Try Her On, She Fits Like a Glove

When you return from the beach and spend the day missing the sound of the ocean, only music will do as an antidote.

Not going to lie, it helped that a sweet, little musical set in the flannel-clad '90s about finding first love was on tap at Richmond Triangle Players. That it used nothing but the music of Matthew Sweet - and primarily off his killer 1991 power pop magnum opus "Girlfriend"  - ensured that Foto Boy and I would enjoy it immensely.

I only saw Matthew Sweet live once and that was in 1993 or '94 at the Flood Zone, a show memorable for watching a woman sit on the curb outside and barf. It's bad enough to pre-game to the point of retching, but to miss so much good jangly pop is just a crying shame.

My life has finally become the musical I always expected it to be.

Tonight's story was simple enough: two boys begin seeing each other the day that high school ends after one gives the other a mix tape. One is already aware of his attraction to boys (and bullied for it) while the other, a star athlete about to embark on pre-med in college, is just starting to acknowledge his.

What made it so achingly poignant was how deliberately slowly they acted on those desires, even something as small as hand-holding. There's a lot to be said for delayed gratification.

With a stellar four piece band - bass, guitar, drum pad and keys - onstage (and, it must be noted, two of the four were women for a change) to sing back-up, the show got off to a rousing start with "I've Been Waiting," as our descent into the '90s began.

I've been waiting my whole life for a boy to ask me to run errands with him.

There were so many great Matthew Sweet songs incorporated into the play: "We're the  Same," of course "Girlfriend" and even a personal favorite, "Sick of Myself." One of the play's running jokes was that the boys went to the drive-in movie every night to be alone, even though it meant seeing the same ultra-violent flick all summer about a nun turned super hero named Evangeline. As they continue to watch this movie, all I'm thinking is what song is coming up (duh, "Evangeline") while Foto Boy leans over and says, "I remember seeing this movie."

Well, that makes one of us.

Both actors nailed their characters and their love of music. Cooper Sved's was sweetly thrilled, a boy who feels like his life has finally begun now that someone cares for him. Ray Wrightstone had more of an arc because his character was just realizing it wasn't his girlfriend he was attracted to, so he spends time fighting his instincts (and his bullying father) but unable to deny what he's feeling. Both young actors shone, both with their acting chops and singing voices.

And since I'm constitutionally unable to go to a play set during my lifetime without critiquing its anachronisms, here goes: Princess phones were attached to walls by a cord, meaning you couldn't just take the phone anywhere. Skinny jeans were not worn with flannel shirts, nor did Vans look like that in the '90s. And I don't know for sure, but I seriously doubt that drive-ins were much of a thing circa 1991.

But one thing with which I had no quibble was the use of a mix tape to show interest and attraction. I can't speak for everyone, but I'll admit to having been wooed with multiple mix tapes back then, even when the mixes far exceeded the men proffering them.

And if anything summed up the '90s, that was it. Far better to finally find a man who could turn my life into the musical it was always meant to be.

Besides, I can make the mix tape myself.

Ain't Nobody Loves My Legs Better

I'm not the most stylish woman you'll ever meet. Not even close, never have been.

Everyone seems to accept this fact about me except one friend, Pru, who apparently resolved to address this shortcoming casually and relentlessly.

She's the one who informed me that I didn't do enough with my eye makeup, complete with examples of my shortcomings, so I began putting more effort into that. She was beside herself last year when I broke a life-long moratorium on wearing jewelry. It thrills her.

Now she's trying to up my shoe game. Her complaint? I wear the same shoes all the time. Who knew anyone was paying attention?

First came the sky-high sueded Betty Boop platforms with feathers and a flower that she gave me in the Fall when I had plans to attend a black-tie event at the November Theater. She worried I wouldn't go buy fabulous shoes to wear with my adorable thrift store find cocktail dress and she was right.

And not to toot her horn too much, but those shoes got a lot of compliments for me that night. And not to toot mine, but when you always wear a dress and have nice legs, people are already looking down, so shoes do get noticed.

Shoes Pru picked.

That purchase and her happiness at how they looked on me must have been like a new drug to her because she showed up for our delayed Christmas exchange with four gift-wrapped boxes for me and three contained shoes. Three.

