All I Want For Christmas Is To Grow Up To Be A Grandma

Don't get me wrong, I have no interest in being a woman. No, not until I'm at least 70. Believe me, if I was blessed with a vagina I would hide it...oh boy would I hide it. I'd grow up and go through my 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, and 60s and I wouldn't tell a soul. As far as anyone would know, I'd be all man. But then one day some young whippersnapper will come up to me in a narrow hallway not big enough to pass slow walking old people and he'll say "move it along grandpa" and at that point I'll know that it's time. At that point I'll turn around and ask him to repeat himself and when he does, THEN I will reveal my true self. Oh yes, ladies and gentleman, I will turn on my heels and pull down my pants and show that guy my old wrinkly vagina and then cue the awe...oh yes, the awe my friends. Cue that awe and that soap opera music because as that dude cringes in fear of the sight before his eyes I will tell him...

"Not grandpa, my boy. I'm all grandma."

And I would go through all this because there is one, single, solitary right afforded to grandmas that is given to no one else. That one thing is the way grandmas can make outrageously flattering statements like "Oh Jimmy, I didn't recognize you because I thought you were a movie star."

And because they are grandmas...you believe it.

I need that.

Metrosexual Dogs

It is my assumption that when a Buddhist meets the lifeform they are destined to be reborn as while biking through the woods on a Saturday, that there is some sort of spiritual connection that links their beings together for some magical instant wherein their souls may blend together in a creamsicle like twist of orange and...cream. Oddly enough, the same thing happened to me today when I rode my bike past the exact breed of dog the Internet quiz "What Breed of Dog Are You?" predicted me to be. There was no spiritual link, no metaphysical bond that merged that Bernese Mountain Dog and I, but nonetheless, as I sped by and our eyes met and his tongue had this big dollop of drool on it and his owner yanked on his choke collar to stop the dog from being hit by me which caused the dollop to cascade onto the asphalt, we became one. I instantly saw in my mind a scene from Lassie when little Timmy was stuck in a well and I thought to myself that, if I were a Bernese Mountain Dog, I too would spend my days saving young boys. The scene faded but just as quickly another one popped into my mind, this time of a female Bernese Mountain Dog with a Milkbone and she was beckoning to me and she had another Milkbone and somehow I knew that that Milkbone was for me. But as a slight smile graced my face, the link was severed by the screams of my sister saying something like "my helmet is so ITCHY!" and that was it.

On a topic not even remotely related to canines, I have decided to grow my hair out so as to obtain some sort of long, characteristically dog-like mane of shimmering dark brown, wavy hair that I can toss side to side in a carefree almost sensual yet still masculine manner. If all goes well, I may attract some homogametes in the process and that, ladies and gentlemen, is not a bad thing at all. In a way though, it's sort of sad because, as you probably know, hair length is inversely proportional to a person's likelihood of joining the Marine Corps. The beauty of the situation though, is that I've never had an interest in joining the Marine Corps! The Navy, maybe, but that's just because one time I toured a decommissioned submarine and the tour guide said that sailors got free refills regardless of rank and that got me thinking, what other armed service allows the lowest of the enlisted men and the highest of the officers to be unquestionable equals in terms of opportunity for massive soft drink consumption? Alas though, the perks of military life is a subject left for some other blog entry on some other day.

I will leave you with one last thing that's been weighing on my mind all day. The shirt I'm wearing today says "My favorite class at Allegheny College is Nap-101" and it's not even true.

What's a guy to do?

Boy Scouts 4Eva

I've been wandering in a state of utter confusion this entire day and even now, as I sit at my desk and type these words, my mind is twisted in knots knotted by the best Boy Scout knotter who ever lived. The reason? My watch says it's April 31 but everyone else thinks it's May 1.

I used to be a Boy Scout but I quit because I enjoyed indoor plumbing far too much. Over the years I simply became less and less thrilled with how wonderful it was to have a breakfast of oatmeal mixed with hot chocolate in a cup that was the same cup I used to dig a hole in the ground to shit in as well as used to hold the creek water I brushed my teeth with. But honestly, I had some good times as a Boy Scout. I learned how to light my hand on fire without it hurting and I learned that the crazy kid whose dad made him join even though he didn't want to must always win at late-night poker because he's got the biggest knife and you and the baby fox from the previous day know he's not afraid to use it to kill baby foxes. But despite what I learned, I quit all the same. And the fox, well, if he knew what he was getting into, he would have done the same.

But it's funny to think about the things that boys do when their parents aren't around. I mean, there are a thousand million things to do when you're in the woods with civilization hundreds of miles away and all you have is a picnic table and a spider infested outdoor bathroom where the toilet is just a hole cut in some plywood. But even in this rich environment filled with possibilities, the activity of the day always comes back to lighting your body on fire.

This in turn makes me wonder why there are no more freak shows. I honestly believe that Boy Scouts and more specifically, Boy Scout camping trips/summer camps, are the breeding grounds for freaks. It's not as much that boys become freaks from attending these events (though little Sammy Willis would beg to differ, what with the fact that he's missing the middle finger on both of his hands) but that they discover their own personal freak-itudes as they're desperately trying to find things to do. For example, on one of my first camping trips I learned that I was really good at not being able to get my towel when somebody threw it into a tree. On a second trip I found out that I had the innate ability to smell feces on the bottom of a shoe anywhere from 0-67 feet away. I could go on, but I'm sure you get the picture.

I guess the whole point of this rambling ramble is that I want to go to a circus where they invite me out into the ring to hold a hula-hoop or something while a dog or elephant or clown or something jumps through it.