Condom balloons, mermaid tattoos and chickens in bondage

I am all showered and bacheloretted. I hope to never be that hungover again. That’s right, last weekend was my bridal shower and bachelorette party.

A few days before the party my mom tells me,

“I bought 72 balloons.”

“Nice, did you get one of those little helium tanks?”

“No. I figure we can blow them up ourselves.”

“We’re blowing up 72 balloons ourselves?”

“Yes.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

I look at her and try again.

“Really, you’re joking.”

“No.”

She wasn’t joking. Between her, Captain and me, we blew up 72 pink balloons. People walking by the house before the party exclaimed,

“It’s a girl!”

A 33-year-old girl.

I opened so many presents! Bowls, pans, sexy aprons, sexy cookbooks, coffee maker, ice cream scoop and lacy underoos. All the necessities of married life.

And just when I thought I couldn’t drink anymore Diet Coke, it was time to change for my bachelorette party. Captain’s mom calls to me,

“The van is here!”

Van. Oh boy. We’re off! We pull into a warehouse parking lot. Interesting start. It turns out to be a beautiful winery with an old fashioned truck we’re told not to touch. I’ve never been tempted to touch any trucks, but once given several glasses of wine and told not to touch, I’m tempted to sprawl across the hood.

Next stop: oceanfront bar and a list of dares. I’m handed a 3″ x 4″ mermaid tattoo. I have to put it on a random guy. I look around. There are drunk pliant looking men everywhere. A bald guy makes eye contact with me and smiles. YES. He’s the one. There’s photographic proof. I’ll give it to you as soon as I get it. There is a man walking around with a 5 day mermaid tattoo on his chrome dome.

The next day my friend tells me,

“The dare was actually to get a guy to put the tattoo on you.”

Next I’m instructed via a video from my friend on the other side of the world to construct male genitalia from fruit at the bar. I was born for this task.

We sit down for dinner in my favorite restaurant. A classy place. I’m dared to go into the men’s room. Check. I’m dared to ask a guy for a condom and blow it up into a balloon. I’ve just blown up so many balloons I couldn’t be more ready for this.

There happens to be another bachelorette party a few tables away from us. I’m dared to go give that bride my condom balloon. I approach their serious-face table and offer my bulbous, lubricated, penis-shaped balloon. The bride declares,

“I’m not taking that.”

The rest of the night becomes a little blurry. I do know there was a Bon Jovi cover band.

Now I’ve started plowing through my new favorite cookbook: “Fifty Shades of Chicken.”

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