DAY 1 - Mistakes Were Made
We arrived at the marina and took a tour of Kathleen and Emily's apartment. The Pittsburgh winter had not been kind, so I welcomed the view of blue skies, palm trees, and luxurious yachts outside of their window.
After settling in, we made our way to the pool to join the rest of the girl squad. Little lizards darted all over the place and I nearly shat myself when one of them lunged from the bushes and landed centimeters away from my exposed, flip-floppy feet.
We joined the rest of the girls around the pool for some much needed sun therapy. Assuming the shade of the palm trees would temporarily protect my pale skin, I dismissed the suntan lotion and dozed off. All I could hear was the sweet sound of Hispanic gardeners shouting about the "chica gorda" laying by the pool. My Spanish is a little rusty, but I think they were calling me pretty.....
When I woke up I knew instantly that I had made a huge mistake. It had only taken me 30 minutes to achieve a full-body sunburn. Nothing says Yankee tourist like splattered burn marks all over your body, and this particular pattern looked as though I was the survivor of some severe house fire.
Nevertheless, I wasn't going to let a little sunburn ruin my vacation. As the night drew closer, we prepared drinks and got into our finest Florida-esque outfits. For everyone else that meant crop tops and tight skirts. For me that meant a garbage bag that would cover my whole body.
It was Ladies Night at the bar which meant FREE drinks from 7-12pm. To this day I am not sure how that can be a real thing. After taking advantage of this deal for a few hours, you could say I was juiced up.
Now there are three horrible, horrible things that I do after I've had one drink too many:
1) Adopting accents -- I don't care if you are from England, Jamaica, or Neverland. I will take your accent. I will take your accent but only speak in a male tone. Like, I know there are women from these lands....why I choose not to use a female tone is a mystery we may never solve.
2) I impress everyone with Star Wars trivia and my spot-on Yoda impression. No one asks me to do this...
3) I clear out the dance floor and make sure all eyes are on me. I proceed to wow the crowd with my moves and, on more than one occasion, have held people hostage until I am convinced I am a better dancer than they are. This one wouldn't be so bad if I didn't hurt myself and other people in the process (e.g. karate chopping to the neck).
Together these are a lethal combo. The trifecta of humiliation. A one-stop entertainment center of sorts. To book for birthday parties and bar mitzvahs, please comment below or call 1-800-WTF-MEGH.
Luckily, someone made the observation that there was a FREE henna tattoo artist at the bar that night. Not knowing a thing about henna, I assumed it was a weekend ink kind of deal that would wash off before I had to return to work (This is the second time of the trip that I have "assumed" something).
Deciding to go full-biker mode, I get the largest skull imaginable "tatted" on my arm. "So cool," I thought, "So bad-A." Plus, guys love girls with ink, so let me strategically smear half of what was supposed to be on my arm down my garbage bag outfit while I dazzle you all with my dancing. Really nailing it.
Little did I know, henna lasts for approximately 3 weeks. I know this because it is still on my arm as I am writing this. I had a great time explaining to my co-workers that I did not, in fact, grow a horribly disfigured birth mark overnight.
Some time later that night/morning (since the bars are open much later than in Pittsburgh), we corralled our friend Cory who had, in no way shape or form true to her character, gone rogue at some point in the night, and we made our way back home to rest up for Day 2 of our vacation.
After settling in, we made our way to the pool to join the rest of the girl squad. Little lizards darted all over the place and I nearly shat myself when one of them lunged from the bushes and landed centimeters away from my exposed, flip-floppy feet.
We joined the rest of the girls around the pool for some much needed sun therapy. Assuming the shade of the palm trees would temporarily protect my pale skin, I dismissed the suntan lotion and dozed off. All I could hear was the sweet sound of Hispanic gardeners shouting about the "chica gorda" laying by the pool. My Spanish is a little rusty, but I think they were calling me pretty.....
