Vagina Dialogues, Part III

We had a shower to celebrate Bucky’s significant birthday. Rock Star and L. Tiny distracted her on the porch while we strung banners, blew up balloons, and piled presents high on the huge oak dining room table.

She wore her t-shirt that proclaimed, “It’s All About Me!” (props to Spike), and properly admired the beauteous wrapping before ripping through paper and ribbons to oooh and aaaah over a cupcake carrying gizmo (because she is the Queen of Giant Delicious Cupcakes), big fluffy bath towels, baking dishes and supplies, and more—but weirdly, no covered brown casserole dish!

Because I suck at delayed gratification, from the moment I arrived I was begging the other shower-planners to pleeeeeze let me give Bucky my gift right away—but of course, more sensible heads prevailed, and we waited. It was better that way, of course—but oh, so painful.

(I don’t want to wait to give presents—which is why I can’t do my Christmas shopping in September—and I don’t want to wait to get them. At 12:00:01 a.m. on the morning of my birthday I’m shaking Mr. Peevie and asking him can I please have my present, please?! It’s not an attractive character trait, but there you have it.)

I called J. Cool when I was standing next to the slinky lingerie in a Store That Shall Not Be Named (because I don’t want their ads showing up on my sidebar). I wanted to give Bucky some really pretty and comfortable P.J.s. I had no idea what size to get (everybody looks like a size six to me) or what color to pick (peach, I learned, is not a good choice for many skin tones).

I required additional consulting on style and fabric: Pretty much everything in the store is in this irritating babydoll style. Maybe it’s just me, but that sounds like an insult. Chemise? Might work, once I figured out how to pronounce it. Lace? Too scratchy. Flannel? Too L.L. Bean.

My contribution to the Festival of Gifts, of which I am inordinately and sinfully proud, was a set of butter-yellow, fabulously soft cotton shorty PJs and a slinky satin robe the color of sunshine. Bucky wore it to dinner that night and was a big hit.

Oh, she did not. But it would have been great if she had.

We had a blast showering Bucky with gifts and celebrating her life. A person should not have to get married or have babies to get a shower. I would be completely P.O.ed if I had reached a Significant Age (which for me would be like 25) and had not yet had a shower.

Instead of dumb shower games, we had cocktails and cheese. We toasted our girl Bucky, who has made a name for herself as a wacky but lovable, talented and kind-hearted friend who gives from her heart, writes thank-you notes that would make Shakespeare proud, and will always take a pair of old toilets off your hands.