We took a trip down memory lane, with talks of how much we love bike riding, our comfy pillows and one giant-ass leopard. If you suspect that there is hidden meaning in those things, you are correct, but some aspects of Wine-And-Sex-A-Palooza are sacred, contrary to the un-sacredness of the shenanigans of HomoErotic Fest 2011. As I told the husband before he left, “what happens at Guys Golf Weekend, ends up on my blog.”
Of course they're all very tight-lipped about the whole weekend. Which is just fine. If I don't know what really happened, I'll just make it up!
Fortunately for the guys, I have bigger fish to fry - like that asshat at the restaurant - so (for now) they get a reprieve. You're welcome.
To kick the night off good and proper, six lovely ladies and three lovely children, ages one year to 18 months, ventured to a fine restaurant where we were greeted by a waiter who apparently takes his job of Captain of the Douche Canoe Squad very seriously and was all, “our dinners range from $20- $55.”
Pretty sure not one of us asked, but thanks for the information Captain Small Dick. And what exactly are you implying? That we can’t afford to eat here? These jeans may be from Target and this shirt may be from Dollar Days at Goodwill, but this purse? Costs a shit-ton of money. Never mind the fact that it was a gift. And these shoes? The ones with the pointy heels perfect for stomping on your teeny tiny testicles, were like $80 whole dollars. From Ann Taylor. And that Ann Taylor lady? She’s one bad-ass motherlover, so get ready to kiss your balls good-bye.
Perhaps you were implying that we didn’t have the required equipment to eat here, like a giant stick lodged up our asses and a nose that thinks your shit don’t stink.
Well guess what, it does stink. And also, you may want to up the Prozac, cuz screaming at us in the pouring rain while we tried to get our babes in the car to, “get the f*ck away from my car, that’s my car!” and then staring at us unblinkingly from the restaurant window as we drove away, makes you look totally not psychotic.
We ended up at Chili’s where good times ensued. And by good times, I mean the kiddos may or may not have vocally expressed how pissed they were to have been turned down from Restaurant de Douche. And they had every right to pissed. Discrimination is not cool, people. I only wished we had stayed at Restaurant de Douche, cuz the mess under the table was epic. My friend T’s son was all, “Mom, I really appreciate how you cut up that broccoli into tiny pieces so I wouldn’t choke and I loved how you let it cool so I wouldn’t burn my little baby tongue and it tastes good, really it does, but you know what would be even more fun than eating it? Throwing it on the floor. Seriously, mom, it’s a riot. You should try it!”
By the time we left, the floor was a smorgasbord of broccoli, rice, beans, and bread. I would have loved to have seen Senor Asshat clean that up when we left. Hell, I would have joined in on the fun. “This burger looks good on my plate, but you know where it would look even better? On the floor! Clean it up bitch while I go key your car.”
And for all those judgey asshats who are all, “it’s not cool to let your kids throw food on the floor and I can’t stand it when kids scream in restaurants,” send me your address so I can come over and punch you in the throat.
I don’t particularly enjoy listening to shrieks at decibels only meant for dogs’ ears, but guess what? Those babies aren’t intentionally trying to f*ck up your dinner. They’re babies. Sometimes they cry. Personally, I would love to return to the days of “it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.” What I wouldn’t give for a good temper tantrum every
Okay, stepping down from my soap-box now.
The moms put the babes to bed when we got home and then we popped open the wine. And don’t worry, we had a designated sober person in case there were any baby emergencies. In fact, the overall why-did-I-take-that-sixteenth-shot-hold-my-hair-while-I-vomit-please was kept to a minimum.
A good portion of the evening was spent with the three moms educating the rest of us on the joys of pregnancies and child-birth. Those of us sans-babies listened with wide-eyed horror while clutching our vaginas to prevent our uteruses (uteri?) from spontaneously falling on the floor whilst exclaiming, “mucus plugs, hemorrhoids and rectal rockets? Yes please!” And by "yes please" we meant OMGPleaseNeverLetABabyInvadeMyUterus.
Ja told us about the time she went to a party and one girl tried to convince her of the splendor and magic of the male ejaculate.
Listen lady, I don't know what demented Freudian cult you matriculated from, but get thee back there. Cuz this is the real world. And in the real world there is nothing magical about semen. Disney World is magical. Chocolate martinis are magical. A good hair day is magical. But semen? It's the anti magic.
That would make a good banner for Prom Night.
I would say I've digressed, but honestly. This is pretty much how the night progressed. One minute we were talking semen, the next we're demonstrating the best way to 'do it' in the shower. Warning: bracing yourself against the glass enclosure is not advised.
We discussed favorite positions, craziest places we'd done it, craziest places we wished we'd done it, boobs, mirrors - oh the mirrors - ate 14 dozen cookies, consumed 16 bags of Doritos and drank twelveteen glasses of wine.
In conclusion: Wine-And-Sex-A-Palooza? Was BIG success.