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The Cocktail Party - by Randi Sherman

Cocktail Party

When I arrived at my friend’s holiday cocktail party, I looked around the room and realized that other than the hostess, Margaret, there was not a recognizable face in the crowd.  I glanced around to take stock of fashion sense in the room and then at the mirror to check my outfit.  I realized that once again, I had made the incorrect outfit selection.  It doesn’t matter how much planning I do, I have an inexplicable talent of choosing the most inappropriate apparel for any occasion.

If I were asked to select a word that best describes my appearance, I would say “pleasant.” Although, my looks do not stimulate one’s gag reflexes, I have not been presented any awards for my outstanding beauty and poise.  It is inevitable, there is always at least one woman at each party who has the ability to turn the heads of all of the men and generate instant jealousy from all of the women in the room.  She is tall and proud and magnetic.  She smolders.  I would describe myself as the semi-attractive woman who is standing just behind her…holding the coats.

So there I stood, in the foyer.  I had a choice to make. I could muster up some faux-party-confidence and begin to mingle.  I could attempt to blend in with the décor, sip a drink and hope that a party guest would happen by and engage me in a conversation.  I could plant myself near the buffet table and force people to speak with me, or at least say “excuse me,” if they want to get close to the food.  Or I could attach myself to Margaret, the hostess, who is, required by the law-of-hosting and etiquette to talk to me, or introduce me into another conversation.

While making my decision, a severe looking woman dressed in all black and who looked like she just stepped away from the Chanel make-up counter, walked up to me and introduced herself as Victoria, “Don’t call me Vicky,” she commanded.  “My name is Victoria.” 

Whatever you say, Vicky, I thought. 

Victoria was obviously killing time with me until someone more stylish was free for conversation.  She sipped her martini as she looked past me and lied to me.  Yes, lied.  I could tell.  If I had had a calculator with me and had added up all of things that she said she had accomplished, Victoria would have to be about two hundred and seventy years old.  Obviously, Victoria was not privy to the two basic rules of lying to someone at a cocktail party. First, if you choose to lie, make sure there is a recovery, if challenged.  “Really, Victoria, tell me more about water skiing on the Dead Sea.  I thought it was a sacred place and that speedboats were not allowed there. From whom did you get a permit?”  Second, lie to the party-drunk or to someone who is not really listening, who will, most likely, not remember anything about the conversation.

Without so much as a word, a ‘good-bye,” a “piss-off” or a nod Victoria sashayed away from me toward a group of porcelain faced, skinny people who seemed to be posing. They weren’t moving. They just might have worked part time as department store window mannequins.

After a minute or so, I found and joined a small group of people who were politely listening to a man named Neil as he droned on about his “fabulous” career, his incredible office, his importance, and his plans for advancement “in the firm.”  No one in the circle seemed interested in what he was saying, but they didn’t want to appear rude and walk away.  So we all stood there, helplessly and listened. He was so boring that he should have been forced to wear a warning label.  Caution: Use of his man may cause drowsiness.

My eyes began to water when I strained to keep my mouth closed while stifling a yawn.  I was tempted to grab Neil by the shoulders, shake him and holler, “No one in this room finds anything at all fascinating about you or your work.  Unless you could promise someone a high paying position, that requires minimal work and travel to exotic destinations along with an unlimited expense account, we simply don’t want to hear about it!  But instead, I stood quietly, with the rest of the group, until he finished his verbal resume.

A few minutes later, Margaret motioned me over and asked me if I was enjoying myself.

I started to lie. “Oh yes …”

She interrupted, “I want you to meet someone.  Come with me.” She motioned with her finger for me to follow her.

She then introduced me to a man named Michael.  He was also alone. He was handsome, intelligent and interesting … and spoken for.  About ten minutes into our conversation he announced, “I have a girlfriend who is out-of-state.  But you and I could get together for coffee, or something.”  Then he added, “Fortunately, I don’t find you attractive so I don’t have to worry about getting myself into trouble.”

What?  Fortunately, he doesn’t find me attractive … Was that supposed to be a compliment?  Gee, I thought.  A girl can’t hear that too many times.

