Spelling is hard





“It’s income tax time again, Americans: time to gather up those receipts, get out those tax forms, sharpen up that pencil, and stab yourself in the aorta.” –Dave Barry


Despite my best efforts to talk her out of it, Beth is getting married next month.  It’s not like I disapprove of the marriage or her husband-to-be is a serial killer or anything.  I just think marriage is a bad idea.  Said the woman who just celebrated her eight-year wedding anniversary.  But that is a different story for a different day.  Besides, they are deliriously happy, so what the hell do I know.

So anyways… To celebrate the upcoming nuptials, we all gathered in DC this weekend for a girls’ night out. As I out-age Beth’s other friends by a decade, I was unsure what I would find to talk about with my fellow attendees over the weekend.  But fear not, we covered topics from Athens to vomit.  We probably actually made it all the way to a topic that starts with Z; I just can’t remember it, which appears to have been the (unintended) theme of the weekend.

We arrived at the hotel after traveling from as far away as Texas and as close as five minutes from the hotel.  One of us (TX) left 70 degree weather; one of us (this guy) drove thru a snow storm.  (Shout out to my total bad ass husband (PTST) for the new windshield wipers.)  Some over-packed; some under-packed.  Yet despite our packing techniques, we all forgot at least one thing, ranging from a phone charger to pants.  More on that later.

Once everyone arrived, we headed out on the town to have dinner at a Greek restaurant.  There we each told the story of where, how, and when we met Beth and, in turn, each other.  Then we all gasped at the fact that most of us have known her for close to 20 years, some more.  I don’t care what Mick Jagger says, time is on no one’s side.  Yesterday Beth and I were working together on dodging the creepy guy at lunch; this weekend we realized that happened in 1997.  Heavy sigh.

After dinner, the cool hip 40-somethings Ubered up to a gay club in Dupont Circle while Grandma Rozycki headed off to bed.  Having seen more queens than I could shake a fairy princess wand at during my younger days, I opted for sleep instead of getting covered in homo glitter.  Bad choice.  Beth ended up being the big winner in the bride-to-be dance off.  Without ever taking off her winter coat.  High praise, indeed.

The next morning, four of us met up for breakfast. Two girls were wearing the same pants as the night before, not because there was a hook-up (does anyone still say hook-up?) and a follow-up walk of shame, but because they forgot to pack an extra pair of pants.  I had fumbled around the room blindly when I woke up to make coffee because I had forgotten my glasses.  Side note:  despite valiant attempts to improve it, in-room hotel coffee still tastes like ass, especially when I make it.  Beth’s phone was dead because she forgot her charger.  One credit card was lost, and one phone.  Technically, the phone was lost by one of the boys on their golf adventure, but still.

Of course, we were all different in a few ways.  During our getway, some of us checked in at home, some did not.  (Of course it’s hard to check in when you forget your phone charger and your battery goes dead.)  Some of us drank ouzo, some of us think it’s gross.  Some of us have human babies, some fur.

But I learned we all have far more in common than just middle-aged forgetfulness.   We all love our babies (human or fur) with a passion, and enjoyed sharing pictures.  We all dressed in boots and jeans, with the exception of one pair of pleather pants that were even more adorable Day 2 at breakfast due to aforementioned forgotten spare pants.

In addition, I learned how to fix my eyelashes that are curling up under my old woman droopy eyelids (primer), how to dress properly for an accounting office (no bare legs, no open toed shoes, white pumps are always a No, at work and at life in general), where to go on vacation (Portugal) and where not to go on vacation (Costa Rica).  I laughed until I snorted and drank so much wine it gave me a hot flash.  Side note:  this is why my sleeveless arms are on display in the Facebook pictures; not my favorite.

I got to talk about my saggy neck and the vagina-looking wrinkles between my eyebrows without judgment.  I met another human that loves to travel but cannot sleep on the plane and suffers for it like I do.  I complained about high heels and panty hose and everyone chimed in.  I spilled a spicy Greek meatball on my shirt.  OK, that last one happens every day.

In the end, I got to have a weekend surrounded by a group of wonderful ladies celebrating our wonderful friend that has brought wonderful joy to all our lives.  While eating, drinking, laughing, and using a bathroom that did not have man pubes in the shower.  Life does not get any better.

Then I came home to my pube-filled shower and my furry-faced dog baby and husband, who brought me delightful homemade coffee in bed the next morning.  (What was I saying about marriage being a bad idea?  I’m an idiot.)  And found my glasses on my nightstand.  Right where I had put them to be sure I didn’t forget to pack them…