Today I reached a milestone. I received (via facebook) the invitation to my 10-year high school reunion. Obviously I've always known this day was coming, and I knew it was coming this year, given the fact that I can do simple math and add 1 plus 10 and come up with 11. But that still didn't quite prepare me for the actual moment when I saw "10 year Class Reunion" in my inbox. 10 years?! When did that happen?!
Let's make one thing clear: I'M NOT GOING TO MY 10-YEAR REUNION. You know when I made that decision? About 10 years ago. Here is exactly what will happen if I go to my 10-year reunion: I will walk in the room, look around, realize I see absolutely no one that I am interested in talking to, and I will turn around and leave and go back to my parents' house, where I will most likely join them in watching Hogan's Heroes on netflix. So no, I'm not going. I really don't find Hogan's Heroes all that funny.
The invitation did give me quite the laugh, though. First of all, the sheer number of people who RSVP'd "yes" in the first few hours it was out there is amazing. You just KNOW they've been waiting for this moment for, well, 10 years. So much so that they would plan their entire summer around the occasion. I mean, it's not until August. Second, the party starts at 5:30pm. Dinner is served at 6pm. This is a 10 year reunion, not a 60 year reunion. Are we already in need of an early bird special? And third, is this really necessary? Aren't all the people who are going to attend already living in the same place? Don't they still see each other every weekend anyway?
You may think I sound bitter about high school. I'm not, really, I've moved on. I can safely say that I've spent the last 10 years exploring the world and having a lot more fun than I ever did in high school. High school wasn't all that much fun for me, mostly because I couldn't wait to leave. I knew pretty early on that the small town thing just wasn't for me and had made my plans to escape starting in elementary school. I wasn't terribly popular (ok, I wasn't popular at all), even though I was president of the German Club and therefore kind of a big deal. I'm also pretty sure everyone thought I was a lesbian. Not that there's anything wrong with being a lesbian, but that doesn't really help you in high school. I'm pretty sure it started when a friend of mine (ex-friend of mine) most likely developed a little crush on me, and instead of dealing with it, she got really mean and told everyone I was a lesbian. Or it could have been because I never really had boyfriends in high school and was hard-core about playing softball. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? (I mean, I went to an *NSync concert senior year! There is nothing lesbian about that!)
Thank you, Class of 2001, but no thanks. I think I'll pass on this one.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Just dig it
For the past several weeks I've played in an indoor volleyball league. I joined this league for one reason (aside from actually wanting to play volleyball): to meet boys, duh. Boys like volleyball, I like boys and am good at volleyball, surely something will come of this. I signed up as an individual and was put on a team, a team which I expected to be half made up of boys. There were two boys on our team. Both shorter than me. Both suck at volleyball. Ugh. I set my eyes on our opponents.
Every Sunday for the past month and a half I've had my eyes on the opponents. Where were all the cute boys?! Why is it so hard to find a cute boy who has a reliable serve and a decent vertical? One that's aggressive at the net yet not a ball hog?! One who thinks sporty girls are sexy?! Why can't he have a beard and cute smile, a job and a sense of humor? Where is he?! Oh, there he is, on the pink team. Of course we didn't play the pink team until our second to last game. But oh how glorious that game was. The pink team was primarily made up of decent looking guys, who are all good at volleyball, who were by far the nicest and most fun team we had played all season. I was smitten. I loved the team, but mostly I loved the cute bearded guy. There was just something about him, I just wanted to...get him alone. I was feeling some chemistry between us while both up at the net on our respective sides, so I decided to make conversation. Cue most random awkward comment.
Me: Are you guys related?
Him: Which ones?
Me: All of you? (In my defense, they were all around the same height, had similar build and coloring and plus, they were all wearing pink!).
He gives me an adorable puzzled smile. Then clearly makes up a story of how actually those two are brothers through some sort of insane incest that I couldn't really follow because he's so pretty. As if an explanation he adds, "they're from the Midwest" right as a ball drops and he playfully accuses me of distracting him (Dude, I'm from the Midwest). Luckily the game got kind of serious because my next question would have been, "Is anyone in your family taller because I'm a little concerned that our future children might be short."
