my other place

I don’t usually write about my weekends or outings with friends in detail, but I know that DH will read this. And so, this post is for DH. PK, she is my bestest bestest friend, will not read this. And so, PK you are a b*tch *ss ho and I love you.

My feet hurt, which is a good feeling on a Sunday morning. Just walking around my apartment brings me pain and the memory of having to walk home in heels I haven’t worn in a year because we downed 2 bottles of wine in the fancy French restaurant where they did things like put the white wine in ice to chill beside our table while we ate.

We decided that at some point all female conversations will turn to the topic of breasts. We then decided that all male conversations will do the same. We also decided that these conversations will sound nothing like each other. Conversations might also lead to other regions, but demure girls call this “my other place.” We are too dainty to name it. And then we think of Steve Martin in The Jerk where he finally understands his “special purpose.” And then we laugh, loudly, and expose our non-demureness. We are in fact, not dainty people.

Before my amazing friends, PK and DH, showed up and we ate roasted vegetable with goat cheese sandwiches, I talked to him.
It was lovely. His British accent and his nervousness make me swoon a little. I admit, I have a little crush. And I kept talking about him all weekend. “Andre said that our news is crap.” “Andre said the Brits liked Renee Zellweger in Bridget Jones.” “Andre is an amazing photographer.” And then they watched the video of him with his grandma and developed a slight crush too. They, however, are both taken.

Then we drunk called him. And I laughed. He did not answer, we left a drunken message about tequila, which had followed the two bottles of wine. We drunk called others and I have no idea what we said to them.

We talked a great deal about politics over decadent baklava muffins and sliced peaches in the morning after. We agree that we don’t understand the turn in our nation, how we have become so right winged and conservative. We worry deeply about Bush’s nomination to the Supreme Court. We are scared for our children. We hate FoxNews. We love Jon Stewart.

And then PK and DH left and while I’m thrilled for a lazy Sunday afternoon, I am missing them already. My barometer, my litmus tests, they want me to stick it out with the new boy. They want me to see where it goes. I want to run. I have to listen to them, they are wise, they are kind, and they would not send me into a fire without the right protection. And they will be there to clean up the mess.

I am holding my 1789 Tarsan white wine glass up and saying “to girls weekends.” I love you guys.

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