The movers are scheduled to arrive in two hours, and as I sit here typing in my almost-all-boxed-up bachelorette pad, I’m feeling a little nostalgic. And tired. What was supposed to be a low-key weekend turned into anything but.I had planned on staying in Friday night and chilling with a girlfriend and her new puppy, but after some sushi and downtime, I decided to meet up with the boys at Stone Lotus (nothing too crazy; I was home by 2 a.m.).Saturday: Time to pack-but Eleven City Diner was calling my name. I figured I’d get a little work done in the afternoon and still have all day Sunday to get my belongings in order. But brunch turned into lunch, and by the time I got home, I had lost all motivation to pack.The afternoon was almost gone, and the evening was already spoken for: I had substitute co-host duty with Sun-Times nightlife columnist Susanna Homan on WCKG 105.9-FM (plus an impromptu trip back to Eleven City Diner to catch up with friends).My night should’ve ended there. But on my way home around 11 p.m., my phone started blowing up with text messages. “Come to Krem,” one read. Another: “Underground. Please come! U know u want to.”Guess where I went?In my defense, I was lured not by the destination but by The Marrieds, a fun-loving group of gals I don’t see that often. It was a girls’ night out, and I’m a girl. Enough said. (Sometimes I like flying solo: You have no one to answer to except yourself.)When The Marrieds left, I decided to stick around The Underground a little longer. I’d bumped into an acquaintance who works as an ambassador for Dom Perignon; she was hosting a group of up-and-coming New York actors in town for a press junket touting their new HBO show (despite the media visit, details are still hush-hush).It wasn’t the actor thing that drew me to hang out with them, I swear. They’re no-namers-for now, at least. But there was one guy in the group who caught my eye (and made me the target of his relentless flirting): a Tommy Hilfiger model who looked like a cross between Jude Law and Daniel Craig. He was charming and adorable; so what if he was only 22? Turns out his parents live here, and so does his brother. We had more in common than I would have expected-and he’s Jewish, so you never know.Sunday: Time to try this packing thing again. I was running on about four hours of sleep, but I managed to get most of the boxing up done with the help of a very good friend. We spent all day Sunday sorting through nine years of accumulated junk and moving whatever we could into the new place. We had an incentive to keep things rolling: I had reserved a couple of tables at Stanley’s for later that night. Sunday, when the bar hosts live-band karaoke, is Stanley’s biggest night, and since a lot of folks have Monday off for President’s Day, the place was especially packed. By the time we showed up at 8:30 p.m., there was already a line down Lincoln Avenue.It was one of those nights when everyone in the group was in a good mood-even the boys who had played poker earlier in the day and lost some dough. Although none of us got up the courage to “perform” on stage, we sang along while others belted out tunes like “Sister Christian,” “Proud Mary,” and Pearl Jam’s “Alive.”These are my favorite nights: when it’s not about the scene or picking up male models, but just about hanging out with good friends. Flying solo has its perks, but I’d rather spend my time with the band. Hey, it’s definitely better than packing.