By staff March 26, 2007

So, anyway, once we dealt with the ninjas…

By Hannah Wallace

I’ve done my part—and my job, as it happens—getting out and about recently: For one, at the end of February I went to the Table’s monthly last-Wednesday “Little Black Dress Party,” wherein women in little black dresses get free wine from 9 to 11. I wore a little black dress, showed up at 8:45 and proceeded to order a $10 mojito. (Because I’m brilliant, that’s why.)

Still, Southside Village, I commend thee. Hillview was packed that night—jammed into the Table and milling about on the sidewalk, even—and the crowd, though an interesting mix of ages, included quite a few of the beautiful, the young—and, apparently, the restless. (It’s Wednesday night, for goodness sake: Don’t you people have work in the morning? Go to bed!)

On Thursdays, Megan the Copy Editor, our 18-year-old intern and I have started an office girls’ night out, gathering after work at Metro or Mickey’s (right across Pineapple from the Sarasota office, near Ringling) or for pizzas at Megan’s or my pad. We even tried Rustic Grill one evening—snarfing down appetizers and drinking suddenly trendy caipirinhas (or, in our purposefully mangled pronunciation, cap-piranhas, or caper-Hannahs), which are basically mojitos without the mint, so…I don’t get what the fuss is about.

(And no, we didn’t give our intern booze; she’s too young—even if her boyfriend is older than Megan. Hah.)

I’m down with Rustic Grill’s smolderingly chic environment, but it if I made that place a habit, I’m certain my uncontrollable appetite would force my bank account into the fetal position, weeping inconsolably. Nothing against the Table and Rustic Grill (and countless other venues, I’m sure), but I’m becoming more and more convinced that the Ritz is the only environment that justifies $10 beverages. Then again, I’m profoundly cheap (and I can put back a few).

I’m 27, for Christ’s sake: I’m too young to afford these things—and I’m too old to stay out until 3 a.m. on a damn Wednesday. You kids are killing me!

Yeah, anyway, thank heavens for Thursday-night girls’ night, ‘cause Monday-night girls’ night with Mom and Stage Manager J has been on hiatus for some time now (I’m hoping we’ll get going again as soon as Studio 60 comes back). Ma’s been busy with Pride and Prejudice rehearsals—golly, who would’ve thought a Jane Austen book would make for such a technically complicated play….

But I did spend one Monday evening with Mom at the Asolo Rep season announcement party at Ron and Rita Greenbaum’s jaw-dropping, Gulf-front, north Lido home. The youngest person in the crowd at events like that (I was, after all, filling my father’s spot), I strut around with delusional confidence—just because I have “Wallace” on my name tag, like Asolo contributors are supposed to genuflect or something while I wear jeans and act all casual about my parents’ long standing as, in my mind, Asolo royalty. (Yeah, my name’s Hannah; you can call me Hal. Where’s the bar?) Then I realize nobody cares—about my presence, anyway, whatever my last name—and I melodramatically mourn the devaluing of the Asolo’s past: “Patrons these days, with their musicals and their million-dollar contributions, they’ve got no respect for the history….”

Yeah, I’m just doing my own little one-woman Greek tragedy in my head over here. I’d say I need to get out more, but, um, apparently not. Maybe I need to get out less....

On second thought, I think I can cope with a schizophrenic Greek tragedy now and then. Small price to pay for a few dozen nights on the town.

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