It might not be immediately apparent, due to my fascination with Felix the Cat, Christina Aguilera's butt crack, and Madge "Purple is the new purple" Ritchie's fashion false steps, but I'm something of a culture vulture.
In the last week, I have attended a ladies-who-lunch luncheon cum program, a ladies-who-dine dinner cum program, and a performance of the Lyric Opera of Chicago. In addition, I agreed to serve on the committee for Yet Another Arts Organization's annual benefit.
This was all a lot of fun. Especially the luncheon, where we were treated to a lecture by the wardrobe mistress followed by a fashion show where performers modeled costumes from upcoming productions. Oh my word, they were exquisite. The costumes, I mean--although the performers were also strikingly good looking. But the colors! The drape and swoosh of the silk brocade and velvet! The hand-beading--I'm telling you, a Galliano couture show has nothing on it. I have no idea why the workmanship on these costumes is as good as it is--no one but the other performers ever gets close enough to appreciate them--but now that I've seen a few costumes up close, I want to go on a backstage tour.
Wednesday night was an evening program devoted to the art of the sampler, and very interesting it was, too.
Last night was Manon Lescaut at the Lyric, and what a fabulous production. Karita Mattila was incredible as Manon, which is a terribly difficult role--it makes huge demands on the lead singers. But Mattila sounded fantastic and looked wonderful. (So much easier to believe that the hero falls in love with her at first sight when the singer doesn't have Dame Joan Sutherland's face on top of Jane Eaglen's body. Meow.)
Well. Aren't I just the most la-dee-dah artsy-fartsy chi-chi-poo-poo thing you've ever heard of? I mean, if she hadn't already died, Jackie O would definitely be calling me up looking for tips, you know?
So this morning, as I lay basking in my culture vulture-dom, I decided to balance my checkbook. I wanted to make sure I had the funds to pay for my latest eBay win--something I totally sniped and pretty much stole. This did not involve a lot of money.
Well. I discovered that on Thursday, when I paid the dentist for the torture he'd been inflicting on me, I used the wrong checkbook. So tomorrow I have to make a mad dash to the bank to get a cashier's check and slap it into the other checking account before my dentist sends his leg-breakers to my house to bash my knees--or maybe just pry off the crowns he just installed.
So. While I'm a true Culture Vulture, happily guzzling down all the cultural carrion I encounter, I am also, apparently, a Financial Finch, blithely hopping about from branch to branch and forgetting to ask myself whether the account has sufficient funds before I write the check.
The good news is that my daughter told me this morning that she likes her music LOUD. And she's now ensconced in her bedroom singing along--LOUDLY--to some cheesey Kids Pop CD--covers of songs that should never have been recorded in the first place. I mean--"Car Wash," forsooth.
I don't mean to get all metaphysical here, but HOW can so much bad taste reside in something so small?
My hope is that since she clearly is Nowheresville--at least as regards the arts--she will probably end up the next Suze Orman. At the very least, she'll be a financial whiz, even if she isn't a best-selling author.
And maybe she'll be able to teach me to balance my checkbook.