So, I visited my clients. Gives you a lot of perspective when you go from an office filled with paperwork, numbers, names, medical records, to a seat two feet from an amputee who just snapped miraculously out of a coma. From the home of the elderly couple that barely speaks a lick of English, before heading down south to the other home on my list, I got to meet up with Johnny . I had intended only to stop in, get a hug and go pee (it’s just not couth to relieve oneself at a client’s home, takes away some of the “majestic” air about the Lady from the Law Firm), but I found myself with more time, enough to bask in the presence of a very close friend for the duration of lunch.
Even if I did get that weirdo sauce all over my breasts, and NOTHING would get it out, and I had to go straight to my other clients’ house, WITH the stains. Oh, my. I dealt with it though, and kept telling myself no one would notice, it’s all in my head, until I got back to the office, and there were bets made to guess the source. The stains were most noticeable, but I took it in stride (like a porn-star would a fist, or maybe more like a perpetually empathetic and understanding gentle-woman would an ignorant comment), refused to reveal its source, and went about the rest of my work day.
The movie after work was nearly traumatizing. First, I got there early (I ALWAYS get there early). Alone, finishing a book in line (yay! One down, four new ones to go), my space was invaded by three VERY gay, VERY geeky, VERY anxious Madonna fans. It was like the E-3 meets the Pride Parade. The pants were pulled high, almost to nips, the Madonna concert T’s tucked in, white sneakers, and facial expressions that would have probably been more comfortable sitting on the visage of a bitter old maid than these youngish men.
I was on my cell phone (as I’m likely to be), and standing in line for the movie, behind three people. The boys were behind me, gesticulating violently to whatever words they shared amongst themselves. Separating us, a giant plant. Yes, they were behind the plant, I was in front of the plant… I heard, “you know, she’s got plenty of room there, we can be on that side of it if she’d just move, I mean, there’s just a whole lot of room there.” They were, of course, talking about me. The nerve. As if I wasn’t standing right there, daring each other to ask me to move with their tones, or passive-aggressively hoping I’d overhear and silently step up a bit. Me? Silent? Hee hee.
I said, “Excuse me,” into my phone, and closed the gap between me and the boys, looked them in the eyes, pointedly, and said, “I take it that it’s VERY important to you which side of this plant you are on? Would you feel better if one of you squeezed in on this side, so as to avoid the possibility of anyone cutting in front of you?” in my patronizing-the-general-stupid-public tone of voice (I actually learned this tone of voice from my eldest sister, who can be an extraordinary bitch in the nicest way possible). They grumbled and gruffled that “yes” it would make them feel better, but blamed it on the plant’s annoying girth, rather than the truth, which was they were pissed to not be first in line for the film of their obviously chosen Diva.
Imagine my humor when the six or so people meeting up with me went around them to crowd that space before the plant. I couldn’t keep from smiling. The theatre wasn’t crowded anyway, seats abounded, but the stress and tension in their faces, the comments into their cell phones, always changing, “yeah, we’re up here, we’re behind 4 people… Yeah, we’re up here, by the front, but we’re behind 10 people.” Hee, hee , hee. Suckers (no pun intended, of course).