It's a nice day for... Walt's wedding

Mack is buddies with this guy Walt, a super nice but quiet guy with a decoratively checkered past who says "Oh, snap" just the way it ought to be said.

Well, this weekend Walt married Joni at Lake Cumberland and I got to meet all of Mr. T's friends, including the ones he lived with that one time he pooped in the corner.
Do you see how remarkable it is that these people were still excited to see him despite knowing of his pooping episode? That is true friendship.
The groom's cake was a robot. Complete with treads and grippy pinchers. I've seen cakes for certain sports teams, cakes with poker cards, even an X-wing Fighter cake, but I'd never seen a robot cake so I asked Mack to explain the symbolism.
"Walt's a robot," was his response.

It was then that I started to discover this inside joke threaded throughout the event. They had some CDs as wedding favors, and several people were asked to suggest a song for the collection. Among those songs featured: Mr. Roboto, Robots and Build the Robots. Also Stanky Leg, but I'm not privy to that joke and not entirely sure I want to be.

After the wedding and reception, we were hanging out at a cabin with some of his other pals and I got to asking how people met Walt. Some people worked with him, some people knew him through other people, but when I asked Brad about it, he looked at me very sternly and said, "I built Walt in the 3rd grade."

All of Mack's friends were a pleasant surprise. I genuinely had a ton of fun getting to know them, from the people who sat at the reception table with us to the people partying at the cabin at 3 am. I don't mind meeting new people at weddings, but rarely do I ever party with strangers after the main event.

But then again, rarely do wedding guests have a hearse that they let me drive.

What they mean by belated

We have a spring festival of birthdays in my family. It starts in April and it goes through June, and the only people not covered by it are Betsy and Mack. Shan's birthday, which was Saturday, officially brought Birthday Season 2009 to a close, meaning that most of us are officially older and wiser.

Hee hee.

The biggest birthday we had this year was my mom's. She turned the big 50, and as a surprise, Shan and I redid her office so that it was more organized and showed off her little bits of inspiration in a better light. Not that anything is wrong with taped up post-it notes, but she deserves better.

Mom's reaction was so cute it got me all gangbusters for surprises, so I decided we should throw a surprise 50th birthday party. In three days.

We called our aunts and the friends we knew how to get ahold of, devised sneaky plotlines like a 400-mile yardsale, concocted an immediate need for a pedicure, and finally, on her 50th birthday, we surprised her.

It was a blast. We all told stories about her, and I got to learn a lot about my mom as she is as a friend and a sister. We were going to roast her but that's a little hard when you've got nothing bad on a person, so instead we just told our favorite stories and relived old memories.

And we ate decadent cupcakes.

As part of the kickoff, I put together this little video slideshow, and I'm putting it here now mostly so Shan can see it and so I can keep track of it. Better late than never, eh?

Soul Hide & Seek

Yesterday was just one of those days.

I was as bored as a human being could get, bored as most schoolkids will be in the next two weeks. I tried everything to stave it off -- hanging artwork, sweeping the floor, doing the laundry, washing the dishes --but for some reason I made it through all of those tasks before 2.

I haven't felt this way since summers in middle school. Which means I need to get going with something. At this point, anything.

The trouble is, I have toooooo many options. I can do the job I was trained to do, the version I've been doing for the last decade, or I can do something brand new. Something where the industry isn't collapsing under itself. Something skill based and exciting and valuable.

Fortunately, I am smart enough that I really do believe I could do anything if given a couple weeks to get the hang of it. If all I did for 40 hours a week was practice brain surgery, I could probably learn how to do it. But it's this competency that's got me completely stuck.

Being ablt to do anything I want has completely overwhelmed me and sucked the directional wind right out of me.

I have an OCD knack for organization that, when coupled with an inability to leave things undone, could set me up to be a successful personal organizer. I could apprentice a professional, learn the trade, and then market myself and launch a career in organizing. And it's gross that I like organizing, but I do and I'm really good at it, so this could be a quick and easy gig for me.

I also love photography and could return to photographing weddings and engagements and births. I mean, I like photographing staged crime scenes and naked ladies too, but when it comes to making money for photography, there's nothing quite like being a central part of the most important events of people's lives. Being a photographer at weddings and births is like winning front row seats to a Happiness Parade. But since my camera was snatched, I'm sort of in limbo with pursuing that and I feel like I need some better gear to really capture the potential I see in my head.

