Top 13 Ways to Ruin Your Vacation

I'm not one to brag, but... I f_cking know HOW to ruin a vacation.

Like a champ.

Like a motherf_ cking champ, you guys.

Like, I can hear the throngs of readers gasping at my mad skills. Practically.

Here, in no particular order, are the top 13 (lucky, right?) ways to ruin your vacation:

1. Spend the 15 preceding days putting in 17-hour days with little-to-no sleep, eating one meal a day, living with severe nausea.
2. Be absolutely too fatigued to be excited/sleep properly/eat/enjoy yourself on the way or once you arrive at your vacation destination.
3. Bring a laptop and Wifi (wireless internet) device.
4. Discover that from ANYWHERE in the resort, you can and DO access internet for free (in your typical-at-home-unhealthy-addiction-to-the-internet fashion). Get sand in your Wifi device.
5. Decide to wash your only pair of pants and hang them outside to dry. See #6. 
6. Leave your hometown when it is experiencing a sunny heat wave. While gone, experience constant cloudy skies and thundershowers at your destination. Ensure you pay too much for the trip AND experience the full rain and humidity.
7. Discover that the 5-star (hahahah! FIVE stars?!? In your dreams, Breezes Grand Negril!) resort is incapable of meeting your allergy/food dietary restriction needs. Discover they expected you to bring your own gluten-free pasta/food. Commence 6 days of hunger pangs between bouts of crippling nausea.
8. Realize that a working telephone is necessary. Then realize your room phone is 97% static, and 3% sassy Jamaican attitude. Refer back to #4, and Skype the shit out of people.
9. Be too sick to your stomach to drink alcohol. At an all inclusive resort. That you paid too much for. While it's raining and you can't lay on the beach. And you are pissed at your travelling companion because they crushed your ego and spirit in a disastrous game of Scrabble a few hours before.
10. Be wholly and completely constipated. I mean 100%. Until the day of departure. Then go to the opposite extreme. EXTREME.
11. Discover far too late that you actually despise rum.
12. Have a long, relaxing, hot shower and unknowingly flood the entire hallway and part of the bedroom floor of your room. Try to call housekeeping, then refer to #8. Following this realization, spend 85 minutes trying to flush out the water into the outdoor hallway with your feet, your travelling companion's feet, one semi-dry towel and one small plastic cup. Fail at this.
13. Oh, and have your house up for sale the whole time. While you are in another country. (Does wonders for the nerves/soul/general feeling of helplessness and detachment). Also replace "people" in #8 with "Realtor".

If you need any additional tips on how to ruin your vacation, ruining a vacation to Jamaica, how to waste a lot of money on vacation, or general stupidity when planning something that should be relaxing and fun - you know who to talk to.

And if you want an even MORE painful version, talk to my husband.

Yup.

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Did You Hear? Apparently I'm Rich...

I know I wow you all with stories of dog doo, my exploits of staying awake past 11pm, and my fear of Walmart employees smoking beside the propane machine, but I have news for you.

Apparently, I am LOADED.

And not loaded off of Skinny Girl Sangria. No, my dear friends, not THAT good kind of loaded.

I mean, I clearly must make huge bank. Be rolling in dough. I think I should be wiping my butt with twoonies. Hell, twenties.

Why, you ask?

Because I can afford THIS:

My sexy thumb, for scale. And I think that is mothereffing barley which has gluten.

What's that you say?

"What's the big deal?"

Well... in my foolish attempt to secure a low-cost meal option at the grocery store, I decided to get the medium size of bean salad. Thinking it was sold by the size (like the horrendous greasy potato wedges I ALSO ate), I picked the middle of the road.

AND WAS HORRIFIED when I saw the label right before I was rung through the cash.

BEANS ARE HEAVY.

I am sure your bowels can agree with me on this one. So when sold by the weight...
 

What, is there Grey Poupon in there or something? WTF?

Seriously? REALLY? For bean salad (with or without a fancy name label)? SERIOUSLY? 

F_ck.


All I could think of was this:




Talk about brilliant marketing. Add some vinegar, olive oil, and salad counter leftovers, and mark the price up TEN TIMES. I assumed once it was scooped and labelled it was mine, so I didn't ask her to put it back.

I even had all the f_cking ingredients at home.You know, except for the effort part.

So don't hate.

