T minus 14 hours before I embark on (gulp!) a destination bachelorette party, I receive an e-mail from the maid of honor. I’ll preface this with the fact that I texted the night prior asking where we are staying and what I could help with. Thrilled not to have to plan for the shindig unlike everything my family does, I realized I wouldn’t know what to tell the cabbie upon arriving in Miami. The maid, really a matron I suppose because she’s hitched, filled me in on our whereabouts before seeking my party planning assistance: “The only thing that I didn’t do yet was get ‘bach’ kinda stuff because I didn’t know where to go in the ’burbs for it. I may possibly need you to get a couple of things at Ricky’s if you don’t mind.” Um, my final day before departure was mapped out the night prior, like all days in the throes of parenthood. Where would I fit in bachelorette shopping between the play date we were expected at in ten minutes and B’s subsequent bath, dinner, bottle and bedtime? It was too late to order merchandise online, I was flying solo with my son for the afternoon, and what qualifies for “bach stuff” anyway? I consider Ricky’s a hub for hair products and Halloween costumes. Didn’t we need risqué things to embarrass our banker bride?
Mommy mayday, the matron wasn’t answering her cell to confirm she needed me to shop for scandalous goods, or for anything at all. However, I didn’t want to disappoint. Besides, the mom hosting the imminent play date suddenly texted that she was running at least 30 minutes late. Flashbulb moment as the stars align, prompting me to stroll B to the Pleasure Chest to see what bach stuff we could summon.
With miniscule windows and a moniker like that, along with being a few blocks from the somewhat racy Christopher Street where the play date would take place, The Pleasure Chest would have to do, with or without B accompanying me. Walking in, I spy the bachelorette aisle sprinkled with a little glitz like the faux palm-size diamond dangling from a fake platinum chain that I throw in the basket beneath B’s stroller. There’s also a ton of lewd merch that I probably shouldn’t describe on a parenting blog. Let’s just say Fifty Shades of Grey is child’s play compared to the “toys” on the shelves. B stays captivated for a few minutes until he cries out for a plaything of his own. Only, there’s nothing G-rated (most things involve G-spots) for me to grab. In a fluster as my phone rings with the matron on the other line, I thrust a foot-long purple water bottle at B.
As the queen B of the bachelorette party shares she could never take her 3 year old to do the dirty deed I’m doing my shopping with my boy in a porn store, after all her son has an obsession with penises, I realize the water bottle B is hoisting is shaped like part of the male anatomy. Oh, and now he’s sucking on the straw. My inner goddess, as Fifty Shades’ Anastasia Steele might say, cowers to say the least. Gotta admit though that the mom in me is pleased how well B has taken to using a straw…until he starts chewing on it. Maybe married with child 30-something me can stomach a bachelorette party in Miami after all.
I got the shopping covered, I tell the matron of honor, grabbing risqué accessories to deck out the bride. I toss in boxes of penis-shaped gummies, straws and other goodies to complement the phallic water bottle I’ll have to wash with B’s milk cup after our play date. It ain’t like taking candy from a baby, but I snatch the bottle from B as he wails in want of his new teething toy. Sorry, son, straws in any shape and form are for drinking. I hope he didn’t bite off more than he can chew.