This weekend felt like the final episode of that television show where all the teenagers are just a little too angsty (is that possible?) and the extended cast keeps getting into fatal/life-changing events that leave you wiping away embarrassing tears as the credits roll to the sound of your favorite new song, probably a new band that’s looking for record sales by writing music for a bad television show. (Why does that band keep showing up everywhere?!)
Saturday was Miles’ and my four-year anniversary. It was mostly a wonderful day. We played Scrabble at a coffee shop, and I know I should refrain, but it needs to be noted that I won by over 100 points. I came up with such classics as “migrant” and “union” and got loads of points for, well, enough, Gili, you won, what else do you want?
I should mention that we’re officially postponing the anniversary until after I get back from school (I leave this Wednesday). Miles and I pulled out all the clothes that I am bringing on my trip and we organized what I would wear each day for each class. Yes, I’m that nervous. But I have to say I’m a lot less stressed now that I have a list of what to wear.
The weirdness set in during the evening. We drove to the northeast side of Minneapolis where our favorite nighttime restaurant is located. We parked and they said there was a 20-minute wait. We took a walk around the block and the hot summer day instantly turned into a major downpour. When we got back to Pop (the restaurant), we were soaked and cold. No big deal, the food is worth it.
Important fact: the tables at Pop are less than 7 inches apart.
Back to the story: During the meal, on my right side, these two blonde women were celebrating something with 4-year old blonde twin boys. I’m sure I don’t need to point out that they were both hyperactive and obsessed with Miles, desperately trying to get his attention and banging in to him as they stood up and sat back down and stood up again. The boys were sucking on some kind of green apple sugar soda (okay, I know I sound like an old lady, but four year old boys drinking what amount to sugar water is a bad equation).
We got through the meal and that’s when the really, really weird thing happened. During dessert, two sixty-year olds sat down to our left. I’m sorry that this is about to get crude, but apparently, life is crude. This was maybe their second or third date. The over-tanned bad-bleached haired woman, who let everyone know in what became a loud and fully shameless soundtrack for the rest of our meal, that she had led a life full of sexual repression. She wore a yellow sundress that screamed, look at my gross leather skin, and sandals. Not two minutes after they sat down, she stuck her barefoot into the man’s crotch. When he protested, she told him, he had a big stomach and could hide his pleasure. Yup, you read that right. She told him to sit back and enjoy himself. Miles and I tried to look away as she used her foot to, well, I hope you get the point. She spoke of her two grown children, her ex-husband, life on Prozac, her freedom and happiness. Meanwhile, she was doing what she was doing and it was disgusting. There are no tablecloths at Pop. It’s just disgusting. It was bad enough that we had to sit there while all of this happened, what was even worse was that the four-year old boys were captivated. They couldn’t take their eyes off the older couple. (See picture illustrated by Miles.)
Fast-forward to the next morning. Major mood shift ahead: I called my friend, Kasey to see if we’re going to hang out and Miles and I find out that his partner, and our friend, Henry is in New York visiting his mom. It turns out she was just diagnosed with advanced cancer and has been given a ten percent chance of living past six months. I don’t know what to say here. I just didn’t realize odds like that are handed out in real life. I thought that was something people predicted on television shows. So, Henry is home, with his mom. And I guess she will die soon. I write this because I don’t know how to process this information. How do people process things like this? What do you do with information like this? All I seem to be able to do is repeat it over and over, tell anyone I can, try and figure out what it means, and understand that it’s completely out of my comprehension. So, my heart is with Henry right now. And his family.
That’s it. That’s what happened this weekend. That’s more than enough.
I wish the credits would roll and then there would be a sneak preview of next season, which would start with the doctors reporting that there has been a huge mistake and Henry’s mom isn’t dying. Or to go along with my stupid metaphor, maybe she does leave the show, but then she stars in this amazing new movie and wins an academy award and then goes on to star in a theater production that is both historically monumental and timeless. That’s what I like about art, it outlasts us, it can be manipulated, and it’s immortal.
