An Ode to the End of Single Life
Champagne-fueled bachelorette getaways and looks worthy of the Poodle Room
There comes a time in every single woman’s life when she must Go West — not for gold, not for God, but for her bachelorette. A sacred pilgrimage where the tequila flows freely, bikini tops double as evening wear, and the Las Vegas men of Thunder Down Under perform in rhinestone thongs with the kind of conviction usually reserved for Broadway or battle.
It was this time last year that I found myself knee-deep in planning my own bachelorette — a full-time job which included a borderline spiritual quest to get 17 people (yes, boys included) into the Poodle Room at the Fontainebleau. Now, one year later, with a camera roll full of blurry memories, I find myself suffering from a severe case of nostalgia... and mild dehydration just thinking about it.
So, in the spirit of friendship, fashion, and naked dresses that somehow hold it all together, I thought I’d share some of the hottest destinations to whisk your girl gang away — and the outfits that capture the exact energy of two rum cocktails and people swirling napkins over their heads during Mambo Italiano Night at Palm Heights.
First stop: Las Vegas
A classic—iconic, even—but definitely not for the faint of heart. The Strip is basically a 24-hour game of choose your own disaster. But if you’re doing it right, the answer will always be the Wynn Three-Bedroom Duplex. It's where you and your closest girls get to play penthouse life—no rules, no limits.
And by no limits I mean a private mixologist on standby, butlers who’ll deliver chicken fingers at 3 AM (right when the tequila hits), and floor-to-ceiling glass windows that will make you feel like you're floating above the madness.
The House may win a few hands, but trust—you’ll only remember the good parts.
If you’re going all in, I suggest booking a table at Delilah—but not before dinner at Casa Playa. The margaritas are strong, the espresso martinis are stronger, and by midnight, you’ll be best friends with the table next to you dancing to ABBA.
Rumor has it Steve Wynn’s house looked (and definitely smelled) like the Wynn casino floor—and honestly, I kind of get it. Put me at a poker table with a bunch of random middle-aged men, and suddenly I’m at peace, channeling Jennifer Tilly in a push-up bra, ready to take their money and their dignity.
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