When I went outside for a breath of fresh air, I met Phil.  He seemed like a “regular guy.”   We spoke for a few moments.  He asked me if I was dating anyone.  I told him that I wasn’t and asked about his situation.  He told me that he was single.

He started, “My last girlfriend was a model … ”  

I stopped him right there.  I had to know.  “Tell me, Phil,” I asked, “Why is it that every man I meet used to date a model?  How many models could be out there?”  I could never understand why a man would tell a woman about how beautiful his past girlfriends were. Although men may find this information to be fascinating and impressive, women can live a lifetime without hearing it.

I wandered into the kitchen to catch my breath and plan my escape. I looked at my watch.  Damn, it was too early to leave.  The caterers looked at me with a knowing-look that said, “Sit down, and have a cup of coffee.”

            As I sat there in the kitchen, a few other party-goers drifted in.  Some of the sat down.  Others leaned against the counters, had some coffee, and picked at the desert trays.  Before I knew it, the entire party had moved into the kitchen area. 

Over all, it had been a lovely party.  The food was delicious and guest were very nice but I was ready to leave.

Michael waved over the crowd toward Margaret and announced, “Well, I have to be on my way.  I have to catch a plane in the morning.” 

That was my opportunity, “Michael, would you mind walking me to my car?”  My question was two-fold.  It not only gave Margaret the illusion that Michael and I had hit-it-off, it also was my chance to cut out of the party.

             

Saturday, I was Invisible -from Grumblings...by the Author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Saturday, I was Invisible

 

One Saturday night, not too long ago, a group of coworkers and I went to a trendy club in a trendy neighborhood for some trendy drinks and dancing.  When we arrived at a club, the group dispersed and I was left alone.  I found an empty barstool and sat down.  A few minutes later, a man approached me, smiled and asked me, “Is that barstool taken?”  I looked to my left and to my right.  Both stools were being used.  I looked up to answer him and noticed he was pointing at the stool that I was sitting on.

That’s odd.  I was confused.  “I’m sitting here.”

“Oh.” he said and walked away.

I attempted to get the attention of the bartender.  “Excuse me,” didn’t work.  Waving my hand didn’t work.  Waving a twenty-dollar bill didn’t work.  But when a woman who had tattoos on her neck and glitter in her hair leaned across the bar, grabbed the bartender by the arm and shoved her tongue down is throat, I figured, Well, at least he is within shouting range.  I tapped her on the shoulder and thanked her.  She looked past me like I wasn’t there.

As people passed by, they knocked, pushed and shoved me.  When a huge bald man in a mesh shirt jabbed me in the kidneys with his elbow, I was convinced that I had stumbled upon the tryouts for the World Wrestling Federation. 

After being completely ignored for about a half an hour, I figured it out.  I realized that for all intent and purpose, I was invisible.  So, why not take advantage of my invisible status?  I watched the action around me and realized that everyone was working very hard to gain the attention of others.  I observed overt flirting, solicitous giggling, and animated conversation.

 Since I was invisible, I decided that I had the perfect opportunity to try an experiment.  I spent the rest of the evening trying to get the attention of the visible people by using the techniques that I have always found annoying and distasteful. 

I started a conversation with a man who clearly did not want to talk to me.  He was trying very hard to get away from me.  All he wanted to do was order drinks from the bartender and going back to his girlfriend.

“Hi.” I started.

He ignored me.

“I said, hi.” I waved my hand in front of his face.

“What?”  He seemed annoyed.  “Oh, hi.”

I pressed on.  “What’s your name?” 

He didn’t answer.

“You look like a Bob.” I pushed, “Is it alright if I call you Bob?”

“What? … Whatever.” He leaned over the bar and flagged down the bartender.

“Bob, do you like it here, at this club?  It’s my first time here.”

“Bob?” He didn’t answer.

“Bob … Bob.”  Then in a sing-songy voice, “Bobby, are you ignoring me?” I waved my hand in front of his face again.

“What?” He grabbed my waving hand. “Leave me alone!”

His drinks arrived and he paid the bartender.

I pushed one more time, “Is that for me?” I reached for one of the glasses.

