Karma is a spiteful bitch

My pixilated pictures on here don't show it, but I wear glasses in real life. I've been wearing these particular glasses for about 9 years or so. In that time, I've replaced the lenses, but that was 6 or 7 years ago, so not by any means recently.

The lenses desperately have to be replaced, but over the past year, I've held the notion in my head that I was going to get laser eye surgery and I don't need to invest in a new pair of glasses or lenses. It would be a waste of money, after all.

I was recently talking with a friend about this and he told me about ordering glasses online; he's done it and has had success. Plus they're cheap - two pair for $100 kind of cheap. And they're not crap-pieces either. I thought this was a great idea and decided I was going to get an eye test and order them online in the new year, once I recouped some of the money spent on Christmas.

Last night, I went for a walk in the rain. Normally when I do this, I either bring an umbrella or wear my contacts so that rain doesn't get all over my glasses. For some odd reason, I decided I didn't need to do that. I ventured out into the night and walked around for over an hour. Practically cursing myself the entire time seeing as I repeatedly had to stop and wipe my glasses. No easy feat when you're bundled up to protect yourself from the rain.

I was on the "heading home" leg of the journey when I stopped under this tree to wipe my glasses. Almost instantly, I felt the lens pop out of the frame. These are not lens-popping-out-frames. I knew it was bad. I inspected my glasses and discovered the metal holding the lens in had completely snapped off the bridge of the nose.

My first thought, aside from "Oh no!", was "I should have worn my contacts". I lovingly put the pieces of my glasses into my pocket and started the blinded walk home. I figured I'd bring my glasses to my dad's place the next day (I was going there for Christmas dinner anyway) and have him look at them. I figured he could solder it, or glue it, or something, so that I could last into the new year, or at the very least, last until I could get myself to the optometrist.

As I was walking home, I became increasingly paranoid about losing the loose lens. I started constantly routing around my pocket to make sure the lens was still there. As I approached my home, I went into the same pocket to get my keys. It felt like something was missing, I made sure the lens was still in place, which it was. I took an inventory of my pocket contents and everything seemed to be right.

I was walking up my driveway when it dawned on me; I spun around and looked into the night from the direction I just came. I made a half-hearted-blind effort to retrieve my lost goods. I knew I'd never find it; I didn't know where I lost it and I couldn't see anything because of the dark and the fact that I broke my glasses.

All I have left of my journey in the rain is regret, shame and a single eyeglass lens. Guess I'm going shopping sooner than I thought.

Christmas at the White House

Growing up, Mom was a bit of a hard ass. About a lot of things, but especially about Christmas. There were a lot of rules surrounding this holiday; it's a wonder we got any joy out of it at all.

First of all, we had to decorate the tree "as a family", while listening to Christmas music, drinking egg nog and eating her Christmas baking. It was a rough life, I tell ya.

But one thing that was actually hard, was the time between the tree decorating and Christmas morning. The time that dragged so slowly because everyday the presents were there, staring you in the face, just begging to be opened.

Probably a week before Christmas morning, once we were off school and stuck at home, the begging began incessantly. My brother and I would bug Mom constantly.

Every time we asked the same question, yet expected a different answer. The answer never changed.

The outcome also never changed.

Eventually, Christmas Eve would roll around and we would have dinner at Granny's place. We would get to open the presents from Granny, Uncle Jim & Uncle Keith. You'd think this would satiate our hunger, but in reality, it only fueled it.

By the time we got home, we'd be hell bent on opening our presents. We would beg and we would get the same answer. After enough time, we'd convince Mom that it was Christmas Eve; the day has the word Christmas in it and we were allowed to open Granny's presents, so therefore, it is Christmas.

Mom would cave and allow us to open one present each.

Mom got to pick which one we opened and it was almost always clothes. Kids love getting clothes. Technically we opened presents, even if they weren't good ones, so we would go to bed and wait for Christmas morning.

Nowadays, Mom lives away and we don't see her on Christmas. She ships presents to us and we ship presents to her. Typically, I get her package in the mail about a week before Christmas. Since, most years, we celebrate Christmas with my dad on the 23rd, I never have anything to open on Christmas morning except for the present from Mom.

And since she engrained it into my soul, I never open her present early. Even though I'm an adult and I can make my own decisions, thank-you very much. Turns out, I would like a little something to open on Christmas morning. Otherwise, it's just another morning.

Tonight, Mom called to let me know that she got my package (I received hers a couple days before). Every year we have the same conversation:

Mom: Have you opened your present yet?

Me: No, I haven't.

Mom: Why not?

Me: Because it's not Christmas yet.

Mom: Well, why don't you open it now?

Me: What? No!

Mom: Oh, come on... just open it!

Me: No way!

Mom: Why not??

Me: Because then I won't have anything to open on Christmas morning.

Mom: Oh, man...

Talk about role reversal. I know why she does it. Since she can't be here to watch, she wants to hear me open my present. Every time, I say no, I can hear the disappointment in her voice. This year, I decided to compromise:

Me: If you want, I can wait until you call before I open it...

Mom: Oh... alright....

Me: But you have to wait to open yours too, so we can open them together, okay?!

Mom: OKAY!!!!

All traces of disappointment were gone; all that was left was excitement and happiness.

 

Merry Christmas, Everyone!

A Beer For the Shower

One of my favorite blogs is having a contest. This post is my entry into said contest. I must be funny and/or creative. We all know these are not my strong suits, but here's my attempt so that I win a prize.

Ironically enough, the prize is having my picture drawn in MSPaint.

I'm oddly excited about potentially winning the prize... So it's pretty much like every other prize I've been in the vicinity of. I should really stop being so damn excitable.

