Chronicles Of a Miami Memorial Weekend (Vampires, Crackheads, and Taco)

I had initially wanted to write this post all in one shot like past Chronicle editions, but I can assure you that it wouldn't be a safe or sane to do such a thing. Instead, I am going to fragment this into four different posts throughout the remainder of the week and you can revel in the madness that was Memorial Day weekend, one day at a time (without the hangover).

Hold on to your wigs and let's do this thing!

Disclaimer: No vampires, serial killers, gay men, crackheads, stripper poles, tacos or airplanes were hurt in the making of this weekend. Just me and a few thousand brain cells.

There's an unspoken rule amongst Miami residents in regards to Memorial Day weekend and it's a simple one: steer CLEAR of South Beach at all costs. That is unless you like paying $12 for a beer, $50.00 for a parking space, random strangers grabbing your privates and really big people stepping on your toes as you simply try to cross the street or make your way inside a bar.

Thursday morning started off like any other regular work day. I never ever step foot outside my door on Memorial Day weekends because I can't take the chaos. The drunk teenagers running around screaming at the top of their lungs, the obnoxious dudes trying to cop a feel, the ridiculous prices everywhere you go, it's all very overrated, trust.

So I wake up at my usual 9:00 a.m. time to go into work and decide to cheat on the supposed diet, popping a bagel in the toaster and running to the closet to get dressed. As I'm turning on the alarm and grabbing my purse to run out the door, the smoke alarm goes off and I remember the stupid bagel. I open up the windows and turn on the ceiling fan, extricating the burnt piece of bread from the toaster.

Simon says: bagels are not allowed in your diet, Annah.

I'm used to God's little interventions as I attempt to cheat on my diet, so I take it like a champ and prepare to starve until lunch. Grrrrr. I'm running late, but off I go.

9:47 a.m. I am greeted by THIS at my door.

Un-frigging-believable.

9:49 a.m. I text my boss that I’ve had a major emergency and will be late to work. Bring the box of kittens inside and sit on my living room floor with my head in my hands wondering, Can’t a girl ever catch a break? Is there a moment of peace anywhere in the horizon for me? The answer, is no.

10:01 a.m. There are two larger kittens and a tiny little one that looks like a mini-rat. He’s uber cute (the term cute of course being used very loosely, because he’s ugly as all hell). I immediately crush on tiny little rat cat and decide to name them all. I choose Devil, Devil #2 and Little Nicky.

10:05 a.m. Devil and Devil #2 are the larger kittens and they are vicious little leprechauns who are apparently willing to tear off my fingers if I so much as try to stroke them. Every time I try to put my hand in the box to pick them up, they start to hiss furiously.

I push the box into the guest bathroom with my foot and then flip it over to expose Devil and Devil #2, who immediately scatter and hide behind the toilet. I feed little Nicky with a dropper and leave some food in a bowl for the other two devils.

10:35 a.m. Okay… off to work I go.

Eight hours later I'm home and sometime around 8:00 p.m. I decide to clean the house before taking a shower and calling it a night. I put together my usual Clorox and water concoctions for cleaning and pour myself some soda and water in separate cups. When it's time to clean I do not realize I've mixed all the cups together and pick up the water in a haste, taking one big gulp.

True to my word of staying home, spending no money and sticking to my 100 Days of Torture plan, I was in my pj's and ready to sleep by ten.

10:17: I'm ready for my beauty rest when the Evil Machine (a.k.a. my Blackberry) alerts me to a text. Before we step into the night, it's important you know my friend Amy recently joined a dating site. Text trail goes like this:

Amy: I am so craving a mojito, you have no idea.

Me: From where?

Amy: Mango's or that really nice Cuban restaurant on the Gables.

Me: You can't afford no mojito from those places. Stop talking crazy.

Amy: I know :(

Me: Why don't you go with one of your ______.com guys?

Amy: I'm scared to go alone.

Me: Well don't even think about it then. Just go to sleep. Tomorrow will be another day.

Amy: Okay :( You suck.

Ten minutes later...

Amy: How much money do you have in your possession right now?

Me: $9.25. I'm rich, bitch!

Amy: Let's get ONE drink. Just one, I promise.

Me: I'm in my pj's. GO TO SLEEP and stop tormenting me. You know I'm no good at dealing with peer pressure.

