Horea regales us with the similarities between our nation's current politics and his native Communist country. Snooze.
As we draw nearer the address Joy and I have given to him, he mentions that we are not far, but that address has quite a few establishments right there. He asks specifically where we are going.
In unison, Joy and I sing "The Bad Dog!" and think it is hysterical.
Horea stops at the light and turns completely around in the seat to look at us directly.
"Girls?" he asks, with an air of protective are-you-sure-you-know-what-you-are-getting-your-beer-soaked-selves-into-ness. And then he looks a little closer to make sure he has not mistakenly picked up some hookers. The establishment has a bit of a rep. He'd clearly assumed we would not be caught dead there.
"Oh no" Joy assures him. "We are meeting friends there!"
"What kinds of friends are these?" he asks, his ability to control his Croatian accent and his perspiration waning. He must have sisters. Gullible sisters.
"We've been there before," Joy continues, "And these friends are men AND women we've known for a long time."
Horea lowers his neurosis enough to capably step on the gas and get us to the church on time. The outside of the bar is crowded with parked motorcycles and leather-clad smokers enjoying a few butts. We pay Horea and as the sea of smokers parts to allow us to pass, we notice he is waiting to see that we make it safely across the threshold. We wave to him and blow him a thankful kiss. Poor guy probably said novenas all through his shift.
Joy and I walk through the long hallway to where the action is and are spotted by our merry band of traveling friends, who sing songs with our names in them in booming voices as we approach. A welcome like this is hard not to appreciate.
Rounds are ordered and doubled and Joy and I take our places in our familiar crowd for the games to truly begin.
The Bad Dog is ONE OF THOSE BARS. Not a strip club, but clearly flirting with that definition.
There is a pretty even mix of male and female patrons, couples, old and young folks. And for that reason, it is indistinct from any other bar. What sets it apart is that the cocktail waitresses and bar tenders are all clothed in nothing more than black push up bras and skimpy black boyshort panties that read "Doggie Style" across the behind. And for a big enough tip, one will climb up on the bar and perform a trapeze act swinging from the rafters. And speaking of rafters, the rafters of the seating area are decorated with cast off, flung and left there brassieres of lady patrons who have been inspired by the atmosphere to let their own girls fly free.
What never ceases to amaze me about this place, is that it is not even the slightest bit uncomfortable to be there. In fact, it is in my top 3 favorite places in this town, the other two having already been visited this night.
Joy seems to have paid close enough attention to figure out why the atmosphere does not give anyone the willies. The cocktail waitress, clearly being ogled by the men, are extremely attentive and gracious to the women, who might otherwise feel ignored. It is like being waited on my your kid sister's best girlfriend who wants to take care of you because she can.
We are there for last call, pile into cars and head to our friends' house - they will return the favor and host the after party. And after party that may or may not include shots, beers, Jiffy Pop, a heated pool, line dancing or dancing up on counter tops, but will definitely include all of us singing at the top of our lungs at one point or another.
Another fine night to rehash over breakfast the next day.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
We Are Not In Kansas Anymore
The Bull Riding event (Contest? Competition? Suicide Pact?) resumes and the crowd moves in to fill the stands surrounding the makeshift ring that doesn't look like it could contain a toddler let alone a raging bull. I stay on my feet next to Joy. Ready to make a break for it to avoid an inadvertent goring.
The crowd is really into it...the mood probably aided by inspiring music. Eye of the Tiger, for instance. The clowns are clearly half-wits. Taunting bulls that seemed to already be calm and wandering aimlessly. I hope they are paid well. The bulls are ridden. A very proud man in chaps is given a blingy belt to call his own. The crowd is pleased and orders rounds of shots in every direction.
The gals and I wander in to see the band. Tonight it is not a group of older men in cowboy gear playing melodramatic sappy cowboy songs. It is a younger band playing songs you might have actually heard had you dwelled for a song or two on the Country Cousin station. We are people watching and having a ball.
There is a middle aged Mom who barrels into the bar in what appears to be an outfit pulled from the laundry basket solely for the purpose of bombing over the desert to retrieve her underage daughter. Curlers bobbing in her Toni home permed hair, she is reading the kid the riot act. The kid is stammering some excuse about just wandering in through the bar on the way to her car following the bull riding competition finale (which apparently might have been an adequate story under other circumstances...go figure) But there is a telltale collection of beers on the table and a bejeweled and bedazzled tank top in full view now that the kid's denim jacket has been draped over the chair by the beers. She had clearly intended to stay. Totally busted. The mother is spitting mad. Hilarious.
