Cold Calls. So very Glengarry Glen Ross.

I like to support the arts. When I can afford to. Wouldn't you know that, in February, I went and saw Hairspray - off Broadway - with a friend of mine when it was in town. Is "it" the friend or Hairspray? Misplaced modifier, baby! I'm leaving it there, and you can make the call. I purchased the tickets in the will call fashion, thereby being everything but anonymous when I made the sale and eventually picked up the tickets. The box office had everything on me - including my e-mail, a local phone number, and the rights to my first born (who I'm hoping will be a girl, so I can name her Lillian like I've always wanted, before I have to give her away). So that's their procedure; I completely understand.

Hairspray was fabulous, even from the 4,000th row up, and even in the local performing arts centre, which is actually a concrete slab that happens to resemble a theatre (it turns out the same folks that did the whole Stonehenge thing were busy in Florida in the early 80s. Who knew?). So Hairspray was all of the arts I could afford in the past some odd months (ok, not really, I did more than that, but that was probably the most expensive). I am satisfied with that, too, considering all of the behind-the-scenes things that go on with yours truly (that you never read about). Wonderful - I actually had the opportunity/time to partake in a little "Good Morning Baaaaaaaaaaltimore." Good show, good bye local performing arts centre. Until next time.

In case you didn't know, there's no such thing as "good bye" from your local performing arts centre (LPAC). Maybe there's an awkward glance, but there will always be another embrace, a kiss on the cheek and a "Hey, wait a minute, wouldn't you like to buy season tickets?" - which might mean, in LPAC, "I'm pregnant. Its yours."

Here's the thing. I get a lot of mail from the LPAC. Snail mail AND e-mail. And now they call me. Every. Freaking. Week. Groovy: I like to know what's coming up. Not groovy: I can't afford season tickets, let alone bloody nose seats in a concrete palace more than once a season. How I love the phonecalls. They are totally sophisticated; they pronounce my name correctly and they make me feel a little swanky. "Classical or pops?" "Are you a liberal that looks poor but is actually a closeted Vanderbilt, or are you a conservatif that's fully loaded?" "What's your budget?" For you babes, I'm always a Vanderbilt.

Just kidding. I am polite to them. I always say something nice -an actual truth about why I'm not interested or can't be interested, and we hang up quickly. It's painless for both of us. But then...it's like it never happened, and we repeat the same conversation more frequently than this blog is read. Did I mention they contact me a lot for season tickets?

I wish I could tell them that I love them, because I think I truly do. The truth is, I can't afford a baby right now. Not with all my other expenses.