I’m Sunday, December 13, 2015
I woke up at midnight with a raging hangover. I stumbled to the bathroom for advil, while visions tequila shots and go-go dancers flashed through my head. What time did I make it home? Was that pad thai a dream, or did I actually shove my face in that plate? And how in god’s name did I manage to wash my hair? To anyone that knows me, this is a somewhat regular occurrence (just sub dominoes for the pad thai). Welcome to Rory’s day drinking post-mortem. Let’s start at the beginning…
After our wild night of passing out at 8:30pm the day before, we were up bright and early with a skip in our step. I mean really early. Like 6:30am early. Steph and I even went to the gym and did a Jillian Michaels video. God I love that crazy workout bitch. After struggling way too much for any workout labeled “level 1”, we had an early light breakfast and then prepared ourselves for our 9am massages. The massage to end all massages. The massage that trumps all others. At least until tomorrow when I have another one. As this blog is nothing if not educational, I have broken down the reasons why a Thai massage is better than any other massage:
1. As a thirty year-old woman with bursitis in her left hip, weak tendons in her ankles, a sprained toe that refuses to fully heal and the possible beginnings of carpal tunnel in her right hand, I can confidently tell you that a Thai massage is exactly what you need for whatever ails you. They will pull, stretch, rotate and slap your body into submission. They will leave no bone un-cracked. No muscle un-stretched.
2. These bitches walk ALL OVER YOU. At one point I was laying there thinking “Damn, this chick has some big ass hands”. And then I realized those were not hands. Homegirl was standing on the backs of my thighs. It was like she was re-enacting Flashdance on my ass. If you are one of those people who thinks a massage should consist of someone swirling some oil around your body, turn back now. You have not lived until a Thai woman has walked on you.
3. You will feel oddly accomplished at the end of a Thai massage. Like you just kicked ass in a masters yoga class. Not that I would actually know what it’s like to kick ass in a yoga class…
Now that we were completely calm and relaxed, there was only one thing to do. Go to a giant Sunday brunch and pool party. The Nikki Beach “Amazing Sunday Brunch” was today. Brunch + day drinking + pool party. I don’t think I need to explain further why I was so excited. If there were Olympic games for “being Rory”, brunch and day drinking would be the main events. Bathings suits, however, probably wouldn’t be on the agenda. Two out of three ain’t bad.
Ever the overachievers, we started with some beers in our room and then showed up promptly at 11am. I wanted to get my first round of food down before the bikini portion of the day. And the less people that witness me put down a buffet, the better. There are Lions that kill their prey in a more delicate manner than I hit the buffet line. Let me take this opportunity to shed some light on the intricacies of the two types of girls at a buffet. Girl #1 – the girl who walks around the buffet multiple times, acting like she is just so spoiled for choice that she doesn’t know what to do with herself, after which she finally decides on a salad (hey, she splurged on the wedge!) and half a plate of whatever carb-free rabbit food she can find. As if that isn’t offensive enough, she then laments how full she is! This, ladies and gentleman, is called a waste of money. The least Girl #1 could do is eat like a grown ass adult and then puke up her food later so I can feel better about my three empty plates. Seriously, where is the respect for others? And then there is good old, down-home, get the fuck out of my way if there is mac-and-cheese Girl #2 – she see’s the size of the plate not as a suggestion of portion control, but as a test. A test to fit the most food on the plate she possibly can in order to maximize efficiency. She quickly scans the buffet options, making note of what items cost the most money. Any girl #2 worth her salt knows to hit the meat station first. The salad bar is an insult to Girl #2 – a way for the buffet powers-that-be to over charge and under provide. A distraction from the main event. A sub-par opening act. A waste of perfectly good food real estate. All-in-all a great buffet – but could have benefits from some tater tots.
I don’t think it should come as a surprise to anyone that this is not going to be a very lady-like day. Sorry I’m not sorry. Now…let’s get to the party. I’m not gonna lie, it started off slow. We ordered a bottle of champs pool-side to kick things off. Obviously. When you move from your day bed to the pool, your champs table comes with you! The staff literally follows you around with your booze wherever you are so they can promptly refill you. I need to keep this in mind for that expectation-setting meeting I will one day have with my pool boy. The single men pickings were slim and there were far too many kids. Seriously – who brings kids to a drunken pool party with house music? Europeans, that’s who. I may hate their children, but I do admire their no-fucks-given attitude towards parenting. So I promptly began to hit the vodka in an effort to dull the cries of children and, of course, to provide a short term anecdote for my resting bitch face. Worked like a charm….
After a brief swim around the pool reminding myself that I am not actually allowed to spank other people’s offspring a nice boy came over and introduced himself. He was probably about a 4.5. BUT, he had an Australian accent – which is an automatic 2 points. So now we are talking about a 6.5. And once you add some booze and round up, you have a solid 7 on your hands. I can work with a 7. We’ll call him Mr. Seven. Mr. Seven was at the party with a few of his “mates” as part of a bachelor party for a wedding that was taking place on the island in a few days. Within about 30 seconds of meeting these guys we were taking shots. I knew right then that I had found the right group. Even though they were tequila shots that tasted like coffee. It’s like they went out of their way to order something I would aggressively hate. But ever the lady, I took my shot and said thank you. While this was going on, Steph and Katie were lounging on the day bed reading their books. The boys kept inquiring where my friends were and why they weren’t partying in the pool. They then began calling them “the librarians”. So I harassed the gals to come play. Apparently Steph drew the short straw and took her place in the pool as my wing woman. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it. Did I mention Mr. Seven had a twin brother at the party? Mr. Seven Twin…meet my friend the librarian.
And so the rest of my day ensued in true “Whoo-girl” fashion. A hazy mix of splashing around in the pool with strangers, lots of shots, even more vodka-sodas, and since I’m nothing if not honest, a lot of sloppy pool make-out sessions with Mr. Seven. A lot of them. More than I care to admit. But remember, I’m 25 in Thailand. And 25 year olds get drunk and make out with people. Yes, I was that girl. The girl who has way more fun than you. The girl who screams “whoooooo” when she sees a shot glass come her way. The girl who you spend your Monday talking shit about to your coworkers because you secretly wish you could be on my level. After (literally) seven hours of playing in the pool with our new Aussie friends, the sun had gone down, all other patrons had left, and we were kindly asked to leave. Not the first or the last time I’ll be hearing those words…
We bid our friends adieu, claiming we would try our best to make it out later that night, both parties fully aware that it was a lie. I apparently managed to shower and throw on some PJ’s before I got intimate with a plate of room service pad-thai. A delicious end to a shit show of a day.