Jumping the Puddle

Saturday, April 15, 2006

Although I don't consider myself an activist, there have been times when I've felt compelled to speak up about important issues. Today, I'm setting aside all this crazy tomfoolery to address a much neglected topic: immigration. I know, I know. Immigration is so 1492. But in a time of political agendas and red herrings, someone needs to call for a return to democracy and justice. And that someone is you. Wait, no. ME.

I've had a problem with immigration since I was a child. In the 1980s, immigration was known as "sharing." From the ages of 3-7, I had a fundamental objection to illegal immigration. I had my hard earned shit, my toys, my Mommy, my room, and no one, NO ONE, was going to intrude. Then I found out that Mommy and Daddy were expecting an immigrant from the country of Heaven. I immediately protested. This immigrant could not speak my language and hadn't earned his place in our home. I, on the other hand, worked my ass off as a magical ballerina and was subject to (and dutifully obeyed) the rules of the Land, even the bedtime and pea-eating provisions. Would our culture be diluted beyond recognition? Would resources be strained? Would this immigrant pose a danger to our family's physical well-being? How was one to know the outcome without a rigorous screening process and a comprehensive identification and tracking system in place?

I realized that some might think that my objections were "selfish" and "bratty," but I truly had altruistic motivations. Would this immigrant, who did not have the skills to be a magical ballerina, be compensated fairly for his work? Or would his early career be limited to simple tasks like pointing, spitting up, and pointing some more? Would he even try to work, or would he spend his days lazily mooching off my hard earned milky, a victim of the brutal and uninviting playpen subculture?

You might be thinking that I am an anti-Heavenite. Far from it. I had a lot of friends from Heaven, with whom I spoke to and played with regularly. I'm all for tightly regulated and controlled immigration. Take my friend Suzie. Suzie, a non-native of my home, had successfully integrated herself into all that was mine through the Scheduled & Monitored Visitor (SMV) program. She first interviewed with my Mommy and then gradually earned her place in my Land. She too worked as a magical ballerina, paid taxes (the Tax Code dictated that she must "do what I say") and successfully navigated the intricate swingset regulatory scheme.

In conclusion, we need not go further than our own childhood back yards to find the solutions to the problem of immigration. Let's create a comprehensive, compassionate immigration system that protects the interests and safety of our nation while allowing others to benefit from the bountiful resources of our Land. Amen.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Evolution

Last night I had dinner with my friend The Oracle. The Oracle has the ability to dispense enlightened advice about questions that have vexed humanity for centuries. "What color should I paint my toenails?" I have implored. "Child. Such as the Sun shall set undisturbed, your toes shall display Ballet Slipper #04."

I realized two things during my dinner with The Oracle. One, eel sushi is my favorite sushi, mainly because it has its own sauce. Two, I have entered Grown-Up Going Out stage, as diagnosed by The Oracle. I had become quite unsettled by my sudden refusal to (a) dance on bartops, (b) order Jell-O shots or any other shots of the solid variety, (c) leave my nest any later than 9:59pm, and (d) make out with strangers at a bar just because he is, like, totally cute, and, oh my God, we both, like, totally like the movie Memento, hiccup.

The Oracle explained that my predicament is not caused, as I suspected, by an acute case of Lamelouise Syndrome. "Such as the leaf that turns green, you have entered Grown-Up Going Out stage. Child." Relieved, I baptized myself with a piece of sushi (eel) and listened intently.

As described by the Oracle, GUGO involves, first, the consumption of non-Pizza foods at a fancy restaurant (or an unfancy establishment that has become fancy by virtue of being so unfancy) between the hours of 8:00-10:00pm. GUGO is also characterized, later in the night's sojourn, by strict avoidance of bouncers and bouncees, as well as the consumption of micro brews. GUGO, however, might still involve outing of the make, but only after both parties have agreed that we should, like, totally not bomb Iran.

I think I'm ready to embrace GUGO. These pawsies have seen one too many double-vision views from the bartop. It's time to sit down like a nice young lady and play Grown-Up drinking games, such as "How Much Would I Have to Pay You to Sleep with Gary Busey?"

So, who's with me?

