I had a girls’ night out Saturday night—complete with a sleepover at a hotel. A random friend of mine from middle school came. She drank too much and ended up sharing the bed with me. (The last time we'd shared a bed was in eighth grade, when she came to Disney World with my family. Her braces were so thick—how thick were they?—they gave her fish lips.)
Even though it was the middle of the night, she kept turning to me and making casual conversation. Like, “I don’t feel so good. I think I might get sick.” Or, “Ugh, I just can’t fall asleep. I think it’s the stiff pillow.” At 5 a.m. she finally did get sick. I heard every bit of it, and let me tell you, it sounded like she vomited up an SUV. There were Oh, Gods and Nooooo, not agains.
Afterward she got in bed and said, “I just threw up taco salad and sushi. I feel much better.”
At 8 a.m. she woke me up and said she had to get going because her husband was home alone with their two kids. As she was leaving she said, “Great night!”
At that point I had the pillow over my face. My hand was waving good-bye but my mouth was screaming “YOUR TACO SALAD PROBLEMS RUINED MY NIGHT. I HATE YOU.”
Having a fellow mom sabotage your one opportunity to sleep well and sleep in is like having a fellow astronomer smash your telescope just as Halley’s comet is about to blow past. It just doesn’t make sense.
The next time I do a girls' night out, there’s going to be a questionnaire:
1. How many beers can you drink before the room starts to spin?
2. If the person next to you in bed rolls over, do you mistake this for an invitation to make conversation?
3. Do you understand that Mrs. Mullet never gets to sleep late? Are you going to fuck this up for her? Be honest.
At least Valentine's Day was lovely. I got a special surprise. I'd tell you all about it, but the cat just caught its tongue in the light socket. Now who would put tuna fish in a light socket? Maybe if I turn on the switch and throw some water on it...
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.