“Hey!” He pushed my hand away.  “Leave that alone! Leave me alone.”  He looked at me like I was crazy and walked away.

Strike one.  Whose next?  I looked around the bar.

There was a group of four very chic looking women, who all looked to be about twenty-five years old.  They were standing in a little circle.  I walked over.  At first, when they sensed that I was there, they just tightened their circle.

“Hi. Have you girls met anyone yet?” 

Nothing.

I tapped one of them on the shoulder.  She brushed off her shoulder, squinted at me and made a “Thsk” sound.

I walked around the circle and stood behind another one of the girls. “Hi.”

She ignored me.  She and her friends rolled their eyes at one another.

Then I broke through, “Boy, you sure look pretty.”

Bing!  She turned, “What?”

“I said that you’re pretty.”

Her friends giggled.

“I’m not into that. So if you don’t mind I’m having a conversation with my friends-”

“I don’t mind.” I smiled wide and continued to stand there.

They closed their circle so tight that they were practically wearing each other’s clothes.

Strike two.  Next victim.

I walked up to a woman who obviously was trying to catch the eye of a man.  She saw me coming toward her and she turned to stone.  She was clearly annoyed by my presence and completely ignored my existence.  She looked past me and over my head.  So I decided to say whatever came to my mind, speak gibberish and use animated hand gestures.  I was curious about how long she would stand there until she would either breakdown and speak to me or just walk away.

“Hi.” I said.  I proudly held my arms out and told her, “ I’m one hundred and thirty years old and I weigh twenty-three pounds.”

She ignored me.

I offered, “I like green eggs and ham.”  I couldn’t help chuckling to myself.

Nothing.

I gestured toward the bathroom and said, using a serious voice, “flippita-yippity-yakka-pippy-pa-poo.”

She shifted her weight from one foot to another and exhaled through her nose.  Still, she continued to ignore me.  She was a pro.

Just as I was about launch into my rendition of the Barney Song, she smiled at a man who was about ten feet away.  She pushed me aside and walked away.

Strike three.

I went back to the bar and looked around.  I noticed that most of the women who were getting attention were very body-aware.  They were rubbing their hands up and down their arms and body and through their hair.  Okay, I thought.  I could do that. I pulled off my sweater, revealing my T-shirt. I continued.  I stretched my neck and let out a little sigh. Then, I rubbed my hands up my torso and lightly cupped my breasts.  That got the attention from the man next to me.  I coyly looked at him.

He looked at my hands, then at my face, “Hi there.”

“Hi, yourself.” I exhaled heavily.

“Do you need any help with that?” he offered as he motioned, with his eyes, toward my chest.

“No thanks” I smiled,  “I’ve got ‘em.”

Just then, the group of people who I arrived at the club with, walked up.  One of them said, “We’re ready to leave?  By the way, we’ve been watching you. You certainly are popular.”

Movies a la Carte - from Grumblings.... by Randi M Sherman, author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Movies a la Carte

At the last minute, one Friday evening, I decided to go see a movie.  I knew that I wouldn’t be giving them much notice, but I called a few friends to invite them to join me.  When I telephoned, the friends who were at home had already made plans for the evening.  I looked at the clock.  It was getting late.  If I wanted to get to the theater in time for the coming attractions I had to abandon the idea of a movie companion.  So, I grabbed by coat and left for the theater.  No big deal, I thought.  I’m just going to be sitting in a dark room, watching a film, quietly.  It wasn’t as if I was going to the theater to have a heart-to-heart conversation with a long lost friend.  I was going to see a movie, plain and simple.  I could do that alone.

I had a slight tinge of insecurity while I waited in line to buy a ticket.  I was surrounded by handholding couples and groups of teenagers who all looked at me, standing alone, as if I had just been crowned Miss Social Pariah, 1999.

The pitying looks continued as I stood in line at the snack bar.  I had convinced myself that people were whispering behind their hands and looking at me out of the corners of their eyes.  “She her.  Over there. ” They motioned with a head-nod.  “She’s alone. Tsk-tsk.  What a loser.”  When I made it to the snack counter I considered ordering two popcorns and two drinks, just to throw them off.

