It was Friday at half past whatever right after I finished who cares and before I was getting ready to do doesn’t matter. It was hot as Houston hell, and I was in the comfort of my lovely oversized chair too big for my office. Here comes a Twit: $10 tickets to Stages Repertory Theatre “The Andrews Brothers,” definitely not to be confused with the Andrews Sisters above. There are some similarities: clothing, hair,  and of course the songs. The differences? Read on.

I picked up the phone and gave my magic code word that would give me the deal of the century. Of course, they had just sold out of those tickets and I was resigned to buy the full $25. I was hooked as my mouth watered for a gay (happy) musical, especially on Opening Night. There is always something magical, electric, delicious (insert more adjectives here) about Opening Hight. Here is my credit card.

My seats sucked. But the thrill of seeing men in dresses pretending to be women overcame my objection. I needed a good long laugh. The story goes a little like this: three brothers, conveniently the Andrews Brothers (not related in any way to the sisters) were stage hands. They had a dream to be in show biz. It so happens that the day of a show, the Andrews Sisters became ill with laryngitis, so in order not to disappoint an audience of soldiers about to go to war, they use their costumes and songs and put on the show. Unequivocally a recipe for a real tour de romp.

Glenn was getting on my case about Facebooking and Twittering. Suddenly, my attention was dramatically shifted by a horrible, out of tune hum with a wide vibrato that would make a nanny goat proud. Although initially I had thoughts of inflicting pain at the perpetrator (similar to the stereotypical flat clarinet player who can’t squeeze her butt cheeks hard enough to bring her A in line with those of us who play sharp), my paradigm was abruptly shifted as I discover a cute, adorable, and somewhat stylish older lady smiling bigger than the hair of the society lady in front of me.

Her hum is slowly enhanced by knee bopping and hand tapping. Later, the head bobbing begins. The hum changes into mumbling, then into song. Hand tapping becomes a hearty clap, and the bopping turns into a silly theatre chair boogie.

I realize her wonderful disease was contagious. I was doing it too, minus the singing as I did not know any of the words although for a bit a pretended I did (like some people who mumble the Pledge of Allegiance). So were some of the people around her. We made eye contact, and I smiled big, she tapped my knee. The boundaries of theatre goer behavior decorum dissolved in favor of pure bliss and enjoyment. She taught me a lesson.

At intermission, we spoke. She pointed out that I was too young to know any of the songs, and that she was a teenager when the Andrews Sisters were popular: the War and the USO. She apologized for her singing. I asked her not to stop or to let anyone stop her from enjoying herself. She smiled and we shared a moment.

I did not think our short encounter would haunt my thoughts. I wish I had her name and knew where to find her so I could thank her for what she did for me that evening and hear her life story. That and to find out who designed her fabulous purse.