Tuesday, June 14, 2011
I've got something shocking to confess.
I've got something shocking to confess.
I'm a harsh Judgmental Judy.
I know, hard to believe . . . unless you've driven in a car with me as I use my profanity slingshot to verbally assault all the morons on the road who should never have been issued a driver's license, which is 90% of the driving community.
Hmmph.
Also, since I'm on the shock track, I might as well confess, my hair really isn't platinum blonde.
Take big gulping breaths and you won't faint.
See, the thing is I get annoyed with people very easily and I classify these annoyers in groups. Groups that bug me.
For instance, people who cluelessly clog up traffic, whether it be in real traffic, on a sidewalk, in the middle of a grocery aisle, at the mall—they are the clusterf**kers.
And because I live in Florida there are many of these next folks living amongst the palm trees: People who spend most of their time on their boat, partying, speeding through wakes, leathering up their skin, flashing their ta-tas at passing boats whose saggy passengers are flashing their fun jugs right back. I call them the Boat People.
Imbeciles who drive giant pickup trucks and cannot manage to park those beasts in between their allotted two yellow lines, those folks are Rednecks Who Can't Even Manage The Artless Role Of Redneck.
Movie talkers are of course, Movie Talkers, an egocentric group I despise with my whole heart.
But not as much as the rancid contempt I hold for people who shouldn't be on the road because they cannot fathom the rules of the road like, going as soon as the light turns green instead of pondering that green for a full minute or committing to the right hand lane if they choose to drive like 80-year-olds.
Those people who cannot master basic driving precepts are the Ultimate Morons. They are in the same classification as the gum snappers and the fashion train wrecks who wear leggings as pants.
Okay, so remember when I told you how much I enjoyed my stay at the Sonoma Mission Inn, right here?
Well, there's one thing about the Mission Inn that bugs me.
It's the Robe People.
I cannot stand the Robe People.
I often spend time in the spa when I travel and in my experiences I've discovered there are a lot of folks who are quite comfortable hanging out in their spa robe, like they're just sitting in their family room watching TV and clipping their toenails.
There was the time my hubs and I had just finished having massages. It was during one of our trips sponsored by those funsters of AIG.
As we were walking out of the spa, we ran into another couple from the convention who had also just finished their treatments. They invited us to have a cocktail with them.
At the bar. In their robes.
We declined and off they sauntered in their bathrobes to the lounge.
Now, not only does the Mission Inn have a renowned spa, they also have a beautiful, expansive lobby filled with overstuffed chairs and couches, an inviting place to hang out. And the Mission Inn wants their guests to hang out.
There are always platters brimming with cheeses, complimentary wine, cookies, treats and quite often, live music for the guests to enjoy.
It's lovely.
But what isn't lovely are the Robe People. They are everywhere. All sprawled out reading the paper. Groups of Robe People standing around conversing. Robe People hovering over the appetizers.
And we all know what's under that robe.
Nothing but flesh and floppy vitals.
And I really don't want their dangly bits fortified only by a casually tied bathrobe, hanging around my cheese.
Robe People disgust and irritate me at the same time.
Now save that thought for a second.
After we fled our Mexican hovel and settled into our new sumptuous surroundings, one of the first things we did was book massages.
My hubs read the list of spa services to me and when he came to, Massage On The Beach, I was all, "I'm in."
We booked a couples beach massage for the next morning right after breakfast.
Now if there is one thing about my hubs that drives me insane besides the way he chews, it is his caveman communication skills. He often neglects to tell me the most crucial things, deferring to a series of grunts as his method of delivery.
This was one of those times.
We went to breakfast and finished up just in time for the pre-massage rituals.
We walked out of the restaurant and I went to the right, headed to the spa where I assumed I would prepare for my massage in the usual spa way. Getting a locker. Changing out of my clothes into my soft, fluffy robe. Waiting on a cushiony chaise next to a cascading waterfall with a cucumber infused spring water in hand while soothing music played overhead until my attendant came to lead me down to the beach. (Sorry Steelbeam. Maybe you should head over to The Misery Loves Company blog right about now.)
My husband went to the left. Towards the beach.
I was all, "Wait! What about my locker? My fluffy robe? My cucumber infused spring water?"
And he said, "I thought I told you. They said to meet them down at the cabana on the beach. I told you that."
Them are fighting words.
And I was like, "Noooo, you said after you got off the phone from the spa, 'Massageisbooked. 10:00 AM. Grunt.'"
I was annoyed at his caveman communications, but I swallowed my irritation and asked, "Where are these cabanas? Do they have changing rooms? Will they have the cucumber infused water down there?"