There were stylish boots with a jaunty buckle on the side, sort of an Emma Peel look. They look totally mod on. There was a pair we dubbed the David Bowie tribute because they look like a futuristic take on a classic t-strap, but with the addition of a net-like shell around the strap and a tall, thick heel. The ultimate party girl shoe.

And there was a perforated pair of ankle strap platforms that manage to be both ladylike and downright sexy, but perhaps most amazingly, pretty comfortable considering they jack me up three inches. Turns out she already has a pair in two other colors (I got black), so she was well aware of how cute and comfy they were.

Let me assure you, tonight was the first time in my life I got three pairs of shoes in one day and it felt downright decadent. I gave her a book wrapped in a satin ribbon, but it hardly compared to her offerings.

Our get-together was a chance to catch up and sip white Pinot Noir while listening to Chaka Khan and Isaac Hayes ("Never Can Say Goodbye" got us both dancing but it was "The Look of Love" that stopped her in her tracks) and mulling such things as big birthdays and the catch and release program.

One of the highlights of our tête a tête involved her smoke break on my balcony, a part of my apartment of which she was completely unaware. "How is it I never knew you had a veranda?" she queried of her many visits here over the past seven years. One has to save a few surprises for later on in the relationship, no?

Once we got peckish, Amour became our destination for a nibble, so I did the only logical thing, shed my boring shoes and buckled on my new ankle-straps. Who doesn't want to wear a new Christmas present once it's opened?

Or, as Chaka would say, "I'm every woman. It's all in me." I can be stylish, with a little help from my friend anyway.

We had the bar to ourselves at Amour, with owner Paul entertaining us with news from Carytown and beyond while we snacked through a cheese (ah, Morbier, how we love you) and charcuterie plate (liver mousse, yes, please), a happy hour special of shrimp and pearl onions with balsamic reduction, stellar duck rilletes and a duck mac and cheese that almost certainly closed our arteries as we mainlined it.

The Elby nominations provided both laughter and derision as we considered the hackneyed choices, questionable designations and obvious omissions.

At times, Richmond isn't just a small town, it's a village, as anyone who has lived here for long has learned. As the owner so succinctly put it, "What happens at Amour stays in Richmond," and the same could be said for almost any restaurant in town. We have no secrets, at least not for long.

And that fourth present from Pru? That was a muff, an item I've long coveted but haven't owned since childhood. That's been corrected with a furry hand-warmer complete with deep zippered pocket for all life's necessities: lipstick, lip gloss, driver's license and debit card.

You know, for when I'm standing around in the cold Richmond winter, batting my well-mascaraed eyes and showing off my legs in adorable shoes. Pru's already told me she wants a picture.

My only concern is it'll show up all over the village and people will mistakenly think I'm stylish. As if.

A Long, Long Way to Paradise

As Dr. Seuss put it: Today was good. Today was fun. Tomorrow is another one.

No deadlines. Walking in the rain. Planting carnations and anemones. Marveling at walls and windows sweating. Being domestic. Making plans.

Heritage provided the happy hour and my most artistic girlfriend the company as we settled in after far too long to dish the dirt.

She'd just gotten a haircut and I'm still growing mine out, but manageable hair is irrelevant for straight-haired girls like us on a day as rainy as this.

We went with the happy hour Malvasia accompanied by shrimp crackers and smoked fish dip, an appropriately summer like spread given the 90% humidity outside.

She regaled me with stories of overgrown koi and the alarming amount of poop they put out, a recent turkey dinner party and its time-consuming yet un-spectacular cranberry sauce and the ball she'll be attending this weekend.

Happily, she's also planning a big summer soiree to celebrate the completion of her new screened -in porch, something she has been coveting practically since I met her. I would not miss it for the world.

Our discussion of babies, the course of true love and watching "Frozen" had to end early because she had a sick husband and I was going to revisit the '70s.

Showing at the Criterion was (and this has to take the prize for worst documentary title ever) "Super Duper Alice Cooper" about the original glam shock-rocker, born Vincent Furnier.

As a teenager, I owned both "Love It to Death" and "Killer" (having fallen in love with "Be My Lover") but all I can recall from those days was my disappointment when I learned that Alice played golf, a difficult thing to reconcile given the music and on-stage violence.

