Cuba 1.0

As you already know, I went to Cuba a few weeks back. It was great! This is what I looked at for 7 days:

White sand beach, clear blue-green water, 30 degree (Celcuis) weather, unlimited alcohol and enough shade (yay, palapas!) that I didn’t burn to a crisp. I can’t really ask for much else.

Like Mexico, my MO was pretty much the same: Operation – Drink Too Much. I do think I kept it together a bit more than in Mexico. Perhaps because there wasn’t any tequila involved or maybe because I’m getting better at it.

I arrived at the hotel around 8:30pm local time. Having left my house at 3am local time (Cuba is 3 hours ahead), you could say I had a pretty long day. My mission once I hit the hotel was: find room, find food, find booze.

The resort was very small, at least compared to the resort I stayed at in Mexico. There was only one outside bar open at night, naturally, I went there to have some drinks.

Travelling alone, you’re bound to meet some interesting characters. This trip was no exception. A couple tables over, there was a large group of mostly older folks. One of these folks was a 60-ish British fellow who was rather intoxicated. Randomly, he would stand up and yell. Loud.

I found it amusing. The first night. By the third or fourth night, everyone had pretty much had it.

In that same group, there were a couple younger people. One of them was a 19 year old boy who was quickly adopted by a family that we met down there. He could almost always be found within arms reach of the two young kids. He’d play with them and take them swimming at the beach. All around, he was a good kid.

The other younger person, was a female of indiscernible age; she could have been 24 or 39. But, let me tell you, Trainwreck Sally was a sight to see. Every time I saw her, regardless of time of day, she was absolutely hammered. 3am? Sure, makes sense… So am I. 3pm? What? Already??

As someone who enjoys the sauce (and has trainwrecked through a week in Mexico once or twice), I’m hesitant to judge someone on this, but I will.

She did and said a lot of inappropriate things while under the influence, but the icing on the cake was one night when a bunch of us went to the disco to dance. She showed up after us because she kept getting distracted by things along the way. We’ve all been there. At least I have.

Her dancing was… interesting. It started out with her twirling around, arms spread open, face turned upwards. I was pretty sure she was going to fall down or throw up. She didn’t. Then her twirl-fest morphed into, what can only be described as, an interpretative/artistic dance.

I’m being very diplomatic; she basically rolled around on the floor. In a dress. And had no clue that what she was doing had any effect on what her dress was doing.

I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a point where she rolled right off the stage. Sure the stage was only 4 inches off the ground and sure she seemed to work it into her “routine”, but I can guarantee it was not planned.

A girl I met down there agreed with me and she decided to say something to Sally that night.

Apparently Paulie came out the asshole in that conversation. The next day, Sally was going on about how someone was very rude to her the night before; they told her that she thinks with her vagina.

You could say she got the context wrong; all Paulie meant was that everyone in the club knew what Sally’s underwear looked like.

You could also say she got the person wrong; she thought I was the one who was brutally honest with her.

Going’s ons

Hey Folks! It’s been awhile since I’ve consistently posted, I’ve been struggling a bit with writer’s block, I guess. Or else just a lack of motivation to come up with a topic. Whatever you call it, I hope that will change, but I usually hit all time lows with posting come winter and it’s starting to get mighty cold out.

I’ve been busy with work; we had our big audit last week and it was a doozy. Leading up to audit week I was working 6 days a week, as many as 12 hours a day. Then during audit week, I was so drained that by the end of the day, I’d eat and then collapse. Somehow I did muster up the energy to make a carrot cake for the bake sale on Friday, which got rave reviews so it was worth it! I also got a piece, which is probably the real reason it was worth it.

I’ve been slowly plugging away at my project proposal, which has become increasingly frustrating. I’ve submitted the proposal three times so far (plus two incomplete drafts), and have received feedback from the person at school that is looking for the results of the project. That’s great, but I haven’t received one word of feedback from the person who needs to grade and approve the proposal. Considering I need to complete the entire project (not just the proposal) by year’s end, I’m pretty much hooped and will need to ask for an extension. Again.

All in all, I’ve been quite busy and operating with a higher than normal stress level. It’s only a matter of time before that catches up with you and bad things happen, so I’m doing what I always do when it gets to be that time; I booked a trip to some place warm with unlimited alcohol. I’m going to Cuba! This time next week, I’ll be packing.

As usual, I’ll keep you up-to-date with the train wreck that I like to call my all-inclusive vacation.

Adventures in Real Life Dating–part 3 (?)

I’ve brought you installments on real life dating stories in the past. Like NutJob & Cruper (who, incidentally, texted me on Boxing Day wishing me a Merry Christmas. Nearly 16 months since our one and only date. Nearly 16 months since I stopped responding to his texts. Nearly 16 months since I told him to leave me alone. Not that I’m keeping track or anything).

Well, I have a few more for you. (Just when you thought that I wouldn’t have any new stories because I quit POF).

First up:

This one isn’t really a dating story, but it could have been, so I’m going with it. I met him at a skytrain station well over a year ago (you meet all the “good ones” on public transit). He approached me and said “I just want to say that I think you’re cute and you have a really nice smile.”. I thanked him and we chatted a bit. I wasn’t sure if he was kind of drunk, or mildly retarded. He asked for my phone number. I didn’t have the heart to say no, so I gave him a fake number (not entirely fake, just the last few digits mixed around). Not one of my finer moments, but that’s what I did.

Two weeks later, I have a voicemail on my phone. It was from a guy that sounded either kind of drunk, or mildly retarded. I kid you not.

I shared this story with a friend at work, and he coined a nickname for the guy: my Autistic Stalker.

Fast forward a year. I was at the Salsa club a few months back when this guy approached me with a big old grin on his face. I didn’t think much of it; he looked familiar, so I figured he was going to ask me to dance. I just didn’t realize how I knew him. As soon as he opened his mouth I knew. He didn’t even have to finish his sentence. “I just want to say that I think you’re cute and you have a really nice smile.”. So it was his line…

Next up:

I met him at dance several months ago. I “affectionately” call him El Retardo. But don’t let the name fool you; he’s not Latino.

