I fricking love going to the spa!  Yes, I used the word “fricking” because my love of the spa and pampering calls for a strong descriptive word, and that’s my PG version of the F-bomb.

Matt and I went to Mexico for the holidays and while we were there, we indulged ourselves with several visits to the spa.  We also indulged ourselves with ridiculous amount of food including one entire cheesecake, half of a french silk pie, and around 5 pounds of guacamole.  And by “we” I mean “me.”

At some point I think the wait staff figured out I didn’t have a sick child in my room whose dying wish was to eat an entire cheesecake in one sitting.

One morning during our trip, I got on the elevator to go to the gym.  Yes, I took the elevator to go to the gym.  My room was on the 3rd floor.  Did you really think I would take the stairs?  Pfft!

Why would I work out before I worked out?  Ridiculous. And close your mouth.  I know you’re shocked I went to the gym but reading this post with your mouth open in awe isn’t a good look for you.

Massages on the beachWhen I got in the elevator I was greeted by Rick, a friendly gentleman who was quite chatty despite the fact it was 8:00 a.m.  I know you’re thinking “Wow.  They must stay at a really nice resort if there are elevator operators.”  Um, no.  Rick wasn’t the elevator attendant, as it wasn’t 1952.  Rather, Rick was simply another guest at the hotel who had a clear affinity for the color red.  He had on a red shirt and red swimming trunks.  Did the reds match?  Of course not.  Immediately I pegged him as a communist.

“Wow, there are a lot of people going to the beach this early in the morning,” Rick in Red said, trying to start a conversation on the 20 second elevator ride.  (I will now refer to Rick in Red as RIR because I’m lazy and don’t want to type that out each time.  You should be able to follow along with this crafty abbreviation.)

For some reason I felt compelled to explain to RIR that I wasn’t going to lay on the beach, but I going to the gym instead.  I would have thought he could have deduced that from the work-out clothes I was wearing, and the water bottle, sweat towel and iPod I was holding.  Obviously RIR wasn’t an overly observant guy.

“I’m going to the gym,” I responded, feeling proud of myself for actually going instead of laying in bed telling myself I needed to work out and then ordering room service instead.

jacuzzi at spa

“Where do you shower after you work out?” RIR asked.

What the hell?  Who was this guy and why was he asking about my showering routine?  And why was I answering him?

I told him I shower in the spa locker room after my pathetic workout of walking slowly on the treadmill on an incline of 2. I probably didn’t need a shower afterwards, but I liked to use the spa’s shower, as it has dispensers on the wall for various body washes.  I’m a simple girl.

“You go to the spa here?” RIR responded.  I told him I did and it was nice.

“I bet sumthin like that is pretty expensive, huh?” he asked, obviously mistaking me for some kind of high roller.  “You know, I just go down to that Sea Breeze place down the beach and get an hour massage for $20.  It’s pretty good and the women are nice and do a real nice job.  You should check it out sometime and save yourself some money.”  (This should be read in a bit of a hillbilly accent with “Dueling Banjos” playing in the background.)

I don’t know why, but I could tell Rick knew a quality massage, and I was confident in his recommendation for some strange reason.

Later, I told Matt about my conversation with RIR and his recommendation to get a massage on the beach instead of at the spa.  Strangely enough, we were actually at the spa when I broached this subject, and we were both laying on the tables waiting for our massages to start.

“I think it’s worth a try,” I suggested.  “It will be a lot cheaper and a massage right on the beach would be nice.” I have no idea why I wanted to get his permission.  I had Rick’s recommendation.  What more did I need?

Matt wasn’t as convinced as I was, but that’s because he didn’t see the look in RIR’s eyes when he described how the women remove the sand from your feet during the massage.

“You will come with me to make sure I’m safe and that there’s no funny business.”  I said, assuring him.  “And by funny business, I mean anal.”

“Too bad we never have any funny business,” my husband muttered under his breath.  He’s clearly a jackass.


The next day, I decided to give the random women on the beach a try for a massage.  I couldn’t find the Sea Breeze location RIR spoke so fondly of.  I suspect that’s because the outfit was probably busted for smuggling women and heroin…or it was because it was Sunday and they were closed.  Both are plausible explanations.

