I'm croaking like Kirstie Alley, my liver is threatening divorce, and I still feel the lingering pain of the shampoo-flu, but mostly I'm warm and befuzzled. It's the glow of lady-love.
Oh, how I love an all-estrogen affair. This is Lucy, the inimitable Dr. Dog, who arranged the whole proceedings. She proper medicine-woman, which is desirable when a bunch of out-of-condition mothers and assorted cougars are let loose on bottle shops and serviced apartments.
No kids! Champagne! So much to talk about about! We laughed so much we nearly fell off the penthouse balcony.
Did I mention the penthouse?
Dimitria swore that there is a chemical called 'copulin' that will drive men wild. Oprah told her. Then somebody confessed that they can't talk at all during sex, somebody admitted giving constant direction, and somebody shared that they say one thing only: 'What do you want to to do to me now?'
You know who you are.
There was karaoke. Sonia didn't sing much but did a lot of star jumps. It's her signature move. And then Emma-Jane performed this version of Paul McCartney's 'My Love' that got slower and more depressed until it drove us all home to bed, and left this ringing in my ear for two days:
Next day we shifted to the Hilton, where Lucy, Dim and I tried to pony up for another nights debauchery. Chips, coffee, Nurofen, stat.
More champagne, garcons! Burlesque fabulousness and hilarious good times! So many beautiful buddies. These seem to be the only pics I have, so some of the crew are missing. But not from my mental charge-sheet.
Sonia, Rach and Tiff look happy. Bianca shows the crazy-eyes.
Re-acquainted me with my other friends Murray Wiggle and Big Girl Kangaroo.