This is part of a ritual widely known as “spinning”.

My hand only moved the rope sparingly, but the rope’s shape formed a wide, spinning arc, as if in tribute to sine wave functions that most of the children around would likely not be exposed to for a decade or more, if at all.

Martina, aged six, stood intently gazing into the heart of the spinning construct before her.  Her eyes set, and unmoving.  Her body, tense and ready, like an archer’s drawn bow.  Although the the din of the children around her echoed through space, her ears were tuned only to the rhythmic beat of rope against asphalt.  This was her world, and we were merely meaningless motes in it as far as she was concerned.  She was in her element, and there was nothing going to stand between her, and perfection.

With a single motion as fast as a cobra’s strike, but yet as graceful as a prancing deer, she landed in the center of the matrix, and began to jump…

And thus the group chanting began…

“Strawberry [snip!] Shortcake,[snip!]
Cherry [snip!] on top![snip!]
How [snip!] many boyfriends [snip!] have you [snip!] got?[snip!] “

“One![snip!]

Two![snip!]

Three![snip!]

Four[snip!]

Five[snip!]

Six[snip!]

…

Twenty four![snip!]

Twenty five![snip!]

Twenty six!”

This time she stumbled.  The line just made it out from under her feet before her weight came down on them fully.

“Twenty sev…”

This time, the rope stopped abruptly against the side of her shoe.  The game was over.

“Twenty six boyfriends!”

The highest anyone else had been able to set that day had been eighteen. Once again, Martina had reaffirmed her position as the alpha female of the pack.  No child would dare encroach upon her authority for some time to come.

Yet, as I watched the ploy for pedagogic of power play out before me, all that came to mind was,

“Wow, twenty six boyfriends!” I thought.  “Martina really is quite a little slut, isn’t she.”

So apparently, I’m a bad person.

“Dammit Lauren! Why do I have to choose? Why can’t I love both of you?”

“Because you can’t! I’m a human being! I’m not some, “commodity”, that you can toss away at a moment’s whim…”

“Don’t you go talking about her like that! You know I hate it when you call her that!”

“That’s it Steve, I’m moving back to my mother’s place. We’re through!”

“Fine! It’s not like you ever appreciated me or my needs!”

As Lauren left for the last time, I reflected that I didn’t really mean the harsh words I gave her. I would always love her, or at least my memories of her. Watching her car back out of the driveway, I knew that there was not any way that I could deny from myself the pangs of regret for missing what potential happines there could have been between us.

But in the end, I couldn’t let her stand between me and my true love, peanut butter.

.

Perhaps someday Lauren will figure out how to deal with that peanut allergy of hers, and we will be together again.

During “silent reading time”, two children (whom I will refer to as Xavier and Martina) were giggling over a book. I know that I’m supposed to tell them to knock it off and to read their own books, but I couldn’t help but wonder what they were on about.

As I approached, I saw that Xavier had a book about sharks. Martina was peering over his shoulder, and both of them were giggling at an image of a school of sharks attacking the corpse of a dead whale. It was somewhat graphic for a children’s book, although far from disturbing. The picture showed the sharks in various states of approaching, digging their teeth into large, white chunks of blubber, and swimming away with their delectable prizes. Finally, decided that it was time that they started actually reading, rather than entertaining themselves with pictures.

“Hey, Martina, don’t you have your own book for quiet reading time?”, I asked.

She giggled, “Look! They’re eating it! Look! The whale!”, pointing at the open page.

Xavier added, “Awesome!”, before asking, “Wait, do they really eat whale?”

“Yeah, I guess they do”, I said.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!”, they shouted together, again.

“What’s so gross about that?”, I asked.

“Doesn’t the whale supposed to eat the shark?” she asked innocently, in excited, broken English.

“No” I answered. “Those whales don’t eat big stuff.” I was about to start a short lecture on the topic of krill, and baleen, when Martina chimed up yet again.

“But the whale’s bigger!” she protested. I thought for a moment.

“Well, when you eat hamburger, do you think that that meat came from something smaller than you?” I said, with a slight hint of sarcasm in my voice.

“Yes…”, she said uncertainly, more question than statement.

That, was when I made my error…

“Martina, are you bigger than a cow?” As soon as I said it, I knew my mistake; I was as Prometheus, carelessly flinging the divine secrets of the Gods to the young, unwashed mortals who were not yet ready to deal with enlightenment. And for crime, I would now be punished most severely.

“HAMBURGER IS MADE FROM COW?????”, they screamed in unison. “EEEEEEEWWWWW!!!!”.

“Guys, did you know that hamburger is made from cow?!”, Xavier excitedly asked his fellow classmates.

“Um…. yeah, I did.” said Martin, one of Xavier’s classmates. “I thought everybody knew that.”

“HAMBURGER IS MADE OUT OF COW!!!” Xavier screamed, as high and loud as he could, over and over. He made a dash for the door — no doubt to scream this horrid revelation to the rest of the student population. Fortunately, my co-worker, Mr. Karl, picked him up in one arm, and wordlessly carried him to the office, kicking and screaming his damning revelation at the top of his lungs.