Sunday, April 09, 2006

I blame penicillin for my failed relationships

According to the CDC, the average life expectancy for men and women today is 74.8 and 80.1 respectively. In 1900, Americans lived to age 47 on average. Had I been born in 1900, my fiance and I (assuming we married at age 30, a big assumption of course), would promise to love each other for 17 years. Today, I would have to buckle up for a slightly longer 50 years. *

I am a romantic at heart and a serial monogamist. I love the comfort of being with someone who knows me and looks forward to the bountiful pancake meals I have to offer. No, YOU are the best! But recently I've developed a slight fear of commitment. Who is this person? I'm sorry but you seem to have the wrong mirror, so move along now. It's not the kind of ambivalence towards commitment that I embraced as part of my college foxylicious persona, which, given my Catholic schoolgirl roots, boiled down to three "no strings attached" second-base makeout sessions my freshman year of college. I loved my newfound ho-dome and treasured the mental vacation from planning seaside weddings. After an unusually heavy make out session, super-ho even sent a little handwritten note to Touchy Hands, informing him that, despite the wonderful times together to be treasured forever, the relationship could not continue. If anyone knew how exhausting dream wedding planning could be, it was me and cute soccer player in the red hat over there doing shots by the bar.

Today, I don't know if I can see myself sharing a life with someone for 50 years. Neither do I want to be in a funky arrangement where I live with someone until we realize that, hypothetically, I can no longer put up with his habit of cleaning glass surfaces with a clean thumb dipped in saliva.

I don't have a solution or great insights, but the following thoughts have been stewing:

-Mamalicious says that the spark fades, that the thrice daily booty pounding inevitably subsides and you're left with a permanent roommate who you kinda dig. So I should end up with someone who I admire in other ways.

-I am a bit disillusioned with romance because I caught seaside fiance #8 cheating with She Doesn't Mean Anything To Me Jones. Thanks to my new BFF Greg, I hold no ill feelings towards Ms. Jones and Mr. Tiny LooseCock, as satan spawns as they may be.

-I am still holding on to the idea that it's possible to meet someone who will make me stop thinking about the big questions, because it just feels right. That despite my list of 300 requirements to be met, maybe Love Things are just simple and uncomplicated, and I should just live in the moment and have faith. (This part should probably be read out loud by Sarah Jessica Parker).

THE END.

*This idea is not original, I read it "somewhere" at "some point," but unfortunately a quick Google search for "life expectancy AND marriage" mostly yields matches about how marriage makes people live longer.

Saturday, April 08, 2006

Today, the universe sent me two signs that the Resolutions plan must go into effect soon. First, I tore myself away from the syrup bottle (miss you lots! xoxo) long enough to go outside and trick the spies into thinking I'm productive. I went to the newsstand to visit my friend Newsstand Man, who calls me "Me Lady of Personality." We are always so happy to be reunited, it's a little creepy. "Hi!!!!!!" Then, "Hellooooo me lady of personality!" I hand over the the money, we giggle, and I walk away. We never talk about the weather, because we are past that stage. So, newspaper in hand, I headed to the corner deli to refill the coffee IV bag.

The problem is that somehow the deli woman and I are caught in a horrible web of lies and it's tearing me apart. I've been going to this deli for about 3 years, so deli goddess Maria and I chit chat. About 2 years ago, Maria got the idea that I worked weekends, probably because my office is nearby and I was at the deli on a Saturday. I do not work weekends, thank Ellen.

That day of two years ago, Maria asked me "So did you just get out of work? Long day huh?" In a bout of confusion, rushed by the following customer in line, I may have said "Whew, yes, bye bye, take care!" And so, two years later, the web of half-lies has spiraled out of control. Now, when Maria asks me about work, I never confirm that I was not, in fact, at work that weekend day. I dodge the question, change the subject, or breathe a sigh of relief and wipe the pretend sweat off my forehead. I have no idea why I propagate the deceit. All I know is that Maria is so empathetic and supportive of my grueling weekend work schedule that I would feel horrible telling her that it was all one big misunderstanding. Today I toughened up and told Maria that I had not come from work. She was so happy for me that the guilt made me puke a little in my mouth. So I should probably add "never lie" to my Resolution list, because I don't like it none.

