Curly Shirley Marshmallow, Curly for Short

From the time I was in kindergarten through first grade I lived in Franklin, Massachusetts. Franklin is located just a bit outside of Boston. For fun day trips my family would drive up to Kittery, Maine to the trading post. We would go to the trading post, shop for the day and then meander over to Ben and Jerry’s where we would have a lovely lunch of clam strips and fries followed by ice cream.

The trading post is an interesting building that looks like a cross between a retail store and a log cabin with its plaster sides and prominent beams. There was a large target over the entrance with the words trading post spanning its diameter. There was also a sign proclaiming that they take pelts for trade. Yes, the trading post accepts pelts as a form of currency.

Trips to the trading post were always an adventure. The shelves were filled with all sorts of fleeces, decorative boxes and my favorite, stuffed animals. Every time we went to the trading post I always spent a healthy amount of time perusing the stuffed animal section. One particular visit I spotted a stuffed dog that i instantly fell in love with.

He was white and had curly, fluffy fur, perfect for nuzzling my face in. His eyes and nose were both shiny and black and his eyebrows gave him a comical yet understanding look. He was perfect.

I immediately ran to my mom and begged for the dog. Unfortunately, according to her expert opinion I already had enough stuffed animals and she was not going to spend any money to add to my collection. I begged, I bargained, I may have even shed a few tears. All of my antics were to no avail; I left that day dog less and heartbroken.

Upon my return home I immediately started scheming and plotting. After all, I am the master of manipulation, and when I want something, nothing can stand in my way. But I had already tried various twists of my tried and true methods. I needed something new to help me out. Months passed and I got on with my life, but I never forgot the dog.

Then, one day the grandparents came to visit and a trip to the trading post was put in the works. It was always a good idea to share the quaintness of Kittery with guests. I was elated. If I couldn’t get my mom to get me the dog, the perhaps I would be able to get my grandparents to buy it for me. I wasn’t sure about the specifics, but I knew that I had to have that dog.

We made the trek to Kittery and went into the trading post. I immediately headed to the stuffed animal section and started looking for the dog. I couldn’t believe it; it was still there. My heart started jumping for joy. I went to my Grandmother’s side and started talking about the most glorious dog that I had seen. I told her all about his wonderful fur, and his nice eyes, and his splendid expression. She didn’t even flinch. I didn’t understand. How could she not jump at the opportunity to buy such a fine specimen? Why was she not as enamored as I was?

I had given up almost all hope that I would ever get the dog that I so coveted. But as we were preparing to leave my grandmother approached me and asked me if there was anything I wanted. Finally. I was so excited that my pitiful looks at the stuffed animals, the high praises that I sung, and the various other signs of longing I had exhibited had finally paid off. I took my Grandmother by the hand and led her back to the stuffed animals where I grabbed the dog from the shelf. She took it from my hands and quickly gave it the once over before heading up to the checkout line. At last, the dog of my dreams was mine.

On the car ride back to Franklin, I named him. Curly Shirley Marshmallow fit perfectly. Curly because that was the name on the tag, Shirley because that is the same sound that begins my middle name and it rhymes with Curly and Marshmallow because he was so fantastically white.

Curly has been my friend from that day on. He resides in a place of honor on my pillow. He travels with me everywhere, in spite of the fact that I am twenty years and far too old to have stuffed animals. His shiny black eyes and nose are now chipped and scratched. His fluffy white fur is now matted, off white, and balding in spots. But he still has that same comical yet understanding expression that caused that I saw from the shelf in Kittery, Main so many years ago.

Bite Me

For two and a half years I was an only child. I loved the fact that I was the sole recipient of my parents’ affection: the only one they played with, the only one they bought things for, the only one they tucked in at night. I loved that life. At the conclusion of those first two and a half blissful years, I received some rather disturbing news; a younger sibling was soon going to be a part of the family. On November 26, 1990 my younger brother, Joseph, was born.

I was able to deal with the newborn, I mean, my parents still needed someone to play with and Joseph couldn’t even hold up his own head up. But as he grew and transformed from an infant to a toddler he became cuter and I became old news. As I started having to share my parents’ attention I started to get jealous.

I didn’t like being forgotten about; I didn’t like being the older sister. I decided that drastic measures needed to be taken to remedy the situation and return me to my rightful position as favorite child. Overthrowing this newcomer was going to take a lot of planning; he had a lot going for him with those crater like dimples and his big brown eyes. But I was up for the challenge.

One day as Joseph and I were playing I noticed how he did whatever I asked. It was then that I had an ingenious idea. I wandered over to my brother and held out my arm to him and said, “Bite me.” He looked up at me with confusion in his big brown eyes. Biting was wrong, that was one of the things he knew was true. But he also knew that he should do whatever his older sister said. She loved him and only had his best interests at heart. His poor little brain was thrown into a state of turmoil.

“Bite me” I urged again. He gently opened up his jaws and placed them around my forearm. “Harder” I said. He applied a bit more pressure on my arm. “Harder” more pressure followed. “Joseph, bite me as hard as you can.” He was now biting me so hard that he was grunting and his head was shaking with the effort.

I left my arm in his mouth for a few seconds. Then I ripped my arm out of his mouth and looked at the perfect imprint of his teeth on my arm. Smiling an evil smirk I turned on the waterworks and went running down the hallway screaming and gingerly holding my wounded arm. “Mom, Joseph bit me!” I wailed. Mom cast a quick glance at my arm, saw the bite mark and stormed off down the hallway to where Joseph was playing peacefully.

He didn’t even see it coming. Mom’s wrath hit him like a ton of bricks. She smacked his hand and took him into the bathroom to wash his mouth out with soap. I watched with a sly grin on my face and some leftover sniffles escaping for show. Mom came in after leaving Joseph crying in his room and came back to attend to me. She brought me some ice and sat with me giving me the attention that I had so longed for.

I used this scam for years. My brother never lost his unwavering trust in me. My mom thought that my brother had a serious biting problem and thought that she shouldn’t send him to preschool because he could be a danger to the other kids. And I never seemed to develop a conscience.

The Beginning

I love stories. I love reading them, watching them on T.V, telling them. Everyone has a story. Everyone has something to share, something that could touch another person in some way shape or form. Something about them that could bring laughter, or tears, to another persons face. I love to listen to other people as they share stories from their lives, and I love to tell stories of my own. Hopefully the stories that will follow will entertain you and make you laugh. And hopefully they will get you thinking about the stories that you could share.