Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Dhalsim Didn't Make Reservations

So my sister Runtie came to visit over the weekend. She was here celebrating her new job, which is still a bit disturbing because she shouldn’t be old enough to have a job. In my head, she’s 8 and I’m cutting her bangs into jagged peaks while she sleeps. In actuality, she is about to begin an admirable career while I spend the better part of my mornings drawing pictures of sea monsters.

My most recent favorite Runtisms:

Upon realizing that she didn’t pack her makeup bag:
"I knew I would have to stop and buy some foundation. If I used yours I’d look like a kabuki."

Upon hearing Baz Luhrman’s “Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen)” on the 90’s station:
"This reminds me of flannel shirts and colored denim. And when you used to wear dickeys under t-shirts."

Note: That’s actually true. When I was in elementary school, I hated my bony little neck and refused to show it, ever. Perhaps I should’ve stopped cutting the sleeves off of turtlenecks so I could wear them under my Max Headroom t-shirt and done something about my unfortunate-looking perm. Again, a big thank you goes out to the stylist at Bonnie’s Beauty Barn who refused to let me have a rat tail—which I had dreamed about, especially when it grew long enough to majestically flutter behind me when I rode my Big Wheel—but instead decided that I needed a perm that would make me look like I was wearing a cocker spaniel’s ass as a hat. After several years of refusing to purchase my school pictures, my family decided to stop going to a hair salon that was attached to a gas station.

Responding to my suggestion that we go for a run instead of watching a third consecutive hour of MTV’s “My Super Sweet 16”:
"I already exercised. I did an hour of Kegels."
____________________

On Saturday night, we went out to dinner at a reasonably upscale restaurant where if you wear jeans they seat you in the restroom but it’s OK for the head waiter to wear Crocs. And to unapologetically graze your breast with the back of his hand as he places the napkin on your lap. And to have cystic acne.

Looking around the dining area at all the couples, it was obvious we’d crashed date night. Less obvious was why the man who approached the hostess right before we did asked if he and his date could be seated in the middle of the room. One glance at his orange and brown ‘these two shades only appear together in designer clothing or when you vomit after consuming an entire bag of candy corn’ Hermés tie and platinum bracelet fed the assumption that he was just the type of pretentious assclown that this place catered to. (Note: Men shouldn’t wear bracelets unless they’ve just been admitted to the hospital)

Then we saw his date. She looked like Blanka from Street Fighter II if it had transitioned from denim cutoffs into a sensible St. John’s pantsuit. There’s no way Hermés Guy was flaunting a creature like that. If I were a man whose only romantic options were radioactive beasts, I’d probably spend less money on accessories and more on prostitutes.

We were led to our table, pleasantly located beneath the hand dryer, and seated beside yet another couple who had to be in college. He sported carefully cultivated stubble on his face, which served as a distraction from his lazy eye. She looked like she’d shunned campus housing in favor of sleeping in either a tanning bed or a crock-pot. Her complexion wouldn’t have been more unnatural if she’d just brushed herself with wood varnish.

As we read the menu and wondered whether Blanka would select an appetizer or just gnaw on Hermés’ face, our neighbors had the following conversation:

Her: So, like, do you want anything for graduation? Since I got you that dog for your birthday?
Him: No you didn’t.
Her: Well it was, like, my idea that you get a dog.
Him: No, it wasn’t.
Her: I named it though.
Him: No you didn’t. And arguing makes you look fat.

OK, I made that last part up but that would’ve been effing awesome. It would’ve been equally as cool if he’d just given up and started screwing the plate of fingerling potatoes that she refused to eat because they were worth, like, 2 hours on the elliptical machine because potatoes are carbs. She whispered the last word with regret, the way some of us would say rape baby. Or Republican.

In truth, he dismissed her with a shrug and a ‘whatever’. He poured himself a second Chardonnay and holding the glass by the stem he raised it and began swirling the wine. It was a clumsy, forced gesture because the bottle he’d selected was a half-step above hot dog water.

She looked at him quizzically, like he’d asked her to use a compass or shop at Marshall’s and said, “Ew, do you have something in your glass?” Obviously culture wasn’t part of Clinique’s free gift this month. But this is coming from me, who once considered taking a picture of a particularly impressive bowel movement.
____________________

After dinner, we went to see The Messengers because, Oscar nomination or not, I’m not going to see a film about Queen Elisabeth unless she scuttles across the ceiling like a sand crab, haunts a troubled family of four, or bleeds from her pupil-less eyes. And I was admittedly disappointed upon learning that Babel had nothing to do with that kids’ story about the elephant (who marries his cousin, a detail that I didn’t notice until I reread it last week. Because the restrooms of doctor's offices have a surprisingly poor book selection). Babel, Babar, who cares? They both make me feel stupid.

Fortunately, The Messengers has several extended scenes where Dylan McDermott rides a tractor and wears a mesh hat, two things I understand. It also stars Penelope Ann Miller who I instantly recognized from the Lifetime Original movie ‘All American Girl: The Mary Kay LeTourneau Story’. Between gaps in the hauntings, I half-expected her to attempt to seduce Bobby, the Poorly Developed Supporting Character Who Has No Reason to Help the Main Character Because He’s Only In Three Scenes But Shows Up In The Ridiculous Climax Anyway. In fact, the plot was so disjointed, it would’ve made just as much sense had Mary Kay looked at Bobby, tossed her hair suggestively and purred “So is that the restless spirit of the house’s murdered inhabitants in your pocket or just your erection?"

I had never seen Dustin Milligan, the actor who portrayed Bobby before but he looks like Napoleon Dynamite if he’d been given a makeover by the American Idol producers.



The theatre was packed and the woman sitting beside Runtie was holding her child, a tiny little guy who was old enough to notice the onscreen action but still young enough to have his age given in months. More disturbing than this woman bringing her small child to a horror flick (diluted as it may have been) was that every time the demons appeared, the kid would point and say “Da-da! Da-da!” Just one more reason why I’m never reproducing. Or having sex with anything I suspect to be a demon, which rules out my former boyfriend, several of my college classmates, and most of the people I work with. Marketing is one of the lesser-known dark arts.

The film was directed by Oxide Pang, which is one hell of a versatile product. Last week I used it to clean my carpet.

5 comments:

August said...

I think you totally misunderstood that conversation you overheard. I think they were brother & sister & he's really a gay man(from the description of how he was dressed, how could he not be?).

I'm suprised Runtie(how did she get that name?)isn't a comedienne as well. But I guess comedy probably doesn't pay too well unless you get famous.

Nick said...

J, your blog is best. I check every day. Then I sneak back to Johnson and sip Jager out of my desk while singing along to the Bette Midler album blaring out of my roommate's ThinkPad. Oh, and have you seen this==>http://wwtdd.com/? It's meanness is on a third-grade level and it's violent at times. You'll like it.

Nick said...

Oh, and the Blanka thing had me peeing. On my ThinkPad.

nick said...

I went back to read comments and realized that I used "it's" in place of "its" in my first comment. As if I needed another reason to look and myself in the mirror and sigh.

nick said...

And then I read my newest comment and saw that I wrote "and" in place of "at." Gin and blogging don't mix. Or do they? (I'm proofreading this comment no less than forty-eight times.)