I feel horrible. If any of you are opera fan’s please give me a chance to explain. We all have our likes and dislikes, we all need to try new things now and again, right? I mean I grew up in Ohio. My mother’s idea of cuisine from different cultures was heating up Chow Mein from a can and tossing a bag of crispy noodles on top. What does that have to do with opera? Absolutely nothing. Kidding– I’ll connect it momentarily. Later, when I moved to New York City at 18, I decided to give Chinese food, which I THOUGHT I hated, another chance. And I realized there was quite a range of Chinese food– that I actually did love it, and never again have I been served Chow Mein in a can. (Sorry mom).

I’m also an ex-actress. I love the theatre, but I’m so-so on musicals. Or so I thought. This year I’ve gone to quite a few Broadway musicals, Sweeney Todd, Avenue Q, The Putnam County Spelling Bee, Grey Gardens etc. And– I really enjoyed them– again, quite a range. What does that have to do with opera? Sorry, can you hold on a tad longer?

AND I’ve gone to a couple of “straight” plays, which I prefer over musicals and they’ve been horrible, draining, depressing wastes of time.

I think yesterday I’ve mentioned I have a date tonight. Well, this afternoon. I have a 4pm date. I feel horribly guilty, but I’ve already started judging him based on three things.

1. He doesn’t capitalize ANYTHING in his emails, not even names

2. He’s voluntarily bald

3. He’s an opera singer. AHA– A CONNECTION! SHALLOW, SHALLOW, SHALLOW AND JUDGMENTAL– BUT IT IS A CONNECTION.

I hate the opera. I’m sorry, I just do.

Of course I’ve only been once. And I fell asleep.

I know, I know, I know, you’re all thinking it’s no wonder I’m single, and it’s okay, I can take it. But hear me out. When I asked him what capital letters had ever done to him (with a smiley face so he couldn’t be too offended by the question even though it really was annoying me– I’m a writer for God sakes, is it really that hard to capitalize the ‘P’ in Phil or the ‘M’ in Mary?)– he said, he guesses it’s because he’s not a good typist and “for the sake of expediency” he doesn’t bother to use them. And I can’t help it, but it makes me wonder– what else does the guy not bother with for “the sake of expediency?” Does this have ramifications in the Boudior? (For the sake of expediency we are now going to skip all foreplay).

Why is he voluntarily bald? It’s winter. If you’re naturally bald, okay, you get a bit of the sympathy vote as long as you’re not sporting a toupe or a comb-over. But on purpose? What’s with that? What if I’m sitting across from him and a huge light is shining down and I’m blinded? Why is it that when Brittany Spears shaves off her hair, everyone is like, that girl needs serious help!!!!!!!!, but when a guy does it, he’s sexy? I suppose he shaved his hair off for the sake of expediency. Shampooing, combing, conditioning, on and off with the opera wigs– what a pain that must be with a full head of hair, huh?

And will he go around singing all the time? Will he sing my shower? Will he break up with me by way of an aria? Will he lapse into Italian and put me to sleep? Will he belt out his orgasms? Will all his friends come over to my dinner parties and shatter my new wine glasses?

Am I being unreasonable now ladies? I mean let’s face it– a musician– sexy. Give me a jazz player, give me a man with a guitar– yes! If you read my first book, She’ll Take It, (See how I slid that shameless self promotion right in there?) you’ll find my heroine Melanie is a sucker for musicians. I don’t blame her. They’re irresistable.

But have you ever said to yourself– be honest– I’ve just got to jump that voluntarily bald opera singer? Hand over those binoculars sister get a load of that belter. Isn’t it lovely how the chandelier is reflecting off his smooth egg-shaped head? Have you?

And then, when I was telling my friend Laura about this upcoming date– she said “I don’t blame you, opera singers don’t drink alcohol. Wreaks havoc on their singing.”

WHAT? No cocktails? No drinking on the first date? But that’s a requirement– like meeting in a public place, not discussing your past dates, and pretending to be terribly interested in everything they have to say. Belting out sustained notes might do it for you mister, but I’d like to belt back a few martinis! I thought, well maybe he’s a slacker. Maybe he’s not a real opera singer. Maybe he just yodels and won’t be able to resist a Guinness.

No such luck. We’re meeting at 4 for coffee.

Will this be like the can of Chow Mein, or will I like his range? Will I suddenly be buying opera glasses, investing in beaded floor-length gowns, and signing up for season tickets at the Met? I’d like to say yes. I’d like to get over my judgments. But, for the sake of expediency, I’m just going to have to admit– it’s probably never going to happen. I’ll go on the date. I’ll be very polite. I’ll ask for my latte extra scalding so I can excuse the weird looks on my face– But I foresee it’s going to end a painful, slow death, which he’s never going to understand– just like my experience of the opera.

Okay enough about that. The flowers were yellow roses. So we have a couple of choices. I can give away a half a deck of Tarot cards to those who guessed roses– OR we can move on to fruit. I’m thinking of a fruit. (More opera singing jokes coming– stop them, stop them)……

Give me your fruit guesses. IF noone guesses the fruit, I will ask Haven to put everyone’s name in a hat, (everyone who replied to this posting) and there will be a winner no matter what. Write me and scold me for my opera intolerance. I can take it.