I never liked the opera, but it was that time again. It was time for our annual pilgrimage into the city for some of what Jennifer calls culture. It was time for me to drag my feet and resist... Yeah, like resisting would do any good.
I don't know she ever got me to agree to it, but this was the deal I made. One weekend a year, she was completely in charge. I had to go along with whatever she planned, and do it with a smile... even if that smile was as phony as a three-dollar toupee.
Oh, and that word culture. My wife never uses that term to talk about something growing in a petri dish. Whenever she uses the word culture, it always seems to involve miserable tuxedo clad men cringing while some ugly fat woman screams at the top of her lungs. If I ever meet the man who told my wife that opera is culture, I think I'd have to just go ahead and punch him in the dick.
I suppose I shouldn't complain. I was the one that agreed she could take charge, and a deal is a deal. Besides, she only drags me off for one of these so-called cultural outings once a year or so. If I can't live through a couple of hours at an opera to make her happy, what sort of husband would I be? Still though, ugh... opera.
So like every other year I did what I had to and wrenched my tux out from the back of the closet. I even got out that hoity-toity little whiskbroom, and dusted it off for a change. I figured doing the little extras in getting ready might entice Jennifer into some hot culture trip sex.
Well, I no sooner got the damn monkey suit cleaned up and stuffed back in the garment bag, when Jennifer grabbed it from my hand and hauled it back to the closet.
"There's been slight change of plans sweetie." She proudly announced as she tucked my tuxedo back into its usual resting place. "We aren't going to the opera, and I'll be doing the packing for both of us this trip."
"Don't forget to..." I started to reminder her to pack something sexy to wear to bed before she butted in...
"I said I'm doing the packing. I know exactly what you need. Don't worry. You are just going to have to trust me this weekend, okay?"
Okay... So the good news was, it seemed that my wife had changed her mind as to what counted as culture. It looked as if opera was no longer on the table. The bad news was she specifically had to tell me to trust her. That meant she had something up her sleeve, and there's a whole litany of things I know I dislike even more than opera.
The first thing that came to mind was the fucking ballet. Jennifer managed to drag my ass a ballet once. There was no way I was going to be able to make myself sit all the way through another one of those tippy-toed dance recitals. I didn't think she would try that again, but truthfully I had no idea what she was up to.
For me, knowing my wife has a secret is bad. It's like kryptonite to me. My mind was going nuts trying to figure out what she could be planning. All I could think of was that some shithead actually figured out a way to combine ballet with opera. I had to look it up, but I found that shit is real, and of course it's a fucking French thing.
Leave it to the French to come up with something worse than either the opera or a ballet. They simply call it Operas-ballet. I would call it weaponized stage art. I mean it's obvious that no heterosexual man could possibly live through such an ordeal, all the while those swishy Frenchmen smile at their hideous creation, sip tiny coffees, and think about redecorating.
Last year, I thought her standing over me to make sure I packed everything I needed to attend an opera was bad, but this was much worse. Jennifer had taken complete control of everything this year and my imagination was working overtime. Worst of all she wouldn't even give me a single solitary clue about what she was up to.
Apparently, what she had planned was some kind of closely guarded national secret. I could only guess and then worry. Lots and lots of worry. I mean, what could be worse than some pretentious shit called Parlez Vous Operas-ballet?
Then I remembered the time she drug me off to the city for something called a buskers festival. That was the time we watched mime after mime bore everyone half to death. Not even the swishy French are immune to death by those talentless fuckers.
The suspense was killing me. I just had to know. So I pestered Jennifer for details, but she wouldn't give in. All she would say is that we would be doing something I had once told her I wanted to do, but then she would clam up and say nothing else. Other than that one vague statement, she never offered another clue.
Even during our drive into the city, she refused to answer any of my questions. All she would say was that I needed to keep an open mind, and it was going to be the biggest surprise ever.
Not until we were at our hotel did she start to fill me in on what kind of culture this particular trip's venue was going to include. It was as we were settling into our room that Jennifer finally decided I was allowed to know a few details about what her weekend in charge would entail.
"So I suppose I should let you know what you are in for this weekend." My wife's voice echoed off the bathroom walls as she set out her toiletries.
Please don't let it be the theater... Please don't let it be the theater. I repeatedly pleaded with myself.
"For starters we have a reservation at Sushi Mod." Jennifer stopped what she was doing and looked around the doorway with a raised brow, hoping I would be excited. "It's supposed to be in the top ten of all sushi places in the country. Sherri told me that even Jim thought it was fun."
Thank god it's not the theater, I thought to myself as I relaxed a bit. "Hey if Jim liked the place," I said, smartly omitting what I almost blurted out about the theater. "The food can't be all that bad. You know what he always says... "If it they ain't servin' some old dead cow with taters the place ain't for me."
Jennifer laughed. "Your imitation of Jim is dead on. He does say that. Just like you just did. That's too funny. But you know Jim didn't actually say he liked the food at Sushi Mod. He just said the place was fun."
"I'll take that. You know we can always use a bit of fun, even if they ain't grillin' an old dead cow." I responded, still poking fun at our friend Jim.
"Okay stop picking on Jim and Sherri and get ready." Jennifer looked at the time. "I made our dinner reservations for five o'clock. That way we can make it to the next thing at on my list."
"It's not the theater is it? Please tell me it's not the theater." I felt myself tensing up again.
