So my husband is in the process of planning a Vegas bachelor party for his best friend this summer. And if history has taught me anything, it’s that I shouldn’t plan for him to be good for a damn thing the day after these testosterone-fueled festivities. You see, the last time he planned a little manhood soiree like this, he was more than just a little successful in earning his rightful place in the proverbial doghouse.
It was probably about ten years ago when my hubby was put in charge of planning a last hurrah for one of his soon to be married friends. We were living in a condo at the time and had just bought our first house, which needed MAJOR renovations. He assured me that he wasn’t gonna get too wild and crazy at the bachelor party since he knew that we needed to meet our contractor at the new house early the next morning. (Ok, people, you can stop your freaking snickering cause I actually bought into this shit and believed this ridiculously impossible promise!) When I woke up the next day to find him still passed out to the world, though, I knew that our day of productivity was going to be anything but.
Turns out that Mr. Promise To Take It Easy decided to get even more toasted than the actual bachelor himself. I mean, we’re talkin’ quite possibly the world’s WORST hangover on the record books. I was having none of it, though, since we had a schedule, and by God, we were sticking to it! I told him to buck up and pop some Advil cause we had appointments and were knockin’ out that to-do list whether he liked it or not. He cringed and moaned, but I threw his ass in the car, and we headed over to our new under-construction haven.
I was deep into a conversation with our contractor when I happened to notice that my hungover hubby had completely disappeared on me. I excused myself to hunt him down, only to find him bent over the disconnected toilet in the backyard puking his ever-loving guts out. I nearly died of embarrassment imagining what our new neighbors must think of the white trash couple who’d just moved into their hood. I was sure that we would most certainly NOT be receiving any welcome baskets full of muffins and cookies.
We decided to head to the Home Depot before we were completely blacklisted from the neighborhood, but the very minute we got to the cabinet section there, my renovating partner went MIA once again. Luckily, I didn’t have to wonder too long about his whereabouts though, since I immediately heard his obnoxiously distinct sounds of hurling coming from the vicinity of the restrooms. I honestly could have killed him right then and there and had visions of just what I’d like to do with the jigsaw I had passed back in Aisle 10. Needless to say, we didn’t get a whole lot accomplished that day.
So if history decides to repeat itself this year, my hubby better be good and ready to dig himself out of any holes in which he finds himself in Vegas. I will most certainly NOT be sweet-talking Mike Tyson if his pet tiger goes missing, nor will I be rescuing my sunburned husband from a deserted roof top. Nope, he’s all on his own. Most importantly, however, I will not be planning any major projects right after his little weekend boy bash. Instead, I will be planning MY OWN little Sin City girls gala cause turnabout’s fair play and payback’s a bitch.