Yes, Broadway Bares is once again upon us. You can always tell because the streets of Hell’s Kitchen are paved with withered up chorus boys who’ve all blacked out from malnutrition as the result of starving themselves for the main event. I’ll be glad when it’s all over. None of my friends will go to dinner with me! They’ve all been fasting. Like it's their wedding.
I, on the other hand, will be watching Sunday night’s show comfortably from the audience of Roseland Ballroom in my stretchy, drawstring, maternity sweats with a margarita in one hand and a margarita in the other. Cuz that’s how I roll.
Speaking of rolls... On my walk home from stuffing my face at dinner last night, I decided the best way to digest the 80 pounds of food I’d just inhaled was to melt it all down with some Cold Stone Creamery ice cream. Soooo not on my Summer diet, but fuck you. I love that crack so much. And I rarely indulge, so I figured I’d treat myself. It was originally a toss up between the “Mud Pie Mojo” and “Coffee Lover’s Only” flavors, but I wound up trying something new. I believe it was called “Fat Ass’s Wet Dream for Fat People Who Can’t Stop Eating,” or something. I don’t even know. It was the most magical ice cream creation I’ve ever known. I think it had fried chicken in it. Amazing.
I’m usually able to calm the overwhelming twinges of guilt I feel as I’m ordering at that place (especially after requesting the “Love it” size rather than the “Like it” size, when I know I should be asking for the “Do I really need it” size) UNTIL my Cold Stone attendant starts flappin’ his trap; saying things like, “Do you want me to put this in two separate bowls so you can share it?” Or, “Shall I throw in some extra spoons for this?” Or, “Would you like to pick out a set of little plastic bride and groom figurines to put on top of this wedding cake you’ve just ordered for yourself, fat-ass?”
No, thank you and shut up! I’ll not be sharing with anyone. I’ll be eating it alone in my apartment with the curtains drawn. And I’ll be naked and crying. Just give me the crack and let me get the hell out of here!
Speaking of fat... Oprah is my kind of cover girl. (Forget Nick Adams. Sweet gal, but I can't relate.) I love all the creative ways they’ve come up with to flatter her on the cover of O Magazine since she’s ballooned. The hair keeps getting bigger, the skirts keep getting flowier, and there’s always a strategically placed object in the forefront to make Oprah look smaller – like a tree or the First Lady. This month they’ve simply covered her with hundreds of dogs. I don’t even think she loves dogs that much. I think she’s just smart enough to realize how slimming they can be. So, taking a cue from Big O, I leave you with the cover of the Summer Diet/Dog Lovers issue of R Magazine, on which I reveal my brand new Summer figure! See you at Bares!!