Friday, December 30, 2005

Boxing Day

Kindergarten was cool. That’s where I met my first best friend, Mickey. She was a real tomboy’s tomboy: fun to play with, and fun to look at. We were soul mates, destined to make each other happy for the rest of our lives. At that age, of course, I didn’t know what being a lesbian meant any more than I knew how babies were made. However, I knew I could be myself around her, and that was a novelty for me. She loved to play baseball, wiffle ball, football, and boxing. Like me, she refused to wear dresses, preferring blue jeans and T-shirts like her older brother, Sunny. Unlike me, she did not think the purple Tough-skins were cool. She liked her blue jeans blue.

Mickey and I were the two best female athletes in our grade. Looking back, it wouldn’t be too far of a stretch to declare that she was the best overall athlete in our class, regardless of sex.

We were pioneers in our local Little League baseball squad. I believe we were the third and fourth girls, respectively, ever allowed to play baseball with the boys. I batted clean-up and played second base; Mickey’s third base prowess would have had A-Rod swooning, for sure.

We hardly ever hung out together in our homes. Mickey’s mom ran a flower store out of her home, and her dad was a welder, often fixing metal contraptions in the garage. The last thing they ever wanted was a couple of girls throwing a Nerf football in the house while they were working. God forbid we knocked over a vase of daisies or knocked the blowtorch out of her father’s hand. We loved to play outside, so none of this mattered to us much.

One day, we decided to go into Mickey’s room. She wanted to show me something that her brother had given to her. Wow!, I thought, we’ve been friends a whole three years and I’m finally going to see her bedroom! We climbed the stares to her cramped room. She lived in what must have been the attic before she was born (she was the youngest of four). I remember wondering what it was that her brother had given to her that would illicit an invitation to her ‘bat cave-esque’ bedroom. I stretched her Stretch Armstrong doll to full potential tautness while waiting in anticipation as she reached under her bed and pulled out a pair of old boxing gloves.

“These were Sunny’s. He said I could have them as long as I didn’t tell mom about it. She’d kill him for this!”

“Wow!” I replied as I took the gloves from her hands. “I love watching those karate movies where they fight, and stuff. These are really cool! I’ll sting ya like a bee!

“Yeah,” Mickey took the gloves back. “So, you wanna box?”

For a split second, my heart went a-flutter. The thought of getting all sweaty and heated right in close proximity was too much for me to bear. “But there’s only one pair.”

“That’s okay, we’ll each wear one glove.” She handed me one of the dilapidated gloves. “No punching with the other hand!”

I examined my glove a little closer. It was worn, with old shoelaces on the inside of the wrist, and ‘Everlast’ stitched on the outer wrist area. We both tied each other’s glove, and then Mickey threw her first punch at my left arm.

“Ouch!” I yelled, and then countered with a punch to her ribs.

She doubled over; “No hitting in the ribs!” then threw a right hook right into my left temple.

“Hey! That really hurt!” I screamed as I put my arms around her and tackled her to the ground. I pinned her to the ground with both arms.

“No fair tackling! Get off me! You can’t do this in boxing!” she screamed.

Time stood still. Everything was in slow motion, just like when my beloved Bionic Woman ran through the wheat fields. It was as if I was having an out of body experience. I thought to myself, “I’m never getting off of you. This is where I want to be for the rest of my life!”

“Get off me, damn it! I’m gonna beat the hell out of you when I get up!” I had forgotten about Mickey’s temper. It wasn’t wise to get her mad. On the other hand, I reasoned, she might just be mad enough to wrestle me to the ground and stay on top of me for awhile. I un-pinned her and stood up.

She wiped the sweat off her brow; no such luck with being pinned by her. She threw another punch at my arm. I ducked when I saw her right arm heading towards my head again. I feverishly wrapped both arms around her torso—hey, I thought, boxers do this all of the time! The only problem, from Mickey’s point of view, was that there was no ref to get me to break my hold.

“Let go!” She began to punch my back. I let go. I didn’t want to get her mad again, as she may never have wanted to box with me again.

We boxed for another half hour. I think I pinned her to the ground seven times. By the end of our bout, she swore that she would never box with me again if I wouldn’t stop fondling wrestling her to the ground. The thought of that broke my heart.

We had one more bout before her mother found out and took the gloves away. I told Mickey not to worry—I had the solution to our ‘no more boxing’ blues.

“Mickey, why don’t we just wrestle?” I exclaimed with my eyes beaming and heart racing at the thought.