The creativity that comes with photography and the attention to details that comes with organizing could also be parlayed into a career as an event planner. I love, love, love parties, especially those with themes and interesting menus and understated activities. And I love bringing people together to share experiences. But does my annual kick ass drunk fest Halloween party qualify me to be an event planner? Do people really pay other people to plan events for them?

I'm also thinking about nursing, which would require me to go back to school. I like the hours and the pay and the international need and that it's skill based and patient forward, but I worked at an old folks home for 11 days and had to quit or shoot myself in the face before I hit age 50. I just couldn't stand the depression that comes with caring for other people -- the happy 100-year-old who was full of life one day and then getting her leg amputated the next or the 700-pound 30-year-old who couldn't leave her bed. My mother-in-law is an amazing nurse, and at points in her career she's kept a heart beating with her bare hands, worked as an educator training other nurses and managed an emergency room in Los Angeles, where the nutjobs go to die. Also, she makes bank and you can be a traveling nurse and make bonus bank. And when Mr. T is a doctor, it'd be nice to work at the hospital with him to keep all those skeevy I-wanna-marry-a-doctor whore nurses at bay. But, there's that whole people gross me out and boogers make me puke kind of thing. Do you get over that?

Back to school sounds kind of awesome. I loved being a student and learning new things and being a part of an intellectually stimulated collection of people. But if not nursing, what else could I do? The thought of getting a Masters in communication makes me want to slit my wrists, and the other academic pursuits I'm interested in -- graphic design or web design -- I can learn through $85 classes at community college. If I go back to school, it won't be until Fall 2010, so oh my god what do I do until then?

I'm not qualified enough to teach fire spinning.

There's no guarantee that I'll be in this position again in my lifetime -- having my bills paid, having all the time in the world -- so I feel like if I want to write something of consequence, now is the time to try it. I'd love to tell stories, to capture the details as brightly as they are in my head, to make minutia matter, but I have zero confidence for actually doing it. If living in Los Angeles taught me anything it's that no one is discovered for their "talent"... some people just work a crapload harder at the things they're interested in. Am I too lazy to be a writer? Probably. I'm also torn between being funny and being bone cuttingly desperate, so my words are having a bit of an identity crisis these days too.

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. What should I do with my life??? What color is this damn parachute I'm wearing?!!

Just Kidding Around

So, I don't have kids. But I do have a nephew and a niece, and during excursions to delight in their perfection, I get a special insight into the minds of children. And their parents.

A couple weekends ago we went to the Renaissance Fare in Eminence, Ky. Before the festival, I only knew Eminence as a place to buy computer desks off Craigslist for my mom. Now I know it has a huge hunk of land used for pretending we're back in time. And it also has Doktor Kaboom.

Doktor Kaboom pairs science with quick wit and a sassy sense of humor. He was using a catapult to launch bananas at a little girl's face and I don't think I've laughed so hard at middle school assembly content in my life. (He's starting a thing called Club Kaboom where you can get science experiments to do with your kids, so sign up and make summer less boring.)

After Doktor Kaboom, my favorite thing was Ben being totally naughty. First I asked him to take a picture and he demonstrated his ability to out-stubborn even the most stubborn of us.

Shortly after the refusal session, he sassed his momma and got put in timeout. On a hay bale. Next to performing horses. Where he had no problem talking to himself and enjoying his time alone in his own head. Our next little outing was this past weekend to meet Thomas the Tank Engine. Thomas is a sensitive issue around Ben. When he was first introduced to Thomas, he loved him, but then his evil parents took Thomas away and traumatized their little boy for life. Now when he watches Thomas DVDs he gets very upset when they're over and is worried that Thomas is, once again, taken away. I, for one, don't get the attraction. I think Thomas is sort of a prick. He's very competitive, very self-righteous, and prone to depression. He's probably the wrong train to run around with, but for whatever reason, Ben adores Thomas and all of his friends.

The Kentucky Railway Museum decided to capitalize on this little boy fondness and throw a full fledged Thomas event, and my mom and dad, Ben's Gigi and Dude, bought tickets for Ben and those of us lucky enough to watch this little dream come true. The museum had photos with Thomas, a Thomas gift shop, Thomas storytelling and video viewing stations, a chance to meet Sir Topham Hatt, and Thomas tattoos. Then you got to get on Thomas the train and ride through the Kentucky countryside for about 15 minutes before heading back the way you came.The train ride was better than 90 minutes of therapy, but the other stuff sort of brought out the worst in parents and kids. Not Ben's parent or Ben, but all of those other people.

