No Yogurt or Yoda jokes, please

Two weeks ago I decided to embark on a new adventure and start taking yoga classes. I know, weird. My whole life up to this point has been about making myself as inflexible as possible while keeping toxicity levels in my body as high as possible. Yoga negates all of that. What caused this shift? Getting older? My new hat? No, it was my friend Jacqueline. She came to visit three weeks ago and had arms like Linda Hamilton in Terminator. I was afraid she had started doing steroids, but no, it was just yoga. I decided I wanted to look like that.

My first yoga class was amazing. And not just because I sweat more than I ever thought possible. And not because I could touch my toes by the end without wincing. I felt absolutely amazing. Energized. Happy. Lighter. Stronger. I wanted to run right out and buy all the yoga clothes and mats and other accouterments immediately. I wanted to blog about it. But I stopped myself. You see, I have this habit of doing something once and declaring it my new life path. Then I drop it when it gets hard or get bored with it. Guitar lessons are the first thing to spring to mind. So, I decided to hold off. I purchased a ten class pass and vowed that if I finished it then I could go completely overboard and spend thousands of dollars on stuff.

I am now half way through the pass. I am still sweating like a pig and my core and arms are still as weak as an infant's, but I'm sticking with it. I like the fact that I am so busy thinking about my breathing and holding the pose that my mind almost stops running. I even stop thinking up snarky comments. And there is a lot to be snarky about, because Yoga attracts some weirdos.

There is the holier than thou "super breather." You can tell them because of the Sanskrit tattoos and the fact they start breathing with noise before the class even begins. It's like sitting next to a sucking chest wound. Then there are the "show offs." They twist themselves into pretzels, even if the position is just standing. They also never sweat, and never smile. And then there are the farters. I know yoga is all about relaxing and stretching the body, and that sometimes that can cause emissions no one means to release. But there is a group of yoga devotees who have the "everything the body does it wonderful" attitude and see flatulence as important to yoga as the downward dog. I had heard of these farters, but until tonight I had never experienced one first hand. The completion of each pose was punctuated with a loud fart. I think he even smiled as he did it. At first everyone tried to ignore it, but then it started to rattle people. It was hard to concentrate on breath when you didn't really want to breathe in. Finally the instructor turned on the swamp cooler to block out the sound and get air circulating in the room.

But even farters won't deter me from taking more yoga classes. Although I might start putting Vicks under my nose -- just in case.

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Gnomeless

When Ryan and I moved into our little cottage my sister presented us with a lawn gnome. Because really, a home is not a home without a gnome. He was little and feisty and sat on our porch smoking a pipe with his jaunty little red hat. Oh, how I loved him. Then, one morning last fall I awoke to find he had been gnomenapped. Of course, I sunk into a major depression. Sure, they put out statewide alerts for kidnapped children, but gnomes? They just laugh at you. That's why I don't I trust the police. Luckily the culprits weren't that clever, the next day one of Ryan's debate kids asked him how his gnome was doing. Yeah, he could get into Stanford, but Cyrus couldn't keep a secret. For the next two months I was relentless in the pursuit of my gnome, warning Cyrus that I would get him. Then at Christmas he showed up with a peace offering -- a new gnome. No, it wasn't as pretty as the first one, but it was riding on a turtle so I accepted it as a fair trade.

All was well. At least until this morning.

As I was walking out the front door at the God awful hour of 5:30am I noticed something was amiss. My gnome friend -- and his turtle -- were gone. In his place was a ceramic monkey -- and a note:

For those of you with bad eyes or just no interest in reading it, the note basically insinuates that the gnome has left of his own accord due to my love of all things monkey. Now, I'm a big believer in the magical, but I smell a rat. Why would my gnome want to leave? Weren't my hugs and bedtime lullabies enough? Yes, he had to live outside, but he's a gnome -- he likes that. I think this was another case of gnomenapping. Only this time the suspects are a little harder to figure out. Yes, our friends Stan and Lana are moving to Florida today and they did own a monkey plant holder like the one left on the porch, but why would such good friends cause me such pain? No, I can't believe it. I'm sure some evil gnome switching syndicate took both their monkey and my gnome, putting one in the place of the other to cause extra strife.

The replacement.

I have learned a valuable lesson though from my hardships: gnomes only bring heartbreak. I think I'm switching to pink flamingos.

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This is really Tara's story...