I met him, we danced, he hit on me and asked for my number. I gave it to him.  We ended up agreeing to meet the Sunday before I went to Thailand. It was the most annoying build up to a date ever.

We were supposed to meet at a coffee shop in the mall. The mall closed at 6pm, we were meeting at 8pm; when I told him and suggested another location, he dismissed it and said we would “figure it out”. I was a few minutes late and rolled into the parking lot he said he was in around 8:05; he was nowhere to be seen. He rolled in at least 20 minutes after I did. I was annoyed. Then we started driving around the mall parking lot trying to find some place to go. They were all closed. Didn’t see that one coming.

I decided to let it go and continued trying to find time to connect. I say “trying” because it would take weeks for us to be able to make plans. He was a flake at best. We would make plans for “tomorrow” and then he’d ask what day we were getting together. When I told him tomorrow, he’d ask for another day because he was confused and busy tomorrow.

Other times, he’d ask if I was available to meet on a Wednesday around 10am, even though I repeatedly told him I work Mon-Fri dayshift. Then there were the times he’d ask me to meet him that night; I wouldn’t respond right away because I was at work and hadn’t gotten the text. When I would respond saying “Sure, when and where?”, I would get a response saying that I took too long to respond so he made other plans, accepted a shift at work, or went swimming and is tired now.

I had put him into the friend zone weeks earlier because I was tired of dealing with that bullshit, yet, he kept trying to make plans with me so that we could “figure us out”.

Eventually, we had plans to meet to figure us out; he indicated that he made plans before we were supposed to meet (like the quality gentleman he is) and was going to be a little late. Like at least an hour late. I’d already made plans for after and told him that being an hour late was too late. I never heard from him again. Really looking forward to that awkward moment when we’re both at the Salsa club at the same time.

Last up:

Shorty. You might remember him from my last post. He repeatedly told me that he liked dancing with me and wanted to “be my friend”. He gave me his business card because he happens to be a mechanic and told me that he’d help me if I ever had car trouble. Not a bad friend to have, so when he asked for my number, I gave it to him, even though I knew I’d be having the “friend talk” sooner rather than later.

The night after we met, he texted me and asked if I was going to go dancing. I said maybe and asked where he was going. He was going to dance at a hotel in Surrey (ironically, Thailand’s hotel). Between not wanting to give Shorty the wrong idea, being tired and also not wanting to face the awkwardness of running into Thailand (especially with a little munchkin following me around); I declined his invitation.

The next day, Shorty texted me and asked how I was doing. I asked him how dancing was on Saturday night. He said “All good. But I missed you…”

Seriously? You miss the girl that you met two days ago?? Looks like I’ve got another one on my hands. The only silver-lining to this one is the fact that he doesn’t speak much English. How is that a plus? Purely from an entertainment stand-point; getting texts like these ESL gems:

“Has dance classes is good”

“Salsa has an inquiry to please as we dance”

“You do on the job”

“And who did you do today?”

Your Mama!!! … … oh wait… that doesn’t really work as ThatWhiteGirl’s response.

A post about dancing, because you can never have too many of those!

I’ve been out of the salsa game for awhile now. I stopped lessons back in April because of my course load at school, and I got out of the routine of going to the clubs when I put my back out in summer. My presence at the clubs has been sporadic at best for the past 4 months.

Two weeks ago, I went to my first lesson since April; I was embarrassingly rusty. My teacher, the one who taught me back in April, is doing a “teach at the level of my students” kind of lesson plan instead of just beginner, intermediate or advanced kind of structure. Of the four people in my class, I’m definitely the noob and he was teaching above my skillset. So it’s not all my fault. Regardless, it has prompted me to get back in the game and have an outlet for practicing.

As a result, I went dancing Friday night for the first time in quite some time. When I got there, the lesson was still going on even though it should have been finished. I grabbed a drink and waited for it to wrap up. When it did, I wandered down to the dance floor to look for a partner, but there wasn’t many people there and all of the guys were dancing with the girls they had the lesson with. I stood there for three or four songs before I ended up ‘circle dancing’ with a bunch of girls.

I was convinced that it was going to be an early night at the club and that I’d end up stopping in at my neighbourhood pub for a couple drinks before heading home. Then one of the guys asked me to dance, and then another, and then another. Before I knew it, I was getting pulled back onto the dance floor before I even had a chance to leave it.

Being a Latin dance, quite a few of the patrons are of Latin descent, naturally. Latinos are not usually particularly tall. I am fairly tall for a girl, so I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that I am usually taller than my dance partner, especially when you consider that I also dance in heels. I don’t mind, they don’t mind, so it’s all good. Except that there are certain styles of dance that require you to be at the same level as your partner. Since they can’t get up to mine, I have to get down to theirs.

It’s basically like doing squats for 5 minutes straight, without the relief of being able to stand upright in between squats.

One of my partners the other night was particularly short. I mean, he is probably 5’3” at best. I’m 5’8” and I was wearing 2” heels. I towered over him. Doing the squat dance was particularly painful. Between the pain in my knees and my thirst, I decided to go to the bar to grab a drink and have a sit down. The bartender saw me and asked “The same?”; I said “No – could I have a glass of water, please?”. As he’s pouring my glass of water, the other bartender starts measuring out a shot of vodka; there isn’t anyone else at the bar.

I was confused, so I started slowly walking away; as I am, the bartender started saying “Wait, wait, don’t walk away!”. I was thinking “But I didn’t order a drink…”. She finished mixing the drink and said “This one is on-the-house; it’s from one of the clients”. Oh. Okay. Weird. That hasn’t happened here before. I had no idea who it was from.

I was sitting there, drinking my free drink and who walked up? Slick. Except he cut his hair off, so now he’s more like Spike. I barely recognized him. We chatted for a bit before he walked off to grab another beer. Then I was approached by two guys. One was young, kind of shy, and was basically hovering in the background while the other one talked to me. Chatty asked if I’d be willing to teach his nephew to dance. I did and he was super keen to learn.

When we made our way back to my table, Chatty asked how Nephew did; he thanked me for teaching him and said, as a thank-you, next time, he’ll dance with me all night. He made me shake on it. I’m not sure who will benefit the most from this arrangement. I guess I’ll find out next time when I discover how good of a dancer he is.

Today, I go back for lessons. Wish me luck!!

That White Girl’s a party crasher… apparently

A few weeks back I decided to hit the pub on my way home from dance. I ended up running into a few people that I knew and before I knew it, I was drunk. It’s weird how that happens when you drink a lot of alcohol in a short amount of time.

Even though I was done and wanted to go home, one of my friends wanted to keep the party going and was looking for a way to find/purchase more alcohol. There was no way possible. At that moment, I looked across the street and saw some sort of club open; there was loud music, flashing lights, people dancing. Since I’m easily talked into things, I suggested we try it out.

Long story short, I ended up going in alone while one of the guys made sure the other guy got home okay. Due to the level of my intoxication, I didn’t care if I was being ditched and went straight in with little to no hesitation. When I entered the room, I realized that it was a Latin dance party. Just my scene… bring it!

I was approached shortly after my (not so) subtle entrance; I asked the person if I was able to purchase alcohol. They pointed me in the direction of the owner; I approached the owner and she told me that it was actually a private party; they weren’t selling alcohol. Being the proactive person I am, when it looked like she might ask me to leave, I beat her to it:

Which is true. And also… not true. It’s true I’ve seen him before. But I’ve never talked to him. The dude, let’s call him Slick, naturally, wondered where I knew him from and I told him I knew him from the salsa clubs. It was a believable story, so he got me a beer while his friend danced with me. I was sitting down drinking my free beer when Slick asked me to dance. He wanted me to elaborate on our “knowing” each other.  Busted, you got me!

Luckily he was okay with it. After a little bit, my friend came back to get me. He didn’t even make it in the door before he was told to leave. Since the eight guys were making eyes at me and the seven girls were shooting hate daggers at me, I thought it was best if I quit while I was ahead and left the party to meet my friend.

The following week, I went to the salsa club. I looked over at one point and guess who was standing there. Slick. After we mutually made eye contact, I approached him and we started talking; he said that I looked different. I asked how, he said he wasn’t sure. He asked me if I was drunk.

He asked me if I was drunk last week.

I guess that was it; suddenly he wanted me to drink. When I told him that I was driving, he said that I should know someone that lives nearby so that I could spend the night at their place. He lives three blocks away. Convenient. I declined his offer to spend the night at his house, in his bed, even though he said “nothing would happen”. I didn’t believe him.

We danced; it was late, he was drunk and he kissed me. And that’s how I ended up making out with a dude named Slick in the middle of the dance floor of the salsa club.

Times like these make me wish I could blame my poor decisions on alcohol. Alas… no. Dammit.

A Year in Review

One year ago today was the last time I spoke to my best friend, K. And “spoke to” is used loosely. In fact, it was the last time I received an angry email from her.

Hitting that milestone has led me to contemplate my life. What have I done? What have I accomplished?

My first thought was “Nothing! You’ve done nothing!”. But then as I stopped to think about it, I realized that’s just not true.

 

Things Heather has done in the past twelve months:

• Bought a URL for my blog
• Learned how to set up and use the thing
• Transferred my blog contents… twice
• Went to Mexico… alone … twice
• Kissed a girl
• Made out with a teenager
• Made an ass out of myself… more times than I can count
• Took dance lessons
• Learned how to dance
• Learned I love to dance
• Stopped having to be drunk in order to dance
• Got a promotion
• Started bossing people around… some people left
• Met a boy
• Started getting some
• Dumped a boy
• Stopped getting some
• Planned a trip to Thailand
• Hoping I’ll get some while I’m there
• Discovered the holy grail that is loose leaf tea
• Have an ever growing tea collection
• Lost weight
• Through dance, without even trying
• Made new friends
• Through dance, without even trying
• Became a foosball champion
• I have two silver medals to prove it
• It was a fluke…

All in all… a good year!

Weekend Summary

I haven’t done one of these posts in awhile. Mostly because a lot of my stories have been standalones, or if they need back stories, I can put links in to old posts. This one requires me to tell the back story(ies). Here goes…

I went dancing Friday night; I hadn’t been to this place for a couple months… Turns out people noticed because I kept getting “Hey – haven’t seen you in awhile” comments. I guess it’s better than “What do you mean, you haven’t been around?”.

One of the dudes I was dancing with told me that the same organizer was having another party down the road the following night. He even mentioned the words “live band”, which gets me going every time.

Naturally, the following night, I found myself in the same area looking for the dance party that my partner alluded to. It wasn’t there. Completely defeated, I decided to go back home; a quick search of the internet yielded unsatisfactory results. I decided to go to a pub nearby and watch the live band there.

I’ve been to this pub once or twice before and I may or may not have met a friend that likes to dance with me. As it turns out, my friend was there. There was also another dude that was willing to dance with me, so between the two of them, I spent a considerable amount of time on the dance floor. Not a total loss

The first guy, Old Dave, is someone that I’ve chatted with several times. A few months ago, he asked me if my mom has the same hair as me. I told him that she does not; he told me that he knows a lady that works at the local legion that has the exact same hair as I do. Apparently we look very, very similar.

So, we saw last call at this pub and Old Dave suggested that we go down the road to another pub that is open later. I agreed. We went to the next pub, danced to the live band that was still playing and had another drink.

Last call had come and gone and we were getting ready to leave. Out of nowhere, this young guy walked up to me and said “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I just had to come up and tell you this…”

To which, Old Dave piped up and said “Do you mean Bonnie?”. Of course he did, and the two of them got into just how much we look alike. I think he could tell I was slightly horrified. It may have been the look on my face, or it could have been the fact that I said repeatedly “I can’t believe I look like his MOM!”.

He reassured me that I look like buddy’s mom, but 30 years younger. He kept telling me that the resemblance is uncanny; he said that if I saw his friend’s mom, I’d agree. He said it was really weird because now he knows what dude’s Mom looked like when she was young. And just as I’d come to terms with it:

And that’s how I came to have my picture taken, with two young men, in a bar, like a fricken celebrity.

A celebrity that looks just like someone’s mom.

Fuck my life.

Being drunk and the damage it can do

I went dancing again! And although my back is tip-top, other parts… aren’t. Allow me to explain.

In the salsa clubs, as the weather outside has gotten nicer and nicer, I couldn’t help but realize that more and more ladies were wearing skirts and dresses instead of pants. I wanted to be one of those girls. But I didn’t have the right shoes.

So, naturally, I went shoe shopping for skirt shoes and boy, did I find them! They’re pretty and comfy, which, in my experience, is an rare combination when looking for heeled shoes. Needless to say, I was rather excited about testing out the bad boys and getting them on the dance floor.

I had my opportunity a couple weeks ago. I was all gussied up for a wedding, skirt and all, and decided to hit the salsa club. It was getting late and I was pretty tired, but thought all that would change (except for the late part, I guess) once I got my blood pumping.

I walked into the club and it was dead. There were about seven guys and I was one of two girls. The bonus of being one of two girls is that you will dance the entire time. The downside of being one of two girls is that the seven guys have resorted to drinking heavily because there was nothing else to do. Can you blame them?

Within minutes of walking in the door I got asked to dance. Within minutes of dancing, Drunkie stepped on my toes (literally). Open toed shoes + drunk guy shoes = pain. I sucked it up and continued dancing, but my toe was very sore. A quick trip to the bathroom revealed a small crack in my toe nail and a fair amount of blood. I cleaned it up, put on my brave face and went back in.

I was a bit gun shy after that. Dancing somewhat awkwardly just to keep my damaged foot out of the line of fire.

As in most cases, when things are going well, you forget why you’re being paranoid, you grow complacent and let your guard down. Which is exactly what I did. Drunkie stepped on my toes again. The same toe. It hurt like a bitch. My reaction was to stop dancing and immediately take the weight off my foot.

I may have stood in the middle of the dance floor looking like a flamingo. Drunkie apologized, and then tried to keep dancing with me. I don’t think he understood that when one foot is in the air, the dance is over. I hobbled over to my table and sat down. He left me alone for about two minutes before coming back and trying to get me to dance with him again. I pointed at my toe and shook my head.

Once I could bear weight on my foot again, I gathered up my jackets and moved it to the exits. I guess it was closing time. The walk to my car was an interesting combination of trying to maintain a normal gait without crying or passing out.

When I got to my car, I inspected my toe. The small crack in the nail had grown. The entire top half of my nail was broken and holding on by a thread. When I got home, I soaked my foot to clean away most of the blood before going to work on removing the remnants of my nail.

Also, I’d just had a pedicure done 3 weeks earlier, so that was pretty much ruined.

Right: before; left: after

I’m not sure if open-toed dancing shoes are my friends.

Back in the saddle? No…

I’ve had to take some time off of dancing. And that makes me very sad. I was in a very minor car accident about six weeks ago; three weeks ago, I had my car repaired and got a courtesy car for five days. The courtesy car wrecked my back.

I guess that’s a bit harsh, my back has had it’s fair share of issues, but it had been doing well for several years. Five days into courtesy car driving, I found myself back in physiotherapy for the first time in nearly 2 years.

I thought I needed a maintenance appointment and I’d be back to my normal self in no time. Turns out, my pelvis is out of alignment (<--- insert Thailand joke here) and I need multiple appointments to fix it. I also have to start doing my physio exercises again to strengthen my core so that my pelvis isn’t just floating around causing my back pain. Something I should have been doing the whole time; physiotherapy is a lifestyle after all.

I took two or three weeks off of dancing while I got my back back up to snuff, but when I returned, so did my back pain. And with a vengeance. So I’ve been forced to take even more time off.

I’m not quite sure what to do with myself now. What did I do before dancing? Besides drinking? I really don’t know.

Jack and the Beanstalk

There’s this pub attached to the hotel where I go dancing; I’ve been to this pub a few times. The first time I stepped foot in the bar, I met this guy named Jack. I sat down a couple seats away from him and it took him all of 3 minutes to start talking to me. I think he opened with “Have you ever seen Alcatraz?” because there was a commercial for that show on the TV above us. I had to say no because, for one, I had never watched it, but also didn’t even know it existed. In fact, I had to look at the TV to understand what he was asking me.

Luckily, the guy a couple seats down from me actually had things to say on the subject and the three of us had a nice conversation about TV shows. I say the three of us, but I think they mostly talked and I was just hoping that something Simpson related would come up so that I could actually contribute to the conversation. I’m not sure if it ever did; I might have just sat there and looked pretty.

Conversation ended up turning to what brought me to the bar that night; I explained that the hotel next door had salsa dancing. He said he didn’t know that the hotel offered such things, but that it explained why he often saw little Latinas wearing sequin-y clothes on Saturday nights. I told him I wasn’t sure the pub even existed and I certainly didn’t know that it had five pool tables. I think it’s safe to say that we both learned something that night.

Stopping in at the pub before dancing quickly became my regular routine; every time I went there, Jack wasn’t there. Until about a month ago. I pulled up a seat at the bar, he looked over at me and said “Oh, hey… … salsa dancing, right?”. That’s right. I ordered my drink and he reminded the bartender that I enjoy lime in it, even though I forgot to ask. Always looking out for me.