I saw a dad holding his 8-year-old son like you'd hold a 1-year-old while the boy cried like a baby because he didn't get to get his tattoo first. His legs were so long they dangled past the dad's knees and yet he was still acting like a baby. Come on Dad.

And then there were the moms who were soooooo bitchy about getting their kid to take a picture. I want good photos as much as the next person, but yelling at your kid to smile at daddy and then reaching up and scratching debris off his face isn't going to get him to smile. Let the kid be. He's meeting Thomas, for god's sake... He'll smile eventually.

The worst part was when it was time to go all aboard. I don't know why parents use their kids as cattle prods when in large groups, but seriously, Parents, when you are shoving other people to get a good seat/get on the ride faster/get in front, you are teaching your kid how to be an impatient bastard. Please, don't.

While everyone else seemed to struggle with finding their manners, Ben was an absolute angel. Not one meltdown or whining because he wanted something. Not one aggressive act toward the boys who stole the train pieces he was playing with. Not one missed please or thank you. He is a shockingly good boy. And if any of those jerky kids ruin him, I swear...

Comedians of Comedic Comedy Genius

Recently, through the amazing stumbly power of streaming Netflix and the magic of Tivo, we watched a little documentary called Comedians of Comedy. It follows a handful of comedians around on tour and captures them on stage and eating breakfast, doing their acts and living their lives. Both versions are equally hilarious.

One of the comedians is one of those genius nutcases who will probably drink himself to death or need to be committed before it's all over. His name is Zach Galifianakis, and he is freaking insane... in the good way.

Here's a clip from the documentary that officially made me laugh my ass off.


And here's some of his work on the piano, where he does his best crazy.



And finally, here's just something that's amazing.


Check out more of Zack's funnies at Funny or Die or on the show Comedians of Comedy on VH1. Who knew there was a show???

On eating your fruits and vegetables.

I went to the grocery store the other day for the second time since moving back to Kentucky, and my god people.

We are two for two for the cashier/bagger remarking on how healthy we eat. Every time they mention it I look down and think, What? You see those powdered donuts there, right? And you rang up the beer, right? And those three bags of chips, you got those? And that Nestle Crunch that I just put in my purse that you handed me?

I think they think we're healthy eaters because we buy fruits and vegetables. Several varieties of fruits and vegetables. Fruits and vegetables that are apparently too exotic to be brought up during cashier training sessions. Fruits and vegetables like eggplant and grapefruit.

I'm not kidding. My last cashier had to ask me what type of orange my grapefruit was.

We try to be healthy eaters. We don't eat meat so we spend that money in the produce department. I try to buy lower fat or higher fiber versions of things as long as they're not overly processed. We read labels and won't buy anything that has trans fats except tortillas because we can't find flour tortillas anywhere that don't have trans fats. We try not to buy things with high fructose corn syrup listed in the first three ingredients. We care about how we feel now and how we'll feel in 20 years, assuming that bus doesn't come along and kill us today, so this little extra effort is important to us.

But are we so consumed with healthy foods that we are exceptional and remarkable? Should our purchases be so out of the ordinary that the cashier makes a comment about them? Are the powdered donuts that are an occasional treat for us a staple for others? If so, America, we have a problem.

Adventures of Milo, the Curious Kitten Cat who's Lazy & Sweet

Jen & Mike went to Hawaii and since Jen's other cat, Sophie, turned into a terrorist after moving in with her mom, Milo couldn't stay there. Rather than have Jen pay a kennel $20 a day, I told her to bring Milo over here and promised her we wouldn't lose him like we lost my mom and dad's cats that one time.

The first day Milo paced from room to room, probably looking for his mom. His favorite spot was under the sofa in the study, but every now and then he'd come out of hiding, tell us like it is, and then retreat.

I guess under the sofa just stopped being interesting to him because on the second day, he decided to spend some time with us in the living room. Well, maybe not with us, but at least in the same room with us. He crawled his manly kitten body up on my knitting basket and has spent a couple of hours every day since laying there.
It is very cute when he's up there, especially because his body is a little too big for the basket lid so sometimes he has to dip his head into one of the side compartments (which, since my knitting basket is actually a picnic basket, is usually where the wine goes).
On Day 3, Milo was starting to warm up to us. We felt like we had a good sense of his personality at this point, so I asked Mack what type of job he thought Milo would do if he worked. I was thinking something like interior design, but Mack felt he was better suited for massage therapy.