My friend Tara works at a community center in California. I know, I know, I don't think she should be working that closely with children either, but apparently she's quite good at it. Right now the summer day camp is going on, which means a lot of kids are dropped off by parents who just don't know what to do with them. Among those who come to the camp are a pair of 4-year old twins with a mother Tara describes as a Barbie that has seen better days. But it isn't the woman's appearance that worries Tara, it's what she gives her kids for lunch.

The first day of camp the kids arrived with a bag of croutons -- oh, and a Diet Coke. Now, I know that on some nights when I don't want to cook opening up a bag of croutons seems like a perfectly reasonable dinner. And if I put our ranch dressing as a dip, Ryan agrees. In fact, after hearing Tara's story I craved croutons for about four hours. Parmesan croutons to be exact. But I digress. Apparently thit is not a balanced meal for young children.

The next day the kids arrived -- and their lunch had a bit more variety. One had Doritos while the other had Funyuns. Oh, and another Diet Coke. I know some people who survived college on a similar diet, but again, we are talking about children. And I doubt either wants to stay their present height. Tara decided to say something to the woman, suggesting that maybe she might want to put more consideration into what she packed her children for lunch. The woman was apparently incredulous, protesting that would mean going to the grocery store, which she just couldn't manage that week. But she would try next week.

By Monday of this week, after hearing the stories from Tara, I waited with bated breath to find out what they had brought for lunch. Would she make a total transformation and send them with sandwiches and pieces of fruit? Or would she just go a little healthier with a bag of Baked Lays? Finally, the answer came. The kids were there -- with a pound boxes of strawberries. Oh, and a Diet Coke.

This has now become my obsession. I wake up every morning excited about the bizarre lunches these kids might bring. Ease seems to be the key, so I think of them showing up with a gallon jar of three bean salad, or a whole roasted chicken from the grocery deli. Either would truly make my day. After all, if this woman has children -- how bad of a parent could I possibly turn out to be? When my children eventually are yelling at me how much they hate me (and I know it will happen) I can shout back "Well, at least I never fed you croutons for lunch." And I will feel vindicated.

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No tell Motel

This weekend I went to visit Ryan in Saint George. I'll be honest, it had been a week and I needed to see my husband naked. Since Ryan stays in a dorm during debate camp there was no way we were going to be staying there. I have never had sex in a dorm and I'm proud of that. So, I went on Orbitz, where I found a great rate for the Days Inn. A familiar saying comes to mind right now -- you get what you pay for.

On first glance everything looked okay. There was a sanitary strip on the toilet, there were pocket-sized toiletries on the sink, there was a hair dryer that might do the job in two hours or less and there was free HBO. Then I actually stepped inside the room -- and discovered the huge mirrored wall.

I am sure that some people would pay extra for a big mirrored wall. I am not one of them. I prefer to sneak by mirrors sucking my stomach in while closing my eyes. But there was no avoiding this thing. There it was, ceiling to floor in all it's mirrored glory. And it wasn't one of those kind mirrors that elongates you. It was more the short, squat fun house variety. Yeah, I felt sexy.

When we first arrived I had to take a shower -- Saint George does that to you. That's when I noticed the judicious cleaning of the bathroom floor. The center of it was very clean. However, six inches from each wall a grey film covered the floor -- and seemed to creep up to steal my soul. I had to shower just to get over getting out of the shower.

I got in bed while waiting for Ryan to get out of the shower. That's when I noticed them. Footprints. On the mirror. No, I am not making this up. They were about size 11 men's and they had obviously been put there with some pressure. I quickly stripped the bedspread and blanket of the bed and covered what I could of the sheets and pillow cases in plastic laundry bags conveniently provided by the Days Inn.

There was no way I was going to the pool.

The night was not a total loss though, the bed was comfortable and I got to see my husband naked. However, the next time I need an out of town booty call -- we're staying at the Holiday Inn.

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All clear

I think I have mentioned before that Ryan and I are on the baby track. Actually I know I've mentioned it before because it seems to be a big part of my thoughts and therefore my conversations as of late. However, for the past ten months of trying we have not gotten pregnant. My mother, Ryan and my doctor have all said I should just relax and not worry about it, but that's like asking the Pope not to make sweeping decisions about morality. For the past three months I have suspected that there must be something terribly wrong with my reproductive parts. Then I started reading the book Middlesex and became convinced of it. I was sure that I had undescended testicles in place of ovaries, or a dragon where my uterus should be. Finally, my doctor suggested I go and get a test done to make sure everything was in working order.

