I just simply refuse to put up with the traffic, the construction and the grit of New York City, unless I am also taking advantage of the perks… like the restaurants, the museums and live theater.
Which is how my husband and I ended up at the Soho Playhouse on Saturday night, to see, “Life in a Marital Institution (20 years of monogamy in one terrifying hour).” Yes. Actual title.
An off-broadway one man show – apparently about marriage and all its terror.
My husband Rick seemed a little apprehensive about the show, especially as we were directed to the front row. When you’re in a small, intimate theater, about to view something that could be just awful, it’s always better to NOT be in the first row. Because the front row means NO EXIT STRATEGY.
I was sort of expecting a humorous look at the institution of marriage and family life… you know, funny musings that would suddenly remind me that I’m not the only who once in a while wouldn’t mind skipping the 10 millionth trip to the playground and instead, being instantly transported to Rome where I tear around on my pink Vespa, only stopping to eat chocolate croissants and drink cappuccinos and charm the Italians who for some reason can’t stop complimenting me and my model-esque physique.
Turns out, there was no mention of Vespas or croissants.
But the playwright and star, James Braly, did talk about his wife, who made him crazy by breastfeeding their two sons until one was 6 years-old and the other 4-years-old. Now I’m a huge advocate of breastfeeding but that does sound a trifle long.
Braly’s wife also insisted on burying one of their son’s placenta – which at the time had been in their freezer for 3 years. Turns out she wasn’t so odd though, because the rest of their friends were grilling and eating their kids’ placentas.
Yup. We got to hear all about this from the the front row.
The thing about the first row is that you can see the actor constantly spitting as he passionately delivers his lines, which is sort of distracting.
Plus, I had to pee for the entire 70 minute show, which is entirely too short a production to get up and make a big production. I mean, wouldn’t they think I had a urinary tract infection or something? Who can’t sit through a 70 minute show?
So I just kind of sat there, laughing at the sharp writing, watching the saliva fly and waiting to pee.
Now you see why we stay in New York City.
On the way out, a pretty girl stopped Rick to ask, “Are you Rick Folbaum?”
Of course, she was an old camp friend because everyone and their stepmother went to Jewish overnight camp with Rick. For all I know, Rick and this camp girl are now planning a romantic excursion to Rome, to ride their matching Vespas, because while they chatted it up, I high tailed it to the ladies room – to finally pee.
mama bird notes:
If you haven’t had a chance, check out Contributing Mama Erin Butler’s post on when to take the leap from one baby to two. Click on contributing mamas to read more.