Jupiter

Jupiter tonight will be the brightest “star” in the sky, an occurrence that hasn’t happened on New Year’s Eve since 1752. Even a fool like me should be able to find it. It should be obvious, I’m told. I was put on this mission because tonight is special. Standing there fashioned in my Hot Tamales pj pants, my big orange Billabong sweatshirt, two pairs of clashing socks, topped with my New Balance shoes, which further clash, I’m dressed for the occasion. I look like a mad man straight out of the mental ward, and I’m just praying that someone will walk by and see me. I want to see their expression, especially when they notice the binoculars around my neck, a must need accessory for my off-the-wall attire.

I see Jupiter; well, it couldn’t be anything else-- process of elimination. Through my tunneled vision I try to focus on it, but the glare of the streetlamp only makes it harder, and Jupiter, a small bright bluish white blob, is now bouncing across my eyes. I can’t take this. I found Jupiter, congratulations to me. Somehow the fireworks peaking over the houses in the distance seem all the more interesting compared to my glimpses of planets miles and miles away.

2002.

We have the weirdest traditions. Sitting around every year watching a ball fall, it seems all so repetitive. Drink, drink, drink, and watch the “ball fall”. Make some resolutions you know you will not keep, kiss the one you love, and it’s a night. Then for the next six months you will continually put the wrong date on your checks, and by the time you get used to the new number, it will already be the next year. That is just how it works.

Somehow this year is special. Thinking about all that has happened I know this is a year I will remember. Sure, September 11 will be up there, but we have all heard so much about that. I’m talking about college, mothers, boyfriends, late night chats, and my efforts to “fly the coop”.

All this looking at stars is making me feel small, but I can’t help but think of the one man who reminded me that they were there.

Sometimes you forget about things. They could be sitting right there, right in front of your nose, and because you see they every day, they fade in the background. And all it takes is one person to tap you on the shoulder, making you look up, and suddenly you can’t help but marvel at nature’s little gems.

This Jupiter, it stands out tonight; it’s the “star” of the sky tonight, you could say.

“When it is dark enough, you can see the stars.” Only through the bad do we see the stars of the show. Only when something goes wrong do the men behind the scenes get credit. Oh so true. A 747 goes flying through the World Trade Center at 8:45 in the morning as people arrive to work. Suddenly everything we took for granted is flashing before our eyes. Panic sets, senses heighten.

My mother asked for 5 grand to put down on a place.

Target sighted. Locked. Missile launched.

She keeps reminding me I need to pack. Only thing is: I never unpacked. But for some reason she wants me to unpack it and repack it, as though that will do anything. She puts boxes in the middle of my room as though having me trip over them on my journey to my bed will provoke me to pack some more. Then she talks about what kind of place she is going to get.

“I don’t know where we’ll be living, honey,” she says to me;

I know any time she calls me “honey” there has to be a hidden question.

 “Can I borrow 5 grand for a down payment?”

There comes the pop question. Not exactly what I had in mind, but wow, it was a question none the less.

She wants to borrow 5 grand of my hard-earned college money? Wow, what has the world come to? Do I look like a bank?

“Ok, as long as I get paid back and SOON,” I say.

What else am I supposed to say?

‘No, I won’t, you’ll have to hit the streets, mom.’

I couldn’t say that; I’m trapped in a dark alley with a nice brick wall at the end, and I have conveniently hit the terracotta dead on, only to find myself unconscious and defenseless against the alpha dog. In her hot pursuit, she has cornered me. I must surrender to her ways.

“Well, I want to try to get a two bedroom place, but I might not be able to, I want to be close to a metro stop if I can.” She looks at me with her, “I’m such an endearing spirit” look. I think this look is to evoke pity so I don’t explode into a muttering of confused emotions, like the Led Zepplin blimp; but unlike the Led Zepplin, I leak a plethora of cuss words.

Both are just as hazardous.

“OK,” I say, trying to urge her to tell me her ultimate point of all this ramble.

I wish she would get to the point. There is no way this could get any worse.

“I could always put your furniture in my room……and I’ve also seen some one bedrooms with some pretty big walk-in closets,” she continues.

“You’re putting me in a closet?” I ask in a confused outrage.

I was wrong; it COULD get worse.

Red alert.

“Well, it might come to that. I just don’t know what is going to happen.”

Again, in her “I’m an endearing spirit” tone.

“Can you even fit a bed in a walk-in?” as I try to mentally envision this setup.

I can just see it now: someone comes to the new place and goes to hang up their jacket. They open the closet door, ‘what are you doing here?’ they ask me. ‘This is my room,’ I’d say, ‘please leave,’ ‘take your jacket elsewhere;’ I’m thinking of all the possibilities.

Or, better yet, try to bring a friend over; try a male friend: that should be interesting.

On the bright side I guess I wouldn’t have to go far to get dressed in the morning.

I can see the jokes now:

“You’re coming out of the closet!”

“Where can I hang up my coat?”

Or, come Halloween time, I’d be the skeleton in the closet.

This idea is beginning to grate on me.

I need light.

I need air.

I need space.

I can’t grow like this.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t live like this.

House plants get better treatment than this.

“You could have your bed in the closet and your other stuff in my room or something,” she continues as though she has heard all of what I was thinking, “Plus, you’d only be sleeping in there.”

I walk away to my room, finding it a lot more accommodating than before. I can’t believe all of this. My mother asks me for cash and then wants to put me in the closet. House pets get better treatment than this.

Then she opens the door to my room. “You might want to start applying for jobs soon.”

How am I supposed to apply for jobs if I don’t know where I’m going to be living?

She baffles me sometimes.

Would you like LOGIC with that?

She won’t go away. She is my shadow- my pestering twin that follows me everywhere, constantly nagging, constantly watching my every step. She even looks like me: we’ve been called sisters. I don’t know how the “sister” connection was made; after all, that would be quite the age gap, but people can say some pretty stupid things.

Aunt, maybe, Mother, no.

I don’t even own a car.

I guess there is always Starbucks, those are everywhere: they are like bunnies overpopulating themselves across the United States, spreading their coffee goodness to all.

Merry coffee to all, and to all an unrestful night.

Holidays can be disturbing. Take Christmas; a fat, “jolly” man sneaks into people’s houses at night only to leave presents and eat their food. Anyone else comes into your house in the middle of the night, and it’s breaking and entering. Not only do little boys and girls sit on Santa’s lap and whisper in his ear, but Santa watches them day or night; He knows whether they have been good or bad. I might have to get a restraining order for Santa. I think that is called stalking.

            Not like Easter is any better. Easter is the sexual holiday, the pure epitome of reproduction. Santa was just a horny old fat man sneaking into kids’ houses, but the Easter bunny, he’s a different story. First of all, he isn’t even human, and you know what they say about bunnies: they keep going and going and going. So this symbol of reproduction comes a hopping to your house, bearing eggs, chocolate, and other goodies. Even the tooth fairy is disturbing. A gay fairy comes in the middle of the night and slips money under your pillow in exchange for your teeth.

            Oh the things we tell the children of America. “Santa and the Easter bunny aren’t real, but GOD exists.” Lead kids to believe that something is real, tell them it’s all a lie, and then expect them to trust you; that all of what you say is true. God is almost like the Santa for adults. You grow too big to believe in Santa, why not believe in God? You can’t see both, and both have been marketed. WWJD? What WOULD Jesus do if he found out he was being materialized. Marketed, merely an idol.