Today is one of my girlfriend’s former wedding day…as in, she was supposed to be walking down the aisle as I type this, but she got dumped. But that isn’t my story.
For today, I wanted to plan something fun just for her and her friends, so she could keep her mind off him. The plans started churning about a month ago, when a girlfriend suggested we all chip in some cash, and enjoy a grand weekend at the Hard Rock Hotel. Sweet by me.
Since we could really only afford one night at the hotel, I offered my apartment as the place for the pre-party. My original plans were simple: invite over a bunch of girls, make a ton of champagne punch and chocolate-covered strawberries, watch men-bashing movies, play a little dream phone, and be ready to roll to Hard Rock in the early morning hours.
Well, then I started thinking a little more. Maybe I should host a jewelry party? A spa pampering party? A dildo fun party? Should there be a stripper? So, I started making arrangements for it to be a party that combined a little of everything.
I started by talking with my spa consultant, who told me she would have to talk to her manager: MANDY. Well, I’m pretty sure Mandy hates me. We’ve had way too many of those moments where she’s talking about me in the room, I give her the stink eye, and she shuts the fuck up. After about three rounds of this, I told her to can it—no bitch, I know I did not sign up for a year contract to get treated like shit, ok? Thanks.
So, at the mention of Mandy’s name, I knew I wouldn’t be having that spa party. But hey, I’ve got hoes in different area codes, so I called another spa consultant at a different location. I explained the situation and she seemed RULLY into hosting this party. She was all, I’ll invite my hair guy and my jewelry gal and we can have sushi catered in. Yeah, sure, whatever bitch, let’s just get on with it. So she tells me she’s about to walk into a meeting and she’ll call me back that night, or at the latest, the next morning.
You know where this is going. The bitch didn’t call me back. Total. Clit. Tease.
Anyway, I met up with my girlfriends and explained the situation—no-go on the spa party. So what did we come up with? There was only one clear solution: the dildo fun party. Now, if passing around huge neon dongs with my closest girlfriends isn’t a Friday night-o-fun, then I really don’t know what is. So we get on some web sites and try to hook things up. Well this effort went about as far as my dating efforts go—nowhere.
I was at a loss. I really wanted to make sure my girlfriend had a good time. So after a few bottles of wine and a good brainstorming session, we decided to do an anti-bachelorette party, where we all dress in black, do a bar crawl, flirt with random guys, act like fools, and get free shit. Come to think of it, this is my routine about four nights out of the week. Damn.
So we proceed with this idea, I make invitations, I create a scavenger hunt, I make food for the pre-party, I clean my apartment, I even blew up a queen-size air mattress for the drunk bitches to sleep on. The next day, it was time to finalize the dinner reservations and get random details about the hotel.
Hotel. Check. Dinner reservations? Eh, not so much.
I call the sushi place we wanted to go to and they say they are all booked for large parties that night. Umm, I had a party of 6—that’s like, all of my ex boyfriends. Anyway, the hostess tells me we can still come and put our name on the list if we want. Well no, we don’t want. So I call choice number two, a grill. They have no problem getting us in, so I’m feeling relieved.
At that point, the only thing left I have to do is get myself ready. So I head to my salon and get my hair did. I’m feeling great for about two hours of pampering and gossiping, until I leave the salon and check my phone.
What do I see? That not one, not two, but three bitches have dropped out of the effing party. One of the girls was supposed to be a damn bridesmaid! The other two were my friends. Everyone saying they couldn’t go because they were low on cash.
What. the. fuck? I understand none of us are made of money, but seriously. If you’re broke, at least come along, have a drink instead of dinner, bring a flask instead of buying. I really wasn’t planning an evening for the rich and famous—it’s simple, tacky, fun and a way to pick up hotties (and free shots).
But what really kills me is the lack of interest in wanting to perk up a friend. It’s obvious she’s going through a rough time right now and could use a bottle of champagne. It doesn’t matter if she was my good friend or not, I can’t imagine what she’s going through and I know I need my friends every time get dumped.
But have no fear, me and my girlfriend are still taking her out tonight—complete with champagne, chocolate covered strawberries, dinner, and a bar crawl/scavenger hunt. I even bought us candy necklaces (for the fellas to eat off our necks) and shot glasses attached to necklaces. BRING IT ON!
And when I see the bitches that hoed us out, I WILL punch you in the face.