Anyway, back to the post... I don't quite recall how I first came to read A Beer For the Shower (ABFtS) , but within reading a post or two I decided to go back to the beginning of time and read their entire blog. I got through it and I'm still reading to this day, if that's a testament of their awesomeness.

It probably isn't. But it should be!

The blog is written by two dudes and started out as purely prose, but it eventually became a comic-laden blog. The difference between these guys and someone like, oh... let's say... me, is that these guys are actually writers. Like professional writers. They make books and stuff.

This is where this post comes in. They recently released an e-book available on Amazon. The book is called The Missing Link and it's cover was drawn in, you guessed it, MSPaint. It's about the day the internet died. They released it this way because the publishing world is a crock and they got tired of being dicked around.

It makes me glad that I don't have those sorts of goals.

So why am I doing this? Well, for one, the prize (duh!); for two, they too have asshole neighbours. Mostly though, it's because they they like drinking beer in the shower, so they're okay in my books. In fact, they actually have instructions on the best way to enjoy a beer in the shower. Tips that you don't want to learn through trial and error; after all, trial and error often results in wasted beer.

Very few people know, that drinking while bathing is a guilty pleasure of mine. For a long time, I deprived myself of this luxury. I thought it made me a bad person, or an alcoholic. It's not that I can't bathe without a drink, but sometimes, I simply choose not to.

I don't really drink beer anymore; I switched over to vodka and never really looked back. But every so often, I get a hankering for drinking while bathing, and a vodka cocktail does not do it justice. Trust me, I've tried. When this happens, I go out and buy a case of beer just so I can drink one while I bathe.

Which results in me having nice, long, relaxing baths 6 days in row. I've always enjoyed it while in the bath, as opposed to the shower, however, this was before I read their tips; I was always afraid of watering down the precious nectar. Not anymore.

So there you have it. Read their blog, buy their book and convince them that this is the funniest, most creative entry they've received.

And... ... ... GO!

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing the [good] illustration!

Growing up is hard to do... part two

Eventually hurt feelings and wrongdoings were forgotten and the bullies backed off. It got to be so that we merely narrowed our eyes when we ran into each other in the neighbourhood. I was all right with the situation; I've got a pretty good scowl.

However, eventually hurt feelings and wrongdoings were remembered and I decided that I had to exact my revenge. I remember the summer it happened. Dorian just got his first car - it was a piece of shit, but he thought it was the shit. It was an older Chevy Cavalier (considering this story takes place in 1993, it was a very old Cavalier), yet he was always outside, diligently, washing, waxing and ogling his car.

Ironically enough, my first real car was also an older model Chevy Cavalier, so I know how much of a piece they are. I, however, never tricked myself into thinking it was anything but that.

Being in (very early) high school at the time, me & K decided the best way to knock him down a peg would be to attack his car. I wish we meant figuratively. We did a lot of things to his car just on the legal side of vandalism.

However, TP-ing and egging quickly proved to be an inadequate method of expressing ourselves. We had to do something that was not only an inconvenience, but also nasty as hell. We also wanted to walk by the next day and watch him clean it up.

One night, we started emptying the contents of my fridge into a juice jug: ketchup, horse radish, salad dressing, syrup; you name it, it was in there. It was disgusting.

We started out strong, but by the time the concoction was prepared, the noxious fumes had gotten the better of us.

We went outside to throw the mixture on his car, not only as punishment, but also to get out of the god forsaken house. The cloud of grossness had certainly engulfed the house by that point.

Even after two wrongs made a right, the fumes would be too much and we would be left sitting out on my front porch, while every window and door was open to (hopefully) air out the house. It was the concoction's way of punishing us for creating it.

We'd often have to spend the better part of the night on the stoop before the house was aired out enough to go back in and sleep in it. By the time we got out of bed the following morning, the mess was long cleaned up and we didn't get the satisfaction of watching Dorian suffer.

Dorian, however, got the satisfaction of watching us suffer through our Horse Radish Hangover, although he probably didn't know what caused us to be under the weather. On the other hand, he probably did.

The concoction was a double-edged sword.

Growing up is hard to do

When I was a kid, we moved out of one neighbourhood and into another. With a new neighbourhood comes a new school, and a new school brings new friends. It isn't always easy and it doesn't always work out.

Shortly after my first day at my new school, I was befriended by a girl named Honey. Seriously - I did not change her name to protect her identity. She was a nice enough girl and we came to be pretty good friends; I had dinner and sleepovers at her place and helped her with her paper route. At one point, we had a falling out; I honestly don't remember what sparked it, but I vividly remember what maintained it.

I guess Honey was upset by the ordeal and her big brother, Dorian, decided to take it upon himself to fix it. And by fix it, I mean pick on me and make my life hell. The pair of them became my bullies.

With names like Honey & Dorian, I guess the only defense is a good offense. Dorian used to hit me, push me down and whip me with rocks tied to string. Again... not making this up. My brother would chase him off, but Danny wasn't always around. Sometimes it was up to me to fend off this older, bigger, boy. That and his tag-teaming sister. It wasn't always easy.

My parents tried everything short of my dad kicking the ass of Minor Dorian, or Elderly Max (their dad - seriously, he was so old that he was retired... did I mention I was in elementary school?)

One night my dad took us over to his friend's place; Dad & his buddies got nice and liquored up. At one point, my dad approached me and told me that this Honey & Dorian fiasco had to stop; I had to stand up for myself. I said that I try, but when I do stand up to Dorian, Honey steps in and then it's two against one... what else can I do?

Why, learn to fight, of course. Since I was a 10 year old girl, Dad didn't want to teach me how to actually fight, so he taught me to fight like... well, a 10 year old girl.

