And a good time was had by all

Last night I attended a church sponsored Ladies' Night Out. The ladies in charge chose a Mexican restaurant to meet, have a few margaritas, and catch up with what everyone is doing, especially the pastor's wife (the heathen who has been missing a lot of church lately). I'm sure a few of them attended to make sure that I was still alive, and that pastor had not just failed to mention that he was now a widower.

The talk, as talks like these always do, eventually turned to husbands and children. Since I have no children, I could not offer much to the conversation, especially since my dog also does half of the naughty things that some of the ladies mentioned. Stay up all night and not let you rest? Check. Eat a whole box of cookies? Check. Projectile vomit the aforementioned box of cookies? Check. Poop on the floor? Check, check, and check. The talk, fueled by a second and third pitcher of margaritas, somehow took a turn towards the flatulence habits of husbands. I just want to let ya'll know, I WAS NOT LEADING THE CONVERSATION. Rev., love of my life and father to my pets, I DID NOT LEAD THE CONVERSATION. I didn't even steer it in that direction. I laughed just as hard as everyone else, but I stopped short in sharing stories about the bathroom habits of myself or my husband, as the conversation spiralled ever downward. A girl has got to draw the line somewhere. Besides, my husband is a shepherd to these people, and the last thing I would want to pop into their heads as they listen at his feet is some story I told them about stinking the dog out of the bed. Wait, that was me.

So you can rest easy, people, for once I did not crash the post-dinner talk directly into the gutter. It's a habit and a title that I have long held in my family. You can ask my parents if they can remember a dinner conversation on booby cards or the mating rituals of hamsters. I'll let you pick.