Prabir Walks Stupid Girl Home

What kind of an idiot does something stupid and then beats herself up for her stupidity?

The kind who meets a friend for dinner at Lulu's and listens to tales of her friend's recent dating exploits while enjoying a hearty lentil soup followed by ham and parsley terrine (house-smoked ham hocks, carrots cooked with the ham and parsley), picililli and grilled sourdough.

I loved the huge chunks of hocks in the terrine; they reminded me of all the tastiest bits left around the bone after carving (my family ate a ton of ham growing up).

The kind who goes to Strange Matter to see an outstanding indie triple-bill with a room full of like-minded fans. Marionette opened strong, Long Division post-rocked out and the Diamond Center gazed shoeward.

I met a musician's charming dad (about Long Division, he said, "I like the music, but are they going to sing?" Uh, no, that's why it's post-rock, sir) who thanked me for being a fan of his son's band (and then asked if I was married!).

The kind who came out to find her car vanished, towed away with her bag and cute shoes inside. The kind who could have smacked her forehead realizing her stupidity.

But all was not lost. Strange Matter is barely 3/4 of a mile from home, it was only 52 degrees outside and the bars hadn't closed so there were still plenty of people out and about. A little walk after an enjoyable evening would surely salvage a sorry situation.

I got barely two blocks before running into Prabir, the man who last year coached me on his sure-fire method for mending a broken heart, here. I told him of my stupidity and, since he also lives in J-Ward, he offered to walk home with me. I mean, he was going there anyway, but it was still a nice gesture.

I told him about the stellar show I'd just seen and he told me about the equally good one he'd been to at the Camel. Periodically, I would say something like, "I can't believe how stupid I was!" just so I could live with myself.

Thanking him for the company when we got to my house, I couldn't resist one last moment of self-flagellation. His response?

"Don't sweat it; it'll make a great blog post."

I wouldn't say great.