By Letty Livingston

Greetings faithful readers and newbies alike! So, last week you got a feel for what may unfold here in The D Files. You’ve had a glimpse at the cast of characters that were in the previous edition and those who are going to pop up along the way. It starts off as a juicy, chocolate-covered, mystery-laden story of sex, lust, disappointment, and despair. It also taps into what makes us, as women, unique and connected, and hopefully winds up restoring our faith in what makes us strong and able to keep striving for our dreams!

Keep up with who’s who and what’s happening each Tuesday. Once you are hooked, be sure to let your girlfriends know about it by sharing the link with your address book, your Facebook friends, and your Twitter followers. Be sure to keep up with the story, because some real twists and turns are going to happen very soon. (Hint, hint)

As far as what’s going on right now in the real world, it has FINALLY stopped snowing here in Philadelphia. We’ve had over fifty inches already this winter and I have had it. I am ready to book a flight to Miami and do some sun worshiping. If anyone has a condo or a timeshare that has an ocean view, email me and let me know if I can use it. I am SOOOOO over all of this white winter weather! UGGGGG!

On another note: Is it just me? Did anyone else have numerous jaw-dropping moments while watching the winter Olympics last week? Some of those women (and men) are just absolutely incredible. I was amazed at how tough they are, and it has inspired my workouts at the gym. I am working so much harder in spinning class, and my kickboxing class is no longer kicking my butt. These women inspired me, bringing back memories of my childhood and being inspired to ice skate by Dorothy Hamel. I am glad I still have that spirit in me and hope that you dig deep and challenge yourself in ways that you didn’t think were possible. You can do it!!

Now onto this chapter of The D Files: It is summertime, and it is about the support and nourishment of women and womanhood—about bringing one of our own children into our adult group of friends and ensuring that our circle of trust remains relevant and strong. Of course, there are sexy men and some tense moments, but nothing we can’t handle, even if it is by the skin of our teeth.

Read on, and be sure to send your questions and comments to me at help@letlettyhelp.com

(As seen in True Romance magazine July 2009)

The D Files

Never Send a Man to do a Boy’s Job

By Letty Livingston

This wasn’t just a getting all gussied up for one of our girlfriend’s birthdays, it was a dress-to-the-nines occasion, as one of our very own was bringing her daughter out for her first night of legal drinking and debauchery. More importantly, she was going to be officially joining our group.

Yes, Lisa’s baby-girl was turning twenty-one. The simple fact that Angelica wanted to come out and celebrate her 21^st with her mom and her mom’s friends was astounding. Angelica and Lisa, [Lisa, you may remember from last week’s D Files, is my friend who has been diagnosed with a slew of mental ailments.] have a terrific relationship—now. It wasn’t always like that. Lisa is DDG (drop dead gorgeous) and looks more like Angelica’s sister than she does her mother. This, you might imagine, was a problem when Angelica was a tween and she was trying to find her own feminine identity. But as Angelica matured through her teens and Lisa exorcised her demons, and her shrinks prescribed new cocktails of psychotropic drugs, the two formed a strong bond.

Angelica looks more like her father, who looks like David Bowie. She has fair hair and fine features. Her eyes and her height are what she inherited from Lisa, who has the most piercing purplish eyes and stands just a couple of inches under six feet. Lisa is all southern—southern Italian that is; she has olive-colored skin and deep, dark brown hair. Jaws drop when she walks into a room. Men want her, and women want her to stay away from their men.

Most of us have been friends for a lifetime and have known Angelica from the time she was in Pampers. It was mind-boggling to think that she was now going to be coming out with “the girls.” It meant that she was now officially old enough to be out on her own. It also meant that we were entering the age bracket that included empty nesters. Honestly, our clique has women who range in age from thirty to Lisa, who is the eldest at forty-three.

We used to think we were still current on what’s hot. We always had someone in their twenties in the clique to keep us fresh, but last year when Yoko turned thirty, we started to feel a bit—dare I say it—old. But now we’ll have some fresh blood, a new perspective, and she is going to be sworn in on this night.

The swearing in ceremony took place at the Racquet Club. It is a very old-money social club in Philadelphia. Some of us are members; all of us go from time to time. We had a room reserved and there was a round table with candelabra in the center. The candles gave an ominous glow, and we set a serious mood by not speaking as we filed in and took our seats. Lisa dimmed the lights and finally sat completing the circle, and we all joined hands. Angelica looked puzzled. But she soon understood why we were so solemn.

I cannot divulge the oath that she swore, but the gist of it focused on the fact that women are a distinct species, different from males. We have our own perspective and we are pack animals by nature. We thrive when we are part of a pack of other women who are goal-oriented and have our best interests—and the interests of the group—in mind. Our group believes in fidelity, fearlessness, femininity and fabulousness. We can help one another be the best damn woman she can be by being there as a trusted support system for each other.

Angelica now knows that she has the undying support of twelve very special women and that they are relying her on just as much. After the oath was sworn, the lights were brought back up and a waiter delivered a bottle of champagne. Angelica had the honor of popping the cork, the waiter poured, and we all toasted to her future.

Dinner was French and fabulous. George Perrier’s Le Bec-Fin does an old-world dining experience where the food and service is impeccable. There are now thirteen in our clique, and seven of us are married. Marital status notwithstanding, the subject of men always comes up. Angelica asked what we thought about our waiter. Bea said she thought he was a gargoyle. Lauren said that he was hideous. To be fair, he wasn’t so ugly that the sight of him would make your food taste bad, but the guy was far from being easy on the eyes. Angelica snickered and said she kind of liked the sexy-ugly thing—but she wasn’t into old dudes.

