Mimosas, Memory Lane, and My Whole A**

Based on one simple fact, today was supposed to be the absolute best day of the summer—the day Season 2 of America's Sweethearts: Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders dropped on Netflix. And don't get me wrong—like the truly spoiled brat of a stay-at-home mom I’ve apparently become, I binge-watched seven hours straight while my live-in nanny (okay, my future sister-in-law—who comes at a major discount rate) entertained my 9- and 7-year-olds. I was even able to indoctrinate baby Ashley by osmosis into a future career as a cheerleader. It was a marvelous day.

So marvelous, and I was so enraptured in the show, that it wasn’t until just a few minutes ago that I noticed my iPhone’s Memories had popped up with a doozy. Jess and Jenn, before you read on—please glance at a calendar. June 18th. Now think back two years. June 18th, 2023. A Sunday.

I really wish I could’ve revealed this on FaceTime today because I can already see your exact expressions.

In Austin, there was (hopefully still is) an amazing wine bar called the Wanderlust Wine Collective. For a wine-lover like me, it’s a can’t-miss. They also did Sunday brunch with bottomless mimosas. Another can’t-miss. That week, my older sister Jenn had planned a big couples' brunch—an escape from church, chores, and children.

Jenn, being the charming lunatic she is, planned it within an inch of its life. There were whiteboards. There were sticky notes. She made a reservation for eight (she and Michael, me and Bubs, Jess and Paul, and Addie—Bubs’ little sister and Jess’s best friend—and her longtime boyfriend, also named Michael). She wrangled not just our mom, but Bubs’ mom and Jess’s mother-in-law to babysit the seven cousins. She even curated our outfits from Pinterest: almost-matching floral cami dresses (honestly too short, but oh well) and heels. She texted the guys outfit options. I wish I were exaggerating.

We were having so much fun getting ready that morning—giggling, pregaming with mimosas, doing each other's hair—that we were nowhere near ready when the guys were already downstairs waiting. Michael finally called up that we were going to be late. Jenn, not missing a beat, shouted back, “Just go! We’ll Uber!” and we gave a synchronized nod like a drunk sorority hive mind.

Of course, Bubs yelled back: “Dani, do you know how much that’s going to cost?!”
And without missing a beat, Addie—bless her—called back, “Craig, you’re not her checkbook!”

I’m not sure the line made any sense, but when I was two proseccos deep with a fake eyelash half-applied, it was comedy gold.

The boys left. We kept drinking. We talked a little crap about our husbands. We polished off two bottles of sparkling wine before even opening the Uber app.

When we arrived at Wanderlust, the guys were seated—and clearly done socializing. But with us back at the table and the bottomless mimosas flowing, the party actually started. I don’t know how many we drank. I do know we were escorted from the table when the restaurant needed it back. I’m not entirely sure by whom—but I do know it was a time issue, not a “four drunken idiots” issue.

And that’s when white girl wasted hell broke loose.

Jenn wanted a group picture. She slurred something like, “Miiichael take a pic-shuh,” and tried to back into place. Instead, she tripped over her heel and took me, Jess, and Addie down like floral-patterned bowling pins.

We laughed like banshees. The guys rushed over, trying to peel apart four shrieking sisters (plus Addie) tangled in limbs and laughter. Jenn, furious with Michael for helping instead of snapping the photo, quipped in the most ridiculous Mid-Atlantic accent (still not sure if the accent was on purpose or if it came from deep in her soul):
“Michael, you did nothing to stop me from being overserved, and now I can’t even count on you to take a damn picture!”

That sentence broke us. We were done. Cry-laughing. Gasping.

I demanded Bubs take the photo. Which means the only photo that exists from that day is after another bowling pin moment I don't thing any of us will remember: 
Me lying sideways across Jess’s lap, my dress riding up high enough to show exactly what color thong I was wearing (and yes, full cheeks, if you must know). Jess’s mouth stretched open like a horror movie scream—actually a laugh. Addie, on her knees, pounding the pavement. And Jenn, giving full frontal crotch to the camera, her legs no longer supporting her, sliding down the pink wall as she fought to catch her breath.

You can’t see Jess yelling that she was going to pee herself. You can’t hear me saying “me too.” But you can feel it. And yes, Jess did pee a little—so did I. Which triggered yet another wave of laughter among the three "grown" women with seven kids between them… and the fourth who desperately wanted one of her own.

So that’s the story behind the blurry photo that popped up in my iPhone Memories today. Just one chaotic shot. Four drunk girls in almost-matching dresses, in the dumbest pose of our lives. It may not be our finest moment—but it was one of our best.

Thanks, iOS, for the reminder:
On this day: “Sisters.”
Sisters indeed. Three of the people I love and miss the most.
In my best Mid-Atlantic: “My darlings—we simply must do that again sometime! Perhaps in Scottsdale, in the fall? Toodles, loves.”