And he was all, "Grunt. Don'tknow."
And so we headed down to the beach.
And from the pool, I spotted this:
And a pervading sense of panic began to overtake me as we got closer and closer.
And I was all, "I'm sure that's not it. There's got to be another one, with, you know, doors and a place to change and something that is not THAT."
And as I wildly glanced around the beach, searching for a proper cabana, I spotted two Mexican ladies clambering down the steep sides of the hotel with a pile of towels in their hands.
And I might have cried and ran through my vast lexicon of profanities, directed towards my hubby's back as he strode through the thick Mexican sand.
We walked over to the Mexican ladies, me trudging quite reluctantly behind him and greeted them.
They did not speak English.
They led us into that first cabana.
This cabana with canvas flaps, flaps with enormous gaps on each of its three sides.
Notice I said three sides.
The front of the cabana, of course, had no gaps. Because it had no flaps.
Because It was open. To the entire beach.
Also, to make me sweat even more, we were in direct eagle's eye view of everyone who happened to be lounging at the pool up above us.
And it was safe to say, EVERYONE at the hotel was lounging at the pool.
Just waiting for the show.
So I stood there, quietly hyperventilating as the Mexican ladies motioned to the two massage tables.
I think I might have actually squeaked when I said, "Where am I supposed to change? Where's the cucumber water?"
And they said, "Jes. Take jour clothes off."
And my caveman hubs said, "Okay." And he shucked off his clothes right there in front of the Mexican ladies and every other person on that beach and the pool audience above us, like he'd been a nudist all his life.
Remind me someday to tell you his story about selling insurance to a nudist colony. Now that is one hilarious story.
I stood there in my sundress, calculating the amount of time it would take to yank off my dress and underthings and jump under the sheet. My dress was complicated. I knew there would be way too many bare ass minutes.
And in that moment, I wished with all my heart that I was one of the Robe People. I wished I'd donned my robe and headed to breakfast, scouring that buffet in only my robe and slippers, my naked bits halfway to freedom in the restaurant.
I squeaked in one last ditch effort to the Mexican ladies, "You want me to take my clothes off HERE? RIGHT HERE?"
And suddenly, they understood and they both started tittering and my Mexican masseuse said, "Oh. I see."
And she held up
A bath mat.
A bath mat that would most likely not even cover my left cheek and not the one on my face.
My hubs smiled smugly from underneath his sheet, he said, "Come on. Take it off. It's not that bad."
And as they all stood there looking at me expectantly, waiting with their teeny tiny bath mat, I did the only thing I could.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and slid out of my underwear. I then wrangled my bra off like a contortionist while still in the safety of my dress.
There was only one safety barrier between me and ultimate humiliation now.
My dress had straps and buttons and to my horror, I realized it was a pull over the head kind of dress. It wasn't designed for me to gracefully step out of it.
Of course.
I let out a little whimper as my Mexican masseuse nodded encouragingly, holding up her postage size towel. I was quite tempted to smack that washcloth right out of her hand.
But I didn't want to be a baby about it and so I took a deep breath, grabbed my dress and yanked.
And you know what comes next, right?
Because there has never been a moment of grace in my life
That stupid, stupid dress got stuck.
Around my head.
Right there on the beach in front of the population of Mexico and every poolside tourist at the Hilton.
As I wrestled the dress, furiously yanking, ready to tear it in two to get it off, the two Mexican masseuses spoke frantically to each other in Spanish.
I'm sure arguing, "I'm not helping her. It's your massage, you do it."
"No, you do it. I have never seen such whiteness. It's scaring me."
"No way. I'm not touching that naked twit hopping around like a ghastly white Mexican jumping bean."
My wonderful husband was crying through his laughter.
Without any of their help, I managed to tear that dress off my head so violently, I left angry red welts across my cheeks.
But not before blinding the population of Cabo like an eclipse, a fleshy albino eclipse.
I dove under that sheet.
And even though it was 90 minutes of soothing hands upon my skin and the calming pulse of the waves and the gentle breezes that floated in from the sea, I could not enjoy that massage.
All I could think was, I'm going to have to get up and work that dress back over my head. Except this time, my ghostly, fleshy skin will be enhanced with massage oil. The better to horrify you with, my dear.
When my massage was finished, my masseuse didn't even offer up the bath mat.
I guess she figured everyone had already been blinded. There was no one left to traumatize.
Except for me. I will be traumatized for the rest of my days every time I think about that moment I had a stuck dress on my head, flailing about like a giant, mysterious creature of the sea in front of the poor, scarred citizens of Mexico.
