So, there was a little thing called Amy’s bachelorette party this weekend.
She is the last in our group of five to get married. Well, technically, there’s still me, but I’m not getting married, so that left Amy. And that explains why we went hard on the bachelorette front.
That’s it. The last hurrah for the last single girl in our group. It looks a lot less innocent in these pictures, but honestly, it was a high-class affair featuring good food, good shopping and a little spa action (with a slight detour into college-bar territory).
I’m in New York this weekend for this girl’s bachelorette party.
Only, you can’t really call it a bachelorette party since she’s been shacking up with the groom for a couple of years now.
But really you can’t call it a bachelorette party because she (a) refuses to wear a tiara (excuse me, I wear a tiara just because it’s Wednesday); and (b) refuses any kind of penis paraphernalia; or even actual penises in the form of male strippers.
(SIDENOTE: I love that American Storm’s website is a dot.org. As if it’s just some run-of-the-mill, everyday organization. Practically a non-profit, if you will).
However, bride-to-be Amy did not say a word about men dressed up as women gyrating around skimpily clad. So that’s the route we’ll be taking. Girl loves a drag queen.
It’s probably all for the best. I do not have a good record with strippers at bachelorette parties. Unless you’re talking medical records.
A few years ago, I attended my friend Alexia’s wedding. My plus-one-for-life XFE and I flew out to San Francisco and had a lovely week in Napa before returning to the city for the wedding. We got back just in time for me to attend the bachelorette party, which was held a couple of days before the wedding.
The party was at this lovely little Spanish tapas place and there were probably about 25 girls. We had a private room, a very long narrow room, with one long communal table and the sangria was flowing.
Then came the big event, so the staff came in and moved all of the tables out of the room and us ladies took our chairs and lined them up along the walls. The bride sat in a chair at one end of the narrow room, while our slightly chunky entertainment began to do work.
Since we had no tables to set our sangria on, we all just had our sangria on the floor by our chairs. Well, the gyrations of our male dancer and the vibrations coming off his accompanying boom box caused someone’s rather large glass of sangria to fall over and break into a million pieces. Right in the path of our now barefoot stripper.
Me, every the rescuer of male strippers worldwide, decided to grab some napkins and crouch/scooch along the wall perimeter to sop up the sangria and shove the broken glass away from our erstwhile entertainer’s feet.
What I didn’t know, is that our stripper was an amateur Cirque Du Soleil wannabe. Unbeknownst to me, he was setting up for a back flip.
His bare foot and entire body came crashing into the right side of my head, crushing my melon into the wall.
My teeth literally rattled. I swear I heard a crunching noise in my neck. I definitely, definitely saw stars. I had a headache, no lie, for two days.
Anywho, the show came to a screeching halt and never really gained momentum after that. I tried to keep a stiff upper lip and shirk away from all the attention with protestations that “I was fine, just fine. I just need some fresh air. No, no, continue on without me,” while trying not to pass out.
I was quite a hit at the reception. Apparently, everyone knew me as the girl who got crushed by the male stripper.
Hopefully, drag queens don’t cause as much damage.
Funny sidenote: While looking for images using the term “seeing stars,” this existential question popped up. Who is Poe? A Poe is a girl who knows not to mess with strippers or broken glass, that’s who.
I had a cold this weekend, which wasn’t fun. Then again, colds never are. (Sidenote: When people say “Don’t come near me. It’s a horrible time for me to get sick,” I just want to know, is there ever a good time to get sick? Are there any days when you wake up and say, “Yep, pretty light week. This would be a good time to get sick?”)
I was especially bummed to be hit by the typhoid/yellow fever/plague because I had a very fun weekend planned. And it involved a bachelorette party. But not just any old bachelorette party – about 11 of us went to a drag queen brunch! With boas! And mimosas! And glittery men who look prettier than me on my best day! Pretty much my idea of heaven, really.
None of these festivities were conducive to me lying on the couch, thrashing and moaning about how sick I was (am), and how I was probably going to die (still could happen), and please take care of Petunia when I’m gone, and don’t get another girlfriend when I die, just build an altar to my memory and never love again.
But, instead, I put on my sparkly big girl pants and soldiered through. I know, I know, how very brave of me. Angelina Jolie isn’t the only saint around here.
And Holy Tucking Tape, am I glad I did. Not withstanding the great and ongoing debate over whether the drag boobies were the result of a prosthetic breast plate or actual implants, here are:
Top Things I Learned at Perry’s Drag Queen Brunch
1) J Lo and Shakira never go out of style. Sorry, Gaga. You were not invited to the show.
2) People will take their children anywhere. (There was a 10 year old at our show and an even younger looking tiny person at the second show. Sketch, parents. Sketch.)
3) Fried items on a drag brunch buffet are a pretty safe bet. That may just be true for anywhere.
4) Don’t drop your breakfast sausage on the ground. Those queens will make fun of you for reals.
5) Cheap hot pink feather boas will make a mess everywhere. Including in your delicious $10 Bellinis.
Oh, here’s a few more. Everybody got boobies on their head.
Miss S. showing them queens how it’s done. You betta work!
The whole tipsy crew. (minus two. We think they stayed on to work at Perry’s or something)
Anyone else have an eventful weekend? Are you a big baby when you get sick or a stoic soldier? I’m guessing if you have kids, you can’t be quite as self-indulgent as I am. More importantly, what color are your sparkly, big girl pants?