I know it was paranoia but I felt as if all eyes were on me when I entered the theater.  All I wanted to do was sit down and blend in.  Within thirty-seconds, I had become completely self-conscious.  When I found a row that had a few empty seats, I quickly shuffled in to sit down.  In an effort to make it look as if I was saving a seat for my date while he was in the bathroom or at the snack bar, I put my coat over seat next to me.  To keep up the illusion, every few minutes, I would turn around and look back at the door.

I tried to kill time until the movie started.  I rummaged through my purse, rearranged my wallet, ate most of my popcorn, read the movie theater brochure that I had picked up in the lobby, and played the riddle game that was being displayed on the screen.  I looked at my watch.  I checked the door again.  Then I noticed the child who was standing on the seat directly in front of me.  He was turned around and facing me.  He was just standing there looking at me.

His look turned into a stare.  An unending-unblinking-see-right-through-to-the-soul stare.  It began to make me uncomfortable.  What did he see?  I looked down.  I looked up.  I looked at my nails.  I looked at the door again.  I tried to ignore it as long as possible.  Finally, I stared back.  I scared him. His eyes welled up with tears.  He whispered something in his mommy’s ear.  She shifted her position to get a glimpse of me.  Uh-oh, here it comes. I was certain that she was going to turn around, wag her finger, and give me a piece of her mind.  But instead, in a voice intended to be loud enough for me to hear, she started to explain what was wrong with the mean lady behind him.

“Ignore that lady.  She’s alone.  She probably has no friends who want to be with her and must be very unhappy.  Leave her alone.” 

I shrank.  Is that how I’m perceived?  After a minute or two of self-examination, I realized that I was reevaluating my entire existence because the parents of a four-year-old boy hadn’t taught him that staring is impolite. 

As the lights started to dim, I could sense the pity from the people who were seated around me.  I had to think fast.  To save face, I looked back at the door one more time and said loud enough for others to hear, “I wonder where he could be.  He’ll never find me in the dark.”  After my subtle announcement I gathered together my snacks, my purse, and my jacket and walked up the aisle toward the door to make it look like I was going to find him.  I walked through the swinging doors, crossed to the other side and came back into the theater through the other set of doors.  Shrouded by the darkness, I walked slowly down the aisle, found a single seat and sat down. 

The woman who was seated next to me leaned over and said, “I’ve been waiting to see this movie.  It’s supposed to be good.”

“Me too.”  I agreed, “I …”

Suddenly, we heard, “Shush!” from the man behind us.  “If you wanted you socialize, you should have stayed home.  Now be quiet and watch the movie.”

Reading Between the Lines - from Grumblings...by Randi M Sherman, the author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Reading Between the Lines 

Every Sunday morning, I look through the personal advertisements in the newspapers.  Like many other women, I am looking for an honest ad - a diamond in the rough.  Unfortunately, there is a lack of accuracy running rampant among the personal pages.  Sure, it’s easy to find blurbs about humorous, professionals with many hobbies and interests. No one ever describes himself as unattractive, flabby, unimaginative, boring, bitter, penniless, unromantic, living with his mother, lazy, insincere, humorless, or as a pain in the ass.  It’s perfectly understandable that each advertiser wants to present himself in the best light, as the most desireable, new and improved product available.  Act now!  But the fact remains, if a woman responds to the ad, a face to face meeting could take place and the truth would be revealed.  Whatever happened to truth in advertising?

When it comes to the personal description, how do we know what is fact, what is fiction and what is simply a weak grasp on reality?  For the most part, it is not the intention of the advertiser to mislead the reader.  He just uses creative words and snappy phrases to describe his attributes and interests and to entice the shopper enough so she will respond to the ad.

So, how does the reader decipher the verbiage used in a personal advertisement?  Does she just have to blindly move forward and take her chances?  No, not anymore. I have developed a cross-referencing matrix that can be used to interpret the language of the personal ads.  This tool has been designed to help the reader to read between the lines of the personal ad and translate the mystical language to uncover the true message.

