Beach vacations are relaxing and lovely. At least until you witness a mass murder.

It was the best of times.
It was the worst of times.
But mostly it was the best.
Except that one time when it was the worst. 
That time totally sucked.

As most of you know, The Hub and I ran away from home last week and went to play Lost meets Survivor meets Gilligan's Island in a place in the middle of nowhere in Mexico.  Seriously, you guys. Middle. Of. Nowhere. It's one of those adventures where halfway along you start wondering if you've made a terrible mistake and what if the website photos look nothing like the place you're going? And you pass little towns on dirt roads with donkeys (AKA the local transportation) tied up in front of "stores" and think to yourself "WTF was I thinking?" or if you're me, "I wonder if I'd get shot if I surprise buttsecksed that burro?"

And because we are not totally insane (well, I am, but The Hub usually handles all the mature and responsible thinking), instead of trying to navigate this journey on our own, we had a wonderful driver named Manuel who took charge. Although, truth be told, if we had been carjacked at gunpoint, aside from the ability to speak Spanish, I don't think Manuel was gonna be of any help. Not once did he mention anything to us about his mad mad ninja skills or show us his gun and knife collection in the glove box or anything. He did mention that he'd love to go to Disneyland, though. Which isn't something that someone usually says if they are a badass Mexican version of Chuck Norris or something. I don't picture a professional ass-kicker saying "I love Disney characters!" Actually, I really saw no similarities at all between him and Norris except for the fact that they are both short. I'm super positive that I've heard that The Chuckster is quite small. Which kinda makes me think that that whole think about him kicking ass is bullshit and is just some voodoo movie magic. I'm a tall spitfire with a short fuse, and my legs are probably longer than his entire Norris-ness, and I'm fairly confident that no matter what fancy ass moves he came at me with, I could just windmill kick him into oblivion. As least that's the delusion that I'm choosing to go with. 

Obviously my relaxing, peaceful vacation did nothing towards making me more focusey. Thank god. Cuz in case you didn't notice, rambling is my jam.

Anyways...

So we're driving around in total nowhere land when suddenly The Hub noticed an oasis. It was truly a sight so majestic that I thought it was a dream that would disappear when we got closer to it. But it didn't disappear. And for a brief moment I though to myself "what if it's a trap?" Like a siren beckoning me to her bosom with a beautiful song, only to leave me with my head chopped off and organs in a styrofoam cooler? But it was totally real and totally AMAZINGLY PERFECT:

THIS

I know...right??? When The Hub spotted it we told Manuel to make a u-turn and take my sweet, thirsty, travel weary ass back to my Nirvana. I'm pretty sure that this was a sign from The Universe that I was heading in the right direction. And also that I needed alcohol. STAT.

After quenching my thirst we headed on to our final destination, which was at the end of a long dirt road. The gate was made of giant sticks or bamboo or something, and looked like the entrance to Jurassic Park, minus that whole dinosaur's from hell situation. It didn't take me long to realize that this place is now my dream location in the event of a Zombie Apocalypse.

Step one: Kill all the zombie mofo's in between me and Norman Reedus. 
Step Two: Locate Norman and use my feminine wiles to make him mine. 
Step 3: Go to there. 

Not only was this place beautiful beyond belief, but it had gates, fences, lagoons (aka, moats), multiple towers to view your surroundings, fruit and veggie orchards, chickens, cows, lambs, donkeys, and beach and ocean along one side. If the ZA were to hit and you ended up here, you'd probably be so mega excited about the apocalypse that you'd be hi-fiving everyone about it, cuz aside from the whole keeping the undead hordes who wanna eat your flesh away from you thing, life would be pretty amazingly awesome. 

Just so you can get a lay of the land that is gonna save our asses. Study this and save a copy so you can help me set up our camp.

As an added zombie-free compound bonus, the lagoons and ocean in this place are deadly or something, cuz you have to sign a waiver saying that if you get into them and die, it's your own damn fault cuz you're an idiot and they told you not to. So that whole thing in that one zombie movie where the zombies were walking along the ocean floor like "la de da de da da I'm aqua zombie and I don't have a care in the world besides eatin' me up some brains?" It wouldn't work in my zombiepocalypse paradise. Nope. The ocean is too open and rough and they'd just keep on getting undertowed back out into oblivion. And the lagoons have crocodiles and I'm pretty sure piranha and miscellaneous unidentified aqua monsters, cuz you aren't allowed to swim in there either. Zombiepocalypse paradise: Win.

And by the way...I was telling The Hub's parents about how we were planning all the ways that this resort could be used in the zombie apocalypse and The Hub said "And by 'we were planning all the ways' she means that she was incessantly talking on and on about it while I was just nodding my head the way I usually do when she's on one of those tangents."

So he's probably not gonna be invited to keep his brains un-eaten and his bod tan.