He told me to slap him in the face. I laughed and didn't do it. Dad became more and more persistent. He wouldn't take no for an answer.

That's when I made the decision that I was going to have to slap my dad. My first swing was half-hearted at best. I couldn't very well actually hit my dad in the face, after all.

But that simply wasn't good enough for him.

My slaps became harder and harder.

Dad was crouched down in front of me accepting blow after blow, never phased. After each and every slap, he'd say "That's better - but you can hit harder". Once I became accustomed to slapping my dad, I stopped being afraid and I just started giving it my all. At one point, I wound up with all my might and smashed my tiny little hand against my dad's face. He was impressed.

This continued on until his left cheek was bright red and I was beginning to enjoy the game. At that point, he thought he did his job and he left me with the following advice: Next time Dorian picks on you, you hit him like you just hit me.

Thanks Dad.

 

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing illustrations!

Music soothes even the savage beast

I went to a music show last night. I'm not sure if I've ever felt so out of place before.

My friend's kid plays drums in a band and his band was among many that were performing at this benefit concert. Just trying to support the arts... sometimes it happens to be painful.

Oh, did I mention that it was a heavy metal/hip hop show and how I'm not into heavy metal or hip hop? No? Well it was and I'm not. Thus... painful and out of place. Bad combination. Needless to say, the crowd was divided into two categories: baggy, low-ridin' pants and black, skinny jeans. I didn't think those folks got along.

The first act got on stage; a girl started making a speech in honour of the guest of honour, the late Scott Day; she seemed like a normal girl.

After her speech, the band started playing and she didn't leave the stage. They were playing death metal and I wondered what she was doing still holding the mic. And then she started 'singing'. You ever hear death metal and hear what constitutes as singing? It's more like a deep, snarling, growling, screaming... to music. Really fast, head pounding music. That's what she did.

It was unbelievable. And scary. I nicknamed her Scary Mary. Dave whole-heartedly agreed. Throughout the duration of their set, Dave and I sat there with wide eyes and open mouths, only tearing our eyes away from the stage long enough to look to each other for support.

That band finished their set and Dave's kid's band, Magnus Rising, took the stage for sound check. Once that was done, they left the stage, which I thought was weird, but then two rappers got on stage and did their set. Then another one came on after them and did a set. It was a huge shock to the system to go from heavy, heavy metal, to rap.

After the rappers were finished laying down their beats, Magnus Rising went on stage. Even though it's not really my type of music, I enjoyed the show and I'm not just saying that because I'm biased. It's actually true. Why? Probably because their singer actually sings instead of screaming. Okay, he might scream a bit, but it's not growling and it has a melody, so it's good. Dave's kid is the drummer and he's been a superstar ever since he first picked up a pair of sticks... he was probably 13. The guitar and bass players in the band are also crazy talented, so it makes for an interesting show.

The next band was going up, but not before another rap group came on. The final band, Ninja Spy, got on stage and what a show they put on! Again, not my kind of music, but they make heavy metal so very interesting. First of all their stage presence, secondly, all three of them are super talented and third, they're three brothers that sing three-part harmonies to heavy metal riffs. Pretty cool.

By the end of the night, I was reminded how much stamina and talent is required to play this kind of music. Not that I have a desire to play it, but it makes me wish I had those qualities. Alas, no, but I'll take what I got.

Dave seems thinks that if I get a kick-ass electric guitar, I'll suddenly be a shredder. I tried telling that him it's not the guitar, it's the player. But then he told me that he was going to build me said kick-ass guitar. That's about the time I stopped talking.

Mexico Part 5

Even though, I've left so many stones unturned, I think this will be my final installment on this subject. Aside from all that craziness in Parts 3 & 4, the rest wasn't all that crazy. I swear.

Thursday night was the last night I allowed for debauchery. Since I had a rocky flight on the way down, I really didn't want to be hungover for the plane ride home. And since I had to check out of my room at noon and couldn't have a siesta, I didn't want to be hungover for the day in the heat. Thus, I kept it low key on Friday night. I didn't even bring out the big guns.

Thursday, however, it was on! I was walking to Bar 1 when I passed this table. I instantly recognized one of the people, but also knew that I had never spoken with her. Her face lit up and said "You have to join our party, come here!". I guess she recognized me too.

Who was she? The other terrified person on the plane that I looked to for support during the turbulent times. Her name is Rose and she lives about 5 minutes away from me. Weird.

I managed to convince her party to go to the disco. Mostly because I was like "I'm going to the disco" and so they decided to come too. We danced all night and I may have gotten more drunk than I did any of the other nights.

The boys that let me play pool the night before were there again, playing pool. They tried to get me to join in. I declined due to my level of intoxication. I didn't know how to say "I'm drunk" in Spanish (which is probably a good thing). The game would have gone on forever, and I wouldn't have sunk a ball... except for maybe the white one.

In hindsight, Wayne was there too, and he spent a lot of his time watching me on the dance floor. Creepy.

During my stay in Mexico, I came up with a system for determining how much I had to drink the night before. I called this method "counting limes". Every time I got a drink in my big blue cup, they'd put a new lime in. In the morning, I would empty my cup of any unfinished drink and count the limes. Friday morning I woke up feeling under the weather, I counted the limes and nearly choked on my own saliva.

Seven? I sure hope I got double-limed at least twice. Dear God, no wonder I wasn't feeling well. Turned out to be a bit more than that and I spent the majority of Friday feeling unwell.

Rose had plans to go to Puerto Vallarta Friday evening and do some karaoke. I was invited and intended to go, but when Friday afternoon rolled around and I still wasn't feeling well, I met up with them and said "Thanks for the invite, but I can't go".

