Girls Gone Wild

The last time we went out with this crowd, we woke up in NYC with arrhythmias, Jen pulling us aside and peeking from beneath mammoth sunglasses: "I think I might have to go to the hospital." It was a crazy weekend, chock full of poor judgment: Shady backroom deals with Canal Street criminals for crappy purses and an overindulgence in Red Bull that began at the SoHo Grand midafternoon on Saturday and ended in convulsions on a sidestreet off Time Square the next morning. Our dinner at Aquitaine last night was the polar opposite. We completely chilled out, catching up over some lemon sole and pinot gris, swapping baby photos and work stories. But somehow the wildness of that Manhattan night hovered over us like a bouquet of balloons. The table next to us kept asking us if we were on a bachelorette party. God, no! We were baffled as to how our quiet gathering could have possibly given them that impression. This perception was only made more ridiculous when the valet brought Siobhan's car around after dinner -- a Volvo wagon with Winnie the Pooh sunshades. Girls Gone Wild!

The rest of us headed next door to the Beehive where there was already a line. But again, we must've been giving off that loose party girl vibe in our cotton dresses and flat shoes because the doorman pulled the four of us out of line, brought us right inside and sat us at our own table downstairs. It was like the bar in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

We had a carafe, listened to the jazz band and people watched for a bit. I headed out around 11:30 to find the line winding around the Cyclorama. Two Irish men in line called out -- a quote of the night to a girl gone wild: "Is that it, now? It's not time for home! It's time for dancing! Is that it!?" That's it. I walked to my car wondering when the hell Boston got so friendly.