When he says:	He means:
Let’s meet for coffee, long walks on the beach, camping, good conversation, quiet evenings at home	“ I do not have any money.”
Cuddly, Teddy Bear	“I’m morbidly obese and have hair on my back.”
Very Handsome	“My mother says I’m good looking.”
Family minded	“I have custody of the children.”
Entrepreneur	“I don’t have a job and I live with my mother.”
Cute	“I’m under five foot five inches tall. “
Dry sense of humor	“I’m obnoxious.  I rub people the wrong way and I don’t care. I’m the only person, on earth, one who thinks that I’m funny.”
Harvard Grad in 1979	“I have not accomplished anything since 1979.”
Ivy League grad	“I’m smarter than you are.”
Young, active, energetic	“I’m 110 years old but I use hair-dye, wear a gold chain and have a prescription for Viagra.”
Spiritual, Devout Catholic, Buddist, Mormon or Religious Jew	“Be prepared to hear about it.”
No smoking, no drinking	“No fun.”
Loves Broadway shows	“I have homosexual tendencies.”
Sensitive	“I cry easily.  I will attach myself to you like a leach.  When you break up with me, I will make you feel guilty.”
Enjoys science and technology	“Be prepared to watch Star Trek tapes.”
Seeking Jewish woman, tall, thin, Sharon Stone look alike	“I’m completely unrealistic.”
Seeking life partner	“I need a wife.  My laundry has taken over my apartment.”
Seeking open minded companion	“I’ve been to jail.”
Seeking female 21-65	“Please, anyone!  Answer this ad.”
Seeking non-professional	“I’m insecure and scare easily.”
Seeking kindhearted woman	“My first wife cleaned me out.”

Pre Sex Mental Checklist from Grumblings... By the Author of Paula Takes a Risck, Available March 2012

Pre-Sex Mental Checklist 

There are occasions when we just don’t know what the end of an evening is going to bring.  Dinner, then a movie, perhaps we holding hands as we walk down the main boulevard and window shop, or a glass of port wine or a cup of coffee in front of the fireplace and a goodnight kiss.  Perhaps the kiss will turn into a make-out session. The next thing you know, buttons are being unbuttoned, zippers are being unzipped, and hooks are no longer connected to eyes.  What happens next? I consider. But, I’m not prepared!  

Sex is great.  Spontaneity is great.  The combination of the two is exciting.  The problem with the “unplanned” is that there isn’t an opportunity to make the appropriate arrangements that are necessary to ensure ease of mind.  So, in a split second, almost subconsciously, I run through our pre-sex mental checklist to determine and hopefully eliminate any stumbling blocks that could effect the outcome of the impending sexual experience.

The Pre-Sex Mental Checklist can be divided into four categories: the essential checklist, body related issues, clothing related concerns, and emotional issues.

The Essential Pre-Sex Mental checklist

·         Who is supplying the birth control?  Is there enough?

·         When was my last menstrual period?

·         Did I shave my legs?

·         Do I have intestinal gas?

·         Do I know his name?  If not, will “Oh, baby” suffice?

Body Related Issues

·         Do my breasts disappear into my armpits when I lie on my back?

·         Do I have any tattoos, piercings, bruises or scars that will require explanation or result in disgust, laughter or pity?

·         When was my last bikini waxing appointment?

·         Are my toenails painted? Or are there just remnants of a pedicure that was done three weeks ago?

·         Do I have any band-aids on my body?

·         Do I have any embarrassing acne or break-outs?

·         Do my joints crackle?

·         Is my nose clean?

·         Is there anything in my teeth?

·         How’s my breath?

·         Do I get severe bed head?

Clothing Related Concerns

·         Do I have too much make-up on?  Will it rub off and ruin the pillowcase? 

·         Will he be frightened when he doesn’t recognize me in the morning?

·         Am I wearing sexy underwear?

·         Am I wearing that underwear?

·         Is my bra worn out, baggy or have wires that may cause injury?

·         Are my shoulder pads being held on by my bra-straps?

·         Am I wearing any clothing that is difficult to remove? (i.e.: pantyhose, tummy control garment)

·         Am I wearing any garments that have tight elastic that, when removed, will leave a red ring around my waist or under my breasts?

·         Am I wearing knee-hi stockings?

