A Girl...

Not Yet a Woman

Sometimes I do very grown-uppy things like activate an HSA account and click Yes, I would like more information about low-risk investment opportunities, and Yes, I would like to assign my boyfriend power of attorney, thereby allowing him full access to my medical savings.*

And then sometimes I am not very grown-up, like when the HSA account application has a box next to Simon's name marked "Relationship" and I not only spent three minutes trying to decide between designating him "snugglebunny," "boy toy," and "light of my life, fire of my loins," but I pondered these options out loud and in the main room of my office, in front of the secretary, the operations manager, two interns, and the guy who came to fix the copier. I think it goes without saying that if the application had included a box marked "Sex," I totally would have written in "Yes, please!"

Other not-very-grown-up moments include Tuesday, when I let Simon do all the dishes at my house, and people--when I say "all the dishes," I mean everything except the pineapple slicer and the whisk beaters that attach to a hand-mixer I no longer own. We're talking four weeks worth of dishes, and he did them all while I paced around behind him feeling guilty before finally deciding that my contribution to the relationship that day would be changing the bed sheets, which are also at least four weeks old. I'm gross, I know.

And if that weren't bad enough, last night he did another huge batch of dishes at his house while I sat on the couch in the William H. Rehnquist Memorial Media Room eating cinnamon-sugar toast and honey-lemon cough drops. Sometimes I can't figure out why he keeps me around.

In my defense, however, I wasn't just sitting on the couch watching America's Next Top Model. (Not yet, anyway.) I was actually tackling a (grown-up) freelance project I took on to make extra money for our trip to England for Mel's wedding in August. I'm at the part in the project now where I'm proofing fifty pages of back matter--bibliographies, appendices, index, chronology, etc.--and all of it is single-spaced and in 7 pt. font. Did I mention a lot of it is also in Spanish, which, remember, I don't actually know? Ay carumba.

While I was deep into Project Blindness Olé last night, something happened that has been happening for the past few days now: the blissfull silence was disrupted by tape-recorded marching music blasting from somewhere outside. The same song--with sythesized fanfare trumpets, military snare, obnoxious melody--played over and over and over again, sometimes stopping halfway through only to be immediately restarted from the top. I thought it was the usual suspects--the neighbors to the south, who listen to Chinese talk radio at 10,000 decibals--but it turns out that the real culprits behind it were much more entertaining.

Simon and I peeked through the blinds and saw about a dozen teenage boys on the sidewalk across the street marching in time--and in formation!--to the crappy music. My reaction was naturally SO AWESOME. These are the same boys that usually hang out on the corner all thugged-out in their baggies and do-rags, and here they were doing step-together, step-together, step, step, pose right there in front of god and everyone, including all the ladies from the apartment building, who were watching from the entryway or hanging halfway out their windows for a better view. It was so sweet and hilarious.

Simon was sad we missed what had surely been a riveting preface: when boys from a rival street gang got all up in our street gang's collective grill and challenged them to a dance-off. Meet us behind the Safeway at midnight after the game and we'll DANCE! Only one side will walk away victorious.

Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure we didn't see a dance-off rehearsal but practice for a quinceanera. This speculation was later confirmed when, at one point in the dance, I saw a solitary girl sashay in between the boys with a very I'm-not-a-girl-not-yet-a-woman air about her. Even more evidence exists here, where that offensive marching song is Track 1.

Ah, tradition. Never doubt its powers to get your surly teenager dancing in the street and your brother wearing that grotesque Christmas sweater with the blinking reindeer nose.

*By "full access to my medical savings," it basically means he gets a debit card with which he can purchase qualified medical expenses, which you'll see includes cough syrup (woo!), Pepto Bismol, wheel chairs, guide dogs, and abortions. Party at my house!