Tag Archives: Bachelorette

South Beach Bachelorettes

Thursday, July 28, 2016

I’m currently on my flight home from Miami. Slightly bruised, extremely sunburned, but not terribly hungover because y’all know my old ass didn’t make it out on night three. Again. I haven’t had any time to blog, so this one is going to cover a lot of ground. Let’s start at the beginning…

I awoke at 4am Thursday morning and immediately knew something was off. I think it was my inability to open my left eye that gave it away. I went to the bathroom and made the mistake of looking in the mirror, where I saw that my eye was more swollen than Chris Brown’s punching bag. Super. I grabbed a cold wash cloth, put it on my face and went back to bed. Later that morning I went for a run, at which point someone literally pulled their dog away from my general direction at the sight of my Cyclops face. Excellent. Sadly this is not the first time this exact thing has happened. So in addition to my hip issues and notoriously weak ankles, I now apparently suffer from intermittent fat-eye. Thirties suck. I spent the rest of the morning icing my face and then I was off to the airport for a relatively normal flight across the country, with a few notable exceptions:

Fat eye
My fat eye

1. The dude who passed his time waiting to board the plane by mowing down an entire whole cucumber faster than a little asian man in a hot dog eating contest. I’ve never seen anything like it. He took it down like a champ. Makes me wonder about his social life. Does a cucumber really do anything to stave off hunger? I would imagine it would quench your thirst more than anything. Regardless, I took a picture of it for your viewing pleasure.

2. The bachelorette party of about seven girls who had an entire ten minute pre-boarding conversation in which they solely discussed their hatred for flip flops and their refusal to wear anything but heels. I was slightly shocked by this, because to me, an entire life in heels is no life at all. My general goal in life is to avoid shoes as much as possible. A point that my pedicurist can surely attest to. They were also in full Kardashian level make-up for their cross country flight. Girls like this need to chill the fuck out. You’re really making me look bad in my Old Navy yoga pants and cracked rainbows. I’m not even sure I brushed my hair. My faith in the female gender was somewhat restored, however, when they started slamming down mini wine bottles for the duration of the flight. So I guess they grew on me.

3. Some chick I don’t know who didn’t make it to the bachelorette party apparently took EXTREME offense to my portrayal of her in my pre-trip blog. And then her sister called me #classless on facebook. I’m wiping away the tears as I type. I don’t have issues with people hating my blog. I actually kind of love it. I have about 14 readers, so I say the more the merrier. What I have an issue with is the inane logic behind getting mad that someone wrote something about you when (1) they don’t know you and never will, (2) none of her blog readers know and never will, and (3) you were not even named in the blog. You then go on facebook and literally OUT YOURSELF. Now, normally I would have zero fucks because this kind of drama is irrelevant. The only reason this is pertinent to the story is because I am now on a bachelorette party with all of her friends who are giving me major side eye. Luckily I’m on vacation. And how many fucks does vacation Rory give? Say it with me people – zero. Thank you, though, for upping my blog stats.

4. Upon checking in 2 minutes after online check-in had commenced, I was rewarded for my promptness with boarding group 3. What the fuck, Delta? As an avid traveler, I live in perpetual fear of the forced gate check. Half way through boarding group 2 they began making every single person gate their bag due to lack of overhead space. By this point I’ve already had to sit through a man essentially fornicating with an cucumber and “the meal-girls guide to air travel fashion” (on plane’s we wear pink), so I conceded and waved goodbye to my bag as they carried it away. Upon boarding, I was welcomed by a vast expanse of COMPLETELY OPEN OVERHEAD COMPARTMENTS. I’m talking like fifty percent open here, people. In case you are wondering how this could get more annoying…my Xanax is in my bag which is now securely under the fucking plane. I about lost my shit until I saw they had Miracle as a movie option. Nothing like Disney and an underdog to lift my spirits.

