[Whistles, tumbleweeds roll by, Brangelina gets engaged]
IS A MIRACLE FLYING BABY.
He was SO GOOD. He either slept or quietly ate almost all the way there and back. There were people sitting behind us who did not even know we had a baby with us, that's how good he was.
|Well, he had his moments. Also I had to throw out a soiled onesie in the bathroom trash can. (Sometimes I wonder, am I a mom or a Keith Richards roadie?)|
Anyway, we made it. This is not a Sixth Sense-y thing when I've been a ghost this whole time. SPOILER.
It gets better. Our hotel? Was a Filipino Melrose Place.
|Not pictured: Dramatic wig-removal.|
S. wasted no time in lounging by the central pool in the hopes of engaging in bitchy gossip and petty betrayals.
|Men's Health, eat your heart out.|
Jeff and I, on the other hand, wasted no time in hitting up the $2 happy hour.
|Does this jet lag make us look really fucking tired?|
The next morning, I ate my own weight in tropical fruit (my colon nonetheless went on strike for about 5 days, but that's a blog for
another day never), and we headed off to the beach, riding shotgun on a tricked-out tricycle:
|Yes, mom, there are seat belts. You just... can't see them. It's the angle. Or the light. Or something.|
You're not supposed to drink the water in the Philippines, which is funny, because the ocean looks better than what I filter through my Brita back home.
The pool water, however, is probably sterilized by the communal pee, as all pools are, so drink to your heart's content!
I was probably drunk in these photos. Hell, I'm a little drunk right now. The point is, my boobs are pretty big at the moment and I need to celebrate them in photo essay form before they deflate and/or drop to my knees.
Where was I? Nowhere? Great, that leads me to longganisa, these bright red Filipino breakfast sausages that I ate far too many of, despite Jeff's telling me they were probably made of domesticated animal penis.
|You know what, I'm just not going to Google it.|
|Still penises, but cuter.|
But the whole reason we were there, the reason we flew and ferried and drank rum in the afternoon for no reason was to celebrate the wedding of Aileen and Ryan. S. was the coin bearer, which, it turns out, looks a lot like a tiny sailor wearing miniature Hammer pants.
But even a supercute, superfat American baby in a little silk diaphragm cap can't steal the show from a bride who enters the church like she's starring in a Guns N' Roses video:
|That's a car behind her with ITS HIGH BEAMS ON. I'll give you a minute to collect yourselves.|
And Aileen and Ryan weren't the only ones striking a Kodak-ready pose of eternal love....
|What is butt? Does that count as second base? Or is it a foul? Does it matter, when you have such an excellent photobomb?|
I'll leave you with a postcard S. made to send to family and friends while I was busy trying to make the Running Man "a thing" at the wedding reception...