It’s my birthday! Well….not really. It’s my birthday week….er…
This is the first year I will be celebrating completely and totally scum free (aka glitter, confetti, etc.) I am pretty sure this will be the best birthday ever. I am sure I will blog about it next week, but this week, I thought I’d give you a taste of a birthday gone bad.
Paul (the ass hat that I dated for ten years) decided to take me to Jamaica a couple of years ago. This was, I thought, potentially a romantic and fun time. Not so much.
I wake up on the day of my birthday because I am itchy….everywhere. The hell?? Turns out, during the night, any flesh exposed was bitten by a rabid mosquito from hell. I had welts all over me! I couldn’t stop itching. This was NOT the way I wanted to look for my birthday. Scratching like I have fleas? That’s never sexy.
What’s worse? The welt marks were huge, bitey bruise like things a little larger than the head of a push pin. I looked like I had really bad purple freckles. No one can pull that look off. Not even Giselle…and I am far from a Giselle. And, since it is SUMMER IN JAMAICA, it’s pretty much the temperature of hell. It isn’t like I can wear pants or long sleeves to cover it up. And, there wasn’t enough concealer in the world that could have helped me.
Quote of the day from a Jamaican concierge: Oh mon…. What happen here mon? You got kinky last night?
Me: No such luck. Mosquitoes.
Man: That look nothin like a mosquito bite I seen…. raised his eyebrows and walks away
I thought….thanks for confirming I look like I have leprosy. Happy freaking birthday to me.
That’s what I screamed. Yeah…..sweet, genteel, debutante me. And not in a good way. But we’ll get to that.
I come in from lunch and start towards the shower, dejected and itchy. I hear a noise….a gentle flapping. I think it is the curtains that are blowing in from the deck, so I disregard. I take my shower, get out, dry off and head naked to the suitcases for clothes.
That’s when I yell: HOLY F*&K!!!
There is a big ass crow perched on my suitcase. Glaring at me…nay… leering at me. I’m in a tropical paradise. There are probably hundreds of birds that are pretty, dainty, tropical…. what flies in to my room? A damn crow. Really???
And here’s a thing to know. I have a love/hate with birds. From afar? Pretty. Close? Oh hell no. I think I was pecked to death in a former life. I get all sweaty and creeped out when a bird comes near me. And a big ass bird like this? No no no…that isn’t ok.
The bird, unfortunately, is people trained and/or a bad ass. He doesn’t fly away at my shrill screaming of expletives. Instead, said crow flaps at me, shits on my suitcase, then walks to a different section of suitcase daring me for my next move.
At this point, I realize I’m fully naked and have squealed louder than I thought because there is a knock at my door.
Thickly accented housekeeper: Hey Ma’am? I hear screaming. Are you ok?
Me: YES – I JUST WANT IT OUT OF HERE!!!!
Housekeeper: opens door wide to my very nude, very bitten up body.
Housekeeper: Begging your pardon! OH! My! You ok? What happened to you?
Me: trying to cover my parts with my hands and arms and see that she is totally distracted by my bitey body and the door is still wide open
Housekeeper: And OH! You got a bird in here love?
Me: Um…. can you please shut the door so I can get changed?
The housekeeper radios for help as I get dressed. 30 seconds later, a crew of three men arrive. Then, hilarity ensued. This bird flew and shit on everything it could find. Three adult men couldn’t capture it. After a lot of swearing and a lot of fails, the bird politely flew out the door it came in…leaving his lovely shit marks behind. Bastard.
We switched rooms. The poop was way too much.
Warning: This section is kind of gross, but it ends well.
In true Paul fashion, he gets rip roaring drunk. And angry. And clumsy. Instead of slapping me in public, which I did appreciate, he got up from the table and decided to go back to the room. 3 minutes later I hear the following:
CRASH! SHATTER! BANG! Ooowwwch…..
The entire restaurant leaps up to view what has happened. Did a car drive through the lobby? Did a plane crash through the windows? No.
There is my ass hat Paul, lying amongst the broken pieces of a rather large, expensive looking vase. Mortally embarrassed, I run over and clean him up. Take him back to the room and put him down for bed. I go back to apologize and drink myself something to calm my frayed nerves.
When I turn to leave my room, I am escorted down by security. I find out that this vase? It really was very expensive. $5000 expensive. And it had been in a display, which was secure, which means he crashed through the plate glass AND the vase, so we are liable. It’s amazing the boy only had minor cuts. Looking back, I am convinced that was a sign he was demon spawn….but I digress.
They wanted me to pay $5000 to replace said vase. So….I worked my magic, tears and skill set…got the fee reduced. I had to go back up to the room to get his credit card though because the hell if I put it on my card.
I walk back up to the room and over by the bed to get his credit card. Whilst crouched over, rummaging through his pants, I look up just in time to see the joyous sight of Paul puking off the bed, onto the marble floor…and my cute white skirt, legs and shoes. Did he use a trashcan? Attempt to get to the bathroom? Oh no. He just rolled over and retched off the side of the bed. And let me tell you…. it was gross. Jerk chicken smells and looks horrid when mixed with whiskey.
All I could do was stand up, run outside and close the door behind me. Had I stayed, it wouldn’t have been pretty.
Half covered in jerk chicken and whiskey vomit, half covered in purple bug bites, I had to go down to the lobby and explain that, again, I needed assistance. And…that I couldn’t give them the money we owed right then because it was covered in …well…you know.
To the resort’s credit, they looked at me- bitten, puked on… and they offered me a complimentary bath robe to use after my shower in the spa area while they cleaned up my room. Apparently I really did smell and look as awful as I felt.
Turns out? We had to switch rooms again. Apparently Paul got belligerent and began vomiting exorcist style all over them when they tried to move him. So much so that they slapped a lovely fine on the room for “intensive cleaning” and threatened him with jail for the night.
So, I spent the night in the lobby bar, in my bathrobe, with De’ron, my super patient, sweet bartender who kept me company with free champagne, food and fun facts and stories about Jamaica until I was ready to sleep. He said something that hit me close to home, and I keep with me til this day.
No lady should have to spend the night alone on her birthday, but she shouldn’t spend it with a jerk either.
True that De’ron.
So….here’s to a birthday filled with glitter that sparkles to its core, champagne that tickles you toyour core, and friends that you love even more.
Birthday Week Me