A Vacation of Firsts

Dear Gumball,
Please don't read this section until you are old enough to understand that your mama is human. Frail, petty, weak, lazy, lustful, willful, and selfish- but trying her best to be the best mom in the universe to you. I try to be a better person every day so that I can lead you by example.

Just... not during this vacation. Not exactly. I do hope that you embrace life though, and that you, like me, devour new experiences with gusto and passion. Just don't read this yet, ok?

Thank you.

You loving, very human, Mama.







My trip to New Orleans was amazing, and it was also a vacation of firsts. In particular: my first grenade while walking up and down Burbon Street, my first strip club and accompanying first lap dance, and my first date while on vacation.

Can you believe that I was only in New Orleans for 3 days and 3 nights? We filled every moment of that trip with amazing meals and experiences.

Going to a strip club was different from my expectations.  I expected, first and foremost, big boobs. Nope, no big boobs. I thought the dancers would wear one pair of scanty underwear, but they wore two. Why? I'm not sure. Some of the men were as gross as I had expected, and some of the dancers seemed high, disinterested, and mechanical- which I expected. Some of the women were sexy, sparky, and full of personality- which was really surprising and enjoyable to see. Getting a lap dance was quite an experience. True to form, we spent the first several moments just chatting. Then she danced for me, in our private room, and rubbed up against me. It was pretty lighthearted, but still erotic. I'm still up in the air about how getting a lap dance fits in with my feminist ideals, but it was a fun experience nonetheless.

Then my date. When we went to Delmonico, one of the waiters was particularly charming and, honestly, hilarious. He insisted that we order the best dishes on the menu, and when I wanted to stray from his suggestions with the salted caramel bread pudding, he informed me that I could go ahead and order it, "if I wanted to be disappointed." He made me laugh. When my lovely companion went to the restroom, he came over to the table, and I asked if he wanted to see a photo of my beautiful daughter. He did, and we became Instagram friends. I know. Modern flirting at it's best. I asked if he had any children, and he said no. Was it the sangria that made me respond, "would you like to? We could have a baby together." Yes, dear friends and readers, I am off my fucking rocker. So is he, apparently, bc he laughed, smiled, and gave me his card, with his cell phone number. I asked if he was busy later... and the following evening we all met for drinks.

We had one particularly enlightening and entertaining exchange. I asked how old he was, and he told me that he is fifty. I was completely shocked, bc I've never been so attracted to someone so, well, so old. Plus, he looks much younger, whatever that means. So I demanded to see his drivers license. I looked at it, and he was born in 1962. Which really isn't so far away from my mid-1970's birth year. In my drunken state (those milk punches went down awfully easily,) I said the first thing that came to my mind. "See! I told you that you weren't fifty. You're just a little older than I am!"

That entire sentence is a complete lie. He is fifty, and I am, GASP, thirty-seven. Or, as I now like to think of it, almost fifty.

WTF. I am old! When did this happen?!?

So yeah. New Orleans. Best meals of my life, wonderful travel companion and friend who made every discovery a delight, lap dance, and an interesting, vexing, and terribly sexy new fifty year old friend. Who, by the way, I've been chatting with since I left. I hope I get to see him, and the fabulous, enchanting city of New Orleans, again.