Last night, I went back, I sat down at the bar and a couple seats away from me was Jack. I hardly recognized him, he normally sits on the right hand side of the bar, and that night he was on the left. I guess he didn’t recognize me from that angle either because he asked if I was going samba dancing. Close enough.

He was playing Keno and asked if I play. I said not really and I had only just recently learned how it worked. Jack set me up with a game card and told me to fill it out. The only other time I’ve played the game, someone else was driving and all I had to do was pick numbers. I tried to fill out the card and make it look like I knew what I was doing since I’d just declared my knowledge of the game. I may or may not have had to ask a question or two.

After filling out the card, I looked at it and said “I’m done now!! … … So… how do I turn this into a ticket?”. Apparently I don’t know that much about the game. He summoned the bartender and made it happen because next thing I know, I have a Keno ticket in front of me with my numbers on it. Magic.

My first draw comes up and within seconds my two numbers are drawn. I’m very excited about my win, which is so unlike me, I know. I bounced in my seat, clapping my hands, saying “I won, I won!”. After that, every time, one of my numbers got drawn Jack would clap his hands and say “One more…”.

I’m not sure if he was making fun of me or not.

My other nine draws were a bust, but I was still high off my win, so it all ended well. I cashed in my ticket and the bartender asked if I wanted to replay; I decided to quit while I was ahead. I got my $10 cash, and slid it over to Jack, since he was the one that paid for the ticket. I guess it wasn’t that magical after all. He wouldn’t take it. He said I won it, told me that they were my winnings. I did the whole “No, no, I insist”, he did the same thing; I feigned a valiant effort, but inside I was really like this:

To try and make it up to him, I ordered us a shot. It’s the least I could do. After awhile, he was getting ready to leave, as was I; my bill got dropped on the bar. My bill which miraculously only contained half of the drinks I ordered. Any other place, I would have brought this to the bartender’s attention, however, at this bar, it’s par for the course. For some reason.

Jack snatched up my bill, grabbed my $10 win, threw another $10 onto the pile and handed it off to the bartender. I reached across the bar and grabbed the pile before the bartender could get there. I gave him his $10 back; he put it back on the pile. The bartender, smart girl, walked away to give us some time to settle our dispute. I gave him his $10 back, he put in back on the pile. I started to give him his $10 back, he pushed it aside, literally ran away and said “Have fun at salsa!”.

I walked out of the bar, high on my win, drunk off my drinks, with as much money as I walked in with. That just doesn’t happen everywhere. Gotta love that place!

Mexico 2.3

I’ve been back for a month… I really should get this series done and over with.

Wednesday I woke up rather hungover, but made my way to the lunch buffet anyway. I wasn’t really sure how I was going to fare, but once I sat down with my meal, I found eating not as difficult as I thought it was going to be.

Plastic Girl and her mom were sitting a few tables away, when I noticed them, they waved and made their way over. They started telling me that Mom had to go to the medic last night. I asked why; they said that she fell and needed stitches. I asked where she fell; they said in their room.

Well apparently, Mom was tanked up, fell down and busted open her eye. She pulled her sunglasses off to reveal a rather large bandage covering her eyebrow. And what was supposed to be her eye.

But really it was a purple swollen mess. I nearly threw up right there. Seriously, it was absolutely disgusting. Now, I don’t deal well with this kind of thing in the best of times, so I really wasn’t coping well. And then they started talking about how much blood there was and how the medics didn’t even need to give her painkillers in order to stitch her up. Then Mom turned to Plastic Girl and said “Where’s your camera?”

What Plastic Girl lacks human body parts she makes up for in observational skills. She calmly told her mom that “not everyone can look at that kind of thing” and then suggested they leave me to my meal. With an ominous warning, of course: Don’t get too wasted, it could happen to you too.

As I’m pushing food around my plate, trying to find the appetite I had moments earlier, I saw my favourite dancer getting food. He walked over and asked if he could join me; surely I misunderstood, what with his accent and all, but then he was pointing towards the chair opposite of me asking if I was waiting for someone. No, not at all, please sit down. You sexy beast.

We made small talk, yada yada yada. Conversation turned to dancing (obviously) and he said that he saw me at the disco last night and that I was good. I’m sorry, what? The professional dancer is telling me that I’m good?! What is going on? Am I still drunk?

So I did stuff during the day, and even though I was hungover and wasn’t going to drink much because I didn’t want to fall down and bust my face open, I don’t remember getting home that night. Fucking tequila.

Thursday was a complete write off. I was so hungover I didn’t leave my room until 8pm and all I did that night was cart around a bottle of water, go to the show and make my rounds to see all my bartenders. All of whom offered me drinks, all of which I declined. They looked as though they didn’t even recognize me.

I ran into the security guard that worked at the disco; he saw me and started shaking his head. He told me that I was really drunk the night before and asked me if my camera was okay. When I looked at him like he was talking Martian, he asked me if I remembered much from the night before. I said no.

He told me I was upset about my camera and making a big fuss about it (for some reason). Well, after he walked me home (so that’s how I got there) he followed the guys I was playing pool with so that if they took my camera, he’d know who to report when I came to and realized something had happened. Which wasn’t the case; I had my camera and it still worked.

I asked him how many times he had walked me home so far; he said three. I remembered getting an escort on Sunday night and he told me that he walked me home Wednesday night, so I asked which other night. He said “Not Sunday”. I said “Yes, Sunday. I remember that one!” He said “Sunday is my day off”. Son of a bitch.

Friday, I was feeling much better and did all the usual stuff: beach, pool, walking, swimming, drinking. But being my last night I decided I wasn’t going to drink much; I didn’t bring out my cup. I went to the disco (of course) and saw my favourite dancer and even got a picture with him. He ended up coming back to the disco and asked me if I wanted to go to Puerto Vallarta with him. Um, yeah I do, but I can’t because I’m leaving tomorrow. I convinced him to dance with me. It was salsa; it was great.