·         Am I wearing any jewelry that will cause scratching or choking?

 Emotional Issues

·         Will I stress out over my clothes wrinkling on the floor overnight?

·         Should I keep my jewelry on or is this an all-nighter?

·         Do either of us consider this to be a one night stand?

·         Do I want to see this man ever again?

·         If we are at my house, how do I get him to leave before morning?

·         Am I expecting any phone calls from other men, a member of the clergy, or my mother?

·         If I’m at his house, what excuse will I use to leave before daybreak?

·         What will I say if the sex is mediocre-to-bad?

Purse PAtrol from Grumblings.... by the Author of Paula Takes a Risk, Available March 2012

Purse Patrol 

There is no discussion about who will do it.  It’s an unwritten, unspoken rule. It’s a fact.  The one person who is considered the homeliest or most antisocial one of the group is designated to watch her friends’ purses while they enjoy themselves.  Because she has been assigned to purse-patrol, the purse monitor is relegated to the table, disallowed from going to the ladies room and unavailable to accept invitations to dance.  Her main objective for the evening is to loyally stand guard over her friends’ belongings while they socialize and have a good time.  Purse patrol is the grown-up equivalent to being invited to teenage function because her mom will drive.

When my friends and I arrived at the club, we found a vacant table and sat down.  Then the inevitable happened, I heard the phrase, “Will you watch my purse for me?”  Before I could answer, clutches, backpacks and evening bags were all piled up on the table in front of me.  Oh my God!  I had been caught completely by surprise.  I had been appointed as the purse-monitor for the evening.  I quickly whipped out a hand mirror and began an assessment to determine what had gone wrong.  Was it my hair?  Was it my choice of clothing?  Had I been too quiet in the car on way to the club?  Did my friends perceive my silence as a bad mood?  Whatever the case, there was nothing that could be done now.  Unceremoniously, I had been assigned to purse-duty.

As I sat there, I called upon my improvisational skills and tried to act as if my obvious solitude didn’t bother me.  I attempted to appear as if I enjoyed watching all of the socializing that was going on around me.  With faux confidence, I attempted to look enormously interested in some activity going on near the bar.  I tapped my toes to the music, snapped my fingers, and even attempted some chair dancing.  I mindlessly sipped at the drink that quickly became melted ice and eventually an empty glass.  I cringed when I realized that the people who passed by gave me the pity-filled “once-over.”  Suddenly, I became self-conscious. What were they thinking?  I could hear their thoughts.

“Look at that poor soul, sitting there all alone.  What a loser.”  Only the former purse-monitors knew my pain.  

Along with purse-duty, I also had the responsibility of guarding the chairs around the table.  Many attempts were made by other clubbers to commandeer the empty chairs. “No, someone is using that chair,” I snapped.  “My friends will be back in a minute.”  Finally, after I realized that I was behaving like a rabid Rotweiller, I conceded to a couple. “You can use them until my friends come back.” 

The woman gave me a “Yea, sure” and chuckled as she and her new friend proceeded to sit down.  It didn’t take long for them to forget that I was there.  They began to perform hands-free tonsillectomies on one another.  I sat there, the purse-lieutenant, and attempted to ignore the foreplay that is happening just two feet away. 

After about an hour, a man approached the table.  He introduced himself as Jim and asked me if I would like to dance with him.  I wanted to, but I simply could not.  I was on purse-patrol.  Abandoning my post would have been met by the social equivalent to a court martial.  Jim was forced to make the decision to either, accept the apologetic “no” and walk away or sit down to converse with me.  With a look of defeat on his face, Jim looked around the room, shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Oh, what the hell…” and sat down.

I was having trouble focusing on our conversation because I was trying to catch the eye of one of my friends.  I tried waving my hand at her.  I tried staring at her.  Finally, I attempted to telepathically connect with one of them.  I hoped that she would feel compelled to relieve me of my post.  No luck.  Once Jim realized that I was not going to be excused from purse-duty, he excused himself and left.