I went to the hospital on Tuesday to get the test -- taking my Mother along for the ride because Ryan (conveniently) is at debate camp. The test I had is called a hysterosalpingogram -- or HSG for those who really don't like saying complicated medical words. It's an x-ray of the uterus and fallopian tubes and NOT a really good time. Of course, before I could even have the test I go to do the prerequisite hour of waiting in a hospital gown, surrounded by sick and elderly people, reading back issues of Woman's Day and Reader's Digest. Both of those magazine shave humor sections -- and neither is remotely funny. I did pick up some great ideas for festive pasta salads though.

After all of my dignity had seeped out of the back of my gown it was time for the exam. I tried to be strong and told my mother I could go through it alone. Then they explained what they were actually going to do and I started calling "Mommy." You see, in order to x-ray my uterus and fallopian tubes dye needed to be injected, and there's really only one way to inject it. I think you know what that is. So, not only was I going to get the radiation of an x-ray, but also the embarrassment of a pelvic exam. Oh, and the added bonus of pain.

Before injecting the dye the Physician's Assistant said I might feel a "pinch." I think he may have never been pinched before, because this was more of an excruciating pain. It felt as if someone had replaced my lower abdomen with a large block of pain. Add that to the fact I had a full bladder (a requirement for this lovely test) and you can understand why I ate a grimace from a Greek tragedy pasted on my face. Seeing my discomfort my Mom grabbed my hand and said these words "please don't blog about this." Oh, well, too late.

I have to say that for all the pain it was pretty cool to see my uterus and fallopian tubes on the screen. Although it's true the x-ray does make them look ten pounds heavier. The female reproductive system looks very little like the textbook diagrams we are all used to. The tubes don't come neatly off the sides of the uterus to gently hold the ovaries, they twist and turn all over the place. One of mine bends towards my back. And the PA said it's perfectly normal. Actually, he said that everything going on down there is perfectly normal. It may be the only normal thing about me.

Now we're back to the waiting game. I have nothing to worry about. I just need to relax. And you have no idea how anxious that makes me...

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My new hat: A vote

Today I was out shopping with my Mother when I came upon a smart blue sunhat -- on sale. I put it on as a joke, but then my Mom said it actually looked cute on me. After looking in a mirror I had to agree. So, I bought it.

I got home to find Tara was on line, so I told her about my new hat, thinking she would enjoy the fact I was taking a fashion risk. Her reply was short: "you'll never wear it you know." Now, I do admit that in the past I have bought hats thinking I really could become a hat person, only to have them end up in a box with stuffed animals from my childhood that I just can't throw away. For this very reason a hat moratorium has been in place for the past few years. But now I'm a new person, trying new things. I mean, I had a salad for dinner tonight. Wearing a hat can't be that far off. I needed to impress this upon Tara and let her feel the power of the hat, so I sent her the following picture.


Of course, Tara has no soul, so she answered "What are you? Anne of Green Gables?" Well, no, I'm Rebbecca of fuckin' Sunny brook Farm, but that's beside the point. So, now I am torn about my new hat. I think it could usher in a real change in my life, a real elegance. I mean, look how it matches my eyes. But I have not always been the most fashionable person, so, dear readers, if this hat is a mistake, let me know. Maybe I'll burn it for a future post. Or maybe I'll send it to Tara. No, that would just make her too happy.

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Great Red Hunter

This past week we had some good friends of ours come to stay with us for a week days. One of them used to teach with Ryan and all of us used to stay out late drinking and carousing and trying to pretend we were still young and hip. It was a good time. But, of course, now we're all older and trying out new things. Ryan and I are trying to have a baby. One of our friends has gotten really into yoga and -- the most shocking -- her husband has become a survivalist. That means his idea of a good time is now going out in the wilderness with nothing but a knife and a loin cloth to kill deer with his teeth. Well, maybe I exaggerate a little. I think he can wear shorts.

All weekend he talked about using bone tools and how hunting is the only "authentic" thing left in society, the different animals he planned to kill and how a diet of nothing but meat and fruit is really the best thing for you. It actually kind of intrigued me. I mean, who is going to go out and kill an animal, eat it and sleep in it's fur when there are hotels with room service and fresh sheets? It was a bit like being visited by an alien. At least until I realized he was trying to turn my husband into a pod person.