Rose was understanding. She said she was looking for me all day long to see if I was going to come, apparently she was asking around for me. One of the guys we were partying with the night before got asked "if he'd seen Heather". He laughed and said "Heather? She only comes out at night... have you seen how white she is?? She can't handle the sun!" I laughed, but also made a mental note to tan before going back.

One of the girls that was going to karaoke was a little less understanding, she said if I had a couple drinks I'd feel better. I was skeptical. Turns out she was right. I saw them at the disco that night (even though I wasn't going to go there) and I was feeling much better three drinks in. We danced until I tapped out. Which was early... Like midnight.

After going home and packing, I realized it was only 1am and I could go back to the disco for another drink. I did. When I went back at 2am everyone was much less surprised to see me again. When I said I was going home for real, they said "See you in 5 minutes". I didn't go back, because that's what willpower looks like.

A guy was playing pool that Friday night. A guy that I saw everyday on the resort. Multiple times a day, in fact. Actually, I pretty much saw him everywhere I went. We never spoke more than "Hola". When I saw him at the disco, I couldn't help but go up to him and say hi; we introduced ourselves (his name is Dan) and he told his friend how he saw me everyday and how he thought it was weird that we hadn't spoken. I thought it was funny that he had the exact same thoughts on the subject as I did.

Meanwhile, I went up and got my picture taken with Gabriel & Cesar. When I was coming out from behind the bar, Dan was there. He looked shocked. He said "What the hell was that? How'd you do that?" and I said "Do what?" and then turned and said thanks to Gabriel & Cesar. The bartenders were all "No problem, Heather, you come back soon, okay?!" And I said "Definitely!". When I turned back to Dan, he looked astonished. He asked me how I had that connection. I shrugged. He caught on... "You've been here every night haven't you!?". I shrugged again and said "Yeah... I have..."

He laughed and said that he should've hooked up with me a week ago and he can't believe we went the whole week without even talking. I agreed that it was weird that we hadn't spoken and then I asked if this was his first night at the disco. He confirmed. I said "Well, then, you should have come here sooner".

So, all in all... I didn't do all the things I planned on doing. I didn't go into town, I didn't kayak, I didn't snorkel, I didn't eat tacos off a street vendor, I didn't see the sights, I didn't experience what Mexico has to offer. I didn't do anything I thought I would... except drink and lie on the beach. Therefore, I must go back soon. Next time I go, I'll be less inclined to be happy "just being there" and will actually do all the things I wanted to do (... ... like Jose...). One can hope anyway.

Mexico - part 4

The night after my make out session with Jose, I called it quits early; I had to wake up for an excursion the next day. I barely even went to the disco that night. The night after the excursion, however, I most certainly was at the disco. That's the night I decided playing pool was a good idea. Just before a new game started, I approached one of the players; I expressed my desire to play, he expressed his confusion.

Another one that didn't speak English - and I don't know the Spanish word for "play". After a lot of gestures and pulling his friend over (who did speak English), I got my point across and they said I could play with them. I was pretty happy.

Turns out, there were two guys, Rick and Wayne that were supposed to play the winners. Oooops, I unknowingly jumped the queue! (Side note: I thought Wayne was Rick's dad, but I later found out they were just sitting next to each other on the plane; this is more important that it sounds)

I was supposed to break - I suck at breaking. But it turned out to be easier to just do it, rather than trying to complain in Spanish. Como se dise "I suck" en Espanol?

I didn't do a very good job. I totally missed that shot, but eventually I hit them balls.

After a very long game of pool (I may or may not have been intoxicated), Rick and Wayne played the winners (hint: I did not play again). Wayne gave me his camera and I proceeded to take about a hundred pictures of their game. I also took a couple of my own.

Yada, yada, yada, I went home.

Two nights later, I was at the disco again and Wayne was there. He was watching a game of pool; I spoke with him briefly and then went to the bathroom.

The bathroom at the disco was weird. The first time I went, I was almost scared to go in there.

The door on the inside of the disco looks like any bathroom door, but when you go through it, you're suddenly outside. To the left is a pathway into darkness and in front of you is a little saloon door.

Kinda like this one, but without the cheery colours. It was dark and it was scary. Turns out, it's just so that the bathroom is accessible when the disco is closed. It ended up not being bad at all, until...

I came out of the saloon door to go back inside and...

Wayne was waiting outside for me. As I approached him, he made like the usual Mexican greeting; hand extended, face turned (the handshake/kiss on the cheek move). Only at the last second, he turned his face towards mine and laid the kiss right on my lips.

I was super creeped out; first: I just kissed an old man; second: he was waiting outside for me (!!!); and third: he was standing in the very spot that creeped me out the first time I went to the bathroom.

He asked me what I was doing...

He wanted to know what I was going to do inside. I said I was going to dance. I asked if he was going home now and he shrugged, turned away and said "I guess...." while looking seductively over his shoulder. I said "Okay - bye!!" and ran inside.

So, just in case you thought that only horny, Mexican teenagers hit on me... Oh, no no, I also get pestered by horny, White senior citizens. I need a better demographic.

Mexico Part 3

Night time proved to be a bit of a different beast. I would wake up from my nap, hit the showers, get dolled up and then hit the town.

I usually met up with Christle & Bill for dinner and then we'd go to the shows. We'd also go to the disco, but they would tap out early. They had a different philosophy regarding Mexico. They would start drinking during the day, spend the entire day in the sun and then be wasted and tired come 10pm. They lasted at the disco until midnight once or twice but that's about it.

Despite the fact that I had "after lunch" drinks, I didn't start drinking until dinner. When I brought out the big guns, also known as my 700mL insulated cup. So, around the time they were tapping out, I was just getting going. And, the next morning, around the time they were getting going (what with their breakfast-eating and all), I was just getting to bed. Different strokes for different folks.

For me, it was at the disco that things started getting interesting. The bartenders knew me by name and by drink of choice. Gabriel & Cesar - I loved those guys!!

The last night I was at the disco, I asked for a shot of all three of us. Behind the bar, oh yeah!

It's kinda dark and blurry, but that's the picture quality you get by asking someone at the disco at 2am to take your picture. Here's one of just me & Gabriel

The first night I was there, there was a bunch of white chicks on the dance floor. And then three, very hot, Mexican men walked in and tore up the joint. I was dancing with one guy and he was very supportive - whenever I got a Latin dance move down, he'd say "That's it - there you go!" and give me the thumbs up.

Once I had some better moves, I moved onto his friend, who, incidentally didn't speak much English. We were dancing up a storm, when he stopped and walked over to his friend. I stood there speechless for a second, sure I got ditched.

Then he and his friend came back and his friend asked "Who are you here with?". Lying, I said "Oh, just some friends" waving my arm around to no one in particular (Christle & Bill had long since tapped out). He translated into Spanish for his friend and then translated his response for me "Yeah, but are you here with anybody?" "Nope, just some friends". Translated, responded and translated again "Will he get in trouble for dancing with you?" "Nooooo!!!" No translation needed.

We danced some more; it was getting pretty hot and my drink was long empty, so I went to the bar to see Gabriel & Cesar. On my way back, I started talking with a girl, she said "Come meet my friends" and so I did. But mostly I met Jose.

He was young, he was sexy and he was totally into me. And despite all those things, I couldn't bring myself to do him it. He told me he was 16 years old (but quickly corrected the number to 17), but it's okay because he has a wristband so he's allowed to be in the disco. Yeah, cuz that's the problem with the situation.

A quick glance at the dance floor made me realize that Paulo had moved onto another gringa. Dammit - I should have gone thirsty and kept dancing. So, I kept chatting with Jose, who kept trying to get me to go home with him. I told him it wasn't going to happen. He asked me a very serious question.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't dramatically swallow saliva at that moment. I recovered and repeated the question back at him with shock and confusion. He chuckled and repeated his question.

Oh!!! Well that's a much better option than him killing me and raping my dead body...

And that's how I came to make out with a 17 year old in the middle of the disco.

Mexico Part 2

I woke up on day 2 and couldn't help but remember my moment of apprehension, my moment of panic. It threatened to wash over me again. But then I looked out my window and saw this:

Yeah, baby! I can do this!!

I found my way down to the breakfast buffet - which was nice since I would never again have the breakfast buffet. Not because it wasn't good, mostly because the nights were so much better.

I worked my way into a nice little routine. I had rules; I didn't want to stroke out because of the sun and I didn't want to dehydrate myself because of the drinking. I had to be careful if I wanted to survive.

Rule #1 - I must drink 1L of water before leaving my room

Rule #2 - I must eat food before having a drink

Rule #3 - I can only drink out of the little plastic cups during the day

Rule #4 - My travel mug can only come out when I'm on my way to dinner

Some might argue that these aren't really rules. But they were the only things I had that resembled rules, so I stuck by them.

Rule #1 was easy enough. Although, depending on the night before and depending on the extent of my hangover, choking back 1L of water could take anywhere from half an hour to two hours. I had a couple rough mornings.

Generally speaking, I left my room around lunch time everyday. If it wasn't quite 12:30, I'd go lie by the pool, walk around, or go down to the beach and wait for the buffet to open. I'd eat lunch and then I'd go and do much of the same. But much of the same, also included sitting at the bar and having a drink (or four), you know, since I'd had lunch.

Bar 2 was my favourite day time bar. It had the best view, the best seating and the best bartenders. WARNING: Below is the non-animated me. If you would prefer to know only my pixilated version, please skip over the following picture.

That's Ricardo, me & Elizabeth. Behind the bar, that's right.

Not far from Bar 2 was this ceramic painting station. There were different types of ceramics available (all white ceramics with black outlines of flowers, moons, stars etc.) - you purchased the ceramics and then painted them yourself (you could also leave it with them and they would paint it for you, but that's not much fun). After you finished painting them, you left it with them, they "touched it up" and brought it back glazed the following day.

"Touched up" is the understatement of the century. Or at least of my week in Mexico. They would go over the outlines that I inevitably painted over and they would add highlights and swirls. Basically, they would turn my kindergarten art project into a work of beauty. I did two pieces: one for my mom and one for my step mom and since neither or them read this, I can post pics here without spoiling their Christmas presents.

The one on the left is a candle holder and the one on the right is a jewelry box. And I can tell you, I did not hand them in looking that good.

Ricardo would come by while I was painting to see how I was doing and to tell me I was doing a good job. He always said he wanted to see the finished result. Whenever I got a piece back, I would carry it around all day in hopes of seeing Ricardo to show off my work. He was so supportive.

Bar 2 ended up being closed for two days (I didn't know what to do with myself) and I couldn't find him anywhere after I got back the jewelry box. I was disappointed; I wanted to show him; I wanted my pat on the back.

On my last day, Bar 2 was open again and there I was chatting with Ricardo. I told him I got my piece back, I told him that I tried to find him. He told me it looked very nice. I looked confused. He told me that he walked by the day before when they were setting up and stopped just to find the piece I was working on so he could see it. What a sweetheart.

So, after eating, and drinking at Bar 2, I would go down to the beach, swim or at least wade in the water for awhile. Then I would go to the pool and lie on a beach chair, swim. Rough life, I tell ya. I would walk around the grounds and find all kinds of neat things.

