Читать книгу It's a Chick Thing - Ame Mahler Beanland - Страница 11

A royal AdventuRe

On July 15, a week before the wedding, Andrew had his stag night at Aubrey House with the likes of Elton John and Sir David Frost. I desperately wanted to gate-crash, but the fortress was impregnable: high wall, single entrance, guards with major biceps—no go.

As a fallback, Diana and I staged a hen night. With a few co-conspirators in tow, we donned gray wigs and dressed up in authentic policewoman outfits, down to our regulation dark stockings and lace-up shoes. After assembling just outside the Palace, we pretended to arrest one of our friends (chosen for her fabulous legs), who was playing the promiscuous lady.

The duty police at the gates thought this very strange. They called out the parks police, who proceeded to arrest the lot of us—even our protection officer, who played along—for causing a scene outside Buckingham Palace. They ushered us through some barriers and into their police van, and this was the worst part, because the other women slid slimly between the barriers, but I got wedged at the hip.

Diana and I had no intention of resisting. We thought it hysterically funny. Wed turned our engagement rings wrong side around, and it had worked, they hadn't recognized us.

After the van drove off and we sat down like little convicts, Diana asked the driver what kind of crisps he had on board and would he share them, please? Soon she was chomping away at these smoky bacon-flavored crisps. By the rime we reached the end of the Mall, our cover must have worn thin—we heard one of the policemen say, “Oh my heavens, it's the Princess of Wales in drag!”

We got the van to drop us off near Anabel's, the big nightclub in Berkeley Square. And the people at the door said, “Sorry, we don't allow policewomen in here, it is a place for everyone to enjoy themselves.” We coaxed our way in and pushed on to the bar—where whom did we find on their working night out but some eagle-eyed executives with the Daily Mail. We stood there shoulder to shoulder with them—ordered a round of orange juice, drank it down—and still they didn't cotton on.

Going out, we stopped traffic in Berkeley Square—we were having a wild time now—and headed back to the Palace near two o'clock in the morning. Knowing that Andrew was due home from his own little revelry, we told the duty police to get out of the way—and then we closed the gates. As it turned out, Andrew had just phoned from his car in advance of his arrival. When he saw the shut gates, he properly took it as something was very wrong. He flicked on his car locks, rammed the Jaguar into reverse, and screeched out around the Wedding Cake. He thought he was being set up.

It was about then that I wondered if we had gone a bit too far.

The morning after found me at breakfast with Mrs. Runcie, the wife of the Archbishop of Canterbury, who was to marry us. I could hardly see straight; I just barely made it through. (I do adore the Runcies; they've both been of such great support to me.)

Later I confessed our hen night to the Queen, and she thought it was reasonably amusing. We had got away with it clean—I'd been as naughty as I could be, and still I was adored by all. They were playing flush into my complex. I was wonderfully, extravagantly, madly brilliant. I could shoot a stag and hook a trout, and dance to Swan Lake in my wellies for good measure. I could do no wrong.

—SARAH FERGUSON, THE DUCHESS OF YORK

Fergie and Di giggling shamelessly.

The Bobby Sock Belles

We thought we were the cool crowd. Let's face it, we were. It was a Thursday night after our so-called sorority meeting of the Fidelity Sisterhood, where we met to pledge our undying love to God, country, each other, and never to wear white shoes after August. Our uniform: angora sweaters (chilly, since wed been taught to store them tissue-wrapped in the freezer), little scarves knotted at the neck, and suede loafers or saddle shoes with bobby socks. We felt like the chosen few, and quite literally were, since the all-powerful Big Sisters determined membership by voting you in or, God forbid, out. In addition to member selection, the Big Sisters were sworn to teach us ladies' etiquette and life's finer points, such as the distinction between summer and winter jewelry and that the best way to get a guy was to play hard to get and wear pearls.

After the meeting, as if to release energy, we cruised. Sarah Jo's pale yellow ’58 Buick was packed with ponytails, pink sweaters, and wild anticipation. We sat six abreast in the back seat, with room to spare. As we rolled past the entrance of a Victorian building dl lit up, we knew by the stickers on the cars out front that we had come upon a gold mine. They were the convertibles of the U.S. naval cadets who were attending a dance. Quick assessment told us this was nirvana, because, after all, we were the chosen ones, and the girls inside were just girls. A battle plan was formed.

Since these were bona fide men of twenty-three and twenty-four, and not to be approached by the inexperienced, Peggy and I became self-appointed delegates to enter the dance and ask for help. Our credentials were impeccable—we had both dated midshipmen and flight instructors at the naval base, and we knew the difference between A-4s, T-28s, and T-33s (various aircraft, for the uninitiated). We elected two others to bend down over our car's dirty tires and let the air out. It worked! We scored big time with Paul Newman and Robert Redford look-alikes (recall the movie An Officer and a Gentleman, and you get the picture) who came out to rescue us ladies in distress.

