I wasn’t going to have a bachelorette party, because really, I’m just not a hard-partying penis cake eating kind of girl. At first, before the economy fell apart, we were considering having a girls getaway weekend up in wine country, but well, people flying in to San Francisco twice in one summer was just not feasible these days. So I gave it up and moved on. Goodness knows I have plenty on my plate.
And then. And then. This weekend, some of my San Francisco girlfriends threw me a surprise bachelorette. I’m still on a high from how amazing and loving it was, and I don’t want to shake the glitter off the day, but I will tell you this.
We went shooting. Clay Pigeons*. Shotguns. Best bachelorette party ever.
This is me, firing a gun for the first time,** with the adorable hipster western shirt that they gave me for the occasion. They also gave me a wad of cash, Lacy underwear, and single malt scotch, because, well obviously.
40 year old guys at the shooting range: Are you ladies here for a birthday?
Me: No, it’s my batchelorette, I’m getting married in three weeks.
Guys: Oh, god. What do you want to get married for? You’re to young to get married. How old are you?
Me: Twenty-nine.
Guys: Oh, never mind, you’re old enough to get married, you look much younger.
Me: Ha!
Guys: But seriously, what are you going to do after you get married? It’s boring.
Me: Shooting.
Do I look like I’m up to no good? Because I totally am.
* CLAY pigeons. Not actual birds. Though I can’t say I harbor any pigeon love in my city dwelling heart.
**Though for the record, I used to be black powder certified, and I’ve fired cannons many many times.
