Drag queens and Jager Bombs.

"Did you just leave my husband alone in a gay bar?" I was questioning my sister's boyfriend. And yes, we were in a gay bar. The boys had been playing pool, while we ladies hit the dance floor. But the next thing I know, there's the boyfriend, and no husband.

"Eh. He's fine," he assured me.

Fine, I pondered. Now, is that fine, like, curled up in the bathroom stall weeping, or fine, like, at the bar buying a drink?

Apparently it was neither, because next thing I know, Jeremy's sidling up beside me all, "He just left me alone in a gay bar."

Ah, straight men.

And I'm sorry, but no one ever told me that bars catered to the same-sex inclined are awesome. I don't remember the last time dancing at a bar was so much fun. Now that I think about it, I don't remember the last time I danced at a bar...

So, the gay bar. We were there. Apparently it's the only bar in town that's neither a high school reunion nor boring. We had spent the evening with my coworkers at a holiday party, then followed them to the bar.

The bar with great music, killer Dreamsicles and drag queens. Where else can you sweat on the dance floor to Justin Timberlake, and look at men in dresses?

Exactly.  It was a blast.

My sister and I ran into an old friend, who bought us shots, plural. And also promised to call us the next time he's part of a drag show. A DRAG SHOW.

Squeal.

I never would've expected to have had this much fun A) at a gay bar, B) with my new coworkers, C) in my hometown. So that was relieving.

And now we have a reason to go to the next, local drag show. I'm sorry, but if that's not a reason to sleep at night, I don't know what is.