Too Old To Feel This Young

Howdy Partner!
It’s your old pal, Cowboy Cribsy, world champion smartalec and purveyor of nonsense. Why, I’m betting you little fillies thought I was a goner, seeing as I’ve been a real slowpokin’ cowpoke when it comes to my blog posts and updates. As previously documented, I’ve managed to become an Overlord in the most pathetic/adorable long-con in recorded history, Toy Hustling™. My alter Ego, the Shopkins Baroness, rules with an iron fist, and this claptrap hobo parlor of a blog got bumped on the hobby list.

Luckily, I’ve galloped back into town ready to make with the ha-has. Let me whip out my long and girthy lasso of hilarity and hog-tie you with laffs. What better subject to turn to for a guaranteed chuckle than yours truly…

The Braying Jackass is back!

The Braying Jackass is back!


Too Old To Feel This Young

My Baby Brother is getting married this month, he’s marrying a solid-gold sweetie who we all adore, Dos. I love Dos, I genuinely enjoy her, I’ve looked for faults, she has none.

Last month, I had the pleasure of joining 6 other ladies for Dos’ Bachelorette extravaganza. Our destination was Port Aransas, a charming beach town located in the “Texas Riviera.” Seeing as I’m always looking for an excuse to shirk my responsibilities, I was looking forward to it for weeks. However, as the big weekend approached, I began to stress. Per the usual, I hit my main squeeze Lover fo’ Life up for a little pep talk and advice. L4L never fails to drop the knowledge, there’s nothing he can’t solve or put into perspective.

“I’m going to be the oldest person there by 6 years, and that’s my sister, everyone else will be 9 years younger. I wonder if Geritol mixes well with Vodka?”

“Oh come on, you’re not old and you’ll be fine. You always make friends, just don’t get too drunk.”

“Well, obviously, I’m going to have to be the wiser, toned-down, responsible person.”

“When have you ever been any of those?”

The next afternoon my little sis pulled up, we packed her SUV full and headed out. After hours of solid rain, closed roads, and TRYING TO CHECK INTO THE WRONG HOTEL, we finally arrived at the condo our group rented for the weekend. We were greeted by the bridesmaid who organized the whole thing, she was putting the finishing touches on decorations and other things she found on pinterest, and stopped to give us a tour. The place was pretty and well-appointed, but the star of the show was the massive outdoor balcony with the ocean waves crashing in the background. Once sis and I were settled, my fears began to dissipate, this was going to be an awesome trip, I could just feel it! I was a free and single lady, ready to cavort and throw my cares to the sea. I made myself a drink and sat on the couch. Since Kath and I were the first there, it was just the three of us. As often when strangers are forced to spend time waiting together, the conversation turned into an interview.

After a grilling consisting of extremely personal questions, (“When are you having another kid? How much money do you have, etc..”) the well-meaning Nosey Rosey asked me the million dollar question: “How old are you?”

“My mid-thirties.”

Her eyes bulged and she leaned forward, without saying a word, I could tell mid-twenties homegirl was shocked.

A welcome surprise of growing older is the lack of envy you have towards youth. Of course, seeing as I’m in my 30’s, and some of you hot tramps reading this have been strutting the ho-stroll for decades longer, I’m aware that I’m “not THAT old.” Quite honestly, IDGAF about my age, it’s a non-issue as far as I’m concerned. The day my kid was cut out of my swimsuit region, I lost the ability to care about a sh*t-load of stuff, age being one of them. This wasn’t my choice, it was merely a reaction the karmic nut-kick becoming a parent is. Where my garden of f*cks for “being young,” once flourished, I now have an orchard of WTF.

