Went to see Dr. A (general doctor) today--he managed to fit me in, but it meant that I didn't get to go to class. Woe. Of course, by the time I got to see him, he was all like, "Thank you for completely wasting my time. You're almost well and there's nothing I can do for you." (I told you he was cranky.) So basically, get plenty of rest, but not so much rest that all my muscles atrophy; don't eat much, but eat something; and drink lots of fluids, but not straight water, but not too much soda, either. Let's hear it for Dr. A (*golf clap*).
It's raining. And not men, either.
So Mom and I picked up a copy of Prisoner of Azkaban on the way home. At least, that's how it started out. It ended up with a two-store trek through Best Buy and Williams-Sonoma, wherein we got a lot of Sister Girl Christmas-shopping done. Also, we ended up doing some shopping online at Amazon and Alivan's this morning (again: a lot of Sister Girl), so Sister Girl can just get out of her current snit, or I know some starving children in Buchanesiapan who would enjoy some handcrafted Harry Potter merchandise.
(Sister Girl's current snit is that we watched POA without her--I saw it in the theater and neither Mom nor SG has seen it at all; they both want me around to ask questions, as SG has only recently started reading the books and Mom has no clue at all, and we tried to wake SG up [this is about 2 in the afternoon, mind you], and we knocked on the door and called to her and she didn't answer. Yesterday, I apparently knocked on her door "too loudly," and so she yelled at me and pulled the covers back over her head and didn't go to class just for spite, it seems. So today we were like, "Fine. Whatever." And we went and watched it by ourselves--well, we got as far as the Time-Turner before George got home. And now Sister Girl is mad. Uh-huh.)
So we're in Best Buy, and we want King Arthur. I am pretty sure we will be a two-copy-owning household of King Arthur. I am not proud of this, but what're you gonna do. The sales guy, unfortunately, says that it's not coming out until December 21, which is madness. Never mind that my mother broaches the subject by saying, "Is that movie out?" I mean, now that I think about it, we always have the same conversation. Switch out the names and/or specific details, and this is it:
"Is that movie out?"
"You know, the movie about that guy?"
"YOU KNOW, WE SAW IT!"
"We own Hidalgo."
"NOT THAT ONE! And not Troy, either--"
"Mom, that's not about 'a guy.' That's about 'a lot of guys'."
"I know--hey, when is that coming out?"
"Not until February or something."
"WHY WOULD THEY DO THAT??"
"Mom, I don't know..."
"I know you don't know, it's not something you can control. But still, that's ridiculous. Anyway, that movie about that guy. The title, it's one word--not Troy--"
"Mom, that's two words."
So then she thinks of another movie, one that hasn't come out in the theater yet, but of course she doesn't know the title--I know the movie titles and Mom knows the movies, and we can't! ever! quite! seem! to put it together. She saw it while flipping through the new Premiere I just got, which I haven't read. ("Well, when we get to Best Buy--" "IT'S NOT AT BEST BUY, I SAID IT HASN'T COME OUT YET, YOU SILLY--" "I KNOW IT'S NOT AT BEST BUY, YOU MORON, BUT THE MAGAZINE YOU SAW IT IN IS!" "Oh." I won't even drag you through the conversation about where in the store the magazine would be, but it involved a lot of "THE CHECKOUT STAND!" "THE CHECKOUT STAND??" "THE CHECKOUT STAND!!" back-and-forth. And then they don't have the right issue at the checkout stand. I have to tell you, we're cracking up all through this, so it's not like we hate each other.) Her description of the mystery movie: "It's some British movie! You know! With the skirts all trailing along on the ground! YOU KNOW! It comes out, like, this month! YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS! COME ON! It's got some name, like, Something on the Something. You were talking about wanting to see it!" And so I start throwing out names of things I know I want to see, like the Lemony Snicket movie and Alexander and Phantom of the Opera and what-have-you, because as the King Arthur example illustrates, just because she says the movie conforms to certain criteria does not mean it actually does. And then she utters a sentence that I am pretty sure will go down in family infamy from this day forth: "Something on the Something! You know, like, Buford on the Savoy or something."
I'm sorry, I just put my head back and howled at that point. We're in the Summit parking lot and I'm just collapsed against the car door crying. I haven't laughed that hard in months. We'd be walking through Best Buy after that and every five minutes I'd just mutter "Buford! Buford on the--!" and start crying again, and then she'd start laughing at me laughing, and we'd be off again. The salespeople thought we were insane. I'm actually kind of tearing up right now. My face is starting to hurt just thinking about it. And you know what the best part is? I flipped through the magazine, and based on an interview and a two-page ad I saw, I have a horrible feeling she's talking about... The Merchant of Venice.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch: Mom started cooking for Thanksgiving--the four-layer chocolate dessert (I wish it had a less cumbersome name, but it doesn't) and potato salad (we're weird, I know), so on and so forth. Tomorrow is when the heavy-duty dishes come out. So before we fired up the DVD, I sat at the kitchen table and tried to eat while she cooked. I'm up to saltines and cheese now. And before you start going all OMGWTFCHEESE on me, it wasn't real cheese, it was two Kraft singles. Look. I've eaten this stuff all my life. I carried a cheese sandwich made with nothing but bread and this godforsaken wrapper-cheese to school every day of my life for something like eight years, and I liked it. The day I can't eat this stuff is the day you're just going to have to put me down, because I'll be that far gone. And I haven't had any problems with it today, besides feeling stuffed like an overfed python, which is just sad, but that's what you get when you can hardly eat for four days.
(Seriously, I don't know how I'm going to eat anything else. I'm kind of scared now. Two slices of cheese and I'm done. Kind of queasy-full, even.)
Anyway: cooking. We got Sister Girl a pasta-maker and I can't even remember what all else. (I think the tart pan was for Mom, for immediate use. She wants to make some chocolate-pecan tart thing.) Among the things Sister Girl wants for Christmas are these Charlie Trotter books. I have no idea who Charlie Trotter is, but I keep imagining Charlie from Lost with, like, a cooking show and cookbooks and what-all, only everything he cooks is invisible. Surprisingly, he still sells lots of books. Go figure.
I had more I was going to tell you, but I'm getting woozy again. Time for a lie-down--on the sheets I just washed and new pillows, too. Whee!
ETA: OMG I JUST REMEMBERED WHAT ELSE I WANTED TO TELL YOU: They have torn down the old town hall and they're building a new apartment complex there, la-di-da. And they're calling the neighborhood South Homewood, or... SoHo. Which is so very, very precious (and even worse, we already have a "Hollywood" neighborhood and a "Mayfair" neighborhood, and the entire stinking city is named after one already in England. Anyway.) The complex is going to have its own little bank and post office and coffee shop and whatever. You know what the name of the complex is going to be? "Phat Flats." No, really. NO, REALLY. I just... I can't... I don't have enough "whatever" for this.
Oh, and vladimirsever has seen Alexander. Go read!