I returned Sunday from a brief but fan-fucking-tastic mini vacation in Cancun, Mexico. Just enough time for me to frolic in the sand, drink ridonkulous amounts of frozen beverages all day long (hey, it's happy hour SOMEWHERE!), wear my new bikini, and get a decent tan. It was such a dick tease though because now I am back it Mother Nature's dysentery shit storm of cold. Fuck winter. My tanned hands are shriveling like Walt Disney's head in that freezer somewhere. So sad.
I felt slightly guilty after entering the Cancun airport because I thought to myself, "I really, REALLY should not complain but my tits are sweating like God damn faucets. Pretty soon this will be a wet t-shirt contest." But the thought passed as I recalled the nipple-wrenching chill I had left only a few hours prior. Fucking hallelujah!!! It was 85 God damn degrees outside!!! Upon de-boarding we had to pass through customs. Easy enough, no worries. Until I realized they had to go through certain peoples' luggage. No whammies, no whammies....
"Please ma'am, press the button," the kind customs lady said to me. Big fucking whammy.
"Move to the line over here, you got a red light," she said.
God damn right it was a red light. Because now my sweating made me look like a key fucking witness in a mob case in Jersey. Why me?! What the fuck?! Breathe, just breathe..
See the problem is two-fold. Not only had I met my husband's colleague and his lovely wife who did NOT have to press the red button, but they were waiting for us a few yards away. Problem two is that buried in the recesses of my suitcase was a certain toy I have NEVER packed when flying but somehow decided an international flight to a tropical locale was the opportune time to bring it. Like the Bad Idea Jeans commercial on Saturday Night Live, this could be quite awkward. I watched nervously as the man before us had his luggage raped by her rubber-gloved little paws. Fuck me. She took hold of my husband's suitcase, unzipped, rifled through a few layers and he was good to go. I tried to smile naturally (she probably thought I was already drunk) as she unzipped my super heavy bag and felt it up like a drunk freshman girl at a frat party. She skimmed over my precious dirty cargo, which thank fucking God I had the sense to remove the batteries from.
"Okay, you are good," she said as she motioned for me to zip up. I had visions of a waving of said precious cargo, questions being asked, translators being called over ("How you say DEEL-DO?..."), and me yelling , "It's not a bomb! Really, I promise!" as a hot pink "massager" is waved in the air like a Mexican flag on God damn Cinqo de Mayo. But alas, no such adventure came to be. Fucking PHEW!!!!!!
The all-inclusive resort proved to be mind-blowing to me, a gal who has never been to such a place let alone Mexico. So let me get this straight, I can drink ALL the decent booze I want, from morning till night, I can eat at any restaurant without any reservations, order whatever the hell I damn well please, and simply WALK AWAY? Fucking AWESOME!! I lead a sheltered life I guess. A girl could get used to this shit. Easily. My husband's new company treated us to this little getaway and I am sooooooo grateful for breaking up the monotony of winter like this.
We went to a tequila tasting. We rode a random boat up and down the coast with some cool-as-shit new friends. We ate dinner on the beach at sunset. We swam in the ocean. We got sunburns in JANUARY. And we partied and danced and laughed our asses off over ping-pong games, cigars, and Miami Vice drinks poolside. An evening that began with tasteful bottles of wine and a kind toast amongst new friends ended with me being barefoot, drinking several flaming shots through a straw (what WAS that shit?!), having a slight recollection of walking (or was it crawling?..) back to my room, and waking up like Dr. Faggot, Hangover-style. There might as well have been chickens running about and a God damn tiger in the bathroom. I am sure the lady at the spa who gave me my "tropical oasis" body scrub and treatment recognized the scent of pure agave poisoning wafting from my every pore. She handed me blue paper panties and a matching tube bra. Did she think I was going to shit myself or was it standard attire for all spa-goers? Feeling bloated, definitely unsexy, and queasy, I let Lupe' (or whatever the fuck her name was..) exfoliate me, wrap me like a giant chalupa in plastic and foil, and rub me down with delicious lotion. Praise the Lord the lights were VERY dim because I was a fucking hot mess. I smelled good but it was not pretty. After ringing some sort of triangle instrument three times, she whispered, "Miss Molly, your TREE-ment ees done." I rose, glanced in the mirror and noted my eyes looked like I had been in a UFC fight, put my robe back on, and exited. No one else seemed to be the slightest hungover as the lounged in the waiting area. I pounded about 4 glasses of grapefruit essence water and avoided eye contact. No. More. Booze....EVER.
Well that shit lasted till about lunch time. Those drinks are just so damn REFRESHING!! How does a girl say no??? Bikinis, booze, and the best time ever--that's pretty much how I'd sum up Cancun. I plan on heading to Mexico again in the near future. It is paradise. But I'd better be careful because there's a good chance a tiger WILL be in the bathroom if those flaming shots of death reappear....
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