Bitch at the Beach

We never see Trish again. We have no idea what she's told the boys. I am not even sure she'd be able to remember what we told her. Maybe she'd embellish! God only knows what she'd come up with. Whatever it is, it would be hilarious. One of us is an undertaker. One of us is a high end escort. One of us is an Olympic equestrian. One of us is CIA/Langley. Fair enough. Rock on Trish.

Juuuulia scouts a table for us near the band and suggests we move. The Saturday night crowd is moving in. We each peel off one by one to run a brush through our hair, put on a swipe of lip gloss, spruce up the appearance in general. No one even has to say what we're doing. It just happens. Like a Swiss watch. Keys are handed off, compliments paid, chairs assumed at the table.

The band is great. The weather is gorgeous. We are at a high table near a tree where we can see the entire playing field. (And of course be seen -- we are hoping that the boys pass through the bar on the way to their hotel.)

At last we spy Mark (he is a good 6 inches taller than anyone else in the bar) and wave him over. We expect that he will stay (in fact Juuuuulia is going to include him in our complimentary round of Panty Ripper shots) but he is not interested. He asks if we've seen The Beave or John. (We have not.) He left Chris on the beach to come looking for them. They left hours ago to get "provisions" and have not returned.

Not a good sign. They must have spun off and found their own happy hour. Why wouldn't they just come here where they know they'll have fun.

I know why. It's because they know what to expect here. And what they want is the unexpected. It is a fact of Girls/Guys Weekend Life. It is a getaway. A weekend pass. It is the one weekend a year (okay 2 or 3 if your us...4 or 5 if you are Joy) when you get to go out and create experiences. Why would you repeat one? Why would you settle for a Saturday night that is going to look just like Friday night when there are a million other combinations to balance the other half of the equation?

I am briefly miffed but get over it when Juuuulia delivers the Panty Rippers, drinks Mark's because he's gone looking for his friends, and the Band starts playing Sweet Caroline and we are in the mood to sing.

I surprise myself. I am really not that peeved. Sure John gave me every indication that he was interested in getting to know me and that he liked me. It really didn't seem like he was pretending. He wasn't even that flirtatious. Just really nice. So maybe this is just Guys Weekend and once it's over he'll get in touch with me.

Who knows? And do I actually care? I still have some semblance of something going on with Craig. I am not completely alone in the world. And tonight is Saturday night! It is fraught with potential for fun and romance and new people! Why would I waste my time scanning the crowd looking for John and miss out on all of the other eye contact I could be making? And it is Girls Weekend. Let's not let one second of it be ruined by some man. I remember too many weekends that Penny could not enjoy because Mr. Friday Night did not morph into Mr. Saturday Night. Never let a man stand dictate the course of Girls Weekend. It is a recipe for disappointment. Always. There ought to be a law.

I relax into that thought, order a rum drink served in a bucket and enjoy the band. The people watching is great...until I see a former work colleague, Adrienne. What a kill joy. Not exactly a foe, but definitely not someone I want to spend any weekend time with. Nothing about her says. "I'm a blast to hang out with, fly me." Not only was she a troublemaking beyotch to work with, she had some of the most annoying personal qualities I've ever been exposed to. I wouldn't want to ride the same bus with her much less share the same bar space with her at the beach. Besides, she looks homeless. Threadbare cropped jeans, 100 year old sandals. Ancient sweater in the style favored by librarians in the 70s.

She walks past and does not see me. Or pretends not to see me. Come on, we're noticeable. She runs into someone along the way and stops to talk. I put on my sunglasses to see if it is her husband. I am curious what a man who would marry THAT might look like.

But it's not her husband.

It is the bitch on wheels who orchestrated my demise in my last job.

Better drink up. Girls Weekend just got that much more interesting.