Do not fold, spindle, or mutilate. This vajayjay is not a toy.
I was so in love with Martin S-C when I was in elementary school. I have mentioned this here before, in my Black Book post and in one of my Meditations. He played the lead in The Mikado, so as far as I was concerned, he was a superstar.
Chewing gum is not
a good plan when you're in school
you might get caught, Whoops!
Oh, PS i am
Chewing gum at this moment
it is very good
Ok now I will
say goodbye because I have
to eat dinner, Peace.
circa 1978
Anyhow, I found the following bits emerging from the fog of memory. While I have no stirring of nostalgia per se, these naive sexual puzzlements and oral fixations may shed some light on SG's inner early world.
Sometime in 4th or 5th grade I went to see Airplane! with my mother, who took me and my sister to see this educational documentary about the advances in flying since the days of the Wright Brothers. There's a scene in which the stewardess (that's what we used to call flight attendants, for all you little youngsters out thar) is trying to reinflate the auto-pilot blowup doll through the nozzle located below his beltline, and I remember blurting out, "mom, is she giving him a blow job?!?" My mother was, of course, horrified to hear this phrase coming from my 9-year-old lips that had only a short time ago given up a pacifier. Her flushed and spittle-laced Where did you hear that?!?!?!? was satisfied by the explanation that our slutty and large-boobed (and later hairless, since she suffered from trichotillomania) neighbor Crissy had very thoroughly described the process to my sister and me at the bus stop, aided in part by a visual demonstration on a hairbrush.
Shortly thereafter I went through a phase of drawing blowjobs being given on a series of artwork that looked something like this. ... yes, I drew that in Photoshop today. I don't really understand why the head of the penis is pushing out the back of the head like that, but I thought it was hysterically funny, so I drew a bunch of them, and left them lying around here & there. I did not remember this artistic bout until the other night when Jamwall and I watched Superbad, and Sean talked about his phallus sketching phase. No wonder I was so harsh, years later, asking my penis-drawing student whether he was going to be an astronaut ("I've never seen someone so interested in drawing rocketry!!!") and being met with his embarrassed are you kidding right now? gaze.
Since I was into eating things I found around the classroom, it's no surprise that abandoned baked goods left on a school desk (or inside ... heck, I'm not beneath a little freeganing) called to me. As I reached for it my brain suddenly discerned that I was about to grasp not an oversized fresh-baked oatmeal cookie, but a fresh-upchucked pile of someone's breakfast. Thank goodness for reflexes!
I think I've tapped a vein here --- so many memories are just gushing forward. Let's see where this leads us over the next few days, shall we?
This was a great day for me. In grade 4, I was in the same class as Martin again (a 5th grader! With upper-lip fuzz!). We won (!!) a bookmark-making contest and were featured in the newspaper. Even though I traced my picture of Winnie the Pooh, my bookmark got the blue ribbon (that's me on the left; check the hair. circa 1977). Martin got 2nd place. See us all showing each other our bookmarks with pride! I am posing for the camera, but my heart is pounding as this photo is being taken, and my eyes are full of his ivory, translucent skin and his pursed little lips ... his well-appointed trousers and his tidily turned collar. In my mind, the two of us are standing together on the Olympic podium, our arms around each other as we listen to the National Anthem. I am so mad that Jenny and Aleta, with their sub-par bookmarks, separate us.
(click for the bigger goodies)
Everything was going fine, and then I got cocky. I breezed through all the words they threw at me, and by the way, did I mention I was a fourth grader at the fifth grade spelling bee? Seems like the town newspaper left out that important detail. Hmph! I am in the big league now!!!
I cranked out all these hard words: Ridiculous, neighbor, phrase. Then came my death-knell: Scissors. I know how to spell it, really I do. But you would never have known it by the way I reeled out the letters at lightning speed:
S--C--I--R--R--O--R--S. Scissors!
The look of horror on my mother's face in the audience instantly told me I had blown it, but I had no idea how. What did I say?!?!?! Her mouth agape, her eyebrows fixed in a frown of dismay ... that look is forever burned in my brain. I felt a flush begin at my heart and rush upwards to color my face and force its way out of my eyes as I listened to the second-place winner next to me recite the proper spelling. She fell shortly thereafter, but there was no joy in her fall for me, the loser who substitutes R's for S's.
Later, during our press photo, I tried to smile but the corners of my mouth did that funny little dance that they do when you have been smiling too long, as I fought to keep my tears and my choking sobs inside. On the drive home I listened to the consolations and teachings of my parents, and carried the lesson about "taking my time" into my bedroom, where I flopped onto the bed and cried, with visions of double S in my mind.
In later years, I would brag to others that I had "won" the town spelling bee. Nobody seemed to remember the truth, and I felt that my fall was really just a technicality, after all. I knew how to spell both of the words that came after "scissors," so if I hadn't rushed through that one I probably would have won. This was my mantra through middle school and even into high school. But I never ate a McDonalds hamburger again without visualizing that word and tasting the salt of my own tears.
Click IMBWT and the "nostalgia" tag below more childhood fun!
This music box, which plays "Lara's Theme" from Dr. Zhivago, and which
This lamp, which at once frightens me and beckons to me with its needy gaze. Yes, this is in my (adult) bedroom. I hope my mother consults me before she ever throws it out.