We follow the the thrashing as it moves out the door and notice a couple of heavyweights looking miserable on a date. They give the appearance of being married and indifferent. They are in matchy matchy blingy belt buckles - every inch of the fabric of his jeans busting with the lard packed in them, and her belt buckle, thread on a tool worked belt through the loops of her high-waisted acid washed jeans, is barely visible having been jammed at a breath-halting position amid the tremendous rolls of fat. Both sporting spiffy cowboy hats. He has a goatee. A stunning pair for sure.
I get a text from Alejandro. He wants to know what we are doing. I tell him we are listening to great music with great crowd. He wants to know where. I tell him.
Could he be joining us?
I hear nothing.
The band plays a great Joe Cocker song. I text Alejandro that they are playing the song that I would make a fortune with if I were forced to go to work as a stripper some day.
He is either indifferent (what?) or has fainted at the notion. I hear nothing. Smooth move on my part.
Priscilla texts us that they are going to another location.
Alejandro texts that they are headed to another place altogether.
I ask for some direction...Kate and Jackie are fading at the bottom of the Viking beers. Joy and I need to know where we are going next.
I head to the ladies room and google cab companies in the area. I am surprised to find a weird girl we'd met on a prior trip who'd felt compelled to share her life philosophies with me in a ladies room. She is reading aloud to some other bathroom patron over the door of the stall. There is apparently plentiful graffiti about her on the walls. She seems flattered. Almost proud. I wash and rinse and dry on my jacket as I flee the scene before being recognized.
I get a text from Alejandro. They are headed to the Bad Dog.
I confirm with Priscilla who will be where. Satisfied that Joy and I will not be walking into a bar with a tenuous reputation all alone, I text Alejandro that we will join them but need an address for the cab driver.
I get an immediate reply with an address.
Then another. "Be careful. See you soon."
And Joy and I are on our way, with a Croation immigrant cabbie named Horea who has some pretty strong buzz-killing opinions about American politics that he seems driven to share on the way. I may as well be sharing a cab with my mother.
Between the appeal of the bar and the patrons we know are waiting there, and the aggravating cab driver, the cab ride is endless.
The crowd is really into it...the mood probably aided by inspiring music. Eye of the Tiger, for instance. The clowns are clearly half-wits. Taunting bulls that seemed to already be calm and wandering aimlessly. I hope they are paid well. The bulls are ridden. A very proud man in chaps is given a blingy belt to call his own. The crowd is pleased and orders rounds of shots in every direction.
The gals and I wander in to see the band. Tonight it is not a group of older men in cowboy gear playing melodramatic sappy cowboy songs. It is a younger band playing songs you might have actually heard had you dwelled for a song or two on the Country Cousin station. We are people watching and having a ball.
There is a middle aged Mom who barrels into the bar in what appears to be an outfit pulled from the laundry basket solely for the purpose of bombing over the desert to retrieve her underage daughter. Curlers bobbing in her Toni home permed hair, she is reading the kid the riot act. The kid is stammering some excuse about just wandering in through the bar on the way to her car following the bull riding competition finale (which apparently might have been an adequate story under other circumstances...go figure) But there is a telltale collection of beers on the table and a bejeweled and bedazzled tank top in full view now that the kid's denim jacket has been draped over the chair by the beers. She had clearly intended to stay. Totally busted. The mother is spitting mad. Hilarious.
We follow the the thrashing as it moves out the door and notice a couple of heavyweights looking miserable on a date. They give the appearance of being married and indifferent. They are in matchy matchy blingy belt buckles - every inch of the fabric of his jeans busting with the lard packed in them, and her belt buckle, thread on a tool worked belt through the loops of her high-waisted acid washed jeans, is barely visible having been jammed at a breath-halting position amid the tremendous rolls of fat. Both sporting spiffy cowboy hats. He has a goatee. A stunning pair for sure.
I get a text from Alejandro. He wants to know what we are doing. I tell him we are listening to great music with great crowd. He wants to know where. I tell him.
Could he be joining us?
I hear nothing.
