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Welcome to the second part of my vacation tales. 

So we left off, narrowly escaping the timeshare abductors and climbing into a shuttle van that would transport us to our fun-filled Mexican vacation. 

For this vacation, we used our timeshare week. We don't use our timeshare enough, but when we do, we've always been quite happy with our accommodations.

And that's not an easy feat. I'm rather hard to please. I'm Princess and The Pea kind of hard to please.

Now, this timeshare Mexican vacation was sort of a default trip. Me being the default. My hubs had planned a fishing trip for all the men of his clan, but then things fell through and he already had the timeshare booked so he turned to me and said, "We're going to Mexico!"

So here I was, defaulted into Mexico aboard a shuttle van. 

As the shuttle dropped folks off at their various resorts, we all oohed and aahed. Each resort was more sumptuous than the next. Attendants at each stop rushed to the shuttle, greeting their guests with icy bottles of water and Mexican hospitality, ushering them into their resort under a brigade of stately palms and misty waterfalls. I got super excited as we pulled up to each one, thinking, "Okay then! This Mexican default vacation might not be as fraught with danger and diarrhea as I thought."

We dropped off passengers at all kinds of beautiful resorts, until there was no one left in the van except my sister, my hubs, me and one elderly lady.

And then we started driving. And driving. And driving.

As the posh resorts fell away in the distance, I jovially said, "Yeah, watch our place be a dump. We're probably headed to the hood now."

We laughed as we drove on and on.

And as we drove, the elderly lady filled my sister in on her story. She was a recent widow who'd planned this vacation with her friends as a little picker upper. But one by one her friends had dropped out until it was just her, alone in Mexico.

I wasn't in the mood for talking or sad stories. I was too busy watching all the lovely resorts disappear and biting my lip as the road got dustier and bumpier with potholes.

When we hit a humongous dip that bounced me out of my seat, I thought about Traffic as I eyed my non- English speaking driver suspiciously. Did we look like the kind of people who made good drug mules? I sure knew we were more qualified than the obnoxious girl with the super greasy hair from L.A. who insisted she had to sit in front of the shuttle because she was staying at the One and Only Palmilla and then held up the whole shuttle to get change for her five dollar bill so she could tip the driver one dollar after he hoisted her mazillion bags off the shuttle.

I'm certain he was all, "I would get stabbed to death if I brought Senorita Greaseball back to the kingpins for muling."

I breathed a sigh of relief when we turned off the highway and into another town teeming with people.

Our driver brought the van to a stop across the street from a nondescript white building.

He turned and motioned to the three of us and said in broken English, "Thees ees jour stop."

I looked out the window and said, "But where is the grand entrance with the palm trees? Where are the smiling attendants with our icy bottles of water?"

And he was all, "Jes. Thees ees jour stop."

With a still hopeful heart, I climbed out of the van and trudged across the street, struggling with my luggage over the potholes.

My sister told me later that when we pulled up to the place, she gasped and said, "Really?"

The little old lady had reassured her with, "I'm sure it'll be fine. You should be grateful that you have traveling companions instead of a dead husband and friends who abandoned you at the last minute."

And I guess we did have to be grateful for that.

We walked across the street to our resort as the van roared away. And even though there was no one to greet us, the place didn't look half bad. Not grand or anything, but nice.

Our first warning sign probably should have been the padlock and key they gave us for our safe.

Our second warning should have been the snippet of conversation we heard as we walked away from check in with our big ass padlock. A woman was complaining to one of the clerks, "I am extremely disappointed. It looks nothing like the pictures on the internet."

But still, being the doofuses we are, we didn't hear the alarms screaming at us like a tornado siren.

We had to find our way to our condo, since there were no bellmen. So we took a leisurely stroll through very lovely landscaped grounds and the stunning beach view, to our place.
Which had eighteen steps leading up to it.

And as I bumped my luggage up this steps, I thought breathlessly, "This will all be worth it when we see the view."

And then I saw the view.

We overlooked the public beach parking lot and a construction site.

Still, I thought, "A view does not make a vacation."

And then we opened the door.

And entered 1975. 1975 in Mexico.

With no air conditioning.

Now, let me say this. I'm from Florida. I can handle hot. I can handle steamy. But Mexico makes Florida feel like the Arctic.

And these pictures do not do the place justice. Trust me. The furniture and the walls had been painted over so many times, the thick glommed on paint gave it a scary feel. A Bates Motel scary feel. In fact, the whole place had a Bates Motel kind of kitschy, creepy vibe to it.