The angora-clad Fidelity Sisterhood.

I started seeing the Paul look-alike, and Peggy dated his friend, which made for great double-dating as we shared the secret of our caper between us, with the guys never suspecting. Two years later, I was invited to meet Paul's family, who lived in what looked for all the world like the plantation Tara, making me Scarlett O'Hara…or so I thought. There I learned that shorts were not acceptable attire at certain times of day and that Southern mansion dwellers have buzzers in the floor to step on when the servant is to bring in the next course of salty ham. It was during one of those elegant dinners that my juvenile behavior blew up in my face as I regaled my audience with the details of how I met Paul, in the silent aftermath of my tale, I sat uncomfortably with the realization that they did not find our trickery amusing. My Scarlett aspirations were completely checked shortly thereafter, when he became engaged to the admiral's daughter.

—RAE RUTH RHODES-ECKLUND

“Every time I think I know my friends,

they surprise me.

They are full of secrets I will never know.”

—Vivi Abbott Walker, in

The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, by Rebecca Wells

Alegra aNd I

Alegra and I were freshman roommates at University of California, Santa Cruz, better known at that time as Uncle Charlie's Summer Camp. Studying was almost unheard of when there was coffee to drink, music to crank, and gossip to share. The two of us were as different as we were the same; she had grown up among the Northern California redwoods, and I had fled the thick air of Los Angeles as fast as I could when I found out places like Santa Cruz existed.

Like soul sisters, we filled our days with easy conversation and comfortable silences. Some people said we looked alike, an observation I took as a high compliment since Alegra was many things I only hoped to be, and beautiful was one of them.

Today, like any other Saturday afternoon, we had our books spread in front of us in our tiny shared room with a view of the trees, made misty and damp by the recent storms. Alegra sat with her back to her bed; I was curled up on my bed, reading the same sentence about “basic” genetics three or four times. Halfway down my seventh page (7 of the 157 I was supposed to finish), I sighed and dropped my head to the pillow. From the way Alegra was softly singing the words to “Sugar Magnolia,” I could tell she wasn't absorbing much either. It had been raining for days, weeks, and we were halfway to stir-crazy.

I closed my book and watched Alegra. She caught me, laughed quietly, marked her page.

“All I want to do is go outside,” she said mournfully.

“I know. I just can't concentrate.”

“We should just go out into the field now, even though it's raining,” she said, alluding to the large grassy field at the bottom of the hill where we lived. It was less than a quarter-mile away, but it felt like acres of land stood between us and our usual sun spot.

“Yeah, whatever, girl,” I replied. “You go get soaked. What I don't need on top of everything is to be sick right now.”

“You won't get sick. Let's go. Now. Let's run,” I could tell she was serious. I started to consider it. I was reaching for my shoes when she said, “Naked.”

the full molly

Merry old England found itself atitter when the eleven members of the Rylstone chapter of the Alternative Women's Institute, a very proper women's service organization, created a calendar. Surprised folks opened the publication, and in place of the usual sunsets and pastoral scenes, they found the women of the club, aged 45 to 66, wearing strands of pearls—and nothing else.

“We partly did it out of devilment,” said Miss July, Lynda Logan. Devilment paired with ample red wine, and the spirited comaraderie of the group, fortified the women's resolve to disrobe and pose for the photo shoot. Giggling madly as they attempted strategic coverage with plants and props, the shoot was “tremendous fun,” according to Miss May, Moyra Livesey. The calendar raised over half a million dollars for leukemia research and was lovingly dedicated to Angela Baker's (Miss February) husband, John, who had died of the disease.

These cheerful, confident middle-aged women became an international sensation and inspiration for people everywhere who were tired of looking at what one Englishman called, “stick insects with pouty lips and pipe cleaners for legs.” “The Calendar Girls,” received thousands of letters from women saying that their bold spirit had restored their own flagging self-esteem. “We're in our 50s and it doesn't bother us,” claims Miss October, Tricia Stewart, “and that seemed to come across.”

“What?” I snorted. “You smoking something and not sharing again? Like, I'm going to strip down in front of all these maniacs and just Streak down to the field.” This was not something you did in L.A.

“Well, then you stay here. I'll tell you how it was.” She started untying her hiking boots. By the second sock, I was over my consternation. I mean, who was really around? And anyway, who would care? The truth was, clothing seemed optional around here anyway, with people sunbathing nude all over the place on hot days. Why not rain bathing?

We stepped outside onto our tiny porch, bare feet recoiling from the cold cement, towels wrapped around us, barely. Alegra touched my hand. “On the count of three, we run. If we run fast enough, no one will even know what went by. One, two, three….” We shot off the porch, heading down the familiar path, past our friends' doorways, past the offices, past the coffeehouse. No one was outside, and if anyone was watching us from the windows, we were moving too fast to know. The rain was pelting us, and our desperate attempts to keep the towels around at least our bottoms were quickly surrendered. At last, we felt the loamy forest floor under our feet, but we didn't stop running. It felt too good. Like we had leapt off the highest cliff and discovered we could fly.

