Gratitude and Tequila

The sole reason I'm back in the U.S. today is the Artsies.

So if our return from Athens was decided based on the Richmond Theatre Critics Circle Awards, it damn sure better be an entertaining evening. That's all I'm saying. After all, as a member of the Theatre Alliance Panel, I helped decide who would win what awards, so it's not like I was attending for the surprise of the winners.

Although, if I'm honest, I really didn't recall at least half of the winners until they were announced onstage. Fortunately for my self-esteem, it wasn't just me, either. Two other panelists and one theater critic admitted the same thing before the night was over.

After a day spent trying to get my Richmond groove back, I cleaned up, put on a new thrift store cocktail dress and set out on foot (and in cute, black platform shoes) to cover the five blocks to the November Theater. Before I'd even gone a half a block, a car approaching me slowed down and the window was rolled down.

"You sure do look beautiful," my next door neighbor observed from his car. "You sure do." Imagine how impressed he'd have been if I'd told him the dress cost me $7.50.

This year's Artsie's theme was "Location, Location, Location," incidentally, a name yours truly had come up with when the critics and panelists were trying to come up with a way to pay tribute to all the unique locations of Richmond theaters: a fire house, a tavern and gristmill, a Tudor mansion, a former radiator shop.

Even a building actually built to be a theater, namely the one we were sitting in tonight.

And if anyone knows how to dress up for an awards show, it's the theater crowd. So many sequins of every color, and then there were the women. Strapless, backless, low-cut and skin-tight, there were a whole lot of bodies on display.

As is always the case, there was a lot of poking fun at every part of the theater scene, from old queens to boring plays and everything in between. There was also much commentary, both political and personal, from the winners.

When Lee Meerovich won Best supporting actor in a musical for "Preludes," he concluded his thanks with, "Believe women! Believe survivors!" and got a roaring applause for it in these bruised post-Kavanaugh days.

Frequently, it was the winner's partner who got the grateful words, as when Happy Mahaney won best supporting actor in a play for "Appropriate" and immediately thanked his boyfriend. "You met me in a time of transition." Very sweet.

Humor abounded, sometimes intentional and sometimes not. When the cast of "Alice, A New Musical" did a couple of numbers, the screen over their heads read, "Alice, A New Musical" presents "Sweet Child o' Mine." Somewhere, Axl Rose was smiling.

Another time, presenter and perpetual wisecracker Maggie Bavolack cracked wise about Deborah Wagoner breaking her foot during the run of "Mary Poppins," quipping, "But I'm pretty sure she broke it carrying that whole show." Ouch.

When it was John Mincks and Jamar Jones' turn to present, they began by doing a dance to a Jamiroquai song, to hilarious results.

After an earlier joke about how Virginia Rep can afford to bring in expensive, out of town talent, when Nathaniel Shaw, Va Rep's artistic director accepted the award for special achievement in dance for Matthew Couvillon's work adhering to Jerome Robbins's choreography in"West Side Story," he acknowledged that Matthew was "one of those expensive, out of town people we got."

Fair enough because the dancing had been superb.

The evening's first full-on cryer was Donna Marie Miller when she won best actress in a supporting role for a play in "Food, Clothing and Shelter." Still wiping away mascara, she soldiered on. "Holy crap!" she exclaimed. "I wanna be funny and cute, but I can't."

It was a genuinely touching moment when Elizabeth Wyld won best supporting actress in a musical for "Fun Home," as she said, "Thank you for casting me because I'm an openly gay women." Now you know the crowd screamed and clapped for that.

Intermission was long, allowing more time to get drinks (the evening is a fundraiser, after all, for the Theatre Artists Fund of Greater Richmond, a noble cause) and mingle. I ran into a woman I knew from years ago who was kind enough to share that every time she reads one of my articles in Style Weekly, she's struck by my take on the subject.

Music to a writer's ears, in other words.

Sometimes, it was when the presenters went off script that the applause was loudest, as when Maggie Roop pointed out that Tennessee Dixon was the sole woman nominated for Outstanding Achievement in set design for a musical. She didn't win, but the crowd exploded at the observation.

It was almost as good as when she praised friend and co-presenter Audra Honaker by saying how impressed she was that Audra had put on a bra and left her house. Hey, don't judge.

Taking the stage to accept best actress in a leading role in a musical for "Wings," Bianca Bryan joked, "Sixth time is the charm!" and thanked her parents for paying for singing lessons. Susan Sanford, accepting her best actress in a leading role in a play for "Appropriate," announced, "All I can think of is the title of my future autobiography: Gratitude and Bourbon," before reminding those in the crowd who had sons that they "had to be raised to be amazing men."

As women, we will remind until it's standard operating procedure and probably even for a while after that. You got a problem with that?

Boisterous snapping and clapping were the order of the evening as the audience got rowdier with more drinks and fewer reasons to hold back. The Artsies are meant to be a celebration and this crowd knows something about celebrating itself.

Oh, sure, the critics and panelists were forced to stand and identify ourselves when our names were called, but no one was there to look at us.

Fact is, we put on bras and left the house to celebrate what a stellar theater town this is. I don't want to gush about how lucky we audience members are, but I just can't help it.

All That Glitters

On Richmond theater's high holy night, all I can do is dress up, walk five blocks and settle in for the show.

The scene: the November Theatre for the 10th anniversary of the Richmond Theater Critics Circle Awards, aka the Artsies. To put that in perspective, the Artsies began on the cusp of the new world order: the year the first iPhone was available.

A non-event for me then and now, the difference being I am now a complete anomaly and not just one of the less connected.

A decade on, the Artsies involve blasts of smoke and confetti falling from the ceiling, the constant shrillness of screaming girls next to me (an unearthly pitch that hurt more than the noise of a punk show) and reminders to actors to limit their speeches to one minute.

Please, they're actors.

As it turned out, that was a non-issue because one presenter and eight winners weren't in attendance for a variety of reasons - just moved to NYC, at a rehearsal, couldn't find a sequined tux - so the show just moved along.

Some non-attendees planned ahead, so when "In the Heights" won best musical direction, a stand-in could share, "If you know Ben Miller, you won't be surprised that he sent words to read." Nope, no surprise there.

One of the most hilarious moments came early on when the lovely and talented Georgia Rogers Farmer took the stage to such thundering applause that she had to curtsy and wait for the crowd to settle down, "Please!" she squeaked with her mega-watt smile over an absolutely gorgeous dress, "I'm a professional!"

Cut to row F, seat 5, where I am sitting next to Melissa Johnston Price's best friend from college and in front of Alexander Sapp, tonight's big winner, it turns out.

Having marveled at just about every performance he's ever done, I shouldn't be surprised that he plays an audience member with everything he's got, making him among the loudest at applauding and shouting affirmations when nominees are announced and winners called to the stage.

When he won Best Supporting Actor, he dazzled the crowd with well-deserved praise for the local theater scene, warning newcomers that, "People who come here from New York or Chicago, L.A. or Terre Haute, you better bring your "A" game!"

It was positively inspiring.

Proving that he was worthy of being part of the cast who won Best Acting Ensemble (for "Toxic Avenger," with the entire cast wearing some shade of toxic green) for more than superior acting skills, when Dean Knight won Best Leading Actor (along with the stellar Jeremy Morris for "Top of Bravery") and began praising such unsung heroes as stage managers, Sapp called out, "Dean, you classy guy!"

He then showed his own classy guy cred by praising the other nominees when he won best actor, but only after saying, "Holy shit! Thanks, Richmond, I'm in love with you!"

It's mutual, I'm sure.

Cut to jokes about the longevity of actors in this town - Jill Bari Steinberg admitted to 39 years in theater and Michael Hawke (who couldn't resist tossing out, "Trump is still an asshole!") to 50 years, and you have some idea of how theater talent can thrive here.

When Grey Garrett won best actress in a supporting role for a play for "Rabbit Hole," she immediately began singing the praises of getting to ask a Pulitzer Prize-winning author questions about his play as the cast worked on it.

Cut to Debra Wagoner winning best actress in a leading role/musical for her masterful turn in "The Toxic Avenger" and bringing it down to earth by saying her feet hurt and her contacts were dried out and it had been 10 years since she stood up there to say thank you. Too long.

When Dawn Westbrook won the same award but for a play ("Grand Concourse") she began by saying, "I have just two words: TheatreLab!" and praised the upstart company to high heaven. She then assured the people who had seen the play that the cat was alive and doing great (significant because in the play, it had died due to neglect).

When Nathaniel Saw won for best direction/musical for "In the Heights," he seemed genuinely touched. "This marks one year of me being in Richmond. Thanks for welcoming me into this beautiful community!"

