2nd Honeymoon in Mexico. Part 6. Gold Bra’s and Vomit.

Poptart and I were sad to see our time in Mexico end. Especially Poptart. His days of fame and fortune had come to an end. Our week was officially up and a new Mr. Samba would be crowned. I suspect however that he probably won’t be anywhere close to as entertaining as Poptart was. I can’t even begin to describe the slap and tickle but I have used the move myself while bartending at a bar in Santa Clarita and almost 10 years later some people still remember it. But fame is fleeting and so were our finances. It was time to get home and get back to work.

Our flight home was pretty uneventful. I had already smoked a good portion of the pot I brought with me to Mexico and left what was left behind in the room. So all we had to do was get through customs and we were home free. As we approached the line for customs Poptart and I were already so tired from traveling all day all we wanted to do was get through it and get home. Sounds easy right? No. This is me and Poptart we are talking about. If my life was normal and boring do you think I would be writing a blog?

As we eventually made our way up to the front after snaking through what seemed like a never-ending line, the customs agent asked us if we had anything to claim.
“No,” I said with a smile on my face. I already smoked it dickweed.
“Um…,” Poptart said. Um…? What um is he talking about? Tell me he did not try and smuggle Rico back with him. I told him Rico was a dirty, dirty boy. “I have some cigars somewhere.
“Are they Cuban cigars?” The Customs Agent asked him. All Poptart had to say was no, and we were home free. But what did he say, “I don’t think so.” Fuuuuuuck!!! Damn it Poptart. Don’t you know we can get into trouble for those? *Sigh* Now I love my husband. I love the hell out of him, I’m sure you can tell by the way I write about him, but sometimes I want to kill him. What he didn’t understand is, I know he’s completely innocent and that if he did in fact have Cuban Cigars on him, it was a total screw up on his part. The problem was going to be trying to convince the Custom Agents of that fact. We were looking at a fine here and most likely a pretty hefty one depending on how many he had left.
“Where are the cigars sir?” the Customs Agent asked. At this point the Customs Agent was completely focused on us and no one else was getting through this line anytime soon. A second Customs Agent came over and rerouted traffic from our line to the two lines on either side of us.
“I don’t know,” Poptart said with a sick look on his face. Please don’t throw up Poptart.
“I’m going to need you to open your bags up,” the Custom Agent told us. The Customs Agent was a rather large Hispanic man and by the looks of his arms, he probably bench-pressed people like Poptart and myself everyday. Poptart and I unzipped our suitcases and shoved our hands under the clothes and felt all around for those damn cigars. And the Custom Agent just stared as we came up empty.

“I’m going to need you to remove everything from your bags,” the Custom Agent told us. This is the part where I looked like I was going to vomit. Poptart and I had only been married a year at this point and one year before I had had a bachelorette party and a wedding shower where I received some very naughty lingerie. Seeing as this was officially our second Honeymoon I brought most of it with us. OH…MY…GOD! NO! Tell me this isn’t happening. I was so embarrassed as I started pulling items out of my suitcase. One gold bra with a feather lining, and tiny matching gold g-string with sequins. Check. Panties with Velcro tassels. Check. Purple, fuzzy handcuffs…I want to die so bad right now…check. And the list went on. People in the other lines actually stopped to watch to see what else was coming out of my suitcase. I am so embarrassed right now. Husbands were smiling and wives were pissed off.
“Why don’t you wear stuff like that?” we heard from one of the husbands in line behind us. By the time Poptart and I were done it looked like Fredrick’s of Hollywood had vomited all over the Customs counter at the airport, and still no cigars. And even with all of these items staring him right in the face the Customs Agent still didn’t crack even one teeny, weenie smile.
“Sir, are you sure about the cigars?” Say no Poptart! Say no.
“Yeah, I know I had them on me.” You have got to be kidding me. I am going to strangle you with this gold bra right here. “Wait a second,” Poptart continued as he reached in to his messenger bag that was on his shoulder. “Here. Here they are!” he said triumphantly pulling them out of his bag and holding them up in the air. “That is so weird, I didn’t see them the first time I searched the bag.” he said Yeah, weird. I hate you so much right now.
“Are they Cuban sir?” the Custom Agent asked him. Poptart looked at the cigars and kept looking at them. He looked at them so hard I swear he was trying to burn a hole in them with his eyeballs.
“I don’t know. How can you tell if they’re Cuban?” At this point we had wasted so much of the Customs Agents time he just shook his head and finally let his guard down.
“Hand them to me,” he said with a small smile. He took one out, sniffed it, and winced like he had been slapped across the face. “These are definitely not Cubans,” he said. “How can you tell?” Poptart asked again.
“Hold on, I’ll show you,” the Customs Agent said as he walked back into his office. When he returned, he had a plastic bag with a large yellow “Evidence” sticker on it. He took one of Poptart’s clearly non-Cuban cigars and handed it to Poptart, saying “smell this.” Poptart did as he was told, then looked up and shrugged.
“Now smell this,” the Agent said, opening up the evidence bag and holding it under Poptart’s nose.
“Ohhhh, wow…” Poptart exhaled with a grin on his face.
“That’s how you can tell. You two are free to go.”
“Yay!!!!!!” I exclaimed. I seriously thought we were going to be cavity searched next if Poptart didn’t cough up those cigars.

