Thank you E! and THS Investigates: Spring Break, for further solidifying in my mind why my kids will never, ever go on spring break of any kind, anywhere.

Boobs and booze and whipped cream…which is how I remember Spring Break in the old days.

Now it’s all date rape drugs, hood piercings and Mexican kidnappings.

It blows.

So, kiddos, too bad for you, you won’t have the blurry snap shots of a trip to some dirty, urine smelling tourist trap to remind you of a week you clearly don’t remember.

But, I can totally let you share mine, as long as I can pick out the ones that show my nipples, first.

Ahhhh….to be young.

One of the funnest parts about high school was the Spanish Club, which people only joined for two reasons:

1.  You had to have a foreign language to graduate, which was ridiculous, because who really does anything in High School Spanish besides learn how to swear (chingas tu madre), pick a cool Spanish name (Lydia) and eat chips and salsa all day in class.   Which in the end, only fucked me because when I went to college and took the foreign language placement test, I tested so low after four whole years of HS Spanish, they placed me in beginners Portuguese.  Gracias a lot Senior Campesino.

2.  The yearly educational trip to…Cancun.

I mean, it wasn’t officially billed as the Cancun trip, more like a 7 day Mexican Adventure Tour of historical ruins and immersion into Mexican culture, but all that really amounted to was killing time looking at piles of stones, hungover, and being burnt to a crisp in the equator like sun, not drinking the brown water, and trying not to make eye contact with the lepers selling fruit along the side of the road while we all waited patiently to do our 3 days in good ‘ole Merida so we could head off to civilization.  Cancun.

Once we got there, all we did was drink, dress like hookers, and collect neon wrist bracelets from the bars.

Oh, and some people got their hair braided, but corn rows always made me look like a tool.

Looking back, I have no idea why my parents let me go, or why they didn’t punch me in the face when they picked me up from the aeropuerto still drunk and wearing a size XS Hooters Cancun shirt.

Uno más mamá y papá.

My kids are taking American Sign Language in High School.

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