Yeah, I think this is how we do it.

Saturday night bachelorette party in AC. Borgata. Mixx. Things get interesting when a Tony Siragusa doppelganger invites the girls (all ten of us) to the VIP lounge. Turns out Siragusa’s brother-in-law is getting married on the same day as our darling Dee, and everyone is in celebration mode. It also follows that some men in their early 30s don't appreciate the Tony Siragusa comparison (who knew?). When Tony overheard his new nickname, and mock-angrily attempted to track down the purveyor of such nonsense, I innocently pointed him in Allie’s direction.

At one point, Grace tosses me Tony’s cell. “This is great!” she says. I’m looking at a picture of the irrepressible Constantine Maroulis, who is mugging for the camera phone with his patented squinty-eyed, lascivious gaze.

“We ran into him downstairs,” says Siragusa. “I say, ‘Hey, aren’t you the dude from American Idol?’ And he says, ‘Yeah, you wanna picture?’ What was I supposed to do?”

Classic.

Soon we reach the sentimental portion of the evening, in which Koos (who has been double-fisting glasses of champagne all night), turns to me and says, “HomeValley, I love you. No, I really love you. You’re not just some chump. You’re the real thing.” This is by far the best compliment I have ever received.

Later, one of the bachelors motions to Allie. “Your friend is crazy!” He laughs. “She hasn’t stopped dancing all night!” I realize this is true. Allie is standing behind a Grey Goose-smattered table, her face stoic, completely engulfed in the music. At this point, the only way to speak to her is to weave through the crowd and spend a moment dancing beside her. I do this periodically throughout the night, between sipping various vodka drinks, learning that one of the nicer bachelors lives in Astoria, trying to entice Grace to marry him, and screaming as the strains of Lionel singing “All Night Long” fill the VIP lounge.

The night progresses, and soon Dee needs to be put to bed. As most of the girls make to leave, Allie and I decide to stay, as she still can’t stop dancing and Grace is deep in discussion with Astoria Guy. I coincidentally find myself sitting next to two Queens girls, one a pretty professional poker player, the other a fashion designer. We mix drinks and chat amiably until Allie finally loses steam and we decide to head out.

Traipsing through the Borgata, I wax poetic to the girls about how perfect the night was, how much fun I have had, when suddenly – there is Constantine. Before you could say, "Jerry Seinfeld called, Const, and he wants his white puffy shirt back," I giggle like a nerd and yelp, “Constantine!”

“What’s up?” He too-cools, as he and his small entourage move along.

Allie, Grace, and I laugh uproariously all the way home.