Bachelorette #1, Please Come Out!

It is one thing to be a woman of conviction. A woman of conviction can be counted on to have done some research. To have guiding principles. To have a moral compass. And a political affiliation.

Not to be confused with a woman of opinion. A woman of opinion is more likely to have probed an issue no further than the pages of People Magazine. To be guided only by her personal proclivities. To be of malleable moral fiber. And may not see the point of voting.

Em, I am coming to realize, is in the latter category. In fact, she may be the de facto Chairman of the latter category.

Nothing demonstrated her membership more so than the Bachelorette Party, which was a tipping point for many of the Raspberry Sherbet contingency. The bridesmaids had so many articles of incorporation to abide by that they could barely peaceably assemble. But they must. Every bridal tradition must be specifically adhered to, or there will be life-sized Hell to pay. And lets be honest, two of the eight (yes, EIGHT) bridesmaids live under the same roof as the bride. Unless there were plans to go over the wall by dark of night, Em’s sisters were going to have to live and breathe this particular shade of pink no matter how noxious the fumes.

For all her pontificating about the immorality of alcohol consumption and that she could never, ever teach in a public school with all those unruly Godless children running about and their amoral parents to contend with, she chose Holy Saturday, yes, Easter Eve, for her Bachelorette fete. So on the holiest weekend of the year, with the foundation of the Catholic Church eclipsing the most reverent period on the Jewish calendar, she’s going to trot out her Bachelorette-ness for all the world to see? Why? Because nothing quite expresses one’s piety like Cosmos and strip clubs? Skip the seder, ditch the rosary beads, load up the beer bong and let her rip!

I can see it now – dress the size of a stick of gum. Adorned with a veil fashioned from condoms. Wearing a sign that reads (when the misspellings are translated) “Kiss me, I’m the Bride” and drinking frothy libations from a mug that looks suspiciously like male genitalia.

And to make matters worse, it was planned to take place downtown. No fewer than forty-five minutes of highway driving away. And why? These are suburban gals. Bumpkins in the big city. Prime candidates for purse snatchings and public transportation SNAFUS and getting lost in true Hansel and Gretel fashion. At least one should be carrying a homing pigeon in her handbag.

But what sent me truly sailing over the edge of reason was the feigned, half-hearted attempt to include J.’s girls, but not really.

For a large portion of the planet’s population, this is a holiday weekend. A family-oriented day with a traditional family meal. And like all holidays for the divorced set, complicated and unrelenting in its demands.

J.’s girls by settlement agreement spend Holy Saturday with their mother and her family. Under penalty of contempt charges. (Talk about a cross to bear) In a rare moment of concern for another person’s happiness, Sandy offered to allow her family’s celebration to be infringed upon, so that the girls could at least partake in the chaste, pre-alcohol-soaked dinner plans. But the chosen – no, mandated – time, location and transportation logistics forced their exclusion. (At least a "no kid" Bachelorette Party makes sense) But again, the plans for the party, like those for the wedding, ensured that only those truly welcome would be able to attend. Who wants to be responsible for a tween getting home when there are Belly Shots to be consumed?

I maintain a theory that the party was so planned for one more added bonus feature. That being that the next day, while all were assembled at J.’s mom’s dinner table for Em's last holiday as an O'Malley (Aaaaawww!) she could go on an on with no end in sight about the prior night's festivities.

I will not be there to bear witness. Allelujah!