When I (finally after 3 years) posted a new profile photo on Facebook the other day, certain friends wasted no time in weighing in.
There you are! I've been looking for you.
Where have you been?
Well, let's see, just yesterday I was, as usual, all over the place.
In the morning I was down walking by the river, at least right up until I made a pit stop on the way home at Rapp Session for a lobster roll and an orgeat lemonade, quite possibly the most exquisite summer lunch known to woman.
In the afternoon, I was at Firehouse Theater with Mac for their collaboration with TheatreLab on "Heathers: The Musical," a riff on the late '80s black comedy classic about mean girl high school cliques.
As a card-carrying nerd in high school, I knew nothing of such popularity.
The play was a hoot, from a slo-mo fight scene to an ode to 7-11 and Slurpees ("Happiness comes when everything's numb"). Of course the '80s references were rampant: Bono at Live Aid, Air Supply, watching porn on Cinemax (or is that Skinemax?).
And when else but the '80s would a high school girl announce, "I'm, hot, pissed and on the pill?" On a fashion sidenote, in a play full of adorable '80s looks, it was the Heather played by Michaela Nicole who took top prize for most fabulous hair and cutest skirt (a split yellow skirt with a yoke that I'd love to own).
Easily the most hilarious scene concerned the fathers' reactions to the apparent suicide of their sons, two testosterone-fueled jocks.
I don't know what was funnier, the lyrics of "Dead Gay Son" sung by Billy Christopher Maupin and Eddie Webster as the fathers ("Well, I never cared for homos much until I reared me one") or Maupin's Dad shuffle dance in celebration of his new-found appreciation for the two stray rhinestones on the Lord's big purse.
Great stuff. It's no wonder the show's run has been extended.
In the evening, I was at Sub Rosa for the latest in their natural wine series of Sub Rosato pop-ups with the added bonus of Miramar playing.
Since it wasn't my first
Rather than choose from a list created by a pro (the savvy Virginia), we opted to work our way across the list from sparkling through white, Rose and red, while noshing on every single thing on the pop-up menu: buttery tarts of goat cheese, dill and tomato, a charcuterie board, bread and olive oil and housemade chips.
Be still, my cholesterol.
Starting with Omero Moretti, an organic, unfiltered Umbrian and a classic Cremant du Jura, we moved through the wildly contrasting Sepp Moser Gruner Veltliner and Benito Santos "Pago de Xoan" Rias Baixas.
It was our loss to miss out on the Spanish Rose because it had already sold out, so we enjoyed a Virginian instead (Rosemont's unfiltered Rose) along with a faux Rose, a Kir Royale made with the Jura we'd already had.
It wasn't much of a sacrifice, I have to say.
Meanwhile, the trio of Miramar was effortlessly enchanting the room with boleros, Brazilian songs and original music, all set to the keyboard accompaniment of national treasure Marlyse Simmons, who managed to do it despite the setting sun through the window making things a tad warm for her.
Singer Laura Ann, looking fabulous in an orange sherbet-colored dress with orange pumps - because only she would have orange pumps - made sure to remind the crowded room that despite the happy sound to some songs, they were all basically unhappy.
"Here we are celebrating life and happiness through sadness, as we do," Laura said while Rei shook his maracas in agreement.
Late in the set, percussion arrived courtesy of Giustino and his bongos, making for a thrilling addition to an already sublime sound. It looked like hot work, though, and he'd pull out his handkerchief between songs to wipe sweat from his head.
That's a dedicated musician right there.
Lots of friends crowded into the bakery: the Turkish singer, her Russian guitarist and his Italian fashion blogger girlfriend, the jazz critic, the dance party enthusiast, practically the entire Dutch & Co. crew, the reporter.
It was a party for those in the know.
Back at our table, we sipped the lovely Te Mata Gamay Noir from Hawke's Bay, New Zealand, coincidentally also the home of the winemaker I'd squired around last month. I can't wait to tell him I'm still drinking his local juice.
What I can't do is provide prior notice to my Facebook friends of where I'm out and about on any given day or night.
That said, if you're looking for me, I can be found. Just ask in advance and I'll tell you where.
But MIA? Only if you don't know where to look.
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