TRICK PONY
It is a time when my stepmother's Frederick's of Hollywood style nighties fit us perfectly and we wear them to play in. My little sister and I are 8 and 9 years old (and my stepmother is only 4'10"). Nine has always been my favorite number. It's so nice and mellowly cool, like Barry Manilow singing 'Mandy.' One day I figured out that three 3s make 9, and that magical code blew my mind; so I made 3 my favorite number as a shorthand for 9, which is really my favorite number. It has gotten confusing, though, and I sometimes have to remember good old 9 back there, because I'm so used to saying 3 is my favorite. I fell out of touch with 9 through the beautious equation of it all. And that has caused me a lot of emotional guilt. Because it's like I'd fallen in love with the clever title and lost touch with the book, itself. Where's my loyalty? What about nine's feelings? What kind of shallow person am I that I forgot my true favorite number and all the important ways of its own special personality? Why am I such a creep that I let myself pretend that hanging out for years with 3 was "honoring" 9? What a load of bull. I left 9 all locked up in a vault and took its two-dimensional shadow with me everywhere, pretending---to myself even---that it was still about 9. But it did cease being about 9 somewhere along the way, and I started up an affair with 3. Three, who was more popular; hip; deemed by Sesame Street the 'magic number.' Never because I found 3 itself especially appealing (it's certainly no 9!), but because 3 had that clever notation going on of three 3s equaling 9. I became enamored with the trick pony.
Playing house or school, I was always "Brian," and "9 years old." Even when I was older than 9---say, 11---it was my favorite age to be. I certainly would not have been 3.
Playing restaurant, I am sitting in Dad's reclining chair, reclined. It is boxy and wide and rust-colored velour. I'm reclined enough to have the footrest up, facing the TV, and somehow my sister buys this as an acceptable restaurant-customer position. She comes out of the kitchen and hands me a menu, asking if I'd like to "start with a beverage, madam?" I've watched half of It's A Mad Mad Mad World while she was in there drawing up the elaborate menu. I do very little in this game, but that doesn't seem to occur to my sister. She's completely immersed in her role as soon as we agree to play restaurant, and sits me in the chair with repeated instructions to make sure I'll stay put while she heads into the kitchen. Even though she's in there for sometimes an hour at a time, it's all 'playing restaurant.' I feel guilt about taking advantage: I mean, I'm sure---I sit here and get waited on for a few hours. The only rule is that I must stay in character. It's easier for me to fall out of character, since I'm mostly just watching TV and eating. But my sister, this whole span of time, is completely absorbed first in her menu-making (an elaborate and creative process, based on that day's ingredient supply), then checking on me frequently to see if I'd like to add anything else, and finally in preparing the fancy menu items that I've ordered. Plus there is the matter of her filmy little costume to keep her character going. Upon refection, this game closely mirrors my dad and stepmother's real life.
We have a huge supply of nighties in our size, and our stepmother is totally into the slinky stuff. Slinky sounds so much better than that other word. Sexy. Eww. It is perhaps my most despised word, I hate, hate, hate that word. It makes me feel gross. There's certainly something kind of gross about kids wearing "sexy" nighties; it's like we got tricked into being gross. The nighties are made of such cool fabrics. Very unique and tempting fabrics that don't exist anywhere in the kid realm. Totally see-through oranges, and misty blues. Silky and shimmery pink and aqua. Little lacy dresses with matching panties. All the same size that we are, and there for the wearing. I wish we weren't allowed. It's not cute. I am embarassed when adults see me wearing those. Not my sister, though. She loves the feeling of it. She gets lost in the play of it. She doesn't have the gross feel of the word "sexy." But I do.
I've ordered the "Choco-Delite," a menu favorite, and today's Speciality Of The House. It's one of my favorites, because there are many kinds of chocolate in it, like Swiss Miss powder, Hershey's syrup, and rocky road ice cream. And, like most of my sister's dishes, has a lot of Cool Whip involved.
Playing house or school, I was always "Brian," and "9 years old." Even when I was older than 9---say, 11---it was my favorite age to be. I certainly would not have been 3.
Playing restaurant, I am sitting in Dad's reclining chair, reclined. It is boxy and wide and rust-colored velour. I'm reclined enough to have the footrest up, facing the TV, and somehow my sister buys this as an acceptable restaurant-customer position. She comes out of the kitchen and hands me a menu, asking if I'd like to "start with a beverage, madam?" I've watched half of It's A Mad Mad Mad World while she was in there drawing up the elaborate menu. I do very little in this game, but that doesn't seem to occur to my sister. She's completely immersed in her role as soon as we agree to play restaurant, and sits me in the chair with repeated instructions to make sure I'll stay put while she heads into the kitchen. Even though she's in there for sometimes an hour at a time, it's all 'playing restaurant.' I feel guilt about taking advantage: I mean, I'm sure---I sit here and get waited on for a few hours. The only rule is that I must stay in character. It's easier for me to fall out of character, since I'm mostly just watching TV and eating. But my sister, this whole span of time, is completely absorbed first in her menu-making (an elaborate and creative process, based on that day's ingredient supply), then checking on me frequently to see if I'd like to add anything else, and finally in preparing the fancy menu items that I've ordered. Plus there is the matter of her filmy little costume to keep her character going. Upon refection, this game closely mirrors my dad and stepmother's real life.
We have a huge supply of nighties in our size, and our stepmother is totally into the slinky stuff. Slinky sounds so much better than that other word. Sexy. Eww. It is perhaps my most despised word, I hate, hate, hate that word. It makes me feel gross. There's certainly something kind of gross about kids wearing "sexy" nighties; it's like we got tricked into being gross. The nighties are made of such cool fabrics. Very unique and tempting fabrics that don't exist anywhere in the kid realm. Totally see-through oranges, and misty blues. Silky and shimmery pink and aqua. Little lacy dresses with matching panties. All the same size that we are, and there for the wearing. I wish we weren't allowed. It's not cute. I am embarassed when adults see me wearing those. Not my sister, though. She loves the feeling of it. She gets lost in the play of it. She doesn't have the gross feel of the word "sexy." But I do.
I've ordered the "Choco-Delite," a menu favorite, and today's Speciality Of The House. It's one of my favorites, because there are many kinds of chocolate in it, like Swiss Miss powder, Hershey's syrup, and rocky road ice cream. And, like most of my sister's dishes, has a lot of Cool Whip involved.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home