Bachelorette Extravaganza!

Location: My room; typing from the hot pink desk (no exaggeration) my sister Heather so generously left behind in her cohabitation move-in with her fiance. 

Mood: Bored. Tired of watching Netflix on my bed, looking for something else to do (well, truth be told I never tire of watching Netflix, but I do loathe the smell of burnt flesh when my laptop overheats and singes my legs.)

Listening to: Jana Kramer "Whiskey"

So I “just” got back from a friend's bachelorette party. I say “just,” because as you probably already know, it requires an entire work week for me to fully recuperate (aka rehydrate) from the experience– not to mention I allow myself ample time for my mind to wander and reflect, ultimately triggering countless details I had forgotten…. Without further ado:

Background:

Because softball was a pretty up-and-coming sport in the southeast when I grew up, I pretty much played with the same 30 girls (whether on the same team or against them) my whole life. And this August, my friend Jessie will be the first to bite the dust. GULP. The guy’s great- one of those strong, silent, good ‘ol boys and they’ve dated FOR FOREVER. May sound familiar….(*Luke, cough*). Growing up, while many of us girls swapped stories of random and exciting adventures while shagging (no pun intended) soft toss at our practices, Jessie would always blush and shake her head or change the subject to something a little tamer.

Secretly, though, we all knew she had a wild side. And last weekend, we set out to prove it.

The bride’s sister booked us a place on Orange Beach (in Alabama) for the weekend. The only thing between the ground under our feet and sending Jessie off right? A 6 hour road trip. Once you go to school in Illinois though, 6 hours is NOTHING. If you ask me, anything less than 12 hours doesn't even constitute a road trip. But I digress…

The first convoy of us (aka the diehard partiers) set the GPS default voice to “Australian male” and peeled out Thursday night. First, we stopped by the ATL airport to pick up the maid of honor at around 10 p.m., then drove in pitch black the whole way down without a single car on the road. It was awesome catching up with my friends because we all played at different colleges and I haven't seen most of them since Christmas, some  even before we finished in May of 2010, and others even since before our Junior year when we still played. We all swapped stories - about who had the worst teammate, who got yelled at the worst, the longest injury and the bitchiest coach. (I always win, of course. My coach was infamous for her crazy punishments, temper and antics. However, I never had a truly terrible injury the whole four years I played - I always say I wasn't lucky enough to puke or pull a muscle, because at least when that happens, you get to stop running for a minute or at least miss weigh-ins). Ridiculous.

I guess you just have to know my coach. She's like 5'4'', blonde and weighs about 90 lbs. soaking wet. This allows her to literally run circles around you. As a freshman, on our 6 am Saturday runs, she always used to scream in my ears "You'll NEVER BE BIG TEN PLAYER OF THE YEAR WITH A STRIDE LIKE THAT!" - and the whole time I'm thinking "WHO THE HELL SAID I WANTED TO BE BIG TEN PLAYER OF THE YEAR?!?!" I actually had enough one day and said "I got it." –And logged about a billion hours of silent study tables that week. No bueno. Lesson learned.

When I hear about all my friends back home who went to colleges and had the sweetest coach, or that once they got to college softball, it was like cruise control and they didn't even have to care anymore, I seriously can't even wrap my head around it. But I guess my struggle builds character.... (stay tuned..)

At around 4:00 a.m., we got to Orange Beach, but not exactly our desired destination.  Everyone in the car was so excited to hear Crocodile Dundee say “.2 miles,” only to look to the right and see a dark field. No lights, no people and definitely no beach condo. Not so much as a parking lot. So we proceed to drive from condo to condo, asking the hotel guards at the gate where we were. FAR BE IT FOR US TO EXPECT THESE GUYS ARE SOBER at 4 a.m. when they’re parking guards. In between my shock and laughter, I said this prayer: “Dear Lord, please don’t let the bride get stabbed by this stoner guard leaning in to show us on the map where we are.”

Finally, we realized a dyslexic concierge at the hotel mistakenly told Jessie the address was 28805 instead of 25508 or something, and we got to our new digs at approximately 4:20 a.m. Friday morning, and it was already 90 degrees. Exhausted, we just grabbed our duffel bags, agreeing to leave all the beach stuff, presents, snacks and booze in the car until we had the strength to move them in tomorrow.

When we woke up the next morning, it had climbed to 95 degrees, but POURING. I’m talking torrential downpour. People will do crazy things for presents and booze, but no one would even summon the courage to venture outside to grab the essentials from our stocked van 100 yds away. When the rain finally stopped and we weren’t hostages in our condo anymore, we decided to go to Publix and get the weekend staples: ping pong balls, solo cups, Nestle tollhouse dough, ice and a DVD from RedBox.

At the slightest break in the clouds, we packed up and headed to the beach. It was still ominous weather, but we only had 36 hours left of the party and were not about to spend it counting the amount of plastic plants and seashell picture frames in our condo.  

After a day of “sun,” we went to a nice restaurant to celebrate, and dinner fueled us for the ultimate mission: to get rowdy. We went to this place called Flori-Bama (it’s right on the border) and it was like a redneck-swamp bar with a band that played Lynyrd Skynyrd the whole time.

