The question isn't who is going to let me; it's who is going to stop me. --Ayn Rand



A view from our amazing seats:Me sipping my hot chocolate,looking odd and skinnier than usual:
Patricia Racette in a sparkling golden dress symbolically throwing herself from the ramparts of a castle:

Tosca was fantastic! Our seats were great, but not *as* great as I thought. The catering was sub-par, but that's just a lesson to take a boxed dinner from Gelson's next time. Gabby and I had to censor ourselves because we shared a box with a mother-daughter combo. It was unusually quiet. Once the opera started I sat back and let myself be seduced. Patricia Racette as tosca (her very first time in the role) was dazzling, but every time I watched her on the big screen I couldn't help but notice how large her breasts are. I imagine they are some sort of magical talent-containing implant. I need to see this one on the stage sometime.

Now for the recap.

By Sunday afternoon I noticed that the weekend had been ordinary to that point. Friday night spent recovering from Thursday's debauchery. There was enough energy left in my skinny frame to microwave and boil my way to a meal. I can't be a foodie without aknowledging the urban usefulness of my enemy, the tv dinner.

Instead of going to a BBQ on Saturday (which apparently was just an excuse to drink, not a real vegetarian witch hunt/meat fest), I made rosemary bread and romano cheese bread and read during the off-baking times. Both were delicious, but I have a thing for rosemary. Jazz ex wanted me to create a list of things that can get me off. #1. rosemary bread. There is no number #2. :-)

Drunken queen Gabby called from the BBQ to ask if I wanted to go to Rage.

"Of course I do."

"Okay, I'll be home in 20 minutes. Gaaaahwaa!"

:: shuffling, scraping, laughing, stomping noises ::

"Drew! I fell on the floor and Bree attacked me."

His drunk driving ability is only matched by his supernatural tolerance for booze. Somehow he arrived at his place (he doesn't remember how), I picked him up (he remembers this) and we met up with his friend Scruffy, who terrorizes me with awkward questions online but is surprisingly fun in person. Sometime into the night I started dancing with a crazy woman with curly hair in a tank top. I got her number. For my next straight act I will join a frat and get a teenager pregnant! Bo yeah!

After the clubs closed, I met one of my up-to-this point online-only friend who would be the oldest person I've ever dated, if we dated. He came over to cuddle after I dropped a starving and confused Jonathan at home. About an hour into the cuddling fest, I hear a horrible scream coming from the bathroom, "I have a rash!" Being too tipsy to react properly by screaming back and rubbing my skin off in the shower, I led him to the door and he went home. Thankfully, neither of us have a rash on day number two.

What an amazing excuse to leave a bad situation.

Sunday was spent recovering, again, and cooking--more asparagus, stuffed shells, and garlic spinach. Delicious, but the asparagus doesn't look as pretty as I was hoping. Next time: keep the salt and cheese, but no onion.


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