He found a new spot on a shelf in the coffee table and was content to lounge around in there while keeping an eye on us. Sometimes he would even let us rest a toe on him but only if we were very still and he was very tired.
After those first few days, Milo became a bonafide member of the family. The sweetest, funniest, softest, most wonderful member of the family. And while I know that his mom is going to swoop down and rip us apart in just a few days, I'm coping by looking for pet-friendly plane tickets to Mexico with Milo.
This is how life is with Milo now.

He comes in and walks on us at around 10 a.m. instead of coming in and meowing at us at 6 a.m. like he did those first couple of days. At around 10:30 I wake up and give him food, water, his pill, and lots of pets. Our early morning affection session has become one of my favorite parts of the day. The little big kitten is such a lover, and he likes to be held like a baby and nuzzle noses and just be a lump of special. Then while I get dressed, he talks to me, telling me about all the things he thinks live in the fireplace and explaining that he's been staring at that spot on the wall because it's where the creepies come in.
We go about our day, and while I'm in my office, he'll come in and sit on the back of my chair. Then he'll lay under Mack's computer chair and wrestle with his feet. Then we'll give him some fish and watch him go fish crazy. I think he prefers tuna to cod... at least I prefer tuna fish crazy to cod fish crazy.

At night, when we curl up on the sofa to watch Daisy of Love or Burn Notice, he settles in next to us, sometimes taking up most of the couch and sometimes making a nest out of our bodies.
Last night while he was sitting on top of some pillows, he took a gentle bite of my hand and slept with it in his mouth for probably 15 minutes. When it fell out, he re-bit it and did the same thing all over again. And then I took a look at his little finger and thought, "Damn, how did I get there?"

Happily Ever After

Once upon a time a darling young accountant named Jen met a wild party animal named Mike through some mutual friends at a dinner party. Jen was in the final phases of chemo for a condition called CLL, and while she'd always been a social butterfly, she was more focused on getting better than she was falling in love.

But that's the way love is. It smacks you upside the head and turns you silly in the course of a single game of flip cup, and the next thing you know you've made an appointment to spend a Saturday morning looking like this while going to get fake eyelashes.
I spent Jen's wedding weekend enjoying dainty tea parties, jubilant rehearsal dinners, chronic smiles and a serious case of flailing white girl arm during an open bar reception. And even though I would have preferred not to sob into a bouquet of flowers as Jen made her way down the aisle, I was thrilled to see one of the people I love the most in the world find her number one.

photo by Clay "The Man" Jackson

Jen and Mike turned lovestruck into something beautiful and timeless. Congratulations to both of you and I wish you all the joy and happiness you deserve.

Let's talk about the weather. And fatherloss.

My dad is in Iraq and has been for about the last four years. This is my real dad, not to be confused with my dad Steve.

Pretty much everyone I know knows Steve as my dad, but there is this other guy named Greg who is also my dad. Well, my dad insomuch as annual phone calls and once-per-decade reunions make him a "dad." I sort of think of him as this distant uncle it's great to see whenever possible, but as I've become an adult who can barely fit in time to text her closest friends, I get that some relationships are better when there's no obligation behind them.

I don't think most of my friends have ever met my real dad. Heather met him when she went on a weekend visit with me when we were 11, and Liz met him in 2003 at my cousin's wedding. I remember giving him a hug and then Liz saying, "Who is that guy?" And I was like, "My dad, duh. You mean, I've known you for 13 years and you've never met or seen a picture of my dad? Really?"

There aren't too many pictures of my dad. I have one of him when he became a Marine and there are a few of him from when he and my mom were together. The most recent ones I have of him are from my Grandpa's funeral more than a decade ago. Recently, though, he emailed a few photos of the weather in Iraq, and while the sand storm is mind blowing, I really can't wrap my head around how gray his mustache has gotten in the last 6 years.

My dad is the one who can't put his arms flat against his sides, which is a trait Mack shares. And now I'm going to barf up some Freud.

My dad is going through a divorce, leaving the woman who put a lot of strain on his relationship with us. He definitely deserves most of the blame, since the man I remember does what he wants without much regard for other people, but this woman is psychologically stunted and acted like a bigger baby than any of us kids.

Since he's losing her as his family, he has been trying to reconnect with Leiah and I in the last year or so. Leiah is obviously more guarded about letting him in, understandably. She was just a baby when my mom and Greg split up, so she didn't get a chance to really remember him being in her life. I, on the other hand, formed my earliest memories while we were still a family unit.

