This past weekend marked our fourth consecutive girls-only weekend, hosted by tradition at my parent's house in eastern Long Island. Riding in the car on the way out here, as we memoralized highlights of "Kitty Weekend '05" and tried to re-invent ways to make '06's fest really sparkle, I realize how lucky each one of us are. Though most of us met post-college, and though we are all in different stages of life (I am the sole married girl of the bunch) I cherish these girls and our growing relationships. They toast me for keeping Kitty Weekend alive, and we promise to always set aside one weekend each summer despite our changing zip codes or roles life has in store for us. They remind me that not all husband's would allow a Kitty Weekend, but we all silently make fun of those types and I secretly feel lucky to have married a good one.
We arrive late Friday night and spend the rest of the night staying up late playing CD's in my parent's renovated garage house. Though the rest of the weekend faithfully delivers the rain it predicted, we spend Saturday ruffling around this charming antique town, and buying the watermelon which we plan to inject with vodka before going out that night. We eat dinner with my mom under the night stars and concoct new, refreshing ways to become inebriated before going out that night.
The cab picks us up, though we're not sure he's actually licensed to drive in this state. In this part of town, there's no streetlights and it can be deafingly quiet and dark once the sun sets. He just appears in my driveway, and patiently waits for us in the dark as if he's always known his services would one day be required. We ask to see his ID and request to keep the lights on as he pulls away from the house with Ali's leg still dangling outside the cardoor. Once the lights are on, we see just how much he freakishly resembles Nick Nolte and refer to him as that until we safely reach the destination all of our weekend fests begin: Tavern.
Is this man not Nolte?!
FM's party at Tavern is terrible despite it's promotion and e-mails we circulated to each other this preceding week. This is never a good sign:
We soon realize that we're the oldest girls here by at least ten years, which is just near impossible, as the seemingly busloads of high school girls are being dropped off right 
outside the red velvet line to get in. We leave, but not before chatting up the bartender soliciting ways to get into this summer's famed Pink Elephant. He tells us the backdoor way to get into this over-hyped club, and scribbles on a napkin the name of the busboy to ask for once we sneak our way in. It's a longshot, but we leave giddy with the hope of evading the line now filled with throngs of people all to eager to press $100 bills into the palms of the bouncers.
Each one of us hustles a different post once we arrive. Tamar and I run to the back to find this elusive "back door" before we realize it doesn't even exist, while the others are working the fire marshalls. We have such fun people-watching; I see an old face from college (always random being that Union is so small and so remote) before we see someone we all know about to walk in to the club. He gives us a name which we faithfully recite to the bouncer, who finally lets us into this shack of a nightclub.
Half the fun of this night was working our way in. Inside, throngs of sweaty people are dancing to techno blaring from broken-down sound systems. Tables filled with $1,800 bottles of Cristal rock to the busted beat of electronica. I'm instantly brought back to my college days, where us girls developed a science of detecting who was on drugs and who was not, just by glaring into the rim around their pupils. At this place, we are definitely in the minority. We scout the scene and I'm reminded of what it must feel like to be single as we make fun of other obvious girls on the prowl. That's one thing I love about Kitty Fest - despite the different places we are in life, when we are here, it's all about us. We leave the drama of dating and the city aside as we just have fun being together. Even the single ones among us could care less about scouting out the next Mr. Right Now. And that's the thing about good friends - being with them can turn a busted shack into the night of your life.
Long live Kitty Fest. Meow.
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