Tuesday, February 14, 2017

Pink Is The Colour Of My Own True Heart


In my head, I like to pretend I had a pink room as a child and that I was allowed to embrace all thing's girl.  That never happened.

I was raised by my grandparents in the middle of the prairies of Canada.  The hardware store where one shopped for clothes, furniture, housewares, bedding and bath wares, office supplies, garden and combining needs … was limited in colour selection.   There was "sturdy brown," "sensible beige,"  "serviceable John Deere green,"  "coal black," "steel grey," and "combine red."  Sometimes they got crazy and threw the colours into a floral pattern or even a plaid.  The line for those items would be all the way down the street to the Combine parts catalogue store.  Nothing makes you feel more young and alive than knowing your grandparents have the exact same outfit that you do.

If I had been born on the ground in a dirt shack and wore nothing but beaver pelts … I would never have been a brown girl.  God made me allergic to brown.  I did not do brown.  If someone tried to make me, I threw up and got hives.  Once I think I may have even killed a goat.  I can't be sure, but the last thing I remember was being made to wear brown pants and then I woke up and there was a goat hoof in my pocket and bits of goat fur caught in my teeth.  Something happened and I was there, lying in the neighbours haystack and there were no live goats in sight.  Brown does that to me. 

I had the genetic code for pink, and not just any pink …. "ballet pink."

And there I was, living with people who thought a splash of colour was choosing a different shade of brown for the throw pillows.  And on the farm, you wanted things to last so they made the pillows out of blocks of wood.  Brown wood.  Couches were stuffed with wood chips and glue that once cured made a big, couch shaped block of brown wood.  At least Cinderella had step sisters.  She could borrow their clothes.   I had 3 ugly hired men who shopped at the same hardware store I did.  I had cows and wheat.  I don't care how magical the little birds and mice were, even they could not make straw and hooves into some kind of elegant, frothy, PINK, ballgown.

I have a deep, deep scar that is actually a jagged trench across my soul.

So sometimes I dress up Bliss in total pink and I dress the same in real life and I pretend that we are sisters and that we live with lovely people who would never think of ever having us sleep anywhere but on a pink cloud suspended in the sky of our bedroom.  I pretend these people love me and that me and Bliss don't have to kill one another so we can join the Satanic Cult and remove vital organs from the cows.  Carrying cows, even without some of their organs, so that we can climb to the top of the combine and throw them to the ground to make it look like they fell out of a flying saucer, is really hard work.  Blissy and I have imaginary parents who love us just as we are and always let us wear pink.  We have now scientifically proven that pink permitting parents NEVER make you do any of that cow/satanic stuff. 

THAT is responsible parenting.  Pro Pink, Pro Barbie, Anti Satan.

OK, well Blissy is a Barbie Doll and I am actually more like one of those big floppy dolls that you sometimes use as a pillow … that covers your whole bed … or could be used as a kind of lumpy area rug?  Ya, like that, except really fashionably dressed, wearing all pink, has a Jag, and a friend named Midge. 

Bliss and I never go to the farm.  We hate the McDonalds and we are not friends with Mary or her lamb. We don't even go for drives in the country.

We are afraid some of the cows might recognize us as the ones who heaved their great grandmas off the combine. 

MESH BODY:  Maitreya  Mesh Body - Lara
APPLIER HEAD:  Glam Affair ( Lelutka Heads ) Debby - America
EYES:  LOTUS. Emotivi Eyes
HAIR:  A&A Jill Hair Raspberry
SWEATER:  .::Dead Dollz::. Opal Comfy Sweater - White
STOCKINGS & LINGERIE:  .::Pretty Things::. Pink Chiffon Frilly Dress
SHOES:  lassitude & ennui Lucy heels rose
POSES:  PoseSion 
Post a Comment