The band plays a great Joe Cocker song. I text Alejandro that they are playing the song that I would make a fortune with if I were forced to go to work as a stripper some day.
He is either indifferent (what?) or has fainted at the notion. I hear nothing. Smooth move on my part.
Priscilla texts us that they are going to another location.
Alejandro texts that they are headed to another place altogether.
I ask for some direction...Kate and Jackie are fading at the bottom of the Viking beers. Joy and I need to know where we are going next.
I head to the ladies room and google cab companies in the area. I am surprised to find a weird girl we'd met on a prior trip who'd felt compelled to share her life philosophies with me in a ladies room. She is reading aloud to some other bathroom patron over the door of the stall. There is apparently plentiful graffiti about her on the walls. She seems flattered. Almost proud. I wash and rinse and dry on my jacket as I flee the scene before being recognized.
I get a text from Alejandro. They are headed to the Bad Dog.
I confirm with Priscilla who will be where. Satisfied that Joy and I will not be walking into a bar with a tenuous reputation all alone, I text Alejandro that we will join them but need an address for the cab driver.
I get an immediate reply with an address.
Then another. "Be careful. See you soon."
And Joy and I are on our way, with a Croation immigrant cabbie named Horea who has some pretty strong buzz-killing opinions about American politics that he seems driven to share on the way. I may as well be sharing a cab with my mother.
Between the appeal of the bar and the patrons we know are waiting there, and the aggravating cab driver, the cab ride is endless.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Bars, Beers and Bullriding
Once back inside, we are seated at a table in the eclectic little dining room that is inviting and interesting and beautiful beyond description. The lighting is glowing and the colors are warm and muted, and the crowd is enthralled by a very talented singer/songwriter with enormous guitar-playing talent and a very engaging stage personality. We order a feast.
The crowd is as eclectic as the decor, saving a table full of women, obviously out celebrating a birthday, each of which has attempted, some more admirably than others, to model her appearance after a Kardashian or Taylor Swift. It is hilarious.
I stick to my one glass pact while there are a few more rounds ordered and enjoyed. Kate is feeling warm. Maybe too warm. She is threatening to remove her shirt. And here I was worrying about the can-can.
We are serenaded for Kate's belated birthday, treated to fondue (or as Jackie put it "Fon-f-ing-due!") and laugh our heads off planning to open a similar establishment at home. We even have a name for the place that is a perfect smart-assed peice of marketing genius. Details TBA.
And then, as tradition dictates, we are off to the cowboy bar we also frequent. A bar where some of the gals have gotten their jeans branded by a cowboy named Griz, where the bar owner adores us and gives us our drinks for a dollar, and where the entire outdoor area is lit and warmed by pit fires to warm the hands and other extremities of those there to watch the Bull Riding competition.
No. No typo. I meant to write "Bull Riding competition." Clowns and all. Winner gets a dinner plate sized belt buckle for his efforts. (I would want a whole lot more than that for being flung for 8 seconds by an epileptic 4 ton beast with a bad attitude and a killer instinct, thank you.) The crowd is almost as interesting as the competition. Women and men all tattooed and dressed in what can only be described as costumes. Clothes that say "I came for the bull riding event." Western shirts, and colorful boots and blingy jeans and bejeweled belts and bedazzled cowboy hats. Women with hair that has been blown out and back-combed and teased and whipped into peroxide perfection (only to be jammed under a cowboy hat at a specifically dictated angle chosen for the most flattering cow gal effect.)
Meanwhile, Jackie is teetering around the loose dirt in her leopard kitten heels and Joy is hoping her hairspray does not get ignited by flying ash from the pit fires. We are ooing and ahhing over babies brought to the event by their misguided bull-riding fan parents. We are eavesdropping on innane conversation. We are marveling at the assortment of spectators. It is a scream.
We order beers. They are 24 ounces and in enormous glass mugs. I describe them as Viking beers. Jackie can barley lift hers. She says she needs a sherpa.
I take the opportunity to drop Alejandro a line. "Jackie needs a sherpa to hold her Viking beer."
He texts back immediately that Bonzo is game.
Let the remote flirting begin.
The crowd is as eclectic as the decor, saving a table full of women, obviously out celebrating a birthday, each of which has attempted, some more admirably than others, to model her appearance after a Kardashian or Taylor Swift. It is hilarious.
