Remember a few months ago when I was talking about how it would be nice once winter hit and I would have so much more time to do things? You know, like I’d hunker down in woolens to have hours of productivity, cranking out novels like knitted mittens and finishing freelance and house projects in the blink of an eye? While it’s true that I have made some progress in a few areas (and have actually watched three movies this month, which is just sad but also exciting, and only happened due to a weird point on my freelance schedule where I had nothing in hand to work on. It should also be noted that this marks the first time where Will Farrell didn’t piss me off once during an entire movie and means that I might have to start referring to him by his actual name instead of ‘The Guy With the Big Dumb Head’), the truth of the matter is that I haven’t had nearly as much time as I thought I would, partially due to a strange project we’ll just refer to as LeetaBye, and partially due to the fact that I clearly would overclock myself into the grave if I had half a chance. So no novel. No gym membership. No webpage redesign. No trips in the making. Nein. Nada. Das ist Kaput.
I do, however, have the magic rug for my office. Not twelve hours after unrolling it, some dark something or other came out of my chair wheels and then it was all over the light section of the rug and’ yeah, it takes a special kind of luck, let me tell you.
As mentioned earlier, deep in a parenthetical, I managed to watch three movies this month, which is really exciting because the month isn’t even done yet. One of these movies was the Traveling Pants movie (see, I’m so behind the times), which I mostly watched Sunday morning before Esteban got up. I normally save the dopey chick movies for alone evenings but I figured that since Esteban had been awake very late playing World of Warcraft, I could sit there in my pjs, and spend a lovely morning covered up with the ugly but very comfy polar fleece blanket, drinking my orange juice and eating my cranberry orange toast.
And already I was crying in the beginning of the movie, way before the pants ever started actually traveling, so I knew that it wasn’t going to be pretty. So when Esteban wandered through the hallway about halfway through the movie, I thought for a second about stopping the movie right then and picking it up later after he had left for his Dorkathalon. But I was really enjoying the movie and I really liked all the girls (except maybe for the soccer playing traditionally beautiful girl who seemed more like a caricature rather than someone Carmen or Tibby would have put up with for very long) so I didn’t. Instead, I just sat there and continued to watch. And then when the weepy part came, I wasn’t expecting it, so it sort of clobbered me and before I knew it, I was full out sobbing, complete with cartoonish Boo Hoos and everything. Or rather, not Boo Hoos but instead a high pitched mournful keening punctuated by snotty snorks and wet smacks, for which there is no adequate shorthand representation and thus, ‘boo hoo’ will have to suffice.
Throughout my lapse into a complete and utter fucking female stereotype, Esteban said nothing, simply continued surfing on his laptop. I was grateful for this, because it’s bad enough that a movie with ‘Pants’ in the title makes me completely lose my shit (and let us never speak of the Notebook Incident) but then to have someone comment about said losing of shit? Annoying. And I thought, man, maybe he finally gets me. After almost sixteen years, maybe he knows when I don’t want him to say anything. The movie ended and I got up from the chaise. He asked me where I was going. I replied that I was going to get dressed. He asked if I wanted to go out for coffee and I smiled and said ‘Definitely.’ It was going to be a good morning.
However, on the way to Starbucks, he said ‘Let me ask you something&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- Which is, right there, enough to cringe. Whatever is coming after that sentence is probably going to be something at very least annoying and at very most, the start of World War Three. Also, he never waits for me to answer, just taking a breath before launching into his question.
‘Do you ENJOY watching movies that make you cry like a baby? Does that actually do something for you?’
Scratch the aforementioned celebration of his doctorate in Weetology. Clearly graduated last in his class. And probably has some incompletes on his record as well.
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
‘Because, I would think you wouldn’t want to sob like that. I would think it seems sort of painful. I know that I don’t like movies like that&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9-
I let him continue on a tirade about cinema and the feelings it should evoke until he started to piss me off. Was he insinuating that I was somehow weak? I told him that he had his answer and I wasn’t about to defend my choice of movie to him, just because he saw me in a moment of vulnerability. And then he asked what was wrong and I was miffed because damn it, can’t I just cry without it being a big fucking production? Maybe that’s why I don’t cry very often? Maybe I feel self-conscious when I cry because I was raised by a distant parent who viewed displays of emotion as a weakness and maybe that’s why I eat all of my emotion and fucking hell, can’t we just go out for coffee without reenacting scenes from The Prince of Tides? Except that I just said ‘Coffee. I need coffee. Coffee now.’
Really, it was probably unfair of me. He remembered my coffee order perfectly, without being prompted. And also, last week, when I said ‘The Guy With the Big Dumb Head’ he knew exactly who I was talking about. He means well, but still, never marry someone with a normal childhood. They just don’t repress anything. I swear, it’s dysfunctional as all hell.
