Thing I learned this weekend in Mexico

1)Shaving cream is really important. One should never underestimate the power of frothy lather. If you do disregard this rule in a last minute effort to obtain a pristine bikini line, you will pay. Might I add that salt water and tiny granules of sand, compounds razor burn.

2)When one of your closest friends suggests you re-think doing something; listen to her. The night before the trip I was an absolute basket case. I met Miss K for a drink, and was unable to express one coherent thought to her. My sentences were strung together with bits of anxiety and fueled by fear. “I was thinking about not going, I guess I’m scared, the real thing about it is that, you’re right maybe I shouldn’t go”. When you lack the inability to construct a lie or reason with yourself, there is nothing wrong with fleeing the scene.

3)Spray on sunscreen sucks. My right breast resembles a perfectly red, ripe mango; while my left breast might be compared to a glistening white snowball. It’s as if half of my body went on vacation to a tropical destination, and the other side went skiing. I must admit it does outwardly reflect my inner conflicts quite well, along with my desire to resemble a live peppermint stick.

4)Waking up three hours before everyone else is essential. I would wake up and run down to the beach each morning. Throw my towel and bag under a palapa, and run into the ocean. It was cold, but beautiful. The fish would swim with me, until frightened by the on slot of energized morning children rushing into their domain. I would remain under the grass hut sipping coffee and watching the kids play for hours before anyone I knew joined me. It was the most relaxing part of my trip.

5)Recognize defeat with a smile. When you realize that Miss K is right and your husband is an alcoholic, laugh. When he proves this point by throwing up all over your legs and the floor beside him while remaining in his chair at the bar, ingrain this in your memory. Realize you are an enabler when you ask for a mop to clean it up for the wait staff. When he continues to drink beer and watches the poor guy clean up the floor, understand that the definitive line you were always looking for just ran right over you. Be grateful you’ve learned to draw lines and never go back. Laugh and dance with strange men. What else are you going to do? Get him another drink?

6)When you yell at someone that you don’t need Viagra, suddenly every Mexican on the street can speak English. Just make the crazy sign by your ear and point to hubby. Next, I suggest winking at them and smiling. After all, they love women – lucky you.

7)The only place in this world where you can order something called a “Miami Vice”, and not have the bartender wish you would die on the spot, is at a cabana in Mexico. Sure you know it’s wrong, but who cares.

8)Never drink more than 5 Miami Vices in one afternoon. Should this happen, go to your room immediately. Failing to do so will result in you believing the painted turtles on the bottom of the pool are real. You will find yourself trapped in the pool on your barstool for fear of being eaten alive by giant turtles living in chlorine and pea infested waters.

I feel dirty. I need a shower, and yet I am stuck here in my work pod like a minion of the man.

Last night we ventured out to Disco Karaoke at a sushi bar. Evidently this roughly translates into the owner of a sushi bar in south Austin dressing up in a leopard print suit, fake afro, gold money chain and a pair of cheap 70’s style sunglasses. Declared as the Sushi Pimp, he gropes women and yells profanities about the customers into a microphone. We haven’t even gotten to the karaoke part yet.

We heard the festivities started at 7:30, so we got there at 7:30. It was packed and the waiter told us we probably wouldn’t get a seat. We went next door and had a margarita while we made plans to go somewhere else for a fish fix. On our way out to the next venue, we decided to peak in and see if we could find a seat. It turns out the Sushi Pimp spotted us peeping in the window and was yelling at the “gay boys” to go away. Next thing I know, I open the door and am staring at the pimp. “Ahh pretty lady, you come in. Look at her face; it’s so pretty. We find you seat”. “What about my friends?” “Those gay boys? Fuck those gay boys, you come sit.” I see the staff pulling up some chairs at the bar, so we walk in. He’s still talking smack to me, and then proceeds to slap me on the ass as I walk by. I jump, people laugh. I wonder if this is worth it.

Then a woman walks up and gives him the number of a song, and the music starts. As she coughs up some deafening lyrics, the pimp is poking her in the ass and makes lewd gestures to her. When her wining was intolerable, he bangs on a large gong and then invites her to have a sake bombs. All thirty people in the restaurant are yelling “SAKE BOMB”, and down it goes. Next up is guy who gets humiliated for being biracial. When the pimp doesn’t get the song number right the guy leans into the mic and says, “Aren’t you oriental people suppose to be good with numbers?” Umm – oriental? Good with numbers? The restaurant breaks out into laughter and the pimp makes fun of the boy’s pencil dick. All I can think is: What’s happening? Why does my ass sting?