Of all the unexpected presenters, our former first lady, Anne Holton, showed up to deliver the awards for best play and musical (after some mild ribbing about how it feels to lose to a narcissist) to "Grand Concourse" and "In the Heights."

As another year of Richmond theater was brought to a close, all the glamorous people headed across the street to Quirk to celebrate while I made my way home to change out of glitz and into everyday to meet an old friend from D.C. for conversation and laughs, always lots of laughs.

Seven years we've been friends and he still waits until the last minute to alert me that he'll be in town, so I can't help but razz him about that.

I found him in a dark corner at GWAR Bar eating, but convinced him it would be far more pleasant to be outside in the warm, humid October night than in the frigid air conditioning with heavy metal screaming from the speakers. The windows were dripping with condensation from the contrast inside and out.

Call me a good salesman, but it was an easy sell.

Apparently we weren't the only ones looking for night air because Saison Market's patio was full, so we settled for an indoor table until a prime spot opened up outside.

I'll give him this much: he's a master with words (and likes to tell me that he gives better words than any man I know) and not at all shy about teasing me about my "gentlemen callers," as he likes to call this non-existent group, among whom he counts himself.

But his best line came about during a discussion of his older brother, with whom he has a fractious relationship these days.

"I'm the last person to talk to about norms, but I do know what a norm is," he claimed, despite hours discussing the freelancer life we both live. Can't say that I do, but I'm also decades into being non-norm.

Please, I'm a professional.

Living for Right Now

We're having a heatwave, despite the calendar still reading February.

I'm not saying that because the mercury hit 74 degrees, but because today was the first day that my lipsticks should have spent the day in the refrigerator like it was June, a fact a girl only discovers once she's getting ready to go out and finds them softer than ideal.

Now that I think about it, they may have warmed up driving back from the Northern Neck - where I'd gone today to visit my parents - with the windows mostly down.

I'd gotten a late start coming back because Mom and I decided to walk down to the dock, past the two weeping willow trees she tells me have just burst into leaf the past two days and wound up sprawled in an Adirondack loveseat discussing life.

And death, as it turns out. An article in today's Washington Post "Heart to Heart: The Conversation You Least Want to Have with your Aging Parents May Be the Most Important" was the starting point, but like so many conversations with my folks, there was a fair amount of laughter, too.

When I mention how hard it would be for Dad if she should die first, she waves off the problem, saying with a smile, "Oh, you don't have to worry about that. He won't last long once I go!"

I'm not sure if she means this because he's never had to fix his own food (at 8, I once found him crawling around the kitchen floor looking for where she kept the cold cereal and had to show him which cabinet) or because he'll wither away from a broken heart.

Telling her I'd just seen "In the Heat of the Night" at the Byrd for the first time last night, we dished about her memories of the award-winning film's impact at the time and about what a handsome man Sidney Poitier had been.

A tangent from there about how I've never seen "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" had her telling me about Spencer Tracy's speech in that film about how, despite his age, he remembers with absolute clarity his feelings for his wife when they first met and fell in love and how true love endures through the years.

"He was really talking about the love of his life, Katherine Hepburn," Mom tells me with absolute certainty, although certainly with the wisdom of her own experience as well. How she recalls this particular scene after not seeing the movie in decades is beyond me, but now I'm determined to see it myself, knowing that Hepburn and Tracy were long-time lovers.

The levity returns later on the walk back to the house. Surveying the two sheds full of Dad's crap and the crumbling grape arbor, she says, "I already told him when he looks down from heaven, none of this mess will be here!"

How often do you get to have an end of life discussion and get film recommendations in the same afternoon, much less riverside with waves lapping at the sand?

Once back in the city with my half-melted lipsticks, I managed to apply them before strolling over to Graffiato to meet a friend pre-theater.

Arriving first, the bartender welcomed me back and re-introduced himself, amazing me since we'd met the first week of January when he'd obligingly served a brown liquor-drinking friend while discussing distillation methods and then completely forgotten to take my drink order. For 15 minutes.

The good news is, being ignored guarantees you'll be remembered on your next visit.

With a nod to my birthplace and an appreciation for housemade ginger beer, I was drinking a variation on the DC Mule out of a copper cup when my friend came rushing in, Christmas present in hand. Once she got a pretty, pink Paloma, it was a race to catch up with each other's lives in 35 minutes so we could make a curtain.

What always happens when we try this is that I'll ask her what's been going on in her life and she'll rush through a few highlights and then insist on hearing my goings-on. Tonight, she was particularly fond of the symmetry of the trip to Cuba story, but saved plenty of enthusiasm for the good stuff and an Italian sausage pizzeta.

We didn't shut up until we headed across the street to the November Theater for Cadence Theatre's production of "Violet," another in the Acts of Faith series.

Although I was already happy being with a long-time friend I don't get to see nearly enough of, I got more fortunate still right off the bat by winning two tickets to Cadence's next production by having my seat number drawn from a bucket.

I'm lucky
I can walk under ladders
Yes, I'm so lucky
That I'm as lucky as me

I don't think I've ever been disappointed by a Cadence production and tonight kept that streak alive with a play that managed to marry high spirited musical numbers channeling gospel and country overtones (and the crack five piece band right onstage with the actors) with a poignant story about a disfigured girl looking for more conventional beauty and a big dose of self acceptance.

That it was set in the deep south in the 1964 during the Civil Rights movement only continued the thread of so many of my outings lately. That I'd gone from watching handsome Sidney Poitier last night to almost-as-handsome Josh Marin tonight was no sacrifice at all

First you choose your road and then you take it.

As an entry in the Acts of Faith Festival, Violet's story about who chooses to love her and whether they do it for who she really is or not provided the real meat of the play and enough to justify a post-theater discussion at Quirk afterward.

The bar at Maple + Pine was full, more than a few tables held diners and staff whisked new guests and luggage to the elevator as we grabbed a bar table and settled in to dissect what we'd seen over Prosecco and chocolate pecan pie.

"Please indulge!" said the server who dropped off the goodies.

In the dessert? In a soundtrack that included Tame Impala and The XX? In the bustling scene as the bar emptied and filled back up again?

All of that and more. Mostly, we indulged in conversation about the challenges of choosing your road and allowing yourself to take the right detour if it presents itself.

Hint: it doesn't always go through Cuba.

Artsies Fever, We Know How to Show It

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here tonight to get through this thing called the Artsies. Preferably before midnight.

Many things happened at tonight's Richmond Theater Critics Circle awards show, many of them in glittery shoes and sparkly clothing.

I wore neither, yet the man who won "Best Actor in a Leading Role, Musical" complimented my ensemble as sexy and demure ("How are you pulling off both?") and referred to his own striking suit as looking "like a couch."

For the record, few couches are that shiny.

Naturally, things got topical. There was last year's Best Supporting Actor - a child actor, mind you - playing the Donald in a blond wig and patriotic ball cap and, when challenged on his fitness to do so given his diminutive stature, responded, " My hands are the right size!"

When the cast of "Green Day's American Idiot" did a medley, it involved a figure in a Trump mask and the entire cast finishing by giving the audience the finger. I like to think they were really giving it to Trump.

Calling a spade a spade, the Best Actor in a Supporting Role, Play called Richmond Triangle Players the "best-run theater in town," and he should know having worked for almost all the others as well.

Even her move to D.C. didn't prevent last year's Best Actress in a Play from being the butt of jokes about her frequent nude scenes, from showing up as a presenter tonight and from reminding us that we are more than a piece of ass.

Winningly, the multi-talented Best Actor nominee in both leading and supporting roles sang a song with green frog hands on.

Prince's "Let's Go Crazy" became the basis for the winner of Best Actress in a Lading Role, Musical and the winner of Best Director, Play to imagine a gospel-inspired MLK musical set to the Purple One.

One of the actors who was part of the deserving group who won the Ernie McClintock Best Acting Ensemble award - the one who's leaving us after five years for a bigger sandbox to show off in  - announced, "If you're not seeing TheatreLAB's shows, you're not really paying attention."

Five awards tonight? Everybody should be paying attention by now.

Because last years's winner of Best Director, Play was unable to attend, her esteemed Shakespeare leanings became the basis for jokes involving tests, balls and cunning linguists set to iambic pentameter.

Behold a 97-year old dancer (who could have passed for 75) accepting an award for Ongoing Contribution to Richmond Area Theater who not only did a few dance movements when she walked onstage, but also said, "I'm grateful to have had a long lifetime in order to achieve so much."

The young 'uns (particularly) in the audience gasped audibly when her age was given and clapped mightily when she sashayed offstage.

Just as moving was the 87-year old actress and mezzo-soprano accepting the same award and sharing her black history in the process. When told by a restaurant server in her youth that, "We don't serve n****rs here," she had the presence of mind to answer, "We don't eat 'em."

