This here bringer of the pooper to the fun party

And everyone’s hair looked awesome

Saturday night my good friend Stacia joined me and Cami for sushi and a viewing of Bridesmaids afterward. Our other friend Heather, the brave woman who waxes my eyebrows and kindly refrains from yelling OMG THEY’VE GROWN TEETH SINCE I LAST SAW YOU, she was supposed to join us but couldn’t find a babysitter. Have all the men reading this fallen asleep and drooled spit down their chins yet? No? GET ON THAT.

I knew the theater would probably be packed that night, so I bought three tickets earlier in the day to make sure we could get seats. Look at me being proactive! And managing an event! And being proud to call “going out with my friends” an “event” as if I had to scout a location, find a keynote speaker, and make sure that the guests with food allergies had plenty of options. Here are your gluten-free muffins, BITCHEZ.

Sushi was fantastic, especially when the server walked up and said, “The manager says you have a blog? It’s called douche.com?”

I’m recounting this specifically because I really want to brighten the day of some of my haters. Oh, how original they think they are when referring to me that way.

(“Hey, look! It’s Heather Hamilton. More like Heather HAMBURGER!” That one never got old.)

Stacia and Cami were about to correct her, but I was like YES. That is EXACTLY what my blog is. VAGINA ALL THE TIME.

We were almost finished with dinner when Heather texted Stacia and said she’d found childcare and would meet us shortly. Awesome, right? We had enough time to order her a drink and some food. Except… I don’t know if I’ve shared this with you guys yet, but… I have a bit of an issue when it comes to seeing movies in theaters. Okay, a huge issue, and I’m really sensitive about it, and this is me being vulnerable and serious:

The world will end if I miss the previews.

I’m not kidding. I get hives just thinking about it. Why would you pay good money and then travel to a location outside your home only to miss the previews? That’s part of the package of seeing a movie in a theater. Period. Done. Miss the previews and you might as well skip the whole movie! And then walk outside and get hit by a bus.

We were pushing it on time when Heather finally arrived, and I started to get jittery. Everyone was like, dude, what is up? And I was like, DUDE, THE PREVIEWS. Heather finally piped up and said, “OH NO. You’re one of those.”

FINE. Yes. I am one of those. I can relax and take it easy in a lot of situations BUT THIS IS NOT ONE OF THEM. Could they not see that the hives had traveled up my neck and were swallowing the right side of my face? The wheezing? Did they just write that off as old age?

Several minutes passed and no one was showing any indication of urgency, so I had to do what I had to do. I slapped my palm in the middle of the table and then belched a good third of the alphabet. Loudly. Oh hell yes, IT HAD COME TO BURPING.

I knew that THIS, this giant squawking burst of air would show them just how much I meant business. Apparently, though, it also scared the living shit out of the woman sitting at the table next to us. I was too embarrassed to turn and see her reaction, but they assured me that my declaration had produced in her a physical movement similar to the one when your face is in the toilet and you’re puking a gordita.

It got them moving, all right. They didn’t want to be seen too close to the belching woman who blogs about vaginas.

As we got up to leave I approached at the woman sitting at the other table and apologized.

“I’m sorry about that burp,” I said. “You see, we’re going to be late to a movie and there is the slightest chance that we might miss the previews and then we’d all die. I had to get my bitches ON THEIR GAME.”

Fast forward to the lobby of the movie theater, and Heather and I had to stand in line to buy her a seat. Remember? I’d only bought three tickets. This is exactly why I’m not an event planner. Put me in charge and the one guest allergic to peanuts will accidentally slip headfirst into a pool of peanut butter that’s been set up by one of the sponsors.

And you’ll never guess who was standing in line in front of us. Because it’s Utah I want to say Donny Osmond, but that would be a lie. Although don’t count that out. I’ll probably see him next week at the grocery store in line with Peter Frampton and the mythical bobcat.

THE WOMAN WHO WAS HORRIFIED BY MY BURP, that’s who. She was standing in line in front of us. RIGHT in front of us. So I tapped her on the shoulder, waited for her to recognize me and said, “YOU GET TO SIT NEXT TO ME! WHEEEEE!

I did. I said those words exactly. Because sometimes you have to grab life and shake it and sink your teeth right into its neck. If I hadn’t said that to her, if I had let that opportunity slip away, well then, I wouldn’t be douche, now would I?

(P.S. We didn’t miss the previews, obviously, since I’m alive to write this.)

  • HungryGrad

    The only thing better than saying, “…VAGINA ALL THE TIME,” would have been saying”…VAGINA ALL THE TIME. I mean, duh, we ARE at a sushi restaurant,” followed by a monologue on sushi, vaginas, goodness, badness, and the presence and absence of fishiness.

    (But only if you could have kept a straight face, delivering your monologue like Seth Rogan.)

  • whurlgurl

    I love when you find your mother-ship and the occupants that you belong with! I will seriously not go into the theater if we miss the previews. I also clap when the previews start. I rate how much I will possibly like the movie…i.e. ah, that is just a renter. I will also go to a movie that I am not psyched about just to see a preview of a movie that I am very excited about(Harry Potter or any Pixar movie)!! I am thinking that Vagina’s all the time would be just a renter though………

  • Absent Minded Housewife

    So I’m at the Joan Jett concert with my gay sister and her partner and a thousand of other lesbians when I get bumped in line from behind. I turn my tall self around to find I’m nose deep in some chick’s cleavage. She’s drunk and asks, “Do I look like a lez to you?” and I reply, “No, but you can ask my sister.” My sister affirms my opinion and my sister’s wife did as well. Drunky McCleavage then shouts something half intelligible about female genitalia and saran wrap.

    During the concert I sat behind the skinniest man in shorts and a wifebeater with the hugest mustache I’ve ever seen. He had no rhythm. Neither do I so I can call him out.

    Offended by a burp. Please.