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I haven’t been to Vegas since I was 13 years old, and the highlight of that trip was a shopping spree at Bebe courtesy of my grandmother (my traveling companion)… So, I really experienced Sin City for the first time this weekend, at my girlfriend/bridesmaid Michelle’s bachelorette party.

{Michelle & me}

I’d like to preface this blog by saying I am not the type of person who belongs in Las Vegas. I’m not a big drinker (2 is usually my limit), and my idea of a party is a fancy dinner out at a trendy restaurant with a few of my besties, laughing and gossiping – not raging at a club where you can’t hear anything but the beat and the distant sounds of girls barfing in the bathroom. I don’t have a spray tan, hair extensions, tattoos or piercings on body parts you can’t/shouldn’t see. I am a serial monogamist and germaphobe; the idea of a one-night stand sounds dangerous to my mental and physical health. My wardrobe is more “classy” than “look at my ass-y.” And I don’t like to gamble; I would rather know I’m definitely losing money on a new outfit or expensive cheese. For my own bachelorette, I’m fantasizing about a low-key weekend at a spa. So, I was excited to live vicariously through my friend and this quintessential bachelorette weekend, which was everything one last “single fling” stereotypically should. I figured, per the usual, I would probably be “the responsible/lame one,” holding other girls’ hair back and getting up early to swim a few laps in the hotel’s pool while everyone else slept off their hangovers. I was so wrong.

{A trip to Vegas seemed so innocent and harmless…}

The last time Tony went to Vegas for a bachelor party, I adopted a puppy while he was gone. When I went to Vegas this time, he got to spend the weekend alone with my parents, who were visiting with their two giant, untrained dogs who are accustomed to weekly doggie dates at In-N-Out. I told him I wouldn’t mind if he adopted another dog while I was in Vegas, even things out a bit, but he said he’d rather give one away and to focus on packing. I asked him what a girl should pack for Vegas and he replied, “Slut gear.”

{I packed what my fiancé told me to}

I touched down in Vegas, and was promptly greeted by the sight of obese people in motorized wheelchairs playing the slots in the airport terminal, and these signs… Vegas, baby!!!!!

Some guy in a uniform told me the airport shuttle only takes 25 minutes, and guys in uniforms are supposed to be trustworthy, so I decided to save my money for debauchery and ride the mini-bus. However, the guy neglected to tell me it’s a 45 minute wait for the shuttle. I arrived at the Palazzo just in time to get primped, take a ton of selfies, and meet the rest of the crew to head out to the Britney Spears concert.

{The trees at the Palazzo grow wine bottles}

Britney was the soundtrack of our teenage years, so it was appropriate that her concert kicked off our weekend; it was nostalgic, seeing this icon we’d listened to, dreaming about boys, and now, celebrating an upcoming wedding. Some of the girls felt like Brit “phoned it in” or “maybe took an Ambien before the show” or “it wasn’t even Britney because they never showed a close up of her on the video screen,” but I didn’t care. I loved every minute. The girl has survived all sorts of mental breakdowns (not to mention wearing matching denim outfits with Justin Timberlake), and she still sang all the songs and did all the dances I hoped she would, and at the end of the day, it was Britney. Live. She could have stood there in sweatpants lip-syncing and I would have screamed my head off. I honored my childhood hero by going crazy for her and it was the best night ever.

Trying to wrangle a pack of drunk women dressed like Britney through the years was like herding cats, and so in the sea of people after the show, Michelle and I lost the rest of the group. And then got lost in Planet Hollywood. There are no windows anywhere in Vegas, and everywhere you turn there is a slot machine, bar or girl dancing on a table, so it is really hard to get your bearings and figure out which direction you’re going and whether you’re just walking in a circle. By the time we made it outside, the taxi line looked like this:

We finally made it back to the Palazzo, and wrapped up the night walking barefoot to the 24-hour food court for some 1:30am pizza. I was feeling more “Vegas” by the minute!

