Let’s play a game that I like to call “Business Executive or Bride?” I’ll describe an outlandish request, and you can guess which person was behind it.
“You need to be dancing even when other people aren’t dancing.”
“Keep an eye on that photographer. He looks like he’s going to throw up.”
“Could you address these envelopes? You have the nicest handwriting.”
“Is there any orange juice?”
Do you want to know who said what? Good. Go over to Cision and read my latest guest blog to find out the answers.
And if you’re at all surprised to learn that’s how I spend my days, just imagine how I felt when several people who read the piece told me that they’d like to have my job. It wasn’t the reaction I was expecting, but it’s one I’ll accept nonetheless. I mean, if people want to aspire to be in a position where their main responsibilities include finding vegetarian boxed lunches and walking around events holding a clipboard that has absolutely no important information whatsoever attached to it, who am I to argue with them? Dream big, people.
I’d like to think I make my bridesmaid duties seem equally glamorous, but that’s probably not the case. I say that because at my best friend’s bridal shower last month, I forced the her to wear a hat that I made out of paper plates and gift bows.
“It’s a tradition,” I said to her as I tied the ribbon under her chin. “And you look beautiful, so just go with it, would you?”
I figured that the indignity of the hat was the least she could do since I was denied the opportunity to make a wedding dress out of toilet paper, which was a shame because that game is a real crowdpleaser and I also happen to be totally amazing at it.
In any case, I think I made up for the paper plate hat with the bachelorettte party this past weekend. For starters, I had the good fortune of hailing us a knock off version of the Cash Cab for the ride from my apartment to the hotel we were staying in downtown.
“Who’s the bride?” the driver asked. “I’ll give you this ride for free if you can answer eight questions.”
Sadly, my friend didn’t make it past the first riddle, which was the old “What weighs more: a pound of feathers or a pound of stone?”
The correct answer is not a pound of stone, so we didn’t get our ride for free. But because we still had a hundred blocks to go, I played just for the fun of it. Of course, I had a bit of an advantage: my grandfather told me most of those trick questions some twenty years ago, and while I was never good at figuring them out at the time, I proved excellent at memorizing the answers.
“You don’t bury survivors,” I said to the driver before he even finished the one about the plane that crashed on its way to Florida. “Let me guess, the next one is about the polar bear.”
It wasn’t though. It was the one about your mother having four children, three of whom were named North, South and East. And the fourth? Well you and I both know, don’t we? (No, not West. Think about it.)
“YOU ARE TOO GOOD!” he screamed, as he pounded the dashboard. “I’m gonna find your weakness!!!”
“Just ask her to walk up steps,” the bride-to-be piped in from the backseat.
She knows me well. And while that happens to be true, it also turns out that my kryptonite is spelling the word “twelfth,” which was the sixth round question that I answered with “T-W-E-L-V-noF-OHDAMMIT!!”
“FINALLY!” The driver shouted as he pounded the dashboard again. “I finally got you!!! I can sleep tonight.”
We all seemed to leave that cab in better spirits, which is all you can ask for when you’re trying to set the tone for the weekend. So thank you, imposter Cash Cab, for making the trip a good one. And thank you for getting us primed for the real fun: cue the trip to the outdoor swimming pool even though it was barely above freezing; commence the excessive day drinking that will cause someone to misplace her clutch in a bag of microwave popcorn before 9 p.m.; and by all means, set the wheels in motion to have the bride somehow manage to hook her coat on the eyelet of her dress and have it trail behind her like a cape at a fancy restaurant. This is a bachelorette party and we’re here to do the damn thing.
As you could imagine, that enthusiasm made for a fairly rough morning, but it was well worth it. After all, you only have one best friend and she only gets married once. If you’re not going all out for that, you’re just not bridesmaid-ing hard enough.
So. The advice? Enjoy the party, of course… but enjoy the ride there too. And maybe brush up on your spelling.