One of the last times I went out to eat, the waitress that served me and my sister told us the story of her romantic life, how she'd been with her boyfriend for seven years, the recent break ("I moved in with my mother, but we still slept together. That's the power of alcohol."), and the reunited and it feels so good moment ("We got a punch of pot and decided that we should go back to the way we were.") This happens to me a lot, this plunge into intimacy without any warm-up (bringing to mind the old Catholic joke -- What's an Irish Catholic's form of foreplay -- Brace yourself, Bridget). I can't say that I mind -- small talk bores me. Despite my absolute horror of confrontation, I'd rather have a fight that means something than the pablum that passes for most meetings.
My last meeting with my ex-husband was much this way. He had time to kill in Detroit and decided to call and have lunch. My initial feeling was that it would be a huge relief to see him somewhere other than a funeral and that it would be strange. But it wasn't. I showed him my house, conscious for the first time that I still had the entertainment center he'd built me as a divorce present. I'm not much into things, except clothes. He showed me pictures of his baby on a tiny computer screen. We ate dinner and pretty much stuck to safe, read incredibly dull, subjects until his mother made an appearance. She'd always been a piece of work. I saw the first and only authentic expression on his face during the course of the whole short visit. She's a deeply troubled, horrible woman, he said. Now we're cooking with fire, I thought! But he quickly regained himself and shifted into talk about his job and wife, about the Mommy and Me classes to help get her out of the house. I tuned out, knowing that the visit was almost over. Tell me about your broken heart, alcohol-ridden, pot-laced exploits any day. I don't really need to hear the specials. I almost always know what I want.
Michelle's Spell of the Day
"Time is too large, it can't be filled up. Everything you plunge into it is stretched and disintegrates." Jean-Paul Sartre
Cocktail Hour
Drinking music suggestion: Late in the Evening Paul Simon
Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Saturday!
10 comments:
That Jean-Paul Sartre guy you quote is quite a character. I might be wrong about this, but I think he turned down the Nobel Prize for literature. He said he didn't want to be recuperated by the system. What a guy.
One man. One beer. One vision. Before 1842 beer was dark and cloudy, until visionary brewmaster Josef Groll created the world's first golden beer in Plzen, Czech. This revolutionary breakthrough received great acclaim from beer enthusiasts across the globe, spawning a world of imitations and inspiring a new tradition of beer appreciation. This beer appreciation moment, on a rainy, football Saturday in Michigan, is dedicated to Michelle Brooks, looking really great in levis in today's post. Cheers!
Marvelous Catholic joke, Michelle. As you know I am COE. Read you all the time and always laughing uproariously.
Yours,
Bahzy
My identical twin brother was killed in his incubator in Israel when the Jewish state was created. A terrorist bomb caved in the hospital's ceiling and killed him. My father, a British policeman married to my Palestinian mother, fled to Detroit with our family. He got a job as a hospitial administrator at Henry Ford Hospital.
Today's "Quote of the Day": Let every dawn be to you as the beginning of life, and every setting sun be to you as its close.--John Ruskin
Cajun Q you are looking mighty fine Foxy Lady. You got the Cajun hair and the Bluejeans and Boots my Isis Shazammmmmm R2 C2!
Dear Michelle,
Anotoher charming post and view, longlegged and lovely. I am glad you brigten Detroit's shop windows. The deeply troubled horrible woman sounds like my exwife's mother. To being free from that pablum, bravo!
Atonement day is at hand for the chosen people. For the others, pray hard and hope for better times.
I'm all for the crazy stories myself. Polite chit chat gets very old, very quick. Like the post. For some reason I was reminded of a poem you read to us in class a few years back about a woman who slept outside a man's bedroom door because it was the closest she could get. Do you have the name of the poet and the title of the poem? I’d like to read it again.
Cheers!!!
Lee,
It's funny that you should mention that poem -- it's one by my old buddy Hank! I forgot I had taught that one in class. I'll send you a copy. Take care, m
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