Happy Sunday. Y'all!

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TL;DR: Went on Honeymoon to Nashville TN to see Taylor Swift and eat chicken. Got too drunk at distillery tours and got food poisoning from undercooked chicken. Puked on a security guard and got kicked out before the show started. My FIL's car got stolen. I accidentally let a feral cat into the B&B and destroyed a woman's home. Spent rest of weekend sick in the guest cottage hiding from the host. Wife did not get an annulment or file for divorce.

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So, this story actually took place years ago, pre-pandemic. Our friends still joke about it and they encouraged me to share it to reddit, so here we go...

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It was late summer 2018 and my wife and I had just gotten married in a beautiful ceremony that miraculously went off without a hitch. All of the stress we were both under ensuring a successful event had evaporated. We were on the final leg of our honeymoon, the part which I was most proud of arranging (and certain she would love.

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I had grand plans of whisking my beloved girlfriend away to the bustling city of Nashville, Tennessee for a romantic weekend getaway filled with lip-smacking hot chicken, foot-tapping country music, and good ol' southern hospitality. I had booked us a charming Bed and Breakfast, and also managed to acquire two VIP tickets to see Taylor Swift - my girlfriend's favorite artist. So, when I packed up our hotel room in Huntsville, Alabama to drive the final two hours to our destination I was riding high, my guy. Her parents had even allowed us to borrow their exceptionally comfortable, exceptionally costly car for the trip as it was, after all, our honeymoon.

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The concert was that evening, and we would arrive in Nashville around noon so we would have some time to kill. I figured we would go shopping, walk around downtown, grab some local food, Ya know, tourist stuff. Little did I know, my significant other had other ideas, ideas that would have made even the most seasoned drinkers quiver in fear. Or salivate in excitement - I don't know - I'm a Pepsi guy.

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"Darling, I've heard that Nashville is the mecca of whiskey, with more distilleries per capita than any other city in the world," my girlfriend gushed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "I want to visit every single one of them and sample their unique blends." she beamed, quoting the back of a pamphlet she held. Ever intrepid, she surprised me by informing me that she had already booked us a 6 location distillery tour - operated by some company that shuttles people from place to place in a big goofy trolley - on Groupon. And so it was.

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As a self-proclaimed teetotaler, I was more than a little apprehensive. However, in the spirit of love, I agreed to go along for the ride, hoping to broaden my horizons and surprise my girlfriend with my newfound appreciation for the drink of the gods. Now I'm not actually a full-on teetotaler or straight-edge boi (is sXe a thing still?) - it's just that for the past few years I probably haven't consumed alcohol on more than a couple occasions per year. I don't have addiction issues or any idealogical issues with alcohol or people drinking it - I just...dear lord this is so lame please forgive me...I just prefer Pepsi. Also teetotaler is a fun word, you don't want to know how many times I have muttered it under my breath while writing this.

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We arrived at our B&B address in Nashville and were greeted with a wave from the enthusiastic, exceedingly endearing southern lady. She seated on a white-painted wooden swing suspended from the ceiling of the expansive wraparound porch. Beside her on a glass table were two large glass pitchers of what was unmistakably freshly brewed tea and freshly squeezed lemonade. I felt like I was in a Desperate Housewives episode or something. To my wife's chagrin, I immediately accepted her offer to fix us some sandwiches for lunch. As she was putting them together, she went over the wifi passwords, parking situation, and house rules for our stay.

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She informed us that parking was free, but first-come-first-serve, on the street and that we would be staying in the guest house out back separate from the main house. She then warned us that she tends to go to sleep very early, and that she is a deep sleeper. So from about 8pm on we would be on our own till morning. For our convenience, she would leave the sliding glass door that opened up to the patio/backyard/our lodging unlocked if we needed any toiletries, towels, or wanted snacks. We thanked her and took our sandwiches back to the room with us to eat while we figured out where we were supposed to meet for our upcoming tour. She should never have told us about the snacks, but that comes later...

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Much to our surprise, the pickup location was only a 7 minute walk away from our B&B so we unpacked the car and hung out for a little before walking to the pickup point. We were picked up, and our fateful tour was underway.

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It began at the first distillery, where we were met by a knowledgeable tour guide who regaled us with the history and process of whiskey making. He resembled beloved American Horror Story actor and all-around icon, dearly departed, fellow Tennessean Leslie Jordan. He sounded uncannily like him and his charismatic disposition and clearly genuine passion for whiskey were contagious, I must admit, I was pleasantly surprised by the sophisticated aroma and smooth taste of the samples. My girlfriend was in a state of bliss, and I found myself caught up in her enthusiasm.

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Before I knew it, we had visited five distilleries, each one offering a unique twist on the traditional whiskey, from honey-infused to maple-wood aged. My girlfriend was like a kid in a candy store, and I was having a blast too.

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As my bouncy buzz gave way to my impending inebriation, things started to go south for me. At the sixth distillery, I started feeling lightheaded and dizzy. I tried to play it cool, but with each sip, I felt like I was spiraling into oblivion. I was becoming clumsier, my voice higher, and I felt like I was literally becoming less intelligent. I had to abort my back-and-forth banter with our Leslie Jordan look-alike tour guide because my contributions to the group conversation were progressively deteriorating. Aggressively excessively, impressively unimpressively, repressively regressively, progressively depressively, digressively degressively, deteriorating. Sorry, once I started I could not stop...

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My wife later informed me that I had made slurred out some long-winded, convoluted word salad comparing the effects of alcohol consumption to...regrettably, the plot of Flowers for Algernon. I capped my ramblings off with a proposed toast to Charly - the story's main character. Thankfully, I have no memory of the apparently audible groans my request elicited, nor did I notice that no one joined in my cheers. I wasn't dangerously drunk, but I was on my way there. My girlfriend, who had been having the time of her life, noticed my rapid decline and proposed we take a break and grab some early dinner. We left the tour, skipping the final stop.

