The Wrong Sign

Mid-afternoon confusion is different than early-morning confusion. Early morning, you're entitled to be confused. For starters, you're not sure what day it is, what time it is and where you're supposed to be. You're not even awake yet and already, they're expecting things from you. If you had your way, a rare occurrence, you'd stay in bed till the confusion passes. An hour would be nice, but you'll take another 15 minutes, please.  Would that be so terrible? No. It would be wonderful. Maybe tomorrow.  Now get out of bed, lazy bones, and start your day. Fine. Stop yelling at me.

Mid-afternoon, really, you have no excuse to be confused.  By mid-afternoon, you're expected to operate on all cylinders.  By mid-afternoon, you've had your caffeine. You've been out and about.  You've come home.  You've been forced to behave like a real person. Confusion isn't an option.

Unless, of course, you're the SJG.  When it comes to confusion, the SJG has special day-long privileges.  Confusion can come at any time.  One minute, I'm clear-headed, and the next, I'm a little panicky.  I think it's genetic.  You want an example?  Don't rush me.  I'm getting to it.


Yesterday, hubby ditched worked so we could pretend we were on vacation. We got in the car and drove from Sherman Oaks to Sherman Oaks.  It was exhilarating. We drove two blocks and parked in the same spot we always park in at the Galleria. When it comes to parking, we're not that adventurous. We like to remember where we left the car.  In this way, we are old and getting older by the minute.  

So. We parked, we ate, we had a margarita or two.  I only had one margarita. A certain hubby had two.  A mid-afternoon drinkie-poo. What's so terrible about that?  Nothing. Except when it leads to a mid-movie interruption. If there's one thing the SJG really hates, it's the call of nature during a movie.  At home, I can put whatever I'm watching on pause, take care of business, and I haven't missed anything.  At the movies, I can't tell the powers that be, "Pause the movie, I gotta pee." Well, I could, but they'd probably kick me out and that would just add more demerits to my already troubled track record for bad behavior in public.  

In the middle of "Chef," a charming entertainment, I just couldn't hold it, my friends.  I got up and left quietly.  I went down the long hall. I went into the bathroom. I came out. And here's when the trouble started.  I went back to theater 9. On the tiny digital marquee, I expected it to say "Chef."  It didn't.  It said "Maleficent." Well, spank my butt and call me Charlie.  That wasn't the right movie.  "Huh," I said, not yet panicky.  Up and down the hall I went, like an idiot, reading tiny marquees.  Not one said "Chef." Cue panic. Hello, old friend. You're always there for me when I need you.

God forbid one of those people in the blue shirts, what do they call them?  Employees?  Right.  God forbid one of those types should be in the proximity to help out a sistah.  No.  I was on my own.  Someone was eff-ing with me. Someone was saying, "Ha ha, bitches! See what happens when you have a margarita mid-afternoon?"

So, how did I get myself out of this jam?  I'm so glad you asked.  I walked back and forth a few more times like a little girl who'd lost her mommy.  And then, I marshaled the few brain cells I have left.  I said, "Eff it!"  I carted my tush back to number 9... number 9... number 9.

Sure, it said "Maleficent" right there on the tiny marquee.  Screw it.  I had one of those Orprah-endorsed moments, anyway.  "Aha!" I said to no one but myself. "Maybe 'Maleficent' is playing next.  So go on.  Get in there.  Take a chance.  What have you got to lose, other than your sanity?"

To my great relief, I was right back where I started from.  It was the right movie.  Just the wrong sign.