I Require Adult Supervision

Last month as my Platonic Hubby and I were trying to figure out something to do for my birthday, the conversation took a turn that looked like this:

So Saturday night my Platonic Husband, two other friends, and I, spent the night in the city.

There was a lot of planning involved because not only do we have wildly different schedules, but also due to the simple fact that we are chicks.

First, I needed a dress and it needed to fit the kind of budget that a 6th grader might have after getting paid an allowance; meaning that it had to cost less than the $30 that I had left on a gift card that I received for my birthday (I’d like to point out to my real-life friends who read this blog, while you are overly generous, I know what you are up to. Giving me gift cards to places that don’t sell children’s items or groceries, I’m onto you). Also, I was shopping in between meetings for work, which meant that I only had 30 minutes to find a dress that cheap.

Sounds like fun.

NOT.

And yet miraculously…

But then I couldn’t figure out how to get a strapless bra to stay up, and the dress really needed one. I know, at 32 yrs old I probably should have figured this out by now, but when your bra size is “almost,” you can usually get away with just using the built in dress-bra, but this time, not so much. So there I was— clueless and bra-less— so I asked The Platonic Hubby for help.

She wasn’t much help.

“Try wrapping it around your torso or using the straps.”

THANKS FOR ALL THE HELP. Not really sure what that says about me if my friends think I don’t know how to put on my underwear… I had it on, I was just having a technical difficulty.

THAT’S ALLOWED.

No thanks to her I finally got the bra situation worked out, and then I moved onto the purse situation. No girl wants to be dancing with a giant purse, but buying anything else was way beyond my budget.

And lastly, I suddenly remembered how a couple months prior we had gone out and wanted to chop our tired, screaming, broken feet off as we hobbled back to the car in heels. As we cursed our way to the car and hung off each other’s shoulders in agony, eventually taking off our shoes and walking barefoot down the street, we had vowed to NEVER AGAIN wear heels without bringing emergency back up shoes. I’m not kidding you when I say that my feet hurt for days, DAYS, and as a ballet dancer whose feet are used to taking a beating, that’s really saying something.

I had to wear slippers for 3 days straight after that.

So at the very last minute, the Platonic Hubby swung by the mall and picked up those AMAZING flats that you roll up and stick in your purse.

And eventually we got our asses ready.

To which we then proceeded to take a million group selfies, because… I actually have no idea why we did that.

Why do girls do that?

I think what happened is that we all wanted a group shot with our own camera, and then in the morning when we traded photo’s, we realized how vain we are.

Yikes.

Although, if I could have just left it at the vain group shots I would have been totally fine with that, but unfortunately that is not what happened.

When the following afternoon rolled around and everyone woke up, I was greeted with a slew of photo’s that chronicled our evening.

Here I am chatting with Frisbee Boy’s Mom later that night.

Would you like to see exactly why I apparently still require adult supervision?

Of course you do.

Here ya go, courtesy of my friends:

Our drag show reservation wasn’t until 12:30am, so we decided to go dancing first.

Thanks to the generous other gender at the club, I was drinking.

Which may explain how I went from dancing with my girlfriends,

To dancing with this dude.

So this guy…

I was kind of scoping the scene and looking for a little fun when we saw him walk in. My Platonic Hubby knows my type as well as I know my type, so when we saw him we both exclaimed “bingo!” at the exact same time.

So anyway, the cute dude walked in and started dancing… like a white boy. No offense to my race, but it was straight up and down white boy dancing. I mean the guy pretty much cleared the dance floor what with his ninja kicks and strange arm flailings that were about 2 minutes away from summoning the mothership.

People were staring.

It was so bad that I walked directly up to him and started doing the robot dance with him.

I have no shame.

Having a good sense of humor himself, he laughed and asked if he was really that bad, and I, having no class, told him that yes, he was.

I then offered to teach him some better moves.

He took me up on the offer.

He then offered to show me a few moves of his own, one of which included kissing my neck.

I accepted and returned the favor on his neck.

And at some point, several hours later, after ending up in a man-which…

My friends and I decided that it was probably time to leave.

The guy asked me to go home with him, I told him I wasn’t in the mood to be murdered, he asked me to “kiss me like you know me,” I reminded him that I did not actually know him and wasn’t really down to directly swap spit with a stranger, and then after he tried ten different ways to get me to go home with him, I gave him my number and left.

I’m not really sure why I gave him my number, especially since he proceeded to text me all night asking me to come back, in a language that I can only call “caveman speak.”

My friends and I never did make it to our drag show reservation that night, but we did however take a tour of the city in a shopping cart.

Yep, that happened.

Well, to clarify, I was the only one who took a tour of the city in a shopping cart. My friends pushed me.

Allow me to explain.

As we were walking back to our car, carrying our heels while wearing our marvelous roll-up flats, we came across an abandoned shopping cart on the sidewalk.

The Platonic Hubby told me to get in.

I did.

She then proceeded to go RUNNING full speed down the street with me in the cart, while painful looking YouTube videos flashed before my eyes, and then she LITERALLY almost ran over some guys that had the unfortunate luck of being in our path.

My other friend just happened to capture on camera, the exact moment the dudes were trying desperately to escape the insanity that was us barreling towards them.

Thankfully they were quick on their feet and did not die.

We then stopped to chat.

In about 2.3 seconds one of the guys climbed into the cart with me.

And about 5 seconds after that, he also kissed my neck.

I wish I could blame it on the alcohol, but if I’m being honest here, I was just having fun.

We all took a walk around the city, the group took turns pushing us, and then I decided it was time to get out.

P.S. one of the guys in the group was a giant.

Like an actual, real life, GIANT. I mean look at that picture! I’m 5’3 and while standing in a freaking shopping cart was pretty much the exact same height as he was (and his knees are bent a little in the pic!)

But anyway, moving on, the crazy fun train finally pulled back up to my house at 4:30am.

My Platonic Hubby’s daughter had been staying with my kids and my Platonic Hubby drove, so when we got back to my house, her daughter immediately hopped into the car. She then texted me a couple minutes after leaving to tell me that The Boy Child had gotten up to go potty (nighttime potty training is a BITCH) and I texted her back to tell her that he had told me himself.