Girlfriend, we're going to Mardi Gras!
This Just In:
THE B.O.B. CLUB IS GOING TO MARDI GRAS! (again)
I’m in this little club that formed 18 years ago, and we call ourselves the B.O.B. Club because the primary reason for our formation was to get together and bitch. For almost two decades we have met each month, eaten some dinner, bitched a little, laughed a lot, downed some drinks and paid $20 into what we call our “bitch tax” kitty.
This kitty has provided our travel all over Texas and a few times to Oklahoma, as well as stories we have been sworn to die with.
This story is not one of them.
"Reservations made for Jefferson Mardi Gras!” were the words in the text the B.O.B.s got from our travel agent, who isn’t really a travel agent but she is in the B.O.B. Club and makes all our reservations because she travels the most. I swear in that moment I knew what a seven year old feels like when they hear the words, “You’re going to Disneyland!”
For you doubters, The Jefferson Mardi Gras is not in New Orleans, but better because I've never been peed on at a Jefferson Mardi Gras, and that can happen to you on any given Tuesday in N'awlins.
Anyway, this being our third Mardi Gras trip together, you can bet your sweet ass we're checking out the particulars of participating in the Doo-Dah Parade. Our first year to attend in 2005, we went as the seven little pigs and it was precious, especially at the bar afterward. We’re down to five members now, which might make coordinating Doo-Dah parade outfits easier. I’ll keep you posted.
You might want to check out this Mardi Gras - we've been hunted down by the offspring of the Krewe of Hebe in our younger years, we've marched in that infamous doo-dah parade and caught beads with nary a nipple showing in the Grand Parade.
Jefferson, Texas, Mardi Gras is a hoot indeed, complete with corn dog trucks and other carny food. It's like a Disneyland for fierce women with a sense of humor and adventure. But getting there can be a challenge.
A group of professional women with sterling reputations, we observe a 50-mile rule in which we can let our guard down at mile 51. It just so happened we did just that one year when we stopped at the Wal-Mart in Decatur en route to Jefferson on an early Thursday afternoon. It was a beautiful day and we decided to have a few beers after shopping for what we refer to as room snacks - which mostly consists of limes, squeeze cheese, crackers and Mrs. Fields cookies. Many beers later, and after dining at the Jack-in-the-Box, it became evident that none of us were capable of reading our own driver’s license, much less presenting one to the police we would surely gain the attention of in the next few hours.
So we stayed in the Best Western in Decatur. One hour from home, and still four hours from our destination because we got drunk in a Wal-Mart parking lot. Husbands were a little angry, and a little less than surprised, but we made it the next day thanks to our sponsors Tylenol and Ray Ban.
Countdown clocks are are now being set, dues are being paid, plans are being made. Stay tuned. This one will be epic.