Last night started the summer movies that you know I like to go to, at my old theater.
I saw, for the first time, Rebecca, a film I assumed I’d seen before because I took a Hitchcock class in college, which was harder than it sounds. Anyway, I had not. But what I discovered was that Young Frankenstein definitely got its inspiration for Frau Bleuger from this movie.
In fact, I kept leaning over to Ned and whinnying any time the maid spoke, a thing that did not beleaguer Ned in the slightest. When our host, a guy who, I don’t know, manages the theater? Owns it? Whatever his role, any time I see him in public it’s like a celebrity sighting, kind of like how that one time my Aunt Mary saw a QVC host and squealed.
My point is this. Despite having three teensy kittens who have fortunately graduated to being fed every FIVE hours now (freedom!) and despite getting work emails that began at 6:08 a.m. (why are people up?) I am here telling you about Sunday cause I said I would. Oh, and I didn’t finish my thought above, what a shock. The theater’s host or owner or whomever always gives a little speech before the movie, and any time he says there’s no smoking in the theater, I dramatically suck the last of my imaginary cigarette and stomp it out with my heel.
“That never stops being funny,” said Ned, who was about to be whinnied at 407 times in the next two hours.
Anyway, Sunday. Not to be confused with sundae because I am fat.
I had my tattoo party on Sunday. My neighbor, A, told me about it originally, and I have been texting with the tattoo guy, and truth be told, I did not get what I asked for, but I am coming around to sort of liking it. Here is what I asked for:
I wanted an iris, because Iris. The idea was I wanted that stem, a thin stem, to go up the side of my wrist, and then up near the top would be a teensy iris.
Here is what I got.
Yeah, I know. I kept saying, “I want it teensy.” I think tattoo people don’t like to do tiny, delicate tattoos. I remember a place in Seattle saying if you want a tattoo that’s smaller than a dime, forget it. I mean, isn’t that up to us? Charge us a minimum. Anyway, there we have it.
After I got my large tattoo, I asked Ned if he wanted to go get ice cream out in the country. I realize I hang around Ned too much, but ice cream. Didn’t I just refuse to say sundae, above? This is why I am fat. I forget. I forget I’m fat.
Here is what happened. You have to drive up to order ice cream now, rather than walk into the place, and it’s arranged in an inconvenient way, where the menu isn’t seeable until it’s your turn, and then you have to panickedly read it while the person is standing there to take your order. The flavors can differ. Luckily for us all, Ned always gets peach in a regular cone
CONE!!! This is vv important to Ned. If they had a kale cone he’d get that. Motherfucker’s getting ICE CREAM, but oh, watch the sugar in that cone.
I always want something with nuts in it. But that day, all they had was butter pecan and I get that constantly, so here’s what I did. I asked for two kid-sized scoops, not that they are the size of a child, in a cup. I asked for double chocolate and coffee flavors.
What they gave us was one cone (NOT WAFFLE) for Ned and TWO CUPS for me. “Can you hold mine while I park?” asked Ned, who forgot I am not an Indian goddess with 8 arms.
By the time we’d parked, the ice cream had melted everywhere, and there was no catching up to it, and apparently Sunday was a day that no one understood what I meant when I said I wanted anything.
“I’m never coming back here again,” I said, in my covered-in-detritus-Jackie-Kennedy-in-Dallas ensemble,
It wasn’t just there. No. I had ice cream all the way to the bottom of my pants. It was absurd. If I ever go there again—AND I’M NOT—I will demand they don’t fill it to the top. GEEEEEEZUS.
I have some stuff from the dollar store called Awesome, and it all came out, miraculously.
I have to go. I wish people wouldn’t send work email before 8 or after 5. It gives me the willies, and I know there are mellow people for whom this is not an issue, but for me if ruins every moment because I feel like I should be interrupting my not-at-work life to answer work things.
I’ll talk to you later, about bandannas, and by now this had better be the best bandana story in the history of all bandana stories. Also, I can’t get on Facebook so you’ll just have to come looking for posts or subscribe or something. They want me to get some sort of app to get on the app that is Facebook. Answer: No.