Earlier that day, I was walking around, a bartender was passing me, said hello and then stopped me.

Him: I recognize your face.

Me: Like from this week?

Him: No… from before…

Me: November?!

Him: Maybe. How long are you here for?

Me: I leave tomorrow.

Him: Well, you should come by Bar 1; I’m there until 1am.

As I was walking home from the disco that night, I stopped at the beach to get my feet wet one last time. As I was walking down the beach, I found myself right by Bar 1; I decided to stop in for a drink. He immediately greeted me, by name, of course and asked what I wanted. There were some people from the disco there, Spanish guys and girls that don’t speak a lot of English. And they enjoyed razzing me in a language I didn’t understand.

I took it in stride; it didn’t bother me and I also found it entertaining, if only because they found it so entertaining. When Noel (the bartender) realized I was going to be staying, he found me a stool to sit on and brought it over to me. I kept dragging him into the conversation because I only understood every fourth word they were saying. At one point he looked at me sympathetically and said “It’s not fair because you don’t understand”.

So, the conversation ended up turning to me and Noel going home together. He said that he’d come to Canada with me; they just wanted him to come to my room with me. They made a big stink about it and eventually I caved and got me some Mexican action.

Well, not quite, but almost.

Until next time, Mexico… I love you as much as my liver hates you.

Mexico 2.2

Monday was the day I spent a lot of time at the pool and at the beach. As a result, I got way too much sun and burned the shit out of my back. So Monday night, I wasn’t feeling all that well (and not due to alcohol, for once) so I called it a night after the show. I woke up Tuesday feeling rejuvenated, albeit, really sore because of my burn. I was forced to sport tees instead of tanks until my back was a little less angry with life.

I spent the morning walking into town. The village is supposed to be about 1km away. Normally, I can walk a kilometre in about 10 minutes; between the heat and the fact that I was strolling along really casually, I found myself walking for about 20 minutes and still hadn’t hit the town centre. And I was feeling the effects of the sun.

I stopped in at a little café and ordered a tea, a bottle of water and some baked goods. For a brief second, I worried about whether or not I brought enough money. The cashier asked me for 47pesos (roughly $4). I guess my worry was not warranted.

I spent 15 minutes or so, cooling off and preparing myself for the outside again. I started walking, but about five minutes down the road I still hadn’t found the town and was feeling the effects of the sun… again. I’m not exactly equipped with the pigmentation necessary for survival in hot climates. I decided to call it a day and head back; I walked down the beach back to my resort.

I brought my new fancy camera on this outing and found a lot of really cool old buildings and nice properties to take pictures of, but when I pulled out my camera and tried turning it on, it didn’t work. I worried that I broke it at some point and then realized that I charged the battery the night before. And left it in my hotel room. I didn’t bring my small camera, so missed out on a lot of photo opportunities.

On my walk down the beach I came across two couples just staring into the water. Naturally, I sidled up next to them to check out what they were checking out. It was a water snake, right by the shore; it looked like he was trying to bury himself in sand, but his progress was hampered by the relentless waves.

I cursed myself for not having a camera, again, and started walking back down the beach. One of the guys rushed to catch up to me, once he was by my side, he asked “So… where in Michigan are you from?”

“I’m not from Michigan…”, he asked where I was from; I told him, then he said “Oh… well… … it’s a cool hat anyway”. Riiigghhht. The “M” doesn’t actually stand for “Mexico”. *face palm*

That night, I went to the show with a mother-daughter duo. Mom was plowed almost every time I saw her on the resort and Daughter was known as “Plastic Girl” by everyone. She was the fakest thing I’ve ever seen: bleach blonde hair, fake eyelashes, fake boobs, fake nails, too tan and abnormally large lips.

Nice girl, but she was such a spectacle that all the little Mexican kids were gathering around and asking for pictures with her. They had never seen such a thing and I hadn’t either. She was also very proud of it all; she fully admitted to having a boob job, botox and lip injections done pretty much anytime it came up in conversation. To each their own.

After the show, I went to the disco, one of the dancers from the show was there. I think he’s so beyond sexy; he’s probably half the reason I went back to the same place. Anyway, I danced up a storm… and then went home… I guess. I don’t quite remember. I’ve come to the conclusion that tequila creates gaps in my memory. I should definitely stay away from that stuff in the future.

Mexico 2.1

Sunday I woke up late (~1:30pm), between the sleep deprivation and hangover, I didn’t leave my room until 5pm. I handed in some paperwork, walked around the resort for half an hour and then went back to bed. I awoke around 8pm feeling much better; I got cleaned up and went out in search of food.

I left my big, blue cup at home because I “wasn’t really going to drink” and went about my night. Dinner, nightly show, followed by the disco once again. The disco, where I drank more than I should have… again.

The girl from the lawn was there, we started chatting and dancing. She got up on the bar and danced while the bartenders watched and continued slinging drinks. White girls seem to get away with pretty much anything in Mexico. At one point, she staggered over to me…

I simply asked “Why?”, she responded with “Why not?”. I said “I dunno… I’ve never kissed a girl before”, she thought this was all the more reason to do it. Next thing I know, she’s kissing me.

She pulled away and said “So….??”, I shrugged my shoulders and said “Meh…”. She got all indignant and offended: “What do you mean “Meh”?! You didn’t like it? Why didn’t you like it?! What’s wrong with you?!?!”

Then she walked away all in a huff and started making out with the guy from the lawn. I continued chatting up the bartender, Catarino, at one point he looked over at her and nodded in her direction:

Catarino: I don’t like her.

Me: Really?! Why not?

Catarino: Because she kissed you…

Me: Oh… … … okay…

Catarino: You kissed her too.

Me: So does that mean you don’t like me either?

Catarino: No, I like you.

Me: Why? What’s the difference?

Catarino: Because you didn’t like it.

I remember telling the bartender that I needed to go home; he asked if I wanted someone to walk me there. I pathetically agreed to the escort. The security guard took me outside and we waited for my escorts to arrive. I was really drunk and just wanted my bed. I told him this; he said we were just waiting for the other security guards to get there.

I told him I was just going to go by myself because I was tired of waiting and “was just fine”; he said “Show me”. I got up, took a few stumbling steps in the direction of my room; he said “No, no, no”, grabbed my arm and had me sit down once again. If his English was better, he probably would have said “Sit down before you fall down”.

My escorts arrived and walked me to my room; upon arrival, I immediately went to the bathroom to take out my contacts. But I was so intoxicated, I couldn’t do it. I assure you, this has never happened before. I decided sleeping with contacts in isn’t going to kill me one time and I staggered to bed and crashed.

I woke up the next day, surprisingly early, feeling, unsurprisingly hungover. I immediately hopped in the shower to wash away my illness; but I was feeling so under the weather, that I decided to sit down throughout the duration of my ablutions.

The shower didn’t have the best set up and the shower curtain was a bit unruly. I didn’t much care, given the state I was in. The moment I stepped out of the shower, I realized I probably should have cared a bit more. It looked like half of the shower water had escaped the confines of the stall and flooded the bathroom… and my entrance way… and it even went out my door.

There I was, completely hungover, trying to mop up litres and litres of water from my room using only my bathmat. It was inefficient at best.

What will happen this time?

Alright, folks. It’s Wednesday night; I leave for Mexico early Saturday morning. But it’s so early, I’m calling it Friday night since I have to be at the airport for 4am. I’m not sure what’s going to happen this time around, but I’m fairly certain that it’s going to be fun. I’ll make the most of it, anyway. I usually do.

Reasons why this trip will be different from the last:

1. I am not about to implode from stress/depression/life’s bullshit, so a complete and utter decompression isn’t as necessary. I might actually do things!
2. I haven’t been drinking nearly as much as of late so my tolerance is weakened. This will either result in less drinking, or being more sick. Either way, less debauchery?
3. I’ve been taking dancing lessons, so likely will spend more time dancing than last time. Or at least be better equipped at doing it.
4. I may or may not have a valid reason not to make out with a 17 year old boy (don’t know what I’m talking about? Read Mexico – Part 3 from last time)

I hope that list doesn’t make it sound like my trip is going to be ultra-lame-o. But just like last time, I’ll blog extensively about it when I get back.

Wish me luck! … Check ya later... See ya folks!!

Chemistry: Either there's a reaction or there isn't.

During grades 5 through 7, going to school dances was my big thing. I guess dancing has been a part of my life for longer than I realized. I'm not sure why I liked them so much, I guess it was my first taste of freedom and it made me feel like a big girl. This was also around the time I started liking boys. Coincidence? I think not...

I can remember dancing with boys from my class; it usually went one of two ways...

or else....

A few times, I had a boyfriend when the dance was scheduled, so naturally, we went together. If at any point during the night, I felt like that first picture, I would end the 'relationship' shortly thereafter. If only because I didn't want to date someone where it was awkward being that close to them. I mean, how awkward would it be when we kiss?

High school was a haze fueled by drugs and alcohol, so I can't recall if we even had school dances. I'm sure we did, but I certainly didn't go to them. Eventually, graduation and prom rolled around and I went with my boyfriend of one year. We'd never really danced together before, except for that one time when he dipped me and then dropped me, head first, on concrete. Nice.

Anyway, it was nearing the end of prom night and we still hadn't danced. At one point, he turned to me and said "I suppose you want to dance now, don't you?". He seemed really excited about it, so I said "Yeah... kinda..." even though I'd been waiting the whole night for him to ask me to dance. The main reason you go to prom is to dance, am I right?

As we were walking to the dance floor, I can clearly remember thinking "Oh good, this shouldn't be awkward at all . We've had sex... dancing should be a piece of cake!" And then...

It was the longest 4 minutes in the history of the planet! I decided that I couldn't very well end a year long relationship based on criteria that I made up in grade 5, so I dated him for another 6 years and then wished that I hadn't wasted so much time. I guess I was wise beyond my years...

Recently, I was talking with a friend about salsa dancing; I was telling her how there are some guys that I dance with and we do it well right off the bat. And then there are others where I'm constantly struggling to keep up and have no idea what they want me to do. A mischievous grin spread across her face and she said "Oh yeah? So... when you're dancing with the good ones, does it make you think that'd you'd be good in bed together?". I said "No it doesn't... but it will from now on!".

Dancing Queen

Like all children, I lived life with reckless abandon when I was growing up. Sure, I hurtled myself down entire flights of stairs and jumped off patios. But also, I would dance and sing with no regard for anyone around me and what they might be thinking of me. And I gave them a lot of ammunition.

Then I reached a stage of my life where awkwardness and fear of judgment clouded my ability to have fun without worrying about whether or not I was making a fool of myself. I led a sad life where I censored myself so that people didn't think I was a weirdo. Then came alcohol, which pushed my fear of judgment into a haze where I knew it was there more than I could see that it was there. Unfortunately, it did nothing for my awkwardness.

Getting back to the point of this post, when I was a kid, Granny used to take me to some sort of centre. I don't know what or where it was, but there were a lot of old folks around and it took place in some sort of gymnasium. Not very helpful, I know. Mostly, I remember that they would play music and I loved it. All the old folks would dance slowly in the middle of the gym; swaying back and forth ever so gently, careful not to break a hip.

I, on the other hand, was four years old and super excited to be there. I would "dance" around the perimeter of the gym. It was a kind of weird version of the can-can, but with much more forward momentum. And fewer people.



