On any given weekend, Isla Vista is dotted with some of the best themed parties I’ve ever encountered. From glitzy cocktail soirees to grungy rock star bashes, UCSB tops the list when it comes to going all out — because as we all know, no one rocks a costume like a Gaucho does.

But there is one type of party missing from college life here, one that long ago proved vital to my sanity and perhaps holds the key to piercing through the tension of our troubled, angst-ridden lives: the slumber party.

Thanks to the porn industry, the idea has lost its innocence, the thought clouding the average I.V. resident with naughty visions of hot female coeds with pigtails and marabou-trimmed negligees succumbing to their long-suppressed bi-curious fantasies. But if some of us females rewind about eight years or so, we might recall when a typical Friday night with the girls entailed endearingly botched attempts at making each other over, giggling until root beer inevitably spewed from some facial orifice and catching a round of “Boy Meets World” on TGIF because the kid who played Shawn was oh-so-hot.

Now I get a kick out of the naughty stuff as much as the next person, but man, were those nights of G-rated girly mischief fun. How awesome was it to stay in with our closest friends, bake brownies that weren’t laced with some illegal substance and not have the dark cloud of finals, hangovers and broken hearts looming over our sheltered, underdeveloped minds? Though I spent half my adolescence with stars in my eyes thinking how great life would be at 20, I can safely say that being a woman has kicked me in the ass a hell of a lot more than getting rejected by that cute boy from sixth grade summer camp ever did.

I don’t doubt that the grown-up version of the teenage slumber party exists: Enter the “Sex and the City” marathon, complete with this month’s stack of Us Weeklys and several rounds of cosmopolitans. But it’s just not the same. When you have people leaving the room every time a booty call hits up the cell, your best friend puking in the bathroom because she had one-too-many cocktails and the hostess’ roommate screaming through the walls to keep it the fuck down, the magic of the evening can’t help but dissipate sooner or later.

And I guess that’s what makes me a little nostalgic of ages past — bad hair, curfews, braces and all. Maybe we were young and stupid, but somehow stumbling plastered down Sabado Tarde Road just doesn’t beat letting your girlfriend paint your nails baby pink while the two of you gush over Leonardo DiCaprio.

So as much as I.V. living has given me plenty to be thankful for, I would add slumber parties, along with adequate parking, cheap rent and a full-blown spa, onto the list of things missing from my favorite seaside town. In the midst of so much chaos, I think we could all inject a little G-rated girly mischief into our lives.

Well, my pajamas are certainly ready… are yours?

Daily Nexus opinion editor Meghan Palma wants to keep it G-rated, but that won’t stop her from rocking pigtails and that marabou-trimmed negligee at her next sleepover.