My flight was on time and my bag was off the plane quickly. Delta’s gate crew may have screwed the pooch during boarding, but their baggage crew apparently has their shit together. I’ll call this one a draw. I took an uber to the hotel where the girls who had already arrived were getting ready. Naturally I started slamming vodka shots. You know, to catch up. I’m pretty sure the only person I was catching up with was my inner alcoholic, but that’s neither here nor there. We all got dressed and hopped in some ubers to Little Havana for a night of dinner, drinks and salsa dancing.  Andrew had arrived earlier and set up balloons and big cardboard cutouts of Ashley around the table. It was pretty fucking cute. The vodka soda’s started flowing. I may be in Little Havana, but it’s always Little Moscow when Rory is at the bar. We did some salsa dancing lessons. But you have to keep your arms up the entire time and mine got tired, so I lost interested and went back to my drink. Nothing too crazy happened, and thank god, because we had quite the day in store for us tomorrow….

Friday, July 29, 2016

It’s BOAT DAY! Drew and I headed out early before the rest of the group to provision for the boat. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times, never underestimate the importance of provisioning. It is the key to any successful party. And when on a boat, it’s importance increases tenfold. Drew’s grand plan was to make burgers for lunch, despite the boat we chartered not having a BBQ. When I asked him his plans to actually cook the burgers, he looked at me like I was a moron and said “in a pan”. So I am now instituting rule #2 of provisioning – don’t let the vegetarian plan meals for carnivores. Bless his heart. We meet the girls down at the dock, load up the boat and our captain begins the safety briefing. Rule #1 – don’t fall off the boat. Rule #2 – don’t be white girl wasted if rolling past coast guard, and rule #3 – do your hard drugs inside. Apparently rule #3 is necessary because WE IN MIAMI, BITCH! At this point I safety assumed that there were no rules beyond “don’t die”, and I knew it was going to be quite the day. We set sail and popped the champs. I decided to stick to old faithful and hit the vodka shots. Vodka shots to the face on a boat always make me so nostalgic for yacht week. Except today we actually had ice.

Our plan was to sail out to an island where everyone drops anchor and parties. One our way we passed by Gloria Estefan’s house. I begged the captain to stop, but apparently nautical trespassing is a no-no. Once we made it to the island I couldn’t help but noticing some men riding around on jet skis. So I went out to the back of the boat, waved down one of the gentleman, and was jetting off with a stranger before the Captain had even dropped anchor. Do me a favor – go get a dictionary. Look up the word “efficiency”. You should see my smug face looking back at you. The rest of the afternoon went a little something like this: floaties in the ocean, shots, lunch on the boat, shots, jumping of the second level of the boat, shots, more jet skis.

I found a nice bachelor party who had also chartered a boat for the day. I somehow always manage to find a bachelor party who wants to shower my bachelorette group with free shit. Remember the free boat in Cabo for Jen’s bachelorette? There was also the free…well, everything, in Vegas for Suzanne’s bachelorette. Now free jet ski rides. I must say, it’s not the worst skill to have. The boys’ boat came with jet skis, so I commandeered another ride. This time I came pretty damn close to talking this guy into taking me to Gloria’s house. I could see he was tempted, but then good judgement sneaked in and ruined all my plans. We went aboard to do some shots, at which point I kindly requested that we take the jet skis and return to my boat to give the other girls some rides. They obliged. And I grabbed a handle of Titos on my way off their boat. Trust me when I tell you there is nothing worse than running out of vodka while at sea. Jet ski rides, swimming, drinking, repeat ensued until it was time to head home.

