Sorority Girls

Mom was a sorority girl, a bonafied sweater girl in pink and pearls, plus a pencil skirt. She was a member of Alpha Chi Omega where she learned many life lessons that she attempted to pass on to me as her legacy. She knew how to distinguish an authentic china teacup from the dime-store stuff. (Hold it up to the light, Missy). She learned how to half-smile so as not to appear overly eager. I never quite got that one; it’s all or nothing for me. She learned to say “fantastic” when she was thinking “bullshit”. Again, a lesson I’m still working on.

She was also a young mother. I came along when she was only 19 years old and her college career was cut short. Things were a little different in the early 60’s and there was no money and I never knew the story but she didn’t finish college. She did, however, keep going to sorority meetings. When I was a little girl she was always serving on some board or another and I can remember her coming home at night looking quite pissed off and throwing her purse on the table, sinking into the couch, and telling me, “Missy, I just don’t make a good sorority girl. I can’t stand being in a room full of women. They talk and talk and they say nothing at all.”

Which brings me to last night. I took myself out for dinner to a place I know I can have a cocktail, chat with the bartender and get a delicious meal. As a bonus there are often single people around to share a few minutes of benign conversation. If not, a television is there with ESPN turned to mute and something to watch while I unwind from the day. Yesterday was a day that needed unwinding.

I ordered my drink and waited for my dinner. Two members of the TripleH (dressed for Happy Hour in Houston) sat to my left and a man and his date sat to my right. The couple to my right was obviously quite involved with each other, having a quiet evening. That’s nice to see once in awhile. The women to my left? All I can say is I’m glad they found each other.

I’m not an eavesdropper. It’s difficult to ignore the equivalent of some tropical bird screeching on the barstool next to me. Volume control is possible with human voice. I know. I’ve studied anatomy and physiology.

Last night I heard about: how to clean an oven, fourth grade soccer shoes, and a funeral in Arkansas (complete with makeup, hair, and clothing descriptions - of the dearly departed).

Really? Really? Is that all you’ve got to talk about in public, LOUDLY? Forgive me, I forgot. At one point, early in the single hour I managed to sit through (trying to eat my dinner in peace), I heard BP (British Petroleum) mentioned. I perked up, thinking perhaps there was a political leaning, an inkling of social interest about to be batted about. No… I heard, “I’m so tired of all that news stuff.”

I paid my tab and started to leave. I felt a hand on my arm. TripleH Tropical Bird Number One was trying to get my attention. “Not too many to choose from, are there?”

I smiled and told her I was only out for dinner. I pointed to the seat I’d vacated next to her and said, “You never know.”

My point: If a woman sitting at the bar next to you thinks your conversation is vapid, what might a man think? Even if you’re all dressed up and looking fine, as soon as you open your mouth the game is over. Unless, of course, he’s just too dumb to notice, then I suppose you get what you play for. Point to ponder.

Of course, if you’ve read this far, you’re probably not that woman anyway, are you?


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