Mighty Girl Mondays Pt3

12 Feb

Every Monday, I’ll be selecting a topic from Maggie Mason’s book “No one cares what you had for lunch”. As the whimsically witty creator of Mighty Girl and Mighty Goods, it should surprise no one that she’s also a contributor to ReadyMade Magazine’s Blog and The Morning News.

Matthew Baldwin is also tackling this over at Defective Yeti but doing it in a far more creative way (though it plays on my love of lists, it plays against my love of sloth and torpor. Plus, I don’t have his traffic.)

There are people in this world who are easy to buy gifts for. No matter what you buy, stick a ribbon on and thrust in front of them they will weep and squeal with delight. Or perhaps they have a soft spot for something in particular that is always easy to locate.

Surely it surprises no one that I fall into neither category.

Picky bitch.

However, there have been highlights to cross the threshold of my neurotically high standards.

Age 4. Present: microphone
As a anklebiter, I was a determined chanteuse. Naturally the best way to express this was to sing into anything vaguely resembling a microphone (hairbrushes, various sticks, the winder on the clothes line) and dream of the day I could change my name to Paula so I could be closer to Paul Stanley. Well, that or Ace. My father, a former musician, noted the obsession and decided the perfect gift for a 4 year old was a studio-quality microphone. No, really. I discovered that if I plugged the mike into the stereo and sang along to cassettes it would record my voice over the music. I still have it. The Seagull and I fight over who gets to sing with it. We also fight over who gets to play with the Octopus while in the bath. But that’s a story for another day…

Age 14. Present: the works of Kurt Vonnegut
I so need to share my “Girl, Interrupted” period sometime. It was after Catholic Girls School and before hippy school. It was while at hospital (where I was marooned and recuperating after a comatastic suicide attempt) that the legendary Cave Thing decided that what a young girl, who was exhibiting her depression via a bizarre display of follicle neglect and wholesale chomping of pills, the collected works of Kurt Vonnegut. Thus began my love of literature. And baiting psychiatrists.

Age 23. Present: a Mugwump.
Perhaps you’re not aware of the Mugwump. Here’s an excerpt from William S. Burroughs masterpiece Naked Lunch:
Mugwumps have no liver and nourish themselves exclusively on sweets. Thin, purple-blue lips cover a razor sharp beak of black bone with which they frequently tear each other to shreds in fights over clients. These creatures secrete an addictive fluid through their erect penises which prolongs life by slowing metabolism. (In fact all longevity agents have proved addicting in exact ratio to their effectiveness in prolonging life.)

I call him “Merv”, though the Seagull calls him “Daddy”.

The lovely friend who does not get named had this made for me while, not knowing his Christmas gift plans, I sourced a typewriter like the one used to type the Naked Lunch. It was just like Gift of the Magi, but with semen and drugs. And a truckload of crazy.

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