Hotel Pools

The best time to visit a hotel pool is between 11 a.m. and 3 p.m. Most guests have either checked out, are at their immeasurably important conferences or haven’t yet checked in. Thus, very few people, if any, are in the pool area.

Obviously, I never touch the water in these bacteria-ridden chlorinated puddles, nor do I consider laying in one of those chairs coated in tree shards and child farts, but in general, the pool area is a nice place to be outside and get some work done. You will usually find me in the least conspicuous spot possible, looking like I belong in a coffee shop.

That was happening today. I was the only person out there when a 20-something bikini-clad lass, whom we’ll call Peach, plopped herself into a chair and began loudly playing what 20-somethings refer to as music. Didn’t matter—I turned up my music that was pumping through my headphones, because I am a courteous human being.

All was fine.

About 17 minutes later, another 20-something woman, whom we’ll call Blue, showed up. To my dismay, she knew the first 20-something. Thus began the conversation, which was pleasant in tone, but still aggravating as turning up my music louder would’ve been detrimental to my precious hair cells (real things), plus I had to turn my music off because I eavesdrop on people.

They seemed to be reliving last night, which apparently was on fleek.

Peach got up and left, presumably to get more beer. Several minutes later, she returned, using her raspy voice to shout hateful things about someone she overheard talking about her.

“Apparently I’m a bridezilla,” she began, before unleashing a profanity-laced tirade to which her future husband, whose name I will later learn is Jeremiah, can look forward. In the middle of the screaming, Purple, another 20-something woman, arrived.

It appears Purple was the one who called Peach the bridezilla. They went at it. These best friends, one of whom is standing next to the other on the most important day of her life until her next marriage, were screaming at each other over their ridiculously loud music about whether or not Peach was a bridezilla, whether it was fair to call her one even if she was, and something about someone named Andrea, who I don’t believe was any of the three out there. Blue, through all of it, remained silent. Poor Blue.

And out came White Fleece Thing. Before she even accessed the pool area with her key card, she was shouting at Peach, Purple and Blue about Andrea. White Fleece Thing was, amazingly, even more vulgar than Peach. Apparently, everyone hates Andrea. They were being so disgusting and mean to someone who wasn’t present, I naturally sided with Andrea and felt sympathy for her. That is, of course, until Andrea showed up.

Andrea

Andrea, who either has frostbite on her entire left arm or one of the ugliest tattoos I’ve ever seen, immediately went nuts on all four other women.

Paraphrasing for decorum (side note: I’ve played hockey for 30 years and have never heard language as disgusting as these morons used):

“Peach, you are a meanie because you didn’t ask me to be in your bridal party. I’m just a guest and Purple’s robust posterior is a bridesmaid? Why did I even come? Don’t even start, White Fleece Thing. You’ve known Peach for, like, a day, and you’re in the wedding? This is total hogwash.”

White Fleece Thing turned up the vulgarity in response, unintelligibly for most of it, but closing with a very clear, “Give me my car keys” for some reason.

At that time, a very nice hotel employee came outside with plastic cups because these women were pounding beers out of glass bottles, which is a direct violation of all the signs on every fence post near the pool.

“How’s it going, ladies?” he asked.

“Not good,” shouted Peach.

Totally ignoring and thus disrespecting the courteous man doing his job professionally, these abhorrent miscreants continued sniping at each other.

“Last night was the bachelorette party,” said Andrea in that hideous 22-year-old-who-is-naively-too-sure-of-herself-despite-knowing-nothing-and-also-can’t-enunciate voice, “and today was supposed to be chill by the pool.”

I’m unsure what her point was, and there likely wasn’t one, but my takeaway was these insufferable nut jobs are likely staying at my hotel for at least two more days.

Andrea said a few more nasty things and stomped away, saying she’s taking the car and never coming back. I still don’t know why a car was involved in this chill-by-the-pool day after the epic bachelorette party. Peach and Purple, who originally were arguing, embraced and expressed their mutual love.

Blue remained silent, by this point easily my favorite member of the group.

After a few more minutes of complaining about Andrea, White Fleece Thing spoke: “Your posterior looks great in those shorts, Peach.”

Peach then displayed her class and humility by shaking her behind toward White Fleece Thing in an incredibly unattractive exhibition. The important thing was White Fleece Thing had successfully committed the political move of being on the bride’s good side, probably moving a rung above Blue and maybe even closing in on Purple.

In summary, Peach is a bride who is getting married this weekend and had a bachelorette party with her best friends last night. Today, she is yelling at her best friends for not bending to her every whim, then resenting one of those friends for calling her out on it, and that friend resents that the bride is getting all the attention. Jeremiah will soon be married to Peach, and while I want to feel sympathy for him, I also sense there is a 98% chance he is just as repugnant as Peach is.

Epilogue

It’s been about 30 minutes since all the above happened, and Andrea still hasn’t returned. The other four are now choreographing a dance. Yes, they are choreographing a dance. Peach is screeching at these people to do things right, suggesting this dance will be performed at her wedding reception. The bridesmaids are cowering to Peach’s demands, cussing repeatedly while poorly stepping to bad choreography.

The point: these people are awful.

“Somebody go get Heather” was just uttered. That’s it for me. I don’t want to know anything about Heather.