Like Mexican Foosball!!

After 4 hours or so, I'd have enough of the heat and sun and would make my way back to my room for a siesta. Cool off with the AC, have a shower and get ready for the night time.

Sounds like as good a place as any to leave off. Stay tuned for Part 3.

(Less drama, less detail, better post??) :)

Mexico Part 1

I've been trying to come up with the best way of telling my Mexico story and I think I should just start at the beginning. Odd concept, I know.

My brother came and picked me up at 8am last Saturday morning. As we're driving to the airport, his wife suggested getting breakfast since we had lots of time before I had to be at the airport. I said that my stomach was too full of butterflies to cram any food into it. I was a bit nervous and really excited to start my trip.

At the airport, I took some pictures:

And then I started waiting for my flight. I bought a notebook so that I could write a journal and have all the blog fodder ready for publishing. Not quite. I filled up a page of my notebook and then started chatting up a couple a few seats down.

After awhile, I had to go to the bathroom, and being alone meant that I had to take all my stuff with me. When I came back, I'd lost my seat. I found one down at the end, still close to the window so I could watch my plane. You know, to make sure it didn't take off without me.

A couple sat down next to me; at some point not too long after, the lady turned and asked if I was flying alone, where I was going etc. Turns out, we were going to the same resort. She was blown away when I said that I was going there alone and said that we should have dinner or something when we get there. Yeah, I'm sure we will.

We boarded the plane, I found my seat. My seat mates found theirs and we started chatting. They asked if I was flying alone, where I was going etc. Turns out, we were going to the same resort. They were blown away when I said that I was going there alone and said that we should have dinner or something when we get there. Yeah, I'm sure we will.

The plane ride was uneventful, until we hit turbulence. For a rookie flyer, it's not very reassuring when the flight attendants have to stop service in order to strap themselves in. I was very aware of the fact that I was 10,000m in the air.

I was scared. I was sweating, I felt nauseous and I was pretty sure I was going to die. My seat mates were calmly watching their movie. I had to put mine on pause because I just couldn't handle it. For some odd reason, seeing everybody in the cabin looking calm did not reassure me either. Not only was I convinced that I was going to die, but I also felt terribly alone in the ordeal. We're going to die and I'm the only one that knows.

That's when I saw her. She was in the next isle, one row up. And she looked terrified. Her husband was in the seat behind her and his knee was getting crushed by her death grip. I felt better knowing that someone else was as scared as I was. It didn't take her long to notice me. Every time we got scared we would look at each other for support. And every time the turbulence subsided, we'd look at each other as if to say "We made it!".

Eventually, I made it to Puerto Vallarta airport. I was surprised at how we got off the plane.

We walked down some stairs straight onto the tarmac. It was nice to walk out into the open air. I was hoping to exit on a big yellow slide, but stairs worked too. A bus was nearby to shuttle us from the plane to the airport.

Eventually, I made it through customs and the airport and found my shuttle to the resort. At check-in, I was given a map, a key and a wristband. I had to try and find my room. Despite the fact that I had asked more than one person where my block was and despite the fact that I had a map, I found myself at the ocean instead of my hotel block. And not because I was "just drawn to it"; I was lost.

I asked another employee where my block was, once there, I found a staircase up to the second floor and quickly realized that I was far away from my room number. I figured the second floor would wind it's way around and I would eventually come to my room. I figured wrong. I went back down to the first floor. All the while dragging two, now very heavy, bags.

I found another employee and asked where my specific room was. He grabbed my bags and told me to follow him. I did.

Room found, bags put away, I left in search of food. I promptly came across a restaurant. I went "inside" and started looking at what the buffet had to offer. I was quickly approached and told that this was an a la carte restaurant and I needed reservations. I just wanted some food. He pointed me in the vague direction of another restaurant.

There I was: stumbling around this resort, in the dark, in a whole other country, feeling hungry and feeling lost. I had a brief moment of panic. How on Earth did I manage to convince myself this is something I can do... I don't know what I'm doing; I don't know where I'm going; I don't even know anybody.

Just at that moment, Christle & Bill came around the corner. They're the pair that sat down next to me at the airport. Christle had been to this resort before and knew exactly where to find the buffet - but we had to hurry because they were closing in 15 minutes. If it wasn't for them, I wouldn't have eaten that night.

We proceeded to eat, drink and get to know each other. We drank until the bar closed at 1am and then made our way back to our rooms. Turns out, we were staying in the same block, so I didn't have to worry about finding my room again. Praise Jebus.

Stay tuned for Part 2.

I'm leaving on a jet plane

I'm mere hours from take off. 11 to be exact. Sometimes I'm excited, other times I have a hard time believing that 24hours from now I'll be in Mexico. It's surreal.

Since I don't want to bore you with another anticipatory post, I'll leave you with this...

And I thought syphilis was bad.

See ya folks!

Let there be light

This is likely my last post until I get back. I'm struggling to come up with a topic other than Mexico. It's really difficult. How about a ramdon post about things that have happened lately? You love those, right? This one shall be about light bulbs. Yep, light bulbs. You're welcome.

I had a friend over at my place the other day to fix all the things I've broken as of late (Thanks Dave!). As we were nearing the end of the long list, I started adding little extras. He was thrilled. One of the extras being the light in my living room.

This fixture has three sconces; one of the sconces was broken - I could not for the life of me take out the light bulb. And it was burnt out. Turn and turn as you might, the thing just rotated. When I first discovered it, I decided that two out of three aint bad and I didn't need to fix it. But when one of the remaining two light bulbs burnt out (again) I decided it might be a good idea to have someone look at it.

