First of all, getting the schedules of 6 busy, professional women to meld...nearly impossible. Eventually, we did it and picked President's Day weekend in 2000. Sally (whoosh, that girl) was in charge of travel arrangements for the trip. She found us a great deal. 5 days and 4 nights at the beautiful and glamorous "Westward Ho!" Our rooms were right next to each other in the rear of the property. PERFECT!
Four of us flew in on Friday afternoon. The last two HOZ, Roxie and Izzy, would be meeting us later that evening. Since Roxie (who is in the Air Force reserves but cannot fly on an airplane without at least 4 or 5 five cocktails pre-flight) was not with us AND it was a pre 9/11 trip, we arrived as usual.... 20 minutes before the plane was scheduled to take off. We must have been quite a sight in our furry-animal-print cowboy hats and "Knock-me-down, fuck-me-NOW!" boots, running down the concourse to make our plane in time.
We all get situated on the plane and get ready for take off. Sally (whoosh, that girl) decides that each of us needs a "Commemorative" Barf Bag for our HO weekend. She proceeds to ask the surrounding passengers if she can have their Air Sickness bags. They gladly give them up, thinking that otherwise she might HURL on them. Unbeknown to them, this is just another one of her "craft" projects. She spends a good part of the flight "personalizing" each HOZ barf bag.
Because we were the last to get on the plane, we could not find seats together. We proceeded to shout across the aisles to each other. The flight attendant asked us to keep it down and had the brilliant idea to quiet us with drink coupons. (She must have studied "Strategery" at Regent University.) The free drinks left us friendlier and louder. I have never seen a flight crew happier to land than that night.
We deplane, get our bags and thanks to the free drinks on the plane, become illiterate. We can't find the area where the taxis are. We end up finding a rather timid Russian man with a Limo and hire him (it) to take us to THE WESTWARD HO, IN THE REAR! (And that is just how we said it, yelling and with great glee and enthusiasm) With only 2/3rds of the HOZ in town, the first part of the night was pretty mellow. When Roxie and Izzy arrived...THE PARTY BEGAN!
I could give you a blow by blow of the whole weekend, but you all have lives and I do need my right hand to perform cervical exams at work. So, I can't really justify getting carpal tunnel syndrome to tell you about a drunken weekend I had 7 years ago...so I will just tell you about Saturday night.
Every HO trip involves one BIG night. The night we get dressed up like floozies (or HOZ, as it were) and set out to torment, tease and titillate. There isn't a specific dress code for HO Night, but there are some "givens".
Number One: Glitta! You folks probably know it as glitter, but to a HO, it is pronounced "Glitta".
Number Two: Big Hair! At least 1/3 of can of hair spray is required.
Number Three: Cleavage! Hoist the girls up, put some glitter on 'em and take 'em out for the evening.
All of us had dressed accordingly. Our plan was, a nice fancy dinner, then to Studio 54 for a night of dancing. Dinner went fine. We had no problems getting into Studio 54. As soon as we walked in, we knew IT WAS ON! The music was great and there was this gorgeous man dancing in a cage wearing fuzzy, pink hot pants. After a dance or two, we head to the bar. It was a zoo. Sally (whoosh, that girl) and I take the drink orders and enter the fray. Just then, the DJ starts a Michael Jackson "Don't Stop Till Ya Get Enough" mix. Brittney with a precision not expected from a drunken blonde girl, grabs her crotch and squeals along with the song. This smooth move attracts the guy standing next to her and they start to talk. He is instantly enamored with Brittney. By the time I get back from the bar, they are dirty dancing. I ask one of the HOZ what happened while I was at the bar, I mean, I was only gone a few minutes and already Brittney has snared a MAN!
The music is so loud, when she tells me what happened, I heard; "Brittney met a bomber from Oklahoma!"
I immediately respond with; "That's not funny. The Oklahoma City bombings are not something to joke about."
She replies; "Not a bomber, an EMBALMER!"
Incredulous, I respond with; "A what?"
Other HO: "He's an undertaker and he showed us his embalming license. You'll never guess what his name is...Rocky! And his license says 'Rocky (insert middle and last name), II:"
Me: "You have got to be kidding me! He's a Sequel?"
Other HO: "Yep, Brittney is dirty dancing with Rocky II, The Undertaker!"
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