One morning The Hub wanted us to go on a lovely kayak trip around the lagoon, which I hesitantly agreed to. In Hawaii I flew over volcanoes and ocean on what was basically a tricycle with wings. In Belize I jumped off of a boat way out in the ocean into water full of sharks and stingrays. And on previous trips to Mexico I've zip lined off the side of cliffs and let a murderous monkey sit on my shoulder before attempting to pull my hair out by the roots. But this lagoon/kayak/crocodile situation had me all kinds of twisted up. It started out ok. The Hub was doing all the paddle work and I was chillin'. But then he decided to leave the open water and head into the reeds. In case you aren't rockin' the ocean swampy lingo like I am, the reeds are where the crocodile gangs hang out and wait to make you their bitch. It's like human gangs and their dark alleyways. But instead of switchblades and snapping and singing about being a Jet, they just knock your wussy boat over and eat your ass. When the hyperventilating started, The Hub took my back to shore, and even though I gave him a recap of the documentary about Gustave The Killer Crocodile that I saw on the National Geographic Channel, Mr. Bravey Pants continued the death journey on his own, while I went to lay on the beach, drink a margarita, and plan out how I was gonna buy this entire property offa the life insurance money I was about to get.

Well, miraculously, The Hub survived. That dude is one lucky bastard. I'm assuming that his survival is only due to the fact that the crocs could see that I wasn't with him and they didn't give 2 craps about getting all murdery up on him without me there as the main course. And since I willingly got outta the boat, I saved The Hub's life. 

You're welcome, Hub.

This place was an eco resort and had no electricity and was like fancy camping. They lit torches and candles at night, which came early and because of some New Moon situation. No, Twihard freaks. Not the movie about sparkly vampires. Everyone knows that mexico doesn't have vampires, they have chupacabras. DUH! I'm talking about the actual moon. There was absolutely no moon while we were there. You know what happens when there is no lights and no moon? It gets dark. Really, really dark. And it gets dark early, like 6 PM. And dinner is at 8. On the other side of the lagoon. Which you go across in a rowboat. In the pitch black night. While crocodiles lie in wait for you to fall out on the return trip after dinner and mucho margaritas and beers. And THAT, my friends, is the only thing that kept me sober on this trip. The thought of marinating myself in alcohol only to become a tasty treat for an alcoholic croc. And it was really really hard, cuz there was an employee there named Diego who made THE MOST AMAZING margaritas that we had ever tasted. We re-named it The Diegorita, and he needs to bottle it and become a bazillionaire, buy the resort, and let me stay for free.

One of the missions of this resort/wildlife sanctuary, is to protect sea turtles. I had my fingers crossed for days that some turtle eggs would hatch while I was there so that I could release them. For years I've seen photos and videos of people doing this, and ever since I was a little girl I have loved turtles and I was that freak who will get out of a car to carry a wayward turtle across the road, so the idea of getting to release new babies to the sea was making me a happy camper. One day at lunch the manager found me to let me know that they had a few hundred turtles that were ready to roll and that they would be on the beach that afternoon if I wanted to participate. Oh. Hells. Yeah. 

The Hub and I stayed on the beach all day, and I was impatiently waiting for them to show up with the turtles. Finally, they came and brought these:

Little baby turtle wants a hi-five

I really wanted to do this right, so for once I took things seriously and listened to the directions and rules and did everything exactly as I was told. Umm...yeah. I freaking know. That is totally messed up. But I was all about being the best turtle releaser EVER. They made a line in the sand and we had to let the turtles go behind the line so that they could find their own way to the water, so the location would imprint on them and they could come back in 12 years to lay their own eggs in the same place. MAGICAL, right? I was as happy as I'd ever been. I felt like I was a part of something amazing, and watching these adorable little turtles make their way to the water was making me super excited and smiley. 

Run, Forrest, Run!

I felt like I should write a children's book. What a beautiful story this could be! The turtles are saved from the egg stealing a-holes by wonderful research scientists dedicated to their survival, then after they are hatched they're set free by me! Mom-Brain: Freer of Turtles! Then they go on to live happy lives in the ocean and raise families of their own, each one naming their first born after me.

Then it happened.

