Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase Read Free Page A

going.
    “Jennifer, eat your dinner before it gets cold,” my father admonishes. Yeah, he’s definitely still salty about driving to Connecticut. Honestly, I don’t know why we came all that way to eat at some cheesy diner, either. Our house in New Jersey is, like, five miles from the bridge into New York City. Surely someone there sells lobsters?
    Resigned, but not about to be beaten, I pick it up by the front claw and attempt to take a bite. I figure maybe the shell gets soft during cooking and it turns all tasty like those crabs in Baltimore? I bite down and suddenly fear I may have busted a baby tooth.
    “No, stupid, that’s not how you eat it! Dummy! You tried to eat the shell! Ha!” my brother crows. Laugh it up, Toad. When your Farrah Fawcett poster 8 gets mysteriously ripped next week, we’ll see what’s so funny then.
    “You have to tear it open. Do it like this.” Mom takes her hands and demonstrates what looks like the ultimate Indian burn technique. “Once you’ve twisted it open, then you tear it apart.”
    I do as I’m told but I’m surprised by how hard this thing is to twist. Big Mean Green still has some fight left in him. It takes me a couple of tries, but I finally get this bastard turned. Then I pull it apart and . . . aahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
    “What is that?!” I scream, pointing at all the tiny horrible pink balls that have come bouncing out of my lobster’s body.
    “Oh, that’s the egg sac. You must have a female. You should eat those, they’re delicious!” my mother exclaims. Um, yeah. I would rather kiss a public toilet than bring this stuff within a foot of my mouth.
    You’d think after eight years of fighting on all issues dietary and wardrobe-related, she might have some idea about what I do and do not find acceptable. Perfect example? Earlier today I got my present. All I’ve asked for practically since I turned seven was a Bella Dancerella Barbie. She’s got flowing curly blond hair but it’s slicked back in a loose ponytail and topped with a crown, so that right there makes her cooler than all the Barbies with stick-straight hair. She’s not all rubbery like the other Barbies, either—instead her limbs are firm plastic and her waist is jointed so you can make her do ballet. She can spin and do splits and she comes with toe shoes and a tutu. A tutu, I tell you!
    So this morning we’re eating pancakes 9 and my mom hands me an oblong box and I get all excited because there’s only one thing that comes in a box this shape, right? I rip off the paper and come face-to-tear-drop-shaped-head with some messed-up Hallmark-Precious-Moments-Holly-Hobby-nightgown-wearing bullshit doll with a soft shapeless cotton body and a neck that couldn’t possibly support her own pumpkin head.
    Yeah. I wanted the Dancerella Barbie and instead I got a doll with gigantism and male-pattern baldness.
    My mom was all excited so I couldn’t even ask, “Why would you give me this?” I had to pretend that I liked it, but I feel guilty every time I look at it because I hate it. I should be grateful, but bad gifts offend me because they say one of two things: either Even though I’ve never seen you play with a baby doll and you’ve made your distaste for them quite clear, I’m going to give you one anyway in an attempt to force you to conform to my idea of how my daughter should be , or I bought what was on sale .
    Now not only am I stuck with Baby Big Head, but Barbie and I are going to have to call in favors from the stuffed animal brigade in order to send her out on a double date just to ease my guilt . . . and yet this problem pales in comparison to the idea of my birthday dinner containing nothing but reproductive organs.
    I twist my lobster again and more horrible parts fall out. I shudder. “The green stuff? What’s the oozy green stuff?”
    My brother chimes in. “Tomalley, dummy. That’s the lobster’s liver! You’ve got lobster liver on your plate! That makes you a lobster liver