When I was little, my mom was one of those moms. Y’know the sort. Dress their daughters up in the fluffiest laciest thing they could get their hands on. Living dolls. Yep, that was me.
As I grew older and actually gained control over motor reflexes and all that –and I started dressing myself- I instinctively shied away from anything pink and lacey and that screamed girly.
I was basically a tomboy.
I don’t know what to blame it on. Maybe a weird combination of ‘boy’ books, younger brothers who would wrestle me at a moments notice, and really eclectic parents.
I suppose every girl goes through that phase. At least all the cool ones do. Or at least the ones that actually went out and did stuff instead of sitting home playing with dolls all the time.
I’ve said before that I played with Barbies. But see, I didn’t play the normal stuff. I would dress them up in socks and poke holes in their necks and give them toothpicks and act out scenes from say Lord of the Rings. Aluminum foil was armor. Cut their hair short and you’ve got hobbits.
I graduated from that to basically acting out my own scenes with the Barbies. And I’m talking really elaborate shit. With dragons and slavery and deep themes going on with good and evil and piratey Barbies. Yeh, pirates was pretty big with me even then.
It kinda sucked though because I had about a zillion girl Barbies but only one male Barbie. And in retrospect I realize that my male Barbie was shorter then all the chicks and had long curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes and well, truth be told, he was rather effeminate.
But he still got loads of action from all the chicks.
So I guess even at a young age I was already writing. Because you don’t have to write stuff down to be a writer. It goes back into that whole murky land of storytelling and whatnot. Where things go plop in that murky soup of consciousness. I was being a storyteller though. They may not have been GOOD stories but they sure as hell were MY stories. And that was the important thing.
I’ve graduated from Barbies now. I can see you all doing little sighs of relief. But y’know, it was depressing the day I put them down. It was a conscious thing. It wasn’t some vague sense of me growing older. It was a distinct realization that Barbies were for “little kids” and I was mature and superior and far beyond playing with dolls. So I threw them in a box and got rid of most of them and the rest I keep buried under my clothes in my closet and they’re they linger. A few echoing reminders of my childhood. Perfect plastic bodies, bad hair, and all.
As I grew older and actually gained control over motor reflexes and all that –and I started dressing myself- I instinctively shied away from anything pink and lacey and that screamed girly.
I was basically a tomboy.
I don’t know what to blame it on. Maybe a weird combination of ‘boy’ books, younger brothers who would wrestle me at a moments notice, and really eclectic parents.
I suppose every girl goes through that phase. At least all the cool ones do. Or at least the ones that actually went out and did stuff instead of sitting home playing with dolls all the time.
I’ve said before that I played with Barbies. But see, I didn’t play the normal stuff. I would dress them up in socks and poke holes in their necks and give them toothpicks and act out scenes from say Lord of the Rings. Aluminum foil was armor. Cut their hair short and you’ve got hobbits.
I graduated from that to basically acting out my own scenes with the Barbies. And I’m talking really elaborate shit. With dragons and slavery and deep themes going on with good and evil and piratey Barbies. Yeh, pirates was pretty big with me even then.
It kinda sucked though because I had about a zillion girl Barbies but only one male Barbie. And in retrospect I realize that my male Barbie was shorter then all the chicks and had long curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes and well, truth be told, he was rather effeminate.
But he still got loads of action from all the chicks.
So I guess even at a young age I was already writing. Because you don’t have to write stuff down to be a writer. It goes back into that whole murky land of storytelling and whatnot. Where things go plop in that murky soup of consciousness. I was being a storyteller though. They may not have been GOOD stories but they sure as hell were MY stories. And that was the important thing.
I’ve graduated from Barbies now. I can see you all doing little sighs of relief. But y’know, it was depressing the day I put them down. It was a conscious thing. It wasn’t some vague sense of me growing older. It was a distinct realization that Barbies were for “little kids” and I was mature and superior and far beyond playing with dolls. So I threw them in a box and got rid of most of them and the rest I keep buried under my clothes in my closet and they’re they linger. A few echoing reminders of my childhood. Perfect plastic bodies, bad hair, and all.