The Purple Experience

I recently experienced a rare “Girls’ Nite Out”.  One of my friends (my neighbor, K (aka Moet).  You know, the one from NYE?) invited me out to see a Prince Cover Band (The Purple Xperience).

Uh- sign me up!

Girls’ Nites are different from other furloughs from “mommy duty”.  Unlike my previous post documenting the insanity that was New Year’s Eve, Girls’ Nites don’t come with too many expectations.  It’s a random, free night.  Like a “mulligan”.

A night not only without kids, but also without husbands… shhhhh.

{No, this doesn’t mean we don’t adore our men.  It means we need to remember what it’s like to miss them from time to time.}

The night could result in watching water boil and we wouldn’t care.

We aren’t bathing Tasmanian devils our babies, we aren’t force feeding birds toddlers, we aren’t cleaning up poop because someone ran out of paint, we aren’t pouring 6 refills of milk in a sippy cup that was just thrown at our face, and we aren’t chasing chickens sleepy kids at bedtime.

We know that tonight no one will ask if we’ve paid the trash bill, no one will ask when we’re going to “take care” of that pile of clothes that has been in the corner for 6 months, no one will get frustrated that I forgot to make the dogs a grooming appointment for the fourth day in a row and now one of them smells like shat.

Most importantly, we are with other women.  Other moms.  No one judging, no one to cut off the alcohol (unless the po po get involved), it’s not a date night SLASH night out or anything else.  It’s just a night out.

We are free, if only for one night.

I was excited to get out and meet other people, listen to some kick-arse music, and see where the night would take us.  And, oh, did the night deliver.

Three of us met at Moet’s house to take Uber to the venue.  We were supposed to meet at 7:15-ish but I was having a wardrobe crisis so I was a bit tardy for the pardy.

{By wardrobe crisis, I mean that the only “going-out” shirt I had to wear was a pink shirt that is super cute from the front, but looks like a worn-out lady part from the back.  Not joking.  The back of my shirt, the only shirt I had to wear, looked like an old vagina.  Great shot to the old confidence.}

It took me a few minutes to pump myself up enough to get over that but I soon spotted a trendy little blazer so I wore that over it.  No biggie, right?

Except that I have diarrhea of the mouth.  I rat on myself about everything.  And if I’ve had something fermented to drink, I spill it all from inception to present.  “One time at band camp…”  It’s like I have Tourette’s.

“Hey!  E!  Come on in, want a drink?”

Sure!  I need something to help me forget that my shirt looks like a vagina.

“Huh?!  Let me see!  OH MY GOSH!  IT DOES!”

Had I just said, “sure!  I’ll have a glass of wine” no one would have even known.  Ugh.  #characterflaws.

Soon the Uber driver arrived and we piled in.

The venue was in a neighborhood known for its population of 50-somethings who are still holding on to their groupie days while spray tanning, shopping for Affliction shirts, and squeezing into Miss Me jeans.  I’d say the crowd was made up of about 75% of that population.  The remaining 25% were AH-MAY-ZING.

We had a table that was right up front for a group of 7 of us ladies.  Not long after we all arrived, the drinks were flowing and so were the weirdos.

{For the record, yes, the 7 of us were the ONLY normal ones there.  Right, ladies?}

I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the term LARPing.  (Live Action Role Play).  Sometimes at parks you may see a group of grown-ass people dressed up in Medieval costumes sword-fighting (heh).

So imagine our intrigue when several of these costume-clad peeps came rolling in to see The Purple Xperience and claimed their groping/make-out spot front and center.

{Uh, I think y’awl misread the flyer… this is a Prince Cover Band, not the Renaissance Fair.}   

Fast forward a little while…

Slight Tangent Alert: I honestly have no concept of time looking back on this night.  The place was so crowded that we had to order tall, double drinks just to ensure we would be served.  We attempted to order food but the kitchen was slammed so hard (heh) that our order was cancelled.  Just straight up cancelled.  Given the no-food-plenty-of-drink situation, things became a bit fuzzy.

Anyway, back to our scene:

At one point, before the Faux Purple One took the stage, another group of characters graced us with their loud, noticeable presence.  Two couples wafted onto the dance floor.  The first to catch my eye was a man with a head full of white hair, a cobalt-blue, satin, long-sleeved ruffle shirt under a Dracula-esque jacket, and black leather pants.


