When it came time to ask someone to be my "maid of honour", I wasn't thinking about my stagette. I asked my brother. For one, he is one of my best friends. For two, it made it so I wouldn't have to choose between my sisters. I like to be more passive-aggressive about who is my favourite sibling.
It was much later on that I realized one of the roles of the bridal party is to arrange the shower and/or stagette for the bride. Hmm. Well, my brother is out. I couldn't ask my sisters for a couple of reasons. The first being they were out of the province, the second that they are prudes. (Tee hee. Kidding. I mean spinsters.) So, I decided I would ask someone else to do it for me.
I picked two friends from work - Jess and Queen D. We have been fast friends since they started. I guess it was inevitable. They were the first people hired at the office who were under 50. We are all similar personality types (read: Type A) and we're all just a little... unbalanced. Who better to throw me a party? So, I asked, they agreed, and I put it from my mind. They told me when to arrive and that was all I knew.
I have to admit I got nervous the closer it came to the date. I suddenly realized there was going to be a room full of people staring at me. I almost made The Guy turn the truck around and tell them I had died. But I didn't. And I'm so glad.
Everyone gathered into the basement that was covered in balloons and presents. I sat at the head of the ring of chairs and felt foolish. Who was I that I felt important enough to demand people come to celebrate me? And I told them to bring gifts? RUDE. But we all settled in quickly and I introduced everyone to everyone else. It was fun. I was starting to enjoy myself.
Just as quickly as we arrived, we left. A photo scavenger hunt had been arranged. I had not been on one since high school and it was like we'd never left. We crowded into cars, giggling like fools and set off. Our car was sure to beat the others - we had the bride!! We set off to take pictures. We sped, we swerved, we laughed. We finished in 20 minutes. And realized we read the directions wrong. So, we redid the whole thing and returned to the house 5 minutes late. Behind the group that got the speeding ticket. Points tallied and our car was dead last.
We rallied quickly and hurried downstairs to stuff our faces with the greatest spread of food ever. From the best spinach dip I've had to the vegetable cream cheese pizza that makes me want to have little vegetable babies with it. I ate until Jess ripped the plate from my hands to make me open presents. To be fair, had she not stopped me, I would still be there having eaten myself into a spinach coma.
Then the presents - lingerie. Or, as someone calls it, linger-y. The gifts ranged from classy and gorgeous things I would have bought myself to items so scandalous I may never be able to look upon them without blushing. A few things, I had no idea what they even were. Then I read the instructions and almost died of prudishness. It was like all the Puritan women that ever existed throughout history came into my body at that moment just to DIE FROM THE HORROR all over again.
After the shower, we reconvened for supper at a fancy restaurant. It was awesome. We ate all afternoon and then went for supper. DREAM DAY. We walked by a huge group of Russian hookers to get into the front door. (That story will be in a later post.) We ate and drank and laughed and had many onlookers come into the room to find out why I was in a sparkly, pink, foam tiara.
As the evening was nearing completion, another present came out onto the table. Underwear. An entire bag of underwear. Everyone who was at the supper (and a few jammers) bought me a pair of undies. Each pair of underwear had some tie to the person who bought it. And I had to guess which came from who. I was not good at it. I got a couple right eventually (like my Sis-in-law to be's choice of Rider football undies) but even the obvious ones difficult for me.
All in all, I made a pretty good haul. I have more skanky night clothes than one human (who is not in the sex trade) actually needs. I also have enough underwear to litter the streets in gotch.
As God is my witness, I'll never go commando again.