At long last, here is “Grand Recap of All Things Mexico” for your reading pleasure—sorry it took so long but, as you can see, it’s a huge entry and it takes a little work to pull something like this together (especially when trying to do The Work That Pays The Bills) Regular readers might wonder: What gives? Normally Viva keeps it to celebrities, 80s nostalgia, vibrators, and video clips of things she finds amusing, but bear with this indulgence folks—I promised it to my closest and dearest, and hell, it’s fun to reminisce. Normal bitching will ensue tomorrow, but for now, we’ll always have The Barceló.
To preface, I rarely take vacations, and when I do, it usually involves either Maine, Vermont, or New Hampshire, or somewhere along those lines, wherein Viva packs up the dog, gets some secluded cabin out on a lake or the ocean, and does fun stuff like comb the beach for mussels for dinner, fish, read books, let lobsters swim in the bathtub before boiling them alive, and, well, that’s sort of about it. Which is fun, don’t get me wrong. I am down for the outdoors, but vacations where you have to cook every meal yourself—it gets old. I want to be served. I want frothy drinks in oversized mugs, I want SPF 500 slathered on my body, and a lounge chair where I can plop and watch aging European men squeeze themselves into banana-hanger bathing suits. Where can one find this? Why, Mexico of course!
Here’s how it goes: Longtime Viva friend and intrepid travel-bargain finder Tomai hooks us up with a deal for 75% off at our favorite resort, the Barceló Maya, in balmy Riviera Maya, Mexico. It’s so cheap, it’s actually CHEAPER than carting myself out to Maine and freezing my ass off for a week. We are jubilant. We have months and months to diet and prepare, none of which I end up doing, but whatever. Finally, the day arrives, and off we fly to Me-hi-ho, stars in our eyes, sand in our hair, sippy cups in hand.
I could go into a moment-by-moment breakdown of our entire trip. But who wants to read that? Instead, I’ll summarize by discussing the following:
15 THINGS I LEARNED WHILE IN MEXICO
1. Tequila makes your clothes fall off. Megan, we are talking about you. Somewhere out there in the world is a tiny meek Japanese man with years of masturbatory material thanks to our friend Megan’s propensity for “accidentally-on-purpose” dropping her towel and/or bikini top in the most unlikely of places (we have the pictures to prove it, but you’ll all have to use your imaginations). Call her crazy, call her fearless, but Megan provided lots of “OH NO SHE DIDN’T” moments throughout our Mexico trip. Hours of entertainment, I tell you.
2. Towel animals make us giddy. Seriously. Our maids made a menagerie of towel critters, complete with tiny stick-on eyes, and flower petals on our beds. Viva LIVES for this stuff. I want to cart one of these maids up to the Great White North and spend the rest of my life waking up to towel elephants, zebras, lions, crocodiles in my bathroom—whatever Rosa can dream up, gimme gimme.
3. God made buffets because he wants us to be happy. He really did. I am the queen of piling my plate to the sky with food, and not eating any of it. Wasteful, sure, but that’s who I am. The Barceló’s buffets had more selection than Owen Wilson at a Playboy Mansion party. I took a little of everything, and ended up eating the guacamole and french fries. It all goes back to psychology—I may not want everything I have, but I just like to know I can have it. Viva is a greedy bitch, but it’s the nature of the beast. YAY!!!
4. Fire ants suck. Or biting ants. Or whatever the hell these damn ants were, they left me miserable, itchy, and with a bitten-up arm that only Father Damien could love (click on the link, so you get my obscure joke and laugh, dammit). Here’s how it went. Viva stays in the pool until well after dark with friends Tomai and Christina to gawk at the Fitness Together men at the swim-up bar (we’re getting to them, be patient). But anyhow, Viva leaves bag and cover-up on ground beside pool. Viva has a tasty ripe banana in her bag. Are we all getting where this is going? When we finally leave the pool, I throw my cover up on and realize upon reaching our building, that I am itching and burning—since I hadn’t slept with Tommy Lee within the past twelve hours, I could only assume that something else was causing this fiery pain, and looked down to see myself covered with little black angry ants. What happened next is a blur, but it involved lots of screaming, cursing, throwing off clothes, and doing the Mexican Hat/Ant Crush Dance right in the middle of the hallway while Tomai and Christina dusted my stuff for the nasty insects. It is exactly one week later and my arm STILL itches and looks deformed. I used to be the type of person to shuffle an ant out the door on a piece of paper, rather than kill it. No more! Bastards.