I found another tent on the beach that looked somewhat on the up and up.  There was a guy with a clipboard standing out front, which completely legitimized the operation in my eyes.  Matt?  Not so much, as he has a strict “Don’t trust anyone with a clip board” rule.

I approached the gentleman and made an appointment for later that day.  He asked for my first name and we agreed I would get a massage at 5:00 for $30.00.  I could hardly wait.

When the time came, Matt accompanied me to the massage tent, where he said he would be there to make sure I wasn’t robbed.  (He made no mention of whether he cared if I was assaulted, so I suspect that wasn’t in his wheelhouse of concerns.)  He found a comfortable spot on the beach with a view of the tent.  Here he is ready to protect me from danger.

And here he is about 5 minutes later.  No joke.  I hadn’t even started my massage yet and this a-hole was sound asleep.  Rick wouldn’t have left me there alone to fend for myself; I just knew it.

TOTAL fail.

The tent was fairly small and there were five massage tables set up in a row.  There were five women working and an older overseer who looked like she would cut a bitch if someone got frisky.  She was obviously far more concerned about me than my sleeping husband was.

The massage began and although it was a little strange at first, it actually ended up being pretty good, especially for $30.00.  The only awkward time came about 10 minutes into the massage when the woman whispered softly in my ear “Do you want more pleasure?”  Or at least that’s what I heard her say.  Allegedly she said “Do you want more pressure” but I’m not so sure that’s really what she said.  Either way, my response was the same…a big fat no.

The hour went by quickly and once I stopped clenching from fear of assault from the rear, it was actually quite relaxing.  When the massage was over, I tipped the woman, who seemed utterly shocked by it.  I could see the mean lady eying the money, and I’m sure she snatched it from the masseuse as soon as I walked away.  (I hope she used it to buy some tweezers, as she had some mean chin hair.)

The next day I ran into Rick.  He was wearing the exact same red outfit as the day before, confirming my suspicion of his communist status.  I told him I took his recommendation and had a great massage.  I considered asking him about other recommendations for services in the area, but figured I would stop while I was ahead.  I wasn’t feeling brave enough to venture out again, and I didn’t want to rely on RIR for all of my entertainment needs.  That’s what the bar was for!


As you know, I recently did a scathing letter to the forty-something mom at the pool.  You’re welcome.  But since I’m an equal opportunity hater, I’ve decided the forty-something dad at the pool also needs a letter…just to keep things fair.  Okay, it’s not that I’m necessarily a hater.  I’m not.  I’m just an easily annoyed person who pents up all her rage and irritation and then takes it out on this blog that a total of five people read.  Here it goes.

Dear forty something dad at the pool,

Yeah, I’m looking at you.  But not because of your sexy body and No Fear swimming trunks. I’m looking at you because you’re a disaster.  And you’re not a disaster the way I am…where I play it off cute and make people laugh (hopefully).  You’re a disaster that makes me both happy and sad at the same time…kind of like eating all the guacamole.  So here are a few things you should know.

1.  You don’t have a six pack.

At least not on your body you don’t.  Although you may be sucking in your gut, you will need a lot more than a simple inhalation of breath to make that thing look attractive.  Here’s a hint:  when people talk about “six pack abs,” they aren’t talking about downing a six pack in 30 minutes.  Yes, that six pack technically goes to the area covered by your abs, but that’s not what they’re referring to.  They’re talking about crunches.  Do some.  But not now.  I don’t want to see your butt crack while you attempt to work out.  Save that shit for your mirror at home.

2.  You need a trim.

I’m not talking about your rapidly receding hair line; I’m talking about your chest hair.  You could french braid it, slap a bow on it and send it off to first grade.  No one wants to see that.  I’m not saying you should get your entire chest waxed.  I’m pretty sure you don’t have enough money to pay for that much time with a salon technician (or that many days off work).  I’m just saying perhaps you should run a pair of scissors over your chest every now and again.  If I can see your chest hair floating in the pool around you like a life vest, it’s too long.  And if you aren’t going to heed my advice, shampoo that shit every now and again.  It’s getting dandruff.

