Friday I had big plans (to go to the gym) but narcoleptically (the red line indicates thats a made up word) fell asleep around 7:00. When my mom called at 9:00 from the Palm Beach Mall to ask me something about god knows what, I could barely form my mouth into words. It’s times like these that having those furballs o’ love is a pain in the ass. I put on my sweats and took them on a very short walk.
When I left my building, I had to maneuver around a guy who was snorting coke or meth right out of a piece of folded paper. Right in public. Right in front of my building. I promptly texted all my drug friends: “It’s official. You don’t have to hide in seedy bar bathrooms anymore snorting off the back of the porcelain bus. Coke is OUT OF THE CLOSET! Snort in public!”
Then I crawled back into bed. I can’t recall when I’ve been this lame. Wait. Sure I can. It was last week when I realized I knew all the words to a country song that starts out with the line, I had a one night stand with my best friends baby sister.
Mr. X had made mention earlier in the week of forgotten opera tickets he was in possession of, but I had plans with a friend. I said, “Didn’t you read ‘The Rules,’ bitch? You’re supposed to ask me like months ahead of time.” Then he said, “That doesn’t apply to the easy girls like you.” Oh yeah. Anyway, I sent telepathic messages to my friend to cancel and she did, so I texted Mr. X with the news: “I’m all yours tonight.” He was at Great Falls walking around thinking about how wonderful I am. He won’t admit it, but he was.
He texted back: “This reminds me of something.”
Insert: Gushing Waterfall
He’s speaking of what goes on between my legs when he’s in the same room with me. Hey. That’s not my fault.
So, just because my mom shops at the Palm Beach Mall doesn’t mean I’m part of the opera set. Usually you can find me falling off a barstool at some dive. But we got dressed all fancy and by fancy, I mean I found a place to wear my shoes!
If you have never been to an opera at the Kennedy Center, let me explain what youre missing: It looks like the Upper East Side threw up in there, with a Palm Beach side dish, a Greenwich Connecticut dipping sauce and the Hamptons for dessert. Its as snooty as it gets. Its email address is firstname.lastname@example.org. Its domain name is blueblood.com. Okay. I’m done. Wait. No I’m not. It’s pearls and Chanel suits. It’s standing around in the front rows staring backward at everyone else coming in so that you can call out to someone you might know and so everyone will see you have front row seats. It’s first names like Henderson and Claire. Now I’m done.
I spent the better portion of the second act masturbating Mr. X through his pants. He used his Playbill to disguise this fact from the Countess sitting to his left. Classy.
We made our exit and discussed some dinner. The rain prompted his suggestion that I change my clothes. No sense in ruining a perfectly good silk DVF and hooker shoes.
When it comes to eating out, I go to the same three places over and over. Mr. X says that you have to try something new every time you eat out. I think thats a good theory. So instead of the regular sushi place, we went to another one. At the restaurant, Mr. X was wishing for the owner to come over and talk to us. Thats his thing. He likes to talk to the owners to find out everything there is to know. In this case, there wasn’t a lot to know but it was funny anyway. The owner sat down and started telling us story after story. His first story was about a waiter he fired for talking too long to the customers. Then in an ironic twist, his next 148 stories included how he got his name from I’mmigration, how the Chef sucked so he closed down for a week, how his dad was killed in Pol Pot, how we should drink his special martini, how he dyes his hair with “ladies dye” from CVS and that you can catch it at two for $10 on sale. Our favorite story was by far the one about a customer he kept saying looked like a hairy cretin. We just assumed that this was his way of saying the customer was an ugly monster.
At the end as we were trying to escape, he said, Yeah, that one wook wike hairy cretin. You know. She wun for Pwesident.
Boy. I thought calling her a manipulative bitch was bad. Before he told one of his last stories before we ran out the door, he turned to each of us and said, “You Jew?” The Asians have a whole new take on hate.
When we got back to my place, the following conversation:
Mr. X: What time is it?
Mr. X: Really? The restaurant closed an hour ago.
Me: Yeah, and we were held hostage by that guy’s stories for almost an hour.
Anyway, he’s a funny little man (the restaurant manager, not Mr. X) so you should go to his restaurant. It’s on 18th and Willard, across from Regent Thai and just north of the much-despised-by-the-locals, Lauriol Plaza.