The Widow Woman -- and others of her ilk

In the two years we've lived here, our next-door neighbor has never once waved, said hello or talked to me.

She has, on the other hand, had numerous conversations with Hubs.

When he goes outside, she waves merrily and shouts a greeting. She leans over the fence and chats.

She's told him all about how she shot out a street light that shone into her bedroom window. How the former owners of our house used to have sex in the backyard. How her husband died and she has a daughter who is now grown and gone from home.

When I go outside, she ignores me.

I've tried to wave. I've tried to make eye contact. She's having none of it.

Because I'm a woman.

And because she's one of those who has long shunned the sisterhood because she sees us as competition.

I find this both annoying and sad.

I don't get these women. Why would you isolate yourself from potential friends because -- ohmigod, they might swipe the next guy who plops down on the barstool next to you right out from under your nose.

Puh-leeze.

The people who have always been there for me -- willing to listen to my post-breakup weeping, my stupid drunken ramblings or my euphoric "I've-got-a-new-boyfriend-and-he's-fabulous declarations -- well, they've been my girlfriends.

And they'll be there, always, no matter what happens in my life. And I will be there for them, because that's what women -- normal women -- do. They form fast friendships with one another, realizing that the sisterhood is the one thing you can always fall back on. The sisterhood supports you, even when you do something totally stupid. The sisterhood keeps you afloat when all other life-saving devices fail.

My husband has dubbed our neighbor "The Widow Woman." Now, my version of a widow woman is a sweet, bun-wearing granny type who drops by with brownies and gushes over my kids.

This chick is NOT a "Widow Woman." She's 40ish. Blonde hair. Tan.

She's also weathered. Weary. Hard.

And clearly disdainful of anyone sporting a pair of boobs.

So be it. I've tried. But after two years, I've given up on ever having any sort of friendship with this neighbor.

She can flirt with Hubs as much as she wants. She can walk into a bar with the assurance that she's alone, with no competition to thwart her plans for the evening.

But she'll never know the comfort, the camaraderie of being part of the sisterhood. Of knowing that your support system is only a few phone calls or emails away. Of sitting out on the deck, drinking margaritas and laughing uproariously over shared memories with your most intimate circle.

Of course, much as I love and depend on my girlfriends, even those closest to me will never be asked -- by me, anyway -- to participate in this.

Because I'm a good friend. And I would never make anyone I know watch me wrap my accident-prone self around a fucking pole.