The anti-honeymoon: Featuring expelled bodily fluids, but not like that yo

If I've done this properly, today is Wednesday and by now I'll be in Donnelly River. Apparently there are cottages, a mill and, unsurprisingly, a river there. 

Today's fab guest is Georgia. I might add that I've seen this woman spew and I can attest to the ladylike quality of her up chucks.

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After three quick, ladylike, attractive spews in the garden outside the chapel, I made my way in and got married.

Bring on the honeymoon - nudge nudge, wink wink - as they say.

But first there was the wedding reception. Which started with a minor spot fire as I leapt up from my seat to avoid a drunken guest spilling a bottle of red wine over my cream dress, sending the candelabra behind me into the tulle behind that.

I made my way through the night running off to our bridal suite for a few quick chunders and an arsenal of drugs. Not Viagra.

Finally, at the stroke of midnight, we farewelled the guests and sped back to our bridal suite to ride the porcelain bus - each of us for different reasons.

What followed was the worst 5 hours of my life, vomiting, delirious, and absorbing my new husband's alcohol by close body contact, while suffering from a nasty virus myself.

5am the following morning we hit the airport, our first day as husband and wife, heading to tropical Bali for our loved up honeymoon.

We boarded the plane and an announcement about our newly married status was made. We were asked to stand and smile, wave and nod. It was excruiciating.

Then we were presented with an enormous chocolate mud cake and a bottle of warm bubbly. At 7am.

Three Garuda Indonesia flight attendants and both pilots stood and grinned expectantly, waiting for us to dig in.

Super.

The cake went down badly - although I doubt very much the other passengers believe we were making a mad dash to the loo for a spew, judging by their smirks and winks. One even offered Hubby a high 5 as we rushed past.

The bubbly was popped and went everywhere. Reeking of cheap bubbly at 7:30am when he's severely hungover, and I'm in the midst of some god awful virus, simply delightful. Then we had to drink what wasn't sprayed over our person.

Oh. Dear. God. Warm, cheap bubbly at 7:30am while we are both verging on vomit.

Flash forward 3 1/2 hours of stickiness, reeking of booze and constant nausea, and we arrive in Bali.

We checked in to our gorgeous resort and went straight to bed. Again, to the nods, winks and smirks of staff.

My new husband slept most of the afternoon and evening in the bath, head in the toilet. It was totes romantic and stuff.

Finally, the following morning we were both feeling 100% again.

We celebrated by heading out for lunch. Hubby was raring to go and ordered a local prawn curry.

He then spent the next 3 days on the toilet.

As he recovered, we moved to another hotel in a different area. It had a beautiful pool set out next to the bar and restaurant.

I promptly settled in for some sun baking, and asked Hubby to keep an eye on my back and wake me up if I fell asleep.

He promised to do the husbandly thing and look after me...but then he found the bar.

At one point I must've rolled over in my sleep, as I woke at least three hours later completely red raw all over, as if I'd been in a rotisserie. My new husband was at the bar dribbling shit to his new soul mate, an equally pissed English guy. It appeared to be true love. I daren't interrupt and come between them.

I went to bed with severe sun stroke. Shivering, faux vomiting on account of my still empty stomach. I was an entirely alluring, retching, glowing red oompah loompah. Why was my husband not attempting to ravage me? Probably for fear of radiating burns if he got too close to my steaming person.

I recovered a couple of days later, sort of.

Just in time for a room service delivery of apple pie and cream. Is there any better dessert to enjoy as a couple?

Maybe, maybe not. But who else can say they've shared a romantic piece of apple pie and cream and mould, with their beloved?

A great whopping layer of mould beneath the pastry top, which we only found at the very last minute when we crossed spoons and fought over the final piece.

You guessed it, cue further illness....

Nothing brings a newly married couple closer than having to share one toilet in a confined space while both suffering from food poisoning.

Again, we recovered. Eventually.

I won't lie and say something poetic like the sun shone brightly as we emerged from our hotel room, ready to enjoy the last remaining days of our honeymoon....

Because it was raining cats and dogs and elephants and giraffes and every other bloody animal to have ever walked the earth.

The rain was so heavy, in fact, that the resort had flooded. All the way into the rooms. And so it was, that we spent the raminder of our honeymoon holed up in our lovely suite, wading through ankle deep water, not seeing the tropical paradise we had hoped to enjoy. No electricity. Nothing but 4 walls and a shit load of rain.

To say that we were relieved to head home, is as much of an understatement as saying saying I very rarely don't mind a little sip of booze, but only on special occasions.

The universe was clearly feeling sorry for us, as we scored an upgrade to business class for our flights home.

It was all very fancy, and they served a lovely prawn dish for lunch that we both wolfed down.

Until we got home and realised that the prawn dish was not quite so lovely....but at least we had a toilet each at home....

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Parental Parody is about surviving parenting one wine/whine at a time. Rather than improve on her poorly parenting skills, Georgia prefers to blog her frequent and epic parenting fails with maximum sarcasm. This blog is the place where other parents go to feel superior. She also swoons drunkenly at Dennis Lillee given half a chance.