MOVIE FOR ONE

I take myself to a movie.

I'm not a loser ... most of the time. This is not the first time in my life that I have gone to a movie alone. To be honest, Every time I go to a movie with friends or family, I always see at least one person going solo. It is actually a brilliant concept because no one distracts a solo movie watcher nor distorts the experience.

The only reason I jump on a late afternoon weekday movie ticket is because the movie has its play extended. I thought I had missed my opportunity to see it, but, as it turns out, the movie's popularity resonates with the theater's cash flow.

At the time that I buy my ticket the night before, I am the only one who has reserved a seat. I have a pick of ANY seat that I want. I am slightly skeeved out, so I choose a near-end seat about four rows back on the left side of the theater. It is close to two different exits, just in case something feels creepy.

And it is creepy. For a about fifteen minutes, I am the only person in the theater. Then one person sits a row in front of me but more toward the middle. Eventually, his buddy arrives with popcorn. Shortly thereafter, a single woman sits in my row but about six seats away. There may be a few more people behind us. 

Basically, though, the theater is deserted.

We enjoy the previews, settle in for the movie, and think we are about to enjoy a bang-'em-up buddy movie. There are twists, though. Deep, dark twists. When the lights come up, the few of us in the place stand up in stunned silence, glance at each other, and file out of the theater. Seriously. No one is uttering a word. 

Oh, the movie is spectacular. It is well-written, well-acted, and well-filmed. It simply gets very dark very suddenly, and it successfully takes us all by surprise.

It is at that moment, near-catatonic as I exit the building, that I am truly glad I went alone to see the film. There are times when words don't work nor would they nor should they. The seat may have been comfortable, but the movie wasn't. 

Taking myself to the movie alone is empowering; driving home alone after is like therapy. Five stars - I highly recommend the activity.

ONE SHOE ON AND ONE SHOE OFF

Never before, never since, but twice while on vacation in DC.

Sounds like the start of a riddle or perhaps a political joke, right? Nope. Apparently, it's some kind of weird trend. I don't mean that officially. At least, I sure hope that I don't. 

We are in a waterfront restaurant in DC, higher end, nice place, fancy seating and bar, both inside and out. We are having a lovely dinner, enjoying some seafood and some restaurant-week shenanigans, when we notice a couple at the bar. Well, we suspect that it's a couple. They are seated very close, leaning toward each other, and each has a drink. 

The woman, perhaps mid-twenties, is wearing a white dress and has a pocketbook with her. The young man has a shirt and tie, and his backpack (yes, a backpack, not a sling-type bag) is on the next stool over. He turns toward the young woman and we all kind of glance at one another. The man --- er, boy --- possesses a very young face. Very. Young. Very young. He looks possibly fourteen, maybe fifteen if we stretch it. 

Bless him. It might just be his family's incredible genes.

But, that's not the awkward part. Okay, it kind of is, considering that the couple is seated at the bar. The awkward part is that, despite being professionally dressed, he has one shoe off. One shoe and sock is on, and one shoe is off but the sock is on.

Naturally, I find this fascinating and start quietly singing the old nursery rhyme, "Deedle-deedle dumpling, my son John went to bed with his stockings on. One shoe off, one shoe on ..."

For some reason, we find this odd look to be fascinating. We end up sneaking glances at the socked foot off and on throughout our evening. Is he going to make a move using it? Is it a smell thing? Is he wearing his father's shoes and they're too big so one fell off? Is it a fetish? Is it a new dating tactic? Are they dating? Is he even of consenting age?

I snap a picture because of course I do. It's not often you see a one-foot-shod young man in a bar seemingly on a serious date. Inquiring minds want to know. Alas, we never find out because asking him would draw attention to it, and we don't want actual dirty laundry to wreck the relationship before proverbial dirty laundry can do it.

About forty hours later, after a long trek through Dulles Airport, I stand at the gate with a hundred or so of my best friends as we patiently wait to board the plane back to Boston. I stand near some chairs when a person deplaning decides that instead of going along with the other deboarding passengers, she wants to cut through the waiting, departing queue. This pushes me toward the people who are sitting and I nearly collide with ...

A socked foot. No shoe. There is a shoe on the other foot, but this foot is in the passing lane of Dulles, sock only. Another Deedle-Deedle little dumpling, apparently. Again. my only coherent thought is that I must try to get a picture of this without the guy noticing, which is hard since I, too, am practically in his lap at this point.

It just seems a bit strange. Weird. Licentious.

