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2005-04-15 - 5:22 a.m. a dramatic monologue written as a formal assignment for my writing course It always struck me as odd that Nanny was a dog. Nannies are supposed to be with you until you're grown; dogs only live a decade or so. Then one day I realized that my parents had bought a dog-nanny as a simple means of economizing; after all, Wendy Darling would be All Grown Up by the time that slobbery mutt died, and wouldn't I just be the perfect little lady to take care of my two little brothers. I never wanted to grow up either, you know. But you can only leave the dishes out on the counter so long before the mice come, and they get into your hair at night, and the hair, my god the hair on those lost little boys! The boys would cry and whimper so pitifully when the mice strangled and suffocated to death in their dreads. I would have to pick out the fragile little corpses, being careful not to crush them, so they could be buried at sea as was befitting their tragic and untimely deaths. I tried just breaking all the dishes, but that took too much time. So one day I did the washing up. It was only a short step from that to the laundry, and then to bathing the boys themselves... And suddenly I couldn't be their friend, their lover, their equal, because they needed me to be their mother. Because little lost boys who don't want to grow up are usually weak and stubborn and feeble-minded and haven't the gumption to treat a ladygirl as a friend instead of as a nanny. And so I married a young businessman from East Yorkshire, had a few children, and Grew Up (quite possibly in that order). I was happy, in a fashion. I had good things in my life, pretty things. And I almost loved my husband. But I was never quite ... fulfilled... with him in bed, if you understand me. There's just something... lacking... in a man who doesn't know how to fly. --mopheaded is sprinkling pixie dust as we speak
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