You may remember the eponymous movie, song, or TV series. I confess I don't, presumably because I like four years old when it came out, and I wasn't into proto-girlpower media yet. I was more into Bedtime for Frances, which to be fair is one of the greatest books of all time, although it does not star Barbara Eden and there is no cleavage.
However, Claire, the founder of our local HVPTA chapter, is eight or nine years older than I (apparently I'm the baby of the group at 36; I guess I'm precocious to have gotten divorced so quickly and efficiently) and can remember the movie and sing the song, which is apparently a very funny rant about a single mom who dresses tartily and shakes up a small town. So she appropriated the name for an informal group of single mom divorcées who get together, sporadically, for drinks.
(Claire was introduced to me by my friend the polyamorist. I've got a post in the hopper about lunch with him. Stay tuned. I may not get to finishing it until after I have drinks with him, which could be even more interesting. Anyway, Claire is like my twin: biracial, recently divorced, two kids, same job, even, which is why he thought we'd get along. He was right.)
The last time the group got together, there was several great conversations, I drank five spicy lemondrops, and when The Boyfriend picked me up to go to a play we'd prearranged for after, I was Witty and Daring (as one tends to be after five drinks) and probably sexually assaulted him. This time my in-laws will be staying here and I will have just cooked them dinner, The Boyfriend is out of town until tomorrow afternoon, and I'm already knackered from the epic 3.5 hour Skype session we had last night, plus Day Seven of Toddler Vomit. (Yes, she's home again today.) So I don't know how long I'll last. But there are some new members, and it's always interesting to hear their stories, or snippets of them (mostly, I'm amazed at how much more time and investment they had in their marriages than I did in my whirlwind, shotgun, four-years-start-to-finish fiasco).
And I have to get the non-sick kid to school -- so I'll leave you with this highlight from the last time:
Pat, a 42-year-old punk rock student/mom of one, asked, "Is 22 too young?"
"To date or to fuck?" Claire inquired.
"Not to DATE!" Pat looked scandalized. "To, you know..."
"Well," Claire drawled, "as my pal Bob used to say, 'If there's grass on the field...PLAY BALL!'"
I'll just go ahead and leave you to chew on that. Later on, then.
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