My team lost, but it wasn't because I was trying to hit on the other team, we really just suck. Over the course of the week I decided I would ask him out and came up with a plan. I was going to try get the guys on his team to join forces with the two good girls on mine for next season, and in the meantime ask him out to drinks. I got my girls to agree to it. My evil plan was working. Until it didn't. At all.
They played before us, so when they were done and only three people on my team were present, I invited them to play with us. Perfect. I casually discussed next season with them while figuring out how they know each other (they grew up together outside of Boston, so they're practically related) and throwing in random unfiltered thoughts, "I've had Ghetto Superstar stuck in my head all day." (Good one, Grayer, good one. Though it did make the cute one laugh (sense of humor: check!). On a sidenote: I think I'm becoming a socially awkward scientist). Things were going swimmingly until the rest of my stupid team showed up, at which point they were no longer needed and headed out, before I was able to seal the deal. They high-fived me goodbye and I watched them wistfully leave the gym while I had to play the stupid game. I wouldn't be there next week for the final game. I was watching my future husband/father of my vertically-challenged children, walk away. What was I supposed to do, leave my game to run after him and ask him out for drinks? That's pathetic. I played the rest of the game pissed off. My serving got better.
My one shining hope was that playoffs would be next week and although I'd be on vacation, my two girls would be there. I had dinner with them after the game and drilled into their head their single objective of next week. Seal the deal with the pink team, by using all means necessary, preferentially means of giving the cute one my number. There. It was in their hands now. Until it wasn't. At all.
My team sucked. We didn't make the playoffs. The pink team did but my girls wouldn't be there to seal the deal or give him my number. It seems as though as quickly as he came in, the cute bearded boy is gone from my life. Goodbye, my almost lover (and by almost lover I mean I did know exactly three things about you, one of which was your first name, yet I find that completely substantial criteria to become lovers). Insert: Sad face.
All I can do now is move forward. It's time to mend this broken heart. I'm currently trying to stuff a week's worth of clothing into a carry-on sized suitcase. This would be a breeze if I were going someplace warm. That's what sane people do. They go warm places in March. I'm not sane. I'm going to Montana. The weird thing is, I can't freakin' wait. It's been a hard winter for me in Boston but now I'm actually excited to frolic in the snow with my two best friends, one of which is currently living there. I have exactly two goals for this trip: 1. Learn to snowboard and 2. make out with a ski/snowboard instructor. Not necessarily in that order.
Every Sunday for the past month and a half I've had my eyes on the opponents. Where were all the cute boys?! Why is it so hard to find a cute boy who has a reliable serve and a decent vertical? One that's aggressive at the net yet not a ball hog?! One who thinks sporty girls are sexy?! Why can't he have a beard and cute smile, a job and a sense of humor? Where is he?! Oh, there he is, on the pink team. Of course we didn't play the pink team until our second to last game. But oh how glorious that game was. The pink team was primarily made up of decent looking guys, who are all good at volleyball, who were by far the nicest and most fun team we had played all season. I was smitten. I loved the team, but mostly I loved the cute bearded guy. There was just something about him, I just wanted to...get him alone. I was feeling some chemistry between us while both up at the net on our respective sides, so I decided to make conversation. Cue most random awkward comment.
Me: Are you guys related?
Him: Which ones?
Me: All of you? (In my defense, they were all around the same height, had similar build and coloring and plus, they were all wearing pink!).
He gives me an adorable puzzled smile. Then clearly makes up a story of how actually those two are brothers through some sort of insane incest that I couldn't really follow because he's so pretty. As if an explanation he adds, "they're from the Midwest" right as a ball drops and he playfully accuses me of distracting him (Dude, I'm from the Midwest). Luckily the game got kind of serious because my next question would have been, "Is anyone in your family taller because I'm a little concerned that our future children might be short."
My team lost, but it wasn't because I was trying to hit on the other team, we really just suck. Over the course of the week I decided I would ask him out and came up with a plan. I was going to try get the guys on his team to join forces with the two good girls on mine for next season, and in the meantime ask him out to drinks. I got my girls to agree to it. My evil plan was working. Until it didn't. At all.
