Gone (Crazy) Girl

Saturday was not exactly a banner day for me. I have a feeling that, had I bothered to read my horoscope, it would have simply said, "Bless your heart. Just stay in bed." It was time, once again, for our house divided college football rivalry. Alma mater versus alma mater. I absolutely hate when Clemson and Georgia Tech play each other. It's usually a very close game, and often it comes down to the very last nail-biting seconds of the game to know who has gained bragging rights for the year. Well, usually that's the way it goes.

The game started at noon (I am resisting the urge to say high noon and insert the theme song from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly). Clint and I, per our usual, were keeping to ourselves and watching the game from different rooms. Other friends were either tailgating in Atlanta or watching from various sports bars and imbibing in adult beverages and fried, delicious, football-worthy food. But due to the fact that even my underwear is too tight right now, I feasted on a "rich & satisfying" (according to the box, anyway) chocolate protein shake as part of my game time festivities. Oh yes, the good times were certainly rolling.

For the sake of my still wounded pride, let's not rehash the gory details of the game. I will tell you that our star quarterback seemingly tripped over his own two feet during the first quarter and was out for the rest of the game. Rumors circulated that he had torn his ACL and would be out for the remainder of the season. Enter our second string quarterback, aptly nicknamed "three-and-out Stoudt." Poor Stoudt managed to throw not one, but two pick-sixes (if you have been lucky enough to remain unfamiliar with that term, a pick-six is an interception returned for a touchdown), and effectively seal our fate as completely and utterly doomed. We even sent in our third string quarterback and let him have a shot--I'm pretty sure we were recruiting guys in line at the concession stands to help us out at that pitiful point in the game--but the Yellow Jackets swarmed us 28-6, prompting headlines such as, "Tigers Wrecked at Georgia Tech" and "Confidence Lost: #Clemson."

The game was so ugly, I think Clint was actually afraid to brag. I was teetering on the edge of insanity once you factored in my starvation, my frustration, my disappointment, and my raging PMS. My hubby wisely suggested we see a movie, and I eagerly agreed. At this point in the day, sitting in a dark room without talking for a couple of hours seemed like the best possible option, and so we headed to the movie theater.

After I read Gone Girl, I convinced Clint to give it a read, too, and we were both looking forward to seeing the movie since it has gotten so much buzz. Even though I was reasonably sure my stomach was chewing on my backbone, we stayed strong and resisted the lure of popcorn and candy, and settled for two Diet Cokes (I refuse to sit in a movie theater drinking water...it's just too depraved). I threw a wistful goodbye in the direction of the Raisinets and soldiered on.

I should go ahead and tell you at this point in the story that I have an uncanny superpower--not the ability to fly, not x-ray vision or superhuman strength; I am an idiot magnet. If there is a buffoon, a dunce, or an imbecile anywhere in the vicinity, they will be immediately attracted to me like a moth to a flame. Coincidentally, Clint has the ultra powerful allure to the annoying, so when the two of us are together, we are almost guaranteed to encounter idiots. Any dimwit within a 10-mile radius is irresistibly pulled into our orbit.

We found a spot in a short little five seat row on the side of the crowded theater, which left three seats to my right. Because there was still a line of people coming in, I held my coat in my lap so I wouldn't occupy a seat that someone might need. And then, my idiot magnetism must have kicked in, because two simpletons women made a beeline for our row and sat down in the seats right next to me. This left them one lone seat all to themselves that they happily used to hold their coats and purses,  leaving me to hold mine in my lap the entire movie. Really, people? Why can't we all just get along, and leave a seat in between us for a community coat rack? Are we savages, or civilized movie goers?

I had hoped that my deep sighs, shifting of my coat, and glares in their direction would have hammered my point home, but these two were clueless. If looks could kill, I would be wearing an orange jumpsuit right now. They were so enamored with their jumbo bucket of popcorn--you know, the ones that come in a tub the size of a laundry basket, that they were completely consumed with crunching and oblivious to anything else going on around them. Misophonia is a condition where people become angered or disgusted by certain sounds, such as chewing, slurping, or smacking. Go ahead and label me a misophoniac because I cannot stand the sound of someone slurping coffee or soup, and hard candy dragging across someone's teeth is worse than nails on a chalkboard in my book. The noise coming from those two dingbats scavenging for popcorn was giving me serious heart palpitations.

It's even worse to be hungry and not only surrounded by a crowd of people all noshing on buttery goodness, but having to endure it in surround sound right next to me should be considered cruel and unusual punishment. Don't get me wrong, folks: I am a glutton and I have helped eat that giant bushel basket of popcorn in its entirety before. I've even gone back for the free refill, but I have never in my overeating life managed to finish two of those behemoth sized tubs o' corn. Clearly, these were exceptional doofuses (or is it doofi? I've never considered the plural of the word doofus until this particular experience) I had attracted.

I should have been happy with the popcorn smack soundtrack, because in between fistfuls, I also got to enjoy a highly insightful running commentary throughout the entire movie. Really clever and helpful things like, "Is that his sister?" or "She's going to kill him isn't she?" It's a good thing I had my poor pea coat in a wad in my lap, because I needed something to clutch to keep me from going for someone's jugular.

As we were finally, mercifully leaving the theater, I notice the two dunces who sat next to me were leaving the concession stand...with a third laundry basket of popcorn to go! You have got to be kidding me. These folks are high on the dumb-o-meter, even for this idiot magnet. Clint wouldn't let me "pretend" to bump into them and dump their ill-gotten popcorn all over the sidewalk, so I threw them some side eye for the 3,789th time that day and walked off to the car. But it does beg the question: does it count as saving someone's life if you just refrain from killing them?