And when she told us to hold hands with the people on either side of us, we did while she prayed for a less divisive country and better treatment of women.

One critic's reviews were mocked as too short and another as too long. Both statements were true.

The audience went nuts when nominees for Best Supporting Actress, Play and Best Actor in a Leading Role, Musical sang "Suddenly Seymour" with charm and drama to spare.

There was more Girl Power than you could shake a stick at, like last year's Best Actress winner pointing at another actor in Colonial garb a la "1776" and saying, "This is what a President looked like in the past," and then doffing her own Revolutionary costume to reveal a sexy red dress underneath.

"And this is what a President will look like in the future!" Hear, hear.

Oh, and for the record, 5th Wall does more than "plays where smart women holler at each other." Why is it "hollering" when we do it and "discussing" when men do the same?

You'd never hear the Dowager Countess say such a thing.

Get on the Bus

Some people get it and some people don't.

I rearranged my plans so I wouldn't miss any of tonight's "Create the Vote: A Mayoral Forum on Tapping RVA's Creative Culture," not because I hadn't just seen a mayoral forum less than two weeks ago (I had) but because the issue of growing Richmond's creative culture worries me.

You can be sure I don't want to hear candidates talking about making us over into the next Austin or Portland or, inexplicably, New Orleans, not because there's anything wrong with those places but because the thought of Richmond becoming like any of them depresses me.

When moderator Michael Paul Williams asked the six-person panel of Baliles, Berry, Junes, Morrissey, Stoney and Williams, "What's it going to take to get us to the next level?" the all-important answer came from a familiar voice in the audience.

"We are there!" community activist and musician Laney Sullivan called out, putting into words exactly what I had been thinking.

Granted, our schools aren't there and we'd do future generations a real service if we could finally fix them and put into place more art-based cirriculums to ensure that creativity is encouraged from childhood.

But the creativity of our scene, to my way of thinking, needs no self-aggrandizement, no grand scale advertising campaign, no push to have more branded events.

That's not who Richmond is and I pray (despite being a card-carrying heathen) that it's not what future mayors plan to wrestle our offbeat little DIY city into becoming.

Sorry, Jack Berry, but we're not a South by Southwest kind of a town and calling local arts groups "avant garde" makes you sound like Grandpa shaking his fist at some new-fangled sprinkler.

Tsk, task, Lawrence Williams, you haven't been inside the November Theater- a bastion of the local art scene - since you were 3 years old and it was still segregated?

And, really, Bobby Junes, it's not the folk concert but the Folk Fest you claimed to attend, albeit only on the non-rainy days of the event.

I'll admit I'm bothered, Levar Stoney, when you say that the mayor should be creative about bringing in money for the arts because I wonder if that means more backing from Dominion Power and others with questionable practices.

As for you, Joe Morrissey, I accept tonight's apology for your stupidity 27 years ago in voting against art you considered obscene at 1708 Gallery, but I can't accept a 57-year old man preying on a 17-year old employee.

What I can embrace is Jon Balile's statement that the creative community should be used to make city decisions. He's right because they are the people responsible for moving the scene forward and making Richmond the highly desirable place touted by everyone from the New York Times to USA Today.

The forum took place in front of the set for Virginia Repertory's production of "1776," providing a suitably political but, more importantly, creative backdrop for tonight's discussion. Even the timer sound that alerted candidates that they'd run on too long was a military-sounding drum roll.

Despite everything going off without a hitch, the format was deeply flawed.

Every question began at one end of the row of candidates or the other, meaning that Baliles and Williams had the unenviable task of answering two questions in a row every single time and not one of the other candidates - Berry, Junes, Morrissey and Stoney - ever had to be first out of the gate with their thoughts.

Is the audience as impressed with you when all you do is piggyback on your predecessors' answers? They are not.

I emphatically agree with Baliles that our homegrown creative spirit is what the city needs to get behind. While not quite as masterfully metaphoric as Prince's "Little Red Corvette," his comment drove the point home well. "The city needs to get out of the way and let the creative community drive the bus."

The funny part is, he had to be saying that for the benefit of audience members who aren't regularly involved in the local scene.

Because anyone who is participating knows that, in essence, the creatives have already been reshaping Richmond from the butt of jokes (How many Richmonders does it take to change a light bulb or, well, anything? A dozen: one to change the bulb and 11 to talk about how great the old bulb, or way of doing things, was) to a vibrant, inclusive scene that welcomes anyone wanting to be part of it.

Creatives of all kinds - artists, brewers, musicians, filmmakers, chefs, muralists, bartenders, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers - have been driving the bus for at least the past five or six years, whether the mainstream population was noticing or not.

I say that as someone who's not only been participating, but documenting the scene for 7 years Look back at my blog posts from 2009 or 2010 and you'll see a steady increase in the sheer number, much less the variety and quality, of offerings of every kind in Richmond.

All brought to life by passionate people who loved this city and wanted to contribute in a way that was meaningful to them and, as it turned out, to a whole lot more people they didn't even know.

Next level? We don't need no stinkin' next level when it comes to the creative community. We're there.

Wouldn't it be grand to elect Jon Baliles and have a mayor willing to gas up the bus and keep it in good repair so the real talent can continue driving it?

Wine is Not Sad

In the game of life, I've been told, sometimes you have to focus on the end game.

Today's challenge was fitting in a whole lot of work around a fair amount of fun that began with a very ladylike plan for the afternoon: walking over to Chez Foushee for lunch, followed by a play at Virginia Rep.

Yes, we were the ladies who lunch and then matinee. It may as well have been 1959 except for the salty language and absence of gloves.

We began with a sunny table in the front window - "Great people watching!" the hostess told us as she installed us there - and the best of intentions. I knew the brussels sprouts salad with red onions, bleu cheese, walnuts and red wine vinaigrette was divine, a fact confirmed not once, but four times by our handsome young server, so we both ordered it.

Just before he takes the menus away, my friend looks at me guiltily and tells him, "And the pate."

And by pate, it was really a plate of country pork pate and a massive hunk of chicken liver pate, along with cornichons, mustard and toasted bread, none of which we needed and most of which we downed.

Because it was Chez Foushee, we easily brought down the average age significantly, but also enjoyed basking in the glow of a place so fussy and old-school.

We got so embroiled in discussing my recent post about my past (favorite comment, "Wait, you once dated men older than you?" Sure, when I was 18) that all too soon it was going on 2:00 and we had seats to fill. Luckily Virginia Rep is spitting distance from Chez Foushee.

"Saturday, Sunday, Monday" began with an actor singing "Volare" while playing guitar and went on to tell the tale of an extended Italian family in Naples in 1959 where Mama's not happy and as we all know, if Mama's not happy, ain't nobody happy.

For that matter, nor is Dad, who not only thinks his wife is having an affair with the accountant upstairs, but is also trying to accept that his son is leaving the family business to open his own menswear shop.

All the Italian cliches were in place (except Italian accents): the mythical process of making the weekly Sunday ragu, the strong-willed aunt who's already buried her husband and lover and now dominates her meek son's life, the dutiful daughter trying to carve out her own niche and not follow her mother's path and the doddering grandfather lost in the shuffle.

After a while, you wonder if anyone in Naples is happy. And don't get me started on the dutiful sons who worship at Mama's altar. Catherine Shaffner as Aunt Meme was the most compelling to watch as she espoused higher education and having the courage to be honest to get what you want.

But as my theater-savvy friend and I discussed walking home, no matter what the minor flaws of a play, there's always a great deal of satisfaction simply in watching actors act on the stage.

We parted ways at my house because she was home to sew while I had an assignment to finish before going to school. Tonight was Amour Wine Bistro's "Taste the Terroir" class and no one wants to be tardy for class.

Taking my seat at the bar, some of the other attendees introduced themselves and our teacher began explaining tonight's topic beginning with how to read a wine label in French, Italian and German before moving on to the specifics of terroir.

Naturally this was a class with experiments to prove the teachers' points, meaning two glasses set in front of each of us, both utilizing the same grape but from different regions, the better to assess terroir. So we'd taste a Sauvignon Blanc from the chalky Loire (citrusy) and compare it to one from the hot and sunny Rhone (ripe fruits and herbs) and then enjoy them both with salmon ceviche and grilled bread.

One of the women near me asked her couple date why their friend Kyle had canceled. "Did he get a girlfriend?" she asked, sounding sarcastic.

"No," the husband answered. "He said he had to save his money for dates that have the potential to reach the end zone." Everyone within earshot cracked up at hearing this. but I understand. The man has priorities.

We repeated the wine lesson with two Chardonnays from Burgundy served with Comte and bread, and during this discussion period, I was schooled on what is referred to as the "Asian flush," a result of Asians lacking enough of the enzyme dehydrogenase to properly process alcohol.

