My good friend Lola invited me to a “Half-O-Ween” shindig; a mid-way to Halloween costume party that her Improv group friends invited her to in Sherman Oaks. She dressed as an extremely sexy blond Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz and I was dressed in a skin-tight '70s print cat suit, a la Sharon Stone in Casino. (BTW, all 5-foot-1 of me appears as hot, tall and voluptuous as you might be visualizing).
We were only four miles north of my Sherman Oaks home but we were in the hood! "Holy crap, this is scary!" Lola exclaimed as she began to cover up her cleavage. “No worries, just walk with purpose," I said, swaggering toward the door as if I specialized in hood walking.
As I opened the window and looked behind me to parallel park Lola’s BMW, a guy walking toward us shouted, “Nice hubcaps!” Um, OK, this is creepy. If he was going to take the hubcaps it wouldn’t behoove us to stick around. We braved our way inside the party.
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We arrived a bit early to find we were the only ones in costume. We were asked to sign a release, because it was being filmed; our only hope was that is wasn’t for porn! One foot in, and heavy, thick layers of smoke enveloped us. Clearly it was your typical Halloween fog but in fact the “fog.” Wrong—it was incredibly strong skunkweed, which permeated every one of our senses.
The door closed behind us, and as if on cue, a dirty old man grabbed my arm. “Hey, little lady, I love your ass, it makes me think I have vertigo as you chase by!” OK, seriously, can we get out of here any faster? Nope. Lola really wanted to catch up with her actor friends, and I was along for the ride.
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We grabbed a cocktail as her friends showed up. One by one, they shared their divorce stories. Is it coincidental that so many of our peers are divorced, or is it simply that divorcees attract other divorcees? And one by one I heard that smarmy, “Congratulations on your divorce!” Despite being six years post-divorce, I still abhor the congratulatory salutation. People might as well just shout, “Congratulations on the one thing you committed to, you big fat failure!” Cheers—not!
We hung in the hood until a small group of us made our way out of Dodge, and with our hubcaps intact. We found ourselves at a local Sherman Oaks bar, Pineapple Hill Saloon & Grill, just walking distance from my house, and which I never knew existed.
I was the youngest of the group by seven years, but the one very obvious common thread was divorce, some with children, some without and a few on their way to the big ugly.
It was one of those unexpected, fabulous evenings that brought more belly laughs than most of us had experienced in years. We ribbed one another about our divorces; ex-spouses; our age; dating; new relationships; defunct relationships; and of course our sexcapades or lack thereof. We found, once again, that women speak dirtier than men and we were reminded that women who are comfortable speaking of sex are quite comfortable with their sexual prowess too—good for us!
In the hours that ensued we laughed through our tears and laughed so hard it brought us to tears. Strangers, most of us, and yet as ugly, sad, painful and expensive as divorce is, no matter one’s age it’s truly a fantastical, relatable platform for comedy that binds us. Feeling that great sense of universal understanding through laughter with intelligent, artistic and fun-loving people despite our financial brackets, we're ultimately part of the same cloth, and laughter carried us all through, equally.
As we said our slushy goodbyes it was all we could do to keep from racing back to our lives, our baby sitters and our empty boudoirs.
Here's to Pineapple Hill Saloon, where the drinks are strong but the laughter lasts longer.