“Which clubs did you want to go to?”-Bambi
“Well, I want to go to all of them.”-Me
“That’s gonna be a lot of cover charges!”-Bambi
“…Not if we’re a BACHELORETTE PARTY!”-Me
It had all begun as a way to save money. There’s a stretch of bars (dare I say clubs?) in Pittsburgh that you can hit in one night and if you’re lucky get some dancing and bull riding done in the process. My friend Bambi and I were getting restless for a solid night on the town but were at a loss for how to accomplish this without draining our limited funds. We were directly out of school, starting more school, or just generally at the stage where your heart is saying go but your wallet’s saying no.
And then we had what I still believe to be one of the most ingenius ideas either one of us has or ever will come up with in our entire lives. Every single club would charge a cover fee, and even though yes, the alcohol could eventually hit you where it hurt, it was consistently paying $10 or $15 just to get into the building that could bust the proverbial balls. And so during a conversation about how to get around it, it occurred to the two of us that no bachelorette party ever had to pay.
Ever.
And so… why not BE a bachelorette party?
Let it sink in.
What was stopping us? Dignity? Morality? Truth? Respect for the sanctity of marriage wherever that comes into play? Get out of here. We were starving graduates. And we were getting married.
Bambi gamely decided to be the bride, but we needed some props. Where were we going to get bachelorette gear? And on the cheap? The goal was to save money here, but the props could be considered an investment, we believed. One that would pay for itself over and over again in free drinks and nonexistent cover fees. So Bambi and I went to the only place we knew sold bachelorette gear- the neighborhood sex shop, which we’ll call Brassy’s Inclinations. They had just about everything there, and if I hadn’t already written and made a film about the trials of buying a vibrator there, I’d fill you in on that. Realistically I probably still will, but another time. Bambi and I went in and found what we were looking for and then some. What we ultimately came up with for the night to end all nights was a veilish headpiece, a sash donated from Bambi’s sister, a flesh trapping device aptly labeled the “Bun Pincher” and a ton of stickers to put on unsuspecting men. This was going to be fun.
We met up at my parents’ house (they were thrilled, of course) and tried out the merchandise. You can never be too cautious that a bun pincher can sustain efficacy over long periods of time. I liken it to the tests done on IKEA chairs in those glass boxes when you’re shopping for a new dresser.
After decking Bambi out, we got our group of girls together and headed downtown for we had no idea what.
The entire time we were on the way there we thought we were going to be found out. The nerves from this were based purely on the fact that we were all good-intentioned suburban girls not used to lying on a grand scale. But really, think about it: Why would we ever get caught? Until this point, no person (at least that we knew of) had attempted such a feat. And so while scary on the one hand, it was also virtually impossible to get caught because to be frank, NO ONE DOES THIS. Still, we were more than prepared to address any and all questions and situations that could arise. It was decided after passing the local Bradford School that Bambi’s fiance’s name would be Brad Ford. JUST IN CASE anyone should ask. Then there was the ring. Someone caughed up a celtic something or other and Bambi would just be a really irish bride to be. We even picked a wedding date.
As we walked along the street en route to our destinations, all worries were put aside as we started hearing the chants:
“CONGRATULATIONS!”
“OH MY GOD, YOU’RE GETTING MARRIED! YAY!”
“GET IT, GIRL!”
“DON’T DO IT!!”
After turning around to see who was getting married we realized that it was in fact Bambi.
It.
Was.
Working.
We hurried along before anyone could look at the ring, and went up to the first club.
“YEAAAHH!! LOOK! A BACHELORETTE PARTY!”
We walked up to the security guards at the door and waited with bated breath. Finally someone spoke up.
“Yes. It’s true. We’re… a bachelorette party.”
Silence.
“Well, come on in, girls!”
We were so excited, we put stickers on them and decided to take pictures. I’ve learned that as a general rule of thumb, if you can swing befriending security and/or bouncers, in most situations this is not a bad thing.
And we were in! We didn’t pay! Goal: Met! We ecstatically bounded into the club like nuts and scoped out the scene. Before we were able to spot anything particularly promising, we ourselves were spotted. Now, take note of this: If you are wearing a veil, holding what looks like a massive sex toy, and wearing a sash, you will be noticed. That it would be by both the good AND the bad, we had not taken into account. That’s when he found us: Rick the dick.
