So, I’m getting married in a week.
That’s seven short, short, little days for those less blessed with all the math skills.
And while most brides are rushing about, flustered with the task of finishing every last detail, I am cool as a cucumber. Cool, cool, cool. Ice cold. Freezing frigid and… whatever. I’m covered in hot glue and ribbon and starting to use my angry Al Pacino voice with lazy vendors. I hardly see how threatening the tailor with a cinderblock to the ankles and a swim in the Cumberland River isn’t a shining example of all my calm collected-ness. In an effort to help me unwind and take my mind off things, my darling friends have planned a bachelorette party tonight. Still daylight on party day and their plan is working. My mind could not be further from the massive ribbon wall art installation (still needs a trim, three liters of adhesive, and a prayer) or even the wily vendors ( Think you can sneak a false $2.25 charge past ME? Dare me to cut you. Dare. Me. To.). Yes, just the thought of a relaxing evening far from the wedding construction zone of my living room has worked wonders for my hot-as-a-hot-potato head.
I was busy packing the essentials for a wild, wild bachelorette trip (extra q-tips as my ears get congested in Spring months,three sweatshirts, celebratory pink fuzzy socks because they just scream “party!”, snacks, more snacks, thrice more snacks, and a riveting book about the ins and outs of mass donut manufacturing) when a few, excited messages from the party planners made me quiver in my muu-muu. To explain the fear and loathing, I should first elaborate on what a super nifty party sounds like to me.
Firstly, we would all use words like “nifty” as in, “Gee golly whiz, Ethel. That cat sweater with actual fur kittens applied to the front and actual jingle bells sewn to their actual sequin collars is superbly nifty”.
Secondly, that sweater would be about the craziest we sassy, sexy women got all night.
See, my idea of a good time looks a lot like the happy Celebrex spokeswoman riding a bicycle with her granddaughter in gleeful celebration of her freedom from arthritis ache. In my perfect world, the girls behind this girls’ night would take me to the Bargain Bin and let me loose. I’d tear through mountains of discount sweaters and feel the inebriation a good $5 find can bring. Something about Half of Half Off gets me all hot and bothered.
We would sip Arbor Mist- some Kiwi, passion fruit, strawberry, fizzy concoction- and after two or three we’d realize just why the whores at weekly bingo call this stuff Party Juice. Its fizzy goodness would leave us dumbed down and amped up for the wild night ahead.
Inhibitions gulped down with the last swig of the hard stuff, we’d all be feeling a little daring. One girl would fling her arms in the air and announce she just needed to dance. Agreeing, we’d join her at the VFW. With pink cheeks, I’d admit that I was ready to get my jam on, and I’d show those Vets a Tennesee Waltz the likes of which has never been spun-and-dipped before.
Obviously, no bachelorette party is complete without a little shameless skin-to-skin contact. I’d graze the fine young midriff with my elbow… as I reached for the popcorn. A little sore from getting so “crunk” on the dance floor, the bridal party and I would snuggle up in our Snuggies (Slankets for Northerners/ Forever Lazies for, um, lazy folks) to enjoy the entire collection of Golden Girls episodes I’d so carefully taped to VHS. After a few minutes our drunk tongues will be wagging about what a hussy that Betty White is.
Getting our second and third winds, we’d kick this crazy party off one more again, and play a drinking game I like to call Five Little Monkeys. Five little monkeys jump on the bed while balancing a glass of Metamucil-ed water. Last party girl left with a full glass wins. There is no prize really, and I’d also watch the game rather than participate. Four little monkeys end up bumping their heads from what I hear, and since you are reading this post I’ll assume you know another blow to the noggin is exactly what I don’t need.
We’d stagger to bed in the wee hours of 8 o’clock, but not before the final toast of a nightcap (multivitamin, duh). “To Tori, the bride, the wildest broad we know, may she find happi-”, they’d pause at the sound of gentle, ladylike
rabid bear snoring. Bachelorette party, I’m out.
To some my plan for causing a general ruckus in Partyville sounds a bit dull. Void of any and all fun, others might think. But one can’t help her vices, and - with one glance at the hot pink bottle of Party Juice- clearly I know a good time when I see it.
Imagine my horror, then,when a supposedly secret plan of tonight’s bachelorette festivities went rogue. I caught mere fragments of a conversation: Stripper, Naked Stripper, VIP Room For Special Naked Extras At A Stripper Club Full of Naked Strippers, Hibachi Grill. I’m hoping the Hibachi plans are for dinner, but searched the internet for warnings of nude Hibachi chefs, slicing and dicing and setting your rice a flame while pelvic thrusting a groin dangerously close to the fire.
And suddenly I’m flooded with immense worry at the various penis-emblazoned veils and whorish hookery that’s coming my way. Will there be sweaty men? And hip-hop music inspiring said sweaty men to “jump up on it”? Will I be the “it”? WHAT IF DA CLUBZ RUN OUT OF ARBOR MIST?!?!?!?!
Only time will tell how hot-and-hairy tonight might be. I’m packing the last of my modest cardigans, and saying a beggy prayer that there’s not a Special Extra called the Twangy Wangy. Wish me luck. Bargain bins, Golden Girls, and luck.