Saturday, September 30, 2006
Time To Kill in Detroit
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
Drinking music suggestion: Late in the Evening Paul Simon
Benedictions and Maledictions