I know this only because the two Asian women explained it patiently to the rest of us and then half an hour later, showed us their flushed cheeks and ears. Oh, the things we were learning tonight.

It was while we were sussing out the differences in two Pinot Noirs, one from Burgundy (berries, no tannins) and another from Languedoc (cherries, more acidic) that plates of rabbit rilletes arrived, leading to more new information from one of the students.

Seems that when she decided to go vegetarian, she heavily researched proteins and discovered that humans can't rely solely on rabbit as a protein source. "So when the Zombie Apocalypse comes, don't think you can rely on rabbit meat to sustain yourself," she warned us. "Not enough vitamins for survival."

Well, don't you know that led to a round table discussion of cricket-eating and fortunately, we had two firsthand sources for reference. One girl had eaten them in Japan, skewered on a stick and resolved never to eat them again, while a guy had enjoyed them in Mexico, scooped out of a bucket like peanuts, covered in oil, lime juice and cayenne.

"They were tasty, but the legs got stuck in my teeth," he said with a straight face.

Nerdy as I am, I don't remember school ever being as much fun as tonight was turning out to be.

The couple from Petersburg told us that he was soon leaving for Alabama for a year and a half's training learning to fly helicopters. "You have to learn to crash a helicopter to fly one," his chipper wife piped up like a sage.

Her husband grinned. "Can we all just admire that statement: "You have to learn to crash a helicopter to fly one?" he asked, beaming with pride.

Our final experiment involved Cabernet Franc from Loire (blueberries and minerality) and Bordeaux (smoky, full-bodied, velvety) and a plate of Soprasetta arranged to look like a heart. When that was pointed out, a collective "awww" went up from the room and one woman pointed at her mate of a year and a half and announced, "He was super romantic."

"You burned that out of me like the Vikings burned their dead," he said without missing a beat.

Clearly we had a lot of class clowns at school tonight.

By evening's end, everyone agreed that they'd learned plenty and enjoyed the process even more. Turns out tonight was part of a whole series of wine classes Amour is doing, meaning more opportunities to drink for the sake of learning to come.

And speaking of learning, once class was over and everyone was chatting and drinking full glasses of their favorites, one woman shared that she was about to embark on a class in ethical hacking, which sounded a lot like an oxymoron to me.

When I asked if that was really a thing, she answered, "No, not really," which meant yes, but she also hopes it'll help her get a job in this brave new world where people carry their every secret in their phones.

Several of tonight's participants were part of a 2500-person group called "New in Richmond," although some members have lived here for as many as 16 years, which hardly sounds new to me. When I asked what kind of activities the group did, the answer was short and to the point: "Drink!"

I suppose that's one way to get used to Richmond.

Alan Rickman's namecame up and almost everyone there had something to say about a favorite role or movie - Dogma! Truly, Madly, Deeply! Love, Actually, but you have to fast forward through that scene of Carl undressing!- but then people began getting sad because Alan's dead now.

"But wine's not sad," owner Paul said, stepping in and saving the moment by returning us to topic like a good teacher does.

We also had some runners in the group, so the rest of us heard about the difference in how the French do marathons and, let me tell you, it's way better than the way we do them here.

Who knew that at the Paris marathon or the Medoc marathon, there are stops for cheese, chocolate and fine wine? How civilized is that?

Ditto tonight's adventure at school.

In addition to all the laughter and new faces (last question from a recent acquaintance before I left: "You're coming for next week's class, aren't you? Yes, you are!"), I really did further my understanding of terroir with a well-executed lesson plan and the kind of science experiments that can make an Asian flush.

Besides, haven't you heard? The only acceptable excuse for missing out is if you're saving money for dates that have the potential to reach the end zone.

Just don't go all Viking and burn out the romance getting there.

Passion Cannot Be Created

You never know what attracts people to you.

Take tonight's companion, for instance, whom I met through my blog after several comments on it about being impressed with my frequent solo excursions. Eventually we began taking occasional long walks together, but tonight was our first evening date.

I'd originally asked another friend, but after three nearly sleepless nights, he was too beat to accompany me, although not too worn out to call, curious about his replacement. Explaining who it was and how we'd met, he brightened up immediately.

"Oh, good!" he enthused. "You doing stuff by yourself was one of the first things that attracted me to you, too. That's perfect." So I had his blessing for the evening.

On a related note, my date had sent me a link just this morning, saying, "I saw this article and thought of you." Of course I would appreciate "Why Eating Out Alone Doesn't Have to Be Lonely," detailing how one woman ate thousands of room service meals while traveling before finally getting up the nerve to dine alone.

And while I don't even recall a time when I lacked that nerve, I could wholly relate to what she enjoyed about solo meals once she got on board, included striking up conversations with strangers around her, which resulted in her feeling more connected to the places she was visiting.

Works at home, too, my friend.

My only complaint with the piece was that it advocated resorting to technology ("Skim social media") as a means of easing the discomfort of eating alone in public. Perhaps the reason I need no cell phone is because I have none of said discomfort.

So while our common bond was my frequent time alone, tonight we were a twosome.

A working dinner (for me, anyway) kicked off the evening and provided a leisurely chance for us to do something besides walk next to each other and sweat for an hour and a half, our usual M.O. For that matter, it was the first time we'd seen each other in anything but walking clothes. I gotta say we look way better not sweating.

Although we both came with stories, hers were more fun, first because she shared an unlikely story of how she'd recently broken a dry spell in her love life and then because she told me about going to Kinston, N.C. to eat at Vivian Howard's Chef and the Farmer restaurant (but not alone), drink at Mother Earth Brewing and sleep at the O'Neill, once a bank (she showed me snaps of the massive vault) and now a very cool boutique hotel.

Where things got juicy was when we discovered we both have younger sisters with similar traits, you know, one-upmanship, competitiveness, just general pain-in-the-ass type siblings. Coming so soon after my sistertrip, it was cathartic to commiserate over how difficult they can be to deal with.

But the evening's true entertainment came courtesy of Cadence Theater Company's production of "Equus," a play neither of us knew anything about (other than Daniel Ratcliffe having played the lead in a recent Broadway revival), at the November Theater, a place my date had never been.

Wow, just wow.

While it may have been just a tad longer than it needed to be, it was powerful stuff well executed, which was no surprise given Cadence's record of thoughtfully chosen and creatively staged productions.

The story of a nearly burnt out doctor, disillusioned by where his life has ended up, treating a seriously disturbed 17-year old who has blinded six horses was mesmerizing, complex and provocative. I was immediately suspicious of the parents, an overly strict father and a crazy religious nut mother.

Because the boy deifies a particular horse, galloping wildly on him every three weeks, the doctor - who acknowledges he leads a passionless life -  is hesitant to rob him of that passion. "My achievement, however, is more likely to make a ghost!" he bemoans of  "curing" the boy.

To add to the enticing visuals, both acts began with a dance sequence suggesting the abandon of horses let loose, performed by actors playing horses in wire horse head masks crafted by local sculptor Paul diPasquale.

By the end of the play, the actors looked as drained as the audience felt, a fatigue well-earned by the challenging theatrical journey we'd all been on. I have a feeling this is a play that will linger in my mind, so I'm hoping other friends see it so we can discuss it further.

But no discussion is required to establish my favorite line. We keep saying old people are square. Then when they suddenly aren't, we don't like it.

Amen. I kept writing how much I enjoyed doing things by myself. Then when people suddenly wanted to do things with me, I liked it, too.

Is it square to hope that they were attracted to my passion?

Pickin' Up the Pieces

Drama queens, as you might expect, were rampant at the Artsies, this year also known as the "ratcocks."

Anything to get a chance to say "cock" as much as possible, right?

Because I have no dramatic abilities, I can put on a purple cocktail dress, 4 1/2 inch platform shoes with feathers and a wrap featuring a Picasso painting and fade right into the woodwork in this crowd. Photos, we were told, should be tagged #ratcocks, so I tried to stay away from the cameras.

The Richmond Theater Critics Circle Awards are the annual excuse for the theater community to put on cute but painful shoes, dress up as over the top as possible and scream like banshees when a friend or production gets mentioned from stage.

And that's not even the official entertainment.

That came courtesy of our hostess, the multi-talented (star of cabaret and domestic goddess) Georgia Rogers Farmer, who not only managed to name-check every nominated play to the tune of Madonna's "Vogue" but finished the opening number by doing a handstand which caused her skirt to drop over her head and reveal the letters "RTCC."

Safe to say that photos were taken and immediately tagged.

Anything for art, right? The youngest winner, Brandon McKinney, closed out his acceptance speech for "Caroline or Change" by instructing the roomful of adults, "Make sure you are always making art!"

