Thursday, July 3, 2014

Culture. And Whatnot.

I suck at guestimating ages.
I can never tell how old people are. Especially men. Especially men who are in their 50's and older.
I just can't tell.

I spend almost all my time with women.
And my department at work is where everyone is under 30.

So if I'm with a friend, I'll point to a guy and say, "How old?"
And because they are married, they know. They just know the signs re: greyness, baldness, bellyness, wrinkles. And black socks.

I've tried to learn from their clues.
I still suck though.

Today, on my way home from work, I saw a man sitting on the low log fence that outlines the green space at the top of my road. As I slowed down to stop at the stop sign right in front of him, I did my guessing game.

He looked to be about my age.
And he was tanning.
He had no shirt on, and his tanned  belly was hanging over the waistband of his navy shorts.
His shorts weren't that young, long, boarder, style - they were shorter. Mid-thigh. One color. Navy.
He had no socks or shoes on. And his legs were tanned. He was sitting with his arms spread out on either side of him, holding onto the logs. And his legs were apart as well - you know, like guys usually sit.

And then as I came to a complete stop, a police car passed me. I nodded, looked both ways before proceeding and took another look at the guy. He was almost all skin except for his navy shorts. And uh, well, WUT? Is his fly gaping open? Am I seeing skin? Or skin colored boxers? Or GASP. What the heck dude. Do you know that lil Willy is peeking out?

I wanted to turn around as soon as I passed him so I could do a drive by and take a phone pic. And send it to the cop THAT I JUST PASSED ON THE SAME CORNER.

I didn't.
I had a supper to make.

I peeled potatoes and chopped onions then put the ham and scalloped potatoes in the oven, made the salad, put more make up on, changed my clothes, set the table then got in my truck.

I was having Mandi, Amy and Danica for supper and DID NOT WANT THEM TRAUMATIZED as they pulled into the neighbourhood. I had to make sure lil Willy and his owner were not on display at the top of my hill.

He was gone.


(And not that I'm an expert at these things, but, seriously? That was a tiny spec of male equipment.)


After a quick dinner, we headed into Vancouver for A Midummer Night's Dream at Bard on the Beach.

Happy, contented sigh.

After taking pics and buying snacks, we went into the tent and found our seats. SO much better now that they have assigned seating. None of this business of lining up for hours before hand. It's civil now. 

The stage:

These were the guys that were sitting right in front of us.

I took their pic because they seemed to be exactly not the type of men who would go to Bard on the Beach. Shorts. Flipflops. Shaved heads. Long beards. Piercings. Tattoos. Drinking beer. 

Why were they not in some pub playing pool. They looked like bikers. (Hogs. Not crotch rockets.) 

I know. 
I know.

I am stereo-typing them, and that's totally not fair. 

But I was kinda delighted to have my stereotypical assumptions blown apart. 

So while I sat behind them, I tried to figure out their ages. 
Because this is my new game. 
And I wondered if they were enjoying the presentation. 

Maybe they were English teachers?
Or maybe they just loved Shakespeare?

And then, they held hands. And stroked each other's legs. And I lost interest in the play because I just had another stereotypical assumption explode. 

I know less than nothing. 

TV sitcoms have let me down. 

Anyway, eventually my attention wandered back to the stage, where those actors where acting their guts out.

Such a fun production. 
Puck? Is a scene stealer. So awesome. 
And Bottom? Does an excellent job of dying. (No spoiler alert required. Everyone knows he dies.)
And the costumes? The best. I've been going to Bard for about 8 years, and this year's costumes were stunning. Absolutely gorgeous.

And while I'm at, just to prove to you that I was paying attention, the music. The music was contemporary and was a character unto itself. It provided additional comic relief.

Truly a great evening.

Even if you're not a Shakespeare fan, I'd recommend going. 

Three things I'm thankful for:

1. Fridge full of left overs. Ham and scalloped potatoes for the next week.

2. Actors. And directors. And playwrights. And musicians. And costume designers.

3. Amy, Mandi and Danica. Love these girls. 


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