The “That’s What He Said” Guys Panel was a huge, testosterone-filled success (see entry below if you have no idea what the eff I’m talking about). Jamie Bendall of The Punchline was the pleasant surprise of the evening; as the token married guy, he shared a lot of interesting insight, most of which was hilarious. I guess when you own a comedy club, that comes naturally. Dubelyoo was cool and endearing, which was to be expected. As for Wes, well, ummm, how do I put this…..he bullshitted a lot. And was kinda lame. And, if I heard him say, “I mean, I’ve met a lot of beautiful women,” one more time, I was going to puke in my whipped cream vodka and diet Coke. Oh, you don’t remember that drink being available at the bar? That’s because it wasn’t. I snuck into the secret soda stash and made it for myself.
Then, there was Southside Steve (and his ponytail) of the Regular Guys. He was honest. He was smart. He had a lot of great opinions to share, especially on the topics of sex on the first date (ladies, don’t do it if you want to be “girlfriend material”), wearing condoms (I mean, maybe the FIRST time you do it with someone), and cheating (he has never, and will never, and hates when people assume he does). I can see how, even when being so open about sleeping with more than 400 women, girls still go after him. I heard he was up to #408, but it didn’t deter me. Even I fell for his charms (and his long, silky locks).
I’m just glad I got this plaque for my parents to put on their mantle.
Mom and Dad, I hope I’ve made you proud.
Photo by Shane Durrance. Plaque courtesy of Pat O’Brien. And, remember, if you like what you saw and read here, subscribe using the button at the top. Yeah, c’mon.
While we’re bringing up the past (ie. yesterday’s post) and talking about T.G.I.Friday’s bartenders that I’ve dated (ok, so only one), I thought I would bring up this gem of a walk-of-shame story.
Corey, my partner in crime during the summer of 2002, and I were pretty pumped when I started dating a bartender since we were 19 and had shitty fake New Jersey IDs. Granted, he tended bar at T.G.I.Friday’s, but if 20-ounce mudslides and Long Island Ice Teas were all we could get, we were gonna take it. After a “crazy night out” at Friday’s, where we were probably overserved the aforementioned classy cocktails, we headed to an afterparty at one of the Friday’s guys’ houses (I think it was the “bar manager”). Drinking games, cuddling, and what-have-you ensued until the sun came up, and we all crashed at the dude’s house.
The next morning, Corey and I awoke in our outfits from the night before, which I vaguely remember as being various degrees of slutty, considering we were just barely past age 18, still shopping at Abercrombie and Charlotte Russe, and were trying to look “of age.” We got to my car and had high hopes of driving home and slipping into my parents’ house unnoticed. All was going well…
…until my car just DIED.
Right in front of my dad’s office.
How could this be? How could my faithful ’93 Altima fail me in such a crucial moment? Even if it had died somewhere else, I could have had my mom save the day and at least bring us a change of clothes. But, my dad?! What had I done to piss off the karma gods lately (besides sneaking into bars, of course)?
The thing is, my dad (who has since retired) owned an imported auto part supplier, so whatever we would need to fix my effing car was RIGHT in front of our faces..and in my dad’s hands. There was no other option. The car barely put-putted into the parking lot and we prepared to go in, all shreds of dignity long lost. As I walked under the threshold, I had one last hopeful thought. Could we act like we were just out grabbing breakfast and then heading to the mall? One look over at Corey and down at myself and I knew the answer to that one.
We walked in and all Dad could do was shake his head. I thought I may have detected a smirk….but I think it was just a grimace. We took a seat in the waiting area, reeking of whatever the hell 5 liquors are in Long Islands, and my dad breezed by us on his way out the door to fix the car….
…and coughed the word “sluts” under his breath.
His employees erupted in laughter.
We’d hit rock bottom. At least for that week.
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I was 18 when I programmed my first “Don’t Answer” into my cell phone (which may or may not have been a giant pink Qualcomm device). I was home from my freshman year in college and went on ONE date with an air force guy that I had met while sitting in traffic in Dover, Delaware. As in, we rolled down our windows and exchanged numbers. Don’t judge. I was 18. But, that’s beside the point. We went on the date, he turned crazy on me (ie. calling every 15-30 minutes, planning the rest of our summer together, etc.), so I stopped taking his calls. I never put his number in my phone but I recognized the area code so I knew when to ignore, and after about a week or 2, he finally got the memo and gave up.
