MIAMI TO COSTA RICA

Intelligent design.

So, last week I'm sitting on the back porch of a very nice house in Escazu, waiting for my kid while she took a half-day art camp upstairs with a dozen or so other children.  I'd been reading David Sedaris' When You Are Engulfed in Flames and laughing out loud, occasionally getting stared at by the house-keeper.  It was a really pretty day, the kind that reminds me why I love living here.  It was cool and sunny and there was a breeze and across the valley I could see low-hanging black clouds that assured me I'd been right to bring our rain jackets.  As I was enjoying the view between chapters, I looked across the porch and saw four little pre-Colombian looking clay figures on the wall.  Two were larger than the other two.  I looked closer and noticed that one of each size was obviously male and the other two were, I guess, female.  For some reason I was really struck by what a small, simple difference the addition of external genitalia made.  And then the thought hit me.  What would I do if I had a penis?  I mean, like, if I just woke up from an afternoon nap and, BAM!, there it was, hanging off me - what would I want do first?  That answer came instantly.  I'd want to stick it somewhere.  Immediately.  Over and over and on and on.  No, wait, that's not what I'd do FIRST.  What I'd do first is try to see if I could, ya know, get it in my mouth.  That's when I realized that if men could actually do that, if they could actually service themselves without ever involving anyone else, well, we would never have left caves.  Hell, the species would have died out.  Maybe that's why we have a spinal column?  Or maybe that's why we have enough vertebrae to keep us from too much self-service?  Oh, crap.  Could that possibly mean that there is 'intelligent design'?  Could my atheism be a mistake?  Could there be some controlling power in the universe?  But then, I remembered that men, just like the little 'male' terra cotta guys on the wall, have nipples and until someone can give me a satisfactory explanation for those, I'm sticking to evolution.  Heck, for all we know, there were earlier versions of humans with no skeleton and that's why there's no record.  They just died out because they actually could reach their penis with their lips and never managed to reproduce.

Baggage.

I went to Miami for some shopping and alone-time last week.  Ten excitement-filled days of sleeping until 11, going to Starbucks twice a day (I love saying, "Venti non-fat latté, please") and spending the rest of my time wandering in and out of the Apple store, Target and Publix.  Ah, glorious stuff.  Well, to tell the truth, one of my kid's little friends gave me her fever, sneezing and hacking cough before I left and I did spent most of my trip stoned on Nyquil and Benadryl.  But that only made the shopping more pleasant for me.  I'm really not much of a shopper.  I walk into most of those places and my ADHD takes over and between the fluorescent lights (they cycle on and off at blinding speeds!), the colors and packaging and music and people talking...after a few minutes I can usually feel a panic attack nibbling at the very edge of my sanity.  Thoroughly sedated as I was, it wasn't so bad.  It might have been an almost Zen experience if I hadn't been with my pal, Ana, who's manically super-charged personality can make me jittery even with a double-dose of Nyquil coursing through my veins.  At the end of my visit though, I'd gotten to see a couple of other friends, picked up all of my Amazon deliveries and caught up on my sleep.  I flew out of Ft. Lauderdale airport on Spirit Air and, unfortunately, I believe I've seen the future of air travel and not only is it not pretty, it's not cheap either.  While Spirit had better fares than most, they nickle and dime passengers every way they can.  They charge for EACH checked bag (not just the second, as many have started to do) and though they give a discount if you pay for the bags when you purchase your ticket, it's not that great a savings.  I was only mildly annoyed when I had to shell out another $50 for an overweight bag.  Had I known beforehand, I would have maxed out the weight for the full extra 25lbs.  The shocker was when I was asked if I wanted to pre-select my seat - for another $10.  They may have had pay toilets too, but I never got up after practically shoe-horning myself into my seat, so who knows?  I think they were charging for beverages and snacks on-board.  I don't know for sure because cold meds take the edge off one's hunger, so I really didn't care and I couldn't hear over my iPod anyway.  The same iPod that I was asked by a scrawny, bedraggled-looking flight attendant with a Valley-Girl accent to remove.  Four times.  The first time I just smiled and nodded and ignored her.  The second time she waved and cocked her head to one side and bugged out her eyes and pantomimed removing ear-buds.  I just nodded and said, "yes".  I was hoping she'd just give up and bugger off, but it's amazing how black and white instructions and a uniform make some people so damn surly.  The third time she tapped my arm - jabbed it, really, with her bony little index finger.  I slipped out an ear-bud.  "Yes?"  "You need to shut that off.  We're moving."  No shit, really?  I just thought the terminal was rolling away. "Oh.  Well, it's just an iPod.  Do I really have to shut it off?  I've never needed to before."  "Yesssss.  You need to shut it off and put it away."  "Uh, okay, I'll shut it off."  Why did I need to put it away?  What?  Didn't she trust me to turn it off?  Even I didn't understand at that moment why I was getting so pissed at her and why I was so determined to keep my iPod on.  She walked away and I tucked the player into my pocket, but left it playing.  As she was walking to the back of the plane to take her seat, she saw me, rolled her eyes and said, "Ma'am, " (Oh yeah, that helped.) "you're going to have to put that away."  "Why, exactly?"  She seemed surprised at the question and proceeded to guess at the answer.  "Because...it can interfere with the plane's radio system." I smirked. "No, it can't."  I couldn't believe I'd said it and neither could she apparently, because she scowled and paused for a second and just then, I got a flash in my head of being escorted off the plane à la Adam Sandler in that Anger Management movie.  "S'okay, nevermind, I'll take it off and put it away."  She just shook her head and walked away.  I turned and watched her head to the tail section and then I tucked my iPod back into my pocket, slid the ear-buds and cord through my shirt and out of the neck, tucked them back into my head, cranked up Coldplay and snuggled into my seat - a happy asshole and, more important, a still-on-the-plane-and-not-in-police-custody asshole. When she passed by later, she glared at me and the white bits of plastic stuffed into my ears, but it was too late.  After we landed, I considered asking her why I wasn't told to turn off my music then, didn't that whole iPod-messing-with-radio thing apply to landing as well?  But I was so glad to be home in Costa Rica that I just smiled politely and said, "Buh-bye" as I passed her on the way out.  I still think I'm right about the iPod and I don't plan on turning it off on my next flight either.  So there.