The film began with a close up of Alice, now 66 years old, warning us, "Sit back and enjoy. The doors are locked. You can't get out."

Considering two thirds of the crowd was his age, it seemed unlikely anyone was going to try to escape.

His perfect '50s childhood gave way to a brave, new world once he heard the Beatles and learned about Salvador Dali, causing him to form a band called the Earwigs, later the Spiders.

I think I was most surprised by him citing the Yardbirds, the Who and the Rolling Stones as his favorite bands and the sounds they were trying to emulate.

With lots of old photos and film footage of performances, the documentary provided a terrific visual picture of the development of his musical career.

Oh, and the band's name? That came about when Vincent consulted a Ouija board to learn his name in a previous life. Turns out he was a witch named Alice Cooper who'd been burned to death.

Now there's a great Jeopardy question, kids.

Almost as good is how they got their glammy look. One of the band members heard about a thrift store that was selling old Ice Capades costumes by the pound so off they went to buy 50 pounds of spangly clothing and an entire branch of rock and roll was born.

There are no accidents, you know.

They bombed in Los Angeles but took off like a rocket in Detroit, fitting in perfectly with hard-hitting bands like the Stooges and MC-5. Someone described their sound as "Dali with an electric guitar."

We even got to see footage of the notorious Toronto Pop Fest (where the band played before John Lennon) and tried to get crazy by opening three feather pillows and using a can of Co2 to simulate snow, only to find a chicken on stage.

Alice threw it out into the crowd of 70,000 hippies, where it was killed, dismembered and thrown back on stage, but the press claimed Alice was responsible.

And with a press blitz like that, they needed a hit song pronto and ended up paring down their warmup song, "Eighteen," which turned them into an overnight sensation.

Since I bought that album, I guess I'm partly responsible for that.

By the time we were seeing footage of him singing "School's Out," the guy behind me was kicking the back of my chair in time to the music. I'm guessing he owned that album.

I'd never even heard of the Hollywood Bowl incident where they had a helicopter drop girls' panties from the sky, mostly to shock parents and bible thumpers.

Of all the unlikely people at that show that night, Elton John was one and readily admitted to trying desperately to grab a pair of those underpants.

Apparently I lost interest in Alice sometimes after the "Killer" album, because I had no idea he'd descended into addictive lifestyles with booze, then cocaine, eventually even freebasing.

Somehow he was a major celebrity by then, too, so we saw shots of him with Jack Benny, Kermit the Frog and Sinatra, who nicknamed him "Coop."

Hell, he did an album with EJ collaborator, Bernie Taupin, at least up until they put him in a sanitarium to get clean. By then he looked pretty horrible with drugs ravaging his face and teeth as he tried to live out his offstage life as the character he'd created.

Bad move.

Alice narrated the film and even when someone else was talking, it was just voice-over, so we were spared talking heads of old men reminiscing about their glory days, thank you very much.

By the time he got clean, punk had exploded and he had something new to fight back against before that gave way to what Twisted Sister's Dee Snider explained as, "Alice Cooper ejaculated and glam metal was born" and he fit in perfectly again.

One amusing moment was his 1986 MTV concert where he sang "Eighteen" with a crutch in his hand, intent on demonstrating the irony of lines like, "Lines form on my face and my hands. Lines form from the ups and downs."

Sure they do, but that's just part of the process. Tonight was still good. Tonight was still fun.

And most happily of all, tomorrow night is another one.

Permission to Mount

Love is the only interesting thing. It's far more difficult than sex.

When you've had a long three days - sore hamstrings, insufficient sleep, a packed schedule - there is no distraction quite like a British comedy and popcorn for dinner with a girlfriend.

Well, perhaps a weekend away with a boyfriend, but that seemed unlikely on a Tuesday night, so I invited Pru to join me for "Le Week-End," a bittersweet romantic comedy (drama?) at the Westhampton.

Given the nearly 80-degree weather, the patio at the Continental next door to the theater was mobbed with people quaffing a bevvy and talking loudly to each other.

Clearly, the goal of most people today was to enjoy the fine weather, while Pru and I closeted ourselves away indoors with maybe eight others for a film that unfolded like a series of life events more than a film.

Her: You make my blood boil like no one else.
Him: That's the sign of a deep and true connection.

