As regular readers have surmised by now, I am at least six degrees of seperation from normal. And this is no eveloutionary thing; no, I have been like this pretty much from the git-go. Exhibit A: playtime.I was never a kid who grooved on Hot Wheels or trucks. Good lord, no. For me, those were the equivalent of socks at Christmas. I would always wonder what the attraction was for other little boys. The damn things just rolled. Forward and backward. Rolled. That was it. I just didn’t get it.

For me, the real deal was about the tiny people who would fit inside. Who were they and why did they have to travel so fast to their destination? Were they on the run? Were they racing to the hospital to spend a final few moments with a dying loved one who was about to change their will? And how far did they possibly think they could go without stopping for gas, food, or a bathroom break? Plus how could you stage an appropriate pile-up without tiny people crawling from the wreckage and espousing their love for an unconscious and possibly dying partner? These were the aspects of playtime I focused on. Even as a child, that’s what I was fascinated with, the character dynamics.

As I have mentioned in a previous post, I was a big fan of the Mego brand action figures. Those little sons of bitches rocked. About six inches in height with detailed costumes and fifteen points of articulation, they provided an endless possibility of play and poseability for my young mind. Over the course of a couple of years, I had managed to build up a pretty decent collection. In addition to the aforementioned Planet of the Apes cast, I also had Spiderman, Superman, Batman, Robin, the Green Goblin, the Joker, Aquaman, Catwoman, Wonder Woman, and Supergirl. It was the last three that added what many would consider the most perverse aspect of playtime for me.

I would content myself to building elaborate sets out of blocks for my action figures and play quietly for hours in my room while the other kids were outside running and screaming like bashees. As they cavorted in the deadly ultra-violet rays that would someday result in skin cancer and/or wrinkled leathery skin, I was putting my superheroes through their paces.

Gone were any familial relation between Kal-el and Kara; they were now a couple. Ditto Bruce Wayne and Diana Prince. And of course Selina Kyle and Astronaut Taylor were the spoilers to these relationships. Catwoman was mad about Kal and would stop at nothing to have him. In my mind it seemed natural that Kara, being blonde, was obviously good while Selina’s dark blunt bob cut doomed her bad girl status from day one. Even then it was clear that a bad doo cemented one’s societal standing. Not even the cute lil tail on her costume could save her from perpetual villainess status.

Having been raised by my grandmother for most of my early life, I had been exposed to a heady amount of daytime television, particularly soap operas. I was immediately enamored of the open ended storytelling which picked up the story threads the next day and continued. Just like I did with my toys. I can’t count the number of times Selina pushed Kara down a flight of stairs or off a cliff, causing her to lose her baby (a tiny wad of kleenex shoved down the front of her costume to give her belly a slight pooch). The bed was always a mountain cliff and of course Kara would manage to grab hold of something as she was pushed, trying to saying to save herself and her unborn fetus as Selina looked down, her evil smile perpetually molded to her plastic face, as she stomped on Kara’s fingers with her purple plastic boots and cried “He’s mine!” This was always followed by a lengthy slow motion fall with Kara landing in a dramatically posed heap. And I would leave her that way under the bed for literally days while Kal wondered where she was and Selina offered her support.

Of course, Robin would come along, find the now amnesiac Kara and fall in love with her. Once Selina had her claws into Kal, Robin would bring his new bride Kara to visit his brother Bruce and then all hell would break loose. And as Bruce helped Kal deal with his mess, Astronaut Taylor would move in on Diana. They would kiss and Bruce would see. Then Diana would cry. Which brings me to what became my favorite aspect of play: the crying.

Crying was always the most dramatic set piece in my fantasies. Even at a young age, it required a great deal of motivational prep and a lot of tears. A LOT of tears. For me, there was nothing more glamorous than the long lingering close-ups on the soap opera heroines sobbing as they recited endless monologues that no one would ever say out loud. And yet I was hooked, even though I didn’t understand what an ectopic pregnancy or one night stands were at my age. What they were saying wasn’t important; they were beautiful because they were crying, the tears making them even more vulnerable and attractive. So my Mego heroines became champion criers.

To achieve this drama, I liberated an eye dropper from the bathroom cabinet and would get a butter dish with water and, with the figure’s head tilted back, would gently squeeze one drop in each eye. I quickly learned that a small drop would stay in the eyes and not cascade down the cheeks immediately which was even better. The figure’s costumes would be soaked through by the time a crying jag was complete. And then one day I saw something so glamorous, so beautiful, I knew my figures had to do the same thing.

Mascara stained tears.

If tears were beautiful, then black streaked cheeks were the epitome of goddesshood. I quickly pinched a bottle of dark blue/black food coloring from the kitchen and mixed it with the water. Gently I applied a tiny drop to each eye and then tilted Diana’s head forward. Tiny black tears ran down her face. I was entranced. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Soon the whole top of the flesh colored part of Wonder Woman’s costume was stained with her tears and had to be washed.

Unfortunately, Mego folded and the ginormous action figures were replaced with a new obsession: Star Wars figures. Kal-el, Kara and the rest of the gang were thrown over for an army of stormtroopers and Death Star captains (even then I loved a man in uniform) and my tastes matured. But one thing never changed. Mascara stained tears were, and still are, the shit. So imagine my delight years later when I turned on my television and discovered the woman to whom I am devoted to to this day.

Tammy Faye Bakker.