful.

After I had made dear C.J. my very own, we spent eight beautiful weeks making out on the hood of his Montecarlo before I went away to college. Sadly, our love only had the longevity of the olive loaf that had begun it.

I never knew love like this before, and I never knew if I’d find it again. I mean, I was so lucky. A man who could pee my name? A man who bought me French Vanilla vending-machine coffee! A man who worked at a deli counter and drove a Montecarlo! And just imagine, had our love thrived, my name could have been Deidre Specklepecker.

Who knew that true love doesn’t involve urinary love notes? Thank goodness I found my Barry.

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Ok girls... I want to hear first-boyfriend stories.