Weddingbee Blog

Oh boy, are you ready for this? You are about to witness an evening of debauchery small town New Hampshire may never forget. I knew to be ready for 4:30 PM to head up to Campton, NH—you should be ready to see a picture heavy post sprinkled with some penis paraphernalia, so, you know, if you’re at work and all, proceed with caution, mmm kay?

Honestly, who gets to spend an entire weekend with every woman she loves under the same roof? AND how many people get to spend that weekend with all their main lady squeezes without a single drop of drama? I was feeling pretty stressed the week prior and my bachelorette was exactly what I needed to settle my mind.

We arrived Friday night and spent the evening drinking and experiencing Michael Jackson on Wii. Oh yes, we are one wild bunch. Cakes owns the game and therefore owned us but at least I didn’t cheat like my friend Dance Pants in the back there.

Saturday, all of my college friends (that I haven’t seen in years) and cousins and hometown friends started piling into the house. Before we went out we played a few games.

I had to guess who brought the underwear correctly or take a shot of Doctor McGillicudy’s. The Doctor normally cures whatever ails me but tonight, I wanted to smack him with a sandwich. I only guessed two correctly.

Then I was the honorary judge in the Play Doh peanut competition. It was a hard decision—neck and neck. The girls went balls to the wall making sure they didn’t get shafted in order to get ahead. Bahhhh hahahahahaha!

After the games, it was TEE SHIRRRRRRRRRT TIMEEEEEEE!

And as I saw the headlights coming down the icy mountain, I yelled CABS AHHHH HEAAAA!!!

We piled into the bus heading for an unknown location, brimming with excitement… and then the bus driver asks us to stand in the back. Wait, what? Oh yeah. We got stuck on the mountain. Sissy became pretty upset, I secretly voodoo magic’d with my mind the snotty lady at the plow company who told me earlier that she wasn’t going to sand the driveway, and the bus driver got out to assess the situation. Dance Pants went to the front of the bus to snap a picture and…

Oh how I wish this picture was snapped two seconds later because the bus started sliding backwards… without a driver. I was having a blast knowing that come hell or high water this bus was going to have to drive off or be pulled off the damn mountain. We were making memories. Only in New Hampshire folks, only in NH. The magic school bus did end up making it up the hill (and back down again) somehow, someway— but where were we going?

The Bridgewater Inn in Bristol, NH a.k.a. The Bin. Okay, I want you to think of the smallest town you can imagine. Now I want you to think of the place where the locals in that small town meet for a beer on Saturday night. And then I want you to imagine what it must have been like for them to see 14 bachelorettes walk in.

It was like the movies when someone walks into the bar and the record stops. Everyone repositioned themselves to view the elusive creatures known as the Bachelorettes. Bridesmaid Happy exclaimed that she now knew what the penguins at the zoo felt like. To tell you the truth it was a little uncomfortable at first but after a few drinks, we were ready to party.

I know Willy was.

The food was amazing! Oh my oh my it was good, but we came for the mai tais and the music. Some of the bar patrons came over to wish me well or wonder out loud why we chose their favorite bar for my bachelorette. To tell you the truth, we chose the bar because it took dinner reservations and had a band. Sure, we could have gone to Boston and bought $12 beers at an age appropriate bar—or—felt like the old ladies at our cheap college haunts. Instead we had an amazing night dancing to Undercover Operatives music and enjoying the cheap, fully loaded alcoholic beverages, and conversing with our new friends.

Thanks for the Jagerbomb, new friend. He had just married off his daughter in the Caribbean. While Spiffy and my cousin there were milking all the shots they could from everyone at the bar, I was busy dancing.

… and then I felt a little woozy. So I locked myself in the bathroom to try and will myself to expel whatever was ailing me (You’re a sucky Doctor, McGuilicudy!). Luckily I felt better after a few alone minutes and sat down at the table for a little while… just in time for the show.

Camo Pants, as we started calling him, was itching for a little bachelorette action. So while Zeb was getting relieved of all his dolla dolla bills y’all, I was getting a free show. As Camo Pants started to unzipper his, well, camo pants, I yelled “NOOOOOOO!” Silly me, overreacting as usual. How was this Massachusetts girl supposed to know that he was at a bar in his ski pants? How was I to know that he arrived at the bar on his snow mobile? We were for certain, in another place, having a blast. I wanted to convince him to take me for a ride on his snow mobile but then I thought better of a night snow mobile ride with a drunk stranger in a rural place…in a skirt.

This guy’s wife was egging him on all night to…erm… entertain us. When I say everyone was really friendly and welcoming, I mean it.

I gave my compliments to the chef/owner/DJ extraordinaire and he looked the other way when our new friends started climbing on our table.

And as the night wound down, while Tom was waiting for us for our hopefully no longer icy ride home, we gathered each other and began to descend down the stairs, we heard it-it!-it!- the opening to Don’t Stop Believin’. Each one of us stopped immediately in our tracks, looked at each other, and said F- it, Tom can wait, we’re dancing! So dance we did, one last magical, Journeyrific, sweaty fist pumping moment.

I think my favorite part of the whole weekend was Sunday morning when we all woke up in a hung over stupor, trying to piece together the night before with our stories. We sat around chatting for an hour or two before everyone had to go their different directions…and then Cakes iced me. Asshole.

Thus, effectively ending the weekend… and me. This is war.

I had planned our bachelor/bachelorette parties for the same evening. There was no way I would be sitting at home doing wedding projects worrying about what is happening at the titty bar. Some of my friends were chatting on Saturday afternoon about the various rules we had given our guys for the strip club.

Cakes looked perplexed, and asked, “There are rules?”

In the same moment she had a cell phone in her hand and we all yelled “CALL HIM!” “NOW!”

So, in honor of the Zebrachelorette, what are some of the rules you give your FI for the strip club?