And by someone. I mean Dave.

Dave climbed up on my coffee table and started turning. He said "Uh, oh... that's not good..." He suspected the socket was turning freely, possibly twisting the wires inside. He thought they could break at any time and then be a serious fire hazard. I quickly realized I'm not equipped to deal with fire. I have no fire extinguisher, my fire alarm has been removed and put... somewhere... and I have no insurance. I decided it might be a good time to talk to my landlord.

The very next day, I saw him outside and told him of my plight with the light bulb. He came in, took a look, dissected the fixture and removed the shotty light bulb. He asked for another bulb. I did not have one.

Side story:

I find light bulbs to be very expensive and not even the fancy, long-lasting, eco-friendly, power-smart variety. Just plain old light bulbs are expensive. So, when I go to buy them and realize just how expensive they are, I leave that store, go to WalMart and pick up the cheapest light bulbs I can find. Without fail, they last about a month and crap out on me. I buy tonnes of light bulbs and go through them like they're going out of style. Thus, I had no light bulbs in the house even though I had bought at least a dozen in the past year. I don't even own that many lights.

The next day, I went out and bought light bulbs and again, was astounded at how expensive they were. I decided that I wasn't going to cheap out, I was going to pay the going rate for light bulbs and deal with it. I was none too happy about spending $10 on a 4-pack. So I bought some pudding to go along with it. It was butterscotch and it was delicious. And only $1.29 for four.

Anyway, I brought home the light bulbs and put two new bulbs in my living room light. I also remembered that my kitchen light (same fixture as living room) also had two out of three bulbs burnt out. I replaced those as well.

I tested out the kitchen light and was practically blinded by the brightness. I'm not sure if it's the type of bulb I purchased, or the fact that I paid going rate for light bulbs and they actually work or the fact that there's three times the amount of light in the kitchen now. Regardless, at that very moment I realized: I have not been cleaning my kitchen properly at all. Parts of the kitchen looked absolutely filthy. Parts where one week ago, I thought were just slightly dirty. I was shocked.

I should really get on that.

There was a farmer who had a dog...

My excitement about leaving town is growing steadily. And since I'm sure you don't want to read a post every day for the next 5 days about Mexico I'm going to have to come up with another topic. On Friday, I went to Bingo.

No, I did not age 30 years overnight. A friend invited me and I said yes, seeing as when I was a kid I loved the game. That may have been before I matured and realized that I have absolutely no luck whatsoever.

Goes without saying that I did not win a thing. So, all in all, it cost me $30 and provided me with a couple hours of entertainment. Not too bad. Not only were the games entertaining, but for an experienced people-watcher such as myself, I was in heaven.

And, oh, the people that go to Bingo... that's a demographic that is just a hair's width away from circus side show (present company not included, of course).

Let's see. First, there are the old ladies and gentlemen that all seem to know each other and use it as a social outlet. Then there are the old ladies and gentlemen that scurry about in between games in order to get more cards/pull tabs/kenos. The look of sheer determination on their faces is somewhat cancelled out by the grease stains on their t-shirts.

Then there are the young people. Some, usually in groups, are normal respectable people that are there for a gag (and hopefully to win some money). Some, usually alone, may or may not have a touch of meth-mouth and do this as means of weaning themselves off meth, by starting another addictive behaviour.

At one point, a group of young girls came in that were obviously supposed to go downtown to a club, but found themselves outside of Planet Bingo and thought why not? They were wearing 4 inch heels, short skirts and too much makeup. They didn't look dirty enough to be making money dressed like that, if you know what I mean.

I mean, hookers.

Then there are the crazies. They come in all shapes, sizes and colours. There was one woman that was trying to buy tickets or something and the manager walked up and started asking her to leave. He was quiet. She was not. She started putting her hand up in the air and saying "Get the fuck out of my face" and once he continued talking with her, she started getting really irate. And not just at him, she started calling a random patron a "buttfucker", he got mad and said "Don't call me a fag, whore" and she said "But you are. Be proud, faggot, be proud of it. So what if you like getting fucked up the ass?!". I stared in disbelief.

When I finally managed to tear my eyes away from the train wreck, I happened to make eye contact with an older lady across the way. She widened her eyes with an "Ooooh boy" look on her face. Then she said "This doesn't happen very often, just so you know!" I said, "Oh, okay... *nervous laughter*" and she said "Yeah, only, maybe once a month".

Once a month is pretty often. Unless you're there everyday, then it's not often, but if I decided to go weekly, I'd have a 25% chance of seeing that. Thems pretty good odds.

Better odds than winning at Bingo!

The funniest thing about that train wreck was the fact that the bingo game was apparently on pause, because as soon as the crazy lady walked out the door, the bingo caller started the next game.

Messed.

So the girl that was sitting across from me & my friend was pretty young with a touch of meth-mouth. She ended up winning a game. I was pretty excited for her. Maybe more excited than she was. A friend of hers ended up joining her shortly after her win. I overheard (read: eavesdropped) the conversation she had about her win:

"So, I won just before you got here. I won $240. So that means... I'm only down $10 for today. It's so nice to play without having to worry about how much money I've spent".

I was floored. She spent $250 on Bingo?? Her friend said what we were all thinking:

"So... you've been here awhile then?"

No fucking kidding.

Olé!

I'm going to Mexico!! This time next week, I'll be in the air. Two weeks from now, my liver is going to be angry with me. But that's okay.

I'm both terrified and exhilarated. Mostly, I'm super excited, but there are some aspects that are intimidating.

The scary parts being that I basically have never traveled before and I'm going on my own. It's not too bad, considering I'm going to an all-inclusive resort, but what makes it worse is that a bunch of my friends/family are scared for me.

