This Particular Boy–part 1

So, as you know, there’s this particular boy I’ve been spending time with lately. And because you’re all so incredibly nosey, you want to hear all about it. And because I’m so incredibly accommodating, I will tell you all about it.

I’ve technically known him for a couple years, but we only started having consistent conversations in the last 8 months or so. I met BigBoy, or BB, at my local watering hole; he was often there when I was there. I attempted to make conversation with him on a couple of occasions and was met with, what can only be described as, indifference. I chalked it up to him being the strong, silent type.

One day, I was successful in luring him into conversation; I was convinced we were going to be friends. Or at the very least, two people that would talk to each other while occupying a spot at the same bar. But the next time I saw him, I was met with the same indifference. I drew the only logical conclusion.

BB ended up getting a job as a bartender at this establishment. I was sure that I would eventually win him over since he was required to have contact with me. But it turned out he wasn’t required to have contact with me at all. He’d simply leave my drink-getting-duties up to the other bartender, which naturally further convinced me of his dislike for me.

Several months ago, BB ended up moving in with a friend of mine. I was having drinks with Mutual Friend at the pub one night and he invited me back to his place after closing; I agreed to go. He said “When BB gets off work, you’ll be there… I’m sure he’ll love that.”. I drew the only logical conclusion.

Things started slowly changing; around the time BB moved in with Mutual Friend, we started having nice conversations really consistently. One night about three months ago, I was at their place, BB and I were having an in-depth conversation about guitars (we both play); Mutual Friend fell asleep on the couch. The following conversation ensued:

BB: So, what’s the deal with you and Mutual Friend?

TWG: What do you mean?

BB: Well, sometimes I come home from work and you’re here, and Mutual Friend told me the other day that you came over and it was just the two of you.

TWG: Yup.

BB: Soooooo…?

TWG: Noooooo.

BB: No?

TWG: Nope. It’s not going to happen and I’ve told him that about a thousand times.

BB: Yeah, I know.

TWG: You know?

BB: Yeah, I’ve been around for a dozen of those thousand times.

TWG: Right.

BB: But you can understand why I’m asking…

TWG: I… guess… (I didn’t)

Since then, we started spending more and more time together and have had a nice conversation of the “What are we doing, where is this going” variety. And as of recently, we even put the nice little “Boyfriend/Girlfriend” label on this relationship.

Boyfriend. Girlfriend. Relationship. These are things that haven’t happened in over a decade for me.

You could say I’m a little out of my element. You could say that, at times, this whole thing completely freaks me out because being in a relationship has become such a foreign concept for me.

You could also say I am enjoying myself immensely.

I Stole Someone’s Childhood

A couple weeks ago, a friend called me up and said “Let’s go out!”. Even though I had an event the very next morning (well, noon) that required drinking, I said okay, sure that I would nurse all my drinks and be home at a decent hour.

We met up at our usual place; she proceeded to nurse her drinks and I did not. We then moved onto our next destination and ran into a bunch of people we knew. At one point, it was getting late and she had a dentist appointment the next day, so she called it and went home.

At least that’s what should have happened; I stayed behind without a second thought. It was someone’s birthday party and one of my friends had won a door prize. He gave it to me.

I’m not sure he knew just how happy it made me. I do love door prizes after all. I was getting ready to leave when one of my friends was all “Come on, Heather, we’re going to my place”. I think I put up a little bit of a fight, but then, sure enough, found myself in his apartment chatting it up with his girlfriend and getting another drink dropped in my hand.

He announced that we were going someplace else. I said I had to go home, but he convinced me to go. It may or may not have been very easy seeing as I was pretty intoxicated by this point.

I found myself at this party, where I knew no one and everyone knew everyone. Ordinarily, I might find that situation awkward, but not that night.

I made my rounds meeting people, a few of whom I remember the names of, a few of whom I do not. At one point, the host said “It’s late, everyone has to leave”. All his friends we were like “No – not yet… blah, blah, blah”. I gathered my door prize, my coat and purse and tried to make my way out of the confusing apartment building and onto the street so I could get a cab. I managed to do that and found myself hitting my pillow at 4:30am, completely hammered. So much for my plan.

