Choice of Footwear? Priceless

Saturday night was my bachelorette party, organized by Eva and Baby Sis. Omar's sister and my bridesmaid bailed at the last second and one of my bridesmaids only stayed for one bar. So it was me, Eva, Baby Sis, Eva's friend Mel, and two friends from college who went the whole night.

Let me be accurate. Most of them went the whole night. I was hammered by ten and escorted back to the hotel by twelve-forty-five.

We had dinner at that tacky of tacky tourist restaurants Cheers, or Fake Cheers as I call it because the tv show Cheers has nothing to do with that place except trying to capitalize off its name. Then we moved on to the Purple Shamrock. Then it was the Hong Kong, then Trinity, then back to the hotel.

At the Shamrock, we ran into a bachelor party with two drunk guys and an exasperated groom. The groom was introduced to me about three times, because my friends had made me wear this ridiculous tiara that said "bachelorette" plus Mardi Gras beads, plus a flowered lei. Somewhere between the walk from the hotel and the restaurant I lost the penis straw I was supposed to drink with all night (thank god). So we drank there for a little while and I'm starting to feel happy and buzzed when some guy puts a shot in my hand and I down it.

Let me be clear. I'm not good with shots. At one time, in my much less sober youth, I was a champ. Omar was horrified the first time he ever witnessed me do six lemon drop shots in less than ten minutes. Horrified and secretly proud because he had a girl who could drink most of his roommates under the table. Then I became, what's the phrase, oh yes: responsible adult. And I quit drinking like every night was Thursday night in college. (Isn't it odd how Thursday's were always the big booze night?) So I don't handle shots as well. And I NEVER drink jagermeister, which is what the shot contained. I almost barfed right then and there.

Anyway, it was all downhill from there. I kept drinking booze and drinking booze and drinking booze. Every bachelorette party I ran into, and there were quite a few, I told them, "I'm marrying Omar! He's the greatest! I hope your wedding is fun like mine and that you have an Omar too!"

I don't remember changing from my high heeled sandals to my sister's flip flops, but apparently we switched when I couldn't make it down the steps at Trinity. I complained of dizziness and announced I wanted to go home. Baby Sis drunk dialed a friend in Illinois, and I then took the phone from her and proceeded to talk to this person whom I've never in my life met before until the cab stopped. At which point, I'm told because I don't remember it, I went face first into the sidewalk when I got out of the cab.

Then I went up to the hotel room, threw up once in the bathroom, went to sleep, got up, attempted to throw up in the trash can and instead threw up all over the hotel rug, and then went into the bathroom to finish. Baby Sis called the one sober girl up to sit with me and then she called the front desk to have someone come and vaccuum the vomit up from the rug. So I'm told. I then passed out for about six hours, got up, had a little more stomach difficulty, and then slept for another couple hours before my ride back to Boston roused me from slumber.

I spent Sunday sleeping on and off on my couch and switching between the Sox game, the Food Network (ooh, bad idea, let me tell you), and Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle, which is hilarious. But it made me crave mini hamburgers, which I couldn't eat even if I could find them because saltines were barely tolerable.

I also apparently hit my head at some point during the whole thing, because I have a bruise on the left side of my forehead that really effing hurts.

Baby Sis took pictures. I'll post as soon as she sends.

In the meantime, Alcohol is evil and I'm getting married in less than ten days. Yee ha!