A Little Less Conversation, A Little More Squealing

“Oh, HEY!”
(hug, hug, hug, pat, pat, pat)
“What a cute DRESS!”
“Where did you GET it?”
“What have you been UP to lately?”
“How’s your wonderful (fill in the blank: JOB, HUSBAND, BOYFRIEND, BABY, HOUSE, APARTMENT, CONDO, MOTHER, FATHER, NEW CAR, NEW OUTLOOK, NEW CABLE-ACCESS SHOW)?”
“That’s GREAT! It’s so GOOD to see you!”
(hug, hug, hug, pat, pat, pat)
“We’ll talk SOON!”

Repeat these lines 20-30 times, and you’ll get an idea of my Saturday night. The inflection is necessary, because I’ve discovered that girl-to-girl small talk is much like a chirpy rap. It has a definite beat: ba BOOM ba BOOM ba BOOM. Replace male-centric lyrics such as, “Gonna smack those BITCHES” with female-centric phrases such as, “I’ve been looking everywhere for those SHOES.” See? Snoop Dogg may have been Eva Gabor in a previous life.

Where was I, dahling? Fo’ shizzle -- I spent Saturday evening at a catered, white-tent soiree, held in honor of a(nother) former high-school classmate who recently got married. Apparently, married people get lifelong companionship AND cocktail shrimp. The injustice!

This classmate is the daughter of our mayor, so you can bet her bridesmaids didn’t wear Dress Barn. The party must have cost $7,000 $10,000. It had sponsors. 40 of them. Valet parking attendants, too, juggling keys to BMWs and Jaguars and colossal SUVs. Andie Acura cowered.

I’ve never been very good at “getting my mingle on” -- I prefer private tables over mile-long buffets -- but once I mastered the small-talk rhythm (remixed for conversations with the opposite gender), I was okay.

Recognizing old classmates....not as easy.

I haven’t attended any reunions, since I’m not yet a Victoria’s Secret supermodel, nor do I drive a Bentley or wear Gucci boots. Unfortunately, this means that I had several conversations resembling the following:

“Hey, JESSE!”
“Hey....YOU! How ARE you?”
“Great! What have you been UP to?”
“Oh, I’m about to go back to school. But tell me what YOU’RE doing.”
Unrecognizable classmate: “Blah blah blah BLAH”
Jesse’s mind: “He says he’s working as a CPA in Nashville. Clint Hall did pretty well in math...maybe this is Clint. Or is it that guy who got seniors to stuff money in his shorts at the homecoming game?”

Thank goodness, noise from the dance floor pre-empted most verbal exchanges. If my mental yearbook-page-flipping failed, I could simply say: “I’m SORRY! I can’t HEAR you very well!” Sympathetic smile. Hug, hug, hug, pat, pat, pat....off to “Brick House!”

Okay, I admit -- I did dance to “Brick House.” All the other white girls in Ann Taylor sundresses were doing it...

Who was my dance partner? Well, some things haven’t changed since high school: I still can’t get a slow song with the star lacrosse player. But who needs strobe lights and “Unchained Melody” when you have Alex the Remodeler and “Everybody Was Kung Foo Fighting”?

That’s right -- Alex was there, and his live-in girlfriend allowed me to steal him for a couple of songs. I owe her a compliment; genuine, no inflection. True dat.