Morning came all too fast and I found myself completely hungover; since I paid $60 for a ticket to the wine festival, I dragged myself out of bed, hit the showers and staggered around waiting for death, while trying desperately to get ready, make myself presentable and put my game face on.

I succeeded, or at least, I thought I did.

I was on the bus waiting for my friends to board at their respective stops and I felt like complete shit. My first friend boarded and then a couple stops later, the next one. They were positively chipper and chatting away. I was concentrating on not throwing up.

After a few questions regarding what I got up to the night before, the cat was out of the bag.

Apparently my game face is transparent because she said “I knew something was off with you but I didn’t know what!”. We went for lunch where I pushed a salad around my plate and drank about a litre of liquids.

We made it to the event and the moment of truth came; I got the first taste of wine in me and thankfully knew I would be okay. We spent two hours at the event, then met up with friends for more drinks, then went out for more drinks. By 11, the girls were tapped out, so we went on home.

The next morning, I unloaded my door prize winnings and found something in the basket that I didn’t recall being in there when I got the thing.

It’s a picture. Of a little boy, just getting off a school bus. There’s a date handwritten in mom-writing on the back “1988”.

The boy looks vaguely familiar; I think I might have met him at that party. But 26 years later and the amount of alcohol I consumed that night, I don’t know who he is.

All I know is, I’m pretty sure I managed to steal a picture of someone’s first day of school.

Wet pants are the worst

As you may or may not remember, I’ve had a tendency in the past to accidentally spill drinks. And by accidentally spill drinks, I mean, accidentally dump entire pints of beer into the laps of unsuspecting friends. Check out the old post – it’s a gem!

Well… it happened again. Let me paint you a picture.

The night started off innocently enough – regular Friday night routine of going out for dinner (a.k.a soup) with some friends. A drink or two was had. Another friend had wanted to meet up for drinks; when one of my friends at dinner got wind of it she said she would also be interested in going out.

So we met up at the local pub and had a few more drinks. This pub is notorious for shutting down early (some would call it an old folk bar and they would be right), so we moseyed on down the road to the next pub to get a couple more before the last-last call. Which is part of the routine for “one of those” Friday nights.

In general, I’ve been known to attract weirdos and my friend happens to be quite the looker. Those talents combined, we always have an interesting night when we head out; this night was no exception. We weren’t sitting at the bar for very long before some dude came over from the other side to chat us up.

You could say I was feeling a little jealous of the attention, or lack thereof. You could say that maybe, just maybe, I wanted in on the conversation. You could also say I wasn’t paying enough attention to my surroundings.

It’s no surprise that things got out of hand and drinks were spilt.

I totally had this coming.

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.

Hello, 2013, I didn’t see you there…

Seems like everybody is doing a year in review post; I did that a few months ago and not much has changed so I’m not doing it again. Sorry? You’re welcome? But here’s my attempt at getting one more post in before the end of the year.

A few weeks back, a friend of mine informed me that his girlfriend booked four hotel rooms downtown for NYE and got a pretty good fricken deal. Three out of the four were taken and the fourth was mine if I wanted it. I was trying to justify the expense (even though it’s a good deal, for NYE, it’s still half a pile of money after all) and I realized that most people I know are couples that will be doing a couple thing, or else don’t drink much. Since I also have a nightbus that runs all night and practically drops me off at my house, I wasn’t sure if it was worth the price.

My stepmom told me otherwise. She was convinced it was going to be the bestest time ever and I couldn’t let the opportunity pass me by. I told my friend that I would take the room. I started getting excited and started inviting people. I knew that most of them would say “Sounds like fun – I’ll call you!” and never hear from them. I was okay with that.

A few days later, my friend informed me that the rate his girl is getting is because she’s a government employee. The non-employee rate is almost 3x that amount, which no one in their right mind would pay, unless they had 8 people staying in the room, splitting the cost. Which I don’t.

I’m welcome to come on down and party (doin’ the hotel room hop) but I’ll have to find my way home at the end of the night. Not a bad deal. Especially since that was my first option anyway. Now I’m realizing that I should’ve pre-purchased my NYE booze – the liquor store will be insanely busy by the time I get there tonight. I don’t know what I was thinking.