Amy: Yup, I know. Hence the reason why I'm already on the way there. Wear something cute. We're meeting two guys from ________.com

Ten minutes later I dash out my door to be welcomed by a downpour of torrential rain. I have no umbrella and the trek down to Amy's car looks deadly in the heels I'm wearing. I spot the Potty Patch right outside my door (still in its box) and get creative with it. I grab one of the patches of fake grass and use it as an umbrella as I haul ass down stairs, being very careful not to trip on my face and eat concrete.

We arrive at J.P. Mulligans (name of the swanky bar Amy's date chose as their place of rendezvous) soaked from head to toe. I am greeted by the sight of the trashiest place I've ever been to, and Lord knows I've set foot in some crazy joints. I can't say it's exactly the place that is trashy, but the people who are in it. 80's music is playing from the speakers and Amy's date informs us that in a few hours there will be karaoke.

It's already 11:00 p.m. so I'm not sure when "a few hours" will be, but I don't ask any questions.

After an hour of awkwardness, Amy's date and his douchy little friend decide to leave, possibly sensing the lack of interest on our part. Amy asks if I want to stay for another round and seeing that I still have my $9.25 in my pocket I say, "Sure, why not?"

Two hours later we've only spent $3.71 on four beers (there is an advantage to this cheapie place after all!). Amy has met another random dude at the bar, leaving me with some high school friends who are coincidentally at J.P.'s on their first "Facebook date" (whatever that is). They're mainly indulging me in some conversation when they're not busy drinking or sucking face. When I'm left to my own devices I begin to examine my surroundings, trying my best to amuse myself in spite of my near-to-tears boredom.

I turn my attention to the current karaoke singer, who's happy as can be with his hairy gut coming out of his shirt, belting a Pat Benatar song and doing a damn good job, if I do say so myself.

It is then when I spot him, a cute little Italian looking guy who happens to be giving me the eye across the bar. I smile and wave, hoping he'll rescue me from my boredom and buy me a drink. He gets up and smiles, walking towards my spot at the bar. I secretly congratulate myself for picking someone who's not missing his front teeth and say, "Hi, I'm Annah."

Dude: I'm Anthony (in the girliest voice possible).

Confusion sets in as I quickly become aware I have just hit on the only gay guy here. No wonder he looked so sharp.

Fuck it.

I'm bored and there's no one else to talk to so I hold a fun conversation with Gay Boy about school, work, airplanes (he flies one) and traveling. I'm having a ball when at three in the morning they turn on the lights and kick us all out. Facebook Daters decide they want to go to another bar that's open until four thirty in the morning. Amy and her new dude seem pleased by this idea and drag me along. To my surprise, Gay Boy follows.

When we arrive at the new watering hole, it becomes clear that THIS is the trashiest place I've ever been to. In comparison to this dump, J.P. Mulligans looks like the bar at The Four Seasons.

In case you're wondering, the name is Big Dawgs.

Yep.

Big. Dawgs.

Misspelled and everything. Equipped with a stripper pole, pool tables, raggity ol' bar and a few chairs. By this point I've drank way too many dollar beers and I don't really care. Gay Boy seems incredibly enthralled by my ramblings and all of the sudden, he asks me for my number. I'm assuming it's because I agreed to go flying with him over South Beach sometime in the near future, but then he tells me how pretty he thinks I am and that he'd like to get to know me.

Eh?

This guy is practically sweating glitter and he "wants to get to know me?" Oh Jesus, he's not yet aware of his condition. My gaydar is finely tuned due to my best friend Marcus, who is the most fabulous man in the world and the best fairy detector ever. Of course I just smile and tell Gay Boy, "Sure, we'll do dinner sometime." I don't really know why so many gay men hit on me, but I really hope it's not because I look like a man after a few drinks.

With that said, if there had been some sort of dating superlative in high school I would've won it, hands down.

Meanwhile, the female part of Facebook Daters is so drunk she's stradling the stripper pole, doing a sexy little dance around it and trying to get me to join.
Thankfully at that moment they turn on the lights and kick us out yet again. This time I am not being convinced to go anywhere else. When I get in my car, I get a text message from someone called, "Face". I can only assume that's the name I've given Gay Boy and hit the reply button. I go out on a limb and ask him if he's gay (not because I want to pursue anything with him, but because if he is, there's no reason to live in such denial).

He vehemently denies his fruitiness and I just let it go. It's not my place to open anyone's closet. When I get home I am still craving a bagel, but seeing that I burnt my last one, I console myself with the next best thing.
It's 6:00 a.m. and I have to be at work in three hours (story of my life). This is where the insomnia that took over my weekend and turned me into a vampire began to emerge.

to be continued...