5. Girls like to fall on their heads. A lot. Water + ceramic tile = girls go boom boom. I think all of us took a header at some point or another. As for me, after a spell of rain drenched the resort, my platform sandals became ice skates and I ended up flat on my back, staring up a bevy of concerned southern middle-aged women hovering over me, saying things like “Y’all okay, Sugar? Don’t move ya head just yet, now!” I thought I was hallucinating. Viva friend Christina just laughed at my sorry ass. Where is the love?!?
6. Muscleheads are the new black. Who knew that a group of quasi-literate, chair-jumping, anabolically pumped personal trainers could turn a great trip into a truly spectacular one? Apparently, some national franchise called "Fitness Together" decided to book a conference at the resort for the same week we girls were there. Jackpot! Now, if we were back in New York, these would be the same guys we’d make fun of and sniff “What is he trying to prove, anyway?” But in Mexico, with tequila, they were manna from heaven. The volleyball games on the beach were straight out of Top Gun. Who needs TV? To their credit, most of them were nice (like the southern boy, Clint, from A-LA-BAAAAAA-MA). Some were just funny. I struck up a conversation with one guy about the benefits of hiring prostitutes instead of actually dating women. I am not making this up. Most of the week, we spent sucking in our stomachs on the way to the buffet as we passed these guys reading books like The Business of Personal Training. When they left the resort on Friday, a little part of us died…. FITNESS TOGETHER FOREVER!
7. Everybody Loves Christina. Or “ChrisTIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINA!!!!” Viva friend and fellow Mexico-goer Christina rocked it like a hurricane in Mexico. Christina is this very sweet, quiet girl, who was just going about her daily business when seemingly, she was mobbed by every musclehead and Mexican waiter within a 5-mile radius. The men couldn’t get enough of her, and her little pink bikini. We’d be eating and the umpteenth Mexican waiter would be making googly eyes and asking her if she had an “espousa” or a boyfriend, or where she was staying. The best of the bunch was one of the ‘Roid Ragers, this large Spanish (???) man who essentially stalked Christina like she was a wounded gazelle. He’s all intense, following her around the pool, moaning “ChriiiiiiisTIIINA, what room you in? What room she in? I want to know? Where can I find you? What are you doing later? Christina, why you swim away from me? I just want to talk to you!!!!!!!” Sure, you do, buddy. With your penis.
8. Dolphins are like dogs that swim. Or at least that’s what I wanted to believe. Tomai, Christina and I did this "Dolphin Discovery” thing where you swim with dolphins, manatees, and sea lions, which was pretty neat. Every time our main dolphin Chaach swam by, I’d be all “Who’s the good boy????” while rubbing its stomach. I bet you a lot of people do that—at least saps like me who missed their dogs. Beautiful creatures those dolphins. Sea lions are cute too. Manatees, also cute, but they are HUGE, bristly, covered in algae and given to making “Manatee Stew” (think food and God Knows What Else floats around in their enclosure). Next time, I can look at them from shore, and be totally cool. Killer manatees……..
9. Snorkeling is righteous. If you folks are planning a trip to Mexico, follow the old girl’s advice and do the Xelha Eco-Theme Park—it’s snorkeling paradise, and there’s all this other stuff to do as well, like tube down a lazy river (which I failed at—“Nobody puts Viva in an inner tube!”), or lose your credit card while jumping off the Cliff of Courage—and then have someone swim around, FIND it—and GIVE IT BACK. Try THAT in New York!