As we rolled our luggage away from Customs I said to Poptart, “You just HAD to tell them about the cigars didn’t you?”
“I didn’t want to get into trouble. I’m not like you. I follow the rules.”
“Okay, Mr. I follow the rules. I got to show my underwear to half the airport because of you thank you very much.” And then all we did was pretty much bicker at each other the entire way home. It was obvious that Poptart and I had spent too much time together and it was time for us to take a vacation from one another.

The next day wasn’t much better. We had flown in on a Saturday and our friend Greg was having a football party at his house on Sunday so Poptart and I went over. He and I were standing out in the small front yard of Greg’s apartment when all of a sudden I started feeling really, really badly.
“Babe I don’t feel so hot,” I told Poptart.
“Stacy, you’re having a panic attack. It will go away, they always do.” I must tell you that Poptart isn’t unsympathetic to my panic attacks; it’s just that I was having them so frequently during this point in my life that they really were somewhat of an annoyance. Hell, even I was annoyed with them. And he was right, they would usually pass.

But this one didn’t. More and more people started to arrive at Greg’s place and then this couple walked in. They were planning a wedding. Once the bride to be started jabbering on and on about the wedding plans and what the bridesmaids were going to wear I started feeling dizzy.
“And the flowers…Oh wait till you see the flowers. They are going to be SOOOO beautiful!!!” Oh, I think I’m going to vomit.
“Poptart, I think we need to go,’ I told him. But I could tell he really wasn’t very happy with me at this point.
“Why don’t you smoke a bowl? That always calms you down,” he said.
“And the minister is a friend of ours and he has performed so many of our friends’ weddings so it’s kind of like keeping it in the family.” The woman just kept talking and taking and wouldn’t even shut up for one single minute to even catch her breath. The room started to spin a bit and I felt vomit trying to make it’s way up my throat.
“Oh and the flower girls…” SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!!!
“I have to leave and I have to leave right now!” I told Poptart giving him the don’t even think about messing with me eyes.
“Alright,” he said. He knew I wasn’t kidding. I knew he wanted to stay and if he wanted to come back after he drove me home that was fine, but for the time being he needed to get me home.

We made our way out and said our apologies along the way. Once we got in the car I said to Poptart, “Thank you so much babe. I feel so much better already. Chatty Kathy in there was killing me.”
“I’m sorry you feel bad, babe. You want me to stop and pick something up for you on our way home?” I could tell he was still a little perturbed about having to leave but I didn’t see any other option.
“I feel like a Pepsi float. Can we stop and get some ice cream and some Pepsi?”
“Sure,” he said. He stopped at the Walgreen’s that was on our way home and while he was getting me the ice cream and Pepsi he also picked me up a copy of In Touch magazine.
“Here,” he said as he handed it to me. “I know how much you like your smut.” I just smiled at him. I’m so glad I married him.
“Thank you Poptart,” I said. I was starting to feel a little better where the panic was concerned but my stomach was still in knots. We were almost home when I felt a small HEAVE from my gut, and it was time for action. Without warning, I opened up the passenger door and released a spew of vile onto the street. Did I mention the car was still in motion? Poptart hit his brakes and there we were stuck in the middle of the street with me vomiting as nice healthy San Diegans were on their afternoon walks. “Blaaaaa….blaaaaaaa…” was all I could do at this point while Poptart was sitting in the drivers seat waving at the people who were now staring at us like we had just run up to them, taken our clothes off and took the Lord’s name in vain. It’s like they’ve never seen anybody puke before. But this wasn’t my thought, it was Poptarts. I lifted my head for a second and looked up at all the people staring at me with their mouths hanging open and then it was right back over Blaaaaa…
“I am so glad we left the party when we did,” Poptart said. And he was right, because this was just the beginning. I had Montezuma’s Revenge. The ice in the hotel was clean but not the ice in the yummy mixed drinks on the boat. We were in for a long night ahead. Poptart did everything he could to make my life better. But this was going to be one trip I was going to have to go on alone. Even Mr. Samba couldn’t help me with this one. I however got an extended vacation, Ashley Simpson got busted for lip synch snafu on SNL according to In Touch Magazine, and I no longer had to contend with the Rock-N-Roll marathon. “That’s right, that’s right.”

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

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