That probably will come as a huge surprise to most of you--since I'm by no means weird at all now.
We lived 24 miles from town. Farmer/Rancher type people work alot so there really wasn't much daily interaction with other kids my own age. My best friends were furry, lived in books or were imaginary. If you've forgotten about my best, most true and faithful (and imaginary) friend, Joann, you can read about her here.
So anyway, I pretty much lived in a fantasy world. Read on to discover where literature will get you.
Because of my voracious reading and the sometime lack of age appropriate reading materials, I had a large vocabulary that was pretty raw and ready. I went around calling my sister and brother "queer" as in weird one day. My mom kept telling me to stop because it wasn't nice but would not explain what 'wasn't nice' about it. She did that a lot, come to think of it. It must be a mother thing 'cause Les told me that he and his brother said "Grand Prix" just like it is spelled and his mom didn't like it and wouldn't tell them why either!
So anyway back to me cause that's who this post is about--my weirdness.
A friend gave me a box of lovely scented floral note paper in grade school. I didn't want to use it cause it was "too dear." There were alot of Zane Grey and other dusty, yellow paged books that were around the house so perhaps this is where my frontier terminology came from.
I had a white linen pantsuit in 8th grade. Why? Because I read in some Harlequin Romance about some oil magnate buying one for his mousy secretary and it made her instantly beautiful and glamorous and his fiancée Sadly, it didn't work for me.
Did you read Harlequins? My best friend and I did. In fact that's what we did when we were together. My favorites were set in Greece and everything ended with opolis. My next favorite kind were set in the British Isles. People (wealthy, self-made millionaires) drove Range Rovers and had rustic country houses and ate grilled tomatoes and steak for supper. And it was perpetually rainy. And the secretary was always a wimpy orphaned waif who needed a big, strong and virile man to take care of her. (I had no idea what virile was) And then he bought her some clothes and she became a spitfire. With occasional bouts of weepiness...
Man I loved those books. Now they are all about babies and magic and the "S" word. And I don't mean sleep.
Many stories herein are subject to the faulty, and sometimes creative, memory of the blog owner and should not be taken as factual, although the names and events are real! Kind of.