Saturday Night Date

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Last night, the Palinode and I went on traditional-type date, which we do not normally do, because we do most things together anyway. Let's hear it in unison now: Awwwwwww.

We saw Guillermo Del Toro's "The Orphanage", which had me gripping the Palinode's arm and swallowing around a dry tongue, because I am becoming a bigger and bigger wuss with every passing year. I used to be able watch all kinds of suspense and gore, but once I turned thirty, I become a shivering leaf at the mere intimation of the ghost of a dead kid.

Oh noes! There's a kid with a sack over his head! Beware the sack-headed, for they will behave unpredictably and likely have bloodlust!

Afterward, we had drinks at a nearby pub, where I became a people magnet. I had spent Saturday afternoon in lesser breakdown mode, which involved crying into a roll of toilet paper while quietly listing all proofs of life's futility, so I thought people would have stayed far afield of me, but no, they eagerly told me about their families, the plight of lesbian-owned bookstores and sex toy shops, their bunny costumes, and their views on multiple orgasms and whether a partner's skill is imperative to have them.

Later in the evening, a woman I had just met pointed at me and yelled You are a magnet, lady. A MAGNET!

Mmmm, beer. And lo, it was good, until it was no longer good. Saturday nights at a pub are for twenty-something females participating in the cult of femininity to parade around in ridiculous shoes in an effort to sexually entice twenty-something males who are fetishists of the feminine who try to appear disinterested while wearing ridiculous pants. Last night, I was the thirty-something in old jeans pulled from the laundry basket who was talking to a new acquaintance about the inhibiting role of attachment to creative work and who had had enough of getting eyefuls of underwear hanging out of the tops of pants on assless boys.

And then it was Sunday, which is today, and I slept. Isn't that what old ladies with cats and who are recovering from lesser breakdowns do on Sundays?

Labels: the here and now, the photographs

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6 comments:  You can call me, 'Sir' It's a statistical fact that sack-headed children are indeed more likely to have bloodlust than their counterparts who lack a sack. On their head.    Kate Ah! Your description of the Saturday-night pub scene is dead-on. Ridiculous pants, indeed.    I find I am also becoming more prone to softness as I approach the tender age of thirty. Will all this continue downhill until I am really old? Will I not only shrink physically but also emotionally? I suppose one could always balance it out by watching "Village of the Damned" and hating the scary kids. I find I am also becoming more prone to softness as I approach the tender age of thirty. Will all this continue downhill until I am really old? Will I not only shrink physically but also emotionally? I suppose one could always balance it out by watching "Village of the Damned" and hating the scary kids.    Anonymous previous comment by "Schmutzie li'l bro"    Nat Your Saturday sounds a hell of a lot better than mine. It involved the television, my couch, and a cat. I'd go into more detail but you might pass out from boredom.    Priya Dude. If you had asked me what I thought of The Orphanage, I would have told you to wear your brown pants. I kinda want to see it again, to see the parts that I missed due to my own prolonged screaming and thrashing in the aisles.   blog comment guidelines post a comment ~ Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom] ~ main page