As if on cue, the rest of the party guests then arrived. “Old talk,” was abruptly ended. The next 30 minutes consisted of me guzzling as much beer as I could while the squeals, mountains of luggage, and excitement settled. In all, there were 7 of us. It was a good group, among them were several teachers, a social worker, and even a medical professional, all responsible, well-adjusted women who just happened to be in their mid-twenties. Unlike everything I’ve ever watched on HBO’s Girls, these 20-somethings weren’t annoying in the least. Soon afterwards we adjourned to the massive deck, and sat around a table drinking brews getting to better know each other, actually, Kath and I were the only interlopers, all the other ladies had known each other their whole lives, so we traded questions, and informative funny stories. Maybe it was the beer buzz, but an hour in, I felt like I’d known them forever. I decided to bring up Rosey’s earlier reaction to my age, and goof on it a little. “So, I’m going to have to be the chaperone this weekend, since I’m the only mother here AND so much older, poor Rosey almost died from shock earlier when I told her my age. ”

“How old are you?” 

The question came from Hailey Daily (yes, she’s aware that her name rhymes,) Hailey had a twinkle in her eye and a stumble in her step that reminded me of a younger yours truly, something told me that we were going hit it off.

“My mid-thirties.” 

“Daaaaay-yum! You’re old as F*CK!!!!”

“I know, right!?” I sputtered out while hysterically laughing, the way she said it was completely harmless and made me legitimately LOL. Hailey Dailey and I cemented our friendship later that night when we began screaming down at the other guests walking to their cars 5 storeys down. “HEY!!! Y’ALL ARE SOME STUPID F*CKNUTS!” This would be the first of many screaming sessions on the balcony that we would engage in. Somewhere after 3am, everyone stumbled off to bed.

We met the morning with a Lone Star light, which for those of you not from Texas, is a very high-end brand of macro-brewed whale p*ss. Speaking of p*ss, (you’d be surprised how often I’ve had to use that segue,) In addition to F*CKNUT, Hailey Dailey and I also adopted the word P*SSFLAPS (sorry Nana,) all weekend we used the terms interchangeably and profusely. Thankfully, all of the ladies who made up the rest of our bridal party, were laughing too hard at us to follow suit.

Our group stumbled on to the balcony where we enjoyed a breakfast of more beer and a couple of Totino’s pizzas split amongst the table, my sister took out her deck of Cards Against Humanity. Never having played the game, I quickly learned that it brings out the absolute worst in everyone. For several HOURS, we cheered and hooted as each round became more and more f*cked up. The star of the horror-show, was the Social Worker. Just the night before, this living ray of sunshine was giving me and a few others an impassioned “I CARE SO MUCH,” speech about her calling to help families. Cards Against Humanity morphed our ray of Sunshine into Hitler. If you haven’t ever played Cards Against Humanity, I highly recommend you steal a pack and give it a whirl.

We finally made it down to the beach in the afternoon, (after I made everyone eat a sandwich and put on sunscreen.) The sand was pristine and the water blue and chock full o’ waves. Kath and I ditched the sunbathers and made a break for the water, we waded out to where the huge waves,”AKA “Some King Triton Sh*t” as I dubbed them, were roaring and churning. In the salty and exhilarating jumps, my sis and I became kids again. Laughing and screaming with each massive wave, we reveled in our playground.

“HAY! HAY YAWL!” Across the way, was Hailey Bailey and Hitler, both were holding beers and jumping waves. We made our way over, “That’s some boss-level party skills, I complimented, doing all this WHILE still able to hold a beer!? I’m impressed.”

“Girl, it’s easy,” and with that we went to shore get more beers. While on the beach, Hailey Dailey, the bikini-clad party girl, decided to climb on top of some beefcake european dude’s sand mountain. “Hey, you’re messing up my sandcastle,” he flirted, Hailey, who’s not interested in dongs, didn’t register the playfulness and decided to double down. “IT’S MINE NOW, YOU F*CKNUT, I’M GOING TO P*SS ON YOUR STUPID CASTLE!” It all worked out though, the Euro Dudes laughed Hailey off and befriended Rosey, who an hour later, convinced them to help her take down the portable canopy and pack our stuff up.

