Published in On Our Selection News July 10, 2014

There is a massive difference between a “girl’s night” and a “boys night”.

Over the weekend, I hosted my sister’s Hen’s Party (which I dubbed the “Week-Henned”). It was a daunting task as I’ve never even been to a bachelorette party, much less than planned one. So I did what I always do when I don’t know something: base my assumptions on movies and television shows. We’ve all seen the movies where bridal parties of both genders embark on pre- nuptial celebrations. But while the Buck’s Night is a wildly fun time, the bridal equivalent is either trashier than Paris Hilton’s hair extensions or completely boring. I used to think it was stupid that the parties were segregated into ladies and the menfolk: mostly because the lads seem to have more fun.

While they’re doing Jågerbombs on roofs or taking over a party boat, Hen’s Nights either involve the women politely eating tiny sandwiches, talking about their boyfriends or end with grown women wearing feather boas and sporting various phallic-shaped props projectile vomiting in public (I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more embarrassing than a big flock of fully grown women cackling because someone brought a plastic replica of the reproductive system. Yep, we were there in that sex-ed class; we all know who has them, and we all know what that does. If you’re going to flaunt body parts about, why not make a straw out of the inner ear as well – at least you might learn something!).

I knew that tradition called for a person of loose morals to prance around in their underclothes. I imagine having a stripper shoved in your face is much like watching a woman give birth: it’s something you don’t really need to see and you want to stand back from so you don’t get any fluids on your shoes. Thankfully my sister agreed and the brief I was given was “strictly no trashy stuff”. So I decided to cast of off the sparkly feather boa-ed shackles of hen’s nights past, and go for somewhere in between. I didn’t want to plan a trip on the lame train, but I also didn’t want us to resort to the pathetic Hen’s Night stereotypes. I must say that I was rather happy with how it turned out.

Our idea of a good night was a Bette Midler movie and jumbo pack of ear candles. Little clumps of orange drew ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and before long, it became a competition to see who had the most wax removed. The vying for waxy glory took over our girlish ways. People were outwardly jealous of one girl’s particularly chunky “ear sausage”(which subsequently made her the winner of the night).

And the grossness didn’t stop there. On the night we ventured out of our filth-cave, the name of the game was to sneak up on an unsuspecting Week-Hennder and surprise them with a bare armpit to the face, arm or any other bare exposed skin. Things got kind of rough, and it made for a frightening time up on the tables that for some reason people are encouraged to dance on. Then there was the particularly rude punching game. It turns out that girl’s nights can get incredibly filthy. Put a group of girls in a house together for three nights, and things can get borderline feral. And while I’m all for keeping up with the boys, I think they may have got queasy keeping up with us…