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>.