Here we are after the trauma. My hubs looking well rested. Me, relieved that my dress went back over my head. The masseuse in the corner thinking, "Please Jesus, make the weird one leave my massage cabana."
Oh and I just noticed, there's my bath mat on the floor.
Later on at the pool, I told just about everyone my tale because that's how I roll. If I I have to be mortified, might as well let the world in on it.
I found comfort in one woman who'd had almost the same experience. She thought she was being smart wearing her bathing suit to the massage. But they motioned for her to take it off. She said it was hard enough to wriggle into her shapewear one-piece in the privacy of her hotel room. I felt her pain deeply.
A few months later, I told a German friend of mine this story. She wasn't feeling my pain. She said Americans are the most repressed people on the planet when it comes to nudity. (I guess she forgot about those crazy folks of the Middle East.) That the rest of the world wouldn't see any problem shucking it all off for a naked massage on the beach.
And I say, I wouldn't have a problem with stripping down for a massage on the beach if my hipbones still jutted out from my skin and my abs were washboard again, but since I don't think even the Europeans could handle something about this girth taking it all off on their naked friendly shores:
I think that will be my last naked adventure on a beach.
No fresh laundry today, just an apology to all of you because I know since I've come back, I haven't been the best blog friend. I promise to make it up to everyone. I'll be around soon. Watch for me.
Today's Definite Download: Sad news this week out of land of rock and roll. The Big Man, Clarence Clemons, Bruce Springsteen's saxophonist suffered a stroke.
Clarence hasn't been looking too good the last few concerts. He sits through most of the concert on a giant throne handmade just for him, only standing to blow that sax, the one thing that makes a Bruce Springsteen song a genuine one.
I hope and pray for healing for the beloved Big Man. A Bruce Springsteen concert wouldn't be the same without The Boss saying, "Do I have to say his name? Do I have to speak his name. King of the World. Master of the Universe..."
This video is a live version of Tenth Avenue Freeze Out. It's Bruce introducing his band. Fast forward to the 4:00 minute mark and you will see the greatest introduction of your life. If you've never witnessed it, it truly is a treasure to watch, especially when this giant man and Bruce dance together. If only we could all be so loved.
Get well, King of the World. There are too many songs waiting for you.
I know, hard to believe . . . unless you've driven in a car with me as I use my profanity slingshot to verbally assault all the morons on the road who should never have been issued a driver's license, which is 90% of the driving community.
Hmmph.
Also, since I'm on the shock track, I might as well confess, my hair really isn't platinum blonde.
Take big gulping breaths and you won't faint.
See, the thing is I get annoyed with people very easily and I classify these annoyers in groups. Groups that bug me.
For instance, people who cluelessly clog up traffic, whether it be in real traffic, on a sidewalk, in the middle of a grocery aisle, at the mall—they are the clusterf**kers.
And because I live in Florida there are many of these next folks living amongst the palm trees: People who spend most of their time on their boat, partying, speeding through wakes, leathering up their skin, flashing their ta-tas at passing boats whose saggy passengers are flashing their fun jugs right back. I call them the Boat People.
Imbeciles who drive giant pickup trucks and cannot manage to park those beasts in between their allotted two yellow lines, those folks are Rednecks Who Can't Even Manage The Artless Role Of Redneck.
Movie talkers are of course, Movie Talkers, an egocentric group I despise with my whole heart.
But not as much as the rancid contempt I hold for people who shouldn't be on the road because they cannot fathom the rules of the road like, going as soon as the light turns green instead of pondering that green for a full minute or committing to the right hand lane if they choose to drive like 80-year-olds.
Those people who cannot master basic driving precepts are the Ultimate Morons. They are in the same classification as the gum snappers and the fashion train wrecks who wear leggings as pants.
Okay, so remember when I told you how much I enjoyed my stay at the Sonoma Mission Inn, right here?
Well, there's one thing about the Mission Inn that bugs me.
It's the Robe People.
I cannot stand the Robe People.
I often spend time in the spa when I travel and in my experiences I've discovered there are a lot of folks who are quite comfortable hanging out in their spa robe, like they're just sitting in their family room watching TV and clipping their toenails.
There was the time my hubs and I had just finished having massages. It was during one of our trips sponsored by those funsters of AIG.
As we were walking out of the spa, we ran into another couple from the convention who had also just finished their treatments. They invited us to have a cocktail with them.
At the bar. In their robes.
We declined and off they sauntered in their bathrobes to the lounge.