It may be a Flori-Bama thing, an Alabama thing, or just Southern beach thing, but there are these drinks called Bushwhackers...you may have already heard of 'em, but they were news to me. Basically it's a frozen/mixed drink thing that tastes like a thick coffee mudslide. It may sound fruity or whatever, but it's sneaky powerful, and as if it wasn’t already strong enough, they come with a 151 floater. Yikes. They were worth the $7 each though, thank the Lord. But the Bride was sporting her "Buy me a shot, I'm tying the knot" crown, so she was easily supplied..... 

To say the east, Flori-Bama was definitely NOT the type of place where you go and “have a few.” There were three DISTINCT types of people there - one, the 15 year old locals who snuck in and kept getting denied at the bar; secondly, there were people like us - vacationers in our 20s who were clearly not drunk enough to be there - and then finally, the over-the-hill-Hell's Angels crowd who had clearly had one too many Bushwhackers. The old guys were literally standing on tables head banging and re-living the glory days while these cougars flashed people (whether it was intentional, I couldn’t say) from their booths and from on stage. Now I can hold my own when it comes to parties, but these people were hardcore. No way I was gonna get in the middle of that mosh pit when the guitarist solos "Free Bird."

Thankfully, some legit sun came out on Saturday and we walked down to the beach, one of my teammates used her iPod to blare the Glee soundtrack from our GI-NORMOUS boom box and we settled in. We spent the entire day sipping and tanning on the beach. SUCH IS THE LIFE. I needed this vacation soooo bad and even though I couldn't drink the beer (allergies, remember?)  a friend and I had made a special, stronger, and consequently more effective concoction.  Well, when we weren’t looking, one of us was having a little too much fun, laughing a little too long, talking a little too loud and refusing to reapply sunscreen because she ‘never burned.’ For the rest of the day, this particular girl loud-talked away all our beach umbrella neighbors within a 5 mile radius. Now, I know I’m loud, but when I actually stop in the middle of my buzz to think “whoa…tone it down,” –You know it’s bad. I had never seen this specific girl in such a state and I was LUH-VING it. Anyone who told her to be quiet, she pointed at and proclaimed a “PARTY POOPER!!!!” at around 134,587,654 decibels. But for crying out loud, it was Jessie’s last weekend!! So I was MORE THAN HAPPY for her to boisterously shoo everyone –those outside our group and those within who did not want to participate - away from our fiesta.  

Maybe I’m going out on a limb here, but it’s totally different drinking with your childhood friends than it is with your college friends. With your college friends, you’re always surrounded by alcohol, and get to know them at tailgates, having a margarita as a restaurant or at practice swapping stories about parties. It’s totally different to drink with friends that you knew for at least 10 years before you even considered drinking.  It’s not that you necessarily have more in common with these people than your college friends, but it’s so amazing to look at who they were and where they are now – and that you may have had a part in shaping it. I KNOW it’s true for me- my childhood friends keep me in check, asking me “Are you ever going to write that book like you said you would?” or “Did you ever go to Mexico like you wanted?” Without going too deep on you guys, my childhood friends are like walking time capsules for me - I remember the person I was and the person I wanted to become when I’m with them.

When you and your friends can reminisce about your youth, be proud of where you all are now, and then cheers to what tomorrow will bring,  there’s no feeling like it.

After a split-second nap, we went to a restaurant on the harbor (amazing views) where I saw probably the biggest damn tray of nachos in the world (from a table away...no way bushwhackers and those woulda mixed).

It took us literally 3+ hours to get our food, so we left that restaurant somewhat deflated and decided to revitalize the night with a lingerie shower for the bride to be. All items were great and tasteful, except for mine, OF COURSE. Whoops. Because the groom is definitely a country boy, I got her a “Redneck Wedding Night Kit”: sweet tea vodka, peach flavored “stuff,” and some glow in the dark panties that read “Saddle Up.” Now, I wasn’t sure what other people would get, but I figured I wouldn’t be the ONLY crazy gift. O well- I stand by my choice. 

During the shower, most of us changed into our PJs and casually celebrated. After all, some of us had to work Sunday afternoon and we still had to clean up, repack and be out of the apartment by 9:30 am at the latest.  Around 12:45, the bride suddenly announces she wants to go to a karaoke bar. Now for those of you that know me understand that Karaoke bars are NOT my thing. I'm not afraid to sing, and I actually like karaoke at parties when people scream out some Twisted Sister "I wanna Rock!" But I get SOOOO embarrassed for the people whose friends take them there to cheer them up after a breakup, only these poor souls pick the saddest song like “I can’t make you love me” by Bonnie Raitt or that song "F you, I don't want you back" –it's just awkward and I just pray and pray that I never let anyone take me to a karaoke bar during a break up. So far I've succeeded. :)

Moral of the story: after Friday night, I thought I was a tank – but those who went out to karaoke were the real troopers. And just as I suspected, the seemingly shy Bride to Be out-partied us all. 

The next morning (5 hours of sleep later for me, only 3 for some), a teammate and I got up and started sweeping all the sand and making a “lost and found” box full of keys, flip flops and nail polish. I had just found my lost earring when the Maid of Honor (yesterday’s loud heart of the party) stuck her head out of the master bedroom door, burnt to a crisp, and said in a hoarse, crackling 80 year old smoker voice, “Well, I hope you’re all happy.” Hilarious.

Obviously, dehydrated, with hair that smelled like smoke and last night’s makeup still caked on, the drive back felt three times as long. But worth it. Definitely worth it.