Per usual, our hot, platonic date had good times written all over it, much like a bathroom wall. Greek food and geek chat. Top Model vs. Idol, Steve Carrell: genius or no (he actually says "no," if you can believe it...NO?!?!), how to pronounce Chuck Palahniuk's last name, musical theater, horror movies, and our hair. After dinner we fell all over ourselves via e-mail, talking about what a great time we had and wondering aloud why we don't do it more often. We rattle off lists of slasher flicks to swap and books to trade, of restaurants to hit and soundtracks to rip. It is the sort of love-fest usually reserved for new friends but that you also break out when you only see someone a time or two a year. It's like the Thanksgiving china.
So I logged off that night after dinner, awash in New Friend Smell. I was cursing myself for not making more dinner dates with my dashing, darling, dear Dirk--Hell, every gal needs a gay boyfriend--when it hit me. I suddenly remembered why we only have dinner once a year.
Every time I meet up with Dirk, he gives me a disease.
There, I said it. He can no longer strut around, infecting anyone he pleases. Dirk, I can't take it. Please, please, please, stop putting that f@#!ing song in my head.
The first time we ever hung out Dirk and I chatted up a storm about the worst (READ: best) horror movies we'd ever seen. I mentioned my good fortune in having gotten a double-sided, bloat-a-rific Shelly Winters DVD from my then-boyfriend-now-husband featuring the (and I quote from the box) "musical-horror-melodrama-satire-love-story" What's the Matter with Helen? (Christmas is truly the most wonderful time of year.) Anyway, I was certain I was alone in having seen this movie, but as I paused to consider how to take the "in" out of "inexplicable" and explain the plot, Dirk's face lit up. Sending ripples across our cheap wine, he started to sing:
"Da-da-da-da-da-da-dada-dadada-da-da...GOODY, GOODY!"
There's no good way to explain this without forcing you to rent What's the Matter with Helen?* but I'll try to sum up: tap-dancing "Goody, Goody"-singing Debbie Reynolds + jealous creepy piano-playing Shelley Winters = a very strung-up & corpse-y Debbie Reynolds.
*International Readers May Wish to Refer to: ¿Qué le pasa a Helen?, Kauhun vangitsemat, Raptus segreti di Helen, I, Vad hände med Helen?, Obsessão Sinistra, Was ist denn bloß mit Helen los?
"Goody, Goody"--or rather, two or three bars of its refrain, are plunked out on the piano over-and-over-and-over-and-over during a few key scenes of this movie. See this film and you'll understand. Aside from a slightly unclean feeling, "da-da-da-da-da-da-dada-dadada-da-da...GOODY, GOODY!" and a keen appreciation for Shelley Winters in The Poseidon Adventure is all you'll take away. (I'm serious: go to iTunes right now and sample this song. I did the legwork for you...you can look it up under Frankie Lymon. Listen. You'll get it. And then you'll really get it.)
So, there I was. I'd seen What's the Matter with Helen? a year earlier, I'd FINALLY gotten "Goody, Goody" out of my head. Now, my new so-called friend stirs it all back up. I soft-shoed around the house for days: ""da-da-da-da-da-da-dada-dadada-da-da..." I was like some sad, past-her-prime tap-dancer. I WAS Debbie Reynolds. (Oh, snap! Debbie Reynolds BURN!)
*References like this are why my husband says I'm the oldest 29-year-old he knows. I guess to up the hip quotient of the blog I should sub in Brit-Brit for Debbie Reynolds...something tells me she's tap-danced once or twice in her day.
And here we are, nearly a year later, and it all comes rushing out. I can't work, I can't sleep...I can only drink, hum, and shuffle-off-to-Buffalo.
Dirk, if you're out there: let's not wait another year to get together. Life and friendship are too precious. In fact, you might say I'm really, really jazzed to get together again. I might even say "GOODY, GOODY!"
Tag, Dirk. You're it.
EPILOGUE: Once again, a lukewarm review--blank stare--from my beloved hubby on this, my latest entry. Whatever happened to "love, honor, obey, and gush blindly about my navel-gazing?" Rattling on about stuff nobody cares about is harder than it looks.
1 comment:
So I have very rarely in my life been given a nickname. I'm just not that kind of guy I guess - that and I've spent very little time in lockerrooms or playing fields.
That being said, I'm thrilled to now be known as "Dirk" even if it's only to you and me and I guess Neil. Perhaps one day millions of readers will read of my conquests, but for now, it's enough that I have them :)
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