7 days, 93 hours

I’m trying to think about which professions are, in this day and age, still predominantly male. Like 96% or more male. I am just not used to being around all these boys what with their farting on each other and references to forced man-sex and blatant disregard for all things PC and polite.

But it makes me laugh. Hard. I mean, who doesn’t love a good toilet joke every once in a while? I know I do.

I’m trying really hard to understand the opera culture. Or at least appreciate it. Okay, maybe tolerate it. Or get through the night. Whatever. It has to be the smallest percentage of theatre audiences but, it would seem, opera attracts those with the deep pockets. Really, really deep. I’m talking donors, not ticket costs. But opening night is Friday (I’m in the middle of final dress at the moment) and it’s going to be all gowns and furs and tuxedos (owned, not rented) and jewels. Very spit and polish.

And I don’t have a thing to wear. My WM black pinstripe pants (very slimming and they look good even with my shorty-short short legs….still hot but short) may not cut it. Even if I do manage to find tall black boots, I will still probably be underdressed. Maybe that’s what I don’t like about opera. The singing is growing on me but the uppity, self-absorbed culture is hard to swallow.

I’m glad to see this thing open. Really glad. I worked 93 hours last week. This mama is tired. And my kids miss me. They are sad to see me go in the morning. And tired of daycare already. So it’s probably best that this thing get up and open so I can do all the fun O-town activities with the girls.

Every other day, I think that it might be a good thing to pack up and move back to town. We all know how I feel about moving. I can’t even fathom doing that unless the moving fairy, POOF!, moves all my stuff to a different state.


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