They played before us, so when they were done and only three people on my team were present, I invited them to play with us. Perfect. I casually discussed next season with them while figuring out how they know each other (they grew up together outside of Boston, so they're practically related) and throwing in random unfiltered thoughts, "I've had Ghetto Superstar stuck in my head all day." (Good one, Grayer, good one. Though it did make the cute one laugh (sense of humor: check!). On a sidenote: I think I'm becoming a socially awkward scientist). Things were going swimmingly until the rest of my stupid team showed up, at which point they were no longer needed and headed out, before I was able to seal the deal. They high-fived me goodbye and I watched them wistfully leave the gym while I had to play the stupid game. I wouldn't be there next week for the final game. I was watching my future husband/father of my vertically-challenged children, walk away. What was I supposed to do, leave my game to run after him and ask him out for drinks? That's pathetic. I played the rest of the game pissed off. My serving got better.
My one shining hope was that playoffs would be next week and although I'd be on vacation, my two girls would be there. I had dinner with them after the game and drilled into their head their single objective of next week. Seal the deal with the pink team, by using all means necessary, preferentially means of giving the cute one my number. There. It was in their hands now. Until it wasn't. At all.
My team sucked. We didn't make the playoffs. The pink team did but my girls wouldn't be there to seal the deal or give him my number. It seems as though as quickly as he came in, the cute bearded boy is gone from my life. Goodbye, my almost lover (and by almost lover I mean I did know exactly three things about you, one of which was your first name, yet I find that completely substantial criteria to become lovers). Insert: Sad face.
All I can do now is move forward. It's time to mend this broken heart. I'm currently trying to stuff a week's worth of clothing into a carry-on sized suitcase. This would be a breeze if I were going someplace warm. That's what sane people do. They go warm places in March. I'm not sane. I'm going to Montana. The weird thing is, I can't freakin' wait. It's been a hard winter for me in Boston but now I'm actually excited to frolic in the snow with my two best friends, one of which is currently living there. I have exactly two goals for this trip: 1. Learn to snowboard and 2. make out with a ski/snowboard instructor. Not necessarily in that order.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Mama don't preach
Grayer and I got drunk emailed this weekend. And no, it wasn't from an ex or a friend having a good time. It was from our mother.
Our parents don't drink. At all. It's not like they have a glass of wine at dinner or have a cocktail every now and again, but never get drunk. They never drink. Period. If someone gives them a bottle of wine as a gift, they will wait until we come home for Christmas to open it. Before we were of drinking age, bottles of wine would remain in the cupboard for years, just going to waste. Therefore, they are completely clueless about all things alcoholic. A few years ago, after a trip to Curacao, famous for their rum, they thought they would be super-cool and send me and Grayer some rum-filled care packages. While Grayer got some delicious flavors, I received a bottle of rum raisin rum, because as my mom said, "you like raisins." Thank you mother, but just because I tolerate raisins in trail mix, oatmeal cookies, and bagels doesn't mean that I'm passionate about raisins (who is?) and want a raisin flavored adult beverage.
The alcohol ban isn't because of a religious belief or anything. They just don't like alcohol. Unless it comes in the form of a sugary, sweet concoction, which brings us back to the drunken email. My parents are yet again on a Caribbean vacation. They have been known to order fancy drinks on these types of trips, but they are usually of the virgin variety, and seriously, is there anything more lame than a virgin daiquiri? This time, however, they (or at least mom) isn't skipping out on the alcohol. The main topic of the email was what cocktails she had yesterday. And she didn't call them drinks, or cocktails, or even booze (which is what she usually does, a vocabulary preference that has always baffled Grayer and me). No, she called them "My drinkie-poos." Drinkie-poos! Then she rated each of her "drinkie-poos" on a scale from "OK" to "yummy." 3 out of the 4 drinks received a "yummy" rating. I had to read it twice before I said out loud, "Holy shit, Batman! My mother is smashed!"
I quickly contacted Grayer, who not only agreed with me, but had already responded by telling her she sounded wasted. I mean, this is a woman who doesn't drink at all. One mixed drink would leave her completely hammered, but 3 in one day? Yes, the woman is blitzed.
