I had a lazy writing day last week–never showered, never fixed myself up. Just wrote all day. For me that’s a good day. For anyone around me, not so much. My two female chickens were at the ready. They watched movies, ate candy and incessantly chatted. And then they watched a little series called Girls. I have read the accolades, heard of its’ ground breaking nature and the debate over the level of talent Lena Dunham must possess to not only write but produce and star in this commentary of today’s girls. One talent she has is the ability to titillate. I know–this coming from me.
I’m writing in the kitchen; my girls just a few feet from me when I hear, “You like my balls in your face.” Whaaa? My head swivels ala Linda Blair on steroids and I slide over to the couch. A boyfriend is discussing with his girlfriend how much she actually likes his balls. She’s disagreeing, as girls are wont to do, that balls are not all that attractive. The young man is hurt. Apparently he believes in the attractiveness of this appendage. The next episode is about a girl who has a lot of nerve not showing up for her own abortion and in another the protagonist watches her boyfriend, no wait, guy that she sleeps with, pleasure himself while she takes a hundred dollars from his drawer. I am not lying. Consult HBO, you’ll see.
Ever the mom, I believe it’s time for conversation. I believe I prepared my girls for the world and all its pleasure, but I know the subject of “balls” not only never came up but this post will be the first time they hear the word from me. I ask Middle Chicken, “Is this shit real? Is this how you guys are?” non-judgmentally, like mothers do. She laughs really hard, not with me but at me. She says it may be Lena’s life but it’s not hers or any of the myriad girls she lived with in college or her present law school environs. I make the sign of the cross and thank the Catholic god that some teaching went in there–including the part about not being a slut.
Conversation between the girls on “Girls” got me thinking of my own posse of girlfriends and what we do and don’t discuss. Balls is not on the menu.
There is the Goddess Trish with whom no topic (except balls) is off limits. We laugh at everything, especially inappropriate shit that is not funny. She was in the woods the day The Norwegian died–she thinks the ants that filled my pants as we sat together on the trail floor are as funny as I do. We notice when we repeat the story others look at us as if we’re a bit twisted. Inappropriate is our moniker. Just yesterday, we laughed about a crazy cousin–she’s really crazy–it’s really not funny. We laughed. We have shared talents as well–bird necks amongst them. You can do it; smile big, tilt your head back and suck in your neck. See all those veins and stuff that pop out–that’s your bird neck. Goddess Trish and I do this for fun in family photos. Such a hallmark is it that in our annual Christmas white elephant, a photo snapped of superior bird neck action framed in beautiful silver, is a coveted prize. It has traveled from house to house for seven or eight years now. The recipient knows it must be returned to the gift pile next year. The Norwegian and his cousin, The Other Norwegian, goddess’ husband, used to shake their heads and look at each other. Now The Other Norwegian accepts the crazy alone. We are thinking of making a collage for next year.
There are the YaYas–yes, named for the book. You’ve not read it? Whaaaaa? Are you a girl? Take care of that life error right now. Rebecca Wells’ Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood is available at any library (the movie does not do it justice–don’t cheat) but I guarantee you will want your own tear stained paperback. The Ya-Yas are a collection of amazing, funny, silly, talented, every one beautiful, razor witted, kick ass bitches with whom one should not mess. They can put a husband, a child or a nasty ass girlfriend in place with a mere withering glance. Been there, seen it. Remember the last post? About the nasty girlfriend? Ya-Yas flooded the phone line in two seconds flat–Who is the bitch? It’s not me, is it?
I had lunch last week with two girlfriends, one a world traveler. Our lives intersect, lose touch and then swing around again in the most interesting ways. World Traveler said she could not stand the thought of me drinking Popov so brought a bottle of Grey Goose for a happy new year. Who does that? Only the sweetest of dolls.
And then there’s the doll of dolls, Sisterella. She created the term of endearment and I’m giving it right back to her. Her personality is as big as the moon. Don’t be fooled–this girl has been kicked in the ass every which way from Sunday but gets up every morning, puts on her lipstick and her big girl panties to spread joy and drunken laughter wherever she goes. She wants to have a “splash” (read a bottle or two of wine) with myself and girl chickens before they leave. She pops by one evening to entertain myself and Middle Chicken. Six hours later, we stumble to the door. She lives only blocks away, don’t fret. I have a top secret writing project (I know–squee) and Middle Chicken spills the beans to Sisterella girlfriend. Ever the perfect reactionary, girlfriend jumps up and struts about my living room announcing all the awards we will win. “How about we take our gorgeous sons as our dates?” say I. “Fuck that shit,” she says, stone faced. “We arrive in our beautiful gowns and diamonds and call out–Look at us bitches. We are the single ladies” and she does a little Beyonce booty move followed by sweeping her arm from shoe to top of head. I know she will make the best escort to anything, anywhere, anytime.
Point being, each generation has it’s own girlfriend logic. For us old ladies, it’s vodka and good wine, career success, smoking out a nasty bitch and cheers to each other. Evidently for Lena and crew, it’s balls in your face. Not that ladies of a certain age are unaware of mad skills, however, we have learned never to point out to a gentleman that any part of his junk is anything less than lovely. Never hit a guy where he lives, girls. It’s basic manners. Pfft.