It happened slowly. They would talk about camping and backpacking, about the fun of sleeping under the stars, how enjoyable it is to go fishing and spend the day on a river. And then our friend asked Ryan if the next time we came to Vegas he would like to go rabbit hunting. Now, that isn't shocking. What Ryan replied is. He said " Sure. I'll just get my .22 back from my brother." And I looked over and saw the alien slime coming over his head.
Me: Who are you?
Ryan: What?
Me: First of all, you own a gun?
Ryan: Yeah, since I was 13.
Me: And you want to hunt rabbits? I can see you flying before I see you hunting.
Ryan: I could hunt rabbits.
Me: Really? Will you eat the rabbits?
Ryan: Sure.
Me: Okay, well, call me when that actually happens...

Now, looking back I can see that my response could probably be seen as a bit emasculating in front of our Grizzly Adams friend, but please. Hunting? Ryan? That is almost as ludicrous as me trying for the Bolshoi just because Tara is taking ballet. And I would hope he would stop me before someone got hurt. I mean really, first bunnies and then what? The cats? Big game? The deadliest animal in world: Man? I think I've made my point. But maybe to make up for it we can roast some marshmallows in the backyard. That's almost the same thing....

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Invasion

I am not a person who dislikes bugs. I catch and release spiders that have made their way into our home, I watch for worms on the sidewalk when it's raining, and I try to disperse ant hills by using cinnamon or pepper instead of just washing them away with the hose. I don't know why, it might have something to do with Karma or the fear that God actually has a segmented body and wings, but I try to show bugs consideration and not squash them just because I can. Until now. This time the bugs have gone too far.

I am speaking in particular about Box Elder beetles. If you live in Utah or anywhere with a lot of mature trees I know you've seen them. They're small and are black with red markings. They also fly and sometimes walk around while mating (not kidding). And I think about 100 of them are now living in my house.

The enemy.

The bug surge began about two weeks ago. I would see one and pick it up and put it outside. Then I would see another, pick it up and put it outside. See, pick, move, repeat. And it went like that for several days. Then they got rude. I awoke one night to a strange sensation on my neck. Aneurysm? Nope, a Box Elder beetle. That one didn't make it outside. I didn't kill it, but it might have gotten hurt when I hurled it across the room. The night I was so sick last weekend? In between retches I got to watch two different bugs crisscross the wall. They have even taking to hitching rides on Sally. And no one rides Sally.

When I just didn't think it could get worse it did. The bugs started dying. Now, not only was I battling the live bugs I was serving as coroner for the dead ones. It isn't like removing the dead bugs was a difficult task -- it's just it was kind of creepy having all these little corpses around my house. Like a low budget Rob Zombie movie.

So, now I am looking for any way to stop the influx of bugs making their way into the house. I have tried sweeping, Dust busting, fans, spray bottles and anything else that doesn't contain noxious chemicals. Of course, I could just shut the back door (Ryan's suggestion) but Sally and the cats really love going in and out. And it isn't like bugs know how to use doors...

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Montezuma's Revenge

It has been almost a week since my last post and I'm sure that many of you are wondering if I went back to Mexico. Why, no, I didn't. I've just been dealing with a stomach bug I got there. For the past two weeks I have been constantly nauseous and basically living in the bathroom. Over the weekend I was so violently ill Ryan said it appeared I was doing a rendition of "The Exorcist." I'll laugh at that one later.

Despite my wretched condition I was hesitant to go see a doctor -- simply because I really don't like them. I have never met a doctor that doesn't instantly assume you are lying to them. I always feel like I am pleading my case to a jury or trying to explain to my Mom why I'm out past curfew. All that for antibiotics? I don't think so. However, on Tuesday I was tricked into medical intervention. Ryan said we were going fishing, but then he took me to Instacare. I felt like the dog.

The doctor at Instacare pretty much fulfilled all of my expectations. He made me wait on a paper covered table for about a half and hour and then questioned the validity of my complaint. So I told him all about Mexico and my symptoms since returning, the nausea, the vomiting, the frequent trips to the bathroom. I told him Pepcid and Immodium hadn't touched it. And after listening to everything I had to say he settled on a diagnosis: I was pregnant. I found that interesting since at that very moment I was having my period -- but he would have none of it.
Him: Are you sure you aren't pregnant?
Me: Well, I'm bleeding out of my vagina right now.
Him: But have you taken a test?
Me: Yes, this morning. My husband thinks like you do.
Him: And it was negative?
Me: Yes.
Him: Well, let's give you another one.