Once most of the turtles had made their way to the ocean, the other people lost interest and wandered off to drink their wine, which pissed me off because (a) our turtle mission was incomplete, and (b) who drinks wine on the beach? It's beer and Diegorita's, people. I mean, seriously. But Mom-Brain: Freer of Turtles was still there, and I wasn't leaving until I was sure that each and every turtle had made it off the beach. Then, just as it looked like things were clearing out, I looked down the beach and saw something. At first I couldn't figure out what it was, but then I realized that it was turtles that had made it into the water, then were washed back onto shore farther down. And then I saw something else. Something much bigger than the turtles. Lots of somethings much bigger than the turtles. I started to walk down there and as I got closer I realized that they were crabs. Giant, asshole, douchebag, bastard-face crabs. And they were taking my turtles! So I ran down there and shooed those mofos away from my babies and then I saw it: Holes in the sand with little turtle butts and legs sticking out. The crab bastards were eating my babies! Head first! I was horrified, but there was nothing I could do. I am not trained in emergency turtle trauma, although if you ask me, if you're gonna run this kinda operation then you should have a MASH unit set up for this kind of catastrophe. Or you should warn your turtle releasers beforehand that after witnessing something amazingly beautiful, they will most-likely witness a mass murder and be scarred for life. I stayed on the beach to guard the turtles and cuss out the crabs until the last turtle made it into the water. That night I had nightmares about those crabs, and for the remainder of my trip, every time I saw one I told him what a piece of shit he was. I totally get why people eat them. Personally, I think they taste gross, but I might start eating them anyways just to show them who's boss. And every time I crack one open I'll say "This is for the turtle babies, muthafucka."

Basically, I'm gonna scratch that whole idea of the children's story about the turtles. Unless you wanna read your kids a bedtime story about a cute little turtle getting his brains eaten by a f@ckface crab. If you do, I'll call Random House. I'm sure they'll give me a deal faster than you can say "years and years of therapy".

It's interesting that one of my first thoughts when I saw this resort was "This is the perfect Fortress to protect us from brain-eating dead people," and one of my last experiences there was watching giant (zombie?) crabs eat baby turtle brains. Ah, Universe...thou art a hilarious a-hole.

At least I got to see this little cutie pie and since I didn't witness her getting her head eaten off, she made me forget my trauma just a little bit:

Ain't no way in hell I'm taking my eyes off you, lady. I know what you're up to.

And then I got to surprise buttsecks some scary dolls:

Nothing like giving it to a bunch of paper mache dolls to make you forget about turtle murder. Remember those words of advice. They could come in handy some day. Or not. Probably totally not. 

Me and The Hub. With Diegorita smiles.

P.S. When The Hub showed a tv slideshow of our photos to his parents, he purposely deleted the doll buttsecks one in order to shield them from his inappropriate wife (ahem...losing battle). So in-laws, if you're reading this, THIS is the kinda thing I really do on vacation. Or when I go to Target. Or for a walk. Whenever.

For once I'm glad that The Hub never bought me a finger monkey, cuz if he did, this puppy woulda eaten it by now.

Please hurry and take the damn photo so I can eat these glasses.

I am currently puppy sitting.

Puppy sitting is really a whole lot like babysitting. They lick you, chew on you, there are poop and pee situations, they smell good yet bad all at once, they freak out for no reason, and they make lots of noise. The main differences between the two are the hair (if your baby is as hairy as a puppy then you have genetic issues that might need some looking into), and the fact that you can leave a puppy home alone, but if you leave a baby home alone, it's sorta frowned upon. So thank god this is a puppy and not a baby, cuz I can't possibly stay home all day. No way no how. I cannot be confined to these 4 walls. I have places to go and people to see. This crazy bird has got to fly free. And by the way, I have more than 4 walls. I have, like, eleventy something. Or something. I'm not gonna count them for you guys, because that's math, and math can suck my balls. But I do have more than 4. Who the hell has 4 walls? Even back in the Little House on the Prairie times the Ingalls family had more than 4. They even had a loft. With a ladder. And a pretty sweet ass barn. At least until that jackass Mary burned it down.

Regardless of the fact that I can leave the house sans puppy, I am still feeling a bit tied down. I can close her up in the office when I go out, but I have to be home within a couple of hours before she poops on something, eats something she shouldn't, or logs into my Facebook account and posts mean things about cats or something. Which would be mega clever of her because nobody would be the wiser since I do that too. Smooth, puppy. Smooth. I can also crate her, but then I end up feeling guilty. Like I'm some a-hole puppy veal farmer or something.

The Puppy eats everything. It makes me feel like I have a toddler in the house again, because when The Boy was a toddler, HE ate everything. You couldn't turn your back for a second or he'd be chowing down on a throw rug or a table leg. Every single photo we have of him from birth to age 4, his entire shirt is covered in drool because of the chewing of all of the things. In 5 days time, The Puppy has already been caught eating 3 of my shoes, my expensive neck thingy from Relax the Back, multiple dryer sheets and tissues, a pencil, her leash, dried up leaves, mulch, a baseboard (she removed it from the wall and ate it on my bedroom floor), and Soft Blue Esquire. Yes. My blankie. And I think I have PTSD now after witnessing that whole situation. I'm still having flashbacks and waking up in a cold sweat, clutching onto Soft Blue like Rose clutched onto Jack until her selfish ass fell asleep and he died.

