Now, to make this as bad as it could possibly be, I was incredibly shy.  To give you some idea of how shy, I’ll tell you the story of my high skool heart-throb.

                Her name was Robbie.  She was a couple of years behind me in skool.  She was
                short – maybe 5 feet in heels.  An amazingly cute face, though.  That prevented me
                from seeing that her legs were a bit on the thick side.

                I used to watch her all of the time.  I could never develop the courage to actually talk to
                her, though.  After all, what would I say?  "You are really cute."  How’s that for a
                conversation stopper?  If she didn’t say something in response to that (aside from "Piss
                off, asshole!"), I’d be standing there looking for an exit line until the bell rang.

                Whenever I went by her house (it wasn’t always on my way – I just made it a point to
                take that way in case she was outside) I had the car windows rolled down and was
                singing, at the top of my lungs, whatever love song might have been on the radio.  My
                intent was to express my feelings toward her, but I sure wish that I could carry a tune
                or even knew what a "key" was.

                Between me spending months (maybe even more than a year) staring at her all of the
                time and driving by her house, screeching and squawking, I finally figured out a way to
                talk to her.

                One day, after skool, I waited by the gates for her to come home.  She was alone.  I
                took a shot.

                I walked along with her (she was walking *very* fast.  This shoulda told me something,
                but the hormones clouded my thinking).  I said, "Robbie, would you like to go up to
                my grandmother's place with me, this weekend?  She lives right on the beach and we
                could hang out there."

                She said "I don't think so."  Well, it makes perfect sense to me, in hindsight.  After all,
                who would feel safe enough to go out with their stalker?

                I suddenly made a turn as if I was going someplace else, just as a matter of course.  (I
                may have walked into a moving car.  I really don't remember, but that woulda suited
                my mood at the time)

So, I spent most of my best hormone producing years … "shaking hands".

When I had gone home on Easter to see my girlfriend, I found that she had lost a few pounds and that she had been going out with another guy, Larry Burfurd, ("Just as friends, OK?").  Not having had loads of relationships prior to this, I figured that it was fine …. Well, kinda fine.

So, I finally got assigned to my duty station at Norton AFB is San Bernardino, California.  Unfortunately, the Viet Nam War had just kicked into high gear and the base was not ready for all of the new hired help.  They didn’t have room for us to stay on base so we were "forced" to stay in town at the California Hotel at Uncle Sam’s expense.  It was summer time and … well, the living was easy.

A bunch of us were staying at the hotel and going into work each day on the base.

Now, being young guys, most of us were on the lookout for Willing Babes ™.  We had heard rumors of a couple of "Party Girls" in town.  To me, that suggested the possibility of salvation.  At the same time, though, I had no illusions that anything would come of it.  After all, I have pretty much always been just a Dumb Guy ™.  But maybe – just maybe – I could get invited to one of their parties and I might get to meet a Sympathetic Babe ™.

Early one evening, I was in my room ironing my fatigues (how’s that for the wild singles life?).  I heard from one of the guys that the "Party Girls" were out cruising E  Street.  Without thinking, I ran downstairs with the spray bottle still in my hand.

I stood around talking with some of the guys, hoping for a peek at the "Party Girl’s" cruising machine.  On their next pass, one of the guys pointed out their car to me.  It was a faded old 57 Plymouth, gray and white.

Both girls were in the car.  The driver had black hair and was pretty skinny.  The passenger was of a more normal build with …. I have to say it – orange hair.

OK, I was desperate.  How could I get invited to a party?  They were driving and I had no car.

Desperation can, sometimes, be the mother of creativity (it can also be the mother of wet pants, so be careful in how you use this).  I remembered the spray bottle in my hand.  I turned the nozzle from spray to squirt.  Then I stood ready and waiting for their next pass.

Now, us WingNuts had been practicing with squirt bottles for months.  Well, admittedly, spending all of that time pressing our fatigues is not, inherently, all that much fun.  So, we *made* it fun.  I got to the point where I could hit a fly from across the room.

It was a hot southern California evening.  An open car window one lane away was hardly a challenge.

As the party-mobile  drove by, I filled the open window with water.  From the look on the passenger’s face, I could tell that I was in Big Trouble ™ (a situation that was doomed to be constant for the next 30 plus years).

Apparently they made a short pass on the cruise and came by again, just a minute later.  Unknown to me, both of them had young babies.  Standard issue with young babies, back then, was plastic baby bottles.  I discovered that plastic baby bottles could squirt, too.

This was not a drive-by, though.  They pulled up to the curb and the passenger tried to give me back what I had given her, with the driver cheering her on.  She was, though, woefully overmatched.

We quickly got tired of being drenched and switched to talking.  They said that they were going to have a party that weekend and asked if I would like to come.  On the inside I was jumping up and down (well, what *else* would come after "jumping up"?) and screaming "WOULD I?  OH, *WOULD* I!!!"; but on the outside I was kool.  I responded with a semi-noncommittal "I think that I may be able to make it."

The next day I went down the street to a clothing store and bought myself one of those kool Neru jackets so that I would be all set for the weekend.

I arrived looking "good", but clearly clueless about what was going to happen.  As it turned out I was overdressed – but not  for the reason that you might think.  I was overdressed because the party was just a bunch of people sitting around listening to music, talking and drinking soft drinks.  In fact, if I remember correctly, Kathy and Pam were the only two babes there.  I don't even think that there was any beer there, although I think that I remember some discussion about the possibility of somebody finding a way to get some, but that was gonna be difficult cuz we were all underage.

As the weeks passed, Kathy and I became kinda friendly.  I was over there anytime that I wasn’t working.  Heck, I remember giving her my next paycheck and telling her to spend it on whatever silliness that she wanted.  She did.  Well, my hair has gotten gray and I have lost a great deal of it, but some things never change.

One time, within the first month, Kathy and Pam had me over to Pam’s mother’s house cuz Kathy was gonna make enchiladas.  I was a bit apprehensive.  See, my mother cooked so blandly that using both salt AND pepper was considered to be "pretty spicy".

Kathy started cooking and I started eating.  From the first bite, I was in love.  I recognized that marrying enchiladas is not socially acceptable, so I decided to set my sights on the cook, instead.

That afternoon I ate 18 enchiladas.  Well, it’s been almost twice that many years that we have been together.

Seems like it’s time for some more enchiladas.