Adolescense Happens

A few days ago adolescense hit the Wandering Gentile household. One of the Hijastras (La Mayor), hovering between the ages of eleven and full-growed hottie, went from being a sweet, kind little girl who loves princess books, to the venom spewing spawn of Ba'al.


One imagines this kind of transformative moment serving to inspire William Peter Blatty's vision of Regan. If the other day was any indication of what is to come, the Devil would merely add cheesy effects; I am not entirely sure Hijastra (La Mayor)'s head did not spin a full 360 at some point. Indeed, the mayhem witnessed made Satan superfluous.


There was little warning, although she had quietly provoked her sister, Hijastra (La Menor), to tears by dinner time. The day before, (La Mayor) inspired (La Menor) to desire her demise in frank and unmistakable terms, while at the dinner table.


The adults at the table, having experienced (individually) the untimely demise of a sibling, did not find such an expression to be necessary, appropriate, or in any way conducive to (La Menor)'s future welfare. This was communicated with brusque inflection, conjoined with adequately draconian conditions as unique recourse for redemption.


Should the Gentle Reader feel it unlikely for a nine-year-old to suggest that adults engage in autohomoeroticism, nonverbally, eschewing long-established had gestures, the Gentle Reader is not well-informed.


Your Wandering Gentile's experience with sibling rivalry has been heretofore limited to brothers. Boys are not a challenge. Most of what is inflicted by boys is limited to flatulence, challenges to gender identity, and the cruel repositioning of the victim's undergarment into a fundamentally uncomfortable position, i.e., a wedgie or a snuggie.


Boys are simply rude and gross. Beavis and Butthead; Adam Sandler; Mike Myers; and John Belushi are all indicative of the masculine predilection for the loud, grotesque, and profane. There is an inclination in the male psyche which holds an appreciation for provoking a friend to expel a red beverage from his nose, thus soiling his shirt with Fruit Punch Gatorade and mucus.


It is not only an appreciation: it is an accomplishment on a scale with the Manhattan Project. We have established dominance over our rival, and fulfilled an atavistic need to demonstrate superior genetic potential by revealing the rival's vulnerability. Men say crap like this to justify wanting to provoke a friend to blow Fruit Punch Gatorade out of his nose, and retain the hope of ever engaging in behavior which may result in procreation.


This is not behavior which would ever occur to girls or possibly a non-threatening boy-band. There are more subtle forms of expression that females engage in. When it comes to undressing with the eyes, females are constantly evaluating rival boobs, butts, and guts.


Men are so uncomfortable with male genitalia that they question the appropriateness of liking their own. Were men as insecure as women, an entire medical industry would be committed to the construction of desensitized, perpetually aroused, 16" (40 cm) penises.


One will also observe women ritualistically asessing automobiles, shoes and handbags. Most men value an object's value in relation to expenditure as opposed to manufacturer's label, unless they are Republican members of congress or belong to exclusive groups where everybody looks like a Republican member of Congress.


A woman sees a twenty year old hatchback and sees a US$500 pile of junk. If it is halfway clean, has oversize tires and wheels, and a louder-than-standard exhaust, men view it as cool, as long as it is also equipped with a manual transmission. The owner has fortitude, the car looks like it's fun to drive, and probably gets kick-ass gas mileage.


As good as this is for men, many women would prefer a glorified station wagon like a RAV4 or a CR-V to the hatchback, or something even cooler like a pre-GM buyout Saab 900 convertible. The glorified station wagon has air, automatic transmission, a vanity mirror, and a Warranty. The Saab has a power top that one has to wrestle to lower.


I can live with Starter shoes from Wal-Mart and the Saab. The Starters were made by the same Vietnamese children as Nikes, out of the same materials, across the hall in the same sweat shop.


I'll wrestle the inoperable power top to not drive the glorified station wagon; which brings us back to Hijastra (La Mayor)'s advent into adolescence.


Once she finished belittling her younger sister, she started in on me. Part of the recent economic unpleasantness that has gripped the United Stateshas impacted the Wandering Gentile household as well. This included the precocious departure of the Pornstar Minivan, a vehicle which counted my beloved Saab 900 convertible as partial trade.


Hijastra (La Mayor) found humor in this misfortune that I could not, some of her remarks being quite cutting and pointed. To rephrase, I found her comments to be distinctly unfunny. A moment came where I wanted to forget about the little girl who suggests riding over to Birmingham for their available Whataburger franchise, or suggests a trip to the public library so that she may renew her friendship with Princess Mia Thermopolis. These were continent-sized obstacles to the caprice of wanting to cause intense, lingering physical pain.

After a brief, monosyllabic proration unlikely to challenge the intellect of the average Lou Dobbs acolyte, I retired to quarters. Upon arrival, I was greeted by the voice of Hijastra (La Menor). "You see? She does that to me ALL THE TIME!"


The next few years promise to be endlessly diverting.