I dropped my towel in a patch of high grass and ran alone until my legs gave out from under me. I found myself surrounded by bending field grass. I lay back, listening to my heart and breath, quick from the running and the daring. I could hear Alegra panting nearby. For one moment, everything made sense. We were pure, perfect. I stretched, and there was Alegra’s hand, a spark of sisterhood's promise passing between our fingers.

We wrapped our drenched towels around us for the walk up the hill, not caring about how odd we must look. By the time we reached our door, we had come to a few silent conclusions: That our bodies were to be cherished, that some moments are meant to be seized, and that there is no feeling in the world like rain on an unashamed heart.

—JENNIFER BERNSTEIN-LEWIS

“Each friend represents a world in us,

a world possibly not born

until they arrive…”

—Anaïs Nin

the 5 friends every chick needs

When we were mere chicks, we always had a best friend. There were other friends, of course, but the word best was reserved for that one special sisterfriend, soulmate, forever buddy—no matter the situation, we only needed her. Like Miss America, there could only be one girl wearing that satin sash glittered with the words, Best Friend. While your childhood best buddy will always be the sister of your heart, geography, jobs, and life in general make that singular reliance on one another impossible. Part of growing up is expanding your heart and your circle of friends along with it. Like any good team, a girlfriend gang evolves because each woman brings a unique perspective or strength to the franchise. In that spirit, we think there are 5 chicks that every woman needs in her court. You can get by with fewer if they can multi-task.

the “I've Seen You with Braces and Bell-Bottoms” friend

This is the one that knows where you live. Not only literally, but that figurative place where it all began. You bonded over jumping rope, passing notes, and gushing over teen idols. She knows your family, how you crashed your first car into a pole the day after your sixteenth birthday, and she didn't laugh when you wore a 32 AAA bra. Your friendship is based on the deep roots that come from knowing each other through all the big and little events that propel us into adulthood. She understands where you are coming from and helps you get where you want to go,

the biological buddy

This is the friend that mirrors your family status. If you have children, so does she, and hopefully her kids are close enough in age to yours that you can bemoan the dilemmas of potty training or car seats together. You listen patiently to her stories about junior, nod in the right places and then it's your turn. You swoop in in a crunch to babysit or pick the kids up from school and vice versa. It's a beautiful thing. On the flipside, this friend may be the one among your group that, like you, doesn't have children. Together you celebrate your freewheeling status at fancy restaurants where you couldn't find a high chair to save your life. You go to museum openings, see movies with subtitles, and indulge in marathon shopping excursions. Don't call me before 9 AM? No worries about getting any guff, she too is still asleep.

your own personal Martha Stewart

She knows everything from how to get candle wax off your cat's ear to what color shoes to wear with a celadon silk suit. Need a recipe for champagne punch? She'll fax over five of them and would make the champagne if she needed to. Roof leaking? She's there with some shingles and tar that she happened to have in the workshop. She has every tool, every recipe, and every magazine article cross-referenced and indexed, and she's as resourceful as the FBI, CIA, and Interpol combined. She is irreplaceable,

your sister-in-a-suit

She knows how much your salary is and was instrumental in getting it there by counseling you before your last big performance review. You share investment tips, career strategies, and the secrets of crafting the world's perfect resume. What to wear to that interview? She's the one you turn to. Powerhouse, confidante, and the Wall Street Journal in comfortable pumps—she's a source of professional inspiration and awfully fun to have drinks with after work, to boot.

wild woman

You've always been curious about male strip clubs but never had the nerve to ask any of your usual friends to go to one. Bingo—wild woman is your ticket—she's probably done something crazy like work in one in the past. Nothing will shock her, and the word judgment (for better or worse) is not in her vocabulary. You can tell her anything. No matter how serious or benign, she takes it in stride on her way to the next ad venture. When you're with her, hang on tight and never use your real name.

a Little niGhT MischIef

This isn't only my story. It belongs to all 258 of us who, in the fall of 1955, arrived at Saint Mary's College, a small women's liberal arts school in Indiana, with pie-in-the-sky dreams and pockets full of good intentions. Settling into the freshman hall, we unpacked our quilted poodle skirts, arranged our mandatory dresser scarves, and, as suggested in our freshman handbook, decorated our rooms with something “green and growing.”

In spite of rigid rules and stiff curfews, we generally managed to stay in the good graces of our dean for most of the year—until an epidemic of spring fever, complicated by a severe case of exam jitters, struck unexpectedly in late May. As dogwood blossoms enticed our collective noses from our books, Dante, Dickens, and diameters gave way to seductive visions of dunes and warm sand between our toes. While we watched with envy from behind dog-eared Western Civ notes, indulgently carefree seniors, finished with exams and newly graduated, cavorted around campus in flagrant disregard for our sorry lot.

