#Rachelorette

Raise your hand if you have ever been to a bachelorette party.

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I have been to my fair share of bachelorette parties. Every bride-to-be has a vision of what they want to do. Party City has multiple aisles dedicated to this rite of passage and there are websites galore selling penis-shaped everything.

I am no prude, but my vision for my own bachelorette celebration was NOT that. And I felt the same exact way the first time around. Yep! Not my first rodeo kids. Don’t get me wrong…when our first friend got married in our early 20s, we threw her EXACTLY that kind of shindig. There was a game reminiscent of horseshoe, but instead of the stake to throw the rings around, it was a little more phallic. She was in a veil, we all wore necklaces with male genitalia and I somehow convinced an actual restaurant filled with regular people to allow a stripper to come in pretending to be a waiter mid-meal. It was glorious. And we really didn’t know any different since we were just cutting our bachelorette teeth.

In my case, one thing that did NOT change from the 1st time to the last, was the general game plan. I told my friends I did not want any of the following:

1) No penis straws

2) No flashing penis jewelry

3) No shirt blinged out with lifesavers that read “suck for a buck”

4) No veil, sash or tiara or any combo of the three (I did wear these things for my first one but I was also 26)

5) NO STRIPPERS. If there was any sign of a banana hammock, I’m out.

All I wanted was to have an amazing dinner (and lots of drinks) with my girlfriends.

I know the whole stripper thing is kind of like an obligatory motion, but I’m not interested. There is nothing attractive about a bedazzled banana hammock on a juiced-up guy with greasy hair staring at himself in the mirror while he perfects the pelvic thrust. It’s gross and makes me feel like I need to shower with a brillo pad and bleach. Also, having seen strippers and what they do with dollar bills, I now understand why money is so effing dirty. Keep it.

So me and my closest girlfriends, dating back to elementary school, had a true girls weekend. We went to Palm Beach, got a hotel room, made dinner reservations and spa appointments and ate our faces off (in between drinks). Everyone was also on different schedules so it was like a revolving door of awesomeness from hour to hour.

I drove with a friend and we kicked off the weekend with bloody marys and a nice light lunch consisting of mushrooms and grits, tuna avocado spring rolls, guac, seared scallops over parmesan quinoa cakes and probably something else I’m forgetting.

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Everything was primed for a great weekend. I got to the hotel with one girlfriend, got our keys and headed up to the room. Mother nature is a bitch so she completely ruined the beach/pool time I was envisioning, but my group is one who can have fun anywhere in any circumstance so I wasn’t too bummed. Plus we were already finding stupid excuses NOT to be in bathing suits so it worked out.

BeeTeeDubs, this is what I packed for 48 hours

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DAY ONE:

We barely made it into the foyer of our room when my girlfriend says. “Ummmm no, this room smells like mold. We are not staying here!”

Back downstairs we went to the front desk for a reassignment.

Get up to room #2 and are hit with a heat wave. The AC is on 78, we’re immediately sweating and call maintenance up to help, only to learn it’s unfixable and we need to move…again.

The front desk officially hates us and we have been there for less than 10 minutes.

Third room was a charm but you don’t mess with a bunch of hardworking women looking forward to some good old-fashioned lady debauchery sans kids, husbands, boyfriends and pets. Not a great first impression, especially for a pricy hotel on the beach.

My girlfriend headed downstairs to handle the situation and came back 5 minutes later with a $100 off each night and free breakfast for all of us. Leave it to the Jewish girls. (Don’t eff with my friends). #Winning.

As if the hotel didn’t hate us enough, now we needed about 50 more towels and like 800 of those impossibly small shampoos and conditioners and nobody wanted to call and ask. After shuffling around each other to get ready like we were living in a sorority house with a communal bathroom , we headed downstairs and added the bartender to the growing list of hotel staff who hated us. We are not a quiet group and we decimated his drink menu basically ordering “When Harry Met Sally” style removing and adding different things to the cocktails he carefully curated with his bartender prowess. We could not have been bigger pains in the asses. But I think we grew on him, because he delivered a round of free shots completely unprompted. And all of us fared well so they probably were not spiked with something out of spite.