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On our way to the concert, I started feeling nauseous again, and I knew I was in trouble. As soon as we got in line to enter the concert, I puked all over a security guy, and I was asked to leave. My wife, being the amazing woman she is, took charge and called a rideshare to take me back to our bed and breakfast. Irate, Mr. Security Man shut down any idea of my girlfriend just going in without me - she was guilty by association.

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We found a quaint little café that looked like it was straight out of a fairytale and ordered some food. I got my hot chicken and some water in me and things were looking up. Our waitress brought us over a couple of large whiskey shots on the house to congratulate us on our union. Feeling better and not wanting to make her feel bad, we raised our glasses and took the shots, My stomach was instantly in knots and I lost the remainder of my appetite. I was back in the danger zone, fighting to stay afloat. We paid our tab and quickly stopped back at the B&B to drop our leftovers off and get ready for the concert.

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After a quick rest for me and a little pregaming for my wife, we were off to the concert. Taylor Swift. Her favorite artist. Her first time seeing her perform. The concert her friends were so jealous of. That she had been psyched for for months. The number one highlight of a month full of highlights. The climax of our story. I thought about telling her to go alone, but by this point I was a lot more put together than I had been - my speech and general bodily coordination had improved promisingly. I was still feeling dizzy, but I didn't want to disappoint her on our honeymoon. I knew that if I didn't go, memories of our honeymoon would forever be marred by my callous abandonment. I could already hear the voices of my wife's friends telling her how selfish I am. Not today, Satan! I told myself foolishly.

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On our way to the concert, I started feeling nauseous, and I very nearly asked the driver to take me back to the safety of the cottage. But it passed. Like completely. We joined hundreds of other Swifties in line and my wife hugged me, pecked me on the cheek, and whispered in my ear that she loved me. I was elated. All was right with the world again. I almost blew it, but we were back baby! The line was moving at a pretty decent clip, and we were almost inside the venue when, out of nowhere, my mouth absolutely flooded with saliva.

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I turned to the side in shock and disgust while what felt like a liter of spit fell out of my mouth. Simultaneously, I was hit with a wave of nausea so strong he thought I was going to pass out. As I doubled over, I felt the pressure building inside me. Like molten lava the bile rose up in my throat, replacing the saliva. I tried to turn away from the people around me, but it was too late. With a loud, guttural retch, I sharply turned and projectile vomited through my hands all over the unsuspecting security officer in front of me.

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The putrid smell of stomach acid filled the air as whisky and hot chicken came spewing out in an arc, drenching the sidewalk and peppering the poor fellow. The man staggered back, horrified at what I had just done, as the crowd around him erupted in a chorus of disgusted gasps and cries of "eww!" I was promptly kicked out and my wife, red with shame, was guilty by association. No T-Swift for her. We got out of the queue, both mortified beyond measure. We were silent for a few minutes in shock. I expected her to be mad, but this angel of a woman just asked me if I was okay and if there was anything she could do. We got back in an uber and went to the B&B to call it a night.

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But our adventure wasn't over yet. When we arrived back at the bed and breakfast, we found out that our car had been stolen. My wife, being the strong and independent woman she is, and me, being the weak and dependent man I am, called the police herself. Then the insurance company. Then her parents. I was positive that her dad was going to kill me, but he was surprisingly cool. After a solid rest session I was hungry, and I decided to check the leftovers from the café. That's when I saw the raw chicken, and I realized that the hot chicken from the cute café was undercooked, and I hadn't been able to tell because of my intoxication.

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I remembered the kind host mentioning that the main house's kitchen was always left unlocked for cottage guests if they needed something after hours. So, I decided to take her up on this offer. When I got there, I was greeted by a big adult cat meowing at the door. I opened the door and the cat darted inside. I quickly found some chips and goldfish in the cupboards and made my way back to the cottage, leaving the cat inside. I felt that I had done a good deed by letting the lil feller in for the night because it had been thundering out. The rest of the night went by without incident.

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The next morning, there was a knock on our cottage door, and the host asked if we had let a cat into the main house. I sheepishly said yes, and it turned out that the cat was a feral tomcat and caused absolute mayhem overnight, resulting in $1500 in damages. She didn't have the $1.500 dollar number right then, I only found out about that a week or so later. She said that the cat tore her place up and scratched her when she shooed it out, and asked if I would pay the damages willingly. I acquiesced immediately.

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Honestly, she must have taken pity on us after seeing us talk to the police about the stolen vehicle and given us a honeymoon disaster discount. $1,500 dollars was extremely generous for the level of destruction that tomcat wreaked. There was a lot of "spraying" involved, and a lot of shredded leather furniture and soiled oriental rugs. The host looked sad for the rest of our stay, and neither party - my wife and I - or her - looked each other in the eyes for the rest of our stay,

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I went to sleep feeling fine but woke up with the most spectacular bout of food poisoning known to man. The remainder of the trip was spent in bed, with me alternating between sweating and shivering, oscillating between hugging the toilet and curling up in the fetal position. My wife stayed by my side and took care of me. I don't deserve her.

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Our dream honeymoon had turned into a nightmare and it was all my fault. The memories we made, both good and bad, will stay with us forever, and I wouldn't have wanted to spend that wild weekend with anyone else but my amazing wife. l learned a valuable lesson - to be cautious of what I eat and to limit my alcohol intake, especially when traveling. And maybe, just maybe, I'll stick to one or two samples at the distilleries and avoid hot chicken in the future.

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We were actually able to start laughing about it by the following week - so don't worry about us guys :)