Mickey knitted her eyebrows. “I don’t think so. That’s boring”.

(BORING?!)

“Come on…it’s three o’clock,” she proclaimed. “Let’s go watch Batman.”

Even the thought of Batgirl riding her purple motorcycle couldn’t erase the bottomless pit that sat where my stomach used to be.


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©2006 Marcy_Peanut. All rights reserved.

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

A Little Bent...Defined.

People are asking, "What does A Little Bent...mean?" Well, people, if it ain't straight, it's bent! I ain't straight, therefore, I'm a little bent!

Actually, when I first came out (in my early twenties) I had a difficult time trying to tell my friends that I was a dyko. I would ultimately invite them out for coffee and then--right in the middle of some unrelated conversation--I would just blurt out "I'm a little bent, you know". My friends would respond to this declaration knitting their eyebrows and then saying, "WHAT????"

"Well, you know...I'm bent!"

"No, I don't KNOW!"

"I'm bent..." I would say, and then raise my eyebrows and nod my head, as if this would help them figure out what the hell I was trying to tell them.

"Yeah, you're bent alright--right in the HEAD."

This always got me. My friends and I have always agreed that I'm a little off in the 'noggin area. But, still, how could they not understand what I was trying to tell them? Isn't it obvious that if something is a little bent that it's not straight?


Invariably, I would have to result to telling them point blank what it was that I was trying to tell them in a more pussy-footed fashion (no pun intended). I would always wait until we were in the middle of another unrelated discussion, then I would hit them with it:

"I'm GAY."

I would sit there, biting my lip in anticipation of them doing one of three things: either throwing their coffee at me and running out of the coffee shop all irate and dismayed; asking me how long I knew and why I didn't tell them sooner; or saying 'eew, you're not attracted to me, are you?' Of course, none of these three things ever happened. The only response I ever got from my declaration of being bent was this (and I quote):

"No sh*t!"


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©2005 Marcy_Peanut. All rights reserved.

Saturday, December 24, 2005

The Day Tom and Jerry Threw Me Into A Garbage Can

Yes, it's true, I have two brothers named Tom and Jerry. Not quite as funny as my friend Anne who has three brothers named Tom, Dick, and Harry (no joke!), but funny, nonetheless.

Tom and Jerry are older than me. When we were kids, I wanted to be just like them. They played with Tonka toys, and so did I. They wore Tough-Skins (Sears brand blue jeans) and so did I--except mine had to be purple, not blue. They both played little league, and so did I. It's probably true that my mother must have been a bit dismayed at my Christmas lists to Santa when I was a child:

"Dear Santa,
I was a very good girl this year. Therefore, I would like a brand new, shiny yellow Tonka dump truck; a new baseball mitt with Rusty Staub's autograph right there in the palm of the hand; and how 'bout a new pair of purple Tough-Skins (my last pair ripped while playing touch football with the boys during lunch recess).
Thank you!
Marcy_Peanut"

My brothers didn't really like playing with me. They used to invite me to play wiffle-ball home run derby with them, but I always had to be the pitcher and the outfielder, all at once. Mind you, my brothers were both award winning baseball players; I never got up to bat.

Tom was the worst. He really despised having a younger sister. He once pulled the ultimate form of treason by giving my entire KISS album collection to his buddy Dwight. I WAS LIVID! Luckily, mom intervened and got the records back. Not without a fight from Tom, though.

Tom enjoyed wrestling with me, without my permission, of course. I would be sitting there in front of the TV watching Batman and Robin reruns (hoping to get a glimpse of Batgirl in her way cool purple body suit and purple motorcycle!) and Tom would pick me up and say, "You can't beat me! You don't even know how to wrestle! I'm gonna win this match for sure!" Then he would pile drive me into the floor as if he was Ivan Putski.

Tom and Jerry never wanted to play with me because they enjoyed playing with each other. They saw no need for a third wheel. Don't get me wrong, I do have wonderful childhood memories of Tom and Jerry. They are the best brothers anyone could ever ask for. But that's not the focus of this post, is it?

There was this one particular memory that I was too young to remember. My mom tells the story the best, since she witnessed it first hand. This story is forever referred to as 'the garbage can incident'. I was one and a half years old. This is how it unfolded:

My mom was washing dishes in the kitchen, while Tom and Jerry were playing outside and I was somewhere roaming around the living room. Jerry came running into the house and grabbed my mom by her shirt sleeve--

"Mom, can we please play with Marcy_Peanut?"

