Generally I�m a great social director. I find cool things to do. I make sure that it�s going to be a smooth night and that everyone can get there without problems.

Lorinda shows up at my place, and us and Herbie head up north to the Viking Place. We�re ready to get our cheap-ass horns and drink various German and Austrian beers. I�ve got my digital camera in my purse, and we�re ready to drink.

So we show up at the bar, and it�s dead quiet.

And we see a sign letting up know that the place has been closed due to some building code.

Wouldn�t ya know that I finally get people rounded up for some drinking fun and the place has been closed down?!

On the way in we saw a place that had $1 Bud Lite drafts, so we headed back there. I had five BL�s, and I definitely had the least amount of booze out of everyone. We had to cut Herbie off, and Lorinda and I talked amongst ourselves as Herbie oogled our boobulars.

Last Saturday night when I hung out with Lorinda, we talked about the bathroom attendant and how we disliked the obligation to tip she who hands us a paper towel. If I were chewing the �complimentary� gum or using her stash of Bath and Body Works and Tommy-brand perfumes, throwing a buck in would be one thing. But turning on the water and handing me a paper towel isn�t worth a buck to me.

So Lorinda and I decided to come up with ways to avoid giving away a dollar for worthless services: Don�t wash your hands.

It�s as plain and simple as that! If she doesn�t have the opportunity to hand you a paper towel or pump some Clinque Happy soap onto your hands as you do your quick rinse, you don�t owe her a buck.

We also developed the �pretend to be on the phone� move where you pretend to be too busy to notice her outreached hand with the towel, grabbing your own and thus avoiding all services.

While practicing this move, she called her roommate, and I called my parents old bastards.

Perfection!

Tonight we had the conversation about �the hover� that women do in the bathroom. Gravity is usually enough to make all work out all right, but sometimes a little sumptin-sumptin gets in the way, making your steady stream a bit of a bitch. And if you�re that one girl who doesn�t have her stuff in order, you�ve just forced all of the girls for the rest of the night hover.

Like the lone girl who once turned around when some schmuck yelled, �Haaay bay-bee!� -- that bitch ruined it for the rest of us. For the rest of eternity, based on her stupid actions, we�re going to have to put up with cat calls because men truly believe that they might eventually get somewhere with that maneuver.

It�s like Adam and Eve eating that fucking apple and God assuming that it�s our choice of fruit, leaving it as the only damn thing in season all year long. Earth to Eve -- Eat a fucking peach. I�d much rather an eternity of 99-cent-per-pound peaches than one fucking month of in-season apples. Grrr...

As for your hover-ers out there: There are no communicable butt germs out there. The only thing that�s going on down south that would cause any discomfort when shared is pee. And to put things into light, your aim is a lot better while sitting down.

So do your fellow women a favor the next time you�re in the bathroom:

Don�t be a squatter. Be a sitter.