The film was set in Paris where a Birmingham, England couple married for 30 years take a long weekend to celebrate their anniversary and/or end their marriage. The jury seems to be out on which one they'll do.

In terms of visuals, the film was beautiful, showing Paris as a place of grand hotels with flowering window boxes, close-up views of the twinkling lights on the Eiffel Tower at night and a series of bistros and cafes with chefs fileting fish and shucking oysters in front windows to tempt passers by.

You'll be sorry that you never loved me enough.

The acting was superb with Jim Broadbent and Lindsay Duncan conveying middle-aged people not satisfied with the status quo.

Experienced enough to realize the importance of having been together for 30 years but still adventurous enough to consider trying something different if it'll make them happier, the film struck a balance between what was and what might be.

Would it be okay for me to bravely mount you?

Besides terrific performances, the script was spot on, completely believable in how long-time couples can pick at each other and still be very much in love. Kind of like my parents twenty years ago. Or now, with more wrinkles.

At every turn, I was never sure what might happen next and found myself continually surprised at how this couple handled playing tourist, going to a party of strangers hosted by the reliably hilarious and handsome Jeff Goldblum (as an American in Paris) and dealing with each other when others intrude on their lives.

These days a man still wanting to make love to his wife is practically a far-out perversion.

Part of the film's appeal is the recollections of their youth, the '60s and '70s, when idealism still ruled their choices and they hadn't let the burden of life crush their spirits.

And yet, both know deep down that everything is still achievable. He wants to write a book, she wants to be a painter and dance more. He wants more sex, she wants more romance.

Pru and I agreed in our post-movie discussion that the beauty of "Le Week-End" was how vividly it depicted the challenges of middle-aged romance, a far cry from starry-eyed relationships of youth, but not without its own kind of optimism.

Mistakes made mean lessons learned and potential for relationship successes that weren't possible earlier.

Him: People don't change
Her: They do, they get worse.

Maybe that's true, but how else do old dogs learn new tricks? All I'm saying is, in my experience, old dogs can be very sweet.

Try me again and I promise I'll be more fun this time.

Tonight, just what I needed.

Rip and Read

When you need bodice-ripping, you gotta turn to a girlfriend.

Fact is, I originally had a happy hour date with a favorite girlfriend but illness took her down for the count mid-day (subject line: one word - flu) so I adjusted accordingly.

I'd been wanting to indulge my inner history geek, not to mention my inner romantic, by seeing "A Royal Affair" at the Criterion, so I invited a healthy girlfriend to join me.

"What a perfect night for historical drama," she responded. That's my girl.

Wanting wine first, she suggested Lunch a mere ten minutes before she expected me to meet her there, but I am nothing if not efficient about getting out of the house.

It was early, so Lunch was slow with one couple also going to the movies at another table and a solo diner next to the new electric fireplace.

And may I just say what a welcome addition that little flame box was on a cold, damp night.

We kept it simple with Malbec, deciding to share the Summit Avenue crabcake appetizer while my Brussels sprouts-obsessed friend insisted on a side of them.

The kitchen, not being busy, even plated them separately, making for a baby crabcake over a bacon and corn griddle cake with a mound of bacon-infused sprouts next to it on each of our plates.

It was a nice touch.

Just as we were wondering what movie the other couple was going to see, we overheard the server ask them and heard "Les Mis."

A discussion of actors trying to sing resulted with one of the guys observing, "Russell Crowe shouldn't have to do anything more than stand there and look good."

So maybe their movie motives were as hormone-based as ours.

I won't lie, part of the appeal of a Danish historical costume drama based on fact was the, well, affair between the queen and the king's physician/best friend/adviser.

As it turned out, we were two of four occupants of the theater, and all had XX chromosomes.

I had to assume that men just aren't into Danish history.

I don't know why not, given the fascinating story of a mentally ill king who marries an English bride he's never met and proceeds to bring a doctor to court who espouses the new thinking of the Enlightenment, much to the chagrin of the noble-led royal council.

So, yes, there was this great story and this passionate affair that took a while to get going (all the better to savor it when it did) while the lovers discussed books and philosophy.

But also the movie's cinematography was exquisite, with countless scenes resembling art created by a Dutch master.

