It’s only Wednesday, and yet some movie I saw three years ago has popped into my head three times this week. Is that an omen? Is it three times lucky? Is someone giving birth?
At first it was a positive remembrance, a frivolous daydream of how lovely it would be to have my own little mid century modern boutique with all sorts of magical finds I’d uncovered from the depths of the winding and weird Flohmarkts around Germany. I remembered the shop Catherine Keener and Oliver Platt had in the film, and how it sparked one of my first “design inspirations” for our house.
Then I uncannily called the film to mind again as my daughter scoffed at why I would want to go to Nepal to help farmers when there were farmers right where we live. There’s a moment in the film when Keener’s teenage daughter can take no more of her mother’s misguided philanthropy, and she unleashes an angsty tirade. So, our moment wasn’t quite like that, but it did make me giggle a little at girl’s exaggerated reprimand. I’m nonetheless still exploring my latest possible greater purpose.
The third rearing of the movie was today. And it left me irritated. Mad even. Not once, but twice, a couple called on the house indicating they had read the death notice for our dear neighbour and were looking to see what was for sale. What was for sale?! I wanted to climb through the intercom and wrap the call-up phone cord around their big heads. Not one of my calmer moments. When they came back the 2nd time, the Mr. answered, but I wished I had. My script was rehearsed and I was ready to give them a proper lashing in my fiercest German (and finally put this book a friend gave me to good use). But the Mr. is polite. That is not what he did at all. So, I stood at the front window beating their brows with my stare instead. How could they be so insensitive? How could they be so greedy? Were they really looking to buy, or were they casing the house with plans to raid a flat they think is unoccupied? I could only wrest myself from teetering over the mountain of fury by thinking of how Oliver Platt declared with smug perfection to a snooty uptown couple how exactly it was they came to source such fantastic pieces for their shop.
“We buy from the children of dead people.”
OK, so people really do that, it seems. In the event some incident does occur, and as means of showing I am not completely overreacting, allow me to share a description of the persons seeking to relieve the bereaved of any unwanted worldly possessions. The guy was carrying a long black umbrella (it is NOT raining today – not even threatening to) in one hand, and a black plastic case (like a DeWalt power drill case) in the other. I’d say 5’10” to 6’0″ with a longish black coat. The woman had a blue swirly puffy jacket, brown scruffy ponytail and a bike with saddlebags. They crouched behind a tree at the neighbours’, but left when their motion detector lights kept turning on.
In an attempt to keep from staying awake all night staked out at the front door preparing to attack ninja-style with a fork (no, I don’t mean a sai, I mean a dinner fork, although I’m also contemplating a spoon) and cast iron skillet (I’m very skilled with these weapons people), I’ve decided to think of all the movies Kevin Corrigan has starred in, as a means of distraction. That guy is so underrated. Don’t believe me? I bet you either already Googled (or are about to) “who is Kevin Corrigan.” Before you get confused, I am not talking about that Notre Dame coach. Let’s get you back on track: this Kevin Corrigan.
I’m also going to pretend I’m hanging out with these guys: