2nd Honeymoon in Mexico. Part 2.


The first morning in Mexico wasn’t quite as awesome as the first night because I woke up with a pretty raging hangover. Stacy, when are you going to learn you are not 21 anymore? Which only gave me two options. I could stay in bed and whine like a baby, or I could get my ass up and get some hair of the dog. I decided on option 2. Now all I had to do was find some tequila and I’m sure I would be in tiptop shape by breakfast. I need to smoke a bowl. So I wandered around our very dark room looking for the can I had turned into a makeshift pipe the night before. I saw Poptart stir and didn’t want to wake him so when I finally located the herb and the gutter pipe I snuck into the bathroom to get rid of my hangover with herbal remedy.

I was feeling a tiny bit better and decided to go out onto the balcony to get some fresh air and soak up the morning view. I opened the curtains and walked out on to the balcony and just stood there in total shock. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. You have got to be fucking kidding me! I thought to myself.
“There is a tractor in the pool!” I yelled back at Poptart.
“Huh?” Poptart replied from a half comatose state.
“There…is…a…tractor…in…the…pool!”
“What?” I couldn’t even answer Poptart at this point because I think I had made myself pretty clear the first time. There was a tractor in the pool; I don’t see how I could possibly elaborate. So I just pointed to the island that I had planned to lay out on that was now the home to a giant tractor.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Poptart said standing on my left now staring down at the tractor and a giant bridge that led from the side of the pool to the island.
“I need a cocktail and some food,” I told him. “Like right now.”

Poptart and I got dressed and made our way to the outdoor dining area and started shoving our faces with egg burritos and Mimosas when we started hearing the beautiful, relaxing sound of jackhammers.
“Please tell me you hear that too and it’s not just my brain,” I said to him.
“What, you mean the jackhammers? Babe, I had to pay extra for that.”
“I hate you.”
“I hate you too,” he said as we both started laughing and just looked at each other in a “What are you going to do?” kind of way. After breakfast we tried our best to find a place we could just sit back and relax but it was no good. No matter where we went all we could hear were jackhammers. Pool. Jackhammers. Bar. Jackhammers. Room. Jackhammers. Beach. *Sigh* You guessed it. Jackhammers. But at least on the beach they weren’t as loud as they were everywhere else. But they were still pretty damn loud.
“What do you think we should do?” I asked him.
“Let’s get a cab and go into town and get some lunch. I can’t hear myself think.”
“What?”
“I SAID, LET’S GO INTO TOWN AND GET SOME LUNCH!”
“OH, OKAY!” I replied yelling back. This is ridiculous.

So the Tart and I took a cab into town and I had three things on my to do list. One: buy some stones for the jewelry I made. Well that shouldn’t be too hard. Two: Try and score some Xanax at one of the pharmacies. I already had a prescription back in the states but while Xanax is good, more Xanax is better. And Three: eat some lunch: This ought to be pretty easy. As we were walking to take care of number three I happened to run into a woman who could help me with number one. She was a tiny Mexican woman sitting out by a fountain with all her stones on black velvet and they were just beautiful. To give you a little back story I had been making jewelry on and off for years and had a nice little business going for myself at the time on San Diego. I was selling a lot of pieces and I thought I would be able to keep my prices reasonable if I got some beads in Mexico. I looked at her stones and was taken back by many of them.
“How much is that one?” I asked pointing to a giant piece of Rose Quartz.
“Sixty five dollars,” she told me. I almost lost my shit! I could get the exact same stone in San Diego for fifteen.
“How about that one?” I asked, pointing at a large piece of turquoise.” Now turquoise is an expensive stone so I was expecting to pay a decent amount for it. Like maybe twenty dollars.
“Eighty dollars.”
“You are on crack!” I told her. “I don’t know if you know this, but people don’t come to Mexico to pay more than three times what they would pay in the states.”
“I’ll give you a deal. I’ll drop them both down by ten dollars,” she said, trying to haggle.
“Look I can’t even resell it for that cost. You need to rethink your business plan, work on your mission statement and get back to me,” I said and walked away shaking my head and muttering under my breath. “Eighty dollars. That bitch is crazy if she thinks I’m going to give her eighty dollars. I’ll show her eighty dollars. Do I have sucker written on my forehead? I don’t think so.”

So on to plan number three. Food. Poptart and I ended up picking a restaurant where nobody else was eating which was a little scary. But because of that fact we had stellar service. As we were sitting on the outdoor patio drinking our cold beers and eating some sort of meat that they told us was beef, another jewelry vendor passed our way. This one however had apparently gotten the memo that this was Mexico and that whitie likes cheap things because she sold me a beautiful tiger-eye necklace for fifteen bucks. Not just one stone, the whole damn necklace. Now this was a kind of girl I could do business with.

After lunch we walked the streets and found what I was personally looking for. The coveted Mexican pharmacy. Ahhhh come to Mamma.
“Just follow my lead,” I told Poptart as we walked into the pharmacy. We walked up to the pharmacist and that’s when the magic happened.
“Um…I…uuuuh, would like to get some Xanax please,” I told him like a 12 year old trying to score beer.
“Do you have a prescription?” he asked me. Prescription? But this is Mexico! Doesn’t anyone around here get the memos?
“No,” I said.
“Then I can’t give you any.”
“Okay,” I said and then walked out the door with Poptart trailing behind me laughing.
“Nice one, Stacy,” Poptart said laughing. “You are one smooth operator.”
“Shut up Poptart.”

After we were done with our small excursion into town it was time to get back to the hotel and back to the free food and drinks. On this night the hotel was putting on a show so we opted to go to that instead of repeating our handstand contests. Because this time we would be in direct competition with the damn tractor. The hotel had put up a huge stage right outside the outdoor eating area and the place was packed full of guests. There were musicians and Salsa dancers. It was quite a show. Then the monkey show began. And when my hand shot up to volunteer I had mixed feelings. First thing I thought was, Are you insane? But it didn’t matter, my competitive nature had taken over and I didn’t care what I had to do as long as I won. So my second thought was, Bring it on bitches!

Round one was just the ladies. They lined all seven of us up on stage facing the audience and then told us the object of the game was to show the audience how womanly we could be. Oooookaaay? That’s kind of stupid. We are all women. At least I think we are. The woman on the end is a little questionable. Then we had to race behind stage and grab what we could and come back out and act like men. The woman who pulls off the biggest transition is crowned the winner. This is easy, I got this. So when the competition started we all acted feminine and ladylike and some of the girls even got a little slutty. Hey, I didn’t know it was THAT kind of competition. And then the host yelled, “GO!” At this all seven of us ran back behind the stage and there was a huge pile of clothes, wigs and some shoes. What they didn’t tell us was that we were going to have to cage fight for the costumes. Everyone started grabbing clothes and struggling to get certain items. It got down right ugly back there. I ended up with a hat, a white button up shirt and pants that were way too small. How in the hell am I supposed to get into these? The whole time we are fighting with one another the host is yelling at us that the last one back on stage will be disqualified. Disqualified? They didn’t tell us that! Next thing I know I’m down to my undies in front of a whole bunch of strangers including the musicians, Salsa dancers and back stage hands because I am bound and determined to get my ass in those tiny pants to avoid being disqualified. After I poured myself into the pants I grabbed some socks and stuffed the front of my pants on the way back out and became the nastiest, grossest man you had ever had the pleasure of meeting. As I walked back on stage I adjusted my sock package, cracked my knuckles and made sure to smell my pits. Oh yeah, and I won. YAY ME!!!! Poptart was jumping up and down; I was jumping up and down. This was the proudest moment so far in our Puerto Nuevo lives.

Then came the men’s competition. And who volunteers? You guessed it, Poptart. Let me tell you: Poptart is no shrinking violet. The first competition he had to do was a dance competition. My whiter-than-white husband danced his skinny ass off. It was AWESOME!!! He did the sprinkler, then he did the cabbage patch, the twist, the tootsie roll, the rump shaker and then he followed it up with my personal favorite: the slap and tickle. After that women in the audience were given this hideous brown lipstick and the contestants had to get as many kisses as they could in an allotted time. The contestant who came back with the most lipstick on him won. When Poptart went into the audience I thought I was going to have to hose some of those women down. They were all over him. He was covered in brown lipstick and I swear he walked out with at least one or two phone numbers as well. The last and final competition was the dollar competition. Every contestant had to go back into the audience and collect as many dollars as they could in an allotted time and all the money collected was being donated to one of the local schools. At this point everyone loved Poptart. Even the men thought he was funny. Popart came off that stage and people were throwing money at him. Men, women, kids, babies that hadn’t even been born yet were giving him money. It was hysterical. He won by a landslide. Then all the contestants went back up onstage and the winner was crowned Mr. Samba. Say it with me…Mr. Samba.

From there on out it was like Poptart was a celebrity. Did anyone remember that I also won? No. It was all about Mr. Samba. We would sit out on our balcony smoking cigarettes and women would call up to him, “Hello Mr. Samba. “ And Poptart would stand up and wave to his adoring fans. We would be walking down the halls and groups of young girls would squeal, “Mr. Samba!” It was getting really ridiculous. I think it may have gone a little too far when he was stopped and some kids asked him for his autograph. And no, I’m not kidding. I was now on vacation with the famous Mr. Samba. And who was I? I was the chick that carried his pen.

To be continued….

Love it? Hate it? Let me know! Send questions, comments, brownie recipes or random brainfarts to: mrsdiagnosed@yahoo.com

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