Girls just want to have fun is a severely underused statement, as was proven by the party I hosted for gal pals this past weekend.
Instead of a red carpet roll out, I had a piece of khaki carpet all dazzled up for everyone’s arrival.
Truth: my neighbors upstairs just moved in and left this on the sidewalk. Everyone loves a soaking wet, nasty piece of used carpet sloshing under their heels. Am I right, ladies?
An ode to our beloved show “Sex and the City,” we gussied up as our fave characters from the show.
What party would be complete without favors?
When you live in a mini manse with no storage, you don’t keep things like an ice cooler on hand. So you substitute a sink in its place.
My group of girls are serious about their party food. God forbid we go three minutes without the ability of shoving something in our not-so-quite mouths.
Instead of gathering around and watching an episode of our favorite TV show of yesteryear, I decided to
force gather the gals around and get their feedback on my sizzle reel.
While I was showing off skull rings, I incorporated a ring pop into the mix.
When my pal, Bird Lady (we felt each other’s pain a few years ago working for the same über rich, wannabe country singer) said she’d never heard of a ring pop, I nearly forced my naughty finger clad with a sucker down her throat.
Of course no party is complete without a photobombing attack from yours truly.
As the evening crept into the wee hours of the morning, we started making silly decisions. Like my Georgia friend Podunk, who swore to her husband that she’d stick to beer.
Fully loaded with liquor we turned into a think tank around 2am, brainstorming ideas and writing them on our makeshift white board…paper towels hung from my busted up blinds.
When the clock struck 3:30 am, we didn’t turn into pumpkins. Nope, not us. We turned into supermodels.
When heads finally hit pillows at 4:30am (after a rousing 3am rendition on my piano of chopsticks – you’re welcome neighbors) six minutes seemed to pass before the sun came up. Upon opening the freezer door to retrieve ice for much needed water later that morning, I was greeted with a leftover cocktail next to my Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Fire (have you tried this yet? It’s better than Fireball, FYI).
How does one recover from an all night estrogen party? Lay by your private pool. (Which is typically full of screaming kids and chatty parents – somehow the universe just knew I needed quiet time).
New Cat recovered from the festivities by laying on top of every single piece of literature I tried to read the rest of the weekend.
While Prince Charming could do nothing but scowl about loud ladies keeping him up past his precious bedtime.
If looks could kill…
Here’s hoping you have a fabulous week.