At least, I hope she is. Because if there is anything more pathetic than a woman in her mid-50s getting drunk from a fruity tropical drink, it's a woman in her mid-50s not getting drunk from virgin daiquiris, then using the word "drinkie-poos" in an email to her adult children while completely sober.
Either way, she has just received a new family nickname: Boozer.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Shoulda been a spy
Thank god it's over.
As I told you before, I was planning a surprise party for the cute neighbor for Saturday. The process was very stressful, mostly because people are extremely rude and refuse to RSVP, but also because the cute neighbor was being a bit difficult when it came to getting him to the party.
At first, I thought it would be simple: I would simply tell him I was making him dinner and let him know what time to show up. But then he decided he might like to go out. Nothing fancy, just invite a few friends to our corner tavern for a beer. When I pointed out I wanted to cook for him, he told me I could just do it Sunday. Hmmm... ok, time to move on to a different plan. I figured I could create an emergency to get him to my house, but had to make sure he didn't schedule an outing too early in the evening. I told him I had to work on Saturday, so there wasn't a way for me to be able to go out until 8:30ish (when I had told people the party was going to start). He said he could start without me. Not helping.
Then on Thursday, while I was still stressed as to how to get him to his own party, he says to me, "By the way, my parents told me today that they're coming down this weekend."
Fuck, fuck, fuck! How am I supposed to get him and his parents to my house? I panicked. I thought about calling the whole thing off. Why, oh why, did I plan this whole mess in the first place? But then I calmed down. I took a deep breath. And I realized one thing: if the cute neighbor's parents know what's going on, he will definitely get to his own party! Perfect! One problem: how do I tell them? I don't have an email address or phone number for them. So, later that evening, while the cute neighbor was in the bathroom, I grabbed his cell phone, located a number for his parents, and scribbled it down quickly before he had any idea. I should totally be a spy.
On Friday, I gave them a call and explained the situation. They told me to tell them when and where, and they would make sure he got there. They even called back on Saturday to make sure they had all the details straight. Hurrah! I relaxed. (A little bit.)
With the cute neighbor thinking I was baby-sitting all day, I baked and cleaned and cooked several skillets of bacon all day long. By 8pm, most of the guests had arrived- except D.B., who was bringing the keg. I stalled the cute neighbor by telling him I was stuck in traffic. (Lying via text message is remarkably easy.) Eventually we had to get started without D.B. or the keg.
I called the cute neighbor and told him I had just gotten home. I needed a few minutes to get ready. He should come over and I would give him and his parents a snack.
He agreed.
We assembled in my living room, killed the lights, and waited.
He opened the door...
SURPRISE!
And he was. I had pulled it off. Whew!
About 15 minutes later, D.B. showed up, wearing a Peter Pan costume meant for children ages 4-6. His belly was hanging out, his bulge was showing, and his pants were splitting in the back. It was definitely worth the wait.
As I told you before, I was planning a surprise party for the cute neighbor for Saturday. The process was very stressful, mostly because people are extremely rude and refuse to RSVP, but also because the cute neighbor was being a bit difficult when it came to getting him to the party.
At first, I thought it would be simple: I would simply tell him I was making him dinner and let him know what time to show up. But then he decided he might like to go out. Nothing fancy, just invite a few friends to our corner tavern for a beer. When I pointed out I wanted to cook for him, he told me I could just do it Sunday. Hmmm... ok, time to move on to a different plan. I figured I could create an emergency to get him to my house, but had to make sure he didn't schedule an outing too early in the evening. I told him I had to work on Saturday, so there wasn't a way for me to be able to go out until 8:30ish (when I had told people the party was going to start). He said he could start without me. Not helping.
Then on Thursday, while I was still stressed as to how to get him to his own party, he says to me, "By the way, my parents told me today that they're coming down this weekend."
Fuck, fuck, fuck! How am I supposed to get him and his parents to my house? I panicked. I thought about calling the whole thing off. Why, oh why, did I plan this whole mess in the first place? But then I calmed down. I took a deep breath. And I realized one thing: if the cute neighbor's parents know what's going on, he will definitely get to his own party! Perfect! One problem: how do I tell them? I don't have an email address or phone number for them. So, later that evening, while the cute neighbor was in the bathroom, I grabbed his cell phone, located a number for his parents, and scribbled it down quickly before he had any idea. I should totally be a spy.
