The other day, as I tended to my daily Twitter responsibilities, I came across one from a bright-eyed young lady named “Sunny.” After reviewing her bio and some of her upmost tweets, I felt she was someone I could learn a thing or two from. She seemed to have a lot of experience to share about social media (and I definitely need all the help I can get on that—since my journey in that world is still very new). After adding her to my “Noteworthy Mentors” list, I noticed something that made me smile—she was from my hometown of Vancouver, BC. How amazing that someone “out there” would find me “out here.” As I’ve said in the past, I’m still in awe of how fax machines work, so the cyber-world’s capabilities blow my mind. Once I clicked “send” on my direct message to thank her for following me, I noticed something else—her handle.
Wait . . . is that what it’s called on Twitter? Or have I just further proved to be a total dork when it comes to this social media thing? If that’s the case, I choose to play the “grandma” card and just blame it all on “you darn whipper-snappers.”
Anyhoo . . . @SunnyLenarduzzi is her Twitter handle. My immediate thought was, “Now that’s not a very common name,” and I giggled, and further thought, “I wonder what the chances are . . .” So I sent her another message (hoping I wouldn’t seem like a stalker), and said:
“Oh . . . and if ur related 2 Bobby Lenarduzzi, plz tell him he broke my heart in grade 7. Him: 27 Me: 12 . . . it coulda worked, right? Sigh . . .”
(How I love to sound like a teenage texting-illiterate when sticking to the 140-character limitation of Twitter.)
To my delight, Ms. Sunny found me amusing (as opposed to creepy); and replied that “Bob” Lenarduzzi is actually her father. It was at that moment, I was taken back to seventh grade . . .
I remember exactly where I was sitting in our school’s gymnasium when my “Bobby” came to see us. I was in the twelfth row to his right. I was sure he’d notice my bright red hair, porcelain skin, and freckled face. We’d lock eyes and he’d be unable to focus on his presentation. I sat up straight, stuck out my non-existent chest, and waited for us to have our “moment.” I daydreamed about him serenading me by singing the Vancouver Whitecaps theme song from the record I bought at McDonald’s.
As he performed all of his knee and head ball-bouncy tricks, I couldn’t help but notice his lean and muscular legs—they weren’t as hairy as I expected for an Italian. Coming from a Middle Eastern/Italian mixed family myself, I expected the worst. But, alas, he was perfect. I began to run through names in my head, “Mrs. Bobby Lenarduzzi.” “Ronnie Lenarduzzi.” “Mrs. Veronica Lenarduzzi.”
Unfortunately though, my dreams were dashed that day. Bobby didn’t notice the awkward little redhead in the twelfth row. Nor did said awkward little redhead have the courage to approach him and ask for his hand in marriage . . . Errr . . . umm . . . I mean . . . his autograph.
As the years passed, my hurt healed and I began to mentally pursue my new love(s): Davy Jones, of The Monkees; Timothy Gibbs, of the pages of Tiger Beat; Dirk Benedict, of Battlestar Galactica; and Ricky Schroder, of Silver Spoons.
Once again, unfortunately, none of my loves panned out:
- Davy Jones: Five years younger than my mother and five inches shorter than me.
- Timothy Gibbs: Just the right age, but so bloody gorgeous, I knew he’d never fall for an awkward “ginger” like me.
- Dirk Benedict: Again, five years younger than my mother, but his cigar smoking was just too much for me to handle. I didn’t think it fair to expect him to change for me.
- Ricky Schroder: Ahhh Ricky . . . “Rick” met his bride-to-be while filming in my hometown (ironically, while I was living in another country). They now have a slew of children and live on a ranch somewhere. A ranch that could have had my name on the gate—“Ricky & Ronnie’s Dude Ranch.” Sigh . . . Ahhh Ricky . . .
Through my adult life, I have dealt with celebrities, millionaires, politicians, and noteworthy folks, and have never once been star struck in their presence. I think it is safe to say that I got it all out of my system during my childhood.
So that leads me back to my “reality”—meeting my almost-daughter for the first time (cyberly, of course). What a small world we live in. Who would have ever thought that my almost-daughter would find me amongst the gazillion Tweeters around the world? What are the odds? I wonder if I have any other almost-children or almost-pets? I wonder what my almost-house looks like? Would Bobby have allowed me to decorate the interior of our home in colours that appealed to my personality? Or would I have had to live a life of blues and whites to appeal to his Whitecap patriotism? One can only wonder what could have been . . .
Maybe next time I’m back in Vancouver, I can take my almost-daughter to meet her almost-grandmother, almost-aunt, and almost-cousin. I think she’d like that. (They have two new cats that would have almost-been hers too.)
As for her father and Timothy Gibbs . . . Well, I guess they missed out on the best damn wife they ever could have divorced. Yeah, you heard me right. That was me: “Ms. Incapable of Staying Married.” Until now that is. Now I’m married and known as: “Mrs. The Best TRUE Wife Ever.”
I guess Bobby and Timothy should be grateful that I didn’t marry them. Otherwise, they’d be the HV 1.0 and HV 2.0 I refer to in my book, Living Out Loud. That would not be pretty.
You’re welcome guys.
Two hearts left unbroken.