Also? Don't order the large unless you are having Cristal champagne and having your driver take you home in your Rolls Royce/Hummer limousine hybrid.

Seriously.

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On the way to the diamond store AKA Cops & your tax dollars at work...

So, in what certainly had nothing to do with the gnawing teeth and bobbing head of a zany puppy for the past year, we took my engagement ring in for it's yearly inspection and cleaning (per their warranty agreement).

Reasonable facsimile-ish.

At said inspection, under the glimmery diamond-shiny pot lighting, at the fancy-pantsy minimalist office space (where I always feel like they are going to launch into an interview and/or interrogation), the man simply hovered his tweezers over one of the side stones in my ring, and that baby wiggled and bobbed much like I did at my bachelorette party.

Wait, not like that. I didn't mean BOBBED like that. I meant, like, stumbled and was all sloppy drunk.

Jeez, you guys and your perverted minds make it really hard to tell a story here. (Stop snickering at "really hard". I mean, seriously? C'mon. Oh stop laughing at the "come" in "come on"! You people are just impossible, really.)

*ahem*
Moving on.

So as the diamondologist/sales guy/Captain Obvious stated, the diamond was loose and it was recommended that we agree to let my baby (the ring, I don't actually have a baby - seriously, dammit, stop it with the sex stuff!) be sent away for repair.

Kind of like Dr. Suess' Grinch. I imagined them "taking it to Santa's workshop" and then never returning it. You know, 'cause if he really returned while hurling himself down a mountain slopeside at high speeds, my luck would result in the ring flying out of the sleigh, right before the avalanche struck.

Okay, what was I talking about again?

What my ring would have looked like with one more solid face-mash from the puppy dog.

Right, so, anyway, ring gets repaired.
My aversion to leaving the house, along with my fear that they wouldn't let me pick up the jewelry without the original buyer with me (aka The New Husband AKA the Former Feyoncé™), TRIPLED with the fact I was worried they would try to charge some crazy fee for repairs, caused me to delay the trip for a few weeks.

So I got over hurtle #1. Made it out of the house, presentable, but with lioness-like hair. Drive my ass all the way in to Mississauga. Pull into the diamond store parking lot... and.. oh f_ck.

TWO COP CARS are parked near the doors.

**PANIC**PANIC**PANIC**PANIC**PANIC**PANIC**PANIC**PANIC**PANIC**

**SOMEONE.BROKE.INTO.THE.SAFE**SOMEONE.BROKE.INTO.THE.SAFE**SOMEONE.BROKE.INTO.THE.SAFE**

**SHOULD'VE.COME.SOONER**DAMN.YOU.ANXIETY!**

Deep breath.

Walk to doors, see cops walking around inside the store with a sales guy. No large vault doors appeared to be open.

The sales guy seemed pretty calm. Happy, even.

My sensory-threat level of DEFCON BAJILLION began to settle.

After I waited about 15 minutes and was finally reunited with my love fancy ring. There were no problems, no fees, no issue. But then, I realized that the police had been called because of a premature alarm of some sort (Stop it! All I said was premature). But, you know, they got there before me.

AND THEY WERE BROWSING THE MOTHEREFFING STORE. The two of them were wandering about with the sales guy, looking at prototype rings. For at least 15 minutes.

Approximation.

And they were still there when I left. Had I not had the most obvious, loud-snapping-when-taking-a-photo-phone, I would have documented that shit for you. They were clearly ON DUTY and IN FULL UNIFORM, just browsing about the diamond store.

Jeez, guys, at least pretend you are inspecting some alarm shit or something.

And you KNOW one of 'em is gonna try to get a "badge"-influenced discount.

So, there you go. My ring wasn't stolen, but I am pretty sure that part of your tax dollars were if you live in Peel Region. You know, inadvertently.


Then again, I could be all wrong.

But that usually never happens.



Happy Friday.
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Honeymoon Travel From Hell - Part 2

Continued from Part One...


So, we arrived at Pearson airport with just enough time for me to find the parking lot washroom. Thank the gods that we got a spot so close or the honeymoon would have started out really shitty. I mean... like, REALLY SHITTY.

We ran through the airport trying to find our check in location. The New Husband had Air Canada "Elite" status, which allowed us into the slightly faster line-up, but behind other "Elite" people. Then, if a "Super Elite" person comes along, they jump the entire line. And they kept coming.

