Gypsies, trampolines, and thieves

For most of my childhood, I thought my best friend Christina walked on water. She was two years older than me, smoked cigarettes, shoplifted, and her Dad was the pink Power Ranger's lawyer (WHAT). I was constantly begging her to let us hang out in her backyard, despite her rebellious attempts to stay away from her parents.

But you must understand. Well, being a child of wealth, that bitch's backyard had everything. A full swingset, a zipline that went all across her yard (WHAT), a stream full of herring and adventure, and...oh yes.

A big trampoline.

She couldn't have cared less about it, but I was obsessed. So when I awoke the morning of my 10th birthday and found one sitting in my own backyard, I nearly died of excitement. I vaguely remember jumping and yelling at my bemused mother that it was the best day of my life. I was a non-materialistic kid, obviously.

I loved that death trap. I had my birthday party on it, and spent the whole summer jumping around on it, blasting the Motown soundtrack (don't hate) and narrowly missing trees with spastic backflips gone awry.

We did, unfortunately, move the year after, leaving the trampoline behind. But I'll never forget how it kept my neighborhood friends and I occupied all summer, making up our own dance routines and risking broken bone while our parents were at work.

Risky debauchery while your parents are out of the house? Oh yeah. That's what being a kid is all about.

Table for one?

I have to say that I've only dined alone once in my life. I was 19, too young for yummy wine, and I was having kind of a bummer of a day. That morning, I'd stuffed my car full of everything I owned and set out to move from New Jersey to Vermont. Yeah, I had a bit of a nomad phase. Just past the Vermont border, in some dusty small town, my car choked and died. I had to fork over all the money I'd saved for the move to fix it, and then decide where I could go instead.

So, that may have tainted the experience of sitting in that little booth and eating chicken fingers by my lonesome. I know, I know, this is sounding like a pity party extraordinaire, but what I'm saying is, I think I've mentally associated that shitastic day with the dining alone experience.

Not to mention that I'm a classic New Englander, by which I mean I'm somewhat mistrusting of strangers. I love meeting people, but when complete strangers strike up conversation, however friendly and innocuous, I'm sorry to say that I often play the "Why are you talking to me?!" game. Possible answers range from "this lovely person enjoys talking with people" to "this person wants to lure me into the back of their big white van where there really ISN'T candy, after all". And everything in between. Thus, sitting alone and being open to conversation from fellow diners is a less than ideal experience for me.

Lastly, I would be remiss without mentioning that my breed of people tend to be rabid monogamists. As most stereotypes go, the old Second-date-UHaul is rooted in truth and mild exaggeration. So, 99.9% of the time, I have a built-in dinner date.

The moral of the story is: If I don't have a dining partner, I ultimately stay in instead.

And loved my cellophane-wrapped subjects all the same.

So, I'll say it up front. When I began to ruminate about this week's topic, I started having a mental block about what I was going to write about. If you think I'm about to say it's because I don't eat things that I shouldn't...

EHHHH. That, by the way, was the noise that plays on Jeopardy when a contestant answers incorrectly.

The truth is that if you've known me for at least the past few years, you'll know that I'm a bit of an ex-junk food junkie. And by a bit, I mean that I was the Queen. However, I borrowed some Communist principles and loved my cellophane-wrapped subjects all the same. So it's hard to say whether I had a more feverish affair with M&Ms, cookies, or...well. I -can- say it wasn't grapes, though I agree that they are amazing.

In my now reformed state, I still indulge once in a while. Usually on roadtrips — it's just the nature of the beast. Okay, or when I have a Starburst blackout and do a slow-motion Matrix dive over Alex to make it to the jar in time.

But mostly, I try (key word there) to only indulge in decadent bursts of sugar and butter when it's tied to an experience, like sharing drinks, dinner, and dessert with friends, or trying out some locally famous mini cupcakes.

I'd like to end by stating that there is, I think, one particular thing that I would describe as my Kryptonite. When it is in my general vicinity, no man, woman, child, or wombat is safe unless I'm focusing ever fiber in my being on acting naturally. Even writing about it, I'm starting to twitch nervously.

Peanut butter cup ice cream.

YUM.

Iron Whoah-Man

Iron Man is indubitably my type of superhero. While I don’t wear cargo pants myself, that armor is like cargo pants on megasteroids, and a biological switch in my lesbian wiring flares. I can’t resist.

This month, an article ran in The Periscope Post asserting that Iron Man is selfish, sexist, and addicted to bling.

Okay, I’ll allow the selfish aspect. A self-made superhero like Tony Stark would need to be fairly egomaniacal to assign his or herself to the gig. You didn’t see Mother Teresa lolling about Calcutta with a powered exoskeleton.

Or did you?

Plus, if I were to one day wake up with unprecedented engineering skills and craft the Iron Man suit, I would be guilty of using it for non-Captain-Save-a-ho purposes too. I’ll admit that the prospect of blasting slow walkers out of my way is a little more than marginally enticing. Or blasting off from my foot-jet-thingies and flying around the city, while pointing and laughing at the poor souls crammed on my usual bus.

Now, is Iron Man addicted to bling? Well, yes. But I can honestly say that I detest bling, except, of course, ironic faux-bling (I’ve been dying to host a Bedazzle Your Own Pimp Cup party as of late.) But if it’s a matter of a giant, diamond-encrusted necklace with your swirled initials or a hyper-advanced technological suit that could save 300 kittens at once, you’ll see why I prefer the suit.

Sexist? Absolutely. That’s another story — but at the very least, Iron Man's name would have to change. Iron Whoah-Man ftw.

What do you think? What superhero would you be?