My Sh#! is Broken... And Other Important Lessons

I learned a valuable lesson this week and I thought I would share it with you guys...

NEVER, EVER yell at your trainer.  Ever. 

This is about to get real folks.  Real graphic.  The squeamish should just go ahead and turn away.  Quit reading.  You've been warned.

Let's start at the beginning...

Wednesday morning I woke with excruciating menstrual cramps.  If you can envision having a gut shot wound and intestines spilling out of your body, you might have some idea what was a happenin' to me this past Wednesday.  But probably not.  So let's move on.

I shot half of a bottle (slight exaggeration) of ibuprofen with my coffee, tequila and protein powder (breakfast of champions) and then hobbled to my 7:30 am appointment with Keith, otherwise known as Satan.  Keith used to train professional baseball players so his idea of positive encouragement looks like, "You did a good job today... But I suspect you can do better."

And JS doesn't pay him to be nice to me.  So it's almost okay.  I'm trying to coach him on his positivity and he's trying to train me to keep my mouth shut.  Ha. 

Anywho, this Wednesday I started my session by telling Keith that I was 80% certain I would be puking from the pain that was my uterus, and he began our session by throwing up a little bit himself.  Then he made me do 8,000 single leg RDL's, band walks and split squats.  Things were getting a little tense after the 4th round because I had set a new record for underachievement due to blood loss.  Keith's patience was wearing thin and the number of his antagonizing comments was growing large.

I was mostly just dizzy and nauseous in between the black-outs.  And getting more irritable by the minute.

After attempting a few Russian leg curls, alternately known as the most painful exercise ever, (Slide your legs under a weight bench, raise your ankles in the air thereby smashing the delicate bits of your calves into the bottom of the weight bench, and then use your legs to hold your body as you lower and raise your chest from the ground) Keith thew it out of the plan due to my increasing belligerence.

 

Russian leg curls

Since we threw out the leg curls we added in back extensions with weight.   

When Keith made the mistake of asking which weight I wanted, things got a little ugly.  

I regrettably replied, "I want the 5 pound plate."  To which Keith made the, 'You must have lost your mind' face and said, "5 POUNDS!?  We don't use the 5 pound plate!"

And then I totally lost my shit. 

"WHY THE F WORD WOULD YOU EVEN ASK ME IF YOU WERE JUST GOING TO BE AN ASS?  WHY DON'T YOU JUST BRING ME THE EFFING WEIGHT YOU THINK I SHOULD BE USING?"  

Blame it on the pressure the machinery was putting on my ailing uterus or blame it on the increasing antagonism, but needless to say, it wasn't one of my finer moments.  The two other gym patrons watched to see what would happen next.  For a few shocked seconds, nobody made a peep.  Keith's face remained surprised and a wee bit confused as my insides turned to shameful and embarrassed jello.  When a smile started to spread across his face, I knew I was in for a world of hurt...

He had two whole days to work on his retribution.  We met this morning for a workout that we shall now lovingly refer to as, "Payback is a Mother Effer."  It only took 4 hours post workout for my arms to seize so that brushing my hair has become an absolute no-go.  Changing clothes has also become completely impossible, but that's okay because I totally look forward to wearing this shirt for the next 4 days. 

In other news, I've also recently learned you should NEVER, EVER, EVER tell your trainer that you ate the whole pizza...  Or drank the entire bottle of booze by yourself...  But you already knew that didn't you?

   

Mexico Part Two: No Mas Tequila

It took me almost an entire year to upload all these damn photos, so here it is!  This here is the second and last part of my birthday Bonanza recap from Mexico September, 2010.

If you missed part one you can catch it here:  Part One

The first night of our raucous vacation, JS and I had a quick spat over which of us was the coolest.  Neither of us could resolutely agree that indeed, I AM the coolest, and seeing as how he had had his fill of pointless chatter and Princesses after our long day of travel, he decided he would not be eating dinner with the me and the rest of the gang.  So off to dinner the merry gang went and Grumpus-Aurelius was left to his own devices. 

5 hours later I found JS weaving his way around the resort in his swimming trunks and a much improved mood.  He claimed he had no room key in his possession, so he busied himself at the bar all evening.  The hysterical part was, for the rest of our vacation JS was on a first name basis with our bartenders.  In every single bar.  All eight of them.