By this point everyone was smashed. I’m talking sloppy drunk. It was a beautiful thing. Until it came time to pack up all our shit and get the hell of the boat. That was quite the endeavor. Andrew drunkenly lost his shit, threw his watch at my head and then stormed off the boat, disappearing for a large portion of the rest of the night. But he had his phone and is a grown ass man, so while worried, I figured he would get his land legs make it home eventually. The rest of us piled in some ubers and headed back to the hotel. A few of the girls went to the free open bar at the hotel. I took my drink in the shower (because I’m #classless and #efficient). We missed dinner, and with our fearless leader Andrew no where to be found, we also didn’t know what club we were set up to go to, or what promoter to contact to find out. But don’t you worry, we regrouped.  We pushed the reservation an hour and somehow got our shit together and made it to the restaurant. Looking pretty damn good if I do say so myself. I even curled my fucked hair. I can rarely muster the energy to do that when sober.

group dinner...sorry the lighting sucks
group dinner…sorry the lighting sucks

About halfway through dinner we look up to see drunk ass Drew approach our table, where he said in a Freddy Kruger voice, “having fun?”  If you are confused right now, you should be.  Let me explain to you the drunk logic here.  After attacking me with wrist jewelry and disappearing off the dock, it was my fault that Drew had gotten left behind.  Makes perfect sense, I know.  Not to worry, I have a fucking PhD in how to deal with a drunk Drew (it really is an art), and so we squashed it and soldiered on.  We went to a club where we were supposed to get a free bottle but didn’t.  And it was basically filled with big groups of vagina.  So we bounced.  After that the group split up a bit and went in different directions.  I went back to the hotel to go to bed.  You all know day to night drinking has never been my strong suit.  I saw my opening and I took it.  Best to leave the late night partying to the youngins.  I believe a group of the other ladies hit the hotel pool after-hours and some skinny dipping may have been involved.  Can’t say for sure…I was asleep.  Tomorrow the sun comes out, so I get drunk again.  Stay tuned.

Miami Vice or Miami Nice?

It’s been about a month, so obviously it’s time for another Bachelorette party!  I know you all are probably wondering what the hell happened in Cabo, after the blog’s rather abrupt decent into silence.  Well, the grand finale consisted of me curled up like a little burrito around the toilet in my hotel bathroom, praying to any Mexican god who would listen to get me back to the USA.  Apparently my commitment to this blog doesn’t reach past hangovers.  Sue me, I have a day a job.   And I’m old.  You know that Toby Keith song that goes “I ain’t as good as I once was, but I’m as good once, as I ever was”.  That’s me.  But I’m referring to partying.  Toby might have been referring to sex, I’m not totally sure.  In my defense, that song was before he got weird and started burning Dixie Chick’s CD’s in protest.  But I digress…

This time I am off to Miami, for a weekend filled with great potential.  Why potential and not guaranteed craziness?  Well, out of our group of 13, I know 4 people, so I am not entirely sure what to expect.  Might we take a hard left into rachetville a la Will Smith (bienvenidos a Miami)? One can only hope.  However, if this becomes more of a Gloria Estefan “turn the beat around” kind of affair, you were warned.  The only thing I can assure you of is numerous references to that damn Will Smith song.  Because I just fucking love it.  And I’ve never been to Miami, so I’m secretly hoping it is exactly like his music video.

Since it’s virtually impossible for me to write a blog without a list, let’s put all the factors of this weekend into a score card and see if we end up with a weekend of Vices or Nices:

1.Host: Andrew Boston.  Not only is my little brother going, he planned the entire bachelorette.  His cousin, Ashley, is the bride.  (She is my step cousin for those of you who are not familiar with the family tree and confused right now).  The one parent that we do share, however, is the one we inherited our penchant for alcohol from.  So wherever the Bostons go, fun is bound to follow.  Although bouncers and police officers might follow as well.  As followers of my blog, I’m sure I can count on you all for bail money, right?  Point: Vice

2.  Bride:  Ashley definitely has the ability to turn up, probably more so than any of the other brides I’ve bacheloretted with this year.  But you know, once these chicks get the ring, they tend to tap into their inner wifey immediately.  Basically, they become boring.  One Boring Ring to Rule them All.  Yes, that was my best attempt at a Lord of the Rings reference.  I can’t explain this phenomenon, I can only tell you that I’ve seen it happen.  The good news is that they will often come out of retirement everyone so often and show us the ghost of fun times’s past.   My money is on Ashley bringing out the big guns this weekend.  If she’s not yelling “whoooo! Shots!” by 10pm tonight, I will have failed.  Point: Vice

