Don't cha wish your momma were hot like me?

These were the best of times. These were the worst of times. I'd like to share two tales of hotness lost.

First, picture this. Six moms dressed like single lady hotties. Dresses cut high enough to show off some pilates gams. Halter tops cut down just so to show off some flirty, sun drenched cleavage. I'm talkin' dry clean only attire here. Dangly earrings with no risk of toddler hands ripping them out. Heels stacked, stilettoed, wedged, and highly hot. Nothing more than a clutch to tote the requisite lipstick, cell phone, and Amex card. Not a diaper bag in sight. Not a bag of Goldfish to be seen. Even I stashed away Chapstick in favor of Smashbox lipstick in the perfect shade, Lavish. Makes me wanna lick my lips just thinking about that pouty pucker.

That night we were high flying women ordering up every colorful martini on the menu. After a couple cocktails we were even getting cheeky with the waiter, who was literally young enough to be my son. And I'm not talking teen pregnancy. Geez, how young are kids these days?! The girls were back and ready to roll. For one short night were were giggly girlfriends, watermelon martini warriors, sexy chicas with a barrel of confidence and a surprise stash of sex appeal. We were frolicking and fancy free, enjoying every bit of attention our hoopla was garnering.

Damn, we felt HOT. In fact, we WERE hot. Boob sweat in August heat in North Carolina hot. Vindaloo hot. Penn Badgely's abs hot. Sizzle. Sizzle. Sizzle.

And so we trapsed from one bar to another, ready to settle into the supple leather bar stools and order an insanely tasty (and might I add potent?) mojito. The six of us were a picture of moxie indeed. Sassy, smart, sexy women, not moms, for a night. Purrrr.....

Enter buzz kill stage left.

Two semi-grease balls who looked like they hock cameras from a seedy storefront in Jersey stopped to get a taste of the eye candy that was us. We flippantly ignored them, used to the attention, natch. Every one of us, however, stood a tish straighter and laughed a bit more joyously just to cement to those dudes what they'd be dreaming about that night. We were totally basking, drowning even, in our hotness.

"So, moms' night out, huh?" exclaimed grease ball #1.

"Hardy har har har!" gulumphed grease ball #2.

G-U-L-P.

And so our bubble of hotness popped. It not only lost its air; it sadly deflated in slow motion, left hanging like our baby suckled breasts. Our swagger turned to slumped shoulder stutter step. Luster lost. Here we thought were hot WOMEN, and those grease balls pegged us for moms immediately. I still can't put my finger on the dead giveaway. We should have cuffed them and made a citizen's arrest. The charge? Buzz killers.

So you tell me, is being a mom mutually exclusive from being a hottie?

This second tale of hotness lost comes from my friend Allie. I don't think she'll mind my sharing it.

Allie got to head to the sunny state of California for 5-day business conference. Almost a full week of kid-free responsibility. So what if the days were peppered with dull conferences and dweeby sales guys? At night the wine and steak juices flowed. Evening conversation centered on drug therapies, and the days were filled with retail therapy. No one cared that Greg would not be touring with the Wiggles this year or that the neighbor kid's birthday party was Sunday at 6:00. No one needed her grapes cut in half or mouth wiped.

This was a week to learn, of course; it was a company-paid conference (aka boondoggle) after all. But it was also a weekend to fall asleep to Entourage blaring on the TV, a night without the stirring of a baby monitor to jostle her from her slumber, the pleasure of a long, slow cabernet buzz, frou frou dinner on someone else's tab, shoes too insensible to wear to the playground, skirts too short to squat down to tie a shoe, and lipstick instead of Aquaphor, perhaps even a flirty spritz of Jo Malone Verbenas of Provence. Oh, if only blog technology had a smell feature! You would be titillated, I assure you.

So one evening Allie is hanging out at one of those typical conference wine and smile get-to-know-you events. She's dazzling in a hot little number that had no risk of mac n' cheese hands wrecking it. A dress that would make her husband order champagne instead of beer. A dress that her husband would think looks better on the floor...wink, wink. She so had it going on. Allie is a hottie to start with, mind you. That dress was nothing more than frosting. She was enjoying a glass of vino, chatting with her boss, relishing the freedom of an evening without responsibility. It was then she noticed him noticing her. Yes, he was definitely looking, and it was obvious. Allie's boss tuned in too.

I imagine a slight blush crept over Allie's face, adorned with a simple swipe of liquid black eye liner and a touch of creamy lipstick. That man. That man was checking her out! Yeah, he was digging her. He was so hoping to get his groove on. And so her confidence soared. She and her boss giggled in hushed tones and wondered what the guy's story was. Allie is a married woman, after all. She repositioned so he could clearly see her wedding ring. Allie is not a cheating kind of girl, mind you, but a bit of attention when you know you look hot is simply an innocent self esteem boost.

No matter where Allie flitted throughout the ballroom, his eyes followed. Soon others were taking note as well. And then more eyes followed her. Imagine her exploding confidence and hotness, absorbing the attention. Loving it. Feeling like a most excellent blend of Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda.

That's when her boss noticed something BIG. Mouth agape, speechless, BIG. All she could do was point in horror.

Allie is a lovely woman and a looker by any definition, alas it was not her charm nor good looks that garnered all that ogling.

Her dress, that hot, kicky little number, was tucked up into her panties. Her butt cheek was hanging out, advertising the goods beneath the dress! And no, she was not sporting lacy La Perlas. Nothing racy in any way. Paul Frank's chipmunk days of the week underwear (that she swears are the most comfortable underwear ever!) were peeking out for the whole conference to see. A cartoon chipmunk adorning her ass. All the geeky sales reps were taking it in, and not a one of 'em could muster up the courage (or decency!) to alert her!

Hysterical, yes. Hot, no.