Days 2-5 of our wondrous Mayan vacation went as follows:

Dub, Nina, G, Ant and Trisha took an all day shopping expedition to Playa Del Carmen and a dinner trip to Cabo San Lucas one night that they concluded was fabulous.  The highlight being a cold CO cartridge being squirted unexpectedly into their backsides…  JS still marvels at how differently our vacation could have ended if he and I had joined them on that invigorating little excursion.  It’s quite easy to picture JS stuck in a Mexican prison for killing the well meaning and poorly trained Mayan barman that made the deadly mistake of trying to frost his tush.  Yes.  A much different ending indeed.

Thanks be to the Sweet Baby Jesus the butt frosting expedition coincided with our Spa day and thus JS was saved from the living the life of a fugitive.

My girlfriend D and I enjoyed a lovely couple’s massage that day (Since we signed up at the same time they thought we were a couple?) as JS monitored the toplessness on the beach.  Those Europeans ain’t got no shame, which can be a truly beautiful and/or frightful thing.  (Side note: I am SO getting a bikini because Dear Lawd, if they can wear it… SO can I.  Side note from side note:  Any and all pictorial evidence of me wearing any bikini will immediately be destroyed, as will the person who tries to acquire any of said evidence.)

Except for this picture, strategically taken from a distance.  Brazil Nov 2010.

During our couple’s massage when D asked for more pressure, I somehow suffered an ass kicking by proxy.  My masseuse really embraced that famous one liner, “Do WORK, son!” and I was actually in tears for a short span of time.  Like 5 minutes.  I attributed my ‘emotional release’ to the recent passing of my horse, the low back trauma I had suffered at her youthful expense, simultaneously combined with ‘The Man From Snowy River’ theme music (that shizzle is moving) and the deep body work over my broken low back.  All in all it was by far THE BEST massage I’ve ever had.

JS had us all in fits of giggles when he retold the story of his massage.  In Mexico there’s little to zero draping, which can leave certain ‘bits’ of your body out in the breeze if you will…  So he’s laying there, face up on the massage table enjoying a nice calm revelry when suddenly his masseuse whips his leg over her shoulder, karate chopping and tucking the sheet to cover his man pieces in one nice choreographed move.  Then he swears she punched him exactly five times in the hamstring.

I almost wet my pants when he revealed this little gem.  So I asked him, “What happened to the other leg?”  To which he calmly replied, “Oh, she did that one too.  But I was totally ready for it then.” 

Priceless.

The morning of my actual birthday we got up super early, packed our swim gear and headed into the jungle for our Tulum Xtreme excursion.  I figured if I was going to die in a jungle, my 30th birthday was as good a day as any.

We were distracted from the ‘Xtreme’ part of the program by first touring the amazing Mayan ruins of Tulum.  This included squinting at lizards and sweating profusely as we gazed at the remains of the awe inspiring stone buildings where almost an entire population was wiped out by good Christians and the diseases they brought to the indigenous people.

The mood and the temperature were significantly lighter on the coast line where we enjoyed snapping photos and drinking in the beauty of the Caribbean.

G and I tried our gymnastic moves off the top of a rock, in hopes of capturing some air on film…  Annnnd once again I was surprised by my lack of coordination and grace.  But mostly, every time I launched myself into the air I could only envision myself tied up in traction inside of a very scary Mexican hospital.  With skills like my own, it's not far from a hop off of a little rock to a broken leg.  Let's just say I was giving less than 100% on take-off.



   

Fail!

Win!

After touring Tulum we drove further into the jungle and I was talked into climbing a freaking crazy tall set of stairs to reach the zip line.  At the top of the stairs I entrusted my well-being and 30 years of life to a 4 foot Mayan, a series of cables and a very tight, wedge-a-fying harness.  When it was finally my turn to 'zip' I yelled something along the lines of, “If you want me out there you’re going to have to Effing push me, because I refuse to jump off voluntarily!”

And THEN...  The tiny Mayan pushed me.

I realized amidst my sheer terror while simultaneously dangling at warp speed over a remote jungle in the middle of nowhere, far, far away from any medical help...  I had two taller, faster and even more terrifying zip lines ahead of me.

