Mardi Gras: French for “Free Tittie Show”

Once upon a time, a long time ago, I knew a guy named “Ben.” Roguish when he was good, downright slutty and obnoxious when he was bad, Ben amused me. So one night we were all drinking together (because when you’re in Missouri, drinking is mainly how you pass long periods of time), and Ben declared that I was a closet freak.

Not in the Martha Stewart “OMG, these closets are huge! Let’s decorate them!” sort of way, but in the “Give the Amish girl some liquor and watch her clothes fly off” sort of way.

He declared several of us to be closet freaks, mainly because he had to have some sort of rationale of why we pretty women didn’t immediately want to take off our clothes and offer to have sex with him as soon as we met him. (The reasons were many and varied.) So basically it boiled down to “you all haven’t had enough to drink yet, but when you do, watch out.”

We closet freaks don’t drink out in public. Well, we do, but we do it in moderation. We may giggle; we’ll definitely get louder; but all clothes remain righted. But have us throw a party at our house? All bets are off, baby. What happens at the Big House, stays at the Big House.

Now when I was younger, I was actually shyer. An irony to say the least, considering some of the stuff I will leave my house in, but shy nonetheless. No flashing, no nudity, not even a whole lot of drinking. (I didn’t get an early start like some of my drinking buddies.) However, once I hit 24, I sorta found a groove with drinking and exhibitionism. Mainly because by then, I had this ex-boyfriend who kept showing up to these parties too, and if you make a broken-hearted Pisces attend the same functions as her ex, even if she doesn’t love him anymore, she will drink…and she will drink HARD. Example: On my 26th birthday, they invited my ex to the party as well, and I started the evening with 3 shots of tequila with Amaretto Sour chasers. I ended the night mauling the Scotsman-dressed guy they brought to wish me happy birthday.

Then there were several years of us not drinking. Well, there were no parties anyway. (It was hard to top the year of the Slip-n-Slide and the whole Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction I had with my swimsuit top.) And my friends mourned the fact we were “old” and boring and didn’t know how to have a good time.

Then the Two Planners threw a Mardi Gras party just last weekend. It always falls around my birthday, and I love being rewarded with pretty necklaces for showing you things I probably will be showing regardless of the bribes, provided I drink enough rum. I do lots of things on rum. My friend Holler and I tried to figure out what to take to the party—it was a big deal we bring something—so in Walmart, we perused the liquor section. We were going to make Jello shots. I call Chris (husband of Party Planner #1) and he informs me they’re making Jello shots right now! Scratch. And we couldn’t make hurricanes because they were also making hurricanes. We plopped ourselves in Walmart to plan another drink, but after pouring over a bartender book, we decided to make Fuck It Punch. We would need a fifth of rum, and everything else was optional.

We arrive with our punch in a cooler, and I spot my ex. True to form, I pour a 16 oz serving of the drink and chug half. I then consume two (or was it three?) jello shots. Rum flavored ones. I like to stick with a theme. I drink about two more glasses of this stuff, and more jello shots—to which Holler is “Aren’t you going to eat anything? You cannot puke on my carpet. Pace yourself, please.”

My ex leaves about an hour later, and I’m finally able to scale back my drinking just a tad, but by then, I’m having such fun, I don’t care. I do a shot of spiced rum. And another jello shot…and I work on carefully pouring more juice into my glass. I’m headbanging to the music, leaping around, and talking even louder than usual. (So basically I’m yelling.) I bounce over to the Host of the party, who is happily trashed, and he offers me 12 strands of beads if I flash him. I try to flash him just my bra. No dice, and then another party girl goes, “I did it.” And then it was a challenge. (Hellion’s fatal flaw #7: if challenged, will do it to prove she can do it, by God.)

If *she* can do it, well, hell so can I. I flashed him and collected all of my beads. Then I headbanged and danced around some more. Then I flashed another friend I’ve known for at least a dozen years—and a new guy who I’d never met before the party—and also J. who then was vocal about the fact his wife’s hand was blocking half the view. So I flashed him again so he got a full look. I collected more beads.

Who says the Amish don’t know how to tie one on? The only man at the party who didn’t see my boobs was the Ex, and he didn’t care for them to begin with.

So on behalf of all men (and all the men Saturday were very complimentary—and considering my boobs aren’t that much to look at, that was nice) if you got ‘em, girls, flash ‘em. Embrace your closet freak. The men will thank you.