Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Before every girl gets married, she at least deserves a bachelorette party of some kind. Free flowing alcohol, naughty things, strippers, whatever floats her boat, she’s gotta have it before the nuptials.

I’d do almost anything for my sister (except date a carnie), and so she got a low key stagette. Low key because that’s her style, and definitely because both me and Oli don’t think much of strippers. Every package may be different, but they are all packages nonetheless.

What was it, then? A simple dinner, flocked by her bestest girlfriends (and Raj), lots of martinis and a maelstrom of lingerie. Thus, it was a Naughty ‘n Nice stagette. Oli may not like strippers, but she’s a huge fan of lingerie. Huge. You didn't hear it from me, but she's got a three-drawer chest bursting with the stuff. Corey is a lucky man.

The night was set for Izakaya restaurant, a dozen friends, and a all a surprise for my sister. Oli's one hard girl to fool. It's not that she's difficult to trick, it's that she's always finding a way to put her nose where it doesn't belong.

For instance, when she decided to call me right as I was about to get on the streetcar. There I was a few hours before the dinner reservation, stuck in the financial district in the pouring rain, with a gigantic bag in one hand, full of pleather goodies, nylon thigh highs and a black feather boa.

Oli calls me right that second; she's in the area, she doesn't think I have an umbrella, and she's coming to get me. She won't take no for an answer, and hangs up. How do you explain a bag full of goodies and a black feather boa to your sister?!

Boy, did I have to run my way out of that one. Thankfully Oli was none the wiser, and I made it back just in time to receive our cousin Maggie, sashaying her way to my loft with a bottle of wine in her right hand, and a pack of cigarettes in her left. By the time we had to leave my terrace was full of cigarette butts, and my carpet was dotted with red wine stains, surreptitiously removed with Goo-Gone.

What can I say, our family sure knows how to party.

Sped over to the restaurant, surprised the heck out of Oli (who assumed she and Corey were going on a double date with myself and Sandy), and then we all showered my dear sister with all types of perversions and nasties. Handcuffs, penis sippy straws, and someone even got her anal beads. Shock of shocks, those weren't from Raj.

Of course, she also got some nice stuff too. Satin thongs, feathered nighties, a camouflage teddy and a hot pink tank top and g-string with “The Divine Mrs. M” embroidered in black, courtesy of her kid sister. That would be me.

Post Japanese noodles, presents and martinis the night was still young and so, we headed to the Beer Market. Fantastic place, that is, a restaurant with over 100 kinds of imported beers, a dance floor and stage area for live concerts.

Beer Market by name, Meat Market in reality. If you leave there without a phone number, you have problems. I wasn't looking though, not one bit, because on my mind was the best someone of all.

Sandy Sandy Sandy. If you say his name a few times in just the right way, it sounds like the boings of a pogo stick. Now that the dinner & lingerie portion of the party was over, the boys of our group were starting to trickle in, and Sandy was one of them.

I'd worn low slung jeans that night, topped with a long, empire waisted blouse, and the most daring fashion anything I'd done in years: a super wide, braided belt that sat on my hips. I was smiling for the evening, smiling for my sister, relieved that plans had gone off without a hitch, and looking forward to the arrival of my high school turned present day sweetheart.

But before he got there, it seemed there was a moment to be had. My cousin's fiancee Lacey chose right then to pull me aside and say, in all seriousness, “I've never seen you look so beautiful, you know that?”

Wow. That meant a lot. I've been thiner, I've been better dressed and more made up than that moment, and Lacey has seen me through it all. Yet, she chose right then to tell me that. “Thanks, Lace.”

“What's your secret?”

I answered back in the most truthful way possible: “I'm trying something different. I'm being happy.”

Enter, Sandy. Not 100% of my present happiness, because I'm a firm believer that everyone should make their own happiness, but a big part of my sunshine nonetheless. Big. He was looking very sharp in a black shirt, and smelling even better. My heart ka-thumped as he made his way over, slid his arm around me and said, “Hey, Cheech.”

Sandy calls me Cheech. It just came out one day, but I was curious how he'd gotten it, and so I asked him where it came from. He told me that it's short for Ciccio, Italian slang for kid and/or cutie, and usually refers to a boy. He just uses Cheech a lot, he told me, and so it stuck.

I don't mind the boy part, because in short, I just really like it when he calls me Cheech. “Hey, Ace.”

In turn, I call him Ace. It's one of those nicknames I've always wanted for myself, the perfect word to round out “ace reporter,” I think. Even though I've always wanted Ace for me, the next best thing is to give it away to that special someone.

In short, I just really like calling him Ace. He manuevered over closer to me, an ear to ear grin plastered all over his face, leaned over and said, “You're pretty.”

“Thanks, Ace.”

“Really pretty.”

“Not too bad yourself, Ace.”

“Can I steal a kiss?”

Indeed, he could. And just for posterity, I let him have a few more. He's a great kisser, too.