{Post-Britney, pre-pizza}

We spent the next day by the pool, having alcohol for breakfast and lunch (with a side of burgers and fries and candy. And more alcohol.) Everyone took turns taking pictures with me, because anyone looks tan next to my vampire skin, and we all made Michelle play bachelorette party games like doing Britney dances for strangers and making them guess which song it was, or standing on a pool chair shouting a limmerick about marrying her #1 (I don’t remember what it was, exactly, because I had alcohol for breakfast and lunch.)

{Me & the bride}

Then, we all got ready in Michelle’s room, drinking more alcohol. Then we went to dinner, and had more alcohol. After dinner, it was time for more alcohol. And somewhere in my hazy brain, I remembered, “I am the responsible one!” and so I bought myself a $7.09 sparkling water. And then it was time to go to the club, Surrender, to watch DJ Snake spin. You know, TURN DOWN FOR WHAT! More drinking is what we were turning down for. (Is that the proper use of “turn down for what?”)

{My $7 water}


{I took our pact to party SERIOUSLY.}

One of Michelle’s bridesmaids is in the 1% of the 1%, so she made it possible for us to get bottle service at our own private booth in the middle of the dance floor, with its very own stripper pole. And on top of the bottle of vodka that came with our table, she ordered a magnum of Moet & Chandon. This is where things went south for me. It was a bit like releasing one of the Beverly Hillbillies in… Well, a Vegas club, and saying “DRINK HOWEVER MUCH YOU WANT! YOU’RE ALIVE AND THE NIGHT IS YOURS AND GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN SO PARTY PARTY PARTY!” And so I did.

{The beginning.}

My friend Emily and I did a lot of posing with the bottles, because that’s what you do when the fairy godmother of Vegas allows you to participate in an activity that costs more than your rent. You decide to get into character, live in the moment and go nuts. Everyone was looking at our booth, encircled by a velvet rope, wondering who we were and how the heck we could afford that table… So, I decided to give the people what they wanted, and be That Girl.

{Douche of the Year #noregrets #tiltheworldends}

I attribute my downfall to two factors: 1) I was trying to make my friends laugh and their favorite was when, anytime a guy would dance with me, I’d shout “I’m pregnant!” and then chug champagne. So I did a lot of that. (*Don’t worry, Tony! I’m not!) 2) We had our own personal bottle service girl, this beautiful, tiny perfect being who refilled our glasses every time we took a sip. So, I had no idea just how much I was drinking.

{Getting responses like this to all the Instagrams I was posting only encouraged me.}

{Our super helpful bottle service girl, who made sure our glasses were never empty. Unfortunately for me.}

I’d really like to remind you again, I’m not a Vegas girl. I lettered in Debate because I desperately wanted a letterman’s jacket, and couldn’t land a boyfriend who had one to save my life. I was voted Best Driver in high school because the drunk kids would always invite me to a party when it was already over, to come pick them up and get them home safely. I’ve gotten sick from drinking precisely 3 times in my entire life.

And this weekend was one of them. Majorly. I didn’t think I blacked out at the club, but I was going through my phone this morning for the blog, and found all of these pictures – none of which I remember taking:

I do remember that all of a sudden, DJ Snake got very loud and Responsible Annie cried out for ear plugs and our bottle service girl got me some. And then in slo-mo, Emily looked at me and then at Michelle and said “She needs to go home. Now.” And then we took the longest walk of shame of my life through the casino, back over the bridge to the Palazzo, through another casino and finally back to our hotel room, where I spent the rest of the night throwing up the entire weekend. (And I may or may not have barfed in the taxi, for the stupidly early flight I had booked on Sunday. I’m so ashamed.) I wasn’t the responsible hair-holder. I was the hair-holdee. Vegas won.

{Remnants of my weekend}

Tony is the sweetest man alive, and took care of me like I was sick with the flu (not sick with bad decisions and poor choices.) He brought me a breakfast burrito and coffee, and told me it was good I finally had at least one good Vegas story that cuts back my Tracy Flick persona a bit.

Michelle had the time of her life, and I’m so happy I got to experience the quintessential bachelorette party through her. But I can’t wait for my own mellow spa weekend bachelorette, which I have decided will have a No Alcohol theme (at least for me).