Please, Sir, I Want Some More

Kate and I had a date with the devil. That's what I say when we go out and have entirely too much fun. So much fun it isn't fair. Especially when the odds are against fun.

Kate's son is a budding vocalist and was recently cast as an orphan in a local production of Oliver. She sent The Gals an email asking if any of us would like to attend one Friday night and maybe get together for a bite and beer before hand at a local place near the church where the performance was being held. The budding star would have to report at 6 pm. The play started at 8. Plenty of time to catch up and have a few laughs.

The Friday night was one I would normally zoom to the shore to see Scott. But given that I would be blowing off a girls night out the next night (Saturdays are so much harder when Scott and I have a 90 mile commute to contend with. One of us has to go to the other and stay put.) I felt a sense of obligation. And let's face it. Girls need their girls, no matter how fabulous the guy. And then Pat came up with his Boy Scout Pancake Breakfast on Saturday morning, keeping me home overnight anyway, and that really sealed the deal. I would be a good pseudo-aunt and go watch the breakout star with Kate and her sister-in-law and possibly Jackie and Joy.

Friday quittin' time comes, and I am fabulous and on the road. I get to the restaurant first and call Kate. She is still on the road. Even though I should never attempt to walk while I am on the phone, I go so far as to dare cross the street against the light while conversing with Kate. Never a good idea. I step out of my pumps in the middle of the Avenue while telling her a story and as she is howling at the thought, she tells me to reduce the reservation to three. Some of our friends have cancelled. I retrieve my shoes and walk into the restaurant barefoot. But only momentarily (recalling the no-shoes-no-shirt-no-service rules, of course.)

I go to the bar. Introduce myself to Linda, the bar tender, order a Pinot Grigio and reduce the reservation by half with a pleasant hostess not far from the bar.

Kate arrives. We bitch lightheartedly about work. Linda brings more drinks.

Kate describes a sense of guilt that she is whiling away the hours downing artisan pizza and calamari at a bar while the more devoted stage Moms are doting over their young charges. We wash that thought away with a swig of wine. Those Moms are obviously overly involved helicopter parents with no lives of their own, living vicariously through their choir boys.

Then she talks about the one stage Mom, who is also in the play (there are a lot of adult characters in Oliver...) who has tre-men-dous boobs, who doesn't seem to feel any obligation to where a bra. Or Spanx. Or anything resembling a girdle. Just let's her rolling acreage fill up the stage. Shamelessly. And I talk about our ever evolving dress code policy at work, that I worked really hard to get obligatory panty hose stricken from, only to find that someone also has an issue with the slightest hint of cleavage, when really, I could show up in my bathrobe and look better than half of the people I encounter in a day at the office. And at least my last shopping spree was not during the Carter Administration.

Kate wants to order another round but is calling Linda "Carol."

I look at her quizzically, and she says, "Lora?"

I snort and she asks, "Dora?" And I am collapsing while she is waving her hand saying "CarolLoraDora!" trying to get Linda's attention. Linda pretends not to notice. We are racking up quite a bill.

While the wine and some more nosh are ordered, the bitchy hostess, who has relieved the pleasant hostess for the night, evidently, comes over to Kate (she must come here a lot) to say that if we are going to stay at the bar, we should cancel our reservation.

Looking around, the dining room is nearly empty. A party of six could have its choice of tables. Kate makes a biting comment about standing room only and lowering her neurosis. The hostess wants to set us each on fire individually. We in return are cackling about her Tragic Footwear.

Finally, it is show time. We get the check, do the drunken math and pay CarolLoraDora. I excuse myself for the ladies room. I don't imagine the church is going to have lots of lavatory facilities. I return to find that Kate has a big brown bag under her arm.

The Queen of the Road Coke has struck again. In my absence she has ordered a bottle of wine, had CarolLoraDora cork it, and has asked for three tall paper cups with lids. They are all artfully placed in a big unobvious bag.

I look at Kate in amazement as I usually do. I am always amazed at what she can get people to do for her. She doesn't even need to bat her eyelashes. She just asks like what she's asking for is not actually completely outrageous. As if to answer the question in my head, she says, "What? I doubt that they will be serving anything at the play!"

I don't suppose they will be. It's not Broadway, it's a church basement!

But nonetheless, we walk to the church with our bottle of hooch, take seats where we will get a good view without disturbing anyone with our unmistakeable wino smells, and settle in for the two and a half hour play.

Oliver never was so damn funny.