If You Belonged Here

Kinder-Hobbit

Sunday, April Fools' Day, is my birthday.

I comfort myself with the fact that I still won't be an adult hobbit. That's still a year away when I reach the magical and glorious age of 33.

When I am 33 I will have a big party, drink a little too much, blink when Uncle Bilbo disappears, and crawl back to my hobbit hole to sleep it off. I will also double lock the doors and windows and close the chimney flue to keep Gandolf out. I know a thing or two about the kind of quests he sends people on and let me tell you something, Mr. Wizard, go peddle that stuff somewhere else cause I ain't buying. I have no desire to save middle earth by confronting evil where it lives. Being a hobbit is all about breakfast, brunch, and elevenses.

Also, the beer and table dancing.

Now some of you might be thinking: but Polly, you're not, not, not a hobbit. Well, you just keep telling yourselves that if it makes you feel better. That's what I would do.

I like the idea of being 32 but I haven't actually had a feeling-my-new-age moment in over a decade. You know the feeling, like when a week after you turned thirteen, it finally clicked that you were a for-real teenager, or when you turned twenty-one and the bouncer said "happy birthday" and let you in the club.

The last time I had that damn-I'm-getting-grown feeling, I turned 22, which was significant in the fact that it was actually over 21. Implying experience.

I wonder if my mom got the joke when I was born on April 1st, no doubt looking every bit as Polish as I am. And, do those two things cancel themselves out or should I just go outside and play in traffic now?

The thing is that I like being born on April 1st, otherwise known as the real new year's day, because no one forgets my birthday. Even my younger brother remembers to call and tell me how old I'm getting. He was born on Friday the 13th. I tell myself that there's no deep meaning in those dates, but heck, if I were my mom, I'd be wondering.

Especially after that time we crawled through the window of a vacant apartment in our building and used the work crews' paint and rollers to do a little touch up of our own. We painted the floor, walls, and cupboards as high as our pudgy little arms could reach.

Joke or nightmare, Mom? You call it.

In any case, happy birthday to me. I plan to enjoy thirty-two while it lasts.

Cinderella Piñata

I was driving in San Ysidro the other day, on the Boulevard--so close to Tijuana that if it weren't for the lack of urine smell, I might have actually been on the other side of the big barbed-wire fence--when I saw it: a Cinderella Piñata.

Now, I like piñatas as much as the next person. Beating a donkey with a stick makes sense from a metaphorical point of view. Not that I'm condoning beating real donkeys. Or that I have any idea how candy fits into the metaphor. But if I were a donkey I'm not sure I wouldn't prefer being beaten with a stick to having my tail cut off and then pinned back on by a bunch of blindfolded seven-year-olds.

But Cinderella? In actual effigy? With her arms spread like Jesus on the Cross? As, what, a human sacrifice? Seriously.

Imagine a swarm of little girls, ranting and jeering, like so many ugly stepsisters. But forget tearing off Cinderella's ribbon and pearls, these girls want to tear her insides out. These girls will not stop until they make her bleed candy necklaces and lollipop rings.

Picture Lord of the Flies, meets Children of the Corn, meets Disney. Cinderella doesn't stand a chance. Makes you want to go find your happy place, doesn't it?

But once the initial metaphor passes, the possibilities open up. What if there were custom-order piñatas? Like in the image of ex-husbands, bitchy rivals, and rotten bosses. I have a feeling that whacking the heck out of old what's-the-name would be way more effective, and less expensive, than conventional therapy.

Think of all the options. Imagine what we could use to fill those piñatas: jewelry given as gifts, employee-of-the-month awards, borrowed sunglasses, and favorite cds. Maybe those little tiny plastic bottles of Jack Daniels and Cuervo Gold?

There are a lot of possibilities. A lot.

I'm giving up voodoo dolls. After piñatas, dolls with hair stuffed in them just seem so boring. I want something I can put my back into. And don't forget the rain of prizes once it's all over but the burning.

Yes, I said burning.

Papier-mâché is flammable for a reason. You didn't think that was just a coincidence, did you?

Just remember to get a fire permit. And have a containment plan. Or not. Nothing says we had a good time like spending the night in a jail cell with your friends.

My Visual DNA

Well, I'm sure you were all wondering about my DNA. Here's as close as you're going to get to an answer.

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