Girl talk

Every once in a while, I get the urge to sit down and just let characters talk. Non-specific people in my head arguing things out, that I need to work out, or topics other characters just don't seem able to address properly. This way I also get all of those unnecessary dialogue tags trashed. I hate dialogue tags.

The following is from an ever growing file I have called Conversations Between Women (yes, I have others):

“Mmmm…I don’t know about you, but I love coming here every Friday. Look at all that prime man flesh.”
“Tabitha! You are a married woman!”
“Sweetheart, I may not be allowed to sample the treats, but I can certainly appreciate the beauty that is the male animal.”
“That is so not right.”
“Aw, come on! I sit and listen to you complain about that woman at work, that cow-beast thing that makes big eyes at everything with a penis but you can’t indulge me?”
“It’s not that Tabby, it just seems wrong siting here drooling over those guys.”
“Because I am married?”
“Partly, but also because it’s all based on looks.”
“Hold that thought! It’s okay for you to tear down your co-worker based on her looks, but I can’t appreciate beautiful men? What kind of half-assed logic is that?”
“All right, I should be nicer to Betsy, but I just can’t stand to be around her. She makes a good target, screwing up as much as she does.”
“Tracy if you are going to judge people on their looks, in Betsy’s case badly, then you have got to be the biggest hypocrite to turn your nose up at me. That woman doesn’t screw up, you set her up simply because she is fat, and as you said, makes an easy target. In order to judge her to be offensive you obviously have to have standards indicating otherwise.”
“Fine! She just makes me want to gag. All she does is sit in that office and eat all day. Fritos, Crunch ‘n Munch, Twizzlers – you name it. She sticky-fingers her way through the day with a saccharine smile – literally and physically. Being that big isn’t just disgusting, it’s positively unhealthy and likely unclean. Can you imagine the nightly chore of washing that much territory? Ugh.”
“I forgot that about your mom. Didn’t she die of heart disease complicated by obesity.”
“This has nothing to do with my mother!”
“If you say so.”
“I say so.”
“What do you think about that one…the one over there on the left with the long, brown shaggy hair?”
“Tabby, I just don’t get it. None of these guys you are panting over looks anything like Carl. I mean, if this is what you look for in a guy, what gives?”
“Carl loves me and I don’t even love me. This is what I look for in Fantasy Land. You do know the place. You would have to since what, its been like forever since you’ve gone out on a date. Tracy? Hello over there.”
“No, you're right, I’ve never dated, I do have fantasies. Just not over these guys.”
“Never dated? As in really never? What the hell!”
“Not a big deal. Just suppose I'm not the type guys date. Oh, sure I was good enough to play football, drink beer or fish with, sure, but dating required pretty girly-girls. Got tired of getting laughed at and punched in the arm for being a joker so I quit trying back in high school.”
“Damn! You work in construction, look at all those luscious men all day and you want me to believe that not a one has asked you out for a drink or maybe a 'working' lunch?”
“Yeah, I’ve had those sorts of offers since I was fourteen. But what guy wants to take home a nooner? Be still my beating heart! What romance, ‘yo, Trace, you wanna suck my dick then maybe get some pizza?’ Thank you, but no, Tabby.”
“I didn’t realize it was like that.”
“Tabs, I am a mason. I lay brick for a construction company. The only other woman employed by the firm tosses back jelly doughnuts like an alcoholic at nickel beer night. What do you think I get all day? I get, ‘hey there Trace, you can bed my bricks any ol' day,' or 'lay me sweet mama.’”
“You’re kidding me!”
“Hello? Remember me? I don’t have a sense of humor.”
“There is a lot to love about you Tracy Stevens, the least of which is that delightfully sarcastic sense of humor. Look at you! You are in great shape!”
“Yeah, I guess fireplug is a shape. Short and squat. My arms are more muscular than most guys, I've got a working man’s tan and stand a whopping five-feet four-inches. I look like a car door reflection, not a runway model.”
“You are so wrong, that assessment is so wrong. Oh, oh, oh! Love the buns on the blond! Okay, so these guys do nothing for you. Tell me then what is your fantasy man, Ms. International Fireplug.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“You won’t laugh at me?”
“Out with it woman before I stab you with my fork.”
“Okay, okay, no need to go postal. I want a guy with perfect hands. They have to be strong but not clumsy or too big, long lean fingers that can hold me gently, strong enough to hold me close. Not body builder stuff, but honest strength. He has to have a deep voice, not crackling or spooky movie deep, but a nice bass tone that makes you see dark nights and silk sheets just by whispering into your ear. He has to be taller than me. Damn it, I want a man that makes me finally feel like a delicate female that needs protected. I want to feel like a lady when I am with him, not a bowling partner. I want a partner and a protector, it gets old being alone. This female power shit is for the birds, coo-coo birds to be precise.”
“Damn Trace, you’re a romantic.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Tell anyone and I’ll break your nose sissy-girl.”
“You wish, She-Ra. Hell, look at the time, I have got to run and get the kids. Stay single, you really aren’t missing all that much, only the screaming and the crying, and that’s while the kids are asleep.”
“Funny lady. Guess me and my make-believe man will just keep on going for now. Same time next week?”
“Of course! But next time, if it looks like rain, we’ll sit at the indoor café across the street. The rain makes you utterly maudlin.”