Pajamas, food, wine, and bunks for those unable to drive home was the original plan.

Let me explain my love of pajamas. When I was a little kid, we were always allowed to open one present on Christmas Eve. Mom handed us a particular prezzie, and it was always a new pair of jammies. The wonderful feeling of going to bed with brand new flannel jammies while being softly bathed in the exterior window lights was pretty near magical.

Bonus! For the Christmas morning pictures, we may have had disheveled hair, but the jammies! New!

I went shopping while I was away this summer. Yes, I had to get new moisturizer and the like, but the only clothing items I bought were jammies.

Wherever I go, the first thing I do when I get back in the house is yank off the hated bra and pull on a clean pair of jammies. Bliss!

So, a pajama party?

That’s just me in my regular clothes with a buncha women.

Don’t go turning me into the Oprah show as a slumpadinka. I won’t go. Besides, I have fabulous hair.

And the strippers? Weren’t even on my radar. That was the brainchild of one of the women coming to the party. I wasn’t consulted. Frankly, strippers make me a bit uncomfortable.

We will have to take up a collection to get Ass Burger Boy out of the house if they show up.

Oy!

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Pajama Party