What I learned last weekend on my trip to DC

My Flamingos (aka the girls I met at summer camp a lifetime ago), all have fabulous tits. Except Erika. I suspect they're fabulous, but she wouldn't show us. Holly's are the best, though.

We are all loud during sex. In fact, we are all loud during church, but I learned that in middle school.

There is a silver kitchen device you can put oil into and spray(!) on things.

At some department stores, you have to check your guns, bows and arrows before you can enter.

Abby's husband Andy doesn't really want me to lick his face, but it's okay if I pretend to for a picture.

I'm still afraid of heights.

In some circles, the Flamingos and I are known exclusively as "the readers".

Some people go to bars for the oxygen, not the booze.

I shouldn't bend over in my hoochie-mama denim skirt.

Sometimes earrings bigger than your head are lighter than ones that aren't.

You can drive the wrong way down a three-lane one-way street with oncoming traffic and live (although I don't recommend it).

Abby's husband knows which sex toy I have. And that I broke it.

It is nearly impossible for a group of girls to stop singing Hot in Herre once one person starts it.

It's not as easy to forget past loves as one might think, even if the new love is everything you've ever wanted.

Not everyone thinks Appetite for Destruction is one of the top five albums ever recorded.

When taking a dirt-cheap bus ride, you get what you pay for.

Farts=fun.

The Flamingos are the sweetest, smartest, sexiest, sassiest group of women ever to cross the Mason-Dixon line.