|be the perfect host/ess||.||
chicks. Two Carolinas. One convertible. It was our first-annual,
all-girl, all-fun road trip commencing Memorial Day weekend 2002, and by
the grace of Shag, we were determined to escape our jobs, our men
and ourselves. We were so game for bucking the rules that we came up
with, well, a set of rules. Self-concocted, self-inflicted rules to
protect us from our normal, everyday niceness, those eager-to-please
parts of us that caused us to put others first, dress appropriately and
rationalize tax increases. These rules were all about breaking the
rules. These were our road rules.
rule 1 Absolutely no franchised eating establishments will be tolerated, even if it means going hungry, even if it means losing a whole dress size and becoming a Slim Fast celebrity. Local scheist only.
reality 1 When Haagen Dazs called, we answered. And while we took in our fair fare of salmon, crab, shrimp and pineapple chutney, I reluctantly watched us pay homage to Cinnabon and Burger King.
rule 2 Appearance is a priority. Lipstick, hot pants, starlet sunglasses, strappy sandals, feather boas. This is not some slacker-Tom-Green road trip. This is the ultimate in feminine wiles on wheels. Truckers will honk twice at one blonde bombshell, one bodacious brunette and one buxom black beauty in our sweet, sexy convertible.
reality 2 Why is it that when you aim for cool, the act of trying takes all possibility of being cool right out of the equation? I made the mistake of packing a very hippy-chic bamboo beach mat for my first rendezvous with the Atlantic Ocean. For reasons unknown, the natural fibers generously emitted a sweet, pungent, feed-trough smell. The foul, make-your-eyes-squint stench permeated all of my clothing. All of it. And no amount of lipstick, or even artificially flavored watermelon lip gloss was going to divert the attention. Right now, that mat is still in the trunk of my car because I just canít bear to bring it into my apartment.