Honeymoon in Jamaica part 3. The attack of the Young Republicans.


We woke up our first day in Jamaica and couldn’t wait to hit the beach, but we were going to need some breakfast first. We made our way down to this beautiful terrace overlooking the ocean where breakfast was being served and as we were waiting for our meals we were toasting each other with the champagne we had ordered. There were a number of other loving couples sitting around us and we couldn’t help but notice that they all seemed to know each other.
“Wow everyone here knows each other. Do you think they are traveling in one big group?” I asked Poptart.
“I don’t know. Maybe they’ve been here for a few days and have made friends.”
“Huh.”

After breakfast Poptart and I made our way down to the private beach and it was amazing. There was a Calypso Band playing near the pristine lounge chairs they had perfectly distanced from one another so as not to impede on another guest’s privacy. They also had waiters that were fully dressed walking around with trays of tropical drinks to quench your thirst. Where the hell are we? As Poptart and I made our way to our lounge chairs we noticed more couples conversing and pairing up in groups of four or more. Okay? A server came over to us and asked us if we would like a drink. That’s like asking a teenage boy if he would like a blowjob. The answer is Hell Yes!
“What can I get you?” the server asked us. Good question.
“What do you have?” As the server started listing off the hotel’s most popular drinks in alphabetical order I swear I felt myself age a bit. We weren’t getting anywhere this way. When you want information on a blood test do you ask the receptionist at the Doctor’s office? No. You ask the Doctor. Same with alcoholic beverages. If you want information on an alcoholic beverage you don’t ask the server. It was time to meet the bartender.

Poptart and I excused ourselves and made our way to the outside bar where we met the man who was to become our very best and closest friend on the trip. His name was Sibony. Sibony was a not a small man. He was a Jamaican man of a larger stature and a head shaved so smoothly that he made babies jealous. He also had a smile that just made you want to reach over the bar and kiss his big, black, bald head. I loved Sibony. He introduced us to a raspberry, banana, and rum concoction that I drank pretty much day and night. I couldn’t get enough of it. If the hotel provided an IV with this drink attached to a drip I would have had it pumped through my system 24/7. After spending some quality time with Sibony I asked him the question of the day. “Where can a girl buy a pipe around here?”
“You just walk out the front gates, mon,” he said with a smirk.
“Are you serious? There are pipes sitting just outside the gates and I’m in here smoking out of a damn can? I’m out of here!” I thanked our new BFF Sibony and Poptart and I ventured outside the security of the hotel complex, something that is very much frowned upon.

Once we hit the outside it was amazing, and rather chaotic. There were all kinds of vendors out there. Vendors with pipes, vendors who wanted to braid my hair, vendors who tried to sell Poptart their kidneys. It was great! I hated to disappoint so many people but I only wanted the pipe. So far our kidneys were still intact and I liked my hair the way it was. So we ventured back into the hotel and I got stoned in our room and then back down to the beach. Poptart and I lay on the beach and read. And then drank a little. And then read some more. And then had another cocktail. Ate some lunch. Went back down to the beach. Watched the other couples schmooze each other. Read somemore. To be completely honest, it was getting a little boring.

As the day started to come to a close Poptart and I went back up to the room and got ready for dinner. We were sure The Royal Plantation would pick up at night. After all, this was a resort destination right? So Poptart and I put on our best duds and came back down to the terrace. Hmmm. Where were all the fun people? All the other couples from the beach were now decked out in Brooks Brothers and Liz Claiborne, sipping white wine and huzzah-ing Dubya’s first term in office. We were, shall we say, out of place. We felt like we had just walked in on a Young Republican’s fundraiser.

“Hi there, you two. You look lost,” came a voice to our left. As we turned, we noticed that the voice was attached to a 20-something who reeked of old money. Oh shit someone is talking to us and I’m sooooo stoned.
“Heeeeey, Hi,” I said as Poptart gave them his winning smile.
“We’re the Haddens. Marsha and Pete,” Pete said.
“Nice to meet you, we’re Stacy and Poptart,” Poptart said. I’m so going to let him do all the talking.
“We didn’t see you two at the beach party last night,” Marsha said.
“We were tired from flying all night so we ended up falling asleep,” Poptart said.
“Oh that’s too bad,” Pete said.
“Would you like to join us for a drink?” Marsha added. Say no. Say no. Say no.
“Love to.” Damn you Poptart! Don’t you see what they are trying to do? We must leave now! So we ended up having a drink with Pete and Marsha. Poor, naïve Poptart. He took their friendliness at face value, but I knew what Pete and Marsha’s real motivations were. Brainwashing. If we didn’t get out of here soon, we would develop severe underbites and begin arguing about whether it’s better to summer in Aspen or Gstaad.

