Bet You've Never Been In a Smurf Vagina

It would seem that some of us (me) are destined never to grow up....to be Real Ladies.  I do try to have some decorum just like The Muminator taught me, at least in public, but unfortunately at the best of times my mental and emotional age is somewhere around, oh, I don't know.... about twelve.  Mix me with alcohol and there is a whole lot of three-year-old happening.  This might be amusing, if I was three. Of course I find myself hugely amusing, especially if I'm holding my third glass of champagne and drunken strawberries.  Others? Well, maybe not so much.
Case in point:  Had a bit of a girlie Christmas get-together a couple of nights ago at a lovely local establishment (their crispy-skinned salmon is to DIE for).  We had just quaffed the first in a long line of beverages and were making our way back to the dining room with the female owner of the establishment.  This journey involves a stroll down a hallway that takes the term wall-to-wall carpeting to a new and literal level. Bright red carpet blankets the floors and runs halfway up the walls.  The walls and (possibly) the ceiling are covered in electric blue carpet.
"Oh my God,' I exclaimed in my drunken extremely loud stage whisper, "This is like being in a giant VAGINA!"
My friend, who is equally as inept at speaking quietly, replied, "Yeah, a big SMURF vagina!!"
We fell about laughing - almost high-fiving our comedic genius.......until we saw the disapproval of our host. Ahem.
Friend (lets call her Gladys) and I were the first to arrive.  In the intimate dining room a long table festooned with Christmas decorations awaited us. 
It was then that I saw them.....
There, tucked away in the only remaining space was a tiny table, flanked by two diners.....two MALE diners. These two poor innocents had now idea that their worst dining nightmare was about to descend upon them.....a room stuffed to the gills with drunken women.  What do you call a group of women.....is it a "gaggle", no, that's geese......a flock? No.  Oh, I know....a BITCH ....a bitch of women.....hell yeah! But to these two man diners I'm sure we were simply a "nightmare" of women. 
Following the air-kissing (because we are so VERY Continental), and making approving clucking sounds about outfits (that shade of cerise just REALLY suits you) and so on the table began to fill.  I needed to bring out my ear trumpet because I just couldn't hear anything above the babble.  The man-diners, with expressions of abject terror, scurried away with their plates to eat....oh, I don't know, under the stairs or something....anything to be away from the squawks, squeals, snorts and gaggling of our private barnyard.
For me, an evening of lip-reading ensued and cemented my plans to learn sign language.
Conversation began intelligently enough....with politics: "Oh no, I just don't trust him, his eyes are too close together," and quickly degenerated to potty-mouth "Male flatulence is scientifically proven to be more olfactorily toxic because.....because....."
By the end of the night the quiet girl sitting next to me had left - because I think she was sick of my snorting and had to find an after-hours chiropractor due to my back-slapping her everytime I heard something funny.  We had solved the Global Financial Crisis with muffins (don't ask, I can't remember) and solved the mystery of Lady Gaga's popularity (haven't a CLUE).
Was kindly dropped home by Gladys' lovely husband at a terribly reasonable hour, only to find Humphrey in one of his coma-sleeps (from which he is usually only roused with an air-horn at three paces).  Fifteen minutes of me hammering the door-bell and swearing at the potplant finally woke the sleeping bear and had me sober enough to ...... I don't know.....embroider or something.
So that, my cherubs, is a typical night-out with the gals! (Not ladies).