I stick to my one glass pact while there are a few more rounds ordered and enjoyed. Kate is feeling warm. Maybe too warm. She is threatening to remove her shirt. And here I was worrying about the can-can.
We are serenaded for Kate's belated birthday, treated to fondue (or as Jackie put it "Fon-f-ing-due!") and laugh our heads off planning to open a similar establishment at home. We even have a name for the place that is a perfect smart-assed peice of marketing genius. Details TBA.
And then, as tradition dictates, we are off to the cowboy bar we also frequent. A bar where some of the gals have gotten their jeans branded by a cowboy named Griz, where the bar owner adores us and gives us our drinks for a dollar, and where the entire outdoor area is lit and warmed by pit fires to warm the hands and other extremities of those there to watch the Bull Riding competition.
No. No typo. I meant to write "Bull Riding competition." Clowns and all. Winner gets a dinner plate sized belt buckle for his efforts. (I would want a whole lot more than that for being flung for 8 seconds by an epileptic 4 ton beast with a bad attitude and a killer instinct, thank you.) The crowd is almost as interesting as the competition. Women and men all tattooed and dressed in what can only be described as costumes. Clothes that say "I came for the bull riding event." Western shirts, and colorful boots and blingy jeans and bejeweled belts and bedazzled cowboy hats. Women with hair that has been blown out and back-combed and teased and whipped into peroxide perfection (only to be jammed under a cowboy hat at a specifically dictated angle chosen for the most flattering cow gal effect.)
Meanwhile, Jackie is teetering around the loose dirt in her leopard kitten heels and Joy is hoping her hairspray does not get ignited by flying ash from the pit fires. We are ooing and ahhing over babies brought to the event by their misguided bull-riding fan parents. We are eavesdropping on innane conversation. We are marveling at the assortment of spectators. It is a scream.
We order beers. They are 24 ounces and in enormous glass mugs. I describe them as Viking beers. Jackie can barley lift hers. She says she needs a sherpa.
I take the opportunity to drop Alejandro a line. "Jackie needs a sherpa to hold her Viking beer."
He texts back immediately that Bonzo is game.
Let the remote flirting begin.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Do Not Adjust Your Television.This is Just a Test
The evening is the sorority slumber party it usually resembles at this hour.
Clothes, jewelry, makeup, hair products and other notions are all being offered or asked for from room to room. Clothes irons, flat irons, and curling irons all cooking. The bar bears all the hallmarks of a party well underway: glasses, limes, chips, salsa, opened bottles, half-filled glasses, corks lying still on screws, margarita foam pooled in bottoms of glasses.
We are a somewhat divided camp tonight. The Krotchfelts are here to party and have taken a new found albeit delayed shine to our friends from prior years. Our friends are going out in downtown and a contingency of our group, led by the K sisters is going to join them.
Since Jackie will only be with us this one last night and has expressed an interest in dining in a restaurant we have all come to know and love that is nearby, she and Joy and Kate have decided to go there. I am the vote that decides the majority, which for some reason seems to matter when it shouldn't.
I am planning to join Kate, Joy and Jackie.
I've heard from Alejandro a few times that day. It is apparent that he'd like to see me, which is nice to know but puts me in somewhat of a quandary. I'd like to see him for sure, but this trip is about THE GIRLS. Or is supposed to be. Last year, J. was a huge distraction and I felt guilty about not being present. And then about being a disturbance. I need to be present. I am here for the right reasons and nothing will distract me.
So Alejandro is a secondary concern tonight. A priority but not the top banana. And for genuine and meaningful reasons. But that is a pretty weighty topic that will require a very verbose and sincere explanation to be understood by Alejandro, which I am pretty sure is unnecessary given the fleeting and frivolous nature of this little romance. I am sure I do not want to seem like the psycho from the Wedding Crashers planning a wedding and 2.3 children after the first kiss. So instead, I am dodging. I'd like to say I am an artful dodger, but we are texting for chrissake, and it is an imperfect media. I am not doing the dance very gracefully. Aloof but not unavailable is the position I want to take but aloof comes across as bitchy in texts. Available comes across as desperate. I am doomed.
I would like to see him. Their plans sound like fun. (Hello, full contact karaoke participation!) But I am compelled by my friendship with the girls to give them the priority they deserve. This is a girls trip. Anything else is a bonus. This really can not and should not be adequately explained. It is just who we are to eachother.
