I wanted to do it all. I wanted to be like Madonna.
In fact, that’s exactly what I told my babysitter: “I want to be like Madonna when I grow up.”
“Madonna?” she inquired. “But why?”
“Singer, writer, painter.”
Of course, this was back when “Mr. Peabody’s Apples,” written and illustrated by Madonna, was one of my favorite books. I was inspired by someone who could do it all–the Hannah Montana of my youth.
I was also inspired by sing-along karaoke at the children’s museum. Almost every week I would go and jam with my friends, and my babysitter. We would record CD’s in the studio, like Britney Spears’s “Hit Me Baby One More Time” and strum on the plastic guitars. You would’ve thought I’d turn out differently, that I wouldn’t be a presidential scholar at a fine university. You wouldn’t assume that I’d be listening to “Call Me Maybe” right now. Or maybe you would given my childhood.
We once tried to grow a rubber brain. Probably because ours were too small. We dunked it into the babysitter’s swimming pool for at least thirty minutes. Weird shit.
When I was nine, I wanted my first real job–at the mall serving pretzels, or at least lemonade. I basically just wanted to wear the visor. Which is why my babysitter, my bestie, and I went up to each hot dog stand and asked what the minimum age for workers was. Dammit, 16.
Now I’m older, wiser. I still want to be a writer…but I also want to grow a rubber brain.