Dancing Queen

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My point of reference for this blog is baby boys, because that is what I have.  Well, they aren’t really “babies” anymore, but they are definitely boys. So, I was trying to think about what I could write about in my blog in regards to little girls, because I feel like I am excluding my readership (so the three people who read my blog each week) who have little girls. But writing about girls is like writing about physics.

Can’t do it. Topic is not familiar to me. Does not compute.

I was a little girl myself, but even if I could remember anything from my childhood worth writing about,  it would sound like I was writing about a little boy, because I was not very “girly”.  For instance, I remember cutting the hair off my favourite Barbie, so short that all you could see were the little holes where the hair was fastened. Then, I took the head off the same Barbie and put it in the fan to see if it would spin around with the propellers…(I know…creepy)

My bff and I used to put her guinea pigs in the Barbie camper with the Barbies, and take them for drives around the neighbourhood. Barbie and Gang were never very impressed with their camper-full of guinea pig turd-lets (or their haircuts).

I remember one of my favourite days when I was about 6 or 7. We were in the mountains skiing, and I was standing in the chalet parking lot waiting for my Dad to come pick us up. I was enjoying sniffing the diesel-filled air from a nearby tour bus, when I glanced down at the slushy ground and saw a “Big Turk” candy bar laying there. Still in the wrapper. It was like winning the lotto!  I wiped the dirty slush off, smiled to myself, and shoved it into the pocket of my down-filled vest.  That was a good day to be a kid.

I liked to collect tent caterpillars in the summer, and then put them in a tupperware bowl and send them down the slide.  I thought they liked it.

I wanted a pony (who doesn’t?),but my parents wouldn’t get me a pony, so I would make-do with imaginary ones.  I did this for years.  I would probably still do it if I had the stuff.  I would take my Dad’s work “horse” benches, tie twine around their “necks” to look like manes, and make a tail with the same. I would then tie ropes to their “heads”, and drag them around the backyard.  Imagine a little chubby blonde girl dragging hammered-together boards around the yard. Can you imagine seeing that and NOT buying a pony for that girl?  What was the MATTER with my parents?? Here is what my pony looked like…(more or less):

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I know what you are thinking, I needed (need?) therapy.  But no, not really, I just liked to live on the “wild” side, play in the mud, and yah, I was a little rough for a girl.  I had a crazy older brother who I looked up to (who often used me as a “stand-in”  for various high-velocity physics experiments…like the time he put me in his hockey pads and helmet, duct-taped me to one of those round plastic sleds and spun me around at the end of a rope on the driveway as fast as he could), so I blame it on him.  He is the same person upon whom I blame my children’s bad language.  Anything that is un-savvy can be blamed on my brother.  Even the kids know to blame their uncle for “almost” everything (don’t freak out, I am KIDDING!  OF COURSE).  I am teaching my children to be accountable, (but only for things that won’t get them arrested)…AH, kidding again. I’m kidding!)

I wasn’t all boy, though. I was a disco-rollerskating superstar (in my head).  To make up for not buying me a pony, my parents bought me my own pair of leather roller skates from the States.  I was catapulted to “coolest girl in the ‘Hood” (really ask my friends, they are still jealous of those roller-skates 32 years later).  Along with the skates, I got a “short set”…satin green shorts and a tank top that read “ROLLER DISCO” in satin letters. I would put the ABBA GOLD album on my little Smurf turntable, slap a couple chocolate cakes into my Easy-Bake oven, and roller-skate in tiny circles around the drain pipe in our unfinished basement.  I was the Dancing Queen.

And what is UP with Easy-Bake ovens? SO. GROSS.

No doubt a product of the 70’s when our Mom’s were too busy smoking ciggies, making macrame plant-holders, and listening to John Denver to actually bake a cake with us in a real kitchen with a real oven…

Man, those 70’s Moms had it easy….

I’m not sure what my point is today, but I REALLY need to get some roller-skates and a caftan.  And I better just stick to writing about boys…

Roller-Disco

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