Fiddy.

My husband turns 50 today.  He's spent the last few months agonizing over this milestone.  Alternately moaning and whining and being depressed.  I keep telling him that age is just a number, but it hasn't done much good, he still seems to think that he's now officially "a geezer". 
I bought him a bulldog for his birthday.  He's wanted one for years and "Etta" has cheered him up considerably in the last few weeks.  Sure, she eats like a frat-boy and chews anything she can reach - including our kid, the maid, the cat and, after breaking into the pantry, a roll of paper towels, but she is cute as Hell and watching her lumber around, farting and belching has been fun for all of us. 
Still, "T" thinks that this birthday signifies that the end is near.  Or near-er, anyway.  So, to my geezer husband, I would like to say this:  you're still smart, sexy, funny and the best person I know.  Suck it up, baby and keep moving.  Life is long and you're not done yet by a long shot.  Happy Birthday my love, may you piss and moan through many, many more.

Mommy's not a bimbo. Really.

I'm thinking about opening a special bank account for my kid.  One that, every time I do something that I think/know will result in a visit to a shrink many years from now, I will deposit at least $50.  Today probably would have been a good day to open that account. 

Costa Rica is known for it's cheap elective medical procedures and I'm determined to avail myself of a few of them.  I've decided to start with Laser Depilation.  Basically, a beam of light is used to zap body hair and, eventually, kill it at the root so that it never grows back.  I would have never thought to do something like this, but my pal Ana in Miami had it done and the idea of never dealing with a Brazilian wax or bikini emergency again sounded pretty good.  She did tell me that it would hurt a bit, like a rubber band smacking the skin, and it did.  The first time.  That first time I decided that the frozen water balloon used to freeze my bikini area before zapping me with the laser hurt WAY more than the laser itself.  That was until I found out that they increase the intensity of the laser with every visit.  No wonder the hair eventually dies.  By my third visit I was practically levitating off the table with every zap. 

Today I had my fourth procedure and it was the first time that neither my husband, nor the maid, was able to watch the kid while I went off and did my thing.  Not wanting to reschedule for the third time, I decided to take her with me.  While I think leaving the house without diapers when she was an infant (over and over again!) is still the winner in my personal gallery of crappy parenting, taking my prudish little germ-phobe with me to my laser appointment is definitely near the top.

