OK, you asked for it, you demanded it, you threatened to slap me if I didn’t
post it, so here it is—Bachelorette Party! When you last saw me I was
heading into the hotel lobby toward feather boas and certain doom. The first
sign of the impending apocalypse came when I realized I was expected to wear a purple boa with my red shirt. But, for Courtney, I soldiered on, now also equipped with a preprinted nametag reading “Loosy Goosey.”
Our limo arrived and our driver Mr. Gay (yes, Mr. Gay) helped us all in and
asked where we wanted to go. Amber was a woman with a plan; a plan, and a big thing of vodka. So off we went to a snazzy restaurant for pre-drink snacks and some opening cocktails. I of course wasn’t drinking because of my medication (though you’ll recall I had actually lost most of that during my plane puke-athon).
At the restaurant, Amber, who briefly studied the drink menu, decided to simply order “one of each.” This move filled me with just an inkling of
awe, mostly of the financial variety, but also because of her confident delivery.
It was like something out of a movie, or maybe Sex in the City. Courtney’s
bachelorette party veil, equipped with flashing phalluses of assorted colors
was by this point drawing many stares, mostly I think from people trying to
make out exactly what the flashing objects were. One woman actually stopped by our table to tell Courtney how adorable the veil was, but as she walked away she seemed to realize that, y’know, the veil was covered in penises, and she made the most priceless expression, sort of like she’d just stuck her hand down a garbage disposal and flipped the on switch. Drinking war stories were exchanged, snacks were consumed, and some crazy (very divorced) ladies in the bathroom kept yelling at Courtney to “Run! Run while you can!”
The next stop on Amber’s itinerary was a club which looked closed when
we arrived. Mr. Gay checked it out for us and reported that it was “Goth
night” and that it wouldn’t really be getting started for a while.
Now I was torn because on the one hand Goth night was something I figured I could handle, but on the other hand I didn’t relish the notion of walking into a Goth night with this group. It’s not that I feared the Goths, but just as I wouldn’t wear a clown suit to a funeral, I wouldn’t normally show up in a purple boa and trendy shoes to hang out with a bar full of Goths. Luckily for me the other girls were decidedly anti-Goth night and we decided to head elsewhere.
As we toodled around town looking for someplace promising we passed what appeared to be a dead man lying face down in the street. He was surrounded by firemen and the like and we tried to decide if this was some sort of bad omen. We stopped so one of the girls could find a bathroom and some random college boys outside a bar reported that the dead guy wasn’t so much dead as he was very, very drunk. Apparently he just sort of toppled over face first onto the pavement.
With the mood somewhat restored we headed in to use the restroom at a festive place whose name I have forgotten. It wasn’t a biker bar, but it was definitely less preppy than other places we went. Everyone downstairs was friendly but the bathrooms were upstairs in what seemed to be a more private area where we got colder, more incredulous stares. The bathroom itself was awesome. The outer door looked kind of like a port-a-potty or something, and the inside was covered in graffiti. I wouldn’t have minded staying at this bar, but the girls wanted to dance, so off we went to continue our search!
Back in the limo I had one of those terrifying moments where a seemingly small generation gap suddenly cracked open wide like the Grand Canyon. It was when all the girls were singing along with the radio, rocking out and having a great time. I was encouraged, nay, commanded to join in, but reluctantly had to decline because I only knew one per every dozen songs played. Luckily people were getting so drunk they probably didn’t much notice. Or they just figured I was totally lame. Which, y’know, I pretty much am. But still, the only thing worse than being the sober person at a bachelorette party is being the sober uncool person at a bachelorette party.
Looking for some excitement we headed for one of the local casinos, a huge place with a ceiling painted to look like the sky. Did we gamble? Nope! We went to the arcade, which was preparing to close, and played Dance Dance Revolution. If you’re not familiar with the game it involves dancing along to moves displayed on the screen. Courtney and Amber were making a pretty bad show of it when the arcade attendant offered to step in and show us how it’s done.
This was, without a doubt, the highlight of my entire evening. He put it on expert level and as It’s Raining Men blasted from the speakers he did the most amazing dance ever! It only got better when his little friend from the movie theater across the way joined him in the second DDR spot. The two were like a couple of pros, totally in sync with each other and the game as we all stood around laughing and cheering. Believe me; you had to be there to really understand what a perfect only-in-the-movies moment it was. After the DDR hijinks we decided nothing else in the casino could possibly compete, so we left in search of batteries for my digital and a new disposable camera for Amber.
After some brief stops the girls decided to keep Mr. Gay for an extra hour and
it was off to the final bar of the night (somewhere very college hormone meat-markety with “America” in the title). This was where the sober-drunk gap became most noticeable. I couldn’t dance because of my back and there
was nowhere to sit, so I stood at the side of the dance floor while the others
got their groove on. Let me tell ya’, nothing attracts young, virile, obnoxious college men like a group of drunken bachelorette party attendees. They swarmed en masse and proceeded to do some dirty dancing that woulda’
made Patrick Swayze proud. Courtney took time out to jump up by the DJ and pretend to play an electric guitar for a bit. The girl never ceases to amaze me. At one point an overly exuberant bridesmaid/horny college boy couple was so involved in their make-out session on the dance floor that when they literally fell into me knocking me backward onto the stairs, they never stopped to acknowledge it.
Camille (or as I like to think of her, The Empress of Georgia) and I left the
dance floor and she proceeded to have some of the most entertaining conversations with strange men I have ever witnessed. She was so smooth. One guy came up and wanted something, not sure if it was her or her feather boa, and she was like “No, you can’t have it” but then let him take one feather
with him. It’s all about the attitude and presentation, something I’ve
never been able to pull off. Case in point: One young man, who I fear took my
polite/awkward smile as an invitation, attempted to put the moves on me, but after I replied that, yes, I did in fact have a boyfriend he said, “Oh,
never mind,” and walked away. I had one other brief verbal encounter with
him later in the evening, but it didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Maybe
he’d begun speaking in code. Hmmm, maybe he was actually there to meet
a fellow secret agent and was trying to drop those little “The black dog
flies at midnight. Wear only yellow rain boots” contact lines. Or he was
As the night turned to early morning I found myself back near the front of the bar with Courtney, Camille and a man who I feel certain would proclaim himself to be 100% heterosexual. He kept telling Camille how faaaaaabulous
her boa was and then he’d offer (threaten?) to spank the three of us. He was finally kicked out after he fell off of his barstool for the third time in five minutes.
By this point I was beyond ready to bid the America Pub farewell, but that’s
an unfortunate side-effect of being 27, attached and sober. Oh, who am I kidding? I felt the same way when I was young, single and…still sober. Hmmm. Anyhoo, eventually bachelorette party victory was declared. We left, Mr. Gay dropped us back at the hotel and Larry came to pick us up. By about 3 a.m., after Amber and Camille had been shuttled home, Larry, Courtney and I arrived at our hotel and collapsed with the knowledge that in a few short hours we’d be braving that fearsome beast known as…the manicurist!]
Stay Tuned for
Wedding Weekend Recap Part 4
In which Larry is encouraged to take photos in a women’s restroom!