My Piece from Inner Monologues: Haters

Here is the piece I read at the show on December 3rd...

MIAMI VICES

I strongly believe that there should be a sign upon a arriving at the Miami International Airport that reads, “Welcome to Miami. Now Go Fuck Yourself.” As a New Yorker, you would think that it would be difficult to offend me. I do not come from the Land of How Can I Help You. But in a recent trip to Miami for a bachelorette party, wherever my friends and I went, we were treated as if we had stepped on a pile of dog shit and were dragging it around our 4-inch heels wherever we walked.

The war of the bachelorettes versus Miami began at the check in desk at our hotel. The maid of honor, who I will call the “MOH” for short, had been assured five separate times in advance that we would have adjacent rooms with ocean views. The check in girl looked us up and down and pointed her plastic D cups at us as she handed us our room keys to rooms on floors five and twelve located with a pleasant view of the power generators. As if anticipating our complaint, the girl immediately stated, “There’s absolutely nothing we can do to change your rooms. Nothing. We’re totally booked.” She gave us two keys to share amongst the eight of us. Hotel policy. And we wouldn’t be allowed inside the hotel lobby, the pool, the restaurant, the sidewalk or be allowed to breathe the hotel air without them, so we’d better stay together. They felt more like hall passes in elementary school than VIP key cards. What kind of 4 star hotel was this anyway? Since I was paying a month’s rent per night I expected the absence of snark and maybe a sexual favor or two. Definitely not attitude.

Our room was right outside the elevators. Worse, we heard people having sex right as we were putting our coveted key card in our door. I don’t know if I can blame that on the hotel itself, but I just needed to throw that in as an added insult to injury. Luckily they weren’t having sex in our room, but at that point I wouldn’t have been surprised.

Later that night we scored a reservation at Nobu on what the hostess called the “patio”. I like to call it the wind tunnel behind the hotel next to the parking lot where all the air conditioners blow their excess air. We tried to convince ourselves we were in a sexy perfume commercial complete with wind blowers but by the time the meal ended we looked like we each had a bad case of bed head.

But we were not ready to surrender to Miami quite yet. The next morning we got up early to ask for seats by the pool. Sunny seats. I don’t know if it was the fact that we were so obviously from out of town that made everyone want to seat us away from the fun. But I was starting to see a pattern. I guess perhaps it was kind of obvious. There we were, a pack of brunette girls pale as ghosts, each in black bikinis and black handbags and black sandals. Everyone else was blonde, in hot pink or gold bikinis, Pucci headwraps, and stiletto heels. It reminded me of that Sesame Street song, “Which of these things is not like the other?’


At around 12:30 we were huddling together for warmth in our towels while the other side of the pool oiled themselves up, clinked champagne glasses and danced with the cute DJ. It was like our side of the pool was Fargo and the other half was 90210. We asked one of the pool servers when our side would get sunny and she nearly burst into laughter. One of the house keeping women came up to me and said, “Chile. That side of the pool don’t never see the sun.” Great. So we’d been shunned to the cursed side of the pool. Like, “Never go to THAT side of the pool. No one goes THERE.”

The MOH was super pissed that we’d been promised sunny chairs and had gotten The Polar Express instead, so when she complained to the Pool Manager he promised us that tomorrow he’d give us the epitome in pool coolness: A swanky poolside bed—the kind that usually requires thousands of dollars of bottle service—free of charge.

After a night of drinking and dancing at a club, we went back to the hotel for some more dancing at the hotel’s bar. Or, if I’m being more honest, spilled drinks everywhere and fell on the floor. Same diff. When the music was cut off I went over to the DJ. “What’s going on? Why are you closing down already?” It was only 3am. In New York, we’d just be getting started. “It’s the law,” he told me. “We always close at 3.” Convinced that this was all part of the Miami conspiracy against us I was determined to find a loophole. “Where can I find a pole around here?” I asked him. “A pole?” He smirked. He told me to go to someplace that sounded to me like “Sweet and Lo” and somehow I convinced one of the other girls to come with me.

We ended up in a seedy bar in the outskirts of Miami where no one spoke English. We took some shots and I decided it would be a great idea to pole dance in my dress with my thong underwear on display for all to see. I also didn’t think about the fact that maybe rubbing my crotch and bare legs over a nasty pole in a seedy Miami bar might not be the best idea—but more on that later.

So the next day we were lounging on our wonderful expansive bed, completely hungover. We looked for one of the pool servers to come by so we could ask for water. She seemed to be ignoring us for about forty minutes so we got one of the pool guys’ attention. He came up to us in his little white shorts and white sweatshirt, tan legs, and greasy hair. ‘If you see our pool server could you ask her to please come over to us?” we asked. “Oh, you know women.” He said. “She’s probably like, doing her hair or something. Who knows what she’s up to?” We were like, “Really dude? You know you’re talking to a
group of women here. We actually take offense to the bullshit that just came out of your mouth right there.” Because even though our behavior may have been less than classy the night before, we were sitting on The Bed and you know what? The bed demanded respect. And you know what else? You’re wearing tiny white shorts.

