My two older brothers and I grew up with a mom who loathed crying almost as much as she feared Satan creeping into her children's ears via lyrics gone sinful. Much to my mom’s unending chagrin, my brothers were the epitome of all things boyish. Their testosterone fueled influence was strong, and, as time passed, I grew up with a deep love of fart humor, belching, crassness, with only little doses of femininity here and there. I have a handful of girlfriends I’ve known since childhood, and each is equally as gross as me. Needless to say, I’ve never been big on over-the-top girly-ness; it just feels too damn feminine-pad for me.
So here I am, thirty-one years old and have never once participated in a girls night out, clueless as to why herds of penny-pinching, sex-withholding, cackling groups of women would all want to go out for dinner and drinks, all to cap off a night by splitting a bill sixteen ways. That’s supposed to be fun? More like absurd.
Recently, a crunchy friend invited me out for drinks, innocently calling it “girls night out.” I agreed as it was just going to be the two of us. The day of, I get a text from Crunchy stating she’s invited another friend, Rachel. No worries, I think to myself. I really like Rachel. This will be fun. The day goes on; I’m feeling excited about an evening out without the kids. Kiss kiss, hug hug, I’m out the door and on my way to Crunchy’s house. Oh, crackers. I pull up and immediately want to turn around. There’s not one but two cars parked out front, both with home-birthing stickers. Oh, shit. She’s invited another crunchy mom that surely uses all-natural mulch instead of tampons, doesn’t own a razor and probably has a bush the size of a newborn Sasquatch. Stop being so judgy, I tell myself.
I go in and am comforted by my two friends’ warm faces; it’s sure to be a good night. I turn toward the stranger. Surprisingly, Sasquatch looks like Jim Carrey in The Mask. I will now refer to her as The Mask. Crunchy mom, The Mask, Rachel and I all head out for dinner.
Minutes into dinner, Crunchy and The Mask go all junior high and start a love-hate relationship with our waiter. “He likes you.” “No, he likes you.” He’s gross; he’s rude; ha ha ha; your so funny; OMG, he was totally checking you out. I’m dying inside. I manage to make it through dinner and am feeling all excited that we’ll be leaving and getting on with life shortly. Suddenly, Crunchy suggests we have dessert at the local cigar bar--chocolate espresso martinis. Fuck me in the face already! Ok, self, this will be okay. Really, I like a good martini and I’ve never been to this cigar bar. It won’t be so bad, right?
Wrong. I go from annoyed and ready to leave to never wanting to join another vagina squad again. Crunchy and The Mask seem to worsen with every sip they take into their husband-hating mouths. I’m thinking, if you hate your husband so much, why don’t you leave? Crunchy downs a few shots, shares with us and others about her husband’s masturbating and how much she hates him for it. If I were Crunchy’s husband, I’d be jerking off too. Nonstop. I’d jerk off so much and so frequently that I’d have to call in sick to my job. I’d have record-size forearms. Crunchy goes from hating hubby to loving him and wanting to make another child. From there, she’s flailing her arms and spilling an entire drink on my lap. She’s crying and not wanting another baby. Suddenly the storm clouds break. A beacon of light comes to our table to save us, better than sweet baby Jesus arriving to wash our sins away. It’s the bartender, come to cut us off and send us on our way. We’re being politely asked to leave. This is the best idea ever. Drunk Crunchy and The Mask get rude over our tab, trying to argue how much they owe. I throw my card down; we all pile in the home-birthing family wagon and get back to our cars.
Final conclusions of the night: I’m on the crunchy side of things, but draw a line at having pubic hair. I love my sexy beast of a husband. I love making the sex with him. I don’t care if he touches his pee pee and makes it go off; in fact, I like watching. I’m grateful he got a vasectomy. I’d rather go out drinking with my man-beast and run around naked like I like to do. Girls night out was officially my worst night out as an adult.