TAKE A CHANCE, MAKE IT HAPPEN . . .

Highlights from a not-so-wild, only-slightly-drunken, gut-bustingly-funny, there's-got-to-be-something-illegal-about-this combined bachelor/bachelorette party at Foxwoods:

On the Way Up . . .
. . . learning that at least one of my male friends uses two hands at the urinal.
. . . being serenaded by JW and JC crooning boy-band songs. At the top of their lungs. In harmony. With feeling. I appeal to passing cars for help, but am ignored.
. . . acquiring a plastic Squirt (from "Finding Nemo") in a McDonald's Happy Meal. I love McDonald's. I love my Squirt (his shell lights up and his head turns around completely and he floats). But I have a bad feeling that something bad is going to happen to him once C gets his grubby paws on him.

Waiting For the Others to Arrive . . .
. . . being instructed to direct all inquiries to VIP reception. What?! We're VIPs?!?!?
. . . performing a celebratory dance upon entering our suite of rooms. HUGE! MAGNIFICENT! Mountain views! Ceiling-to-floor windows! Light-up closets! Marble bathrooms! Gilchrist & Soames toiletries! I'm such a sample-size luxury toiletry item whore.
. . . browsing the stores for gag gifts for Groom, only to find a complete gift set containing: a child's imitation Native American headdress (hoisting red, yellow and blue feathers); small leather-covered drum; one small drum stick; dull wooden tomahawk. Purrrrrfect.
. . . developing a raging headache from the lights, the bells, the vaunted ceilings, the prevalence of mullets, and teenagers smoking pot in the bathrooms.
. . . feeling better after a drink at the bar, and winning a dollar at quarter slots. I'm so lame. Garcon, another drink, please!
. . . scandalizing JW with a glimpse of my past self.

Uh-Oh, They're All Here . . .
. . . of course, one of C's first activities on the scene: stealing -- we mean, BORROWING -- a sign from the casino floor and bringing it upstairs to place in front of the door of our suite: "No persons under the age of 21 permitted beyond this point . . ."
. . . C ignoring the ubiquitous and strategically-placed hall cameras and posing for pictures with the stolen -- we mean, BORROWED -- sign.
. . . Groom strapping on the feathered headdress and attaching aforementioned drum to his belt, drumming on it and pointing the drum stick at random people and pronouncing "Winnerrrrrrrrr!"
. . . all of our guys, in unison, without prior agreement, chanting the Atlanta Braves call, waving their arms like tomahawks.
. . . all of us ladies, looking on in amazement? Disgust? Wonderment at the strange rituals of men? We will never understand.
. . . Bride pinning her tiara on her head, throwing the feather boa around her neck, and royally prancing down the hall towards the casinos, a born princess.
. . . Dr.J settling in for a smooth six-hour stint at the poker tables. He forgoes dinner. He ignores cell phone calls from his wife. He tells us he'll "meet us later." He develops a sore shoulder from holding his cards.
. . . us ladies marveling at the glazed-over old grannies with 3-inch-long-ashed cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, creating butt grooves in front of their slot machines.
. . . us ladies developing eye-glazes and creating butt grooves of our own . . . one more quarter, just one more quarter. Oh, what's another $10 when I'm already down $30, right? Okay, twist my arm, I'll push in another twenty. Feh.
. . . Groom and Bride being identifiable from across the crowded casino floor, thanks to the feathered headdress and the glittering tiara. Sadly, amidst the mullets, Japanese tourists, and leather-skinned squinting blue-hairs, Groom and Bride were . . . well, normal.
. . . watching Bride pull in the big bucks at the blackjack table, being coached by five -- count 'em, FIVE -- of our guys . . . still in her tiara and boa, her headdressed Groom faithfully at her side, drumming his little drum and shouting "Winnerrrrr!" at her.
. . . choking on the feathers coming loose off of Bride's boa.
. . . trying not to stare horrifically at the blackjack dealer who unknowingly has a feather from Bride's boa stuck to his left eyebrow.
. . . C humming the Darth Vader theme song from "Star Wars" . . . continuously . . . for the whole weekend . . . and at church this morning. I have no idea what THAT was all about. Something about him being the Dark Side and all of us needing to cross over into it.

