Tuesday, September 24, 2013

It's Like Dirty Dancing, but Instead of Putting Baby in a Corner, They Drop Her on Her Head

For those of you unprepared for a sequel, this is part two of what happens at a bachelorette party is not admissible as evidence of ANYTHING in a court of law...as long as you have a good attorney.

(This post is a tad long and for that I apologize, but I am recording this tale not only for you, my dear readers, but for the sake of posterity. For many millennia to come, parents will be telling this story to their children before bed. Actually, that is a terrible idea. Parents of the future, please don’t relay this story to your little ones, ever. Probably don’t tell it to anyone, okay?)

(Also, the font and spacing of this post are completely screwed up and it's giving me seven kinds of anxiety but there's nothing I can do about it so we're all just going to have to deal with it, okay?)

As I mentioned at the end of part one, there is not much I can say about day two (mainly because my attorney told me not to).  I can assure you this. Shenanigans were had. There was lingerie. And there were books about...there were books. And games. And cookies that were most definitely not shaped like body parts.

The night started out innocently enough.  We went to Dirty Harry's and sang along and danced to the live band. Everything was going famously until this couple squeezed their way to the front of the stage. There was zero room for them because there was 11 of us ALREADY DANCING THERE.

I have little tolerance for people who violate the most sacred rule of dancing: “This is my dancing space. That is your dancing space.” But being the nature adult that I am, I took a deep breath...and began dancing like a spaz with the occasional totally accidental body check. Despite my best efforts at being obnoxious, the couple refused to move so we begrudgingly made our way down the dance floor.

The good news was that we were that much closer to the bar...and our animal print soul mates, the bachelor party! 

I know 19 beer infused bachelor-partying guys sounds like a testosterone fueled nightmare, but several times, we fair and delicate maidens marveled at just how gallant they were.

Okay, gallant might be a bit of any exaggeration, but they were a far cry from the boys of our college days.

Case in point?

One of the guys dropped a beer bottle and it shattered. After first checking to make sure all of us delicate creatures were okay, they swiftly cleaned up the mess and broken glass. I don't actually remember seeing brooms or paper towels, or recall them brushing glass away with their feet. I just remember lots of frenetic movements and suddenly everything was neat and tidy (which maybe means they weren't so much gallant as they were...wizards?). 

Compare that experience to college, where, not only did beer bottles shatter around you with little regard to your care, but beer was actually thrown in your face when the guy you were dancing with body checked a girl who got pissed and threw her drink at him and thanks to her shitty aim, connected with you instead. And how did your dance partner respond to this act of wayward rage? By picking you up, tossing you over his shoulder, and running around the dance floor like a caveman who's just killed a water buffalo, of course.

Unfortunately, even the chivalry of gallant men has its limits. Like when it comes to stealing their bras.

Remember when I wrote how I almost bit a stranger for safeguarding the bra of his brother? This is that story! 

But first, I think I should introduce the cast of characters. Yes, there were 19 of them, but only five had a starring role. I made up names for them, because fake names are fun and also I don’t remember their real names. (However, might I suggest to the friends and families of these fellas that they start calling their dear loved ones by these most fine names?)

There was…

The Bachelor – the superhero, who stood with his hands on his hips and a proudly puffed chest, emblazoned with a hot pink “B”, as in Bra, of course.

Robin –the oldest brother, known as the consummate best friend and all-around good guy.

Wolverine (the bra-defending brother) - so named for his ability to tear flesh from limb.

Goose- the shy guy who possessed a quiet confidence that made you think he'd be capable of, I don't know, flying fighter jets (without the tragic ending).

Stretch (as in Armstrong) - who was particularly bendy and flippy and made all of the delicate creatures need two Aleve and an ice pack for our joints just watching his feats of flexibility. 

Now that we got that out of the way, it is time to tell the tale of a wee lass who slayed the dragon and incurred the wrath of Wolverine. You see, The Bachelor was wearing a bra over his clothes because of course he was. He was very protective of this bra, which naturally made The Girls want to steal it. So we devised a cunning and brilliant plan which consisted of me distracting him by dancing with him, while a couple of the girls unhooked his bra and removed it from his chest with him none the wiser (because he’d be so enamored and/or distracted by my awesome/and or utterly confusing dance moves).

The plan was genius, I tell you. Genius.

There was just one thing we didn’t account for…The Bachelor was quite the slippery little sucker and had some spastic dance moves of his own. And also, the bra seemed to be welded shut. 

I absolutely despise when a plan goes awry, so I took matters into my own hands, literally. I wrapped my arms around him in a boa constrictor-like grip, grit my teeth in determination and … un … hooked … his … bra!

I waved it above my head and jumped about with the triumph of one who has just made Mt. Everest her bitch.

You know the saying pride cometh before the fall? Well, I literally fell to the ground when Wolverine grabbed my wrist. We engaged in a tug of war over the bra. His death grip became increasingly hurty to my delicate little bones, but I didn’t want to let go because I hate giving in and also because the sweet taste of victory was still fresh on my lips. My only option was to bite him. I opened my mouth, unhinged my jaw and got ready to chow down. But I stopped just in time, partly because I remembered that assaulting fellow human beings is frowned upon by the law, but mainly because I was afraid Wolverine might have skin bugs, or something, and I most definitely did not want to ingest those.

