This is Brought to You by the Letter B

So, everyone was supposed to do their “b” blog yesterday, and it’s only the third day, and I’m totally slacking.  However, no one blogs for the challenge on Sunday’s and so I have a day to catch up on my blogging and actually write a good, proper “b” blog.  The problem is: I’m having total brain farts today…and yesterday.  I can’t seem to think of anything that would be cool (in the most corny sense of the word) enough for an entire blog on something “b.”

I was thinking Barbies, but that’s been so over done by women trying to help each other through body image issues.  Barbie is a hot topic.  Plus, do I really want to give a doll more press that is made by the hands of children who get little to no pay for sewing her stringy hair on her plastic head?  And this is all so tiny, pigtailed American girls can grab the pink boxes out of Target, take the Barbie home and cut all her hair off in the bathtub (and wait for it to grow back, only to learn that life isn’t fair).  I didn’t think so.

If you followed all of that, that’s awesome – that was a bit of a rant that I didn’t even know was coming out of me.  I think the best place to learn about Barbie is either Denise Duhamel’s book of poetry called My Body, all about the different and fucked-up Barbies, or Eve Ensler’s book, I am an Emotional Creature. To give you a taste of both of these, here is a poem and a quote.

“Girl Fact: Barbie was based on a German doll called Lilli that was sold as a sexy novelty for men.” – Eve Ensler, I am an Emotional Creature, P. 81.


Buddhist Barbie

by Denise Duhamel
In the 5th century B.C.
an Indian philosopher
Gautama teaches "All is emptiness"
and "There is no self."
In the 20th century A.D.
Barbie agrees, but wonders how a man
with such a belly could pose,
smiling, and without a shirt

Another poem (more sexy, racy and “kinky”) can be found here.

I really didn’t think I had that much to say about Barbie.  But another thing I was thinking about was blogging about my mother, obviously, because her names Beatrice (which I think is lovely, and very mythological, and yet still prudish) but she isn’t quite fond of it.  I decided against this because I’ve already written a plinky about both her and my father and therefore it would just be repetitive on what a great woman she is…I’m sure she’d like to see it up here though as she reads this (because my mother reads every single one of my blogs, she’s like a groupie.  Once she told me she wanted to dress up in leather and go to one of my brother’s heavy metal band shows, he’s probably thanking whoever he prays to occasionally that she opt out of this because all his shows are so late).

Here’s a photo so you can get a GREAT mental image of my mothaaaa-unit:

Mothaaa-unit. We look A LOT alike, it's creepy, I know. We can share clothes and all that jazz.

And the last thing I strongly considered was what my mother told me today that I did as a baby – get it, baby is the b-word even though this story is all about hair, which obviously, starts with an h.  Wow, I’m just full of useful information this evening.  When I was a baby, anytime my parents would hold me in their arms, in that way you cradle an infant and strain your neck to look into their eyes, even though they’ll never remember these moments when you made loving eye contact….(rattle), I used to put my hands straight behind my head, in like…a crunch position almost.  I did this because I wanted to slowly pull each lonely hair along my fingertips and then do the next.  I could do it for hours apparently.  The odd part about this story is that today, I search my hair for white-ended hairs (dead hairs) and I pull out each strand that I find.  And I can literally do this for hours. It’s a horrible habit and my dad hates it when I do it at the dinner table around his food and my own.  I personally don’t like it when my hairs get stuck in my mash potatoes and gravy, but that’s what happens when you have a mane, and you’re basically a lion woman.  It’s just odd that I do something when I’m a baby, and then I’ve almost recreated that something as an adult (or almost an adult…when I want to be, I can quasi-be an adult.  I love that word quasi, maybe I’ll use that word for my q-blog).

As you can see this blog has been brought to you by the pointless section of Cassie’s brain, for further information please join her in her sleep, or watch her pick out her hairs at work, or join her for a dance in the shower (because anyone can sing, but honestly…who dances?  Probably only myself and Britney Spears.  A girl’s gotta get her moves back after she shaves her head).

Goodnight everyone! (This is totally in my best comedian voice.  Just put Dave Chappelle’s face on my body).

7 thoughts on “This is Brought to You by the Letter B

  1. Isabelle Gregson says:

    Hi Cassie, I think you did it! You blogged about your brain (I love the expression Brain Farts and will have to borrow it if that’s ok). I really enjoy your blog and the freedom that permeates (ooh big word) your writing. It’s wonderful and fun and I can’t wait to read the next entry. x, isabelle

    • cassiemannes says:

      Thanks Isabelle-the-long-and-short-haired-beauty! You’re right I didn’t even notice the brain and b connection, thanks for pointing it out! And you can totally steal brain farts, my mom says it all the time!

  2. Hart says:

    Love the Barbie rant *teehee* She is evil. I was determined not to let them enter my home, then my (traitorous) BFF bought one for my daughter when she turned 3. Same daughter was likewise, a hair stroker… when she would nurse she would stroke mine, but to put herself to sleep, she’d stroke her own… big bald spot until she was about 2.


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