My SURPRISE bachelorette party was *everything*
excuse me while I soak up this love :-D some words and pics
Today is January 3, 2024. Of course, you know this already, engrossed in finding your place on the spectrum of dread and hope. I awoke from a terrible dream that one of my besties seduced my man. Determined not to let that ruin my day—and trust me, it would—I immediately deleted Instagram from my phone and pulled my sleep mask back down over my eyes. One must resist the urge to obsess over imagined scenarios, especially those that develop unconsciously.
Andrew’s back to work today, so he’s already in routine. Gym by 7:30, then coffee and a protein shake. I stayed in bed cuddling Mousse and catching up on Substack until the craving for French toast pulled me out.
I think I nailed it this morning, the perfect portion of French toast. The Italian bread from the Whole Foods bakery always has a couple teeny tiny slices, so you make two normal-sized pieces and one of those and you’ll be just past the point of full. Any of the big, sweet breakfast meals (see also: pancakes, Dutch baby, Belgian waffle) should leave you just past the point of full. It gives you that dopey glow of French royalty with nothing to do but eat and flop around Versailles.
I can’t think of a better way to describe the emotional experience of what I still call “Christmas break”: just past the point of full. Standing at a crowded South Philly bar in the afternoon on New Year’s Eve, chugging Yards Pale Ales because hair of the dog, watching the Eagles and, in turn, watching everyone around me descend into contempt for their own team, I really hit that point… or rather, surpassed it. I’d officially drank all the beers and given all the hugs and it was time for me to turn in for a few days, which brings me here. My couch, cup #2 of coffee. Overflowing with the last week’s events. We are gathered here today to honor just one of them: my surprise bachelorette party.
Before I tell you about the great jump scare of my life, I need to give a little background. Every year, my best friend Ariana comes in from San Diego to spend the holidays with her boyfriend’s family in New Jersey (her whole fam is back in Sicily). So a few of us plan a gathering of some sort, a dinner or a party. A couple weeks ago, Rachel had suggested in the group chat that we make a reservation at this restaurant, Middle Child Clubhouse. It’s a sit-down/bar offshoot of a hipster sandwich shop that I have publicly aired my beef with (they’ve fucked up my order three too many times, and their social media is often mean-spirited). I texted Monica separately, “I don’t like Middle Child.” She assured me that one of her friends had a great dinner there recently, and that we’ll all have an amazing time regardless. So I rolled with it. I’m easy.
The day went on business as usual. I had a nail appointment. I was indecisive about the color, considering these would carry me through a dance music festival and New Year’s Eve. We went with a bright, medium blue: OPI’s “Rich Girls & Po-Boys.” I was at the salon for two full hours because time just doesn’t exist there. Then I got ready to meet the girls at Rachel’s for some pre-dinner champagne. I threw my hair in a bun, painted on a bright red lip, and wore jeans and a flouncy, polka dot top with the same black boots I’ve worn nonstop for like, five years (shout out the cobbler).
There was nothing—I repeat, NOTHING—out of the ordinary at Rachel’s. She wrapped Ari’s hair in curlers and we bumped the new Nicki album, looping the same three songs, laughing, picking at seeded crackers, taking self-timed photos with my phone leaned against the champagne bottle. I marveled at my friends’ beauty, the ease I felt, and always feel, in their presence. Indeed, the band was back together.
Pulling up to Middle Child, no one gave anything away. The host walked us back to what I could see was a sick room labeled “private dining,” and I still lacked all suspicion. I literally said, “ooo, this looks cool!” When we entered, four more of my girlfriends were dancing around in tshirts covered in photos of me, recording my reaction. Then three more walked in, one of them completely pregnant who’d driven 2.5 hours there, and who would drive 2.5 hours home when we were done.
“Surprise, it’s your bachelorette party!!!”
