Attention Dates
Thanks to a heavy dose of school, work, and a small case of Head-Up-My-Ass, my recent time with
mirrormargaret hasn't been very high in quality. The worst of the immediate stress (for now) passed on Wednesday afternoon, after I handed in my paper for my molecular genetics lab. That's the same afternoon that
mirrormargaret told me she needed more attention from me, that she wanted to be "treated like a princess." She didn't tell me how this was to be accomplished, and when she noticed the look of panic that edged across my face, she asked, "Didn't any of your other girlfriends want dates where they could be treated special?" "Yes," I answered, "but they never made me guess how to do it." See, that's the beauty of choosing bossy girlfriends, a pattern that is all too clear in my choices. They tell me what, and they tell me when, where and how. And mostly I don't mind, as long as it's clear when the date begins and ends.
mirrormargaret was fascinated by the concept, and proclaimed that she too would like what she dubbed "an attention date." It's a new name, but it seems I've been doing Attention Dates for a very long time.
She was still getting used to the concept, however, and asked me for a ride on my motorcycle, a request I'd gladly fulfill anytime. Testing the waters, she asked if I'd take her to the mall to go shopping for a new watch. Yes, I assured her, that would be within the bounds of an attention date. Her eyes glazed over like a junkie who'd just gotten her first rush of heroin for the day as she added, "And you'll go to the wig store with me! And you're LIKE it!"
This is how I found myself in the wigstore of a dying mall, a mall that was going through the "skanky phase" as it gasps its final breath. The wig selection was dazzling, I'll admit, right down to the labels. Some wigs were "human", others were "synthetic", and in at least one case, "human mono." I thought this meant that all the hair was taken from a single human head, but no, this phrase has another meaning in the wig world. I'm just not sure what it is.
The strangest wig label of all harkened me right back to my creepy haircut of last week ( creepy haircut entry). There on the shelf for all to view was a wig clearly labeled "Human. Scalp not attached." Whoa.
Before the wig store, we took a short motorcycle ride that was only slowed down a little bit by rush hour traffic. We made our way over to Mason Mill Road, my favorite street in Atlanta to ride on, with its hills and twists and turns. The mile long street is (lucky for me) on my route to work, so I've driven it hundreds of times. Margaret never had, though, and after asking, "is this safe?" she got into it like a roller coaster ride at Six Flags. She may have even had her hands up in the air, I'm not sure.
After the ride, we headed to the skanky mall for a watch, and saw that a sleazy rag-tag carnival that had been setting up in the parking lot was now open for business (sign number 26 that a mall is dying: They have so much unused parking lot space that it's beneficial to them to rent it, and they do so several times a year). We walked through the hall of mirrors and rode the bumper cars. Margaret went on some insane ride shaped like a 2 headed hammer, the kind of ride that slings you 30 feet in the air. At some point between the ages of 30 and 40, those types of rides weren't so fun anymore, so I made a pact with my stomach not to ride it if it would agree not be get queasy while watching Margaret ride it. We were both happy with that arrangement.
Margaret kept remarking on how "Southern" the carnies looked. Being Southern, I didn't see Southern features as much as I saw "Appalacian" features, but it was striking how similar the features were among the carnies, and how those features have come to be associated with "white trash." There was the poor dental care, of course, but also the drawn mouths and the thin pinched lips that turn down at the corners, as if everyone there wore a permanent scowl. The chins are similar too, each having a distinctive jut that suggests stubbornness and defiance. The eyes are set wide apart, with a hawkish intensity in their stares. I couldn't help but feel watched and studied at every turn. Of course, that may be because they called out to us constantly, encouraging us to pop balloons with darts, break bottles with baseballs and shoot out cardboard stars with bb guns.