Fortunately, Poptart’s ADD makes it unbearable for him to be around boring people, and his eyes started to get that glazed-over look just as Pete and Marsha began discussing the Minneapolis real estate market. He kicked me under the table and ran his right finger behind his right ear (our sign for “Get me the hell out of here!”). I nodded slightly and scratched my left nostril (“Roger that.”). You may laugh, but we have an entire language worked out with facial tics, scratches, tugs, and coughs. For instance, if I start braiding my hair over my right shoulder, that means, “I’m about to choke this bitch, so you better get over here and diffuse the tension.” It’s really a great system. Of course, there were hiccups early on, such as when Poptart signaled me to grab his jacket and I ended up goosing my father-in-law. But that’s another story. Anyway, sometime during our drink with Pete and Marsha, I had stolen away to the bathroom to check my underbite. The bathroom is right next to one of the many bars in the hotel, so I asked the bartender where the action was. He told me it was at the next hotel over, so that’s where Poptart and I were headed once we were able to pry ourselves from Pete and Marsha’s clutches.

Once we got off the shuttle that took us to Funky Town it was as if we had entered a completely different side of the island. All we could hear was music and loud screams of drunken ecstasy. We had hit the jackpot. Not only was this place hopping but also because we were staying at The Royal Plantation, we didn’t have to pay for a thing here either. This was the groovy part of heaven. First we found dinner, and then we found a reggae band. They were AWESOME! Poptart and I danced until our clothes were soaked through with sweat. After that we happened upon an outdoor art show and looked at the most beautiful art from Jamaican artists.
Then we found shuffleboard and played that for a while and just when you thought the night was over we found this place that had the most decadent desserts. We sat outside and ate chocolate and whipped cream and all things that are so bad but taste so damned good.

After we were done with groovy heaven we made our way back to The Royal Plantation and when we arrived we had a different appreciation for the place than when we left. Unlike groovy heaven our place was nice and quiet. Couples were in the hot tub, out on the beach and some were in the bar. Unlike the other resort that was loud, you could actually relax at ours and go to bed if you wanted to. Then it hit me, groovy heaven was like being on a coke bender with no chance of ever getting off. I liked our place better. Not quite ready to go to bed yet Poptart and I ventured on into the bar for what was supposed to be one drink, when Poptart noticed one of the young Republicans was currently in a drink challenge with the bartender. The challenge was to make it through the drink menu, alphabetically. “What letter is he on?” Poptart asked the bartender.
“D,” the bartender told him.
“I can beat a D,” Poptart told me.
“Don’t do it,” I told him.
“Oh you have to do it,” the bartender told him. Of course you say that, you’re not the one who’s going to have to take care of him.
“Don’t do it,” I said again.
“Gimme an ‘A’!,” Poptart told the bartender. He thought this was hilarious. I just shook my head.
“This guy says he can beat your D,” the bartender told the young Republican.
“I’d like to see him try,” scoffed the young Republican. We’ll call him Chaz.
We had already been drinking all day and the last thing Poptart needed was to try and cause an upset in our political system this late in the evening. But hey, it was his liver. Chaz made it to E before falling out of his barstool and getting carried back to his room by Biff and Chet. Poptart made it to F and called it a night.
And unlike Chaz, I didn’t have to carry his ass home.

Later that evening as we were lying in bed watching TV he got up to use the bathroom and walked straight into the wall. I laughed so hard I fell out of bed.
“It’s not funny,” Poptart said rubbing his forehead.
“Oh, yes it is.”
I’m happy to report the next day Poptart was up and back to his usual shenanigans with a small headache of course. Chaz didn’t fare so well. He spent his day on the beach, face down in a lounge chair with his head covered in a towel and a pissed off wife.
When Chaz saw Poptart at lunch that day, he seemed surprised that Poptart was alive and well.
“How far did you make it last night?” He asked. “B? C?”
“F.” Poptart said, yawning.
“Oh,” Chaz muttered, seeming deflated. He went back to his lounge chair and his pissed off wife. I guess we probably should have told him we were both bartenders. It was his fault anyway; challenging a bartender to a drinking contest is like challenging a chef to a cooking contest. There are just some things you don’t do, and that’s one of them. Oh well, you live; you learn and as the young Republican found out…you just can’t win ‘em all.

To be continued…..

Love it? Hate it? Let me know! Send questions, comments, brownie recipes or random brainfarts to: mrsdiagnosed@yahoo.com

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