The Village Idiot (or What Women Shouldn't Do When Single and Over 40)

A good friend of mine turned 50 last night, and she did so quite gracefully. Her day started with her boyfriend sending her to get her nails done and when she returned, there were 50 gifts waiting for her. (Men: take note. Women love this sort of stuff. It earns you points. Builds credit.) Well, let me back up a bit. Her birthday celebration started a week ago when JD, her boyfriend and an old childhood friend of mine, called me in a panic. "I need help! Nina is turning 50 and I'd like to throw her a party. About 40 people." My response was "you know 40 people well enough to invite to a party?" Well, ok - that was my third response. My first was "When is it?" His answer, "Next week", to which I replied (second response here) "Whaaaattt???! You want me to help you plan a party for 40 people in a week? Are you nuts???!!!" Needless to say, I went into concierge-service overdrive and the party was planned in 10 minutes. Two calls, and it was done.

Fast forward to the party. We closed down a friend's restaurant in Menlo Park and had a nice, very festive affair complete with old friends, good food, drinkable party wine and a funny birthday cake (a nude girl swinging a gold club and a message that said "Fifty is Nifty"). It was quite a success. The birthday girl and her man were happy, so I was happy. Most importantly, I came out with fodder for today's entry. And a very important message to pass on to single women of any age.

I'm single (well, sort of. My boyfriend lives abroad, so I attend what few parties I'm invited to mostly alone). My education in attending social functions alone started very early in my life with my parents absolutely forbidding the ghastly notion of me entering any social venue alone or unescorted (party, bar, disco - hey-I'm a child of the 70's). By the time I learned to do just that, I did it because I had to. I was older, divorced, a mother of two and a working woman. I had to shed the catholic guilt, the old world rules. So now when I enter a social scene alone, I always have a plan before I walk in. I know which friend(s) to target, make a beeline for them, start a conversation, which develops into conversations with others, then choose a group to plant myself with for the rest of the evening. A base, sort of. I always dress appropriately for the occassion (never outdo the celebrant - be it the bride, the birthday girl, the hostess) and I keep my conversations light and agreeable. Ok, so enough about me and let's move on to the scoop-du-jour.

After giving the birthday girl a big hug and kiss and making my way through a few "hellos", air kisses, and "havent seen you in ages-es", I sit down to dinner with my friend Sandy and her husband Jimmy. Behind me, I hear this very low, cackling, hoarse voice. Loud. Scratchy. Sounded like a woman who smoked too much pot and burned her throat. Sort of like fingernails on a blackboard in alto-voce. Made my ears hurt, and my hair stand. I ask Sandy who she was - she has no idea. Post dinner cocktails now and the music starts to blast, signalling the resurrection of the 70's disco. I can still hear her voice above the blaring music. Amazing. Then, Abba's "Dancing Queen" comes on. Typical, corny as hell, and yet somewhat appropriate to get the (mostly over 40, disco-era) crowd moving. Swaying. Feet tapping (men). Chair dancing (guilty). Fingers snapping. All of a sudden, the crowd around me starts to thin--people have moved to the little dance area. I join the group of spectators, wondering what's so entertaining. Sure enough, I see the woman-with-the-low-cackling-hoarse-voice dancing. All by herself, at first. Definitely close to 50, wearing the shortest mini skirt over tights and waaay too much make up. Then, she dances with one guy (someone's boyfriend), then another (someone's husband), then another (this time a woman- ran out of men, I guess). She tries to pull the friend I'm chatting with who politely refuses because we're busy comparing notes about our daughters. I give the girl-with-the-voice-and-too-short-skirt a dirty look and a smile, to which she sheepishly replies, "Oh, sorry". She goes off and pulls another victim from his conversation. Dances hand-holding, swing-disco-like with the men (who are clearly trying to keep some sort of distance), but she bumps and grinds and dirty dances with the women (there's some sense of security in that, I guess). Night wears on. I find out she's the sister of someone I know, blah-blah-blah and single (at this point, you don't even bother asking why) and not only is she still dancing at midnight (all alone) but she's fallen on the floor a few times and couldn't get up. Knees were too stiff? Bones too creaky? Too much to drink? Maybe smoked something? Probably all of the above. I think to myself...thank God for the tights she was wearing since she keeps bending over and falling with her legs wide open. Until someone comes to me and whispers "She said she's not wearing any underwear". Now, did I REALLY need to know that!!!?? No, but it adds some flavor to an already entertaining evening. I'm standing watching this spectacle and I whisper to my friend, "Does she even know what she's doing!?" To which she replies, "There's always one of those. They're either called the Village Idiot or the Village Whore. In this case, this is the Village Whore."

So, I should have titled this entry "The Village Whore" but that would have been a little too bold. My point is this. For those of you single women who havent learned the art of discretion, hear this: If you're single and especially if you're over 40, learn to be graceful. In private and in public. Don't attract attention - because what you'll get is THIS kind of attention (you'll be written about as the Village Whore or the Village Idiot). Women won't want to know you. Men won't want to touch you. When you talk and laugh, do it so people's reaction isn't "who the hell is that". When you dance, make sure you keep your balance and that your skirt will cover your ass if you trip and fall. And for God's sake, WEAR UNDERWEAR. And if you don't, please don't tell anyone, because I DON'T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT IT!! (And to the men that do and take advantage of it....well, you deserve what you get.)