But we all survived.  And it was AWESOME!

For our next adventure we had to repel down a set of stairs.  Also terrifying.  The wedgie somehow even more painful in this contraption.

The reward for completing our terrifying, sweaty adventures dangling from cables and ropes was dunking our bits in the coldest water known to man.  (Our consolation prize was a traumatizing image of our guide "Guapo" with his extra large man bits accentuated by his repelling harness forever etched into our minds.)

We ended our Xtreme Tulum adventure with a guided tour of an underground water filled cave called a Cenota.  It was pretty spectacular, awe inspiring and a teeny bit creepy.  I kept hearing the theme music from Jaws and thus maintained a high level of vigilance, keeping my eyes peeled for any suspicious cave creatures.  Someone (total ass hat) happened to grab my foot fin as I snorkeled by and I immediately suffered a mild cardiac infarction.  And, might I ask, WHO THE F WORD DOES THAT!? 

After I released my protective ink cloud I turbo propelled my head right into the low hanging cave wall in an attempt to shake my attacker.  Luckily my attacker wasn't actually a shark as he would have had plenty of time to eat me while I floated in stunned silence only broken by the occasional muffled obscenities squeaking from the top of my snorkel, while the blinding pain dissipated.

Thankfully we took pictures before I concussed myself.

After the conclusion of our Xtreme Adventure we raced to the beach to catch some rays and decrease our sobriety.  There was a tequila shot 'challenge' between D and JS.  D won...  And then I was almost forced to push her off a balcony...  But she was spared ;)

Shades of Tequila

Another memorable occasion was the discoteca.  We managed to drop it like it's hot and simulatenously scare all the other dancers off the dance floor.  Apparently our moves were uber impressive and/or intimidating.  You be the judge...

Another event sponsored by Tequila

Our magical trip and my birthday celebration ended much too soon and I smothered my friends with kisses before we parted ways.  D, JS and I somehow managed to keep it real on our return trip with only 50 minutes between our international flight into Dallas and our flight from Dallas to Austin... 

Hello, dummy?  Did you forget about customs?  Why yes. Yes I did.  Thus D and I got to experience our first taste of barefoot running.  (JS was smart enough to forgo flipflops and wear running shoes.)  Listen hear y'all.  A 1/2 mile full on effing sprint while wearing a skirt and slinging a heavy-ass carry on bag aint no joke.  Hence my gimpy ankles.  My body may never be the same. 

We did however enjoy the male flight attendant fawning over JS with water to drink and napkins for his sweaty brow while the two of us ladies had nothing to staunch the flow from our faces our quench our throats.  We decided that he simply thought JS was going to die which would further delay/ inconvenience our fellow travellers heading to Austin.

Needless to say, we all survived Mexico and we are now looking  forward to Round 2 of THE BIG 3-0!  Someone (D) is turning 30 (D) this August (Did I mention it's D?) and we are rounding up the same merry band of travellers + 2 new for a Costa Rican Adventure! 

Lord, please help us all ;)

Toilet Time

A few nights ago I almost died of fright. 

But let me start at the beginning.

Halfway through the night I woke from a cozy dream with a straining bladder.  Rolling over and ignoring it was no longer an option because I had already done that 5 times and said bladder had finally reached maximum painful capacity. 

But why not get up the first time the 'ole bladder woke me you ask?  Well...  Because of the following:

1.  Somewhere under the covers is an ear flapping time bomb known as the butt rat snuggler.  Whenever she notices me shifting awake she bolts from the folds of JS' tush using only her sharpest toes to dislodge herself.  After breaking the surface of the covers and reaching fresh air she immediately flaps her sonar devices (ears) loudly enough to wake the neighbors and possibly the dead, if they were somewhat light sleepers.  This absolutely infuriates the Grisly Bear, otherwise known as JS, and can lead to a middle of the night (somewhat incoherent) tirade.  Lives may be threatened and grudges will be held.  Indefinitely.

2.  Our bed is over 4 feet tall with a marvelous memory foam topper that is damn near impossible to extract yourself from without the help of a crane and, or a well placed, freshly sharpened Chihuahuan toe as incentive. 