Nighttime Shenanigans . . .
. . . C, making friends with everyone and anyone, accosting random people in the walkways, scouting other signs and objects to BORROW and bring up to our suite.
. . . us, staying far, far away from C so that if something should go horribly wrong, we are not arrested along with him.
. . . popping champagne and watching teary-eyed (ok, that was probably just me) as Groom and Bride open their gift from all of us: an $800 digital camera they've been panting after for months.
. . . seeing the expression on Bride's face as she opens the next gifts: glow-in-the-dark handcuffs and a book entitled "What Every Newlywed Couple Needs to Know About Sex on the First Night." She blushed. Groom pumped his fist in jubilation.
. . . getting gussied up to go dancing at 2:30am, only to be told the club closes at 3am. What are we, in Connecticut? I put on lipstick, for God's sake!
. . . eating bad Connecticut pizza and watching SportsCenter in an exhausted daze instead, waiting for the second wind to hit. Go, Roger Clemens!!!
. . . blindfolded Bride, on her knees, feeling the calves of all our guys in a vain attempt to identify Groom. She failed, but all the guys got their kicks.
. . . once again, blindfolded Bride, attempting to pin something on a paper model of Groom. Something was pointy, shrinks in cold water, and probably should not be life-size or else Groom (and Bride, for that matter) is in trouble . . . or so said our guys. It was a 1 1/2-inch-long paper necktie, for crying out loud. Get your minds out of the gutter.
. . . watching our guys drink warm, flat champagne and puff on nasty cigars. See above, "strange rituals of men."

Sunny Saturday . . .
. . . relaxing and chatting with the ladies in our room before being rudely interrupted by some of the guys who came in to take nasty morning photos of us.
. . . using the guys' breakfast vouchers for free meals at the breakfast buffet. Yum, sausages.
. . . more eye-glazing and butt-grooving at the slots. I think I need a 12-step program to recover from Double Diamond Deluxe.
. . . the guys finally being banished from our presence and us ladies reveling at the Spa. This was the BEST SPA EXPERIENCE I have ever had. I should just live there. All you ladies reading this right now: ask for Steve the Masseuse.
. . . falling asleep during a body wrap and dreaming that JW and JC came into the treatment room to keep me company because I was bored inside the wrap. Thankfully, there was no singing in the dream. No offense, 98-Degrees.
. . . laying out on a hot pool deck, re-familiarizing ourselves with the sun. I actually developed tan lines. Very faint ones that are probably gone already, but they were there, I promise.
. . . having Korean food at a Chinese restaurant. Very, very interesting. I think I would've rather eaten the bitter melon that Dr.J claimed tasted like Ivory soap.

On the Way Down . . .
. . . missing my Squirt, who was horribly turtle-napped. Having wretched visions of a ransom note with attached photos of a head- and flipper-less plastic turtle being sent to my house. Turns out, my suspicions were not that far off: C had nabbed him. I won't believe his promises to return Squirt until I have him safe in my arms again. Squirt, that is, not C.
. . . being serenaded again by JW and JC rapping along with MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice. At the top of their lungs. Not quite in harmony, but you get the idea. I tried to jump out the car window, but it was raining, so . . .

It was a lovely weekend, and I learned a great many things:
1. One shouldn't really listen to the lyrics of most Top-40 songs from the 80s, 90s and today.
2. The staff at Foxwoods is quite fabulous . . . and willing to forgive quite a lot.
3. If you wear a bathing suit in front of guy friends who have never seen you in a bathing suit before, half of them won't look you in the eye . . . or will only look you in the eye.
4. Mrs.J and I are sick of the domination of the penis.
5. I love love love nice hotel rooms and will gladly do a celebratory dance each time I step into one.
6. People smoke a lot of pot in bathroom stalls, making a subsequent user's visit very interesting.
7. One's contact lens could dry out from staring at the slot machines and almost pop out, but one wouldn't care because one would be convinced that one will hit it big at any moment, and then one would have enough money to get the Lasik surgery done and never have to worry about contact lenses again. All hypothetically speaking, naturally.
8. Men love buffets.
9. I love free drinks on the casino floor.
10. I love my friends. They make even mullets, evil cane-tapping grannies, bad pizza, butchered Korean cuisine, a bad day at the slots and Vanilla Ice infinitely tolerable.