Chicks, Man

I get out for Girls’ Nights approximately every solar eclipse these days, so I was looking forward to getting all dolled up (translation: putting on deodorant), having a few martinis and seeing Sex and the City with the girls this weekend.  Sure, reviews of the movie suggested that pulling out my teeth with pliers would be more fun than watching the Film That Never Should Have Been Made, but I didn’t care.  I mean, c’mon.  Martinis!  A movie!  Deodorant!  That’s as exciting as it gets for the mom of a ten-month-old.  Not to mention I’m pretty sure we broke the pliers trying to put Skye’s walker together. So teeth extraction by pliers wasn’t even an option.

In retrospect, I should have just used the pipe wrench.  Because that would have been less painful than what transpired Friday night.

Terribleness of the movie aside — and, other than a spot-on exchange between Miranda and Charlotte about motherhood that lasted all of a minute of the two-and-a-half-hour movie, it was disappointingly terrible — it was the real-life drama that really dragged me down.  I was reminded why most of my friends are guys:  CHICKS ARE MEAN!  Not you lovely ladies reading this, of course, but a lot of females…?  Not exactly kind to each other.  The few female friends I do have, including the one who invited me to join her and her other friends for the Sex and the City “fun,” are very low-maintenance.  As in I don’t have to worry about them being nice to my face, and then mocking my “fat ass” behind my back.  My friends have NO problem laughing at my fat ass right in front of me.  No!  I kid!  My ass is more flat than fat.  Which apparently makes it all the funnier.  Got some syrup to go with that pancake ass, Kirby? Ha, ha!

Um, what was I saying?  Oh yeah.  My friends are sweet and low-maintenance…

It’s been a long time since I’ve hung out with a group of ladies, so I’d forgotten how they can be when they convene in large flocks.  They can be fun, with lots of silliness, sassiness and fruity-looking shots, but they can also be full of drama.  For those of you who also have been distanced, blissfully so, from chick drama, allow me to get you up-to-speed on the latest trend:  Texting nasty messages to each other while SITTING AT THE SAME TABLE — and continuing the text-fights DURING THE MOVIE.   Yes!  They are laughing and appearing to be having a grand ol’ time with each other above the table, but under the table, a text war is a’brewin’!

“I’ll have the Cobb Salad, please, with a big plate of passive-aggressiveness on the side.  And served under the table.”

I let the ladies know I was NOT a fan of their texting during the movie in the most mature, constructive way I knew possible:  by sighing loudly and making a point of shielding my face from the glare of their cell phone screens.

There was also A Moment at the dinner table, A Moment that made me realize I hadn’t had nearly enough to drink.

“Okay, girls.  Which ‘Sex and the City’ character are you?” one of the ladies asked us.  Oh god, no, I thought, clutching my empty martini glass.

“I’m a cross between Samantha and Charlotte!” one person declared.

“But they’re total opposites!” argued another.

“That’s because I’m a lady on the street and a freak in the bed,” Samantha/Charlotte smirked.  I swear on my first cat Bootsy’s grave she said that.  WITHOUT A TRACE OF HUMOR.  I nearly choked on my bread.

“What about you, Candy?”

All heads swiveled my way.  I had been quiet most of the night, almost willing myself to be back at home with Mr. Candy and my sleeping Skye.  I hocked up the piece of bread lodged in my throat, took a swig of water — wishing it were vodka — and thought for a moment.

“I guess… a little bit of Carrie.  Because she’s a writer.”  The table nodded in unison.  Emboldened by their positive response, I added:  “And maybe a little bit of Miranda?”

Several of the women immediately recoiled.  “MIRANDA?!” they gasped.

“Um, yeah.  Because of her sarcastic humor.”

That’s it.  I was officially Dead to Them.  A Miranda in their midst…?  Yuck.

“I could see you being part Miranda,” somebody said to Samantha/Charlotte.

“NO WAY!” Samantha/Charlotte screamed, as though the person had just told her she had four weeks to live.

*Sigh*  I couldn’t believe I had wasted perfectly good deodorant on this.

And before you suggest I’m a mean girl for sharing this story with the world, I’d like to note that I have a very good reason for doing so:  Mr. Candy told me to.