We immediately pulled back this polyester netting that hung over our bed because when I touched it, dust fell like a flurry of snow onto the bed. It was also seriously stained which made me not want to think about what people were doing with that netting to get it all kind of stained.

And these lights really freaked me out. I have no idea why. They were just really creepy weird.

I'm not even going to talk about the bedspread, clearly made out of burlap that had to be an original from the timeshare's beginnings in the early 70's. And I definitely don't want to talk about the various stains on that burlap, either. In fact, I don't even want to think about it. I don't want to get ill.

But the good news is, there was air conditioning in the bedroom. A unit that was most likely a relic from 1975 sat mounted into the wall. And when we turned it on, it roared like a jet engine and started to spew out warm air which was a welcome addition to the already broiling air.

And then there was the bathroom.

Oh, the bathroom.

It had these weird bamboo poles for a shower door which was a relief. I figured, Normando Bates wouldn't be able to sneak up on me with his butcher knife, since you could totally see through the big gaping spaces in the bamboo. At least, you couldn't get cold in the shower, since the draft from the room was warmer than the steamy shower.



And then of course, everyone wants to put their feet on a shower floor that looks like this.

And to top off the whole, "Normando Bates is about to show up in his dead mother's dress and her best butcher knife" feel, was the giant drain in the middle of the bathroom floor. Better to let the blood drain out of the shower. Either that or they were going for a campground bathroom theme. (Which I am sorry to say, I didn't take a picture of)

My hubs said, "Oh, look a giant bathroom drain. That's handy because I never get to do this in the bathroom." He proceeded then to lean over the sink and splash a flood's worth of water all over his face and of course, onto the floor.

My sister, in a valiant effort to be the cheerleader of the group said, "Hey guys. It's not like we're going to hang out in here. Let's just make the best of our time in Mexico. I mean, it's not that bad."

And so I nodded, very weakly, but nodded all the same. Because I always try my very best to be all good sportyish in any situation.

Except for camping. Because camping is beyond my good sporty limit.

We decided to change into our bathing suits, since we were drenched in sweat anyway and go explore the beach.

As I waited for everyone, I sat down to read the informational book provided by the timeshare folks. And that's when I discovered the warning. In big black letters on the cover of the book, it warned that under no circumstances should we go left while on the beach, that our safety could not be guaranteed if we ventured to the left, away from town.

Still being good sporty, I tried to be brave as I wiped the sweat from my brow and pulled out my laptop to google "Getting killed in Mexico."

And that's when I discovered, not only were there no phones or tv's in the rooms, there was also no internet connection.

This was looking less good sportyish by the second. It was also starting to look like the classic setup for a horror movie.

My hubby and I went up to the lobby where we were told the internet connection abounded. We huddled with a group of other tourists trying desperately to find a connection. We'd get it for a few seconds and then it would crash. When we inquired at the front desk, they suddenly only spoke Spanish and couldn't understand us. They only spoke Spanish for the rest of our stay.

I was still being my absolute best good sport, when we strolled back to the condo to pick my sister up for our dangerous beach walk.

As we stepped into our sauna condo, my sister came out of her bedroom and announced,

"There are no blowdryers."

And that, that moment right there, is when my good sporty world came crashing down.

"NO BLOW DRYERS!" I gasped and screamed and cried all in one.

In my panic, I insisted, "We'll just have to run to Walmart and pick up a blow dryer, then."

But then I thought, does Mexico have Walmarts? Hard concept to fathom, a town without a Walmart, but we were in Mexico And better yet, did Mexico sell blow dryers? From the looks of the Mexican people's naturally thick, beautiful glossy hair, they probably had no need for blow dryers. And who wants to blow hot air on themselves in Mexico, when you don't have to?

So we started off our walk on the beach where we were immediately hit by the beach peddlers, who sold everything from scarves to jewelry to one dude who was walking through the thick heavy sand, with, I am not kidding you, pottery attached to every part of his body, like a mobile Mexican Pottery Barn.

It was a mite overwhelming especially when the one dude walked up to my hubs and said, "Weed? Blow? Crack?" and offered up an open palm with samples of the various recreationals.

It became abundantly clear to me, when I stared at all the drugs on display in his hand, that all of my Traffic nightmares were coming true, compounded with the one horror that had never even occurred to me. A week in Mexico without a blow dryer.

Holy Freakin' Hell.