With my shoulders sagging in defeat, and my captured hand turning blue, I released the bra and Wolverine released his grip. I woefully rubbed my wrist and cried, “My poor hurt wrist! Why would you do such a terrible thing to such a tiny girl?”

Wolverine was instantly apologetic, but it was too late. Seeing my distress, The Bachelorette (who is one delicate creature you most definitely do not want to mess with) punched Wolverine in the kidney. I could tell it hurt by the way the color drained from his face and how he clutched his back and was all, "Wow, you punch hard." And I was all, "That wasn't me." 

He said, "Oh," but it came out all strangled sounding and he looked like he was going to pass out. I could practically see the darkness descend. Robin, Goose, and Stretch kept asking me if I was ok and I was all, "Really I'm fine. It didn't hurt that badly. I'm just starved for attention. If you want to worry about someone, you should keep an eye on your friend over here. He's about to cough up blood."

Later, Wolverine (a.k.a. the guy in need of a new kidney) attempted to redeem himself by standing several feet away from me and holding out his arms. "You know that scene from Dirty Dancing?” he said. “Run to me and jump and I'll lift you over my head." 

I was all, "That sounds swell. Almost as swell as me bashing my head on the ground, which is what's going to happen when the lift goes horribly wrong."

(Everyone knows the first place you practice lifts is in the water.)

Needless to say, I passed on the offer to be Baby. But I suppose it would be a fun memory to come back to that spot a year later and be all, "Hey see that stain? That's blood from my head." 

So that's it. That's ALL that happened.

Okay, maybe I gave more relationship-type advice to guys in bars, and maybe we almost got in a fight with another bachelorette party for stealing my friend's veil. 

And maybe, after 4,000 bendy dance moves, Stretch paused a moment and said to me, "Are you those girls from the boat?"

And maybe I responded…

And maybe I didn't actually say that because I would never use such unlady-like language. 

And maybe we forgave him for not remembering the hottest gaggle of girls to ever don animal print because it is common knowledge that those known for their powers of stretchiness cannot also be known for their powers of observation. 

Maybe all of those things happened.

But probably we were home and tucked in bed long before midnight while visions of sugarplums and cookies (that were most definitely not shaped like body parts) danced in our heads.

Whoa! Susannah (Formerly Write, Rinse, Repeat): Well, this is epic. The last bachelorette party I attended included a blow up doll named Pedro. I learned that Dennys doesn't allow blow up dolls in their establishment at 3 am. I learned the hard way. And Key West. All I remember from that trip are a lot of stray cats. I think they were all decendents of Ernest Hemmingways cats. I think.

Thursday, September 12, 2013

What Happens at a Bachelorette Party is not Admissable as Evidence of ANYTHING in a Court of Law...As Long As You Have a Good Attorney.

Once upon a time a boy proposed to a girl. The girl said yes and several months later she and a bunch of her friends went down to Key West for an epic bachelorette party weekend. We all know that 99% of what happens at a bachelorette party stays stored under lock and key in the minds of the fair ladies who attend. But some things are suitable to share, so here is our tale...

Like most good parties, this one started with a theme. Our bachelorette was a particularity wild little thing so it seemed only fitting that we were instructed to "get wild" and by that I mean, "wear animal print." We all remember from C's bachelorette party how challenging it is for me to find suitably themed attire, so I was not optimistic as I began my quest.

Unfortunately, the year was not 2002 when I was a college sophomore with a closet full of animal print. Tiger shirts, zebra skirts. You name it, I had it. My absolute favorite in all things big cat was a pair of leopard print pants so tight it looked like the spots had actually been painted on my legs. My favorite thing to pair it with was a black backless shirt.  

I still have that shirt that I keep in a drawer I like to call, "what were you thinking?"  

After trying on every animal print shirt I could find from the abysmal selection of my depressing mall, I finally settled on a shirt with a pleather tipped collar. I know you're thinking it can't get any better than pleather...but this shirt? Was also backless. And shear.  

I know, I know, ladies. You're totally jealous, but this shirt is mine. MINE! 

Due to its shearness, I couldn't just free-boob it like I did in my college days. I wore a black bra that I couldn't be bothered to cut the tags off of so they hung down my back, which we all know is not only classy but super sexy.  

The first official order of business was a sunset cruise, or as some people like to call it, a booze cruise. "Some people" being not us, though, because we are grown ups. Grown ups do not booze, they sip on a margarita...or four...ish. 

We boarded the boat and claimed our table. I felt so excited for all the other seafarers who were about to have their boat, and world, rocked by the awesome that is us. 

No good story is complete without a knight in shining armor...or in this case 19. A bachelor party had taken over the dock across from us and were waiting for their own "sunset cruise." (No boozing for that group, I'm sure.)