3.  Somewhere down in the darkness is the sleeping Akita.  She is guaranteed to wake just as you have carefully straddled all 96 pounds of her body, potentially throwing everyone to the ground.  At the minimum you will sacrifice a delicate pinky toe to her senile flailing.

So this particular night I somehow manage to slide from under the covers without waking the ear flapper.  The Akita is alerted to my presence because my ankles are so incredibly sore that I cannot walk in the middle of the night without a very loud shuffle, slide, shuffle, slide, kick ball change, shuffle, step.  I'm certain she can't actually hear me but thankfully she can feel the vibrations.  I make it to the potty without incident, a first in many days and proceed to blissfully empty my painfully full bladder.

http://www.flixya.com/photo/1888014/baby-sit-on-the-toilet-bowl

I'm just about to dose off in the darkness when I am scared to attention by a very loud girlish scream a mere 3 feet from my face.  After levitating and loosing the rest of the contents in my bladder, I realize I'm not actually under attack.  I have only startled my dearest JS with my stealthy potty presence.  Apparently he didn't feel the vibrations. 

I immediately scream at him because it's 3 in the morning and I have just suffered SEVERE fright if not, in fact, an actual heart attack. 

"WTF JS!?  HOW CAN YOU NOT SEE ME IN HERE!?  WHY WOULD YOU SCARE ME LIKE THAT!?"   

This seems to really amuse JS and he begins giggling.  A lot.  I bolt from the bathroom with my adrenaline laced indignity and stomp back to bed.  I can still hear him giggling as I curl up with my sweet little Chihuahuan, who promises to never, ever scare me like that.  As I eventually dose off I'm pretty sure I hear the Chihuahua giggle a little bit too.

Pipe Dreams

I need a new Camaro

I woke up last week with a new revelation.  I WANT a new Camaro.  Bad.  I think I’ve gone mad.  And now I’m kind of sad.  JS said that I better get a roomy version because if I brought home a new car I’d have to live in it…  Dream crusher.

It was like I woke one day and I was struck with a bolt of consumerism lightening.  It’s a very disturbing feeling because I have not EVER wanted a brand new car.  One: I have always been a poor student and now I’m a poor newish business owner, and Two:  I’m a Virgo with a huge OCD complex and given my poor driving history…  New car + dent and/or scratch = months of therapy and/or costly insurance claims.

I KNOW better.  I READ Dave Ramsey.  I ALMOST have a savings account!

And now I’m a hypocrite because waaaaay back in the day I even tried to convince JS that a brand new “Farm Truck” was a really bad idea.  He had his “Aha! She was right” moment, when a week after its purchase the farm gate smashed into its side.  And again a few months later when he took out a few reflector posts in a well executed side slide right into a ditch.  (Now listen here, just because one of those accidents was my fault doesn’t mean that a new truck was a wise acquisition.)

AND THEN more recently I discovered that not only did I really, really WANT a new Camaro… I NEED a new Camaro.  Have you seen that thing?  It’s a frickin’ revelation.  But most importantly I think we can all agree that I would look super fly rocking less than 20% body fat driving a muscle car.

Yep.  See.  That’s EXACTLY why I need the new Camaro.

Check it:

It's okay to drool.

Boxing Epilogue

So... I went back for more today.  Dummy.

www.qoolio.net

I attended a boxing class this morning whereas yesterday I had a private lesson.  Let's just say my friends, I found myself in a whole new world...

I wrapped up my hands like a big girl, pretty sure I was doing it all wrong but not willing to look like I was a beginner.  Thanks be to the Sweet Baby Jesus I chose to wear the black top instead of the pink one I left laying on the closet floor.  Although the purple shoelaces were definitely a good choice.  Think mostly ninja with purple accents. That was me.

There were six full grown really sweaty men and one extremely red faced crazy lady with purple shoelaces in our class.  We started with 5 minutes of jump rope but my gimpy ankles garnered me sprints on the ancient bicycle instead.  I guiltily watched them make mince meat of 5 minutes.  On a good ankle day I have trouble counting to 50 jumps without landing some heinous lashes to my body but those dudes had mad skills.  There was a lot of criss-cross and double unders and all sorts of fancy speed steppin.'  Clearly this wasn't their first rodeo.

