Carnival Imagination. Are you kidding? Understatement of a lifetime. You can't make this shit up.
My family is very grateful for my lack of Internet access over the past week. Instead of tweeting, I ate. Instead of texting, I slept. Instead of BBMing, I ran. Instead of judging people silently, I judged them aloud. Instead of getting in trouble for judging people aloud, my remarks were validated and appreciated. Ok, that's a lie. I still got in trouble. But there was none of the usual Bonnie telling my parents I tweeted something inappropriate and then me getting yelled at and lectured about my inability to filter and have a soul. The good, the bad and the unfortunate of civilization discontinuity. Whatever. Internet, shminternet. Here are my comments.
In Cozumel, I walk out of a public restroom to find a restaurant employee sitting on the ground near the sinks. Not only is she sitting on the dirty ground, but she is staring into the broken mirror, chewing her nails. Uh. Senora? Please put it away. It, being your teeth. This is a bathroom. And you live in Mexico.
As Bonnie and I make our way to the room, we are met with an obtrusion. Two large obstacles, rather. A couple of young ladies, approximately 17 in age. Questionable BMIs, children's bikinis and cover ups that would make Brigitte Nielson cringe. Stumbling through the stateroom hallways around 2pm, and all they can muster are yelps about "tah mooch tah-killa." Help us.
Have you ever smelled goat vomit? What about dog diarrhea? Fish? Rotten eggs? Old milk? Fountain Dining Hall after 8pm? Ok. Well, have you ever smelled them all at once? I have. His name is Ben. He is our head server.
Molly ordered prime rib. She received the bloody, large intestine of a moose. Don't worry, though. Gravy was complimentary. All is well.
One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor. The woman passed out next to me is dressed just like a whore.
In case anyone wanted to know what "queso" at a Mexican restaurant in the heart of Cozumel is made of, I will tell you. Velveeta. Chilled, congealed Velveeta. Have no fear. Sliced peppers were present. It was very authentic.
If you are shirtless, stumbling, morally cauterized and only capable of yelling out the name that is tattooed on your left bicep, I have news for you. Sir, I am sorry. She isn't lost... she just left. She doesn't love you anymore. Don't be too upset. Her name is Trish. As for the tattoo? I'm afraid you are out luck. You were the one smart enough to get a dolphin tattoo with "Trish" scribbled across its back. Embarrassing body art and animal cruelty? You belong in a cage.
Raleigh? Shelby? Ocean Isle? You are not alone. Apparently running at obscure hours in tall socks and neon doesn't bode well in international waters either. I know. I was shocked too.
People of the boat, this is a cruise ship. This is not a small town Women's Center. You are going to dinner. You are not going to prom. Your forty-two pound dress and nineteen inch hair? Seriously? Neither are warranted. This is not 1983. Please go back to your room and pack. Your time machine awaits.
To the very brave man who thought a wedding proposal on a cruise ship during one of the nightly photography sessions was both romantic and honorable, you were terribly mistaken. Terribly.
If I ask permission to take a picture of you or something in your vicinity, do not be flattered. I am probably making fun of you. I just like to be polite.
You know your family has a lot to talk about when you're guesstimating the cleavage length of women three stories below you.
As I search for the top floor that's not really the top floor, but only sometimes the top floor, I run into a man who is made of blood, fat and domesticated beer. Apparently he owns some company that mass produces petroleum? He told me about his life. He also told me that I had a "great chest." Having seen my own chest before, I can only assume the females that men who own petroleum plants see on a regular basis are either small children that live outside, mildly deformed workers, or their wives whose knees are currently kept company by what was once their own version of a "great chest."
I wanted to go for a run after the gym had closed, therefore I was forced to utilize other sections of the ship. After realizing people don't exactly appreciate a stranger taking laps through their hallway, I tried my luck on the outer decks. What did I see? A woman. But this was no ordinary woman. Passed out on a chair, right arm over her face, left arm hanging limp, and estimated age of around the 53 mark. Bleach blonde and burnt to a crisp, she was all kinds of Linda Bollea. A pretty accurate weight guesser, myself, I'm going to say she was about a 230 pounder. She may or may not have been able to bench press an entire tanning bed. She, at one time, had been wearing a bathing suit. I know this because her bottoms were still on, thanks to one side still being held together by a knot. Just one side, though. Just one. Her top was on the ground beside her. There she lay, 10:37pm, alone. I'm guessing her fun induced blackout occurred around 6:45pm, but don't hold me to that. I am no professional. Approximately 30 minutes later, I made my way to her vicinity again. She was now lying on her side. Close enough, anyway. Oddly enough, she was also wearing her top. There was a full drink on the ground next to her that wasn't there before. Some people would assume she had friends in the near distance looking out for her and making sure she didn't die... or if she did die, she would do so with a drink in immediate reach. However, that is some people. I am not some people. No, I am Stephanie. My only valid conclusion? She is a gypsy.