It may have started with the food fight that erupted among several freshman tables back in a corner of the dining room—an unheard-of occurrence, rendered possible only by the departure of the seniors, whose job it was to instruct the younger students on table etiquette and the art of conversation. Our laughter, sucked in and squelched between fork-flicked mashed potatoes, had never felt so good. The exhilaration of that tiny, insignificant act of anarchy galvanized us as a class. As we giggled and guffawed our way back to our hall, the plot thickened.

There's no question the troops were restless and ready for a little harmless insurrection. There was no instigator or mastermind. It was mob rule, plain and simple. Before long, a plan was formulated. We would strike late, after our ever-vigilant dean had gone to bed.

Focused as we were on the mischief of the moment, exams were the furthest thing from our minds. Between fits of giggles, my three roommates and I put on our PJs, brushed our teeth, smeared our faces with Noxema, and hurried to bed as soon as it was “lights out.” We heard the dean make rounds. Then all was silent. Daring to communicate only occasionally with faint whispers or hand movements, we lay in bed waiting. Then, around midnight, we heard it! The horrific crash of a transom, about two floors above us, followed by another and another and another—like a volley of cannon fire. The noise—magnified four times over by cavernous linoleum halls, vaulted ceilings, and broad wooden stairwells—echoed throughout the building, from its bowels to its towers, like the deep belches of thunder on a summer night.

When the banging and the crashing started, I lay momentarily paralyzed, not expecting the sound to be so deafening. But as soon as the room next to us fired off their salvo, my roommates and I jumped into action. I'll admit I expected the dean to arrive any second, and prayed my father would understand my suspension, or worse, dismissal, while I watched Mary, Susy, and Connie take their turns lustily lowering and slamming the transom. When it was my turn, I sailed out of bed, apprehension changing to exhilaration in midstride, and pulled the bar as hard as I could. As the resounding explosion catapulted down the hall to signal the next room, the four of us collapsed in a tangle of hysterical laughter.

The troublemakers of St Mary's College.

Our hall nearly came off its foundation that night as we hit the transoms in lieu of books. With no way to signal an end to the clamor, bedlam continued well into the night. Hall monitors, class officers, and the dean raced around, not sure what to do or who to blame. They tried in vain to calm the foreign-speaking students who had not been taken into our confidence, as well as the elderly retired sisters who lived in the convent behind us. The police were called, and I think even a couple of fire trucks showed up. While we watched from our window, they were quickly dispatched, but their presence was enough to restore calm. After a couple more errant salvos and snickers smothered in pillows, silence reigned.

In the fervor of the moment, the consequences of our actions had never been considered, but we were not surprised to be called collectively on the carpet the next morning by the president of the college. Mass expulsion was a foregone conclusion.

After a short preamble, Sister Madeleva, a small birdlike woman, her face framed by a starched white bonnet atop a sea of black, walked among us and said, “Last weekend we had a graduation, and Miss Clifford was our valedictorian.” She paused, looked at several of us, eyeball to eyeball, then asked, “Who was yours?”

I'd love to say that first one freshman, then another, and yet another stood, until the entire freshman class stood en masse to take full blame for what would infamously become known as the “Twenty-one Gun Salute.” But, that only happens in the movies. Instead, the room grew deadly quiet and we all just sat there avoiding eye contact, our bravado reduced to a trickle, and waited. I'm sure I speak for us all when I say we were terribly surprised when one of our classmates, Pucky (Aurelia for short) stood to say she was. A low quizzical murmur went through the room. It was news to all of us. Only later would we learn that Pucky wasn't returning the following year and had therefore elected to be our sacrificial valedictorian.

To this day, I don't believe the president bought that bogus confession. I rather think she found it a refreshing interlude to a week of stuffy pomp and circumstance. She let Pucky have her moment of glory, then promptly campused all of us for the remainder of the term, hardly a punishment since, with exams, we weren't going anywhere anyway. The campus returned to normal, our parents were never informed of our prank, and we dutifully stayed in our rooms and studied. That is—until the doorknob incident.

But that's another story.

—BARBARA BENFORD TRAFFICANDA

Your rOOmMate's a Hawg

Afriend of a friend of a coworker was looking for roommates. I was new to California, struggling my way through college, working full-time, and to put it mildly, money was tight. So I answered the call. Little did I dream that I was meeting surrogate big sisters and friends for life—Marie, Claudia, and Nancy. The day we moved in together was my nineteenth birthday. Amid the chaos and boxes, they insisted on a barbecue—Nancy even made me brownies with candles. I was blown away and have loved them like family ever since.

Claudia also brought a fifth roommate into our home—a horrible rude creature we named “the Hawg.” Claudia had worked at a temp agency back home in Illinois and toiled in a number of thankless jobs, one of which was at a manufacturing plant where long, sausage-shaped bags called “hawgs” were used to absorb oil from the machines. She had deftly formed one, in balloon animal fashion, into a very striking semblance of the male anatomy and had given it to a friend at the plant. When she moved in with us, the friend promptly boxed it up and sent it as a housewarming gift, where, as the Hawg, it found a thriving career on the west coast.

