SEATTLE, Washington Amy's trying to do my make-up, as people arrive for our Christmas dinner. I'm pup-wriggling, almost seismographing eyeliner across my forehead. Then, petulantly, I stomp my high heels clop, clop, clop and her calm shatters.
"Stop being such a tomboy!" She lards on a full-finger wag.
I sass back with maybe a few more clops: "Not really going to happen after 33 years!"
And then we both burst out laughing, as only great friends can, no matter who has waxed brows* and who has 17-year-old resoled Raichles.
*Amy is, in fact, an insanely tough woman kibbutz-strong, as T.C. Boyle would say even if she hasn't grunged backcountry loads (yet). Much as I rib her and Anna's and Sascha's civilizing attempts, I remember coaxing a certain All-Star Diver into her first skirt last year: pure misery ... But, you know, I don't want to check my ovaries at the dock or trailhead. I'm not ace at being a girl, but I plan to keep working at it ... especially with little black dive dresses and New Year's Eve beehives, perhaps...