“Well when she’s done doing or hair or something could you stop scratching your ass and get her?” I wanted to say. But he walked away too quickly. I swear.

When our server, a blonde in an all white jumpsuit came over, we ordered the waters. She sighed and rolled her eyes when we asked. In the fifteen minutes that passed between our ordering the waters and receiving the waters, multiple servers pretended to look at something in the trees behind us. Soon after, a piece of something that looked like human feces dropped from the tree and right onto our bed, and to this day we still don’t know if our server planted it there. Women. Who knows what they’re up to?

When she came back with our waters she had an announcement to make:

“I just want to let you know guys, that I can’t be doing this all day.”

“Doing what all day?” the MOH asked.

“Like, I mean, when I get slammed? I can’t be like, bringing you waters.”

“Huh. So does that mean you can’t bring us alcohol either?” the MOH asked.

“I mean, yeah. I can bring you alcohol. But like, I can’t keep on bringing you…Like, never mind.”

So basically she wanted to tell us to go fuck ourselves if we wanted water. She was only here by the pool to serve alcoholic drinks, and if we wanted H20 we’d be shit out of luck, or we could lap up the pool water if we were so inclined.

It was ok though. We had the bed, the holy grail of coolness, of comfort. The entire bachelorette party agreed we could spend a week on this bed and be happy. I felt like Joe from “Joe Versus the Volcano” in the scene where he’s living off of his Louis Vuitton trunks. Here on this luxurious bed, I could float out to sea with my bikini, some friends, some magazines, and I’d survive.

A little while later, the pool manager came by. “Hey girls,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “You look like you’re enjoying yourselves.” He wore a fanny pack and had a clip board. He also smelled like Cool Waters. This guy was not to be trusted. We looked at him warily. “I uh, have a favor to ask you.” He assumed the asshole stance: Hands in pockets, furrowed brow, groin jutting in our direction. A look that said, “I’m going to make you suck my dick, but I’ll ask in a very nice way.”

We looked at one another knowingly. Alright, give it to us. And meanwhile, everyone else at the pool was looking in our direction at well. What curious fate had befallen the girls of the non-sunkissed flesh from New York?

“So I was wondering. I have this group of guys over there.” He gestured to a group of bored looking thirty something European men with chiseled abs, already sharing a bottle of Dom Perignon.

“I didn’t know it was going to be such a big party but now it is. And we were hoping maybe you would give up the bed. It would be a huge favor to me.”

He looked at us with hope, the promise of thousands of dollars spent on vodka and chasers, and Eurotrash men with bulging biceps and their botoxed girlfriends, dancing in his eyes.

“Are you serious?” we asked him.

He looked behind him as if he were about to divulge a big secret then leaned in close. “Listen. I got some nice chairs by the pool. Very comfortable. And I tell ya what. We’ll throw in a bottle of tequila. And mixers. How’s that sound?”

To me, it sounded like the opposite of a great idea.

I tried to picture this situation happening if we were a group of dudes on the bed. I pictured for example, my husband and his friends in our place. Would Pool Manager have walked up to them and said, “I have a favor to ask you. You don’t look like you’ll be spending much money on alcohol today. Would you guys mind letting these more muscular assholes over there have this nice bed I originally promised you? I swear you won’t look like pussies when you make the switch.” Yeah. I couldn’t picture it either.

Some of us were close to tears. We looked at each other in solidarity and our eyes said it all. WE SHALL NOT BE MOVED. “No.” We told him. “We are not going anywhere. And you know what? There was shit on this bed a couple of minutes ago, but we don’t care. We are staying right here. You gave us this shitty bed. We’re keeping it.”

We turned over and gave him our behinds as the unanimous response. “Kiss our asses.”

He walked away, defeated. Yeah. Take that, Miami. We won: We kept the bed, we got a bottle of wine because the MOH complained to the hotel about the asshole Pool Manager, we got our water-hating pool server in trouble, and we got an apology from the hotel for all of the “misunderstandings.”

Two days later I was getting dressed and I noticed I had an itch on my upper thigh. I turned to the mirror to get a close look—and that’s when I saw a very scary looking red splotch. And that’s when I remembered 5 in the morning at that gross bar with my bare legs wrapped around a pole. The nasty, dirty, germ infected pole that I decided to do swan dives on, and hang upside down from without a care in the world. I have pictures to prove it. Lovely words like INFECTIOUS DISEASE, ringworm and staph infection suddenly came to mind.

Oh Miami. You got me. You definitely did. Just when I thought I’d won. But I’ll be back. I’ll definitely be back.