I know. I’ve been on sabbatical from my cyberspace girlfriends. Profuse apologies. I had to finish the book. I know. Squee. It’s done and off to the agent on a wing and a prayer. And hopes for a speedy publisher. And perhaps a hefty advance. And a lifetime of writing, European travel, dresses, pearls, girlfriends and Grey Goose.
Meantime, there are repeated questions about the book. Here are the answers. Yes, bitches are slayed. Yes, you find out what happened in the woods that day. And no, unless you know us in real life, you do not find out the names of The Norwegian or The Chickens. As for the bitches, author Anne LaMott offers, “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” I figure I’m kind of like Taylor Swift. “You aren’t really gonna write about me, are you?”
“Yup, I am.”
While I’m writing this morning, I get a text from Middle Chicken, “Just met Jimmy Carter.” Just a random day in the District.
“Whaaaa?” responds me.
“At our school today. He was walking through the hall and no one was noticing lol. Saw Secret Service and said Mr. President, an honor to meet you and shook his hand. Then everyone turned around.” Gotta love the pair on this girl, non?
“Omg. Good job Babydoll,” text I.
“Hahaha,” texts Middle Chicken. “This school is liberal as shit and it takes a republican to recognize Jimmy Carter.” Touche little one, touche.
Don’t you just love that our daughters are more nervy than we were at twenty? Or fifty? Had a visit last week from Sorority Sister and her daughter, my goddaughter. Goddaughter is about to turn thirty, has a PhD, is a professor up for tenure and has an attitude that should be bottled and sold. She rocks a gorgeous musician husband, boundless intelligence, a stunning face and a houseful of hairless cats. Obviously, she could give a damn what you or I think. Except there is a certain girlfriend playing in her yard. And there it is. Again.
We talked about bitches that hate us. I have my share and she has hers. And the question keeps circling back, “Tell me what I did to you and we can fix it. Talk it out. Whatever. Or agree to hate each other for eternity.” There’s a difference between a dust up and when someone just decides one day to take aim. It’s the take aim that perplexes most girls. Tell me you hate my face, my attitude or my shoes. Don’t just take aim and hide in the bushes.
And then her mom, Sorority Sister, pipes up. There’s something freeing about conversation with a girl who remembers you barfed all over yourself in a frat house making her leave the party and a potential boyfriend and still loves you today. She talks of a girl in college. Picked on her all the time for no reason. We all saw it, knew it, and did nothing. How is it that we have no trouble standing up to men, marching up to a former president, writing a book or running a corporation, but when it comes to other chicks we become feckless?
Last night, at a board meeting, two brave girls spoke up about problems in the group. Eighteen people in the room. Sixteen of us suddenly mute. Except the one who doesn’t know what’s going on. Even the bitchiest amongst us had nothing to say. Every chick in the room is guilty of gossip. Opportunity to serve it up on a platter and solve it, and we all lose our wagging tongues, myself included. Oh to have a penis and the ability to say, “fuck you asshole,” and be friends, or not, tomorrow. For some reason, we are like dogs with bones who can’t unclench.
I hear there was even gossip about the blog. Delish. That one made me happy. Even if you’re here because you hate my guts, you count toward my success. Gracias.
The other side of the coin is the girls you would trust with your life and the lives of your children. There are women for whom I would go to hell and back. So why do we hate other women for seemingly no reason? I can only offer my list. I have an intense instant dislike for you if:
* You have really expensive shoes and they’re cute. I can’t afford them so you shouldn’t have them either.
* You have a really amazing career–no explanation–my jealousy is so apparent you can wipe the green off my face.
* You have a small, shapely ass–enough said. If you don’t get this one, I hate you too.
* You can wear a bikini. My stomach sends even ogres running for the hills in horror.
* You have a hot husband. I don’t want yours. I just want mine back.
* You have more pearls than me. Wait, that’s not even possible. Never mind.
* You have a bestselling book or a spot on Fashion Police. You stole my life bitch.
* You’ve been to Paris for Fashion Week. Hate you on sight. Nothing you can do about it except take me with you next time.
* You can rock a messy bun. That’s just not fair.
* You can go to the grocery store with no makeup and still get hit on. Pfft. Hate you.
What I’m hoping is the reason the girls in the group took aim is as silly a reason as any of mine. Either way, I’m still gonna write about it. And send it, on a wing and prayer, into cyberspace. Feel blessed for the great girls in your life. Call one right now. As for the others, let Karma take a turn. Been there. She can cut a bitch.