The life and times of an ethnically ambiguous little lady.

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Chrismahannakwanzikuh wish list

It’s the holiday season, which means cheer, good will, dodging tourists, and asking for stuff, so I’ve compiled a little wish list. And I know you’re saying, but Emily, you’re Jewish, I thought Chanukah wasn’t that big a deal. And I’d say, well, you’re right, but even the so-called choosen people like presents. So let’s get started:
  • I wish that Jews actually had a Chanukah Harry. Then I could sit on his lap and could pretend that he cares what I wish for, cause all we Jews have are therapists, and sitting on their laps is really awkward.
  • I wish that celebrities would stop bringing babies home as souvenirs from their travels abroad. It’s really admirable to adopt a little brown baby, dress it up, and give it to the nanny to raise. If you want to impress me, adopt a 14 year old American kid, who’s mom was a crackhead. Unless, of course, you’re Whitney Houston or Courtney Love, cause that’s pretty much just putting them back in the same situation. Except this time with a house.
  • I wish I didn’t see so much of Britney’s punany this year. The punany peek is the new nipple slip and I don’t like it. And I don’t like that after everything, she went on a shopping spree to buy underwear, cause I know she owned some before this all happened.
  • I wish someone invented a pill that you could take instead of getting a full night’s sleep and still feel rested, because at the moment, I’m just sprinkling a little bit of speed on my omelets and I’m really afraid I’m going to get drug tested at work.
  • I wish that there were ghetto vegetarian joints, cause I’d love to get my tofu served through some bulletproof glass. It would make me feel like I have street cred even though I don’t get enough iron and Vitamin B.
  • I wish that guys that love Girls Gone Wild videos one day give birth to a hot daughter. (Well, not they actually give birth but you know what I mean.) Then they can live in continual fear that they’ll see her on one of the videos and go blind.
  • I wish that the Puerto Rican homeless guy by my supermarket would stop talking to me. Just because I look Puerto Rican when I wear my head scarf and hoop earrings (and I do), doesn’t mean we have something in common. I also wish I didn’t understand enough Spanish to know what he was saying, because he’s a dirty, dirty, man.
  • I wish that when guys do hit on me, or any girl for that matter, they’d try a better line. When I won’t give you my name, I definitely won’t give you my number. Although I might give you my social security and that’s it, just to see if you can find me. And if you’re going to use a line, use my favorite one: “How do you like your eggs in the morning, girl? Scrambled or Fertilized?” By the way, I like mine overeasy (just how I like my men, he-yo!).
  • I wish people would stop saying, “oh, that must be so hard” when they find out my boyfriend is black. It’s not 1774, people. He has a penis, I have a vagina, it’s really very easy. That’s the beautiful thing about biology, it works with all shapes, colors, and sizes.
  • And while I love my boyfriend, I wish I had a sugar daddy. Actually, I’d even settle for a sugar mommy. Actually, I’d even settle for a sweet and lo or splenda daddy. And I’d like him to have a twin so my boyfriend can have one, too, because I’m a giver.
  • Speaking of mommies, I wish my maternal instinct would stop trying to kick in. I was on a plane sitting next to this six month old that sounded like he had the bubonic plague. He was so sick, he was blowing snot bubbles, and my uterus thought it was a adorable. That’s not right.
  • I wish the stuff that I wrote on the train that seemed hilarious at the time, was still hilarious when I told it to people on stage.
  • I wish something would happen with my comedy career. I understand if it’s not Live at Gotham yet, but how about a herpes commercial? Seriously, I’ll take anything.
  • I wish the G train wasn’t four cars long, and I didn’t live in the longest subway station in the world. It’s getting really tiresome doing power sprints before I’ve even had my coffee.
  • I wish a homeless guy (yes, it seems to be a trend with me), didn’t jump in a turnstile with me the other day, because now I feel like I have scabbies. I also wish I haven’t lived I new york so long, that when a rat ran over my foot, my only thought was, “well, I’m glad it’s not summer, cause then it would have run over my bare toes! Now I only have a little bit of the black plague (and yes, I’m realizing from reading this that there are a lot of disesases I may have, so I might want to get those checked out).”
  • I wish I didn't have hypochondria.
  • I wish I was a little bit taller. I wish I was a baller. I wish I had a girl, who looked good, I would call her.
  • I wish I could rap.

