NO SEX FOR YOU!

THAT title got your attention, didn't it?

 

As of yesterday, I was all aquiver with anticipation for my weekend.  A Friend From Work (not to be confused with a Friend I Work With - this is not one of my labmates) proposed getting a group of girls together to go see the Sex and the City movie on opening night...maybe have dinner before a late show.  Now, it should come as a surprise to no one that I am totally excited about this movie.  After growing up an incredibly shy and prissy child and spending most of my college years in baggy flannel and no makeup in a quest to develop a personality, SATC is probably the one thing that really brings out the Girl in me - it's the reason I let myself buy pretty shoes and dresses, even though I have nowhere to wear them...the reason I let myself obsess over boys more than I should...hell, probably the reason I started writing this blog.  Ever since they started making the movie, it's been one of those "unless the reviews are so bad this movie will rob me of my ability to lovingly rewatch the show on DVD because it's JUST SO AWFUL I must purge my brain of any memories of or sentimental attachment to Sarah Jessica Parker, Manhattan, or Manolo Blahnik" deals for me.  (Actually, I'm not such a fan of Manolos...if I'm ever going to blow a ridiculous wad on shoes, I'm saving myself for Christian Louboutin.  If I ever become independently wealthy, he can have his dirty, dirty way with me.)  And so far, the reviews have pretty much been, "um...well, if you liked the show, I guess you'll probably like it" - EW gave it a B+, which is more than enough of a stamp of approval for my needs - so I'm SO there.  The thing I've been struggling with is who to go with.  It's a rare movie that I get excited about going to on opening night - most of the time I'd rather skip the hoopla and catch a sparsely-attended matinee in a week or two.  But this is one of those things where the hype is a big part of the fun - a nearly universal girl-bonding experience.

 

Except all of my friends are guys.

 

Okay, not ALL.  If I were living in Indianapolis, or Iowa, #1 or Em (respectively) would be my date of choice.  I saw my very first episode of SATC at #1's house, on her HBO On Demand, and Em and I used to watch it "together" when they started airing edited versions on TBS every Tuesday and Wednesday night.  In fact, there was a fleeting moment when I actually wondered if there was any way to swing a road trip to go see it with one of them.  VERY fleeting, because no.  No there isn't.  But I would give my right strappy sandal to watch this silly thing with my best girlfriends, preferably after a couple of cosmos because yes, I am JUST THAT CORNY.  And the girls in my lab are...prepare yourselves...really not into Sex and the City. 

 

I KNOW.

One of them has watched, oh, about half of them, and never really got into it.  And Labmate...well...doesn't seem to get into anything with...you know...an actual plot.  Seriously - I realized the other day that the only TV shows she ever talks about are reality/competition shows.  I'm the first to admit that I watch a lot...A LOT...of crap TV <coughcoughtilatequilacough>, but at least I'm self-aware about it.  I KNOW it's crap TV, and I watch some non-crap TV and read a lot to maintain some semblance of balance.  Labmate's movie recommendations generally fall into the "um, yeah, I'd watch it if someone else were paying and/or Tila Tequila/Paris Hilton/Kim Kardashian is in it and dies" category as far as I'm concerned.  The Venn diagram of our tastes overlaps with only the tiniest sliver of a crescent containing the words "America's Next Top Model."   So...yeah...I was pretty much resigned to going to SATC stag.  Until I got this invitation...a group of actual girls, going to dinner and being girly and seeing a girly movie.  Just what I need to get my estrogen fix for the next decade or so, once you factor in the shrieking throngs of stiletto-ed, appletini-ed women who will be filling the rows on opening night, vehemently proclaiming that they are "SO the Carrie" or "TOTALLY the Charlotte" in their groups of friends.  It will be giggly.  And shrill.  And sometimes, you need something like that to remind you that you are, in fact, a girl.

