Tag Archives: South Beach

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.

 

 

South Beach Bachelorettes

Thursday, July 28, 2016

I’m currently on my flight home from Miami. Slightly bruised, extremely sunburned, but not terribly hungover because y’all know my old ass didn’t make it out on night three. Again. I haven’t had any time to blog, so this one is going to cover a lot of ground. Let’s start at the beginning…

I awoke at 4am Thursday morning and immediately knew something was off. I think it was my inability to open my left eye that gave it away. I went to the bathroom and made the mistake of looking in the mirror, where I saw that my eye was more swollen than Chris Brown’s punching bag. Super. I grabbed a cold wash cloth, put it on my face and went back to bed. Later that morning I went for a run, at which point someone literally pulled their dog away from my general direction at the sight of my Cyclops face. Excellent. Sadly this is not the first time this exact thing has happened. So in addition to my hip issues and notoriously weak ankles, I now apparently suffer from intermittent fat-eye. Thirties suck. I spent the rest of the morning icing my face and then I was off to the airport for a relatively normal flight across the country, with a few notable exceptions:

Fat eye
My fat eye

1. The dude who passed his time waiting to board the plane by mowing down an entire whole cucumber faster than a little asian man in a hot dog eating contest. I’ve never seen anything like it. He took it down like a champ. Makes me wonder about his social life. Does a cucumber really do anything to stave off hunger? I would imagine it would quench your thirst more than anything. Regardless, I took a picture of it for your viewing pleasure.

2. The bachelorette party of about seven girls who had an entire ten minute pre-boarding conversation in which they solely discussed their hatred for flip flops and their refusal to wear anything but heels. I was slightly shocked by this, because to me, an entire life in heels is no life at all. My general goal in life is to avoid shoes as much as possible. A point that my pedicurist can surely attest to. They were also in full Kardashian level make-up for their cross country flight. Girls like this need to chill the fuck out. You’re really making me look bad in my Old Navy yoga pants and cracked rainbows. I’m not even sure I brushed my hair. My faith in the female gender was somewhat restored, however, when they started slamming down mini wine bottles for the duration of the flight. So I guess they grew on me.

3. Some chick I don’t know who didn’t make it to the bachelorette party apparently took EXTREME offense to my portrayal of her in my pre-trip blog. And then her sister called me #classless on facebook. I’m wiping away the tears as I type. I don’t have issues with people hating my blog. I actually kind of love it. I have about 14 readers, so I say the more the merrier. What I have an issue with is the inane logic behind getting mad that someone wrote something about you when (1) they don’t know you and never will, (2) none of her blog readers know and never will, and (3) you were not even named in the blog. You then go on facebook and literally OUT YOURSELF. Now, normally I would have zero fucks because this kind of drama is irrelevant. The only reason this is pertinent to the story is because I am now on a bachelorette party with all of her friends who are giving me major side eye. Luckily I’m on vacation. And how many fucks does vacation Rory give? Say it with me people – zero. Thank you, though, for upping my blog stats.

4. Upon checking in 2 minutes after online check-in had commenced, I was rewarded for my promptness with boarding group 3. What the fuck, Delta? As an avid traveler, I live in perpetual fear of the forced gate check. Half way through boarding group 2 they began making every single person gate their bag due to lack of overhead space. By this point I’ve already had to sit through a man essentially fornicating with an cucumber and “the meal-girls guide to air travel fashion” (on plane’s we wear pink), so I conceded and waved goodbye to my bag as they carried it away. Upon boarding, I was welcomed by a vast expanse of COMPLETELY OPEN OVERHEAD COMPARTMENTS. I’m talking like fifty percent open here, people. In case you are wondering how this could get more annoying…my Xanax is in my bag which is now securely under the fucking plane. I about lost my shit until I saw they had Miracle as a movie option. Nothing like Disney and an underdog to lift my spirits.

My flight was on time and my bag was off the plane quickly. Delta’s gate crew may have screwed the pooch during boarding, but their baggage crew apparently has their shit together. I’ll call this one a draw. I took an uber to the hotel where the girls who had already arrived were getting ready. Naturally I started slamming vodka shots. You know, to catch up. I’m pretty sure the only person I was catching up with was my inner alcoholic, but that’s neither here nor there. We all got dressed and hopped in some ubers to Little Havana for a night of dinner, drinks and salsa dancing.  Andrew had arrived earlier and set up balloons and big cardboard cutouts of Ashley around the table. It was pretty fucking cute. The vodka soda’s started flowing. I may be in Little Havana, but it’s always Little Moscow when Rory is at the bar. We did some salsa dancing lessons. But you have to keep your arms up the entire time and mine got tired, so I lost interested and went back to my drink. Nothing too crazy happened, and thank god, because we had quite the day in store for us tomorrow….

