My husband and I had purchased tickets to a traveling Cirque show somewhere around May of this year. I had been looking forward to it for months, not only because it would provide a much-needed break from the babies, but because I love Cirque du Soleil, perhaps more than I should.
The evening started off innocently enough, except that we had arrived at dinner slightly late. We enjoyed our dinner (Indian) and our drinks (strong), and noticed we had only 20 minutes to get to the venue, find parking, and make it to our seats, so we asked for the check and departed swiftly.
It was in the car I realized I had a rather large chunk of heavily seasoned spinach on my chest, which was being spread liberally by the pendant on my necklace. I had been wondering why the staff were all smiles.
Embarrassed, I demanded that my husband tell me why he didn’t let me know about the spinach smeared on my decolletage. He claims he didn’t see it. What did he mean he didn’t see it?? I brought us to his and hers optometrist appointments for this very reason. Was he not so enchanted by me that he could keep his eyes off me? How do you not notice spinach smeared all over your wife’s chest? Anyway, we had to go, so I did what needed to be done. I dragged my finger across my chest, removed the spinach, and wiped it off on a maternity hoodie that has become car napkin, snotrag, burpcloth.
So we arrive at the show (ok, a few minutes late) and trample like stampeding elephants down the metal stairs to our seats, which were nestled snugly between a rickety old couple and a snazzy young one. We were settled. Now onto the show.
Not so fast.
About three minutes in, I noticed “iPhone Chick”, frantically checking her phone for text messages. I felt sorry for the performers. They were being upstaged by this woman, too insecure (or ADD) to sit through an hour-and-a-half performance without external digital validation. After the third or fourth check, it started to piss me off.
I leaned over to my husband and ‘whispered’, rather loudly, “Jesus Christ! Put away your phone!” He looked down, acknowledged my discontent, and returned his attention to the show. Luckily, her beau heard me (How could he not?). When she took it out again, he covered the screen and pushed the phone close to her, then leaned over and kissed her head (why ruin his chances of getting some later?). She looked over at him pleadingly, as if to say, “But honeeeey, I neeeeeed to look at my phone every fifteen seconds. I neeeeeeed to.” Ugh. After another five or so peeks (guess they weren’t going to return that text after all, Missy), she relented and put the phone away.
About ten minutes prior to intermission, I smelled something. Something like cheap booze. I figured it was coming from someone’s breath or up from a glass. I kept sniffing. It got stronger. I leaned over to my husband. It was him. How could that be? We hadn’t had a drink since two hours before and he didn’t have wine. When the lights came up, he leans over and says, “That old lady spilled wine on me.” Oh, okay. Because I thought I was going nuts. He showed me his leg. He had wine dripping down from his knee into his sandal. The rickety couple stood up and ascended the stairs. What was left was a puddle of, well, cheap wine. The kind you drink out of a Solo cup.
Intermission begins, at which point I loudly declare that, “I didn’t pay XX dollars a ticket to watch someone check their iPhone every five seconds! Jeez!”
Disgusted by the smell, my husband and I wandered out into the lobby area to find some napkins or paper towel. We spend our twenty-minute intermission wiping this broad’s wine up off the floor. Which was fine. We performed a public service. No one would slip, and I wouldn’t have to continue to smell it.
We settled back into our chairs. The lights fade. The rickety couple returns. More drinks. This time, the man sits next to my husband. The music comes back up. He leans over to me and whispers, “He just spilled beer on me.” Man. I couldn’t control the laughter. Two strikes. Nothing left to do but stink like beer and enjoy the wonder before us.
At the show’s conclusion, we exited the venue and began our trek to the car.
(Rewind to a few hours earlier: Home. Getting dressed. Choosing cute beaded flip-flops that I had, a day earlier, pulled off my feet a bit too hard. “I don’t think these flip-flops are going to last much past tonight,” I noted. “Maybe not,” he agreed. I put them on anyway.)
About a quarter of the way back to the car, I feel something snap. It was my flip-flop, leaving me no choice but to walk barefoot through the city, into a parking garage, up an elevator, aimlessly around the garage because we forgot where we parked, down another elevator, and finally to our car. Barefoot. Gross. All I could think about was the spit. The dry loogies I may have stepped in. I walked, hoping to avoid the places where some drunk college kids may have relieved themselves. Cigarette butts. Spilled coffee. Discarded gum. Dirt. Dirt. Grime. Germs. Agh.
So we find ourselves, in my parents’ bathroom, at eleven o’clock at night, my foot in the sink, holding a bar of Irish Spring for dear life, scrubbing the evil off my feet, and my husband with his leg in the shower washing off the booze.
Yes, yes. The show was great. Blah blah. I enjoyed it.