 

But I knew I was in trouble when the invite mentioned the restaurant of choice.  I've eaten there, and enjoyed it, but since then have come to find out that they have a long and rather spotty health inspection record.  This is a matter of public record (thank you, DineSafe), but I've also heard more specific rumors that are just...well...I think the word we're looking for here is "icky."  So I politely respond with a, "count me in for the movie, but ooh, I can't make it for dinner."  This leads me to a moral dilemma I'm still struggling with - if you know things like this and are pretty sure the others in a group don't, do you say anything?  Personally, I would want to know - there are too many really good, clean restaurants in Toronto to risk eating at one that is merely okay and dirty - but I'm also aware that most food safety regulations err on the side of caution and I regularly break them in my own kitchen with no ill effects.  My parents' old neighbor was a health inspector in DC and, in the midst of shutting down a restaurant due to flagrant violations in the kitchen, was asked by the patrons if they could finish eating their lunches first.  Some people simply don't care about such things, or know they should care but figure what they don't know won't hurt them.  This is why I opted to politely excuse myself and make other plans before the movie, rather than be a big fat party pooper.

 

So now I'm bummed about missing out on part of the experience, because it's not just about the movie, it's about the girls' night out.    But I'm also secretly thinking that the other plans I've made with one of my guy friends for the early evening hours will be a much-needed antidote to the opening night estrogen feeding frenzy later, so it's all good.  I have come to terms with my altered plans.

 

Until this morning, when I get an e-mail from the ringleader, saying that by the time she got to the theater to buy the tickets Wednesday, the 10:30 show was sold out, so she went ahead and got tickets for the 11:20, and she hopes that will work for everyone. 

 

Let's do a little math: 11:20 show + probably won't actually start the movie until, oh, 11:30 + approximately 2 1/2 hr running time = movie ends at about 2am + the last subway train leaves the nearest station at 1:38 = Wahooty takes the Night Bus home. 

Now.  We all know that I've had some good times on the Night Bus.  But you do not PLAN to take the Night Bus - you do not COURT the Night Bus.  If you end up on the Night Bus, it's because you were too busy drinking/talking/shaking your ghetto booty/waxing philosophical about bacon/generally having fun to notice that the trains stopped running long ago and you're now going to drunk-dial Ian so that you'll have someone to talk to while you wait for the Night Bus.  The Night Bus is not something you DO, it is something that HAPPENS to you.

So I respectfully back out of the entire girlicious evening.  And now my Other Plans have become the Only Plans, which consist of watching bikes ride around in circles at high speeds and hoping to see a spectacular crash (kind of the bicycling equivalent of NASCAR) - the single least girly thing I can think of short of ACTUAL NASCAR.  But I'm sure I will get just as much enjoyment out of it as I would out of SATC.  And, if we're being totally honest, the guy I'm going with spends infinitely more time shopping and getting spa treatments than I do, so I STILL won't be the girliest person in the crowd by a long shot.  (He also reads blogs by long-winded Carrie Bradshaw wannabes who like to take cheap shots.)

 

Before I go, let me just take a second here to gush about the other plans that will make this a Sexless weekend, not just a Sexless Friday night:

On Saturday night, I'm going to have dinner and see a baroque quartet with...

 

...drum roll...

 

The VGLM.

 

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

I did the asking, so it's most definitely NOT a date, but I do get him to myself all evening.  On a WEEKEND, no less.  When I can actually put on an Outfit and Shoes and real Makeup and NOT wear my Glasses.  Hey, when you've gone a year without a date and more than two without a boyfriend, you've gotta take what you can get.

 

Okay, enough with the girly.  Must go make with the butch now.  If anyone has animals that need skinning, or large structures that need building, or meat that needs grilling, gimme a buzz.  And you most definitely won't find me at home later, crying in a cosmo as I watch Carrie break Aidan's heart again.*

 

*Only because I don't think I can get all the way through season 4 after I get home tonight.**

**Ahem.  What the footnote meant to say was, <manly, Martina Navratilova grunt>.

Keep your feet on the ground, and keep reaching for the stars...

Let's make this one our Long-Distance Dedication.  Tonight's dedication comes to us from #1 in Indianapolis, IN.  #1 writes*:

 

#1 says:
will you please post a blog about nkotb?  please include comments on their recent today show appearance, the new single "summertime" and their upcoming tour...fyi -- the chicago show is SOLD OUT and i can't get tickets now...
Wahooty says:
lol...that sounds JUST like a letter to casey kasem.  or possibly ryan seacrest.
#1 says:
let's go with ryan seacrest...he's lamer and let's face it, nkotb is LAME

* Names in the preceding IM excerpt have been changed to reflect the involved parties' identities on the Alchemist, and so as not to confuse readers who don't know me as well with trying to figure out which of us is Beth and which one is Bethany.

