I have come, finally, to understand the plot of the film Mouse Hunt, in which Nathan Lane loses his mind chasing after a furry little creature with whom the audience empathizes. When I saw the kiddie mainstay, I was in its target demographic, and, of course, rooted for the mouse. It was so cute! Now, I am rooting for Nathan Lane—which is more or less rooting for myself.
Age 12: I am informed by my parents that God kills kittens every time a boy masturbates. My parents decide it’s funny to make dying cat noises when they walk past my room on their way to bed. Masturbation is suddenly less fun.
Therein, a Tweet from the ABC sitcom star reading “At the pier… just saw #DavidBeckham!” clears an entire beach of girls searching for the British soccer star David Beckham, freeing Ms. Vergara to go buy a Diet Pepsi, unencumbered by David Beckham fans who happen to read her Twitter feed and/or subscribe to the hashtag “#DavidBeckham.” Which is everyone. Or no one!
Gender is unapologetically performed all over Share the Joy, and to miss that is to listen with one ear clogged. Ramone coincidentally uses that word—“girl”—sixteen times on Share the Joy, as opposed to the one “girl” on 2008’s Vivian Girls, and one on 2009’s Everything Goes Wrong.
What follows is a list of the different kinds of people I’ve noticed over the years at my gym. I’m curious to know if these people frequent other gyms too. Perhaps they only come out to bother me?
I have tried to watch things that are hip. I went through a phase of spending beyond my means on Criterion DVDs and watched The OC and The Sarah Silverman Program, neither of which “holds up” along artistic lines, at the respective moments of their coolness.
It happens every time. I blab on about tampons or Turkish delight or baby corns, ‘you know, they look like little mielies, like little baby corn on the cob thingys’ (gesturing the love child of a box of matches and a minuscule party hat). The store assistant slumps in front of me, unmoving, hair net squashed lazily on their head.
We go out after work with our single friends when we feel slightly needy (even when you girls call it girls’ night, I’m weirdly hoping I’ll find Mr. Right even though I know I won’t—no love story starts with Lil Wayne and strobe lights). We put on tight little black dresses and the most uncomfortable stilettos we could find, all in hopes of getting attention from Mr. Right.
But this isn’t about me, now is it? Let’s get down to the real grit and grime of why I’m here. This is about you and the things we’re going to need to work out if and only if I decided to attend you for the next four years. For starters, none of this ‘no smoking’ crap. We’re big boys now. I think we deserve the right to decide if we do or do not want to slowly kill ourselves.
So my ex is over. At my house. For the first time since the first time after a long time. Only three days after the first time after a long time. We shouldn’t be here really. I’m making tea and telling him about how I have a blog now. He’s calling at me from the lounge. His new job pays less but it’s fewer hours and he’s actually really connecting with the kids.