When I woke up I knew instantly that I had made a huge mistake. It had only taken me 30 minutes to achieve a full-body sunburn. Nothing says Yankee tourist like splattered burn marks all over your body, and this particular pattern looked as though I was the survivor of some severe house fire.
 |
| Hey boys, let me attract you with my double chins and burnt bod!! |
Nevertheless, I wasn't going to let a little sunburn ruin my vacation. As the night drew closer, we prepared drinks and got into our finest Florida-esque outfits. For everyone else that meant crop tops and tight skirts. For me that meant a garbage bag that would cover my whole body.
It was Ladies Night at the bar which meant FREE drinks from 7-12pm. To this day I am not sure how that can be a real thing. After taking advantage of this deal for a few hours, you could say I was juiced up.
Now there are three horrible, horrible things that I do after I've had one drink too many:
1) Adopting accents -- I don't care if you are from England, Jamaica, or Neverland. I will take your accent. I will take your accent but only speak in a male tone. Like, I know there are women from these lands....why I choose not to use a female tone is a mystery we may never solve.
2) I impress everyone with Star Wars trivia and my spot-on Yoda impression. No one asks me to do this...
3) I clear out the dance floor and make sure all eyes are on me. I proceed to wow the crowd with my moves and, on more than one occasion, have held people hostage until I am convinced I am a better dancer than they are. This one wouldn't be so bad if I didn't hurt myself and other people in the process (e.g. karate chopping to the neck).
Together these are a lethal combo. The trifecta of humiliation. A one-stop entertainment center of sorts. To book for birthday parties and bar mitzvahs, please comment below or call 1-800-WTF-MEGH.
Luckily, someone made the observation that there was a FREE henna tattoo artist at the bar that night. Not knowing a thing about henna, I assumed it was a weekend ink kind of deal that would wash off before I had to return to work (This is the second time of the trip that I have "assumed" something).
Deciding to go full-biker mode, I get the largest skull imaginable "tatted" on my arm. "So cool," I thought, "So bad-A." Plus, guys love girls with ink, so let me strategically smear half of what was supposed to be on my arm down my garbage bag outfit while I dazzle you all with my dancing. Really nailing it.
 |
| So gnarly. |
Some time later that night/morning (since the bars are open much later than in Pittsburgh), we corralled our friend Cory who had, in no way shape or form true to her character, gone rogue at some point in the night, and we made our way back home to rest up for Day 2 of our vacation.
DAY 2 - SOMEONE FILL ME IN
I have no idea what happened on this day. Literally no idea what happened. My only memory is it being late at night and basically fighting the rest of the group for the lion's share of a microwavable pizza....
DAY 3 - THE LAST DAY
Saturday morning I presumably wake up happy having eaten a whole frozen pizza to myself the night before. Flashbacks of me racing to the kitchen to protect/guard the pizza from my fellow friends haunts me to this day.
We caravan back to the beach for another day of blissful relaxation, only stopping once along the way to pick up snacks. Unsatisfied with the choices made by our Snack Committee, I made a secret reserve purchase of Flavor Blast Goldfish to assist me throughout the day as we enjoyed our seemingly endless supply of Mimosas and Margaritas.
We raised our red solo cups in recognition as a couple was married on the beach a few hundred yards away from us. I adjusted my makeshift "towel-frock" to protect my burnt chest and reached for my secret snack. Gone. A wave of panic came over me as I considered the possibilities. Maybe they fell out of the bag and were stranded in the car, all alone. A seagull, perhaps, had swooped down and carried them away.
Betrayal.
I look over at Kathleen, sitting on her towel looking smug, her filthy traitor hands shoved into my bag of Flavor Blast Goldfish. Seconds passed before Nicole reached for the bag and committed the same crime.
Et tu, Brute?
Betrayal. Their friendship ban will be lifted in 2020.