Scene after scene evoked a painting, from a schooner at the waterside with the distinctive dusky Dutch sky surrounding it to a royal procession through a snow-covered forest to the Vermeer-looking light that came through every castle window.

It was an art history geek's wet dream and I should know.

And while the film was full of beautiful shots of period details like copper and stone bathtubs and rooms lit solely by candlepower, as a female, I've got no use for a time where every sex act meant the risk of pregnancy.

That said, I've got plenty of time for watching best foreign film nominees in the comfort of a reclining stadium seat barely two miles from home.

When the film ended, partially sadly of course (deportings, beheadings, children ripped from a mother's bosom) because it's based on real life, and partially hopefully because the events spurred a revolution in Denmark that took it from the Dark Ages to one of Europe's most progressive, the woman behind us stood up and addressed us.

"Wasn't that wonderful?" she asked enthusiastically.

My girlfriend and I stood there talking to her for a while about the movie, only to learn that her TV had broken a while back and she'd started reading again.

But not "that modern fiction," she clarified, but the classics.

"I'm reading "A Farewell to Arms" right now," she gushed. "And it's got love scenes but he doesn't really describe the specifics, but the language is so beautiful."

She mentioned how glad she was not to have a TV now since it had gotten her back into reading and out to movies.

My friend recommended "A Movable Feat" next, saying Papa's description of eating raw oysters had had her salivating and she doesn't even care for raw oysters.

As we walked out, we were talking about the pleasures of life without television like we were old friends.

And, really, we were just three women looking for sex and romance on another rainy night in River City.

With our metaphorical bodices now satisfyingly ripped wide open.

Walked and Debriefed

You say tomato, I say tomahto.

You could call it a girls' day out or you could call it a mutual debriefing.

It began with a mile and a half walk downtown to La Parisienne, during which the information sharing started in earnest.

She, with multiple visits to Italy under her belt, wanted to hear about my escapades in Italia.

In return, she had scads of information about what had been going on here in my absence.

Apparently despite some people's protestations to the contrary, life went on in Richmond while I was absent.

We passed a sign saying, "It's Friday! Hug a friend," so I did, right there on the sidewalk.

Arriving at the restaurant, we both agreed that the best part about it is that we never see anyone we know.

It's like having lunch in another city.

Granted, that's probably because there are plenty of suits and high-powered-looking types there and we're anything but.

Still, it feeds our fantasy that we've escaped.

Being women, we played good eater/bad eater roles, having salads (I did the Lyonnaise, also known as the bacon and bleu) with a side of their outstanding fries.

We compared impressions of Italy, important cultural conversations that women have.

Like what the hell is in the water to make a woman's hair (whether curly or straight) turn into straw while there?

And why do Italian women have an affinity for plain-sight bras of colorful hues?

And most importantly, the splendor of corner gelaterias and the importance of ordering Italian-style.

When it came time for the RVA scoop, she made sure I knew about the latest Twitter wars, which new places she'd tried and the trials of dealing with clueless types.

While she enjoyed a cappuccino, I had crepes with rum  and lemon juice, a light yet sweet ending to my meal.

Walking back up the hills the mile and a half home, we wandered block to block, the better to check out what you can't from a car.

There was Social Consignment with its lovely pink-upholstered chair, a new southern style restaurant advertising a half rack of ribs lunch special (who wouldn't need a nap after a lunch like that?) and checked out the progress on the upcoming Rappahannock River Oyster Company and Tarrant's renovations.

I care more about one than the other.

After a stop at the Hoppy Dog, we moseyed back to my place for another quarter hour of catch-up.

You say ketchup, I say catch up.

Four hours with a girlfriend is the best kind of Friday imaginable.

Eating Feet and Feeling Groovy

Fortunately, it wasn't necessary to send up the bat signal to find me.

That had been the backup plan for communicating once I made dinner plans with two girlfriends.

They'd exchanged cell phone numbers and dismissed me, saying that if there was a change in plans, they'd send up the signal to notify me.

But everything went off without a hitch and we found ourselves at the front table of Aziza's on Main, ready to wallow in our first-ever girlfriends' get-together.

Usually we just see each other at shows and talk about music and guys there, but we'd decided to kick it up a notch.