By this time I was ready to pee on anything just to shut him up. So I went into the washroom and did my thing (I'm getting really good at it now) and then went back into the room to wait for another half an hour. Apparently they don't have the three minute tests at Instacare. Then the doctor came in to deliver the stunning news. I wasn't pregnant. After getting over my shock and dismay I grabbed the prescription and headed out the door -- vowing never to go back.

I had to go back.

After two days of antibiotics I still wasn't feeling better and my body was not behaving any differently. So, here I was, facing the same doctor. I was really hoping he would ask me the pregnancy question again -- but he took a different tactic.
Him: Have you been eating?
Me: Yes. Nothing crazy, but yes.
Him: Well, that's your problem.
Me: Eating?
Him: Yes. You should only be taking in clear liquids.
Me: That's it?
Him: Yes. Nothing else until you feel better.

Well, at least wine is clear. And I can have it since I'm not pregnant. Doctor's orders.

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Apple Pie & Baseball

For the past two days Ryan and I have been busy doing all things American. Well, almost. We didn't start any wars on false pretenses and we didn't commute the sentence of anyone guilty of a federal crime. At least I didn't, Ryan might have, we weren't together every minute...

Wednesday, of course, was the fourth of July. A day to honor freedom by blowing stuff up. Now, I could go on a diatribe about how the 4th embodies everything bad about America: the overeating, the tacky t-shirts, the showboating, the multiple explosions, but the truth is -- I love the fourth of July. This could have something to do with the fact that my Mother is a fourth of July nut and normally wakes my sisters and me with Neil Diamond's "America" each year, or the fact that the fourth is the one day I am allowed to play with fire, but what I really think it is is the food.

Each year my parents throw what they call their 4th of July extravaganza, which means one thing: truly remarkable food. I think their friends have actually started to try and top each other with their culinary endeavors. A bag of chips is just not considered a worthy contribution at the Mitchell soirée. This year there were bean salads, pasta salads, spinach salads, tortilla roll-ups, ham and beans, ribs and every kind of sausage imaginable. And the desserts -- which is where people really go crazy. Imagine your favorite dessert. Now imagine it better. It was there. And I ate it.

Then the fireworks. the rule for my parents party is that you have to bring a dish to share and one legal firework. We usually end up with what can only be considered an arsenal. We have actually had to start putting a time limit on fireworks because setting off all of them would take all night. This year Ryan, Dave (my sister Cate's husband) and Luke discovered a new favorite -- smoke bombs. They set off smoke bombs before the party, they set off smoke bombs during the party and then they set off even more during the fireworks using strobe flashers for special effect. We all ended up smelling like rotten eggs, but they had a fabulous time.

The smoke bomb trio.

Yesterday we continued our Americana adventure at Salt Lake Bees baseball game. It was "Thirsty Thursday" which means all beers are half off. Yeah. What they don't tell you is that on Thursday they use half size cups. It should be called "small cup Thursday." Luckily Burke figured out we could still buy the full size beers at the full size price (which I think is actually cheaper per ounce if I were to do the math. I won't, but I could) so a riot was narrowly avoided.

Can you tell which beer was the cheap one? Yeah, thought so.

I love baseball. I don't understand it and I have no idea who won, but it is truly an enjoyable experience to sit outside with friends in the early evening, eating hot dogs and pretzels for dinner, drinking beer, and randomly cheering and yelling at umps. I also love the mascot. I mean, that has to be the worst job in the world. It's hotter than hell, kids pull at you, people mock you and yet you still have to dance around like you are having the time of your life. Each year we try to get the mascot to come over and talk to us at least once. Usually we would tell him that Tara was dying and had a crush on him and wanted to meet him. This year though she wasn't there -- so we had to pull out the big guns -- kids. Luckily Justin has a pair so we didn't have to steal any. The kids were also helpful in the fact they allowed me to buy big foam fingers.

There goes my hero.

There is nothing more ludicrous than a big foam finger. It is the ultimate non-necessity. Also, they can be really annoying. Have you ever been poked by a foam finger? Or had someone offer you a free prostate exam with one? If you haven't you probably haven't been to a ball game with me. But now I am too old for such shenanigans (or at least Ryan thinks I am) so I have to live vicariously through children who area allowed the joy of giving people the finger. They liked the poking, but didn't get the proctology jokes. Maybe next year.

