A “Funny Girl” Story
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I’m Marvin, a chubbier-than-normal boy of twelve who had not yet hit puberty. I liked to play with girls. Sometimes they’d say mean things like telling me I had boobs.
I wanted to play with Barbies (sometimes not nicely). Maybe I liked boys, but I couldn’t be sure yet. I had kinky hair that stuck out in all directions. I hated my hair.
Flamboyant Eleanor, my mother, ran my life. As a mother, she hand-picked my friends, leading to quirky dilemmas. Most of my Eleanor-made friends had personality defects. Each always had a single parent.
As the type of person who made a hobby of careful suggestions for guidance to compadres, Eleanor meant well. Yet, even with the repetition of the tips for improving life’s circumstances, she didn’t transform into a nagging shrew.
Eleanor’s intentions were good, as she offered constructive criticism that was desperately needed and offered paternalistically. She cared.
Eleanor was a mother to the world.
The gal pals involved in you-should-do-that and you-should-do-this usually accepted her advice. If they didn’t, Eleanor would buy their…
