Gabba Gabba HELLOHEYHEY!
There was a little kid sitting in front of my on the bus home today. He kept standing up in his seat yelling "hello! HEEEELLO!" at anyone who would listen. He went absolutely mad when another little tyke boarded the bus and soon they were facing each other, two inches apart, screaming "HELLO HEYHEY HELLO HEYHEY" at the top of their little lungs.
I'll never understand little kids. What fascination they find in their Hare krishnaish mantras and why they are insist on running around on five inch legs even though they know they look generally moronic. Like funny little dwarves but with proportional arms.
Which is a certain date, Mr. 21 year old - worries me. Dan insists that a 21 yr old is a great catch. In fact, he had a good feeling about him. On the other hand, this is Dan's opinion we're talking about, so Mr. 21 might as well be the uberdemon Hairyassius from the sixth circle of hell.
Besides that - there's a four year difference! A four year difference. Have I no shame, woman. Four years means that I've exceeded his sexual partners by about, oh, say, million. It means that he's probably got all these high hopes that are going to topple over into a missionary, because hey, I'm Catholic. It means that he's all bright eyed and thinking that life will give him something that I know reality will rip away from him like it was a piñata that he busted open but he couldn't get his blindfold off fast enough so he didn't get the good stuff. A jelly bean, perhaps. Maybe a dinner-mint.
Do I pop his piñata, or not pop his piñata? Both so lucrative! The angst, oh the angst.
And maybe - maybe he expects me to be - if not a sexual guru, then just a plain-clothes guru. A guiding light. Well, I'm not a guiding light. My teeth shine in the dark, but that's about it. A sailor's salvation, but something to base a relationship on? Deserves pondering.
It means that while I'd like to discuss things...well, things of great importance, like artsy things at the dinner table he'll be busy swishing around his peas and carrots and trying to make them mysteriously dissappear under the carpet. Like I wouldn't know where to look. I would know. Or better yet - I would sense. Because biologically I am a woman - equipped with breasts and thighs - and breasts again, meaning that I also have this natural mother's intuition thing that is the most amazing and powerful radar in the WORLD and senses ALL badness in the entire world. I can find every hidden chick-pea within a five mile radius on a clear day, just like my mother used her sixth sense to find my extensive collection of school lunches once.
Threatened with no tv during the weekend if I didn't eat my school lunch during the week, I had devised the brilliant plan of hiding them under my bed. Not just under the bed, but under a mat as well. She found them. Course, this was after two weeks. And she had the trail of ants to tip her off. And the stench. And, okay shesaw me hide food with her own eyes that last time. (My mother's radar is sweet, but slow.)
Super-mom radrar goes blip again seconds before she stumbles upon my year-or-so old storage system for boogers. You could see her eyes well up with something that could have been, on a good day, say pride, but alas. Such was not the case.
"I had to sit with a spatula and scrape your bedpost for a whole hour!" she cries, when I get home from school that day, her voice almost cracking - a very bummeresque situation. But what the crap do you do with snot, white bread and eggs when you're 8?
And what the crap do you do with a 21 year old boy when you're a 25 year old quasi-woman?
I'll never understand little kids. What fascination they find in their Hare krishnaish mantras and why they are insist on running around on five inch legs even though they know they look generally moronic. Like funny little dwarves but with proportional arms.
Which is a certain date, Mr. 21 year old - worries me. Dan insists that a 21 yr old is a great catch. In fact, he had a good feeling about him. On the other hand, this is Dan's opinion we're talking about, so Mr. 21 might as well be the uberdemon Hairyassius from the sixth circle of hell.
Besides that - there's a four year difference! A four year difference. Have I no shame, woman. Four years means that I've exceeded his sexual partners by about, oh, say, million. It means that he's probably got all these high hopes that are going to topple over into a missionary, because hey, I'm Catholic. It means that he's all bright eyed and thinking that life will give him something that I know reality will rip away from him like it was a piñata that he busted open but he couldn't get his blindfold off fast enough so he didn't get the good stuff. A jelly bean, perhaps. Maybe a dinner-mint.
Do I pop his piñata, or not pop his piñata? Both so lucrative! The angst, oh the angst.
And maybe - maybe he expects me to be - if not a sexual guru, then just a plain-clothes guru. A guiding light. Well, I'm not a guiding light. My teeth shine in the dark, but that's about it. A sailor's salvation, but something to base a relationship on? Deserves pondering.
It means that while I'd like to discuss things...well, things of great importance, like artsy things at the dinner table he'll be busy swishing around his peas and carrots and trying to make them mysteriously dissappear under the carpet. Like I wouldn't know where to look. I would know. Or better yet - I would sense. Because biologically I am a woman - equipped with breasts and thighs - and breasts again, meaning that I also have this natural mother's intuition thing that is the most amazing and powerful radar in the WORLD and senses ALL badness in the entire world. I can find every hidden chick-pea within a five mile radius on a clear day, just like my mother used her sixth sense to find my extensive collection of school lunches once.
Threatened with no tv during the weekend if I didn't eat my school lunch during the week, I had devised the brilliant plan of hiding them under my bed. Not just under the bed, but under a mat as well. She found them. Course, this was after two weeks. And she had the trail of ants to tip her off. And the stench. And, okay shesaw me hide food with her own eyes that last time. (My mother's radar is sweet, but slow.)
Super-mom radrar goes blip again seconds before she stumbles upon my year-or-so old storage system for boogers. You could see her eyes well up with something that could have been, on a good day, say pride, but alas. Such was not the case.
"I had to sit with a spatula and scrape your bedpost for a whole hour!" she cries, when I get home from school that day, her voice almost cracking - a very bummeresque situation. But what the crap do you do with snot, white bread and eggs when you're 8?
And what the crap do you do with a 21 year old boy when you're a 25 year old quasi-woman?