And with that I wish everyone a Happy Hanukah, a merry Christmas, a flippin fantastic Kwanza, and to all, a good night.

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Thursday, December 14, 2006

Wanted: A Few Inches

We all want things in life: to win the lottery, world peace, fat-free Chunky Monkey ice cream that tastes like the real thing.

But for me, it's something so small yet so unattainable. I want to be taller.

Now don't get me wrong, I actually don't mind being my height, which is roughly 5 feet. My pediatrician once, after assessing my height and weight, called me a "nice little package." (Granted, these days that might be viewed as “crossing a line.”) Besides, what I lack in height, I make up for with sass and raw animal sexuality. Growl. But really, it's the ramifications that get me.

It's the fact that I’m the oldest child in my family, but have always been too small to beat up my little brother, who's now six foot two. My version of roughhousing was punching him in the kidney and then fleeing for my life. And sure, I know I have the intellectual prowess, after all, I can kick his ass in Hungry Hungry Hippos, but it's hard to remember that when he was punting me across the house like a football.

And there’s the problem that even petite pants are sometimes too long. I once went into a store where the “short” pants always fit and suddenly this was not the case. I began to wonder: had I shrunk? Because honestly, I thought I had a few more good years before that happened. I was then informed by the overly snotty saleswoman that "petite is now 5"3." What am I supposed to do, shop at Kids 'R Us? Because let me tell you, their suit selection, pretty limited. Trust me, I know.

It's the fact that I'll always be cute. Never pretty, never mature, just cute. And that being cute sometimes leads people to think that they can pet me on the head, like their golden retriever. Yes, every girl's dream. I mean, I can understand why Tom Cruise made it so he looked taller then his lady in the wedding pictures. Self-esteem boosts come in all shapes and sizes, people. Sure, it also means that I look younger and that this could one day lead to work as the "underage girl" on To Catch a Predator, but let's not get distracted.

And of course, there's the issue that if my boyfriend or roommate aren't home, I must swallow my pride and get out the stepladder to reach something off any of the shelves. Did you know that in Missouri, if you're less than 5"2 you're legally considered a midget? A midget! Sure, I'd get my own handicapped parking space, but to think they can label me just because of my size! What’s next labeling someone because of their skin color? Oh, wait….anyway.

Now, I’m a curious girl and I like solutions. That torture instrument in the Tower of London known as the Rack could work. Its purpose? To stretch out the victim’s limbs until they pretty much died, but before that happened, they would gain a couple of inches. All I can say is sign me up! After all, I have spent years dating incredibly tall men. A few hours craning to get your ear near to a mouth that is a foot above you just to have a conversation can certainly stretch the neck muscles, why not the legs! (I date tall men, by the way, in case I end up bearing their children. No rush, but I figure that way, at least my offspring would have a chance at a normal-sized life.)

I realized I may be small, but at least all my parts are in working order. Sure, I can’t be a pilot, or a fireman, or even a petite model, but I have to be positive. I could look to a profession where height doesn’t matter, like a job where I spend a lot of time on my back (if you know what I’m saying), but there’s got to be something else.

So I did what any girl looking for some hope would do: No, I didn’t think what would Jesus do, I looked to the stars for inspiration. And I was annoyed to find that pint-sized performers Sammy Davis Jr., Prince, and Christina Aguilera are all taller then me. Then again, I was surprised to find that heavyweights like Joan of Arc and Tammy Faye Baker only stood at 4”11! (Although with Tammy, I think those fake eyelashes gave her a few extra inches.)

In the end, I guess you’re stuck with the cards you’re dealt. And to get me through the tough times like when I’m in a crowd at a concert and can’t see the stage, I turn to one of my favorite poets. Truer words were never spoken when he said: (in dramatic accent) “I wish I was a little bit taller. I wish I was a baller. I wish I had a girl, who looked good, I would (indeed) call her.” And while Skee-lo’s rap career may have faded away (maybe because he was greedy, I mean he also said “I wish I was like six foot nine, so I could get with Leoshi, cuz she don’t know me but she’s really fine), his words and his longing for a few more inches will always live in my heart.

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