Wednesday, December 3, 2008

I always wanted to be in the mob.

When I was eleven or so, my grandmother brought over this movie, Oscar. It had some big names in it (i.e. Sylvester Stallone), but for as far as I can tell is a lesser-known gangster movie set in the 1920s. For whatever reason, Sylvester Stallone decides to go "legit," and the movie is about the day he tries to do so. It involves tangled webs of Italian suit makers, an accountant (sweet but stupid), a speech therapist (to sound less mob-like), a domineering well-kept housewife, and your usual thugs and police and media characters. (Sometimes the media being the thugs, but that is neither here nor there.)

The movie drew me in. First off, the 1920s are probably the coolest ten years in the history of America. (One of my favorite books is The Great Gatsby for a similar reason.) Everything from the foreign aspect (Italia, romantico!), the intrigue, comedy, and general bad-assness that comes with being in the mob amused me the full hundred minutes each time I watched it.

Now, I wasn't a dummy. I know that Germans don't really participate in the mob, nor do women, but I figured that if I continued on my career path (guided by Nancy Drew) to become an attorney, I could be an attorney (consigliere) for the mob! With my newly-focused career path, I began to research the Saint Valentine's Day massacre as though it actually had anything to do with anything, and my interest in Al Capone was a little stupid for a pre-teen girl.

I tell this long story partly to assuage my guilt over my love of The Sopranos, an HBO hit show about a man and his family's lives as he heads the New Jersey mob. I also tell it to segue into a ridiculous night.

For the last few days I have had tonsillitis in a very bad way. The details are disgusting, so let me finish by saying the doctor specifically told me to go home and rest--in a country that celebrates working 70 hours a week. So yesterday I do the resting thing, which really just involves staring at the ceiling moaning over how miserable it is. After 5 weeks of bed rest for my leg, I really don't care what the internet has to offer, and all of the things I've downloaded are stale. I still give it the college try, watching a few episodes of the Sopranos and really getting into the plot lines, but what with being sick and all, I decided it would be best to turn everything off and try to sleep.

At that exact moment in time, the fever actually settles in. I'm sweating, fanning myself with blankets, pillows, stuffed animals, anything. And somehow I was magically transformed into Tony Soprano, writhing on my bed, trying to figure out why none of my crew is bringing me Talking Rain sparkling water! DAMNIT! I needed the pink one ASAP! Yesterday! Sure I'd take lime, but NO ONE IS BRINGING ME THE WATER.

I think it's pretty funny now that I have something to drink. I can't remember the last time I pretended I was a 45-year-old father of two heading the Jersey family, but I'm glad to know my imagination is still there.

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