I've never bought my daughter a doll. There are a few lying around the house, gifts from relatives and friends. So far she has shown no interest. Her favorite toy? A fishing pole that she carries around the house and into the tub, casting it around and catching whatever the little, plastic hook will grab onto. I've untangled the bastard from more body parts things than I care to mention.



I'm not going to lie, I'm secretly thrilled she digs the fishing pole. And Serge, well, come on. He's been brainwashing her since birth.


I'm sure he reads fly fishing manuals to her when I'm not around. At her age reading is all in the intonation, you know? Once upon a time the beautiful princess was learning to tie flies. Her handsome dad, the king, decreed that everyone in the kingdom must always start with the Mustad 94840 in sizes 14 and 16 for most dry flies and the Mustad 3906 in sizes 12 and 14 for most nymphs...

Much to my mom's disappointment, I don't go for foofy or frilly. No lacy dresses, no giant bows on my baby's head. I don't judge, it's just not my thing. Now, if Violet starts asking to wear pumpkin-sized bows that obscure her entire head, fine. I may be bummed but if it's her thing, it's her thing, I just ain't inflicting it on her.

That's kind of how I feel about dolls. If she asks for a Barbie, she can have one. But I don't want to hand her baby dolls and Barbies just because she's a girl. I don't want to lead her in any direction, just because of her sex.

Now that I think about it, that hooker wannabe Barbie totally blows. Where is Skipper? Is Skipper still around? With tits out to there, feet only made for high heels and that creepy smooth area where her Lady Parts are supposed to be, I'm not sure Barbie is the kind of thing Violet, or any child, needs to grow up staring at.

I overheard a co-worker on the phone today. She was upset that her babysitter painted her 18-month-old's fingernails. I completely understand. I'm not a fan of pierced baby ears, fingernail polish and you'd have to shoot me and bury my bloated body six feet under before I'd allow Violet to participate in a beauty pageant at any age. I cannot even count the ways in which they horrify me. Won't even vote in those cutest baby photo contests let alone submit a photo.

You can argue beauty pageants engender poise and confidence but I'll disagree with you until Donald Trump gets a grip and removes that dead fox attached to the top of his head or Mel Gibson is back on top at the box office, whichever comes first.

Where do the ladies learn the poise and confidence? Is it the part where they acquire the rabid eating disorder in the months spent preparing for the pageant or is it the part where they trot across a stage in a swimsuit and heels, ass cheeks a talk-talkin while a bunch of creepy judges goggle at all the tits and ass and then rate them from one to ten? Oh wait, you must be referring to the part of the pageant where they're asked a really important question to which they bullshit a non-answer, smile and wink. That's the confidence part, right? Or is it the poise part?

And do we really need to get into the nightmare that is the children's beauty pageant? Those parents need to be poked, prodded, spray-tanned then strung up by their genitals.

This may prove unpopular with a lot of my contemporaries but I'm also not too keen on those dance classes little girls take. You know, the ones where they put on all the make-up and tease their hair into a whirlwind of sparkles and hairspray?

I understand the benefits of dance class and I love dancing. I may dance like Elaine Benes, but much to the embarrassment of friends and family, I do enjoy shaking a tail feather every now and again. And there's nothing sweeter than little girls in their little leotards with their little tap shoes.

Dancing is awesome, so maybe it's just the recitals that have gone awry? Some renegade from the goddamn Toddlers & Tiaras brigade got a little nutty with dime store blush and a can of Aqua Net. With the hair, make-up and costumes appropriate for maybe Joan Collins circa Dallas. Or was it Dynasty? Who shot J.R.? Shit, I can never remember. I'm just saying, little girls with hands on hips shaking their bony, little booties creep me out. Pouty, lipsticked lips? Sweet Jesus.

Or am I an uptight assface and it's all in good fun?

As a child I wore poofy dresses and bows and frilly underwear and even had a brief stint as a model at the local mall. I was also a huge pain in the ass when I was four.

Mom relishes telling the story of how I liked to take up three chairs in Sunday School. I'd sit on the middle chair and fan out my dress across the seats to the right and left and Heavenly Father help anyone who tried to sit on my attire. Mom tells the story as if I was just the cutest little thing. What an asshole, I always think about four-year-old Monica. She needed a good smack to the noggin. Dressing up and modeling had a negative affect on me. I was aware of clothing and what was supposed to be "pretty" way before I should have been.

It's a fine line, man. I don't want to predispose Violet to scoffing at stereotypical girly-girl things like I'm doing right now even though I've enjoyed many a girly-girl item in my past. Many women find great enjoyment in clothes, make-up and just the right pair of shoes. A lot of folks like dance recitals showcasing little girls with big hair. Sure all that stuff may help build Violet's confidence. But I want to raise a woman who doesn't think she needs those things to kick ass and take names. A woman who knows her worth comes from what's inside.

But hell, that all goes out the window anyway the minute she hits double digits and makes friends with girly-girls who tell her she's, like, SO NOT cool if she doesn't have whatever-it-is that whoever-it-is has dubbed the hip thing in 2020.

It's just so goddamn tricky, this raising a girl business.