3.  Your butt crack isn’t attractive.

You may like to see a hint of a woman’s crack while she’s wearing a string bikini.  Maybe you think that’s sexy, I don’t know.  However, I assure you women don’t feel the same way about your crack.  The last thing we want to see when we go to the pool is your crusty crack and the hair peeking out from it.  (Take my advice on #2 above and apply it to this as well.)  No one cares about your junk in the trunk.  Hike up those shorts and get a wash rag in there every now and again.  You’re stinking up the pool and making us all sick, and we still want to get snow cones later.

4.  Stop pretending you’re super cool.

Seriously.  We all saw you pull up in the parking lot in your 1999 Dodge minivan.  Not only did we see it, we heard it because you seem to be missing a muffler (and any understanding of what women find attractive).  So put away your fancy keys with what you call a “clicker thing” that unlocks the doors.  We’ve all got one of those.  It isn’t super cool technology that just came out.  We are also no longer taping television shows on VHS, so don’t invite the poor lifeguard over to watch “taped” episodes of Dallas.  She doesn’t know what that means and I’m pretty sure she’s calling the authorities on you right now.  You better get to that van and skedaddle before the cops arrive.

dad with kids at pool

5.   Jumping off the high dive isn’t going to impress anyone other than your five-year old.

Yes, we can all see that you’re capable of climbing the ladder to the high dive.  That’s probably because you climb ladders everyday as part of your regular job.  We’re not impressed.  We also don’t care that you can make “a big ole’ splash” and yell “cannonball” when you jump off the board.  You aren’t the first person to do that and you won’t be the last.  The seventh grader behind you is getting ready to do the same thing, and he’s cuter than you and has less credit card debt.

Do you know what’s impressive to a woman?  A 401k and a dental plan.  You clearly don’t know about the latter as you have sunflower seeds in your teeth from about a week ago.  Grab some floss and get off the high dive.  And seriously, pull up your trunks.  You could smuggle a small child inside that deep crack of yours.

So there you go.  I’m equally offensive to both men and women.  I just hope none of them read this blog, as there are a few weeks left of summer and I still want to be let back into the pool.  I’ve got several more cannonballs to do!


shadow fightI love food.  This isn’t a newsflash.  In fact, if you know me at all, or read this blog regularly, you would know that my love of food transcends time and space.

It also transcends and a “Sorry We’re Closed” sign.  Yeah right.  You know you still have burgers in the back.

Being on vacation at an all inclusive resort is my definition of heaven.

Since I’m super important and demand luxury, or really just a room with free cable, we are staying at a fairly nice resort.

Don’t get me wrong.  Our standards are low, so when we say a “nice resort”, we mean it’s a place that requires you to wear pants to dinner.

NOTE:  This rule is non-negotiable, as I learned earlier this week.

Since Matt and I don’t like to spend money on things that aren’t liquor or pet-related, we made a conscious decision to make sure we get our money’s worth out of this vacation.

Naturally, we’re drinking like fish, although I don’t think fish drink, except for Phish heads. Those guys know how to party.

So I guess it can be said we are drinking like Charlie Sheen this week.  Only we don’t have hookers or drugs…or an annoying sitcom.

kids on beach eating ice creamUnfortunately, we feel like our incessant intake of liquor just isn’t enough to recoup the cost of the trip.  So we are making up for it in food.  Lots and lots of food.

I don’t want to tell you just how much we are eating because it’s completely embarrassing, but by my estimate, we are gaining a pound or two a day.  Okay, maybe that’s just me.

Part of the reason we are eating so much is because the food is absolutely fantastic, and I have an ongoing love affair with guacamole.

There are restaurants and an extremely large buffet for every meal, but we like the buffet for obvious reasons, so we usually stick with that.

We arrive at the buffet for every meal, focused, and ready to gorge ourselves.  It’s like a battle of sorts, and we treat it like one.

The objective is to get as much food as possible while expending as little energy as possible.

We begin each meal by ensuring we are wearing comfortable clothes that are expandable and don’t dig into our stomachs.

people planningThis is where those Liz Lange maternity dresses really come in handy, although Matt finds the dresses less than comfortable.

We descend upon the buffet together, in order to appear as a unified front.  We do a walk around first to scope things out and learn our options.  Recognizance is key, and we don’t take it lightly.

If only we took this same approach to purchasing a TV for our bedroom we would have a TV that stayed on when we walked across the room.