It's different when you go out with the girls. You talk to your server about animal jewelry. You admire handcrafted pottery on the restaurant shelf.

You talk about men proposing on bended knee and men with manicured beards.

So, yes, our estrogen cup ranneth over.

Meanwhile, the one with every known allergy got a custom vegan/gluten-free dish created by the kitchen and the picky one declared her margherita pizza the best she'd ever had in Richmond.

Me, I was happy as a clam with a glass of Santa Julia Viognier and a dish of crispy pigs' feet with coconut, Thai chili, lime and cilantro.

The server warned me it was going to be hot (well duh, Thai chilies and all) and it was but the minced feet shaped into savory squares were tempered by the rich coconut broth.

We finished with a cream puff  to celebrate the rarity of getting these two females out of the house and into a restaurant.

Clearly opposites attract.

A favorite chef was dining with his wife and I took a moment to say hello, maneuvering my way to the restroom through an almost-capacity restaurant.

On my way in to Aziza's, I'd heard my name called, only to see a shop owner I knew nearby. He inquired if I would be at a certain gallery opening later tonight (I intended to be) before pointing to the new restaurant across the street.

"You ought to check it out," he said smiling. "It's very sixties, very cool. You'll like it."

Never let it be said that a new restaurant can't pull me across the street after dinner.

So with the girls amenable to a new experience, we walked directly across to check out 2113, Richmond's first restro-lounge.

Never let it be said that RVA won't eventually try a big city concept.

Earlier we'd noticed a photographer outside snapping red carpet photos of every one who entered.

He called to us as we arrived, saying he'd shoot us later, but my friend made short work of him.

"No, you won't," she clarified.

Inside, the owner shook my hand and welcomed us to his very groovy space.

White shades resembled snowflake cutouts, the metal bar had orange lights and that motif carried over to the long mirror on the nearby wall.

White lights and beats per minute were the order of the evening.

The girls and I found stools at the end of the bar and ordered as we took in the place.

My Lunetta Prosecco felt like the proper libation given the abundance of sequins and the photographer roaming the room snapping laughing guests mid-guffaw.

Favorite moment: telling the girls my deflowering story which resulted in two open-mouthed, dropped jaw expressions simultaneously.

"That's so awesome," the one in the pink dress said.

Awesome or telling, the events could probably be construed either way.

Checking out the menu, my friend asked me what caught my eye and, had I not just eaten, I'd have tried the wild boar sausage or the sauteed calves' liver.

But I had, so checking out the room's occupants held more interest.

First I saw a familiar braided server and said hello, surprising her with my presence.

When I turned to check out the front of the room, a wine rep I know waved hello and told me she liked my outfit.

Before long, one of my fellow food writers came over bringing a bowl of wild boar sausage farfalle pasta with roasted garlic, game stock, Roma tomatoes and mushrooms.

Just in case I wanted to try it (I did).

Soon a videographer I used to work with tapped me on the shoulder and introduced me to his friend ("If she's here, this is where we want to be," he told him).

And when we finally left the place, I ran into a restaurant owner ("Well of course you'd be here!") I know, the one who'd first taken me to Peter Chang's in Charlottesville.

"You know everybody," one of the girlfriends said with mock exasperation at the door.

Pshaw. Anyone who goes out a lot knows people in this town. It's just not that big.

When we got outside, there were still people having their pictures taken on the red carpet, but we kept our heads down and out of the camera's glare.

Bidding the girls goodnight, I got myself to Ghostprint Gallery for the opening of the new show, "Body of Evidence" by Chuck Scalin.

I knew plenty about the show because I'd written it up for "Style Weekly," but all my interaction with the artist had been via e-mail because he'd been in Paris until just recently.

I was late to the opening and they'd already been through 36 bottles of bubbly, but there was just enough left that I was handed a glass to enjoy while looking at the show.

Tonight I got to meet him and get an up-close look at his photographs and mixed media pieces.

Fifteen were "evidence boxes" comprised of photos, trinkets, letters and other ephemera, suggesting some long ago crime scene.

My favorite was the box with a very old matchbook ("Mayflower Cab, Phone 616") and vintage cards with numbers on them.

Another had the number 9 and nine black and white photos of faces. It carried a scrap of paper that said, "A Great Summer."