After BJ Wilkinson won for outstanding achievement in lighting design, he made a succinct speech, ending by saying, "Now I have 600 steps to climb to get back up in the booth."

The show must go on and all that.

Jokes were made about the critics who'd voted on the awards - critic most likely to be a know-it-all, critic most likely to go on about a cute actress - and people nominated, as when Bruce Miller talked about a second career as a bartender, but not at the level of Evan Nasteff, actor and barkeep extraordinaire.

Some presenters used the moment to pass the torch - last year's winners Jacquie O'Connor and Jeanie Rule passing on their tiaras to this year's recipients- while others used it to make time.

When Alexander Sapp and Doug Schneider came out to present the supporting actress awards, Alex suavely greeted the applause with, "Thank you, ladies" and smiled his most debonair smile. Doug looked out and said, "Good evening, gentlemen," getting just as many squeals.

To finish the first act with a bang, Matt Shofner as Hedwig paraded down the aisle to screaming adoration, lips and cheeks covered in glitter, to perform "Tear Me Down," with the band from TheaterLAB's production playing plastic toy instruments behind him while the real band backed them up.

With explicit instructions to take no more than 15 minutes for intermission, this crowd too as long as they wanted to schmooze, smoke and drink before ambling back to their seats.

Georgia kicked off the second act singing about "ratcocks" to the tune of Blondie's "Rapture" and surrounded by Audra Honaker and Evan in giant costumes that resembled the awards themselves dancing around her.

Unfortunately, the show, which Georgia said ran 70-some hours the first year, was already running long not far into the second act, causing her to admonish us, "Let's pick it up. Mama needs a drink."

The guys singing "Nothing Like a Dame" from "South Pacific" got the crowd worked up, especially with those lyrics coming out of some unlikely mouths and guys like Matt caressing their own form when singing about a dame's curves.

The biggest non-surprise came about when Bruce Miller and Irene Ziegler announced Desiree Roots had won best actress in a leading role in a musical because earlier on, the envelope with her name in it had been opened and read by mistake.

"I'm so surprised!" she joked when she got to the podium. Not.

The new theater alliance panel was announced and introduced onstage and while yours truly is a member of that, she didn't get the memo about when to go backstage so was saved the trauma of having to stand up there and face the masses.

On the plus side, overly exuberant artistic director Deejay Gray, sitting directly in front of me, did turn around and start pointing. "She's right here and she looks amazing!" Still better than having to go onstage. Non-actors belong in the audience.

"And now the moment you've all been waiting for!" Georgia, the domestic goddess, called out and began tossing little baggies of bacon out to the audience. I didn't get one originally, but a lovely actress nearby did and turned to me, saying, "I don't eat bacon."

Fortunately, I do and dispensed with that bit of pig flesh in a flash.

Some categories looked like duplicate listings with the same named repeated more than once. Joey Luck was nominated four times for outstanding achievement in sound design and beat out the competition of one other sound guy.

Ditto Jan Powell, nominated for directing both "Equivocation" and "Hamlet," who heard her name called but not the play. Once onstage, she turned to the presenters and looked quizzical. "This is for 'Equivocation,' right?"

Once the final ratcock had been awarded, people began streaming across the street to Graffiato's for the afterparty (coincidentally, also the scene of the pre-party, but with more people) and a chance to revel in wins and put on a brave face for losses.

But most importantly, a chance to cure what ailed our hostess and countless others: Mama did need a drink.

Flying solo, I must have looked like I wanted to talk because several well-lubricated people came up and introduced themselves, a prime opportunity to talk theater with strangers in between catching up with the familiar faces, tipsy and otherwise.

With the ratcock crowd, even mingling at a party is considered making art. Alcohol and drama queens are just part of the process.

Consigned to History

That time a man you've just met tells you he's expecting you to dance "for us" once the music starts and offers four reasons why. I don't, but that's not the point.

Which could only happen when you go solo to a Tom Smith show - their first playing out together - at Balliceaux. The Tom in question is Waites and the Smith is the Smiths and the hat-wearing, gravel-voiced singer says they were shooting for a weird combination. Done.

Upright bass, acoustic guitar, sax and drums. Heard? "This Charming Man" to "Downtown Train" to "Girlfriend in a Coma" with a whole lot of Tom Waites songs I didn't know in between.

Which only came after I'd arrived outside and been asked for ID by a guy who referred to me as "young lady." After guaranteeing me that he was older, we shook on a bet.The stakes: good will.

Don't bet me on age because I'll almost always win. What follows is wildly complimentary and leads to a discussion of DNA versus lifestyle, and his belief in the power of being happy. Of course he's a musician and perfectly charming.

But I don't get to him until I finish with the play "Peter and the Starcatcher," a sort of prequel to "Peter Pan" produced by Virginia Rep at the November Theater.

There's Scott Wichmann  playing a pirate named Black Stache (or Nancy, if you ask his crew) in a thick black mustache and curly black wig that make him a ringer for John Oates circa 1984.

Combining wordplay, modern references ("Please, is there a vegetarian option?" when an orphan is given a bucket of worms to eat, or "It's the Cadillac Escalade of dilemmas!") and actors as part of the set, it's a madcap romp through Peter's back story, complete with an effeminate pirate, a food-obsessed orphan and the man born to play a woman - Robert Throckmorton - as the besotted Nanny.

It's a damn clever take on how Peter Pan ended up so messed up and the patron saint of non-committal men boys.

But before we got to Peter Pan Syndrome, Maple and Pine at Quirk beckoned with Prosecco, Virginia pork rilettes (meh) and oxtail egg rolls (more, sir) perched at one of the overly-small bar tables with the uncomfortable pedestal bottoms.

Which was only possible after Pru came straight from work to my house in order to primp and powder here before starting out for dinner and a play.

Just two girlfriends sitting at the dining table by a sunny open window while one puts on make-up and brings the other up to date and Pet Shop Boys' "Discography" blasts through the warm, late afternoon air of the wide-open apartment.

And that only happens after driving to Middlesex County for lunch with strangers to talk oysters and reefs, music blasting the entire way.

Especially satisfying on such a perfect, warm October afternoon is Del Amitri's 1992 "Change Everything" record on repeat. I'm a sucker for a Scottish band, much less one where the lead singer is nothing more than an '80s poet, a Romeo in black jeans with a jangley guitar.

Listening as I drive back, I hear for the 748th time how his choice of words, his phrasing and his brooding Scottish soul conspire to make me love every lyric and note of this album. Few can do yearning, heartache and drinking songs like the Scots. And precipitation.

Under seasick skies
I pick up the paper in the useless decent of the rain
With your standard-issue broken heart
Hopelessly honeymoon-bound
Another hour without you is consigned to history

Every line evocative, every line from a different song. Combined, just because it's a leisurely drive and I have time to let the words linger in my head.

It's that standard issue broken heart that changes everything, isn't it? Luckily, I'm way ahead on good will.

Nothin' Like a Dame

Where better to go after a positively exhausting week than Bali Ha'i?

Despite the fact that my train wasn't getting in until almost 6:30 and despite that it was late and arrived closer to 7, I managed to get home, unpack, get cleaned up and present myself at the November Theater to meet my date for Virginia Repertory's opening night performance of "South Pacific."

Only a cock-eyed optimist would even attempt such a thing.

On the way over, I ran into a favorite server and his adorable beagle, both recently moved to Jackson Ward. He shared the newcomer's perspective (loves the vibe and touch of grit) and I the more long time resident's (nine years) view, all while scratching those velvet ears (the beagle's, not Michael's).

Opening night meant not only a gold medallion on our programs, but lots of familiar faces - the gallerist and his perky wife, the dancer I hadn't seen in years, and more actors, directors and theater people than should probably be in one place at any given time (you know, in case something happens).

My date was the perfect one because, somehow, some way, he'd never once in his middle-aged life seen "South Pacific." I shouldn't be surprised; I took him to see "Mame" last year and he'd mentioned then it was his first live musical.

Yes, I had myself an enchanted evening virgin.

The last time I'd seen this play live, it had been at the Landmark and no less a magnificent voice than Robert Goulet had played Emile, the handsome French planter. Fabulous as that touring production had been (just hearing him live had been a thrill), it wasn't like seeing talent I knew in classic roles.

I can't convey how satisfying it was to see the multi-talented Matt Shofner as one of the seabees singing "Nothin' Like a Dame." Now that's acting. Just as impressive was Audra Honaker with her impish demeanor and beautiful voice as one of the nurses. Nicole Oberleitner oozed sass and sex whether she was front and center or off to the side striking a pose.

