Last weekend I went to Chico to watch my sister in an Improvisational Comedy night. Improv is hard as hell, and even harder to do well. I was so impressed with these high school kids who performed. It was so neat to watch my sister perform. And I say this without any familial bias: She was probably one of the best out there. She was involved in a TON of their scenes and always contributed some great material.
Aside from my sister, one of my favorite performers was also the MC of the evening. Vance is a bit of a flamer, and had the audience in the palm of his hand so effortlessly. Whenever audience suggestions were inappropriate, he threw enough attitude that we all ended up laughing at the idiot who suggested it, rather than feeling awkward. He never lost his poise, even when he gave the wrong rules to a game.
My mom went with me to the show because, as Xtian says, my mom is the Original Hater. One of my favorite pastimes is mocking children with my mom. She seems like the epitome of soft-spoken Mormon mother. Many happy hours have been spent laughing about dorky T-ball players, know-it-all teenagers and their parents. Just glorious.
While waiting for the show to begin, mom and I were chatting with some people around us, and indulging in some EXCELLENT people watching. The show was on a Friday night, so a lot of the audience members were high school students. As I looked around, as far as the eye could see, were tits. Underage tits, just out on display. I’m 25 and I don’t dress this provocatively when I go to the bars. Some of these girls were covered less than I was on my honeymoon. I mentioned this to my mom, who remarked that it’s really gotten bad since the nicer weather started.
“So, just because it gets a little warm, tits come out?” To which my mom replied, completely deadpan, “Well, they get hot.”
This is why I love my mother. Well, that and the whole “raised me and never left me for dead on the side of the road no matter how big of a pain I was,” thing.
Saturday, as many of you may recall, was St. Patrick’s Day. I’ve never been a big celebrator, because I am not in any way Irish. I’ve gone out from time to time, but mostly I avoided bars on drinking holidays, as they are just overwhelming. My hermitude has only increased since I got married, since I can get Xtian liquored up and take advantage of him without leaving home. And that’s what I call “convenient.”
But, this year, we needed to get out, celebrate Xtian's Irish heritage (don't laugh, my black husband is Irish, and I'm not. I just love that!) and have some fun. Jen organized the whole deal, and Pat (Xtian’s awkward Mormon friend) came in from Sacramento to play with us. Into the city we went, cramming into a really great pub called Phoenix in the Mission District. The walk from BART to the pub reminded me of all the reasons I usually avoid the Mission, but it was fun for the night.
Mostly, I sipped a beer and tried to harass Jen into flirting with random boys. Excellent times. I’d love to go back there when it’s not a crazy St. Patrick’s thing. Just walking up to the bar gave you biblical knowledge of minimum 6 people. I’m pretty sure, I should go get tested for VD again. It was THAT crowded. But all was fabulous, much drinking was had by all, and we ended the evening with a Taco Bell run, and a sleepover.
Any event that ends in a sleepover/Pajama party is a good one.
At least as far as this old married broad is concerned.
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