A Girl from Pluto Ep. 7

      

This series will contain posts styled as a memoir with memories that I feel like sharing. I first wrote these articles in 2017 when I was suffering from burnout. I may post one or two a month. I hope you enjoy these intimate glimpses into the life of...

Episode 7

A Club for Me

My sisters created a club. It consisted of the two of them. If one of my oldest sister’s friends was spending the night, she was immediately inducted into their club, at least for that day. I badly wanted to be part of their club. I was a girl, too, dang it. I should be allowed!

I’d knock on my sister’s door, which was locked to keep non-members out, namely me because my brother sure didn’t care about joining their club. They wouldn’t open the door. They’d tell me to go away, giggle, and taunt. I’d beg them to let me join their club.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” I pleaded. “Please.”

The door opened. I thought it meant admittance. I was wrong.

My other sister stuck her head out and told me I should make a club with our brother. Then the door was shut in my face.

I balled my eyes out, still knocking on the door, begging to be let in. Just once? Just today? For at least an hour?

No go. I was not wanted.

I sulked. This was the first bit of rejection I ever experienced, and I was a child, but this would not be the only time I’d be rejected by them.

After my eyes dried, I went to my brother’s room. Since my sisters never wanted to play with me, I always played with our brother.

"Do you want to form a club? Just me and you? We can make a better club than theirs.”

Rival clubs. Yes! I’d show them. I’d have a blast in my exclusive club with our brother and show them. I didn’t need their stupid club, anyway!

I got a sleeve of crackers, the jar of peanut butter, and a knife so my brother and I could make peanut butter crackers, because I saw my sisters do that once when they were holding a “session” for their club in my sister’s room.

My brother and I munched on peanut butter crackers, and I felt better.

A club of my own. Finally.

The rejection still stung. Of course, it did. But because my sisters tossed me to the side then, I ended up having a great friendship with our brother. We rode our bikes all around the block, watched wrestling, and played card games like poker and war with two decks.

My brother became my best friend at home, and I’m eternally grateful for the relationship I had with him then and have with him now. He’s the best big brother I could ever ask for. He didn’t reject me as he easily could have, because, well, I was a girl, but I liked a lot of the same things as he did, and we both needed someone to hang out with, since our oldest brother wasn’t around much and was too old to want to hang out and do kid things.

One of my favorite memories of a game my brother and I played involved paint brushes. This was before our road was paved, and we would take these paint brushes to the end of the driveway and sweep away all the sand as if we were archeologists uncovering fossils, just like in the beginning of Jurassic Park.

When houses were being built in our neighborhood, we’d climb to the top of the piles of dirt and sand and play for hours. Once cement block and a structure started to go up, we’d take our bikes and ride round and round inside the houses being built. This was even more fun when the walls and roof were in place.

Another spot we liked to ride our bikes was a cul-de-sac called See. No houses were there, so we’d race around in circles until we got tired.

We also went to a canal in our neighborhood, road our bikes along the path, and caught guppies. Catching guppies and tadpoles was my favorite thing to do. If a hard rain came and lasted for days, I’d go out with a pail and a strainer and catch tadpoles in my ditch. There were hundreds! I loved them when they were plump, but as soon as they got little legs, they creeped me out and I’d dump them back into the ditch.

Side Note: Frogs give me the willies.

In the end, although I wasn’t allowed to join the club that I initially wanted to be a part of, I ended up finding a much better club. Now, I wouldn’t change that for anything.

A Girl from Pluto Ep. 2

  

This series will contain posts styled as a memoir with memories that I feel like sharing. I first wrote these articles in 2017 when I was suffering from burnout. I may post one or two a month. I hope you enjoy these intimate glimpses into the life of...

Episode 2

Nailed It?

My mom would paint my fingernails a different color every Sunday before the next week of school. I remember having red nails the most. It made me feel grown up, because red is a very womanly color, I thought.