A few weeks later, Air Force Guy had become a distant memory and I was on to the next guy of that summer, who was…wait for it…a bartender at T.G.I.Friday’s. And, that’s when Air Force sneak attacked me. Mom and I were out running errands, probably chatting about the Friday’s bartender and his baby blues, when I saw a random number pop up on my phone and carelessly answered.
It was definitely an awkward 2.5 minutes, and largely in part because Air Force felt the need to tell me that he had just gotten out of the hospital for…wait for it again…getting a bunion removed.
I politely told him I needed to get off the phone, mom and I had a good laugh, and I promptly programmed his number into my phone as “Don’t Answer.” Looking back, maybe I should have programmed him as “Bunion.”
The next 9 years (wow, that’s crazy) would bring forth many more guys that achieved a “Do Not Answer” in my phone, and I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that I probably got the same status in a cell phone or two….or more.
Just this past Sunday, I found myself entering another “Do Not Answer” into my phone after a fellow I met while under the influence on Saturday night got a little overzealous with his contact (read: 2 texts, 3 phone calls). So, I figured I would go through my phone and see all the other “creative” names I had given guys throughout the years, just for shits and giggles. Here they are, in alphabetical order, and guys, I apologize if you recognize any of these names…or think that you are, in fact, one of them.
AJ Do Not Answer
Brian Bloody Foot (That’s a looong story for another time)
Chris Park Bench
Don’t Answer Mexican (Mexican as in food? Ancestry? Who knows.)
dude from park bench
Firefighter Rick (Mentioned HERE. Hint: in the 1st paragraph)
It’s been awhile since I posted about The Bachelor/Bachelorette and if I wasn’t such a slacker, I would have been posting all during the first season of Bachelor Pad. Maybe next season. But, I do feel the need to share my excitement about David Good and Natalie Getz winning last night’s grand prize of $250,000. Split between the 2 of them. So, if my math skillz serve me correctly, that’s $125k per person…and then you have to pay taxes on it. And, they were acting like they’d just won the Powerball, and/or Superbowl but that’s beside the point.
First of all, I’d been routing for Dave because he’s hot, seemingly intelligent, and I had an erotic dream about him 2 weeks ago, so I felt like I “knew” him.
I liked Natalie because she embraced the fact that she was party girl and had no qualms about hooking up. She started the show all over/all about Jesse B., and then moved on to Dave without thinking twice. The guys alluded to her promiscuity, but never called her a slut because she was fun, honest about who she was, and disease-free (I heard they check that stuff before you get selected). The guys DID vote her “most likely to never get married” (OUCH) in one of the challenges, but that’s just another reason I f*cking love the fact that she won. And ended up with the hottest guy on the show.
Here’s a photo of the happy couple I pulled from Jesse Kovac’s Facebook. Yeah, we’re friends. No big deal.
I think this is a triumphant win for girls like us, er, Natalie everywhere. She even admitted she was in debt on national tv. You go….girl. I just spent an hour on the phone with CitiBank today arguing about my APR, so I feel your pain.
Tenley, America’s annoying sweetheart, and Kiptyn, the quintessential “nice guy” that just so happens to be hot, took second place, or “first loser” if you will. Even after Kiptyn promised to give 20% of his potential winnings to charity. Awwwkward. (For the record, Natalie said she wanted to start a nonprofit, but I think we all know that after she pays off that debt, she’s only going to have enough leftover cash for a plane ticket to visit Dave).
Yes, I think that it came down to the couple that everyone liked most, but in my book, it ultimately came down to the girl that didn’t talk baby talk and likes to drink. As it should.
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After the sobering experience of getting dumped on Saturday night followed by a walk home to the beach house, I decided I was coherent enough to go through my texts from the day and make sure I didn’t miss anything while I was 3 sheets to the wind from 5pm – 2am. And, I found this:
Hey, it’s Jason*. You should come to to Lewes tomorrow afternoon, we’re thinking about doing some waterskiing.
I…was confused. I did meet a Jason that day but it was my best friend Cory’s boyfriend and he knew damn well that the following day was Suicide Sunday, NOT a time for venturing to Lewes (a “suburb” of Dewey) and definitely not a time for any sort of water sport. What…was he trying to do? Sabotage our day of fun? And, how did he even get my number? I hoped that Cory wouldn’t decide to change our plans of a 15-hour Sunday boozefest to go do physical activities in the ‘burbs. Needless to say, I went to bed pissed.
