Sunday, August 20, 2006

ThePeach Wins a Colouring Contest; Loses Innocence

I have only ever won 2 contests in my entire life, and both of them occurred when I was under the age of 8. I peaked early. One of these contests was a goat-herding competition that I won when I was 5. I am not shitting you. No, I did not grow up in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, attend cow-pie high, and marry my brother – but I did go to the yearly fair that my city threw, and part of this fair included letting grubby children man-handle domesticated animals. In this competition, smelly roadies encouraged parents to let their pre-school aged children run around in a pen with about 20 goats enclosed within. The goal was to be the first child to herd 3 goats into their “home”, a.k.a. sad and tiny cage. I dominated the competition, dragging those motherfucking goats into their cages with a surprising strength and rage that would foreshadow my later behaviour in life. I was given the blue ribbon, and I believe I was so proud that I wore it to kindergarten, pinned to my osh-gosh-b’gosh overalls, for an entire week. I still have it somewhere, unless my mom sold it in the infamous “purge the house of all memories of CoorsLight and any precious childhood tokens that we could possibly clutch to in a desperate attempt to convince ourselves that our childhood wasn’t completely disastrous, while we’re away at University so that we can’t stop you, so that you and your new bf can make a fresh start, you crazy bitch” garage sale. Actually, she probably did sell it.

I failed to mention that, when I won the blue ribbon in goat herding, 2-year TigerCat was so effing jealous that she threw a raging, screaming, huggies-soiling temper tantrum until the roadies could be convinced to sell my mom another, identical ribbon to appease her. Skank steals all my thunder.

The only other contest I have ever won was a colouring contest when I was around 8 years old. My Dad, in a glowing display of parenting, took TigerCat and me to the horse-tracks for the day so that he could get his gambling and beer fix. He liked to call the track “the ‘pones” (the ponies, for those of you who aren’t down with dysfunctional parent lingo), and I will continue that tradition. As he continued to lose, swear, smoke, and drink – I got bored. So my dad let TigerCat and I go see what was going on in the tented area of the ‘pones. Miracle of miracles – it was a children’s tent!! Apparently there were enough parents addicted to gambling that the ‘pones actually organized activities to keep their poor, future-gamble-holic children entertained! Sweetness. One of the activities was a coloring contest, where you had to colour a picture of *shock!!!* a wee ‘pone running on a track. I crayoned that motherfucking ‘pone like an artist. The ‘pone glimmered in various shades of brown, white, and black as he ran down a golden track. I knew I would win. You might even say that I would have bet on it.

I did win. I won 50 bucks. To an 8-year old, it is a fortune. It is an endless supply of gummy-bears, stickers, and sparkly scrunchies. TigerCat and I jumped up and down with excitement, probably holding each other’s hands and squealing with an innocent glee.

We made our way back up to where my Dad was sitting to tell him of my fortune.

8-year old Peach: Daddy!! Daddy!! I won the colouring contest!!! My pony was the best pony!!
5-year old TigerCat: It’s true!! It’s true!!
Peach/Tiger Dad: Put on your sweaters, we’re going home. And we can no longer go get ice cream.
8-year old Peach: Daddy!! Daddy!! I can buy us ice cream!! I won 50 dollars!!
5-year old TigerCat: It’s true!! It’s true!!
Peach/Tiger Dad: …50 buckaroos?
8-year old Peach: 50 buckaroos!!
Peach/Tiger Dad:…Well, that’s just great sweetie. But you know what’s even better than 50 buckaroos?
8-year old Peach/5-year old TigerCat: WHAT??!! WHAT??!!
Peach/Tiger Dad: 100 buckaroos!!! And if you let Daddy put your money on the next race, we can turn it into 100 buckaroos if our pony wins!
8-year old Peach: 100 BUCKAROOS!!??!! GAMBLING IS THE BEST!!

Do I really need to tell you the rest of the story?

Our pony lost, and it was my fault for picking a loser. That’s how I pieced it together, anyway. My dad swore a blue streak, TigerCat probably cried, we all went home, and no one got any ice cream.

You would think that this event might have turned me off gambling, but unfortunately that is not the case. TigerCat and I both might have minor gambling problems. I can’t pass a casino without going in and losing twenty bucks to the slots – or, as I like to call them, the sluts. I buy scratch tickets every time I enter a convenience store. I am not allowed to go to Vegas.

I got high this weekend with a group of friends and relayed the story of the ‘pones to them. They all laughed hysterically, and FauxHawk looked relieved that he had solved at least a minor portion of the mystery that is the causes of my neuroses. One of my friends, TheCastrato, sings in a band and is now considering naming it “50 Bucks at the ‘Pones”.

I think it’s catchy.



Asian Cymbals said...


Also, sooo sad.


This is WAY worse than my father taking all our Chinese New Year money when we were little!

The Peach said...

You don't know how comforting it is to know that other people's fathers stole money from them when they were little.

When he was bored, your father used to shut you in the basement, turn off all the lights, and whisper "Skelettes...Willipones..." (dad-slang for skeletons and were-wolves) through the door until you cried too, right?

...My parents shouldn't have been allowed to procreate.

Asian Cymbals said...

In fact, both my parents used to lock me in the basement when I was little, despite much screaming on my part. They said I was misbehaving and they had no choice, but in Chinese terms, that probably meant I didn't clean out my rice bowl, or I stopped practising piano a few minutes early. They didn't whisper scary things, but they knew I was terrified of the basement. They knew my soul could do the whispering for them.

Oh Peach. Hold me.

the Hubby said...

Oh god, reading this brought back horrible memories of my own childhood....not gambling memories, but....Imagine wearing OshKoshB'Gosh clothing when you have my name.....and you live next to Oshawa. Kinds in kindergatern were so mean!

Anonymous said...

You think that's bad, hubby? Imagine having your name rhyme with a bodily function....

I can't believe I just told you all that.

The Peach said...

Which bodily function!!??

Is it feces? Please, tell me it's feces.

Anonymous said...

Yes, you're right... in a manner of speaking.

But it's actually a synonym for #1 I'm referring to in a rhyming sense.

The Diva said... parents used to chase my brother around with a wooden spoon (i the angel merely got threatened with it)but my bro had a couple broken on his tushy
in italian we call it 'the paletta'
i sometimes still have a hard time cooking....