My mom sold Avon for many years when I was little, seeing all the makeup that people ordered, flipping through the shiny Avon booklets that had this special smell to them--like perfume and magazine paper--and touching the tiny lipstick samples (so cute!) filled me with wonder and awe. I would help my mom slip booklets and samples into clear plastic baggies, and then I’d go with her around neighborhoods to drop off those goodies. She’d stop at the end of a driveway, and I’d get out and run to the door, slip the baggie on the handle or prop it against the door, and then hurry back to the car. This excited me. Would we get in trouble if we were caught?

My mom had a nice collection of nail polish thanks to Avon, but mostly they were dark, autumn colors to match her coloring. 

Nail polish became my first makeup love. My sisters and I had our own collection when we shared a room. Mostly, though, the polish belonged to my oldest sister.

I remember lying on my bed one day when my oldest sister came home from sleeping over at a new friend’s house, and she was telling our sister all about it, specifically what her room looked like. One thing I picked up was that this girl had lined up all of her nail polishes along the front of her dresser. A lightbulb went off in my head. What a brilliant idea! And if my sister thought it was cool, maybe she’d think it was cool if I did it, too.

The three of us had matching dressers. I went to mine, rearranged the items I had up there (like plastic ponies), grabbed all of our nail polishes, and carefully lined them up. How neat. How pretty. How adult. 

My sisters noticed. There was sneering. I believe something was said about it, but I can’t remember the words. I do recall that afterward, I sighed with longing and sadness when I saw those nail polishes, so pretty, bright, and sparkly. I kept them there for a while. Days? Weeks? I don’t know for sure, but I did end up taking them down. My sisters didn’t think it was cool that I did it. So, I concluded that meant that I wasn’t cool.

Now, I do my own thing to display them. Years ago, I found a neat spice rack at a thrift store. I hung it up in my bathroom and arranged my nail polishes in it according to color. I like to see my nail polishes instead of having them zipped up in a makeup bag or in a plastic container under my bathroom sink, which is where they had been for ages before this spice rack. 

***

I never lost my love for nail polish. As I got older, I’d paint each nail a different color, alternate between two, such as one nail black, the next orange, and repeat. I did this a lot in October for Halloween, my favorite holiday. And I made sure that my thumbs started with opposite colors to make it even. Five nails orange, five nails black.

I also went through a phase of liking fake nails. My best friend and I would buy packs of fake nails from Walmart and glue them on in her bedroom. The first time I wore fake nails, I couldn’t get enough of them. There’s a scene in Dennis the Menace of a woman tapping her nails in a rhythmic manner on a counter. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap. I loved it! So, when I had on my first set of fake nails, I tapped them on every surface I could find. I would even pretend to be typing on a keyboard. Every time my nails clicked against a table, counter, or desk, it sounded as though I was typing. I did this a lot.

In middle school, I started to get blank nails at Dollar Tree and shape and paint them myself. There was one pair I was really proud of. It was white with black, glittery tips. I put a lot of effort into them. When I wore them the first time to school, my insecurities came back to me, and I suddenly didn’t want anyone to see them. I’d curl them into my palms. But one day, a girl in 8th grade (I was in 7th grade) noticed them. She asked to see them, and I held out my hand. She asked if I did them. Afraid the laughing would start, I said I did. And she said that she could barely tell, and she liked them. That compliment filled me with happiness.

If only more girls would give other girls compliments.

The trouble with wearing fake nails to school is that they most likely would pop off in school. Several times, I’d dig out my nail glue from my purse and quickly reapply my nail before anyone could see, especially my teacher. But there’d be days when a few nails would pop off of one hand, so then I’d end up peeling off the rest of the nails with my teeth, while in class. I’d pile them on my notebook and then stuff them into my pocket when I was done.

Sticking your fingers in your mouth to bite your nails isn’t a very attractive look. And the crunching sound of your teeth cutting through your nail? Shivers. Definitely not attractive. But nothing is worse than having to spit out or pluck a piece of nail or dried glue off your tongue. Nope. No thanks.

I haven’t worn fake nails since middle school. I just don’t like them. The glue. Having to deal with them popping off. The glue. And I don't get my nails down professionally either because I just don't have the money to blow on that. Now, I let my nails grow freely. I'm fortunate to have nice, natural nails. I haven't painted them in almost two years, but I'm going to try to do that more this year and reacquaint myself with my love of nail polish.

