STRANGER THAN FICTION: I'VE GOT SOME BADNEWS...THE PARTY ANIMAL DIED

It's official. I've become the ugly girlfriend of my group of friends.

The phrase comes from a comedian who appeared on television a few years back. He was talking about beautiful women who go to parties but always bring their "ugly girlfriends." When the comedian asks the beautiful women if they'd like to go get a drink later, they say, "I just don't know. My girlfriend wants to go home."

And there she is, the ugly girlfriend, standing by the door, holding her purse and casting the evil eye on the young couple.

When I was single and living in Cape Girardeau, I was the girl who couldn't say no. No matter how tired I was, no matter how little money I had, no matter how early the next day was starting, all my friend had to do was say, "A bunch of us are going over to ... " and I was out the door. I once put a $2 adult beverage on a credit card.

But these days, I'm kind of a stick-in-the-mud. Here's the problem:

1. I've been married for 3.5 years to a man I lay eyes on roughly 14 hours a week total -- hardly any of that before midnight -- because of our opposite work schedules. Many of my friends think I've merely invented The Other Half to have something to talk about. One can only be the third, fifth or seventh wheel on so many outings before one gets tired of it.

2. I'm closing in on age 29 with rapid speed. That "you're only as old as you feel" saying is nothing but crap.

3. I'm larger than I've ever been, actually composing about two-and-a-half Mary-Ann Maloneys now. Maybe three.

The problem really came to light during Halloween in New Orleans.

It promised to be a night of fun and wild abandon. No other city does Halloween like New Orleans. It's a miniature Mardi Gras. To explain: Liquor stores actually sell shots for customers to do while they're waiting in line.

I couldn't go wrong this year, costume-wise. My friend Louise is a dead ringer for Monica Lewinsky. She had the hair, the beret, the blue dress, the Pentagon security pass, the knee pads -- everything but the stain. The Other Half went as President Clinton, complete with lipstic0k marks on his face, gray hair and smiley-face boxers.

And I was Linda Tripp. Blonde wig, cassette tape strung all over me, glasses, business suit and tape recorder.

We were the toast of Bourbon Street. Everybody wanted our pictures, people stopped to call me a "conniving wench," they yelled "Mr. President" to get The Other Half to turn around.

Should have been a great night, right? I was ready for bed by about 11 p.m. And, in my role as ugly girlfriend, I stood by the door of a dance club at midnight, casting the evil eye, as Mr. President, Monica "The Harmonica" Lewinsky and our other friends shook their booties.

And when all my drunken comrades had straggled back into the motel and entertained themselves by throwing oatmeal cookies at each other, I almost lost it.

I'm not sure what I can do to get my fun-loving self back. Any suggestions? E-mail me at newsduo@gulfsurf.infi.net or write the paper.

~Heidi Nieland is a former staff writer for the Southeast Missourian who now lives in Pensacola, Fla.