Nice day for a white wedding

I’m coming out with an opinion (what, no! you?) yes, me! And I swear this will be the only time I’ll comment on the royal wedding (goddamn, the thing is more contagious than Ebola). And it’s about the dress. And really, that’s all anyone really cared about. It won’t seem like it at first, but it is about the bridal dress. Trust me.

Pippa Middleton’s dress was white. Which is usually a no-no. I loved it. Here’s why:

First, she managed Kate’s cathedral train, and looked it just looked uber-striking in the pictures. The train flowing into her sister’s dress. In fact, I liked it so much, I think there should be a new rule that all maids of honor should wear white when there’s a cathedral train on the bride’s dress. Let’s get right on lobbying Miss Manners for a ruling.

Second, in Mexican weddings the maid of honor frequently wears white to signify the bride’s purity. Okay, I’m not going so far as to call purity on a 29-year old woman who has lived with her new husband. It’s a fairy tale wedding, but it’s not that big of a fairy tale. I’m just saying, there’s precedent for the while maid of honor dress.

And, third and final, who is looking at the color when she was showing way too much cleave for a church wedding. Westminster Abbey, no less. Come on, girl. Stick a piece of lace in there or something. This is no time to show off the girls.

And that’s officially all I will be saying about the wedding. Good luck, kids. You’re going to need it.

Surely there's some other way we can become besties?

Okay, so this acquaintance-verging-on-new-friendship (we’re almost there, but need one good bonding experience to put it over the top) just has to tell me about this play she’s going to see (because, you know, I’m “arty”). Evidently, as she gleefully informed me, there’s nudity and simulated sex. AND it’s in this little tiny theater*. Do I want to come with?

Um. No. We all know my feelings on high drama in small spaces. Or even low comedy in small spaces. I just don’t do it. And then you add in sex acting? Absolutely not. I believe that simulated sex should only happen between one woman and one gay man in the privacy of their consecrated marriage bed as ordained by God and Focus on the Family. Okay, that’s probably a bit extreme. I’m more likely to go by the rules I learned in kindergarten, if you didn’t bring enough for everybody, don’t bring it out. No actually, that’s going too far too. I just had a vision of the sex scene becoming an audience participation moment (shudder). Let’s just leave it at why can’t you all just get this thing on the interwebs like normal people?

So, anyway, I regretfully declined. We’ll just have to find some other way to bond. Maybe some local movie theater is doing a midnight showing of Caligula.

* I know the venue because I spent a week their one night watching a musical that I'm pretty sure was written and directed by Satan. Good times.

The touch, the feel

Okay, this was another thing I forgot to mention from the TITAS show on Saturday. Just a little thing, but it did tickle my brain a little.

You know when men say they “don’t understand women”? This is one of those things in which I’d say, no, men don’t understand this one little thing. It matters what you wear, in more ways that are not obvious.

At the end of the show, a gentleman came up to tell me about a problem with his tickets. Very nice looking, well dressed, the whole nine. And when there are problems, I bust out the fluff-and-fold service. Nodding with concern, making the “oh, dear” face, perhaps tutting a little. As much as those folks pay for their tickets, the deserve a little fluff if things go wrong. I’m quite good at it. Well, since he seemed like a nice person, I went to the extra (and I do admit it’s risky behavior) step of patting him gently on the arm in a “you poor thing” sort of way.

Let me just say, that was a damn good jacket he was wearing. In the low light, it looked well-cut and a nice dark color. But touching revealed luxurious fabric too. Some sort of velvet with a little extra nap. Possibly a little wool in the fiber content. Mmmmm. Very nice. I could have pet his arm for hours.

And that is something men don’t know about women. We are easily seduced by the tactile. We like lovely to look at, but pleasing to the touch will just sneak right past our defenses. Oh, sure your no-iron shirts and stain resistant pants will get you through the day, but it ain’t going to get you play. Not the way a buttery suede jacket will. Not that I’m calling for any Ed Wood/angora sweater action. That’s probably a step too far for most women. But a little well-worn chambray, a touch of distressed leather, a 4-wale corduroy, and oh, that cashmere, and a well-placed arm positioned just right for petting can work wonders.

A night at the ballet

So, Saturday I ushered for TITAS’s Command Performance gala. It’s their annual fund raiser where they do a recital type show of ballet crowd pleasers, prior to a grande fete with dinner, dancing and formal attire. The show is open to general ticket purchase, but you have to have a magic ticket to get into the magic kingdom afterward. And there are really only two things to say about the entire experience.

First, the rich are truly different from you and me. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

Second, the dancing was truly exquiz. A gala would have been anticlimactic, at least for this girl. My favorite part, and it’s really only because I adore paradox, was the duet from Le Corsaire. The male half of that duo was stunningly built, rather macho for a ballet dancer, and attired in sparkly blue harem pants, yards of bare chest and a single sparkly feather jutting suggestively from his headband. Naughty. He was very heroic, doing these leaps and mid-air turns with masculine gusto. Now the touch of dichotomy comes in when he does this move that I think was supposed to be commanding in the Yul Brynner mode, where he’d put his hands to his chest with his elbows thrust out. But to me it looked incredibly reminiscent of the classic cheesecake pose with the topless girl modestly cupping her naked boobies, wink, wink, a la Varga. So he’d go from Sexy Man leaping through the air – to chastely holding his breastesses. Okay, maybe I’m the only one who thought it was a giggle. But then, the rich are definitely not like me.