He did put a ring on it.

See this girl on the right? That's Annie. And she's getting married. She also happens to be one of my very favorite people in the whole world. On top of that, she's moving shortly to the land of Angeles and will no longer reside in the windiest of Midwestern towns. All of these facts combined explain why I threw her a bridal shower and bachelorette this past weekend. And tried to make them the best ones ever. (Also, why does spell check not acknowledge the word 'bachelorette?' Sexism. Or some ism that would get me equally fired up, were my head not about to explode.) So yes, this weekend.

There were a ton of little details of the shower that threatened to drive me insane, due to the fact that I am, quite possibly, the least capable person for this type of event. I put together two types of invites and mailed them out a month ago...and got a handful of responses. Some got lost in the mail, some gals thought they only had to reply if they could come, and there were those for whom I had to Drag. Out. An. Answer.

I decided on teensy potted herbs with recipe cards for party favors/centerpieces. Basil and mint, simple enough. I'd attach pesto and mojito recipes and everyone would look at me like I was a genius. Except. When Brea and I went to the store to get the supplies, there was no mint. Anywhere. So, we decided on dill. Yogurt cucumber soup, awesome. Except. The dill tried to end its life in the backseat of the car (in the convertible carseat, no less) and was almost finished off by the staggering early evening heat. So, we potted them in mini containers, watered them well in the utility sink and prepared for a bedside vigil, fearing the worst. (I made all the recipe cards...but added a few more pesto ones to be safe.) The dill made it through the night (kinda) and I rejoiced. Until. The ribbons with which we attached the cards to the pots...refused to stay on. Resulting in a grouping of tired-looking plants with flopped ribbons adorning a heap of random recipes.

And since the numbers for the two events kept changing, I bugged the heck out of the caterer. To the point where, when I gave a "final" count on the 21st, there was no reply. Nor the next day. Not even when I emailed, called and harassed her high school counter workers. No convo at all until early on Saturday, when she confirmed we were all good for Sunday at 1pm. Except. The shower was Saturday at 1pm. Ha HAH! They said it'd be fine. (Awesome!)

The blazing temps served two purposes; they invited a swarm of flies- the likes of which have rarely been acknowledged outside of biblical retellings- to the food table, and it also caused all the clothing to immediately fuse to the woman who was wearing it. As for the first problem- I took Nora's Pack n' Play netting and draped it over the table, telling Annie that this was her safari bridal shower. Except for the rest of the English garden kinda thing. (Also- why does my Pack n' Play come with netting? In what scenario am I placing my sleeping child in an infested outdoor environment?) As to the second problem- after one pitcher of mimosas, we took the whole party inside. Ah well.

Pesky details aside, the day was fabulous. Annie's sister and out-of-town friends were beyond wonderful. The local gals did me proud. We played trivia games (her maid- I don't say 'matron'- of honor did a bangarang job with games, and we all agreed to be lazy and do "sitting-down" ones) and only occasionally got rowdy. There was a child present, after all. And a slightly shell-shocked husband.

That evening we traipsed up to Andersonville, a 'hood of Chicago delightfully suited to these types of events. Wine and cheese at In Fine Spirits. Dinner at Tapas Las Ramblas [three blocks away- no cabbin' it here. I did NOT want to take the chance that the party would be separated. Trust me. It's ridiculously easy to spend a good third of the night muttering- where IS everyone?] and we ordered a potentially embarrassing amount of food. Was impressed at how divinely well each gal split the tab, regardless of individual items ordered or food preferences. Seriously. It kinda brings a tear to the eye to not have to beg people for two or three more dollars. Also impressive- Annie's best friend Koren and her magical bag that possessed any item we could possibly need for the evening. ("Are you kidding? I'm a Mom. I even have Gas-X in here.")

Then on to Mary's Attic (atop Hamburger Mary's). Little known fact/obviously known fact: Annie has been in a ton of shows in this venue, all of them fabulous. Her most recent one, Lady X, broke me with its terrificitude. So, it was an obvious choice to come and play here. Plus, all the free shots didn't hurt. (Okay, that's a lie. The free shots always hurt.) A DJ was alternately spinning great and questionable music. And we even got him to play ABBA for Annie after threatening him with bodily harm after the first two requests went unheeded. (Come on, it's a gay bar. ABBA. Play some ABBA.) Also, there were multiple women wearing bizarre animal hats. And there was glow-sticking. (Annie won.) I danced the salsa. A mammoth drag queen called me "cute." There were more free shots. I irked the bejeebers outta Annie by forcing bottled water down her throat all night. ("You'll thaaaaank  me.")

We intended to stay for a bit before perhaps moving on. But we stayed 'til 2am. And Neil- my husband's best friend- showed up. (I think it was to say hi to the group, not because he frequents Mary's Attic. But whatever. It's a fun place.) Peej, home with a snoozin' Nora, had to settle for frequent text updates hinting at the increasing level of debauchery.

But no one went to prison, all clothing stayed on, and every single person was put into a cab and made it safely home. Annie, clad in her tiara, sash, glowing necklace and small army of glowy bracelets, was bridily showered and 'etted with the best of them.

I consider that a success.

Now to find my dark glasses and a body pillow. Heck, I may even crawl into Nora's crib with her, fists full of leftover tea sandwiches and a sprig of wilty dill, wearing my glow sticks like a badge.

This kinda fun is really best for the youth[ful.]

To my younger sisters: hurry it up, pals. Each passing year feels like twenty every time I "go out." By the time your weddings roll around, I'll decorate my walker with glowy paraphernalia and actually need assistance getting up on the bar.

They'll play ABBA and it'll be charming.