Next Saturday–not this one, I don’t think or I better get cracking on my alterations–my best friend is getting married. I’m not a closet romantic, shit, I’m not romantic at all, but I’m pretty pumped about the whole union thing. It’s doubtful I’ll cry, unless someone passes too close with a Cosmo and I realize that Diet Coke does NOT taste like Cosmo even if you close your eyes.
(I’m all for a sip or three of wine or beer or something less, well, alcohol-y, while pregnant, but somehow a Cosmo, while in public especially, is not really my deal. It seems somehow tacky.)
But I’ve known Ashley for ages, known her since well before she met Mike (especially since I met her through one of her ex-boyfriends, who is a friend of mine), and I’ve been along for much of the ride with the wedding planning.
Like the dress shopping:
Or, perhaps, the pre-wedding T-bagging:
Because who doesn’t want to have some dude’s balls on you? NO ONE, that’s who.
But let’s back up a couple of years here, shall we? I’m going to tell you a story through pictures (my apologies to those who will now experience a slower page load. And although they look NSFW, they’re actually all harmless).
(Here I’m going to apologize again for my photos, which are pictures OF pictures. Because someone *ahem* THE DAVER *ahem* hasn’t bought a scanner for me to show The Internet how debaucherous I once was)
This is Paul:
He’s the dark-haired guy on the left, and he’s at my bridal shower with Evan–my man-of-honor. Paul is also the reason that I met Ashley. See, he’s an old, old friend of mine, and when I announced my pregnancy to him (before really meeting Ashley, who was sitting with him), he said, “I’m sorry.” To which Ashley took such offense that she began to yell at him for apologizing for my pregnancy. Because she’s right: no matter how inappropriate it is, you should always congratulate someone on their pregnancy. Right?
Any chick who does that sort of thing is my kind of chick.
Ashley and Steph threw my baby shower for Ben, and we had a blast. Unfortunately, I have no pictures of the occasion as Nat (who dat? He just my baby daddy) refused to give them to me. Douche.
In fact, because a whole lot of my pictures are lost somewhere or another (I lost a huge photo book when I moved. And no, I’m still not over it), a lot of our friendship has been undocumented. So let’s pretend that it was documented and move on, okay?
Fast forward to my bachelorette party. Ashley is my maid of honor, and she and KC have bestowed upon me the greatest gift known to me: that penis mug you see me sipping from. I may still have it somewhere, although I probably should pass the torch on to her, huh?
We were merrily sitting outside on my patio, waiting for the rest of my bachelorette party compatriots to arrive, lazily smoking some cigarettes, when the toilet overflowed. No one had dropped a dookie in it, or anything, the toilet just sucked. You could flush a single square of TP, and it would promptly overflow.
So imagine me, in heels and a dress, plunging the shit out of the toilet while 25 ladies with micro-bladders descended upon my house.
Then the doorbell rings.
My friend Dana (not pictured) had gotten me a stripper. Now, despite slurping on my penis cup, I was stone-cold sober. Dana, who had been caught in traffic, was not even present at the time he showed up. I was mortified. And sober.
And when I’m mortified, I laugh. Loudly, and with my mouth hanging open.
And apparently, my bright pink bra, too.
I couldn’t find a shot where I’d been t-bagged, like I wanted to, for comparison’s sake, but I did find this. I am taking a shot out of his thong, because I am classy. And I’m not sure a choice was given to me at this point.
I’m sorry, Ashley, I couldn’t find any shots of myself with balls resting comfortably on my forehead, but I tried. And I know they’re out there somewhere. Waiting for me to rediscover the only other man in 5 years to put his balls on my face.
But from now on, my dear sweet friend, Tommy will be showing up to all parties that I have a hand in throwing for you. Including baby showers. Oh yes, you’re not escaping the Happy Baby! Stripper experience.
You can thank me later. If you’re still taking my calls.
Now dish: I want some good bachelor/bachelorette party stories.