As we approach the wine bar/coffee house/foodie heaven we have grown to adore, I get a text from Alejandro.
"If we are welcome, we'd like to see you girls tonight."
Great. My dodging and the imperfect media that is texting have managed to make him feel like a pest. Like I'm not interested. Too aloof. Blowing him/them off. So convincingly so that he will not even say he'd like to see me. Has to make it a group thing. They'd like to see us.
We sit at the bar, order wine, and wait for a table. I make a pact with the girls that I order something other than wine after the first drink. I love wine but have no idea how to avoid getting completely plastered when I drink it. So overindulging in public has to be avoided at all costs. One glass I am a happy, story telling companion. Two or three and I am likely to be found up on the table top dancing the can-can in my panties and no one would be capable of convincing me that it is not a splendid idea. So once I have placed my order for the first and last glass of the night, I excuse myself to right things with Alejandro and the boys.
I am relieved that he answers. I am better in conversation than anything else.
I let him know where we are and who I am with - and let him know that there are a few folks headed in their direction. I tell him directly that of course they are welcome. We love their company, and implore him not to worry about that.
He audibly exhales in relief.
I continue that Jackie is with us for one last evening and that 4 of us are spending the early evening together. Kate and Jackie intend to turn in earlier than the rest of us. Joy and I will likely catch up with them later. We can keep in touch by text.
Dangling little tidbits of information for the next few hours will right the ship. Vaguely suggestive little snipets that have him wondering why he's not in a cab on his way to see me.
This is where my degree in English and my love of just the right word give me the edge no matter what the media. My element. My game.
Game on.
Clothes, jewelry, makeup, hair products and other notions are all being offered or asked for from room to room. Clothes irons, flat irons, and curling irons all cooking. The bar bears all the hallmarks of a party well underway: glasses, limes, chips, salsa, opened bottles, half-filled glasses, corks lying still on screws, margarita foam pooled in bottoms of glasses.
We are a somewhat divided camp tonight. The Krotchfelts are here to party and have taken a new found albeit delayed shine to our friends from prior years. Our friends are going out in downtown and a contingency of our group, led by the K sisters is going to join them.
Since Jackie will only be with us this one last night and has expressed an interest in dining in a restaurant we have all come to know and love that is nearby, she and Joy and Kate have decided to go there. I am the vote that decides the majority, which for some reason seems to matter when it shouldn't.
I am planning to join Kate, Joy and Jackie.
I've heard from Alejandro a few times that day. It is apparent that he'd like to see me, which is nice to know but puts me in somewhat of a quandary. I'd like to see him for sure, but this trip is about THE GIRLS. Or is supposed to be. Last year, J. was a huge distraction and I felt guilty about not being present. And then about being a disturbance. I need to be present. I am here for the right reasons and nothing will distract me.
So Alejandro is a secondary concern tonight. A priority but not the top banana. And for genuine and meaningful reasons. But that is a pretty weighty topic that will require a very verbose and sincere explanation to be understood by Alejandro, which I am pretty sure is unnecessary given the fleeting and frivolous nature of this little romance. I am sure I do not want to seem like the psycho from the Wedding Crashers planning a wedding and 2.3 children after the first kiss. So instead, I am dodging. I'd like to say I am an artful dodger, but we are texting for chrissake, and it is an imperfect media. I am not doing the dance very gracefully. Aloof but not unavailable is the position I want to take but aloof comes across as bitchy in texts. Available comes across as desperate. I am doomed.
I would like to see him. Their plans sound like fun. (Hello, full contact karaoke participation!) But I am compelled by my friendship with the girls to give them the priority they deserve. This is a girls trip. Anything else is a bonus. This really can not and should not be adequately explained. It is just who we are to eachother.
As we approach the wine bar/coffee house/foodie heaven we have grown to adore, I get a text from Alejandro.
"If we are welcome, we'd like to see you girls tonight."
Great. My dodging and the imperfect media that is texting have managed to make him feel like a pest. Like I'm not interested. Too aloof. Blowing him/them off. So convincingly so that he will not even say he'd like to see me. Has to make it a group thing. They'd like to see us.
