Friend Politics 101

Traci is my wingman.  We hang out all the time. But, lately I’d been keeping her out more nights than she typically tolerated.  So, when I called her to let her know my boy was throwing a “private party” for Lebron James at the W Hotel in Westwood, Traci wasn’t having it.  “Girl we went out Friday, Saturday and Tuesday, I’ve literally exhausted every rendition of my cutest outfits, and I haven’t worked out in like three days because it takes me two hours to blow dry, curl, and style my hair, give it rest mama!”  Who me?  Not a chance, not tonight! Didn’t she know that there were WINNERS at the W Hotel in Westwood?  I mean, what do you think the W stands for?  WINNERS of course!!

With Traci out of commission there were a few things to consider.  Friend Politics 101: I am only as fly as my crew.  There’s no sense in me getting cute and wasting my new YSL pumps if there’s a duck in my squad (yes a duck, quack…quack).  What I mean is… if I show up to an exclusive event with two other girls and one of them happens to be…shall we say… “challenged” in certain areas, then I’m probably not getting in.

Now I know what you’re thinking, that’s some real shallow LA shit right?  Right! Of course it’s shallow, but it’s also the truth ladies and gentlemen.  Welcome to my world!  I didn’t make the rules, don’t shoot the messenger.  Los Angeles social scene etiquette dictates that if I walk into a line looking fantastic and I throw up my perfectly manicured fingers motioning that there are two us, right away the bouncer notices me, walks over and says “who you with?” If I’m with a girl that looks like a hot, steamy, Avatar-mess, I am most likely not getting into the damn event (or Berry’s Pizza Cafe for that matter).  And guess what folks? I didn’t come out for all this! I did not get all dressed up only to have to walk the hall of shame and complain about it later at Mel’s Diner (where every tranny is welcome).  So, I devised a plan of attack.

Rule No 1:  My fat friends are for restaurants and concerts only (and no movies, people will think you’re a couple)

I realize you may be asking yourself, “What constitutes a fat girl? Am I a fat girl?”  To which I answer, if you have to ask….

You see, one night, I walked into the SLS Hotel bar with my dear friend Natalie.  Natalie is the flyest obese person you ever met.  I mean, she is gorgeous, and if we lived in Nebraska she’d be the Belle of the ball.  But we DON’T live in Nebraska.  We live in LA, home of the size 2 and the super-model diet (only 1 finger required).  Anyway, Natalie looked absolutely stunning in her knock-off DVF, Lane Bryant wrap dress circa 2009, yunno, the navy, exaggerated cheetah print.  As we entered the bar we overheard two guys loudly whispering as we walked by, “Yo man, I can’t even front on Mrs. Piggy-Beyonce over there, I’d F – her all day long.”  Paralyzed by my inability to calculate whether or not Natalie been complemented or insulted, I did what I do best and gave them my signature snub nose indicating that, while we did overhear the 12 year-old banter, it’s impossible to be insulted by anyone wearing Air-Force One’s to the SLS.  I sure told them, or so I thought, until I glanced over at Nat who looked as though the wind had been knocked out of her.

I immediately ordered two Grey Goose and Seven-Up’s for the table given that the night had already gotten off to a rocky start.  However, to no avail, Natalie wasn’t in the mood for conversation.  Now all Natalie wanted to talk about was her thyroid problem.  And, now Natalie didn’t want to hit up Industry for dancing later, like we’d originally planned, because she had to get to work early in the morning.   I felt bad for Natalie, I really did, because one ridiculous comment ruined our entire evening and I could not make it better no matter how hard I tried.

I began to get angry with her but I didn’t let on to it.  I couldn’t let her see me be frustrated with her weight problem (even though I truly was) because I couldn’t live with her feeling any worse than she already did.  I wanted to tell her that if she didn’t like her reality she needed to change it.  I wanted to tell her that her thyroid had nothing to do with the three cheeseburgers she religiously sipped down during her lunch hour every day.  But, instead, I pretended to be interested in her latest shoe purchase and her pretend boyfriend who was always out of town and whom none of us had ever met because that’s what friends do.

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