We walked the beach, getting bombarded by restaurant solicitors, timeshare salespeople, beach peddlers and various bar employees who tried to lure us in with their talk of free shots, men's swim suit contests and the one dude who tried to get me into his bar by offering us free drinks if we would do body shots.

Off of my body.

I was all, "No, because people would be vomiting in their shots, if they had to slurp off of this body and besides, I am officially no longer a good sport. I don't have a blow dryer. Sob."

At this point, I was seriously regretting being defaulted into Mexico because if I wanted to go to Spring Break, all I had to was drive a couple of hours from my house to the seedy strip of Daytona.

Here we are on our dangerous walk. You can tell how hot it is by the copious amount of perspiration on my goofball-gazing, Hubby's shirt.

Here's where we stopped to have a drink and sit on these cool swings, but avert your eyes from my hideous humid wrecked hair and saggy boobs and check out instead the glazed-over look in my eyes as the thought pounds into my head like an anvil, "I have no blowdryer. My hair will look like ass for the next week."Also, know that I'm not pregnant nor have I eaten an entire 40 pound turkey in this picture. My dress is billowing in the hot wind. That is not my stomach, for the record.


We decided to stop and have a little snack at one of the beach restaurants and as we perused the menu, my hubby said, "How about some guacamole?"

Guacamole is one of my favorite things in the whole world. It's up there with Jesus and wine and Bono.

But I remembered the warnings about staying away from the fresh fruits and veggies, so I said weakly, "But what if we get sick?"

And both my hubby and my sister said, "Who cares? How much worse can it get?"

And I just shrugged my shoulders and was all, "What the hell. At least if I get the diarrhea, I won't have to worry about my ass-looking hair."

It was the most delicious guacamole I have ever tasted. If there is one thing I miss about Mexico, it is that that guacamole and of course, the guy with the pottery hanging from his arms.

The guacamole was so delicious and the host promised us that their Las Vegas type dinner show was not to be missed. So we decided to brave the drug peddlers and body shot pushers, return to our room to change into clothes and come back for the show and dinner.

By the time we made it back, our condo was akin to the fires of hell.

With a muffled sob, I tried to use my products the best I could to perk up my humidity flattened, bad- wavy, ass hair, but it was of no use.

My hubby took a shower to try and cool down and then of course, he couldn't resist the urge to jump out of the shower without a towel, flinging water everywhere in an attempt to use the bathroom drain to its max.

We trekked down the beach through the maze of pottery and drug selling peddlers to the restaurant.

By this point, my good sportiness was buried under a layer of sweat, fear and ass looking hair.

We made it back to the restaurant, just as the show was beginning. The restaurant was outdoors, right at the edge of the most beautiful scenery in the world. Our waiter was charming and very hot, not sweaty hot, but great hair, beautiful accent kind of hot. But even his hotness and the beauty around me couldn't pull me out of my funk.

As I perused the menu, I didn't even see the words, I only saw a week without blow dryers, a week without air conditioning, some crack in a peddler's hand, a big ass drain in the middle of my bathroom and the inevitable body shots I knew were just a few drinks away.

The waiter came over and said, "What can I get you, Blondie?"

Blondie would become my universal name everywhere we went in Mexico.

By now, he could have given me roasted crack with a side of sauteed weed. I didn't give a rat's ass about anything, anymore.

I just shrugged and whimpered, "I don't care. Whatever you think I should have."

And he said, "Then you shall have some fresh sea bass."

And I was all, "Fresh? Bring it on because I'm actually looking for some diarrhea, about now. I'm sure the hospitals have air conditioning and maybe if I'm super lucky, a blow dryer."

He asked, "How would you like it prepared, Blondie?"

I shrugged again, "You decide, Hottie." I really didn't say hottie, but I wanted to.

He smiled his big white toothed smile and said, "Then you will have it with a little lemon, olive oil and garlic."

I was all, "Whatev" as I settled in to watch the hot male dancers and the Mexican showgirls who were simply out of this world amazing and had not an ounce of dimpled fat on their g-stringed asses. How does one get an ass like that, I wonder? Because I would like to acquire an ass like that.

The sea bass came and the fresh flavors exploded in my mouth. It was out of this world delectable. From now on, I'm letting the waiters order for me wherever I go, even the pimply faced boys at McDonalds. I'm gonna be all, "What do you think I should have?"