10. ATVs are scary. Oh screw you, yes they are. Viva friends Jill, Chuck, and Dave call and chirp “We’re going on an ATV excursion.” Viva, who grew up inches outside of NYC and whose childhood experiences with nature consisted of hanging out in shopping malls, is all “Great, I’m game! What’s an ATV???” Yeah. So we can see how this goes down. ATVs, I have learned, are like these dune buggy type things with no shocks and have a propensity to, like, roll over and maim you. I am thinking “Well, we’ll drive these nice little vehicles on a flat beach and won’t that be nice?” Oh no. No, the point of these things is to actually GO OVER bumpy stuff. That is supposed to be the fun part—bouncing around, racing up steep hills, hitting trees. This is what people, apparently, paid money to do. Approximately one minute after the nice Mexican man turned on my ATV, muttered “This is gas, this is brake, GO!” I knew I was totally, completely, and utterly screwed. Usual Viva protocol would involve me pitching an immediate fit and hopping off this deathtrap. But, Viva friends were all excited and I had me some pride, which quickly gave way to general ineptness and fear. I sucked. Apparently, the tour guide likes to put the sucky people at the front of the group, rather than trail at the back, which I was dying to do. I had on this black helmet a la Seargent Schultz from Hogan’s Heroes, and my inner (and outer) dialogue went something like this: “thisfuckingsucksthisfuckingsucksthisfuckingsucksIamgoingtoflipthisfuckingthing and drowninapoolofmyownblood.” Finally, I missed a turnoff. Mexican tour guide-man was annoyed and started gesticulating for me to get back in formation. “Reverse” he yelled. I yelled back “Where the fuck is reverse?!?!?!? You showed me 'gas' and 'stop'!!!!" Jill’s husband Dave, Patron Saint of Panicking Women Who Are in Over Their Head, zoomed over and essentially saved my sorry ass. My pride in tatters, I blathered “I CAN’T DO THIS, I HATE ATVS!!!”—Dave grabs my dear friend Jill, who, God Bless Her Soul, hops on my ATV and takes the wheel, asking "Do you trust me?" I remember thinking "Honey, I think I would trust a well-trained monkey's ATV driving skills more than my own, take the wheel!" I think I clung so hard to Jill’s waist that my nail marks are probably still embedded in her stomach. Once I didn’t have to drive that damn ATV, the trip was great, and created some girl-bonding moments that are burned into my head for eternity. So it was all good. Moral of the story: “Know the Nature of the Beast on Which You are Riding”—is this a double entendre? Absolutely, but this is my blog and I can double entendre anytime I want. So there.
11. A jaguar does not a cheetah make. The Barceló’s one and only discothèque was “The Jaguar” or “ JAG-GUUUUARRRR! (sort of yell it and make “claws” while saying it, and you’ve got it down). The Jaguar prompted all sorts of discussions. Were the huge, seemingly paper-mached creatures outside of the Jaguar, REALLY Jaguars? Or were they cheetahs? They sure looked like cheetahs. And why did it resemble a high school gymnasium on the inside? What was the deal with all that fog? To cover up the fact that no one was really there? Oh Jaguar, we miss you, and your throbbing techno beat, so reminiscent of Joey’s in Clifton!!!! One memorable Jaguar moment actually took place in the ladies’ room wherein a group of befuddled Italian girls stood around their hopelessly drunk friend and watched her puke—IN THE SINK. WTF? American women know enough to grab their drunk girl and throw her in a stall, pull back her hair and sing her a dog while she upchucks. This poor Italian Bella had no such luck. Maybe that’s why she was crying and moaning and carrying on. I’d be crying too, if people left me to yak in a sink. Idiots.
12. Desperate need breeds ingenuity. As a special FYI, champagne buckets make GREAT vomit receptacles, right Tomai? Let’s see if I can spell out the sound she made when she leaped up from the bed in a panic and grabbed the unfortunate bucket in the wee hours of the morning: “HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHH!” I wanted to help her. I really did. Instead I laid in bed, twitching with residual tequila shakes, giggling. Viva is a good friend.
