When the Cat's Away

When I mentioned that my husband was out of town, my coworker got a faraway look in her eye and asked dreamily, "What do you like to do?  You know, when he's gone?"

Great question.  First, when I come home, I don't touch the TV.  That means no Simpsons, no Family Guy.  Oh glory.  I wash my face, and wash the dishes.  Then I stand back and think about how when I come home from work the next day, the dishes will still be clean.  Unless I dirty some.  And even then, I know what to expect upon my arrival.  

Chinese Food.  Like, three times a day.  When Marky and I are struggling to decide where to grab lunch on our days off together, I always suggest Chinese.  Then he always says, in a startlingly Canadian tone, "You know?  Honestly?  Can we choose something else?"  He says it every time I suggest Chinese, to the point that I suggest Chinese, even when I feel like a sandwich, just to hear him say it.  I finally let him in on the joke recently, and he has since changed his reply to, "Eat a dick." I wish I was kidding.  So, back to the Chinese.  I like it all.  Fried rice, orange chicken, chow mein, kung pao, can't get enough.  Oh, and I save so much in dishes using the takeout carton and chopsticks.  Mmm.  I'm getting hungry. 

I watch musicals.  I just finished the Barbra version of A Star is Born.  Last time he was gone, it was the Judy version.  Marky isn't the type to complain if I really needed to watch a musical, but the minute he fell asleep (and that would be minute three), I would feel guilty about boring him.  

Knitting.  Unabashedly, unapologetically.  I could knit for 6 hours if I wanted.  Then take a nap and knit for a couple more.  I knit during the musical.  No one is there to tell me I missed something on the screen.  It doesn't matter.  Well, I think my women's intuition told me to pause each time Kris Kristofferson ripped his shirt off, though.  I like to knit and have a musical playing in the room.  I think that might be what heaven is like.  

I come up with crazy ideas, like trying out for a wedding band, growing tomatoes on the deck, and clipping the cat's nails by myself.  Sometimes these things end badly, but no one needs to know.  

After all that fun, I have a terrible time falling asleep.  The bed is half empty, and I had no one to make me laugh all evening.  In the morning, there's no one to tell me the weather forecast, and that I should think about wearing a jacket.  When I draw a little heart in the surface of my pudding, I'm the only one who sees it.  Thank goodness he'll be home tomorrow.

Happystance

Happystance

A story in two acts  

The First Half of My Day

Day off, thank goodness.  Slept late.  Looked forward to a nice slow day with Marky.  We rode our bikes to the gym and talked about going to an early movie.  Anvil! The Story of Anvil finally made it to the Music Box, and we planned to hit the 5:30 show.  Worked out, came home, talked crazy talk about getting massages.  Then he got a call from a client.  This client wanted a session at 5:30.  Seriously?  Right when we were supposed to go to the movie?  Fine.  Fine.  Money is important, and whatever.  But Marky was still bent on getting these massages.  When I got out of the shower 20 minutes later, he told me he found a place in our neighborhood, and it was pretty inexpensive.  He booked an hour massage for both of us at 3pm.  

We drove to our massage locale.  I won't tell you where it is.  But it was skanky.  SKAN-keh.  There was an accordion-type gate covering the storefront, like the health department had shut her skanky ass down.  We found free parking, though, which is, I guess, worth the risk of SARS.  Upon our approach, we discovered that it was a cosmetology school.  Discount prices?  Check.  I had a sinking feeling when the botox-enhanced cosmetology madam greeted us and introduced us to our lady of the afternoon.  There was only one masseuse.  She planned on piggybacking us.  We didn't have 2 hours to spend.  The madam tried to convince us we just wanted to be in the same room for both massages.  No, we scheduled simultaneous slots.   We argued in three different languages, until the madam gave in with a grand "hmpf," and Marky and I ended up in two different rooms.  Against my better judgment, I disrobed.  

This hour, possibly the longest hour of my life, walked the thin line between a flaccid oily rubdown and borderline sexual assault.  To make matters worse, this learning area was less of a room, and more of a cubicle without a ceiling.  The lights were bright and hot, and you could hear everything going on in every other room through the hall.  Rather than unwind to the enchanting sounds of ocarinas and Native American drums, I listened to the school's administrator arguing with a young woman about her parents' inability to pay their taxes.  Kinda relaxing, I guess.  My mom paid her taxes.  Between the occasional bouts of relaxation, I imagined foreign tourists, quietly strolling through the instruction rooms, taking snapshots of the lavender eyemasked massagees.  I haven't had a lot of massages in my life, but I've never before wished for it to be over so badly.  My student masseuse instructed me to sit upright

And then it happened.  My most unrealistic fear of voyeurism came true.  No knock, no trepidatious entrance, in walked this random guy.  Not an instructor.  Just some guy.  He immediately realized his mistake and walked right out, but wow.  I breathed a sigh of relief, because it really couldn't get any worse than this moment.  A strange man walking into a well lit room to find  me, a small towel, and only a shred of dignity.  I mean, it could be days before I figure out I have ringworm.  

It was all I could do not to pee myself with laughter when the trainee summed the whole experience with, "You're tense!"  Damn right, I was tense.  That tourist that just walked out didn't say anything nice about my hooters.  She graciously showed me the way to the exit, but I had already worked out three separate escape routes in my mind while she was dousing me in Myrrh and Ylang Ylang.  I found Marky, looking disheveled as well, and we giggled nervously upon exiting.  

