The Big Picture

My new necklace sitting on my computer case

by cheri block

When I was about 25 years old, Joe told me that men see the bigger picture—the universal ideas we all wrestle with—whereas women see the details about those bigger ideas.

I dismissed this outlandish statement as poppycock and told him he was wrong.

But yesterday, evidence of his annoying thesis made itself present in a clothing store in Scottsdale, Arizona.

I admit the experiment I conducted was designed to produce the expected result.  Real scientists would not indulge in such bias.

You be the judge.

Judge Blah arrived in Arizona on Friday night late, lugging his briefcase full of business—about 1 foot thick of business. Along with his rolling office, he brought a full array of wireless machines so that he could stay connected. He did bring Nietzsche’s On Good and Evil and The Gay Science, but those books have thus far, remained closed. In short, Judge Blah has lived up to his name.

Taking care of my mother during the wettest week in recent Arizona history, one in which the sun (think bigger picture here) has emerged intermittently, has been a psychological challenge for me. Sometimes the small things—losing her cochlear implant, burning English muffins, and finding old wine in the refrigerator—do get me down.

We are going out today, to have some fun, I said.

Where are we going? Judge Blah asked.

We are going to the Boulders ( a 50 mile drive) for a cocktail after we go shopping for a few new pieces of clothing for me (A long black sweater and two blouses).

OK, let me know when you are ready to go, he said, reconfiguring his legal document.

Damn, this laptop, he muttered.

What’s the issue? I said, thinking fixable, small technical problems.

A class action labor dispute. This is big, he answered.

Let me help you with your formatting, I offered.

All the way to Scottsdale, I focused on the saguaro cacti, the freeway cameras, and my cuticles.

You go your way; I ‘ll go mine, I said, once we arrived at the shopping center.

It was in a small boutique that I decided to conduct my experiment. I bought a necklace, a piece of costume jewelry with big black shiny baubles, huge dollops of fake glass attached to a pewter chain.

Do you want a box? The clerk asked.

No, I am going to wear this spectacular piece of iron and glass around my tiny neck, I said.

Out into the grey day I walked with my major piece of jewelry (almost like Beowulf’s shield) adorning my smallish frame.

I met Judge Blah in a furniture store.

We looked at furniture. Don’t you think this pillow would look smashing on our bed?, I flirted, holding it in front of my necklace.

Then we went into two more stores, wandering around.

By the time we arrived at a men’s store—where, Judge Blah had told me several times, he would find a long-sleeved black shirt— I had been flaunting my jewels for 45 minutes.

His cell phone rang in the fitting room. I heard it.

Out he came, looking for a size large instead of a medium, still talking to one of the attorneys.

Finally, like a crazed lab rat, I jumped in front of him and pointed at my necklace.

He raised his eyebrows and nodded approvingly while still on the phone.

We drove into the Boulders Restaurant and I found our way to the fireplace and couches.

Judge Blah will have a vodka tonic with Absolute and lime, I ordered. And by the way, is your tonic out of a gun or in a can? I asked.

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