they weren't using their inside voices, which made it seem perfectly acceptible for me to stare at them and feel involved in their conversation. i am a gawker, and i'm not polite about it and i couldn't change it if i wanted to. when i was about five, two teenaged girls were walking down the street and i vividly recall them saying to me:
"stare a hole."
and the other added:
in high school, fannie and princess linda referred to me as "the rubber necker."
meanwhile, back at caribou, my head was a freakshow, spinning with unabashed eavesdropping rudeness.
to my left, more wedding photos and cooing.
to my right, more silent studying.
across from me: "i don't really like drinks mixed with red bull."
to my left, doily patterns.
to my right, a pen scribbling glitter-colored ink.
in front of me, "... and then you remember ben, right ... oh boy. we were dating, well, not really dating, but ..."
french twists and 3/4 inch barrelled curling irons.
cozy wind pants.
"... we'll see what happens when he gets back from europe."
and i thought, this is a gooey glob of estrogen. this scene is one crank call, two french braids, and a home manicure kit from a slumber party. which means it is one braided brown jc penny belt, a sturdy 11-foot basement beam and a few hastily scribbled line of bleak poetry from my own eye bulging, neck vein popping grand denouement. or at least me growing a cup size and involuntarily weeping when strollers roll past me on the lakewalk.
it became necessary for me to scoop up my laptop and flee, lest i fall into some sort of swirling estrogenic whirlpool of nail color, ovary ailments and sentences ending in "oh, for cute."
i blame this nonsense on what happened last night: i went to the movie "waitress."
fact: i'm not really into chick flicks or chick lit or anything else that resembles souped up jimmy choo, manhattan living, flirtini drinking, bad-boy versus good-boy in the world series of love. [i will occassionally read something like this when i need a refresher course in what words look like in book form. and in the days before i shed my cold, hard, black ectoskeleton, i would watch "the notebook" purely for medicinal reasons. something akin to checking your brake lights, but for the tear ducts.]
sources i trust had said this was a good movie. and for the most part, i didn't hate felicity that much. i ignored the pregnant woman holding a pie pan in the ads and decided to take my girlie overdose from caribou and give it an outlet. the proverbial pointer finger down my throat that would allow all that excess girl-time to wretch and cajole out of me in the least horrifying way.
unfortunately, it. sucked.
1. the entire premise would have been more believeable if two of the characters were robots, one was a fairy and they could all fly.
2. the painful cliche of a southern waitress in the equivilent of a 1952 nursing uniform and her wads of cash horded beneath the couch. i'd be offended if i a) was a waitress; b) was southern; c) baked pies; d) had a couch.
3. i liked felicity's husband much, much more when he was trying to whittle the tattoo off the small of brenda's back in season one -- i believe -- of six feet under.
4. each cursory chuckle felt like a lie!