Warm Biscuits, Cheap Books, George Clooney, a Cute Dog, and a Side of Pickles

That last post was tough to write, y'all.  It's not easy for me to tell those things to my dearest friends, let alone put it out on my social media front porch.  But your kindnesses, your comments, your shared stories all helped me feel not-so-alone.  I've been doing my normal ritual of licking my wounds and hunkering down as a result of emotional turmoil.  My friends and I jokingly refer to it as "Wallow Time" only they're not really joking, and neither am I.  By the way, their knowledge of me and what I need most never fails to astound me.  Do you have friends who constantly astound you?  I sure as heck hope so.  They're invaluable.

"Wallow Time" refers to a few things including but not limited to: cussing, junk food, tears, books, and bad television or good movies.  Sometimes, if I'm on the upswing, it might involve a pedicure.  But no matter what, everything is done by myself because I'm not very fun when I wallow, and wallowing doesn't always involve showering.  (Unless I'm at work because not showering leads to not having a job.)

This weekend I planned for a full-on wallow.  The fact that it coincided with the replacement of all of the windows in my house and nine workmen who were definitely not ready to take on Depressed Girl only made me feel worse.  Not only would my self-imposed depressive state be interrupted, I was forced out of my prime wallowing real estate (also known as my couch).

So there I was on a Saturday morning at 6:30, in my car, pissed off at the world because my stupid landlord didn't call ahead for my depression schedule.  And my car headed in the only direction it knows at that time of the morning -- the Dixie House -- because my car, much like me, can sniff out a plate of biscuits and gravy within a 20 mile radius.  While I was there, I finished my book.  I had a wonderful chat with the sweetest pair of WWII veterans.  For almost 2 hours, I was warmed by hot biscuits and good service.

Then I headed to the only other thing my nose can sniff out at 9:00 on a weekend morning, a bookstore.  A used bookstore.  Half-Price Books is to book lovers as the pound is to animal lovers -- a dangerous, dangerous place.  On a mission to bulk up my classroom library, I spent almost as much time in the Young Adult section as I had with my biscuits and gravy.  That, my friends, is a very long time.  Seriously, there was an irritated tween tapping her foot impatiently, waiting for me to finish browsing and planning various ways to kill me should I snatch up the last copy of The Hunger Games.  The YA section is just not meant for multiple person browsing.

27 books for $82.  Deal. 

Realizing neither I nor my wallet could sustain a full-day in the bookstore, I mapped out my movie plan for the morning and afternoon.  First up was The Artist.  I have never before seen a silent movie in its entirety, let alone seen one in the theater.  It was hard to realize that the characters would not speak "any second now" as my brain kept telling me they would.  Almost half the movie had gone by before I finally felt comfortable with just the music.  It was one of the strangest and coolest experiences I've had in a while.  I will caution you, however, that you will never be so aware of the volume of your own tics and twitches (let alone those of others) as when you're watching a silent movie in a public place.  That aside, the movie was gorgeous.  I was fully invested in both the characters and their story, and, in the end, I was breathless.  And the dog.  Let me tell you, that dog will be the cause of another Jack Russell boom such as the world has not seen since Frasier premiered.

I also saw The Descendants.  Here's what I can tell you:  I want to go to Hawaii.  George Clooney, even in pain and suffering, is still charming and mind-numbingly good-looking.  The only kind of sullen teenager I find amusing is one on the big screen. And?  Don't see this if you're having a personal, family kind-of meltdown in real life.  The acting is fabulous.  The scenery is beautiful.  But the plot will rip your guts out if you're not prepared.  I thought it was just me, having my own private fall-apart, until I looked around at the rest of the 7th Streen Movie Tavern to see a theaterful of patrons crying into their baskets of fried pickles.  I'd say that unless you're on an awards-movie marathon (like I was), wait 'til it's out in Redbox.  George has plenty of money.  He doesn't need your ten bucks that badly. 

And even Mr. Clooney knows that there's no good reason to ruin a perfectly good basket of fried pickles.