Thursday, June 9, 2016
Off to Mexico! The day started off bright and early with a 6:30am uber to the airport courtesy of a guy who definitely used to drive a cab. I hate when you get a cabbie uber. It makes me feel like I’ve been duped by uber. After suffering though 15 minutes I learned that my uber driver (1) does not know that Baja California is not in California, (2) thinks all jews are ass holes, (3) gambles a lot, and (4) should probably stop gambling because it doesn’t seem to be going his way. I met Sheena in the American terminal and we hit the admirals club, where we were promptly notified that the champagne was not a gratis. So we could get a 7am vodka soda, but not a glass of champs. Beggars can’t be choosers when it comes to free booze at LAX.
Sheena and I got a few vodkas on the plane and two hours later I was officially drunk at the tip of Baja before noon. I think this is what all those millennials call #squadgoals. Killed it. We flew through customs faster than you can say “Bienvenido Señor Boston!”. Now that I’m in my 30’s I find it much easier to rationalize extravagancies like private airport transfers in Mexico. Shared transfers are basic as fuck. I don’t need a free tour of every resort in Cabo. I don’t need to make friends with the Portland couple on my plane who connected through LAX. I don’t need to fight people for the seats near the A/C in the van. I need be drinking in my pool as soon as humanly possible. So I just say to myself “I’m way to old for [insert anything basic here]”. Also, is there anything better than de-boarding a plane in a different country to a man holding a sign with your name on it? The answer is no. Sheena and I hopped in our suburban with a fully loaded cooler of beers and driver with a unique ability to open bottles with his seatbelt buckle and 45 minutes later my fat, happy ass was sitting on a stool in a pool bar. That, my friends, is travel efficiency at it’s finest. And I should also point out that Sheena and I set this international travel record with her gimpy ass in a boot.
The resort cleaning staff obviously did not get our efficiency memo, so we had no choice but to take shots in the pool while they finished cleaning the room. I’m sorry, did I say room? What I meant to say was THREE BEDROOM PENTHOUSE SUITE WITH A 2,000 SQ FT DECK OVERLOOKING ALL OF CABO SAN LUCAS. When Suzanne and I were looking at airbnb and vrbo options, this particular suite caught our eye due to their use of guidos as models in the pictures. If it’s good enough for Snooki and crew, it sure as shit is good enough for us. Sheena and I ran around screaming at our good fortune and frolicking in our private roof deck jacuzzi. The other 8 girls in our posse were due to arrive from the bay area in a few hours, so Sheena and I hit a different pool bar while we waited. Are you seeing a theme here? Pool bars are to Rory what water is to a fish. A happy home.
By the time the other girls arrived I had started hitting the Kirkland case of water hard. We had the whole night ahead of us, after all. I probably couldn’t have lasted 18 straight hours of drinking in my prime, so I’m sure as hell not going to hit my lushy prime here in my golden years. The girls did lots of tequila shots. I continued taking vodka shots because tequila hasn’t agreed with me since that one bad night in high school. It’s a cross that is particularly hard to bare when south of the border.
Before we knew it it was 7pm and our fearless leader Suzanne informed us that we were going to attempt to make ourselves presentable to the world and go to dinner. I was not particularly thrilled about this, as my general plan for the night was to drown in the jacuzzi Whitney style after peer pressuring myself into one shot too many. But alas, I am not in charge, and so I am going with the flow. I even showered. It was a struggle. I also put on makeup, but that was just because all the other cool girls were doing it. More shots ensued before leaving. I’ve lost count at this point. That’s a lie, I never started counting. Because I am the worst accountant in the world, remember?
All ten of us piled into a giant green van that would make Gumby look like a legit child molester. I told Suzanne to pay the Mexican man with the rape van anything he wanted to drive us around all weekend. She declined my advice. Probably for the best. We ordered all appetizers that consisted mainly of cheese. There was a wooden horse near our table that we defiled a few times in the name of the shared bachelorette party photo album. Everyone had margs. I stuck with the plan and got vodka. Consistency is key in a drinking marathon, people.
After dinner we walked down the street until we heard “free shots!” at which point our club for the night was chosen. Jenn tried to pass out until the shots revived her. Suzanne promptly took her place in the DJ booth. I had a drop-it-like-its-hot-off with a random guy in a USC shirt. And his moves were far superior to mine. Suzanne did some weird shot that they set on fire and then poured over a banana so that the only option was to deep throat it.
I’m rushing through this blog because my the hangover is real right now. We got ourselves on a yacht yesterday and shit took a hard left to crazy town real quick. Tune in tomorrow.