All my friends are women.
It wasn’t always like that. In high school I had a decent mix of male and female friends. In college all my friends were guys up until the back half of my senior year. Then we moved to St. Charles and, I dunno why, but the majority of my friends here are ladies.
I’m not necessarily complaining.
In the early years we would have many entertaining, co-ed social affairs: lunches, happy hours, movie nights. I would go out and leave The Wife at home with The Son. It wasn’t ideal but it was the way it was.
Then one day I discovered my wife had stolen my friends.
I’m not 100 percent certain when it happened, but I’m pretty sure it started with a purse party. Erica invited a bunch of the girls over to her house to admire and purchase purses. Knowing that I would not buy one, she invited The Wife instead. Ever since, it’s been an unending series of “Ladies Night This,” and “Bachelorette Party That” and “Girls Night This” and now I’m the one sitting at home with The Son.
I’m not necessarily complaining. Yeah, I kinda am.
So, a couple weeks ago Trent (who I guess I can’t call Trent anymore) ran off to Mexico and got married. The Girls decided they wanted to have a post-wedding party when she got back. Keep in mind they just had a bachelorette party for her before she left.
They all agreed to meet Saturday night at the Fabulous RROY Palace.
“You’re having a Ladies Night in my house?”
“Whatever. Where are Andrew and I supposed to be?”
“You can hang out in your beloved cave.”
“What if I get thirsty?”
“You can come up for drinks.”
“What if I have to use the bathroom?”
“You are allowed two bathroom breaks.”
“May I talk to the ladies?”
“You may say ‘Hello’ on your way to the bathroom. But no conversations with my friends.”
As luck would have it, PBS was airing “Billy Joel: Live from Shea Stadium” that afternoon, so I taped it and figured I could have my own personal Joelfest in the RROYCave while the women were upstairs talking about whatever it is women talk about.
The get-together was to start at 7 p.m. with dinner, so The Son and I took off and had a delicious meal at Steak ‘n Shake, where they don’t care if you have a Y chromosome. We then went next door to The Mills where we did a couple of rounds of mall speed-walking. I really wish they had escalators at The Mills.
It was now 8:30 p.m. which I figured was as long as I could keep The Son occupied and doing a third trip around The Mills would probably kill me, so we headed home. The ladies were all seated around the kitchen table.
“Guess who’s not here?”
I scan the table. “Where’s Trent?”
“We don’t know.”
“This party was in her honor.”
“With all your modern technology you can’t track her down?”
“We know she was at the Olive Garden five hours ago thanks to Facebook.”
Realizing I had already said far more than “Hello,” I departed for the basement. I fire up my lights and plop down on the couch, ready for an evening with The Man. I turn on the TV. I go to Recorded Shows. FUNCTION IS NOT AVAILABLE. What? I press various buttons repeatedly but to no avail.
I go upstairs to the living room television. I go to Recorded Shows. “Billy Joel: Live at Shea Stadium” is on the list, but when I try to access it all I get is a black screen. And now it won’t even let me access regular television. It is at this point that I notice the red “record” button is lit up, even though it shouldn’t be recording anything. I try to make it stop, to no avail. I finally do the only thing a tech-savvy guy like me knows how to do: I unplug the DVR and plug it back in. Success!
I’m enjoying the concert up until the first pledge break. Stupid Public Television and their pledge breaks. Pledge breaks are almost enough to make me want to become a Republican and shut the whole thing down. As I’m fast-forwarding through the shill’s attempts to get me to send them $120 in exchange for a DVD I can get off Amazon for $20, I notice the timer is only showing 41 minutes of recording. It’s a two-hour show. This does not bode well.
Sure enough, the recording stops right in the middle of the Garth Brooks appearance. Suddenly it all made sense. The computer brain in my DVR could not compute the logic behind Garth Brooks performing at a Billy Joel concert so it had to shut down.
It was at this point that I once again had to explain to the ladies that no, “Shameless” is not a Garth Brooks song, it is a Billy Joel song. They didn’t believe it until I pointed out that, seriously, why would The Man steal from Garth Brooks?
The ladies left for home around 11:30 p.m., which I found a little odd given that when they usually go out The Wife doesn’t stumble in until 2 a.m. or so. No one ever heard from Trent. I begin to think her failure to attend was a plot so that they can plan another get-together next week.
But I’m not falling for that.