This past Saturday, I attended a wedding at the hotel Sofitel. Sound familiar? It should. Hotel Sofitel is the blue ribbon, the prize pig, the Barack Obama of places to dump thus far according to The Kids Don’t Get It‘s rigorous, objective scoring system, C.R.A.P.
I was stupid excited when I heard that the ceremony was going to be there; I’d dropped about a schoolbus worth of kids at the pool at this establishment in the past while out shopping–now I was going to get to do this in a suit. I like to think that if my butt had hands, it would’ve clapped once it heard the news.
As a matter of fact, when I read the location on the invitation, I looked over my shoulder down at Boris (that’s what I call my ass) and Boris looked back at me and we both nodded, It’s on.
For the next several weeks, the anticipation was almost murderous. You ever have an ex you haven’t seen in a long time get in touch with you? And then you set a date to meet back up? And the whole time you’re thinking about how good it was when you were together and that you wish that hoe didn’t lie to you and be off the pill and so ended up getting knocked up so you had to switch coasts for awhile and you symbolically start a new life as a missionary because missionary is what got you and that rotten trick in trouble in the first place but know she wants to see you again and you’re hoping that when you do it this time it’ll feel as good as the first time you two did it and you taped it and swore you’d never look at it again but then sometimes you hear people talk about the R. Kelly tape and you think about rummaging through some trash to find it again and say to your friends “yeah, but check this out” because it was that good?
That’s what it was like to hear that the wedding was going to be at Sofitel. Kinda.
Anyway, once the wedding date rolled around, I was prepared. By then, I’d researched the floor plan of Sofitel and knew all the places to hit. That night, I felt like Tom Cruise in the opening ballroom scene in Mission Impossible –as I worked the floor; I made small talk with friends and family members, grabbed a few appetizers, casually sipped on drinks, the whole time fantasizing about what I’d do to the bathroom.
You know those fundraiser thermometers outside of churches and schools? That’s how I was gauging Boris’ threshold before I’d slip out and re-acquaint myself with Sofitel. Each appetizer, entree and drink added to the meter. The trick was to make sure that we reached a comfortable midway point–somewhere between, “Sweet Batman I think a turd pebble just dropped” (bad) and “Oooh; I’m broodin’ to make some puddin'” (good).
I even did a few dry-runs (heh) to the bathroom during various points of the wedding to gauge the situation, but alas, the crowd was too frequent and too Bat-damn chatty (“So are you friends with the bride/groom?” Mofo I’m here to drop a link in the john, not to play Facebook) that it was clear that I’d had to wait until the after-party to get down to business.
And so, at the stoke of 2am, once much of the post-wedding/after party crowd had dispersed, I made my triumphant return to the Sofitel’s 1st floor bathroom.
I obviously couldn’t bring a book with me to the wedding, so I brought the wedding program with me instead (since it was a traditional Jewish wedding, there was lots to read inside. Perfect).
I felt like Fred Astaire as I glided to the stall, and with a graceful motion, opened up the door and….
it was ruined. I mean ruined. Paper, pee and puke peeked from every porous porcelain port. It looked as though the entire Phillies World Series parade had taken place inside of the bathroom. And Ryan Howard was the last to leave.
I was devastated, d-e-v-a-s-t-a-t-e-d. “Oh Sofie”, I cried, “what have they done to you?”. Even Boris wept a little (not good). I dropped to the floor and hugged the toilet–I felt like Celie in The Color Purple when she’s reunited with her kids. Inside, I felt myself becoming The Grinch–my heart shrunk several, several times, while Boris’ ire grew and grew.
Revenge will be had, Sofie. Oh yes, revenge will be ours. They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but I think this one’s going to be hot. And stinky.