I had the best experience at Blockbuster last night.
I've had myself on a pretty regular schedule of watching movies and going to bed at 9 since I came down with a particularly obnoxious cold and, having run out of Netflix to watch I stopped by my neighborhood Blockbuster on the way home from work last night. I selected disc one of season two of The Secret Diary of a Call Girl, a sexy, hilarious Showtime show, and brought it up to the register, where I was greeted by a very tall, lanky boy, no older than seventeen, with a huge smile on his face.
"Hey, I'm Justin! Did you find everything OK?"
"I sure did--hack, hack--just this, thanks."
"Sure, do you have your Blockbuster card or your ID?"
"Here's my driver's license."
"OK, great!" (takes license and rings up video) "Oh my gosh, Gabrielle, this is SO exciting! Because of the Blockbuster Rewards program, you actually get a second disk for free! Want to go pick one out?
"Oh cool! Sure--hack--I'll be right back." (I grabbed the second disk of the same season).
"OK, great! Let me ring that up for you." (scans video, takes my cash, receipts start printing, including a few coupons) "Whoa! You get two coupons! One for a free rental this month and one for a free rental next month! This is so great! You are going to have so much fun watching free movies!"
"Oh great, thanks!" I could actually feel myself getting excited if, for no other reason than the fact that he seemed to be so excited about all my free movies.
"Here you go. These are due back by next Monday. Oh, and Gabrielle? You sound sick. I really hope you feel better. Eat some soup or something, OK?"
"Will do, Justin. Thanks again."
As I walked out to the parking lot and climbed into my car, I thought about what an uplifting experience being rung up by teenage Justin of the Church and Market Blockbuster was. His genuine glee about the transaction struck me as something we could all use a little bit more of. If he can conjure up such unbridled merriment about something as mundane as a video store transaction, the rest of us can surely bring a little more exuberance to our daily interactions. I'm a big believer that happiness is catching, and we could all use a little extra happiness these days.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
motorboat
I feel like every time I write about my body the theme is acceptance of imperfection, or an apologetic declaration of fondness . But this particular post is different. This post is unapologetic...because the honest-to-God truth is that I have fantastic breasts.
(Dad, I am sorry if today is the day you decided to catch up on Out of the Pantry.)
But yeah, they're pretty amazing--and have been since I was about thirteen. And I'm not particularly shy about them. I never went through a phase of embarrassment, never tried to distract from them with baggy clothing or hunched shoulders. I don't put my cleavage on display 24-7, but when I do, I do it with pride.
The thing about having a prominent, noticeable feature is that strangers often have no problem verbalizing their appreciation. In truth, this doesn't really bother me. The sweet girl in the ladies room who tells me, "Wow, you have awesome cleavage!" or the guy at the bar who, after continuously glancing downward while talking to me flusters, "I'm sorry, I'm just really distracted by your, um, chest." I find it complementary and usually just smile and say "thanks!"
But every now and then, something happens that I'm just not quite sure how to handle. One such instance happened a few nights ago, on New Years Eve.
The plan was dinner at James and Michelle's apartment and then a party, the theme of which was Mad Men. I was definitely channeling Joan Holloway in a belted red dress with a predictably deeply-plunging neckline. When I arrived for dinner, James hugged me, looked down, and said, "Well well. It appears the twins are out to play tonight." I smiled and smacked him on the arm.
After cocktails, freshly-cracked crab, black-eyed peas, spring rolls and a truffle oil-balsamic-dressed salad, our group of 8 piled into taxis and headed to our friend Aaron's North Beach apartment for a roof-deck party, complete with a gorgeous view of the midnight fireworks display over the bay. Drinks were flowing, people were laughing, midnight came and went with the usual toasts, hugs and kisses. Then, around 1 AM, a friend whispered in my ear that a beautiful blond woman sitting on a chaise lounge was eyeing me. I glanced in her direction and saw that, not only was she looking right at me, she was grinning. Not knowing what else to do, I smiled back and waved. She beckoned me over with a curling finger and said, "You have amazing breasts."
"Thanks," I replied.
"Do you think there's any way I could motorboat them?"
(If you don't know what motorboating is, go here. Again, Dad, I'm sorry.)
I looked at her in disbelief. I looked back at my friends, all of whom were suddenly paying attention. My friend Steve said, incredulously, "Oh, my God, Gabi, why are you hesitating? Say yes! Come on!" I saw people reach for their cameras. I just stood there silently as my inner horrified feminist debated my inner thrilled exhibitionist.
"Well?" my blond admirer besought. "Can I do it?"
Honestly, my ultimate course of action is obsolete. Feel free to pretend that I did whatever it is you would hope for me (Dad and Steve probably have differing wishes here).
I'm still not quite sure what to make of the experience, other than that it made for a pretty grand entrance into the second decade of this century.
(Dad, I am sorry if today is the day you decided to catch up on Out of the Pantry.)
But yeah, they're pretty amazing--and have been since I was about thirteen. And I'm not particularly shy about them. I never went through a phase of embarrassment, never tried to distract from them with baggy clothing or hunched shoulders. I don't put my cleavage on display 24-7, but when I do, I do it with pride.
The thing about having a prominent, noticeable feature is that strangers often have no problem verbalizing their appreciation. In truth, this doesn't really bother me. The sweet girl in the ladies room who tells me, "Wow, you have awesome cleavage!" or the guy at the bar who, after continuously glancing downward while talking to me flusters, "I'm sorry, I'm just really distracted by your, um, chest." I find it complementary and usually just smile and say "thanks!"
But every now and then, something happens that I'm just not quite sure how to handle. One such instance happened a few nights ago, on New Years Eve.
The plan was dinner at James and Michelle's apartment and then a party, the theme of which was Mad Men. I was definitely channeling Joan Holloway in a belted red dress with a predictably deeply-plunging neckline. When I arrived for dinner, James hugged me, looked down, and said, "Well well. It appears the twins are out to play tonight." I smiled and smacked him on the arm.
After cocktails, freshly-cracked crab, black-eyed peas, spring rolls and a truffle oil-balsamic-dressed salad, our group of 8 piled into taxis and headed to our friend Aaron's North Beach apartment for a roof-deck party, complete with a gorgeous view of the midnight fireworks display over the bay. Drinks were flowing, people were laughing, midnight came and went with the usual toasts, hugs and kisses. Then, around 1 AM, a friend whispered in my ear that a beautiful blond woman sitting on a chaise lounge was eyeing me. I glanced in her direction and saw that, not only was she looking right at me, she was grinning. Not knowing what else to do, I smiled back and waved. She beckoned me over with a curling finger and said, "You have amazing breasts."
"Thanks," I replied.
"Do you think there's any way I could motorboat them?"
(If you don't know what motorboating is, go here. Again, Dad, I'm sorry.)
I looked at her in disbelief. I looked back at my friends, all of whom were suddenly paying attention. My friend Steve said, incredulously, "Oh, my God, Gabi, why are you hesitating? Say yes! Come on!" I saw people reach for their cameras. I just stood there silently as my inner horrified feminist debated my inner thrilled exhibitionist.
"Well?" my blond admirer besought. "Can I do it?"
Honestly, my ultimate course of action is obsolete. Feel free to pretend that I did whatever it is you would hope for me (Dad and Steve probably have differing wishes here).
I'm still not quite sure what to make of the experience, other than that it made for a pretty grand entrance into the second decade of this century.
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