Now, not only does the Mission Inn have a renowned spa, they also have a beautiful, expansive lobby filled with overstuffed chairs and couches, an inviting place to hang out. And the Mission Inn wants their guests to hang out.
There are always platters brimming with cheeses, complimentary wine, cookies, treats and quite often, live music for the guests to enjoy.
It's lovely.
But what isn't lovely are the Robe People. They are everywhere. All sprawled out reading the paper. Groups of Robe People standing around conversing. Robe People hovering over the appetizers.
And we all know what's under that robe.
Nothing but flesh and floppy vitals.
And I really don't want their dangly bits fortified only by a casually tied bathrobe, hanging around my cheese.
Robe People disgust and irritate me at the same time.
Now save that thought for a second.
After we fled our Mexican hovel and settled into our new sumptuous surroundings, one of the first things we did was book massages.
My hubs read the list of spa services to me and when he came to, Massage On The Beach, I was all, "I'm in."
We booked a couples beach massage for the next morning right after breakfast.
Now if there is one thing about my hubs that drives me insane besides the way he chews, it is his caveman communication skills. He often neglects to tell me the most crucial things, deferring to a series of grunts as his method of delivery.
This was one of those times.
We went to breakfast and finished up just in time for the pre-massage rituals.
We walked out of the restaurant and I went to the right, headed to the spa where I assumed I would prepare for my massage in the usual spa way. Getting a locker. Changing out of my clothes into my soft, fluffy robe. Waiting on a cushiony chaise next to a cascading waterfall with a cucumber infused spring water in hand while soothing music played overhead until my attendant came to lead me down to the beach. (Sorry Steelbeam. Maybe you should head over to The Misery Loves Company blog right about now.)
My husband went to the left. Towards the beach.
I was all, "Wait! What about my locker? My fluffy robe? My cucumber infused spring water?"
And he said, "I thought I told you. They said to meet them down at the cabana on the beach. I told you that."
Them are fighting words.
And I was like, "Noooo, you said after you got off the phone from the spa, 'Massageisbooked. 10:00 AM. Grunt.'"
I was annoyed at his caveman communications, but I swallowed my irritation and asked, "Where are these cabanas? Do they have changing rooms? Will they have the cucumber infused water down there?"
And he was all, "Grunt. Don'tknow."
And so we headed down to the beach.
And from the pool, I spotted this:
And a pervading sense of panic began to overtake me as we got closer and closer.
And I was all, "I'm sure that's not it. There's got to be another one, with, you know, doors and a place to change and something that is not THAT."
And as I wildly glanced around the beach, searching for a proper cabana, I spotted two Mexican ladies clambering down the steep sides of the hotel with a pile of towels in their hands.
And I might have cried and ran through my vast lexicon of profanities, directed towards my hubby's back as he strode through the thick Mexican sand.
We walked over to the Mexican ladies, me trudging quite reluctantly behind him and greeted them.
They did not speak English.
They led us into that first cabana.
This cabana with canvas flaps, flaps with enormous gaps on each of its three sides.
Notice I said three sides.
The front of the cabana, of course, had no gaps. Because it had no flaps.
Because It was open. To the entire beach.
Also, to make me sweat even more, we were in direct eagle's eye view of everyone who happened to be lounging at the pool up above us.
And it was safe to say, EVERYONE at the hotel was lounging at the pool.
Just waiting for the show.
So I stood there, quietly hyperventilating as the Mexican ladies motioned to the two massage tables.
I think I might have actually squeaked when I said, "Where am I supposed to change? Where's the cucumber water?"
And they said, "Jes. Take jour clothes off."
And my caveman hubs said, "Okay." And he shucked off his clothes right there in front of the Mexican ladies and every other person on that beach and the pool audience above us, like he'd been a nudist all his life.
Remind me someday to tell you his story about selling insurance to a nudist colony. Now that is one hilarious story.
I stood there in my sundress, calculating the amount of time it would take to yank off my dress and underthings and jump under the sheet. My dress was complicated. I knew there would be way too many bare ass minutes.
And in that moment, I wished with all my heart that I was one of the Robe People. I wished I'd donned my robe and headed to breakfast, scouring that buffet in only my robe and slippers, my naked bits halfway to freedom in the restaurant.
I squeaked in one last ditch effort to the Mexican ladies, "You want me to take my clothes off HERE? RIGHT HERE?"
And suddenly, they understood and they both started tittering and my Mexican masseuse said, "Oh. I see."
And she held up
A bath mat.
A bath mat that would most likely not even cover my left cheek and not the one on my face.
My hubs smiled smugly from underneath his sheet, he said, "Come on. Take it off. It's not that bad."
