Conversations with my two best girlfriends occur while we wait in the drive-thru line for a Diet Coke, during our new baby girl's nap time (we have an 8-month-old in our mix now) or when we are rushing through our grocery shopping. We have accepted this reality, as we are now all older than 28, and have also submitted to the sad fact that our once-profound wisdom has been simplified into Forrest Gump-isms: Life is like a box of chocolates, and sometimes there is sh*t in them.
Our minds—formerly filled with deep and stimulating information for hours of sparkling dinner-party conversations—mostly contain information about children, be they our own offspring or those in our classrooms. We know nap and feeding times, we remain available at all times for our students who may need emotional or academic help, and we know, I swear we do, that we need to get to the grocery store because I'm sure we are out of something.
In days long ago, we discussed our relationships and spirituality; we shared our personal growth and personal setbacks. Now, my friend (let's call her "Stacy") tells me: "You know what? Grandma said to stay away from mean folk. I think that's what we should do with this particular man." I have to admit, it's much better than the hours of analyzing what childhood trauma could have made said man a psychosumb*tch and making excuses for jerk behavior. He's mean; walk away.
Yet we still crave intellectual stimulation. To that end, we have researched and thusly created the "Conversations Women Can Have in Less Than Two Minutes List." We would love for you to add to our findings, as we are merely three women—three mentally exhausted women. However, in recent times, we have discovered that these brief, two-minute discussions have satisfied our minds much more than any of our previous marriages and/or relationships, and we are this close to erecting a red tent. We also are cognizant that we should, in fact, get out more.
Who is Least Crazy?
One of my ex-husbands told me that when he meets a man, his first thought is always, "Can I kick his ass?" I won't tell you where that man is these days, but suffice to say that he discovered there were a few asses he could not kick. I won't even tell you what he thought about women, but I don't think he's getting much experience in that area these days, either.
Anyway, when my friends and I gather, we immediately determine who is the least exhausted, in the least amount of pain (i.e. migraine-free, lack of lower-back pain) and who has the best mental disposition. Is she depressed? No? Good, because the rest of us are. Send that chick out for snacks and a good chick flick.
Why are 11-Year-Olds Built Like Brick Houses?
We're concerned about biotechnology, specifically Similac and its effect on the stock market. If you haven't already, buy stock in corn. At tribulation, our friend Stacy will be loaded, since she bought stock years ago in some company than owns corn and other natural resources. When the government is rationing our food, and we are looking to the heavens for our sweet Jesus to return, Stacy is going to cash out that stock and buy us some good, old-fashioned, black market food—virus and antibiotic free corn. Of course we'll fry it.
The Health of Our Presidential Candidates
Has Hillary hit menopause? If and when she does, can we get notice so we'll understand crying jags and laughter during inappropriate situations? Do any of our male candidates suffer from erectile dysfunction? If so, can we enact the "no-bombing-sh*t-for-him" rule? Do we have a plan intact to keep said frustrated man away from that "nuke them all" button? Perhaps we could set up some ED threat-level alert system akin to that of our scary-color terrorist alert system.
We're on red? He hasn't gotten any in years, and he's in no shape to negotiate with any other man, unless said man is also not getting any. Otherwise, we'll send in the menopausal woman. Hormonal women get things done. We ourselves are a testament to that fact, and we invite any doubters to come on over. Bring snacks, of course, and help us manage the household from toddler to teenager and write some lesson plans, while, in that moment, looking wonderful for our age even if covered in the sweat of a woman who has just run a marathon.
Where is Dick Cheney?
This has been our most persistent, and still unanswered question since Katrina. We're sure he's been cryogenically frozen like Walt Disney and Han Solo, and when we're eating all that corn during the tribulation, he will return in some form. Personally, I hope he returns as a single mother, holding a very hungry child, while voices in his head repeat, "The problems of this world are all your fault."
Between the three of us, we have several bachelor's degrees, two master's degrees and about 40 years of teaching experience. We feel that these qualifications alone should give us license to charge for therapy, especially considering the amount of cash we've put into our own. We have a business plan to enact when we get those credentials. We will open the Red Tent Inn, where frazzled women can come for respite, recuperation and two-minute conversations. Obviously, we lack the credentials we need for that American dream, and until then, we will continue our practice informally and without the exchange of money. At least until tribulation, when we'll invite you to the Red Tent Inn End-of-the-World special.
"Come on over y'all; we have antidepressants and corn."
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