50 Frogs, 5 Babes and a Bulldog
by Susan Culp

EXCERPT

ONE
Breakfast at Bernie’s

I plopped my fat fanny down at our regular back booth at Bernie’s Café and waited for the others to arrive. Myrna, our waitress for over twenty years, placed a carafe of coffee and hot water on the table and then sashayed off. I poured the hot beverage into my cup and took a huge gulp. The darn stuff was so hot I sprayed out a mouthful right onto my lavender jogging jacket. As I attempted to wipe up the mess with a napkin, Joyce waltzed in. She was all feminine in a flowery dress and picture hat. “Whooo hoo!” She greeted me with a smile displaying her perfectly applied lipstick. I always wondered how she could keep it off her teeth. She sat down, adjusted her skirt and gave me a little peck on the cheek.

“Isn’t it a lovely morning,” she said happily. I wondered what little tidbit of information she had to divulge concerning our favorite subject—men.

Seconds later, Ruby marched in, head forward and body following behind. She wore a fuchsia pant-set, and her big-hair wig was slightly askew. Her face was set in a scowl.

“I almost got clobbered by a damn SUV. The sucker was making out with some babe and didn’t see the red light. What an asshole!” she snapped, as she sat down next to Joyce and promptly poured herself some coffee.

A minute later, Cloe pranced in on three-inch stilettos; dressed in tight-fitting jeans and a body-hugging sweater that noticeably displayed her set of 40 Double D’s ending in points under a “torpedo” bra. Her blonde beehive, as usual, reached towards the heavens, and the over-extended lipstick line headed towards her nostrils. She gave us all a lippy smile, squeaked a “Hi” in her baby voice and settled in next to Ruby.

Iris hurried in next. She was out of breath, with her hair flying everywhere and face flushed a beet red. She looked like a survivor in a wind-storm; only the weather was calm outside. “Sorry to be late,” she said in a nervous, breathy voice, as she straightened out her faded-black skirt and placed herself next to Joyce.

Our full names are Joyce Titmus, Ruby Clunk, Iris Evers, and Cloe Clodfelter. I am Sandy Applegate. The five of us have had a continuing friendship since our college dorm-mate days beginning in the late 60s, which makes us middle age plus. Over those years we’ve shared our joys, sorrows, squabbles, graduations, marriages, child births, and divorces, as well as PTA, deaths, grand children, menopauses, philandering husbands, hysterectomies and much more. In spite of our squabbling, cattiness and personality differences, our motto is “one for all and all for one.” The five of us are residents of Orange County, California. We’ve met for breakfast at Bernie’s on the first Saturday of each month at nine o’clock for decades.

We’re all single gals. Joyce and I are widows (having lost my Henry and Joyce, her Dave), Ruby and Cloe are divorced (from two “slime bag womanizers”), and Iris has never married. Most of us are slightly heavily packed, except for Iris, who wears a size two. We’ve all tried to fatten her up by suggesting various calorie-laden savories that Bernie’s is known for. In spite of our efforts, she sticks to her toast and coffee and never waivers. The rest of us are not as disciplined. And we have the butts and bellies to prove it.

As usual, the subject of the discussion this Saturday morning was our experiences with the opposite sex. What else would be as more interesting than a good chocolate cake or hot fudge sundae? All of us have one common goal—“to find good men.” We were learning one discouraging fact: the 21st century single scene bears no resemblance to the “good old days” when we five were carefree college dorm-mates fighting for the telephone in the hall. Times certainly have changed. We’ve tried newspaper ads and Internet dating, to no avail. Dances and nightclubs have also been disappointing. They catered to the younger crowd and/or men with other women. They were often full of men who were not interested in any of us or just plain obnoxious guys. We were pretty darn tired of dateless nights, watching old movies and binging on hot fudge sundaes and chocolate chip cookies.

Most of the gang voted on Bernie’s. Ruby refused to eat at other places we tried since she thought they didn’t have enough class. (That’s pretty funny coming from an unclassy, over-the-top user of expletives.) Bernie’s isn’t the Ritz either, but it’s charming and comfortable. Our vote was four to one. Ruby thought Bernie’s also lacked class, but she was outnumbered.

We always get the same booth in the back, as far from the ladies’ room as possible. No one wants to make it easy for a certain person in our group, who takes a pit stop right before the bill is presented (more about that later).

Bernie’s is my kind of place. It’s small, quaint, old, and has seen better days (much like my house). I can’t count how many times the wallpaper has been changed. It now has faded blue checks with matching, lifeless window curtains. The booths are wood, with way too many heavy top coats. Sometimes the shellac runs and look like frozen icicles hanging over the sides. (They can do a real number on your panty hose.) In spite of a less then upscale décor, the food is to die for, and we know how to put it away. This particular morning, we ate our pancakes, toast, omelets, muffins and croissants, hoping at least one of us would have good news in the man department.

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