How it happened? I’m not sure. But I blame South Beach. Yes, I blame the entire southernmost area of the City of Miami Beach for its ridiculous double standard when it comes to women’s footwear.
An evening out in non-sensible shoes created several small, but manageable, blisters on my foot. And the next morning I went for a swim in the ocean, as I erroneously thought it was a wonderful way to cure a hangover and disinfect my lesions.This part of the story I blame on my grandmother for convincing me that the ocean cures everything from a sinus infection to an ingrown toenail. And maybe it did in her day.
But this was a new day. A day when instead of waking up with a fully functioning, back-to-normal foot, it was an oddly swollen and warm-out-of-the-microwave foot. It also happened to be the day when this news story broke:
No. I was not in Sarasota. And no, I do not like the taste or texture of oysters. But yes, I am a hypochondriac. And so to the urgent care I went.
After a tetanus shot, a foot scrub (not the spa kind), a lesson in walking with crutches and the first course of pain meds and antibiotics, I felt better about my chances of surviving this thing.
The shoes, on the other hand, are serving a life sentence in the back of my closet for attempted murder.
The birthday weekend has come and gone. And, I’m officially a year older. But, none the wiser. It has taken 96 hours to recover from the 72 hours that came before. A heavy price to pay to party like it was 1993.
As I hardly have any recollection of what really occurred, I will use the photos I found on my camera to tell the story. Oh, and the asterisks denote well-deserved shout-outs. You can read those at the bottom of each section.
The evening started off fine. I was composed, demure and ready for fun.
But, when you mix a mango-flavored hookah and vodka, something strange happens.
You see the world from a different perspective.
And, even when everything seemed to be moving fast, I was as still as an H&M mannequin.
* Thank you Nelson and Patty for being such good sports on the hottest night of the year. When our plans changed abruptly, you said okay to going to a place that required jumping over sewage to get to a rear entrance through a Chinese restaurant. That type of friendship is golden in my book. Oh, and thanks Andrew for not letting me go out barefooted. Your shoe delivery was of impeccable timing.
The sun is an asshole.
But, I had to battle through it. People were counting on me to make an ass out of myself.
Luckily, I had the assistance of a hat.
** Thank you Marisa for the kick-ass t-shirt. I’m sorry you missed out on grabbing J.T.’s kicks. I hear his feet stink anyway. Thank you Paul for showing up on the beach out of nowhere and then disappearing the next morning into thin air. I mean, are you even real? Aileen and Jason, thank you for teaching us the word “caneca,” which means a container formerly used for breast milk that is now used to store Don Q rum. Thank you Maggie, Jen and Kathy for making the trek and taking pictures. Thank you Necuze for being the last man standing. Thank you Dougs, Chrisses, Kristies, Sissi and Gabby for being witnesses to the mess that was Saturday/Sunday. Thank you Danny for bringing an entourage that diversified the group. Thank you Andrew and Jess for being sober. Thank you Janette for sexually harassing all of my friends.
Good morning angels.
Good morning Charlie.
Cake cake cake cake cake cake cake cake.
Can’t wait to blow my candles out.
*** Thank you Jess and Andrew for the morning snuggle, for the cake and for taking out Finn. Franky and Veronica, thank you for teaching me the many uses of Ponds. Thank you Bettina for your attempt to put order at a brunch in a gay bar. Thank you Marianne for making friends with the next table. Thank you Luis and Annette for teaching me the art of getting free shit. Thank you Susan for helping out with the mimosas. Thank you Jack for making the table even more fabulous. Thank you Terry for not judging my pouting as we walked all the way home. And, thank you Adhir and Ashleigh for being so enthusiastic about eating cake.
Last, but not least, thank you Librarian for your saint-like patience, your willingness to go with my flow and for never once asking me to comb my hair or put on sunscreen.
According to the latest news, police made less than 300 arrests and confiscated more than 25 guns during the notorious Urban Beach Weekend. But, the real story from the hip-hop festival wasn’t told on the news or anywhere near South Beach for that matter. And, no, it wasn’t the story of the guy who was shot to death while biting another guy’s face. No, the story that paints an accurate picture of this event was told to me by my Asian manicurist when I asked her if she had experienced an uptick in work because of the long weekend.
She paused from removing my cuticles to give me a painful look affirming my suspicion. “Everybody party,” she said.
She said even had an emergency case when a client came in with broken acrylic toenails. Just having worked on her plastic toes two days prior, she couldn’t help but ask her client how this happened. Her client explained that she attempted to jump from one side of the pool to the other, while intoxicated, and clipped her toenails with the edge.