The first night Ali and I both got back to our room and
more or less to bed by 4am – so at least we were awake at 9:30am when
Ali’s friend from Puerto Rico (she’d met her on a previous trip to the
resort) came knocking on our door. She was in the little black dress
she was wearing the night before and asked to borrow clothes to save
herself from being an obvious walk of shame case. I’m not suggesting
anything- but she’d disappeared after making out with a guy on the
dance floor at Brava around 2am and was only re-surfacing now. For her
friend’s drive home Ali dug up a tank top with a cartoon image of DJ
Chachi and a pair of VS Pink shorts. Thank goodness the friend didn’t
decide to wear the tank top when she joined us at the pool a couple of
hours later – DJ Chachi happened to be the guest DJ at the pool for the
day where tenjune’s pool party was in full effect.


The sun was hot and we kept cool with frozen libations from mojitos to
margaritas and Miami Vices (combo of a strawberry daquiri and pina
colada). Not a huge fan of sugary frozen concoctions I picked my drink
du jour earlier in the day when while ‘not drinking yet’ I sipped a
sample of a Grey Goose Blueberry Lemonade t It was yummy and refreshing.

 


Cocktails and sunshine (and a healthy lunch of cheese and jellybeans in
the Grey Goose hospitality suite) should have led to a nap, but I’ve never been a
great napper  so I opted for Starbucks and a shower before going back
to the beach for a party  that the weather quickly made steamy. Still,
it seemed like suddenly it was 2am and we headed inside where our
group splintered, many going back to Brava, and a few of use opting for
the casino instead. I ended up back at the blackjack tables where I
played sitting between a TV writer and Nick Lachey until they closed
down the tables at 4am – but this time I was at the table before Nick
joined – and the minimum bet was only $15.

 


Nick’s great. He’s sweet, fun and knows how to play blackjack (even if
we did all get our money taken away by the casino’s less than
sympathetic dealers), but the writer, who my friends and I took to
calling ‘Writer,’ was hysterical. As we all sipped Bailey’s, his with
milk, ours with hot chocolate, he explained that because of the TV
writer’s strike instead of going to work the writers have been told
to picket in protest. After this he said he wanted to walk with a blank
picket. When people ask why his picket doesn’t say anything his
response to them will be – ‘Because I’m not allowed to write,” Classic.

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