And so, I hope you'll join me on a whirlwind retrospective of Kat's Coney Island Bachelorette Extravaganza.
The party started out on the beach, right between the Wonder Wheel and the grimy Raritan Bay. Out of approximately 10,000 acres of sand, my two co-MOHs (maids of honor) and I somehow managed to pick the choice spot behind that one kid -- there is one on every beach -- who is really into feeding the seagulls. This one was wearing a pair of waterlogged blue boxer briefs as a bathing suit, and was armed with Cheetos which he threw intermittently into the sand, creating a maelstrom of squawking birds all hell-bent on beachy snacktime. After three horrifying minutes of feeling like we'd accidentally stumbled into a take of "The Birds 2: Terror In The Sand!", we left.
Of additional note: though it was unclear at first how the little boy's blue boxer briefs had become so wet -- he never seemed to go in the ocean -- all was explained when he stood up and, with utter nonchalance, peed all over himself.
Still, we all managed to smile for this picture.
Next up: a ride on the Cyclone.
Fact: the Cyclone's tiny roller-coaster cars are not made to accommodate adult women...
"Wow, I can't move at all," I said, with Maggie wedged in next to me and the "safety" bar firmly locked over our laps. "How are we going to get out of here at the end of the ride?"
...or their jewelry.
"I lost my earring!" she yelled, as we plummeted down the first drop.
"No, it's okay, it's in my crotch!" I yelled back.
There was another drop, followed by a bone-rattling turn around the back curve.
"I lost my other earring!" she yelled.
"That one is probably in my crotch, too!" I yelled.
Mardie turned back toward us and yelled something which, though I can't be sure, sounded an awful lot like "This sucks!"
Several seconds later, and with all my teeth feeling sort of loose after a collision with the safety bar, we tried to make our ungainly exit from the cars only to find ourselves blocked by the three grinning teenage boys working the ride.
"Hey ladies, we'll let all three of you go again for just ten dollars!"
"What?" we said.
"You can go again!" one of them explained, pointing back toward the coaster cars whose red vinyl seats now yawned at us like tiny gaping maws of death.
"No, no thank you. We don't want to go again," said Mardie.
"We hurt ourselves," I said.
Maggie just pointed to her elbow, which was inexplicably bleeding and missing a large amount of skin.
"Okay, okay," said the guy. There was a pause.
Then he said, "You can go again for just nine dollars!"
We may or may not have run screaming down the stairs.
Here we are, displaying our wounds.
With the remaining 4 girls now in tow, we found our way to Keyspan Park, home of the Brooklyn Cyclones.
Things started to get out of hand right away, when Mardie handed me a gift bag containing --
-- a Shenis.
In spite of its un-subtle appearance, it proved to be useful in myriad ways.
Once inside the stadium, I was presented with a "Bachelorette" sash and a steady supply of beer. That's right -- somebody gave these to me. It was totally beyond my control.
In the 6th inning, I went to the ladies' room while wearing my sash and was accosted by two heavyset women with crazy Staten Island accents.
"Hey!" one shouted, "a bachelorette!"
The other strode over and put an arm around my shoulders, and said, "Alright doll, how long ya known the guy?"
"Er..." I said, suddenly unable to remember exactly how long I have known Brad. "A year or two?"
"Well, that's ok," she said, nodding sagely.
"Okay," I said.
"As long as there's communication," she said.
"Yes," I said, "there is definitely communication."
"Well, congratulations!" she said.
On the way back from the bathroom, I ran into Pee Wee the Cyclones mascot. We embraced. Just like with the ladies from the bathroom, I felt that we had a beautiful rapport which nobody else could ever understand.
A second later, one of my co-maids-of-honor appeared and grabbed my hand.
"There's a clown here," she shouted, "And we're getting your face painted!"
After a lot of protesting (the way I feel about clowns nonwithstanding, face paint makes me break out. And though I'm not exactly a high-maintenance bride, I'll be damned if I'm going to invite a giant zit with only 14 days til the wedding), we settled on a compromise.
"So, what are we doing here?" said the clown.
"Well, we're at a baseball game," said Mardie.
"Okay," said the clown.
"So how about, like, a bat? And two balls?"
The clown stared at us. The clown stared at us. I hope never to write that sentence again as long as I live.
"You get what I'm saying?" said Mardie.
"Yes, I get what you're saying," said the clown.
And then he said, "I'm going to lose my job."
Dear clown: although I am still scared of you, I hope you didn't lose your job.
I suggested that we might want to leave after the seventh inning, since that's when they stop serving beer, but I'm very glad that we didn't. Because suddenly, over the loudspeaker, they announced the night's premier event: The Brooklyn Cyclones Hot Dog Race, featuring Ketchup, Mustard, and Relish.
In a frenzy of excitement I still can't explain, I completely lost my shit and turned to the girl next to me, shrieking, "Oh, thank God! I'M BACKING RELISH!!!"
As it turns out, unforunately, the racing hot dogs look less like hot dogs and more like... well, open wounds.
Nine innings, several beers, and approximately 900 calories worth of nachos later (and thanks, NYS Department of Health, for posting that information -- like I didn't hate myself enough already), we took the logical next steps:
We got funnel cake...
We played water-gun carnival games....
And I got lei'd at Beer Island.
And though there were no Chippendale's dancers or penis hats, all told -- between the beer, the best friends, the Shenis, and the random guy who turned as I passed him on the boardwalk and screamed, "Wait! You're the girl of my dreams!" -- I think this was an excellent last hurrah for singledom.
I hope you think so, too.