Busy, weird weekend

I got up at 04:15 on Saturday to head off for Indianapolis with Bridget. Actually, it wasn’t Indy, but rather Carmel, a ritzy town/city just north of Indy. Really ritzy.

We were late, of course, because I hadn’t realized I would need to scrape ice off my damn car, and because breakfast took a bit longer than I anticipated. But we survived the hour, thirty-minute drive, despite my poor vision and pounding headache.

After dropping off Bridget at the place hosting the hot air ballooning seminar, I filled up on gas, and worked on my car a bit (odd, I know), putting in oil and washer fluid, and fretting over the General State of Johnny. Johnny has not been running well, and I want to know what’s wrong. First, he’s dieseling. I spent $20 filling him up with el-cheapo gas–my coffers are not so full as to be able to shell out for high-octane gas every time I fill him up. The Old Man suggested the timing (of whatever the part is whose timing can cause dieseling, I suppose) could be adjusted for something around $20. Sears Auto Center, here I come. Well, when I get my next paycheck. Next, Johnny’s starting increasingly roughly, and the idle is getting rougher. Then there’s a small amount of knocking going on. All of these things (minus the dieseling) are recent, like since the past break. I just want to know what actual problems are, before I take it to get it fixed. This, of course, means I need to pry Theodore off of Bridget (not so difficult, if the discussion is cars) and get him to help me understand what’s going on.

Anyway, after giving my engine some frustrated looks, I set off for Indy proper, hoping to find this “International Bazaar” place that would have the soundtrack for the movie Mohabbatein. Alas, the place wasn’t open, and I didn’t feel comfortable sitting in the parking lot waiting, so I headed back to Carmel.

En route, however, I saw signs for the Indy Museum of Art, which, of course, captured my interest. One of my goals in life is to visit France and lock myself in the Louvre for the full five or six days it takes to see everything. However, I don’t know art, and will shamefully admit I’ve never been in a museum. Ever. Well, aside from Fair Park, one of those children’s museums with large science exhibits and the like, that every first, second, third, and fourth grade class went to on field trips. So I don’t want to go to the Louvre, and not only be an American bumpkin, but be an American bumpkin that doesn’t know a museum from a mall. I pull into the parking lot for the IMA, and see… a house. And not much else, other than the large amounts of construction going on. I didn’t want to walk in and be rude, like, “Is this it?”, so I departed, and went back to Carmel to check on movie times for The Passion. Mae, who normally inhabits Indy, later told me there really is more, and has agreed to take me to both the IMA and a Native American art museum over Spring Break. The original idea, of course, was to go to the Chicago Art Institute, but her mother vehemently protested, apparently because of the supposedly ridiculous highway system of Chicago.

At any rate, after checking movie times, it was near lunchtime, and I grabbed McAlister’s. Doesn’t sound like a big deal? There are no McAlister’s in Terre Haute. Oh, my good goddamn. I’ve been deprived of McAlister’s since summer. Augh! So I grabbed my book du jour and sat in there for about an hour, reading and working through my meal.

The thing about Carmel, though, is this: it is ritzy. Like filthy-rich, people-dress-up-to-do-grocery-shopping type of ritzy. I had the oldest car and was dressed the worst everywhere I went. And I got accompanying “looks” from everyone I ran into, and plenty I didn’t even interact with. Sitting in McAlister’s, this little 2(ish) year-old rugrat was running around like a damned monkey, and when he stops to yell at me, I wave (in a friendly manner). His father immediately shoots up from his seat, snatches his kid up, and gives me this look, like I’m going to molest the damn kid or kidnap him. He then aims his brat the opposite direction of the restaurant and lets him run around again. I just roll my eyes and continue reading.

Right. So. I saw The Passion. Interesting movie. I’m writing a review for the newspaper, so I don’t want to write anything here about it yet, for the sake of me not losing the originality of my thoughts. This would be originality to myself, of course; I’ve found that if I write about something extensively, it’s much more difficult to gather up the enthusiasm to do it again, particularly if my slant hasn’t changed. I will say I didn’t cry, however, although it was a damn sad movie. Jesus doesn’t have to be your messiah for the events of movie to be all kinds of horrible.

So following the movie, I parked in the lot of the place I dropped off Bridget, and read more of my book du jour, Y: the Descent of Man, by Steve Jones. Gender Issues is such an interesting class. More on that at a later date.

Of course, once Bridget came out, we drove home, going back and forth on the topic of The Passion. When we got back, she refilled my gas tank and bought me dinner. She wins.

As soon as we got back, she ran to see Theodore, and I sat and talked with Mae and J-Andrea (there are two girls named Andrea, although they are pronounced differently–one wanted to burn my hair, and the other, J-Andrea, is the student of all things Japanese). I love these girls to death. We talked about everything from movies (I haven’t seen Rocky Horror Picture Show, and J-Andrea hasn’t seen any Monty Python movies/shows) to classes to diseases (Mae is my source for personal information on allergies, mental illnesses, medicines, and, now, blood sugar problems) for over three hours. Mae and I were about to become incoherent with fatigue (and in my case, I still wasn’t feeling up to snuff generally), so we all headed off for bed.

<roommate venting> It was very nice to get some time to hang out with folks that aren’t Bridget. I love my roomie, but she’s so… Catholic. Any mention of sex is enough to, literally, send her running out of the room covering her ears until the discussion is over. And this is mild stuff, like me and one of my roomies for next year joking about having wild lesbian sex right there in the room (how we managed to keep straight faces, given the incredulity on Bridget’s, I will never know), then commenting on how the hetero guys on campus would probably flock up to our floor based on a sixth sense to see even us go at it. We weren’t even graphic, and she got all squeamish. But around her, I either have to constantly monitor what I say (yeah, right), or deal with her reaction to every little joke or comment, and that gets tiring. Then she’s got this recording that her mother sent her. In a little case, there’s a picture of her mutts (they’re of the big, drooling variety), and then a built-in recorder plays them barking, because she misses her dogs. She thinks it’s cute, and plays it repeatedly so she can hear this little magpie (or magpipe or some kind of bird) make noise very quietly in the background. I want to record over it with someone farting, belching, making orgasmic sounds, or me just laughing maniacally. She even uses it to annoy me, because she thinks I exaggerate my dislike of the damn thing. Then I want to stab her in the eye, and have to violently suppress the urge, much as I have to when every little thing Theodore says or every dog/puppy/mutt on television is cause for a drawn-out “Aww”. She’s just so… blond/squeamish/girly. Le sigh. </roommate venting>

I just need a break. And Spring Break will provide one. She’ll go home, and I’ll get to spend some time in Indy with Mae and some time with the room to myself, so I don’t feel so guilty for being a lump in the corner of the room that seldom leaves and doesn’t find everything resembling a dog cause for excitement.

I hate dogs now, and I haven’t even been around one in a while. I swear, I’m getting a cat. And a plant. Give me cool and aloof any day.