Why is it that parents have this utterly unerring instinct to walk in at the worst possible moment? I have finally managed to be in the same room as the first half of the "I Love the 90s" series, and my mother has this wild hair on to move shit of mine into the attic. She's had it on for a week, but today it is GOING. TO GET. DONE. So when does she come in? During the Thelma and Louise segment? No. The Garth Brooks segment? No. The "90210" segment? No. The precise moment the comedians are discussing exactly what Jodie Foster got hit in the face with in Silence of the Lambs? WINNAH!
"So which boxes are ready to go?"
"THESE THREE RIGHT HERE!"
"You sure? What are you going to put in the corner? Are you going to move the shelf there?"
"I DON'T KNOW!"
"Why are you so cranky?"
[The phrase "man-gravy" floats over from the TV five feet away.]
"WE'RE TAKING THESE BOXES INTO THE HALL NOW!!"
So. The boxes are moved. The mother is disposed of. 1993 is on. My horoscope: "You want a warm bath of nostalgia, when what you need is the cold air of reality." Shut up, horoscope.
(The crazy thing about watching these shows is that it's like, hi, here are all the movies that are supposed to be in the book. Beth Littleford: "I would never go to Jurassic Park. Absolutely fucking not!")
(P.S. Edwin McCain does the best Ross Perot EVER.)
Last night we watched Spirited Away, which I saw in the theater last year but hadn't seen since. The crazy thing about the movie is that, the first time you see it, it's this amazingly original thing and you seriously cannot predict from one moment to the next what's going to happen. The second time you see it--it's still amazing and original, but it doesn't seem haphazard at all--everything operates within its own dream logic, its own fairy-tale logic.
Casting around for something to read on the train--needs to be something I have on hand, for ultimate convenience. Wondering if I should take the Colette bio with me... I need to catch up on my library books, but it just seems like a bad idea to take a book that doesn't actually belong to you to a different state. Maybe Ivanhoe, that's a fun book--oh, hey, I never did get around to reading Stephen King's On Writing; prolly ought to read that.
I really want a doughnut. We went back to Sol Azteca last night, The Lovely Emily and I (and her brother and his girlfriend), and I had another margarita (after promising Em that I would not come home and find something to throw an internet temper tantrum about. Friends don't let friends type drunk), and then we went to find Krispy Kremes. Except that... we did not do such a good job of finding them. I mean, we knew the one that's near her house, but since we were camped out at mine for the evening, it seemed silly to go almost all the way back to her house, so we decided to find the one on First Avenue. This was not so much a good idea. We were at least fortunate in that it was still daylight, because we ended up driving up and down from beginning to end with no luck, joking about printing up T-shirts that read, "I GOT SHOT FOR DONUTS AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS STUPID T-SHIRT." (Except that all the Os would be doughnuts.) Finally we gave in and went to the Hoover store. Mmmm. Must... have... more...