The problem with girls' nights out is that the girls in question tend to congregate in lovely little wine bars, featuring jazz guitarists and owners who bring you dishes of olives that have nothing at all in common with bar mix.
If you have ever been privy to these nights out, you know the ensuing conversation has quite a lot in common with bar mix. The conversation, if it had control of its own car keys, would obviously rather be at a sports bar, if not a strip club.
As the night progresses, the conversation becomes more aggressive in its search for rowdier company. It offends. It regales. The women in question sometimes notice it rooting around in their purses, looking for phones to call cabs, and are briefly aware that the conversation is totally inappropriate. Its behavior is atrocious, frankly. But the goat cheese and walnut crostini beckons and another round is ordered.
Women are complicated creatures. We like artisan cheeses and olive tapenade. We like places that hire acoustic guitarists for our entertainment. We like chairs with hooks on them to hold our purses. We like beautiful spaces with art on the walls. We like lengthy conversations about Capt'n Frosty's Clam Balls.
We are women with lives that spiral in all directions. We have careers, babies, heartbreaks and crushes on men ten years our junior. Our worlds so rarely collide. But when they do? Please try not to be offended. It's the olives talking.