I had to behave like an adult again recently. It gave me a rash. The trauma was so severe I spent the afternoon playing games on Pogo.
Growing older is a good thing if only because I can now group experiences together and refer to them as eras.
Early on there was the Lego Era, which overlapped with the Sending Barbie into Space Strapped to a Bottle Rocket Era. Poor Mother; she tried her best to turn me into a girlie-girl. I had the whole tea party set complete with table and chairs. Mom would rush to the store to purchase the latest Barbie. She even made additional outfits. I played with Barbie. Barbie made a great crash test dummy, or bomb disposal tech, or astronaut. The latter being my personal favorite. Hey, it was the late 60's - early 70's and NASA was putting men on the moon. I did my best to launch Barbie into history as the first woman in space.
This was not Mother's idea of how to play with dolls. The Barbie Era came to an end the day I mouthed off and said "they are my dolls I can do with them what I please. If you don't like it, then keep Barbie for yourself." As punishment I was "forced" to relinquish my dolls. Alas, Barbie never made it into space.
Looking back I will credit the Barbie Era for introducing very valuable life lessons. First the difference in parenting between my folks. Father's version was summarized by "Barbie is yours. If you destroy her then fine but that doesn't mean I have to replace her." For the record Dad never purchased a Barbie. Now ask where I got the explosives.
Second life lesson: thinking outside the box and improvising are good things. Basically the lesson is not to accept anything as set in stone just because it's tradition, or the socially dictated norm or just simply because.
I played with Barbie. My Barbie had no social, religious or economic restrictions. If she failed her mission I collected the pieces, placed her in a box and got out another. Third life lesson: set a good example, blaze a trail so that others will want to follow in your footsteps.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Friday, March 2, 2012
I have heard adults say if they are reincarnated they want to come back as Debi's dog. Well, that's all fine and dandy but the pickup is still mine. The Mommy bought it for me; I look wonderful in Atlantic Blue. It is my mobile doghouse. And it may take you a life or two to get all the hair out of it.
For all those people who refuse to ride with us because of my hair all over the truck, despite The Mommy spending hours vacuuming - just take yourself off in your sterile bubble. Easy to see you are not a dog person.
And yes, those are my nose and tongue prints on the windows, mirrors and dashboard. It's my truck.
Oh yeah, and that's my drool too.
People say I am spoiled. Maybe it's a reaction to the word "spoiled" that prompts children to announce they want to come live with The Mommy and me. I'll wait while those of you who know The Mommy well to stop laughing.
Actually you know, I can see The Mommy snapping a leash on a human child and taking him or her to obedience class.
Now as I think about it, really what is the difference between doggie daycare and childcare facilities? Both have playtime, snacks and [usually a chainlink] fence.
Today I got very angry with The Mommy. She got out the dreaded Dremel signaling it was time for my toenails to be trimmed. I tried to run. The doors were shut. I tried to hide. When The Mommy reached for one paw I whacked her with another. Or spun around in hopes of crawling away. I did my best "woe is me" expressions. Looking up at The Mommy I pleaded with big brown, sad eyes. None of this worked. It never does. We'd have a real fight on our hands if she even entertained the notion of clipping my nails.
Now I'm sprawled across the clean laundry, half asleep and wondering what kind of fit a human child would pitch if someone took a Dremel to his or her nails?