"Mmm.  Smells like you got some oil with your massage," he cleverly asserted.  

"Yeah," I replied, "didn't they use any oil on you?"

Marky choked with laughter, "No, they didn't even take my shirt off."  Hysterical laughter ensued.  But really, I feel badly for him, because he never even got the chance to be exploited on the internet.  I'm the lucky one.  

The Better Half of My Day

Marky finished his session, and we rode our bikes to the Music Box to see the 7:30 show.  Locked up the bikes, got some popcorn, took a seat in the intimate theater.  There's maybe room for 45 people, the screen is small, plastic grapes and vines hang from the ceiling, it's a terrific way to enjoy a weird documentary.  This guy a couple rows up from us turns around to face his friend.  Mid sentence, I stopped.  I turned to Marky and remarked, "That guy looks like Sting."

"Yeah," he agreed in a hush.  Pause.  "He really does.  I don't remember what I was just talking to you about."

My pulse started to race a little, and then I told myself it just wasn't him.  But then a line of about 10 people filed in.  And they walked right into this guy's row.  "Is it okay if we sit here?" The male leader of the line queried.

And with his telltale husky British tenor, Gordon Sumner quipped, "Well, there's room for you, but honestly, I'd rather sit next to your girlfriend."  

The next 120 minutes were spent trying to be incredibly cool.  Nobody asked for an autograph, no photos.  A pretty respectful crowd, it you ask me.  It was surreal, and I've never been that close to a god of pop music.  I can't say I'm the world's biggest Police fan, but I no one there could deny that we were in the presence of greatness.  And if it hadn't been for Marky's last minute change of plans, we would have missed watching Anvil with Sting.  Good end to a memorable day.  

A Few Good Frogs

During the past month, I've seen some good movies. We usually go to the theater every week, but in an effort to save a little cash, we've been hitting the Netflix pretty hard. Looking back, they're all French movies, but that's just a coincidence. If you have a problem with subtitles, get over it. These are all must see's.

La Vie En Rose. My mom has been suggesting this biopic for awhile. Edith Piaf is a voice you will almost certainly recognize, but might not love. Her style is dated and nasal, but once you watch her story, you will adore that snarly sound every time it pops up on your Billie Holliday Pandora station. Marion Cotillard is an amazingly beautiful actress who completely abandoned her looks for the role of La Môme. Like Mama Cass and Janis Joplin, Edith got by on her talent, not her looks. She had a ton of heart. This is one of the most tragic stories in show business--more than that. It's just a really sad start she got off to, and a sadder end, and I never knew any of it until now. And I share a birthday with her.

Man on Wire. This won for best documentary at the Academy Awards, right? Well, it was deserved. I love documentaries, and this is different than any one I've seen. A full-length feature about a French guy walking a tightrope between New York's Twin Towers. Although that's a monumental task, how could there be enough material for that? Of course, there are 21st century interviews of the international friends who helped him back in the 1970's. Then there's this amazing flashback material. The actors look SO much like the people in the interviews. And a quarter of the way through the film, you realize, they are those people. This story has waited 30 years to be told. This incredibly charismatic person surrounded himself with the most colorful, creative, positive crew he could find to help him achieve his ridiculous dream. And the most beautiful part is that he isn't the one who gets the most emotional about the memory. It was his walk, his art, but his friends seemed more invested in it than him. He was just a vessel for the inspiration to manifest itself.

JCVD. Just watched this last night. I haven't read any reviews, I just want to tell you what I think it was about. Jean Claude Van Damme. I know. The only movie I've ever seen him in is Time Cop. And I don't even know why I saw that in the first place. I'm not much for action movies. I suppose it's because there's no acting, per se, just action. Back to the subject, though, JCVD is a lovely surprise. Here's my take: Something surreal happens to a man who already lives a surreal life. The main character faces a divorce, loses custody of his child, goes home to Belgium, and appears to rob a post office. As far as I can understand (keep in mind, I know nothing about the man), this is not autobiographical. None of these events actually took place, but Jean Claude is portraying himself. And who's to say if he's really a sweet, honorable, horribly misunderstood person en realité? I think it crosses that line wonderfully. JCVD's soliloquy is worth the price of admission. And getting a good long look at that face that has been weathered by camera flashes and abusive cab drivers. Oh, and the cigarette trick--I think he must have done it in a thousand bad kickboxing flicks. Maybe it's because I live with a personal trainer, but his body is amazing. He's still so big and strong for his age. I'm getting simple on you. Sorry. Beautiful movie. Three beautiful movies. Rent them.

When Does a Swatch Become a Remnant?

I almost wrote this as a status update on Facebook, but the thought is just a little too long for that small venue:

Dear Starbuck's Barista,

My apologies for misleading you when I ordered a "large" coffee.  Beaten down by I long day at the office, I was looking forward to some caffeine rejuvenation before an also long rehearsal.  The spouse of a former barista.  I should have known better.  Oh, the mountain of regret as that little word slipped out.  Mea culpa.  I encountered the most basic of syntax errors, but in so quickly (and let's be honest, unnecessarily)  correcting me, so did you.  The word is "venti," pronounced ven-TEE.  Not ven-TAY.     

Let's agree to disagré.

Sincerely,

The Princess of Diction