Friday, July 29, 2016

It’s BOAT DAY! Drew and I headed out early before the rest of the group to provision for the boat. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times, never underestimate the importance of provisioning. It is the key to any successful party. And when on a boat, it’s importance increases tenfold. Drew’s grand plan was to make burgers for lunch, despite the boat we chartered not having a BBQ. When I asked him his plans to actually cook the burgers, he looked at me like I was a moron and said “in a pan”. So I am now instituting rule #2 of provisioning – don’t let the vegetarian plan meals for carnivores. Bless his heart. We meet the girls down at the dock, load up the boat and our captain begins the safety briefing. Rule #1 – don’t fall off the boat. Rule #2 – don’t be white girl wasted if rolling past coast guard, and rule #3 – do your hard drugs inside. Apparently rule #3 is necessary because WE IN MIAMI, BITCH! At this point I safety assumed that there were no rules beyond “don’t die”, and I knew it was going to be quite the day. We set sail and popped the champs. I decided to stick to old faithful and hit the vodka shots. Vodka shots to the face on a boat always make me so nostalgic for yacht week. Except today we actually had ice.

Our plan was to sail out to an island where everyone drops anchor and parties. One our way we passed by Gloria Estefan’s house. I begged the captain to stop, but apparently nautical trespassing is a no-no. Once we made it to the island I couldn’t help but noticing some men riding around on jet skis. So I went out to the back of the boat, waved down one of the gentleman, and was jetting off with a stranger before the Captain had even dropped anchor. Do me a favor – go get a dictionary. Look up the word “efficiency”. You should see my smug face looking back at you. The rest of the afternoon went a little something like this: floaties in the ocean, shots, lunch on the boat, shots, jumping of the second level of the boat, shots, more jet skis.

I found a nice bachelor party who had also chartered a boat for the day. I somehow always manage to find a bachelor party who wants to shower my bachelorette group with free shit. Remember the free boat in Cabo for Jen’s bachelorette? There was also the free…well, everything, in Vegas for Suzanne’s bachelorette. Now free jet ski rides. I must say, it’s not the worst skill to have. The boys’ boat came with jet skis, so I commandeered another ride. This time I came pretty damn close to talking this guy into taking me to Gloria’s house. I could see he was tempted, but then good judgement sneaked in and ruined all my plans. We went aboard to do some shots, at which point I kindly requested that we take the jet skis and return to my boat to give the other girls some rides. They obliged. And I grabbed a handle of Titos on my way off their boat. Trust me when I tell you there is nothing worse than running out of vodka while at sea. Jet ski rides, swimming, drinking, repeat ensued until it was time to head home.

By this point everyone was smashed. I’m talking sloppy drunk. It was a beautiful thing. Until it came time to pack up all our shit and get the hell of the boat. That was quite the endeavor. Andrew drunkenly lost his shit, threw his watch at my head and then stormed off the boat, disappearing for a large portion of the rest of the night. But he had his phone and is a grown ass man, so while worried, I figured he would get his land legs make it home eventually. The rest of us piled in some ubers and headed back to the hotel. A few of the girls went to the free open bar at the hotel. I took my drink in the shower (because I’m #classless and #efficient). We missed dinner, and with our fearless leader Andrew no where to be found, we also didn’t know what club we were set up to go to, or what promoter to contact to find out. But don’t you worry, we regrouped.  We pushed the reservation an hour and somehow got our shit together and made it to the restaurant. Looking pretty damn good if I do say so myself. I even curled my fucked hair. I can rarely muster the energy to do that when sober.

group dinner...sorry the lighting sucks
group dinner…sorry the lighting sucks

About halfway through dinner we look up to see drunk ass Drew approach our table, where he said in a Freddy Kruger voice, “having fun?”  If you are confused right now, you should be.  Let me explain to you the drunk logic here.  After attacking me with wrist jewelry and disappearing off the dock, it was my fault that Drew had gotten left behind.  Makes perfect sense, I know.  Not to worry, I have a fucking PhD in how to deal with a drunk Drew (it really is an art), and so we squashed it and soldiered on.  We went to a club where we were supposed to get a free bottle but didn’t.  And it was basically filled with big groups of vagina.  So we bounced.  After that the group split up a bit and went in different directions.  I went back to the hotel to go to bed.  You all know day to night drinking has never been my strong suit.  I saw my opening and I took it.  Best to leave the late night partying to the youngins.  I believe a group of the other ladies hit the hotel pool after-hours and some skinny dipping may have been involved.  Can’t say for sure…I was asleep.  Tomorrow the sun comes out, so I get drunk again.  Stay tuned.

