Stand on the bar, stomp your feet, start clapping
Got a real good feeling something bad about to happen
Drinks keep coming, throw my head back laughing
Wake up in the morning’ don’t know what happened
Whoa… Something bad
Whoa… Something bad
– Miranda Lambert (feat. Carrie Underwood)
My big toe has been numb for five days.
Could it be from walking 17,000+ steps around DC (that’s where we went for Kaley’s bachelorette weekend)… in 27 degree weather… while wearing flats on Saturday?
I don’t know, maybe.
Or maybe it’s from the five-inch peep-toe wedges I wore out that night and danced 10,000+ steps in?
But then again, it’s probably just from slipping and falling in my own beer… on stage… at the club.
Look, I’m not a podiatrist. I can’t tell if I’ve got frostbite, or bad circulation, or a club-casualty… wait. Yep. Nope. That’s a lie. I do have a club-casualty. My elbow. I busted my elbow on the way down…
How can one person be such a friggin’ mess? A hilarious friggin’ mess – but a mess, nonetheless. I mean, I wore my fucking shirt inside out to work the other day and didn’t realize it until 1:30 p.m., for shit’s sake. Just this morning, SusieQ and I were talking about how ratchet some lady’s hair looked, and I was all, “Hahaha! Maybe we should do a ‘What Not to Wear – Big Blue Box’ edition!” Then I was like, “Granted. I could very well be on that list from time to time… I wore a pirate shirt on Monday and a ‘Bawitdaba’ shirt on Tuesday. And seriously, what could be more ratchet than Kid Rock?”
How do I even manage to keep myself alive?
The other night, when I fell at the bar, I had literally just looked at Heat and said, “Ohmigah, I love dancing on this wall. I mean, it props me up, takes pressure off of my feet, and eliminates the possibility of weird people being able to dance all up on me. Definitely the way to do it.” Three seconds later… bam! I’m on the floor, laughing uncontrollably, and unable to get my footing stable enough to get back up.
It made me feel better when Charlie did the exact same thing 20 minutes later.
Anyhow, this is kinda how bachelorette parties (orrrrr life, in general) go for me. I’m always stirring up some sort of shenanigans. Then again, I have been on six. So, the odds of me not causing any kind of trouble are substantially low.
Take Heaty’s bachelorette party for example…
I had suggested we go to Atlanta. Atlanta is fun. There’s plenty of alcohol to be had in Atlanta. Plenty of food, and shopping, and seeing to do for a weekend trip. Not to mention, Atlanta is only 4-ish hours away from home.
Atlanta it was.
We got to our hotel that Friday night around 11:00 p.m., immediately changed clothes, and walked a couple streets over to a bar called Flip Flops. Flip Flops is a tiki bar. There’s a life-size pirate statue standing at the entrance to the bar. They specialize in slushee drinks. I mention specifics of the bar because I find them to be ironic bits of information to keep in mind throughout the rest of the story.
So, we’re upstairs. We’re dancing with each other. We’re buying rounds of shots. We’re all pullin’ Oprahs and shit… “Hey! You get a beer, and you get a beer, and you get a beer!” We’re laughing, and giggling, and taking pictures of ourselves – you know, having a pretty friggin’ good time – when all of the sudden, this guy comes up to me. If my memory serves me correctly, he had smiled and said hello to me at the bar earlier in the evening. But this time, he was determined to make conversation, “So, what are y’all over here whispering about?”
“Oh you know, vaginas and shit,” I replied flatly.
My response caught him off guard, “Ummm. What was that?”
Speaking more clearly now, I yelled, “VAGINAS AND SHIT.”
We were in a bar. It was well past midnight. Gangsta rap was shaking the walls and colored lights flickered across our faces. We weren’t whispering about anything. We were yelling. Anyone within a 10-yard radius could hear what we were talking about.
What a dumb line.
He continued with small talk. I flattered him with bullshit answers. “Look, Tom…” I started, “Why do you keep calling me Tom? My name isn’t Tom?” Ugh. Men. They’re always so whiny. “Welllll, I don’t know your name. And you look like a Tom. What else am I supposed to call you? Tell me your name.” He suddenly got all giddy, like I was falling right into his trap, “The thing is… my name… it’s kind of embarrassing.” “Embarrassing? How is it embarrassing? What is it? Like Kyle, or Phil, or something lame like that?” He laughed, “No. It’s uhhh… ummm… well… it’s… Doctor Patterson.” (Note: Names have been changed because, well frankly, because I can’t remember what that dumbass said his name was. BUT the “Doctor” part – totally happened.)
This is how the rest of our conversation went:
MC: Completely unimpressed, “Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me. Seriously, you’re kidding me, right?”
The Dr.: Looking offended, “What? No really! I really am a doctor!”
MC: “Yeah. Okay. Hey, so am I. What kind of medicine do you practice? Wait. Let me guess. You’re aaaaa…. a baby doctor.”
The Dr.: “Umm, well, actually I am.”
MC: Laughing in his face now, “Of fucking course you are.”
The Dr.: His face fell, obviously butt-hurt that I wasn’t falling all over his stethoscope, “Why is this so unbelievable? I can prove it to you. I can pull it up online.”