3. Events:  Leave it to Andrew to plan about 70% of the events this weekend with an open bar.  I am literally looking at an itinerary where half the items include all-you-can-drink.  It’s scheduled by the hour, which makes me feel like I’m going to a boozy summer camp.  And I fucking loved summer camp.  This is going to be a marathon.  But like when Kenyans run a marathon and actually sprint the whole time.  Or maybe even one of those ultra marathons where your organs shut down and you shit yourself uncontrollably.  God I hope I can avoid that this weekend.  Point: Vice.

The itinerary…I shit you not

4. Location:  “Party in the city where the heat is on.  All night on the beach til the break of dawn.”  I’m not really sure what I can say here that Will Smith hasn’t already said far more eloquently – and in rhymed prose.  Point: Vice.

5. Bachelorettes:  Other than the basic who backed out the day before the bachelorette party (literally), I have high hopes.  And really, I can’t even be mad about people bitching out last minute.  That is natural selection at work.  I guarantee you that girl wasn’t going to be any fun.  Because fun people prioritize party weekends appropriately.  It also bodes well that I am the oldest bitch on this trip…by a few years.  So we can assume that my maturity level will be on part with the rest of the group.  Let’s be honest here,  I talk a big game, but I’ll be spending night #3 puking in the bathroom again regardless of what the other ladies bring to the table.  Point: Vice 

Well look at that.  I guess what we have here is a slam dunk shit show.  I don’t know why I ever doubted it.  In other random news; I woke up this morning with a swollen eye.  So if it doesn’t go down I might have to change my theme song to “Monster Mash”.  Or Beyonce’s “I woke up like this”.   At least I have options.

Shots and Yachts in Cabo San Lucas

Friday, June 10, 2016

I’ve had my fair share of crazy times in Mexico, but this one just might take the cake. I’m honestly not even sure were to start. Mimosas at 10am followed by Vodka shots at 11am is probably the best place to begin this ratchet tale of international debauchery. Our plan was innocent enough: a nice boozy lunch at the Mango Deck, followed by some beach time, then naps to recover and out to a fancy dinner. Ha! In our defense we at least made it to the Mango Deck, so 1 out of 4 ain’t bad.

Cabo 1

Suzanne woke up at 8am for some ungodly reason and went down to the market to get champs and eggs. Mainly because she knows I get cranky if I have to start a day of vacation without either of those things. Mimosas quickly turned into group tequila shots (vodka for me, of course) and we were off to the Mango Deck at noon in our friendly neighborhood big green taxi van. Ah, the Mango Deck, how I love you. For those of you who don’t know, the Mango Deck is the better of two big bars on the main beach in Cabo San Lucas. They do two-for-one drinks pretty much all day, and even graciously host wet t-shirt contests for a little afternoon entertainment. Quesadillas and tits on the beach is always a recipe for a good time. We sat down and immediately ordered a round of shots, drinks and guacamole. The holy trinity of bachelorette parties. Our waiter was a nice guy named Hugo who had the abs of a greek god and hustled to bring me chilled vodka on command. What more could a gal ask for? We made Jenn do some games on stage that did not require her to remove her clothing, like bobbing for beers in ice water. She killed it. No one wants to see our old tits flopping around up there anyway. So you’re welcome, Cabo.

The early afternoon went a little something like this: shots, drinks, repeat. We met a boring bachelor party who looked like they were generally terrified of women. You know the guys I’m talking about – the ones who immediately inform you that they are married if you glance in their general direction. Chill out dudes, I just asked who the groom was. And for the record, he was on the golf course. Because apparently he would rather golf by himself than party on a beach with his friends at his own bachelor party. It was clear we would need some new party companions, however these boys would have to suffice for the time being.

