A Wedding Story – The Art of Doing Stuff

This would be a really good story if it weren’t being told through the chattering teeth of a 101 F fever.

I haven’t been on a vacation since Betty and my sisters went to Memphis in 1902. I know the year was 1902 because that is what my fever is telling me it was. My fever also told me to have cabbage soup for dinner tonight which was also a little off mark.

The 101 temperature I’m currently seeing the world through is a hitchhiker I picked up during my flight home from Dominican Republic on the weekend. And I couldn’t be happier.

Like seriously thrilled. Why? Because during this vacation, the wedding of my niece Halston, almost everyone got sick at the hotel or on the flight home. Every kind of sick – all the sicks. The sick to your stomach ones, the sick to your pants, a couple of genuine medical emergencies and the most entertaining sickness … the run screaming through the hotel with your clothes off and winky bobbing up and down sicks.

So yeah. I’m happy to be sick right here in my own home. The last time I was sick was in a questionable hotel in Thailand where instead of getting instructions on how to open the windows or adjust the air conditioning, we were giving the instructions on how to operate the electric mosquito zapper that came with every room.

During this trip last week, we were a group of 30 or so people eating and drinking indiscriminately upwards of 17 times a day.

Barfing and the squiggles was bound to happen.

This was also the first time I had ever vacationed at an all inclusive resort where you can literally eat all the bacon you want from morning until night.

On day 3 or so Betty and I had room service breakfast on my balcony. I don’t drink so I’m sure the hotel thought they’d save some money on me, but I made up for my lack of alcohol consumption by eating several large plates of bacon with every meal.

Betty, on the other hand, may have done as much damage to the Royalton Bavaro profit margin as COVID.

We all arrived at the resort by bus very late on Sunday and were greeted by my niece and her friend who twerked us in. Like air traffic controllers, but with asses as flashlights.

They had arrived earlier because they travelled on a private plane because they’re assholes. Which is fine because while they may have had the luxury of walking out onto the tarmac with a mimosa to board their flight, the rest of had airport experiences that built character.

I’d like to see those jet setters endure a 4 hour flight without any hydration because a warm Coke in a glass the size of an eye washing cup is $8.

I’m just going to say what we’re all thinking right now – private jet travellers would never win a thrown down against a budget airline flyer. Not even if they used their diamonds as throwing stars.

I personally noticed 5 passengers on the flight down on my budget airline that contorted themselves in such unique ways to get into their seats that they’re currently being scouted by Cirque de Soleil. True story.

The wedding started off as elegant as a wedding could possibly be.

A beach wedding on the Atlantic Ocean. Or Caribbean Sea. Some very large, salty body of water anyway.

K, the fever is ramping up here so I’m going to get straight to the naked fights.

The wedding reception started out just as elegant as the wedding but after 17 blue shots that tasted like liquid Jolly Ranchers, shit started to get real.

Things went from an elegant toast with champagne to arm wrestling the waiters in about 1.5 hours.

I took Betty back to her room at 10 o’clock and returned to the wedding about 15 minutes later. By the time I got back people were naked.

When your inner voice quietly says, walk the other way this is going to be trouble – you never listen to it. Because trouble is fun. And naked trouble is incredibly entertaining.

As is often the case, it was the men who decided that clothing was really slowing down their drinking and fun. So shirts started being thrown to the ground and bottles of water flew through the air.

I don’t know why. So don’t even ask me.

I kept my dress on. It seemed more ladylike even though I was worried someone might throw up blue electric shots on it and turn it green.

Knowing things could only get worse, I grabbed whatever flowers I could and ran back to my room.

By 11 o’clock that night the groom was running naked through a hotel pool, one girl had a cut that required – but didn’t get – stitches and my niece? She was tucked in bed where she would stay for the next 36 hours.

In fact now that I think of it, all of the private plane flyers were bedridden for at least 24 hours after the reception.

The budget airliners?

They were tackling the day and the plates of bacon bright and early the next morning.

No fights took place. But if they had, we all know who would have won.

Did you forget to buy The Advent Calendar?

Buy it now

As anyone who has already paid the $12 for it will tell you, Day 1 alone is worth a guaranteed $200. 😉