Most women are lucky to have one or two female friends whom they can consider soul sisters. I have eight.

They are all completely different and wonderful and, in small ways, exactly the same. Most of them have been a part of my life for more than half of it. They knew me when I wore four layers of makeup, and before I learned the magic of tweezers. They still liked me before I discovered mousse, when my hair was the white girl equivalent of an afro, only not nearly as cool.

At least twice a year, for about six years now, my girls and I have what we call "Girl Weekend" where we shed our responsibilities for three days and drive for hours to a quiet sanctuary.

We tell our secrets, exaggerate memories. We laugh about old boyfriends. I believe Brian is in jail now, and Tom and David should be.

Half of us are Democratic, half of us are Republican. One of us is usually all about the Green Party. This has sparked heated debates ever since we were old enough to vote.

We have "grown-up" conversations about rent and groceries and interest rates. We've even had some weddings, a child birth, some death to deal with.

But we stay together because we remember the Chinese Fire Drills gone awry. It was Rachel we left at the curb. They remember when I lost my bra out Corinne's sunroof. How some of us got community service for egging cars, but nobody ever caught us stealing ceramic lawn ducks.

We share the history of how we came to be ourselves.

Together we take our skeletons from the closet... Dance with them... Wrap them in blankets of laughter... Turn them into "learning experiences." Together we take the bad words that used to define us rape... abortion... God... love... We give them our own definitions.

After arguments about toppings, pizzas are sacrificed for the energy to choreograph "Like a Virgin" to perfection. With props... and panties on our heads.

This is my special octagon of giggles.

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