What A Girl Needs

There are few things more fun than a gaggle of girls out for some girl talk and cocktails.

Before long, we’ve settled into our groove, figured out the sleeping arrangements, decided on a No Shower Happy Hour and finished the case of beer.

We pile into our adjoining rooms, and the clothes, shoes and hair products begin to fly. We are shzshzing. We are primping. We are modeling outfits, deciding on shoes, selecting jewlery. Something borrowed. Something else borrowed. The swapping and cocktailing and complimenting goes on for at least an hour. We may as well have showered. But we dare not.

There is something liberating about going out looking fabulous with your fabulous friends knowing you have not exactly played by the rules of traditional good grooming. I know not why.

We choose the tried and true bar across the street from the hotel. Our expectations are never high for the first night. That is probably why it almost always turns out to be a barn burner.

We start in the newly refurbished upstairs bar. Much more swanky than most beach bars, and certainly an improvement on the décor of the year before, which involved cement flooring and metal tables.

We pick a prominent curved sofa on the deck and perch there. We order drinks, (like anyone needs one) and wait for the fun to begin. It always does.

We are noticeable, all of us together, so people do as they typically do.

Old men in bowling shirts and black socks ask what they did to deserve a seat next to the Miss America contestants.

Creepy undatable types with bad hair cuts sit down like they belong with us, and think it is hilarious that their dork friends are taking pictures. It is like Napolean Dynamite infiltrated the group.

Older women who are overdressed (and trying too hard) scorn us. They tsk tsk but secretly want to be us. We are confident of that. We secretly relish knowing that we had made half the effort to get here and don't look like hags.

Kate has the hiccups. Priscilla thinks she’s come down with Tourettes. I relate a story about a YouTube video featuring Tourettes Karaoke and proceed to sing a sappy Chicago song, “If you leave me now…ssssssss...bullshit! bullshit!...ssssssss…Dickhead!...ssssss.”

And then others chime in with their own versions of Tourettes Karaoke and paving our way to Hell. We are all in tears. And making a nuisance of ourselves. We’ve even scared Napolean away. We decide to take our party indoors and downstairs to the other bar where we might be appreciated.

 It is quite a party there even before we arrive.

Great music from a superb band. Much dancing.

Lots of great people watching. Many nicknames bestowed on unsuspecting people watchees.

Priscilla finds an interesting man to talk to who is in her age bracket and has an entertaining friend who isn’t too big a pain in the ass and wants to sing along with us and looks like Jerry Seinfeld. We call him Jerry. I still don’t know what his name is.

I am elbowed into a bar stool by a wildly flailing Asian midget woman who has chosen to dance in the bar and not on the dance floor.  Her friends apologize for her. I forgive her. They seem to be used to apologizing for her. This must not be her first body check at a bar.

A Bachelor party arrives and tries to take us with them on their traveling road show. 

Before we know it, the lights are on, and last call has been served. We giggle our way back to the hotel and into our respective beds. Another Girls Weekend has begun and there is no break from tradition. We have come home with stories yet again.