Don't Come Home Pregnant

Growing up, my father was not the type to clean his shotgun on the porch when a date came to pick me up. He was far more likely to be found wandering the house in his tighty-whitey underwear, completely oblivious to the fact that this might be embarrassing.  Dad, ever the jokester, would call out, “Don’t come home pregnant!” as I was dragging my date out of there.

While “don’t come home pregnant” is actually moderately decent advice, I hadn’t thought about dear old Dad’s wisdom until this past week.

The day before Thanksgiving is a notorious drunk fest and this year was no different.  Except that this year I was attending a rugby party featuring mustaches. And I have recently been distracted by the mustache. So there I am, at a rugby party, with my best guy friend, surrounded by men in ridiculous mustaches, trying not to come home pregnant.

It was a challenge, I tell ya.

Especially because the best wing man in the world was working his magic. Here was a man carefully sizing up all the beautiful mustaches in the room and selecting his favorites.  I was then introduced as “young, single, and disease-free” which is apparently what all the cool kids are using as a pick up line… He was working over time.  He was clearly a man on a mission and that mission? Send me home with a mustache.

Only problem was I wanted to make Dad proud.  And I did.

Still young, single, and mustache free.

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2 Responses to “Don't Come Home Pregnant”

  1. Aunt Becky Says:

    I am going to tell my sons not to come home pregnant. Bwahahahaha!

  2. Cha Says:

    I can’t believe you went to a party full of rugby players and did not bring me along. I thought we were in love?

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