I’ve been talking about this week a lot. But it’s finally here. On Thursday, the six of us will cram ourselves into an SUV loaded down with sparkling booze, 80s music and complex carbohydrates, and promptly begin celebrating the impending nuptials of our bestest friend. And by that I mean, we’ll be drunk. A lot. And probably talking about sex like a bunch of 12-year-old boys in a tree house. This year will definitely be the best. Here’s how I know:

• I plan on eating at least 15 s’mores.
• I’m incorporating 3 champagne bottles into my “Love is a battlefield” playlist routine.
• I’m pretty sure I’ll mildly scare the hell out of the MOH, who is traveling with us for the first time, without completely traumatizing her. It’s about balance, really.
• I’m on constant high-alert for any bears or other large clawed mammal that likes to eat fleshy short girls who eat too many s’mores and then try to venture out to the car to look for their Blackberry charger.
• I won’t catch the carpet, my hair, my polar fleece, my striped Old Navy pajama bottoms, one of my traveling companions on fire.
• I won’t cry. My friend is getting married. I’ll probably shed a stupid shitty tear.
• Booze. And more booze.
• I won’t drown in the hot tub because I will not combine booze and the hot tub.
• Whether I want to or not, we’ll be laughing until I literally, almost, pee myself. Or actually pee myself.
• I’m not going to be embarrassed when we get measured for the BM dresses on Sunday back in Atlanta and Billy the dressmaker puts me down for a size 68 short (see booze and complex carb-related notes above).

Sincerely,

Sally B.