The Mystery of the Bachelorette Party

This weekend, I will schlep my big, white arse down to West Palm, Florida for a bachelorette weekend.   My long-time friend, Miss Sarah Lee Rose is tying the knot in October and nothing says “I do” more than a weekend of celebrated singleness and debauchery.

Ah, the bachelorette party.   Often overlooked in the shadow of the mighty Bachelor Party, the Bachelorette Party is a powerful thing.   Never underestimate the power of a group of women in stillettos hunting for free drinks and someone to lick whip cream off of the bride-to-be’s chest.   That’s a force to be reckoned with.   Much more powerful than, say, a group of drunken slobs who pass out between someone named Sugar and the stripper pole.

But I have to say, bachelorette parties are a bit scary to me since I’ve been married.   Not scary in the sense that I fear them, but scary in the way the first day of school is scary – I just don’t know where to go or what to do.   As a married person, you tend to avoid situations involving any combination of cosmopolitans, mini-skirts, and large numbers of single men.   Although, when you put it that way, I have to wonder WHY anyone would avoid those situations cause it sound pretty fantastic to me…   Nevertheless, I don’t have much experience with bachelorette parties since I’ve been married, which leaves me oddly uncomfortable about this weekend.

And, as usual, it all hinges on my wardrobe.   I can’t find a thing to wear, and I have bought half the retail merchandise in the tri-state area in the past few weeks.   All I need is a “sundress” for a surprise event on Friday (which I cannot divulge here because said bride-to-be is a devoted fan of this humble blog…) and I need a little black dress for Saturday’s big night out.   SaturDAY is not really an issue because we’ll be at the pool in bathing suits, so I should be sufficiently humiliated sitting next to all those tan Florida girls.   I don’t really need to purchase anything for that kind of nightmare. I can pretty much embarrass myself in any ol’ bathing suit.

But the dresses – DAMN THE DRESSES!   I either look like I’m going to church or like I’m going to work the corner of 4th and Palafox Streets.   I decided to go with the church look, but dress it up with some funky heels or jewelry.   Now, I just look like one of those crazy, old ladies who sit in the front pew every Sunday with a big feathered hat.   The kind of person who makes you wonder, “Doesn’t anyone love that poor person enough to tell her how ridiculous she looks?”   I have this gorgeous, black slip dress from Banana Republic (…sigh…how I miss my relationship with Banana Republic, which has tragically been replaced by my relationship with Home Depot).   So I bought these really stylish deep purple, kind of shiny, very high heels to wear with them and a big chunky gold necklace.   I look like I should be at a Mardi Gras parade.   Actually, I look like I should be IN the Mardi Gras parade.

And I bought this other dress for Friday night.   Its black and white and makes me look like…what was the word Chris used???…cheap slut.   Oh, that’s right.   It makes me look like a cheap slut.

So those are my two choices.   I can either look like an insane Sunday School teacher at a Mardi Gras parade or I can look like a cheap slut (thank you, Chris).

Life is full of complicated decisions