Tonight I decided to join my mother and the rest of her MFA classmates in dinner and a movie. We had a lot of fun and I connected with a lot of her friends/peers. I felt at home, considering I’m aspiring to be a writer too. Minus the majority of them drinking, we laughed, joked, and laughed some more about writing and college experiences. We met at one of their houses, and my mom parked in a ditch. Afterwards, we met up again at a Mexican restaurant for dinner (the poets went to this sushi place right next to where the fiction writers were dining at the Mexican restaurant). It was a small place, but we’d heard it was the best. We walked in (all fifteen of us) and two waiters passed by with an almost horrific look on their faces. It was cramped and they were trying to figure out where to put all of us. Another waiter (the manager I think) came by (with the same look on his face) and said (in a thick accent) he’d go put a table together for us. Five minutes later, we’re still waiting and wondered if he literally meant he was going to put a table together. He arrived shortly after that and seated us near the kitchen with about seven small tables pushed together. They were all of different heights, but they worked. The food however, was another story. I actually am not fond of Mexican food (only Taco Bell which is awesome, but not really Mexican food.) but I decided to give it another try. There was a lot to choose from, but I ordered a chicken enchilada and a side order of nacho chips with nacho cheese. The waiter who took our orders had an even thicker accent and spoke broken English; he understood even less English. I remembered to use my hands when speaking but that didn’t really get me anywhere. The enchilada did not taste like an enchilada (as my mother put it, “Yucky.”), and the nacho cheese I was looking forward to since I hadn’t had it in a long time (I love nacho cheese); but what I got was not nacho cheese. I could tell before he placed my plate on the table. It was much lighter – almost white, and thicker. Before I tasted it I knew they had melted a couple slices of white American cheese and put it over the nachos.
I got the waiter’s attention and asked for a saucer (I was animated while doing this) of nacho cheese. I said it three times (the first time, he pointed at my plate and nodded) until finally he said, “No nacho cheese.” and left. I was disappointed and defeated. He came back though about two minutes later with a saucer of the same cheese, but melted completely so that it was clearly a liquid substance.
I accepted with a “Thank you” and shook my head laughing. Figures.
After we left, we all kind of hung out in the parking lot laughing and joking some more and thinking of a way to get out of seeing the mandatory movie at the university. While we were hanging around, an older, beat up, discolored car rolled past us with rap music blasting out of the rolled down windows. We burst out laughing when we saw a elderly white couple driving in the car.
We then headed to the university, dragging our feet all the way up to the third floor where the theater was. We thought of one more excuse to get out of watching the movie: we got stuck in the elevator. But we showed up anyway right on time. The poets showed up a little later, just when the movie was starting. From the beginning to the end, we held WTF? expressions on our faces as we sat through Beasts of the Southern Wild; a film that is apparently nominated for an Oscar. My mom described our thoughts perfectly: “The people that nominated this film were on crack.”
As soon as the credits rolled we jumped out of our seats and exited the theater.
My mom and I arrived back at our hotel thirty minutes later and reunited with our four pets. I was welcomed home by one cat who showed her love to me by stealing my seat on the couch.
I’m pretty exhausted, so I’ll write my review of that God-awful movie tomorrow. My mom said she’ll probably have weird nightmares; probably.
“Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep.“
– Scott Adams