When we don’t score a babysitter for a hot night out on the town, Friday night around these here parts is about making a terrific meal, sitting down with a drink (or 7,000) and enjoying a movie or OnDemand concert with the husband.
We’re completely out of control like that. Stop us and our madness!
This past Friday was special. It was special not because I said “Hey, let’s make out” and my husband said “Okay.” It was special because there was so little on television that we actually decided to watch Motley Crue in concert.
Just drunk enough? Yes.
So I called my sister, the world’s biggest Motley Crue fan, to tell her what we were up to, but she didn’t pick up her cell phone. She was probably too busy watching the concert herself to bother with the likes of us. After all, why should she, a true fan, waste her breath on someone like me, who she has publicly chastised for loving bands like Duran Duran, Erasure and the like?
I mean, I was that mooorrrrron who wasn’t sure whether the caged drummer was in the so-called best band on the planet (Note to Mom: Please do not leave a comment on this site a la “Everybody knows the best band on the planet is the Golden Band from Tigerland.” I beg you to refrain.) or Def Leppard. Clearly, I am an individual in dire need of help in the coolness department.
Or, it could be that my sister didn’t answer because she was doing something interesting on a Friday night.
At any rate, after watching what I watched I have to say this: I did not watch all of it. I could not. And there is a reason for that. Rather than tell my sister, “Oh my God, your favorite band in the world sucks harder than anything I’ve ever put in my boom box. How could you pay actual money to see that?” I emailed her something really mature, something along the lines of “Um, Vince Neil is a fat turd.” To which she replied: “No kidding. Nasty bastard, isn’t he?” To which I replied, “Uh, YES.”
To which she replied: “Did it show all the aging groupies in the audience?” (Translated: Oooh!!! Did you see MEEEEE??)
I said: “Yes. It was creepy.” (Translated: No. I did not see you.)
She said: “Imagine being there.” (Translated: Damn it. I worked so hard on that “Sixx’s Tricks” shirt.)
I didn’t reply. (Translated: No way man. I wasted my date night on that crap. That was enough. Icky!!!)
And then I got an email from her asking for my recipe for thumbprint cookies. (Translated: Duran Duran still sucks and you’re a lame-ass bubblegum-pop-loving nerd. Eat it, loser. You’re not deep because you listened to the Cocteau Twins.)
Anyway, yeah: Date night. There you have it. Here’s hoping we surface a sitter by this Friday.