Clareified

“Absolutely not,” pearatty said when I suggested we have dinner at T.G.I.Friday’s in Times Square, “We’re in New York! Maybe if we were in Phoenix.”
Well, I never. Pout.
We parted ways on the subway when she got off to go to TKTS to get us tickets to see Gypsy or The Little Mermaid and I went on to my not a date, no matter what pearatty says.
She texted me about an hour later to say that she had bought tickets to “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” I texted back saying “cool, that’s the one with the all black cast, right? I totally wanted to see that!” (You know, because I am racist and want to support colour on Broadway. That’s right, colouuuur.)
After the end of my okay, might have been a date, I walked across town back to the West side (Okay, and as aside, why the hell are guys so cagey about the date thing? This is the second date, in less than a month that I have been tricked into going on and it totally pisses me off. Not because I wouldn’t have gone necessarily, but because if I had known beforehand I would have ordered way more expensive stuff. Just sayin.)
I got to the theater at around 7:30 and got to the end of the lengthy line. The doors didn’t open for another fifteen minutes, so I got to hear a conversation between two women about one of their coworkers.
“Yeah, he always be asking for gum, right?”
“I know. It’s like go to Duane Reade, my brotha.”
“Word, but you know you just be giving him a stick because his breath is so damn stank.”
“Yup yup, it’s like when he’s talking to you, you just hold your breath and hope you don’t pass out before he walks away.”
Wow, women really are bitches, I thought as the line slowly started to creep toward the theater doors. When I was within five people of entering the promised land, I realized that pearatty had the tickets. D’oh.
I stepped out of line and texted her. She said she was a block away. However, I stood in the street, wearing little more than a sweater with a jean jacket, freezing my body off for another ten minutes. Why am I wearing a jean jacket in forty degree weather, you ask? Well, it is Spring. AND APRIL. And the sun is fricking out until 7 pm. It is SUPPOSED to be warm, damn it. Stupid Captain Jackass. ™ When she finally arrived with her friend Sharon, we quickly went inside.
“Ma’am I have to check your bag,” the usher said to me.
“Okay, where do I take it?”
“No, I have to check it.”
“Oh, do I get a ticket?”
“No, I have to look in your bag.”
“Ohh, you mean check it, not check it,” I said unzipping my knapsack and making a note to kill myself later.
We went inside and I started to get excited to see the show. It starred Phylicia Rashad, James Earl Jones and the hot black dude from Crash…Terrence Howard. Sadly, we opened the Playbill and were informed that James Earl Jones’ character would be played by some other dude, not named James Earl Jones and that there would be TWO ten minute intermissions. Jeezaloo, how long is this play?
Now, for those of you who have seen the movie, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof is a very talky play. I mean, talk talk talk talk talk talk cat on a hot tin roof blah blah blah Big Daddy talky. About ten minutes in I remembered that I actually hate plays. If I’m in a theater, and there are people on a stage, there’d best be singing and dancing and brightly colored sets to hold my attention.
I struggled to keep my eyes open and my body in an upright position. Earlier pearatty told me that we were meeting up with friends of hers after the show for drinks, so I spent most of the first two acts planning what drinks I was going to order and exactly how wasted I was not going to get since I didn’t drive.
At the end of the play the actors asked us to give money to some AIDS charity. We were like “um..maybe if James Earl Jones had been here to ask…I mean, you don’t say no to Vader.”
Unfortunately her friends bailed due to some kind of “going to work in the morning,” excuse. We were on our own, so I tried my luck again.
“Come oooooon…T.G.I. Fridays?!”
“Fine. If you get me drunk enough I’ll even eat at the Olive Garden.”
Victory!
We walked through the brisk night to Fridays. And by brisk, I mean buttfricking cold.
I haven’t been to Fridays since I was in California last year, so I was totally psyched as the hostess led us to our table.
“HOORAY! I love Fridays and I don’t care who knows it!” I shouted.
“SHHH…that is the love that dare not speak its name, so please, never say that out loud again,” pearatty said covering her face.
I perused the menu, even though I totally knew what I was ordering.
And then we waited.
And waited.
Hmm…what the hell.
“I think they sensed your snobbery and now they are avoiding us.”
“Did you ever think my snobbery might be cyclical?”
Shut it.
Finally, I pulled over a waiter and demanded service. About five minutes after that, our waitress finally came.
I started by downing a glass of sangria and ordering another. By the time my food came, I was already in an unbeatably pleasant mood. Although for some reason pearatty said I was a surly drunk.
So I gave her a face.

She was very afraid and said that in fact I was not drunk at all and just naturally surly.
We finished eating and when she went to the bathroom, I lost a staring contest with a moose.

A most excellent evening, indeed.

This entry was posted by Dawn Summers on Friday, April 4th, 2008 at 1:22 am and is filed under Personal. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.