The Care Bears Killed It

Once upon time I was a laughing little girl. Despite (two) bouts of head lice, a crooked ear, and one post-diaper incident of crapping my pants, I was a happy girl, whose small brown eyes bubbled over with dreams.

After womanly life changes, poor wardrobe choices, and a handful of disappointments, I realized that everything I ever dreamed of  might be different from the things I’d truly hold. In the matters of love, I (with the encouragement of society) pointed my finger at those syrup-happy fairy tales. Prince Charming, castles, magic balls, sleeping (or poisoned) beauties, they sucked me in to their edited worlds of joy, and implausible rescues from disenchanted lives.

Or did they?

Fairy tales and they’re makers aren’t exactly innocent in the matters of under-age brainwash, but who is the absolute worst?

Care Bears.

I came to this epiphany during a recent jaunt through a toy store. As soon as I walked past the plush smiling bears with their dazzling tummy-symbols, I journeyed back to my long-repressed childhood dream.

It was all because of him…Tenderheart bear. With a big red heart as his Care Bear tummy symbol, he was all about expressing feelings and being nice, and he helped the other bears be as caring as can be. I would watch his exploits on the Care Bears cartoon with glee, and my heart would fill with blinding joy,  whenever he brought out the best in his fellow bear.

In other words…he was my childhood version of a “dream man.” Not the handsome Eric from “The Little Mermaid”, but Tenderheart, the one with big supplies of the purest kind of heart. And so, for my whole adult life, I blindly searched for the nicest man with the biggest heart, never knowing that in reality…I was searching for a goddamn Care Bear.

Which means that even though I rejected fairy tales like any grown-up woman should, I subconsciously longed for a talking magic bear to be my lover.

Oops.

And it’s not like the madness ended there. Every time I’m on a plane and we fly above the clouds, I consider diving straight into those big white balls of puff. I wonder if there’s a secret society in those clouds, with smiling bears, and cloud-made cars, and magic streams from tummies that can turn all bad to good. I’ve never actually jumped from the Emergency Exit though, since reality tells me that the outcome would be less than great.

And isn’t that the only thing reality ever does? Buzz-kill. Which begs the question, why even have all this fantasy at all? Build up the kids so we can crush them later on? Well excuse me, but that seems counter-productive.

I may scold the world but I still want to fix it, so I hereby propose that cartoons be replaced with reality. We could fund it through the government as a Child-Assistance program, and structure it as once-a-week field trips.  Field trips would begin at age five, and vary as such: go to a restaurant and watch a sleazy man nonchalantly dump his gal (then reverse roles, because it’s not like women are saints); spend a day on the street in the company of your neighbourhood friendly homeless man; try to endure a three-hour boardroom meeting (there’s nothing else beyond that, just make them endure it);  observe a middle-aged woman as she checks her latest matches on e-Harmony…I could go on.

In short: so much reality, so little future disappointment! I wish I could go back…

Maybe it’s too late for our society though,  since we naturally coddle youngsters, but if my blog transmits to a brand new alien society, I highly recommend the extinction of dreams (or at the very least, the murder of the  sweet and caring Tenderheart).

Right then, time to leave the bear enclave and find a real live man (any man, I guess…)

Dear Womanizing Crap-Bag: It’s Not Your Fault!

When I saw this article explaining how boys with nannies are likely to turn into womanizers, I said “Enough!”

Between that article, studies which explain why men are obsessed with boobs, and inventing the term “sex addict” to excuse for infidelity, I am sick and tired of wandering wing-wangs relying on Psychology back-up.

Screw your wing-wangs!

Oh wait, I think that part is already covered.

I suppose the next step is to retreat into the bosom of Feminism, and demand equal rights in the matter of defending female flaws.

Well…no. I’m actually free of shoe-obsessions, or shopping addictions (mostly), or taking twenty hours to get ready for the movies. I do however, have a gender-neutral background full of shame. Up until recently, my life-shame had a crippling effect. But after sharing my story with a team of top-notch shrinks?

I’m officially excused!

And so I give you, a Psychology-approved selected rundown of my flaws:

-I’m sarcastic to the point of meanness, because I spent my early childhood in barrels of acidic fruit

-I refuse to reciprocate friendliness in an elevator, since elevators are like boxes and a box is what I got for Christmas one year (just the box)

-I elbow strangers at the bustling Union Station, since my older brother used to elbow-drop me in the eighties, like it was non-stop Wrestlemania (misplaced revenge? Hell yes.)

-Though I’m nearly twenty-nine years old, a slap fight with my sister is not beyond the prospect of reality. This stems from a past of “high-fiving” our friends until it hurt (or in other words, positive turned to negative equals bitch-slap bonanza…)

-I sneeze like a man. This is definitely a flaw if you want to get a boyfriend, and I blame it on my father, who’s had me shovelling snow, mowing the lawn, and building ready-to-assemble furniture since 1996 (it’s classic “manwashing”…save me before it’s too late!)

Wow, I feel so much better now, and YOU can too! For a free psychological analysis, please contact the celebrated experts via email:

Iwastedmyparentscollegefund@ridiculousassdegrees.com

(and for those of you who don’t know me in-real-life: yes, I minored in Psychology…sigh)