Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

The next day after the concert, we’re on a mission for breakfast. First stop—BadAss Breakfast. Closed. I mean, how can you call yourself BadAss if you can’t even get out of bed in the morning? 

We end up at Benedicts. Brandy and I split a BLT on a croissant delicious. We’re leaving, Betty heads to the bathroom, and suddenly Brandy’s in full panic mode: “I think I left my phone!” We’re searching everywhere, she’s freaking out—then she goes, “Oh never mind, I’ve got it.” Meanwhile, I’m holding her hoodie like, “Uh, were you also looking for this?”

Then it’s back to Specialty store shopping. Question: do I need a tiny little bag just big enough for my phone and wallet? Answer: YES. Because when you’re bargain-hunting, logic is the first thing that gets marked 70% off.

Next up massages. Betty and Brandy get this dreamy, romantic 90-minute couples’ massage. Picture it: soft music, synchronized breathing, maybe a little foot massage that makes you question why life has ever been stressful. Pure bliss.

Me? I get the “Where’s Waldo?” version. My masseuse kept leaving the room like she had other appointments with less stressed backs. She’d come back, dig into my muscles like she was cracking concrete, I’m Lamaze breathing and praying simultaneously, then she slapped hot rocks on me like she was auditioning for Iron Chef: Back Edition. Then—poof—gone again. Another woman walked in and says, “Oh, your lady has tummy issues. You’re done.”

I left with maybe 30 minutes of actual massage, charged for 90. But hey, she was pregnant, so I tipped anyway—because ... pregnant. Meanwhile, Betty and Brandy come out talking about karate chops, scalp massages, and rainbows. I’m like, “Wait, was I supposed to get a massage or survive a martial arts obstacle course?”

Honestly, next time I want the full Jackie Chan experience: flips, punches, hot rocks, and maybe some sushi.

 For dinner that night, we grabbed an Uber and headed to a fancy Italian place to celebrate our last night together—wine mandatory. We shared Chicken Marsala, fried mushrooms, and for dessert, the chef’s choice of gelato. The waitress spotted my shirt and practically drooled: “DRINKS WELL WITH OTHERS? That’s the shirt I need.” Clearly, I’ve been seen.

Dinner done, Brandy called another Uber to take us home—because clearly, we shouldn’t be trusted in public too long. But of course, Brandy had to stop for fancy chocolate. I run outside to catch the Uber and yell, “Uber?” He nods. I hop in. We drive off. And I look in the rearview: Betty’s still standing by the open door. Brandy? Still inside buying chocolate.

She looks up and yells, “MY MOM JUST STOLE MY UBER!” I’m in the backseat yelling, “WAIT—WE HAVE THREE!” The driver is cracking up, Betty’s flabbergasted, and Brandy is sprinting down the block like we’ve been kidnapped.

We laughed the whole way back—right up until the driver dropped us at the wrong end of the motel. So naturally, we have to walk through the lobby and across the entire hotel to reach the elevators. 

  In our room, Betty pulled on Brandy boots, disappeared into the bathroom, we seen a tee shirt come flying out into the hall. then her jeans. (Betty's version of a strip show.) I haven't had enough wine to witness this. 

 Brandy is videoing. 

We are laughing as she comes out in her shorty short jammies and the hooker boots holding onto the wall so she can walk.  She wanted to send a sexy photo to Fuji. 

Brandy asked if she could put the video on family chat? I said NO there are small children on that chat. No one needs to see gramma in her shorty shorts and hooker boots.

“You know, looking back on this whole trip… we really lived it up. We saw Keith Urban not sing songs we knew. We thrift-shopped like Olympic athletes. We drank enough wine to make Uber drivers pray for strength. And we survived a massage from a pregnant ninja who tag-teamed me with hot rocks, elbows, and disappearing acts.

Honestly, I thought the highlight would be the concert—but nope. The real show was us: three women, shopping, and a pair of hooker boots nobody could actually walk in.

Betty said this was the most fun she’s ever had traveling. She’s been around the world! And she picked us?! That’s either the greatest compliment… or proof she really needs better friends.

In the end, I drove home with three suitcases, seven random shopping bags, hooker boots, and a Hawaiian jacket that wasn’t even mine. I basically run a lost-and-found out of my trunk now.

But you know what? That’s what makes it perfect. Because the real souvenirs aren’t the jeans that don’t fit or the overpriced hoodies—it’s the laughter, the memories, and the fact that somehow… nobody got arrested.

So yeah—Keith Urban may not have left the building, but we sure did. And Denver? Denver will never be the same.”