Chili’s
It seems that all my musings have been a little sad– aside from the car dancing one– but today in the Chili’s line, waiting for pick up on lunch break, a woman named Holly sat beside me. Her nails neatly manicured to match her toes, Holly smoked two cigarettes outside the door to the restaurant in 10 minutes we were there. In the three minutes she actually sat inside to wait, her foot tapped, her fingers tapped, and her eyes shifted impatiently. It was enough to make me nervous. The ring on her left hand, approximately the size of Texas, seemed too heavy to be enjoyable. Her sleek black Audi, complete with Ole Miss license plate, also seemed like a sign of a life too stressful to upkeep happily.
As her food came out from the back, the woman behind the counter said “kid chicken crispers and a side salad with low fat vinaigrette?”
That’s when I realized why she seemed so wound up: anyone who eats side salads with low fat dressing for lunch is bound to have their panties in a wad. I mean, really.
Country Club Clubbin’
I have a general pessimism toward the Fourth of July. It stems from my severe dislike of patriotism–especially southern, racist, bigoted, religious patriotism. I avoid it. Whenever possible (every year). This Fourth was especially bad considering the recent EuroCup win in Spain. My brain was drifting to how great it would be to not be here, browsing teaching programs in Spain. Then ”Blast from the Past” IMed me, asking me to come with him to watch fireworks. I was along for the ride, considering my unprecedented boredom and penchant for a bad experience (one day I’ll learn to want to say no.) Let it be noted: “Blast from the Past” used to think–still does, as it were–that he was an elf. A real, live, elvish-speaking elf. Not one of Santa’s helpers. It goes without saying we only went on a couple dates.
I resentfully climbed into his oversized SUV machine, the seats reeking of old boy, and went to the Memphis Elite Country Club. I’m not for sure that Elite is an official part of the establishment’s title, but it should be. There, complete with my Target flipflops and my hair in a messy ponytail, I felt automatically out of place. Luckily I was wearing a dress, but only because of the humidity.
I wish I had taken pictures, but cameras aren’t allowed at Club events, neither are cell phones. Being caught with one gets you a fine of 50 dollars (charged to your account, obviously). As “Blast from the Past” went to smoke a blunt with his elite buddies in the back of the SUV after a truly American meal (I ordered quesadillas), I sat and watched the crowd. To my right two drunken women, babies in tow, sat by their popped collar husbands (smoking fine cigars), discussing the recent drama at First United Baptist Church.
“Did you hear about Betty’s son? I know. Can you believe it? Gay. Her only one, too. What a shame.”
Beyond them the older children played, ruining their Lilly Pulitzer and Lacoste outfits with grass-stains. Bows bigger than heads drooped by the end of the night and “I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free” blasted from the speakers.
Once Elf-Boy returned to observe the works from his own glorified state, I realized that as glamorous as that life might seem, it’s all too done up for me.
celebrate independence by matching your partner
I think George would be proud
Okay, so this past weekend I spent some number of days trawling the queens/long island/manhattan area for post-worthy sightings. here’s what i came up with: these two women matched, in every sense of the word- from race to hair style, from shirt/hat combos to sexuality, they exuded enthusiasm about their country. this was awe-inspiring as it was, but imagine my astonishment when they simultaneously eschewed the escalator as we all left Penn Station and proceeded to take the stairs. Three stairs at a time. In sync. For many, many steps. It was a superhuman feat that I will probably never witness again.
On England related notes, I spent the 4th (R knows this already) chatting through the fireworks with a man from South London. England follows me wherever I go.
How far are they going to go tonight?
I guess I’ll abbreviate names to tell this story, out of respect for those involved, so here’s the cast:
-My boyfriend, C
-His Mother, R
-His good friend, D
-Rando Boy
-Rando Girl
So, staying in the area for the holiday, we (see first three people in the cast, plus others) went into Brattleborough, Vermont to see their fireworks display. With two beers in me, and C to lean on instead of tiring out my arms, it was possibly the most I’ve ever enjoyed a fireworks display (maybe second to the time my cousins and I got into a taunting war with the teenagers on the neighbor’s dock in Wisconsin. Best taunt: “In the future, I will refer to you in the past tense!” I’m amazing, I know).
