When I was a child living in Alaska, I had a really hard time fitting in with the rough and tumble lives of the kids. They were mean little shits. Lots of rubbing my face in pretty fluffy snow that just happened to have a hard layer of ice and rocks underneath the surface. On the playground, a boy showed me his penis when we were sitting on the jungle gym—he told me a pea would come out of it. It was years before I realized he meant urine. I cannot even say how many times I imagined a small green pea coming out of his urethra. That cold place was where I learned to curse in the spectacular way that I still do to this day, it’s also where I learned a harsh lesson about gift exchanges that still rankles.
It was sixth grade—I’d find out in just a couple months that we’d be moving to Texas. We had moved so often that even though I was miserable in Alaska, it was still a known quantity of suckitude. Thus I was still a relatively happy nerd child in December eagerly looking forward to my class’ Christmas gift exchange. I don’t remember what my contribution was, because the gift I drew from the pile was earrings. Oh woe is me.
One of my mother’s crazy parenting edicts was no pierced ears until first menses. WHY? I have no fucking clue. Because you know, first George totally means you’re a lady worthy of having baubles dangling from your ears. It makes perfect sense. Do you know how many kids get their ears pierced either as babies (which I do think is wrong because the kid has no say in the matter) or in elementary school? A large majority, that’s how many. Or so it seemed to my 11-year-old non-menstruating self. So, I had a pair of earrings, and no pierced ears.
I should mention there were parents there at this gift exchange, because what happened next is a fucking travesty of bad parenting. The child who brought the earrings, plucked them out of my hand, saying something like, “Oh, you don’t have pierced ears! Ha ha!” Chortled with a snicker and way too much glee. The mom of this child, clucked her tongue at me, and said what a shame, and told the girl to keep the earrings for herself, and then they both walked away leaving me presentless! Fucking bitch. I still hate her for it. I have no idea who you are, you twat, but you owe me a motherfucking gift, and I’m expecting it to have seriously appreciated in value after twenty-five years.
Fast forward to this past Saturday. It was Urban Family Get-Together Zombie Jebus style. We were instructed to bring plastic eggs filled with anything but candy. I hopped on over to Toy Joy, and purchased many delightful items (plastic babies, cute zodiac animal pins, unicorn poop, zombie glow-in-the-dark figurines!), and what do I get in the eggs I collected? Marijuana and pills (I’m pretty sure one is an Ambien, but I’m not sure what the other is). Sigh. I also got a mustard packet. I don’t do drugs and I hate mustard. So it goes, people. I left the mustard packet behind, and gave CSP the drugs. I did get some lavender argyle ankle socks, so I didn’t have a total angsty meltdown where I yelled, “Where are my motherfucking earrings, you twat, my ears are pierced now goddamitt!”