It feels useless even trying to put my what-the-fuckness into words. It was a night I’ll never forget. My memory sucks and I still say that with the utmost confidence. There were pitchers of margaritas. We had the aux cord. They brought us cacio e pepe popcorn??? We ate cheeseburgers and bottomless fries in the twinkly, drunken haze of women turning up on a Wednesday. “Heart to Break” by Kim Petras penetrated the singular moment of silent chewing, and I just remember cracking up at the absurdity of it all. This was my Barbie dreamhouse, if only for a few hours.
After Middle Child, we ventured down the street to Saint Lazarus Bar. It feels crazy typing its proper name because if you live in Philly, you know it as The Saint and you know its atmosphere is one of a kind. Cash only. Divey. Lots of rap. Under the El, so views of some real freaks.
We were the only ones there. You go to Nashville or Charleston and you see bachelorette parties in droves, packing every trendy bar with their giddiness, their matching outfits, their cowboy hats. They all blend together like a perfectly pink cosmopolitan, sweet and indistinguishable. We were a cheap tequila shot at the fucking Saint, of all places. Solitary, burning. Ariana was shoeless on the dance floor. The DJ played “Goodbye Earl” for us, and Rachel and I swung around in country glory. We smoked a j outside in the pouring rain. Caroline said, “I saw your IG story of your look before dinner and I thought, I bet she’d want to look hotter tonight, like tits out.” I love women. Like, so much.
She was right, too. I kept seeing the pictures we were taking, and getting frustrated with my look. Not enough to kill the vibe, but you know… I had a messy ass bun and a big ass red smile. The girls took over and did my hair *three different ways* to try and amend the situation and affix my little veil. Nothing really worked, but the effort made it memorable. I thought I’d look back on that with some gross feelings of vanity, anxious about having prioritized something as trivial as my hair amid this special surprise, but the hair became a bit. I’ll rewatch the videos one day and smile at our collective ineptitude.
After bar hopping and adding a 60-year-old woman I met at McGillan’s on Facebook (she told me I had an “old soul”), we went back to Rachel’s for a sleepover. I’m huge on adult sleepovers. And when booze is involved, they should always include late night pizza. I ended my night with a big piece of broccoli calzone and the indelible sense that I am cherished.
It is a strange thing, to love both celebrating and receiving attention, but to be totally confused when they happen at once. It’s that scene from Talladega Nights when Ricky Bobby’s like “I’m not sure what to do with my hands” because everyone’s taking your picture and filming you dancing and you’re trying to be present, while still logging every second in the mental journal of “best days ever.” Surveilling everyone’s faces to make sure they’re having fun, because you don’t know how to relax and enjoy it all without feeling guilty for monopolizing their night. These are the lessons you can only learn in the moment: people celebrate you because they want to, not because they have to. And maybe they are counting down the minutes until they can smoke their own weed and crawl into their own bed. That’s just adulthood, and it has nothing to do with you. Your job is to take it at face value, be immeasurably grateful, and have all the fun. And I did just that.
Cheers to frizzy bun hair.
Cheers to the mirror-lined dance floor of The Saint.
Cheers to Modelo.
Cheers to fragmented girl gangs who come together to give you the world. The night couldn’t have been more “me.”
‘Til death do us part,
Dia Lupo
I got some inquiries on Instagram about these Dia Lupo shirts. I shut the merch shop down on my website for the time being, but if you want one, they are $20 shipped. I won’t make a cent, but you’ll support a woman-owned and operated screen printing studio here in Philly! Email your address and size to dia@brokebutmoisturized.com and Venmo gianna-armand. As always, thanks for reading and joining the party.
Would it be weird for a divorced and remarried fifty something Canadian lady to wear the coolest gal on the internet on a t-shirt? - and we would both know someone somewhere is cool as fuck. I get the pleasure to be close to you with a pic of you resting on my boobs for $20? I feel like even though I wasn't at the party, this story will live on in my bliss filled heart? I can't venmo over the border - PayPal?
Congrats on getting married and also congrats on the surprise bachelorette party, your friends are really awesome for that. It’s moments like these that live in our hearts, those moments where something great is happening and you’re present enough to know it and be in it. Love that for you, and thanks for sharing!