When Bruce finally got off his phone, I was exhausted from watching the men jump rope and trying not to cry about how painful the bike seat was.  Then we all got into the ring for shadow boxing in front of the mirrors.  I only know one step and a few swings, add in the feinting and that's all I've got folks.  I did my best to stay out of the other guys way and hoped no one was watching my pinata get all hot, red and drippy. 

I'm not gonna lie...  When Bruce instructed them to start sparring two at a time, I was a little frightened.  My 'Boxing is TOTALLY AWESOME' bubble came crashing to the ground.  It was like tires squealing to a halt when it dawned on me that one day I might actually get hit in the kisser. 

REALLY?  HOW COULD I HAVE MISSED THAT PART? 

www.sportsencounter.com/news/boxing/pakistani-boxers-to-feature-in-combat-games-8192.html

I am a little ashamed to admit that in that moment of abject terror my next thought was:  Is it too late to get a refund!? 

I spent the next 10 minutes praying that he wouldn't make me spar with one of his man beasts and alternately that they wouldn't stomp me into the mats as they sparred RIGHT beside us. 

Jesus heard my prayers and/or Bruce could hear the potential lawsuits stacking up against him and I was not asked to spar with any giant man beasts before we moved on to the bags.  Ahhhh!  My good  friend Mister Punching Bag.  The bag that would never smack me in the head or knock a freshly bleached tooth from my sweaty little head.  How I missed thee!

Bruce changed up his taunting tactics and opted for Sissy Britches today instead of Prissy Pants.  He told the men that maybe they'd box better in stilettos and skirts seeing as they sucked so badly in their tennis shoes.  He used a lot more humour with me than he did with his men.  Which is good.  I might actually cry. 

The best part of the entire class was when Bruce squirted each of us with icy water from a spray bottle.  He said, "Good Lord girl.  We need to wash some of that color off your face."

To which I replied, "Fat chance Brucey.  Them's my unfortunate Irish genes."

After endless boxing drills we finished with real sprints outside for the men folk and more bicycle sprints for Gimpy ankle girl.  I opted for higher resistance so I could stand up instead of risking my girlie bits to that rabid bicycle seat.  All in all it was a good old fashioned ass kicking.  We finished with another 10 minutes of core and all together I burned 946 calories. 

In an hour and a half I lost (I swear to God because I weighed myself before and after) exactly 8 ounces of water through my knee caps.  I looked around for comparison purposes and it seemed like I was the only one with dripping knees and shins.  Neat.

So!  Can you guess what my new mantra is?

Original mantra:  BOXING IS AWESOME!

New mantra:  Please Sweet Jesus, DO NOT let me cry ;)

Gator's Golden Gloves

A few weeks ago at the gym my trainer whipped out a set of these bad boys:

Ewing Galloway at art.com

And a fever was born.

You see, I’ve been working out like a crazy person over the last year and a half and I dialed up the intensity to 7 days a week at the beginning of March.  AND NOW I’ve hit a weight plateau!  Give or take 5 pounds which I attribute to my sugar and Mexican food addiction.  Fajitas and Honey Nut Chex are the only thing keeping me from rock hard abs y’all.

After doing some online research I put a phone call in to good ole Bruce from Bruce’s KO Boxing Gym and set up my first private boxing lesson for this morning.  If anything can help get my 24% body fat below 20%, sweating my ass off smackin’ stuff around sounds promising.

When I called yesterday Bruce asked me, “Why you so excited?  You got yourself a fight coming up?”

“No sir,”  I answered.  “I’m just tired of being told that I hit like a girl.”

After laughing he replied,  “All right girl.  I’ll see you tomorrow.  Wear shorts.  It’ll be hot.”

So I met Bruce at his gym this morning before he went off to work at his second company, Tri-Recycling. Imagine!  A boxing environmentalist.

Bruce, a shorter, fit, bald man was wearing khakis and steel-toed boots and I was in shorts and sneakers rocking majorly scary hair.  After wrapping my hands we started in the ring.  I’ve got one word for standing in a boxing ring.

AWESOME.

Actually, I would like to say four words.

Totally Mother EFFING AWESOME.