And as they all stood there looking at me expectantly, waiting with their teeny tiny bath mat, I did the only thing I could.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and slid out of my underwear. I then wrangled my bra off like a contortionist while still in the safety of my dress.
There was only one safety barrier between me and ultimate humiliation now.
My dress had straps and buttons and to my horror, I realized it was a pull over the head kind of dress. It wasn't designed for me to gracefully step out of it.
Of course.
I let out a little whimper as my Mexican masseuse nodded encouragingly, holding up her postage size towel. I was quite tempted to smack that washcloth right out of her hand.
But I didn't want to be a baby about it and so I took a deep breath, grabbed my dress and yanked.
And you know what comes next, right?
Because there has never been a moment of grace in my life
That stupid, stupid dress got stuck.
Around my head.
Right there on the beach in front of the population of Mexico and every poolside tourist at the Hilton.
As I wrestled the dress, furiously yanking, ready to tear it in two to get it off, the two Mexican masseuses spoke frantically to each other in Spanish.
I'm sure arguing, "I'm not helping her. It's your massage, you do it."
"No, you do it. I have never seen such whiteness. It's scaring me."
"No way. I'm not touching that naked twit hopping around like a ghastly white Mexican jumping bean."
My wonderful husband was crying through his laughter.
Without any of their help, I managed to tear that dress off my head so violently, I left angry red welts across my cheeks.
But not before blinding the population of Cabo like an eclipse, a fleshy albino eclipse.
I dove under that sheet.
And even though it was 90 minutes of soothing hands upon my skin and the calming pulse of the waves and the gentle breezes that floated in from the sea, I could not enjoy that massage.
All I could think was, I'm going to have to get up and work that dress back over my head. Except this time, my ghostly, fleshy skin will be enhanced with massage oil. The better to horrify you with, my dear.
When my massage was finished, my masseuse didn't even offer up the bath mat.
I guess she figured everyone had already been blinded. There was no one left to traumatize.
Except for me. I will be traumatized for the rest of my days every time I think about that moment I had a stuck dress on my head, flailing about like a giant, mysterious creature of the sea in front of the poor, scarred citizens of Mexico.
Here we are after the trauma. My hubs looking well rested. Me, relieved that my dress went back over my head. The masseuse in the corner thinking, "Please Jesus, make the weird one leave my massage cabana."
Oh and I just noticed, there's my bath mat on the floor.
Later on at the pool, I told just about everyone my tale because that's how I roll. If I I have to be mortified, might as well let the world in on it.
I found comfort in one woman who'd had almost the same experience. She thought she was being smart wearing her bathing suit to the massage. But they motioned for her to take it off. She said it was hard enough to wriggle into her shapewear one-piece in the privacy of her hotel room. I felt her pain deeply.
A few months later, I told a German friend of mine this story. She wasn't feeling my pain. She said Americans are the most repressed people on the planet when it comes to nudity. (I guess she forgot about those crazy folks of the Middle East.) That the rest of the world wouldn't see any problem shucking it all off for a naked massage on the beach.
And I say, I wouldn't have a problem with stripping down for a massage on the beach if my hipbones still jutted out from my skin and my abs were washboard again, but since I don't think even the Europeans could handle something about this girth taking it all off on their naked friendly shores:
I think that will be my last naked adventure on a beach.
No fresh laundry today, just an apology to all of you because I know since I've come back, I haven't been the best blog friend. I promise to make it up to everyone. I'll be around soon. Watch for me.
Today's Definite Download: Sad news this week out of land of rock and roll. The Big Man, Clarence Clemons, Bruce Springsteen's saxophonist suffered a stroke.
Clarence hasn't been looking too good the last few concerts. He sits through most of the concert on a giant throne handmade just for him, only standing to blow that sax, the one thing that makes a Bruce Springsteen song a genuine one.
I hope and pray for healing for the beloved Big Man. A Bruce Springsteen concert wouldn't be the same without The Boss saying, "Do I have to say his name? Do I have to speak his name. King of the World. Master of the Universe..."
This video is a live version of Tenth Avenue Freeze Out. It's Bruce introducing his band. Fast forward to the 4:00 minute mark and you will see the greatest introduction of your life. If you've never witnessed it, it truly is a treasure to watch, especially when this giant man and Bruce dance together. If only we could all be so loved.
Get well, King of the World. There are too many songs waiting for you.
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50 comments:
OH MY GOSH, that line about wearing robes as though you were in your house clipping your toenails killed me. Hilarious.
