A night of Sexual Chocolate behind us, we woke refreshed and ready on Saturday for our friend’s primo birthday party at the Hampton Inn. Being the cool kids that we are, we dinghied in (yes, in our party clothes – my dresses tend to go where I go), Dom Perignon in hand, and got ready to rock that shit.
And, then the party ensued. Without further adieu, I give you:
Evolution of a Party
For a party, you usually try to arrive “fashionably late” or at a time when there are least a few more people there than you.
Well, unless you count the wait staff, we botched that plan. But, we were already there, so …
Then you get a lay of the land. Scope out the venue, find the bathrooms and – more importantly, check out the wet bar and the food spread.
This is important because typically even the dullest of parties can be made worthwhile with free booze and finger foods. Next, people start filtering in. Some you haven’t seen in a while. You make nice, make small talk, make eyes at the wait staff to see if it’s socially acceptable to get a drink, yet, and fill your little plastic plate.
Things are a little formal at first. People start munching celery sticks and strategically leaving purses and jackets on chairs for seating. You make your rounds and chat politely with the fellow party-goers.
Ha ha ha. You’re so funny Bob!
Then the birthday girl comes out …
Man, fifty does NOT look good on Cindy. I’m totally kidding – she’s the blonde babe behind him, looking appropriately frightened by the deejay-in-drag who rocked that Tina Turner number. I can tell you there were many parts of him that kept on “Rollin’! Rollin’!”
Here’s Cindy. Anything but a drag! Happy B’day babe!
But the booze hasn’t quite kicked in. You still can’t decide whether you want to politely finish the glass-in-hand while making your way out the door and home to the couch to binge on Game of Thrones or — stay. You never know, things could heat up … Then, some music starts playing, some gals you thought were incapable of any dance move beyond the jitterbug start fist-pumping their way to the floor, and the waiter comes by with another round of drinks. Eyeing the ladies, you pick up a glass and tell yourself – Well, the booze IS free. You decide to stick around and that’s when … the lights dim and things start to get blurry.
You fill your drink – again – and find your way to the dance floor. Then you find your way ON TO the dance floor. Then you find your arms in the air, your hips moving about and your body doing things it normally only does when you’re home alone in front of the mirror.
Then things start to get real crazy. People you don’t know that well start dancing up on you, dancing up on everyone, and then someone gets the brilliant idea to start a ‘dance train.’
It feels a little awkward at first, but you think – What the heck? Let’s all get a little friendly! Grab a friend!
“You! Yeah you! Get in here!”
Things continue to escalate …
Is that chick twerking?!? I don’t know, but I’m going to find out!
You make an executive decision to stay fully committed to this party. Like it’s 1999. All night long, baby. All night long. Someone then has the bright idea to take this party to the ‘next level.’ You down your drink and wholeheartedly agree. Let’s all walk to the Shaker!! And, that’s where the party really ensues.
Birthday girl takes the stage.
“Move aside groupies! Fifty’s the new twenty baby!”
You snap plenty of blurry, drunken pictures to be sure you fully document the debauchery.
Then you start to make bad decisions …
Yes, the shot-ski. A long, ski plank with four holsters for shot glasses, the downing of which must be highly coordinated and communicated or total chaos will result. You can tell these four rocket scientists were up for the task.
I love to see the concentration on each of our faces – eyeing our individual shots, each with a tentative hand reaching for it, deciding whether we’re going to be a team player, or just make sure our own goes down smoothly – to hell with the rest of ’em. We’re clearly thinking way too hard, particularly in our inebriated state. But here we go:
Phillip gets a jump on us.
We all dive in. Except Grabby Gabbie on the end there who decides to grab hers and knock it back the old-fashioned way. Looking back on it – probably a wise decision, but not near as fun as going whole-hog.
But, you see, the problem with making a so-called bad decision that involves alcohol intake is that it only leads to even bad-ER decisions …
Like, stealing the Hampton Inn golf cart!
Go, go Speed Racer!
Ha. I’m kidding. I only made it about ten feet, grandma-speed before Jack-be-Nimble Hampton dude jumped in and stopped me. Doh! Albeit golf cart-less, I’m happy to report Phillip and I made it safely back to the dinghy and, even more importantly, back to the boat and called it a night. I’m not aware of any rowing-while-intoxicated ordinances, so I think we’re safe.
Thankfully, we woke up the next morning with most of our wits and faculties about us and were able to row back to shore to walk off our hangover at the beach, take in some picturesque sights and scrumptious fish tacos at Red Fish Blue Fish and enjoy a beautiful sunny sail home.
In all, it was a great weekend at the beach, and a much-needed break from all the work and projects we had been doing on the boat. But, with a beach getaway under our belts and finally a hope that spring was coming, we were ready to get back to it and tackle the rest of the items on the Keys list.