Shaggin wagon (Part Deux)

So you all know my single friend Carrie.  Carrie "please-shut-those-kids-up-I'm-trying-to-sew-my-vagina-closed" Carrie.  Well every year on our girls' road trips Carrie has the good fortune to hear all about what's a normal color for kids poop and sit through six hour discussions of what plastic surgery we'd most like to have to fix the annihilation of pregnancy.  I consider her lucky - no one warned me about my boobs turning into sand bags. 

Well I asked Carrie to share the story of our annual girls trip from her perspective.  To tell everyone how blessed she is to have such good, open and honest friends who bond through tale after womanly tale.  To share with her a wealth of priceless information that she can someday take and use when she has a family of her own.  Year after year she sits in her seat, silently absorbing a wealth of information showered on her like a beautiful waterfall of bodily excretions, thanking god she's lucky enough to have such wonderful friends.  You're welcome, Carrie.  You're welcome.   

So without further adieu... here she is.     

Have you ever had that feeling of being trapped? Looking frantically in all directions for the nearest fastest escape? Like an animal in a cage who would rather gnaw off its own limb than die a slow painful death. This weekend was our Annual Girls Trip. That animal was me. And the cage was an SUV packed ass to ass with myself and 7 moms.

My idea of a girls trip still resembles that of 1998. With $5 all you can drink, ending with synchronized puking and wondering who the hell that guy is passed out on the pull out couch. But after receiving email #832 the week before the trip, about who’s packing what, I’m reminded that things are very different. Shit, until that last email I had almost forgotten we were leaving in just a few days. Sure, I packed. Friday. 30 minutes before Laura came to pick me up.

Things have certainly changed. Before we even pulled onto Hwy 40, those oh-so-familiar tales about mommyhood commenced. I should start by saying, I’m no rookie. As Hannah said, this trip happens every year and we get together as a group on a semi-regular basis. I am also a devoted reader of Hannah’s blog (devoted, forced, threatened…whatever). I know stuff. Mommy stuff. No, I’m not a mom, but damn, give me some credit.

So as most single girls would do in a cage, I played with my phone. As they yammered along using words like potty training (I get it. She peed on the potty. Riveting.) Oh your nipples are leaking? (Sooo not the first time I’ve heard that.) Uterus, yea yea…yawwwn…wait… what? It’s where? How in the… Why in the… WTF?

These are the little gems I like to refer to as the Mommy Bombs, WMDs Weapons of Mom Destruction. Verbal mom grenades where they pull the pin, throw and then watch the carnage that is my brain explode from the shrapnel of words. I mean seriously, warn a bitch.

Labial cyst.

The size of a softball.

My only defense? To yell things like, “You gotta be fuckin kiddin me. What the… ? Nuh uh. No. Please make it stop”. I can’t exactly share with you these “grenades”, because honestly I spent the last two days watching the first four seasons of Sex and the City to scrub my brain clean and salvage any hope for a normal sex life.

Personally, my favorite part of our trips is the night out. A few hours of showers, primping, watching them pile on layers of Spanx and finally heading off to very familiar territory. You know, the single’s DisneyWorld.

The Bar.

Where my friends think this happens:

Where this is what REALLY happens:

As we enter the bar, I feel like The Ghost of Christmas Past, but with better skin and hotter shoes. Welcome to your past, I’m Carrie and I’ll be your tour guide through the land of your forgotten youth.

As I suck down my cocktail and throw back a shot, I secretly laugh as I watch the shadow of disgust creep over their faces as they see “that guy”. You remember “that guy”, every bar has one…or two…or three. The one who dry humps his friend, dances like Elaine on Seinfeld and insists on spraying the table with drunken spittle as he tells us (screams at us) how hot we are.

Silly Mom, you thought this species of male was extinct? No, you’ve just been hibernating. Hannah honey, please don’t bang on the glass, it only excites them. And for fucks sake DO NOT make eye contact, they consider that an act of aggression…ahem…an invitation.

By 4am the second cab was racing away from the curb squealing its tires. Leaving the Moms clinging to each other hoping they are paid up on their life insurance premiums as I asked the cabbie to turn on my jam, threw my hands up, stuck my head out the window and yelled weeeee!

How did I get them to stay out until 4am you ask? Easy, I told them it was the cure for stretch marks. Shit works every time.



Beth Thomason said...

well thanks for inviting me-i want a cure for stretch marks too...

Sarah Kate said...

Carrie next year sneak me in your bag...I'll be your co-pilot!!! Believe me...I get it ;)