Heidi Would Never Have Done This

Not that long ago, I was watching one of my newer addictions -HGTV; a virtual smörgåsbord of reno shows, ohgreatsecondraterealtorhelpusfindourfirsthome shows, the I'm a Euro showoff and two homes for the price of one shows. You know, that kind of thing.

One of the phrases that tickled me was "man cave", a phrase here which refers to a section of the house where the male spouse can kick back, play darts or pool, surf for porn wife gifts, shamelessly scratch himself, fart with abandon (ignition optional), and generally get in touch with the primate side from whence he came.

It then dawned on me that as a young girl, I had something vaguely similar - the "Child Cave".

This little feat of engineering was constructed by my father, shortly after I had watched a Sunday rerun of Shirley Temple in "Heidi", and was bemoaning the fact that we did not live in a wee, cramped, one-room, outdoor-plumbing style Swiss Chalet. Instead, we were stuck like fools inside a sprawling rancher.

Yeah, I could be nostalgic like that even then - all about the old-y days when peeing on a rock out back + no heat inside = good times.

My "Child Cave" had no modern amenties - my father kept the Alpen/Heidi design true to form - instead, we were left to our own devices. Such a mistake.

And while my mother would choose to buy into the fantasy that we were having tea parties, and playing Barbies - the harsh reality was far more nefarious.

Because the Baroness, back in the day, was a devil-child.

In her devil "Child Cave".

It was here that I gave my Chatty Cathy doll her first (and last) mane trim, which transformed her into Chemo Cathy (oh, the irony) - Age 6

It was here that we smoked pack after pack of stolen cigarettes until the air inside the cave rivalled Monday night at the Bingo Hall - Age 8

And it was here, in the Swiss Chalet/Secret Lair that I began my brilliant writing career. I should mention here that, in a similar vein to Benjamin Button, I started out my life with a freakish intellect and have become increasingly more immature as time has elapsed.

But I digress.

The acme of my writing career, my signature piece, all started after watching another rousing episode of "Get Smart" with my next-door-neighbor, Ronnie.

He and I decided, after having our heads filled with CHAOS agents, Cold War and all things spy-ish, that there could be evil lurking in our very own burg. It was up to us to send a message (such as it was) to let the perpetrators know that we were on to them.

And it ultimately was up to me, the well-read, hyper-informed, psychotically-wired Baroness, to create said missive.

You know, just to give them a heads up that we were onto them, and that they better skedaddle before a more severe brand of our wrath fell upon them.

Who were these targets of our vigilante-ism? I can't remember them all, but I do recall that a few of them were associates with whom there had been schoolyard fallings-out.

The one I do remember was poor Alan Thorpe.

The only crime that Alan ever executed was sliding out of his mother's birth canal approximately 2 years after his sister Sharon. Sharon was, for a time, one of the Baroness' BFFN, and Alan was an ever-present piece of irksomeness that totally put a cramp in our style.

We had, once, tried to get rid of him for a few hours by daring him to shove cherry pits, one after another after another, up his nose.

This was effective - for a time - but the trip to the emergency room and the subsequent wait was short-lived, and unfortunately had no lingering effect on our nemesis.

I took matters into my own hands and decided that, for the sake of Sharon and BvonB playtime, a more dramatic stance was required. Cherry pits? What were we thinking? Total amateur hour.

I would now send a message.

A hand-written, totally traceable (I may have even signed it) message.

Ronnie and I came up with the following - the note of all notes that would make the recipient's blood run cold and impel them to simultaneously go running for a suitcase to split for destination unknown.

Ya ready? Because it was so cruel, so bilious, so utterly creepy:

Diaper Pants Pinky, GO HOME!

Brilliant, or what?

I had started with "Pinko", a phrase I'd heard often in the news and read of in all of the advanced literature I had at my disposal. But Ronnie, plebeian 7 year old that he was, had never heard of this, and was stupidly unaware of its scathing implications (Somedays, I swear, it was so taxing to have co-conspirators).

I don't really need to tell you that it was he who changed "Pinko" to "Pinky". And then threw in the "Diaper Pants" for good measure. (He had recently been visited by a baby brother, and I guess that to his small mind, this was a pretty good smack-down).

Why I acquiesced troubles me to this day. But I did, and I sadly cannot change history.

The "Go Home", in retrospect, was kind of lame. I'm recalling that at the time, I thought this was the ultimate slam - a "Go back to where you came from" country-of-origin thing. Very edgy, highly xenophobic.

But again in retrospect, I made the first mistake of writing - I didn't consider my audience - they were not going to be getting this thinly-veiled threat.

"Go Home"?
Huh?
I'm already home.
What does this even mean?
Well, this is just stupid.

Needless to say, the whole exercise was a wash, and the resulting phone calls from irate parents to my sainted mother left her none too amused. Even less amusing was the forced apologizing by me to each and every one of my victims. Me no likee the taste of humble pie. Ronnie, like the good second fiddle he was, went deep undercover and escaped unscathed (maybe not so dim after all...)

As for the Secret Lair? Our cover had been blown. Under heavy interrogation involving a kitchen chair and a bare overhead lightbulb and a wooden spoon waving in the air, my mother extracted from me all that she needed to know, as to where all this illicit activity had taken place to begin with.

And, well - I caved. Like a child.