Anyway, on the walk back, C–in true C style, might I add–commented about two kids in front of us walking together, maybe holding hands, “Looks like somebody’s getting laid tonight.” His mother, of course, is in earshot for this, and even if she hadn’t been, my reaction would have been the same: “C! They’re, like, twelve!” They might’ve been 14 or so, but it was still gross.
Later that night, D proposed a game to us, in which one person writes a question on a piece of paper, which another person answers beneath it, and then folds the paper so that the first question cannot be seen. The next person then writes a question that could produce the answer above, and folds the paper again, until the page is filled. This produced some pretty funny results, and the person who came before me was R. With the pointed intention of scandalizing me, I’m sure, she at one point passed me a question that ran, “How far will that couple from the fireworks be going tonight?” Always ready to check this wanton impurity, I answered it, “Oh, I’m sure they won’t be leaving Brattleborough. And get your mind out of the gutter!”
Car singing
Today on my ride home, as I was blasting “Give it to me,” and jiving, I’m talking pretty amazing car seat moves… A man in the car next to me asked me to roll down my window with some pretty grandiose hand gestures and facial movements.
He goes, Hey! You got rhythm!
I said, It’s practically Friday, sir!
He said, Damn straight, move it girl!
i just posted that because Maggie hasn’t. Who’s mad?
At the Chopper
Ok, kind of dumb story, but it entertained me for a moment, so why not:
I went to the grocery store last night with Jake, and he went to get a price chopper card so he could get a discount on an obscene amount of Annie’s mac & cheese. I, in the meantime, wandered into the dairy section unaccompanied. As I was making businesslike for the orange juice, a big middle-aged black man walked by and asked me how I was doing. “Fine, how are you?” I answered. He had said he was good, and we had both passed one another by when he suddenly turned around and asked “Did you say fine?” Uh-huh. “I asked you how you were doing, not how you looked.”
haha. And I was off to find some peanut butter.
-R
Airport
I don’t know if this counts as people watching, considering she talked to me.. but it’s interesting nonetheless and we’re not exactly in a position to weed out posts as of right now (MAGGIE AND REGINA, STEP UP!) So ahem, here goes.
A woman with a bright red playgirl bunny shirt sits across the aisle from me in the O’Hare Gate H1B. Her brown pigtails show hints of peroxide-dyed blonde underneath, a chunk I’d bet she dipped into the bottle herself. I’ve been sitting there, panting and bemoaning my descent to Memphis a total of 10.2 seconds before she asks, “Whatchu here for?” as if we were in jail, or a doctor’s office. I reply, “Going Home.” “How long since you been der?” she prods.
6 months.
“Well, you see. What had happened was I was wit dis man, you know. You do know, right?”
“I do.”
“Well, I was wit him, you see. And he be all perfect an shit: buyin’ me shit, takin’ me to see his folks down in Memphis, you know. Damn, girl. I thought he be it….”
I nod.
“Well, till I got to Memphis and he start beatin’ up on me. Gettin’ all possessive. I be like, ‘Aw, hell no.’ And my sistah, she came down and she moved me outta there, but you know. I called the cops like 5 times and all because he hit me once wit his gun.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, you know. ‘Bout a year ago. So. Now you know, I got my life all back straight and lined up when I gets this call from the federal marshall last week at work. He be all like, ‘Ma’am, you gotta get down to Memphis to testify. Terrell has gone and killed some chick.’ You know, I don’ wan’ no run-in with no one, so I just ignore it. Matter of fac, I missed the first flight they had me on ‘cuz I didn’ want nothin’ to do wit it. But den dey got my celllll phone and call me again and be like, ‘Ma’am, we will come get you.’ They puttin’ me up nice for a night in a hotel and afer I testify tomorrow, they gon’ fly me right back home.”
“Wow.”
“Yea, well. I’s just scared ‘cuz this is the first time I ever got on a plane. You know, always been drivin’. Anyway, well I’m all engaged now to a differen’ man, we be livin’ togetha, I got my life straight… Girl, you know where I can smoke my cig?”
And then she left.
Frenchies – Retroactive
Just to get the ball rolling, these were some people in Caen. I also took sketchy photos of lovers there, but this was cuter. I don’t know about a story, though. Any suggestions?
-R
We watch people.
Set to launch soon, lovers.
