I could analyze this shot for hours, even talk about the fabulous, nameless breast behind my right shoulder. But I won't.
I had no idea what we were doing. My best friend (my informal "MOH") planned the whole thing down to 10-minute increments, being the rockstar that she is. The b-party started at 3pm in the West Village at a little, zen nail shop, where we all got manis and pedis. It was definitely a nicer place because they washed your feet with grapefruit-scented water in a copper bowl while they served you green tea. It was a thing of beauty really. The girls brought champagne and we drank
Me (laughing at my future-sis-in-law, who was already drying her nails across the room): "BWAHAHAHAHAHA!"
Mani-lady: "blechndfd sjdier ieter."
Mani-lady: "Could you please be quieter?"
Me (more loudly): "What?"
Mani-lady: "Could you please keep your voice down?"
Me: "Oh. Um. Ok."
I was very confused. Apparently, I was being too loud. Which is something I rarely ever do. But my being shushed in a practically empty nail salon means I was a
After nail time, we went back to my best friends apartment for some nosh, present opening, and to get ready for our night out.
I got some pretty great pre-wedding presents from my peeps: some racey lingerie, dental floss thong panties, warming boobie oil (yes, it's really called that), edible body paints, and cute matching t-shirt with boy-shorts pajamas. But the cream of the crop was the Sculpta-Sutra: Clay Kama Sutra Modeling Kit. I mean, doesn't it speak for itself???
This is directly from the packaging on the Scupta Sutra box:
"Sculpta Sutra is the world's first 3D guide to the Kama Sutra. Sculpta Sutra is a fun, hands-on way for partners to learn more about adventurous love making and, ultimately, more about each other. The kit includes enough modeling clay to build two very, very flexible sex instructors who (along with the guide book) will bend over backwards to teach you all they know."
I mean, who wouldn't want their own set of naked clay people to mold and position as they wish?! I'm totally making my guy have a pot belly and back hair–you know, the greasy porn star look.
After cooing over my new Gumby sex dolls, we headed out. We dined at China 1, a restaurant/club in the East Village. She had ordered a pre-fixed meal that she thought I'd like ahead of time. Awesome idea, right?! The food was great. We sipped on red wine from Montalcino and champagne cocktails with lychee nuts.
Because there is nothing traditional about my wedding, I had told my MOH that there were several things I didn't want for my bachelorette party: 1) strippers or barely-clothed excited men of any kind, 2) a tiara, sash, or anything that would be a dead giveaway that I was a partying bride-to-be, and 3) a night filled with shots that would result in copious amounts of vomiting.
She did a great job adhering to these conditions. The only slight digression was the shots part. And it wasn't her fault, really. One of my presents included a shot ring. Yes, folks, an awesome ring that opens and closes, allowing you to fill it up with the liquid of your choice and down it like it was nobody's business. It. Was. Awesome. Because of this, I HAD to get a shot at dinner to try out my new accessory. They ordered me Patron Cafe, an espresso flavored tequila. It was so good that I had three more after that. And they each had two. Yes, it's that good.
Needless to say, the night ended up with Karyoke in a dive bar, with more shots, us dancing, flirting with indi-wanna-be-rock-boys-who-look-like-12-year-olds-with-moustaches-on-myspace and making fools of ourselves. But it was a great night and I was happy to have my favorite girl peeps with me. Sadly, I gave my shot ring to the indi-wanna-be at the end of the night. I wish I hadn't. He didn't deserve it.
Oh, and savor this bloggy friends, because you'll never see me with anything this vulgar in my mouth ever again. There are very few occassions in life when you can get away with perverted crap like this and people won't judge you (at least to your face): bachelor/ette parties, 21st birthdays, the occassional mid-life crisis drinking binge, and anytime you are in Las Vegas. This is me, drinking from my shot glass ring with my penis straw (I was under duress people).