She was already freaked out about being in a hospital ("this place is crawling with diseases!") when she asked me why we'd come.

"What are we doing here?"
"I have a doctor's appointment." 
"Is this like the boob squishing place?" 
"No.  I'm, uh, getting some hair taken off." 
"Hair?  Off of where?"
"Um...my, uh, hoo-hoo."
Stunned disbelief.  "Why?"
"Um...because.  I want to wear a bikini this summer."
"So shave it."
"Nah.  This is better.  Not so itchy."
"Yuck."

I would have left her in the waiting room but for the fact that she's 6 and was carrying lots of interesting electronic equipment to keep her entertained and I wasn't convinced that she wouldn't wander away to look for a magazine and get all her cool toys nicked.  When the doc's assistant came to get me, she just followed us into the room.

I won't go into every detail, but let's just say that my kid made it very clear that she thought I was crazy for letting someone "electrocute" me and freeze me over and over.  She did ask at one point why I would bother with this since "...no one's gonna see any of that anyway."  (Real ego boost there.)  She asked if there was any chance of my "hoo-hoo" catching fire.  I laughed so hard I had to translate this for the nurse, who proceeded to laugh so hard she had to stop for a minute. 

When it was over she asked that I never bring her with me to this sort of thing again.  "I didn't need to see this."  she said.  "I understand why you got a tattoo, but this was just stupid."  As I paid for having been tortured for 45 minutes, I decided that if and when I get my forehead Botox-ed not only will I hire a sitter if I have to, I won't even tell her I've done it.  Can't exactly spend years convincing her that Barbie is a superficial bimbo and then spend good money to take the crinkles off my face. 

I want....

I want a 'venti' latte. This is the land of coffee, right?  So, why the Hell can't I get a cup of coffee bigger than what Starbucks refers to as a "tall"?  All I want is a cup that holds at least 24 ounces of caffeinated goodness....and some whole milk.  So far, the best tasting coffee I've gotten, made for me, with milk, has been from a crappy little plastic machine at the AM/PM down the street.  I get one every Saturday morning as we walk to the feria (farmer's market) and I finish it a couple of blocks later, before I reach the next stop light.  That's because there's only about 8 ounces of coffee in that cup.  Granted, it is delicious, but in a perfect universe, I'd still be nursing that coffee half-way through the feria.  A perfect-sized cup of coffee, for me, is one where by the time I drink the last drop, I've had enough liquid that now I've really gotta pee.  By my estimation, that's gonna take at least 20 ounces.  This country supposedly makes fantastic coffee but, apparently, it's all exported for the likes of Starbucks and (the home of truly magnificent coffee) Dunkin' Donuts.  Does any place here make really great coffee served in a HUGE cup?  Don't email me telling me that there's one near you.  I live in Pavas.  I want it to be within walking distance.  Happy, short walking distance - not long, sweaty schlepping distance.  Better yet, how about someone opening a Dunkin' Donuts near here.  That'd be heaven.  I'll bet then we'd know where to find the cops in this country.  If I could have access to a DD, I'd never ever want to leave Costa Rica.  What for?  If I can walk a block or two and get a Boston Cream, two toasted coconut donuts and a large Coffee Coolatta, I might flush my passport down the toilet.  Well, a Dunkin' and maybe a Target.  A Target would be nice too.

Old like me.

It's official:  I'm a geezer. 
No, the boobs have not crept any further toward my knees, no deep lines or creases on the face, no more gray hair than the average thirty-something, I don't lose my keys any more now than before and, more important, I still know what they're for when I find them...this is much worse.  Last night my husband handed me a packet of Theraflu so I could read the directions for him (this is, apparently, my job as wife) I held the packet at the same distance I would have held it a few weeks ago but, last night, it was blurry.  I blinked a couple of times - my contact lenses must be cruddy (it happens), I tilted my head a bit - the print on the package must be squiggly (it happens), I turned on another light - poor light can affect one's ability to see clearly (it happens).  I still couldn't quite read it.  Suddenly I caught myself doing something I'd seen my aunt do: I tilted my head back, raised my eyebrows and pulled the package back a bit.  The print became clearer.  Oh, Holy crap.  I read the instructions and handed the packet to my husband.  I went and looked in the mirror.  I am now old.  It'll all happen at once now won't it?  Tomorrow I'll have crow's feet deep enough to plant crops.  Next week my boobs will drag along the ground beside me.  If I ever find my keys again I won't know what to do with them.  ...sigh...  Okay, pity-party over.  My grandfather was still getting arrested at cock-fights (that he drove himself to, out in the boondocks, late at night) until shortly before his 100th birthday, so if genetics have anything to do with it, I need to snap out of it and move on.  Besides, I'm living in a plastic surgery paradise right now, I can (and very cheaply) nip and tuck all the outward signs of aging.  I can dye my hair any color I like.  My failing vision is not the end of the world.  I can still see Keanu Reeves clearly up on a movie screen and, as long as I can still remember what I'd like to do with him, I'll be just fine.

