Owie.

Ouch.

It is 1:30 in the aftrnoon on a gorgeous Sunday in the greater Seattle area. I should be outside soaking up the sun, or barbequeing, or jogging, or driving with my windows down and occasionally yelling "HEY, THAT'S MY BIKE!!!" out the window at small groups of alarmed adolescents cruising their huffies down the sidewalk.

But instead I'm sitting here in a pair of well-loved boxers and a hoodie, with whacked-out hair, eating pizza (vegetarian, extra sauce and pineapple, easy on the cheese), making a feeble attempt to hydrate (Diet Pepsi count?) while flipping through the photo evidence of the debauchery that was last night.

In short, I am hung over. Thanks to one of the best bachelorette parties possibly of all time.

There was nothing particularly spectacular from the outside about this party, really. We had the huge limo, of course, and the gazillion bottles of champagne. And the dresses. And the bride had the obnoxious flashing gag veil with little light-up penises all over it.

But what we had that most bachelorette parties don't was a desire to CRUSH every bar we entered. We wanted to drink everything, talk to everyone, and generally monopolize every venue exclusively for our benefit, other patrons be damned.

Highlights include:

1. The maid of honor taking swigs off a Souza tequila bottle (yes, that is essentially the worst tequila made -- let's be clear on the fact that this maid of honor is not messing around)on the way to the restaraunt and booty dancing her way up and down the limo -- on the freeway.

2. Ordering a round of Scooby Snack shots for the girls, taking them, then deciding they were too "fattening" and asking the bartender to try them with red bull instead of half and half. The result? Pure heaven, an addition to the shot menu, and my first drink named after me: the Lizzie Snack. (Let me just say that these things were a HUGE hit, and are fairly advanced for a "girly" shot. The combination of booze, sugar and caffeine in these puppies result in a very happy buzz -- and could be fatal if overdone.)

3. Taking the limo back from the piano bar to "downtown" Snohomish (think: cow town). No, that's the highlight. A limo in Snohomish. I think it's actually the first time that's ever happened.

4. Hitting three more bars, two of which had live bands and both of which I managed to convince to let the bride to be up on stage to sing a song. I accomplished this using my finely-tuned powers of persuasion (eyelash batting, a well-delivered joke, a little sweet talk and a deftly slipped $20). The songs? Joan Jett's "I Love Rock and Roll" and "Sweet Caroline". The entire patronage of both places ended up joining in by the end of the songs -- I'm surprised we didn't have a roof or two collapse. I should have been a hype-man when I grew up. I'm that good.

5. Being danced with and then gently hit on by a very, very tall man who was in town as best man in a wedding. I, of course, politely declined his advances and made my way back to the table. A few minutes later, in front of the whole table of my girls, one of his buddies came up to me and said something like: "Hey baby, did you know he plays for the L.A. Clippers? He makes a ton of money and he thinks you're beautiful. I mean, he makes a TON of money."

Taken aback, I dismissed him. He continued to push, on and on about this "money", which I gathered was supposed to impress me. I continued to wave him off. Finally, as he was not getting it, I unleashed a torrent of shit on the pathetic little man. Something to the effect of "Listen, you arrogant little prick, I don't know what you're trying to pull here, but I make my own money. I strongly recommend that you go back to wherever hole you came from and work on your little sidekick schtick. If that's the best you can do for your buddy over there, I think he needs to find a new wingman. Oh, and by the way, you're short and you smell like cheese."


It was a memorable night to say the least. Now it's back to the horizontal position for me. Happy weekend!