Kids have all the fun.

Tonight I don't know what Ryan and I will do to continue our American dream weekend. I guess we could always just go to Wal-mart and buy guns...

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The coolest thing ever

So, Fox is about to release 'The Simpsons" movie. This almost makes upon for the fact that they are responsible for getting W elected twice. Almost. Fox has created a site where you can turn yourself into a Simpsons character.

Here are Ryan and myself:
Can't you just see Ryan worried about the future of the yum-yum fish while I worried about the Yum-yum juice in our drinks?

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Last resort

When Ryan and I travel alone we normally try to find a place that is comfortable, small, clean and most of all -- cheap. We like to be central so we can walk to see things and never care if food is included because who really wants to eat hotel food anyway? However, on our recent trip to Mexico we had more than just ourselves to think of. We had a father, three brothers, two sisters, three nieces and one nephew to think of, many of whom had never been out of the country before. The only way we were getting them over the border was to take them somewhere as familiar as possible. An all inclusive resort.

The resort was everything Ryan and I normally try to avoid when we travel. It was at least 30 minutes walking distance to anything of note -- and 15 minutes taxi ride to anything of note you actually wanted to see. Group activities were encouraged and all meals were served on the grounds. And this place was enormous. It had six different wings for rooms, four swimming pools, six restaurants and a night club. Walking from one end to the end took about a half hour. If you were looking for someone it was almost guaranteed you wouldn't find them before passing out from heat stroke. However, there was one thing that caught my eye -- it was cheap. Just one hundred and six dollars a night. Oh, and all drinks were included.

Twice Ryan and I managed what I came to refer to as "the Borg" in order to get something to eat. The rest of the time we lived on what could only be described as a step up from college cafeteria food. It was starchy, it was fatty and it was plentiful. It all needed salt. Because there were so many of us we normally couldn't get a reservation at one of the resort's "theme" restaurants and ended up at the buffet. There I would try to pick through the limp offerings in the steam trays -- usually filling my plate with whatever pasta was there that day. Yes, I was in Mexico, eating pasta. They also had a salad bar and a lot of fresh fruit, but I wasn't that desperate.

My complaints about the food pale in comparison to my complaints about the people -- or Resortians as I came to call them. It's like all the people that I try to avoid all came to one place and put on skimpy swim wear. And few of them should have been wearing skimpy swim wear. They also were all liquored up on the free drinks filling their giant mugs , so their personality traits were especially endearing. I came to identify several species...

Formalwear

• The Ugly American: The prime of example of this category was a very tattooed man who I don't think brought a shirt with him to Mexico. He wandered into the buffet one afternoon and was asked, very nicely, to put on a shirt or leave. He responded that "he paid a lot of money to come here, so he didn't need to follow their rules." Yeah. I think you get the point.

• The Gross Couple: There were a lot of honeymooning couples at the resort. And many of them were trying to start families -- in the swimming pools. One evening a couple floating in the pool was so involved in their amorous embrace that they didn't notice they were within inches of our two nieces. Yes, it was their first exposure to porn. Only the people weren't good looking.

This is tame. I can't post the other examples...

• The Braid People: All over the beach there were women offering to put your hair in cornrows. I said offering. They didn't hold you down and braid your hair against your will. But so many people had it done you would think that was the case. Let me make it clear: NO ONE LOOKS GOOD IN THIS HAIR STYLE!!! Not rap stars, not little children, not old ladies. It works on no one. And the sound of the beads clacking is second only fingernails on a chalkboard. And yet, every person with braids was smiling like they had just won Miss Universe. So, the braiding process must have involved some sort of lobotomy.
  

It looks great with her bedazzled jacket...

There are many other species to identify, the tour group, the couple trying to reignite their marriage -- but not talk to each other, the frat boys, the sorority girls, but I'm starting to piss myself off thinking about them all. But before I move on I must tell you of one more species: the ultimate Resorter.

She was about forty, skinny, with skin like leather. She was anorexic skinny, made all the more obvious by her sagging bikini and her cornrowed hair. Her physique may have had something to do with the fact that I never saw her eat -- just drink margaritas from a mug bigger around than her waist. She was obviously there alone, but managed to talk to everyone in a very loud, almost cab driveresque voice. I wanted to get a picture, but every time I saw her it was like seeing a unicorn, I couldn't risk looking away for fear she would run off.