{I imagined his schwetty balls suffocating, gasping for air as soon as I spotted those pants.  Part of me felt like I should step in and call someone.  But who to call?  Does DFACS handle schwetty ball abuse?  I don’t know!}

With him was a woman whose blonde hair died a long time ago.  She game, set, matched his outfit with a cobalt-blue number of her own.  Made of lace.  Was it a dress?  Or a coat?  Who knows.  But it was sum-thin’.


The other couple that accompanied them consisted of a man dressed in a white, billowy shirt (think Seinfeld), and a woman who forgot to put on pants.

odd place for phone

{Oh, that’s a great place for my phone!}

One of the group members, Candy,  is quickly becoming a member of my favorite-persons-club.  As are all of the girls I met in our group that night.

While the rest of us were in shock by the scene that could only come to life in a strange, Freudian-style dream or maybe a Fellini movie, she’s the one who was up, mingling with the weirdos, taking pictures with them… I admire her.

Somehow she and I seemed to be on the same pee schedule so you know how that goes.  Candy was the only witness from our group to hear a rough-looking biker chick say to me, “Cute shirt.”  To which I reply, of course, “Thanks, it looks like a vagina.”  She takes a look and yells, “Pink Taco!” giving me a high five.  Thanks again to my incessant need to point out the back of my shirt.

I believe she and I planned a get-away to Savannah that may or may not have included our eventual return…  I also remember code names being thrown out at some point by Moet, Candy, and/or me.  It may have happened at our tip dinner.  More on that in a sec.

Eventually, the lights went dark, the stage went bright, and out popped Ben Stiller giving it his all as The Artist Wishing to be known as Prince.  With him on keyboards was Corbin Bernson as the Dentist, and on guitars were Milli and Vanilli.

It was SO FUN!  We danced, I almost fell over, we made frequent trips to the bathroom… it was magical.

Ben Stiller kept going back stage for costume changes.  Who was he going to be this time?  Road kill?  Elton John?  There was so much suspense…

Then, we were done.  We maybe made it through 4 intense, crazy songs before we deemed it time to geaux.

We gathered up our bags, blazers, bladders, and what was left of our sobriety and sat out front to await our chariot Uber driver.

Was God shining down on us when he sent us our Uber driver???  You bet He was!

I kid you not, he looked just like a larger (yes, larger) version of Warren Sap.  He was hilarious.  Moet & Candy were asking him questions and chatting him up while I was half-asleep in the back seat (I’m usually in bed by 9 on a Saturday).

Someone mentioned food and all I could think of was “OHEMGEE PLEASE GIVE ME FOOD!”  I’m pretty sure I threw out Wendy’s, Taco Bell was mentioned, why do I remember Applebees?  Anyway, we settled on WaHo.  A wise decision at 1am.   As we pulled into the parking lot, of course we offer our driver (whose name really was Warren!) to join for a tip paid with food.  Tip Dinner.  {That’s what he said.}

Someone Warren’s size doesn’t just magically wake up that way.  It takes work.  And Warren was on the clock.

As we entered the fine dining establishment, I decided I needed a potty break.  When I walked out of the bathroom, a wave of fear washed over me.

They did it.  Moet and Candy took one side of the booth and left me to fend for myself on Warren’s side.  Um… Excuse me, Mr. Warren, could you please scootch over?  No, there was none of that.  The poor man was as scootched as he could be.  But the food smell hit me and it was game time.  Hold on, Warren.  I’m gonna make some magic happen.  Heck yes, I did it.  I made it happen.

Soon the joyous tastes of hash browns smothered, covered, chunked and spanked (heh), patty melts, ribeyes, and waffles were within our grasps.  Never in my life had I tasted such a delightful, artery-clogging meal.

At one point someone foreshadowed this post would happen.  And we all decided that everyone involved needed code names to protect the innocent.  (not sure what that says about this blog… or my life, which is the subject of this blog, that code names are needed…)

Then, just like that, it was over.

Like Cinderella’s disappearing carriage, Warren dropped us off and long-forgotten were the promises of haunted Savannah runaways vacations and aliases code names.  Unfinished business to hang in the air until next time.

To the beautiful ladies who were my BFFs on the magical night, thank you for the invite.  I will remember that night for always.

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