Countless people get up, sing a line or two, get gonged and then take a shot. The Sushi Pimp is completely wasted by 9:00 and is now rolling on the floor trying to peak up women’s skirts, and shoving the microphone into girls privates so he can smell the mic. Nasty. I’m laughing. Why am I laughing?

Eventually the pimp couldn’t handle any more sake, and it was time for all the patrons to leave. Cabs were offered to all tables, and everyone stumbled out happy. Had it not been for the sake bombs, I’m not sure how the night would have ended. Today has been rather quiet. One of my friends just sent an email regarding the Disco Sushi Debriefing. I feel the same way. It was funny, it was wrong, and without the sake there would have been a fight. Now I just feel dirty. Why am I contemplating going back again?

Doug

There’s a lot to be said for friends who indulge your impending neurosis for a margarita, without asking you why you’re obsessing over an $8 glass of limeade and tequila. I spent Saturday night watching B-rated romantic comedies, and learning that nothing is better for wiping up gallons of tears than a cashmere throw. Fuck the Kleenex, you’ll never get anywhere with those little squares. Maybe if you stub your toe those modest tuffs of paper will help, but not if you are going through a full force soul wrenching heart stomping loss. I woke up Sunday morning with an unexpected smile on my face and a mouth that craved the sweet goodness of limes and alcohol.

Cal and I had no idea we were about to embark on an open mic night at the bar. Yet, there we were gulping down Texas Margaritas and listening to beautiful women belt out poorly written songs. I should also mention the yodeling bluegrass guy who mastered the art of pronouncing love with three syllables. About half way through the competition Zoeie Ryze took the stage.

Cal and I were immediately in love with her. She was quirky and weird, jumping all over the place and leaning her head so far back she looked like a little kid screaming. Zoeie was refreshing. Cal, the bartender, and I were all in full nods over the new contestant. The guy next to me thought she was an angry freak. Interesting perspective from a guy with a mohawk, riding around in a wheel chair, and smoking cigarettes with the aid of a fork. Don’t get me wrong; I am not calling people with disabilities freaks. I am just suggesting that perhaps some people might understand the concept of not judging people based on one aspect of a person.

I soon became fast friends with the “Doug” despite his outlook on Zoeie. We talked about our jobs, where we’ve lived, and about writing. I asked how fast his wheelchair could go, and he asked me what type of liquor I like best. After a while I was uncomfortable about not introducing myself, so I just grabbed his lifeless hand, shook it and told him my name. He smiled and told me his name was Doug.

We live through 20 more minutes of the competition and actually hear some amazing stuff. Doug asks me to pull a twenty out of his shirt pocket and hand it to the woman collecting tips for the performers. I smile, find his stash in his top pocket and pay the lady for him. When the bartender told me his story, I felt awful for him. A year ago she says that he could walk into the bar like any other client, and that just a year later he’s unable to walk or have control over his limbs.

I’m starting to look around the bar for a cashmere throw when I hear his friend say, “Hey, Justin are you ready?” I look at the friend bewildered. “Justin? His name is Doug”.

His friend laughs long and hard and says, “Oh, that’s great. That’s what he told you his name is? Doug? That’s hilarious”.

Blankie anyone?

Soup

I ran home at lunch to grab some stuff for later today and to get a bite to eat. I sat down with my clam chowder, and turned on the TV. Every channel was the same – Reagan’s funeral. For some reason the vision of the casket, Mrs. Reagan, and the flags cemented me to the screen. I started to cry, and I don’t even like Reagan. I got in a fight with my husband yesterday because he likes the man. I chastised the hubby for being insensitive to social issues, and basically called him an idiot for being sad over it. And there I was sobbing into my bowl of soup.

