Two Trolls Walk Into A Bar...

I can not be sure if Frumpy and Frowzy actually saw me at any time during happy hour. And no it has nothing to do with being blind drunk, smartass. I simply became engrossed in the frivolity at my immediate table and could not have been bothered by what choking haze of boredom settled over their table. (In the back, against the dunes, in a fog of greenhead flies, and away from anything resembling fun.) The beautiful thing about having a friend on the bar staff and getting seated in a prime spot is that the prime spot has so many appealing qualities that other appealing people want to join you at the table. In other words, we get lots of attention. It's beach bar celebrity status. Dumpster Girl and Sasquatch will know no such pleasure. Poetic justice.

At some point during all the stories, we one-by-one peel off to begin primping. There is still an open question about where we'll go. There are a few of us who would be game to get dressed up and go to the high end bar for high end cocktails with high end people who may turn into high end people of interest. There are just as many who would be just as happy to return to the bar we went to last night where we can get away with all the hi jinx we are so famously fond of. There is at least one neutral party who will go anywhere, wear anything, let's just go already. Better decide soon before outfit decisions are made.

I am in favor of last night's bar. I have a feeling that my two former Mean Girl colleagues will be going to the high end bar. (Provided there is no strict rule about attire. I'm sure Management would rather give entrance to Ru Paul and his drag queens than well behaved schlubbs like the tww of them.) Beth is single and desperate and would surely be on the hunt for a man with money. (She'll need a paralyzing drug and a net for sure.) But the man with money would likely also be a man with taste, and would probably be amenable to Beth washing his car, but not straightening his tie. And no high end establishment wants patrons who look like they are only there because their car broke down right outside.

And the last thing I feel like doing is making polite conversation with Beth in a plush, hushed bar with a jazz singer crooning in the corner. I'd rather run into her in a pub, make a few loudly vocalized, highly entertaining comments that figuratively knock her on her aircraft carrier-sized ass, and disappear onto the dance floor surrounded by friends, sashaying my shapely derriere across the room as I walk away.

In the end we decide to go back to the bar across the way. We are banking on an exceptional band and an even better crowd. Better be. John has gone radio silent and I need to cast another net for a dance partner.

As Fate would have it, as I decide on what top to pair with the white jeans I am wearing because the weather has gotten cool, I get a text from John. He wants to know where we are going. I tell him. He says that they are going to another bar. I don't even want to suggest a change of plans to The Girls. This weekend is about them, not chasing some man who just remembered my name in the last minute and a half.

I punt with my reply. Answer his text with a question that makes no commitments.

"Is this the hour where we ignore each other?"

"Aren't we past that?" he replies.

I was joking. I have no idea if he is. I hate texting.

"Let's leave it to Fate."

I am sure he is not about to insist that the guys go back to the bar we went to last night. It's Guys Weekend. He should go with the flow of the group. Has to. It's not something I can't argue with. It is exactly what I'm doing.

Besides, it's not as though I will never have a chance to see him again and these could be our last hours together. It isn't as if I live on one coast and he on another. We live a few miles from each other at home. We can enjoy our respective weekends, and if it all seems like a good idea in the harsh light of reality at home, we can get in touch with one another and make plans.

Eventually we bop across the street and walk into the bar. The band is fabulous and in full swing. Covers of 70s tunes. We immediately bump into old friends, guys, that we've known for years. The party has begun.

I find myself scanning the crowd. Not for John. For Beth and Adrienne. Before I can let my hair down and really rip up the dance floor I have to know where all my vulnerabilities lie. Sure Hag and Bag would prefer the monied meat market at the other bar. But what if they asked someone at the beach bar where they should go to have fun and that person suggested our bar? I better be prepared with my reaction. Cool. Calm. Collected. Absolutely on my game. Witty. Unflappably in control. Impeccably styled. And ready for highly testy verbal sparring. It's two against one. Can I pull this off?

No, actually it's two against five. Two against eight if we count the friends we've just bumped into.

Actually I am kind of looking forward to running into them. And ignoring them. Making them approach me. And coming out with guns blazing when they do. It has all the makings of a great Girls Weekend legend. Game on.