totally normal airplane entertainment

Last Thursday morning found me at DFW airport, drinking a screwdriver with The Core in the Irish pub located in the international terminal. None of us gave a second thought to the fact that it was 8 a.m. and we were drinking. We were on vacation, logic and social standards be damned.

Fast forward through two drinks, a cup of yogurt and an hour later: we're on the plane. Sun Country Airlines offered us a delicious pre-packaged sausage biscuit with a sliver of cheese the size of a quarter and we were all happy as clams. However, after another 30 minutes of flight time the Martha Stewart Living had been read and People's special child star stories were devoured. What to do?

The Boyfriend and I had the following discussion:

Not Lisa: "What if you had to have your head shaved for one reason or another, or maybe you just up and Britney Spears'd yourself, and you realized that you had been living your whole entire life with a pentagram made out of moles on the back of your head?"

The Boyfriend: "I would be bad ass."

Not Lisa: "Wouldn't you be concerned? You had lived your whole life marked with a pentagram and had never known? Wouldn't you be scared of being marked?"

The Boyfriend: "No, because I'd be marked as 'Bad Ass'."

Not Lisa: "I'd be freaked out."

The Boyfriend: "That's because you're not a bad ass. Can I give you a tattoo?"

How's a girl supposed to say no to that? A red Sharpie was found in my messenger bag and this glorious piece of artwork was born:



I waited until he was finished to tell him that "beuty" is not the way you spell "beauty". He claims that he was concentrating too hard on writing in cursive to pay attention to spelling. I claim he's a copywriter who can't spell.

In case you're wondering, my claim is correct.

Also in case you're wondering, that image is a majestic dagger wrapped with a delicate rose. One represents pain, the other represents beauty. Or beuty, rather. It's pretty deep - it's okay if you don't get it.

The news of my intricate and detailed tattoo moved quickly up the plane and through the rest of The Core. My friend R ran back to our row and settled in between us, holding out her fore-arm and yelling "Ooh! Me! Me!!"

After much discussion and a practice sketch on the barf bag, R's tattoo was complete:



We were delighted with many things, namely the bad grammar theme that carried itself through to another tattoo (lifes' a beach, in case you can't see it), the cactus blossom detail and the idea of a potted cactus representing a beach. We were practically peeing ourselves at this point. The pun of "beach" instead of "bitch" and that we were headed to the beach and that someone's grandma had a shirt that said that and oh-my-gosh-that's-so-stupid - our heads were spinning with how hilarious we thought we were.

Until...

(Please note: as you're a reader of an anonymous blog, I should make it known that I have a mole on the back of my arm that stands proudly erect and that I will never remove. I can't see it and therefore, in my mind, no one else can. It's a pain-free perk of being a selfish person. This mole is well-known amongst The Core.)

Ahem. Until...

Not Lisa: "I really want another one."

R: "Totally."

Not Lisa: "We should plan a tattoo around my mole!!"

R: "OOOH!! A clown face!!!"



And, just so you can get the full 3-D effect that made us laugh so hard until we cried:



HOTT. With two Ts.

You're a crazy person if you think I didn't wear that proudly at the pool, the beach and later dinner and the disco-tech.

I miss Molezo already. And his hat complete with squirting flower.

The new plan is to re-create Molezo and book an appointment with my dermatologist, telling him I was in the sun for five straight days and really need him to check my mole. Hilarity ensues.

sneaky spam

"Associated Bank Business Online Banking"

Seriously? I'd be less suspicious if I saw my neighbor get a package marked "NOT PENIS CREAM".

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.