Anyway, the Resolution reminder came in the form of a peppy post-gym woman who was in line before me at Maria's House of Liars. She had the perfect body and ordered a chamomile tea with honey. Honey! That is so cool. And Gymsy is so perky and smiley. I swear it would have seemed completely normal if a little bluebird had landed gently on her shoulder. I thought, she's going to be so relaxed after that chamomile tea* but I am in no way going to be so relaxed after drinking this non-chamomile drink and non-working out. So I guess my first reminder from the Universe manifested itself in the form of primal jealousy.

The second Resolution reminder was much tinier. I had a short visit with my friend's son, Little Joe. Little Joe is so cute that I'm scared my eyes will pop out of their sockets when I'm with him. Today he was visiting professor for a course called "I teach you basketball see Joe slam dee ball 101." This course is not for the faint of muscles, because one has to endure a rigorous schedule of sitting by the mini hoop. In my usual teacher's pet mode, I suggested that the course might benefit from the addition of a sports announcer who would broadcast the Professor's moves. Professor graciously accepted when I volunteered to announce. "Little Joe steals the ball. He breathes. He's headed towards the hoop ladies and gentlemen. He stops. He breathes. AND HE DUNKS LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. The crowd goes wild!" I have to admit that at times I'm not the best at reading body language, but I think the Professor enjoyed my announcing. He dropped the ball, his legs started shaking, his tiny hands shaking too, and he started laughing like a hyena on crack. Then it was time for a hug, which Little Joe requested by saying "I want to be with you." This made me very happy. Which got me thinking that I want to be healthy and have my shit together for when I decide to get a little gremlin of my own.

*with honey.

Finally a Saturday at home alone with a big stack of pancakes. I might as well pour syrup directly into my mouth, because, lets be frank, I am using you, my dear pancakes. You are merely a vehicle for the liquid of Heaven's Gate. I am delighted that it's socially acceptable to pour liquid sugar, vats of it, over my foods. No lies or pretense, bring on the boatloads and smile for me. I confess: If I could eat syrup-covered foods for every meal, I probably would. I might cheat once in a while with my lover susharoni, but I'd come crawling back, fork in hand, tugging at your pant leg with snot and tears dripping down my face. I fucking love you syrup here's a ring that means Forever. You make me so hot.

This brings me back to the Resolutions. I was hoping to slowly rid myself of things that might, for example, stop my blood from flowing. Also, I'd like to keep breathing, if possible, because I kind of enjoy breathing. In prioritizing the steps that will lead to the awesomely awesome new me, I suspect I should start with basic infrastructure maintenance. Get that blood and air pumping. In my past bouts of healthiness, I've come to the conclusion that it's impossible to feel good about other areas of my life if I don't feel healthy. I don't mean Popeye healthy. Just the basics: not smoking, eating well (as in, remembering what spinach tastes like), and being mobile, preferably at speeds greater than 4mph. Lets get one thing straight. I hate exercising. I want to stab exercise repeatedly and then stab it again and then shoot it dead with a bazooka.

What's magical about exercising though is the amount of hatred it triggers before the fact, the internal "but I don't' WANT to move" tantrums it inspires, my insides punching my brain into submission. Yet after exercising I feel a wondrous sense of peace. I feel so soft and cuddly inside, my brain is clear, the neurons are dancing, the Yucky Thought Factory is closed. For a while, I feel like I can do things, I'm pretty cool, and the drops of sweat make me look like a sex machine who has brains and money and tells great jokes and will most likely be discovered at a karaoke bar by a talent agent who wants to manage my career as a model-actress-singersongwriter-triathlete. So I think I want to start exercising again.

Unfortunately I am a smoker. This is probably the first time I admit that I am a smoker. I've always seen myself as a non-smoker who smokes. For 10 years I have been in denial. Oh I could definitely not smoke, but I am choosing to smoke this one, as a non-smoker who smokes. I have to stop smoking right now. STOP IT. So before I tackle the exercise demons, I have to come up with an anti-smoking plan. I will kick your ass mo-fo.

I'll be back with a plan soon. Any tips or insights would be much appreciated.