Have a happy new year everyone and I’ll see you in 2013!

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.

Mexico 2.0

There are only two words that can be used to describe my second trip to Mexico: fucking train wreck. Okay, that was three words, but that’s just how much of a train wreck this trip was.

Last time, I was drinking enough that my liver was able to keep pace with the marathon of alcohol consumption that I put it through. This time, not so much. Next time, I’ll need to practice drinking a lot more before I leave to try and avoid the whole scene I caused.

Oh my.

Oh well, what happens in Mexico stays in Mexico, right? Except for when you blog about it afterwards… fuck.

I guess the beginning is the best place to start. I had an early morning flight on Saturday. Friday, I left work, got some dinner, ran some errands and finished up packing the last few remaining items. I talked on the phone with Dave and then went to bed around 11:30pm, desperately in need of a nap.

I got woken up around 1:45am to Thailand tapping on my window; I tried going back to sleep but was unsuccessful. For some reason. We left my place around 3:45am, I got some breakfast at the airport and was on the plane for 6:30am.

I managed to sleep for about an hour on the plane; a feat only accomplished by severe sleep deprivation (less than six hours of sleep between Thursday and Friday night). I arrived at the resort around 3pm, checked in, found my room and got cleaned up. While checking out my home-away-from-home, I opened the blinds and took in the view.

Don’t see it?

That’s right… The pathway from my room led directly to the bar. Trouble. So, what did I do? I went to check out my home-away-from my home-away-from-home: a barstool at Bar 6. Within half an hour, I met a group from Prince George and started partying with them. Tequila shots, vodka cocktails, vodka shots, rum cocktails; we had them all. Have I mentioned that I hadn’t eaten lunch or dinner? Yeah… trouble.

Come 8pm (or some time later when I convinced my party that I needed food or else), we went for dinner, but due to my extreme inebriation, I was less than successful and left most of my plate untouched.

We went to the nightly show and then… some things happened. It starts getting a little hazy at this point. I definitely lost the group and probably ended up at the disco. Next thing I know, I’m sitting on the lawn outside of the disco, talking with some chick. A couple of her friends come up, and then a couple of guys. Her friends take off, and then her and one guy take off. I was left with the other dude.

Seeing where this was headed, I made a point of mentioning that I was tired and needed to go home. Or so I thought. Turns out I’d made a point at mentioning this repeatedly throughout my time on the grass because I saw the girl and the guy at the disco the next night, buddy said to me “Oh – you’re the tired girl!”. Nice.

Eventually, I went home. Somehow. I managed to make it in the door, take out my contacts and crawl into bed fully dressed before passing out completely.

Another post to follow!

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!!

Awkward conversations with my dad and beyond...

I've been single for awhile now, immediately after getting out of my long-term relationship, I moved in with my dad because I couldn't find a place that would accept my 100+lb companion (a.k.a. rottweiller). Within months of living with my dad, he started making comments about being a grandfather. He really wanted to be a grandfather (and still does).

I tried to tell him that I was in no position to bear children:

1. I was single and therefore would be a single mother (not desirable)


2. I was living with him and therefore would be a single mother living with her father (even less desirable)


3. I had a lot of emotional baggage and therefore would always be a single mother living with her father (pretty much the worst thing that could happen)

For some reason, these reasons were mere excuses to my dad; he said no man would ever be good enough for me anyway and I could stay as long as I wanted. Backfired. I continued to tell him that it wasn't going to happen anytime soon and that he should talk to my brother (who is older than me and in a long term relationship). He wasn't convinced. He continues to bug me.

Since then, Dad has become the high-pressure salesman of the family; he has even recruited Bev into the business. At least monthly I get questioned about whether or not there is someone in my life; about whether or not I'm any closer to bearing children. When I respond with my automatic "No, Dad, there is no guy", the response I get is "Well, you don't have to be married you know.... you can just get knocked up...". Thanks for that.

This has been going on for several years. I keep saying "No, I'm not seeing anyone", "No, I don't have a boyfriend", "No, there is no guy"... But then, I started thinking that maybe I was giving off the wrong vibe; maybe my dad thinks I'm a nun, maybe he thinks I'm a lesbian. Neither of which is the look I'm going for.

