It’s not my fault, I don’t get out much!

It all started when we got the invite to my friend’s wedding. The wedding was out of town, a good two hours away, and the night we’d be getting home from our family “vacation” week at the beach. (And by vacation, I mean one week relocation. Everyone knows a vacation with kids isn’t a vacation. You don’t go out alone. You don’t sleep in. You don’t finish a conversation. It’s like being at home, but with a much better view! And the view? Better be damn good while you’re washing dishes by hand, thank you very little! Mrs. Ingalls…how DID you do it?)

Given the logistics and the fact that my in laws offered to watch our kids over night (woot woot!) we decided we’d get a room so we could whoop it up (Get your mind out of the gutter you freshie! Whoop it up = drink it up!). We planned to get to the hotel a little early and relax for a bit (Relax= have a drink and some party snacks! What is WRONG with you people! Get off this blog now and go get a Harlequin if that’s your thing!)

Despite painstaking planning, we got to the church with seconds to spare. No party snacks, no drinks and we sprinted into the church as my friend was standing on the front steps with her dad —looking like quite the little hottie I might add! (The bride, not the dad! We really need to talk!)

(We never thought there’d be so much traffic on a summer Saturday heading out to western Mass. Who knew? Thank you Mass Pike traffic, I love you, too! I watched my quiet time slip away while we limped to the wedding behind a tractor trailer.)

We ended up just being thrilled to make it and it really was a lovely wedding.  The bride was radiant, the food delish, and the dancing….not recorded. (PTL!) Everything was perfect….except, if I have one bone to pick….it was the seating chart. Did I have to be seated next to our old (and apparently cradle robbing) friend, “Jack”, and his date—a 24 year old blonde Russian bombshell?

Was she nice? Yes, yes she was. She was very, very nice and I actually learned a thing or two about Russian culture that evening (I can now swear, give a toast, and ask to go to the bathroom in Russian! Look out Putin!) But come on. Is it really kind to put the chubby middle aged hausfrau whose had three kids in four years and is suffocating in her Spanx next to the hot child model? That would be “nyet”! (My esteem is very fragile, you see.) But na na na na na, she didn’t get carded at the wedding either! Victory is mine (But maturity? Apparently not)!

We brought clothes to change into after the reception figuring we’d hit one of the hotel bars afterward. At the end of the reception,we chatted with some others and planned to all meet up.  We have a mini conference in the hallway with Jack and the underage model and a friend of the bride’s, Erin, but Jack says he heard the bars were already closed!

“Nonsense!” I shriek. “I’ll be ready in like two seconds. You guys sit down and have a beer or some wine while I go change! There are some snacks on the desk over there. Help yourself!” (I’m sorry but I was fresh out of Vodka! Had I known I’d be playing international host, I would have been more prepared.)

We change fast and regroup. I am HELL bent on going out. And if I can’t go out, I will bring the party to us! (See, this is what happens when you unleash a drunken housewife onto the world. The fact that my husband and I had not been away alone since Christ was a child, coupled with spending most of the day snarling around various New England traffic jams, was the perfect storm for one mother gone mad!)

I soon realized I had a cooler and non refrigerated party snacks. It would be like college! We had the start of a party with the cradle robber, the Russian, and poor Erin, who in retrospect I realized was looking more uncomfortable by the minute, nibbling on her pretzel rod and trying to be positive, “You’re such a mom! Look at all the cute snacks you packed–so prepared!”, while probably trying to formulate an exit strategy. In my Bud Light brain, I totally missed the social cues that a cute, single 30 year old most likely did not find the prospect of partying with this random foursome  at all amusing. (Sorry Erin! You really should have come to the shower—I was on my best behavior—only one mimosa!)

The other problem? I wasn’t totally sure where everyone else was and I didn’t notice it was about 1:30 in the morning. (Was there speed in my filet mignon? I have to wonder.) So I did what any good party planner would do, I made our little international coalition stomp down the hall with me, and then I knocked on a few doors where I imagined people were staying.

After three different doors, with my husband finally urging me to stop (Okay begging…but I blame him! He should have stopped the madness way sooner! So his fault!) my friend’s bridesmaid opened up. In her pajamas. And… I guess I missed the “Do Not Disturb” sign.

“HEY! I’M SHO SHORRY I MISHED THE DO NOT DISHTUHHHHB SHIGN ON YOUR DO-AHH! HEY YOU GUYS WANNA COME TO AHHE ROOM FOR AN AFTAHHH PAHTY? OH,WE HAVE FUN PAHHTY SSHNACKS AND BEEAAHHHS TOO!” Okay, so my old Boston accent I shed years ago might come out a tad when I’ve been drinking….

“Um, I think I’m gonna pass but you guys have fun! Maybe I’ll see you at the breakfast tomorrow?” Um, nyet, because I’ll be in fetal position vowing never to drink again….

“Shurrree! G’night!”

Just then, two uniformed men show up. I remember thinking, “Hmm, wonder what they’re doing here?”

They very politely tell me to please pipe down, there are other people staying in the hotel and it’s late and I really am being TOO loud.

“Oh, I am sho shorry! Yesh, I will be quiet and I will head back to my room right now!” I whisper, horrified that I’m the one in trouble.

The next day, as we were chatting about the wedding on the way home, I said to my husband, “OMG! I cannot believe I got busted by the Marriott security guards! How embarassing! I am SO going on the wagon. What.a.loser!”

“Janet, that was a Marriott security guard AND a Springfield cop! You got busted by a real cop!”

“What! Are you kiddin’ me! For cripes sake, if I had known that, I wouldda said, “Don’t you be worrying about me! Why don’t you do me a favor, and check blondie’s visa!”

Advertisements

6 Comments

Filed under Friends...you got what I ne-ed, Mom-ness, OH &^%$!!

6 responses to “It’s not my fault, I don’t get out much!

  1. Siobhan

    ugh…been there and done that! That is what happens when you finally break out for a night out! It all goes down hill…LOL

  2. Lisa Feeney

    We dont have dishwahser!!! I wash by hand… Christmas is a nightmare with dishes!!
    HAHAHAHA.. .That was so fun to read!!

  3. Hillary

    First of all, there wasn’t a do not disturb sign (get your head out of the gutter) and secondly, you said you had beer, pretzels and peanuts and having a party in your room. I am still laughing!! You also didn’t mention that you had about 3 cases of budlight empties on your table in hour into the wedding. I am happy the Russian mail order bride was at your table!!!

  4. jrfrong

    Sadly, I swear to God, my head was not in the gutter…I swear you had a, “Do not disturb” sign on your door (you so did) and I really just assumed you were kid free and wanted to sleep—what does that say about MEEEE!! (P.S. do you like how I changed your name to protect your identity, lol?!!) And I think I was bragging on my peanuts bc we can never have them at home! You are probably right on that!! It was a recipe for disaster from minute one when we hit that Marriott!!!! I am all about the Russian culture. I learned that night and you can’t take that away from me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  5. CJHT

    Okay you really got busted by a Springfield cop…..I cannot stop crying I am laughing so hard!

  6. The Bride

    Oh, Jan, I’m so glad you guys had a good time!! 🙂 I didn’t know about the cop situation until Hillary just told me this past weekend,that’s hysterical! And don’t worry, blondie has already shipped back to Russia!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s