The sun began to set , we sat on the beach and debated our night. Dos wanted to go out to dinner and then, a bar or club. Having been to Port Aransas a few weeks earlier to scout everything out, I had the perfect place for dinner, and Hailey had a recommendation for a bar, the bar ALSO happened to have Karaoke.

I called the car service and booked a party van for our night’s chariot. It was 7:00 and we decided on a later dinner, so I asked the driver arrive at 8:30, thinking 1.5 hours was more than enough time for everyone to leisurely prep for our night on the town. Kath and I were ready in 45 minutes, dolled-up and ready to go, we emerged from our room to discover the rest of the girls in varied states of unready. “Man, I’m glad I’m not in my 20’s anymore,” my sister chuckled.” We were efficient and skilled speed-preppers, years of the adult rat-race and kid dawdling had left us with no time to spare in our daily routines. At 8:25, Kath and I made our way downstairs where we met our driver, a tough but nice lady named Sharon. I joined Sharon in the front seat and we chatted away for a good 15 minutes while we waited for everyone to board. Sharon’s favorite pastime was telling war stories of schlepping drunk folks around the island.

We arrived at my dinner suggestion, Beach and Station Street Grill. It’s a little house converted into the best seafood shack I’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting. The weather was perfect, and our large party opted to eat on the patio, where the wind provided all the air conditioning we needed. Everyone settled in for an incredible meal filled with laughs, toasts, and relaxing.

The best places always look ragged.

The best places always look ragged.

“Where are you ladies off to?” The super-nice manager asked us, “We’re going to the Salty Dog!” She gave us walking directions that had us there in minutes. Before we made our grand entrance to The Salty Dog, I decided to survey the building. It too, was a charming beach shack, larger than our dinner location, but not by much.

Once inside, the bar revealed itself to be a jam-packed honky-tonk, after wading through the crowd, we found a large table up front and started making various pilgrimages to the bar for drinks. Karaoke began and one drunk Cheryl from Accounting after another, took the stage and caterwauled party standards. The true fun at this bar was found in making observations about the fellow patrons, including watching an older couple dry-hump on the dancefloor. The locals were sunbleached, wiry, and resembled every pool guy/ boat captain I’ve ever come across. Also in the crowd were 3 different Bachelorette parties and one show-boating bridal party.

Yep, some drunk whore in a white sausage casing of a wedding dress, showed up with her groom looking like they came straight from the church, clearly they were regulars. As their friends, family, and well wishers of the newlyweds streamed in, they began to take over the bar AND stage. Hailey leaned over to me and said exactly what I was thinking, “What the f*ck are these f*cknuts doing!? Don’t they have their own damn reception to go to!? SHE NEEDS TO GET HER P*SSFLAPS THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!” Sadly, the bar was at a deafening chatter, so no one heard Hailey Dailey’s inspiring rant of clarity. So we sat next to Dos, and hung-out enjoying the fun. Rosey at this point, decided we were “boring as Hell,” and made friends with the other Bachelorette parties there. I was glad to see her befriending them all as I was in no mood to get caught up in some Bachelorette turf fist-fight or (even worse) a dance-off. Speaking of dancing, Rosey took to the stage with some other party-goers and began dancing like her college tuition depended on it. When she debuted the drunken move that looked like she was jacking off an invisible Jolly Green Giant (“HoHoHo, Green Giant!”) I decided to turn my gaze to the shuffleboard table.

Not 10 seconds later, a sunburned dude who looked like a roadie for Foghat, decided to chat me up and touched me on the shoulder, WOOO-HOOOO PAR-TAAAAAAY, LET’S GET CRAZY! I gave him the murderous stare that said, “Touch me again f*cknut and I’m going to rip your c*ck off then use it as a swizzle stick.”

After another hour of non-stop laughing and drinking, we decided to head back to the condo, it was 1:30am, by the time we got back to the place it was 1:45. What do a bunch of country girls (except for me and Kath) do while walking from the taxi drop-off to the condo after a night of drinking? Why, they sing Deana Carter’s “Strawberry Wine,” at the top of their lungs, of course.