The wig trip came after the carnival, and since we were both hungry, grabbing food in the mall seemed like a good idea at the time. We chose Applebees, mostly because my craving for big slabs of raw meat has increased with age, and nothing less than a sirloin would work for me at that moment. Margaret got a steak as well, and when they arrived, our troubles began. Margaret cut into hers, and blanched as she saw the color: it was pink in the middle, but grey on the edges, like the meat had been boiled. Really, it didn't look very much like meat at all, at least not meat that she wanted to eat. She compared it to a sponge, but to me it looked like some sort of prop or toy that is meant to imitate meat, or a faded photograph where the color is unappetizingly off.
She sent it back, of course, while I took a bite of my sirloin (so rare you can hear it moo) and pronounced it good. And it was, except for the gristle I bit into. But a few cuts into the steak, I encountered an oozing white area, all the more emphasized by the deep red meat around it. I tried to be okay with it, I really did. But when I poked my fork into it and the ooze started to seep and run, I lost all appetite. I'm not in the habit of being served open sores for dinner.
The manager agreed to send me home with a hamburger, and as we waited on Food That Theoretically Can't Be Ruined to appear, we relived the event in gory details, grossing out each other all over again, like two little kids. A Bad Food Experience isn't usually the sort of thing one tries to include on an Attention Date, but the bonding that ensued was definitely a highlight. Not that we'll ever be eating at Applebee's again, mind you. That's not the sort of bonding experience I want to have more than once.
After dinner, we paid another visit to the carnival, where Margaret rode the Hammer thing again (hey, it's not like she had anything on her stomach, right?). While Margaret was suspended 30 feet in the air and the car on the ground was unloaded, I saw that the exiting patron had a wet spot in the seat of his pants. It's possible that the ride scared him so badly that he wet himself, but I think alcohol had a lot more to do with it- this guy was waving his arms and weaving all over the place. When Margaret got off the ride, she briefly debated riding again, but since I could no longer identify which car he had gotten out of, I warned her that she may sit in a wet spot. With that, we were on our way back home.
It was an excellent Attention Date, one that left us both feeling sweeter on each other, more eager to accomodate, to value the little things. I must remember to go on more of them.
mirrormargaret hasn't been very high in quality. The worst of the immediate stress (for now) passed on Wednesday afternoon, after I handed in my paper for my molecular genetics lab. That's the same afternoon that
mirrormargaret told me she needed more attention from me, that she wanted to be "treated like a princess." She didn't tell me how this was to be accomplished, and when she noticed the look of panic that edged across my face, she asked, "Didn't any of your other girlfriends want dates where they could be treated special?" "Yes," I answered, "but they never made me guess how to do it." See, that's the beauty of choosing bossy girlfriends, a pattern that is all too clear in my choices. They tell me what, and they tell me when, where and how. And mostly I don't mind, as long as it's clear when the date begins and ends.
mirrormargaret was fascinated by the concept, and proclaimed that she too would like what she dubbed "an attention date." It's a new name, but it seems I've been doing Attention Dates for a very long time.
She was still getting used to the concept, however, and asked me for a ride on my motorcycle, a request I'd gladly fulfill anytime. Testing the waters, she asked if I'd take her to the mall to go shopping for a new watch. Yes, I assured her, that would be within the bounds of an attention date. Her eyes glazed over like a junkie who'd just gotten her first rush of heroin for the day as she added, "And you'll go to the wig store with me! And you're LIKE it!"
This is how I found myself in the wigstore of a dying mall, a mall that was going through the "skanky phase" as it gasps its final breath. The wig selection was dazzling, I'll admit, right down to the labels. Some wigs were "human", others were "synthetic", and in at least one case, "human mono." I thought this meant that all the hair was taken from a single human head, but no, this phrase has another meaning in the wig world. I'm just not sure what it is.
The strangest wig label of all harkened me right back to my creepy haircut of last week ( creepy haircut entry). There on the shelf for all to view was a wig clearly labeled "Human. Scalp not attached." Whoa.
