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3:15 p.m. - 2005-05-06
Gidget rant
Okay, so the first thing you need to know is that I am not a teenybopper and the very fact that I would know, let alone use, the word teenybopper confirms the fact that I am not. A teenybopper, that is. I don't know that any word has ever quite replaced that word. I think it has gone the way of "far out", "uptight" and "out of sight". So, I don't know how I ended up here. In Diaryland, that is. I feel like I morphed into Gidget (and I mean Sandra Dee, not Sally Field). I Googled this and that and ended up reading a diary by someone known as toastcrumbs. I don't believe I have ever laughed so hard. She is now my favorite author. No, really. I am usually irritated by all technology. Okay. Flush toilets are convenient sometimes. But to me, a diary should be pink and have a tiny ineffectual key so that your mother can pretend she doesn't know that you french kissed Harry Glover. A ballerina on the cover is optional, but much desired. Most importantly, a diary is personal. Intensely personal. I was carefully taught not to "air my dirty laundry". So this is liberating. Intensely liberating. I must say that I feel like a teenybopper just doing this. A defiant one. Yes. And that is why I have taken the moniker Dianh Soar. Because, on the one hand, I am a bit of a dinasaur. On the other hand, this is my chance to soar. Out of that safety zone known as privacy. So here goes. I grew up in a very normal home. I was an only child and yet managed to become the sheep of color. It has taken me until say yesterday to realize that this is because there were two languages spoken at home and I was not bilingual. My parents spoke fluently the language of logic, intellect, function, utilitarianism and 'doing'. I spoke the much despised language of feelings or 'being'. From the time I can remember, I was told I was "too sensitve". What do you think they meant by that? No, really! They were always telling me that, if anyone looked at me crosseyed, I became upset. Why in the name of Tony the Tiger did anyone have to do that anyway? Look at me crosseyed. That is, unless it was maybe Barbra Streisand in which case I couldn't really take it that personally now, could I? Don't get me wrong. My parents were loving and doting and centered their whole lives around me, but they just did not understand my language. My precious daddy (and he really was) died two years ago. My whole life changed in just one day. I went off to work like any other day and got paged about 3:15 p.m. I rushed to take him to the ER, where he died. I didn't really believe that my father was mortal. Not like everyone else. So, when he died, I moved in with my mom. I mean, that same night. I only went back to my own apartment to get my things. And life has been upsidedown ever since. Being back in the house of my childhood is not ginchy (that was Gidget's favorite word for 'cool'). It has brought out the best and the worst in me and continues to do that on a daily basis. My mother is dear and wonderful, but she is deaf (making communication pretty impossible, especially given the thinking vs feeling thang). So we love each other, but struggle with the hole in the house where my dad was. He was so larger than life in so many ways that we are rattling around that horrible spacious gap, smiling politely. Pretending we do not notice the gaggle of elephants roaming around the living room. Dusting the bric-a-brac of social niceties. Reading one another's subtext in every conversation. Her eyes seem so small these days. And shiny. She rarely leaves the house anymore and she misses him desperately. She keeps telling me that I sure do not have his sense of humor. I realized that at first I tried to be him for her, but it can't and shouldn't be, because then there is no me. It is so weird to think of the proprieties I grew up with. Coming home from a date with Harry Glover to scrub my tongue (because of that first french kiss). And yet, my mother, my reserved New England mother, now doesn't miss a day watching a leering, lascivious Maury Pouvich try to figure out 'who the baby daddy' with a DNA test given by some cheesy doctor. I don't get it. The only other thing she really likes to watch is Little House on the Prairie. It is a wholesome and well-acted show, yes. But so incredibly depressing. They are all blind and live in a town called, yes, "Sleepy Eye". There are more fires there per capita than in hell. No really. I myself like Joan of Arcadia. I love the idea of running into God everywhere you turn. I also love the idea of divine guidance and sometimes from unexpected places. That and only that has sustained me these two years since my father's death. My father, who was never a religious man, saw angels twice the night he died. It has comforted both my mother and me. What else do I watch? The Gilmore Girls. Just like pink is the new black and 50 is the new 30, GG is the new Gidget. No, really. Witty reparte. Then, along the lines of spontaneous and unsolicited re-emergence of adolescence (although I don't think I ever really grew up - never saw the future in it), my other favorite show is Everwood. I strongly identify with sullen, introverted teens. That's because I was forced to be perky. Mary Tyler Moore perky. Sally Field perky (Sandra Dee was morose next to me - anyway, she recently died - how depressing is that?). I am envious of the pierced, the tattooed, the class cutters, the in your face 'here's my diary now deal with it-ers', which, now in fact is me. Yes, I am befriending my shadow. Big time. And her name is Dinah. Dinah Soar, to you, thank you very much. I don't so much rock as soar! Soar on, tiny dancer! Soar 'til you're sore!

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