I liked the Dutch ones especially, so I had many.
Reversible!
To read about what fashion plates we all were, click here.
These were happy times.
These were the best Easter gift ever. Long did they perch upon my pencils. Until I graduated middle school.
Bee on beach rose.
I knew I was supposed to think Captain Stubing was the hero, but in secret fantasies Doc would sneak into my cabin to examine me. Usually, it was because I had twisted my knee on the diving board. Before he could pronounce my diagnosis, Vickie would interrupt us with some shipboard problem, uttered in that spittle-laced speech-impediment way of hers. I never much cared about what Julie was doing, but I thought Isaac was the coolest guy I had ever known. I never took Gopher seriously. Not like now.
I still haven't unwrapped my Capt. Stubing doll to see whether his underwear is painted on or not. I figure a wrapped package is worth a lot more on eBay.
And then, immediately after Love Boat, came Fantasy Island! Where your dreams come true! I loved how in every episode Tattoo announced that "de pleen!" was flying in, and Mr. Roarke would smile his benevolent, omnipotent smile. He was the most gracious host.
P.S. Did
anyone else have this experience?: I was just a little bit troubled by how felinely sexual I found Mr. Roarke to be, after I saw Ricardo Montalban in Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan. I just didn't know that under that white suit, he was a man. A man who bared his chest and spoke with a Spanish accent. Ay ay ay.
I got an autograph book for my 9th birthday. I only know this because I wrote the date and my actual age inside the cover. "9 aastat vana" is Estonian for "9 years old." This was very important to me! That I was not 8, but n-i-n-e years old.
I was so in love with Martin S-C when I was in elementary school. I have mentioned this here before, in my Black Book post and in one of my Meditations. He played the lead in The Mikado, so as far as I was concerned, he was a superstar. Martin was in the newspaper for taking a class in which he learned to conduct the orchestra. Third-grade SG thinks: I can't believe I am in love with somebody famous! This pattern continues to the present day, of course, but you always remember your first brush with fame. Well ... I wished I could have brushed Martin ... instead, he waved his arms with passion and focus while I sat on the sidelines, eating funny little acrid-tasting pellets that I found on the carpet during Story Time. This was a great day for me. In grade 4, I was in the same class as Martin again (a 5th grader! With upper-lip fuzz!). We won (!!) a bookmark-making contest and were featured in the newspaper. Even though I traced my picture of Winnie the Pooh, my bookmark got the blue ribbon (that's me on the left; check the hair. circa 1977). Martin got 2nd place. See us all showing each other our bookmarks with pride! I am posing for the camera, but my heart is pounding as this photo is being taken, and my eyes are full of his ivory, translucent skin and his pursed little lips. His well-appointed trousers and his tidily turned collar. In my mind, the two of us are standing together on the Olympic podium, our arms around each other as we listen to the National Anthem. I am so mad that Jenny and Aleta, with their sub-par bookmarks, separate us.
I loved Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. I especially liked the Land of Make-Believe, with its cast of colorful characters. I never noticed, until I was 24 or so, that all the puppets sounded more or less alike, and suspiciously similar in timbre to Fred Rogers. You can see the entire cast of characters here, if you are so inclined.
I had vivid dreams and fantasies in which I could creep into their homes and see what they were like inside. Come to think of it (a little Sesame Street aside here), I always had fantasies like that, including about the inside of Oscar's trash can. I guess I was always curious about the insides of things.
I just mention this for my friend Used Hack, who is a huge fan of pandas.
When you weren't creating fashion plates in the 1980's. you could be one by dressing like everyone else. Just like now! Only our clothes were way cooler than anything that exists now. Way! I remember when overalls were all the rage:
But you had to wear them with one strap hanging completely loose, unhooked. Otherwise you were just begging for a wedgie, like the one I got from Madeline K. She was 6 feet tall, beautiful, and the sixth grade bully. She and her posse of blonde, training-bra wearing bitches were a pack to be feared. She made the mistake of going solo on my little overalled ass when we happened to be in the same hallway one day. After I released my choke-hold on her I undid my buckle and carried on as though I had been cool all along.
Madeline is also the one who informed me that I looked "pregnant" in my denim jumper, which is why I never wore it to school again. Sorry mom, I just didn't want to face the shame of being suspected of 6th-grade coitus.
On days my overalls were in the wash, I wore my parachute pants. Only the sexiest among us could pull that look off.
Parachute pants went really well with a Flock Of Seagulls haircut, if your mom would let you get one and not be such a SPAZ about everything!
Then there was the wrap-around skirt. Unlike its cousin the skort, the wrap-around skirt has nothing underneath it to conceal your mushroom-patterned underwear when you-know-who unties it in the cafeteria, to fall at the perfect moment. Fuck you, Amy Campbell! Fuck you and your nimble, third-grade fingers!
For a fun game, try Googling the word "knickers" sometime. Make sure you do it while your boss is standing behind you, or possibly during a very important presentation.
Last but certainly not least, the perfect accessory: the Bermuda Bag with interchangeable, reversible covers. I had so many covers (handmade by my mom) that I didn't know what to do with myself! My favorite cover had pink corduroy on one side, pink plaid twill on the other. And four button holes on each side, of course! You had to have 4 buttons or you were just a wanna-be.
We were so very cool back in 1982.