After I performed my scariest Rocky impersonation and bounced around with my gloves held high over my head and then preened in the mirrors, we got started.  Bruce is a stickler for form and technique so he made me repeat my jabs 8,000 times only correcting me for about 3 million unperceivable flaws.  He taught me about reach, staying balanced over your feet and angling your body so you don’t take a punch flat to the sternum.

I have to confess, for someone with boundary issues like myself  (As in:  This is my personal space.  Draw imaginary box.  Please step the F Bomb back.)  boxing is very uncomfortably an intimate sport.  Bruce was all up IN my grill.  AND he kept smacking me.  Not hard or anything, just like a gentle slap to the shoulder or leg or elbow to remind me keep my elbows up or my ribs protected.  Just a little antagonizing.  No malice. He saved the malice for the boxing bag.

When Bruce got tired of watching me struggle with my foot work we climbed out of the ring and went over to the punching bags.  I, unfortunately, made eye contact with the “spit tube” on my way out of the ring. Needless to say my amor for said ring was greatly diminished after discovering that little treasure.

“Oh Jeebus, Bruce!  Is that a PUKE FUNNEL!?”  I squeaked after very nearly touching it.

“Naw, girl.  That’s a spit tube.  Snot too.  Maybe a little blood, but mostly spit.  Those out there,”  He said pointing to the trees in the parking lot.  “Those are puke trees.  We try real hard not to puke in my gym.”

EW.

After that revelation every spot on the mirror, smell or discoloration had me highly suspect.  My skin was sort of crawly.  I fought down my squeamishness by imaging my return to class wearing holsters for my own personal sized bottle of bleach.

Working on the bag I discovered my jabs are good, I suck at feinting, my right foot belongs in the ‘special needs’ class, I need to practice more slow dancing (wha?) and my stamina needs work.  We punch for 1 minute intervals and rest for 10 seconds before punching again.  Whew-ey!  Bruce uses playground taunts to inspire his champions.  He asked me if I shouldn’t just go home and get a manicure instead of boxing RIGHT before I beat the shiz out of him.  Just kidding.  He did call me prissy pants (A LOT) and he totally told me my head looked like a piñata, but it was all in good fun.  He says it with a lot of love in his eyes.

After about an hour and 3 liters of sweat had dripped from my knee caps, we finished with core and conditioning.  I immediately signed up for a 6 week membership and raced home to order my purple hand wraps.  That’s purple Mexican style hand wraps y’all.  Just in case you were wondering ;)  Now lets just hope this lasts longer than the belly dancing...

http://www.store.titleboxing.com/



Gator and The Gang Take Mexico: Parte Una

PART ONE!  FINALLY!

 Waaaaaay back when the Big 3-0 was still looming at me in the distant future, I began browsing the internet for a suitable beachy birthday destination.

 I was determined that my 30th birthday was to be the best birthday yet, and I knew I had to be the F bomb out of Texas (and my office!) ON A BEACH, with my most FAVORITE amigos, to accomplish my mission.

This was roughly back in February 2010, a short 8 months before ‘El Dia Grande!’  I had my wee heart set on Jamaica for my ‘birthday bonanza heard round the world'...  At least until a few inconsiderate rat bastard drug Lords took a few small cities hostage and began kidnapping unsuspecting citizens... AND THEN my groovy visions of jamming out with the local Rastafarians quickly disappeared.

Undeterred by terrorism or thuggery, Mexico was deemed the cheapest safest option, and I chose the Riviera Maya as the fantastical destination in which my birthday magic would unfold.

 I sent out a mass email inviting all my closest friends and family to celebrate this momentous occasion with me, and lucky enough, a few choice suspects signed on.  The final Gang of merry party goers included:  Dub and Nina, Anthony and Trisha, G Money and D (aka Tiff), and of course my beloved JS.  Little Bella Poochie Pants was left at home to guard the casa, much to her beady eyed chagrin.