We sit at the bar, order wine, and wait for a table. I make a pact with the girls that I order something other than wine after the first drink. I love wine but have no idea how to avoid getting completely plastered when I drink it. So overindulging in public has to be avoided at all costs. One glass I am a happy, story telling companion. Two or three and I am likely to be found up on the table top dancing the can-can in my panties and no one would be capable of convincing me that it is not a splendid idea. So once I have placed my order for the first and last glass of the night, I excuse myself to right things with Alejandro and the boys.
I am relieved that he answers. I am better in conversation than anything else.
I let him know where we are and who I am with - and let him know that there are a few folks headed in their direction. I tell him directly that of course they are welcome. We love their company, and implore him not to worry about that.
He audibly exhales in relief.
I continue that Jackie is with us for one last evening and that 4 of us are spending the early evening together. Kate and Jackie intend to turn in earlier than the rest of us. Joy and I will likely catch up with them later. We can keep in touch by text.
Dangling little tidbits of information for the next few hours will right the ship. Vaguely suggestive little snipets that have him wondering why he's not in a cab on his way to see me.
This is where my degree in English and my love of just the right word give me the edge no matter what the media. My element. My game.
Game on.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Twistin' by the Pool
The afternoon turns into one of those dreamy, lazy, nothing-to-do-but-hang-may-as-well-have-a-drink kind of afternoons. Except for Jackie. She was out for a long run.
What?
The rest of us retired to the pool. The gated one with the hot tub. We have magazines and books and snacks and lots to dish about. Again, one of my favorite features of this kind of trip.
Candy is doing research on pop culture and needs to dig in to a book which asks women to determine whether they are a Marilyn (as in Monroe) or a Jackie (as in Kennedy Onassis). Both seem pretty tragic. I would venture to guess I am more Jamie Lee Curtis than either one of these two. No costumes. No flagrant misbehaving. No famous trademark. No flamboyant family. No outrageous backstory. (OK that weird androgyny urban legend thing notwithstanding.) But any day of the week that beats being Amy Winehouse, Anna Nicole Smith, Hilary Clinton, Camilla Parker Bowles, Eva Longoria Parker, or Madonna. Or anyone in Mel Gibson’s life.
But evidently I am reading too deeply into this vacuous little book. It is more about looks and approach than attitude and soul. So the question really is “Are you a hot mess or a style icon?” After responding to a few not-so-probing questions, we decide that none of us are decidedly either and turn our attention to the Cosmopolitan Magazine offering to enlighten us about men’s “hot spots” or more plainly, parts of their bodies that men universally enjoy having touched and why.
Don’t we all know why? And doesn’t it suffice to say that almost any touching at all is pretty much appreciated, even if only just a potential gateway drug to the Big Show?
But we read on anyway. And this is where you really begin to know who your girlfriends are. Because there as you are all sitting nearly nude in a hot tub or beach chairs with no other distractions and nowhere to hide, is when all the deepest, most tightly held, most private secrets, questions, insecurities and ideas all come out to play.
Whose quiet demeanor belies an adventurous little firecracker with an extraordinary repertoire?
Who is willing but a little anxious to try what, because they aren’t quite sure of the physics involved.
What does he think when you do X, Y or Z? Has anyone asked him?
Whose husband/partner keeps making a special request and promises jewelry in return for a particular thing that one friend is not entirely game to attempt, and another friend may have had the same reservation about but has gotten over it.
Descriptions of a failed mission that needs to be attempted again and how to capitalize on the do-over.
Things we’ve learned through years of laughable trial and error. And sometimes injury.
What thing got what surprising reaction and might be worth the other gals giving a whirl when they get home from the trip.
Who has become a little insecure about what act/body part/bodily function/feature of middle age and needs a little reassurance from someone who will never mislead her and will give her only honesty, no matter what.
Hints from Heloise type advice on what to do when things are out of sync and need to get back in alignment in a hurry.
In short, stuff your mother never told you, but your girlfriends always will.
What?
The rest of us retired to the pool. The gated one with the hot tub. We have magazines and books and snacks and lots to dish about. Again, one of my favorite features of this kind of trip.
Candy is doing research on pop culture and needs to dig in to a book which asks women to determine whether they are a Marilyn (as in Monroe) or a Jackie (as in Kennedy Onassis). Both seem pretty tragic. I would venture to guess I am more Jamie Lee Curtis than either one of these two. No costumes. No flagrant misbehaving. No famous trademark. No flamboyant family. No outrageous backstory. (OK that weird androgyny urban legend thing notwithstanding.) But any day of the week that beats being Amy Winehouse, Anna Nicole Smith, Hilary Clinton, Camilla Parker Bowles, Eva Longoria Parker, or Madonna. Or anyone in Mel Gibson’s life.