The next morning, as we were getting ready to hit the Starboard (and waiting on Cory to get back from Jason’s place), I had a flashback from the Cork the day before. I totally met a guy and remembered him saying something about Lewes. It wasn’t Cory’s Jason at all that was texting me; it was a guy I had met! I got excited thinking that maybe I still had a chance at landing a DBB (see previous entry), but my excitement quickly turned to fear as I realized I had no recollection of his looks and may have a Sweaty situation on my hands. But, I was willing to risk it. I texted him back:
By Monday, I had totally forgotten about the kid AGAIN, but he resurfaced.
Jason (6:13 p.m.): Hey, never made it into Dewey yesterday, coming in tonight though! I think we’re checking out Bottle and Cork first. You around?
I felt slightly panicked. This sounded like a reunion was definitely going to happen. My dad and brother would never let me live it down if some 5-foot-4 dude that looked like Sloth from the Goonies showed up to meet me. But, then again, having dad and bro on hand WOULD make it easy to scare the guy off. So, I replied…
Me: Yes! At dinner now, going to Lighthouse later for sure…
A few texts later, and it was settled. He planned to come to Lighthouse and I waited nervously for a Sloth-meets-Sweaty lookalike to tap me on the shoulder, hand me a dozen roses and act like I was his long lost lover.
Who says I’m overly dramatic?
After dinner, we all congregated on the Lighthouse deck in the Adirondack chairs for some chill boozing while we digested. Since my friends and whole family knew the story, they would spontaneously yell out “JASON!” to see if anyone looked and make the occasional lap around the bar to see if they could find him. Around 11:30, when he texted that he had arrived and was looking for me, I decided I needed a buffer.
Me: Go get a drink from the bartender in pink and tell her you’re Jason. (Said bartender is Cory).
But, before he could even get a drink from Cory, my friend Emily had scooped him up and brought him right over. He sat down in the chair to the right of me, not realizing he was sitting directly across from my giant brother and that my dad was to my left. Poor guy. But, truth be told, he wasn’t bad looking.
Cory came rushing out from behind the bar and demanded, “50 words, about you. Hurry, I’m slammed.” He immediately spouted off an abbreviated version of his life story and I picked up some key words, including “University of Richmond,” “live in Manhattan,” “finance,” and “grew up in Delaware.” Not bad at all. I discreetly high-fived myself .
We started chatting and he began to realize my family was surrounding him, watching his every move, but remained at ease. He made reference to my dad’s resemblance to the Most Interesting Man in the World. He even asked my brother about a friend of his who played football with Matt at University of Delaware. Could it be? Could this be my DBB, just a couple days late?
And, then it happened. She came out of nowhere. Like some sort of UFO, or vampire from Twilight, or a bad case of crabs after spring break in Cancun. This average-looking chick with a high-pitched motormouth overheard my future DBB say something that apparently made her realize that she had his mother as a teacher in school, and felt that was an appropriate invitation to sit her ass right next to him and hold his attention like her life depended on it for the rest of the night. I swear I even saw her pull down her shorts to reveal a tan line. What, was she in 8th grade? I was truly stunned.
She had truly swooped in like nothing I’d ever seen before. I looked to my brother, to my mom, to my dad, all of whom were equally stunned. I couldn’t tell if they had a love connection or if he just couldn’t get her to shut up so he could exit the convo. As my mom would later say, “she got him tangled up in her web and he really couldn’t get out.” Even Matt’s girlfriend felt the need to come up and tell me how this girl was one of the most obnoxious girls at the beach. But, at that point, I was done. I had already been dumped once this week and I didn’t want to sit around any longer while the second incident happened right in front of my face.
It was time to take the drinking up a notch (or 5). We all headed to the bar and proceeded to have a great rest of the night, cheers’ing to my misfortune with key lime pie shots. You win some, you lose some. Although, this week, I was clearly the latter part of that statement.
At 1:28 a.m. I got a text from him: Your dad was way too cool for me.
I’ve always prided myself on being able to snag a Dewey Beach Boyfriend (DBB) while I’m vacationing each summer – you know, just a short-lived, meaningless relationship that can last anywhere from 3 hours to 3 days and sometimes even results in a Facebook friend request or even some flirty texting after I’m back in Atlanta. Two summers ago, I even brought the lucky fellow back to our beach house and introduced him to the fam like we’d been dating for months. Although the details are a little foggy, I heard (from my mom) that my dad and my brother have never wanted to hurt a guy so badly. It probably didn’t help that I was stumbling, slurring and had lost my cover-up in the bushes on the walk back to the house from the bar, so was only wearing a bikini. It wasn’t our finest family moment. But, I digress.