 

We'll be right back after a word from tonight's sponsor. 

Inspired by an item on Chowhound, the author is drinking a sparkling shiraz.  I think it was this line that got me:
In fine-wine circles, to admit that one likes sparkling Shiraz is tantamount to prattling on about your devotion to A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila at a PBS fund-raiser. 

We all know how I feel about Ms. Tequila.  That is SO something I would do.  (Even though the second season sucks - I watch it in much the same way I watched that damned "Pussycat Dolls Present: Girlicious" show...a girl simply must have something for background noise when she's doing the dishes at 4 on a Saturday afternoon.  But with what I've seen so far of Season 2, it's a wonder my TV doesn't have handmade ceramic plate-sized holes in it by now.)**

**Um, what the author meant to say is, not that she's ever actually seen A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila.  She has no idea who Tila Tequila is, or why Chad is such a douchebag.

It may be terminally uncool (some might even say it's a very special, Seacrest kind of lame), but it combines my love of red wine with my love of bubbles.  And goes well with pizza.

 

So, for those of you who didn't go through puberty in the late 80's/early 90's, NKOTB stands for the New Kids on the Block.  Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I have to say now that, even as an 11-year-old girl...I never really liked them that much.  I mean, there were individual songs that I liked (Hangin' Tough), but I really didn't understand why they were supposed to be so cute, or why it was hot to listen to a pre-pubescent boy singing falsetto (Please Don't Go Girl).  Although I did spend more than one 6th-grade dance feeling appropriately sad when nobody asked me to dance to that song, seriously - never understood why Joey was the one everybody loved.  I kinda got on board with the Donnie thing, but never Joey and Jordan, who were the ones that everybody obsessed over and wallpapered their lockers with.  I remember one of my friends being incredibly devoted to Jon, and I remember thinking she had a point.  He was cute, in a completely underrated kind of way.

 

But, if we're being honest, my fandom was fleeting.  I distinctly remember faking jealousy when my friend Katie told me at the bus stop one morning that her mom had gotten tickets to their concert.  Since I relate all of my life experiences to episodes of Sex and the City, imagine the episode where Miranda fakes a sonogram.  Except Miranda is 11 and has a bad home perm***.

***As opposed to a good home perm.  Man, the 80's were a bad time to go through your awkward stage.

 

Well, 20 years later, Donnie has gotten into acting (although with less success than his younger brother Mark, of the Marky variety.  Sadly, nobody seems to know what became of the Funky Bunch.  They were last seen vibrating in a most sweet sensation), Joey has had a solo (sort of) career and a season of Dancing With the Stars, and Jordan has been on The Surreal Life.  One might ask oneself, "Self, what more could one hope for in life beyond the Saw sequels, the paso doble, and rooming with Charo?"

 

Well, if you're Jon, the answer would be, "Panic attacks and real estate."

 

And if you're Danny?  Well, I'm not sure anyone asked Danny.  I'm actually not sure Danny speaks at all.  In group interviews, he is always relegated to the back of the pack and the others seem to look at him with looks that say, "One peep and there's a rolled-up newspaper with your name on it on the tour bus." 

 

Or tour minivan...tomayto, tomahto.

 

Which is too bad, because I happen to think that he is now the hottest one.  Sure, he still looks like a monkey, but now he looks like a hot monkey.

Yep, that's right kids, the New Kids have reunited.  And #1, as much as she likes to SAY they're lame, couldn't be more excited.  She set her DVR to record their appearance on the Today show to announce their reunion.  They weren't even performing...just announcing.

Yep, she's one of Them.

So, on the day of the actual performance on the Today show, I asked if she had seen/taped it.  I, much to my own chagrin, HAD seen it because it so happened that it was on the morning following the aforementioned neck injury.  Oddly enough, WebMD doesn't warn you that neck injuries may result in being subjected to 80's boy band reunions while waiting for a heating pad to loosen up your muscles enough to restore your mobility.

