what happens in mexico...

...gets blogged about anonymously. That's the new adage, no? Do shameful things and admit them via innerwebs to anyone who may happen across your confession?

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), this is not a list of shameful things I did in Mexico on vacation. It could not even be a list of non-shameful things that I did in Mexico, because that list would look like this:

- laid around whilst drinking and eating
- (see above)

The above list (or lack there-of) means, at least to me, that my vacation was a great success. My favorite trips are the ones that require the least amount of effort possible. Luckily, I usually travel with The Core and The Boyfriend, who have the exact same vacation expectations as I do. Our one requirement for our vacation destination was that it have a swim-up bar. Done and done. Our optional requirement was that our hotel also have a pirate ship, but unfortunately those are difficult to come by this day and age.

My only complaint about the trip as a whole has to be in regard to The Canadians. Not the country and its general population as a whole, but rather two very specific Canadians that we encountered during our trip. Both pretty young (22), both socially awkward, both looking for anyone to hang out with other than each other. Which was unfortunate for us, because The Core rarely likes to hang out with anyone other than each other. We've been called "welcoming and inviting", but only in the most sarcastic of tones.

Vancouver, a chain-smoking drug-dealer turned Canadian military dude, introduced himself to my friend Stacy on our second-to-last night in Mexico at the sports bar we tended to take over every night to play drinking games before our nightly excursion to the resort's disco-tech. He and his roommate Montreal had both been admiring (see: leering at) Stacy from across the bar and had finally consumed enough alcohol to move in for the approach. Please note, Montreal is a woman with absolutely zero interest in Roomie Vancouver - one thing she and Stacy had in common. Their opening line was bound to win her heart: "Hey, sup. You and your friends are the only ones speaking English so we thought maybe we could hang. I'm so sick of all this Mexican."

Please also note: Stacy is Latina, a heritage we insist on celebrating as often as possible with tequila. Not their smartest opening move.

I've used tampons with more personality than these two. Their awkward behavior resulted in the following conversations:

1) Lynn (while watching the Olympics): "Yeah, Phelps!! USA is kicking-ass! We're so great and stuff!!"

Montreal: "Well, did you know that Canada is twice the size of the United States with 1/10th the population?! I bet you didn't."

Lynn: "Wow."

2) Vancouver, to The Boyfriend: "So, what do you do?"

The Boyfriend: "I'm in advertising."

Vancouver: "Yeah? Do you make good money?"

The Boyfriend: "Eh, not really... but I do alright."

Vancouver: "How much do you make?"

The Boyfriend: "I'm sorry?"

Vancouver: "How much money do you make in a year?"

The Boyfriend, to everyone: "Let's do some shots!!"

3) Stacy: "Well, I'm pretty tired. I think I'm heading to bed now."

Montreal: "You're the hottest thing I've ever seen."

Vancouver: "Me, too."

Stacy: "Bye-eeee!!"


And that doesn't even begin to cover it. The Canadian/American comparisons went on all night, including interesting topics such as the price of cigarettes, the alcohol content in American vs. Canadian beer, and whether or not Americans could smoke Parliament Lights. And, in case you're actually interested, we learned the following:

- American cigarettes are more expensive and poorly packaged.
- American beer is weak. Vancouver drank 86 of them in an hour one time and didn't feel a thing. Yes, 86.
- Americans shouldn't be allowed to smoke Parliament Lights because we don't have a Parliament in our government. Good thing I quit smoking. I'd be in trouble.

After all the above awkwardness, The Canadians still thought we were life-long besties and tried to get all of our email addresses. I had been force-fed enough Sambuca shots at that point (Vancouver's idea, every time) to reach for the pen and begin to oblige when I heard "...so we can keep in touch and plan our vacations together next year!!"

Crickets. Lots of drunken, sad, Mexican crickets with nothing to do but chirp and fill the awkward air.

What? And, I'm sorry, but what?? Who are these people that go on vacation, force their way into an existing group, constantly make the entire group uncomfortable and then expect them to plan their vacation together the next year? Who are these people who constantly lean over and nose-breathe on the bare shoulders of girls they just met? Crazy Canadians, that's who.

And so Sambuca (and tequila, and vodka, and rum, and Corona - don't judge, it was a long day) gave me the solution: misspell my email address (oops!) and go do a lyrical dance to Bryan Adams "Everything I Do" on the disco floor, twirling my scarf through the air to emphasize the fluidity of the movement. I think that song was a present from sweet baby Jesus, giving us the vocal stylings of a very lovely Canadian after the painful Canuck nonsense we had endured. Who couldn't love a country that bore an adorable young man who sings that he "wants the world for you" and he'd "die for youuuuuuu"?

God bless Canada, after all.