Who says just because you’re 30-something you can’t stay up ’til dawn, have friends puke in your kitchen and party like a rock star?

I’ve so enjoyed reading the other posts, many of which included deep thoughts, emotions and challenges. So I realize this might seem a little foolish.

But, I have to tell you. We roommates just threw a killer party. My liver is still screaming.

First, about the House of WOE.

One year ago, I was living in Indianapolis. It had been four months since I found out my husband cheated on me, thus causing me to dump his sorry ass and move out. I was living alone for the first time in eight years. Nothing against the Hoosier state, but I saw no reason to stay. I had only moved there a year earlier, with him, for HIS job.

But, I figured I’d stay at my job another year and then head back to Wisconsin, where my family and friends lived.

That was, until I took a vacation to Seattle, one year ago this weekend. My friend Naomi, who was then living in Ohio, and I went to visit her best friend from high school, Shasta, in Seattle.

For three single girls, it was a magical weekend.

The sun shone – not a drop of rain fell – and everywhere we went, we were treated like royalty. Free drinks, appetizers set in front of us at every location. Nonstop laughter and good heart-to-heart chats.

I think the aura was noticeable (or, the vodka made us think so). A bartender said, “It’s like you’re the Witches of Eastwick.”

And the House of WOE was born.

During our vacation, Naomi stopped in for an interview and ended up with a job offer. We got back to the Midwest and she mulled it over. She left me a voice mail: “I’m moving to Seattle and I expect you to join me in June.”

I thought about it. Seattle seemed like a perfect fit. Why not?

I called her back and said, “better make it mid-July.”

So, I quit my job. I got out of my new lease. I sold almost everything I owned. And I packed up my Jetta and headed west.

I haven’t lived with girlfriends since college. I was worried about what it would be like. But the transition was seamless. Being single in the House of WOE – a lovely old four-bedroom craftsman with wood floors and stained glass windows – is a totally different experience. (I should note, during our man fasting days, we were the House of NO. There was also a brief stint where I jokingly called us the House of HO.)

Getting ready to go out means girls sharing mirrors, listening to loud music and helping make those crucial “what should I wear?” decisions.

And it means bonding together to throw a kickass party, like the one we hosted last weekend for more than 75 people. The theme: Party Like a Rock Star. Everyone came dressed up. We had Elvis, KISS, Slash, Devo, Courtney Love (who got drunk and fell, natch), Bjork – in white swan outfit – and even Sanjaya from American Idol. One of my favorites: Tom Jones, complete with panties attached to his suit. I got my 80s groove on and went as Cyndi Lauper (oh yeah, I can STILL get my bangs that high!).

Party Like a Rock Star

We rented a fog machine and a strobe light. We took down a light fixture and suspended a motorized 20-inch disco ball, and a spotlight filled the dance floor and ceiling with rotating dots. The rolled back rugs left bare wooden floors – a perfect dance floor. Naomi found a long scrap of red carpet, which reached from our sidewalk to the front door. And all guests got “backstage pass” lanyards.

Add in the two kegs and an amazing array of liquor, and it was an epic party.

After getting married, I never thought I’d live with girls again. I forgot how much fun it is to live in an estrogen-filled house with frilly lamps and extra closets to raid. We had a blast putting together the party. Even though we spent the entire next day cleaning up the house – which looked like a frat house basement – it was hard not to smile.

Because yeah, we still have it. We can still throw down in our 30s and party like rock stars. The recovery just might be a little longer ….

Lola, 32, Seattle