Before we rehash, I want to make one thing clear: LP’s bachelorette party did not involve dwarves in any way, shape or form. No stripper dwarves, no bowl-able dwarves – there were zero dwarves.
The evening was not without its proper kitsch, however.
The first leg of the celebration -- dubbed "El Pequeno Peter” -- went down at Paige’s house in Charlestown, where alongside the supreme crudites and Mojitos, were some mandatory thong bombs, Latina flavored tunes mixed by MoHo Cameo, and a parrot piñata full of individually-wrapped chocolate penises from Sweet-n-Nasty.
Then there were the props: sombreros, maracas, tiaras and boas – some of which were worn by Brownguy who was merely fulfilling the expectation he set back in college when he squeezed his man boobs into LP’s mom’s disco leotard. >>
<< Hollering back, Goy pulled a thong on over her jeans and ran amok.
Before we headed off to second leg of the party, T-Bag stepped up and held the buurd piñata aloft while Pequeno Pete swung and jabbed at it with a wooden spoon -- quite mightily.
Auntie, high-heeled & pregnant, wins MVP of night >>>
<<Chocopeeps = crazy delicious
After the pinata bashing, we spilled out onto the sidewalk to wait for our ride and were a little shell shocked by the daylight. Also, the harsh light only emphasized my latest self-tanning disaster that had turned my skin into the color of Velveeta. Luckily, it was short-lived because...cue 50 Cent...
Our ghetto fabulous white Escalade limo came rolling down Chestnut Street in all of its tawdry splendor. The mere sight of the great white monstrosity set off an imaginary soundtrack in my head the rest of the evening. Whenever we exited the limo, the opening notes of “Beep” by Pussy Cat Dolls floated up. And whenever we got back in, it was the Beastie Boys’ “Check Yourself before you Wreck Yourself.” We swung by Southie to pick up Nicola and then headed to West Street for dinner and reveling.
In a surprise cameo, Peg and Lisa joined us for dinner. On the flip side, my brother missed a scheduled cameo. He’d fallen asleep only to be awoken around 11 p.m. to a voicemail from me and LP, who were – in his words – “singing, possibly rapping, hard to tell.”
Upon further investigation, I learned it was an obscure rap song from the 80s movie Dragnet. “Well excuse me, copper, mr. crime stopper, what is wrong with what I am doin'? We just like to dance in our goat skin pants, around these ancient ruins.” The reason for this remains unclear but LP's theory is she told my brother to "Get off the hopper" and was compelled to rhyme, almost involuntarily.
I don’t know know when the view changed but after comparing self-tanning accidents with a woman in the ladies room, I emerged to find the dancefloor had morphed into something resembling a giant chicken fight set to music. There were too many limbs and too little rhythm – a phenomenon that occurs when you cram too many white people into a small space with a DJ. Young men in big boy blazers jammed the frequencies and the bathroom line snaked around the dancefloor like a stalled conga line. In short, it was time to check ourselves before we wreck ourselves and roll out. Then, in lieu of a late night dance party at Chez MoHo, some *deleted scenes* and a bottle of vino. Ow, my head.
Afterthoughts: * I hope my self tanner didn’t leave a Shroud of Turin-like imprint on Cameo’s Aerobed * If anyone’s looking for LP, she’ll be sorting herself out at the Betty Ford Clinic for the next 10 days.