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…