OH, NO, THEY DIDN’T!
The “they” I’m referring to are my gals. My Thelma and Louise, meets Driving Miss Daisy to Sweet Baby Jane’s house to talk to Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte, gang. I lub them! And there is nothing more energizing than being in a room with five different generations of smart and feisty women. Makes for one helluva night. But I digress. For those of you waiting to hear about the Magic Mike field trip I will be blogging about that soon. If I had to sum it up, though? The word CLASSIC comes to mind. Heheheheh.
Now, *rolls up sleeves* fast-forward to a few highlights with the gals. Let’s see. Truthfully it started off kind of weird. One moment we ordered drinks and the next there’s this huge discussion going on about Hillary Clinton. I sat and listened (since I’m smack dab in the middle age wise in the group and I’m kind of the magnet that brought these fascinating minds together, I usually serve as the voice of reason, the judge, jury and executioner of hotly debated topics and this night was no exception) so when they tossed out their opinions about Hillary and looked for my input I could do nothing, but scratch my head. Surely these women, my gals, had better things to discuss than Hillary Clinton letting herself go. I mean , COME ON.
Thelma asks, “Don’t you think Hillary has given up on herself? Her hair and even the way she’s dressing it’s…well, it’s not right. What do you think?”
Me, “I think if we’re going to have a discussion about homely Secretaries of States we need to start with Kissinger. What. The. Hell. What does Hillary and her fashion sense or lack thereof have to do with her job? Snap out of it ladies. We need to build each other up, not tear each other down.”
Now, Louise is a die-hard and says, “Personally, I think she’s paying Bill back for all his indiscretions.”
Me, “Hey, the ugly train is a two-way track. Have you had a gander at Billy recently? The guy looks like Dick Van Dyke’s dad. Why do women always focus in on other women to pick on?”
Well, that started a whole other topic that went to hell-in-a-hand cart in two seconds flat. Bottom line? Women are catty, jealous creatures who are basically desperate for any form of male attention even from a guy who looks like a vaudeville actor’s great grandfather. 0_o
With that topic tapped we moved on. I turned to my daughter, who draws up the youngest generation card in the group, and I hiked a brow at her. She’s usually good for some stimulating jabber and she came through. Seems she’s going to a surprise wedding this weekend.
Me, “Surprise? Surprise for whom? The groom?”
“No…well, maybe. I’m not sure it could be their parents.”
Once we did the whole full of hilarious possibilities thing I asked her, “So are they going to go with tradition and jump the broom?”
She nodded, “I think so.”
That’s when Louise pipes up. “Gee, in my day you did that a good three months beforehand to make sure there would be a wedding.”
My daughter frowned and I was left lmao. “That was jump the broom, not the groom.”
This is when Driving Miss Daisy is heard from. She’s the quiet one in the group. Think Do Jo Sensi with sharp eyes and an all-knowing aura. “The women in our day were racier than they are today. They could afford to be. There wasn’t the internet to catch them doing the naughty and if the boy spilled the beans about the doing he’d never get anymore fiber that’s for sure.”
There’s me thinking. Wow. Just Wow.
My daughter, a.k.a Sweet Charlotte whistles, “Really? I can’t see that. Woman back then seemed so proper.”
I heard a Phiff, snort, ha and “that’ll be the day…
I said, “Interesting.” To no one in particular and that’s when Thelma pointed.
“I’ll tell you what’s interesting. I was sitting in the front seat of my daughter’s car. We were going to the museum and my granddaughter was in the back. I asked her what she did the night before and she said since her boyfriend went to the football game she decided to stay home and watch a porn film.”
Yep, I did a double take at this point in the conversation too.
She goes on, “And there I was thinking this grandchild did belong to me. A chip off the old block, because if you could see her boy,” she nods at each of us, “Enough said there. I was proud she was taking some initiative. But then I heard her say that she had trouble reading the subtitles and I sat up straight. What self-respecting woman watching porn would be interested in the subtitles that’s what I wanted to know. So I point blank asked her.”
She tapped her ear and winced. “I need to get my batteries changed. Seems it was a foreign film with subtitles she watched not a porn. I may be two days older than God, but as wise as I am that was a sticky situation to back out of.”
Now, you might think that this conversation had nowhere to go from here, but you’d be wrong. The talk of foreign film nudged them down memory lane and suddenly they were all fired up about The Last Tango In Paris, a stick of butter, Marlon Brando and a steamy love scene. Once the hoopla died down my daughter asked, “So, what did he do with the butter?”
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything – which was so unlike me that she was forced to connect the dots. Her jaw dropped, her eyes widened and she stammered, “That’s so…so gross.”
I was a little surprised by her reaction because, well, you know, I’m her mom and I write about this kind of stuff. As patiently as I could I said, “It’s not gross. People do that kind of stuff all the time.”
“With animal fat?” She threw up her hands and made a gagging noise. “Even if you’re not a vegetarian that’s totally disgusting.”
And there’s me thinking…Wow, just wow.