On Being A Girl

Last week a dear friend of mine called me and asked if I was busy Tuesday night. Assuming that she wanted to grab dinner (as we try to do occasionally) I said, "No, what's up?" "Good, so FireWomanD is starting to sell Mary Kay..." "Oh! Mary Kay? I'm allergic." She missed the joke, which, frankly, surprised me, since she's known me way longer than I've been claiming allergies to anything I don't want to do. "Oh you are? Well, you can come an enjoy the company and hang out with us and stuff." "Sure, I'll be there." ARGH! (At least they won't expect me to buy anything.)

I promptly went over to OfficeNeighbor's office and demanded: "You know what sucks about being a girl?" Someone else was in his office and replied uncomfortably, "Uh, yeah... and I don't want to talk about it." "No, not that. I wouldn't talk about that with you guys! So, this girl I know is selling Mary Kay..." All in chorus now: "Oh. Yeah, that does suck about being a girl."

Fast forward four days: I grudgingly drag my A to FireWomanD's house and knock on the door. No one is home. I wait 15 minutes. Yes, fifteen. I figured I was five minutes early, I could give her 10 to be late. She never showed. So, I called my friend that had originally called me -- no answer. An hour and a half later, I glance at the stupid postcard they had sent me with her address, etc on it. The %^*( thing is tomorrow. Too bad, too. I can't go. Nuts.