Posts Tagged ‘w hotel’

CEOs, Bimbos and Tim Tebow

Friday night was my BFF Tope‘s big 3-0. I was put in charge of planning it months ago but since I only operate under pressure, I didn’t actually do anything (besides a couple Facebook posts here and there) until the week of. And, two days before the party, I came through with a VIP section at Whiskey Blue in the W Buckhead complete with bottle service and some special surprises (I’ll get to those). Ba-da-bing. Ba-da-boom.

The theme was CEOs and Office Bimbos (fellas wear suits, ladies are supposed to dress like sluts) and the plan was to drink and dine at where else but…Tavern at Phipps (The Official HQ for CEOs and sluts, er, bimbos), then head to W.

We rolled up to the hotel and got settled in our big-ass VIP section by the DJ booth (this was really shaping up) and our super-cute cocktail server brought out a bottle of Grey Goose. It actually WAS Goose (because, we all know sometimes I say I’m sipping on Goose or Belvedere and it’s really just Absolut).  We were drinking and chillaxing, the guys lookin’ fine in their suits and the ladies in various degrees of “provocative.”

Then…the punch bowls came out.

It was like Christmas. And spring break. At the same time. And I think we can all agree that if two holidays were ever to be combined into the perfect storm of amazingness, it would be those two. I could barely contain myself. The drinks were huge. And colorful. And they felt like my own personal pimp cups.

There was a strawberry mojito. And a margarita. And two other bowls of fruity punch that put me right back on the beach in the Bahamas on Spring Break ’04. Then the DJ started playing Rihanna…and I was officially in heaven.

About halfway through my strawberry mojito (I HAD been sharing) and midway through a Beyonce-wannabe dance move of some sort, I was approached by security.

“Ma’am, how do you feel about sharing your VIP section?”

When things like this happen, my reaction is always going to be a toss-up. But in this moment, I was in a sharing kind of mood (must have been the punch bowls), so I said, “Sure, whoever it is can have half of our section. But just half.”

And I went back to whipping my hair around.

A few minutes later, I was alerted by a guy friend that Tim Tebow was sitting in our section.  So THAT was who wanted to share our section?  Good ol’ non-drinking, virgin, church-going, crying-on-the-field Tim Tebow? What was HE doing at the W?

He was texting, that’s what he was doing. The whole night. And he was wearing the most skintight shirt known to man. I mean, we all know you have a rockin’ bod, Tim. But baby tees are so 1996.

I walked over and sat my ass right down on an ottoman his friend was occupying. As in, I almost sat on top of him. It was a little awkward.

“So, what’s going on? I just got asked to share our VIP with you guys. Is there someone special over here?” I asked, playing dumb.

The friend scoffed. “Yeah. That’s Tim Tebow.” He gestured to Tim sitting to his right.

“OH WOW!” I exclaimed, then reached out and grabbed Tim’s ginormous arm. We did a quick intro then I asked him if he liked to dance.

“No, I don’t really dance.”

“Oh, I’m surprised. I would have thought some of your black teammates would have taught you in the locker room or something.”

He laughed. (And don’t even call me racist because you know damn well black guys can dance better than white guys.)

“So what are you doing in Atlanta anyway?” I inquired.

“My sister lives here.”

Ohhh. Now I understood. Tim had borrowed his sister’s shirt.

With that, I was done chatting and back to my punch bowl.

A few people approached Tim throughout the night and some of them even snagged photos with him until his friend stood up and basically announced to the surrounding areas, “No more photos!” complete with hand gesture.

No more photos with tight-tee’d texting Tim Tebow? It was time to go.

But seriously, it was getting time to head to a destination where we could get a little rowdier and no one would care. Like somewhere on or around Irby Avenue. The moment I knew we had to leave was when Foley politely had his hand on our server’s shoulder while telling her his drink order and a chin-strapped bouncer on a power trip yelled, “Don’t touch the girls!”

Really dude?  ”Don’t touch the girls?” If you really want to say that so badly, go work at the Cheetah.

And bring Tim with you. He could use a lap dance.