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September 2002 Valerie's Initiation into the Nuptial Order by Valerie Carino ...    Throughout my life, I can count on my girlfriends to dry my tears, watch my kids and never say I put on weight - even if I have. I can, also, count on them to humiliate me when ritual calls for the initiation.    The ladies and I stepped out two weeks ago for my bachelorette party. It was a glam night - all of us in little black dresses and high heels. We certainly gave Sarah, Kim, Kristin and Cynthia a run for their Manolo Blahniks in our spaghetti straps and sparkly jewelry. For my look, I chose a silver dress with beaded fringe hanging from the bottom and a floral barrette I had made myself. I felt, as my Dublin friends would say, fab.    But then came tapas, sangria and the penis headband.    As part of my entrance into the nuptial order, I had to wear this penis headband - with two protruding, shall we say, units - all night. I wasn't allowed to take it, or my additional penis stethoscope, off for a second - not even to go to the bathroom.    Random barhoppers came up to me all night asking if I knew what I was wearing. Ha, ha, funny guy. Go back to Kankakee.    The theme continued throughout the night. More gifts came, including small pecker condoms, penis breath mints (Oooh, did I write that? Disgusting.) and penis straws for all the girls to take home. I, for one, will be passing these lovely items to the next bride, whomever that lucky girl may be.    I got the pictures back on Thursday. Nothing too risqué. Just a few shots of me writhing against a wall and one peck on the cheek from a dark, handsome man. I wasn't drunk enough, and even snuck a shot of Jagermeister by myself while the girls danced to booty music.    Damien's stag night is next week.    I predict a two, possibly three, day hangover and lots of sinister laughing when I see his friends. Apparently, there's a casino boat along the way, and various stops at Irish pubs. I'm not too worried about the strip clubs, so long as the other fellas pay for the - gulp - lap dances. (I once had to review Mons Venus, the hottest, most famous strip club in Tampa, for a story on Tampa Bay nightlife. The girls flocked to me and my friend, not the men waving dollar bills.)    My one consolation is that our parties would have been worse in Ireland. I heard that one guy was stripped naked and cuffed to a lightpole for three days. Another was lit on fire. Evil bastards.