Yep, I watched it.  I watched the whole damned thing.  But I assure you, it wasn't out of loyalty to the New Kids...it was out of loyalty to Matt Lauer.

#1, on the other hand, missed it, and had forgotten to set her DVR, so she asked me how it was.  I had no choice but to be honest.

 

It was not good.  But, thanks to the magic of the interwebs, and in the spirit of Request Week (tm), I offered to re-evaluate in the form a drunken recap.  So here you go:

 

Medley:

Wow.  Okay, first of all, the sound guy needs to be sacked.  I can only hear one of you at a time during "Step By Step," and even one is too much.  Especially since it seems to be a different one of you every time, and it's never the RIGHT one.  It's certainly not the right pitch.

The dance break is an art form that should not be taken lightly.  A straight-up dance break is only kosher if you actually DO SOME DANCING.  Synchronized wiggling will not suffice.

A very, very sick part of me enjoyed the "bauwm-chicka-waum-WAUM" music shift as you peeled off your jackets.  However, I don't think I enjoyed it in the way you intended.

As much as I never got the appeal of the falsetto, a grown man singing high but deliberately not going there is even more confusing.  And it's a shame, because I think Joey is the only one who actually has a good voice at this point. 

...or did, until your voice cracked.  Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think that's supposed to happen 20 years after puberty.

One of you full-on cracked up in the middle of "The Right Stuff."  Admit it - you think this is as ridiculous as the rest of us do.

Speaking of ridiculous, you're still doing the dance steps THAT WERE LAME 20 YEARS AGO.  Seriously, the Roger Rabbit takes greater finesse.

Number of times Donnie screamed "NEW YORK!" : 3

 

Summertime:

Oh, I KNOW you did not just namecheck the year 1988.

I've given more intricate choreography to 10-year-old boys.  YOU PEOPLE ARE NEARLY 40.  YOU LOOK RIDICULOUS.

I guess maybe you could say it takes talent to talk in rhythm and pretend it's singing...

...In falsetto.  Jordan, you are such a douchebag.  I guess it's nice to know some things never change?

Seriously???  You're still waving one hand and calling it choreography???

 

Tonight:

Wow.  Pick a pitch.  It's not like you're harmonizing.  You're all singing the same part, so please...sing...the same part.

Oo, bouncing.  Killer choreography, boys.

DANNY SPEAKS!!!

Mentions of it being "like riding a bike": 2

"humbling": 1

"the fans": 5

Bouncing AND a pseudo-kickline bit.  Wow.  Now that's what I call originality.  I can imagine the choreography rehearsals now:

"Wait...is it step, THEN heel?  Or heel, then step?  Dude, I am WICKED confused right now.  This is so humbling.  I'm so glad we have the greatest fans in the world while riding a bike in NEW YORK!!!  What do you think, Jon?"

Jon?

<Jon breathes into a paper bag while cowering behind Jordan>

 

That's about all I have to say about that.  And I have a sneaking suspicion I've already said too much.  Part of me wishes I were more excited that they're kicking off their first tour in 15 years in Toronto, but mostly I'm just waiting for the other Horsemen to show up.

 

Personally, I blame Boston.

What about your friends? (Continued)

Facebook update:

Only Em, Dave, and Will will possibly get how exciting that last item is, but I had to brag anyway.  For the rest of you, Mike was a Very Cute Singing Boy in my favorite a cappella group when I was in college.  And, unlike most of the Very Cute Singing Boys, he was actually a Very Nice, Very Cute Singing Boy who would not only remember having met you at a crowded party, but remember what you talked about when he saw you again months later.  Sure, my ex-boyfriend/first love from first year who introduced me to him won't accept my friend request, but the Very Nice, Very Cute Singing Boy I barely knew will.  The little 19-year-old A Cappella Groupie Nerd-Girl inside me is squealing with glee.  Yes...the Penis Chick is most pleased.

 

Oh, and in case you're wondering, I smell like arthritis because I threw my neck out last night and have been wearing a Ben Gay patch in an effort to make it through the day.  It's amazing how little appetite you have when everything smells like wintergreen. 

 

Not everyone can be this glamorous, kids.  My life just gets more like an episode of Sex and the City every day, don't it?