First of all, I turned my squash into soup and I want you to know that it was fan-freakin-tastic so I’ve actually purchased another butternut squash to pulverize into liquid for tonight’s dinner. Second, wow. It’s been two and a half weeks? A lot happened. A lot. Oodles. I will now summarize for any interested parties who may or may not have attacked my Facebook wall with wails of rage over my lack of blog attention due to brides-slave duties and also doing someone else’s project at work. The only thing I’ll leave out is when I was almost attacked by zombies. That’s a story for another time.
So where did I leave off? Ah yes. The two-foot inflatable penis. It was implemented as it should have been. Meaning shortly before the bachelorette party guests began arriving at my hotel room to pregame, I sat around in my underwear watching Food Network and blowing it up. Then we posed with it and repeatedly tossed it at our token gay guy. Much joviality was had by all. After polishing off a bottle of vodka, all sixteen of us piled into the rickety old elevator (because it looked like a REALLY good idea at the time) and had a collective panic attack when it started jerking a bit and showing other signs of strain.
We stormed Sissy K’s (which will put you on the guest list, waive the cover charge, and let you skip ahead of the line if you call ahead for a bachelorette party reservation) and did all the things good little single ladies should do: threw back test tube shots, asked young gentlemen for their underwear for a scavenger hunt, danced so much our legs hurt for the next two days and handed out mardi gras beads. Oh. And I also may have almost gotten into a fist fight when some bitch shoved Chairsy, the bride, on the dance floor. But Chairsy is made of sugar and spice and everything nice so she didn’t even realize the girl had shoved her on purpose. She just kept on smiling and bopping along to the music while I got up in the chick’s face with that wide-armed you-messed-with-the-wrong-brides-maid stance but the bitch ran away so I didn’t get to throw punches after all.
Next we stumbled, skipped, and piggy backed over to the Grand Canal where we had another connection that allowed us to jump the line for free. Once inside we realized it was a pseudo classy bar which we were adulterating with our boisterous shouting and Chairsy’s loud complaints that the bartender didn’t know how to make a blow job shot. Then the night got fuzzy and I think I made friends with a hooker in the ladies’ bathroom. She looked like Bret Michaels in a gold lame mini dress and she was using the hand dryer to make her hair bigger. Love at first sight.
Eventually, the night wound down and our drunken bride began demanding her comfy shoes so we shuffled back to the parking garage to retrieve her Uggs from the trunk of her car but the thing about parking garages? Really tricky to get into when you’re drunk. The security guard yelled at us when we attempted to hoof it down the ramp meant for incoming vehicles. Finally we found a staircase which took us to the right place but the second we emerged from the stairwell, the door slammed shut and an ominous sign said “No Readmittance” which wouldn’t have stopped us except it also had the audacity to lock. Once Chairsy had appropriated the preferred footwear, we found an operating elevator and cheered and high fived all the way to the floor marked with a star. That floor ended up being the grand marble-clad lobby of 75 State Street where a gaggle of drunk girls wearing matching neon pink shirts look ever so slightly conspicuous at two in the morning. We certainly weren’t returning to the creepy depths of Mordor though, so instead, we attempted the front door which was locked and guarded by two police officers behind a line of yellow tape. So, um. I knocked. Politely. And then a little bit more insistently.
Eventually they overcame their surprise and opened the doors to yell at us as we scampered outside. After 10 or 15 seconds of trying to respectfully explain the stairwell situation to calm their belligerent scolding, we grew bored and Chairsy started to wander so I closed the conversation by yelling “Well, we’re outside now, so it’s a moot point, isn’t it, officer?” and followed the entourage down the street.
Shortly after, we parted ways so the bride could attack a McDonalds on the way to her own hotel. Apparently I know Boston better than I previously assumed because I found my way back to my hotel without incident and in celebration, purchased a large bag of snacks from the 711 next door. I then proceeded to stand on the street corner eating Combos from my purse while texting Beau.
I woke up relatively early the next morning in relatively good shape. I pulled down streamers and popped about thirty balloons with a pen to avoid getting charged for trashing the room before smuggling all of the remaining penis accoutrement in the bag that Chairsy left with me for safe keeping. Including a deflated two-foot wang.
No comments:
Post a Comment