Friday night was actually pretty uneventful. I ate shrimp and went dancing with Shawn.

Saturday was when we somehow lost control. The day was calm � Shawn and I went swimming, then played tennis for a bit. However.

See, a local cop and his daughter are doing this bike ride for an AIDS vaccine. They need to raise a certain amount of money to be eligible for the ride, so they came on my talk show to promote their fundraising event.

And that�s how I found out that Chippendales was coming to the Keys.

Shawn, me, and a few of our other friends arrived at the venue at about 7 p.m. Saturday. It was a strange place to see strippers � a local lodge, and really, too well lit. And full of women. Most of them were middle-aged or old. The acoustics were crazy. It sounded like a deranged henhouse. I thought my head was going to split in half. We sipped our cheap wine and waited. And waited. �Cause the strippers were very, very late. And the women were getting antsy. I looked around that room full of made-up women with long nails and eager looks on their face, and I actually started to feel sorry for the strippers.

There was a man walking around, serving jello shots and brandishing a can of whipped cream. He was gross � straddling the women, squirting whipped cream into their mouths, and sometimes, if the lady was extra-special, licking it OUT of their mouths. All for the low low price of one dollar. Every time I saw him coming near me, I cowered in fear.

(My friend Donna says he�s a �whipper� � for �wanna-be stripper.� His use of whipped cream made that that much funnier.)

Finally, some dude with long curly hair shows up, sporting overalls (with one of the straps undone! Seriously) and a cowboy hat. Sexy, except for the part where that�s not sexy AT ALL.

Eventually, the rest of the strippers showed up, and the show began.

I don�t know what to say about the strip show that can�t be covered in this one, single word: RAUNCHY.

I�ve seen strippers. Hell, I got a lap dance once in New Orleans, during Mardi-freaking-Gras. But I�ve never seen such a grotesque display of packages and tattoos and muscley man-boobs as this one. One of them LICKED my THIGH. I paid him to STOP. The cop kept running up to them as the molested various women in the crowd, yelling, �Stop that! You�re MARRIED!�

Not to say we didn�t have a blast. We were up on stage by the end of it, and only us � ONLY US � would take the strippers out with us when we leave. They were all, �We�re from out of town � don�t just leave us! Please!�

They were portable. Chippendales-to-go. Stripper take-out.

We all went out, and I proceeded to get smashed. I�m still not sure how that one happened, but I woke up in my skirt and a bra, lying on the futon, under a blanket.

When Shawn and I woke up, we decided we wanted to go to the Sandbar. I told you guys about it once � a shallow stretch of land about a mile out into the ocean. Everyone anchors there and parties.

We hooked up with the lovely Mary, a neighbor we met for the first time that day. She was a lot of fun, and very kind to take us out on her boat.

We got out there, and were feeling pretty mellow. I read a lot, and Shawn played with people�s dogs. (NOT a euphemism.) After a bit, we all noticed this huge, beautiful yacht. At least 70 feet long, and gleaming. Shawn just wanted to go over and touch it. Soon, Mary decided to go for a walk among all the anchored boats. When she returned, she signaled for us to join her in a whispery huddle.

�Guess whose boat that is?�

�Who�

�Denzel Fucking Washington.�

�Shut. UP!�

So of course, Shawn and I had to walk over and introduce ourselves. When we spotted him, Denzel Washington was talking to Barnacle Bob, who owns and runs the floating restaurant that is located at the Sandbar. (It�s sentences like that last one that if someone was to overhear me say aloud, they�d think I�m insane. Well, people already think I�m insane a lot, because I�m prone to sudden, loud outbursts in public places. But all this is true, and I�m not cuckoo for cocopuffs. I swear.)

Shawn walked up and introduced herself, shaking the hand of Denzel Fucking Washington. I could sense how much he was hating the two of us, so I just hung back and hovered. Now, though, I wished I�d said something like, �Hey. Nice job getting that Oscar and all.� While Shawn chatted to his clearly-hating-us-but-still-eerily-handsome face, I looked around and saw his wife and his kids playing nearby.

We walked back, starstruck in spite of ourselves.

When I got home, I began calling everyone I know, and not getting through to anyone.

�What�s the point of meeting Denzel Washington if you can�t tell anyone about it?!�

Follow that up with a fish fry and macaroni and cheese, and I�d say I had a pretty kickass weekend.

And I did, so I would.