Look out! It’s a cute little thirty-something mama-to-be with her summer dress and Valentino sandals. Another blonde bombshell just blew through the salon door in her stilettos. And there’s the hunky Astro’s baseball pitcher sitting at the station right next to mine. NO JOKE! I’m trying not to get caught gawking, mostly because my hair color is on and I look like a combination of Elvira and a housewife in curlers. Yep, it’s “get my hair done” appointment day and I’m in glamorous Newport Beach.
Quite a world away from where I started … in rural Appalachia going to 4-H camp and county fairs. I remember the fresh baked bread slice, spread with apple butter an inch-thick, and the blown glass and wooden toys. Not to mention the canned veggies and peach preserves, baby calves and cherry pies. How did I get to this glamorous Land of Perpetual Sunshine and Botox? Pinch me.
I mean, how do I even define “normal” anymore? Not even a PARTY is normal around here …
As a special birthday treat last June, my husband whisked me away to beautiful Santa Barbara for a weekend getaway. Little did I know, he also invited six of our best friends to join us. We strolled into dinner at gorgeous ocean-side restaurant and … SURPRISE! The festivities began … caviar, wine, seafood, and of course, fabulous birthday desserts. Naturally, the table fell into “his” side and “her” side and we girlfriends chatted and laughed throughout the meal. As the evening wound down, we planned to migrate over to the hotel’s cozy outdoor firepit and snuggle up with some evening cocktails and more fun conversation. But one of our friends mentioned he and his wife had to make an appearance at a “Beginning of Summer” party that a client was throwing. Party Boy said we were all welcome to come, but he was worried it might be a little … he searched for the right word … boring?
“I don’t want to bring down the vibe!” he quipped. “Who cares?” we assured him. We’d all just tag along and hope to do some friendly party-crashing.
Fifteen minutes later, we pull up to a long, gravel driveway amidst a lovely neighborhood of silent, dark homes. Standing at the end of the drive was a bouncer-type staffer, whom we eyed warily. Hey, is that guy in a tuxedo? How difficult was it going to be to get into this party?
Our friend (I’ll call him Craig), walked up to the guy, who waved his clipboard around and asked for our names. Thinking quickly on his feet, Craig gave him his own name and the names of two other work colleagues he assumed would be on the list: Horatio Smith and Wolfgang Jones. Our bouncer took a drag of his cigarette and eyed the wives. “And who are they?” he asked. “Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Jones.” I don’t think they were paying that guy enough, because he just shrugged and waved us in. We turned the corner of the hedgerows lining the driveway to see …
A mansion! On a gorgeous property that looked like it was straight out of The Great Gatsby. Lights were shining from every window in the three-story, cobblestone country home, surrounded by lush lawns. We start up the grand flagstone walkway, skirted the enormous fountain splashing in the center, and heard the ‘BOOM, BOOM, BOOM” of the outdoor music. A stunning marble pool complete with half-naked mermaids in body glitter appeared, like out of a Hollywood set.
I think it was at this point that we realized this was not going to be a boring party.
From the live topless mermaids to the sushi bar (on another naked mermaid tummy), the adult slip-and-slide down the grassy hill and a blow-up pool with bath bubbles one story high, we never expected anything like it. I turned around to see my husband taking his shirt off and – that’s when I knew it was going to be the party of all parties! (NOTE: my husband is from Texas. More often than not, he is taking his shirt off. I have gotten used to it and now just call him my “shirtless lunatic.” There are worse habits he could have! Amen, and thank you baby Jesus.) I turned the other way to see a Dothraki guy — in full GOT regalia — strutting onto the dance floor. OMG.
We made liberal use of the full bar and the ice shot luge, made multiple runs down the slip-and-slide (no, we didn’t bring bathing suits … better not to ask), and made LOTS of new friends. At some point, my husband lost his cell phone (that’s how you know it’s a good party) and I wandered in the palatial house. At this point, I admit things get a bit fuzzy … but what I remember for sure is that it turns out the hosts had moved ALL of the furniture out of the first floor (good move) and were “holding court” (literally, wearing fur capes and crowns and lounging on two thrones) in what I assume was the living room. These people were seriously the coolest cats I had ever seen!
My mission was on: find a bathroom. I know you girlfriends understand the dire moment – I can locate a powder room without GPS, night-vision military goggles, or a map. It’s like an innate instinct for self-preservation. But anyway, I digress. I made my way down a hallway, and a few more doorways later, a-ha! Found my destination!
But wait, did I just stumble back in time to a college party at a frat house? The hallway outside the bathroom was knee-high with mounds of purses, shoes and bags. As I waited in line for my turn, I giggled at how grown-up women (including myself) had reverted to throwing our stuff down without giving it a thought just so we could party like it was going out of style.
Emerging from ‘la toilet’ a few minutes later, I ran smack into a young gal who was bawling her eyes out. Suddenly on high alert, I asked if she was ok? What’s wrong? If some jerk hurt you I-swear-to-god-i-will … she stammered out that she had lost her shoes, her BEST shoes! Oh my, girlfriend, now that’s a CODE RED situation! “Don’t worry baby, we got this!”
Little ol’ me sprang into action … First, we tore through the mounds of fashion finery on the floor. No luck there. I looked around, and up … on top of the built-in cabinets, reaching from the floor to just below the ceiling, were more items that had been randomly thrown above us. Really. But, how to reach them?
Ain’t nothing a Southern mama can’t do! Opening every cabinet door, I scaled the now ladder-like shelves like a ninja. I sifted through everything on top with one hand, while holding onto the cabinets for dear life with the other. Again, no luck. The sobbing waterworks happening down below were now getting really serious.
I climbed down carefully (or maybe not so carefully, I can’t really remember). We weren’t giving up. I plowed through the piles on the floor again, zealously hunting for the prize … and VOILA! Those gorgeous, sparkly turquoise and gold Dolce & Gabbana high heeled sandals peeked out and I screamed like a banshee as I held them aloft, like a marathon runner crossing the finish line.
Her scream was as loud as mine. She threw her arms around me in a huge hug – before, a perfect stranger, but now a girlfriend-in-arms. She was happy. I was happy. I sauntered back through the crush of bodies and flashing lights to join my crew at what was truly the party of the century, with the best friends in the world by my side and a new girlfriend who didn’t lose her D&Gs. BOOM!
…
And now I realize … THAT’S what hasn’t changed from my old world to this one. It’s the same in any girlfriend’s universe. No matter what your reality is – prom queen or not, botoxed or not, Hollywood or not – underneath everything, we are all just little girls who could use a friend when we have a meltdown. (Like, over losing a shoe. Especially an expensive one! Or one we borrowed from our roommate and … Absolutely. Cannot. Go. Home. Without.)
But seriously, maybe not everyone gets freaked about a shoe, but isn’t it all relative in life? We all have our “thing” – and that should be enough to help us understand someone else’s freak-out moment. And we reach deep down and find some grace for each other.
So to my party girl out there: I hope you smile every time you wear those shoes that we bonded over, because I know that I smile every time I remember my Santa Barbara birthday – and my “country mouse” journey to a big new world.