The Hawg had a knack for showing up in the most inappropriate places. Imagine snuggling up on the couch with a date and finding a penis-shaped beanbag stuffed under the cushions of the couch. Or how about under your pillow, in the backseat of your car, in your laundry pile about to go to the cleaners, or proudly topping your pillow shams when your mom is visiting? The Hawg knew no mercy. Juvenile, yes. Silly, definitely. Hysterical—absolutely. We would go into fits of laughter with each appearance of the Hawg, and God help the witnesses who half-grinned nervously like we were all crazy.

After Claudia and Marie moved out to get married and Nancy relocated, the Hawg stayed with me, and I had the joy of introducing him to the next set of roommates—Gina, Donna, and Jan. I knew I had two more soul mates when Donna and Gina howled at his first appearance—in Donna's bed. He also foretold the dark future for our relationship with Jan when she didn't find him the least bit amusing. She came storming out of her room, Hawg in hand, in the middle of Donna's dad's birthday party demanding to know “What is this?” While we howled, Dad just shook his head.

chicks on the tube

When you are feeling a little overwhelmed by the testosterone levels on the “boob” tube, remember that you can tune in to some great, past and present, TV gal pals:

Absolutely FabulousAny Day NowCluelessDesigning WomenThe Facts of LifeFriendsGirl TalkGolden GirlsI Love LucyLaverne and ShirleyOprah!RoseanneSex and the CitySquare PegsThat Girl!Two Fat ChicksTwo Hot TamalesThe View

We've all since grown up (sort of), made our own homes, and given the Hawg a rest. Nowadays he makes his appearances sporadically via the postal service on a special occasion or when we get together for group vacations or parties. He is so sly, so wily, that he always manages to keep his location secret. Just when we think he's retired, he pops up in the most embarrassing place….

—AME MAHLER BEANLAND

“It seems to me that trying to live without friends is like milking a bear to get cream for your morning coffee. It is a whole lot of trouble, and then not worth much after you get it.”

—Zora Neale Hurston

The GradY HoTel

Detrice and I have been friends longer than I can remember and sisters-in-law for more than half that time, since I married her husband Pete's brother, Buck, She is one of those magical people who has a way of attracting mischief and making you feel like the world spins a little faster when she's around. The stories I could tell…. But I'll share one of the tamer ones—don't want to embarrass anyone too badly.

It was the summer of 1959, and we were on our way to Sears and Roebuck in Atlanta for a big shopping trip—kids' clothes, curtains, and a little something for ourselves with anything left over. My niece Kay, who was twelve at the time, came with us. It was a long drive, and I remember how we were talking, listening to the radio, carrying on, and laughing—you can always count on laughing when Detrice is around. Detrice wheeled her station wagon into the lot and we headed into the store.

After an hour or so of shopping, Detrice nonchalantly said, “Bootsie, while we're here in the city, let's stop by the bar at the Grady Hotel and listen to some music.” Just as coolly as if she did this kind of big-city thing every day. Since I'd never sat at the bar in the Grady Hotel in Atlanta and listened to music, I said that sounded fine, but what about Kay? “I'll fix her up,” Detrice replied, leading her to the ladies' room. Detrice loves makeup and is a regular Michelangelo when it comes to application. She travels with every manner of brush, tint, and gloss in her purse, and she's not afraid to use it. In no time flat, she transformed Kay into a pint-sized thirty-year-old. A stop by the makeup counter for a spritz of perfume, and we were clipping back out to the car.

Bootsie and Detrice on a recent adventure to see the Sweet Potato Queens in Jackson, Mississippi.

Detrice drives like she puts on makeup—without fear. Careening into the parking lot of the Grady, she cut in front of an old man in a pickup and crunched into the parking space he was waiting for. In the process, she creased the entire left side of her wood-paneled station wagon along the bumper of a Cadillac. The old man was yelling at us, I was flustered, and Kay was beginning to cry. Detrice, calm as a deacon on Sunday, turned and said, “Now calm down, Sugar, you'll ruin your makeup. We'll tell Uncle Pete this happened in the parking lot while we were in Sears. Now come on. The band starts at eight.” The old man, stunned at these two women and a little girl in heavy makeup, just shook his head.

I was a nervous wreck, but was so busy keeping up with Detrice's brisk pace I had little time to think of anything besides not tripping. Detrice put her arm around Kay and swept into the lounge with a passing wink to the bartender and a sugar-coated, “She's just real petite, Honey.” Charmed, he grinned back and kept drying glasses. We tried to act sophisticated, but couldn't help but lapse into a few giggling fits as I sipped my greyhound, Detrice nursed a vodka tonic, and Kay stirred a cherry Coke.