This past Dewey vacay, I did not fare so well on the DBB front. In fact, it was exactly the opposite of faring well. I got dumped…twice. Let me begin.
Towards the end of Saturday night, I ended up by myself (shocker) at Lighthouse and decided to hit the dance floor. I immediately spotted a cute guy whose hips didn’t lie and we started to dance to what JUST may have been “Dynamite” by Taio Cruz. My favorite summer jam. It was a sign. I ended up meeting his friends, they thought I was cool and liked my onesie, and we all exited the bar together after last call. Now, in Dewey at the end of the night, you have a few options:
1. Go home (yeah, if you’re a LOSER)
2. Eat pizza (if you don’t have any plans to make out, of course)
3. Hit up a late night party and play beer pong until the sun comes up (if you can find one of these coveted soirees)
4. Go to the beach and “talk,” make out, skinny dip, whatever, until a rent-a-cop finds you and runs you off
I ruled out options 1-3 for obvious reasons, so my new boyfriend and I decided to trek down to the beach and hopefully, have an intellectually stimulating conversation while listening to the waves crash. Right.
We’re walking to the beach and are about halfway there, when he stops, turns to me, and says, “I just can’t do this.”
I’m sorry, what? Can’t do WHAT?! No one had even made a move….yet. There was only one explanation.
“Oh, you have a girlfriend?” I asked.
“Well, I’ve been dating this girl for about 2 weeks,” he explained. After that bomb, I stopped listening.
Two weeks? Either this girl really had it going on, or I was losing my touch.
I tried to hold my head high as I walked back into the Lighthouse and found my friend, Emily, who works there and was busy counting her tips. I was also staying with her, so it looked like I’d be waiting for her to finish counting her tips while I explained how I just got dumped, then we would walk home together. And, that’s exactly what happened.
**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).
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.
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 toMynt 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.
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.
I have a new obsession. And it’s alcohol-related. And Mexican-related. Shocker.
2 weeks ago, I was told about Sinless Margarita by my friend Molly, who does their PR. Apparently, it was a marg mix (sans tequila) that had only 5 calories per serving.
I was sold.
I absolutely love margaritas but I am aware how many calories they have, and in order to keep up my Marissa Miller-like physique, I often have to resort to straight tequila with a splash of water and limes in place of a traditional sugary marg. And that little concoction….has gotten me in trouble.
I was co-hosting Andrea’s bridal shower on that upcoming Sunday and was in charge of the alcohol, so I thought the Sinless Margs would be PERFECT for the Sunday afternoon occasion. Keep in mind, I hadn’t tried them yet, but if they tasted anything close to a real margarita and had less calories than a basket of chips, I was on board. I picked up the mix, a handle of tequila and brought it to the shower. I also had a case of wine and champagne in tow which I displayed on the bar next to the jug of Sinless margs (and a sign that said “Sinless Margaritas, low-cal”). Aaaaand, barely anyone touched the wine or champagne. It was Sunday afternoon, there were parents and adults in attendance, and the girls were sucking down the margaritas like it was Cinco de Mayo. I was proud, to say the least. I also felt the need to drink as much wine and champagne as possible because I couldn’t bear the sight of it just sitting there untouched.
Here’s the bride-to-be with her special glass of low-cal deliciousness:
It wasn’t my finest moment when they ran out halfway through the shower and I kept trying to peddle my wine and champagne on everyone, but they weren’t interested.
Needless to say – they were a hit. So, I went for round 2 and brought them to Charlotte for my friend Cat’s wedding this past weekend. I walked into my hotel room, announced what I brought, got to sip on one small marg before heading to the rehearsal dinner, and that was all she wrote. The rest of the night is a little (read: very) fuzzy, but all I know is that the next morning, my full bottles of Sinless Margarita and tequila were G.O.N.E. And we had gone to an open-bar rehearsal dinner and bar-hopping afterwards. When…did it get consumed? We’ll never know. The champagne I brought had been popped open at some point, too, but it was almost full (read: wasted) the next morning. Which means “someone” popped it just to hear the sound and then went straight to the margs. That “someone” may or may not have been me.
I just want to make it clear that I’m not giving up wine or champagne or any other alcohol product for these margaritas, but they ARE going to be stocked in my fridge all summer.
In other words: the margs may be sinless, but I don’t think this summer is going to be.