Try as I might, I could never get anyone to dance with me. Not even the more chipper of the bunch. That only fueled my attempts; I wanted to make it look more fun to lure the old folks in. But that just seemed made it look that much more dangerous because no one ever joined me. More often than not, Granny would request that I "just sit down". Now that I think about it, I'm not sure why she brought me there; she probably wasn't very popular because of me. Mind you, I probably slept really well those nights and the quiet time was probably worth the hour of ridicule.

Buenos Nachos

I've officially been dancing Salsa for three weeks now; last night I went to the Salsa club for the third time. I'm by no means good, but I think I'm getting better. One guy even told me that I was a good dancer... and I don't even think he was drunk.

At first, I was seriously awkward and uncoordinated. As opposed to now, when I'm only moderately so. I didn't know what I was doing and, even to me, it felt wrong.

But, every so often, I would get a partner that was less serious and would just let me have fun, even if I wasn't technically dancing Salsa anymore. Basically, he would just turn me a lot and that would make me happy.

Since my first time out, I've learned the steps and have less of a hard time keeping up. I actually know what I'm supposed to be doing, even if I don't always do it.

I've also learned how to properly turn, instead of just shuffling clockwise, and I've learned the "cross body lead". That's when you switch places with your partner. Up until last night, I had no idea what my partner was trying to get me to do when he led me into this move. Now I've got it, and I really enjoy it.

Despite the fact that I'm learning the moves and understanding the cues from my partner, I still have a lot of areas to work on (obviously, I've only been doing it for three weeks!), but some of them are very, very basic.

For instance, I have a habit of putting my left hand on the bicep of my partner. (It should be on their shoulder, or on their back). I usually have this problem with partners that are significantly taller than me. I guess I'm lazy and don't want to hold my arm up. I've been corrected numerous times by numerous partners, but still continue to make the mistake.

Last night, I was danced with this guy. A lot, probably a dozen times. He's a very good dancer and could obviously tell that I was just learning, but he seemed to like helping me get better. Good dancers will either do this (show you things, give you pointers etc) or they beat it and will never ask you to dance. Needless to say, I was very thankful that he asked me to dance again and again.

But he was significantly taller than me, so my bad habit kept cropping up. The first few times, he physically corrected me by putting my hand where it should be, but that takes time and takes away from the dance. So, after awhile, he started giving me physical cues to remind me to correct my posture: he would pat my back twice.

The first couple times, I didn't catch on, so he would pat my back harder and look down at my hand.

After that, every time I felt the gentle reminder, my hand would shoot up to the correct position and he would nod approvingly.

He left that night by giving me the name of an instructor that is very good (Giovanni); he asked me for my email address so he can send me the information/link for the drop in lesson.

He said that he was also thinking of going to the Sunday lesson. I questioned his reasons for wanting to take a beginner lesson (since obviously he doesn't need it); he said "just for practice". I'm not sure if he was talking about my practice or his. Regardless, I might have found someone that is willing to take me under their wing.

Happy New Year!

I know I haven't posted all year; I just wanted to let you know that I am in fact aware of it. Since my last post Christmas and New Year's have come and gone. It's now 2012 and the start of another year.

I'm not really into New Year's resolutions; I think that they are mostly a recipe for failure. But I do have things I would like to do; it's just that they're not much different than the things I wanted to do last month. But, sometimes a fresh start is enough to give you the kick in the pants you need to actually start doing things.

One of the things I wanted to do was to get more active again. I feel like I've become a bit of a slug over the past few months and want to get back into the routine of going out and doing things again.

And I have. Over the past couple months, I've started going out for walks; I go out for live music nights; I even went ice skating for the first time in months. Like I said, I've starting picking it up over the past month or two, so where does the talk of New Year's resolutions come in?

Well, there's this little pub/restaurant that I go to on a semi-regular basis. And by semi-regular, I mean, pretty much once a week, every week for the past 3 years. You could say I'm a good customer.

Across the street from this place is a dance studio. On my way in and out of my favorite hole in the wall, I see this place. Every time. Being that I lack much to be desired in the body-movement-coordination arena of life, I've always looked longingly towards this studio with a mixture of curiousity and apprehension.

This longing has only grown stronger and over the past year or so I began to seriously consider doing something about my desire to be able to dance without looking like a spastic spider. Then I went to Mexico, where I learned that dancing can be very sexy, when done properly, that is. So over the past two months, my curiousity has nearly overcome my apprehension.

Last week, on January 1st, I was on one of my walks when I walked past the studio. It was closed, but I stopped to peek inside. I noticed that they had a pamphlet on the outside of their door. I grabbed one. Being the new year, they have a New Year's special. I gave it some thought and the next day, I went in and signed up for a salsa class.

The two days later, I was discussing it with someone at work; she said that she was going salsa dancing on Friday and I was welcome to come. That same day, I got an invitation for a 2 hour salsa lesson for Saturday night.

I signed up for the two hour lesson immediately, but I was hesitant to accept the invitation for Friday night; I knew absolutely nothing and wasn't sure if a club was the best place to start. A quick glance at the website showed that they provide an hour long lesson before opening the club for dancing.

It seemed that everything was falling into place. I went out to the club on Friday night and followed it up the next night with another lesson. With two night's of lessons under my belt, I feel much more confident going into my class. I think I'll get much more out of my 8 week class, then if I was a complete newbie.

Now, I'm not the most coordinated person on the planet on a good day. In fact, I can be such a klutz that sometimes walking without falling down takes more of an effort than I'd like to admit.

So, it's safe to say that my dancing skills are somewhat lacking. And that my moves, as of right now, are awkward at best. All things considered, I feel like this is something I can do. I think I can get it. It'll take practice and determination, but those are two things that I am not lacking in my life. Pure determination has gotten me many things.

Coincidently, this falls in line with being more active and going out and doing more things. In fact, after two night's of dancing, I am sore. My feet hurt. My legs, from hip to ankle, hurt. My hips and back hurt. My neck and shoulders hurt. And I feel great.

Happy New Year, Everyone!

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.