All of a sudden, I became captivated by what seemed like an inordinate number of beautiful women sitting at the bar waiting for their husbands. They perched elegantly on their stools, hair perfectly coifed, with their hourglass figures brightly encased in daring fashions. Like exotic birds, they cooed and fussed over their mates as they joined them. My captivation turned to downright fascination when Detrice explained that they were not married to the men and that the warm reception was paid for, I'd never seen anything like that before. We took in the atmosphere, tapped our feet to the live music, and for a few hours tried our best to pretend like we were from Atlanta. Soon wed spent all our money, but Detrice insisted on staying until midnight, when they served complimentary popcorn and treated all the ladies to a free drink.

At 12:15, after a stop in the ladies' room to wash Kay's face, we could hardly walk for giggling as we headed back to the bruised station wagon and cruised home, laughing until our sides ached. Pete was in bed when we arrived home, so Detrice had all night to mentally formulate her Academy Award-caliber performance of how the car was dented in the parking lot after we came out of the store—which was really the truth, minus a few details.

—MARY “BOOTSIE” MAHLER

a Hair-RAising AdveNture

Let's just say I told Jody she didn't need a hair dryer in Africa, but she insisted. It was 1990, and Jody and I had just graduated from college, where we had been roommates for two of those formative years. We met on a hiking trip before freshman year and later bonded over cigarettes, boys, our mothers, and the answering machine. Jody was learning to play the guitar, and the only song she could really play was “Angie,” by the Rolling Stones. In an effort to expand her repertoire, we spent hours trying to record our rendition of James Taylor's “Fire and Rain” on our outgoing message. Life was sweet. After graduation, in the ongoing effort to delay reality, we decided to spend some time abroad. She went to Nairobi to build housing for poor families, and I went to Israel to kiss foreign boys.

Many huts and hotties later, we agreed to meet in the Frankfurt airport to backpack through newly opened Eastern Europe. How we found each other among the teeming throngs I'll never know; it must have been the hair dryer-shaped bulge protruding from Jody's pack that innately drew me to her. In an effort to stay light, Jody would rip out the pages of Moby Dick once she read them, but God forbid she should part with her 2,000-watt dryer. Despite Jody's moveable hair salon (lest we need to be glamorous at a moment's notice), we were actually on a budget. So we hitchhiked east, to Prague.

Our first ride was with Gerald, a terminator-glasses-wearing German truck driver who spoke no English. Our next ride was with two American soldiers driving a red sports car. Although travel-weary, grungy, and decidedly uncoifed, we agreed to go with them to a disco. We fell asleep in their car and awoke the next morning, only to be dropped off on some rural highway median. We must have looked quite a wreck with particularly bad hair, because two German nuns took pity on us only minutes later. (At least they wear habits to compensate for bad hair days.) They drove us to the Czech border, and although I highly doubt we looked malnourished, they even gave us some yogurt and bread for breakfast.

The perfectly coifed pair in Prague

We thanked them, got out, and walked the few hundred yards to the border. I must have had more of a spring in my step, or maybe it was just that my backpack was lighter without the hair dryer, but walking ahead, I noticed two cute guys in line standing near their car. We started chatting and learned they were officers in the U.S. Army (We love the military.) Maybe it was luck, maybe they too were feeling charitable, or maybe they had been in Europe so long that they figured that even an American girl suffering from a bad hair day shaves her armpits. Whatever it was, we got to Prague, cleaned ourselves up, and had an unforgettable romantic weekend with the majors.

Now, almost exactly ten years and many hairstyles later, Jody has a new hair dryer, a husband, and a baby boy named Max. And I have had the chance to kiss some real foreign boys. It must mean I am getting older (or have better luggage), but now when I travel, I bring a hair dryer and always think of my adventures with my dear sister-friend Jody

—JILL POLLACK

“If you see someone with a stunning haircut, grab her by the wrist and demand fiercely to know the name, address, and home phone number of her hairdresser. If she refuses to tell you, burst into tears.”

—Cynthia Heimel

B B B

Seventeen years ago, it started as a long weekend getaway to Myrtle Beach in South Carolina—a bridge group of eight women in their early forties, leaving husbands and families for some rest and relaxation. This trip quickly grew to a full week and now numbers ten women, including those who moved away and would not miss it for the world. A rented five-bedroom house right on the ocean is our retreat.

It is a collection of “all chiefs and no Indians,” The personalities and talents are diverse, but nothing is ever held back. If you want to say it, you say it, and we go on.

Our conversation topics have changed over the years, but certain ground rules were set and have remained constant. We do not discuss our husbands. For the week they are referred to only as “them,” Another essential to our beach vacation is that our peace is not interrupted by a ringing telephone. No one calls us unless it is a dire emergency. For goodness sake, it's seven days—stuff can wait. Other traditions include drawing for our rooms when we arrive, piña coladas on the beach at 11:00 A.M., and pimento cheese and tomato sandwiches for lunch. Our big midweek feast is steamed crab legs and shrimp served picnic-style on a large dining table covered in newspapers. Absolutely the best!

