This week Nick took a few days of vacation to hang with the girls while I attended a blogger conference in Nashville. I told him that I was going to the conference to learn how to become a better blogger but in reality I actually went to make him appreciate everything I do around here and understand why I burn through a bottle of grain alcohol every day.
He was really excited about getting to spend some quality time with them because he has been working some unbelievably long hours lately. In fact, he has spent so little time at home that an hour after I left I was on the phone with him explaining that the smell coming from upstairs was a second baby and that Elliot was actually a girl.
I went with my three St. Louis blogger friends Melody, Lisa and Kelli from St. Louis Family Life. And I know what you're thinking - four girls, one hotel room? And yes, we've all perfected the art of the ninja poop. This isn't our first rodeo, people.
The highlight of the trip came on Thursday night at a networking event at a club in the hotel. I got to change out of my usual uniform of a Snuggie and Nick's tighty whiteys and slipped on the iron maidens.
The club was closed to the general public and we got to enjoy a private concert with Michelle Branch and Matt Kearney. Even better than that was that Tide provided all the red wine I could drink. It was almost like I was back at home, minus the feelings of extreme isolation and the Snuggie.
After the concert the club was re-opened to the public. And by public I mean about three dozen farm boys from the tractor conference also taking place at the hotel. I guess they don't see much in their neck of the woods besides corn and sheep because they immediately began to circle the dance floor, licking their chops at the drunk and vulnerable mommy bloggers enjoying a night of child-free bliss.
I tried to fight it but after four hours of dancing my feet actually detached themselves from my legs, flipped me the middle finger and went back up to the hotel room. I was not even close to being ready to leave so I hobbled into the wolf pack in search of a bar stool.
Smeric*: Can I buy you a drink?
Me: No, thanks. But do you wanna see a picture of my kids?
Smeric: How did you fit that huge photo album under your shirt?
Me: I believe the technical medical term is a pannus, but I just like to call it my secret pocket book. Now see in this picture here, the big one, how she looks all consternated? That's because she's in the middle of taking a huge dump. And here's the little one. She's only four months old and I'm still REAL tore up from her. She... you know what? On second thought, I WILL take that drink. BARTENDER! Give me one of those martinis. And don't try to slip any of that cheap shit in there either. Ok, so now where were we? Oh yeah, I mean, I have to pull out a little hand drawn map to show my husband what used to be where. In fact... I bet you've never even seen a stretchmark.
*takes drink, pulls up shirt*
Ok, so see this one? I like to call it Herbert, or sometimes Mr. Hoover, because it's the worst one of the bunch. See how it has its own pulse? And this one here... I call her Lady because if you cock your head to the side and push the skin together like this she looks like one of those naked ladies on the back of a big rig tire flap. Oh gosh... why are you vomiting? You know, some people really can't hold their liquor.
Well, the good news is that I met a lot of awesome people and learned that I'm not the only one who prefers to snort their Xanax off of a cutting board. The bad news is that the Freshetta photo booth revealed that my head is actually a Jack-O-Lantern.
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent.