A couple weeks ago, I attended a media preview of Buckhead Bottle Bar.  It was the night before I was leaving for New York, so I definitely planned to take it easy on the dinner front so I could wake up for my 7 a.m. flight feeling skinny and ready to take on NYC.

Well, then I shouldn’t have gone to Bottle Bar for a 3-course meal.

A few weeks prior, I got the chance to preview the space while it was still in the construction phase, so it was cool to see it in the completed state.

Now picture it without all those tables which come out as they transition from dinner to late-night on the weekends.  You know that moment -  you’ve had a leisurely dinner with friends, you’re on your 4th or 5th cocktail, the conversation is starting to get crazier….then the DJ starts.  And, you nix your plans to hit another bar and end up staying in the same place you started all night.  That must be the goal at Bottle Bar.

I, of course, brought Chesley as my plus-one to the dinner and our eyes glazed over as we checked out the food menu.  Oh, and the drink menu.  I’m a big fan of places that offer a good $6 glass of wine, especially when it’s a trendy spot where you may think, upon walking in, that $15 cocktails are the norm.  What…a pleasant surprise.

After drink orders, we decided on the Cheese and Crab Fritters (I’m always down for any kind of “fritter”), Calamari, White Wine Mussels and Fries, and I ordered the Lamb Burger with Goat Cheese for my entree.

What diet?

And for the record, I haven’t stopped thinking about that burger since.  The chef, Ian Winslade, knows what he’s doing over there.

Since dessert was included in our “tasting” we had to go for it, even though I was starting to feel uncomfortably full.  Bring on Great Grandma Hattie’s Sticky Toffee Pudding and the Black and Tan Cheesecake.  I was officially stuffed, but more importantly, I needed to know who this Great Grandma Hattie was.

One of the best parts about Buckhead Bottle Bar?  It’s right next to Park Bench, Chesley’s and my old stomping grounds.  Had it been a weekend night and/or I didn’t have a 7 a.m. flight the next morning, we may have headed over there to dance on stage with Francisco and try to work off some of those fritters.

I’m sure that will be the plan next time, but I might have to skip Great Grandma Hattie and drink my dessert calories instead.

**I recommend reading Days 1 and 2 – right below this -  before Day 3 so you are fully debriefed (and by “debrief,” I don’t mean taking off your underwear, but feel free to do so).

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Saturday morning, I woke up in the hotel room I was sharing with 3 other girls (for the record: 1 Single lady and 2 “Teeterers”) and a recap session from the previous night automatically ensued.

“Sorry for waking you guys up last night,” commented Teeterer #1  from the other bed.

I felt a story coming on.

“You did?” I asked, totally not remembering and fully prepared to hear what I missed.

Turns out the other Single in the room and Teeterer #1 had brought home the 2 hotties from Coco Deville that they were dancing with when I left, and the foursome came up to the room where I was in one bed and Teeterer #2 was in the other.  They asked me to please move into bed with Teeterer #2 (I remember none of this) and I happily obliged, got up and walked around the room talking nonsense for a good 5 minutes.  Sleepwalking or drunken stupor?  You be the judge.   I also failed to notice (read: remember) the 2 pro football players that were with them.  That’s right.  The guys they brought home were Miami Dolphins players.  And 22-year-old new recruits at that.  You go…girls (or should I say “cougars”?).

The best part?  The 4 of them (yes, the 2 Dolphins, the Single and Teeterer #1) all slept in the same bed.  Luckily the whole situation stayed PG-13 (Or so they say).  The Dolphins DID give it the ol’ college try (literally), but the girls kept it classy.  It’s impolite to engage in anything more than a make-out sesh when you’re in bed with another couple.  Rules to live by, folks.

The day was off to a good start.  And to top if off, we remembered that we were supposed to be switching rooms since our shower stopped working whilst getting ready the night before.  The other Single (clearly still on a confidence high from her 22-year-old conquest) called the front desk and asked that we be upgraded to a suite.  Done. And Done.

It was pool time.  We slipped into our bikinis, grabbed our beach bags and what was left of our dignity, and headed up to the rooftop.  For the record, Plunge is THE place to be in South Beach on a Saturday – all the beautiful people are there, trying to look and act their sexiest, the DJ is playing trendy house music, and the vibe is far from College Spring Break.  Until we showed up.

If chicken fighting at the Gansevoort on a Saturday afternoon is wrong, then we didn’t want to be right.  Oh, and the bottom half of those chicken fighting towers ARE Canadian.  They showed up, after all.  Team Canada was definitely leading the battle of the Bachelor Parties.

After all the strenuous exercise, we headed up to the bride-to-be’s room to take a breather (read: make cocktails), yet somehow the said “rest period” turned into a Crossfit workout.  Just do yourself a favor and watch this video.  At the very least, you’ll get a laugh at my expense.  Which I fully welcome.

What…a gymnast.

We trekked back down to the pool, more debauchery (including a little game we called “Spin the Straw”) ensued, and then it was time to set up for the lingerie shower…IN OUR SUITE!  We couldn’t have planned it better if we tried.  And, we told Andrea we had been DOWNGRADED to a smaller room, so she was totally surprised when she walked into our large-and-in-charge suite complete with a cheese and crackers spread from the Walgreen’s across the street and more penis balloons than Party City on a good day.

We popped a few bottles of champagne, surprised Andrea with a video of her fiance (more on that later and NO, not that kind of video), gave her all her lingerie, made her try it on, etc, etc, etc, and then we heard a knock on the door.  Could it be? Oh, yes; it was the stripper.  Not a professional.  In fact, he was a member of the Team America bachelor party.

Did we plan this?  Well…I tried.  But, I didn’t think it would actually come to fruition.  Must have been the magic of the Magic City.

Post-striptease, the rest of Team America came up to our suite and it turned into a full-on hotel party.  You know, like the kind you see in rap videos (minus the Hypnotiq and girls in thongs) – loud music, popping bottles, and a total of THREE warnings (and threat of being kicked out) from the hotel staff.  Team America was really gaining on Team Canada for their party skills.   But, we WERE planning to meet up with Team Canada at “da club” for our last night in SoBe so we had a feeling they would secure the lead.

We hopped in a cab and headed over to Mynt Lounge, where we saw throngs of people waiting to get in, per usual SoBe fashion.  I took a deep breath and prepared to work my magic (or rather, beginners luck).  But, then the unthinkable happened.  We got out of our 2 cabs across the street from the club, I caught the bouncer’s eye while I crossed the street with the other girls in tow, he gave me a nod, and the velvet rope…was lifted.  We had no idea what was happening but we went with it.  We were in.  (I later read this on Mynt’s web site: If there’s one club on Miami Beach synonymous with exclusivity, it is Mynt Lounge.  During its seven-year reign the definitive Über lounge on the 2100 block of Collins has earned a reputation for the tightest door policy and most fabulous crowd in the Magic City.) Seriously, WTF?

Mynt was much more our speed than LIV – it was smaller, played better music and had a more laid-back atmosphere while still keeping the “club scene.” Team Canada had a table and bottle service so we partied with them all night and someone snapped a pic I like to call “The 9 Faces of Alcohol.”

I noticed girls starting to trickle out as the night wore on, and by the time I actually looked at my phone for a time check…it was 4:45 a.m.  Whooopsiiiiie.  Where…did the time go? I took a break from the “intimate conversation” I was having with a Team Canada player and looked around, hoping to see at least 1 girl from our group.  I saw 2:  Teeterer #1 and another Single.  Phew. As the 3 of us girls and the 3 Team Canadians we were hanging with departed the club, the Single had a genius idea:  “Let’s go skinny dipping!”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

So, we did.  And, the rest of the details will remain in the SoBe Bachelorette vault.  I will say, that somehow, out of the 3 of us, I was the only one that seemed to notice the sun coming up and hotel employees coming out on the beach to set up beach chairs for the day.  It was time to go.  I ran out of the water, dressed at record speed at the very break of dawn and walk-of-shamed it back to the Gansevoort.  The other 2 girls did not.

As Teeterer #1 came into our room at 8:30 a.m. straight from the beach, I gave her a proud slow clap.  She deserved it.  The fact that 2 of the girls had to get out of the ocean wearing nothing but their birthday suits, gather their things and get dressed while old couples took their morning strolls on the beach and dog owners ran with their pooches made the weekend complete.

The bachelorette was epic.  I can’t imagine another weekend that could top it.  Oh, wait…the wedding.  This weekend. In Atlanta.

Good thing we’re very far from a beach.

We woke up the next morning (my ass slightly bruised from my fall the night before), I put my tray of late night room service scraps ($25 chicken quesadilla to be exact) outside the door and we prepared to hit the beach.  The beach boys (from the Gansevoort, NOT the band) set up our chairs and towels on the sand and we soaked up the sun for a few hours before we got rained out…for the second day in a row.  Considering 2 hours in the hot Miami sun is equivalent to 4 hours in more Northern locales, we felt good about our sun exposure and were ready for cocktails.  We headed to Nikki Beach (a Miami institution) for lunch and convinced them to seat us at a table outside even though the chairs were slightly wet and the waitstaff was CONVINCED it was going to start raining again.   You can’t come to Nikki Beach and sit INSIDE.  That’s just depressing.

We were enjoying our meals and beverages when a couple of guys approached our table.  I don’t remember exactly which party addressed the other first, but let me just explain that bachelor and bachelorette parties have a 6th sense for each other.  When you’re on a bachelor/bachelorette party, you can immediately sniff out a member of the opposite sex in the same boat.  So, our groups were immediately drawn to each other and started up a convo.  Turns out there were 15 of them (good odds for our 12) and they were from Canada.  They asked how many single ladies (put your hands up!) we had and we explained that we had 4 singles and 2 “teeterers” (I think you can decipher the meaning of that one).  We realized we needed to discuss this in more detail, so we set up a meeting time and place for each group’s spokespersons to meet.  The meeting would be in approximately 15 minutes at a table about 10 yards away.  I was the appointed spokesperson (obviously) and forced Fran (remember, the crazy married one?) to accompany me.  The guys’ 2 spokespersons were also a single and a married.  This was really panning out.

The Leadership Conference:

During the Conference, we had each of our singles come by the table and strut their stuff.  We didn’t whore out our girls they way the guys did, making them shake their butts and smile on command.  I wanted to, though.  It started to rain again (those damn servers knew what they were talking about) and we all reconvened under an awning.  Aaaaand a video was made.  Please pay attention to every detail, including the “pantsing” (boys will ALWAYS be boys) and at the end, when we realize something VERY special that our bride and their groom had in common (girls will ALWAYS be girls).

We bid adieu to the fellas who we will now refer to as “Team Canada” and made plans to meet up with them the following day at our pool (their night was booked as was ours).

Back at the hotel, we surprised Andrea with her veil, penis straws and outfits:  all of us wore black because we knew she planned to wear white. She was seriously surprised at the attire coordination.  Taverna Opa was our dining destination and we had heard it was a crazy place that involved lots of dancing on the tables.  Sold.  Upon walking in, we didn’t detect any craziness, but sat down and hoped for the best.  We ordered a family style dinner, so food would just keep coming out and we would all share.  Right around our second course (which was enough food to be the main course), the lights dimmed and a belly dancer entered the room.  She got up on a few tables and I tried to gauge the situation.  When was it appropriate for US to start dancing on the tables? We didn’t have to wait long to find out.  Enter:  bottle of sparkling champagne sent to our table.  And by sparkling, I mean, there were lit fireworks coming out the top.  Time to start table dancing.

I spotted a group of guys 2 tables over and my 6th sense kicked in.  I approached them, confirmed they were a bachelor party of 15 guys (obviously our lucky number), and walked Andrea over to get up on their table and box out the 2 skanks that were already up there dancing.

This was officially the craziest restaurant I had EVER been in.  Glasses were breaking (OPA!), napkins were being thrown in the air every 5 seconds (clearly, this restaurant wasn’t “green”) and we were dancing and sweating up a storm like we were in the club and it was last call. Our main courses had arrived and no one even took a bite because by now, (9 pm) it was time to take shots, not eat lamb.

But, we WERE cautious to dance around the plates.  Notice the strappy sandal.

After dinner, it was time to hit the club scene, which most of us don’t usually prefer, but hey, when in Rome.  We made a pit stop at the hotel first to drop off the meat.  Why even bother?, you ask.  Because it was $200 worth of meat, per our bill.  We were at least going to drunkenly enjoy it later.  We ended up at LIV Nightclub in the Fontainebleu Hotel (supposedly the hottest spot in town) where Bachelorette Party #2 (who we will now refer to as “Team America”) claimed they had a table and bottle service and had enticed us to come.  We walked into what was apparently the hotel lobby and entrance to LIV and it was like nothing I’d ever seen.  THRONGS of people waiting to get in.  You would have thought it was the line outside of Wal-Mart at 4 am when Tickle Me Elmo came out.

I made the observation that Team America was nowhere even close to getting into this club, so I took matters into my own hands.  Now, I’m not going to say that I’m hot (at least not on this blog), but the 11 girls I was with are all certifiably hot.  And, I feel that I carry an air of importance (read: bitchiness) and confidence in situations like this, so I felt like we couldn’t lose.  I pushed through the crowd and somehow made it up to the velvet rope and doorman who literally had lines of girls and guys 10 deep clawing at him to get in.  I made my move.

“Hey,” I said as I lightly grabbed his elbow.  He looked at me like I was crazy….but maybe just crazy enough to listen to.  “I have 11 hot girls with me.  We’re ready to go.”

The rope lifted, I waved my arms (just a little frantically) to all the girls to get their asses up to the velvet rope ASAP and we marched in.  And that, ladies and gentlemen…is how it’s done.  Although I’m still not sure how the hell it happened.

We partied in LIV for a while, got some VIPers to let us dance on their tables, and overall had a good time, but mega-clubs like that just aren’t my style and I think the other girls felt the same.  Once I start drinking, I can barely keep track of myself, let alone 11 other girls.  I need small spaces with good music so I can drink, dance, and not get lost wandering around, wondering where the hell everyone went.  That has happened…a lot.  So, we all agreed to head back to the club in our hotel, Coco Deville, where we had been ASSURED by our hotel manager friends we would not have to wait in line.

I pushed my way up to the front of the line through another crowd of waiting people, but this time, it wasn’t so easy.  Whether the bouncer wanted to teach me a lesson or just didn’t think I had “the look,” he wasn’t so quick to let my posse and me in.  So, we had some choice words, he gave me the “step away before I call the cops” look I recognized so well, and I was about to turn on my heel and break the news to the girls we weren’t getting in, when BAM! He changed his  mind.

“How many girls?” he asked.

“We have 11 in black and ONE in white,” piped up little Kelsey from somewhere behind me.  Clearly, that would become a quote for the weekend.

“And there are NO guys with you?” he inquired skeptically.

“Nope,” I answered.  Sorry fellas, but it’s a sad truth in the South Beach club scene.    Either be a girl, whip out the big bucks, or wait in line to get in (AKA another reason why Miami is great to visit, but I couldn’t live there).

The velvet rope lifted and we were in.  Try as you might, bouncer boy, but you can’t turn down hotel guests in their own hotel.

This scene was much more our speed.  Hip hop music as opposed to house.  A much cozier space.  Hotter guys.  It felt like home.  We danced it up until our feet couldn’t hold us up any longer and started heading back to the rooms one by one.  I was the third to last girl to go up.  There were 2 girls left (1 single and 1 teeterer), both dancing with guys that could only be professional athletes or buff actors (picture Kellan Lutz in the Twilight Series).  Maybe I left because I realized I was too drunk.  Maybe I left because I couldn’t pick up a Kellan Lutz of my own.  I don’t really remember.  But either way, we were to wake up with QUITE a story from the last 2 girls left in the club.

TO BE CONTINUED…

So, this past weekend was Andrea’s Bachelorette Weekend in South Beach.  I’m going to go on record and say it was hands-down the craziest weekend of my entire life.   Dewey Beach weekends included.  I know, I know.  I can’t believe I’m saying it either.  It was even crazier than the time I “trespassed” in Silver Lake at Dewey, lost my cover-up in the bushes, and made my dad and brother want to kill the random dude I brought home from the bar and introduced to the family like we’d been dating for years.  It was crazier than the night in Savannah when I just “went out to get batteries” and the rest was history.  It was crazier than Hart’s Cove pool party junior year in college.  Obviously I can’t post EVERYTHING on this blog, but I will post a lot.  Problem is, I don’t even know where to start.  Considering I’m still recovering, I promise to get to it this week (for those of you that care), but I’m just not fully functioning yet.  For now, I’ll just post a some anonymous quotes from our email chain yesterday (the Monday following the weekend).

I just wanna be poolside with a Capirihinia in hand, burning the shiza out of my shoulders while playing spin the straw!!!

Just so you girls know – I still have NO voice!!!!!  All my over-reacting screams really did some damage to my pipes!

I just ate a giant burger and tater tots. Apparently I’m still hungover.

I’ve been nannying since 8am and at one point said in my raspy man voice I am really sorry girls but this is just not gonna be a fun day for you. And then I put my head down on the couch and fell asleep for an hour and a half. Their parents are going to love me. I also showed them pictures of the trip….they saw 49 pics out of 360.

