You can't force different.

Jim's beautiful friend is coming for a visit this weekend. They'll be spending the weekend hiking and hanging out, and I'm going to the Griz game with someone else. Jim's friend has that soft angel hair that looks edible and creamy perfect skin - lickable. Dan. Dan the pretty man. In college Dan dated a woman who's now a famous Gap model, another woman who was in Playboy, and basically anyone else he wanted. But he was also smart and a kind man. He was the Holy Grail. And he was Jim's roommate. Was that difficult? No. I don't, didn't, won't want Dan, because when I hear Holy Grail, I think Overused Metallic Cup. And I am so proud to be different.

I don't like stuff I'm supposed to: cheese on pizza, six-pack abs, Lost, Dooce, mojitos. Sometimes it's physical - cheese on pizza makes me feel like I'm swallowing a loogie - but for the most part I just hate being part of a group. I don't like to be grouped. I'd be the shittiest fish ever. If I were a Canadian goose, I'd totally fuck up the V. On purpose. But I'm not anti-social, I'm just anti-establishment. No, that's giving me too much credit - I'm just anti-should. We should fly south in an aerodynamic formation! Nah, how about let's go west all willy-nilly? If I were a goose, Winged Migration would've been more than just a stoner movie. It would've been Canonball Run, Avian Style. You should see Titanic! No, instead I'll rent it, forget to return it for 2 weeks, then run over it with my truck. You should finish reading Sedaris' Naked! No, instead I'll let Quinn draw all over it then use it to block the stench of dead mouse emanating from my heater vent. You should exercise! Nah, instead I'll just break into that second pack of Pockys. You should shower! Just No. I'm cool, see? REBEL!

As of yesterday I'm on our pediatrician's shitlist because Quinn sleeps with us and still drinks out of a bottle. As soon as I hear the "you need to..." come out of her mouth, the rest just sounds like she's chewing rocks. I just nod, smile and picture myself sitting behind the bleachers and smoking. Which makes me understand why I'm like this. I was a good girl. I always did what I was told. I always answered correctly. I never used the bathroom pass to make out with my boyfriend. I was like a clown balloon. The long phallic kind that clowns twist into various replicas of shit and stick them on the heads of children. When you blow them up a little and squeeze the middle, the air bulges out at the ends. That was me. I bulged out rebellion, but acceptably harnassed rebellion. Like instead of acid washed jeans (the normal) or cut up black jeans with safety pins (small-town ultra-rebellion), I wore huge tie-dyed baseball pants. Instead of Whitesnake (the normal) or Metallica (small-town ultra-rebellion), I listened to Harry Belafonte. Instead of eating pizza in the cafeteria (normal) or nothing (small-town ultra-rebellion), I'd eat a raw green pepper. Hm. Huge tie-dyed baseball pants, Harry Belafonte, and farting green-pepper girl. What the fuck.

Right. After giving it some thought this morning, in anticipation of Pretty Dan, I've come to realize I'm not a rebel for not liking Lost. It doesn't give me Street Cred to shun mojitos. It just makes me boring and strange at parties. I'm not the cool girl smoking behind the bleachers. I'm the girl jumping off the side of the bleachers and breaking her foot, all the while mocking the conformists that wait their turn for the steps. The dorky broken-foot girl in the tie-dyed baseball pants. Woo-hoo! Look at me and how different I am! Are you looking? Please look!