Other boxes included objects like old locks, letters with spidery handwriting and tiny medicine bottles and vials.

On the other wall, large scale photographs that were taken in the Palais de Tokyo Museum's basement showed light making its way through cracks in doors and crevices in walls.

The subtle shifts in the array of shades of black was just beautiful.

They had as much mystery as the boxes, only in a different way.

Interestingly enough, they looked like the kind of subterranean places that don't get cell phone service.

The kind of place from which you might send out the bat signal if you were looking for a missing girlfriend.

Although chances are, she'd be off talking to someone she knew and never even notice it up there in the sky.

And then they'd really give her a hard time. Probably over a cream puff, like tonight.

Because that's what girlfriends do.

Choose with Care

You grow up with five sisters and you end up needing very few girlfriends.

That said, I couldn't live without the few female friends I am really close to and a long lunch is an ideal way to do the girly thing when we can both make it happen.

That's how we ended up at The Empress today, tucked into a back table where we were out of the way and could share the stories for which neither of us has another outlet.

While I pigged out over chorizo pizza made on a nice, thick herb focaccia, she went virtuous with a veggie sampler that looked delicious and way more green than anything on my plate.

But unlike a sister, she didn't judge me for it.

After some much-needed talk, we decided to head out into the sunshine for a walk and if we ended up somewhere for dessert, all the better.

In less than four blocks, we were in front of Garnett's and although every table was taken, two stools were free.

Over chocolate coconut cake (me) and pecan pie (her), we discussed past loves, online commenting and morning breath, with a hefty dose of why neither of us qualifies as joiners in between.

A former River City Roller Girl saw me eating the cake and came up to tell me that she and her husband had come there for lunch specifically so she could order that cake afterwards.

That thick layer of coconut icing in the center, the two kinds of chocolate frosting, the moistness of the cake, she rhapsodized and I agreed with it all.

I understood her point about planning a meal around what comes at the end. My own mother taught me that life skill, among others.

And the ones she didn't teach me, I learned from girlfriends.

Today's friend can be credited with teaching me how to hold my liquor and how to be a night person, two skills I lacked before I met her.

Praise be for girlfriends.  Unlike sisters, you get to choose the ones you want.

Telling All at Edo's

If I say my friend and I about froze to death during lunch and left with major garlic breath, can you guess where we ate? Of course that would be everyone's favorite Edo's Squid (everyone does not include me; favorite is a mighty big word), an easy walk from work for her.

This lunch was a rescheduling of last week's postponed happy hour, which was a makeup for the week before's canceled plans. She's a really good friend, knows all the skeletons in my closet and we both feel so much better after getting together.

By this time, we should also know better than to try to cover multiple weeks' worth of life during lunch, even one that lasts two hours...especially without wine (which she actually ordered but the waiter forgot).

I was first there when she breezed in, kissed me on the head, sat down and said, "Okay. What?" expectantly. I laid it out and she reacted more calmly than any of my friends so far, although with just as much surprise and delight at the news.

It's pretty obvious that every single one of my friends has been of the same opinion about my life, just waiting for me to get it. Got it!

And because she's known me for so long, she needed to know the factors that caused the change of heart. Girlfriends ask the best questions; guy friends puff up their chests and tell you they were right all along. And sometimes, sure enough, they were. You guys want me to shout it from the rooftops?

Then we ate. Lunch was crostini with white beans and arugula followed by penne with broccoli rabe, olive oil, garlic, ricotta and parmigiana. I've no doubt but I'll be sweating out garlic essence tomorrow, not that I have a problem with that (just saying I'd definitely avoid me on my walk tomorrow).

Our discussion of me finally turning a page led to an impassioned discussion of my friend needing to do the same but in other areas of her life. I'm hardly one to espouse change after being stuck in the same place for so long, but if I can step up the plate, then I know my multi-talented friend could. Me as role model? It boggles the mind.

We asked about chocolate options for dessert but given our frozen fingers, chocolate gelato held little appeal. Friend requested hot tea or decaf, neither of which they had, so we settled for tiramisu. And by settled, I mean enjoyed while discussing the importance of moving toward getting what you ultimately want.

Now that I've identified that, I can join in the discussion, garlic breath and all.