suspicious woman.

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1 november 1997

6:19 p.m.

Dear diary, I can't believe even today parents let their kids dress up in all-black ninja costumes, with black headbands and black socks and shoes, and send them out at night to trick-or-treat. Derek's office chickened out on the post-adolescent candy run plan, so we decided to avoid having to give away the perfectly good candy we'd bought by going out. We headed for Barnes and Noble at Kahala, and drove up and through Kaimuki to get there. Kaimuki is an interesting place. It's nestled close to Waikiki and the bustling business district along Wai`alae Avenue, but the old houses and big lawns give the impression of a quiet neighborhood. What you get, though, is an area with lots of kids and lots of traffic on one-lane streets packed with parked cars. Derek had brought the car to a sudden stop and started grumbling before I even saw the kid, peeking out from behind a truck. His face and McDonald's bucket were the only things reflecting in the headlights. He'd tried to dart across the street. He was back hiding behind the truck after Derek nearly hit him. Eventually he came out, waved at us and ran across the street... tripping over the opposite curb in the process. I was so upset, I wanted to follow him all the way home and yell at his parents. Derek settled for yelling, "Cars can't see you if you wear black!" It sounded silly to make such a stern statement of common sense. My mother was so paranoid when I went trick-or-treating, I never got to wear anything even partially black for Halloween. Nothing short of a white-sheet ghost would've satisfied her. I got a flashlight and those green glow sticks, and once she even put little reflectors on just about every joint on my body. You could have probably seen me from space. There were a lot of people dressed up, even at the mall. One guy was dressed as Han Solo. Not the scruffy-looking Han Solo, though... the frozen Han Solo. He painted his face gray, and wore a big cardboard box with finger holes and indicator lights. I suggested next year he add dry-ice smoke effects. He said he probably will. I found this pair of panties in Derek's laundry the other day... Not that it's unusual for Derek's laundry to include the occasional women's undergarment. This time, though... Well, let me explain. We've recently reached the "Drawer Stage" of our relationship -- the point at which each of us have left enough things at the other's apartment to warrant dedicating an entire drawer to holding them for each other. We've also added "doing laundry" to our list of exciting things to do when we're together (effectively throwing Relationship Resolution #14R out the window). Not that I'm complaining. Unlike... well, before, such domestic behavior doesn't scare me anymore. Provided no one actually points out that it is, in fact, domestic behavior. So anyway. We were folding laundry in between bites of Ben & Jerry's ice cream, sorting out my stuff, when he set aside something that wasn't mine. A pair of pink, size five thong panties. "Whose are these?" I asked, smiling, though for that instant random images of blood and gore flashed through my mind. "Those aren't yours?" he asked. "No," I said, trying to look like I wasn't plotting a violent death. "Hmm," he said, suddenly realizing I could be plotting a violent death. "Well, they're not mine." "I should hope not," I said. I threw them at him, unsure whether I was doing so in jest or anger. A few funny looks, deep breaths and a few chuckles later, we deduced that the pink thing (or rather, thong) belonged to someone else in his building and had been left in the dryer. He smartly refused to guess exactly which waif-like neighbor it was, though. Filled as I was with adrenaline, it also took me a moment to realize that I'd put the laundry in the basket myself when we went to wash it, and there certainly wasn't anything unusual then. Well, not in a size five, anyway. We went back to the machines and hung the mysterious article on the wall. The next day it was gone, claimed by its rightful owner (or a wandering fetishist). It was such a silly, random occurrence, but even now I'm a little intrigued -- and embarrassed -- by how it affected me. Our whole evening was shot, with me a little shaken and Derek rightfully a little put off in the realization that, if even for an instant, I suspected him of infidelity. "You could've reacted a little better," I said at one point, suggesting that Derek wasn't sufficiently disturbed. "There isn't a 'good way' to react to something like that," he said. And he's right. I feel so stupid now. Thinking about it makes me queasy. What is it about me that makes me suspect the absolute worst? How could I think such horrible, furious, hateful things in a matter of seconds? It disappoints me to think I'm still capable of such jealousy. That my faith -- after more than a year in the happiest, most stable relationship I've ever had -- is still not absolute. I say all the time I'm a skeptic, a cynic... but I sometimes wish I wasn't. I caught the tail end of "The Bean Files" last night on PBS... a pseudo-biography of Rowan Atkinson. It made me want to dig out my cherished set of "Mr. Bean" episodes I taped off HBO... but then I realized I left most of the weird stuff I've recorded (like "Max Headroom" and a ghastly, short-lived series called "Nightmare Cafe") with my mom. No doubt they're all taped over with "Columbo," "Murder She Wrote" and "Walker: Texas Ranger." As if I haven't said it enough, I'm really looking forward to seeing the movie. Even though "Mr. Bean" is pretty damn trendy these days. I was curious to see how they would feature Atkinson's essentially silent, short-skit character in a full-length film, and dearly hoped they didn't decide to give him a voice to compensate (an awful fate, as seen in the "Pink Panther" cartoon rehash). Fortunately, as was reported in "The Bean Files," the primary difference is that the other characters in Mr. Bean's life have more depth. Not that they were necessarily shallow, though. I identified, in some strange way, with Mr. Bean's briefly-courted girlfriend. In other movie news, I saw, survived, and even somewhat liked "Seven Years in Tibet" (or, as I translated for purposes of an assignment this week, "`Ehiku mau makahiki ma Tibet"). As a study of a personal journey, it was a pretty good. The politics, though, should have played a more consistent part or been taken out entirely. Mary, surprisingly, didn't like it. She didn't hate it, either -- "If Brad Pitt starred in Ishtar II, I'd pay to see it," said she -- but thought the ending was far too sappy for the starkness of the rest of the film. I also joked that she, perhaps, secretly backed China. "Damn those pesky Tibetans and their funny hats," she growled as we exited the theater, just loud enough to earn us a flabbergasted stare. I'm still in a movie mood, but Derek and I will probably have to thumb-wrestle over what we'll see next. He wants to see the "Scream" sequel, while I'm curious about "Boogie Nights" (and no, it's not because of the 12-inch prosthesis). "Devil's Advocate," meanwhile, continues to loom over me like a cloud of toxic fumes... Finally, the Hawaii International Film Festival starts this weekend. There was a huge schedule published in the latest Honolulu Weekly. All-around great stuff, from Ang Lee to local documentaries to (surprise!) an actual screening of "The Spirit of Christmas." Also, several works from Southeast Asia and other Eastern countries -- movies I suspect are pretty hard to come by anywhere else. Like every year, I wish I could see everything. And, like every year, I'll probably end up procrastinating until I miss the entire festival.