Tag Archives: Pool Party

Pool Party Preparedness

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.

The aftermath of our room.
The aftermath of our room.

 

 

The Yacht Week Day 6 – Keeping it Classy

Friday, January 1, 2016

Gotcha! Did the title fool you?  If so you need to jump back in this blog and read days 1-5 of the Yacht Week series.  The first day of 2016 certainly started off innocent enough. ..

This morning we awoke to the Legend telling stories of Adonis getting his ear bit off the night before.  Talk about a happy new year!  But we also awoke to increasingly rough seas.   Kim and I were on a mission to get the hell off the boat.  We were actually crawling out of our skin to get off the boat.  We had enough of this anchoring bull shit, taking long tail boats back and forth between the boat and the island, and the vomit-inducing rocking of the sea as we drank warm beer from our broken boat fridge.  So we headed in Koh Phi Phi town to get breakfast and regroup.  First on the agenda, Kim found us a nice longtail boat driver to take us all out to Maya Bay.  Yacht Week field trip!  Next on the agenda, get some food and book a hotel room for tonight.  That’s right, we are cheating and sleeping on dry land.   When you are actually 25, surviving seven nights on a boat is an adventure.  When you are pretending to be 25 but are actually 30, seven nights on a boat requires more Xanax than the FDA currently allows me to carry.  And it’s not that easy to get in Thailand – trust me, I tried.   So yeah, I’m booking a room so that my head can be the only thing swaying when I pass out tonight.

After breakfast we headed out on the longtail to Maya Bay on Koh Phi Phi Ley, which is just a 15 minute boat ride from Koh Phi Phi Don.   Yes, I had to google that, because we were too drunk to figure out what island we were on most of the week.  This is the island where the movie “The Beach” was filmed.  If it’s good enough for Leo, it’s good enough for me.  The islands consists of tall limestone hills contrasted with amazing ice blue water and beautiful sandy beaches.  We pulled into the bay and immediately noticed the cluster fuck of Chinese and Russian tourists frolicking around the beach in all their offensive glory.   What’s worse than laying on a beach with a Chinese tour group breathing down your neck to get a good selfie?  Doing it hungover.  So we found a nice little cove and settled in for a few hours of sun and snorkeling.  Quality crew time without booze!  Honestly, we didn’t even know what to do with ourselves.  We either forgot how to speak while sober over the course of the week, or we were just so fucking sick of each other that we soaked it in peacefully.  I’m thinking it was the latter.  But all relaxing things must come to an end on yacht week.  We hopped back in the long tail for a frightening ride back.  Over the course of two hours the sea had gone from mildly choppy to the perfect storm.  That ride was more fucked up than a water slide at a Vietnamese water park (side note: never go to a Vietnamese water park).    We stopped at our boat to grab our shit and headed to our hotel.

Don’t worry, I’m getting to the party.   I know that’s all you really want.  Because you are hoping I do more stupid drunk shit.  I’ve been called a lot of names, but unreliable is not one of them.  So let’s get to it.  I had actually considered skipping the pool party because I felt like shit – but Carly used her magical smelling salts to rouse Nicole and I into rage mode.  By smelling salts I obviously mean warm vodka.  Because you know I don’t go to a party sober – even a day party.  People don’t invite me to parties for stimulating sober conversation.  They invite me to parties to turn that shit up.  And I hate to disappoint.  So shots to the face were had and we wandered down to the bar in town for the pool party.  When we arrived things were awkwardly mellow for the amount of people that were pissing in the same pool.  That only means one thing in Thailand – time to hit the fucking buckets!  I’m not really sure at which point that party took a turn, but we took a hard left to crazy town real quick.  I think it was around the time Matti and Kita showed up.  Nothing turns up a pool party like some lesbians!  This shit got more ratchet than a Vegas pool party.  Because in Vegas, people are somewhat concerned with trying to flex their muscles, look cute and keep their mascara on in the water to really let loose.  At yacht week, if you have mascara on at the day 6 pool party, you have probably been riding the basic bitch  bench all week.  This group has been groping each other like horny preteens all week.  We literally have nothing to hide anymore.  Shit, a few days ago I was face down in the sand dancing like a mummy, so let’s get crazy.  People started splashing like lunatics and tossing each other around the pool.  We eagerly chugged our buckets that were now filled with piss water in addition to vodka and we liked it.  Our crew was doing the yacht week wrist flick all damn day.  The DJ was on point.  Not that I would really know the difference since I listen to country music, but that’s what Carly said.  At one point there were boobs flying around (I won’t name names…cough…Kita…cough, cough) and I was on some dude’s shoulders chicken fighting some girl.  Okay let’s be honest, I was on some dude’s shoulders making out with a girl on another dude’s shoulders.  When I say it got weird, I’m not lying.  It was at that exact point that Kim and Brandon walked in and just started laughing their assess of.  If only I could have seen us through their amazed eyes.   They were so proud of us crazy kids.

