On Saturday I will be a bachelorette. I get, once again, my very own party. Turns out this getting married idea was awesome. I get espresso machines, garlic presses, a new name and my very own parties.
So worth it. Seriously, do it.
A small gathering of ladies - namely, my bridesmaids and two adopt-a-bridesmaids - will celebrate with me Saturday night in Milwaukee. Summerfest, dinner, more Summerfest, drunken swimming and pillow fights are on the agenda.
And because it is imperative for me to feel like a bachelorette, I kindly reminded the ladies to bring their penises (peni?). Also, by kindly, I mean I said, "And don't forget to bring penises!" But I think they got the point.
Of course I don't want actual penises, because, have you seen one of those? But I am not opposed to penis paraphernalia. Straws, necklaces. Maybe a crown. Without penises. No suck-for-a-buck, please. Ick. But, dangit, I'm only doing this marriage thing once, and I'm excited. And I want to celebrate my pending Mrs. status. And if that means lugging around an inflatable penis, then for God's sake, I'm lugging around an inflatable penis.
And when the girls and I are scattered on the living room floor later that night, falling asleep in our intoxication in a sea of blankets, pillows and feather boas, it will be a bachelorette party memory I won't soon forget.