Some nice woman was selling headbands with funny sayings on them. For some reason I opted for one that read “Baby Dick” because I thought it was hilarious. Hopefully that gives you some idea for my mental state at this point in the day. I then made the executive decision that it was banana boat time. As two of the girls in our group are braving Mexico with broken bones, we grabbed a few of the lame ass bachelors to fill the extra spots and off we went! Pictures of the drunken banana boat below for your viewing pleasure.

And this is where the day takes a hard left to crazy town. While in the process of moving from a table to some beach chairs, a boy came up to us and uttered the most beautiful words in the English language: “DO YOU GIRLS WANT TO COME ON OUR YACHT?” I immediately turned to see him point towards a 100ft beauty out in the ocean. Why yes, my knight in nautical armor, yes we do. We would later attempt to rationalize why they chose us on that glorious, sunny June day. We there younger girls to choose from? Absolutely. Sluttier ones? It’s Cabo, so obviously. I can only assume that their criteria for yacht party companions included the ability to withstand 12 straight hours of vodka to the face. I’m also assuming they saw 10 soaking wet drunk chicks who had just been thrown off floating banana wearing headbands that said “Baby Dick” and “Pussy Monster” and said to themselves, man I want to party on a boat with those broads. Whatever the reason, I have never been known to turn down a party on a yacht. Or even a fishing boat for that matter. So off we went in a glass bottom boat to meet the yacht that would make all my P. Diddy dreams come true.

Cabo 5
Captain Allie

These boys were in Cabo on a bachelor party, along with about half of the town. But make no mistake, they brought their A game. They even had a full staff to make us drinks (or my case, chill my vodka shots) and a chef to feed us. It was heaven. We spent hours running around the boat, dancing on every surface, drinking to our hearts content. And when the staff informed the boys that they had only booked the boat till 6pm, they just threw money at the problem and extended the party. My kind of people.

I feel like I’m not accurately painting the picture here. This yacht party was ridiculous. Even for me. I wish I had more details for you, but to be honest I’m about 47 shots deep at this point in the day, so it gets a little fuzzy from here. Alas, all good things must come to an end, so once we docked we had a decision to make. Do we try to salvage any part of our original plan to be real people and go to dinner? Or do we just continue down the rabbit hole and move the party to the bachelor party’s rented mansion in hills of Cabo? Decisions, decisions. So party on we did. Until well past our dinner reservations. Until we could party no longer. Until Jenn took a drunken spill in the infinity pool and quite possibly broke her foot. We bid adieu to our new best friends, sans tons of shit that we lost along the way during the day, but just happy that we were within ear shot on that beach earlier today when they said those magical words I will never forget. If you learn nothing else from this blog (and you probably won’t), please remember that answer to anything involving a yacht is always YES.

Just the Tip…of Baja

Thursday, June 9, 2016

Off to Mexico! The day started off bright and early with a 6:30am uber to the airport courtesy of a guy who definitely used to drive a cab. I hate when you get a cabbie uber. It makes me feel like I’ve been duped by uber. After suffering though 15 minutes I learned that my uber driver (1) does not know that Baja California is not in California, (2) thinks all jews are ass holes, (3) gambles a lot, and (4) should probably stop gambling because it doesn’t seem to be going his way. I met Sheena in the American terminal and we hit the admirals club, where we were promptly notified that the champagne was not a gratis. So we could get a 7am vodka soda, but not a glass of champs. Beggars can’t be choosers when it comes to free booze at LAX.

Sheena and I got a few vodkas on the plane and two hours later I was officially drunk at the tip of Baja before noon. I think this is what all those millennials call #squadgoals. Killed it. We flew through customs faster than you can say “Bienvenido Señor Boston!”. Now that I’m in my 30’s I find it much easier to rationalize extravagancies like private airport transfers in Mexico. Shared transfers are basic as fuck. I don’t need a free tour of every resort in Cabo. I don’t need to make friends with the Portland couple on my plane who connected through LAX. I don’t need to fight people for the seats near the A/C in the van. I need be drinking in my pool as soon as humanly possible. So I just say to myself “I’m way to old for [insert anything basic here]”. Also, is there anything better than de-boarding a plane in a different country to a man holding a sign with your name on it? The answer is no. Sheena and I hopped in our suburban with a fully loaded cooler of beers and driver with a unique ability to open bottles with his seatbelt buckle and 45 minutes later my fat, happy ass was sitting on a stool in a pool bar. That, my friends, is travel efficiency at it’s finest. And I should also point out that Sheena and I set this international travel record with her gimpy ass in a boot.

