It all started when I took the kids out to lunch and they got in a fight in the backseat over the lexical differences between discomfort and uncomfortable. While I’m rather excited that my children are intelligent and/or educated enough to both (a) beat my ass at chess and (b) have a theoretical discussion about vocabulary on the way to a vegan lunch at the Chicago Diner, the brouhaha nonetheless inspired me to wonder whether being raised by a philosopher and a literary theorist is actually a positive thing or is, instead, dooming them to a life of not being laid until they are at least thirty-five years old. And I probably would have been less sensitive to this had I not been woken up this morning by Rebel discussing (rather loudly) the difference between vegetarians and vegans with Dusters and Renegade. I mean, can’t they just wrestle and call each other names like normal children? Sigh. I’m surrounded by dorks, but instead of feeling like I did in high school (vowing that when I grew up and “made it” I’d be done with dorks!) I’m actually experiencing this mixture of reluctant acceptance and amused irritation. I mean, there is an upside to this: if my kids aren’t getting laid until they’re thirty-five years old (at least), there’s a good chance I’ll be emotionally ready to handle the idea of them having sex by then.
Anyhow. Then I went to chair the 6pm meeting I normally attend — since the regular chair was (presumably) at a Super Bowl party. And of course less than ten people showed up… and the person giving the lead (invited by ME to do so) was seven minutes late. Not terribly late, but late enough to make me wonder what had possessed me to ask someone to talk who walks in at least five minutes late to every meeting. I suppose it’s progress that I looked to see what *I* had done to cause this unfortunate situation, but I was still a bit peeved until this person started talking and ended up bringing the late arrival directly into focus as part of working the steps and it was all good and actually rather inspiring. And I also heard an awesome comment — someone said that being in the program taught him that being late is just that: being late… not cause to beat yourself up or even feel entitled to be late (because you’re so important) or whatever… and it occurred to me that lots of life’s screw-ups are like that. Nothing is the end of the world — it ALL just is what it is, right?
Nonetheless this realization (or re-realization, since I make it on a thrice-daily basis, at least) flew out the window when I hurried to get to AMC Loews Pipers Alley by 7:20pm to see Charlie Wilson’s War only to be told, upon my arrival, that, uh, Charlie Wilson’s War isn’t playing at AMC Loews Pipers Alley. And a quick check of my BlackBerry OnDemand service verified that yes, indeed, it’s playing at Webster Place. Sigh. This should have been a sign to leave immediately, but instead I saw the new Woody Allen film. And yes, there were other films playing at Pipers Alley, and I would have seen I’m Not There, except the Sax Man and I are seeing it probably on Tuesday. Or The Savages, but he and I are seeing that tomorrow night. And I already saw Michael Clayton, like, uh, weeks ago, when it was at The Davis, ’cause who, really, can stay away from a George Clooney movie for very long? (Not me.) So I suffered through the insufferable Woody Allen movie, and had it not been for Ewan McGregor looking all spiffy and sounding all yummy with his accent (though are those warts or moles or WHAT on his forehead?) and surfing the Internet/reading blogs/answering email on my BlackBerry, I probably would have fallen asleep.
Even worse than the Woody Allen film was getting my parking validated and thinking, Oh, please, how much could validated parking be on a Sunday night? and realizing, uh, shit, it’s fifteen dollars. Note that this is only a ONE DOLLAR DISCOUNT from the regular parking fees. And even at the AMC River East — which is in the MIDDLE OF DOWNTOWN CHICAGO — validated parking is only between $6 and $8, depending on when you visit. And so I’ve decided that if I didn’t already believe The Gold Coast was filled with pretentious overpriced fuck-me business establishments, I do now.
And so I drove home, feeling abandoned by Woody Allen and raped by Pipers Alley, and I come into the house and I take off my boots and tights and panties and realize — holy crap! — I forgot my phone in the car. And while I’m not technically addicted to and/or unable to function without my phone, (a) it needed charging and (b) I’m not so sure how it would fare in this snowstorm/cold weather in the car lonely and alone all night. But since I definitely wasn’t going to put my tights back on, I just threw my boots on and donned my long winter coat and walked outside, going not only commando but bare-legged as well (and, uh, I haven’t shaved my legs for almost three weeks). And things were going fine until I decided to not get into my car but, instead, lean over to get my cell phone and not only did I fall over and my skirt get hiked up while I was fallen over, but then some guy drove by in an SUV and deigned to roll his window down and say Nice view! in the one-point-four seconds I was in that compromising position.
So, yeah. A suck-fest. I’m just glad that tomorrow is another day.