On Friday, I gave them a call and explained the situation. They told me to tell them when and where, and they would make sure he got there. They even called back on Saturday to make sure they had all the details straight. Hurrah! I relaxed. (A little bit.)
With the cute neighbor thinking I was baby-sitting all day, I baked and cleaned and cooked several skillets of bacon all day long. By 8pm, most of the guests had arrived- except D.B., who was bringing the keg. I stalled the cute neighbor by telling him I was stuck in traffic. (Lying via text message is remarkably easy.) Eventually we had to get started without D.B. or the keg.
I called the cute neighbor and told him I had just gotten home. I needed a few minutes to get ready. He should come over and I would give him and his parents a snack.
He agreed.
We assembled in my living room, killed the lights, and waited.
He opened the door...
SURPRISE!
And he was. I had pulled it off. Whew!
About 15 minutes later, D.B. showed up, wearing a Peter Pan costume meant for children ages 4-6. His belly was hanging out, his bulge was showing, and his pants were splitting in the back. It was definitely worth the wait.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Promises of pedicures
I had a traumatic night last night. It all started fun enough, when I realized the particular socks I was wearing were particularly slippy on my hardwood floors. Once one realizes they are wearing slippy socks, one physically cannot get to the kitchen without running and sliding. It's a proven fact. So I slipped and I slided. I was Tom Cruise from that one movie I've never seen (but with pants on), until I was on the floor swearing after a giant splinter assaulted me. Are you thinking what everyone else I told this story to was thinking? "Wow, you must have been going pretty fast."(after first thinking, "wow, those floors are real wood?") Yes, yes I was going fast. That bitch was deep. So deep that I hopped away from my roommate, Bernard, as he came after me with pinching fingers. So deep that I sat whimpering on my bed with unsuccessful tweezer attempts. So deep that I called my mother for motherly-splinter-removal-secrets. Unfortunately, she did not have any motherly-splinter-removal-secrets. She offered moral support, infection fighting advice, and a reminder that I need to send her a check for my cell phone bill. "I. am. in. a. crisis. Mother."
I was about to turn to my good friend Google, for endless advice in 0.423 seconds, when Bernard barged back into my room wanting a shot. For the next 5 minutes I lay on the floor with my foot in the air, groaning and yelling "Get it ouuuuuut!" while Bernard leaned over me with tweezers in hand saying things like "I'm in deep, can you feel it?" Our other roommate probably didn't know if I was in labor, or just getting laid.
I may have entered into a state of Splinter Induced Delirium. The life of my foot flashed before my eyes. I apologized to it for still having a little chip of November's nail polish on my big toe. I regretted not making better use of my pumice stone. My right foot deserved better. If it made it through this, I promised it a pedicure so nice, the left foot would be jealous. I imagined the rotten plank of wood festering in my sole. I imagined infection. I imagined having to go to the ER, feeling stupid for going to the ER for a splinter, yet needing the ER because I had a fucking piece of wood in my foot. It was festering. What if I lost it to to necrotizing fasciitis?! What if Bernard's refusal to mop the floor has made it a hotbed of flesh eating bacteria that is now festering in my foot?! Damnit Bernard! What if I lose my foot? What if I lose my whole leg?! What if while I slept, a man throws my prosthetic leg into the fire, thinking it was a log?!
After much digging on his part, and delirium on my part, Bernard finally pulls it out looking intact. That bitch was huge. We stared at it, in awe. It was nearly an inch in length. "That was in your foot." I had an incredible urge to take a picture, but I was sidetracked by blood and my immediate need to disinfect/treat the hole in my foot. I wasn't out of the necrotizing fasciitis woods yet.
24 hours later it doesn't appear to be infected but it does hurt. It hurt so much that I considered not going to work today. I imagined emailing my boss to tell him why I couldn't make it in. "Sorry, I can't make it in today, my foot hurts. Splinter wound." Followed by "Sir, I don't think you understand the magnitude of this splinter. It was a B.I.T.C.H. I'm dealing with a freaking puncture wound here. If I were in the big leagues (baseball), I would be on the 15 day DL (disabled list)." He would have to believe me: A) Because he knows how I am (i.e. wouldn't be surprised that I was sliding around on hardwood for the fun of it) and B) No one's stupid enough to make up a story so...stupid. However, I gritted my teeth, I laced up my sneaker, I proudly walked to the T station with one foot dragging slightly behind the rest of me. I may never slide on hardwood again.