Pool party
Pre-pool party craziness!

I’d like to say I hit on some boys, but no one was hitting on anyone at that shit show.  Okay, I lied AGAIN.  I definitely hit on the hot Aussie skipper for the fucking fourth night in a row.  That basically makes this guy my longest relationship in quite a while.  At this point its just funny because I think he is genuinely terrified of me.  I don’t think it helps that I follow him around saying “I’ll find you!” in the creepy wedding crasher’s voice.  I cannot be the first girl that has followed that boy around a pool.  He is just too damn hot.  And those arms!  Oh yeah, I definitely relapsed and  bit some arms in that pool.  I’m trying really hard to overcome this hot man arm-biting disease, but  yacht week is not making it easy.  Step 1 is admitting you have a problem.   I think we can all agree I have conquered that one.  It’s step 2 where I get stuck – believing in a power greater than yourself, blah blah blah.  Is there a secular version of the program I can get on?  For now, the only powers higher than myself are Australian accents and biceps.  Preferably in tandem.

I’d like to take this opportunity to quote the yacht week “Arrival Info” packet (yes I actually read it, I’m a neurotic freak, get over it).  Under packing tips, they say “Follow the Three C’s of TYW Fashion: Cool, Casual, Classy.”  Under the Yacht Week Ethos there is an entire section entitled “Stay Classy”.  There are literally multiple references to the word “classy” in this thing.  You’ve all read the blog up to this point.  Have I painted a picture of class for you all?  Aren’t we just the picture of nautical sophistication?  Don’t we just ooze elegance?  After our super classy pool party we were all knocking on the black-out door, so I’ll tell you what I can remember.  Leaving the pool? Nope.  The Legend aggressively attacking a food cart in the street on the way home? A little.  In case anyone wondered what hotel we were staying in, we left a trail of pad thai all the way there.  Carly, Nicole, The Legend, another skipper and I all went back to our one tiny little room with 2 twin beds to pass out.   Spacial reasoning was obviously not our strong suit at this point.  Although, if I know the drunk trio that is Rory, Carly and Nicole…and I think I do…the original plan was probably to drink more and then go back out.  Instead we drunkenly wrestled around the room laughing hysterically and then feel asleep.  I think I might have showered.  I can’t be sure.  Carly spent a while slurring at everyone to get our lame asses up and go back out.  But we had all given up.  A wild, drunk pool party on New Years day is all the win I need.  It can only go downhill from there.  Call it a win and go to bed.  Is this maturity rearing it’s ugly little head?  Doubtful.

Apparently sometime later that night, drunk asa Carly got up and wandered through the streets of town shit faced and shoe-less looking for the yacht week party.  God I wish someone took a picture of her crazy drunk ass dropping it like its hot in the middle of the street.  Carly, Nicole, The Legend and I all randomly woke up at 2:30am and started recounting the events of the party and laughing our asses off.  Then we passed back out.  If this is day one of 2016, what in god’s name does the rest of the year have in store for me?  Another yacht week perhaps….