And I felt sick to my stomach about the mean email you received. I hate that this internet business makes some people feel they have free reign to say whatever douchey thing they want to, just to try and ruin someone's day. And I hope you realize that we all absolutely adore you. And more importantly, the people who adore you aren't stupid, which is what counts.
I am still kind of freaked out that you aren't a natural Platinum Blonde.
And now all of those people lounging by the pool know it, too.
My massage in Mexico was in an actual spa, thank God, but I did see those cabanas and wondered if I was missing something! Now I know...
OMIGAWD YOU PROMISED SNORTS AND YOU DELIVERED! I woke my sleeping husband I was laughing so hard, WHEEZING, is more like it, and he jumps up and squeaks, "What's wrong?" and I couldn't even begin to tell him about you, naked on the beach except for an inside-out dress stuck on your platinum head!
You are the funniest thing since sliced bread, I kid you not, and ol Steelbeam is a big effing doofus, end of story.
(*still laughing here*)
Sorry that you had to deal with an anonymous 'debbie-downer' jerk this morning.
Couldn't help but laugh at your beach massage story ☺
Hope you are having a WONDERFUL time on your vacation!!
Seriously, someone bothered to send you an email to insult you? I am sorry but that is just rude.
You are a lovely, warm and open person who shares and gives to all. Shame on that jackwagon.
THIS is the Mexican hilarity that I love!
There is no way I would have been able to relax and enjoy a massage knowing that at the end I would have to get dressed out on the beach like that. NO WAY! I would have had to skip that special moment all together (but I'm sure my husband would have happily taken it all off. Men.)
Those robe people would freak me out too. Robes are meant for houses and bedrooms and hotel rooms...not for lobbys and hallways and bars and appetizers. That is crazy.
Also crazy? That email of hatred. A bunch of crap that was.
I too am a judgemental Judy, especially on people's fashion choices. Sometimes I don't even have to mutter a word, my husband knows what I am thinking just based on the face I make.
Someday I will blog about my Mexican massage mishaps. None involved flashing an entire resort but they were memorable nonetheless. (And not in a good way)
PS: Are you a Prince fan? Google Martin Sexton's cover of Purple Rain. It's amazing!
OMG! Was there a round of applause from the crowd at the pool when you finally got your dress off??? LOL
You haven't really made it in the blogosphere until you get some Trolls emailing you. Won't you please, please share the email address of said Troll so we can send our own reply?!
First of all, I want to hurt the person that sent you the email. Those kind of people are just sick and wrong.
Ok, your adventure on the beach, priceless. I wish I could have witnessed it live.
Omigosh, I laughed so hard I snorted! And spit tea out! (well, nearly)
I can't believe I didn't find you til now. And a very good post to read for the first time. Yay!
wow. i love reading every chapter of your autobiography. you have such a way with words! i figure it takes you a few days to refuel and then you can unleash with another doozie, so i'm willing to wait a few days in between!
We are soul sistas in the world of classifying idiots. My tolerance is low for the incompetent ones. I had a bit of a hissy yesterday while driving behind a tourist.
I was dying with your description of stripping down for your massage. I don't think I would have been able to relax either. Jiggly bits, BAH!
Oh and thanks for the eye candy. Always welcome but next time perhaps you could include my boy toy, Jason Statham. Yummo.
There's so much to say, I don't know where to start.
So I am just going to ask for one tiny favor...
...could you please put that awesome picture of Mark Wahlberg on every single post, because it rocked my boat.
And robes outside of the spa is just NASTY, w/ or w/o cheese...
My husband and I call those mean people Internet trolls. You are hilarious and you write so beautifully!
Oh Bradley.
Why Renee? I ask you this. What did you see there? Anyway, thank God he smartened up.
There should never be naked people where food is served. Or partially naked people.
A massage on the beach sounded so wonderful til I read this post. I will stick to small enclosed rooms with doors that lock and dim lighting.
Why are mean people such chickens? If you are going to say what you mean, own up to yourself and use your name. I have found that it is a jealousy issue. Even though your stories have a hilarious self-deprecating spin, you have a good and happy life and this irks people.
Keep doing what you are doing and don't give those negative losers any of your blog time.
There has to be another funny story out of your trip, right?
I love your stories. For the majority of us, our blogs are one small part of who we are and what we do...with a laugh track. I know you know to ignore that ass, just like I know how hard it is to quit holding imaginary conversations with them in your head. You bring light and laughter to your readers...and if that isn't enough, you also singlehandedly got safety conditions improved for the VS girls. Those are no small things.