Unfortunately, a waiter seats us so we don’t get to pick out our exact seating location.

However, even though many of these servers speak minimal English, one look at the two of us clearly tells everyone we are there to party.  And by “party” I mean eat until we feel sick….and then get dessert.

After being seated, we begin the battle.  We head up to the lines together and each takes a plate or two.  I like to tell people I’m making a plate for my child, who is back at the table.  I get fewer stares that way.

We then elbow our way through the lines to get the best dinner we can.

boxing glovesA buffet line is one of those places where I won’t defer to children.  When it comes to a lot of things, I will sacrifice something for a child.

The glitter stains on my dining room curtains can attest to that.

I will give up my spot on the train for a child, or I will let a mother with a screaming kid go in front of me in the grocery line.  (Partially to get that kid out of the store).

But I won’t make any special accommodations for kids when it comes to a buffet line.  From eight to eighty, I don’t care what age you are.

Nothing stands between me and a second helping of mashed potatoes with a side of grits and pasta salad.  Nothing.  Not an artificial hip and certainly not a speech impediment.

Ma ma ma move out of the way.

Matt and I take our eating quite seriously on this trip, even though we know the chances of fitting into our work clothes when we return are slim to none.

In fact, the only thing that’s slim between the two of us right now is the distance between our stuffed bellies and the table.

We want to feel badly about shoving people aside to get the last quesadilla, but no matter how hard we try, we just don’t.  Maybe it’s the knowledge that they will make more, or maybe it’s that we are trying to teach these kids patience and sharing (we really are such givers).

Whatever the reason, we will continue eating our way through this vacation until we have gotten our money’s worth…or we get diabetes.

Deck the ballsMy husband and I are spending the holidays on a beach, avoiding the annoyances that come with the holidays, like Christmas cards bragging about the lives of people we barely know, obligatory parties where the liquor isn’t top shelf, and endless viewings of Elf.

Instead, we have discovered an entire new set of annoyances in Mexico, the worst of which is the Speedo.  These things must be considered festive wear because it seems that every overweight grandpa on the beach is rocking this look for the holidays.

I’ve never been a fan of Speedos.  I’m not talking about the brand of swimwear that makes bathing suits for Olympic swimmers. which also makes the females who wear them look like they have the breasts of eight-year-old boys.

I’m talking about the small piece of Lycra that houses a man’s junk and accentuates it like a push up bra…only it doesn’t push anything up.

If anything, it assists everything in hanging down.

These banana hammocks are disgusting, and I’m not exactly sure who finds this look appealing.  Definitely not this girl.

Normally, you can expect to see a Speedo or two on the beach while on vacation.  It’s one of the “cons” of enjoying a beach vacation.  (A “pro” is definitely the endless fruity drinks filled with liquor and the sassy men who deliver them).

But this vacation seems especially Speedo-filled, and it’s not making for a happy holiday.  Matt and I wondered why there is an abundance of Speedos on the beach this Christmas and we can only conclude that these men feel it’s the best way to celebrate the holiday while on the beach.

man divingPerhaps the Speedo for men is like the tacky Christmas sweater for women.Whatever the reason, these tiny trunks are taking the beach by storm.

Perhaps these men feel like it’s festive to show off their Yule logs in a sea of red and green.

However, the men who seem to fancy these penis pinchers are those that shouldn’t go near them at all.

It’s always the old men with flabby butt cheeks and saggy balls that seem to think this look is in style.  It’s never the hot 25 year old soccer player with the rocking abs and the tribal tattoo.

Yes, your tattoo is misspelled and it means “boring” in Spanish, but flex those biceps again and no one will care.

These old-timers stuff their crotch into these Speedos so tightly that it looks like they shoved two turtle doves into a small amount of Spandex and Lycra, and then suffocated them to death.

I look for the partridge in a pear tree whenever I see one of these geriatrics emphasizing his genitals, as I’m sure it isn’t far behind; Neither is their oxygen on wheels and the stench of old man farts and Stetson.

paradiseIf that were my husband, there is no way I would let him wear a Speedo on the beach…or anywhere for that matter.

That’s one package I definitely don’t want to see under the tree…or on my couch…or in my bathroom…or anywhere near my body or anything I own.

