Saturday Night Date

movie screen

Last night, the Palinode and I went on traditional-type date, which we do not normally do, because we do most things together anyway. Let's hear it in unison now: Awwwwwww.

We saw Guillermo Del Toro's "The Orphanage", which had me gripping the Palinode's arm and swallowing around a dry tongue, because I am becoming a bigger and bigger wuss with every passing year. I used to be able watch all kinds of suspense and gore, but once I turned thirty, I become a shivering leaf at the mere intimation of the ghost of a dead kid.

Oh noes! There's a kid with a sack over his head! Beware the sack-headed, for they will behave unpredictably and likely have bloodlust!

happy Palinode candid Palinode

Afterward, we had drinks at a nearby pub, where I became a people magnet. I had spent Saturday afternoon in lesser breakdown mode, which involved crying into a roll of toilet paper while quietly listing all proofs of life's futility, so I thought people would have stayed far afield of me, but no, they eagerly told me about their families, the plight of lesbian-owned bookstores and sex toy shops, their bunny costumes, and their views on multiple orgasms and whether a partner's skill is imperative to have them.

Later in the evening, a woman I had just met pointed at me and yelled You are a magnet, lady. A MAGNET!

drinking Palinode

Mmmm, beer. And lo, it was good, until it was no longer good. Saturday nights at a pub are for twenty-something females participating in the cult of femininity to parade around in ridiculous shoes in an effort to sexually entice twenty-something males who are fetishists of the feminine who try to appear disinterested while wearing ridiculous pants. Last night, I was the thirty-something in old jeans pulled from the laundry basket who was talking to a new acquaintance about the inhibiting role of attachment to creative work and who had had enough of getting eyefuls of underwear hanging out of the tops of pants on assless boys.

top-down Palinode

And then it was Sunday, which is today, and I slept. Isn't that what old ladies with cats and who are recovering from lesser breakdowns do on Sundays?

My Sweet Widdle Gopher

50x365 #212: Heather J.