Shaggin' wagon

Few things say 'down to party' more than an endless line of mini vans parked outside a suburban home. 
Every year my seven college besties and I are allowed one glorious weekend of freedom. Three WHOLE DAYS where I don't have to smell anyone's butt and I do all sorts of crazy shit like wear earrings and move my jaw when I chew because I'm not afraid someone is going to steal my food if they see I'm eating something.
Our first girls' trip:

Aaaah memories that I don't really remember. Don't be too jealous of my righteous sweater vest. In my defense everyone dressed like they were Amish on Spring Break back in the '90s.  I think I spent half of my student loan checks on lip liner.

The more things change (crow's feet, gray hairs, overwhelming sense of despair when see naked self in mirror) the more they stay the same (using Carrie's boobs as bait to lure men in to buy us drinks).

Friday morning I had three different people ask me if Nick would have any help taking care of the girls while I was away. Seriously? Help? What the shit? I take care of three kids all day - EVERY day - most weeks 7 days a week by myself - and I have NEVER had any help!*

*Except that one time we had a live-in nanny for four months.

The answer was no. A resounding no. Hell to the nizz-o.  Mainly because I wanted him to feel my pain, realize what an amazing person I am and stop judging me when he comes home from work to find me passed out drunk on the toilet while the girls are watching Kardashian reruns.

But also because really people? It's only three days. And imma tell you everything you need to know about taking care of my kids for three days. The bourbon is next to the baby Benadryl and if Ellie grabs her crotch and spins in a circle you're too late. Oh, and whatever you do, don't safety pin the baby to the crib sheet.


Of course by the time we left at 10:00am Nick had already been at my in-laws' house for two hours.

Personally, my favorite part of our trips is always the car ride. And yes sir, a six hour car ride with eight women crammed into a car that seats seven (thanks you jerks at Budget) is juuuuust about what you'd expect.

We laugh at old stories of things we did in college that should have either killed us or landed us pregnant, complain about the side effects of our anti-depression medications and argue over whose boobs have atrophied the most.

Dont' worry she won't be mad - she hasn't heard of the Internet yet. 
Of course my single friend Carrie just LOVES all this conversation about birth and poop and nipples and poopy birthy nipples. She covers her ears and is all, “Jeez you guys – can we just not talk about what happens to your vagina in the five minutes after birth for just, like THREE MILES OR SOMETHING?”

And I'm like, “Dude – stop hijacking my story about the time I pumped like 8 ounces of breast milk in ONE sitting.”

And the rest of the weekend pretty much goes like that. We'll be sitting out on a patio drinking some beer and someone will say, “Awwww... that cloud looks just like Jimmy's placenta!”

It's a laugh riot.

What a bunch of dorks. 

Things just got dorkier. 

So deep. 
Someone else drew the short straw this year.  Drawing the short straw means you have to get pregnant and be our DD. 
I was expecting a mountain of presents and a clown, but a 'Happy Birthday' crepe paper taped to my door was good enough. 

We totally got photo bombed. 

The downfall of a weekend away from your children is that you're legally required to come back.

I had no idea what to expect when I walked in the door because every check-in call went straight to voice mail or I heard what sounded like hyenas knifing each other in the background.

I walked in the door to find him unshaven, bags under his eyes, yelling profanities at the girls for not eating their bananas. Then he kicked my friends out and stomped into the kitchen.

He's still unable to string two syllables together and has been rocking back and forth in the shower for two days.

But I've never felt more relaxed. Relaxed is just another word for liver failure. As I was running uphill wind sprints at 5:45 yesterday morning my trainer asked me why my sweat smelled like Jack Daniels and truck stop chicken wings.

I just told her it was the smell of happiness.


Beth Thomason said...

Love how you put in there not to use a diaper pin....again!

Julia P F said...

I wish I was a college friend and could go! So Much Fun!

Julia P F said...
