What A Girl Wants

My weekend with Scott is wonderful. The weather is good, the beach is fabulous, the jetskiing exilarating. We BBQ, we cocktail, we relax.


I try to make the weekend last. For all the togetherness we’ve had over the past few weeks, we are headed for a drought.

Next weekend is Girls Weekend. The much anticipated, highly ballyhooed, coveted Girls Weekend.

Last year I spent the Thursday night before with Scott. Lars had the kids for some reason and I took the opportunity to get my Scott fix before departing for the weekend. He got up and went to work. I got up, wrote my blog, got my toes done and was poolside by noon without lifting a finger.

This year I can’t do that. Pat is taking in a ballgame with Charlotte to celebrate his birthday and Hil and I have some girl time to squeeze in. Pedis. Eyebrow waxing. The usual. So there is going to be a longer than usual wait before I see Scott again, even if I do drive to his house on Sunday instead of staying one more night.

But the next day, at about mid-day, I put the bags I packed weeks ago with the oh-so-carefully planned outfits and a few plan B selections into the car, put on the sunglasses and make the rounds.

To the bank to get a pile of cash. To the liquor store for wine. To the CVS for another bottle of that anti-frizz potion. Then back to the house to get the cat settled, the kids ready. They are leaving on a week’s vacation with Lars today and I will be on the road that same minute. The cat tugs at my heart strings. It is not unlike when I used to drop the kids at day care. I have absolutely no idea why.

By 1 pm, I am poolside with my lady friends and we are catching up on all the news unfit to print:

Jill getting the cold shoulder from her husband because he hates the idea of what he thinks might go on at Girls Weekend, based on what he knows about Guys Weekend, but won’t admit that that is why he’s mad, and has to nitpick about other inconsequential things. (Rule number one: Gentlemen, don’t send your ladies to Girls Weekend mad at you. Nothing good ever happens. For anyone.)

Priscilla’s dejected spouse that she is divorcing who sees fit to dial everyone they jointly know and trash talk her so they’ll side with him. Nice plan. If you are five years old. So far it’s backfiring and everyone thinks he’s a kook. But she is a little worried about what their children think. (Rule number two: Never trash talk your spouse to your children. They are not getting the divorce. And Rule Number three: If you must trash talk your spouse for your own sanity, start a blog under an assumed name. )

Joy’s new job, again, since last year, and how she is handling sending her first born off to college in two weeks. She is handling it with prayers and cocktails.

My issues with work colleagues not liking the way I dress, when they appear to have made their last shopping excursions during the Carter Administration. And of course my mother falling and breaking her face. And Liza commically setting her hair on fire with her birthday cake. And how I am blissfully happy (still) with Scott but have no experience with jealousy and do not quite know what to do when the idiot waitress (for example) flirts with him at our local pub while I am sitting next to him. I mean, short of raking my fingernails down her face.

Within the hour, our favorite waitress has offered us our first cocktail and we simply could never hurt her feelings by refusing. Taking the “it’s 5 o’clock somewhere” approach, we order our first round. And only then does Kate make her first appearance.

I help her retrieve her 30 pack of beer on ice from her car.

The games, or shall we say, the “dames” have begun.