As I stared at the military personal carrying the flag laden box to the foreboding limousine, I realized I was crying over my grandfather. Poppy’s funeral was muddled with my father’s bitterness and other family dysfunctions. The day I found out my grandfather died, I called my Dad to give him my condolences. I got a lashing from him that I will never forget. From my Dad’s point of view, I am a selfish bitch who wouldn’t take time out of her schedule to see the man before he died. The truth is that I loved Poppy more than anything, and I thought when he told me I had a month that I really did have a month. I decided to leave the next weekend to go see him. He died two days before I got there.

I was ostracized from the rest of my family at the funeral. I wasn’t allowed to sit with them during the ceremonies, and I wasn’t invited to the wake. I was an outsider at one of the most important people in my life’s funeral. Outside the church I broke down and walked off to try and compose myself. I faintly told my father I was sorry for his loss, and I haven’t spoken a word to him since. I doubt I will ever speak to him again, as the memory of him telling me that he doesn’t love me leaves no room for reconciliation.

And yet, in all of this I wondered where Poppy was. Did I mourn him, or my loss of family? I wish I went up two days earlier. I wish I had visited him more often. I wish I wrote down all of those stories he told me about the war and growing up in the twenties, or the story about how he met my grandmother. I wish I could go fishing with him again, or dance with him again like we did at my wedding.

No wonder I still talk to him all the time. I don’t think I made it a point to mourn him; I just made it a point to survive that weekend. I guess it’s time I start to say goodbye.

Hidy

I work at company that’s been around since the 70’s. Many of the employees have worked here over 30 years. This morning when I walked into the break room to get my first cup of coffee, I ran into Joe.

Joe’s definitely and old-timer around here. My guess is he’s about 76 years old. This morning he’s sitting at a table reading the paper in his wranglers, with his belt that displays his name, and his pointy boots. I tell him “’Morning”, to which he replies, “Hidy!” – you know the cousin to Howdy.

Sigh. I love Texas. I love old men.

This might be the most frightening post I’ve ever written.

This is what I get for being an info-slut

I am ashamed, so ashamed. It was a typical Sunday morning for me. I was happily making coffee and studying in my little cottage. I took a break to eat a sandwich, and turned on the tube. Flip, flip, flip, there’s nothing on. I only have 5 stations, so I succumbed to watching an infomercial. It’s true, I went that low. What’s worse, after about 15 minutes I ordered the damn thing! I must be the most gullible person in the world. They should have special offers for people who can’t even make it 30 minutes into their paid programming. I deserve something for my lack of will power.

But now I hate them. These people sold me dreams of a gorgeous body in just six weeks, and it’s been 17 days and I’m fatter than before. Granted I’m not overweight, but I decided to take some time off of working out after I ordered the product. I rationalized that since I will be going on a comprehensive workout program in a couple of weeks, I could let myself go a little. Not a lot, but a little seemed realistic. I exercise three days a week or so, but instead of running I chose yoga. Instead of chicken, I chose bowls of queso and refried beans. I justified that since I would have to change my eating habits, I should enjoy my last supper. I didn’t realize how many last suppers there would be in between ordering the product and receiving the DVDs in my fat little hands.

This week it started to hit me. All those beautiful pink cocktails that shimmer in the glass are now shimmering on my ass. My pants have shrunk a little, and my shirts are tighter. Damn them! Damn those Slim in 6 people! This is all their fault.

I just called to find out what type of natural disaster has delayed my package. Torrential down pours? Mudslide? Hurricane? Typhoons? The man politely tells me, “Let’s see dear, you ordered it on May 24th. It looks like it’s in Austin and you should get it either today or tomorrow.” First of all Mr. Beachbody representative, should you be calling me dear? I felt like a sad chubby girl pouting for help. Here I am whimpering over a product that will probably bore me in a week. Second of all, I ordered it May 24th! Do you know how out of control my bootie can get in 17 days? You can’t play around with a force like that.

I blame you Beachbody Slim in 6 people! You are the reason I feel chubby, my ass jiggles, and my arms look like ham hocks. I think this is some ploy you all have so that I will loose even more weight on your program. Now I have to loose weight I didn’t have before I ordered your product. Some marketing ploy, make me fat so you can make me skinny. I know your tricks.


I’m going running after work and eating a salad for dinner. You bastards! See if I need you Slim in 6 program, or should I say Slim in 9 program?

