I know, I know, I have abandoned my post! Bad Violet! Very Bad indeed, I need a Spankin! Ow!
Like pseudo deep-sea fishing blindfolded at night, I will attempt to grab the information from memory about that fateful night in August.
The one which began with a rocks glass- filled with some delicious whiskey. Let me start properly, in the beginning, okay?
Our friends were in state from the corn-belt of the USA for a wee visit. After a crap stay at some shanty cabin, they decided to flip for a few evenings at a resort. Swanky temp abode it was, my friends, very swanky. My girlfriend insisted on treating us to mani-pedi action, which she would write off on her business expense account. Who was I to argue... and seeing as how there was at least 45 minutes to kill before we had to go, we had a drop of poison.
It was only 3 pm.
Mani-pedi treatment was lovely. I never had been before. I saw Dateline (TM) some years back during an expose about nail salons being nasty and I got soo creeped out, I decided to never go.
But since we were at a fancy ass spa- I said: Bring it. And bring it we did.
Two more glasses of whiskey, that is.
Right into the spa.
I did not show you the clear photographic affects of our empty stomachs on the spirits, no I did not. In order to protect the so-called innocent, which, as you guessed, we were not.
I digress- anyhoo.
We decided to stay in our undergarments and the plush 30 pound robes, instead of changing back into jeans, and risk f'n up our nails and took the cocktails outside- while K. had a smoke. It was pouring at this point. We stood under the awning, like a couple of drunk spa hookers, drinking and carrying on like we do- not quietly... Bringing some class to the joint.
You are welcome, spa resort!
The pretty garden in the front of the resort.
After our nails dried- and we had another glass or two each of the Bushmills, we needed grub. So off we went to some local watering hole with food, and ordered up some fine fare. Who ordered shots? Your guess is as good as mine.
Down the hatch they went.
It is said that I ordered raviolli. I ate 3.
Shall we tally up thus far?
Okay, I had like 4 rocks glasses before eating my 3 raviolli.
And wine and shots with dinner.
So- it should not shock anyone to see the night swiftly progress into a bar-fight...
Why do people say the dumbest shit, and start fights? (Myself included.)
Oh yeah, Thank You Bushmills!
The 12 year-old waitress must have been embarrassed. We were fighting among ourselves. Yelling and crying included. I didn't want to hear the cocaine story one more f'n time. I even asked J. nicely to shut the f up. But some people run their mouths on and on and on...
We had to leave.
Who the hell are these chaps?
Sometime during the 10 minute drive back to the resort, I must have been calmed enough to make peace, so the night could progress happily, naturally. The rain cleared up and the moonlight shone in and out of the wispy cloudscape. The night had promise. K said she'd never been in the ocean before [gasp!] and I insisted that we get our asses down to the sea- STAT.
There was even a mystical unicorn.
Okay, maybe there wasn't a unicorn, but it was magical out! We donned our fancy robes [the lady @ the spa said we could return them before they left the resort.] and some panties, and went to the shore.
It was more like this.
Gorgeous, even without a unicorn.
We re-filled and brought down the last 2 of the 6 glasses from the room [where were the other 4?] with us to the ocean, and like a couple of rowdy teens, we played in loudly the ocean until our guys sauntered down to see what's up. Perhaps we were making quite a racket. Like the Kracken 2.0!
There were giggles from the peanut gallery, letting us know there was a bunch of teenaged boys watching. Did I fail to mention that I insisted we throw caution to the wind and just skinny-dip?
Oh, I must have forgotten to tell you.
It's more a light brown Bush.
We scampered in and out of the ocean for hours. It was great, perfect. I love that crap. Our guys were not as excited as we were to act the nude fools. Oh well.
We returned to the room and co-showered before passing out at around 4am.
When we awoke four hours later, we noticed:
Our robes were both soaking wet, covered in muddy sandy goo, leaking said liquid all over the place.
I was missing my panties. My favorite pair... Dang.
And just between K and myself, we downed 1.5 bottles of the 'Mills. And all 6 glasses were gone.
Like this, but the tan lace was not as wide on the waist.
Perhaps they floated to sea like a message in a bottle.
Perhaps they were picked up by a wayward dog on the beach.
Either way, I had a night to remember forever. What can I say, but:
Thank You, Bushmills!