Les Miserables

Last night Chat took me to see the play Les Miserables. "Can I go in my jeans?" "No mom. You know better than that." Well, growing up I used to go to the barrio fiesta and we had what we called "drama" as the main entertainment for the village people. I'd go there barefoot (not by choice) with my mothballs-preserved fiesta dress. "Daaang, that means I have to wear a black dress and shoes?" Well, I did. I had to.  Other people would look hot in a black dress, me? It just makes my hot flashes worse.

This was my first time to be at the Bass Performance Hall in Fort Worth, about a 45 minute drive from where I live. After Chat handed the key to her Mercedes 550 to a valet, I got out and tried to walk straight, pretended I am civilized and cultured, while praying for the Imodium and Benadryl to work properly. The place was packed. The play started and as my usual, like in the movies, I always try to pick which actor I think is sexy. But this one, I didn't find any because they were dressed funny.  During the intermission which I thought was the end, Chat looked at me and said: "It's intermission." She had to say it, in case I wasn't sure. I got up anyway. "Mom, you going to the bathroom?" "No, I'm going home." "It's not over." "It's over for me."

She followed me to the lobby and I told her she can go back and I'll wait outside. "People would look at you funny sitting here." "Then I'll lie down and  tell them I have diarrhea." "Mom, the cliche 'you can't take the girl back to the farm after she has seen Paris' doesn't work for you. I can't take you anywhere." True dat. So she punished  me and bought me Mcdonalds to go, instead of the French dinner she promised. "Well, you didn't finish the play." And this is what I got  stretchmarks for?