We decide to make our way down the beach and socialize with the locals and the other youths that were there on SPRANG BRACK (as narrated in Jimmy Fallon's "EW" voice). We choose Fat Tuesdays, the mecca of inebriated tweens, to begin our pilgrimage. For $10 you got a koozie wrapped water bottle that was filled with what can only be referred to as Giggle Juice.
Readers note: assumptions have been made as to whether the Giggle Juice was strictly alcohol and/or a combination of sugar and crack cocaine. Whatever the formula, it is highly unlikely that it is FDA-approved.
Coming down from our Fat Tuesdays 'high,' we decided it was best that we eat, return home, and prepare for our final night out together. We declared it Nicole's Bachelorette Night and hit the town in search of an epic last night. Knowing that I had a 5AM flight to catch, I was bummed I had to regulate my activity. Nevertheless, we drank, we danced, we (I) polled strangers on which pizza topping is best.
As the night came to an end, Nicole decided to throw an after party in the backseat of our Uber van. She demanded that we drive through McDonald's and ordered enough chicken nuggets to feed a small to medium-sized family. Jackpot. While I applaud everyone's effort to share in the feast, I think it goes without saying that I consumed approximately 65-75% of the nugs. After wiggling my way back into my hole-crotch yoga pants, I bid adieu to my friends and made my way to the airport.
I had arrived in Florida pale and sober. I left hungover, burnt, and with what looked like the mark of Satan on my arm. I'm convinced my Mom prayed the rosary for me after I convinced her it was a real tattoo, but if she didn't, I know she is now after reading this blog.
M
We caravan back to the beach for another day of blissful relaxation, only stopping once along the way to pick up snacks. Unsatisfied with the choices made by our Snack Committee, I made a secret reserve purchase of Flavor Blast Goldfish to assist me throughout the day as we enjoyed our seemingly endless supply of Mimosas and Margaritas.
We raised our red solo cups in recognition as a couple was married on the beach a few hundred yards away from us. I adjusted my makeshift "towel-frock" to protect my burnt chest and reached for my secret snack. Gone. A wave of panic came over me as I considered the possibilities. Maybe they fell out of the bag and were stranded in the car, all alone. A seagull, perhaps, had swooped down and carried them away.
Betrayal.
I look over at Kathleen, sitting on her towel looking smug, her filthy traitor hands shoved into my bag of Flavor Blast Goldfish. Seconds passed before Nicole reached for the bag and committed the same crime.
Et tu, Brute?
Betrayal. Their friendship ban will be lifted in 2020.
We decide to make our way down the beach and socialize with the locals and the other youths that were there on SPRANG BRACK (as narrated in Jimmy Fallon's "EW" voice). We choose Fat Tuesdays, the mecca of inebriated tweens, to begin our pilgrimage. For $10 you got a koozie wrapped water bottle that was filled with what can only be referred to as Giggle Juice.
Readers note: assumptions have been made as to whether the Giggle Juice was strictly alcohol and/or a combination of sugar and crack cocaine. Whatever the formula, it is highly unlikely that it is FDA-approved.
Coming down from our Fat Tuesdays 'high,' we decided it was best that we eat, return home, and prepare for our final night out together. We declared it Nicole's Bachelorette Night and hit the town in search of an epic last night. Knowing that I had a 5AM flight to catch, I was bummed I had to regulate my activity. Nevertheless, we drank, we danced, we (I) polled strangers on which pizza topping is best.
As the night came to an end, Nicole decided to throw an after party in the backseat of our Uber van. She demanded that we drive through McDonald's and ordered enough chicken nuggets to feed a small to medium-sized family. Jackpot. While I applaud everyone's effort to share in the feast, I think it goes without saying that I consumed approximately 65-75% of the nugs. After wiggling my way back into my hole-crotch yoga pants, I bid adieu to my friends and made my way to the airport.
I had arrived in Florida pale and sober. I left hungover, burnt, and with what looked like the mark of Satan on my arm. I'm convinced my Mom prayed the rosary for me after I convinced her it was a real tattoo, but if she didn't, I know she is now after reading this blog.
M
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