A Girl from Pluto Ep. 1

 

This series will contain posts styled as a memoir with memories that I feel like sharing. I first wrote these articles in 2017 when I was suffering from burnout. I may post one or two a month. I hope you enjoy these intimate glimpses into the life of...

Episode 1

A Vanity of My Own

My oldest sister had a glass and gold vanity in her room. It had two shelves, so you could put products on the top and smaller items on the bottom. An oval mirror stood in the middle that moved back and forth if you needed it to, but it didn’t turn all the way around. I tried. 

I loved that vanity. It was classy and cool with all that glass. And it meant my sister was mature…a young woman. She clustered lotions and hair products in one corner. In another corner, she had perfume bottles. Around the oval mirror she had attached her claw hair clips. And her makeup was arranged just so on the bottom level. I enjoyed looking at it and sitting in the tiny chair, pretending I was older and beautiful. Even rich. I mean…it was gold.

At this time, I did wear makeup. I was probably ten or so. I liked to put on purple or blue eyeshadow, blush, and lipstick. In my 5th grade school picture, you can just make out a bit of blue eyeshadow on my lids and clear gloss on my lips. Being allowed to wear makeup meant I was mature, too…a young lady. I adored the feeling, and I was the only one in my class who wore makeup, so I felt privileged in a way.

But I did not have a vanity.

One day, I was with my dad in his truck. We were close to home when we passed a house with a piece of furniture on the side of the road. Glass gleamed in the sunlight. Gold sparkled. My eyes widened. The vanity! No, not any vanity. It was an exact replica of my sister’s vanity. I asked my dad to turn around and get it for me. I so badly wanted it because it was just like my sister’s. He had no problem at all fetching it for me, and I was filled with delight.

When we got home, he brought it into the room I shared with my mom and other sister. I cleaned it with Windex, paper towels, and love. It was perfect! No scratches. No rust. I went back and forth from the master bathroom I shared with my mom and sisters and took items from the counter to put on my vanity, like hairbrushes, hair spray, my makeup, which included little containers of body glittery that I’d put on my eyelids and cheeks. As I did this, I’d snuck into my sister’s room (she wasn’t home) and studied her vanity. I went back to mine, shifted things around, and hunted for specific items from the bathroom that I could add to my vanity to make it match my sister’s. I was proud of my creation, prouder more that I was a little bit closer to my oldest sister, who never really wanted to hang out with me, but maybe this would help that…show that I’m not as little as she thought.

Later, my other sister noticed the resemblance of my vanity and our sister’s vanity. More, she noted how I had set mine up in the exact same fashion. “I’m going to tell her you’ve copied her,” she said, and hurried off to tattle to our big sister.

I sat in the small chair and stared at my vanity, tears forming in my eyes. I felt as though I had done something really bad. Awful, in fact.

Both of my sisters came in then, and my oldest sister was livid that I not only had the same vanity but completely copied her. I don’t remember what was said, but I do recall that the claw hair clips were pointed out, because I had put mine along the mirror, too. I even had the same number there: three. One on top and one on each side.

By the time they left, I was crying.

My sister couldn’t see that I copied her because I looked up to her. She was huge in my eyes. In a good way. She was older, cooler, and I had wanted to be just like her. Instead of being flattered that I would mimic her with something as silly as a vanity’s spread, she was mad.

And I became mad, too. I picked up my hairbrush, laid out like hers, and threw it on the ground.

Little sisters look up to their big sisters. This is what I did. Perhaps it would’ve been fine if my other sister copied her, since the two of them were closer. Or perhaps not? Maybe she had wanted to be an individual. But what she couldn’t see is that she was inspiring me. I craved what she had, not because I wanted to take anything from her, but because I wanted to be like her.

I ended up not using that vanity. I looked at it with shame, made to believe I did something so unforgivable, and we ended up getting rid of it. I never had a vanity since, but I still think about that glass and gold vanity. If I ever find one like it, I’ll buy it and respect it in a way I wasn’t able to as a child.