The resort cleaning staff obviously did not get our efficiency memo, so we had no choice but to take shots in the pool while they finished cleaning the room. I’m sorry, did I say room? What I meant to say was THREE BEDROOM PENTHOUSE SUITE WITH A 2,000 SQ FT DECK OVERLOOKING ALL OF CABO SAN LUCAS. When Suzanne and I were looking at airbnb and vrbo options, this particular suite caught our eye due to their use of guidos as models in the pictures. If it’s good enough for Snooki and crew, it sure as shit is good enough for us. Sheena and I ran around screaming at our good fortune and frolicking in our private roof deck jacuzzi. The other 8 girls in our posse were due to arrive from the bay area in a few hours, so Sheena and I hit a different pool bar while we waited. Are you seeing a theme here? Pool bars are to Rory what water is to a fish. A happy home.

By the time the other girls arrived I had started hitting the Kirkland case of water hard. We had the whole night ahead of us, after all. I probably couldn’t have lasted 18 straight hours of drinking in my prime, so I’m sure as hell not going to hit my lushy prime here in my golden years. The girls did lots of tequila shots. I continued taking vodka shots because tequila hasn’t agreed with me since that one bad night in high school. It’s a cross that is particularly hard to bare when south of the border.

Before we knew it it was 7pm and our fearless leader Suzanne informed us that we were going to attempt to make ourselves presentable to the world and go to dinner. I was not particularly thrilled about this, as my general plan for the night was to drown in the jacuzzi Whitney style after peer pressuring myself into one shot too many. But alas, I am not in charge, and so I am going with the flow. I even showered. It was a struggle. I also put on makeup, but that was just because all the other cool girls were doing it. More shots ensued before leaving. I’ve lost count at this point. That’s a lie, I never started counting. Because I am the worst accountant in the world, remember?

All ten of us piled into a giant green van that would make Gumby look like a legit child molester. I told Suzanne to pay the Mexican man with the rape van anything he wanted to drive us around all weekend. She declined my advice. Probably for the best. We ordered all appetizers that consisted mainly of cheese. There was a wooden horse near our table that we defiled a few times in the name of the shared bachelorette party photo album. Everyone had margs. I stuck with the plan and got vodka. Consistency is key in a drinking marathon, people.

After dinner we walked down the street until we heard “free shots!” at which point our club for the night was chosen. Jenn tried to pass out until the shots revived her. Suzanne promptly took her place in the DJ booth. I had a drop-it-like-its-hot-off with a random guy in a USC shirt. And his moves were far superior to mine. Suzanne did some weird shot that they set on fire and then poured over a banana so that the only option was to deep throat it.

I’m rushing through this blog because my the hangover is real right now. We got ourselves on a yacht yesterday and shit took a hard left to crazy town real quick. Tune in tomorrow.

Always a Bridesmaid, Never a Sober One

Wednesday, June 8, 2016

Jenn is getting married! Who is Jenn? Not relevant. Who is she marrying? Doesn’t matter. So why am I telling you this? Because it means I get to spend a weekend getting drunk in Mexico screaming “shots for the bride!”, and then write about it for your enjoyment. Not that I need an excuse to tap into my inner international alcoholic, as I think I have proven to you thus far. So let’s set the stage: Bachelorette Party in Cabo San Lucas. For all of you who don’t know, Cabo is at the tip of Baja California in Mexico. Unless you are my geographically disinclined uber driver from 7am this morning who is positive that Cabo is actually in California. There are 10 girls going on this trip, so I’ll just give you the run down on the people that I (a) actually know, and (b) can reasonably count on to engage in shenanigans that will ultimately benefit in the blog.