This is a no-holds-barred time for bonding. We share stories, laugh, act terribly silly, and sometimes become very serious. There are long walks on the beach, sunbathing, reading, and just relaxing on the porch in a big rocker. We play ail types of music. In the evenings, we turn it up loud and shag to that fabulous Motown music.

The BBBs sporting their signature T-shirt

One summer, I arrived by airplane a day later than the rest. They had taken all my stuff with them, and agreed to meet me at the airport. It was a typical hot humid August afternoon. Since I work for the airlines and was flying standby, I was very professionally dressed. I sat next to a very dapper-looking businessman and excitedly told him about my friends and all the fun we would have. He wanted to talk, and I kept him entertained during the whole flight with my chatter about our group and what a diverse, talented, and sophisticated group of friends I was joining. He got off the plane with me, curiously watching to see who would meet me.

This group of normally fashionably turned-out women were standing by the gate as I deplaned. What a shock! I felt my face turning red. Each one wore shorts and a fluorescent pink T-shirt with three words boldly emblazoned in glitter across their chests: Beach Bridge Bitches.

They were covered in oily suntan lotion, sporting outrageous sunglasses, and had necklaces fashioned from seaweed and other beach “treasures.” I was given a “Hawaiian” welcome, complete with a seaweed lei ceremoniously placed around my neck.

The other passengers and bystanders were thoroughly entertained and giggled their way past our wild-looking “Ya-Ya” group. They got just a small taste of what the week held in store for us.

—PEG BURLEIGH

“I've had it up to my ass with sedate.”

—Thelma in Thelma and Louise

Jezzie

Have you ever been infatuated with someone? Not just a crush, or an attraction, but the insatiable urge to do something, anything, to become the object of another person's desire? That's how it was with my Kung-Fu instructor Tony. I was seventeen, and he was twenty-two. He had his own car, his own apartment, and an understated masculinity that I found enticing. He was tall, and lean, and muscular, and of course he was a top-notch martial artist (this ranks an A+ in the macho department, especially when handled in a humble manner). We needn't delve into the depths of his columbine-blue eyes or the punch in his step when he walked. His crooked smile or dry sense of humor probably wouldn't be of interest to you either, but suffice it to say I really had a thing for him.

At the same time, I had a freaky boy-crazy friend, whom we can call Jezzie (short for Jezebel). Jezzie was my friend because she was everything I wasn't. She was blonde, and she was chesty. She always had boys hanging on her every word, and she was chesty. She wore black underwear, and a black French bra, and she was…oh well, you get the picture. Anyway, Jezzie always got the cutest boys, and I got…well, I got to wave at them as they drove off in their hot rods with Jezzie. Jezzie often set me up with boys, but I was naive and kind of old-fashioned. She called it prudish. The fear of God (and more importantly, Mom) had been drilled into my head long before the onset of puberty. Boys seemed to somehow sense this, and so, by the tender age of seventeen, I had only been kissed twice.

By the time Tony began to pay me any attention, I had already pegged him as my one and only True Love. It would be like a Fred As tai re movie. He would dance (make that monkey roll) over to me, wink, and perform a flying drop kick to my wondering amazement. Then, he would lead me to his awaiting chariot (a ’75 silver Nova with tinted windows), and we would drive off into the sunset. He would beg me to marry him, and, not wanting to disappoint him, I would agree. We would have all the worldly goods a black belt would grant us. We would throw keggers for our friends, and I would be the envy of every girl. Tony would pick wildflowers for me every day, bring me coffee in the mornings, and spend hours gazing at me as I went about my daily routine. When we grew old, we would die in each others arms, neither of us able to sustain life without True Love.

forever in blue (nail polish, that is!)

Katie Hayes and Lizzie Anders were the best of friends—London hip-hoppers working at the start-up MTV offices in London, Craving more adventure, the pair decided to leave their jobs and embark on an around-the-world-holiday. They made the obligatory shopping excursions to purchase gear—including blue nail polish for their toes. Their plan was to travel through Africa to Asia and on to Australia and New Zealand. For the last leg of the trip they hoped to purchase a purple VW van and drive it across the U.S.

The first month of their trip was perfect—encounters with wonderful people and fascinating sites. However, on their flight from Ethiopia to Kenya, they found themselves in a terrifying situation. Their plane was hijacked, then crashed into the sea near the Comoro Islands. Miraculously, both women survived but Katie was more seriously injured, and the two were separated. In the makeshift hospital, Lizzie begged her caretakers to find her friend, but with the language barrier and post-crash chaos, no one was able to identify and locate Katie. Finally, just as they were both about to be shipped off to different cities, a French doctor came up to Lizzie saying, “Zee blue finger sisters, they must be kept together!” He had recognized Katie thanks to their matching blue toenails.

