In my quest to be constantly on the move like a shark, last night The Poet and I went to the movies.
We’d discussed going to the movie last week, then the weekend came and you know how she gets at the weekend, with her clubbing and binging. Or maybe her cello and church. Either way.
Yes, The Poet plays the cello. In an orchestra. I am clearly the most trashy part of Poet’s life.
She always has Mondays off, The Poet does, as many years ago she got some sort of fancy poetry fellowship and she was allowed one day a week to sit about and think poet-y thoughts.
Anyway, she’s been a four-day-week kind of gal ever since, at least since I met her in aught 11.
But the thing is, she wasn’t at work yesterday, either. Word around the streets was she took a day off. Beretta told me. Apparently she has 147 days off left this year that if she doesn’t take, she’ll lose.
That’s all well and good, but what about my needs? Were we going to the pictures or nah?
But they’ve invented this feature called texting
so I used that to get in touch with her and it turns out we were still on.
All four men who read me are like, “None of this was germane to the story.”
“I will pick you up at 7:05,” I texted her. I text her. “But look for a bigger, darker Fiat.” See what she misses when she takes days off all willy-nilly?
She was waiting for me in the lobby, with a magazine, (but not like Darling Nikki) when I arrived at her abode at 7:06, and I guess lateness like that warrants a deep dive into a back copy of The New Yorker. “You know, you can just mindlessly scroll your phone to pass the time,” I alerted her, although what someone mindlessly looks at if they aren’t on social is beyond me. She could call up the electronic version of The New Yorker.
I do like The New Yorker. Ned subscribes to it, and when I lived with him for that one year, during my year abroad, I would peruse it. He never, on the other hand, picked up one single issue of my Star Magazine.
We headed downtown, which is all doo-dadded up for Christmas and they do a good job here. They put blue twinkle lights on the trees and it’s lovely. I guess everyone thinks blue is the religion-neutral color, although it doesn’t really address the atheists, does it?
We parked in the rape garage on the 109th floor, as all the other floors were full. “It’s a TUESDAY,” Poet kvetched, and I am glad someone else finds Christmas annoying.
Anyway, once we descended all 500 stairs and had the wind knocked out of us by the wind and I realize that’s ironic, Alannis, we walked 78 blocks to the theater, and?
There is a ticket taker there who has always loved Ned. Oh my god, any time we went in there, she’d be all, “I have your tickets, Mr. Nickerson!” She’d always joke about how she knew his name, and how she recognized him, and she’d flash this giant smile and glow up at him.
She was at the ticket booth yesterday and recognized me not one iota.
“Sold out?” I asked the future Mrs. Nickerson.
“I’m afraid so,” she said, zero hint of recognition on her face. Hi, I’m the woman who accompanied Jackie Kennedy to the movies. I mean, I was there next to him 700 times while she pranced and twisted about. Oh my god I wanted to throttle her back then.
Dejected and movieless, we headed out, but at the door I said, “Look disappointed” to The Poet, who immediately gave me this:
You know, a few years ago I took The Poet to the movies at this theater, and as we got out of the car the person in the next car said, “I have one extra ticket. Do you want it?” to The P, and she took it, and then when we went inside I entered her into the drawing to win a free pair of jeans, and SHE WON THEM.
LAST night, as we dejectedly galumphed down the sidewalk, a woman approached us. “Did you just try to get in to see Love, Actually?”
“Yes; it’s sold out,” we told her.
“I have two extra tickets,” she said, and handed them to us for free.
Is The P a good luck charm?
So we got to go anyway, and now The Poet can finally say she saw Love, Actually, and she found the Colin-goes-to-Wisconson storyline a tad far-fetched, and I just like that scene now because one of those hootchie-gootchie girls is Betty Draper.
The only thing I have to do tonight is take out the trash, and you act like that’s minor but have you met my ADD? Then tomorrow I have a party to go to and Friday I have the trainer and Saturday I’ve been invited to a party and I finally said NO. NO NO NO and plan to sit around listlessly until next week when I have 79 things to do.