Last night I was lucky enough to score a ticket to the opening night performance of Driving Miss Daisy (Thanks Keri, I totally owe you sexual favors). I don’t know that I have a whole lot to say about the show other than I LOVE JAMES EARL JONES. I would watch him read articles from a medical journal.
By the by, I totally don’t buy that guy as Darth Vader. He’s about as evil as changing the Star Wars theme into a Beethoven song is necessary. Have you ever heard his laugh? I swear when he giggled the lights grew brighter. I can’t believe I didn’t get the chance to lick him.
I DO have something to say about the after-party, though. Even though I was woefully under-dressed, they still let me into The Plaza Hotel. Me. In the mother fucking Plaza Hotel. With an open bar. I was more excitable than Eloise herself.
So there I was, happily enjoying my cocktail, watching some crazy lady steal a chair from Brian Dennehy, and wondering how I managed to luck myself into this fete, when it started. Everyone kept talking about the potato salad. (Looks sternly at Bridget. Again.)
“How’s the food?”
“It’s ok, but the potato salad is excellent.”
“Did you try the chicken?”
“It’s so dry compared to the potato salad.”
“Me too, but I can’t resist more of that potato salad.”
Now to those of you that didn’t read yesterday’s comments, this probably seems like a boring and mundane detail. But for those of you that clicked through on Bridget’s link, you know I was chanting the words “Solid Potato Salad” and envisioning freakishly bendy pig-tailed girls each time someone took a bite of oily white wedges.
And it happened a LOT.
Because sharing is caring, I want each and every one of you to have this same reaction to potato salad. Next summer, when you’re sitting down on a park bench with your tub of potato salad you’ll whisper, “Solid Potato Salad,” curse Bridgett briefly, then sit back and let those Ross Sisters back-bend their way through the deepest recesses of your mind. You are welcome.
Prepare yourself. You’re going to watch this seventeen times and still not fully understand all that is happening.
I KNOW. So just to recap: what do I remember most about my fleeting affair with high society and crystal champagne flutes? Red shoes, gingham shorts, and the horrifying realization that the human body is a seriously freaky thing.
That, and I’m way taller than Glenn Close.