Back in the saddle...

You and I are tight, right? I feel like I can tell you anything, and I feel like you're always there to gimme some skin, too. That's why it was really hard for me to look you in the eyes and pretend nothing was amiss, when all the while I knew I was about to go AWOL on you without even leaving you with so much as a note on your pillowcase or a slap on the ass on my way out.

I've been away a couple of days, but I was on a covert mission to surprise my husband with the You've Just Turned Thirty Now Pop a Viagra, Swap Out Your Depends, And Let's Go Relive Your Often Shamefully Libidinous But Most Usually Gangsta Fresh College Days of Yore tour. This little weekend took quite a bit of planning. Here are the important ground-laying ingredients to absorb in order to fully appreciate the nitty gritty details of the event: 1) I was the national titleholder of America's Worst Planner four years in a row, and I earned an honorable mention (and most photogenic) in '03. That's why planning a surprise for my husband, Nosey von Nostrum, is a UGE (that was huge without the h for some juicy emphasis) undertaking.; 2) Several lovely assistants and myself managed to assemble a thirteen person all star squad to convene in Athens, GA to give the miniskirted, Blackberry toting, Croakies adorned, Miller Lite imbibing, randy young freshfaced college kiddos a run for their money. I think we were pretty victorious. Here are some points of interest:



The lessons learned on our debaucherous pilgrimage are far too numerous to itemize here, but I will hit some randomly selected weekend highlights so you and I can be caught up to speed.

When the night begins with moonshine, clearly, only success can ensue - You're most likely nodding your head violently and singing a chorus of Amens after that no duh pronouncement, but I can now attest with 100% certainty that swigging peach flavored moonshine that was brewed with love and packaged in a cloudy mason jar by a guy named Shorty who's tight with our buddy Chris' kin Bobby Gene from the windy backroads of Jasper, Alabama tastes oh so right out of the Holiday Inn Express standard issue styrofoam cup, especially when in the company of great friends. This equation obviously features all the required elements of the perfect precursor to a flawless evening.

Baiting, luring, and hooking your male or female prey is a far different game ten years removed from college life - I have some pretty fine looking lady friends, if I do say so myself; these days, however, let's just say, hypothetically, that some of my hot looking sistas and I are laaaid back, happily sipping on (gin and) juice cocktails, sitting around a table in the dimly lit basement of a newly remodeled bar while our husbands are off comparing detached body parts or having a danceoff or whatever it is husbands do away from wives when, let's just say, a set of nineteen year old fresh meat rascals come to take a load off at the ladies' table. Let's just say then, just when the lovely ladies are thinking, "AHA! I've still GOT it!" those pesky husbands return to swoop in to ask the precocious college sophomores who have recently joined the ladies' table if they are "Cougar Hunting." What a nice invented phrase, eh? Also wonderful is when that phrase sticks around for a whole weekend and the ladies can then sporadically receive melodically beautiful serenades of: "Cougar, Cougar, Cougarcats are on the move, Cougarcats are loose, Feel the magic, hear the Roar, Cougar cats are loose." Roar, indeed! As a nice footnote, apparently males ten years removed from the college environment now have a new go-to move in the lady-enticing repertoire that includes button down shirts and an ample supply of chest hair. You go, male Cougars (Manthers?)!

Even though you aren't 19 anymore, your friends can still get chucked from fine establishments for a variety of reasons - When we were 19, getting booted was usually for the standard issue, yawn-worthy fake ID protocol. Now, we can chalk up three seperate bar boots in less than 24 hours to: a) passing out on a comfy pleather sofa in a bar; b) too many consecutive maternal f-bombs coupled with a few "douche"s and some gds for good measure in a diner; and c) going topless but lovin it, sitting comfortably in a bar after a friend throws your shirt behind the bartender. If only we had a few more hours, we probably could have come up with at least four other creative ways to not let the door hit our party on the way out.

There are so many other adventures that I want to share with you, but those are for a future time, my friend. For now, though, I'll just say that I am glad I can now come clean about my absence. Until later: Cougarcat, Out.

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