03 January 2009

Under My Skin; Under Her Nails

New Girl and I went to see Frost/Nixon last night. I assumed we were seeing a documentary. Boy was I in for a surprise. I really must start paying more attention. It was a good movie, a terrific movie, except for the most offensively banal role for a woman I've seen in ages; I guess just because they had to have a woman-as-love-interest-and-uncomplaining-support in there.

Harumph, I say!

Afterwards, New Girl held my bag in true girlie friend fashion while I used the facilities. As usual, waiting for a free cubicle, anticipating the horror of a warm toilet seat, I cursed not being a boy. Still, if you look hard enough there's always something to distract you. As I moved restlessly from foot to foot, a rather haughty- and elegant-looking woman came sashaying out of one of the cubicles, paused for maybe a second to check herself in the mirror and then grandly and unapologetically walked out without so much as a glance at the basins.

I told New Girl that while I don't care what standards anyone abides by in the privacy of their own home, it takes a special kind of person to flaunt their inattention to hygiene in public.

And if she blamed what happened later on the finger food at Outback Jack's, they can totally rely on me for support. But only this once.

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