A Rated PG-16 History Lesson

I was not a good girl...not at all. There aren't many things I am proud of from my childhood...and most of it I probably shouldn't talk about because who knows who is reading this and ready to call the Fresno Bee (ok, still...but somethings just have to be taken to my grave, unless you want to take me to lunch, I usually will spill the beans if I'm getting some beans...and rice, and whatever else is on the menu.) To describe myself as a child--mean, tender-hearted (contradicting, isn't it?--but so true, honestly), silly silly silly, immature, boy-crazy, insecure, BUTT UGLY--I had no teeth, still don't but it's not as obvious, and my nickname was "boy" for a while. To elaborate on boy crazy: I loved Donny Osmond, since I was 3, I can remember watching his show in the old house on Helm which I moved out of when I was 4, so yes--I remember it well. Donny could do no wrong, oh man--those dark eyes, that thick hair, those white teeth. Melting. I would fantasize about him being naked...how weird is that for a child just leaving her toddlerhood?? (yes, that explains a lot about my teens, but I never stood a chance with that libido, nor did my parents.) My dad likes to tell the story of what happened at Christmas when I was five. I ripped open a gift to find my prince (Donny, pay attention) in all his plastic manliness. It was a dream come true, or so I thought. Dad says I dashed to the bathroom and tore off his clothes only to find that the doll was not anatomically correct. Now do you believe me? FIVE people...and this story came from my father who has probably TRIED to rid his memory of his kindergartener stripping a doll looking for the goods. My next fantasy was John Travolta as Danny from Grease. I actually went to bed naked (seven years old I think) and my mom found me under the covers and asked what I was doing. I was hot, I told her...yeah, hot for John, baby! Oh brother. what a little sicko. Soon after Michael Jackson was my man. I had to pretend I was Irene Cara to be his girl because I thought I had to be black too. Then onto Duran Duran...I couldn't decide so I named my Cabbage Patch Kid Nicholas John Simon Andrew Roger, the little B*****d child had no chance with a mother like me. Who was the father? again, couldn't decide. Soon enough, I went onto the real deal, and the rest is unpublished and quite censored history which will be published in a book OVER MY DEAD BODY, at least long after my grandchildren have come along so I am so far removed from influencing them because they won't be able to picture grandma doing such ghastly things back in the 80s (1980s that is). If I told you, you would never look at me the same and I'd have a permanent blush about me (though, that would save me some cash in the long run because let's face it, I'm no stunner without my face plastered in paste.) All in all, I am a good girl now--the best! Just ask my (regretful?) husband who is reminded daily that a good girl is what he wanted in a wife (that was back when he didn't know what he was missing.) *wink*