Over the weekend, I got together with three of my girlfriends for some female bonding time. With the Super Bowl coming up, we figured this would be our last chance for several days to engage in a booze-fueled estrogenfest and, more importantly, we all wanted time away from home.

Having exhausted our two favorite topics to complain about by the time the third round of drinks arrived, the conversation turned to the economy. Specifically: the financial sacrifices we’re making because our husband and kids just don’t get it. (Okay, maybe we weren’t done bitching about our two favorite topics entirely.)

The scholar among us, whom we call Egghead, said she’s borrowing books from the library instead of spending her Saturday mornings browsing the racks at Barnes and Noble. My friend Ritzy, who loves her some designer-labels, has taken to shopping at consignment stores. A longtime fast food addict, my friend Speedy Mac is learning to cook dinners at home and brown bag her lunch the next day. And me? Well, I switched to a cheaper brand of vodka and have been saving electricity by not cleaning house very often.

After a pause while the waitress sat down a sinfully massive plate of nachos, Ritzy offhandedly remarked that she’s also cut back on visits to her salon. Instead of weekly manicures she’s ditched the acrylic tips in favor of the natural look, and she’d found that she can go 6 weeks between coloring sessions if she poofs her hair up a bit. We all nodded our own faded heads in sympathy as, one by one, we hurried to hide our similarly un-manicured hands.

By that time, the third martini must have hit me, because I chirped: “And, damn it, I miss my bikini waxes, too!”

“God yes,” Egghead agreed. “I’m going through razor blades like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Razor blades?” Speedy Mac laughed. “I tried Nair. The smell just about killed me!”

Ritzy slammed the rest of her drink and signaled for another round before saying, “Let me tell you, girls. Do NOT try giving yourself a Brazilian wax at home. Just trust me.”

We all grew quiet as the waitress set our drinks in front of us, unwilling to meet each others’ gaze. After two long years of regular booze-and-bitch sessions, we’d thought we had discussed just about every female topic under the sun. But that night we’d discovered a new one, and it wasn’t pretty.

Seriously, how do you look your girlfriends straight in the face after a conversation like that?

Last Sunday, despite being horribly sick, I went to Mass for the first time in… well, I’m not even going to tell you. Between suffering from the flu that wouldn’t quit and the realization that recently I’d probably earned a one-way ticket straight to hell, I figured it might be a good time to seek a little Divine Assistance.

And, if nothing else, going to Mass guaranteed me two hours of babysitting from my Baptist husband who refuses — absolutely refuses — to set foot in a Catholic church (a fact which, I assure him, ensures that he’ll go to hell, too).

So, like I said, it had been a while. A long while.

Since my decision to attend was made at the last-minute when I woke burdened by an impending sense of doom that morning, I hadn’t given myself enough time for the full shower, shave and shine routine, much less planned what I would wear. I threw on a pair of dark slacks and my favorite cashmere v-neck sweater then put on enough makeup to avoid looking like I’d been on a 6-month heroin binge thanks to the ever-present dark circles under my eyes. (One glance at my ample ass should debunk anyone of the whole heroin thing, but you know how people like to gossip.)

Anyway, as I raced to church, I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw that the v-neck of my sweater was a bit too daring to wear to church. Oh, sure, God gave me some bodacious ta-tas, but even I know there’s a time and place, ya know? So I looked over in the passenger seat and was relieved to find my favorite leopard print scarf there, one that’s long enough to do the fashionable European-style thing with yet not so thick that I’d feel like I was choking.

Just as I raced through the church doors — with minutes to spare, I might add — who did I run into but one of the Church Ladies whose pissy, pompous attitude had pretty much disenchanted me with this very church the last time I’d been there.

You probably know the type: they arrive early every Sunday then position themselves so as to take a mental roll call of who’s there on time, who’s late, and who’s too much of a damned sinner to bother showing up. Guess which category I fit in? I know it, she knew it, and I could see on her face that she knew it, too.

But there was something she didn’t know that I had seen. Specifically, I’d seen HER — the uptight Church Lady — at a favorite bar of mine not three months earlier. The man I’d seen her hanging on (who was easily ten years younger than her and far too inebriated to grimace when she stuck her tongue in his ear) was most definitely not her husband, and the outfit she was wearing at the time was most definitely not the primly tailored and buttoned-up suit she was wearing that Sunday morning.

“Well,” she said as I walked past, “I thought you must have moved or something, since you never attend Mass anymore. But it’s always nice to see old faces again.”

I probably would have left the matter alone, but right then she glanced at my scarf and raised her thin little half-moon eyebrows, then said: “What an interesting scarf. It’s so hard to wear leopard print without looking cheap, isn’t it?”

“Oh, it hasn’t been that long since we’ve seen each other,” I pointed out as I toyed with my scarf. “Don’t you remember, down at the bar about three months ago? You were wearing a black tank top with hip-hugger jeans and a 20-something year old guy attached to your tongue.”

Then, as I swung open the door and headed inside, I added over my shoulder: “See? You didn’t even have to wear leopard print to achieve that whole cheap thing.”

So, yeah, I’m probably still going to hell but I’ll be smiling about it. Oh, and I’ll be wearing my leopard print scarf, too.

Friend just called to chat, despite knowing that I work from home during the day. Needless to say, I didn’t answer the phone in the kindest of moods.

Her: “Why don’t you just turn the ringer off if you don’t want to talk to anyone?”

Me: “Because that screens out the people I do want to talk to, along with everyone else.”

Her: “Which am I?”

Me: “You’re one of the folks I thought was smart enough not to call during the day.”

Her: “Uh, oh, right. Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”

Me: “Not if you keep THIS shit up.” (Click)