And yet, these men continue to jingle their bells at us all in the name of the holiday spirit.

I’m pretty sure baby Jesus didn’t envision celebrating his birthday with Spandex, elastic, and a large amount of back hair.

I just don’t see how these things are festive.  And maybe they’re not.  Maybe that’s just what I’m telling myself so I won’t be scarred forever from returning to the beach.

All I know is there better not be this many men in Speedos the next time I come to the beach.

If so, maybe I will give them a taste of their own medicine and show up wearing a string bikini and let them see how they like looking at fat rolls hanging over Lycra.

I’m serious.  I’ll do it.  But until then, I’ll just have to slam a few more drinks and numb myself from the pain of seeing a Vietnam War Vet’s scrotum wrapped around a small piece of Spandex.

Merry Speedo to you!

to doFor those of you that know me, you know I can’t stand cold weather.  You would think that I would love it, as it’s an excuse to wear baggy clothes, stay inside and eat and drink.

Don’t judge.  Liquor keeps me warm.  I hate winter.  Although my body is anything but swimsuit ready, my favorite place to go is the beach, and any bar on the beach.

Since I live in the Midwest and there are no beaches, unless you count the bank of the Mississippi where dead bodies and used prophylactics wash up, I have to take trips to get my precious beach time.

With the holidays, I thought it would be the perfect time to get some sun and sand.  So my husband and I are headed to Mexico next week.  I just realized that we leave soon and I have so many things to do before we go.

As I’m a huge procrastinator, I usually wait until the last minute to pack. This inevitably leads to my discovery at the resort that I only packed 2 bottoms of a swimsuit, no tops, and 3 deodorants but no underwear.

This combo makes for interesting…and smelly…sexy time.

Every time I tell myself I will pack earlier next time, and every time I don’t.  So this time I decided to make myself a list to ensure I’m prepared for this trip, or maybe it’s just another way to procrastinate. You decide.

Here it is.

putting on sunblock1.  Go tanning

This might sound like an easy task, but it’s not as easy as it sounds.  I absolutely love going tanning, as it’s an excuse to lay in a warm bed and take a nap.  However, it’s a bit time consuming, and I have to strategically go when I’m not gassy

Those farts really echo in the tanning bed.

Since I’m always gassy, it’s difficult to go tanning not only because of the loud sounds, but also because the noxious gas stays locked in the tanning bed with me, and I fear suffocation might occur.

Because I don’t want my obituary to read that I died from smelling my own farts, I refrain from hitting up the tanning bed.  However, tanned fat looks better than white fat, so I know I need to go.

2.  Lose 100 pounds

scale.jpgI have a little over a week until I leave for the beach, so if I lose 12 pounds a day, I can reach my goal.

I’m pretty sure half of my body weight is composed of carbohydrates and melted cheese, so this might be a difficult task.

Losing weight also requires me to (1) exercise and (2) eat healthy, and I think we all know how I feel about those two things.

What if I just cut out carbs? (GASP!) Nah. I’d rather be fat on the beach with a belly full of carbs than thin and wishing for some chips.

3.  Find some good books to read

dog and bookI love to read intellectual books and non-fiction books, although I’m sure you figured that based upon how cultured and proper I am.

But when I go on vacation, I like to read mindless novels.  It’s the only time I find it acceptable to read anything by John Grisham.  I still won’t touch a Nicholas Sparks book.  I have standards.

The problem with finding some good books to read is that I don’t want to spend money on these books, and I definitely don’t want to go to the library.

After my recent smackdown with the horse-loving librarian, I try to avoid that place at all costs (plus, I suspect I may be served with a restraining order the next time I go).

4.  Find a bathing suit that hides my problem areas

boy in trunks

This kid has horrible posture.

I realize this is more impossible than #2 on this list, but it’s still a goal I have.

I would probably have more luck getting world peace to happen (or even convincing those beauty pageant contestants that people don’t care about world peace as much as they care about getting free cable).

I understand a bathing suit that hides my problem areas would also cover my entire body, so maybe what I’m really looking for is a stylish body bag.

5.  Get a manicure

polish.jpgI can’t lounge on the beach and relax knowing my nails look bad.

