Neuterville

 

Non-Fiction--really

 

I grew up in Neuterville. My dad was neuter. My mom was neuter-er. We were as genderless as my doll, Dee Dee Diaper, who had a pinprick hole between her little bowed legs. When I squeezed water into her mouth from the plastic baby bottle, it ran right through onto the ground, but none of us ever peed. Certainly no one pooped or farted. Also, no one in the family wore underwear, none that I ever saw, even in the laundry, because you learned to tuck it down underneath out of sight. My mother gave birth four times but was never pregnant. How could she be, here in Neuterville?

 

For two decades, I completely avoided being naked. I got dressed underneath my nightie, then whipped it off. At bedtime, I put my nightie on over my clothes, then took my clothes out from under. I never saw my dad in an undershirt nor my mother in a slip, because we were never naked. We were neuter. We lived in Neuterville.

 

Not coincidentally, our pets also lived in Neuterville. When Fang mounted the neighbor’s Cocker Spaniel, my mother told me they were playing hopscotch. They were really good at it. When our neighbor girl with the unfortunate name of Rosy Dix, sprouted breasts and appeared at the lake wearing a two-piece bathing suit-but only the bottom piece -  I was banished from the beach.

 

Even in Neuterville, a girl eventually turns 13, and here’s what happens. You are minding your own business in your bedroom, doing homework. Your social studies book is open to the chapter “How the Pilgrims and The Indians Became Good Friends.” You have your PJs on. Your grandfather’s homemade radio, fashioned from a kit, sits on your desk. You wear the same Bakelite headset your grandpa did in 1920 and listen to Jack Benny on Sunday nights. Suddenly, your bedroom door opens. You catch the briefest flash of your mother’s face, and she sails an LP record right over your head and onto the bed and slams the door. Even Donna, the dullard next door, would be curious about this event, so I take off the headset, walk to the bed and pick up the record. It’s in a plain, dark blue jacket with a sticker that says Chelsea Michigan Public Library. Printed in large white letters were these words: “What Every Young Lady Needs to Know.” Even the Princess of Neuterville knew what that meant.

 

But, here was my problem: Let me explain the layout of our house. My bedroom opened to the living room. In the corner of the living room was a grapefruit tree my dad had grown from a seed. It got really tall which made him very proud, and he couldn’t bear to prune it back, so he cut a round hole in the ceiling tile and let it continue growing on up into his bedroom. That wasn’t my problem. In the other corner was the Barkalounger where you’d have to sit carefully to avoid flipping over backwards. That wasn’t my problem either. My problem was in between the tree and the recliner. It was a large walnut box on long legs with brass feet and a cloth front--our HiFi record player. Now you see my problem, me living in Neuterville and all. Imagine playing “Everything a Young Lady Needs to Know” in the living room, right in front of my parents who thought all a young lady needed to know was she better not ever get nekked, pee, or go swimming with Rosy Dix.

 

Post Script: Girl from Neuterville marries man from Let It All Hang Out. They live happily and awkwardly ever after.