Gong!! It's Valentine's Day!

V-Day kind of sneaked (snuck?? I'm always so tempted to say snuck) up on me. Luckily I'm married to an understanding man who's happy with a gourmet caramel apple and a card from the grocery store (lovingly inscribed). He, on the other hand, outdid himself this year.

Not only did he get me an iPod Nano--on sale at RC Willinson's (long story, a guy Forrest worked with once upon a time called it that in all seriousness and it kinda stuck)--but friends of ours, Dana and Joel, scored 4th row tickets for Ballet West's production of Madame Butterfly so he surprised me with a stylin' night out on the town.

My mom and dad showed up right as we were getting ready to go so they could give the kids their totally-awesome-Grandparents'-bag-o-VDay-loot, and my mom took one look at Forrest and said, "You look so handsome we absolutely have to take a picture! . . . Oh, and you look nice too Angie." (I'm just giving you a bad time, Mom. I know you saw Forrest first, which totally explains it . . . right?? :-).

So my mom was going to take a picture but with my heels on I was so tall that she would have been coming at me from the bottom up angle, which is SO not the angle members of the Sweat family should employ, so I made my dad take the picture instead. And Forrest does look killer hot.



We headed downtown with Dana and Joel and, miracle of miracles, were able to get a table at the Blue Iguana for dinner in under 30 minutes. Pessimistic me was muttering under her breath that there would be NO WAY we'd get a table downtown on Valentine's without a reservation, but this was an example of a time I was happy to be wrong. Our waiter was pleasant and super fast, we scarfed down our burritos and Cokes, and we still had 30 minutes left to run across the street (okay, well, the guys ran, and I teetered along in my too-high-for-winter-downtown-running heels) (I have a feeling this post is going to set a record for parenthetical asides and humorous-adjectives-connected-with-hyphens).

The main attraction of the night was Madame Butterfly, but there was an opening act, too. An Asian-influenced contemporary ballet called "Gong."



The costumes were created by Isaac Mizrahi, which made me feel cool because SO WERE MY TOO HIGH HEELS! (Target, sale rack, $19).

I was really enjoying myself--I love contemporary dance, and I feel well qualified to say this because I watch So You Think You Can Dance faithfully every summer--but halfway through my friend Dana leaned over and whispered, "This is so not what we were expecting." And I whispered back (wondering if she was suffering from we-invited-them-so-we're-responsible-if-they-don't-like-it-itis), "I'm really enjoying it. I like contemporary dance." And she said, "Yeah, but it's so hard to follow the story. Last time we came there were costumes and sets and . . . "

And then it hit me that she and Joel didn't realize this was the opening act. This wasn't Madame Butterfly. By then a couple was doing a completely silent routine (no music--very avant-garde and super cool) and we had to stop talking, so I ran my finger under the part of the program where it said, "Also Featuring Mark Morris' Gong." Once the realization hit her she started to giggle a little and elbowed her husband, who was also as confused as all get out. During intermission, Joel kept saying, "I'm a pretty smart guy, and I'm SO not getting this! Who's the Geisha? Who's Lieutenant Pinkerton? Why does everyone else seem to be following all this?" Anyway, it was funny, in a ballet humor kind of way.

Madame Butterfly itself was just wonderful. Great costumes and set design (whew!) and the female lead was amazing. There's a 10 minute or so pas-de-deux (see, now that I go to the ballet AND watch So You Think You Can Dance, I throw around all kinds of technical dance terminology) between Butterfly and her American "husband" Pinkerton right after the marriage ceremony that's incredibly passionate and demanding--lifts and leaps and bounding all over the stage--and both leads were astonishing in their stamina and strength.

And who would have thought the ballet would make you cry? But it did. Madame Butterfly is a classic tragedy, and we read the synopsis beforehand so we'd know what to expect . . . but when Butterfly hands over her darling little blond boy to Pinkerton's "new" American wife before she kills herself?? I mean, do you have a heart of stone? Kleenexes! So she hands her beloved child over, you start crying, then she takes a giant sword and stabs herself, raises her blood covered arms in the air, dies, Pinkerton dashes in and falls in a heap on the floor and BOOM! Over. Not even enough time to recover your composure. Classic tragedy. But man, it was good.

So that was our Valentine's night, full of complimentary mothers-in-law, efficient Mexican waiters, Isaac Mizrahi design, contemporary dance misunderstandings, and lifts and leaps and betrayals and bloody suicides.

'Twas all very romantic.