 I received a few pre-party emails from The Gang along the lines of: “If ONE more patient/person/parent tells me about the Biker-Stripper-Underground Casino bar burning down in Mexico, I will undoubtedly lose my S-H-I-Z, man.  STAND BACK.  I may have to unleash a S-H-I-Z storm. ”

 I also received no less than 2 emails a day from my extremely vigilant Mother (who probably quit sleeping the minute I revealed to her my nefarious plans to travel abroad) about the horrors awaiting us in Mexico.  The panic reached a crescendo when I began receiving printed articles from my own patients outlining the dangers hidden behind every tree, rock and backwoods booze shed along the Mayan coast line.  I actually had good fun snatching those lovingly printed pages from their nervous, clammy little fingers and perfecting my, “BOO YAH! My Mom already beat you to this one!” dance, all the while assuring them, as tempting as they sounded, I would try my best to stay wide of any strip clubs or poker joints.

 I had a tough time not jumping onto my desk and shouting, “I’m going to Mexico, nah, nah, na, nah, na… “  “Settle down crowd of adoring patients!  I’m going to an AMAZING (most likely VERY safe) all-inclusive resort.  I have a few things on my agenda and not one of them includes shady bar hopping and/or leaving my resort.  My plans do include:

 1. Sitting my ass on the beach with a cold beverage in my hand.

 2. Eating whatever the F bomb they serve me.

 3. Shaking my tail feathers if/when the urge strikes.

 Truth be told, I really wasn’t scared of being hijacked or held up, but hurricane season had me freaked-the-F-out.  After suffering a mild chest seizing panic attack over the forecasted inclement weather, my home girl G Money talked me off the ledge with a well phrased, “You can’t change the fact that you were born in the height of hurricane season.  Just look at it as an adventure and CALM DOWN.  It will be amazing!” And then I hired her as my official Weather Wonder Girl.

 And AMAZING it was.

 Day one:

 JS and I swooped by my girl D’s place on our way to the aeropuerte and she kept my caffeinated, animated, thoroughly over energized self company as we chatted it up at a high rate of speed.  Amazingly enough we never ran out of steam.  We were one big series of high pitched run-on sentences stretching from Austin, Texas at 5am until we reached Cancun at 11 am.  The fact that she’s a morning person was a stroke of brilliant luck because my Dear JS is a GD grizzly bear until about 2 pm.

DON’T POKE THE BEAR.

I have no doubt that JS was ready to stuff cotton in our mouths his ears and/or jump straight out of the moving car/ airplane, for most of that marvelous morning.

The Grizzly prepares his tunes to drown out our yapping.

Best buds! And what excellent teeth!

There was quite a large scene and a truly heartfelt reunion inside the Cancun airport when I spotted Dub, Nina and G.  Unfortunately that moment was not captured on video, so I shall do my best describe that beautiful scene in words…

 My hair was (naturally) blonde with an extremely healthy luster as it glistened under the fluorescent lights.  I spotted my long lost friends standing at the luggage carousel at the exact moment they too spotted me.  I gracefully (frog like) lept into the air and (screeched) shouted for joy.  I dashed around luggage carts like a (rabid border collie) skilled athlete and (plowed) ran straight into their group to smother each of them with hugs and kisses (slobber).  After their terrified bulgy eyes returned to a somewhat normal facial configuration, we hit Customs and D, being the great friend and very good sport that she is, joined me immediately at the bar for a little imbibing.

This was a very wise move, but the true stroke of genius was stocking up on ‘roadies,’ before we made our hour long van trip south from Cancun, down the Mayan coast line to our final destination of Playa Adventuras and the Catalonia Riviera Maya.  I had suffered an extremely long and dry van trip along that same coast line the previous summer, and seeing as I ain’t no dummy, I was not willing to repeat that unfortunate mistake again.  I took the jump seat (any other option would have left me barfing out the window) and quickly became air control, DJ, Antagonist to the driver, and in-flight entertainment.  Dos Cervezas and Gator got a little goofy, much to the enjoyment of our fellow travelers.  This is where I also coined my most excellent creed for the length of my vacation, “Chew this meal well, because you may see it again later.”  (Again, this wisdom was acquired from my previous Mexican scandal adventure.)

More air?  Louder Spanish music?  How can I be of service?

We arrived, checked in, met up with Anthony and Trisha, ate, drank, lounged on the beach and thus concluded our activity for the rest of our vacation!

 Just teasing.  Sort of.  Too Be Continued...