Commence with the making out!

I have to hurry and get something up here before the other numbers have it all covered and I’m just sitting around going, “Yeah, what they said!” Not that that’s all bad, ‘cause those girls just rock, you know it? Who would have guessed that five grown up women would have found their soul mates after school was all over and we were in our mid-to-late twenties, and early-to-mid thirties? [See: Hedwig.] Seems like I’d have been friends with this group as long as I’ve been friends with my Beth, which is OVER 20 YEARS. (Oh, sure, we’re not quite as young as we used to be, but we’re still damn cute.)

Anyway, so there we were, Lola and I, driving up to the summer cottage (yes, that’s what it is when you’re vacationing at Allie’s) and there’s these two hotties flashing us their bras! With the big boobs IN ‘em! Now, I ask you, what says love more than a good flashing? Nothing, that’s what! Not a damn thing.

So, of course we all kiss and hug and cry and hug and cry some more and generally giggle ourselves silly ‘cause we’re finally in one another’s presence… except for the Rock Star, who is stranded in a lil’ place called Commerce because the WonderTruck has quit working. Ugh. You know the picking-Christel-Up Story from her account of the situation; except that I have to add she’s 100% spot-on regarding the extent to which Christel and I must laugh while in one another’s presence. Talking on the phone is virtually useless, because all that happens is the big happy laugh over and over again. Do you know anyone who is like a giant, sparkly, ball of light and energy? That’s our girl. Being in the same room with her makes my life better.

So, on the way to get the Rock Star in Commerce, I lie in the back seat of my own car, (which by now I’m frankly a little weary of,) and tell the girlies about my fabulous Thursday-night date. [That’s all the details you’re getting, dear reader, except to say that he’s, seriously, the cutest man I’ve ever seen and 24 is definitely not too young.] We meet up with the Rock Star, load her luggage into my car, and Sexypants Allie drives us on home, where the Ottoman Cake is waiting. I don’t mean a cake from the Ottoman Empire, people. I mean a cake the size of an ottoman. Good night nurse, that thing could kill something if hurled with enough force. But damn, was it good! Second only to the fried chicken that my very favorite Holly Homemaker on Crack cooked up earlier that day.

So, when we’re all in one location, we hug and kiss some more and then start with the stories. What good is being together if you can’t tell the stories. My favorite part about us is that the stories are about US. And occasionally about some peripheral character. See, when I was married to Grimace, he used to think we talked constantly about HIM. Um, not so much. Mostly we stand, sit, or lie around, eating yummy foods, drinking the Maker’s, and saying stuff like, “Could we BEEEEEEE any cuter?” (No, we could not.) Then we tell a story of how cute, or clever, or darling we are, and the rest of us cheer.

Then we rest up so we can be properly thrown out of a Tattoo Parlor the next night.

More later! Promise.