Denver The Hot Flash Dance

So my trip started with Betty flying in, Denver traffic could be brutal—it’s basically Mario Kart with actual consequences. Little did I know, they have like four lanes dedicated just for going to the airport. I half expected one of them to be the “Good Luck” lane where you just pray you end up at the right terminal. No worries though, I showed up an hour and a half early and claimed a victory prize: a chair in baggage claim. Honestly, highlight of my morning. Forget the Rocky Mountains, I found a seat.

We finally get to our hotel—fancy Greenwood Village. Very classy. You know it’s classy when it takes two grown women to figure out the elevator. We’re standing there like, “Okay, zero is parking… but there’s no garage. Who’s the evil genius behind this button?” We’re laughing so hard the elevator probably said: Well, bless their hearts. Truth be told, our two brains couldn’t get a hummingbird to fly backwards.

Next up—Betty and I love Specialty shops. (My term for Thrift Stores. “Specialty” just sounds fancier, like we’re treasure hunters instead of bargain hounds.) We found one with designer purses. Betty created a monster when she taught me how to Google the labels. Suddenly, I’m the Indiana Jones of handbags, snapping photos like my phone was on a fashion safari. Betty scored a thousand-dollar bag for $25. My little green-eyed monster almost jumped out and started hissing. But then—victory! I found one too, and honestly, it’s now my favorite bag. Move over Gucci, I’m rolling with “Gently Used but Fabulous.”

How many white jackets and white jeans do I need? Apparently, a lot. At this rate, I’m going to look like the Easter edition of a boy band. But hey—we gotta be all decked out for the Keith Urban show, right? And these will look perfect with the blingy boots I scored at the last “Specialty shop” Buddy dragged me to.

Back at the room—it’s time for a fashion show. But no wine yet, because someone has to drive. (Lucky me.) Betty’s twirling in her specialty-store couture, looking like she’s auditioning for Project Runway: Sweet Edition, when Brandy called. Her flight’s delayed. First it’s nine. Then 11:30. Then 1 a.m. I’m starting to think she’s flying Spirit Airlines with a surprise layover in Narnia.

Finally, she texts: “I’m on the ground.” I’m like, what ground? Kansas City or Denver? Turns out, Denver. Hallelujah. But now we’re starving, and the only thing open is IHOP. Nothing says “classy girls’ getaway” like avocado eggs benedict at 2 a.m. I scraped off the avocado and egg. That English muffin was tough and I’m no surgeon, 

  Pajama Party time. Betty was in her shorty shorts, bent over the air conditioner, doing what I can only describe as the “Hot Flash Dance.” She wasn’t sure where the cool air needed to go, but she was determined to get it there.

Meanwhile, Brandy starts telling us about her kitten getting fixed. Poor little guy came home in one of those cones so he couldn’t lick his… well, his imaginary testicles. Betty, without missing a beat, says, “I tried that with Fuji.” (Her husband, mind you.) “I couldn’t get him to hold still long enough to get the cone on his head to stop him from licking…” Long pause. “…his knee, after surgery.” For one terrifying second, we were all on the edge of hearing way too much marital detail.

  At that point, we were howling with laughter—the kind where you can’t breathe and your mascaras in danger. Suddenly, bang bang bang—someone’s knocking on the wall. So now we’re whisper-giggling at 3 a.m. like a bunch of teenagers at a slumber party. You know, the kind where you’re absolutely certain you’re being quiet… but really, you sound like a pack of hyenas learning how to whisper.


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