The Dance, chapter 3: Define "movie star"

In an attempt to assist our icebreaking, we had been instructed to ask each other questions, yes/no questions, about the movie star names pinned to our shirts, so I looked at Myrna's slip, and then turned to "Pamela," the woman on my left, and looked at hers. They looked at mine. We looked at each other.

Could this party be any livelier?

Heartbreak moment #18: Pamela was missing her top front teeth. This absence of dental care in her life really did make me sad and guilty. I can only imagine how embarrassing it must be, and yet Pamela was still willing to venture out. When I see folks without front teeth, my mind tumbles down a class-related guilt spiral and I simultaneously bemoan access to dental care, feel grateful to have access to dental care, remember that I actually do not have dental care on my insurance plan, and then remember that I could go if I needed to, and my acrylic front teeth are holding up pretty well, and wonder just why it is that I lucked out to have so many life advantages while others suffer, and then note in a small way to myself that I do know a bit about suffering, being at the dance and all. It's complicated.

With Pamela ("Julia Roberts") on my left and Myrna ("Cuba Gooding Jr.") on my right, I was determined to get to the bottom of this movie star riddle, and started asking questions. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman in jeans slide onto the dance floor excitedly and start the charleston. Out of the corner of my ear, I heard Beyonce. A flutter of ladies got up from their chairs. And sure, if I had been in a corny movie version of this night, I would have hit the floor too and wowed everyone with my spot-on gyrations. As it was, I merely tapped my feet.

Erin: "Is it a man or a woman?"

Pamela, chastening me with a disapproving look: "You're supposed to ask yes or no questions only."

Erin, awkward: "O-kay. Is it a man?"

Pamela, satisfied: "No."

Erin: "Is she an American?"

Pamela: "I don't think so. She's Irish, but I don't know all these young stars nowadays."

Erin: "So she's popular?"

Pamela: "Don't really know."

Myrna, interjecting in her very pleasant, soft voice: "Does my movie star have dark hair?"

Pamela, laughing really really loudly and making me uncomfortable with the toss-away racism that she wouldn't even think was inappropriate: "I should say he does."

Myrna, shyly pleased: "You just gave away a clue. You told me it was a man. I didn't have to ask."

Myrna then looked at the label on the back of my shirt. She didn't recognize the actress, and wanted me to know that, "I usually don't watch all the way to the end for the credits unless I know there is something funny that someone has told me about, so I can't keep track of any of these actor names."

Ah, I understand, because I've gleaned my gratuitous store of celebrity knowledge from watching movie credits ... NOT. No, Myrna, this kind of knowledge comes from a lifetime of reading subpar magazines and websites! Do not give the credit to credits. This kind of pop cultural fluency takes years to develop. I didn't get it watching Pixar blooper scenes.

Myrna, continuing, oblivious to my mental ranting about my voracious reading of People magazine: "Is he popular?"

I was just about to say, "No, not really," when Pamela burst out: "Very!"

Very?  Hmmm. How's that?

I whispered to Pamela, "Are you talking about 'Jerry Maguire'?"

"What's that?" she responded, not quietly.

Uh, only the movie that made Cuba Gooding Jr. famous and earned him his Oscar.

"I'm thinking of 'Radio'," she said. And I was thinking of activities that would be marginally more fun that chatting at that table to the pulsating beats of "If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it": karaoke, bowling, a canned food drive, going to the Houston public library then and there to get my card and free downloads. Lots of things.

During this conversation, I learned that Pamela moved to Houston a year ago from Victoria (note: I do change some of these details to protect privacy, just so you know) because she "couldn't find work, and I got no boyfriend to help with the bills either." I learned that Pamela's children were grown but her grandchildren were younger, the ages of my kids, and that she'd enjoyed Christmas with them. The best part of the night was talking Wii with her. Something we had in common. I couldn't help boasting a little about my bowling score, since at the time, I had earned the Hill Family top score and established a new family record.

