Scrapaholic

This weekend, for the first time since I have become the mother of the small humans, I am going away for the weekend. NO KIDS. NO HUSBAND. I am going away to a bed and breakfast scrapbook weekend getaway. I know, I know...I don't seem to be the "type" to scrapbook. However, since I have the two most gorgeous kids on the planet (except for yours, of course) and have, therefore, taken several HUNDRED cds full of pictures, I have to do something with them. So, I'm going to spend my weekend with a bunch of scrapbook people, which are guaranteed to include: (a) at least one old lady scrapbooking pictures of her toy poodle named "Lovey" (b) a woman with long, ratty, brown hair worn in a braid ala Crystal Gail (c) a woman who doesn't know that MY kids are cuter than hers and (d) someone who stands a troll on their table for "good scrappin' luck" (whatever the fuck that means). There are also bunk beds, and everything is designed in "Texas" style (read: stars everywhere). Normally, nothing about this trip would entice me BUT in small print, at the very bottom of the invitation, it read: "Wine will be served with dinner. We do not serve any type of liquor drinks, but feel free to bring your own."

Suddenly, the whole "description" of this getaway sounded completely different. A bed and breakfast? In a quiet place? Away from my screaming banshees? No husband? A bed to myself? I can sleep-in past 630am?

I AM SO THERE. Of course, I could never do this alone, so my friend the Captain will be joining me this weekend.

eta: I really don't plan on getting smashed. No. Really, I don't. Can you imagine the titles of my scrapbook pages if I did?

The Night You Wouldn't Shut the Fuck Up
Your Precious Fucking Toesies
Rub-a-dub-dub, Your First Fucking Time in the Tub

and my favorite:

Sisters: Best Friends (until one of you sleeps with the others boyfriend and the other sister calls you a fucking slut)