1. I'm going to steal the picture of the cow and make it my profile picture.
2. Anonymous is an idiot.
3. I had a Mexican massage once...the horror of it still makes me shudder.
4. I love you and your blog!
You are too funny! Hope flashing all the beach goers didn't ruin the WHOLE vacation for you.
oh boy, i don't do nudity either. almost not even through labour! I would have backed out, good for you for making the best of it
oh boy, i don't do nudity either. almost not even through labour! I would have backed out, good for you for making the best of it
My biggest group of peevers? The ones who send insulting and mean emails under cover of a screen name or "A. Nonymous" whoever the hell that is.
I am with you on the whole robe people thing. Ewwwww. In my cheese no less (and I am from Wisconsin. We take our cheese very seriously).
I once had a 30 second costume change in the wings during a performance. I had to get over myself pretty darn quick because there were all sorts of bits a flying in that one. Oh, and the time that I had just started pushing when my father walked in the room. And walked back out again. Fun times.
Enjoy the day!
Erin
Bwhahaha...I'm laughing with you. I too hate traffic clutters. And robe people. That's just awkward.
Oh and annon people who shoot off emails while obviously wearing too tight of a judgey mcjudgerson pants. Get a life.
For some reason travel stories inspire trolls... I got several scathing emails via Trip Advisor because I had the audacity to write a unsatisfactory review about a hotel in Ireland. It's strange to get hatemail from some nutjob in Scotland who's thinks he was somehow at the hotel the same weekend I was.
I do hope that beach massage ended up being relaxing despite the lack of privacy!
You've "arrived!" You got hate mail!
Seriously, your loveliness shines through loud and clear. What's that Scripture in the Bible ...? "To the pure, all things are pure."
I thought I was laughing hard enough at your story, and then I saw the squid and cow. HA HA HA HA
Oh, man -- dress stuck on your head while you thrash around in naken panic and humiliation? You make me laugh SO HARD. And I hope the shoes you're sipping champagne from are at least Jimmy Choo's, because anything less would be an affront to the grapes who gave their lives for that champagne, plus drinking out of your gym sneakers is just downright nasty.
I would have been freaking out. The Europeans can say whatever they want, but if we aren't comfortable, making fun of us for being that way doesn't change anything.
i love that you were calculating "bare ass minutes".
And now I really want to hear the nudist insurance story!
Oh man. Your adventures make me laugh. I would hate to be in your shoes this time. I'm glad you survived though. Thanks for the warning. Now I'll know if I ever get that opportunity.
I'm sorry, I was to busy rolling around in my $100 bills to read your blog post. Sorry, Steel beam.
This is why I've never had a massage. I've spent so much time trying to figure out what happens. Do I have to get naked? Is there a time when I'm laying on my back with my boobs all up in my masseuses grill? What happens if when I roll over, I'm so stiff with stress that I roll right off the table and then I'm on the floor in all my pasty Irish glory? Because these are the things that would happen to me.
It's hard to be us. It makes it a little easier that we are made of cashmere.
I honestly don't know why people are so mean...they sometimes go out of their way to be mean....
so much wasted time...
I am off to get a massage....no ocean view, but there are some craggy cliffs around...naked in the desert..what a great idea!
Floppy vitals near your cheese...
OHMYGOD I'm dying.
But I'm also so glad you lived to tell about your ordeal.
I for sure would have been right with you sharing the mortification at the pool afterward. It's what I do best (or at least most often).
Sharing is what makes mortification halfway bearable.
But still. As the Mexican breezes hit your white white skin, I'll bet you were wishing you actually WERE made of cashmere.
And Steelbeam? You can suck it.
You know I love you and how I feel about your hater. xo
I think I could have enjoyed that massage. B/c OMG if I could be away from my kids and be there, I would run nekkid down the beach. :)
The cow picture disturbs me. Greatly. So much so, that I HAD to go back and stare at Bradley.
You're forgiven.
I love, LOVE your stories, your storytelling and your attitude. "Steelbeam" - hmm, I wonder if that's what's stuck up his/her ass?
OMG.
Only you.
ONLY YOU.
And..the nudist colony insurance sales presentation..remember...you promised...We'll wait.
How long does it take you to find pictures of sea vermin?
I hate the robe people too. I don't get that.
Sorry I haven't been around much. :( I enjoyed visiting back after so long!
Ok, before I comment or even read about the Mexico part of the post, I just have this to say:
I don't know who Erin is, but that is MY Mr. Bana. Mine mine mine mine mine. So there. Fell in love with him during Troy, and he has been mine ever since. MINE!
