Sorry About Your Tenderloin

My throat hurts and my voice is almost gone, my stomach muscles ache and I have no money left. That's how I know I went out with the Mother Sharks last night.

The Mother Sharks are the friends I made when my children went to school back in the day. (So named because the school mascot is a shark, hence we are the Mother Sharks. It's lame, but it stuck.) Individually, they are smart, capable, entirely charming women. En masse, they are a carousing, whooping, far too loud bunch who behave as if the prison riot worked and now they have all escaped. There are no "inside" voices, no careful consideration of words and no thought goes unexpressed. I love them.

We went out for dinner to a restaurant that is known more for it's atmosphere than it's food. It's run by two gay guys who gleefully abuse the patrons and stock various costumes down by the bathroom, in case anyone wants to put on a post-dinner show. It's as loud and as raucous as one would expect from a place who's signature drink is a "Bitch Slap". ("Do you need another "Bitch Slap", honey", the waiter will say with a perfectly straight face. "It seems to me like you do!")

Frugal as only housewives can be, two of our group gathered up all the protein-packed leftovers and divvied them up between them, as we left, chicken and pork tenderloin, if memory serves. (Actually, I think we were "dismissed", the restaurant owners told us we "could go now" at around 11. Uncustomarily polite of them, really.)
The bar we descended upon is up on the second floor of an old building, and as we huffed and puffed our way up the long, wide, steep flight of stairs, I couldn't help but wonder how many dental emergencies this place was responsible for. The two with the meat convinced the bar tender to stash it in the beer fridge behind the bar...most obliging of him, since he had to withstand what we thought were hilarious jokes at his expense, about handling one's meat and saving it for later, etc. After a couple of hours of dancing, laughing and playing "Man or Woman" (where one has to guess the gender of the person in question...not as easy as you might think sometimes.) it was time to go.

The meat was retrieved from behind the bar, the obliging husband called to come and pick us up, (Thanks Jeff!) and some of us negotiated the trecherous staircase more gracefully than others. Just as one of the meat carriers almost got to the bottom of the stairs, tragedy struck and the container flew out of her hands and there was pork tenderloin and garlic sauce festooned around the lobby and doors. Naturally, her friends were most sympathetic and comforting in light of her mishap, and we showed our concern by promptly doubling over and laughing about as hard as people can do without hurting themselves. One of our party managed to sputter out "Sorry about your tenderloin", which set us off again and actually, still makes me giggle this morning. I got to bed far too late, and am paying for it today.

So, when next you are out and about and encounter a large group of seemingly benign suburban housewives, who behave as though they are sailors on shore leave, give them a wide berth, and be careful of your tenderloin.