I’m SO not a girly-girl
It was that time of year again. Nina’s Birthday Extravaganza. I’ve been friends with her for like a decade, but I’d usually rather spend my non-husband-and-kids time alone than with her.
Here’s a quick illustration: Nina once told me she can’t wait until I sell a screenplay so that she’ll know someone famous. I was too fascinated by how she made my writing career all about her to even be annoyed. (I didn’t bother to point out that she couldn’t name the writers of any of her favorite films. I did, however, briefly go into why I have no desire to ever be famous, but her eyes glazed over, so I thwacked her on the forehead to get her back conscious. Since she was driving and all.)
Nina has been upset with me since I didn’t make it to last year’s “Watch the 30-Something Women Drink like Teenagers, Pretend to be Bisexual for the Entertainment of College Guys Who Aren’t Looking Anyway, and Stumble Around Downtown Until they Vomit in the Limo” party. But this year, a couple of Nina’s girlier girlfriends organized a “24-hour Girls’ Day & Sleepover.” Sounded a little more doable, so I forced the bile back down my throat and RSVP’d with a reluctant “Yes.”
I won’t bore either of us with a complete recap, but here are some highlights:
Part of the Girliest Day I’ve Ever Spent was a group pedicure. About a dozen of us sat in massage chairs along one wall with our feet in these fabulous jazuzzi things. (Previously, I was a pedi virgin — I’ve always just done them myself and figured I can do without the foot and calf massage.) I was worried I’d kick the lady in the teeth, because my feet are crazy ticklish, but happily, I did not. And they kept my glass full of champagne (when it wasn’t full of appletinis) and fed me cheese and crackers. It didn’t suck. Don’t get me wrong, I won’t be back, but it didn’t suck.
Sometime in the afternoon, a few of us were standing in the kitchen inspecting the goods of one of the birthday girl’s friends who’d recently had her third boob job. They look good. The scars aren’t terrible, despite the lift. I’d expected her to look like the Bride of Frankenstein under there. Oh– and she got silicone. Apparently you can get it if you’ve had implants before. They’re softer than saline, she said. We were encouraged to feel for ourselves. I thought they felt kind of hard, but that might have been residual swelling. They were still only a few weeks old.
There was more flashing and grabbing of breasts and asses and nipple-tweaking than I would’ve expected, yet when the subject of threesomes came up, those who spoke up were vehemently disgusted by the whole idea and would never, ever, ever be with another woman, and wouldn’t even think about sharing their men!
(Funny thing is, Nina was one of the more vocal No-Way’ers but I happen to know she has had a threesome in which she did share her husband [because her husband told mine].)
Later, the hostess showed us how she gives a lapdance. To a wide-screen television. (That wasn’t on.) Apparently, she does this at parties a lot.
I know it’s a birthday party, but… um… I don’t think I belong in here.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Lonely in a roomful of people is the loneliest lonely I know.
Next year, when Nina’s birthday extravaganza rolls around, I’ll probably just stay home and give myself a pedicure.