I was about to turn to my good friend Google, for endless advice in 0.423 seconds, when Bernard barged back into my room wanting a shot. For the next 5 minutes I lay on the floor with my foot in the air, groaning and yelling "Get it ouuuuuut!" while Bernard leaned over me with tweezers in hand saying things like "I'm in deep, can you feel it?" Our other roommate probably didn't know if I was in labor, or just getting laid.
I may have entered into a state of Splinter Induced Delirium. The life of my foot flashed before my eyes. I apologized to it for still having a little chip of November's nail polish on my big toe. I regretted not making better use of my pumice stone. My right foot deserved better. If it made it through this, I promised it a pedicure so nice, the left foot would be jealous. I imagined the rotten plank of wood festering in my sole. I imagined infection. I imagined having to go to the ER, feeling stupid for going to the ER for a splinter, yet needing the ER because I had a fucking piece of wood in my foot. It was festering. What if I lost it to to necrotizing fasciitis?! What if Bernard's refusal to mop the floor has made it a hotbed of flesh eating bacteria that is now festering in my foot?! Damnit Bernard! What if I lose my foot? What if I lose my whole leg?! What if while I slept, a man throws my prosthetic leg into the fire, thinking it was a log?!
After much digging on his part, and delirium on my part, Bernard finally pulls it out looking intact. That bitch was huge. We stared at it, in awe. It was nearly an inch in length. "That was in your foot." I had an incredible urge to take a picture, but I was sidetracked by blood and my immediate need to disinfect/treat the hole in my foot. I wasn't out of the necrotizing fasciitis woods yet.
24 hours later it doesn't appear to be infected but it does hurt. It hurt so much that I considered not going to work today. I imagined emailing my boss to tell him why I couldn't make it in. "Sorry, I can't make it in today, my foot hurts. Splinter wound." Followed by "Sir, I don't think you understand the magnitude of this splinter. It was a B.I.T.C.H. I'm dealing with a freaking puncture wound here. If I were in the big leagues (baseball), I would be on the 15 day DL (disabled list)." He would have to believe me: A) Because he knows how I am (i.e. wouldn't be surprised that I was sliding around on hardwood for the fun of it) and B) No one's stupid enough to make up a story so...stupid. However, I gritted my teeth, I laced up my sneaker, I proudly walked to the T station with one foot dragging slightly behind the rest of me. I may never slide on hardwood again.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
You're doing it wrong
I went on a date last night. With a boy that gives out his number on slapon bracelets. Who I drunkenly texted. Who soberly texted me back. Who gets major style points for bracelets and roses. Who kills it on the follow through.
What the hell?! I remembered him being adorable. And funny. Yeah, not so much. His glasses, his combed hair, his knee-length pea coat. It sort of screamed douche. There was just something about him that really....annoyed me. I can't quite pinpoint why. Perhaps it was his slow uninteresting stories. Perhaps it was him mocking my sarcasm and not getting my jokes. Perhaps it was him insisting that I watch a YouTube video that he had made. Maybe it was when he asked me if I wanted to be his teammate for an eating challenge: 5 pound burger and 5 pounds of fries (Oh, my heart). He lost me when he told me he really wanted to move back to Alabama and start a family. He really lost me when he got out his iPhone to show me pictures of his parents. Duuuuude. You're doing it wrong. Something tells me I won't be seeing him again.
- I met him last Saturday. Last Tuesday he texts me to ask if I'd like to get drinks during the week. I said yes. He said he'd get in touch with me later on in the week.
- On Wednesday he asked me if I wanted to join him and his friends at for Brazilian BBQ that night. I claimed a long day at work. A first meeting with him and a group of friends? A sober me and a group of people I don't know, doesn't really mix well. I clam up.
