Girls Night Out: Bad Moms Christmas Style

Last week I had an awesome experience. I got to see the Bad Moms Christmas premiere with a group of my besties. Then, the next day, Shelly and I were invited to interview the stars of the movie.

I mean no bigs.

Just a normal Monday/Tuesday in our lives. We're totally used to starting our week off on a Monday night with an open bar and swag bags. Like total movie stars.

And then waking up on a Tuesday morning and going to one of the fanciest hotels in downtown Chicago. To double-fist mimosas all day. Free mimosas.

We totally fit right in.

Well, we definitely fit in on Monday night. A theater filled with drunk moms out for a night on the drunken town. With a bunch of other drunk moms. To see a movie about drunk moms. We felt so at home.

But it's just the lives we lead. Well, the lives we led last week, at least. This week not so much.

We were told to prepare questions to ask the stars. And in staying true to ourselves, we did not. Instead we got over-served at the premiere the night before. Kelly ended up having to come down to my house and wake me up and take my kids to school while I showered. 

Because without a plan, you're a victim.

But when it really came down to it, the only question we wanted to know the answer to was "is it as hard for you as it is for us?"

Turns out we have more than our waistlines in common.

Turns out we have more than our waistlines in common.

Turns out, it is. Turns out their lives are so similar to all working moms. They go to work and leave their kids at home. And their kids miss them. Every one of us in that room was just a working mom, working outside of the home. Away from her kids.

And boom. There it was. We all had so much in common. I instantly felt a connection to these women. They really were one of us. Either that or my 9th mimosa had just kicked in.

Either way, I was happy.

Being gone and out of our routine for two days was hard. Planning all the sitters. Making sure all the lunches were made. Making sure everyone had a ride to everywhere they needed to be. Sometimes it's just easier to stay home than do all that planning.

Mom, where have you been? Well you see, darling, mommy was hobnobbing with Hollywood's elite.

They were not impressed. To say the least.

They don't care where I am. I could be helping Santa make the toys and they'd still want me to be there with them instead.

But I was able to do it because I have a supportive husband and a slew of babysitters. I was able to do it just like the real movie stars do it. The way every mom does it.

That's what I really learned about being famous. It doesn't matter. You're still a mom first. And those kids aren't impressed by any of it.

Everyone keeps asking me- omg what were they like? And all I can say is they were pretty normal. They have the same problems we do. They struggle with the same things we do. Fame and fortune don't exclude you from this stuff. They feel guilt just like us. Maybe even more so.

They may have way more money. They may have someone to do their hair and make-up. They may travel in first class. They may be skinny and beautiful.

But at the end of the day none of it matters. None of that means anything to their kids. Just like it means nothing to ours. They don't care where we are or what we're doing. They just want us. The only thing that they're impressed by is us giving them a bath. Us reading them a book. Us being home to hang a paper on the fridge.

I learned a lot this past week. But the most important thing is that we are all so much more alike than we are different. Something I already knew, but somehow I didn't think it pertained to celebs.

I also learned that once the stars leave the hospitality suite, so does the star treatment. When I snuck back in to grab one more mimosa for the ditch, the waitress snatched it out of my hand and told me it was over.

And it was all over. The free booze, the free food, all the swag. Over. Like it never happened.

It was time to dig through the bottom of our purses for enough to pay the valet to retrieve our Chevy Malibu. My last hurrah was when the doorman escorted me to the passenger door of the car. He was holding an umbrella over me so that not one inch of this lush head of hair was disturbed by one single rain drop.

I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I remember glancing around at all the other fools just carrying about their very ordinary days. And I felt sorry for them.

Until I heard the big record screech. I forgot the passenger door only opens so far because it's dented and the doorman had to help push me into the car. Like a very not famous stuffed sausage.

Reality bites.

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