Getting The Party Started

We are on our third beer by the time I get to the Big Bang.

I regale my flabbergasted girlfriends with the fact that Scott responded to my text with a nebulous one about being unhappy with his job and his house and his life and his kids and all manner of midlife crisis drivel. I told him that he should talk to me if he was feeling upset, not shut me out. Unless I was part of what made him unhappy with his job and his house and his life and his kids, in which case, he needed to just tell me.

Not the kind of text you blow off. Definitely the kind of text you respond to by picking up the phone and calling the other person. If you are a man, that is.

But evidently, there was no such man on the other end of the phone.

He'd ignored me the rest of Sunday. He'd ignored me on Monday. He'd let the phone go to voicemail on Tuesday and again on Wednesday. Being a girl of very little brain when it comes to men who are of very little character, it had taken me a few days to realize that he was indeed dumping me "like that." On Thursday, I'd composed a text and an identical email. I'd called again, and when his voicemail answered, I'd sent both.

Penny is practically hyperventilating. So am I.

I'd told him I was not looking for drama, I'd just needed to get my clothes, shoes, makeup, jewelry etc from his house without incident and offered to come on the weekend. He need not be there. Just leave the key to my house on the dresser. I'd be gone inside of 10 minutes. Privately I swear that I will not burn his house down, let all the dogs out, turn on all the faucets and plug the sinks, or anything a typical woman scorned would think to do.

He, like a complete asswipe, had offered an alternative solution. No need to do all that driving, he'd be happy to get my things back to me.

And a few days later he did. Mailed them. In a big box. No note. Just a pile of crap in a big box with lots and lots of tape.

And that was how my 50 year old boyfriend who I'd known since the age of 15 decided to end our relationship. Even though we'd talked about getting a ring for Christmas. One day I have a partner and a life ahead of me, the next I have diddly. And not even an explanation.

I take a bow. Story over. Except for all of the aftermath, which I'll tell in dribs and drabs as the weekend wears on. For hilarious dramatic effect.

I weave in the Craig storyline. It culminates with yesterday's bad date. I have held center stage for an hour. I am tired of the sound of my own voice.

Where the Hell is Kate with the 30 pack of bad beer in the collapsible cooler? Our waitress will never be able to keep up with the volume!

And these next few hours are the thing that I love most about Girls Weekend.

We reconnect. We catch up on each other's families, jobs, joys and mayhem. And no matter what the story, somehow, among these friends, these comrades so rare, it all seems manageable. In most cases, it even seems funny. There was absolutely nothing amusing about Scott's abrupt and cruel disappearance from my life and the lives of my children. It was distinctly un-funny. But when re-telling the tale a few months later, with the benefits that only distance, time and perspective can provide, it seems like sitcom television.

Kate finally arrives. She is way behind on the beer intake. Joy orders her one and I offer to help her bring in her bags from the car once she is done. It is not entirely selfless to offer to carry in her entire wardrobe. Among the bags will be the collapsible cooler filled with beer. Once it is on deck, we'll pull our chairs closer and into a circle around the cooler, break out the snacks we've brought and the fun will begin in earnest.

Kate downs the beer like a true Dairy State gal and we head to the car to retrieve her stuff. On our way across the street we encounter two men carrying a cooler of their own. Tall. Handsome. In the right age bracket.

The taller is the first to speak. "Leaving already? The fun is just starting."

"I know, we started it," Kate says laughing.

"Oh I think we did," says the other man.

"I guess we'll never know for sure unless we come find you," I say.

Yes, the fun is just beginning.