Xavier’s mother now doesn’t understand what possessed her eight year old son to suddenly decide to join the Animal Liberation Front.

But perhaps even more worrying, Martina’s parents can’t account for their youngest daughter’s sudden affinity for McDonald’s, when they own and run a Mexican restaurant.

So apparently I’m a bad person.

Forcing down the sudden rise in fear and shame that had suddenly overcome me, I held my calm as best I could. How long had it been? 35, no, 38 years next week, in fact. I couldn’t keep this lie going forever. I knew that it was time to finally tell her the unfortunate tale. The details of that day began flowing over me as I began to recount my tale, as if I were watching it happen again in some detached, parallel timeline…

It started innocently enough I suppose. It was just another day in my youth. I was going to the store to get milk. I drank a lot of milk back in those days. Always whole, never two percent. That was before my kidney stones.

But I had completely forgotten what day it was…

I rolled down one lane, and then another looking for an available parking space. Soon, I had been through the entire parking lot three or four times. There was no hope of catching a spot that opening up before it was gobbled up by the stealthy soccer moms, who seemed to be to able swoop down on them before I even saw anyone pull out. There was simply nowhere to park…

…At least not legally. But could I dare such a bold offense?

Reluctantly, I pulled my late grandmother’s handicapped parking permit out of the glove compartment, hung it on the mirror, and eased my Chevy Tahoe into the space above the painted effigy of a figure in a wheelchair. It was brilliant scheme, and I knew it.

But almost as quickly as my heart had risen to the top of my lungs, it sank to somewhere in the heel of my size 12 bowling shoe. Directly before my vehicle stood a young woman, staring at me disapprovingly. I could read her situation like a book; she had probably been circling this vast, asphalt desert longer than I had, and after just finally beating out someone else to a spot, she was now infuriated that some perfectly able-bodied twenty-something year old guy had broken the law and cheated the system. Her eyes showed me nothing but pure enmity, as they flashed between me and the security guard at the store front. A faint smirk brushed upon her lips as she marched off toward him.

I thought I was busted for sure, when divine inspiration touched me yet again…

By the time she had turned around to point me out to the stern looking guard, I had already limped halfway to the front of the store with my grandfather’s cane, which I had retrieved from the back seat. Hobbling along toward her, I did my best to give her a kind smile and a genial, “Good day”.

Sheepish wasn’t even the word to describe what she looked like as I limped past, leaving her standing next to the security guard who was doing his best not to laugh at her.

I considered dropping the act once I got into the store, but out of the corner of my eye I spied her entering the store after me. As long as I was parked out front, I had to keep up appearances, or she would figure me out and report me.

I also bought Bananas. And Froot Loops. Man, I miss Froot Loops…

Anyway, later as I was finished my bagging, I heard a shy, frail voice ask, “Is it okay if I carry those for you?”

There she stood, head down, hands together, looking guiltier than sin, hoping to be able to make amends for her attempted transgression. I knew she had been right, yet I couldn’t let on, no matter the guilt.

“Why, thank you, but I’m okay.” I said.

“No look, I’m so sorry.” she sobbed. “Earlier, I thought you were some guy just trying to steal an easy parking spot. I was going to turn you in, because I spent half an hour looking for somewhere to park. It’s just that I’ve had a really shitty day, and I guess I was trying to push all of my frustrations on you. I didn’t realize that you were really, um…”

“Look it’s alrigh…” I began..

“No, it’s not!” she screamed through teary sobs. “I’m a bitch, a stupid, horrible bitch who was trying to hurt a cripple…. I mean, disabled person… I mean, not that you’re not able, but… I mean…”

“Stop”, I interrupted. “It’s okay. I get this a lot. People always imagine that it’s always the elderly who need those spaces. You haven’t been the first.” I lied.

“Really? Look, I’m really sorry. If there’s anyway I can make this up to you, just tell me.”

“Well, I suppose we can talk about mending my hurt feelings over coffee. Starbucks?” I offered. At this point, I just wanted her to stop making a scene in the grocery store, where people were already staring.

She accepted my offer, and we walked to my car, with me limping, and her carrying my bags.

Lunch was fun, and I quickly contrived a story about getting shot during a home invasion. Sure, I could have just said polio, or a traffic injury, but I had to man it up, right?

Now if I had been using my head, I would have made our first date also our last, and dropped her like a rotten egg from an overpass on I-90. But dammit, if we didn’t go and hit it off right away. We had a second date, and a third, and before I knew it, we were going steady. And constantly, I had to keep up the act. I didn’t want to lie to her, but I was afraid that the truth would drive her away.

Then one day, a Tuesday I think, after we’d been together for about a year or so, I noticed something. She was out on errands, so I had the apartment to myself. I got up to get a beer from the fridge, when I noticed that I was limping, which was normal. What wasn’t normal, was that I wasn’t trying to limp. I realized that I had spent so much time purposefully limping around her, that I now actually had a limp! I tried walking normally, but it was no good.

