Saturday, July 30, 2016
Today is pool party day! I was in bed at a very reasonable hour last night, after my day of nautical alcoholism, so I woke up ready to rock. Drew went out and got the group bagel sandwiches while we got ready. For me, “getting ready” for a pool party consists of throwing on a bikini and a quick non-aggressive hair brush. I’m not one of those girls who curls her hair and puts on a full face of makeup to lounge seductively along the waters edge for the day. But I’m sure you all already knew that. The only shower I’m taking on pool party day is a champagne shower.
Now that I’ve had food and completed my 2 minute beauty routine I can focus on the real task at hand – the pre-party. Yes, I pre-game for an 11am pool party. I would pre-game for a 6am party if I had to. Because I do not go to parties sober. Literally, never. If you show up sober, how are all your potential new friends going to know how much fucking fun you are? That’s like showing up to an interview without a resume. The pre-game is even more important when drinks at the party cost $18 each. You don’t know how long it’s going to take you to score that first drink! You have to get those reserves built up in case the need for a hibernation arises. It’s kind of a catch-22, because it’s far easier to get a drink when you’re dunk, but you need a drink to get drunk in the first place. So just simplify the damn equation and have a few before you show up.
This morning I was writing my party resume with vodka – big surprise. I decided to go for efficiency over comfort and slammed down three double shots while the other ladies looked on in horror and disgust. It’s a look I’m used to. If I ever stop getting that look from my fellow womankind I’ll have to check myself for a pulse. We then headed across the street to the SLS Hotel in South Beach in our matching bachelorette t-shirts. I have to stop right here and discuss my dislike for the obligatory matching shits that have now become the staple of every bachelorette party I go to. Now, hear me out before you get defensive. The bridesmaids spend a significant amount of time designing the shirt, trying to find something unique and witty until they ultimately give up and go with something like “Bride tribe” or “Bride #squad” or “Team bride”. Then we all wear these shirts, typically on whatever day we are doing a water-based activity because no one wants to actually be seen in public in matching shirts for an extended period of time, we get drunk or wet – whichever comes first – and immediately take them off. And no one wears that shit again. If you claim you’ll wear it to the gym, you probably don’t even have a membership. Because despite their cost, they contain no sweat wicking technology. They end up in the back of the closet, along with the bridesmaids dresses. It just seems like a waste. How about we spend that $30 on something useful, like more vodka? My boyfriend claims that they are cute, and bring the group together. You know what really brings a group together? Vodka. But vodka ain’t cute, I’ll concede that point.
We approach the over-aged and over-botoxed Ken doll with an attitude problem, also known as the head promoter, and are told that we are too early, as our lowly street promoter has not arrived yet. Too early? For a pool party? Toto, we aren’t in Vegas anymore. We played dumb and smiled until Ken doll just got sick of us and let us in. All the other girls posed for some group pictures – but I was already in the pool hunting down potential donors for the “Make Rory Drunk Again” campaign. And let’s be honest, I’m not really hard up for another instagram pic of me in a matching shirt with 15 other chicks.
It was early and pickings were slim, but I quickly zeroed in on what appeared to be a bachelor party and made my approach. We got to talking and as it turns out, this group of guys is from a tiny town in PA about an hour outside of Pittsburgh. Not like we’ll have anything in common, right? Wrong. It is a small world, after all, and my good friend Jen just happens to live in the next sad, little town over. Turns out, they know her fiance. So I’m totally in. Free drinks all day long! At least something good has come of my dear friend having to live in a place called “Quaker Town” where it fucking snows. The rest of the day progressed about as you would imagine – frolicking in pool with water far too warm for comfort but I was far too drunk to give a shit. Every hour the SLS sent the bottle service girls out on the shoulders of the security guys and spray champagne and fog at everyone. Basically a whoo girl’s wet dream. I mainly hung with the bachelor party all day, because I consider myself a frat boy at heart and so I tend to thrive those types of situations. At one point Drew bought the group a GIANT cocktail that made a Sharkeez shark attack look like a wine glass.
Around 4 or 5pm I noticed the bachelorette crew packing up all their shit. I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure that meant they were leaving. Without me. I considered staying at the pool by myself for about half a second, but then quickly realized that there is no way that scenario does not end with me passed out on the side of the road somewhere after an hour long search for pizza, or some drunk food equivalent. So I said goodbye to my new friends, jumped out of the pool and caught up with the group as they were exiting. To my absolute horror, the girls proceeded to walk across the street to a restaurant. An actual restaurant, serving food to normal people, where clothes and manners are required. I just spent the last six hours having champagne sprayed at my head while I unhinged my jaw and you want me to break bread like it’s the last fucking supper? Hell-to-the-no, my friends. I considered going back to the pool party until logical reasoning set in and I realized there is no way Ken doll is letting my drunk ass back in solo. I’m lucky enough I got in the first time. So I bid the girl’s adieu and headed back to the hotel, where I put my old ass to bed. These good decision making skills have been rearing their ugly head lately. I hit 30 and they just came out of nowhere. I’m still on the fence about them.
About half of the group went to see a stripper show that night. I sat that one out because I knew I would be down for the count by Saturday night. I’ve also seen my fair share of strippers (thank you Delta Gamma), so the magic and mystery surrounding a stranger’s balls in your face has come and gone. The other part of the group went out for a walk around town. Or something like that. Don’t know, don’t care. By the time the party animals got home it was about midnight, so I decided to call it a weekend and stay in bed for seven more hours before catching my flight home. To answer the question from my previous blog, the verdict was definitely Miami Vice. Well done, ladies.
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