But evidently I am reading too deeply into this vacuous little book. It is more about looks and approach than attitude and soul. So the question really is “Are you a hot mess or a style icon?” After responding to a few not-so-probing questions, we decide that none of us are decidedly either and turn our attention to the Cosmopolitan Magazine offering to enlighten us about men’s “hot spots” or more plainly, parts of their bodies that men universally enjoy having touched and why.
Don’t we all know why? And doesn’t it suffice to say that almost any touching at all is pretty much appreciated, even if only just a potential gateway drug to the Big Show?
But we read on anyway. And this is where you really begin to know who your girlfriends are. Because there as you are all sitting nearly nude in a hot tub or beach chairs with no other distractions and nowhere to hide, is when all the deepest, most tightly held, most private secrets, questions, insecurities and ideas all come out to play.
Whose quiet demeanor belies an adventurous little firecracker with an extraordinary repertoire?
Who is willing but a little anxious to try what, because they aren’t quite sure of the physics involved.
What does he think when you do X, Y or Z? Has anyone asked him?
Whose husband/partner keeps making a special request and promises jewelry in return for a particular thing that one friend is not entirely game to attempt, and another friend may have had the same reservation about but has gotten over it.
Descriptions of a failed mission that needs to be attempted again and how to capitalize on the do-over.
Things we’ve learned through years of laughable trial and error. And sometimes injury.
What thing got what surprising reaction and might be worth the other gals giving a whirl when they get home from the trip.
Who has become a little insecure about what act/body part/bodily function/feature of middle age and needs a little reassurance from someone who will never mislead her and will give her only honesty, no matter what.
Hints from Heloise type advice on what to do when things are out of sync and need to get back in alignment in a hurry.
In short, stuff your mother never told you, but your girlfriends always will.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Baby Got Back
The walk was as enlightening as it was refreshing. We all learned a little more about each other. The desert will do that to you.
We decide to delay going to the pool in favor of lunch at one of the places that has become a fan favorite since our first having visited. The veterans are jonesing for a few house favorites and the newbies are anxious to see what we are so excited about.
We are a little dusty and a little more weathered than we'd like, but nothing a little lipstick can't fix. We are getting presentable when Candy presents a challenge to her sister.
"Dare me to walk in like this?"
I turn to find that Candy has jammed the both legs of her shorts up into her bikini line in the front, turning it, well, into a bikini.
But that is only half the story. She turns to reveal that the backs of the legs of her shorts have been similarly jammed up between her butt cheeks, which were completely exposed. Again.
With her full pouty Penelope Pitstop pink lipstick and jewelry, this is a sight to behold. She intends to walk right into the restaurant, and ask with the utmost seriousness, for a table for 7. I imagine her being told, however tentatively, "Follow me, " and letting us all file in behind the hostess while she quite literally brings up the rear, and has a dining room full of restaurant patrons reaching into their breast pockets for glycerin pills.
As funny as this is, I am starving. I suggest she reconsider since we do actually want to eat at this restaurant and not be forcibly removed from it. But this really is too funny not to do.
In the end, no pun intended, she unwads the front of the shorts from her crotch, and then jams only one leg of the back of the shorts into her butt crack so it really does look like an accident. And it will create all manner of Candid Camera moments as we walk through the pavilion, asking unsuspecting and nearly speechless passersby for recommendations for where to go later that night.
And so, we are seated by a humorless waitress who rebuffs our attempts to be her favorite, albeit most demanding, table. (She must not have realized that we are big tippers.) And at some point between the nachos and the salads, and in among the stories and the razzing, the texts began arriving from our friends, rehashing episodes from the night before according to their unique perspective, and of course, enticing us to come out and play again.
And this, friends, is probably my second favorite part of the trip.
We decide to delay going to the pool in favor of lunch at one of the places that has become a fan favorite since our first having visited. The veterans are jonesing for a few house favorites and the newbies are anxious to see what we are so excited about.
We are a little dusty and a little more weathered than we'd like, but nothing a little lipstick can't fix. We are getting presentable when Candy presents a challenge to her sister.
