I Can’t Control My F-Bombs, and Other Ways I Embarrassed My Mom on Her Birthday

Have you ever hung out with your mom’s best girlfriends for a night?

Well if you haven’t, you should because it’s fucking HILARIOUS.

I surprised my mom for her birthday, by inviting some of her friends out to dinner back in my hometown, which consists of about 50 people, 6,000 cows, and a bunch of jacked-up trucks.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with how to hang out with your mom’s friends, I put together a guide.

It’s fail-proof.

1. Choose A Venue:

I chose a super-swanky Mexican joint. Except that it’s not super or swanky, but this town isn’t exactly riddled with options, so it was either rice and beans or pizza.

2. Keep the Alcohol Flowing:

You don’t have to do much work on this one, because when you show up to the restaurant, the ladies will already have giant margarita’s in front of them, and most will already be halfway gone. Everyone will be fascinated by those who ordered Cadillacs, and then promptly order one because they have more alcohol and Hello, the point of drinking tequila is to get fucked up.

(I, on the other hand, was watching this all go down through sober eyes and a straw full of diet coke. Lame-ass, maybe, but to be honest, the thought of alcohol was still giving me the shakes a little bit, after the previous weekend’s shenanigans which started off with a town car being sent for me…aaand I forget the rest. Wait, no, I remember a lot of mezcal. THEN I forget the rest. Maybe. All I’m saying is that Christian Gray actually exists and his Ducati is fast as hell.

Engage in “Girl Talk”:

Girl talk is pretty universal. Chatting with women 30 years older than you the same as chatting with women your own age, except that instead of constantly comparing yourselves to characters from Sex and the City, you compare yourselves to characters from The Golden Girls. Someone will inevitably call someone “Rose” for not getting a joke, and then all hell will break loose because no one wants to be Rose!!! It’s apparently as bad as being Miranda. Then, someone will call dibs on being Blanche because Blanche gets laid. I’m pretty sure that being Dorothy is a safe bet, but I’d personally want to be Sophia because that old broad is one sassy motherfucker (and I just know she’s got at least three men on the side that no one knows about).

Inevitably you’ll bring up hot men. Obvi. Men that women over the age of fifty find attractive might be just a tad different from who I consider do-able great husband material (and by the way, my celeb crushes got completely annihilated by these women. Thanks, ladies).

For example, apparently “Dr. Drew” Pinksy is primetime man meat. Who would’ve known?! He does have man boobs, according to one of the ladies, but I guess that’s not a deal breaker. It turns out he’s sexy enough to have an extra-marital affair with, and apparently it’s been okayed with her husband but it doesn’t matter anyways because as she put it, I don’t care what my husband says. If Dr. Drew walks in my house, I’m doin’ him. I like her style.

Other hot celebrities include the host of The Late Late Show, Craig Ferguson, Wayne Brady, Anderson Cooper, and the announcer on Price is Right, “George.” THE ANNOUNCER ON PRICE IS RIGHT. I cannot even make this stuff up.

I learned a lot about myself during this conversation, like how Dr. Drew actually IS really attractive…if you only look at certain pictures of his face, and only if he’s wearing glasses, and also only if you block out the fact that he had a sex therapy show on MTV, because lord knows the last place you need someone to be psychoanalyzing you is in the sack.

Women love to moan about the way they look. It’s this disgusting habit that seems to be engrained in us. I find that the best way to engage in body-bashing is to gripe about how you’re too tired and lazy to workout, while stuffing an enchilada into your face and ignoring the steady stream of grease running down your chin. Because that’s what I did. The only difference between bashing your body at my age and bashing it when you’re 60 is that at my age, you reach your goal weight by purposefully contracting a horrible stomach flu. It’s slightly different once you’re over the hill. As my mother’s friend so eloquently put it, “I won’t be hittin’ my goal weight until 9 months after I’m dead.”

In order to feel like sophisticated, grown women, talk about current events. For instance, the new crosswalks that were just put in around our one and ONLY stoplight in the entire town. I didn’t know that crosswalks could create such a hooplah, but Those goddamn things are in the wrong spot! If I stop my car as far back as the lines tell me to, I can’t see a damn thing!! How am I supposed to California-stop and nearly hit a pedestrian on my way to the local Five and Dime!? I’ll tell you something. This city doesn’t know what the HELL they’re doing.

The struggle is real.

Work is always a safe bet as far as conversation topics go. When I talk about work, the word vagina comes up a lot. I also tend to not be able to control my use of the word fuck, because I just really love that word. It’s the best.

Anyways, if you attempt to explain to a bunch of your mom’s friends what “sugaring,” is, this might happen:
Me: So sugaring is basically just a really gentle way to remove hair, and it’s all natural; just sugar, water, lemon and salt!

Mom’s friend: Oh, well I can’t get sugared, then. I have diabetes. 

4. Have Your Love Life Interrogated:

You probably haven’t seen your mothers’ friends in a really long time so undoubtedly, someone will ask if you’re still with “that one guy,” and all the rest of the eyes at the table will widen because they’ve heard some version of the story and let’s just say it ain’t pretty. At this point, it’s up to you to decide if you want to re-hash the madness, but if you do, don’t forget the part about the so-ridiculous-it-can’t-even-be-real way that you found out he’d been cheating. Then, cheers to being strong-ass women and take an extra large swig of someone’s drink. Then regret the extra large swig as PTSD flashbacks from the previous weekend start to hit you.

When one of the ladies asks if she can set you up with her son, who’s six years younger than you, don’t fret. I’m fairly certain this is normal behavior. Try to see it as a compliment to your (awesomeness?) instead of a plea to start popping out babies because your eggs are drying up and nobody wants to put a ring on it once your wrinkles are visible in dim lighting (not that either of those things are happening, but if you do feel the need to point out a wrinkle on me, feel free to go step on Lego).

I love my mom’s friends. I love my mom, too. I’d say the birthday bash turned out to be a great success, thanks to my expert knowledge in how to hang out with people 3 times your age.

I ate a ton of cheese (with a side of enchilada), was introduced to new words to call people when they are giant jerk faces (i.e. Cum Dumpster), got an amazing ab workout from laughing (only stopping long enough to stick another forkful of Mexican lard in my mouth), and also learned some new tricks for the bedroom that I won’t be using anytime soon because we all traumatized each other by reading passages out of Urban Dictionary. Do YOU guys know how to milk a prostate? Well, we do.

I’m off to Vegas tonight, and my plan as of right now is to get arrested because I feel like that’s the only way to truly experience the real Las Vegas. If I survive it, I’ll let you know how many wifey’s I accumulated while in the slammer.

Happy Wednesday, lovers!

Go kiss somebody.

Love,

M.

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