Rick was an older gentleman, and by older I mean around 45-ish? So older than us. By a bit. Anyways, he found Bambi and was all about it. That would have been fine, it’s not that hard to ditch one creeper. The problem started when he told us he had some friends he wanted us to meet, and dragged us over to a real bachelor party.
Let’s pause for a moment.
There are two key issues here: One, we were lying out our ass and were now faced with an actual bachelor party who had actual fiancé things happening. And two, they were all over 40. Some more visibly than others. This was a big mess. I have no idea how Bambi answered all of the questions that were fired at her, especially since they kept giving her drinks, feeling her leg and trying to steal the bun pincher. Eventually, after blatantly lying about everything from Brad Ford’s favorite breakfast food to problems choosing a catholic priest, we managed to free ourselves from the group and go to another room with dancing, music and no Rick. But when we all turned around, we had lost Bambi. Where the hell had she managed to go? This wasn’t good. We had to keep a better eye on her, people were giving her drinks left and right.
It should, of course, be mentioned that another perk of being a bachelorette party is that people who have never met you will literally stop you, confirm your bacheloretteness, and then offer you a round of shots. And who were we to say no to these generous offerings? The problem was Bambi was getting a lot of offerings and with every drink she made more friends and was harder to keep track of. Eventually we got ahold of her thanks to the graciousness of two good samaritans who saved her from an unfortunate dry humping incident.
Onwards and upwards!
As we cruised around putting our awards stickers on random men for such achievements as “Best Buns” or “Best Biceps” and pinching basically anything in our path with our flesh trapping device, we encountered our next challenge: A REAL bachelorette party. Now, by this point we were all a little tipsy. So I made the executive decision in my slightly inebriated state that the best possible thing to do to diffuse the situation and prevent us from being found out was to go straight up to their party and make friends. The problem was, I did this 3 separate times, In 5 minutes. To the same bachelorette.
“Oh! You’re getting married! That’s so great, you know who else is getting married?
“You told me, remember? Your friend, Bambi.”
“Yes, Bambi’s getting married! To a guy named Brad. Ford. And know what else? There’s a bad group of bachelors!”
“Yes, they’re in the next room. I should avoid them. You told me.”
“Yes, don’t go there. Good!”
I’m a very caring drunk person. It should also be mentioned that it’s not just the addition of alcohol that makes these nights so fun. When you are a bachelorette party, you are everyone’s friend. Whether you want to be or not. And EVERYONE has marriage advice. Trust me on this. Bambi was getting all kinds of tidbits the entire night.
“Well, I mean do you love him?”
“How long have you been together? Have you thought about this?
“You should not get married, miss. Just don’t do it. My wife took everything. She even took our dog! It is a huge mistake. HUGE. I don’t want that to happen to you!”
And then my friend Macy and I found the DJ. I think my favorite part of the entire night might have been the moment that the entire room stopped because the DJ grabbed the mic and said
“This one goes out to Bambi! She’s getting married to Brad, let’s hear it for her!”
It’s hysterical. Also hysterical was that Macy had pinched so many buns that the pincher literally broke on someone’s ass. Like his butt actually could not be pinched. Who can say that?
We gave him a “Best Buns” sticker and had to move on. Besides the pincher’s demise, the night carried on without a hitch and we all piled back on the T to go and sleep over at my (always impressed) parents’ house. On the T, we all somehow lost track of where we were, and finally the train operator told us “There’s no more beer. Go home, ladies” and dropped us where we needed to be. Bambi and Bethany had to work the next day at 8AM which is insane, and I’m pretty sure they were both still drunk the next morning. That’s ok, though. It had all somehow worked. But again, why wouldn’t it?
We tried the routine again to interesting results. I say interesting because I was a hot mess one night and another we wound up going to a bar on “Alternative Lifestyles Night”.
“What the hell does that mean, you’re doing it with goats?” my friend Clarissa wondered out loud. None of us are still entirely sure.
Regardless, I’d like to leave you with three things:
1) My recommendation that you try this once in your life, even if you never get married.
2) My recommendation that when you DO do this, you also utilize a flesh trapping device. They are ridic.
3) And finally, I leave you a collection of the best bride-to-be’s I’ve ever been lucky enough to fib with.
CHEERS!
Ingrid 