"Dare me to walk in like this?"
I turn to find that Candy has jammed the both legs of her shorts up into her bikini line in the front, turning it, well, into a bikini.
But that is only half the story. She turns to reveal that the backs of the legs of her shorts have been similarly jammed up between her butt cheeks, which were completely exposed. Again.
With her full pouty Penelope Pitstop pink lipstick and jewelry, this is a sight to behold. She intends to walk right into the restaurant, and ask with the utmost seriousness, for a table for 7. I imagine her being told, however tentatively, "Follow me, " and letting us all file in behind the hostess while she quite literally brings up the rear, and has a dining room full of restaurant patrons reaching into their breast pockets for glycerin pills.
As funny as this is, I am starving. I suggest she reconsider since we do actually want to eat at this restaurant and not be forcibly removed from it. But this really is too funny not to do.
In the end, no pun intended, she unwads the front of the shorts from her crotch, and then jams only one leg of the back of the shorts into her butt crack so it really does look like an accident. And it will create all manner of Candid Camera moments as we walk through the pavilion, asking unsuspecting and nearly speechless passersby for recommendations for where to go later that night.
And so, we are seated by a humorless waitress who rebuffs our attempts to be her favorite, albeit most demanding, table. (She must not have realized that we are big tippers.) And at some point between the nachos and the salads, and in among the stories and the razzing, the texts began arriving from our friends, rehashing episodes from the night before according to their unique perspective, and of course, enticing us to come out and play again.
And this, friends, is probably my second favorite part of the trip.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Moon Over My Hammy
We pull into the parking spaces at the foot of the mountain and prepare to hike. Phones, bottled water, sunscreen, sun glasses. We are ready. Candy turns to begin to hike up the hill…and in doing so, shouts over her shoulder, “Don’t be jealous that I have a great ass!”
I turn to respond only to see that Candy has mooned us again. This time she is showing off the tan lines from her recent spray on tan, and to emphasize the point, has begun to walk proudly away from us all, the waistband of her running shorts pulled down to expose both butt cheeks in their entirety. I am doubled over.
She stops to explain.
“My mother and I are mooners,” she says. Just as anyone else would say that they along with their mother, might be Republicans, or vegetarians, or Yankees fans. She goes on to say that what she means by that is that a good mooning is simply a way to make a point. Some people flip you the bird. Some people tell you to drop dead. Some people moon you. She further illustrates by telling me a story about having walked into her mother’s home recently to find her talking to her sister, who lives in another state, on Skype. And shortly having walked in, Candy observed her mother mooning the sister, again, all by the magic that is Skype. Taffy confirms the story. Mooning is a family affair.
I am about to say that I don’t know of anyone who moons anyone – and suddenly to my delight recall that my Dad did a little mooning in his day. He did a thing he and his buddies called a Pressed Ham. Their car (jammed with people like our car, no doubt) would pull up along side another car full of people, and someone would press their bare ass against that window glass. Voila! Pressed Ham.
Why this makes me giggle I am not sure. But suddenly mooning seems as normal as shaking hands. Only more fun.
I turn to respond only to see that Candy has mooned us again. This time she is showing off the tan lines from her recent spray on tan, and to emphasize the point, has begun to walk proudly away from us all, the waistband of her running shorts pulled down to expose both butt cheeks in their entirety. I am doubled over.
She stops to explain.
“My mother and I are mooners,” she says. Just as anyone else would say that they along with their mother, might be Republicans, or vegetarians, or Yankees fans. She goes on to say that what she means by that is that a good mooning is simply a way to make a point. Some people flip you the bird. Some people tell you to drop dead. Some people moon you. She further illustrates by telling me a story about having walked into her mother’s home recently to find her talking to her sister, who lives in another state, on Skype. And shortly having walked in, Candy observed her mother mooning the sister, again, all by the magic that is Skype. Taffy confirms the story. Mooning is a family affair.
I am about to say that I don’t know of anyone who moons anyone – and suddenly to my delight recall that my Dad did a little mooning in his day. He did a thing he and his buddies called a Pressed Ham. Their car (jammed with people like our car, no doubt) would pull up along side another car full of people, and someone would press their bare ass against that window glass. Voila! Pressed Ham.
Why this makes me giggle I am not sure. But suddenly mooning seems as normal as shaking hands. Only more fun.
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