Soap bubbles and bruised kids

I’m having one of those days where you walk around in circles and wonder how you could beat the stuffing out of your ex-whoever. It’s not really that I don’t like any of my previous companions, it’s just that I’m frustrated and I thought it might make me feel happier. I like to think about how happy Willie Nelson’s ex-wife was when she sewed him into the bed sheets and beat him with a pillow case containing a bar of soap. Now that’s happy.

Since I am just plain poopy, I thought I would check out a site that makes me laugh every time. To my utter astonishment, a funny picture came up of beating children. It’s my lucky day! Damn Kids!

Other than that, my sister had to go to therapy and pay someone $100 to find out that Dr. Laura is not spouting out realistic advice or professional guidance that should be followed by anyone belonging to the human race. This again proves being adopted does make you feel like you were raised with wolves. Since she is bitter with her super rich husband, she left her therapist and went straight to Neiman Marcus to spend his money. I think buying your self another Prada dress is better therapy than listening to Dr. Laura, and I’ve told her this a thousand times. The diesel jeans that cost more than my paycheck, hell ya – see if that man notices you now! I wonder why she goes to a therapist and just doesn’t listen to me.

Oh ya, I’m dreaming of beating people.

Why do I do these things? Why am I a frog?



You are Kermit the Frog.
You are reliable, responsible and caring. And you
have a habit of waving your arms about
maniacally.

FAVORITE EXPRESSIONS:
"Hi ho!" "Yaaay!" and
"Sheesh!"
FAVORITE MOVIE:
"How Green Was My Mother"

LAST BOOK READ:
"Surfin' the Webfoot: A Frog's Guide to the
Internet"

HOBBIES:
Sitting in the swamp playing banjo.

QUOTE:
"Hmm, my banjo is wet."


What Muppet are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

So there

Today is therapy day with the husband. Big sighs all around. Another round of “what do you think” that lasts for 50 minutes and makes your toes curl. Can I go back to bed? It’s so warm and cozy and soft, and no one asks me how I felt because it’s written all over my face.

I’m telling Miss Suzanna I’m not coming back for individual therapy anymore. I’ve decided there’s nothing wrong with me. Sure, my relationship with the hubby better represents “The Odd Couple” than “Leave it to Beaver” (no, not the porno – although that would be great!).Yet on a personal level, I’m quite happy with myself.

Here’s my list for staging a revolt against seeing her again:

1)I happily sing both in the shower and in the car. Unhappy people don’t do these things, unless it’s to Adam Duritz. I assure you I am not crooning his tunes these days.
2)I have painted my toenails a vibrant shade of happy Santiago Pink.
3)I no longer think I have a problem, instead I think that some things are just the way they are. Chickens and cats don’t mate, why should I be forced to do something just as unnatural?
4)I am no longer eating McDonald’s French fries on a regular basis. Both my ghetto bootie and I are happier and healthier for this.
5)I no longer hang out with dangerous and destructive friends who force me to drink by the gallon. Current friends drink by the pint.
6)I have stopped pretending to be the girl from Amiele. I still retain the right to put on my polka-dot dress and frequent downtown alone. I will still do this in search of one glass of white wine, while wearing my hair in the same fashion as my French friend. I will however refrain from trying to speak French, which I don’t and will never speak coherently.
7)I have not kissed a random boy in months.
8)I have not fallen down at a gay bar and shamelessly embarrassed my friend who was having his first gay debut in weeks.
9)I have not exposed, or threaten to expose, my ass to an acupuncturist in well over a month.
10)I’m not overwhelmed by my situation. I understand that I may not be able to change it, but I’m not afraid of what that means anymore.

I’ll let you know how it goes. I have a feeling her therapy dog won’t be so happy about this. (I give him puppy treats)

Last week’s epiphany is this weeks irony

Everything is changing. Isn’t that what I wanted? Right now, it doesn’t feel like what I want.

I decided to let go, and not worry about having a plan. When a plan came to me, I embraced it and allowed myself to go with the adventure. The plan fell apart this morning, and I feel more lost than before.

Tomorrow is therapy with the hubby and Miss Suzanna. What’s it going to be this month? She told us to act like we were divorced, and to do things that make us happy. I did not uncover a revelation in this process. Letting go of something so transparent isn’t difficult, especially if it comes with a finite amount of time.

Saying goodbye to your best friend is a little harder.