13. A picture tells a thousand words. Or, in my case, three little words: “You got fat.” Viva is the queen of denial and even though I have porked up like a Thanksgiving turkey in the last year and a half, somewhere inside of me, my inner optimist was like “You’re just a little chubby right now, that’s all!” Yeah. Just like Michael Jackson is a little fond of young boys. So I brought my optimistic, delusional self with me for the Mexico trip, in spite of the fact that everything I brought had tags on it (because I had to buy it new—because my old clothes wouldn’t even get past my hips, much less button up). I honestly believed I was actually holding it together. Until the pictures started rolling in--emphasis on the word "rolling." In horror, I realized that I had lost my chin and gained another ass. The same girl who spent her 20s and early 30s pretty skinny, barely eating, hopped-up on ephedra pills and diet Red Bull, and running around postage stamp-sized skirts, is now a pork chop. This is when I miss my father. I come from a family of super-skinny Irish people who chain-smoked, drank lots of black coffee, and forgot to eat (who does that?). When my old man was alive, he was the Voice of Reality. Our conversations would go something like this: Me: “Dad, why didn’t you eat the dinner I made you?!?!?! Jesus, how many cigarettes did you smoke today? Where is your inhaler? Don’t tell me all you ate all day was that crappy Dunkin Donuts muffin and coffee!!!!” My old man: “Did you put on weight? You look like you’re getting a double chin. Where did you hide those last two cigarettes???” Nobody loves you like family, eh? Who else tells you the truth these days? Viva Husband would let me hit 500 pounds before daring to utter “maybe you should try a carrot stick or something.” Men who are not biologically related to me seem to fear my wrath. Go figure. Anyhow, at home Viva cooks these huge dinners every night of the week, which MAY account for said pork chop-ed-ness. No more. At least for me anyway. I rolled out the usual fare last night (chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, biscuits), and left myself with a wee grilled chicken breast. Viva Husband is like “Aren’t you going to have any…..” and I bellowed “THE CHICKEN BREAST IS FINE, thanks.” Dieting sucks. But lacking a chin sucks even more. And I miss my old, little ass. Viva hates baggage. Viva is all about losing baggage in the upcoming months. It won’t be easy, but nothing ever is these days. Updates will be forthcoming.
14. Dogs love you even when you torment them. We all know how goopy I get about my dog. I know, I know, I have some issues. Though I hated to leave Me-hi-ho, it was nice to come home to such a happy, frantic greeting from the Cooperman. How do I repay his love, his loyalty, his unwavering devotion? I make him wear a little sombrero and take pictures of him for your amusement. Cooper sort of reminds me of Max from “How the Grinch Stole Christmas”—he pretty much does what I want him to do, but is miserable about it. Normally he loves lying on the couch. But because I WANTED him to lie on the couch, he wouldn’t do it. Damn dog. So here’s a picture of Cooper lying in front of Viva’s olive green couches, and the yellow walls that are still not the gold color I wanted, even after repainting the room three times. I strategically placed the sippy cup for effect. It’s now his new toy. The boy makes me proud.
15. Friends are the chocolate-chip cookie dough in the ice cream of life. They seriously are. If Mexico taught old Viva anything, it’s that nothing replaces time with great friends. Sometimes we get so caught up in our own angst, we sort of forget to touch base with our pals, and what better opportunity than a week away in Paradise to laugh with old friends and make new ones too??? Viva sends huge “Thank You”s to Tomai, for making all of this happen, to Christina, to being the Sexy Minx that she is, to Samantha, Megan, Carmelina, and Sarah, for being funny, righteous chicks with whom many stories were shared, and especially to Jill, one of Viva’s oldest and dearest, who made me feel like my old, slightly psychotic but fun, self again—no therapy is better than a Scranton-style “Come to Jesus” talkfest with your sister. Much thanks too, to Dave and Chuck, who seemed to enjoy all of our cumulative female shenanigans with good cheer.
I think I’ve covered everything, and if I didn’t, well, my fingers are tired from typing. Thanks for a great time, folks. You all seriously rock.
No comments:
Post a Comment