Miami Vice or Miami Nice?

It’s been about a month, so obviously it’s time for another Bachelorette party!  I know you all are probably wondering what the hell happened in Cabo, after the blog’s rather abrupt decent into silence.  Well, the grand finale consisted of me curled up like a little burrito around the toilet in my hotel bathroom, praying to any Mexican god who would listen to get me back to the USA.  Apparently my commitment to this blog doesn’t reach past hangovers.  Sue me, I have a day a job.   And I’m old.  You know that Toby Keith song that goes “I ain’t as good as I once was, but I’m as good once, as I ever was”.  That’s me.  But I’m referring to partying.  Toby might have been referring to sex, I’m not totally sure.  In my defense, that song was before he got weird and started burning Dixie Chick’s CD’s in protest.  But I digress…

This time I am off to Miami, for a weekend filled with great potential.  Why potential and not guaranteed craziness?  Well, out of our group of 13, I know 4 people, so I am not entirely sure what to expect.  Might we take a hard left into rachetville a la Will Smith (bienvenidos a Miami)? One can only hope.  However, if this becomes more of a Gloria Estefan “turn the beat around” kind of affair, you were warned.  The only thing I can assure you of is numerous references to that damn Will Smith song.  Because I just fucking love it.  And I’ve never been to Miami, so I’m secretly hoping it is exactly like his music video.

Since it’s virtually impossible for me to write a blog without a list, let’s put all the factors of this weekend into a score card and see if we end up with a weekend of Vices or Nices:

1.Host: Andrew Boston.  Not only is my little brother going, he planned the entire bachelorette.  His cousin, Ashley, is the bride.  (She is my step cousin for those of you who are not familiar with the family tree and confused right now).  The one parent that we do share, however, is the one we inherited our penchant for alcohol from.  So wherever the Bostons go, fun is bound to follow.  Although bouncers and police officers might follow as well.  As followers of my blog, I’m sure I can count on you all for bail money, right?  Point: Vice

2.  Bride:  Ashley definitely has the ability to turn up, probably more so than any of the other brides I’ve bacheloretted with this year.  But you know, once these chicks get the ring, they tend to tap into their inner wifey immediately.  Basically, they become boring.  One Boring Ring to Rule them All.  Yes, that was my best attempt at a Lord of the Rings reference.  I can’t explain this phenomenon, I can only tell you that I’ve seen it happen.  The good news is that they will often come out of retirement everyone so often and show us the ghost of fun times’s past.   My money is on Ashley bringing out the big guns this weekend.  If she’s not yelling “whoooo! Shots!” by 10pm tonight, I will have failed.  Point: Vice

3. Events:  Leave it to Andrew to plan about 70% of the events this weekend with an open bar.  I am literally looking at an itinerary where half the items include all-you-can-drink.  It’s scheduled by the hour, which makes me feel like I’m going to a boozy summer camp.  And I fucking loved summer camp.  This is going to be a marathon.  But like when Kenyans run a marathon and actually sprint the whole time.  Or maybe even one of those ultra marathons where your organs shut down and you shit yourself uncontrollably.  God I hope I can avoid that this weekend.  Point: Vice.

itinerary
The itinerary…I shit you not

4. Location:  “Party in the city where the heat is on.  All night on the beach til the break of dawn.”  I’m not really sure what I can say here that Will Smith hasn’t already said far more eloquently – and in rhymed prose.  Point: Vice.

5. Bachelorettes:  Other than the basic who backed out the day before the bachelorette party (literally), I have high hopes.  And really, I can’t even be mad about people bitching out last minute.  That is natural selection at work.  I guarantee you that girl wasn’t going to be any fun.  Because fun people prioritize party weekends appropriately.  It also bodes well that I am the oldest bitch on this trip…by a few years.  So we can assume that my maturity level will be on part with the rest of the group.  Let’s be honest here,  I talk a big game, but I’ll be spending night #3 puking in the bathroom again regardless of what the other ladies bring to the table.  Point: Vice 

Well look at that.  I guess what we have here is a slam dunk shit show.  I don’t know why I ever doubted it.  In other random news; I woke up this morning with a swollen eye.  So if it doesn’t go down I might have to change my theme song to “Monster Mash”.  Or Beyonce’s “I woke up like this”.   At least I have options.