I couldn't hold back the silent tears any more and started to sob in the airport, against my better judgement.

The guy in front of us asked if we were in a hurry, and he let us pass. Thank you Nice Guy.

We then spent another 15-20 minutes trying to check in at the desk, unsure if we were really ON the flight or on stand-by... The Toronto Air Canada employee knew something was amiss in our file, but said we would have to sort it out once we arrived in London.

She somehow cancelled something and then had to place us BACK on the outbound flight. A very stressful 5 minute period of potentially losing seats to other people with higher status on stand-by. (She could have saved us SO MUCH HEADACHE, had she just told us that our new flights didn't connect, but she evidently couldn't be bothered  to take the time to help us...)

We made it through security, with tears streaming down my face (probably looking guilty of something, simply because my anxiety level was so high).

We cleared security and ran towards the gate.

But, we stopped in briefly to the Air Canada Lounge (The New Husband always has access with his Air Canada Elite status), to see if THOSE employees could tell us what our ticket showed, if we still had connecting flights, and what flight we were booked on for the way home, in case that was changed and no one bothered to tell us.

The employees at the desk all made strange faces and pointed to the monitor (that we couldn't see), yet wouldn't take a minute to tell us that part of our flight HAD INDEED been cancelled, and that our connecting flights were scheduled in such a way that they NEVER F_CKING connected.

Thanks Air Canada.

The guy's advice at the desk? "Just try checking in online for your Sri Lankan air flights" with a smirk.

The New Husband tried quickly in the business centre there, but alas, our reservation was not found.

Just fan-f_cking-tastic.

At least we were on the flight to London, right? Yes, that part was good.
Before boarding, I called my mom in tears, not sure if we had connecting flights once we arrived in London.

Extra-super-awesome bonus? Because we were slapped onto this flight last minute, I was screwed for my special meal requirements, AKA, I had nothing to eat. The Air Canada flight attendant said, and I quote:

"I can't afford to just give you it, but you can buy the bean salad I brought with me."

Ummm. No thanks. (I also wondered if she accepted a credit card swipe down her butt for said salad... or if she knew my mom's old saying to "never take bean salad from a stranger??!?").

And longer flights like these don't offer food for sale, so I was royally screwed. And not in the fun honeymoon kind of way. Screwed, stressed and hungry.

So off we went in the skies, not knowing what would await us at Heathrow Airport...



More to follow...

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That Last Post Was About Travel...

Just to clarify; the wedding speeches were awesome. Every single thing that everyone said evoked a laugh or a tear.

My friend, M, started her speech with that "box of chocolates" line, and she did a super-duper-uber-awesome-fantastic job.


I literally posted that last blog entry around the 45-hour mark of our 57 hour journey to get to our honeymoon destination. All international flights were cancelled or changed without our knowing. The airlines screwed us. The travel agency screwed us. Hotels.ca and hotels.com screwed us. Sri Lankan airways totally screwed us, all with a smile on their faces. Luggage was ruined.

Deodorant was forgotten.

Thank goodness for the only 4 uncomfortable hours of sleep in the Yotel single bed pod in London Heathrow airport, or we might have torn each other's head's off.

The Former Feyoncé™ happened to notice something was amiss around 5pm (we were supposed to leave around 11pm). Turns out our flight was gone.

Long story short, we had 10 minutes to pack.
For our honeymoon.
That we didn't pre-pack for.

While freaking out with the phone on speaker-phone mode while the guy at Air Canada tried to confirm whether or not we could even fly out... with an impending flight attendant strike looming that could further screw us if we were to leave a day later.

And had to get our asses to the airport right.then.

Not that I stress out much or anything. (Please note extreme sarcasm font).

We made it.

57.mother-effing.hours.later.

And we are still married, so that says somethin'.


More to come....


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Life is like a box of chocolates...

You seriously, REALLY, and I mean SERIOUSLY never know what you're going to get.

A friend of mine began her speech at the wedding with this line (which was awesome), but I tell ya.

Plan in advance. Double check, triple check, and have someone else do the same, and ultimately you may still end up with a tie-dyed pair of jeans, a crown made of twine and rabbit poop, and potato chips flavoured like "prawn cocktail" (that last one is real).

Anywho, I promise to post more narcissistic wedding photos shortly. Because you all care. I am sure of it.

Anyway, you never know what you're gonna get....


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