‘Cabo’

Okay, so I wasn’t going to blog to all my friends about my recent trip to Cabo, Mexico. I mean, who wants to hear about it, especially if you’re stuck in southeast Idaho or some other frozen northern clime your entire February (and perhaps your January, and March, and April, too, dagnabbit!).

But then … During lunch on the beach one day, mid-vacation, I lifted this thing up out of my seafood soup:

Heads or Tails?

Oh, a little sea creature. How cute! A baby octopus? Or is it a squid? I honestly don’t know. But “Pee-Wee” and three of his relatives were all floating around in my soup. Well now, how often does a person living in Idaho have a chance to eat fresh exotic seafood such as this? So I gave it a go:

The only way to eat it, I figured, was in one piece, head first, except the thing was too large to fit in my mouth:

And to be honest, I was well aware of the numerous suction cups running up and down those tentacles hanging out of my mouth. Like, you know, when I get those suction-cupped tentacles into my mouth are they, uh, gonna attach themselves to the inside of my cheek or something? So I sandwiched the rubbery, nearly tasteless sea creature securely between my jaws and gnawed on it like a rabid chipmunk, advanced the chewy glob toward the back of my throat – and quick! swallowed it. Whew! Of course, later that evening I ended up retching over the toilet with the dry heaves. Not sure what was going on in my digestive tract at that juncture, but all those violent contractions surely dislodged any wayward tentacles that could have attached themselves somewhere down the line. I don’t know. I don’t need to know, since I plan on never eating another thing like that, not its head, or tentacles, or any of it.

My husband, David, and I, and some relatives were staying at the Melia Cabo Real Resort near Cabo San Lucas on the tip of the Baja Penninsula. We enjoyed stopping in some of the local shops to check out souvenirs. Or shall I say, I enjoyed shopping. David preferred to wait outside, while I visited the shops.

David, waiting, while Jody shops

While shopping I came across scores of 12″ statues of this old, old woman, well, okay, an extremely old, old woman and extremely skinny, clothed in a floor-length gown with, uh, the face and hands of a skeleton. I was rather intrigued with the idea of buying her and displaying her at home in full view, so that when I walked past her I could remind myself that no matter how old I get, I will never look as old as she does. Comforting, you know? Like, I pictured myself at age 80, looking and feeling like I’m 110, but then looking at her and feeling, uh, younger, I guess. Well anyway, then I thought, if I came home from Mexico with her I couldn’t exactly display her in plain view, say, on our mantle or something. She just didn’t go with our decor. So I didn’t buy her. But I did meet her on the street – in life-sized form. This statue was a more jovial representation of her than what I had seen in the shops and I connected with her instantly. So I posed with her. See what you think:

Two fine-looking broads

Okay so I do look younger, right? Although she does look a tad more ‘robust’ than I. With a face as old as that, though, her boobs must be implants, otherwise they’d be sagging past her hips. I’d like this same artist to create his statue image of me. Considering what he augmented from ‘bare bones’ in his statue of her – my statue should end up with straight-out 38-DD boobs. Nice!

Anyway, what do you know, but, that same evening, while walking to a restaurant for dinner, I happened on another artist’s rendering of the skeletal woman, this time as a metal sculpture, and, what can I say? The connection was immediate:

The only thing missing is my straw hat

I stopped my sister dead in her tracks – to photograph me again beside ‘skeletal woman’ while the rest of our dinner party continued on their way. Then after we got the photo, my sister and I got lost on account of, at my urging, we went straight ahead when we were supposed to turn right, or something. And our husbands, now several blocks ahead of us, grew understandably alarmed at our unexpected disappearance. But they eventually backtracked, and we turned around because we knew we were lost, and in the end we all found each other again. So this time around the ol’ skeletal woman vibe was a little sketchy for us.

Which shouldn’t be surprising, based on what I learned about ‘skeletal woman’ after I got home and did some research. She is known as ‘Sante Muerte,’ which, uh, translates as ‘Saint Death.’ Well, no wonder I knew I’d always feel younger when I compared myself to her! Except for when I’m ten years buried in the grave. So why are there columns of Saint Death statues in the shops and propped around the sidewalks in Cabo, Mexico? Well, here is a link to learn about her, ‘The New God In Town,’ if you are interested.

According to this article in Wikipedia, images of Santa Muerte are generally individualistic and personal. No two are exactly the same. Sizes vary immensely from small images held in one hand to those requiring a pickup truck to move. Some people even have the image tattooed on their bodies.

The article continues, “All images are dressed either in long robes or (less commonly) long dresses, covered from head to feet with only the face and hands showing. This symbolizes how people hide their true selves from the rest of the world. The robe or dress covers the skeletal figure like flesh covers the bones of the living. Both are said eventually to fall away. The most common image is Santa Muerte in a robe, with a scythe in the right hand and the globe in the left.”

Well, I’m glad I didn’t cart a statue of Santa Meurta home to display on my living room mantle. I live with enough reminders of aging and impending death just looking at myself in the mirror. And anyway, I prefer the image of Santa Muerta in a bright sun dress with the gigantic boobs, sporting a huge smile next to me with my broad smile, flat chest, and bright shopping bag. Oh, and I noticed her exposed hands don’t sport liver spots. Oh that’s right, they fell away.

Okay so I’m totally putting a wrap on this – my blog about my week’s vacation to Cabo, Mexico. But wait a minute! I have about forty more photos to talk about! Well, maybe I’ll continue with my story in my next blog … in the meantime, I sure ain’t gettin’ any younger.
Now why did I have to bring that up?

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4 Responses to “‘Cabo’”

  1. Rene Miller Says:

    Jody,
    I loved reading about your trip. It was almost like I was there, it was almost a mini vacation for me. The glass of wine I was sipping also helped me imagine I was there with you and the skeletal woman. Too funny. Thanks for the laugh and the mini vacation!

  2. Maureen Says:

    Great story Jody…thanks so much for shaaring it with me! I’ve always been impressed by your inner strength and fortitude but how you ever swallowed that creature is beyond me. I was literally gagging for you! i Think I’m related to your friend…I have seen her in rear view glances in picture windows!

  3. Miss Karen Says:

    I’m with Maureen on this one, Ms Jody. I’ve made it a point never to eat anything with suction cups. DID thoroughly enjoy the photos of YOU chowing down on the beastie, however. Frankly, it would have made more sense to me had the photo included those giant margaritas of your later post. Have to confess to some latent (well not so much) envy of all that tropical scenery. Glad to see that you got yours on your return to the land of perpetual winter. Sheesh, I’m so unenlightened. (Not to mention shallow and self-absorbed….but what are high school buddies for, if not a little occasional regression.) Keep on bloggin’ baby!

    • joddy123 Says:

      I’m thinking now that if I had to do over, and I do need a do-over, I would gush about that seafood soup to my traveling companions and convince one of them to order it. Then I would beg for a tiny little taste, say, have them cut the end of a tentacle off, (hey it’s that or the head) and then I would chew it between two front teeth and try to cop a taste with my tongue before wiping the whole thing away delicately with my napkin. Because I do regret with my experience eating PeeWee, that I was so utterly focused on exiting him from my mouth (the quickest and most prudent way possible) that I deprived myself of a proper taste. Is octopus really as ‘tasteless’ as I recollect or did I swallow it so fast as to bypass my tastebuds altogether? That question resonates. And while this issue won’t necessarily deprive me of sleep, I feel I must get back to Cabo to get this question resolved. Wanna go? How about mid-April? And when we get back, I’ll build a snowman in my front yard from our latest snowfall and send you photos.

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