- On Friday he texts me at 10:15 pm asking if I wanted to meet up with him and his friends half way across town. Dude. You're doing it wrong. Doesn't he know that I was on my way home from a dinner party and all I wanted to do was crochet while catching up on Hulu?! No, he doesn't know that because we still hadn't gone on a date (which means he shouldn't be last minute texting me to hang with his friends).
- On Monday he texts to ask if I wanted to get drinks that night. I had plans. Why is this guy incapable of planning ahead? I say I'm busy tonight, how about tomorrow? Holy crap, we actually made plans to meet up.
What the hell?! I remembered him being adorable. And funny. Yeah, not so much. His glasses, his combed hair, his knee-length pea coat. It sort of screamed douche. There was just something about him that really....annoyed me. I can't quite pinpoint why. Perhaps it was his slow uninteresting stories. Perhaps it was him mocking my sarcasm and not getting my jokes. Perhaps it was him insisting that I watch a YouTube video that he had made. Maybe it was when he asked me if I wanted to be his teammate for an eating challenge: 5 pound burger and 5 pounds of fries (Oh, my heart). He lost me when he told me he really wanted to move back to Alabama and start a family. He really lost me when he got out his iPhone to show me pictures of his parents. Duuuuude. You're doing it wrong. Something tells me I won't be seeing him again.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Hen Weekends....Beware.
One of my closest friends in the whole wide world is getting married. I am excited about this. I get to be a bridesmaid and wear a pretty dress. I am excited by this also. I've never been to a wedding before, this will be my first. I am mega-excited about this. So, just to be clear, I am honestly excited that my friend is getting married. This post is not about smug-married hating, wedding hating or wedding planning hating. Honest.
This post is about hen weekends. And the over blown affairs they have become.
***Note: According to Vi, hen weekends are known as bachelorette parties in the US, I will be referring to them as hen parties. It takes less time to type.***
As mentioned, I have never been to a wedding. Along with this, I have never been to a hen party or a hen weekend. That is about to change.
I understand the concept of hen and stag parties. Say goodbye to your single life with your friends, have some fun, have some drinks and take some crazy pictures. My issue is, when did this simple concept, this simple idea turn into a money-sucking activity. When did the parties become weekends?
I don't know if this is just a UK thing. But hen and stag weekends over here are HUGE. They have become a new form of tourism almost. There are cities known for their hen and stag weekends. You see the groups of people at the airport, raring to go. Most of them have already started drinking. They're wearing specially designed t-shirts and the hen groups will probably be wearing pink cowboy hats or pink feather boas. Or both.
Perhaps the weekends over here are so popular because, being a tiny island, it's easier (and cheaper) to get away for the weekend. For example, Ibiza, Prague and Marbella are very popular. The White Horse recently went on a stage weekend to Cardiff - and that was only for one night. They went to Wales. For one night. That cost the White Horse about £250.
£250. I've just been looking for a holiday, 3 nights in Prague and that's cheaper than a one night stag weekend in Cardiff. Therein lies my issue...the money. Why do you need to spend a fortune to get drunk, in a strange city, when you most probably won't remember much of the night before all because a friend is getting married? It's ridiculous. And unnecessary. It's just an extension of how weddings are becoming bigger than they need to be. It's about the marriage people, not the party.
Plus, it's an added expense to the wedding that you then have to attend. (I don't have this issue with my friend's wedding because as bridesmaid she is very kindly paying for my dress, shoes, travel to the venue and accommodation. We're also planning a fun hen weekend which doesn't involve travelling abroad, I seriously love my friend - and honestly and truly cannot wait for her wedding). If you are invited to both the hen / stag weekend this, coupled with the wedding means you will have to pay for:
Hen / Stag Weekend
* Travel
* Accommodation
* Food
* Drink (lots of drink)
Wedding
* Travel (if out of town)
* Accommodation (if out of town)
* A new outfit (if you're a girl, guys can possibly get away with not purchasing anything new)
* Wedding present
That's an expensive list.
I would like it to be known here, in writing, that should I ever get married I will not have a hen weekend. I will have a night with my friends - some pizza (or similar type of food), some cocktails (I don't drink beer) and some dancing. And maybe a pink feather boa. Just because.
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