If this is some new male pick-up trick being bandied about in DC, I can speak as a single woman and say that it is not working. Also, it's creepy. I am pleased to say that the two men sitting alongside of me on the flight do keep their shoes on, as far as I can tell. However, now that I think on it, I have been on flights where this isn't the case. 

Let's try to stick to decorum. If your feet don't smell and you're on a plane and need to stretch those feet, I'll give you grace. If you're in the airport, preparing to board and smooshed amongst a multitude of other people, please refrain from presenting your shoeless stockinged foot. I will not concede the date thing, though. That was then and still now remains disturbing to me. If Socked Foot Fetish is part of your dating profile, maybe try it in a diner or fast food place before bringing the show on the road to a place where shoes are more than a suggestion.

THE GREAT DC NAPKIN CAPER

There are so very many things to see and do in Washington, DC, that bringing home souvenirs is practically a given. Apparently, my family is obsessed with collecting DC napkins.

That's right. You read that correctly. Napkins. Nondescript, unassuming, undecorated, cheap, paper napkins.

I meet my brother (older of the two) and his wife at Dulles. Yes, it's on the outskirts, and yes, it takes an hour to get there from DC proper. Two main reasons why we fly into Dulles instead of Reagan, which is actually in the city, are because their North Country New York airport only connects with Dulles, and because it is closer to the Udvar-Hazy National Air and Space Museum (which is different from and has a more spectacular collection of air and space machines than the air and space museum in the National Mall downtown, it's just not as flashy nor interactive).

Our niece who lives in DC picks us up, and we head over to Udvar-Hazy for the afternoon. First stop, though, is food. Inside the museum used to be Mickey D's or some such low-level fast food. Now it's Shake Shack. We tuck in and order food. As our trays come up and we make our way to the table, I grab a handful of napkins -- four, to be exact because there are four of us. My niece sits down, and she, too, has grabbed us napkins. My brother also grabs napkins. So does my sister-in-law. 

Haha. We have napkins galore!

After the museum, we head to my niece's house, then past John Philip Sousa's (Stars and Stripes Forever) house, to the Capitol, the Botanic Garden, a special event at the Library of Congress, and then to dinner, where, of course, there are napkins. 

The next day, breakfast is from Starbucks, which is attached to the hotel, and it involves beverages and egg sandwiches. And napkins. Must have napkins. We hit up a bunch of monuments, spontaneously walk into a nationally press-covered rally, see police horse stables, tour a couple of museums, and stop for lunch. It is another order-at-the-counter style restaurant, so we wait to pick up our bowls and salads and wraps. When we finally sit at a table, I have a handful of napkins. So does my niece. So does my brother. So does my sister-in-law. 

Now, before you go judging us, we actually take the unused paper napkins with us because we might need them later at the hotel (which is true because I am so tired that I miss the table with my glass of red wine and it lands on the carpet) and because we are sweating bullets so we need an occasional forehead swipe. At dinner, there are actual woven napkins. We do not bring those back to the hotel with us.

The following day, we diversify. My niece and brother go for a walk around the basin, then my brother heads to the Spy Museum. My sister-in-law and I head to the Museum of Natural Wonders, where we stop for a light lunch at the cafe. We both order spinach-and-cheese filled pastries and tea and coffee. As we sit at the high-top counter, I notice that she has grabbed napkins and so have I. (I also accidentally grab three forks instead of two because apparently we have a ghost guest with us, perhaps John Philip Sousa.)

We hit up the Nationals Park for an MLB game. My brother gets a bunch of food for us, and, like a great host, he grabs mounds of napkins. This is good because we are messy eaters and we are sweaty. Back at the hotel, my sister-in-law and I grab ice cream bars from the hotel lobby and, of course, napkins since perhaps we might need them. (We don't. We have a stockpile already.)

Our final day involves Starbucks for breakfast and more napkins. We head over the Eastern Market, where we eat some brunch and some sweet treats. Of course, since it's hot out and the chocolate in the baked goods is gooey, we need -- you guessed it -- napkins. We walk around, visit a book store, then make our way via Metro to Dulles, where my brother and his wife and I eat an early dinner, and we all naturally gravitate toward the napkins. I stuff some extras into my carry-on backpack because I might need them on the plane.

When I arrive home, I am exhausted, but I still feel the need to unpack and get organized. As I work my way through the bag of dirty laundry and my various toiletries, I come across a small collection of paper napkins.

Most people bring home t-shirts or magnets or postcards or gifts from DC. Not my family. Only the best for us! If someone asks us what we brought back for souvenirs, the answer is simple: Photos (thousands), memories (hundreds of thousands), and napkins (a gazillion).