Ah, the good old days of bachelorette parties, with their silly satin sashes, fake penises, and copious amounts of alcohol. Until last night, I had thought those fun and festive days were behind me forever. That was until my new neighbor, whom I’d never met before, hosted her own pre-nuptial celebration. It was an evening she most likely doesn’t remember but one that hubby and I will certainly never forget.
Here’s how it began: at around 7:45 p.m. my daughter, sick with a cold, was finally falling asleep when I heard loud voices in the hallway. I quickly head out there to find an attractive group of women, all under 30, standing in front of the elevator dressed to the nines. I politely ask them to keep it down, letting them know my daughter is sick and trying to sleep.
They look at me with barely disguised scorn. One informs me, with major attitude, that it’s someone’s bachelorette party. Mazel tov, It Girls. Now keep it down. Mama Bear’s on call tonight.
At about 10:00 p.m. I hear another ruckus outside our door. Worried it will awaken my little one, I head down the hallway in my not extremely attractive Hawaiian print pajamas and no bra. I see three women attempting to negotiate with an extremely intoxicated and belligerent woman who is lying on the floor. She’s yelling obscenities and requesting that they, to put in nicely, go fly a kite. This is my introduction to Drunkie the Bachelorette, my new neighbor.
Her friends finally get her to an upright position and she stumbles to the bench in front of the elevator. Her short dress, not covering much when it’s worn properly, is now bunched up around her waist. Barely able to hold her head up, she apparently decides that our full view of her ass in a thong isn’t sufficient and proceeds to take off her underwear. I watch, equally disgusted and fascinated. A ho-hum Saturday evening has become a Britney Spears show, and I have front row seats.
I go back into my apartment, determined to ignore them. Then I hear someone yell that Drunkie has stopped breathing. Knowing they’re all wasted, I throw on a semi-hip lululemon sweatshirt over my pajamas (still no bra) and rush over to her apartment. I try – unsuccessfully – to sidestep the vomit.
Once inside her apartment, I can’t help but notice that it’s nicely decorated, even with the requisite party penis on the coffee table. Three women are surrounding Drunkie, who is slowly dry heaving on the floor. The others are twittering around nervously.
I kneel down next to Drunkie and a woman with glassy eyes and breath that reeks of stale alcohol starts bossing me around. We then argue about how to best care for Drunkie. I tell her I am CPR certified, not mentioning that my certification expired 18 years ago. She spits back that she too is certified. It’s a CPR certification standoff. I debate telling her that I also sort of remember my baby and infant CPR class from six years ago, but decide against it and get fed up with the entire group and their nonsense.
Standing up in the middle of a room of drunken chaos, I declare to her, her friends, and Drunkie, who may or may not be conscious at this point, “You know what? You are absolutely right. You clearly have everything under control here. You don’t need my help. Good luck, ladies.”
Then, as I close the door to Drunkie’s apartment, I say with dramatic flourish, “Thanks for ruining the entire floor’s night.”
Inside, a woman starts screaming, “F*ckin’ bitch! Who the f*ck does she think she is? Who the f*ck does she think she is?” It sounds like she’s making her way to the door. I stand outside, patiently waiting for it to open. When it does, I let loose.
“Who the f*ck do I think I am?” I yell. “You come into my building … ” Yes, I rent, but all of a sudden I think I’m Donald Trump. “You come into my building, get wasted, throw up … ” At this point I motion to the woman in the hallway picking up vomit with what may have been her bare hands. “ … and give me attitude?” I take a deep breath, point my finger in her face, and say, “YOU get the F*CK out of MY building.”
When I’m done with my little impromptu speech, I notice that two of my building's door people and the maintenance guy are gently pulling me back. The woman starts crying and says she’s sorry. I head back to my apartment and she yells at my back, “Ma’am? Ma’am? I’m soooooo sorry.”
Suddenly, the entire world stops. Time stops and the Earth stops rotating. I see nothing, feel nothing, and hear nothing except the one word, “Ma’am.” Holy shit. I’m a Ma’am.
Turning around, I yell, “You go back into that apartment and you tell CPR Girl that I was going to get a DOCTOR to come in and help. A doctor. You tell her I say good luck with that CPR certificate.”
By the time I’m back at home, hubby has already called the ambulance. Within minutes, they’ll be loading Drunkie up on a gurney and cursing while they try to fit it, her, and the whole gang into the elevator.
Back at home, without speaking, hubby and I step into the bathtub to wash the puke off our feet. His expression, as he looks at me, is one of shock. I’m assuming it’s similar to the look on my face. Both of us can’t believe I freaked out like that.
But freak out I did, and not for the reasons you might think. You see, I don’t care that they were drunk. I’ve been there. And I don’t care that they’re a decade younger. I have recently discovered that I love being almost 39. Yes, my hair is graying, my belly and neck are sagging, and instantaneous sneezes cause a lot more anxiety (think: Kegel’s) than before, but I can honestly and sincerely say I’ve never ever been happier.
It was their condescension and haughtiness that got to me. Party hard, have a blast, and celebrate the beginning of your slide into Hawaiian pajamas, ladies. Enjoy every single moment. Know that we Mama Bears are cheering you on, living vicariously through your freedom, and even looking to you for inspiration in many different ways.
Just don’t act like assholes, please. We don't want you to fawn over us Mama Bears by any means, but we do want to be treated with common courtesy. Because when it comes to protecting our kids, our home, and perhaps even our dignity, we don’t take shit from anyone, not even the It Girls.
~By Wendy Widom, Families in the Loop