After a mini photo session and early abuse of the #Rachelorette hashtag it was time to get this show on the road. Which meant lining up uber. I’m pretty sure the whole point of uber is to handle everything through the app itself, but another friend clearly needed some hand holding and called one of their offices. So uber pulls up and what are they driving? An effing minivan. Really?? Are they messing with us because we’re old and some of us are moms?

As we were driving in the swagger wagon, another girlfriend was tracking our progress on her iPhone in real-time and providing constant feedback to the driver about how he was going the wrong way (he was btw). Then there was a loud noise and the driver says to her “Ma’am…is everythink ok back there?”

“Yup, I just spilled some ice.” (By ice she means the remainder of her drink including the ice, lemon and straw).

Add him to the “people who hate us” list too.

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Phenomenal dinner, amazing company and still energy for drinks?!?! And if you’ve ever wondered the right way to end a meal – this is what it looks like.

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We ventured to the Breakers and if you’ve never been, it really is gorgeous. And I can sum up the vibe there with the opening conversation we had with a 26-year-old boy and his 36-year-old girlfriend.

Us: Where do you live?

Him: (as he brushes his ken-doll blonde hair away from his blue eyes): I live in Palm Beach half the year and Aspen half the year but I grew up in Hawaii and also spend some time in LA. How about you?

Me: I live in Boca…all the year.

Boom. Drops Mike. Exits stage.

We ended the night snuggling because that’s how we roll. And yes, my “pajamas” are yoga pants and a Wu-Tang Clan shirt. If ya don’t know…now ya know.

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DAY TWO:

The previous night was one for the books. My sides hurt from laughing and my head hurt from drinking. Both signs of a successful #Rachelorette. You know what’s not fun though? Waking up at 8am when you went to bed at 3am. You should never both fall asleep and wake up in the “AMs”.

I ambitiously bought gym clothes but that shit was not happening, let’s get real. There are only two logical things to do after a night like that and they’re called breakfast and a bloody mary.

We spent the day hanging in the overcast weather staring at an amazing beach view and rehashing the night, which is kind of the best part.

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Then it was time for massages. I love massages like a fat kid loves cake. We walked around the spa aimlessly because they apparently didn’t believe in signs and so everything was unmarked. And just like that, our suggestion to put some signs up grew our “people who hate us” list to one more.

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You know how you know it’s a good massage? When your masseuse wakes you up to flip over and you are completely incoherent, forget where you are for a minute and are drooling like a teething toddler. So that happened.

Dinner the next night was much more low-key. I loved the lunch spot from Friday so much that we actually went back.

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Another friend starting showing me video clips from different hot spots in the area to decide where we might go after dinner. It’s like they were having a contest of which one could have the most douchebags raving with glowsticks dancing to house music (I literally have nightmares that start like that). Halfway through dinner, I was so afraid everyone would want to go out again and my 38-year-old ass wanted none of it.

I turned to my best friend (who made it very clear we were not leaving without ice cream) and said,

“I don’t want to go out. I really just want to get ice cream, go back to the hotel, take my bra off, put on my pajamas and hang out until we go to bed.” I was a little bit nervous about how she’d respond even though I thought she might be on the same level as me.

She looked at me and said,

“I EFFING LOVE YOU SO MUCH” (Just one of the many reasons we are biffles)

So, that’s what we did and it was PERFECT.

I wrapped up the weekend walking the beach for almost an hour and having breakfast with my person.

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It could not have been better. I have the best girlfriends ever. They’re smart, funny, always a good time, and one is more gorgeous than the next. Wait…am I the DUFF!?!?!?

Almost as quickly as it began, the weekend was over and it was back to reality – which for me included coming home to my money pit, where SLS had officially moved in – and having a mini meltdown over his qtips crowding my bathroom drawer. But that’s a WHOLE blog in itself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

One thought on “#Rachelorette

  1. Pingback: The Qtip Incident | Whine and Cheez (Its)

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