Table Talk

Every one of the guys is appealing in some way.

Chris is the bad ass who drew the short straw and came to the table. He's very clever and most hilarious. He's also wearing a wedding ring. Too bad.

Mark is 6'6" and absolutely gorgeous. Beautiful, even, pearly white teeth, good hair and enviable cheekbones. He also has lots and lots of family money. And a great sense of humor. And a wedding ring. Married a pageant queen years ago. I bet they are a striking couple.

John is a cable company exec and has the prettiest blue eyes I've ever seen. He's also very chatty, very funny, and has an unusually good sense of fashion. No wedding ring. Good sign. Joy is going to do some digging to find out what his situation is.

And The Beave. Probably the nicest guy among them, and the smartest, but whose name I could not remember. To me he looked like the Cleaver kid, and I just called him The Beave. I never even looked for a ring.

Perhaps the best part about meeting these guys was how much they were like us. They were lifelong friends and the ease among them was apparent. They razzed each other. They made each other laugh. They ganged up on each other. They knew each other's stories and secrets and wives and children and all about each other's careers. And every one of them could hold up their end of a conversation. My group of gals enters a room and takes over. Meets everybody there. Makes friends. These guys were cut from the same bolt of cloth. There is something so appealing about a man who socializes well.

And after another round of drinks (or was it two?) it is time for true confessions.

Chris tells us that the question about scoring pot was just an excuse to approach the table and talk to us. Their huddle, the one Jill had noticed as we'd sat down, was simply that. What play were they calling and who was going to be the quarterback? The question had to be designed to elicit a reaction that would tell them if we would be good company. Evidently we reacted as they'd hoped. I would love to have heard some of the other potential questions.

Yvette is the last of our girls to arrive for the weekend. She parks her car and comes straight to the bar. It is not hard to find us.

And within minutes, Yvette is having a cocktail, making good natured jokes with the guys and laughing along with us. It is an easy rhythm to get into.

But as it begins to get darker, our thoughts turn to the nighttime plans. Happy Hour is great, but the band is playing its last set, the crowd is thinning, and families are traipsing through on their way to dinner with toddlers and grandparents and babies who should have napped instead of made that last sand castle.

Chris leans in again. Like he's going to whisper. This time we are a little more attentive.

"OK, here's the deal. You ladies are our Plan B. When we all go out tonight and bump into each other again, we need to agree that we all ignore each other for an hour. And if nothing...if no...if a Plan A doesn't happen, then we can hang out. But only after we give it an hour. Deal?" He's laughing even as he says it. And so are we.

Jill and Joy and I look at each other as if to determine which of us is going to pounce. I am the de facto pouncer.

I stand. I lean across the table, take Chris's cigarette from his hand and take a drag (but don't inhale, because I'd be coughing for hours afterwards and not be able to deliver the crushing blow I need to deliver). I blow the smoke at him and get right in his face. Or my boobs do.

"We're YOUR Plan B? Are you high? We won't need an hour. We won't need ten minutes. If you think that we --- WE --- are going to be the ones that have to drop back and punt, you are woefully mistaken. Game on!"

Chris is laughing. He starts to speak and I interrupt. "Woefully!"

He laughs and starts again. I interrupt again. "Mistaken!"

They are all laughing now, and we get up from the table. The gauntlet having been thrown, we have primping to do.