You Can Dress Me Up.....

Last summer, I had a date. A real live bonafide dress up, leave the kids somewhere's and forget 'em date. This was a big deal, because Dessy and I have only gotten to dress up and go out twice before, once for our wedding and the other time was to go to a country-style wedding. The second one really does not count as a date,because it was really more of an opportunity to go and gossip that it was uber tacky to get married at a campground, wonder if the groom was unhappy about not getting to see the results of the paternity test, how trailer park it was to have a cake made of Hostess Twinkies, or how the bridesmaids dresses made them all look like Miss Piggy in silky, powder blue potato sacks.

About a year ago, Dessy mentioned that someday she wished that she could see this group called 'Il Divo'. I checked the interwebs for them and without really looking closely determined that they were kind of a pop opera troop, sort of a Euro - boy band made up of the illegitimate spawn of Doris Day and Liberache. I decided to surprise her and six months ahead, I ordered tickets.Now, the last time I had attended a concert, tickets were $15 dollars a piece, which tells you how long it had been since I have been allowed out. I got a shock, because seats ranged from $90 to $500. I blame Babs Streisand for the inflating ticket prices, because she charges 1100 dollars a pop to watch her engage in a personal wine and cheese tasting fest. The only way you would get me pay that much for a concert would be if if you  could get The Who, Elvis Costello, Aerosmith, and the the other Elvis onstage at the same time. I am talking about the skinny, cool Elvis Presley, not the fat,drunken, bloated-dead-on-a-toilet, Elvis.

The big day arrives and I am told that I had better dress up for the occasion, and that spray painting my sandals black, and wearing a tuxedo print T-shirt, is not going to fly. I go to the closet and dig out my best suit, which would have looked really great, if I could have just gotten my pants to button up I ended up wearing a dark blue blazer and what I thought were dark blue pants. Threw the kids in the car and dropped them off at the grandparents. Once we arrived at the concert hall it turns out parking was like $15 dollars. I was not having that so we drove around for half an hour looking for something reasonable. We found a parking spot about a half a mile from the concert that only cost $12 bucks,  and it was only about a half mile walk so I got to think about how I was saving 3 dollars as I walked in ill fitting shoes.As we approached the venue, the sun shone in such a manner so as to let the world know my outfit was mismatched, blue on black. Oh well, it was dark inside and It was not like I was going to be on stage or anything.

We found our seats and the lights lowered. It was all a man could have hoped for. Lots of women with low cut dresses jumping up and down, screaming their admiration for the four sissies on stage. I looked at my wife hoping to get a little appreciation for putting up with this, but it was not to be, as she was too busy trying to capture all the moments on her camera. I made an excuse that I had to go to the bathroom and made a beeline to one of the many cocktail stands. I waited in line with about 50 other guys, all who had the same defeated look on their faces, all wearing mismatched suits and ties. I ordered a lite beer. " That will be EIGHT Dollars, sir," said the bartender. I raised an eyebrow to this, but realized that this was the least expensive part of the event so far. I downed it, and returned to my wife's side. Not that I needed to be there, she was enthralled with the greasy haired Spaniard who was singing Italian versions of all the songs that most real men hate anyway.

After 10 more songs, I made an excuse to go back to the bathroom, saying I had forgotten to wash my hands. This time I decided to order a little stiffer drink. I asked for a very very dry martini, one so dry that the gin had only seen a picture of the vermouth bottle. The girl smiled knowingly and proceeded to pour half a cup of olive juice in the cup, the ice then topped it off with I can only describe as bottom shelf gin. I was about to protest when she winked and said, "I don't know how to make martinis, tee hee, you should have gone to that guy over there. That will be ten dollars please." Sonofa.... I pay her and walk away with my plastic cup of disappointment.

I get back to the concert, and Dessy looks to me and frowns. "Another drink? What are you, an alcoholic?" I reply by noisily slurping my olive juice on the rocks. Finally the concert ends. We go back to the car and I start to try and find our way home. Naturally I get lost in downtown Denver and
drive an extra 15 minutes to find the highway. Got honked at by a light rail train, a sports car and a horse drawn carriage beeped at me. And by beeped at, I mean the horse nearly crapped on my hood.

Apparently the excitement of it all was too much for my wife and she falls asleep almost immediately. I drove home in silence and was almost home when I realized that I had forgotten to pick up the kids from my folks place. Fortunately, Dessy was still asleep so I did not have to admit the mistake.Would not have wanted to spoil her night, ya know?