Saturday, September 01, 2012

How I Spent My Friday Night ...

Yesterday was a good day.

Having concluded a three-month gig with a client, yesterday was my first post-gig day and I spent much of it with my mom.

We ran an errand, we went out to lunch, we tried to buy a piece of furniture (Whew! When did that furniture store start offering dining sets that will only work in gaudy castles?), we picked up some groceries for mom, we took them to her house, and then headed out again.

She wanted to pop buy a couple of resale shops in the ongoing quest for the table she sought. (One never know where one might find something awesome.) So we went to Resale Shop No. 1 where I spied a kangaroo-and-joey lamp that was kinda fabulous and then a small, brass bar cart that was decidedly fabulous. (I am not a "shiny brass" person, but I am most definitely an "aged brass" person.) I didn't buy it, though, because I couldn't think of where I'd put it, and then last night, my eyes fell upon the perfect spot, so I might have to go back and buy it today. Then we went to Resale Shop No. 2, adjacent to Resale Shop No. 1, but without a means to access one parking lot from the other, so we drove. (Yes, we could have walked. But it was sunny sunny and 90 degrees. So we drove.) At Resale Shop No. 2, I spied an interesting little glass dish that very well may end up in a cookie photograph for Angelo someday. So I bought him. He was a quarter. Mom remained tableless.

She needed to run to the butcher shop, so I offered to drive her, but not before first stopping for gas in what, apparently, is the busiest gas station in the Western Hemisphere. A line of cars began to form. We drove away. Had we somehow driven into the 1970s? Is there a gas crisis?

We arrived at the butcher shop (where mom knows everyone, just as she knows everyone everywhere) and I held a basket for her and she loaded it with tidily wrapped packages of meat. We stashed it in my Omaha Steaks cooler in the backseat and then finally hit a gas station where I pumped expensive gas and bought a car wash. I like to slide back the sunshade of my moonroof when I drive into a car wash so I can watch the car wash do its thing. When I was a kid, the undulating straps of black weirdness used to freak me out as we drove out of car washes, but today, there's just the big blow-dryer thing.

I took mom home and we whipped up a salad for dinner later. I brought my portion home and ate it right away. It was already past four. Lunch had worn off.

Not quite done with poking around resale joints, I zipped over to Goodwill to see if I could find any other suitable props. Hmm. Nope. I had one piece in hand but set it down and I was drawn to a ceramic tealight holder but really, I don't need it. (Though if I return for the bar cart today, I'll probably return to Goodwill, too.)

Once home, I was beat. As Doreen wrote upon hearing about my escapades: "I am worn out from getting in & out of the car - just reading your day :)"

Yup, I was worn out by then, too.

So I clacked about on the computer a bit and then tuned in to watch Rachel.

Rachel is always reporting on something newsworthy, so my viewings of Rachel are often paused so that I may return to my computer to find the link to the story at hand and tweet it and Facebook it so other people will know.

It was then that I saw a note from a Facebook friend, one of those friends I only know online, who sent a private message to ask, "Beth it is 9PM on a Friday night. What is a gorgeous woman like you doing sitting at home on the computer?"

I replied that I was watching Maddow. And added: "If I were not 'gorgeous,' would it be OK for me to be home?"


Not that I need to justify my decision to stay home on a Friday night, but here's a news flash: I stay home most Friday nights. Most Saturday nights, too. I like my home. And especially after a couple of busy weeks that were accompanied by hefty doses of emotion, too, plus a day of running around, in and out of the car eleventymillion times on a 90-degree day, yeah, I felt like being home.

I suppose I could have made dinner plans. I suppose I could have gone to a movie. I avoid bars like the plague. Clubs give me hives. And I don't invite myself over to other people's homes. I was perfectly happy to spend the evening here.

But what's with the "gorgeous" part? Never mind that I was feeling decidedly "ungorgeous" yesterday, his suggestion that by virtue of being "gorgeous," I should be out on a Friday night makes no sense to me.

Like I asked him, if I were not "gorgeous," would it be OK for me to be home?


I presume he meant it as a compliment, but in the moment, it rankled me.

We place too much importance on looks in this society. Would anyone ever say, "What's a plain-looking woman like you doing sitting home on the computer?"

I doubt it. It would probably be expected. She'd probably be surrounded by her cats, right? While wearing cat-print pajamas.


For the record, I have no plans for tonight either.

By choice.


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