It began innocently enough. We took a cab ride to a Peruvian restaurant in San Francisco's Fillmore District to attend a dear friend's bachelorette party. Our table was littered with carafes of delicious sangria, lots of glittery beads, cheeky bachelorette temporary tattoos, masquerade party masks and tiaras. (I got M to wear one Max-from-Where-the-Wild-Things-Are style, but she said she'd kill me dead if the photos ever saw the light of day, so keep dreaming.) Did you know that they made little hot pink party sashes that light up for brides-to-be? I did not.
Dinner was delicious and the blushing bride had no clue where the rest of the night was headed!
The wine bar we went to afterward greeted us with cheers, mostly from hapless men who quickly realized we were all lesbians. Many flutes were filled and filled again with a nice cava we've never tried before, and the delightful hostess of the party got us started on a series of sweet, touching and hilarious bachelorette-themed games, and even handed out fancy prizes to the winners. M & I both won a round, not that we're ultra-competitive or anything. Fast-forward a few hours and we're up to our ears in gay and knee-deep in booze, having taxied over to the Castro at the bachelorette's request. We danced a lot and drank a lot and partied like it was 2005 all over again. It was excellent.
Signing off only a little bit creepily,
M & SBJ