Four and a half months after the crash and rescue, Katie and Lizzie resumed their travels. There hasn't been a day when they haven't sported blue toenails.

Jezzie had always been a faithful friend. She and I got along famously—she was raucous, loud, and wild, and I went along with whatever she did, usually laughing while hiding my face. She would make sure I didn't drink so much that I got sick when we went to parties, She would face down any girls who thought I was easy prey. She even (with an oh-so-sweet manner) talked my mom into extending my curfew a few times. She took me to my first rock concert—and my second, and third. She taught me how to smoke, and she showed me how short to cut off my cut-offs. We were best friends. Nothing could come between us.

So, of course I told her about Tony, that he was the one. She looked at me like I was sick.

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Well, he's been flirting with me an awful lot, and last Friday, he kissed me.” My face turned red just telling her about it.

“Kissed you?” she asked. “That's it?”

“Jezzie!” I said, my face flushing deeper. She laughed, tousled my hair, and announced, “I'll just have to check this guy out,”

It was August, and the weekend of her birthday, when she came by the martial arts studio to pick me up after my evening class. I introduced her to Tony, and she immediately turned on that charismatic charm that seemed to draw men like sweat draws flies. She produced a bottle of wine that she'd talked someone into buying for her. Tony located some clean coffee cups, and the three of us had a drink in celebration of her birthday. Then she had another, and so did Tony. I abstained, wanting desperately to avoid making a fool of myself in front of Tony. After they had two glasses each, Tony asked her if she wanted to see his new car. She gave me one of her I'm just toying with him smiles, and they went to the parking lot together. I poured myself another half a cup and sipped at it while I waited for them. After I'd finished the wine, I began to watch the clock. Fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes. Twenty-five minutes. I was worried about them, so I snuck around the side of the building. I could see the car. They were nowhere to be seen. I was really getting ticked off when I noticed that the Nova was rocking like a cradle. I could even hear the shock absorbers squeaking.

Damn it! I thought, Jezzie, what the hell are you doing? Concern raced through my mind close on the heels of fury. I was really worried that they were doing what I thought they were doing in there. I'd never experienced it, but two girls had left school that year because they had gotten pregnant. I didn't want that to happen to Jezzie. I agonized over what to do. Finally I decided to stop them before Jezzie got more than she was asking for.

Murmuring the foulest curse words I knew through gritted teeth, and with knotted fists, I started toward the car. As I got closer, I realized that even with the darkened windows, I could still see in. I edged the rest of the way to the car with my back turned, and a hand (very obviously, I hoped) clasped tightly over my eyes. I banged on the window. The first try didn't work, as I could still hear the shock absorbers. I tried again, and kept banging loudly unti! I heard the squeaking stop. Then came the sound of panic-stricken muffled voices from inside the car. By this point, whether from nerves or the ridiculousness of the situation, I'll never know, I had a huge grin on my face. Fighting an overwhelming urge to laugh, I lifted my hand from the window and waved my most friendly wave. Then, with my eyes still covered, I made my way back inside.

When they came in, both of their faces were scarlet. I couldn't seem to get rid of my smile. Tony said good night and abruptly departed. Jezzie grabbed her bottle of wine, her purse, and said, “Let's go party.” I followed her to her car, and as she started the ignition, still smiling, I said, “Well?”

“Nope,” she said as we pealed away from the curb.

“Nope, what?” I said, starting to show some irritation.

“Nope, he's not the one for you!” she half-laughed, half-shouted. Seeing that I wasn't laughing, she became serious, and apologized with as much humility as I had ever seen her possess. I tried to be mad, but I couldn't. He was just a guy. She was my best friend. When I told her why I had come to knock on the window, she gave me her most sincere smile, and a look that said I was both foolish and blessed. Then she tousled my hair, turned up the stereo, and floored the gas pedal in an obvious effort to speed us to our next escapade.

Tony dropped out of my mind almost instantly. I still saw him during classes, but couldn't for the life of me remember what I ever saw in him. Still, the fact that he never mentioned Jezzie's name again, along with the wistful look he sometimes gave me, convinced me of one thing. I was thankful for the fear of God, and (especially) Mom.

—CILICIA A. YAKHLEF

tHe dAnce Class

Once again, my friend Sally and I have released our inner-crackpot crones. (Although I should record Sally’s objection to the word crone. Five years younger than me, she prefers to be known as a cronette.) Three weeks ago, she called with news of a Japanese modern dance troupe, Buto-Sha Tenkei, that was coming to Houston. She couldn't attend their performances, but the company's dance master would also conduct a master class.

“Wanna go?” she asked.

“A master class?” I demurred. “We're not dancers.”

“Oh, come on,” she said. “You talked me into joining your dance exercise class. Besides, the class is for theater majors too.”

“Okay,” I said, “sign us up.” Too late it occurred to me that the closest we came to being drama majors was our mutual talent for hyperbole.