Oh, so pretty,
I feel pretty and witty and bright!
And I pity Any girl who isn't me tonight.
What could be causing all of these feelings of prettiness? I am not sure. I have never been a girl prone to pretty. As a child, when presented with a butterfly it would have been more likely that I would have pulled its wings off (in the name of science, of course) than admired its beauty. At the tender age of five, Yours Truly, the maladjusted borderline sociopath hell child was chosen as the muse in a Winnie the Pooh fashion show. A grand event in two parts: the first, a runway spectacular at White Lakes Mall where it was always a comfortable 72 degrees, then the Pièce de résistance, an appearance on the early news show on WIBW TV in Topeka Kansas. Big Judes (my mom) was understandably skeptical when I agreed to participate.
“You know you will have to wear the outfit they give you, even if it is a dress, or pink, you will have to wear it.” Judes warned. “You cannot change your mind at the last minute”. Translated, this means, "If you show your ass on local television and make it necessary for me to resign my position as kindergarten room mother because of your inappropriate behavior I will never forgive you". She had good reason to be cautious.
As predicted when the day of the fashion show came, I changed my mind. There was no way I was walking out in front of all of those people in a tartan plaid jumper and coordinating beret adorned with a giant green pom-pom. No amount of “Don’t you look pretty!” could convince me otherwise. I am not pretty! I hate pretty! I refuse to be pretty!
Judes was beside herself.
Judes: “Tobi, please just put it on.”
T: “No way.”
Judes: “It is pretty really, it is”
Judes: “Just do it for me… dammit, just… do… it…for. me...or. Else!”
T: “NO, NO, NO!”
Judes: “The shoes, have you seen the shoes? Look!”
T: “Can I keep them?”
Judes: “Yes, if you do this you can keep them.”
The shoes clinched the deal. They were shiny brown loafers, the color of fresh brownies. Each one had a new penny in a slot on the front. They were pretty! I shuffled down the catwalk never taking my eyes off the shoes, enjoying each click-clack they made on the runway. Later at the television studio, I took my place at the right of Winnie. I inserted my left finger firmly in my left nostril. In spite of the frantic arm waving and mouthed admonitions from adults off camera including Big Judes, I kept it there for the duration of the broadcast. This was my silent protest, against pretty and Pooh. I am still slightly uncomfortable with pretty.
When Susannah informed me that she had nominated me for a blog award, well you had better believe I went right away to pick it up. And here it is--
“This blog invests and believes, in ‘proximity’ meaning, that blogging makes us 'close'. They are all charming blogs, and the majority of them aim to show the marvels of friendship; there are persons who are not interested when we give them a prize, and then they help to cut these bows; do we want that they are cut, or that they propagate? Then let’s try to give more attention to them! So with this prize we must deliver it to eight bloggers that in turn must make the same thing and put this text.”
Isn't it pretty? Anyone who thinks that I am not interested in a prize clearly does not know me. I would wrestle you for a prize, so I gratefully accept this pretty award, thankful that I did not have to wrestle anyone for it, and no, my finger is not in my nose.
I would like to pass it on to the following pretty bloggers.
In random order:
with love from pittsburgh
whale ears and other wonderings
house of beauty and culture
There you go, a prize as good as shiny pennies, with butterflies, in Portuguese, for believing in proximity... may you wear it well.
I feel charming, Oh, so charming It's alarming how charming I feel! And so pretty That I hardly can believe I'm real. See the pretty girl in that mirror there: Who can that attractive girl be? Such a pretty face, Such a pretty dress, Such a pretty smile...Out-T.