Fink-Nottle, Designated Saturday Blogger

Grumples has asked me to serve for a day as designated diarist. It’s similar to the role of designated driver, in that it is generally the sort of thing that a responsible person does when they are going to get totally, completely, unapologetically, apocalyptically drunk.

And if you only had one adjective to describe Grumples, it would have to be “responsible”. “Strange” might come a very close second, running neck-and-neck with “whimsical”, but I’m fairly certain that “responsible” would win going away.

The reason she’s drunk is that my wife, whom she has inexplicably nicknamed “Frijole”, is burning some frequent flyer miles to visit her in Austin. She offered to provide an authentic Austin experience to her old friend. However, Frijole is only in town for three days, and thus does not have enough time to get hired and subsequently laid off by Dell.

So, since my wife is out of town and thus unable to keep me company, Grumples offered to let me write a guest blog post. She figured that I would be pleasantly diverted and thus less lonely. What she does not realize is that I’m going to use this opportunity to extract revenge for an ancient wrong.

When Frijole and Grumples worked together at the World’s Shittiest Job, I would give them a ride to work. We talked on the way to work, a crappy crawl up Mopac to a soulless managed office building. And inevitably, movies came up. I’m a very passionate movie-goer, and I hate bad movies nearly as much as I love great ones.

And in 2001, Britney Spears, at the apex of her pre-Federline fame, starred in a semi-biographical film called “Crossroads”. In one casual conversation shortly before its opening date, I took some cheap shot at bubblegum pop music and cookie-cutter films, and said something derisive about the film.

I’ll never know what inspired her to do it. I think it’s indicative of the fact that she’s pure evil, like Cathy Ames in “East of Eden”, a monster without any conscience at all. But even still, she said that she liked Britney, and the movie appealed, and that the three of us should go see it on opening day.

I laughed it off, but I must have betrayed some sort of credulity. And like a cheetah stalking a gazelle with a limp, she pounced. She and Frijole conspired at work that day, and then stepped up an elaborate campaign that lasted nearly a week and a half, pretending that we were doing just that. They went through the entire planning process, and they insisted, every morning on our commute, that we’d be seeing “Crossroads”, in all of its horror, on opening night.

I, being the good spouse that I am, was told by my wife that seeing this film was important to her, and I agreed to go. As my spouse has in no way, before or since, betrayed my love and trust in this fashion, I ascribe it solely to the malice of Grumples. And she reveled in it, as I begged and pleaded for mercy, suggesting alternative movies, possibly feigning illness.

They did not reveal the deception until the very last minute, as I was set to drive to the theater and suffer through the movie. And they laughed -- oh how they laughed! I still remember the burning dread.

They think I have forgiven. They think I have forgotten. But they are wrong.

And so, ten years on, I will have my revenge. It is movie-related, so it is indeed justice.

I will use this opportunity to reveal a dark secret about Grumples.

One of her favorite movies is “Harold and Maude”. Is it because of the bleak, existential themes? Because of the black comedy? Because of the brilliant cinematography? Because of the resonant contrasting themes of alienation and hope? Ruth Gordon’s brilliant, understated performance as Maude? No.

She had an affair with a 79-year-old woman who taught her to play Cat Stevens songs on the banjo.

Now you know. And now I have my revenge.