Before the wig store, we took a short motorcycle ride that was only slowed down a little bit by rush hour traffic. We made our way over to Mason Mill Road, my favorite street in Atlanta to ride on, with its hills and twists and turns. The mile long street is (lucky for me) on my route to work, so I've driven it hundreds of times. Margaret never had, though, and after asking, "is this safe?" she got into it like a roller coaster ride at Six Flags. She may have even had her hands up in the air, I'm not sure.
After the ride, we headed to the skanky mall for a watch, and saw that a sleazy rag-tag carnival that had been setting up in the parking lot was now open for business (sign number 26 that a mall is dying: They have so much unused parking lot space that it's beneficial to them to rent it, and they do so several times a year). We walked through the hall of mirrors and rode the bumper cars. Margaret went on some insane ride shaped like a 2 headed hammer, the kind of ride that slings you 30 feet in the air. At some point between the ages of 30 and 40, those types of rides weren't so fun anymore, so I made a pact with my stomach not to ride it if it would agree not be get queasy while watching Margaret ride it. We were both happy with that arrangement.
Margaret kept remarking on how "Southern" the carnies looked. Being Southern, I didn't see Southern features as much as I saw "Appalacian" features, but it was striking how similar the features were among the carnies, and how those features have come to be associated with "white trash." There was the poor dental care, of course, but also the drawn mouths and the thin pinched lips that turn down at the corners, as if everyone there wore a permanent scowl. The chins are similar too, each having a distinctive jut that suggests stubbornness and defiance. The eyes are set wide apart, with a hawkish intensity in their stares. I couldn't help but feel watched and studied at every turn. Of course, that may be because they called out to us constantly, encouraging us to pop balloons with darts, break bottles with baseballs and shoot out cardboard stars with bb guns.
The wig trip came after the carnival, and since we were both hungry, grabbing food in the mall seemed like a good idea at the time. We chose Applebees, mostly because my craving for big slabs of raw meat has increased with age, and nothing less than a sirloin would work for me at that moment. Margaret got a steak as well, and when they arrived, our troubles began. Margaret cut into hers, and blanched as she saw the color: it was pink in the middle, but grey on the edges, like the meat had been boiled. Really, it didn't look very much like meat at all, at least not meat that she wanted to eat. She compared it to a sponge, but to me it looked like some sort of prop or toy that is meant to imitate meat, or a faded photograph where the color is unappetizingly off.
She sent it back, of course, while I took a bite of my sirloin (so rare you can hear it moo) and pronounced it good. And it was, except for the gristle I bit into. But a few cuts into the steak, I encountered an oozing white area, all the more emphasized by the deep red meat around it. I tried to be okay with it, I really did. But when I poked my fork into it and the ooze started to seep and run, I lost all appetite. I'm not in the habit of being served open sores for dinner.
The manager agreed to send me home with a hamburger, and as we waited on Food That Theoretically Can't Be Ruined to appear, we relived the event in gory details, grossing out each other all over again, like two little kids. A Bad Food Experience isn't usually the sort of thing one tries to include on an Attention Date, but the bonding that ensued was definitely a highlight. Not that we'll ever be eating at Applebee's again, mind you. That's not the sort of bonding experience I want to have more than once.
After dinner, we paid another visit to the carnival, where Margaret rode the Hammer thing again (hey, it's not like she had anything on her stomach, right?). While Margaret was suspended 30 feet in the air and the car on the ground was unloaded, I saw that the exiting patron had a wet spot in the seat of his pants. It's possible that the ride scared him so badly that he wet himself, but I think alcohol had a lot more to do with it- this guy was waving his arms and weaving all over the place. When Margaret got off the ride, she briefly debated riding again, but since I could no longer identify which car he had gotten out of, I warned her that she may sit in a wet spot. With that, we were on our way back home.
It was an excellent Attention Date, one that left us both feeling sweeter on each other, more eager to accomodate, to value the little things. I must remember to go on more of them.