Geek
wife – the story of a fallen American Princess
So
how did this happen? Where did I leave the road of tradition and
take a left into “What the hell is that thing?” world?
I
sit in my pink wingback chair, my feet on a matching ottomon,
listening to my fish tank filter burble away. Of course the fish tank
has a gargoyle sitting on it and the chair faces a six shelf
collection of sci fi videos and Jackie Chan DVDs. And sprawled under
the ottomom is a grey cat named Merlin, while cat number two (2 1/2 truth be told), Loki, is rambling nearby on a
fat cat hunt for the elusive missing kibble.
I
live a bizarre life.
Let
me start at the beginning. The lovely landscape is that of the great American suburbs. In the perfectly mowed and trimmed yard with roses in the garden and maple trees in the yard, on the
corner sits an Aryan looking little girl. Hair like Marcia Brady
runs down her back, perfectly trimmed by mom with her mothers scissors every
month.
When
she is inside she sits in pink bedroom on fluffy white fake fur rugs,
listening to Sean Cassidy and Jimmy & Kristy McNichols albums on
the turntable Santa brought her for Christmas. She dreams of
singing like Olivia Newton John, looking like Cheryl Ladd, and
dreams the ultimate dream of someday becoming...wait for it!..... Miss America. The height of beauty and sophistication and fame.
Yup,
that's me folks. A true American Princess. I had the über pink
room, right down to the bed with three tiers of sheer white ruffles
with pretty pink dogwoods on them and the matching pillow sham and
curtains and lamp shade. My prized possesion was a fluffy white
rabbit fur purse Lets keep this picture going for a minute so you
can really get the idea. I had the portable tape player the latest
commercials touted, playing Neil Sedaka songs (everyone who asks
“who's that” get's slapped for interrupting), the afore mentioned
records, and a Dukes of Hazzard lunch box. Thanks to mom my book
collection was almost exclusively Caldecott or Newbury award winners
to keep me educated. I had the entire Laura Ingalls boxed set, Amelia
Bedelia, Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, and every Nancy Drew currently available
(50?)
If
it was in fashion at the moment, it was in my closet. And yes, most
of these were inspired by Jan Brady And Jan wore glasses like I did,
though mine were pink. Marcia was too mature for me.
Our
family ate dinner at 6:00 every night and on Sundays we had dessert.
After our family meeting where we shared our plans for the next week,
we were allowed to sit and eat in the tv room where we watched The
Wonderful World Of Disney. Mom and Dad on the couch, my sister and I
on throw pillows on the floor, of course the throw pillows were
covered in a variety of fake fur. It was the 70's. And when the
once-a-year special, The Wizard of Oz was on, we were allowed Pepsi
and giant bowls of popcorn. It was “An Event”.
Get
the picture? yes you can stop rolling your eyes and gagging now, but
it was my life and the only world I knew existed..Tupperware parties,
the Avon Lady, synchronized swimming classes, it was a real world.
I
lived a Brady life
When
I discovered boys Sean Cassidy became someone to squeal over and I
suddenly knew the lyrics to “Do you believe in magic” and “Da
do ron ron” and sang along at the top of my lungs (poor mom). Peter
Brady and David Cassidy were cute and I dreamed of being rescued by
Bo Duke. Rescued from what didn't matter.
Even
I am getting embarrassed by this. But back then I was living in a
dream world and we won't even get INTO the whole Barbie collection
thing.
Our
house in the suburbs had a kitchen, three bedrooms, a dining room,
two bathrooms which mom redecorated whenever it took her fancy (her
electric-orange phase was traumatic). In the basement there was a
sewing room where mom made our sundresses. Dad had a dark room where
he developed his own film. The main area had been converted to a
rec room where the required ping-pong table sat. Our play room had
two little desks, a chalkboard on the wall, a painted cardboard play
house, and a whole wall of toys.
There were Tupperware parties that I was allowed to watch, visits by the Avon lady where lipstick samples were given away by the handful, and Mary Kay parties when you wanted to go upscale. And at night you could sneak to the end of the hall and peek around to watch the cocktail parties.
JESUS
we were spoiled.
As
I neared my teens my parents even hinted at a car for my birthday...
now MY eyes are rolling to the back of my skull.
But
age 12 was where the corruption began. A severe case of chicken pox
kept me out of school for 2 weeks. Of course in my family it meant
you took over the master bedroom with it's king sized bed with bright
purple and blue flowers with the tiffany lamp overhead and the deep
purple shag carpeting that you could lose a shoe in. A table was
placed beside me with a telephone, my newest diary and pen, books,
and across from me on the dresser mom had moved the little tv. She
even came home at lunch from her job as a teacher consultant to
deliver lunch on an honest-to-god bed tray.
And
this is where it happened.... cue ominous music. I had read
everything, didn't like what was on, and had written in my diary all
the things I should and some I shouldn't. I rolled over to
no-mans-land... Daddy's side. The boy side. I played with his
radio, poked at boring old magazine, and books, and spotted something
bright. Like a magpie I homed in. Brightly colored with a pretty
picture on it, I could see the author and the title. Piers Anthony.
“A Spell for Chameleon”. For those of you who have read it, shut
up, this is my story.
A
pretty cover meant a pretty story, so I opened it and started
reading..... and kept reading... and kept reading. I had never read
anything like this! What were these stories? Dragons and trolls and
magic.....oh my.
Well,
that was it folks, story over. Stick a fork in me, I'm done. That
fork in the road I mentioned? Well it had just rolled into sight and
while it was still some years away, I was already veering off the
“suburban path”.
So,
lets skip ahead, past the years where I tried to balance figure
skating classes with learning to draw dragons, t-shirts with izod
crocodiles or rainbows on the chest next to t-shirts with more fire
breathing dragons.
There
was a brief embarrassing period (am I really admitting to this?)
involving “The Unicorn Club”where teens would head into my
parents woods with capes and sticks and play at fighting and casting
spells. I would take off my cheerleading gear, out down my pom pons
and grab a long dress just so I could be a witch. I was part of it
all all right.
New
I'd read all the Piers Anthony that was out, so I moved onto
Heinlein, Tanith Lee, and Spider Robinson. My art class was
dedicated to sculpting ceramic troll kings.
My
parents tried to stop it, they bought horses, the latest clothes, and
a hairstylist who gave me the latest “in” styles and charged $175
for these 80's mistakes. I actually grew up thinking this was a
normal price. I was even encouraged to date the quarterback of a
neighboring school while I was a cheerleader.
Nothing
took (well, maybe the horses). Pom pons were dropped for the newest
music... punk rock, and SKA, and the quarterback was ditched for an
artist who worked in theatre with lighting and sets, and could quote
Monty Python forward and back. I dropped my rainbow and unicorn
earrings and put on a leather collar with little silver studs.
I
was lost completely by now. I think my parents actually grieved.
The
friends I had studied with side-by-side all through school took
french and latin, I took mythology and art. All too soon we drifted
apart. I had gotten too weird. They liked suburbia just fine
thank-you-very-much.
Now
I should mention, whilst writing this manifesto my husband (who is
most definitely ONE OF “THEM”) is laying on the couch recovering
from helping a friend move. A friend who is a VERY well know
“filker” (converts modern folk music to sci-fi book theme
stories) who owns more comic books, graphic novels, and collectible
figures than Stan Lee, making for a rather difficult move.
This
is my new world. I try to keep a grip on my upbringing. Which is
why, in the middle of a house full of gaming gear, swords, high
fantasy novels and Sci-Fi and martial arts movies, I sit in a pink
wingback chair with my feet up on the matching ottomon.
