Today marks my second Monday as a married woman, my fifteenth nap in a 72-hour period, and my third mostly ridiculous calculation of weird life events. I’m ashamed of that sentence as I mostly hate when peppy teenage girls mark their two-and-three-quarter-months anniversaries to high school beaus or when the shaky-handed cashier at the dollar mart boasts that she’s been clean and sober for thirty-two-and-a-half hours. Or minutes. It’s a toss-up, really. The only details worth detailing are that I got married a week or so ago and that I have been freshly planted back to post-honeymoon reality for give or take one minute.
Another thing I hate is when people start a flashy, showy story by stating “I don’t mean to brag, but…”. Then, of course, comes all the bragging. The mom at the park doesn’t mean to brag, but her kid is definitely more awesome than mine because he potty-trained himself…after teaching himself to read…potty-training tutorials… in French. The girl with a Body Mass Index of zero at the gym doesn’t mean to brag, but she was blessed with good genes…that allow her to eat fried foods…and she only sports a sports bra and hangs out at the gym to make people think she has to “work for it like, you know, normal people”. So my kid pees his pants (in English), I can gain weight just by thinking about a snack, and I don’t mean to brag, but we’ve just enjoyed perhaps the world’s most luxurious honeymoon in the history of the world and history.
Our stay at a posh resort started typically enough. The weather was gorgeous as we arrived out front. Lush greenery native to this scenic spot swayed in a delightful Spring breeze. Tom reminded me that they were just leaves as I fawned over them. I reminded Tom that we’d just spent a wedding weekend high atop the Nashville skyline, as deep in the belly of a city as one could go, so a little leaf goes a long way. The most ordinary of things seems foreign and fascinating when seen through vacationing eyes.
We were greeted at the door by the bellhop, a strange but friendly boy. He declined to take the two dollar tip I nudged his way. He also declined to help with our bags. At least he believes in fair trade, I noted. The kind sir guided us to our room, The Presidential Suite, and gave us a tour. When I caught him some minutes later sprawled out on the room’s massive bed watching the room’s massive television, I did what every skilled world traveler does. I spoke incredibly slow and overly enunciated English hoping my flamboyant hand gestures would break through language barriers. The bellhop got the hint, I suppose, because he bid us adieu.
The resort was all kinds of inclusive. The fridge was stocked with deliciousness. Tom was peeved to see an absolute lack of cute little liquor bottles lining the frosted shelves, but we savored the plethora of Reese’s Peanut Butter products crammed inside. The gallons of milk, too, were not expected, but before we could raise the question (what type of hotel gives you Skim Milk?) our mouths were glued shut with glorious, chocolate and peanut buttery paste. The milk, albeit bizarre, was exactly what the homies on this honeymoon needed.
By dinnertime we joined the other guests on the grounds’ back deck for gourmet cuisine. I enjoyed the sophisticated entrée selection of Burger & Fries complimented perfectly by a glass of the house Diet Coke. “The ambiance of this place- my God! - it is truly divine,” I told Tom before asking him to pass the ketchup. “Smells like wet dog out here,” he added. “But it’s so relaxing! Just listen to the sounds. The whish and hush and whir and…, ” I continued. “There’s a damn interstate running right behind the place. And why are you talking like that? You can take Madonna out of Michigan but…” before he could finish. “You can’t take the Michigan out of Madonna?,” I smiled. “No. You can take Madonna out of Michigan but that doesn’t make her British.” “True dat,” I affirm my understanding of his statement. “Nope. Not gangster either,” he replied. “I don’t know how to talk. We are relaxing… on vacation… and I don’t know what’s real anymore!!!,” I offer, calmly.
Our voyage far from ordinary life was further confirmed over the next strange, strange days. The spa, it turns out, was just an over-sized bathtub with a few foil packets of Fruity Tooty Face Mask tossed on the side. The spectacular water feature most of these ritzy establishments normally have looked mostly like a flooded ditch. The naps were good, although I can nap anywhere at any time so that hardly can be attributed to amenities. There was no phone in the room to call the front desk. I suspect there was no front desk at all. Yet we were blasted awake each morning by the wildest of wake up calls. While I was pleased to partake in the resort’s extensive list of activities, the options were as puzzling as they were plentiful. The only other person who seemed keen on participating was the babbling bellhop. After four rounds of Kick Ball, a few dozen games of Stare At Bellhop’s Belly Button, two punches to the chin and one oddly comprehensive conversation with the bellhop about boundaries and backing “the hell up off them”, I retired to our suite on what would be our last night as honeymooners.
I sat with my husband on the bed. I laughed to call him husband. I mourned a little that our little visit to this little slice of pretty-freaking-weird paradise was coming to a close. We reminisced on the good times shared: the discount spa treatments, the peanut butter cup bingeing, the wet dog smell, and the hum of the highway. Oh, and the highlight of our honeymoon, as crazy as it seems, was the friendly bellhop, ready to not help but hang out, not speak but inexplicably show you his belly button and other such dazzling features.
As I washed my face before bed that last night, I remarked that the towels smelled like old armpit. “Didn’t housekeeping ever come? Seriously. I’m running out of clean underpants. And why didn’t we get the fluffy robe? I want a fluffy robe!,” I griped at the Mr. He laughed. We snuggled into the dingy sheets just a man, his wife, and one very snuggly bellhop.
And so it was we enjoyed a luscious, exquisite, refined, elegant, fancy, brag-worthy honeymoon in the our house.
Yes. Our crib, the pad, Casa de Crazy Pants, da hood, The Love Shack.
So the greenery was extra lush. We haven’t felt like mowing the lawn. So the bellhop was indeed a strange but friendly boy. He was our toddler, the owner of one masterful belly button. So the fridge wasn’t stocked with little liquor bottles. We’d take a nearly forgotten candy stash over a cocktail anyways. So I got a little hoity-toity and started talking like a twangy Madonna. I… no. There’s no excuse for that. So the wake up call sounded a lot like a wide-awake two-year old, the bellhop hopped up on ten hours of sleep. So the menu was as fancy as the local fast food joints could offer. Not a person in this house didn’t jump at the chance for me not to cook. So the spa was not a spa at all. Fruity Tooty face mask samples were on sale a couple of weeks ago at the Wal-Mart. So the housekeeping sucked because, for just a week, I decided to play Kick Ball with the bellhop and tell those smudgy windows to shove it. So we didn’t walk along beaches and get our eyebrows singed by a flame thrower’s wily torch mid luau. We spent the week at home doing absolutely nothing and doing so quite fabulously. I like to think, after all, that the most ordinary of things seems foreign and fascinating when seen through vacationing eyes. And at the low, low rate of $Free.00 USD per night, this lovely little getaway is pretty hard to beat.
I don’t mean to brag, but we’ve just enjoyed perhaps the world’s most luxurious staycation in the history of the world and history.
Where did you go for your honeymoon?
What makes your staycation feel like a vacation?