The pinecone thrower

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So, since I am not really sure yet what the format of this BLOG will be (still getting used to the ridiculousness of this new word! BLOG!) I think I will tell a little story with each one, and perhaps it will help me trace both backward and forward, seeing how the hell I got to be this way that I am, which is not bad, not good; not particularly fascinating, but not utterly boring; not particularly beautiful but not entirely hideous either; someone who likes purses and who likes chainsaws; someone who has fearlessly tackled transatlantic sailings and expeditions, but who cries profusely during sad movies and talks to plants. Anyways, when I was thinking to myself, “Self – Whatever happened to my girly side? How did she die?” The way a kid might ask about a grandmother who died before she was born. Because that’s how I feel sometimes! I am just so out of touch with the fundamentally feminine part of myself, it’s honestly kind of sad. I think I am making improvements, mostly in a superficial sense however, taking better care of my body and hair, dressing in something other than old potato sack clothes…. wow, ok I am already off track here. Anyways — back to the pinecone story. I remember being at a summer camp, I was thirteen, one of those annoying thirteen-year-olds that makes up for a lack of confidence by being loud and, well, it’s embarassing to admit but kind of macho. C’mon, think, I know you know someone’s kid who is like that! Anyways, at thirteen, the romance is flying through the air! Girls huddled and gossiping, boys making bold moves, saying, “Uhm, yeah, uh, I like you a bit,” to all the lucky, pretty, thin, nice-haired girls. Anyways, obviously none of this attention was coming my way. (See previous post for physical description of me at 13 – to summarize: not nice). The only attention I got was from being the bravest, the highest diving board jumper, the “hard-corest” mountain biker, and when we got in massive pinecone fights (this was obviously before the days of liability and such — I don’t remember it ever being an issue) I could whip those pinecones like ……… (fill in the blanks here, if I knew a famous baseball pitcher off the top of my head, I would have written it). And I did – pegging every boy in sight. Damn, I was good! I probably even left a mark on a few of them. And sure, all the boys were impressed with my fantastic aim, but my shriveled, underdeveloped female side interpreted this attention as, you know, attention – and much to my chagrin (whatever that means — it’s just a nice sounding word though, huh, “chagrin”) at the end of camp dance, nobody wanted to dance with me, and the guy I had a totally intense pubescent crush on asked Caley to dance. But don’t feel too sorry for me! Because as I will reveal eventually, I have met the proverbial man of my dreams (I should stop saying that — my dreams are often beyond fucked up, you know, where I am hosting a fundraiser flea market; stealing an ambulance; running through a sewer; etc, so to say he’s the man of my dreams is, you know, kind of an insult). Anyways, guess what, someone left a comment! I am shocked and delighted. So thanks!

Regards,

M

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