I remember him playing Bear with Shannon and I, him tucking me in at night, him making breakfast on Saturday mornings, him working on the car while I cleaned his tools, him flashing his belt as a warning that if we didn't chill out he was going to whip us, him throwing a glass of iced tea at my mom's head, him drop kicking our new puppy for having an accident and him explaining to me what divorce was and why my mom was getting one. I remember the good and the bad, so while of course I would have preferred to have my parents together, I'm glad I took a whole picture of him with me when they split up. Leiah was only able to take that image of a hero dad, the one that little girls are promised but few really ever get.

I'm not sure what our relationship will look like in the coming years. I'm not sure that he'll ever meet my husband or my in-laws or my closest friends, or if he even wants to. I really have no expectations, but even if we're just talking about the weather, it's good to know he's alive.

Mansion, Sweet Mansion

I've been meaning to post this for, oh, I don't know, 14 days and 3 hours, but when I remembered to take pictures it was too dark or the hurricane of life had left a mark that only real live visitors are allowed to see. But this morning, while everyone else enjoyed a Memorial Day holiday, I decided to cut the crap and finally, FINALLY write about our new apartment.

Which is about a third of what we paid for our shack in Venice and about 300 times nicer and bigger. I mean, I have two! closets, one of them that has a special little nook that I've claimed as my "office." Where I do important "work." Like check account balances and email recipes to my mom.
At first I suggested Mack use it as an office, but he was all, "I'll feel too claustrophobic, cramped and alienated." Apparently those feelings turn into "jealous" when you see just how good of an idea it really was. Mack has been relegated to a corner in the "study," but in reality, he sort of gets the entire study as long as no one is spending the night. He's got his piano in there, thanks to Mike, and all of his guitars and his computer.
Speaking of Mack, where is he at 12pm on a weekday? In our bedroom of course. Because he sleeps so late and I wake up so early (10 am), we NEVER make our bed, even though our bedding is cute and our room looks way better made up. Just trust me on that.
Probably my favorite room in the whole house is our living room. It has a built in bookcase that makes the weird junk I've accumulated and really like having around feel like it belongs. It also has a non-working fireplace that is perfect for that candelabra I got at the Salvation Army as a Halloween decoration last year.

The kitchen is the worst of the rooms, but it has a washer and dryer which is a luxury we've lived without for two years. When we very first saw the place, this was the room we walked into, dripping wet and having not slept for two days. We hadn't officially leased the place, but I was so tired of being in limbo and hauling a moving truck full of our junk around, I probably would have moved into a cardboard box at that point. That this place had miniature appliances and zero counter space is something I decided to look at as charming. And thanks to my parents and Ikea, we got a much needed kitchen cart which drastically improved our cooking quality of life.
We're a couple doors down from a delicious coffee shop, two blocks from my favorite boutique and one of my favorite restaurants, three blocks from an enormous park, and a 10-minute walk to the public library. The only thing we don't have is the beach, but since we are now eligible for stop by visits from people we love, we're coping alright.

3 to the 1

For my 31st birthday (a little aside: when I was 11 I really thought I'd have my shit waaayyyy more together at 31 than I actually do), we had a little vegetarian cookout with family and friends. It wasn't the craziest birthday I've ever had or the most memorable, but it was definitely one of the most special so far.

It's been a while since I've had my people around on my birthday, and to have so many of them, some I hadn't seen in years, crammed into our tiny kitchen and singing happy birthday, well, it just makes me teary to think about it. I think some people call this feeling gratitude, but since I'm made of spikes and nails and iron, I'm going to call it awesomeness.

My friend Nash was there with a gigantic fisheye lens and he caught the moment I was aglow with feeling that awesomeness. If 31 was this good, I can't wait to see what you people make 40 feel like.

Criss Cross Country

Three years ago, we loaded up the truck and we moved to Beverly... Well, the West Side of Los Angeles anyway.
Last week, we loaded up the truck and headed back to be with ya'll hillbillies again.In case you ever wanted to know what driving 2,169 miles non-stop across the country with a freak husband who refuses to stop even though you're both hallucinating shadow people running across the road looks like, I give you this little film, made possible by iPhone and boredom and sleeplessness. Sorry in advance for the bugs (and to the bugs) on the windshield.

* Song is "I feel it all" by Feist.