Bev & I went out for lunch a several months back and she questioned whether or not I was seeing anyone. I quickly responded with my standard "No" but then decided to elaborate a bit. I attract crazy fucking guys, so I told her about my (most recent) stalker, in hopes that she would drop it. She sympathized with me and agreed that I needed to do better than that. Whew.

A few months later, I was at my dad's house getting tanked with him when he decided to broach the subject with me. He asked if there were any guys in my life. I was nanoseconds away from saying "No, Dad, no guys..." when I decided to give him a bit more of a response. I said "Okay, it's not like there aren't any guys... there are guys... but the guy that I'm a whore with isn't the guy I bring home for Christmas dinner.. you know? They don't cross over for me, so until I find a guy that I'm thinking of bringing home for dinner, you're not going to hear about them." If I wasn't shit-faced, it would have been an awkward-ass conversation. Thank god for alcohol.

But then he turned around and said "Oh I'm glad... so, you're not a prude! Your sex life is good, then?". Awkward. Alcohol be damned, at that moment, I kinda wished he still thought I was a nun. Since I've opened this can of worms, I've decided to lie in the bed I made and try to keep them up to date with the goings-on in my life. I told Bev about the potential guys that have cropped up out of this Salsa dancing fiasco (Thailand*, DanceClass* and DanceClub* being the main ones). At first I thought this would help, but now I'm pretty sure it's just given them newfound hope.

Recently, I was over for dinner; my dad went downstairs and within seconds of him being gone Bev piped up with "I've been sitting here in suspense... Have you heard anything from Thailand yet?". Oh my god... I kinda wished she still thought I was a nun.

For the past few weeks I had no idea why everyone I knew kept asking me about Thailand. Why is everyone so hung up on Thailand? What about the other guys I've been talking about? And then I was talking with my good friend, Dave; he made some mention about me being smitten with Thailand. I tried denying it, but even to my ears it sounded transparent. Prior to this conversation we had only talked about the Salsa-itos once; it was a fairly brief conversation, yet he seemed to know things I didn't know.

So, I asked him how he knew such things. He said that my voice changed when I talked about Thailand compared to the other guys I had mentioned in the same sitting. He said that when you really know a person, you can hear the difference in their voice when they're just talking about someone they know and when they're talking about someone they like. He mentioned words like "happy" and "junior high". It was embarrassing.

But also a bit eye-opening. I said "Oh... that explains a lot..."; he asked what exactly it explained. I said that I've mentioned Thailand and the others to multiple people over the past few weeks, but anytime anyone asks me about any of it, it's always the same question "So... when does Thailand come back?".

Son of a bitch... Everybody can tell I'm smitten with Thailand.

(*names have been changed to protect their identity)

Better late than never

I'm usually a fairly social person; I try to make a point to get introduced to friend's of friends and have some sort of dialogue with them even if it's just the standard "So... how do you know so-and-so?".

A friend of mine is in a band; I know all of the members and have a fairly good relationship with them. Except for one girl. I don't really know what happened with her. I think she came into the band when there was a lot of turnover; I guess I didn't really think she would stick around. She usually has multiple friends at the shows and seems really busy with them and prepping for the show. Whatever the reasons, we've never spoken. She's been in the band for well over a year so there isn't really a good excuse for it. I guess it just got to the point where introducing myself would be awkward, so I never did it.

Friday night, my friend had his birthday party; all his band mates were there including the new drummer, whom I got introduced to twice in a matter of minutes. And of course, the girl whom I've never met. At one point, I grabbed the bull by the horns, sat down beside her and started chatting with her. A brief lull in conversation happened (naturally) and she turned to me and said exactly what I was thinking "You know... I don't think we've ever met before". So we introduced ourselves and carried on with conversation, which was mostly music related.

By the end of the night, she asked for my phone number and said she would help me out with understanding music theory (there are some basic concepts I can't seem to wrap my head around). Parting ways, I got a hug from her and the new drummer. It feels good to get that monkey off my back and that elephant out of the room. It's also good to know that I'm not going to have that issue with the new drummer, although we haven't really spoken, at least we know each other's names and are comfortable enough to hug each other... or maybe that was the booze talking.

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!

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??) :)