I felt defeated.   I decided that I now hated the people who assigned me to purse-duty.  And, as soon as I had the opportunity, I would give them a piece of my mind.  Suddenly, one of my friends, Karen, approached the table.  I perked up.  I smiled wide, hoping that her feet were tired from two hours of dancing.  But, the purpose of her visit was only to reapply her lipstick.  Then she announced that she was going outside to grab a breath of fresh air and that she would be back in a minute.  Yeah, sure.  Every so often, my other friends glanced over and waved at me from the dance floor.

All hope of having a conversation with anyone other than with the busboy was gone.  The “lovers” who were borrowing the chairs, had by now moved onto the button fiddling, caressing and moaning portion of their evening.  They were now practically sitting on top of one another and had freed up a chair.

I sat there and casually looked around the room.  I wasn’t really focusing on anything but it was something to do.  I rocked back in the chair a few times. I checked my watch.   During the next visual sweep of the room, my eyes settled on the purses that were on the table in front of me.  “Hmm,” I thought.  “I wonder what’s in there.”   I rationalized, “I have the right to know what I’ve been asked to guard with my life.”  Besides, I was bored.

I looked around the room again and quietly reached for the clutch bag.  The clutch bag belonged to a longtime friend, Karen, who was on a constant, unrelenting search and conquer husband-finding-mission.  Because the clutch was so small, I didn’t expect to find much. I was just going to take a peek.  In addition to a redder-than-red lipstick, a comb and a kissing-fresh breath spray, I unraveled the continuous roll of twelve condoms.  Wow, someone certainly is optimistic, I thought. I can understand one, possibly two, perhaps three, that is, if he’s young and sober.  But, a dozen? Whoa!  Go girl!  I tucked everything back into the clutch and replaced it on the table.

Still, there was no sign of “my friends.”  I would continue my purse inspection.  The next item of inspection would be the Barbara’s backpack.  Barbara is known to her friends as “Ever Ready,” the woman who could be ready for anything at anytime.  Spontaneity seemed contrived compared to Barbara’s “whatever” attitude. The backpack was heavy.  When I unbuckled, untied, and unsnapped the flap, I found a cell phone, make-up, a Swiss army knife, comfortable shoes, safety-pins in a variety of sizes, a scarf, pantyhose, a simple yet classic black dress, a highway flare, a travel toothbrush and a package of trail mix.  Barbara isn’t out for the evening, she’s running away from home.

 Finally, I dragged Marcia’s bag across the table by its ornate shoulder strap.  When I unhooked the clasp of the purse, an artillery of anti-man paraphernalia was uncovered. I was reminded of the Viet Nam documentaries I had seen on PBS.  I found a canister of pepper-spray, a personal alarm (push button activation) and a key chain with a self-defense baton, and a small flashlight with a whistle attached to it.  I carefully checked the side pocket for a hand-grenade (careful not to set off a trip wire).  I was expecting the Morley Shaffer and a 60 Minutes camera crew to appear and interrogate me.  “Can we ask you a few questions regarding concealed weapons?”  

I would, of course, act shocked.  Morley and a cameraman would chase me as I ran to my car.  I’d pull my jacket over my head in an attempt to hide my face.  No doubt, they would catch up with me when I arrived at my car only to find that I had locked the keys in it.  I’d be forced to cover the camera lens with my hand and recite the customary, “No comment.”

The evening had dragged on for what seemed to be an eternity.  I had had enough time to evaluate every person in the club, what they did for a living, how much money they made.  I also figured out which men lived with their parents, who was cheating on a spouse and who was out just for sex.  By the time my friends were ready to leave, I had worked myself into a major tizzy because I had been ignored for several hours.  I was furious. 

Karen, Marcia and Barbara were giddy.  They were waving around business cards and crumpled paper napkins that had telephone numbers written on them.  They hardly noticed that I was seething. 

During the car ride home, Barbara looked at me and said, “Wasn’t that fun? Did you meet anyone?” 

Even though I had mentally prepared an oration about the responsibilities of friendship that would, no doubt, leave my friends reevaluating their behavior and begging for forgiveness, I kept it to myself.  I realized that I was just irritable because I was forced to take my turn at purse duty.

“I met Ivan, the busboy,” I said, “but he works nights and weekends.  It just wouldn’t work out.  So, we decided to just be friends.”