** A special shout-out to MamaJD, who likes it when I post here, and who I may have inadvertently offended when I posted on another blog about Paris Hilton; my comments were not directed at her or others posting on that thread, as was misconstrued by many people, but rather the Schadenfreude of the Hilton escapade, as compared to other national and international events going on that day. She offered some very articulate opinions on Paris and about the usage of the ol’ C-U-Next Tuesday, which I enjoyed reading. MamaJD rocks and is quite possibly the coolest person I’ve never met. Her, and The Queen. I think. And maybe Posh and Becks.
Hola (insert upside down exclamation thingy here), party people. After spending consecutive weekends on the coast of Washington, I followed it up with a weekend at the opposite end of the coastline in Puerto Vallarta with some rowdy Italians (pictured) celebrating two birthdays and a (kind of) surprise 
engagement. Some of you may have read my mother’s entries on her PV trip the weekend BEFORE our familial outing at Kalaloch. I had a completely different experience, I think.
First, a little explanation on the Hijacked title. This trip was mostly partly taken care of by the LOSC Knockouts and Fall Goalkeepers. Originally, it was a trip to Las Vegas to thank me for my year(s) of service coaching them (I really am outstanding enough to warrant this kind of attention by the kids I coach. Did I mention, I love me?). But since most of my lousy, fake friends (Bitter? Table for 1? Bitter?) couldn’t sac up to schedule the trip and the mom organizing the trip was bothering me to schedule the dang thing, I switched it so they would do my airfare to Me-hee-co. It was all done on airline miles, so they weren’t really paying too much for me so I didn’t feel terribly bad doing this. ANYWAY, the dad using his miles to book me was AWESOME enough to book me exit-row aisle seats the entire trip. But when I get on the plane to hit LA, they want me to move because I’m wearing a cast on my arm. The regulations don’t state anything about people with casts, but just say you have to have sufficient mobility (check), strength (check), and dexterity (check) to sit in the exit row. Here’s who they allow to stay: a pregnant mother, a girl who is maybe 15 (the age minimum is 15, but I’m betting she was 13 or 14 and pregnant mommy was lying about her age so she could sit next to her) and weighs MAX 105, and woman who was clearly in her late 60s or early 70s. So folks, were you on that plane to LAX and we were going down in flames, here are your choices for the people that would potentially hold your life in their hands:
On the way back to Portland, the stewardess flight attendant attempted to debate me on the topic, suggesting that the enforcement of the regulations and who sits in those seats is at the discretion of the flight crew. When I pointed out the fact that the door probably weighed more than the Nicole Ritchie look-alike sitting behind me, and that if the crash doesn’t kill granny the subsequent heart attack would, and finally if pregnant mommy is able to get out of her seat and open the door after we go down, how are people going to make it around her as she is supposed to stay there and heard people out the door? Her only reply was "yeah, well it’s still our discretion." I looked at her and told her I was jumping out the big gaping hole in the fuselage.
Moving along. Once in Mexico, we were shuttled south of town to Dreams, an all-inclusive hotel/spa with
their own private beach (pictured). It was quite the deal; for $325, I got a place to stay for 3 nights and All-You-Can-Eat and All-You-Can-Drink access for the duration of our stay. The food was good, they had good alcohol (no bottom shelf brands, here) and they stocked the in-room mini-bar with bottled water and other assorted beverages every morning, and that was free too, plus access to 24-hour room service. I didn’t have to whip out my wallet to pay for food or drink at any point during the trip. And the food was fantastic, too; they have great restaurant selection: seafood, italian, pan-asian, and mexican. There was absolutely no reason for us to leave the grounds, unless we wanted a side excursion. My good friend and roommate for the weekend, Mario, and his buddies went golfing on two of the days. The first course, they said, was a decent course that they enjoyed playing with the notable exception of seeing 8-foot crocodiles in some of the water hazards. They knew they were real when one of them went to play out of the rough near the hazard and the croc sitting there blinked and slithered into the water, becoming invisible to them. The second course they played, they had a good time and played for a gallery of 5-foot iguanas. Mario discovered he is mildly afraid of large lizards that look kind of like dragons.
The rowdy Italians, currently habitating in SoCal, are also avid beach volleyball players. I, on the other hand, am not. Never really got into volleyball. Anyway, they played several spirited games with some locals who worked at the resort, some other guests which included two older gentleman from Canada who were completely hammered at 3:00 in the afternoon when they were playing. One of them fell down, and I was fairly confident that was where he would die of an alcohol/heat-induced heart attack. He made it up though, his team actually won (probably because he spent most of his time on the ground and didn’t contribute to the team action), and he staggered over and sat next to me on my lounge chair underneath one of those thatched grass umbrellas, where we had the following conversation:
Old Sunburned Drunk Guy: "Hey! That wash shum gayhm out there…"
Me: "It certainly was."
OSDG: "Where (pant pant) you from?"
Me: "Oregon"
OSDG: "Oh, we’re from Vancouver, (gasp, wheeze) British Columbia. Complete opposhite end of the world from you. In Canada."
Me: ?
OSDG: "How do you like Florida? (Gurgle, gurlge, pant) Ish it the shame there ash heerre.?"
Me: ? "Um, I don’t live in Florida."
OSDG: "Hey! Hey Bob! (Spits out the water someone has handed him). Thish girl here…she’s from Florida!"
Me: "Not Florida. Oregon."
OSDG: "I mean she livesh in Florida now but ushed to be some plashe elsesh."
Other Drunk Sunburned Guy: "Florida? Really?"
Me: "No, never said Florida. ORE-UH-GUN."
ODSG: "Ish it hot in Florida right nowuh?"
OSDG: "Yeah, I already ashked her that. She shaid it’s really hot Florida."
Me: "Oregon."
I left shortly after that for my room to cool off. 
My arm swelled a little bit in the head and humidity, so the AC helped. This was the view from our rooms. Use of the umbrella’ed spots is also free and they have free towel service, a small food area that serves snacks from Noon ’til 5 pm, and a bar with its’ own roving wait staff. You don’t even have to go into town to purchase trinkets/souvenirs, as they have people who go along the beach selling things you might like. They were very friendly, not pushy, and generally amiable and accommodating enough to find what you were looking for.
So we didn’t go on any excursions. I tried to convince them that we should do the zip lines, but to no avail. All were perfectly content to sit by the ocean and burn/tan, which we did and I was happy to oblige. The weekend was deemed a success for me based solely on the fact that I flew home without a sunburn or hangover.
-PDX Pup
I guess I’ll write about something minor that’s been on my mind, a slight annoyance, like those mosquito bites you get on the back of your hand that don’t seem to go away.
