Weekend Scene

Saturday I went to the gym. This is pretty amazing for me, going on a weekend. It was just as crowded at 10:30 on a Saturday as it is at 5:30 on a Thursday, I found. I worked out harder that I usually do, which is to say, only medium hard, as I’ve figured out why I haven’t been seeing any body changes since I joined the gym in November: I’m not lifting enough weight, nor am I working out enough times during the week. That explains it pretty well, yes? I was all planning to go this morning before work and I totally crapped out and slept in another hour. I am very embarrassed and feel this weird sense of guilt, considering I hit all my workouts last week and went an extra time and I’m going to bellydance tonight. I’m going to try again on Wednesday morning. Wish me luck.

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Saturday, on the way to a party, picking up wine. (And Girl Scout cookies, it turned out).

Chiara: Here’s my ID.

Cashier: Oh, I don’t need it.

Chiara: WHAT?

Cashier: I mean, you guys look like you’re in your thirties.

Chiara and Carl: [stunned silence]

Cashier: Yeah! You’re about [points at Carl] thirty-six, right?

Chiara: He’s twenty-eight.

Cashier: Oh. Well, what are you, thirty-two or thirty-three?

Chiara: My twenty-ninth birthday is in two weeks.

Cashier: Oh.

Chiara: Yes.

Cashier: I see. Here’s your receipt.

Chiara: Thanks.

Cashier: It’s his hair that makes him look older.

Chiara: His hair?

Cashier: Have a nice evening.

Chiara: [heading towards Girl Scout Cookie table] Dude, your hair makes you look old.

I guess he should stop dying it gray, or something.

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Later at that same party, at some point I looked up and realized I was surrounded by opera singers talking shop. It was not unlike hanging around a bunch of coders, in that I understood that they were all speaking English, and I could see words coming out of their mouths, but they didn’t make any sense when they got to my ears. However, all these opera singers were lovely, and of course it’s very cool to be at a party that involves opera singers at all.

&

Now, I haven’t received all the invitations yet, but reliable sources inform me that 2004 is going to be a Five Wedding Summer. I haven’t had one of these since 2001, having clocked in at a respectable two to three for the past couple of years. Fortunately for me I usually go to the weddings of people I really like, and am usually having such a good time and am so happy for the people getting married that I manage to tone it down in terms of, you know, judging everything. I do have a little mental file where I keep track of who got married at a villa by the sea and who had a steel drum band and who had bride-and-groom effigies made out of straw in the reception hall and who had mojitos and who had a pre-wedding hike, which I like to keep updated in case I ever ditch whatever the hell I’m doing right now career wise and decide to become a wedding coordinator or something…I mean, hello, I have clinical mental health skills over here, tell me that wouldn’t come in handy.

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Sunday was pretty ordinary, with a trip to REI and to the grocery store, the concocting of a huge pot of stew, and the non-doing of taxes even though it’s now the second week of March figuring heavily. Sunday evening , however, was very exciting because I got to go to Gael’s house to watch the season premiere of The Sopranos, easily my favorite show. This is not a hugely coveted award, Chiara’s Favorite Show, because I watch all my TV on DVD and can count on the fingers of one hand how many shows I have watched regularly in the past ten years (again, “regularly” meaning “two or three episodes a night for a week”). But that’s okay. I dig the accents; I dig the clothes; I dig complaining about what a terrible, wooden, no-empathy-or-ethics-having therapist Melfi is; I dig how Adriana says her fiance’s name: “CHRIS-ta-FUH!”; I dig dreaming about smacking Meadow, hard and repeatedly; I dig Carmela in every way; I dig going “Hey, that’s just like my cousin!”; I dig Paulie’s white wings of hair and Silvio’s frowny face; and of course I dig James Gandolfini as Tony Soprano, because even though you know loving him is wrong and dirty and stupid and pointless and ugly, you do anyway. Love The Sopranos. Seeing it at Gael’s house was like some sort of pop culture dream, which intersected nicely with the sugar coma into which I fell after sampling all the delicious desserts she had concocted. As we were leaving, she was all, “And don’t forget to take some biscotti! And chocolate cake! And macaroons! And lemon cake!”

The only fly in my ointment is that I won’t be able to watch the second episode (which, love aside, looks like it will be a lot better than this one because a) this one was a wee bit flat and b) you think I love James Gandolfini? You clearly have not been exposed to my devotion to Steve Buscemi. Again, it’s wrong and bad and stinky but it is soooooooo good) for another year and a half until the DVD comes out. Gael was gracious enough to invite me to come over next week to watch it, bless her heart…I don’t think she knows that I’m going to be hounding her like a smack-crazed junkie, all knocking on her door in the middle of the night, whimpering “Bada…Bing…must smack…Meadow…need to see Adriana’s…hair…” and shivering and begging for just one more show, just one more show.