Last night was ladies night at the ballet. We go to the ballet because we have more culture in our little finger, dahling, than you have in your big fat butt! (Plus also, L scored us free tickets from work.)
It was actually not a public performance, but the final dress rehearsal, and so when it ended but the lights didn't come back up all the way, us four yokels were kind of confused. Was there more? How come some of the ballerinas were putting their jackets on? Is there a male equivalent to the term "ballerina"? (Okay, I was probably the only one pondering that question. Is there one?)
Then, still watching the bony dancers move gracefully but apparently randomly around the stage, we had a loud conversation about the evils of anorexia. All that talk about anorexia made us hungry, so we headed over to the B&O, where I proceeded to eat a giant plate of mushroom stuff with puff pastry, a salad, a beer, and a respectable amount of L's creme brulee. The two guys sitting next to us asked L if she were a ballerina, since they had heard us mention the ballet. Nobody asked me if I were a ballerina.
When I got home, Rabi had called again. Men are so stupid sometimes, I can't stand it. If I ever meet a man who calls me when I want him to and doesn�t when I don�t, I will immediately get down on one knee and propose to him, and then carry him off into the sunset on my white stallion. I swear to god.
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