Hubba Bubba New Shit Flavor

Ricky Dipoli was everything every girl could ever want in second grade; he was dangerous. "He'll only hurt you!", they warned, and they were right, hurt so good. I was madly in love with the young Dipoli, he had a perfect bowl of shiny brown hair and a skinny little frame sculpted by 8 years of undiagnosed ADHD. Our love was complex, all the best ones are.

Hubba Bubba new shit flavor were the first words Ricky Dipoli ever uttered my way, and as my fist landed on his jaw, I could feel myself falling in love. From that moment on, I was no longer "below the radar". Nope, according to Ricky, my bum was so ginormous, I was obscuring his view of everyone. He often described my wedgies as, "so deep they pulled the fabric of time." If Ricky was standing on that fabric, then that metaphor was OK by me. We were a great team. Like Cagney and Lacey, Joanie and Chachi, Hall and Oats or Simon and Simon. He needed me as much as I needed him, and vice versa.

I looked forward to mornings in the playground before school, when Ricky greeted me with his daily string of insults; "Smelly Jelly Belly", "Superpudge", or a class favorite "Blubberlicious". This scenario would repeat itself at recess, and then again on my way home from school at 3:30.

I was floating on air, not unlike a Macy's Thanksgiving Day Balloon, but I wasn't satisfied. I needed more than this daily exchange of profanities. One memorable morning, amidst a heated battle, I ran up to Ricky with the intention of confessing "I LOVE YOU RICKY", instead, I squared him in the groin with all my might, sending him to the hospital with, what I would later learn to be, a swollen left testicle. I had no idea what that meant, but I hoped whatever it was, he was thinking about me as much as I was thinking about him and vice versa. Deep down, I knew he was.

Our romance had joined the ranks of Cathy and Heathcliffe, Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde or Daredevil and Electra - we would be punished for the crime of love. The week following Ricky's accident, Mrs. Gideon sentenced me to facing the corner for 10 minutes each day after the final bell. If loving Ricky was a crime, than I was honored to do my time. Not unlike St. Valentine, Mrs. Gideon's shackles could not keep me from my love. I concluded that Ricky would be mine forever during those hard moments of solitude.

Ricky didn't come back for several weeks, during which time my fondness for him grew stronger. For reasons beyond my understanding, Mrs. Gideon declined my generous offer of delivering Ricky our daily class assignments. I was devastated, and left with nothing to do but wait.

The weekend before Ricky's anticipated return I busied myself in preparation. That Saturday morning I woke up bright and early and began rummaging through my closet for the perfect outfit. Naturally, I wanted to look my best. I tried squeezing into my purple Jordache jeans, the same pair I had worn during our first fight. I wondered if he'd notice the gesture. Well, no matter, because try as I might, I couldn't get them above my knees. With nothing to wear and Ricky's return quickly approaching, I pleaded with my mother to take me to Sears. This Monday was not just any Monday mother dear.

The pretty plus rack, nestled deep within Sears's Junior Girl's Fashion Department, had an air of exclusivity. Visited by a chosen few, I being among them. Mom had once explained Pretty Plus as "an attitude, a state of mind. Pretty Plus cannot be defined, it must be lived. It means, you're pretty and then some. It means you have more to offer than just your ravishing good looks. it means you appreciate good food. You take up a little more real estate so you're worth more. Pretty Plus means it takes a little extra fabric to cover your fabulous little figure. While the other girls are an A you are an A+. It means you're the kind of girl that needs a little special attention, so Mr. Sears himself designed an entire collection dedicated to little girls like you." From what I could tell there weren't many of us.

I settled on a lovely pink and green polyester cotton blend pantsuit, with pink suede elbow patches and a comfortable elastic waste band. Why not? This was a special Monday, this was the Monday Ricky was coming back to me.

Sunday wedged itself like an endless barrier between me and my special Monday. Casey Casem counted down the hits, while I counted down the hours, as a prisoner counts down the years.

I braced myself as I got set to hear the number 1 song in the USA...

As the familiar anthem swelled for a second week in a row, I fashioned a microphone from a nearby brush, pushed Pat Benetar out of the way, looked into the mirror, deep into Ricky's eyes:

"We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder.
We belong to the sound of the words we've both fallen under.
Whatever we deny or embrace for worse or for better.
We belong, we belong, we belong together."

As I dosed off, Casey Casem tucked me in with those famous last words, "Remember, keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars."

When I got to school the next morning, I found Ricky leading a pack of wild boys towards mischief. He looked in my direction. I coquettishly looked away. I could feel my heart leap into my throat. "Yes Ricky" I thought, "It's me, of course it's me. I waited for you." He paid me no mind. "Ricky, it's me. Hubba Bubba, the belly that sunk the titanic. Ricky. RICKY! What happened to you? What did they do to you in there? With a heavy heart I ran to line up at the sound of the bell. Mrs. Gideon demanded that we line up in alphabetical order, which suited me just fine, since it put me closer to my Ricky. While I stood there, waiting to gain admittance, I felt a warm breadth at the nape of my neck and heard the words, "Beluga Biello" - only one boy had such talent for alliteration. I turned around to find Ricky standing there grinning from ear to ear, and punched him in the gut as hard as I could, knocking the wind out of him fro what felt like minutes. My heart leaped with relief back into my chest. We were back together again, and now I knew that all those weeks apart, while I was thinking about Ricky Dipoli, Ricky Dipoli was thinking about me, and vice versa.

Tweet