My mom knitted her eyebrows. Tom and Jerry had never asked to play with me before. She looked perplexed as she stared at Jerry and asked, "Why the sudden interest in Marcy_Peanut? You're usually happiest when she's sitting on the floor staring at the corner of the living room wall."

"We love her. She's our sister!"

Mom was quite interested to see what the boys were up to, so she said, "Uh...Yeah. You can take Marcy_Peanut outside. But no funny business--you hear me?"

"Yeah...Of course not!" beamed Jerry, his smile a mile wide.

My mom helped me put my jacket on and let Jerry lead me outside. Mom stared out the kitchen window for awhile, trying to figure out what they had planned for me. She was focused on washing the dishes when she heard a loud thump! She looked out the window. She couldn't believe her eyes. Tom and Jerry had put me in a metal garbage can. They got a piece of rope from the garage and tied one end to the metal handles of the garbage can, then swung the other rope over a sturdy tree branch. My mom stared in awe as she saw the boys lift the garbage can up, pulling on the rope with all of their might, as I stood in the garbage can holding on for dear life!

My mom said she couldn't believe what she was seeing: "I can't believe the boys are smart enough to figure out how to make a homemade pulley system. What brilliance!" She watched them pull me up into the air and basked in their ultimate genius one last time before she ran out and made them stop. "This looks like a lot of fun, boys, but I think it's a bit dangerous."

Yeah, just a bit.

My family members often say that I'm bent because of the trauma I endured during 'the garbage can incident'. They're jesting, of course, but there's no telling what effect this act of 'genius' had on my young brain. I guess we'll never know, will we? ;)

Garbage can illustration downloaded from: http://ts.smoothcorp.com/
Tom and Jerry downloaded from:
http://www.fse.ulaval.ca/aedepul/Photos2/tom%20et%20jerry.jpg

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©2005 Marcy_Peanut. All rights reserved.

Friday, December 23, 2005

The Bionic Woman


When I was in 6th grade, I asked for the Jamie Sommers Bionic Doll for Christmas. I couldn't wait to get her! Oh, it was so fun to watch her run on the TV...You know, with her bionic legs and all. She was so beautiful, that Lindsey Wagner. I had the biggest crush on her that you could ever imagine. I NEVER missed a single episode of The Bionic Woman. I was nuts; nuts about the gal with the bionic ear .

I remember one time, while watching Jamie run across a field of wheat grass, her hair blowing gently in the wind, her plaid/flannel shirt blew open and I caught a glimpse of her bra. No joke. I was in childhood dyko heaven. I'll never forget that episode, even though I can't remember which episode it took place in. Does that make sense? It doesn't matter. Her Cross Your Heart will forever be etched in my mind.

The best thing about the Bionic Woman was that she always ran in slow motion. Do you realize that if it hadn't been shot in slow motion, I never would have caught that little glimpse of heaven? It would have passed me by like a fast locomotive on a warm spring day. But, as luck would have it, Jamie was always filmed running in slow motion. Hence, my lust for her grew and grew.

All the girls in my school were in love with Jamie Sommers. It was a natural phase that we were all going through. In fact, I bet every single chick that went to Friday Night Skating at the local rink wished that they were at home watching Bionic Woman re-runs. Yeah, we all had it bad for Jamie and her bionic dog Max. At least, that's what I thought. Wow, what a rude awakening it was after Christmas break that year when all of the other girls in my grade were gathered around 'Dina', the coolest chick in the upper grades, all drooling over her Six Million Dollar/Steve Austin action figure. They were talking about how cute he was; how strong he was; and how cool he looked with his bionic eye (no pun intended). I stood in the recesses of the crowd thinking, "Steve Austin?? They're drooling over him?"

"Wait," I pleaded, "Jamie Sommers is cute and strong and cool, too!"

"Eww!"

"No she's NOT!!"

"We love STEVE!!"

I stepped even farther back, away from the crowd, clutching my Bionic Woman action figure. I looked at her Bionic legs. I gazed lovingly at her plaid/flannel shirt. I felt like crying. I guess all of the other girls weren't wishing that they were home on Friday night watching Jamie Sommers run in the wheat grass, hoping to get another glimpse of her breasts. It was just me.

I looked at my doll and thought, "I guess you'll have to be my little secret."

I think of this story, and my love for Jamie Sommers quite often, you know, now that Lindsey Wagner is on TV every ten minutes selling Sleep Number Beds --she's #35, by the way! ;)


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©2005 Marcy_Peanut. All rights reserved.