Several members of the bachelor party had on leopard shirts (mixed with some sort of awful floral print that I hesitate to recall too vividly lest I go blind at the memory) and since we all had on animal print we were all, "Awww, their bachelor party is the soul mate to our bachelorette party."

As the boys were waiting to board their boat, my friends T and A and I naturally began evaluating their looks, cuz we're fourteen and rating their level of cuteness on a scale of one (being ew, no) to ten (being, like, totally hot).

One guy kept trying to stand on his head, which made me seven kinds of anxious. No one else seemed to be concerned that it was a very narrow dock, and he was intoxicated, and his head standing ability wasn't so much bad as it was awful. I worried the non-existent pearls around my neck while screaming, "Someone stop that man! He's a hazard to himself." No one heeded my cries, probably because the screaming only occurred inside my head cuz no one like a hysterical woman.

At the conclusion of the cruise, the bachelorette party planners divided us into two teams and handed us laminated cards with a list of scavenger hunt items – bachelorette style. Our tasks consisted of completely innocent acts like, “find a guy with the same name as the groom”, and “take a picture with a drag queen.”

I instantly put my game face on, complete with crazy, intense eyes, and got ready to destroy the other team. It's not so much that I'm competitive, it's more that I approach competition with a "if you stand in the way of me winning, I will cut you" attitude.

Our teammates and I were quickly crossing items off our list, and it was time for me to have a cartwheel off with a  guy. The rules were quite simple. You and your competitor see who can do the most cartwheels. If you win, then you get points for completing the task. Losing WAS NOT an option, and, well, what I did next I wouldn't exactly call cheating...more like creative winning.

Basically I told the guy, "Look, I'm in a competition with you. But my team, The Golden Girls (so named for our advanced age of older than 28), is in competition with those young whippersnappers over there and we HAVE to win. So here's what's going to happen. You are going to do one cartwheel and I will do two. Which means I will win and get four points for my team. Yay me."

And he was all, "But I can do lots of cartwheels."


The competition began. He did a cartwheel and I did two. Then he did another one and I shanked him in the kidney, so I had to do another.

After every one I did, I jumped up and down and clapped my hands with pride and glee as though I had just walked on the moon and not just thrice rubbed my hands all over a sidewalk where drunks and druggies had pissed, and spit, and puked, and only the good Lord knows what else.

This obnoxious celebration was captured on video. I watched it several times that night and every time I did, I wondered how exactly it is that I have any friends. Please don't view this as a personal affront to my self-esteem, but if someone were to lock me in the closet for the rest of my life, only to be let out on holidays and Champagne Thursdays, they would be doing the world a favor.

We continued on with our tasks, like asking guys for a business card. When they said, no, we'd follow it up with, “Do you have handcuffs?” Which always led to a bewildered look followed by a promise to make handcuffs appear (out of thin air, I assume).  We decided our best source of handcuffs was a police officer which should be easy enough to find since it's after midnight...in Key West...on Duvall Street.

We found ourselves a lovely pair of officers but they were all arms crossed, frowny faced, Imma taze you, bro.  We were a wee bit nervous to approach them and be all, "Excuse me, big strong bulging men of the law, but can we borrow your handcuffs for a sec?"

My friend, D, suggested that instead of asking them for their handcuffs we should just do something to get arrested...and then the whole handcuff thing would logically follow.

It sounds absurd in the non-Key West light of day, but I'm not going to lie. D and I considered it as a legitimate option for at least a full minute. 

Soon our group was scattered on both sides of Duvall. Some of us were dodging traffic, others of us were doing dodgy things in dark alleyways (more cartwheels, people.). It was a mess. We managed to get everyone over to Rick's (which is a club/bar/hotbed of debauchery), which was nothing short of a miracle. Getting 11 girls anywhere at the same time is like herding cats (all that sipping goes straight to our silly little heads).

I ran into my cartwheel buddy at Rick’s and we start talking about his wife and his life and his kids. He looked like a sad little puppy and I found out that this wife wasn't with him because they are "having problems." Like the trained therapist I am not, I proceeded to give marriage advice. 

Because, Random Stranger + Key West Bar + 3 Mango Martinis = Of Course Marriage Advice.

Me: Nooo you can't have problems. You love her. She is your high school sweetheart. You have to stay together for-ev-er.

I was very concerned because I am a kind and generous soul. I kept counseling him until my friends were all, "group picture time!" and I was all, "see ya!"

I don't claim to be a mind reader, but I was pretty sure he was glad when I left and he was once again alone with his piƱa colada.

All good things must come to an end and soon it was time for us to return back to our cottage. Which was exactly what everyone did, except for me, K, and D who decided we must absolutely find a drag queen…and then promptly got distracted by the music at Fat Tuesdays where D taught me to angry pigeon dance and my life was forever changed.

Stay tuned for day two of the party. Most of the details of that day are locked within a vault that has been tossed out to sea, never to be found again. But there are bits and pieces that can be shared...some of which may or may not involve the return of the bachelor party.

Comment gem!

abi: Why was there no fat-thighed baby photo in this post?!