A couple of months ago, Nate and I decided to have ourselves a real, live, bonafide date. We opted for an afternoon excursion, thereby greatly reducing the chances of me eating a pound of pasta and falling asleep on the couch ten minutes into whatever movie was available at Blockbuster at 8:30 p.m., on a Saturday night. However, we were careful to ensure that the date did not extend past 3:30 p.m., because that is when I tend to lapse into a coma on a daily basis, with or without the aid of pasta or sucky movies.
I infused my hair with gel and hairspray and put on decent clothes which were purchased in this decade and we hopped in the car and drove through the gorgeous countryside that is upstate New York and took in the sights and listened to music and got lost and had deep, philosophical conversations like:
Nate: Where the freaking hell is this place?
Me: Back there, where I said “turn” and you said “SHHHHH, I’m on the phone.”
Nate: Did not.
Me: Did too.
Nate: Maybe if you paid as much attention to the map as you do the radio, we’d be there by now.
Me: STOP SHOUTING AT ME OR I SWEAR TO GOD, I WILL CRY.
Nate: I am not shouting. I am simply requesting that you navigate properly.
Me: May I request that you not drive like a lunatic?
Nate: No. And I did not shout. You shouted.
Me: Did not.
Nate: Did too.
Me: Are we still in New York? This doesn’t look like New York. This looks like … the desert. Is that a cactus?
Nate: That is a tree. You can tell by the branches and leaves.
Me: Are you implying that I am a moron?
Nate: Negatory. Now, will you please look at the map and tell me where we are?
Me: JUST COME RIGHT OUT AND SAY IT, NATE. YOU THINK I’M FAT.
We eventually found our destination whereupon we proceeded with our date which consisted of sitting in the middle of a field on a frigid cold, damp day this past July a/k/a The Summer That Never Was and watching a couple hundred dirty, smelly, unshaven men in ugly pants annihilate each other.
It was fun!
This was my first civil war reenactment so I had no idea what to expect and had no preconceived ideas.
I mean, except the part about who won the whole thing.
I had a pretty good preconceived idea about that one.
I have to say, it was darn impressive and realistic. The thunder of horses’ hooves rattling the ground. The explosions of gunfire and canon echoing in the air. The screams of agony from the wounded.
Kind of like being at home when Zoe tries to boot Helena off the computer and Helena tries to boot Zoe off the planet, only not as bloody.
My girls can be downright vicious.
There were union soldiers.
And confederate soldiers.
I liked the union soldiers’ uniforms better. They were … wait for it … more uniform! This appealed to my anal-retentive, matchy-matchy sensitivities.
I’m typically not a matchy-matchy person which goes a long way in explaining the launch of my newsletter campaign last year entitled Hillary Clinton and the Pantsuit: An Exercise in FOR GOD’S SAKE, STOP IT BEFORE I POKE MY EYES OUT WITH A SPORK.
But on the battlefield, the matchy-matchy just worked for me.
And besides, the union soldiers’ uniforms were probably a lot easier to clean, being so dark.
That spoke to me, the self-declared laundry aficionado that I am.
The Yankees would shoot ’em up.
The Rebels would return the favor.
And then the Yankees would get pissed and shoot ’em up even more.
And then the Rebels would pitch a hissy and give as good as they got.
If you stuck these guys in a 2000 Honda Accord and answered your blackberry and missed a turn and blamed it on your wife because she happened to be preoccupied with getting a clear radio signal so as to give props to Peter Gabriel’s Solsbury Hill and letting the map fall to the floor it the process, all while your gas light was blinking and flashing, you’d have yourself a big, fat, whopping case of deja vu.
If your name was Nate.
This poor fellow bit the dust almost from the start.
Can I just say right here, right now, that if ever there were an acting role tailor made for me, this would be it?
In the middle of all the action but with no complicated dialogue to memorize and essentially no responsibility other than lying prone on my back, pretending to play dead. What’s not to like?
I am awesome at lying on my back and playing dead!
I’d tell you to ask Nate but that would constitute a whole bunch of TMI, wouldn’t it?
This guy was good. He didn’t even flinch when the guns went off right next to his ear.
I’d like to think that I’d be just as adept at ignoring that kind of deafening roar. After all, ten years of restless nights trying to sleep next to a 6’2″ diesel engine who refuses to undergo an apnea sleep study has to be good for something, right?
He just laid there.
This is why I would need a part with no words.
At one point, he rolled over and then I think he went to sleep.
That’s what I would have done.
No one bothering you.
No one asking What’s for dinner?
No one groaning Yuck. Can I have pretzels instead?
No one complaining that their favorite jeans haven’t been washed because they were storing them in their backpack for safekeeping.
No one texting I FEEL SICK. I M GOING 2 THROW UP. PLS COME GET ME.
Everybody just leaving you alone to presumably drown in your own blood.
With no interruptions.
How come that never happens in real life? People leaving you alone when you need it the most?
A raging, rabid hippo could burst through my front door and chew through my femoral artery and my kids would still throw the keys at me because Target closes in twenty minutes so HURRY UP BEFORE YOU BLEED OUT.
See how they’re giving him some space?
I didn’t see anyone marching up to him and demanding to know the whereabouts of their favorite white shirt, the one with the 3/4 sleeves, not the one with the long sleeves, it was on the floor and now it’s gone and why can’t her sister just leave her stuff alone and WHAT AM I GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?
I wonder if he needs an understudy?