And speaking of the nurses, during the "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair" number, the women wore fabulous '40s-style bathing suits that were the talk of the ladies' room during intermission.

My only observation was that there weren't many '40s-era bodies with hips and curves to go along with those era-appropriate costumes. Let's face it, women's figures just aren't what they used to be.

Ditto wardrobes. In the remember when category, one of the nurse's lines alluded to the fact that the Navy only allowed them to bring two evening gowns overseas with them. How many women today even own one? I do have one long dress but I'm not certain it would qualify as an evening gown.

Waiting in line for the ladies room gave me a chance to check out the framed newspaper articles from the Richmond Times Dispatch, Chicago Tribune and Honolulu State Bulletin hanging in the hallway, all of them actual copies from the war years. Overheard in line: "My nephew is in Wilco. Have you heard of them?" and soon after, "Well, yes, but Paul McCartney's still playing live and he's in his '70s."

So he's not younger than Springtime. Still, I heard it was a terrific show.

As my companion pointed out, it would have also been nice to have some maps hanging there, too, for a geography lesson to go along with the history lesson to clarify all these islands' locations in the play.

I was happy to hear that my date was very much enjoying the play, although still adjusting somewhat to the notion of a musical and actors singing so much of the plot. "It's such a great story!" he raved, admitting he was completely engrossed in the saga as it unfolded.

He was lucky to be seeing such a fine production. Both leads, Branch Fields and Stacey Cabel, were spot-on as the lovers from different sides of the world. Her Arkansas accent came and went occasionally but his French one never wavered and his bass voice was the kind that does things to a woman. It didn't hurt the appeal that the sets were so evocative of the South Seas with bamboo screens, palm trees and the illusion of water and sand on the island.

Because he's recently out of a relationship, my date admitted that half the time lately, he's been trying to avoid romantic entertainment. The other half, he's been seeking it out. "I'm just too much of a romantic," he said with a shrug, explaining why he was enjoying this so much.

Join the club, honey bun. From "A Wonderful Guy" to "This Nearly Was Mine," a person inclined to romance could pretty much melt into her seat the entire time.

Let's just say it was some enchanted evening.

Applesauce and Rolos

I love it when people give me experiences for gifts.

A theater-loving friend who'd seen "Mame" at Virginia Rep gave me two tickets, saying he was eager for me to see it so we could discuss it. I promptly chose to join the blue-hair set at a Wednesday matinee and invited a friend to join me.

Since the theater is only a few blocks from my house, I suggested he meet me here and we'd walk over. "Can we leave a little earlier so I don't have to walk so fast? he e-mailed me.

While that sounds like a typically middle-aged man thing to ask - I've learned that they're rarely as enthusiastic walkers as I am- I let it slide because I knew he'd been sick the past few days. So when I joined him on the sunny front porch, I made sure to set my body to old-man-stroll rather than my usual after-burner speed.

As it turned out, we could have crawled over because the play was delayed due to some casting changes. One of the leads was out with  complications of a root canal, so there'd been some shifting of parts. We might see a script in hand (we did).

Waiting for things to get rolling, my friend took the time to chide me for calling him a middle-aged man who ignores his doctor's advice in my last blog post about him. He clarified that he was only ignoring the medical advice for a day, not forever. That old chestnut.

When he asked me what the play was about, I drew on my memory of having seen the movie just last November and summarized it for him. Bohemian inherits nephew and proceeds to school him on how to live life to the max. And since this was a musical version, add in song and dance.

Luckily, he'd brought plenty of cough drops to silence his lung hacking, although most of the raucous song and dance numbers would have easily drowned him out. We were both particularly knocked out by the energy and swagger of "That's How Young I Feel," but maybe there's a reason for that.

How old do you think I am?
Somewhere between 40 and death?

Ouch.

Even a non-fashionable sort such as me had to be impressed with the scads of costume changes throughout. An old timer might say it was the equivalent of watching a Cher show.

Emily Skinner was terrific as Mame but Audra Honaker stole a lot of scenes with her portrayal of the timid nanny Miss Gooch and the siren she becomes under Mame's tutelage.

The scene where Mame visits her beau's plantation in the South provided one of the best lines. When told that the war between the states is over, Mother Burnside replies, "Don't give me any of that Appomattox applesauce!"

Discussing how much we were enjoying the show at intermission, my friend said, "It pays to be Karen's beard." While he didn't mean beard in terms of sexual orientation, he was referring to providing company so I didn't have to go alone, not that I have a problem with that.

But what was really generous was that he told me that he used to feel awkward doing things by himself until he met me five years ago and saw how often I was my own date. After he began venturing out solo, a friend of his followed suit, crediting him for being a great example. He wanted me to have the credit.

Such a nice middle-aged guy.

Not only did he buy us Rolos to share at intermission, but he only asked me to slow down once on the walk home. And now I can't wait to thank the gift-giver with a satisfying conversation about what I just saw.

Life is a banquet but it's unlikely I'll ever starve with friends giving me - and sharing - such enjoyable experiences.

No gift wrapping required.

Autumn, Comes She Will

I hope I'm wrong, but I fear today was it.

With a cold front approaching, it could be the last day I get to wear shorts on my walk and the last night I get to see moonflowers open. As if they knew, I watched three open tonight through the screen in my bedroom window as I was dressing to go out.

Ah, summer, I miss you already.

My date for the evening was Pru and we headed to Bistro 27 for dinner, just across the street from the November theater where we planned to see a play afterwards.

Looking at my legs as we walked to the restaurant, she demanded to know how they looked so tanned in October. Simple, I told her, I'm still wearing shorts on my walk every day.

Inside, we sidled up to the bar and ordered glasses of Bricco-dei-Tati Rose, the color of cherry Kool-aid, coincidentally also the color of Barbera Rose, a far tastier pink quaff. Alas, I fear I will soon be missing my Roses, too.

Momentarily distracted by a dessert going by on its way to a nearby couple, we then debated what to order since it had been a while since we'd been in and so much of the menu is new, eventually settling on crabcakes (her) and Tuscan chicken flatbread (me).

The flatbread loomed large over the entire plate and then some, covered in a savory/sweet combination of grilled chicken, balsamic, plum tomatoes, basil and goat cheese. Her crabcake appetizer was mostly crab and sauteed golden brown, in other words, practically perfect to a crabhead like me.

Over dinner, we compared our thrifting adventures today (I won with a haul of 17 tops, 2 skirts, 1 shorts, 1 pants and 3 shrugs for a total of $5) at the Robinson Street Festival. I heard about her outing to the Roosevelt with old college chums last night, an evening that involved absinthe and a 2 a.m. bedtime, neither unusual for me and both highly irregular for her.

Today, she had the headache and lethargy that follows infrequent debauchery.

Dessert was a given (hello, Saturday night with a girlfriend) and the triple chocolate confection we'd seen go by earlier seemed like the obvious choice. Made by one of the prep cooks, it's the newest dessert item, all but begging us to check it out.

When Pru decided she needed coffee with hers, our bartender offered her espresso and then a single or double.

"Double, please," she said demurely. "I want it dark and growling." I assumed we were no longer talking about coffee, but I didn't pry.

The triple chocolate cake got my thumbs up for both its lightness and its variety of chocolate textures: mousse, cake and ganache.

As we were devouring it, four young men arrived to serenade the Irish couple sitting at the front table celebrating an occasion. Their lilting harmonies were beautiful to behold, made even better by having chocolate in our mouth as we listened.

What a delightful addition to the evening.

A satisfying meal over, we strolled across the street to see Cadence Theater's production of "Sight Unseen" by Donald Margulies.

Waiting in line to pick up tickets, I ran into a woman I hadn't seen in years whose first words were, "You don't age! You look exactly the same." While I know this is a compliment, what I wanted to say is, sure, it's fine now, but who wanted to look like this at 25 or 35? Instead, I say thanks.

Tickets in hand, we find our seats in the second row minutes before the lights go down.

My preference is always to go into a production knowing as little as possible so that the action can unfold for me with no hints of what's to come. It's like how I don't like to see previews for movies before I see them. Just give me what you got and let me see what I think.

"Sight Unseen" begins in a chilly farmhouse ("Here we hold on to our overcoats") in England ("No one is a good cook over here") with a visit from a now-famous American painter named Jonathan to Patricia, the woman who'd been his muse in college, and her adoring husband, Nick ("I take what I can get. I'm English").

His father has died last week yet he's crossed the pond for his first career retrospective where he's finding the press combative and trying to focus solely on his Jewishness. A flashback shows us how cruelly he dumped Patricia fifteen years earlier.

All of a sudden, it's intermission and I have absolutely no idea where this play is going, a truly delicious feeling as a member of the audience.