The next day, I applied for a handicapped parking permit of my own.

“And that is how I got this limp, and also how I met your grandmother.” I concluded.

My granddaughter’s eyes flashed many emotions, from confusion, to epiphany, to anger – and finally – to understanding. We sat quietly in each other’s presence for a long time. I didn’t know what else to say to her. What else is there to say to someone after you’ve told them that an entire aspect of your life is a lie. We were there for nearly five minutes, when she finally turned to me, and asked a question I never expected.

“Grandpa, is that what grandma meant when she said Mommy and I were a pity hump?”

“What?!? Well, I on second thought, I suppose it does, Slug. I suppose it does.”

• At restaurants, I take my soda without ice, because ice is just water.

• I drink whole milk, because anything less has had the “good part” skimmed out of it.

• I save everything, because I never know when it will come in handy.

I know that this kind of logic isn’t necessary anymore, and in reality it’s cost me far more than it’s saved. My grandmother was driven to this mindset out of necessity…

…and fear that the Jews were out to swindle her out of every penny she had.

She wasn’t exactly on our side during the war…

Apparently, “big brother” doesn’t want me to come dressed up as “The Invisible Man” anymore.

So for convenience, I have compiled a short list what Jesus actually would do in response to various groups who might use the phrase, “WWJD?”.

PETA:
Kill a small, cute, defenseless animal, skin it, feed it to a hungry person, and give its fur to someone who’s cold.

Greenpeace:
Drive an SUV, cut down trees, and use the wood to build homes for people. (Hey, wasn’t he a carpenter?) He would also plant GM food in otherwise unarable tracts of land to help feed the starving.

Pro-Lifers:
Let the scared, teenage rape victim get an abortion.

Pro-choicers:
Let the slut have the baby.

Republicans:
Spend money on the poor, end war, and let gay people get married. Definitely wouldn’t condone torture…

Democrats:
Allow people to pray wherever the hell they want. (GASP)

Creationists:
Preach the truth, rather than dogma.

Catholic church:
“Seriously dude, it’s a cracker.”

Televangelists:
” ‘Thou shalt not steal…’ “.

Westboro Baptist Church:
“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!?!?!?!”

At first it was just the wave of shame every time I saw it, leering back at me every time I opened that damn cupboard door. It was too much. You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to throw it out, or to burn it, or sell it, or… I don’t know what. Only my mother’s dying wish that it stay in the family keeps me in its thrall.

I tried to shuffle off my burden on to my brother and sisters, but they knew what it was, and what it was once used for. They would not have it in their homes, ever, and warned me never to mention its existence to them again.

I resolved to handle the damn thing only as long as it took to pack it in a storage box and hide in the deepest corner of the cellar. I had hoped would be the end of it.

But every damn night, as I begin to drift to sleep, my mind is involuntarily drawn to that dark, hidden corner of the cellar. I thought it was a passing phase and that my torments would be soon over, but I’ve been coming to it in my dreams for a year now. I’ve tried drugs, therapy, a shrink, but nothing works. So every night, it’s that same same box, and the contents within…

…and that old video of my mother…

I don’t know which is worse;

Finding out my my mom was one of the stars of 2Girls1Cup…

…or learning that she kept the cup.

1. I can’t help but notice that since the beginning of the series, ol’ 75 has been getting more and more battle damage. Currently, she’s covered with all manner of pits, pockmarks, scars and craters.

   Epiphany: The CGI team is simply modeling the ship after Edward Olmos’ face. I’d even be willing to bet that we’ll even see her with a mustache for one episode.

2. “Apollo ” has one of the most flexible roles in fleet. He’s been a fighter pilot, a military investigator (Black Market, Epiphanies, The Captain’s Hand) , a lawyer, and the defender of a weird, new cult. He was also involved in a plot to overthrow the government at one point.

   Epiphany: The writers have based his character off of Tom Cruise’s career. Don’t believe me? Remember, “I LOVE THIS WOMAN!!!!!” on New Caprica?

3. The Ones, Fours and Fives are at war with the Two’s, the Sixes and the Eights, and the Threes are boxed. Boomer is the only Eight in the main Cylon fleet, since she’s a “pet” of the Ones.

   Epiphany: Considering how sexually amorous the human cylons are, I think the males are in for a bad case of blue balls. And Boomer’s gonna be pretty sore. Then again, maybe they can use the lobotomy holes to please themselves.  As Starbuck said, “Just think of it as a goat.”

4. Unless you are a huge BSG fan, you have no idea what I’ve been talking about, and if you are a BSG fan, I’ve just alienated you.

   Epiphany: I now know why I’m so lonely all the time.

Santa Claus.

Peter Cottontail.

Me? I’m Joe, the spirit who keeps worthy parties from running out of liquor. Do I get a holiday? Recognition? Chicks? Nope. I gotta work all year, and nobody knows me from Adam.

Hey, maybe if I got my own holiday, I’d be a bit more inclined to do my job better.

Don’t think of me as a hero.