I give her the names of places only the locals know. I tell her what to pack, what to order and how to get past the bouncers at the gay dance clubs. I pretend to be happy for her.
Then she starts e-mailing me from Margaritaville.
"The sun is so bright it hurts my eyes!" she writes on Day One.
"How much do you tip a cabana boy?" she wants to know on Day Two.
"Tropical fish are nibbling at me," she complains on Day Three.
On Day Four I decide I will walk down the street to her house and teach her kids some Miami gangsta rap. The kindergartner catches on fast. She is adorable.
"The margarita I had at lunch is making me so sleepy," she whines on Day Five. By Day Six, I am thinking about having sex with her husband when they get back. At the very least I will stuff a red bra under the seat of his car.
But I don't. After all, it's not like she is ever going to get into those clubs. Also, the red bra is one of my my favorites.
She brings me back a souvenir coffee mug. Hah! So Funny Mary! I can laugh now because you are back in Smallville and I am drinking margaritas at a salty little beach bar just off the interstate out by the Super Target.
Also, I know where you live.
More from the Something About Mary archives: Your Cardigan Says Merry Christmas But Your Pedicure Says Ho, Ho, Ho