The Robe People. Right now I can't stop thinking about The Event. Which they freaking canceled. Bastards. But there were some part alien people that looked human and I guess their DNA was like 99% the same as humans. Anyway, what I'm saying is that when you talk about The Robe People, that's what it makes me think of.
As for the massage/getting the clothes off thing...I would have just passed. Seriously. But you're in a lot better shape than I am.
And yes, please...can the next story be about selling insurance at the nudist colony?
god, how could I have forgotten how brilliant you are? I L-O-V-E reading your blog. And whatever sick son of a bee-hotch doesn't love it should move far far way from internet access.
Keep it comin' and fuhgeddabout it!
Honestly, I want to go with you on your next holiday. You just have way too many great adventures!
Really? Not a natural platinum, eh?
Okay, I was singing along, lovin' you, smiling, having a good time... then I got to the last picture. Which is a photo of me. Where did you get it? And I'm sending you a bill for posting it on the internet.
Send me your name, address, bank account information, telephone number, social security number, shoe size, and 3 million dollars.
Hurry up.
I left you two comments yesterday. What happened to them? I think they were publishable... :(
Joann, I am stunned and shocked that ANYONE would ever think you were not the smart, sweet, funny person that we all know and love.
And, Hey! I thought that was you naked in that cabana, but I wasn't sure, so I just kept walking.
Gee, you had a job flirting with men? Big surprise there:-) Thanks for the BS and CC video. I hadn't seen that. Never realized how much bigger he is than Bruce! It really struck me to read of his stroke....sort of like, God forbid, hearing of a good friend who has suffered a similar thing. So round about Oprah's last show, I read something here about your sister having tickets and I thought to myself, I know, I just know, that Joann's family cooked something up and that she is going to be flown in at the last moment and Bono is going to kiss her on stage in front of the world and everyone. Sigh. It would have been so much nicer my way. Thanks for the eye candy. btw, is that squid for real? Please say no.
First things first, mean people suck! I say Anonymous should be forced to have a Mexican massage.
Thanks for the eye candy:) And the cow pic had me rolling.
I'm glad you survived, and I think God does those little things to you like, straps and nudity and stuff to make me laugh. I'm not laughing at you, no, but laughing {thank you}.
"Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for me to go sip champagne out of my shoe."
Beautiful.
I swear I don't feel like a prude, I can rip it off with the best of them, but gap in a massage tent would not cut it for me. Because you know there are perverts walking by all the time and dudes with binoculars at the pool. I can be nonchalant about being naked as long as everyone else around is, but something that random? Ick. I feel your pain.
Now tell us about selling insurance to a nudist colony. :)
So much about this post had me cracking up! So glad you told that person off at the beginning. I loved laughing at the robe people and then cringing that you wanted to be a robe person. Ha! So sorry about that cute dress getting stuck on your head. I was also thinking, "Hmmm...I guess everybody does the cucumber-infused water thing all over the country. Hmmmm..." Also? I really, really, really love that picture of the cow. Ha!!!
I feel like I just punctured a cell! I found you through "Kelly's Break Room," and I am so happy. Like break out in song happy or dance on the street-during-public-festivals happy. Because I do those things.
First of all because you are hil-ar-ious. You had me at Boat People.
I mean, the rest was a preamble and I wasn't going anywhere, but now you are stuck with me.
Also, I tend to write long posts. Not as long as yours, mind you, but long. And I hang out with a lot of concise bloggers. And this is just so encouraging for me. A woman who knows how to tell a tale, and delight in the details, and keep her audience! Hooray! I'm beyond words. So I am adding you to my blogroll - now! - and I am going to stop worrying about being brief. I many not post everyday, but if I can pop one out like this once a week - um, that's good stuff. And frankly, it ought to hold everybody for a while.
Personally, I would have been one of those in the bathrobe. I love not getting dressed, well, being in a bathrobe I mean, not prancing around naked.
As for that email, I know we all say "Don't let that get you down" but funny how it does, right. I don't understand why people feel the need to take time out of their day to spew negative rhetoric. But they do and they will continue to do so. And you know what, you dont' have to apologize for taking a trip. If you Ivanka Trump, telling us of all your rich and fantastic tales, I'd still adore you! So you go find yourself a cabana boy in Mexico and dont' worry about the haters!
How am I not reading this all the time every day?
You are killing me with your genius and hilarity. KILLING ME DEAD.
LOVE!
PS Steelbeam can suck it. Hard.
Saving this one in my all time favorite files. Crap, that is funny.
If it had been me, I would have stripped naked and paraded out on the beach to even further humiliate my wife and have more people stare at her.
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