Smooth...

I may have mentioned in a previous post that Houseguest and I got really fantastic Sonics tickets, and then said I was going to talk about that in some future blog post, and then...I didn't.

Never fear, blogstalkers!

So, Friday night, I pick Houseguest up from the airport. I'm wearing the boots:


Are they not hawt?


Close up. (As CAP said, it's surprisingly hard to take a picture of your own feet.)

Anyway. So I'm wearing the boots, which turn out to be surprisingly practical, although that's not foreknown because it's a nice, warm, DRY, gray cloudy night in Seattle on Friday as I arrive at Sea-Tac Airport. Houseguest and I drive directly to Key Arena, as I have already bought nosebleed seats and we're planning to get beer and wander around the stadium, watching the game from wherever we can. We pull into the parking lot, get out of the car, and find the parking vendor. The minute we find him, he says, "So, you're having problems with the parking machine, too?"

What? I mean, yes, yes, we are. Damn thing won't take our money. He says, "Hundreds of people have had that problem. Here's a sign to hang in your window. I'll vouch for you guys."

Sweet, free parking!

Then he says, "You guys going to the game? Do you need tickets?"

Um...why?

"Because I have this ticket here, I think it's a pretty good seat, and I know it won't be full, so you can probably find an extra seat somewhere close."

Houseguest looks at him. "You are my new best friend," he says seriously, and the parking attendant laughs and waves us on. Into the squall.

While we've been talking, the skies have opened up, and torrential rain has begun to pour down from the sky. Houseguest lends me his coat, and we run, cursing, all the way across Seattle Center, me thanking my rubber-soled hawt boots the whole way.

We get to the arena. The security guard checks my purse. The ticket taker asks to see my tickets. I look at Houseguest. He comes up with the fancy ticket the parking attentdant gave us...and nothing else.

Houseguest is thinking: If this is anything like the Lakers' Stadium, different ticket classes have to enter through different gates. I can go in this one with the fancy ticket, but Aarwenn will have to go through a different gate and we won't be able to reconnect. I'll pretend I only have one and see if I can sweet talk the guard into letting us both in.

Meanwhile, Aarwenn is thinking: Shit, he forgot the real tickets in the car! Maybe he's just pretending? Does he know that all I need is a ticket to get in the door and then I can wander anywhere? Shit! And the harder I try to convince Houseguest that I really am serious and really do need the tickets, the more he thinks I'm play-acting frantic so that the ticket attendant will take pity on us!

Several moments of this improv go on before the ticket attendant waves us on with an exasperated smile. "I know it's not full," she says. "But you'll need your tickets if challenged." We escape inside, where Houseguest and I compare notes and laugh hysterically about the unneeded improvisational routine we just went through, and then we go off to find our seats, me hoping against hope there will be empty, unsold seats next to our scrounged ticket.

And we walk down, and down, and down, until we find our seats. On the FLOOR OF KEY ARENA. We have some of the best seats I've ever seen. Everytime the Phoneix Suns go up for a shot, there we are on TV. We are DIRECTLY BEHIND THE NET. There's only one seat, but the girl who owned the block of four seats--the one who brought her boyfriend and her son to the game, and gave away her fourth ticket to a nice parking attendant, who then gave it away to some drowned rats scamming free parking--PULLS HER SON INTO HER LAP SO WE CAN BOTH SIT DOWN.

Was she an angel, or what?

And yes, I totally forgot my camera phone. No pictures of Ray Allen's sweat or anything. And it wasn't broadcast on TV; it was pre-season. But I swear. It happened.