Blue Monkey Pajama Incident
We were old enough to know better- but the butane seemed harmless enough. Four women of an age where skinny jeans were questionable and clothes that 'give' preferable, sitting in our pajamas at the dinner table in our hotel room. Hair tossed up in wild buns, faces smelling clean and flannel jammies comforting us, we felt in our teens. And (not to do anything halfway) we were making decisions like them too. Tara in the plush white hotel robe, pulled out what looked like an unlabeled tin of cat food - but when she struck a match to it, the jump of flame like a rock star appearing on stage, was a tell-tell sign that it wasn't cat food. Candy,looking thirteen in blue monkey flannel pj's, retrieved the wooden skewers. And Debbie, in her holey-worn sweats came giggling out of the kitchen area with marshmallows. We were living it up at the Ritz and making smores may not seem devilish to some - but for four stay-at-home mom's, this was like being drunk at Prom (although I...