STRANGER THAN FICTION: TIRLS' NIGHT OUT NO PICNIC FOR NEWCOMERS TO THE TRADITION

It's not that I enjoy the company of men more than women, because I don't. Women tend to be much more responsible, nurturing and able to put our own underwear in laundry hampers. But too much estrogen combined with too much cold cream can be a dangerous mix.

Before last week, my last girls' night out was a slumber party in 1983. The hostess insisted nobody go to sleep -- the punishment was a mouthful of toothpaste. Everybody talked about their boyfriends. I had to make one up because my parents thought I'd get pregnant the moment I spent two seconds alone with a boy. I've been dating but childless since I was 18 -- they still can't believe it.

Worst of all, the hostess' mom made buttermilk pancakes for breakfast. That would have been OK, except I thought that if milk was good, BUTTERmilk must be better and took a big gulp of it. Yikes!

That pretty much soured me on the company of large groups of females. My own bachelorette party consisted of my best friend Lynn and I eating a Greek pizza from Dino's. And we didn't even leave my apartment.

But when a co-worker invited me over to help her cheer up a recently separated friend, luring me in with chocolate, champagne and free face mask, how could I say no?

I forgot the biggest rule of any successful girls night out -- each person must be equally close to the other people for it to work. If not, some of the people will group off and talk about fun and interesting things the others (me) don't know anything about.

So we instantly fell into our roles:

1. The Hostess With The Mostest. She serves expensive champagne in a single bound, flitting around in a disgustingly cheerful fashion. She also has a perfect apartment, a perfect husband and tons of gorgeous jewelry. Yeah, that'd really cheer me up if a jerk just dumped me.

2. The Quiet Friend. She really doesn't know anyone but the hostess, so what's she going to say?

3. The Mother. The oldest of the group, she dispenses care and advice and tries to be equally kind to all.

4. The Fat Friend With Blemishes. That would be me.

Being the Fat Friend really stinks. After the facial part of the GNO, during which my blemishes were revealed, we moved onto the adult-beverage segment. The Mother bailed. That left me leaning against the bar trying to make myself look smaller while the two remaining friends danced the night away. Soul Train has nothing on those two.

I eventually tired of guarding their drinks against the overzealous cocktail waitresses who tried to take them away. I left.

What's wrong with me, anyway? Why can't I be in something like the Ya-Ya Sisterhood? (Read the best-seller if you don't know what I'm talking about.) I just read in Woman's World about these four women who get together every Tuesday and try new recipes. The accompanying picture showed them smiling and holding up wine glasses.

So I'm determined to become a GNO lover. It might take some work, but the next time the Hostess calls, I'll be ready.

I'm going to start drinking right now.

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