Good Friends + Good Wine = Good Bachelorette Party

This past weekend, The Man went off on his semi-annual backpacking trip, we shipped The Kids off to the lake with their grandparents and I was on my own. Sounds relaxing, right? It should’ve been. Once I got The Boy and The Girl settled, I left for a weekend away.

On Saturday, after a quick (but really fun!) Friday night in Athens, I headed to Atlanta. I stopped on the way to buy late-night snacks and wine, got some lunch and a large coffee, and headed down 316. It was a beautiful day for a drive, and I couldn’t wait to see everyone.

Remember my friend who got engaged a few months ago? This weekend was her bachelorette party.

I’m sure you’d like to hear that we took a long flight to an exotic city, drank from phallic straws (they do make those), did flaming Dr. Pepper shots (do they still do those?), hired strippers, bailed out bridesmaids and woke smelling of guilt and shame, but none of those are true.

There were about a dozen of us. We went to a Turkish restaurant, complete with pillows for chairs and belly dancers, and we drank from big plastic buckets filled with fruity drinks. The only ingredient I’m sure of was rum. I remember something about mango rum, coconut rum, banana rum, and dark and light rums. I’m fairly sure there was some juice in there, too. But they were delicious. We even all tried the hookah. I would describe that experience as pleasant and relaxing, but liken it to smoking mango flavored air freshener. In fact, the whole place smelled like a clean public restroom.

We gave the bride some lingerie, which was sexy but tasteful, because let’s be honest, no one really wears all of that crazy stuff. I’ll bet that most of the crotchless panties given to you at your bachelorette party are in the back of your underwear drawer. Well, unless they’re edible I suppose. What? Too much?

Nothing against clubs, but the place started to get a little clubbish after dinner. Don’t get me wrong, I like dancing; I’m just a horrible dancer. Not all of my friends are like me, though. Several of them got out there with the 18-somethings in dinner napkin dresses and they looked damn good. Better than the teenagers even.

At my bachelorette party (and the others in our group who’d gone before), we had a list of tasks for the bride to complete, such as getting a group of guys to sing “You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feelin,’” drinking a certain list of drinks or asking embarrassing questions of strangers. That was fun then, but this is now.

It wasn’t that we were ready to go to bed, but we were ready to talk. We wanted to catch up (and drink wine), share pictures of our children (and drink wine) and listen to our music (and drink wine), all of which could be done from Liz’s newly constructed (and well lit!) deck.

So home we went. We talked and laughed and stayed up way too late. We toasted the bride and gave her way too much advice about marriage and children. She took it all in stride, though all of us really know that she’ll figure it all out on her own.

After pizza rolls and ranch dressing and many, many bottles of wine, we decided that a 4 a.m. cutoff was not unreasonable. Although we’d been talking non-stop since earlier that afternoon, it didn’t take long for silence to fall throughout the house. That’s not because we’re old. When the birds are chirping, I can safely say that it’s bedtime for just about anyone

The story I tell may make us seem old. I don’t think of it that way at all. We had a great time, staying up nearly all night and practically draining a well-stocked bar. I can’t say much for how I looked at that hour, but I can assure you that no pictures were taken.

The next time we meet, it will be in Mexico for a June wedding. I can’t wait to see Andy’s face as he sees Colleen in her dress for the first time, as she walks down the sandy aisle to say her vows. I wonder if she’ll be wearing her edibles. What? Too much?