2000-08-14
Friday evening B and I went to one of those mega-bookstores with a cafe. Turned out there was an open-mic comedy musical event just starting as we arrived. A guy with a guitar, the emcee, began by singing folksy songs with allegedly amusuing and mildly risque lyrics. The first of these, about "cheating" was called "I found your bra inside your pocketbook."
The refrain went
[Something, something]
Not sure what made me look
But I found your bra
inside your pocketbook
Seeing as this type of music is very far from either B's or my cup of tea, we got out of there fast. Driving home, though, we couldn't help singing that catchy refrain. We tried various variations on the theme, the best being one B came up with just as we pulled into the parking lot of the Chinese restaurant where we were picking up dinner. I think of it as the Jim Thompson variation:
Don't know why I did it
Or how long it took
But I found your head
inside your pocketbook
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Then on Saturday afternoon we stopped into this market/cafe type place to get some lunch. We were both hungry and crabby and the service was frustratingly inept but we finally ended up having given our orders and gotten our drinks and sitting down at a table. I deferred to B as far as choosing a table (him being perhaps slightly hungrier and crabbier than I) but noticed as he indicated the one he wanted that next to it was a large table of what I can only refer to as frat boys.
Sorry, I try to avoid sterotypes and not cast unnecessary aspersions but we were in a neighboring college town that is rife with young people who ooze entitlement. The girls have their share of entitlement but it seems to be tempered by an anorexic aversion to taking up too much space. The boys, on the other hand, take up as much space as possible, lounging extravagantly on chairs, talking way more loudly than necessary.
Because hate is a strong word, I'll say that these types of young men, to whom I sometimes refer as date rapists, make me uncomfortable. B, who generally speaks so quietly I make him repeat himself multiple times and is usually as averse as I am to this kind of young man, must have been too tired to notice.
Anyway, as I sat down, I knocked my tall plastic tumbler of ice water across the table. It made a loud noise and the water spilled onto the floor. I knew beyond any doubt that someone at this neighboring table would be compelled to comment loudly on my gaffe, and I was right. With quotation marks in his voice he said, "I hate it when that happens!"
+ + +
Later on Saturday I went to return, among other things, some videos to the public library. Instead of the middle-aged black man at the AV counter with whom I usually deal, I decided to return them to the grandmotherly white woman. As I handed her Affliction she asked how it was. I said, "Eh. I watched half then turned it off. It was really slow and depressing." Now, I hardly object to depressing movies (recall my recent love of They Shoot Horses, Don't They? which would make anyone consider ending it all). But something about this woman made me feel like that was the easiest way to convey why I didn't finish the movie.
Then I heard a chuckle and this guy, maybe 40, who was standing behind me said, "The book is better."
"So you saw the movie?" I said. "Didn't it drag?" I wanted validation, for some dumb reason I didn't want this guy to think I'm the kind of person who thinks movies need to be cheerful or uplifting or something.
"Yes, I saw it. I thought it was okay. Not as good as the book."
I turned back to the grandmother. "I was just sitting there, wishing it would end. So I turned it off. Life's too short, you know?"
She laughed, as did the guy, but it still rankled me to be perceived as some kind of lightweight Philistine.
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