Bender: A Story of a Bachelorette Weekend | Part I

“Now remember, Francie, make good decisions this weekend,” my boyfriend told me as he unloaded my suitcase from the car at the airport. “Oh, I will,” I told him, thinking sarcastically to myself, “I’m hanging out with my best friends from high school for Carolyn’s bachelorette weekend – what possible situation could I put myself in where I’d make bad decisions?”

This, folks, is what we call foreshadowing.

I arrived in Kansas City after 9 p.m. and saw my favorite people in the world waiting for me outside the gates: Kristi, Sam and Carolyn. And they were drunk. I, being the competitive person that I am, felt the need to catch up. “Girls, I’m sober, you’re not. We need to fix this.” To which they all replied, “Don’t worry, we have you covered.” So, off to the airport bar, I’m thinking. But then it hits me. We are in Missouri (not Missourah, you hicks). ROADIES! This, my friends, is one of the few good things about Missouri. Roadies are legal as long as you’re not driving. Most excellent.

So as I proceeded to chug a few beers in the car (we had a designated driver, mind you), then we ended up at Kristi’s house, where I decided to drink more beer (with koozies to keep them cold – not that we gave them the chance to get warm), munched on Utz mix (think Ghardetto’s, but better because it comes in a massive tub from Costco) and did some yoga on the hardwood floor. Because at the time, downward dog seemed like a great idea.

Cut to the next morning. Wasn’t going to run a marathon, but I didn’t feel like death (high altitude training, courtesy of living in Denver). So we headed to Eggct. in Brookside. Know why? Because we were starving. Kristi’s hubby Scott recommended the chorizo breakfast burrito. I couldn’t think of a better way to start the day. Hearing my boyfriend’s words of wisdom from the day before, I thought to myself, ah yes, this is a good decision. Poor Kristi was trying not to puke of course, but she had some food and we headed back to her place to rest a bit before….drumroll: mani/pedis with Sam. 

We hit up Shine in Westport. Here’s what’s great about Shine. First, it’s more of a spa than one of those typical nail places where they usher you in like cattle. Second, and most importantly, you can BYOB (or in this case, BYOW). If you’re sensing a theme about Missouri, then you’d be right – it’s like they have a rivalry with New Orleans and Vegas. The salon had REAL wine glasses, and we kept it classy by not breaking any – talk about high-rolling. So, beginning at 2 p.m., we started drinking wine while we got our nails done. Being the overachiever that I am, I decided to help drink the majority of it. Such a giver. But as the saying goes, give and you shall receive. And I certainly received…a major buzz.

After the nail salon extravaganza, it was off to get ready for the bachelorette party. Since I had this great buzz, I thought to myself, “Why not have some wine while getting ready? I’ll be able to hang tonight because I’ll make sure I have a big dinner to soak it all up.” Famous last words.

All the gals arrived at Kristi’s house and Carolyn opened up her bachelorette gifts...and the wine drinking continued. So, at this point, I had been drinking for about five hours straight. The breakfast burrito was big, but not Francie big. So I was getting to that point where I’m getting loud and semi-sloppy. But no worries, dinner was in a few hours. – and was at Brio, an Italian joint on the Plaza. I’d be able to eat bread, pasta, etc. and would feel fine by the time we hit the town. 

We all sat down in our private room and the waitress brought out the wine. Lots and lots of wine. I thought to myself, “I’d be remiss not to partake in this delicious beverage.” And yes, the voices in my head do use the word “remiss.” So I did. Sure, I ate some bread and calamari (or squidlets, as I’ve coined the term at a previous time), but at this point, I was Sheen-tastic. I was loud and completely inappropriate (at least more inappropriate than usual). Thank God my meal came…or so I thought. I ordered Pasta alla Vodka, and it was awesome. 

I know there’s not such thing as food chugging, but pretty sure I invented it that night. Plate was empty in no time, and I was still hungry, so I sloppily grabbed at the calamari plate and shoved squidlets in my mouth like a two-year-old eats Cheerios. I took what I thought were pictures of me seductively eating Italian bread. Nope, not sexy. Not sexy at all.

Then I became fascinated with this piece of fried octopus and decided to leave it on the tablecloth for all to admire. Took pictures, posed it in different positions, etc. I’m sure I thought to myself, “Man, all these ladies are being treated to what I’d consider pure, unadulterated food art.” Meanwhile, everyone else is thinking, “Bitch be stoopid.”

So, having enjoyed last night’s roadies, not sleeping, drunk all day and now having eaten massive quantities of food in a small period of time, my body rebelled. We’re talking Robert E. Lee, Lenin and Admiral Akbar (“it’s a TRAP!”) level of rebellion. I don’t remember much after that, but apparently I decided to take a nap on the table. When my friends woke me up, I was told I fell over on the floor and just lied there. At one point, I felt stretching seemed appropriate, extending my legs straight up in the air in a classic Jane Fonda position. Unfortunately, instead of leg warmers, I was wearing a short dress. No pictures available, boys. 

Photo courtesy of Danielle Ross - She really knows how to capture the most special moments.

What did matter was that I got the hell out of there and headed home. No bars for me. I was a cop magnet. So, a few gals were leaving after dinner and took me back to Kristi’s house, where her husband was waiting. I mumbled that I wanted to hang on the couch to wait for the girls while he played video games. He told me that no more than five seconds later, I was out for the count. “Francie, time to go to bed,” he said. “No!” I replied. “Francie, you cannot sleep on the couch, you need to go to bed,” he said, more affirmatively. “Well,” I replied, “My monkey says that I can sleep on the couch and wait for the girls to come home.” Scott replied, “Well, Francie, MY monkey says that you have to go to bed NOW.” I retorted, “Well, MY monkey and YOUR monkey don’t seem to think the same way, and your monkey can go f$^* itself.”

And there the night ended, but the story doesn’t. Part two coming soon.