Block of Wood

I saw Lawyerish this weekend, and for any of you who may have been jealous, even a little bit, I feel a little compelled to let you know that your jealousy is completely and utterly justified, for I am now just a little bit more in love with her than I thought possible. In fact, I’ve been trying to restrain myself in our follow up conversations not to say things like, “But…But… I LOVE YOU” and “THIS IS AN EPIC FRIENDSHIP, YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND. It’s like Beaches, man.” (And indeed it is, and her mom seems to agree with me on that last bit, though, so I’ve got some familial support. ) She’s funny, she’s so, so pretty and tall and willowy and dammit, she’s actually graceful, despite having an entire category dedicated to the adventures of Klutzy McGee. In fact, we spent a great deal of time afterwards correcting one another on the ridiculous physical flaws we warned each other about, in true embarrassing girl fashion (“You are not fat!” “What are you talking about? You have great feet!!”)

I’m basically sounding like I’m bringing a special kind of stalker-crazy, which could potentially bring an untimely end to our friendship, so I will stop. Suffice it to say that she’s actually way more wonderful that you can imagine from reading her, her husband is laugh-out-loud hilarious and adorable, and yes, I hugged her mom, met her dad and may be meeting her grandfather. And I think I freaked out her husband because I kept touching his arm, but he was so damn funny and cute, I didn’t know what else to do. So I hugged him, too, although in fairness, she hugged mine. (It should come as no surprise that we married versions of the same person. One came pre-programmed a Yankee fan, one a Sox fan, and no fisticuffs were exchanged. In fact, they liked each other as much as we did.)

This is probably annoying for you, and I think if I were reading this and it didn’t happen to me, I would be annoyed, because how many hugs and squees can you read about without wanting to throw up? I know, believe me, I know. But she really is that great, I can’t help it, honestly, and I wish we lived closer. Commence vomiting at any time. (Incidentally, she was here visiting her 90-year-old grandfather, who lives here. This is the second blogger I’ve met because an elderly relative lives here, which speaks volumes about where I live, non?)

Anyway, Friday night, we hit up our local Pizza Hut for dinner. Say what you will about Pizza Hut, but it remains one of my favorite guilty pleasures. Something about the 11 pounds of deliciously awful grease that basically deep fries the crust of the pizza is wholly irresistible to me. And, unlike 99% of pizza places, even of the mom and pop variety, they actually have a sauce with taste, even if it’s full of more preservatives than I want to know about, and is likely made in the halls of IFF, along with that manufactured McDonald’s french fry smell and the molecules that make up the trademarked flame-broiledness of Burger King.

Anyhow, while we were there, some guy walked into Pizza Hut with knives in his wristbands. Shiny knives as an accessory, basically, along with a menacing glare that let me know that hell yes, he has used them, probably on someone’s throat. Big, giant metal knives in fold-out blades tucked into black bandanas around each of his wrists and little daggers for earrings. I was panicked the entire meal, as I was facing him while he devoured his personal Meat Lover’s, and A. couldn’t see him. I was terrified to say anything about it, because he could STAB ME in the Pizza Hut for some sort of gang-related activity, like I ordered a Supreme, which is a Crip pizza, and he’s a Blood or something, and they only eat Meat Lover’s, because really, who displays actual blades as a fashion accessory? Except my husband told me that he thinks black is a neutral gang color, so that theory may be moot, but still, I am quite sure he wasn’t, as A. jokingly suggested, some sort of woodcarver or spontaneous whittler who can’t fight the urge to make a wooden duck out of restaurant benches.

And other than the fact that we bought a mattress, I watched How to Steal a Million with a young Peter O’Toole, which means I have yet another crush on a man who is either dead or exists in very pickled and not at all well-preserved form, that’s all I got, and really, I think that’s plenty for now.

*Carbon Leaf

12 comments November 12th, 2006