Parents are such haters!

Two weeks before beginning high school, Mom informed me we’d be moving from Culver City to a little town in Northern California called Pleasanton. The school mascot at the pleasant high school was a Mexican. Technically he was a Spanish nobleman, but he sure did look just like a Mex-i-can. This was before people got their panties in a bunch over political correctness a.k.a. the good old days when hypersensitivity wasn’t the norm and little league baseball still kept score so there were a fewer number of metrosexuals roaming the streets.

Political mascot correctness makes no sense. I’da been stoked if the school mascot were a Jew! That’s because when some people in Pleasanton found out about my Jewish ness (of convenience) they’d say, “wow you’re Jewish? I’ve never met a Jewish person before”. If the school mascot was a yarmulke wearing, torah toting, penny pinching, matzo munching, bagel biting, Shabbat-ing rabbi then I might have been popular (popular = happy), but I am still glad about the Mexican dude.

With the Don at the helm of school pride Pleasantonians could see what Mexicans really look like, with the sombrero and moustache and poncho and all. You’d figure the mascot at Culver Middle School would have been a Mexican seeing as there were actual Mexicans at that school. (Didn’t make up the mascot rules; just sharing them.) As I recall, the Mexican American and/or just plain Mexico Mexican population in Pleasanton was at about a zero. It was culture shock. High school sucked donkey. It was in stark contrast to middle school. Middle school sucked donkey too, but at least in middle school I was popular.

K-12 fame generally requires involvement with many high profile extra curricular activities. There is no doubt that my middle school glory was the result of a high-level of involvement with many of these high profile endeavors. These activities included: drill team, smoking cigarettes, drinking 40′s, smoking weed, fire starting, in school suspension, Saturday school, being a wannabe chola, fist fights, verbal fights, fighting with teachers, aqua netting, Eazy-E-ing, not being a virgin, having huge melons and hickeys. (Both the hickeys and huge melons have since disappeared, other than that I’m pretty much the same wholesome, healthy, well-rounded gal.)

Pleasanton was a bit different. In Pleasanton I learned about 4H, Garth Brooks, county fairs, tie dyed Grateful Dead shirts, the existence of dirt roads, Mormonism (had never met one of those folk before), unlocked doors, the nuclear family, Sadie Hawkins dances, being Caucasian and that organized school activities were supposed to be fun. I did not partake in any of the above activities therefore was not popular. Did gain about 25 pounds though, but oddly, that didn’t help much either. People thought I was weird. (Everyone knows that weird and evolved look quite similar!) I was so ahead of my time that when other kids at high school started partaking in the kinds of activities I was accustomed to (at the age of ten); I had already stopped doing them. Talk about trendsetting.

I tried to get involved, sincerely, but was always a failure . Surprisingly, feeling like a leper did nothing for my desire to continue the quest to not be a social incompetent. One time I tried out for cheerleading. Evidently fatties in mini skirts aren’t valuable for go, fight, winning. Then I joined the swimming and diving teams, but a freak ATV accident ended a less than successful month long career. Then there was the float building for the homecoming festivities. That wasn’t very fun. Manual labor as a social activity makes no sense. I even tried getting into some fist fighting and achieved one whole day of popularity, so that was good! Friends were needed and I tried desperately: school plays, class clowning, bringing wine to first period gym class, making out with the popular girls boyfriends, you name it I tried it. Everyone knows the most obvious way to fit in during high school is to quit drinking, so I gave it a shot! Surprisingly that didn’t work either! This might shock you, but that wasn’t very approval inducing with the peers either.

By junior year the closest thing I had to a friend was the school counselor. What a good 50-year-old buddy he was. Not only would he excuse the ditching, but also he’d schedule my classes with boys I wanted to be in true love forever with.

Then I met my best friend for the duration of the torturous years. He was the only gay in town (before I knew about mom). He also happened to be the only African/Hispanic/Caucasian American in town too! He was super old, like 19, and introduced me to the phenomenon of gay clubs in San Francisco. Unlike teachers, he taught through example how the world really works and what is important: fierceness, drag queens, saying you are sleepy because you never call yourself tired and BJ’s. Finally high school was fun (!) minus the fact that none of the fun came from actual high school or high school activities.

Fast-forward 15 years. It’s reunion time and guess who is helping with the planning!? It’s totally fun and out of character because I only talk to about 5 people from high school and because it’s such a normal/activities person type of thing to do, which is in direct contrast to whom I was then. Gave up on the dream of being an activities person after the lack of pubescent success (scarred for life!) and never really came back to it until a few years ago when I realized that being a joiner is super fun and that contrarianism is for negative attention seekers that have yet to learn that happiness is a choice. Deep.

