The Devil Made Me Do It

I survived the bachelorette party, and I didn't even have to make my friend do anything embarrassing. She took care of it herself.


She willingly put on the garter, although later took it off because her leg was going numb. She wore the devil horns all night, except when she convinced a stranger to wear them (she did this, amazingly, at least ten times). And she even agreed to wear a scary spandex mini skirt that she hadn't put on since high school. It was all I could do to keep up. The only questionable thing I was wearing was a "Bad Girl" button, which was positioned well out of sight.



I don't know who this man is, but he was a good sport.



Hmmm. Nope. Don't know him either. But he seems to be having fun, right?



Now it's getting passed around. Cute.



I'm starting to think that these guys enjoyed donning the devil horns. I don't see one unhappy face among them.

Although the dinner and the bar hopping was fun, I am still swooning over our earlier adventures. To compensate for a very late dinner, we treated ourselves with a visit to the Nordik Spa in Chelsea. Have you guys been there? You should go. Really. I usually forget when people tell me to go somewhere, but I mean it this time.





For one, it's not that expensive for such insane decadence - I think it's about 35$ to get in, and then you can stay as long as you like. Next time I will stay all day, and if they let me sleep in the changeroom, I will. Because I'm classy like that. I even added an extra fee and got chocolate fondue and port at the end of the day. Chocolate. Fondue. Port. Goddamn. Combine that with a steam room, and you have one very happy Andrea. So happy that I was a bit spacey the rest of the night, and managed to damage my ankle something awful on the dance floor. It's still sore. Fucker. Anyway, I plan to bring my Better Half to the Nordik Spa every excuse I can find. Hey babe, it's the middle of August already. Let's celebrate!

The wedding we went to last night did not go quite as well. We got hopelessly lost, and finally found the right spot after two and a half hours of driving. You know how? We saw fireworks, and followed them. My only advice here is this: 417 and 17 are not the same thing. If you are especially bad at numbers, get your Better Half to drive. It will save you some angst.