I made up a shocking amount of words in this post. See if you can find them all!

I am recovering from a wonderful weekend of Stagettery on the mainland.  I find the whole stagette culture so interesting (slash bizarre).  For starters, I feel like stagettes are just a response to stags.  And stag nights are just opportunities to act like sneaky douche canoes.  The whole point of some of these parties is to see what you can get away with- from your spouse-to-be and from members of the opposite sex you encounter that night.  Anyways, I wiki-ed stagettes.  Because it's summer and there's nothing on tv:

The bachelorette party is modeled after the bachelor party.  Despite its reputation as "a sodden farewell to bachelor days" or "an evening of debauchery," a bachelorette's party is simply a party, given in honor of the bride-to-be in the style that is common to that social circle.

 I was right!  We started stagetting because guys did it.  And I hate doing something just because men do it (except for voting.  That's pretty cool I guess).  It does say however that "its cultural significance is largely tied to concepts of gender equality".  Good, so it's decided.  We all have equal opportunity to act like douche canoes.
This particular line I find hysterical:
"Bachelorette parties involve displays of sexual freedom, such as trading intimate secrets, getting drunk, and enjoying male strippers".  Can we just take a moment to note how formally they are discussing this topic?  It reminds me of myself teaching Sex Ed ("Well Susan, I'm glad you asked.  Because the excretory and the reproductive systems are in fact NOT linked, there is no way for the seminal fluid to gain access to the fallopian tubes to fertilize the ovum.  It is indeed, therefore impossible to get pregnant from anal sex").  I also love how in the actual wiki, 'male strippers' had a link attached.  In case you need clarification on what 'male strippers' are.

I also learned that the different names for these types of parties stem from different countries.  For example, 'Bachelor/Bachelorette' are the American terms, and 'Stag/Stagette' are the Canadian terms.  Two things:   1. The opposite of 'stag' is 'doe', not 'stagette' and 2. I like how we, as Canadians, always need to reference wildlife.  Our Canadian 'brand' is the wilderness, so we need to remind people at every turn.  These reminders are an economic stimulus.  In the UK they use the term 'Hen Party', while in Australia and New Zealand it is a 'Hens Party'.   I can only assume that the difference in names indicates that in Australia and New Zealand there are generally more Hens in attendance.  Other English-speaking countries- South Africa in particular- refer to the party as a 'Kitchen Tea'.  I think this is my favourite.  Maybe because it is the most antiquated and overtly sexist, or maybe because it most closely resembles the stagette I attended last weekend.  Though we didn't drink tea, we spent a lot of time near the kitchen and we didn't approach either soddenness or debauchery.  And our bride-to-be was far too sensible and mature to cave in to peer pressure to do anything foolish or embarrassing.  At one point we reflected on her wisdom as we watched another bride-to-be stagger down Granville St. post-barf, pulling at her extremely uncomfortable-looking costume and straightening the check-list of embarrassing to-do items in her back.  Someone remarked "God it sucks to be her right now".  And this is another excellent point.  Why, if we are putting on a special party for someone we love, do we insist on embarrassing them and forcing them to get so drunk they get violently ill?
Anyways, at that point I was actually also reflecting on the fact that it was midnight on a Saturday and not only was I not in bed sleeping off my Saturday night potato chip binge, I was downtown in heels.  Success! 

The other thing I find interesting about these parties is that it is the only time when  interesting and self-respecting adult women engage in activities that may or may not include phallic objects and frequent references to sex.  I am, of course, not really referring to myself.  I constantly make penis jokes.  I think it is as a result of teaching teenage boys (though at work obviously I'm all "that is totally inappropriate for the classroom Steven.  We don't model penises with our algebra tiles.  Do I need to speak with your mother?".  Even when I'm all "Man!  Creative use of protractors for testicles!" in my head).   On the other hand, this might actually be the reason I am able to teach teenage boys.  I can really understand them at their level.

So, for our particular weekend we had penis swizzle sticks for our sangria, and a purple penis garter for the bride-to-be.  That was the extent of the penisness, but keep in mind we are educated 30-year-old women.  I was the penisness purchaser (I hope the effort I am putting into alliteration for this penis paragraph is being appreciated) and I was suffering from an episode of a persistent paranoia I've picked up since moving to the island.  Now that I live in a smaller city, I am positive I am going to bump into people I know ALL THE TIME.  Especially when I haven't washed my hair in days and am yanking my petulant child out of a mall.  For this reason I won't even play in my pj's on the front lawn with Ann for fear that that guy I knew from high school is going to saunter down the street and yell "Aha!  I knew it!  You have let yourself go!".  I recognize that this is a totally disproportionate fear given the actual size of our province's capital, but still.  So as I walked back to my car I was cursing that ALL of Adrian's family lives on this island, and preparing myself to explain to his conservative grandmother (who does live around the corner) why I- the mother of her great-grandchild- had purchased veiny and engorged pink plastic penises with which stir my sangria.

Our weekend was not without its casualties though.  During one over-stimulated afternoon, we drove past a monkey tree and I punched the driver with perhaps more gusto than was necessary.   She claims that she has never heard of the 'punch buggy' game applied to monkey trees, and to make her point that I was out of line she has text messaged me twice daily with photo updates on the progression of the monkey bruise (right arm).  Thank goodness for the iPhone: rubbing in guilt through instantaneous multi-media messaging since its debut.

This is my 'Unnecessary Gusto' face.