Impressed by their drunken choral magic, I decided to join in when a man who looked like the dude from the old Dunkin Donuts commercials, began screaming at us: “YOU LADIES NEED TO QUIET DOWN OR THE NEXT RIDE Y’ALL GET WILL BE IN THE BACK OF A POLICE CAR!” The group quieted down, he continued to yell, “SOME PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO SLEEP HERE!” Without missing a beat, Hailey said to him, “Oh my gosh, are you sleepwalking!? HAY GIRLS, BE QUIET THIS MAN IS TRYING TO SLEEP WALK! 

That sh*t was the funniest comeback I’ve ever seen, a cruel peel of laughter erupted from my core. Hailey’s pitch-perfect timing and hilarious retort, combined with the sheer insanity of this schlub’s useless threat, sent me into an uncontrollable laughing fit. My guffaws cut through the shushed crowd of good girls terrified by the man’s empty threat. “Shhhhhh! Lauren! STOP LAUGHING! “YOU’LL GET US THROWN IN JAIL, HE’S GOING TO CALL THE COPS! JUST GET IN THE ELEVATOR AND BE QUIET!!!”

“No, no he’s not. He’s just threatening us,” I calmly answered. Seeing as these wonderful folks were seriously stressing, I got in the elevator quietly.

“Don’t worry ladies, I refuse to go to jail because of some “time to make the donuts”- looking motherf*cker play-pretending security guard.”

Come at me, bro!

Come at me, bro!

For some reason, my assurances were not comforting the girls, and when Hailey Dailey piped up “Hell yeah! Besides, I’d be glad to be in jail with all of y’all b*tches,” the elevator opened and they made a bee-line for the condo. Quietly strolling and taking my time, because I had the life experience to see a false threat when issued, I looked upon the complex’s pools. Much to no one’s surprise, Detective Dunkin’ was observed watching Hailey and I while hiding behind a thin palm tree.

I waved at him, “Hiiii, Hello friend! We can see you, you’re not fooling anyone!”

Hailey took the more direct, “HAY! ARE YOU WACKING OFF, YOU PERVERT!? ‘I’ll show you my t*ts if you stop stalking us!” Thankfully, we were already back at the condo and no charges of public indecency were required. With all the other goody-goodies exhausted from the adrenaline dump of “almost getting arrested,” only Kath, Hailey, Dos, and I remained. Dos smiled and said, “I’ve never thought it was possible to laugh this hard and for this long. I’m going to be sore for weeks from all our laughing, I had an absolute blast this weekend, thanks so much for being a part of it.” The bride officially had a great time, mission accomplished. With that, I screamed a few more “HEY F*CKNUTS!” at stumbling guests below, and called it a night.

The next morning, Kath and I packed everything up with a quickness, cleaned up, and hit the road, all before everyone else was up. We were quiet as we left Port Aransas, our vocal chords fried from too much screaming, instead silently reflecting on the weekend’s adventures. As caffeine began to work miracles, hilarious recollections and “OMG NO SHE DIDN’Ts” started to flow. Before I knew it, we were back in town, and I was enjoying a lunch date with L4L where he listened to my tales and reacted with equal parts smirk and SMH.

Never one to resist being right, Brainy Smurf chimed in,”AND YOU WERE WORRIED! Toldya you’d fit right in. You thought you’d be the chaperone, but it sounds like YOU were the one who needed a babysitter!”

“Touche, my love, touche.”   

And now? The real fun comes in mere weeks, when our rowdy gang of beach swept beauties reunites, only this time, we’ll be in formalwear watching my brother hit the awesome wife jackpot. Oh sure, I’ll be serious, reserved, and dependable, but once the vows are exchanged and we’re at the reception, I wouldn’t be surprised if ol’ Polly P*ssflaps decides to yell out a “f*cknut,” or two. (j/k, Dos.)



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