Girls Week Out. No dads allowed, no boys, just females in all our high-maitenance glory. One week at a ski resort in Virginia: five girls in four rooms, two stories, two kitchens, and two very luxurious bathrooms. The statement, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” really did apply–except, you know, in Massanutten. To this day, my dad has no idea what happened that week, and we intend to keep it that way. It was a very… educational… time.
I learned loads from my dear companions on this trip. For example, I found out that neither my sister nor my best friend could deal with a cockroach in my suitcase. After much screaming, it was my friend’s mom (who is, coincidentally, my mom’s friend) who saved us. And she had the nerve to laugh at our precious tongs–hey, we had to get the clothes out of my suitcase somehow!
I was intensely amused when my mom stole three extra wine glasses in addition to the complimentary one from a cooking seminar we attended. I nearly died laughing when I found out that she had taken the bottle of spices from the chef’s table as well. But the icing on the cake was when she asked to borrow her unsuspecting best friend’s coat to hide the stolen items as we fled the crime scene.
I discovered that facials do more harm than good. They’re supposed to “cleanse” one’s face, but what good is that when the immediate outcome is more pimples? And then you’re supposed to do it weekly, which only results in a weekly dose of extra acne. Sure. That makes sense.
I came to learn that custom prom dresses are much too expensive. But that didn’t stop us from trying on every style in the store before purchasing one for $320. And then deciding that the perfect shoes ($40) and the perfect purse ($35) just had to go with it.
I watched Dickie Roberts: Former Childhood Star and taunted my father over the phone with “This is nucking futs”. He wasn’t too happy when I slipped, though my mom was laughing so hard she almost crashed the car.
I learned never to give a boy my phone number if I’ve only known him for less than an hour. Because it’s not worth it when, two years later, he’s still calling you and bragging about how some girl’s mom fell in love with him.
I barely hid my smirk when we went to a restaurant for dessert (not dinner, just sweets) and found out that the head pastry chef was the cook from our aforementioned seminar.
I vowed never to trust my mom’s friend again after watching The Sixth Sense and being falsely informed that there was “nothing scary in this scene”.
And I determined (the hard way) that bingo is not as enthralling as my mom claimed. Especially when you don’t win.
Laughter makes a vacation good, but blaming your fart on your best friend and getting away with it makes a vacation great.
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