I really don’t think I can wait till the wedding to get more deets on Ashley’s 6:29 am text “ just went skinny dipping”

They should make a movie about our trip.

And don’t forget to include the CPR gone bad Saturday night that resulted in chipped teeth and Fran using her glass nail file as a dental tool.

I’d like some Firefly on the rocks now please.

OMG why is my a$$ out everywhere in about half of Nicole’s pics?!!!  Apparently when you called the stripper for the night, it was ME.
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And, just a relatively sober pic that I feels sums up just a little portion of the weekend….

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To be continued….

You may have heard about the recent beverage phenomenon that is sweeping the nation.

No, I’m not talking about Jager bombs.  Who are you, The Situation?

It’s called being ICED and yes, I always write it in caps.  Basically, if you present someone with a Smirnoff Ice (ie. the champagne of malt bevvies), the lucky person has to get on one knee and chug it ON THE SPOT.  However, they can ICE-block you if they have a Smirnoff Ice on them and then YOU have to chug both bottles.  If you choose to deny the ICE, then you are “instantly excommunicated and shunned and thus can never ice a bro (or ho) or be ICED.”

Reference the full set of rules and details HERE.

Kate and I heard about the ICED phenomenon on Friday night and knew we had to ICE someone immediately.  So, we set out on Saturday (pups in tow), snagged some Kings of Pops ‘sicles, stopped by Buddy’s where Kate picked up a 24 oz Smirnoff Ice, and headed down to  Diesel where the Whynatte guys were hanging out.  Kate touched base with Jesse (one half of the Whynatte team) and he informed us that Andy (the other half) did NOT have an ICE in hand and would be our perfect target.

So, we went in.

He took that 24 like a champ.

On Saturday night at Smith’s, Kate was scared she was going to get ICED by Andy, so she bought a Smirnoff in preparation (yes, ICERS, they sell them at Smith’s downstairs).  But, Andy didn’t come to ICE Kate.  So, Kate didn’t ICE Andy.

Instead, the unthinkable happened.

I got ICED.

We don’t have photo documentation, but I took it like a champ….then ran to the bathroom.  I didn’t puke, but it was close.

I informed my brother of the ICING phenomenon via BBM and he responded:  “but if u get iced u get a free smirnoff ice.  so its a win win when you get iced.”

Huh?  Since when is drinking a Smirnoff Ice EVER a winning situation?  I felt embarrassed to be related to him in that moment.

The next day, he realized that his friends in Dewey Beach had been ICING for years (ok, maybe just weeks).  They have even developed a special belt to combat the ICE.  Some might call it…a “tool belt.”

These guys…are prepared for war.  A Cold War, if you will.

Wow, bad joke.

I hope that I’ve inspired you to pick up a 24 oz Smirnoff Ice and pick a victim.  Hell, courier it to your ex and make the delivery person force him to drink it.  He/she deserves it.

Happy ICING!

The Key West vacay was a month ago, but I’m just now getting around to posting this video.  What…a shocker.  But, better late than never, right?  Right.  I’m posting this mainly in hopes that MTV will see it and give me my own Cribs-meets-Room Raiders-type show, but maybe you’ll get a giggle out of it as well.

Basically, my cousin Lindsay and I (who grew up rooming together on beach vacays every summer when we were kids) checked into the Lighthouse Court and we were super excited to scope out our digs.  Upon walking in, we were ecstatic to see the fab TWO-STORY pad we would be living in for a week, complete with walk-in closet, which Lindsay deemed large enough “for a small child to stay in.”  I took that comment a step further, of course.  Listen carefully.

Then….we went around the corner to check out my parent’s room.

Here’s the vid.  Excuse my sans-makeup face.  Oh, and I may look like I’m naked in the first 20 seconds.  But, this isn’t that kind of video.

So, there you have it. It’s tough being the perfect daughter sometimes, but I enjoy every minute when I get to give back to my parents.  Linds and I spent the week in that sketchy room, but we had such a great vacay that at the end of the trip, we knew we would miss that round-screen TV, framed picture of the rooster (did you hear a real rooster crow in the vid RIGHT after we showed the picture?), and the sheets that felt like scratchy toilet paper.

And, yes, I did hit my head on the ceiling while checking out the second-floor bedroom.

Mom and Dad – hope you enjoyed YOUR amazing suite.  And knowing you two, I’m sure you enjoyed it a little too much.

Ok, that was gross.

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More Key West highlights (or lowlights – you decide), can be found HERE.