Quit that - it makes me second guess myself!

In my head, I'm convinced that this trip is going to be so much fun: I'm going to meet a bunch of new people, have a bunch of new experiences, get out of the cold and into the warm, drink my face off, eat a bunch of great food, see and do all kinds of new things. Basically, I'm pretty sure it'll be the time of my life.

But... people that care about me are scared. Scared because people have a "nasty habit of getting murdered in Mexico". Scared because "nice white girls (like me) get abducted for ransom money". Scared because I'm going alone and will have no one there to protect me. Scared because they love me and want me to be safe.

I get that. I do. And thank-you, really! But all these conversations will hit me from time to time and make me think "Oh geez, what am I thinking? I'm going to Mexico... alone... what's wrong with me?"

After a minute or so of panic, I remember that I'm going to be at a resort, and if the neighbourhood is sketchy, I can easily just not leave the property.

And then, I start researching the area and the resort and the excursions available and I get sooo excited. I get so excited, I can't imagine how something someone said could take away that feeling. I start doing online Spanish lessons even though I'm told it's completely unnecessary. But I just want to learn and immerse myself in the culture and not put a wall up between myself and the people of the country I'm visiting.

I want to say "Hola!" to the waiters/waitresses, I want to say "Como estas?" to the vendors, I want to say "Buenos noches!" to the bartender (we're sure to be good friends by the end, after all). I don't want to be a typical tourist experiencing typical tourist experiences. I want the Mexican experience. And I think I'm going to the right place for it.

My resort is 1km away from a small fishing village. Will people speak English? Yes, almost certainly. But I'd like to see the things these people do and how these people live. I want to experience it through them. And going to a small town will probably be the best way to do it.

Also, the food in this town is to die for apparently. I can't wait to sink my teeth into a real taco. I'm not even sure what it'll taste like.

I'm so excited to absorb everything I can in a mere 7 days. I think I can, and I think I'm going to love every minute of it.

So... I won't be posting for at least a week. Probably 10 days or so. I'll probably do another post or two this week and then nothing until I'm back and get back into the swing of things. I'm sorry and I know you will all be at a loss as to what to look at on the internet in my absence. But fear not, I'll probably have enough material to write about 17 posts when I get back.

Wish me luck!!

Here's one for the ladies

Just a quick post, I was out having dinner last night, just sitting there minding my own business. Another diner left his table to pay the server. He was one of those guys that have pects as large as my breasts and wears shirts that he obviously bought before he built himself up to gargantuan proportions.

Normally speaking, I don't find those guys attractive; too hard, too big, too veiny. But this guy, although, too large for his small frame, still looked... well, not soft, but not hard either. And he wasn't veiny at all. So I was sitting there enjoying the scenery.

He turned around to chat with his friend that had just walked up; I sneaked a peek at his ass, because a nice bum is a very good thing. I was shocked. And I laughed.

His ass was such a contrast to the rest of his body; his large chest, his large arms. He had absolutely no ass. And it not like it was there, but looked tiny in comparison. No... his ass was concave. He had a negative ass.

Like, it actually went into his body, instead of out. His friend (girlfriend?) walked up just as I was snickering; I tried to hide it with my martini glass. She looked at me, smiled, but also kinda gave me a weird look. I thought for a moment that she had heard me giggling.

His other friend came up; a guy with a slight build that was probably 3 inches taller than Mr Built and probably weighed 50lbs less. As they're walking past my table, I couldn't help butt realize that Mr Skinny had a nice, supple, convex behind.

I was checking out the wrong dude.

What's my age again?

If I buy a whole cake, I will eat a whole cake. Maybe not in one sitting and maybe not in one day. But guaranteed I will eat too much cake for too many days in a row, just to be sure that one morsel doesn't 'go bad'.

It's a problem for me; one that I've come to terms with, one I've had to accept and one I've learned to conquer.

I deal with this problem with sheer avoidance. I don't buy cake. I don't buy ice cream. I don't buy cookies. At least, not very often... I mean, a girl's gotta eat, right? If I don't keep it in the house, I won't eat it. Works every time... Except...

Every so often, I get a hankering for something sweet, really sweet; fruit, PB&J, cinnamon toast, or any of my usual go-to's don't do the job. This is a thirst for sweetness can't be quenched by anything except far too much really bad food.

Since I don't like buying that kind of food, I don't keep it in the house. And I don't want to break one of my rules, so I'm left to satisfy my needs by eating food that I already have. It's a vicious cycle that has resulted in me making ramdon concoctions.

I have two favorites; they're basically the same treat, just different variations. If I have plain yogurt in the house, I like to add a bit of sugar and vanilla and put fruit on top. If I have frozen berries in my freezer, I like to heat them up slightly to make the topping. If I don't have any berries, I'll take an apple, cut it up, saute it and make a caramel sauce. In a pinch, I've been known to eat this without of yogurt.

Then there's caramel popcorn, which is what I do when I don't have any apples.

Last night, out of sheer desperation, I whipped up a rice krispie square - melted marshmallows, vanilla and Fibre1 cereal. Because Fibre1 cereal was the closest thing to a treat in my cupboards. That and marshmallows, apparently.

Tonight, I got home, made dinner and ate it. Despite making a good meal, I felt the all too familiar sense that it wasn't quite enough. I knew I was going to want more sweet things. I did a quick mental inventory and realized that I had used all the Fibre1 cereal. Dammit.

I had to think of something fast. I had to get something sweet. I racked my brain on figuring out the easiest way of getting candy on a night like this.

I trick or treated at George's house. He got a kick out of it.

I got 3 cookies and 3 bite size chocolate bars.