Of course, I have no problem doing my daily activities with chipped Tinkerbell nail polish and an excessively long pinky nail that my husband calls a “coke nail.”

But how can I be expected to lay on the beach and be pampered if my nails aren’t completely flawless? Plus, the rest of my body is a complete disaster.

From my white, razor-burned legs to my frizzy hair and bad bathing suit, I need at least one part of my body to look good on the beach. I wish it was my actual body that looked good, but I will settle for some nicely manicured nails and a margarita.

What am I doing writing a list of things that need to be done? I need to get up and make this happen.

Maybe if I complete all the items on this checklist, I will make a new checklist for the things I want my husband to complete around the house. Wait a minute…maybe I shouldn’t push for a complete miracle.

I’m sure you’ve all seen the photos from the website http://www.awkwardfamilyphotos.com/.  If you haven’t, go there immediately after reading this blog, but not before.  Seriously.  Don’t do it now.

If you haven’t been to the website, you don’t have to be a genius to figure out the content of the page.  (I would suspect you also don’t have to be a genius to be featured on the page either.  Actually, I’m pretty sure everyone featured there has an IQ lower than a stick of gum).

I’ve been a fan of this site for a few years because it always gives me a good chuckle, and an urge to dial the Department of Children and Welfare Services.  I’m not sure what makes people think these poses are appropriate, but I’m happy they do because it gives me plenty of laughs.  Here is one of my favorites.

This photo can be found at

I like to call this photo “Hop on Pop” because that’s exactly what happened.  There are so many things wrong with this photo that I don’t know where to begin.

So let’s start with the obvious question:  Are these people drunk?  I hope they are, as this is the only way I can view this picture without getting the urge to scrub my body with steel wool to get the incest off.

But seriously, whose idea was this photo?  Was this planned or did they all just feel the need to spoon each other for the camera?  Do they do this at home?  They look quite comfortable in this arrangement, which makes me think this isn’t the first time they’ve done this.

And whose idea was this pose?  If it was the photographer’s idea, I suggest that photographer be put down immediately.  (I’ve convinced myself the photog is a guy.  Duh).

I’m not sure if I like it any better if it was the dad’s idea, as that probably makes him a pedophile in some way, which makes me uncomfortable…almost as uncomfortable as he must be buried under that pile on.

And after Dad had this brilliant idea for the pose, did he then come up with the idea for the location or was the location the inspiration for the pose?  I know nothing says “Let’s all lay on top of each other in denim” quite like a large body of water.

That’s why I don’t like family trips to the beach.  There’s too much pressure to pile on each other as the urge is so strong with the water right there.  It’s too hard to resist.

And why denim?  Is the denim to make them all comfortable so they can try to forget that they are in an extremely uncomfortable position?

I don’t think denim fabric is strong enough to wash away the feel of little Johnny’s naughty parts crushed against his brother Alvin.  That’s a memory that will require lots of therapy and a strong heroin addiction to forget.

And really with the denim shirts too?  A regular black or white polo wouldn’t do?  Well, maybe that would add too much contrast to the photo, and there’s already enough going on in this picture without any further distractions.  Although, apparently little Jimmy on top didn’t get the memo that it was light colored denim tops and not dark.

denim zipper

I have a feeling this kid has a closet full of these denim shirts in varying shades, and he simply grabbed one for this photo.  It’s good that he likes the look of these shirts, as it will suit him well when he gets to prison in a few years.

Perhaps what is most disturbing about this photo (aside from the obvious enjoyment this family gets from pressing their privates together), is that Mom and Dad aren’t laying together.  I would think it would be natural to have Mom lay on top of Dad.  Well, not natural, but logical.

Although if they were going for logical, they wouldn’t have chosen a grassy knoll by the river as the spot for their family portrait.  I feel like Alvin (the kid on top of Pop…keep up) probably volunteered to hop on pop first.  His smile is all too genuine and he looks a little too excited about the photo and his positioning.

This picture makes me sad; not necessarily because it paints denim in an unfair light, but because I’m pretty sure this photo is hanging proudly over someone’s mantle somewhere.

Well, maybe not so much a mantle as a 1972 black and white TV…and maybe not so much a TV but a dumpster.  Either way, this photo definitely makes me feel better about my family photos…and it gives me a great idea for next year’s photo shoot!