As the show wound down and as I was just beginning to think I might be able to endure a week with ass hair if everything tasted this good, the emcee of the show announced from the stage, "AND NOW, WE WILL HAVE AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION. IT IS TIME FOR A DANCE OFF!"

And I knew.

Just like I instinctively knew, each time I was pregnant. Just like I knew when I laid eyes on my hubby for the first time, that I was in for a crazy roller coaster of a ride. Just like I knew that Clay Aiken was gay before the denials even fell from his glossy mouth.

I knew.

I picked up the menu and slid down in my chair, shaking my head and frantically murmuring, "No. No. No. No."

We were in the back of the restaurant, as far away from the stage as you could get.

But I knew.

I covered my face with the menu, continuing on with my frantic chant of, "No. No. No. No."

And that's when I heard the host boom, "AND FOR OUR FIRST CONTESTANT, WE WOULD LIKE BLONDIE TO COME UP ON THE STAGE. GIVE A BIG HAND TO BLONDIE. COME ON UP, BLONDIE!"

I slid down even further, ready to cry as I gasped, "No. No. No. No. No. No."

And the next thing I knew, the emcee was standing next to me, taking my hand, pulling me out of the chair and announcing to everyone over his microphone, "GIVE A BIG HAND TO BLONDIE."

So.

There I was, in a Vegas show on a stage in Mexico with beautiful show girls with perfect g-stringed asses, as I stood next to them with my hair that looked like super ass, forced into a dance off. I stood there, ready to cry, as they dragged other participants onto the stage. I could see my hubby whistling and applauding from our table in the back and after I mouthed, "I hate you" I motioned for him to bring out his camera.

He held his hands up in an empty gesture and that's when I remembered, we had all agreed to padlock all of our valuables into the safe and carry as few necessities as possible on our potentially dangerous beach walk.

So, not only was I humiliated beyond compare, I have no pictures of it.

And to top it all off?

It was an applause conditional.

I came in second.

I lost to a handsome black man named Brian, who was just as mortified as I was.

And for the record, it was close, but because Brian's extended family was with him, my best sweet moves combined with the hot male dancer who helped me shake my groove thing, didn't stand a chance against his big honkin family's massive applause.

There I was, a dance off loser with flat hair.

We trudged back to our resort, already indifferent to the plentiful offerings of drugs. We were even offered "gong".

I have no idea.

And as we walked up the eighteen steps to our hacienda, I made the mistake of thinking, "Well, I've lost a dance off on a Mexican stage. It can't get any worse than that."

And that's when my hubby pointed over at our neighbor's place and said, "Check it."

Some of the condos had their own pool. Ours didn't. And I was bummed about that.

Until I saw where my hubby was pointing.

And right next to us, our fine neighbor had his woman up against the side of their pool, giving her a little beef in her taco.

She waved at us while he tended to business.

That night, as I laid my head down on my straw pillow, (seriously, I think it was made out of straw), sneezing my head off from the layer of dust now coating me and trying not to move, so I would sweat less, I thought, "I wish the diarrhea would hurry up and hit me, so I can move on up to hospital accommodations."

Coming soon: Part Three of My Mexico Adventures. Stay tuned for more fun and assiness.

Today's Definite Download: I went to the movies yesterday with my girls. They wanted to see Country Strong. And I have to say, even though I find Gwyneth Paltrow insufferable, she was fantastic. And so was Tim McGraw. But why oh why did that handsome, rugged man go and get himself some hair plugs? It just drives me to utter distraction. Embrace it. Matt Lauer it. But don't plug it. Ugh.

And even though Gwyneth sparkled in her role, I was blown away by the two young-un's in the movie.

Leighton Meester is not only a naturally beautiful girl, she was a perfect fit as the newest pretty little thing, trying to make it big in country music.

And then there was Garrett Hedlund.

Oh My.

Surprisingly, I was not aware of this big drink of gorgeousness. I thought I had my finger on all the hotness in Hollywood. He plays a country singer who is more interested in singing and writing songs than being famous. He is also very interested in Leighton Meester.

I was shocked to learn that he didn't sing before making this movie. His only training was hanging out with Tim in his studio for a couple of weeks.

This is a video, right here, of the two young-uns, singing a duet, called "Give In To Me."

Hot song made even hotter by the two of them. Check it out and check out Country Strong. It wasn't The Fighter, not by a long shot, but it was girl movie good.

Especially with that Garrett Hedlund and his hunky raspy voice.

Gosh.

That's all I have to say about that.