Lately I've been pouring my heart and soul into a project that I'm 99% sure will not turn out the way I want. About this whole she-bang, my son said to me, "Be positive, Mom!"
"Ok. I'm positive it won't work out." Thank you very much. I'll be here all week.
I'm frustrated, obsessive and frazzled. If it weren't for the fact that I hate medications of all kinds, I'd probably develop a drug habit just to get me over the hump and then head off to Betty Ford when the storm has passed to kick it. As that is not an option, I have another plan to release this gigantic head of steam that has built up inside my head.
A girl's night out!
My best friend, the evil Berta Lou, called me a couple days ago. "Wanna get together with the girls and hang out Friday night?"
"Does Angelina Jolie have big lips?" I said.
Women everywhere understand that when you have a friend who has at least enough ESPN to know exactly when to call and offer you a chick night, she's a keeper.
Both because we live in Farm Country, USA and because we have legally passed the age when going to a bar is fun, our plans are to hang out at her house on the veranda. We will eat things we shouldn't, enjoy cold beverages, turn the music up too loud, make fun of people that are prettier than us and talk about super secret stuff. Some things don't change in a girl's life no matter how old you are.
"Just so you know, I don't want to be the topic of conversation Friday night," said Mr. Man. He kindly volunteered to stay home and baby sit the Big Dog for the evening. They have decided to have a boy's night out for themselves. I suspect it involves junk food, passing gas and playing PS2. By that standard, every night in this house is a boy's night out.
"Conceited much?" I asked. In the world where Mr. Man lives, and is apparently the Supreme Ruler and center of the universe, my getting together with the girls would mean an evening of discussing all things Him.
I imagine in his mind, it'll go something like this.
"Sher, thank God you're here! We've been waiting impatiently to hear all about Mr. Man. Please, tell us everything."
"You guys should have been there," I'd say as I whip out the accordion file of Mr. Man photos I'm sure he thinks I keep in my purse. "He did the cutest darn thing the other day. I spent an hour cooking supper and he said in this really cute voice, 'This is gross. I'm not eating it.' We laughed and laughed."
"You're so lucky, Sher. We all wish we were married to Mr. Man. Has he done that great thing he does with his socks lately?"
"You mean where he takes them off and rolls them up in little disgusting balls? Not lately, no. But he has been working on his snoring extra hard these past few weeks. He's almost got it loud enough now to drown out the smoke alarm should it go off in the middle of the night. It's very rhythmic. I love it." Then we'd all hold hands and sing songs about Mr. Man, like "You're Just a Love Machine", "Heartbreaker" and possibly a little something by Carly Simon circa 1973.
Of course the night wouldn't be complete unless at least one of the girls offers me an obscene amount of money to give up my rights to Mr. Man and hand him over to her. I'm sure he wouldn't be a bit surprised if I came home and told him he'd been sold. In fact, he probably has a little bag packed somewhere ready to go on a moment's notice.
If Mr. Man, or any other man alive for that matter, really knew what we girls talk about when we get together, they'd have what's known in the south as a "spell". Without breaking the sacred vow of secrecy women everywhere take on their thirteenth birthdays, I will say this...
We talk about exactly what you think we talk about.
Bow down and worship me, for I am Sher: Queen of the Vague and Ambiguous.
Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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