The Bride:
Name: Jenn Witz (soon to be Marasco)
Likes: husband hunting and ring shopping, snowboarding, getting kicked out of wineries, drinking in airport bars, shopping at Express (yes, it still exists).
Trip goals: I’ve heard through the bridesmaid grapevine that the soon-to-be Mrs. Marasco is trying to get TURNT UP on this trip. So let the games begin.

The A Team (i.e. the people I know):
Suzanne – A bridesmaid that has historically proven over the last 11 years I have know her to never say no to a party. Or anything, for that matter. Literally, never. She also always finds a way to get free shit. She just has one of those faces.

Allie – A bridesmaid and also my BFF who is likely to spend a majority of the weekend blacked out searching for quesadillas while simultaneously being the group hype-girl.

hype girl
My hype girl 4 lyfe

Sheena – a fellow non-bridesmaid who is braving Mexico in a boot after having broken her foot at the last bachelorette party she attended a few weeks ago. So basically, a seasoned professional.

Ryan – The group sugar daddy minus the sugar, double the daddy, and also the reason we all ordered men’s t-shirts. Why do we have a boy at this bachelorette party? Everyone knows you need your token gay (at least one) at these things. Get with the times, people.

A-team group goals: Get on a yacht. Don’t die. Don’t get arrested.

Now this wouldn’t be Rory’s blog unless I took this opportunity to give you a little single girl perspective on bachelorette parties. You all knew it was coming the second you opened this. Lets look at the pros and cons of friends getting married:

Pro: They are forced to pry themselves away from their other half for one weekend and attempt to be as fun as they were when they were single. You know, like back when you first became friends with them. Before they retreated into the abyss of Netflix and chill on loop.

Con – They turn into a pumpkin at the end of the bachelorette and once again become the friends you keep in touch with via text because they only hang out with couples now.

Pro: I get to party for a weekend. And I will take any excuse to party with my friends. I also get to use my go pro, so there’s that.

Con: This shit gets fucking expensive. Do you know how many bachelorette parties I have this year? A lot. And a bachelorette party can no longer just be one night of debauchery. No, no, no, these girls need and entire weekend of vodka to the face so that they can steel themselves to the idea of one man for the rest of time. Now, I’m fine with spending money on a weekend of fun just about anywhere. The only part that pisses me off about this is that by the time I get married (if ever), all these bitches will be settled down with kids. Meaning I’ll be getting “Sorry, Ror, can’t make it to your bachelorette weekend, I would need to pump at the pool. And Reginald Rotherford II can’t go more than a few hours without the tit.” So while everyone’s marriage trumps my single life, no one’s marriage can trump kids. Why does no one tell you this? The race isn’t to get to the altar. The race is to have a bachelorette party before your friends turn into milk machines who forget about the thousands of dollars you once spent on their life choices.

Pro: You get to see your friends blissfully happy, blah blah blah. Yeah, I get it. Weddings are great. Love is in the air. You’ve found the one person you are pretty sure you can probably stand for fifty years (*twenty at most*). By all means, let’s throw a party to celebrate this. Just make sure there’s a open bar, please.

Con: No one seems to give a shit about the single girl who didn’t get a plus-one because she isn’t in a “serious relationship”, who orders the steak because it’s not like anyone is going to notice, who secretly prays that her other single friends are still single by the time the wedding rolls around so she’ll have someone to sit next to. Because extended family thinking you are the lesbian friend is always better than being the odd number at a table of 9, set for 10.

Pro: Strippers.

Con: Some brides are too classy for stippers. Which is really just code for “my fiancé will bitch about it”.

Being bridesmaidy

Ok. I’m done. Rant over. I’m off to the land of booze cruises, pool bars, 2-for-1 drinks all day, and a general acceptance of anyone drunk before noon. Señor Boston is coming home, Mexico! There are really no cons here.

Tomorrow Sheena and I get drunk on a plane before noon.  Among many other things.