On Friday night, my neighbor hosted a girls only slumber party at her home. Usually, I avoid situations where I am expected to hold my own in conversation, but there was a strong likelihood that one or more of the other party guests (four slightly inebriated women whose median age was 49) would spill the beans on something of interest, so I went.
The first half of the evening was spent eating salad and discussing how we all would rather be eating dessert. The second half of the night was spent eating dessert and praising ourselves for eating salad first. As the conversation drifted away from ourselves and onto our children, I was struck by the fact that the stories these women told about their college-aged children (bad manners, stolen property, urinating in places where they shouldn't) sounded eerily similar to the stories I tell about my five-year-olds and other people tell about their dogs.
Even after playing Truth or Dare and batting around the idea of 'TP'ing a neighbor's house just for fun, none of use could shake the feeling that there was something missing from our slumber party. A few minutes later, the front door swung open and a streaker--wearing only a pair of underpants--ran through the house.
I love my husband.
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