The table exploded in an uproar. (And Le Bec-Fin is not the kind of place where a table has an outburst.) The man had to be thirty-five tops. Old? Hardly. But that is the taste of reality that we, as a group, need. To a twenty-one-year-old, thirty-five is o-l-d. Angelica looked pleased with the results of her statement. She said that she would bring us ladies back to reality.

Now, we don’t think of ourselves as a bunch of thirty-somethings out on the town trying to hook up with every pair of tight trousers that walks by, but we are a group of social women who are out in the city for lunches, dinners, events, and the occasional drink with a chaser of debauchery. So, I guess, just because we don’t fancy ourselves to be the Philadelphia version of the cast of a beloved television series, it doesn’t mean that others don’t see us this way.

We left Le-Bec for PURE, deciding to walk. Walnut Street, in Rittenhouse, at this time on a hot Saturday night in the summer, was buzzing with people. There were the al fresco diners at the numerous restaurants sitting at café tables while pedestrian traffic perused the portion sizes on their plates, and then there were people who were heading to one of the many bars or nightclubs. A group of power brokers who looked like they’d been partying since happy hour stopped and let us pass. One guy was particularly conspicuous. “Sexy-ugly?” I asked Angelica. “That’s it.” she said wryly.

PURE is one of the city’s hot spots and it has a VIP section. VIP in Philly means that you get bottle service and don’t have to stand at the bar to order a drink. In cities like Los Angeles, New York and Miami VIP sections are filled with celebrities. In Philadelphia, if you can afford it, you get to be a celebrity for a night.

We had a table reservation for 11 o’clock and made it there just in time. A table for thirteen hot ladies is going to get a lot of attention, especially when it comes loaded with the obligatory seven bottles of booze. That’s the deal—there’s a two-bottle minimum on a table of four to six people. So, when I made the reservation for thirteen, they made me buy five bottles; they threw in two.

The VIP attendant who originally arrived at the table to pour our drinks looked to be about the same age as Angelica. Her skirt was nearly nonexistent, and her top showed so much cleavage that one could see the glimmer of her nipple ring. She was smoking hot, but I was not having it.

I spoke to the manager, and a tall, lean waiter replaced her. His black jeans were snug, and suffice to say, he filled them in in all the right places. He too looked to be about the same age as Angelica, but this time it was perfectly fine, and so was he. He was earning his tips by politely bending over to pour our vodka tonics and Manhattans. He also knew enough to call you “miss” or “sweetheart” when handing you a drink. There were no ma’ams at this VIP table—not tonight.

PURE has approximately a thousand-person capacity and the VIP holds about two-fifty. Tonight the fire marshal would be on-call. The place was packed with mostly happy, sweaty party people. Men of all ages shuffled in and out of our immediate vicinity. We all love to dance, so there were very few moments when we were all at the table at the same time. When I happened to leave the dance floor, Angelica and Lisa were at the table and there were a few guys sitting with them. One was really model-hot and was sitting in Angelica’s personal space. She was not impressed, and after he said that he had never done a mother and daughter together, his time was up and I politely asked him to leave.

I thought he’d be a prince about it, but instead drama ensued. He spat a few choice expletives and started to get in my face when a nice man from the next table stepped in. This gentleman was in our age category, and he must’ve thought his formidable size would intimidate the skinnier nuisance. But he was wrong. The model guy pushed the big guy over. He may have tripped or fell, but either way he landed on his butt. This caused all the men sitting at his table to stand up and come over. I thought an all-out brawl was about to erupt.

From all of the hoopla appeared our young waiter. He slipped one hand under the skinny, rude guy’s arm and the other on his throat. He lifted the man off of his feet and promptly removed him from the VIP section and out of sight. The men from the other table settled down and the manager had scantily clad girls pouring complimentary drinks in the matter of minutes.

As for our table, the young waiter reappeared about half an hour later. Last call had already been announced by the DJ and some of our clique had left. Lisa, Angelica, and I sat quietly, sipping our final drink, and the waiter asked if he could take a seat. He liked Angelica, and it showed. I mean, come on, not only was he dreamy to look at, but he had just vanquished a fearsome foe in honor of this young lady.

He whispered a little something in her ear. She whispered back. He smiled and nodded and said “Of course.” Then she asked Lisa and me if we were going to after-hours, and we both shook our heads “no.”

“I’m going to go with Paolo.” She announced.

“Okay, I’ll see you there,” he said and disappeared into the thinning crowd.

The three of us raised our glasses and once again toasted to Angelica’s future. Then we all laughed. I had to ask what she whispered in his ear. What was it that he said “of course” to?

Angelica said she asked Paolo if he had ever kissed a guy before. I was taken aback a bit. “Really?” I asked her.

“So hot.” Angelica replied. “So hot.”

Lisa laughed and said, “Like mother, like daughter.”

That’s when I remembered Lisa’s life-long thing for David Bowie. I laughed too.

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I will still be answering my readers’ questions, so send them, along with comments on The D Files to me at help@letlettyhelp.com. All submitted material is considered for publication and all names are kept in the strictest of confidence. Come back next month for more of The D Files. Read more of my work at: http://letlettyhelp.blogspot.com/, http://fixmylove.com

©MMX Letty Livingston ~The D Files are intended as inspiring and engaging sources for advice and not alternatives for therapeutic intervention, should it be needed. All names have been changed to protect the identity of the people mentioned herein.

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