As the second act unfolds, we hear some excellent debate on what art is and what an artist's responsibility is as Nick looks at the catalog from Jonathan's show and finds his paintings lacking. As far as Nick's concerned, art ended with the Renaissance and he's dismissive of all modern art.

Jonathan insists that the job of the artist is not to participate because his intention in painting is irrelevant. Art is what the viewer brings to his work and what they choose to take away. Defending himself and his work he says, "It's the layers people go to in order to feel something today."

The layers in this play are many: about how relationships change, about settling when we can't get what we really want, about how success and money changes people, about losing our way in life and love and never really recovering. Why do people feel obligated to attend blockbuster art shows and then spend more time in the gift shop than with the art?

Andrew Firda is a standout as the husband in a mostly sexless marriage and his dry, British wit provides much of the play's humor while his sweet attempts to challenge the man who's been haunting his wife's heart for 15 years hint at the passion beneath his archeologist's heart.

Smart and thought-provoking, yet again Cadence Theater had provided plenty for Pru and I to discuss once the play ended and we were walking down Broad Street.

Where, I might add, the temperature was noticeably cooler than when we'd gone in and the breeze hinted at a night that will require closing my windows.

Except the bedroom windows, which will remain open so I can luxuriate in the scent of the moonflowers for the last time this year.

I take what I can get when summer is on her way out.

Better Than Your Dreams

It was an absolutely lovely date with myself, full of new this and new that, and right in the neighborhood, too.

With the humidity hovering at 80% but no chance of rain in the forecast, I dolled up and strolled over to the latest reason to eat four blocks from home: Graffiato.

Aware that it had just opened Wednesday, I knew enough to arrive early, sailing to the bar past disappointed people being told that the soonest a table would be available would be 10:00.

That said, any of those people could have followed my lead and sat at the bar (or even one of the rapidly filling up communal tables) rather than putting on a sad face and leaving.

Renovation on the former Popkin's space was well executed if you ignore the two screens over the bar (I can't, especially with sports on) and I easily found a seat next to a couple from Bon Air tucking into the Shire pizza with gusto.

In no time at all, we were chatting about their enthusiasm for the upcoming Southbound restaurant coming to their neck of the woods and how they hope to move into the city so they, too, can walk places.

My first choice, "Love Drunk" Rose (tag line: "When reality is better than your dreams") from Oregon had not yet arrived I was told, so I went classic with a Provence Rose, Domaine Jacourette, a pale pink delight.

The place was humming and the staff seemed enormous, black-shirted employees everywhere I looked, and within minutes, another couple took the seats to my left.

They were from the edge of the Museum District and proclaimed themselves foodies who ate out all the time, although they had to be shown where the purse hooks under the bar were.

Not a judgement, just an observation.

I took my time ordering my first course, watching one of the many bartenders make an array of complicated drinks right in front of me.

When I settled on smoked burrata with heirloom grape tomatoes, corn and arugula pesto over Billy bread, it was delivered to me by a very young looking food runner who said it was one of his two favorite dishes on the menu.

The museum couple looked over drooling, asking what I'd ordered. Turns out they'd never heard of burrata.

They were enjoying the broccolini with red pepper relish, walnuts and feta, a savory dish I'd already had at the D.C. Graffiato's last year.

A favorite local chef was having dinner at the pizza bar in the back with his family and came over to say hello and compare what we were eating.

Bon Air couple said goodnight after a discussion of Europe and empty nests and were replaced with a another couple, this one curious about the play I was going to see tonight.

Seems she'd designed an ad for Richmond Triangle Players' playbill and wanted to know if I'd seen it (not yet).

I was having no shortage of conversational partners tonight, even if everyone else was in Saturday night date mode.

From there, I ordered the Amish chicken thighs with sauteed escarole and pepperoni sauce, tasty enough although I prefer my thighs with bones.

As I was chatting to my right, couple to my left prepared to leave, tapping me on the shoulder to say goodnight and thank me for the conversation.

They'd barely left when a woman approached, asking to order a drink over me while she waited for her date to arrive.

"He's my boyfriend, but I'm 41, so it feels funny to call him that," she said, explaining that he'd been delayed.

I ask you, is man friend any better?

He soon arrived, having dropped off his 15-year old daughter at a party at a hotel (such parties didn't exist when I was 15), saying he needed a drink after all the rigmarole of getting her off to the event.

A DC Mule seemed to do the trick.

Like the other couples I'd talked to, they were impressed that it was a mere four block walk for me to Graffiato, so I asked about their home bases.

He lived on Porter Street in Manchester and she lived in the West End, but refused to call it that, stating for the record that she lived on Three Chopt ("That's the West End," he insisted).

We got to talking about how they met and she said friends had introduced them, they'd had one date but she'd realized she wasn't yet ready to date.

Eighteen months later, he asked again and they've been an item ever since.

He tried to convince me he was a bad boy, but she denied it, saying he was the nicest guy in the world.

"You have a motorcycle and race cars, but you are definitely not a bad boy," she told him with finality.

"Couldn't you at least pretend I am for my ego's sake?" he asked. They were pretty cute, but were soon called to their table and I lost them (although they asked me to come join them if I had time).

Which was fine because I had just under 15 minutes until I had to leave and my salted caramel gelato had arrived to cap off my meal.

Hopeful people were still arriving as I took my leave, secure in the knowledge that I now have one more solid choice in the 'hood for sipping and supping.

Across the street at the November Theater, people were arriving for 5th Wall Theater's production of "H2O" in the little TheaterGym space.

I chatted with one of the ticket guys, a transplanted New Yorker who'd arrived in 1995 and, like me when I got here in 1986, had a long period of adjustment to being in the south.

"I was in sales," he explained in his obvious New York accent, "and no one wanted to buy from me because I came across as not from here. Then I found out if you went to Ukrops, if they saw you there, that meant you were okay."

The Ukrops test so to speak.

Inside, my seat was primo, last row but with no chairs in front of it for a straight shot view to the stage to see what this new theater company born out of the ashes of the old Firehouse Theater could show me.

Before the play had begun, I'd heard someone say that it had no intermission and it didn't take long to see why.

The intense two-person drama focused on a self-important, successful Hollywood actor and an uptight religious fanatic who aspires to make it as an actress and it never let up.

The question was, who needed whom?

Beginning with a thwarted suicide attempt and moving through a vanity production of "Hamlet," the story was riveting because of the strength and talent of the actors, Landon Nagel and Liz Earnest, alternately tearing at each other and falling for each other.

Add in a top-notch script and some magnificently inspired direction and you get the kind of theater that first bowls you over and then gives you plenty to chew on as you leave the theater.

This was some powerful theater executed superbly.

When the play ended, the audience sat stunned, not even clapping until the lights came back up and the actors took their bows.

As for that question of who needs whom, Richmond needs 5th Wall Theater.

This from a woman who dates herself on a Saturday night and enjoys every moment of it.

Champagne, Figs and Spock

Of course I had to find out.

So with a new chef and a new play, my evening was off to a fine start right in the neighborhood.

I met the charming man who'd invited me to dinner at Bistro 27 so we could check out the new guy slinging food at my neighborhood joint.

Chef Cory trained under Kevin at Pomegranate and I'd heard he was a big fan of organ meats, which made him sound like my kind of chef.

We started with bubbles at the bar before moving to a table amongst what was undoubtedly a room full of playgoers.

With two productions currently at the November Theater, everyone was in place by 6 to ensure being finished by 7:45.

My date told me about a recent trip to D.C. and I told him about my excursion to the Blue Ridge and we agreed that our meal goal was choosing dishes Cory had put on the menu.

So we started with his housemade sausage plate of pork and duck foie gras sausage and red wine and Parmesan sausage with mustard two ways and red pepper jelly. Outstanding, both of them.

If a man can make sausage, it's a good indicator he's my kind of man chef.

We moved on to seeing what he could do with entrees. For my friend, that meant salmon topped with scallops and a red pepper and caviar compound butter over cauliflower and anchovy puree he raved about.

For me, it was perfectly pan-seared scallops with a to die for champagne and fig demi-glace.

There were so many people in the room that hearing the music was a challenge, but every now and then something good - the XX or a samba - would come through loud and clear and we'd nod our heads in approval.

I had no intention of getting dessert but the housemade tiramisu turned out to be a weak spot for my date, so I obliged.

By the time we finished and scuttled across the street to the theater, it was almost curtain time for the Pulitzer Prize-winning "Clybourne Park" produced by Cadence Theater Company.

It's another play that's part of the Acts of Faith Festival and like Henley/Shakes' "Death and the Maiden," which I'd already seen, its inclusion was intended to be thought-provoking.

A play that takes up where "A Raisin in the Sun" left off, it tells the story of a neighborhood with race issues, which, of course, is every neighborhood in this country.