Dear Rose,

If I can fight a vicious canine to save the life of my blankie, you can sure as heck keep your privileged ass awake and share your floating door with the dude who saved your life.

xoxo
Patti

And to tell you the truth, I'm still in shock that The Puppy survived after eating one of The Boy's socks. I shudder at the thought of what kinda funk his socks -THE SOCKS HE WORE IN GYM CLASS- have embedded in them. If she doesn't either die or turn into some kind of mega comic book superhero dog after eating that business, I will be in shock. Forget about radioactive spider bites and accidents at nuclear power plants. We're talking about tubes of absorbent cotton that were on an 11-year-old boy's disgusting feet all day.

The Boy covered in slobber and the remnants of a pile of dirt he ate.

The Cat has about had it too. I know I talk about what an ass pain our feline is, but that girl is chill. Sure, she talks a lot. But so do I. She is like the kitty cat version of me, combined with the kitty cat version of Hyde from That 70's Show. Whatever will be will be. She's easy going as hell. Ya know how I go to my Pattitopia when something unpleasant is happening around me? She goes to her Catitopia. Her eyes glaze over and you can see her leaving her body to go run free in a field of catnip and Fancy Feast Tuna Feast. In the past few days, The Cat has been cowabunga jumped on, knocked over, chewed on, pushed off of furniture, licked, tripped, barked at, and nearly butt raped. The Cat will honestly put up with anything. But last night she had finally had her fill and she was possessed by a kitty demon. Her ears laid back, she growled, and she went total badass Mohammed Ali on The Puppy's face. It was like an interspecies Fight Club and she was Tyler Durden and The Puppy was some drunk ass hobo she found in the alley. I had hoped that the repeated face punching would at least make some impact on The Puppy, but since The Cat has no claws I guess it just wasn't a memorable ass whooping. This morning she was pissing The Cat off yet again, and I am thisclose to duct taping some toothpicks onto The Cat's paws so she can kick some butt.

For a tiny little ball of fluff, this animal also barks a lot. She's like a little cloud floating around the house with thunder sounds coming out of it. And she'll bark outta nowhere at absolutely nothing. She can be in a totally comatose state, when suddenly something invisible pisses her off. Like an a-holey Casper the Ghost who hates dogs. Or a ghost cat, or something. And as you guys know, I scare easily, and I scare a lot. And there is absolutely zero way of preparing oneself for a peacefully sleeping dog to suddenly jump 5 feet in the air and bark so loud that the sound waves actually force urine out of your own pee hole. Zombies I can be on alert for. They make those dumb ass moaning noises and shuffle their feet. Burglars? Yes. They pick locks and break glass and set off alarms. But that outta nowhere, erratic, canine insanity? There is no preparation for that. All you can do is get used to the screaming and pooping of your pants 10 times a day. Sometimes she does actually bark at real things. And by "real" I mean things that I can see but are in no way threats to her or anyone else. Yesterday she stood by our pool and barked at a ball that was floating in the water for approximately 2 hours. Then when she came inside, she barked at The Boy's backpack for 30 minutes. Then last night she decided that the Halloween candy bowl was her arch enemy, and barked and growled at that for awhile. I had to put it in the closet in between doorbell rings. I was about to go all Elaine Bennis on her ass and re-locate her furry butt, but that takes energy. And planning. And driving. And I am far too lazy for all of those things.

And just so you guys don't think I'm an animal hating a-hole, ya gotta remember one thing: I am nothing if not a sucker. After writing all this stuff about The Puppy, she came up and starting barking at me, like she KNEW I was talking shit about her. And I picked her up and starting talking to her in an embarrassingly pathetic baby talk voice. I said "You're soooo fluffy and cuddly and snuggly and I would totally eat you but you're so furry that if I ate you it would clog up my throat and I'd have to drink a case of beer just to push all the fur down and then I'd be drunk and I'd vomit all the fur back up and it would be the worlds biggest beeriest hairball ever, so I am not going to eat you, but you are soooo fluffy!"

That's honestly exactly what I said.
I know. I have issues.

And just now The Dog finished drinking her water and then walked out of the room carrying the empty bowl, sat it down on the hall rug, picked up some mulch that she carried in from the yard earlier, put them in the bowl, then picked up the bowl again and took it to the living room. There is definitely a variety of odd noises coming from that direction, but I'm kinda at the point where I don't even want details. Every time I enter a room there is a new surprise waiting for me. And not the balloons and 4 foot, million dollar check kinda surprise. It's more like the Jerry Springer paternity test "You are not the father" kind. The discoveries are never, ever good. But let's face it, even if I did get a giant check and balloons, she'd eat them before I got to them. And that's a disappointment that I just can't take. I'd rather watch a dog poop out a baseboard than a pile of paper bits that used to be a million bucks.