Worst. Excuse. Ever.

[I told this story to Miss Tanya the other night, and had her laughing pretty hard, which may have been the martinis, but may also have been my brilliant comic timing and superb storytelling skills. I'm not really sure which one. Probably the martinis. Either way, my blog has been sucking hard lately, so I thought I'd share it with y'all. Plus, a little teenage sex, drugs and rock n' roll might help bring my rating up to NC-17.]

It was the summer after my freshman year in high school. I was dating a 20-year-old named Jeff, which sounds creepy on his part, and it was, but there was a certain period of time around the late 80s and the early 90s where, if you were in a metal band, having teenage arm candy was cool, a status symbol even. I blame Kip Winger. Plus, it was all very innocent -- I don't think I even let him touch my barely-developed boobs. Lots of kissing, sure, but that was about it. I was raised Catholic, for God's sake.

Jeff had a friend named Rich, who was closer to our age, though still too old to be hanging out with us. He had a skeevy-hot thing going on, kind of like Tommy Lee or Kid Rock, and he was a coke fiend. Naturally, Heather #1 and I were all about Jeff and Rich, because that's how we rolled back then.

Friday nights were spent at the roller rink, which was the juvenile delinquent hangout in my town. It was also where we met the majority of the losers, I mean "bad boys" we got involved with. This is how it worked. We skated for awhile, hung out in the smoking room for awhile (although I didn't start smoking until I was 19), and then we'd go out into the parking lot, meet up with the older boys, drink all of their beer and smoke all of their weed. We'd lie and say someone's parent was bringing us home, and then either hitch a ride with someone sketchy or walk home. Most of the beers we drank, and the pot we smoked, and the sketchy rides we got home that summer were courtesy of Rich and Jeff.

One night, Heather #1 had gotten permission to stay over at my house. We'd tipped back a few more than usual, done some making out with the boys in the car and behind the car wash (white trash alert!), and after a McDonald's run (which left Heather #1 with ketchup and mustard smeared over the entirely of her shirt), Jeff drove us home.

I knew there was going to be a problem when Heather #1 and I started up the stairs. She fell and started laughing in that loud laugh she has, which you can't hear without dissolving into a fit of laughter yourself.

"Stop it!" I whispered through clenched teeth and giggles. "You're going to wake my mom up!"

After one more fall and a few guffaws later, we opened the front door. Not only was mom still awake, but she was waiting up for us in the living room.

"Hi Mom!" Heather yelled, and teetered a bit. I glared at her. "I have to go to the bathroom," she said, and scurried off.

And then I said what might actually be the dumbest thing ever said to a mother by a teen girl, ever.

"Jess, is that a hickey on your neck?" she asked.

I froze, and tried to think of something to say. Did I tell my mom I'd had an accident with the curling iron before going out? No. Did I tell her I'd walked into a rose bush? Been the target of a pebble attack? Nope.

"I don't know," I began. "I haven't looked at it yet." And then I calmly walked out of the living room, and barged in on Heather #1 while she was peeing.

"Oh. My. God.," I said, falling back against the bathroom door. "I just said the dumbest thing to my mom."

It should come as no surprise that "I don't know. I haven't looked at it yet." accompanied any one of my friends getting a hickey for a decade after that. The weirdest part? I never got into trouble for it. I think my mom was so dumbfounded by my idiocy that she just decided to let it go, rather than try to make sense of it.