When I tell current friends about the reunion helping they act all shocked and say things like, “YOU?” To which I respond, “heck yes me, I am a joiner and an activities person”. To be totally honest the discovery of the flat iron, working out and eating lots of blueberries aided in the decision to be an organizing force to be reckoned with. Those three little gems help with the quest to become a reunion planning productive member of society. (Productive because of the activities person part not because of the 25 pounds less with good hair part.)

If I allow the indulgence of thinking about it, I still feel out of place amongst the Class of 93 Party People. Many of them are married or have kids and in some cases have both! That’s so strange. Not because I still view them as 15 year olds in sweet photo poses at school dances, but because in LA some people are married and others have kids, but having both at the same time is like… odd.

Anyhow, we created an Evite to bring the Spanish noblemen of Pleasanton together. What’s baffling is many of the guests are responding with blasphemous words such as,

“A night away from the kids! I’ll be there for sure!”
Or “Having two kids I can’t wait for a night on the town.”

All I can think is,
“It must really suck to have kids or else why would people be so happy to get away from them!?”
Also, “Having kids must be the least fun thing to do ever.”
Then wonder, “How does one lose all that baby weight?”
Then ponder, “How do they get their vaginas back in tip top shape?”
Then think, “Main St. Pleasanton better prep itself for ‘some better hide the lampshades’ table dancing.”

Parents always say how the intense love for their child can’t be explained with words; that even though it’s hard work, and they can’t even watch a half hour of The Hills uninterrupted, and how they get puked on, and how they haven’t done the humping in over a month or 5, how nothing compares to the strongest love they have ever known, but the thing is, I really, really love football.

I love football so much that being happy to get away from it for a night is unfathomable. Hate to admit that it’s probably a good thing cable doesn’t carry the NFL Network in this region because I’d gladly never leave the house. This has forced me to be social by using other people’s gift of landlords that allow Direct TV. Sometimes God does for us what we cannot do for ourselves. If someone asked me to attend their wedding, prom, a hot date that would result in spooning or even work never would you hear the words, “A night away from football, can’t wait!” What person of character would treat something/someone they love with such disdain? It’s mind-boggling. The words, “football will always come first, so don’t even bother to call on Sundays” have been heard by the unfortunate souls I date. (Unfortunate souls for dating me. Not unfortunate that I’d rather spend Sundays with Albert Haynesworth.)

The discriminating mind draws a few obvious conclusions: football is better than children, parents do not know the meaning of true love, and parents are liars with all that “love that can’t be explained” nonsense. The good news is next time you date a father who professes his undying love, you will know he is full of malarkey and move on to greener pastures! This faux love is also good news because sometimes I question why I currently have little to no desire to have kids and now I know why, because having kids obviously sucks or people wouldn’t be so elated to get away from them!

Plus, parents don’t seem to be that bright. Not sure if it’s the process of child birth that turns them dunce like due to hormones and stuff or if its that anyone that would make the conscious decision to pop one out would have to be nonsensical (1+1=2), but whether the chicken or the egg came first issue is of no concern; parents are kind of brainless. I mean, if their own children are such a drag to be around then common sense dictates a parent should use a little strategic planning so as to spend less time with their “little bundles of joy”. If parents were smart what they would do is try to make child rearing sound awesome so their childless friends would want to squeeze out a few puppies of their own too. That’s what I’d do. That way I could get my PTA/Gymboree buddies to baby sit when football is on!

Now I know you parents are going lie again saying, “you can’t understand until you have kids of your own” so I’ll reiterate, if I wouldn’t leave the house during a game and you would leave the house during parenthood than I know my football love is stronger than the one you claim to have for your belongs in a Pampers commercial offspring. Reality is you don’t understand the love I have for football and will never truly understand the depth of that love until you have teams to follow yourself.
Please don’t get me wrong, kids are cool and fun and cute and all that. Come to think of it, I get along with my ex’s kids better than with their dad’s! This is due to my emotional immaturity and the fact that we share more common interests; things like shopping at Forever 21, teen movies and boys. Also, I’d rather hang with my cute 3 year old cousin more than just about anyone, even if the anyone wanted to give me food and have a make out party. She is so fun because she does tricks! You can get her to say just about anything that regular people wouldn’t dare say like, “Go Titans” or “Allison is pretty”. She is a great dancer, superior hider and jukes like it’s nobody’s business. She loves to “essercise” and can do many lunges, which shows that she cares about her health and appearance. Sometimes we invent cool stuff like chair couches (that’s a bunch of chairs put together to make a couch, real inventive am I). But the best is when she gives up those hugs without my having to use reverse psychology. My heart turns to Jell-O. I love her and all those activities… just not enough to visit on Sundays, Monday nights and sometimes on Thursdays.