MC: “Dude, you come up to me… in a bar… called Flip Flops… with a fucking pirate sitting in the corner and introduce yourself as ‘Dr. So-and-so.’ You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know my name, who I am, what I do… and you have the balls to use that line. C’mon.”
The Dr.: Pulling out his phone now to “prove” his residency, “See.”
Kaley: “Oh! You’re from New Mexico! She just got back from there!”
MC: “Yeah, I did (Kristen and I had just finished our road trip out west). What part of New Mexico are you from?”
The Dr.: Rolls his eyes and walks away.
This asshole introduces himself as Dr. Patterson to a girl in a bar decorated with slushee machines and I’m the one with the unbelievable New Mexico story? Umm please, homeboy. Get off my junk. He later came back up to me and told me I, “Lost the game.” “Lost what game? What the hell are you even talking about, dude?” “We had a bet going that you would make me prove that I was a doctor. You lost the game.”
At the time, I was 8 1/2 years into my nearly 10-years-long relationship with Mr. Big.
I patted him on the shoulder and said, “Honey, you don’t even know what sport we’re playin’.”
To make a long story even longer… soon after the Dr. and his buddies left, a group of kids came in wearing matching t-shirts. Scrolled across the front in big bold white letters said something about how they were med. school graduates. I looked at the girls, they looked at me, and we all started laughing. Poor fella, he probably just got his diploma. He had most likely just received his doctoral pin, or whatever the hell, and was super excited to use the “I’m a doctor” line on some hot chicks at the bar… but then wasted it on an douchebag like me.
Ugh. Sorry ’boutcha luck, buddy – err – doc.
Charlie’s wasn’t much better…
We were standing on a street corner in the middle of downtown Asheville. One of the girls in our group was newly pregnant and not feeling well. So, we split up into two groups: the girls who wanted to go back and the girls who wanted to party on at a place called Ben’s Tune-Up.
After we realized people were saying “tune-up” and not “tuna” my interest was peaked. The bar was in an old garage. Like, an actual place where people took their cars for tune ups. Anyhow, Ben’s Tune-Up turned out to be one of the coolest bars I’ve ever been to. It was very eclectic (duh. we were in Asheville). The center of the bar – where the dance floor was – didn’t have a roof. The summer air clung to our bodies as we laughed, and drank, and talked, and danced. Plus, they served beer out of a can… and not just any beer… real beer… from Wisconsin… not any of that craft shit.
Alright, so back to my story, we were standing on the street corner saying goodnight to the pregnant party-goer and getting directions to Ben’s when two guys walked up. They were hovering around us like lost puppies. “Ummm. Hi. Do you boys need directions too?” I asked. One spoke up, “Well, we were just going to follow you all. You look like you know where the party’s at.” Stepping out of my heels now, “Well, uhh, if you’re followin’ us you might wanna take your shoes off… looks like it’s gonna be a bit of a hike.”
The two boys fell in line behind me and Heat. As we walked they tried to make small talk with us:
Boy 1: “So, today is his birthday.”
MC: “Oh really! Well, happy birthday! How old are you?”
Boy 2: “Eighteen.”
MC: “Eighteen? Dude, y’all aren’t getting into this bar. You know that, right?”
Boy 1: “Well, see that’s the thing…”
MC: Cutting him off, “Wait. Is this one of those ‘Oh look, we’re conveniently down a dark alley. How’s about you put your hands up and give me all of your money!’- bits, is it? Because that would really piss me off.”
Boy 1: “Oh no! Nothing like that. See, we were just wondering…”
MC: “Ohhhhh. I know. You guys want us to stop and buy you some beer, huh? Aww, how cute! Heaty, did you hear that? They want us to buy them beer!”
Boy 1: “Yeah! That’s what we were hoping.”
Heat: Toying with them now, “Just how old do you think we are?”
Boy 1: “Uhh. Well, twenty-one?”
Heat and I both busted out laughing. Then Heat blurted out, “Yeah! Maybe eleven years ago!” They both gasped. I glanced back and threw them a quick smile, “Sorry, boys, but you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree. You see, we’ve got three lawyers in the group and buying a couple of underagers beer is… well… sort of a conflict of interest. But good luck!”
They tagged along with us all the way to Ben’s Tune-up, stood in line for a bit, and then disappeared. Me, on the other hand, proceeded to get into a fight with a guy for trying to pass us in line…
I took one for the team and did a body shot for her. Except, I don’t really know anything about body shots. Sooo really I just held the shot glass over his tallywacker-region-area for a coupla seconds and then took the shot like normal.
Come to find out, you’re supposed to suck booze out of the other person’s belly-button. Uhh. Negative. I’m not drinkin’ shit out of a some rando’s hairy lent trap.
… but I will take the free shot, thanks.
And then on Kristen’s…
We (Kristen and I) got into a screaming match because I wouldn’t let her cut in line to use the bathroom at the bar.
Welcome to my world, people.
It’s a fun place to visit. The weather’s nice, we’re never out of beer (mainly, because I steal it from other people), and there’s always plenty of sarcasm to go around. Here, have a seat on my houndy-hair-covered couch and make yourself comfortable. Stay a while. Hell, you might even find you never wanna leave…