Remember when you were the one puking?

Dear New Life,

Why hello. It's 9:30 p.m. on Saturday night. My husband just called to tell me that everyone in his encampment loved the Viking banner I made. He's been drinking since 8 a.m. and told me seven times that he ate venison (deer) stew and that it'd be great if I learned how to make it. (Hello, you can't serve venison stew in a household that will soon experience Bambi: "Hey Junior, see that starry eyed doe? You've eaten her!")

My friends are on their way to the bar my brother bartends at, which means they'll drink for free all night. Which is why I drove down to my mother's house this morning: So I could go out with my friends and Linda could babysit Junior and I could feel like the old me again. The one who actually used to go out past 7:30 p.m.

Instead I'm sitting here like some Lifetime movie teenager who doesn't realize the full extent of her newfound mommyhood until all her pimply friends go to the prom but her.

But you already knew all this didn't you?

You knew that Junior would projectile vomit the dinner Linda so grossly overfed him (watermelon, chicken curry, Spaghettios, Cheerios, and a fruit bar), didn't you? You knew he would hurl with reckless abandon and that the entire contents of his stomach would spray my clothes and bare feet and get stuck in between my toes.

Oh, how you tickle me with your roadblocks.

I guess you also know that Linda has apologized for overfeeding Junior more times than Jodi Picoult has written a predictable, metaphor-blighted best seller (I bet she's having a great night) and that Charles has called ten times in the last hour to check on Junior (which is sweet but come on, he's an intoxicated Viking for fuck's sake).

You. You are an insidious girls-night-out-wrecker.

Thanks for the awesome Saturday night,
Me

P.S. Why couldn't Junior have ralphed on Linda?