Charming, but single

Saturday, in a bit of “two birds, one stone” serendipity, we rounded up some ladies for a Cinco de Mayo-themed bachelorette party for a Feisty College Friend, who is as petite and darling as they come, all four feet eleven inches and 90 pounds of her. No lie, Feisty is so tiny that she only comes up to my chest when she stands next to me, which made for some interesting dancing.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

We picked the most popular Mexican restaurant and bar in town because we are morons. B is one of the managers and when I called him on Thursday and said I was bringing a bachelorette party there for Cinco de Mayo and asked for a reservation, his response was somewhere along the lines of, “Golly gee, why don’t you bring every damn woman you ever knew and demand a table for 5,000 around 7 p.m., okay?” (We ended up starting early in the afternoon and he was kind enough to make sure our small party of seven got a table.)

It all started out tame enough, a few of us waiting for Feisty, who had some florist-related issue to attend to as her wedding is mere weeks away. Her entrance, marked by much hollering by us, was quite grand as she wore a white sombrero with a veil covered in various miniature male members and packs of condoms, lube and a vibrating ring for, um, down there – as an aside, I asked, “Is that really necessary? Anything that requires directions doesn’t seem that necessary.” and one of the bridesmaids said, “Trust me. It is TOTALLY necessary.”

Now, I will say that I don’t want little phalluses decorating a faux veil for my bachelorette party, but Feisty took it in turn and we let her take it off while we were in the restaurant because it was afternoon and there were a few children around. We did subject her to much humiliation and many, many margaritas.

We grew quite fond of our cute waiter, who was all of 12 years old and dimpled and, as my mom would say, Trouble. As we were preparing to head outside for some dancing, Feisty demanded that the waiter come dance with her. When he apologized and said he couldn’t because he was working, she said, “Oh come on! You can dance with me! It isn’t like this is Footloose!”

To her, this statement was quite logical. And she was totally correct – it most certainly was NOT Footloose, as Kevin Bacon was nowhere to be found. (I imagine for years and years people will say, “It isn’t like this is Footloose!” to end arguments with her.)

Many hours of dancing with hundreds of people to the 80s cover band performing in the parking lot, I bid the group farewell and headed home to shower off the sweat and tequila.
In attempting to relay the humorous moment where Feisty danced around the restaurant with a Maraca to a friend who’d left early for a wedding, I said, “Well, it involved a Mariachi band and a gay waiter.”

Enough said.