I should be able to get at least a couple of posts out of this wedding extravaganza!
Gentleman, I know there’s a fantasy element out there as to what you think girls do at bachelorette parties, but the reality is a little uglier and simpler than lingerie pillow fights.
Proceed with caution, your bubble may burst.
Here’s what really happens at bachelorette parties….
We get as cute as possible, but add things like silly hats and sashes. Put a bird on it!
We take an impossibly long time to order drinks, appetizers, and meals all the while suggesting that since it’s a bachelorette party, our incredibly tolerant waiter should probably strip for us.
We talk about boys/men, but we are generally not praising your girth, stamina, intelligence, manliness etc…
We demand drinks that aren’t on the menu. “What do you mean you can’t make a chocolate martini with chocolate syrup in it?!”
We get a little tippy, possibly lost, and weave a bit in our mass exodus to the bathroom.
We go in search of clove cigarettes because we don’t really smoke and smoking one or two cloves does not count. Sadly, the man behind the counter does not understand what we are asking for although we suspect he would sell us pot. We may not have been speaking in complete sentences.
We do not go to a strip club. While we like naked men, they look silly dancing and we are mostly trying not to laugh at them
We do not go to a strip club because our priority is to continue to drink in an environment that does not require bras or pants. Like…say…a cabin in a very empty state park.
We acknowledge that given the level of darkness, isolated cabin-ness, drunkenness and proximity to a lake, we have probably just signed on to be part of a slasher movie along the lines of Sleepaway Camp or Friday the 13th. Given the morality lessons of old school horror movies, we know that the most drunken slut will die first. Level of drunken sluttiness to be determined later.
We ordered $10 worth of wood to be delivered earlier in the day then make unending jokes about “wood” (read penis-just in case that was unclear) when we see how little that amounts to.
We stumble around in the dark and go on unnecessary missions to other parts of the campgrounds, but only in groups of 2-3. We’re not that dumb about horror movie rules.
In the process of removing bras and pants in favor of pajamas, we totally had an epic pillow fight and then everyone experimented with making out techniques. Happy, boys?
Not really. That was a lie.
We decide to use the fireplace rather than the fire pit- see logic of potential horror movie.
We put the resident pyromaniac in charge of setting shit on fire. (The carpet only caught on fire once. Success!)
Instead of fancy hors d’ oeuvres, we craft s’mores. We have fire, it involves chocolate and we’re drunk, all good.
We giggle as we hand off ridiculous lingerie to the bride because we know that boys are simple creatures who will be happy with anything that doesn’t look like granny panties so our gifts of tear away laciness will fuel fantasies for at least the first year of marriage.
We also gift the bride with “cute” realistic lingerie because red polka dots and simple camis are still just as effective as lace thongs.
The bride opts to layer said lingerie on her head and torso. We only asked her to wear a silly hat, anything beyond that is all her decision.
We play a dirty word game, at least one person falls asleep.
We realize it is late/early morning and half the party evacuates because they need to go to work in the morning or get up with small children. At least one person sleeps in her car.
We rally the remaining party goers because with our numbers cut in half, this makes us more susceptible to axe murderers.
At this point, we attempt to determine who the biggest slut is. Rules are established: penetration only, no need to count various make out sessions, blow jobs, or hickeys.
We have a conversation that sounds something like this:
“Uggghhhhh, what was his name?”
“Do I count it if he said that we didn’t do it, but I’m pretty sure we did?”
“What if there are repeats?”
“I cannot think of that name!”
“Oh mah God, oh, mah God, do you remember…?”
“Well, her number would be higher than mine, but she’s not here!”
“Who am I forgetting? That doesn’t seem like enough.”
“Are you using your toes now too?”
We determine that the bride is not the biggest slut, just gently used goods.
We can now go to sleep happy in our general lack of sluttiness that should protect us from morally righteous axe murderers.
We are up at 6 a.m. because there is a wedding to prep for!