The first act was set in Chicago in 1959 when the first black family has bought a home in an all-white neighborhood ("After a reference to colored people, "Don't we say Negro now?") and the second in the same house but 50 years later ("My current commute is slowly eroding my soul") when a white couple has bought in what is now an all-black neighborhood.

Racial jokes come out but so do slurs against women, gays and even the privileged position of white men.

Everyone is uncomfortable dancing around the topic of race yet everyone manages to say something inappropriate. It's a lot like real life.

Watching the talented cast spar verbally was yet another reminder that the race card is one that still gets played far too often, even in 2014. Will we never be able to move beyond this delicate subject?

Choosing this award-winning play for the Acts of Faith festival was yet another reminder of Cadence's strength as an upstart theater company.

An uneasy topic in a well-written play, superbly acted and touching on the kind of sensitive issue that, like a scab, needs to be picked at again and again until we finally see it healed.

We can't fix what we don't acknowledge and a play like this reminds us we need to talk about the very things that make us the most uncomfortable.

After a satisfying night of theater, I said farewell to my date and went to a neighbor's Olympic party.

Despite it being in Jackson Ward, I was quite certain I wouldn't know anyone except the hosts, yet I walked in to prove that there are never more than two degrees of separation in Richmond.

Here was a favorite bartender decked out in Olympic colored balloons. There was a FOH manager looking like a silver medal. Oh, and there was a bartender of several decades with his homemade egg rolls. And the goat-loving cheese whiz who left us for Charlottesville had returned for this party. Hail, hail, the gang's all here.

I admired all the local art on my neighbors' walls, including the massive wall of albums coming down the staircase.

Everything from "Grand Funk Live" to David Bowie's "Changes" to REM's "Murmur" to Madonna's eponymous first album. Best of all, the records were still in there to be removed and played.

Only in Jackson Ward can you see "Mr. Spock's Music from Outer Space" hanging on a 19th century wall.

Or swing from a new chef to challenging theater to celebratory Olympian vodka shots without ever straying more than five blocks from home.

Color me devoted to my 'hood.

Duke's and Duck

Not that Jackson Ward isn't always ultra-cool, but tonight there was a Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright in the 'hood.

Oh, you know, it's just how we do around here.

David Lindsay-Abaire, author of "Good People," now playing at Cadence Theater Company, was talking with theater critic David Timberline at the November Theater.

An evening of the Davids and for free, I might add.

I arrived early to get an aisle seat, only to hear a local actress squeal my name. "I knew it was you by the tights!" she said, giving me a hug.

When the critic asked the playwright how he liked Richmond (it was his first visit), he was quick to respond. "It's cold!"

Amen, buddy, I'm freezing in these cute tights over here.

The conversation between the two Davids began with DLA talking about his south Boston working class roots, the same as the characters in "Good People."

When asked how much of the play was autobiographical, he answered, "None of it and all of it!" and admitted it took him years to get up the nerve to write about his hometown.

Explaining that he'd gotten a scholarship to a toney suburban private school when he was in 7th grade, he said he'd found the kids there living in a completely different world, one where they went to the Bahamas or skiing over winter break and he watched TV for two weeks.

That sense of being an alien in a foreign world has been the underpinning of his work ever since. "All my plays are about me, about people finding themselves in an upside down world."

When asked what winning the Pulitzer Prize had done for him, he downplayed it, saying, "It's more about people's perceptions of me. And I get invited to nicer parties. But it adds a little pressure, too."

Because he's also done screenplays ("Shrek"), he was asked which he prefers doing. "Nothing is more satisfying than writing a straight play because it's all about me, alone. With film, it's never about me. And writing a musical is like trying to change a tire while it's rolling downhill."

He should know since he wrote "Shrek, the Musical," which Virginia Rep is producing this season.

He got the biggest applause when he said that when he starts writing a play, he thinks about whether his protagonist needs to be male or not and if not, always make her female. "I always write for a woman."

Thank god for men like that.

At the end of the talk, critic David gave author David a Ukrop's bag with Duke's mayonnaise, a Duke's apron and, what else, a Duke's cookbook because nothing says Richmond like our favorite fatty, local condiment.

I kid.

Many in the audience were going next door to see "Good People" after the talk, but since I'd already seen it, I changed neighborhoods to Carytown to meet up with Pru at Amour.

There were no Pulitzer prize winners to be found, just a lot of French-speaking people because apparently it was the night where they all gather to do that.

My first order of business was a glass of Laurent Dauphin Champagne because it's election day and despite being the 281st voter in my precinct this morning, I was still worried that I'd wake up tomorrow morning with my hard-eraned reproductive rights in shambles.

So technically, I was drinking for my girl parts.

Pru arrived and joined me at a bar table for bubbles, all seats at the bar taken by would-be frogs.

She was coming directly from a date, but began with a story about having recently been to Max's on Broad with another date.

I got to hear the gory details of non-existent lighting, multiple incorrect bottles of wine brought and tepid French onion soup as pale as a bev nap instead of nicely browned.

Her story made me hungry so I ordered a bowl of French onion soup with luscious Comte, a complete contrast to the soup she'd choked down.

Listening to all the French being spoken around us led to Pru saying how challenging it would be to hear a Frenchman teaching math, "You know, up there talking about integers and whatnot."

It's a good night when "integers" are part of the punch line.

Next we had flatiron steak gougeres with caramelized onions in Roquefort puff pastry, a dish I've savored before but which Pru had yet to experience.

As I told her, that demonstrates that she's not been out for enough happy hours recently since they've been on Amour's new happy hour menu for a few weeks now.

We followed that with duck macaroni and cheese, an elegant take on classic comfort food whose richness soon had her moaning, "I feel indulged."

Not to point out the obvious, but what woman doesn't want to feel indulged in any way possible?

Once our server saw us pause, he came over to see where we stood. "I've had an elegant sufficiency," Pru proclaimed and the dish was whisked away.

When I told her about running into an ex-date on my date last night, she trumped me by saying she'd once gone into a bar only to find there were five men at the bar whom she'd dated.

Five!

I'd call that an inelegant sufficiency of men...and a bar I'd steer clear of from then on.

Especially now that our girl parts are safe for another four years.

Legs M.I.A.

My legs were covered day and night and that tells the whole story.

Sunday night, it was a black burnt velvet dress (purchased by a former boyfriend back in 1997 at Lex's in Carytown) that ended at my feet, the better to fit in for the black-tie Richmond Theater Critics Circle awards (aka the Artsies) at the November Theater.

Considering that my skirts always end well above the knees, my full-length attire was cause for comment.

"You look beautiful but what did you do with your legs?" I was asked in the lobby pre-show.

Put them away for the night?

After hearing that I looked swanky, I explained that that's like telling someone they look casual. I got an amended, "You look really good," far more complimentary to my ears.

One of the evening's hosts, Michael Hawke, came onstage and yelled, "Good evening, Richmond bitches!" setting the tone for a raucous evening celebrating local theater.

Not that I'm partial or anything, but Matt and Maggie, hosts of the monthly Ghost Light Afterparty, did some of the funniest awards presenting, using every possible opportunity to crack wise.

"Look at this! Everyone's in costume, everyone's wasted, clearly this is GLAP!" Matt joked before Maggie clarified it was the Artsies.

When they went to announce their first award, he yelled, "Wait! We have to have a drum roll!" and pulled out the GLAP bongos a familiar sight to regulars.

"I'm still not convinced this isn't the GLAP," Matt said, playing it to the hilt. "I'm pretty sure I saw Karen at the bar."

"I'm gonna go look for Karen!" Maggie said, using me as an excuse to leave her hosting duties and get a drink.

And while I wasn't at the bar (I was in my seat like a good attendee), it's always good to get a solid shout-out from the GLAP crew.

As if an evening with my assets hidden wasn't enough, I took a day to go to the country to traipse through the woods at the invitation of a friend.

The invite came with a warning, though.

"I know you're not fond of long pants but I'm going to recommend you wear a pair and some shoes suitable for hiking so we can trek through the wilderness."

What are these long pants you speak of, friend?

But I took the caveat to heart, went to Diversity Thrift and found a pair of jeans that I was told looked straight out of the disco.

Hip-huggers, multiple zippered pockets front and back, wide bell-bottoms and only $5.25, they were about as groovy (and cheap) as they come.

If there'd been a disco on the other side of the state forest, I could have gone there directly.

Instead, I spent most of a day wearing jeans, so rare an occurrence for me that I can tell you the last time I had denim obliterating a view of my gams.

February 2009.

I'm not expecting to put jeans back on again anytime soon, because what's the point in having good legs and not showing them off? Twice was more than enough.

Okay, maybe if I get invited to the disco.