What a disappointment. Ladies Night Out turned into Ladies Go Out For Dinner And Go Home Early To Get Their Beauty Rest.

Wimps.

Zorbetta, originator of the Grand Plan, turned up half an hour late and with a three year old in tow. Turns out that he was so disappointed that he couldn't go with Mama and had to stay home with Papa (who apparently goes out himself each and every Wednesday), that she didn't have the heart to say no and brought him along. Oh, and he has tonsilitis. This, as they say, was a clue. My table placement didn't help either: I think if the younger and/or more party capable of us had been closer together, we could have let the terminally tired and carousing-challenged go on their not quite merry enough way and set off for a truly memorable evening. As it was, the grandmas and non-drinkers had taxi carpools organized before we even paid the check. Although we tried. Some of us, in any case. But it's hard when you're surrounded by a (usually) non-drinking grandma who wouldn't even have an apertivo because it's a school night, a painfully shy observant Muslim (although I was glad she came, as she doesn't usually), HSCL (more later), and the aforementioned Zorbetta and son. Oh, and Fiona was seated at the other end of the table with the South American contingent, and is usually up for almost anything. Fiona is also the most physically beautiful woman I have ever seen, including the models sashaying around during Milan Fashion Week. This meant it was hard to get the waiters to venture down to our end of the table: they were always down by Fiona, transfixed in a puddle of drool.

Zorbetta, of course, managed to order a pizza for her and the sprout to share before she even hit the table, and was out of there before most of us had even recieved our primi. Talked to her today. "I hear you stayed out really late last night, and some of you were even there past eleven!"

Yeah. Party hearty.

We did try, though. Or, at least, Sinead and I did. Sinead even got Fiona and Sheila to have a grappa with her. Although Sheila refused to drink hers as it tasted like jet fuel. All grappa, alas, tastes like jet fuel. I myself just said no, and had an amaro instead. My skull thanked me this morning: it doesn't take much grappa to make you regret it for days.

It was quite an assortment of women, though: American, English, Turkish, Irish, Columbian, Argentinian, S. African, Greek. Considering there were 11 of us (plus one small boy), it's pretty amazing. That's one thing I love about being an expat: I've gotten to know a lot of different people from a lot of different countries. I find it extremely enlightening, as well as interesting. And it confuses the waiters: not everyone could speak Italian, so they settled on English. My Turkish friend's English is not stellar, but she's gotten a lot better, which is good because I've forgotten most of my (not stellar) Turkish. She's homesick for Istanbul, by the way. They have some visa problems and can't go back until their settled. I don't blame her: I get homesick for Istanbul myself, sometimes, and it's not even my home. Also, her family is there and they are very close, as most Turkish families are. She's never lived abroad before, although her husband has. He went to college in the US as well. W and I met him in Istanbul, and he was living in Frankfurt for a while while we were there as well, and now here. It's funny what a small world this business is, really.

And as for HSCL. H stands for Humorless. She does not appear to have one. And she is also an arrogant bitch, which I ought to put in the acronym somewhere, but she is, quite frankly, not worth the extra typing. I cannot stand her. But I try to be nice, because that's the kind of gal I am. After the crowd had fled home to their warm beds and warm milk, Sinead and I ended up at a cocktail bar kind of place she knows, in a desparate attempt to wring some sort of night out from our night out. As we discussed the evening, Sinead stated that HSCL is the most boring person she knows. I asked her why. I mean, I find her annoying as hell, but boring hadn't really occurred to me. I'm too busy trying not to squash her like a fly so I don't have to listen to her prattle on. (She's very short. It's possible.) Sinead said, haven't you ever noticed that she talks only about work or herself, or (orgasm-time, HSCLwise) herself at work. I thought about it, and she's right. Boring, arrogant, annoying, self-centered (the SC, if you hadn't noticed). She's going back home soon. She was scheduled to go back many times before. I'm tempted to escort her to the plane.

So Sinead and I gossiped and told stories and so forth, then walked home at about 2. Which was nice, as I've never really had the chance to really get to know her before. We get on pretty well, I think. Not suprising, really, as we're pretty much alike. We would have trammed it, but the trams had stopped, and our apartments aren't all that far apart so we have the same route home as far as the Duomo. So all in all, the evening turned out OK. Not the grand debauch I was hoping for, but how realistic is that anyways, now that I think about it.

I think Sinead and I could turn out to be pretty good friends. Or I hope so, anyways. I have friends, of course, but most are older and aren't really in the same place in life I am, or otherwise they live further away, outside of the city. Emma and I could be, she lives close, also has no children, get on well, and is not much older than I, but she's just a little bit too settled and sensible. On the other hand, she's currently celebrating her fortieth birthday trekking in Peru sans husband. Hardly staid. On the other hand (I have lots of hands), if I go off by myself to celebrate turning 40 (and it's not a bad idea), it will probably be to lie on the beach and be served accessorized drinks by young studs without shirts. Or to Paris. Actually, I've always wanted to go to Kathmandu. But I'd head for the beach afterwards, to recover.

What I'm trying to say is that I want a bestest friend. Fourth-grade stuff, inseparable Tweedledum and Tweedledeewith giggling at things the grownups don't understand, much less the other kids on the playground. Or like teens, where you share your first cigarette and Boon's Farm (Tickle-pink, of course) and hang on the phone all night talking about boys and who made out with who behind who's back (the bitch!). That kind of thing. I had one in Turkey. I miss her. Lots. I haven't had one since, but I keep hoping. Although as soon as I find one, I'm sure to move.