The greater part of my childhood has been spent compiling lists. Lists of things I want, things I don't want, people I will be mad at if they give me the things I don't want, and so on. Maybe I should preface this with I was a slightly demanding child. Just slightly though.
As I think back on some of my Christmas lists over the years, I am truly impressed. I have really outdone myself.
Christmas 1996: Polly Pocket Mansion. I don't know if this is the proper name. I don't know if I ever knew the proper name. I just knew Maggie Wright had it and I wanted one, damn it. I mean, I had Polly Pockets. I had several Polly Pockets. The only problem was that all of my Polly Pockets were insignificant. That sounds harsh, but you have to understand. They were merely commoner Polly Pockets. I wanted more. I needed more. Looking back.. I mean, I guess they were ok. Their homes were of average size. Sufficient, I guess. Acceptable Polly Pocket proportions, if you will. I was content with my Polly Pockets for a long time. I never judged them for their lower socioeconomic status or condemned them for being less than par. Yea. Maggie Wright changed that. I went to her house one snowy afternoon, fell in love with her giant plastic contraption and never looked back. Her Polly Pocket of epic proportions was so degrading. Compared to her Polly, my Pockets were nothing. I left her house that day defeated. I didn't know whether to cry, steal her shit and bolt or seek restitution from my parents for equipping me with pure, for lack of a better word, crap. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush? Wrong. I don't care if I had five Polly Pockets. They were not enough. If they were not Polly Pocket Mansions, they were worthless. Quality over quantity. Maggie had a mansion. Me? I had a trailer park.
Christmas 1998: Machete. Yea, I know what you're thinking. What does a nine year old need with a machete? Here's the thing. Nothing. But how cool would it be if I went back to school after Christmas break and after everyone in the class finished bragging about their new scooters, jump ropes and shit, I got to stand up and tell everyone that clearly I was the only one in the room who had parents that loved them since I got a motherfucking machete. Yea, I would have said it. Just like that too. Now, this may come as a surprise to all three of you, but I was a BAMF. No lies. Casey Carpenter taught me all the cuss words in second grade, so by fourth grade, I was pro. My pupils (yea, they're still called pupils in elementary school) envied my adroit ability to offend both their morals and their mothers with one swift comeback. Fat girl spits game. What can I say? Things to be proud of in my life, Chapter Two. On a completely unrelated topic, I wanted a monogrammed pocketknife for my 15th birthday. Being prepared for street fights was a really big part of childhood, apparently. I'm not sure what brought on my need for weapons, but I blame the Power Rangers. Kimberly Hart, in particular. Pterodactyl Power Coins can only do so much.
Ok, I'm done. Some of you guys are more intrigued by my life than I am. The Whiffenpoofs, one of which will father one of my many children, are about to sing. The list would otherwise ensue. Sorry, guys.
Word.