Bachlorette Parties Suck My Ass

So my sister's getting married. In 5 weeks. The past 9 months have all led up to a ceremony being held in 5 weeks. I've been dieting in preparation. Well, actually, I've been planning on dieting in anticipation. I have 9 months to lose 5 pounds! I have 8 months to lose 5 pounds! Um, now I have 5 weeks to lose 5 pounds! Hmmm. I'll work on that. During my last haircut my stylist left my hair longer so I can put it up at the damn wedding. I spent 7 months working on a cross-stitch wall hanging as a present. I did all the calligraphy for the invitations. I'm making necklaces for the wedding party.

But the most annoying part of this whole damn process? The bachlorette party.

My sister lives in St. Louis but because she lived here for 3 years, she has plenty of friends. Friends from social work school. Friends from the Jewish social service program she attended. Friends from the nutritional holistic health counseling course she attended.

I didn't need to worry about the penis-wielding, stripper-hassling, rabble-rousing traditional grossness of bachlorette parties. No, no! Thus far, the girls have suggested we celebrate by either watching two documentaries about Haitian flood victims and globalization at the Park Slope Food Co-Op, or attending an Afrokenetic dance party.

People! Documentaries! Food Co-Op! Afrokentic! No!

Those penises and strippers are looking better and better.