A Frat Boy Trapped in a Thirtysomething Mom's Body

The other night I was on Twitter, having a conversation with some girlfriends. Whoever follows me on Twitter, well, they probably think I'm mental. Because I won't go on Twitter for DAYS. Then, one night, I'll have like 50 tweets about random, random stuff.

Anyhow, the other night, the conversation somehow got to drinking (imagine). And I brought up beer bongs. And luges (I had to explain this one...you carve a 'luge' in a block of ice, then pour shots down the luge into a waiting mouth). And keg stands.

Then I made the suggestion that my friends make a beer bong and let their kids do hits off of it with root beer, then have a burping contest.

And with that, I nominate myself for the trashy parent of the year award.

Reading all my drinking suggestions would probably lead you to believe I was (or am) some kind of crazy partier. But I wasn't. For reals. The height of my partying was for about one year in college (okay, maybe two). The rest of the time, I was working 40 hours a week while taking 15-18 credits per quarter. Not a lot of time for fun. Or hangovers.

Still, I seem to have a wealth of information on drinking games/stupid methods of getting obliterated. Let's just say I'm observant. Maybe it's where I'm from. There wasn't a lot to do out in Podunk, WA except drink, go four-wheelin', and get knocked up. None of which I actually DID in high school. Cause I was SO SO SO boring. Not that getting knocked up is a good way to be interesting. Let's just say I wasn't even doing the things to get knocked up.

So, just in case you were following me on Twitter that night, I'm not a raging alcoholic, and I promise not to train my child on the beer bong. I'll wait till he's at least 12.