Cancun: It's like America and Mexico had a baby.

After spending 6 days in Cuba, being to Cancun was like being half asleep. I didn't realize how exhausted we were from being a part of the buzz that is Havana until we were in a place that's basically peace and quiet. Which is to say, a much needed vacation at the end of our vacation.

The first thing we did, after eating chilaquiles and drinking beer, was take a 4-hour nap. Then we went to Wal-mart and bought sunscreen and bottled water and snacks. You can't quite understand the joy of seeing Lays potato chips after a week of pondering chicken flavored Cornitos.

Our hotel was in the city part of Cancun as opposed to the beachy, resort part, and I am so glad we stayed in the city. We got to see actual Mexican people and see actual Mexican schools. And we got to give our pesos to actual Mexican businesses. That being said, we couldn't resist being tempted into the Carribean blue water, so we took a ferry to Isla Mujeres to go snorkeling one day.

We were planning to go to a place touted as a "national park" called Garrafon, but that turned out to be a $59 per person amusement park with water at its center. So we walked up the street a bit, stopped in at a cafe for lunch, and discovered a hotel called Garrafon de Castilla where you could pay $5 for the day to snorkel, lounge on the beach and enjoy enormous pina coladas. The actual hotel reminded me of a Corona bottle, and the reef was everything we were looking for.
Having done the beach thing, we decided we should explore some of Mexico's Mayan ruins. There are several close to Cancun, but we settled on Tulum for two reasons: it was the closest one and it was right on the bluff looking over the ocean. We took a bus for about 60 pesos each ($5), and three hours later we were dropped off at a street that reeked of tourist trap. We followed the other white people to a little marketplace and quickly noticed some brightly cloaked men swinging around a pole over our heads. Yes, men swinging around a pole over our heads.
Apparently these are Totonac Indian flyers, aka the original pole dancers, and they preserve an ancient form of worship by putting on a show for tourists and then passing around a hat. They are so in touch with their divinity that they actually say to you, "Is that all? It is for all of us and we are not on salary." (In our defense, we only saw the landing, so we didn't feel we owed a full show's worth of money.)

The ruins were incredible, as ruins tend to be. I love me some ruins. It's so interesting to look at them and see how people used to live, what they were afraid of, how they tried to impress one another. I'm always left thinking we really haven't come that far, especially with regard to our feats of human greatness. I mean, when was the last time anyone put in the time and effort required to build a city out of stone.
While at Tulum I had one of those "Is this really my life?" moments. We walked down the steps along the bluff and were able to swim out into the ocean and look up at the ruins. The water cooled us off just the right amount, and everything was so incredibly beautiful I could hardly believe I was in the center of it. Also, I was able to change into and out of my bathing suit without a towel without flashing any of my private parts, which is fairly mindblowing.
We couldn't take a bus back to Cancun because they'd stopped running, but luckily that gave us the opportunity to be introduced to Colectivos. Colectivos are like church van taxis that cost 35 pesos per person ($3), and they pick people up and drop them off along the side of the road. You pay your money, take one of the 12-14 seats, sit back in the cool air conditioning, and watch a movie starring Bruce Willis. I wish we had Colectivos in the U.S. because I would so take those to Riverbend for concerts or Louisville to see my mom and dad. The Colectivo that picked us up in Tulum ended its route in Playa del Carmen, so before we hopped on another Colectivo to Cancun, we walked around the streets of PdC and ate dinner on the sidewalk of a cute little restaurant right by the beach.

After two days in Cancun, our wanderlust was pretty well satiated (and the swine flu masks were making more frequent appearances), so we hung out around the hotel and checked email. We found out Mack would be going to school at UK for sure, which meant there was a whole new adventure waiting for us when we got home. I bought a return ticket to LA instead of Louisville, and then we decided to catch a real live bull fight.

I regretted not seeing a bull fight in Spain when we traveled there, and even though we're vegetarians, I decided we should see one in Mexico. We took a taxi to the Plaza del Toros, but apparently we were a couple weeks too late. The season had already ended. A guy who we assumed helped train the matadors gave us a little behind the scenes tour, which was probably more fun than the bull fight would have been anyway. When he brought out the training bull, I think I screamed and I know I started to run away.
Cancun was a blast, and I'm glad we got this little bonus vacation. Even if it did mean I'd spend a day of traveling in a face mask and still come down with a fever and respiratory sickness while Mack stayed healthy as a horse.