Note on Wii Bowling: I have since found out that my four year old niece Ellie trounced my "family record" by about 40 points! Poor Grandpa Fred. He's the best real bowler in the family, and kept trying to experiment with  form, technique, actual bowling strategies, etc. during his turns, only to see people like his oldest daughter score strike after spare through a combination of total fluke luck and a super fast arm swing. No form necessary. No wonder the rest of us mediocre bowlers loved it.

Myrna had not played Wii, but had heard about it at the library, or so she thought.

Myrna was a bit befuddled re: life, to put it nicely, and mentioned sadly that by the time her own mother was 32, she had already given birth to all five of her children. "I don't think I can catch up," said Myrna, without irony or sadness. My heart cracked and I tried to inject additional enthusiasm to our conversation about the price of chocolate fountains. When I say inject, I mean with my facial expressions, as she did all the talking: "I've seen them at Sam's for $40, but it might have been $30. I saw them at Sam's before the holidays, but I don't know if that was a holiday price. They might have been more or they might have been less," chattered Myrna. My own life force seemed to slow in the listening. Like drips of chocolate in a fountain, these are the days of our lives... 

To her credit, how could she know that? I was the one who had mentioned that I'd like to own a chocolate fountain for myself. She continued, "I also saw one at the Galleria in a candy shop, and the chocolate was very expensive. Probably more than $40."

"Did you go in the shop?" I asked.

"On no, I didn't go into the candy shop, but I did look at the window because they had a chocolate fountain for sale in the window and I remembered the fountain I had seen at Sam's for $40 or $30. I can't remember how much it was," she finished.

Whew. Somebody get me a pineapple skewer, stat.

Later, after I left the dance and was seated in my van, I tugged the movie star paper from the back of my shirt. It read: Ali MacGraw [sic]. No wonder Pamela thought she was Irish. Course it's actually spelled Ali McGraw, but who cares?

These new actors? Really, Pamela? Someone needs to catch up on her movie credits!

Movie stars were just one subject in our conversation. After the sushi session, Myrna and I discussed fish prices too. She mentioned purchasing sushi at Kroger (only she said "Kroger's" which is one of my pet peeves, akin to the generations-long mutilation of Brett Favre's last name. But how could she know, right? I sound petty. It's just that adding the possessive 's' is unnecessary for this store chain's name. I digress.)

     "A container with four small fish pieces and some California rolls costs $5," she told me.

     "Are those your favorite?" I asked. Myrna obviously enjoyed sushi and knew her way around assembly during our class ("Erin, you need to coat your spatula with the rice vinegar or it's going to stick. Oh no, it's sticking!").

     "No, my favorite kind is shrimp," she said with a sweet smile, obviously remembering tasty meals she'd enjoyed in the past.

     "Do you usually get the shrimp?"

     "I wish," she said a bit dejectedly. "They are the most expensive. If I can afford it, I do, but not often."

Oh, Miss Brill, I thought, wanting to hug her and take her to Kroger.

     "How much are the shrimp rolls?" I asked.

     "They're $8," said Myrna. "They're the most expensive."

$8.

I know I've sounded kind of judgmental and all that during this recounting of the tale, but please know that in this moment, I wanted to rest my head on the table and weep for the three dollar difference, for the tight budget of a county employee, for her yearning and confusion and her trying, for her neatly ironed skirt and earnest sincerity. I wanted to cry, but instead asked her if she wanted to dance the Cha Cha Slide with me.

As I later noted begrudgingly to a friend who sent me a message about his fun New Year's Even weekend, complete with frolicking LDS singles and 200+ people at a volleyball game: "Sounds like your area has achieved critical mass. The dance I attended achieved critical mess."  But while he may have hours of fun in real time, I am reaping the benefits here. Becca, I am kinda glad, too, that I started over on this.  When my own children are teens and try complaining about stake dances or school MORPs nights, I will totally have bragging rights.

Two chapters to go, everybody. Next up? The one cute guy.

                                                                                       After that, The long drive home.

And then, it'll practically be time for me to attend the Valentine's Ball they were advertising on December 31st. I might follow the suggestion on the flyer, and dress as "Romeo and Juliette."