Now, not everything about the resort was bad. The pools were huge, clean and warm. That may have been because so many children were peeing in them, but I don't want to think about that. Also, the drinks weren't bad, even if the wine was on tap from a container that looked like a foot locker. Also, I didn't catch any diseases -- that I know of yet. But would I go back?

I am shaking my cornrows very slowly no...

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I drank the water -- because Tequila has water in it.

So, as many of my loyal readers may have noticed I have been absent from the blogosphere for a little while. I think I needed a little blogcation. I mean. it's hard entertaining dozens of people. But now I'm back, rested and ready to write pithy missives about what I had for lunch.

For part of my absence we were in Mexico with Ryan's family. He is the oldest of six. Two of them have kids. Two of them act like kids. So, even trying to organize and get everyone to Mexico was a feat of wit and stamina usually only seen when David Blaine feel people are starting to think of him as "normal." Some how though we managed to get everyone there intact -- with just slightly frazzled wits.

Now, I could go through the trip day by day and give you every little detail about what we did, what we ate, what I wore and how many margaritas I had -- but I leave that kind of writing to Ayn Rand -- and Dr. Kevorkian. So, instead let me just give you the high points...

• The first day I got my niece a "virgin" daiquiri -- only to have her complain about the taste after three sips. Yep, the bartender didn't quite get the whole "virgin" thing. Out of guilt I drank the rest.
  
• On the third day we took the kids to swim with dolphins -- but their idea of "swimming" was different from what actually happened. They got to pet, shake hands with and give signals to dolphins. They thought they would get to ride, pet and swap secrets with them. We had some very disappointed children on our hands.
  
• On that same day a bunch of iguanas had gathered on a patio at the resort. We decided to feed them orange slices -- until one bit my finger. And let me tell you -- iguanas can bite. But as I always say -- it isn't a vacation unless I get bitten. I can add it to the list of pig, pompano and ostrich.
• Every day I had a beauty appointment -- with my 2 year old niece. For hours we would sit in the kiddie pool while she played with my hair and made me lean back so she could dunk me in the water. So, it was beauty parlor/baptism. But it kept her occupied and happy, so I was willing to sit there as long as she wanted me to.
  
• I got to hold and pet a monkey. We went to a tourist island for diving and one of the activities on land was getting your picture taken with a monkey or a parrot. I had to push a couple kids out of the way, but finally the furry little beast was mine. It was the best day of my life. Including my wedding and the birth of any children I may eventually have.

• Every night the resort put on a floor show that could only be called truly horrendous. I mean, it was New Christie Minstrels bad. But without the tambourines. Of course, the kids loved it and made us watch it every night. I think it gave me a rash.
• There was also a disco on the property for nighttime entertainment. I never went because of my well know lack of dance ability and my intense dislike of music that goes "bomp, bomp,bomp, bomp, da, bomp, bomp, bomp." Ryan did go once with his brother and returned to say he didn't have a good time because it was filled with "young people." "We're young people" I replied. "No. No we aren't," Ryan said. So then I took my Geritol and went to bed.
  
• On Friday night there was a massive thunderstorm that we watched march across the bay. It was amazing. There was literally a wall of water that crashed onto the shore. We were both totally soaked by the time we got back to the room. I had to wring my clothes out.
  
• I discovered a grand new drink -- the Beerarita. Take one Margarita and half of a beer. Mix. Enjoy. Just don't put it near any kids.
  
• On the last day it almost turned into a family cage match on the way to the airport. First, Ryan's brother threatened the desk guy because he wasn't going to be allowed to check out without his resort sanctioned bracelet -- which he had thrown away. Then we couldn't get everyone in one van. Then we had to wait in an hour long check in line with seventeen pieces of luggage, three kids and one toddler trying to take her clothes off. Then three of us had to go to immigration to get a special approval because our passports hadn't been stamped properly upon entry. When we finally got to the gate it was final call, but we couldn't find three siblings. Ryan took off to recover them and finally found them in a concourse bar. I think he actually dragged them to the plane by their hair. After liftoff, it took two mini bottles of tequila before the vein over his eye stopped throbbing.
  

Overall it was an absolutely delightful time. I actually got a tan -- which is amazing since my skin normally goes from "Powder" to "on fire." And there is nothing better than laying in a kiddie pool with a cool drink, laughing my ass of with my husband and a group of funny kids... Only one thing would have made it better... If I had gotten to keep the monkey. Next time...

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