Moms Gone Wild, or Something

This weekend I went to the Jersey Shore with some mom friends.  Two nights, four moms, no kids, no pets, no husbands, no schedule, and no one waking me up to the sound of "Mommy?  Mommy?  ARE YOU AWAKE?  I need water / my Lego guy / breakfast / clean sheets." 

One of the most fabulous things about this weekend is that we had absolutely zero events and activities planned. It was the "Do Whatever the Hell You Want" weekend. Don't feel like getting up for breakfast? That's cool. Feel like making a Frodka at 3:00 p.m.? Giddyup. Instead of a real dinner we should eat a bunch of appetizers and watch chick flicks? Excellent idea


The only downside to going away for a weekend without my family is that I kind of had to the entire weekend's worth of errands beforehand, so Friday was crazy.  There was the laundry, some cleaning, and of course the guilt-infused grocery trip in which I bought the kids too many treats. You know what powered me through those ten loads of laundry?  Getting the best text message in the whole history of texting technology:

Yeah, I know.  I have awesome friends.

The Fresca and vodka, of course, are for the Frodkas, which are delightful and sugar-free.  If you add a splash of orange juice it's practically health food.  I'm too old, decrepit and out of practice to actually drink much, or I'll pass out from sheer exhaustion and then wake up at the crack of dawn feeling like crap.  But I can nurse a nice, weak Frodka for quite a while and still function.



Ugh ... not that Jersey Shore.



I should clarify, for those of you not from the New Jersey area, that it was not that Jersey Shore.  There's the Jersey Shore of the MTV "reality" show, and the Jersey Shore of actual reality, which tends to involve a lot less orange cleavage.  The town we stayed in is a dry town, so it's less Girls Gone Wild and more Golden Girls.  You might get side-swiped by an old lady on a Lark scooter, but that's about as rowdy as it gets.

Tried as we might, we couldn't find any Snooki wannabes, and we only saw three guys that fit the mold.  You know, oversized basketball jersey, oversized shorts, gold chains, baseball cap casually worn askew.  Obviously by "casually worn askew" I mean "spent forty minutes preening in front of the mirror deciding the exact angle."

I was going to take pictures of the Jersey Shore castaways for you, but it seemed kind of awkward.  "Uh, hi, can I take your picture?  For my blog?  I'm totally not going to make fun of you."



Perhaps the Rapture did
 happen, and this is heaven.



I did, however, take a photo of the best sign ever, which was outside a candy shop on the Boardwalk.  It was advertising the miracle of chocolate-covered bacon.  This delicacy, by the way, is on a stick, which makes it even more awesome.  The only things that might improve the concept would be potato chips crumbled on top and the phone number of a good cardiologist.  Obviously I bought some for my kids, two of whom weren't into it and two of whom think it is manna from heaven.  I tried a bit and I can report that it's neither as awesome nor as digusting as it sounds.



The thing is, even if we had gone to a town that featured margaritas instead of chocolate covered bacon, I doubt any of us could have managed to party hard for more than about thirty seconds before needing a nap.