Newsflash: Cats Don't Like Showers.

Yeah, well, it's news to me.  I've always had dogs and, if you have dogs, you've most likely had occasion to take a shower and bathe your dog at the same time. Well, today I decided to do the same with kitty.
This morning I got up to find our Persian (long hair!!!) kitten running around with a jelly-bean sized dingleberry tangled in her fur and even though I got a napkin and pulled it off, she still stunk.  So, despite my husband's insistance that "cats clean themselves", I felt that our kitty needed some shampoo to help take that nasty cat-poop smell off her butt.  I didn't think hosing her down outside was a good choice since she only weighs about 2 pounds and it's kinda cold and the sink was out of the question because that's just nasty.  The shower seemed like a good choice and I'd just gotten back from Pilates and needed one myself.  I grabbed up the kitty on my way into the shower, plopped her on the floor and started the water.  I just figured all the yowling she was doing was due to cats not liking water although, from the street outside, I'll bet it sounded like someone was yelling, "Help!" over and over.  She didn't need any help.  I picked her up and put her under the stream of water and she started to struggle, but didn't really claw me, then I put the shampoo on her and started to lather her up.  I think the shampoo was her limit - she lost it.  It's a credit to my pain tolerence that I didn't drop her...or throw her out of the shower.   Kitty went bonkers and started to shred my hands and wrists and, since I was naked, I had to finish the shampoo and rinse holding her at arm's length.  Luckily India walked in and I was able to hand the still pissed off kitty to her for drying.  I don't think I'll be doing that again.  As it is, the kitty won't look at me now and at some point over the next couple of days I may have to explain that the slices on my wrists are not due to a botched suicide attempt.  Stupid cat.  Next time she can clean off her own dingleberries.

One of many reasons I should never be alone with my thoughts...

Wouldn't it be great if, whenever the universe allowed you a peek at a lost love (or ex-asshole), if they weren't still madly in love with you, wandering through life, gibbering incoherently about having lost you, that they were at least now forever shackled to some hare-lipped, mustachioed troll with a *vestigial tail and incurable body odor? 
I know it's not likely, but it's a cool thought nonetheless.

*gotta see this...

Expanding my horizons....

Yesterday I thought I'd try going to see the new M. Night Shyamalan movie, The Happening, at the theater just two blocks from our house.   In the 7 months I've been here, I had yet to visit this theater, choosing to go instead to the the huge mega-mall with it's multi-screen movie house. I went by myself for two reasons; one - because Tom hates anything Shyamalan makes and two - because I'd been doing the single parent thing for 6 days while Tom was in Caracas and if I didn't get away and have some grown-up-alone time I was going to slit my wrists.

I got there early and went up to the quaint, old-style theater ticket booth and handed over my 2100 colones.  I expected the usual chit-chat before I got my ticket but I was surprised when the lady in the booth asked me where I wanted to sit.  Where?  "Yes, which seat would you like?"  I must have given her a deer-in-headlights expression, so she said, "Yes, you need to pick a seat."  That's when she swiveled round her computer screen and pointed at what appeared to be a seating chart similar to the ones where you pick your seat for a flight.  I couldn't tell which end was which so I just said, "I don't care, just not too close or too far from the screen."  She pressed a button and a ticket was generated with a random seat number - D5. 

I went upstairs still wondering why I had to pick a seat and bumped right into a little clump of theater employees milling around in the lobby.  A very perky Ramon (name-tag) lunged at me and grinned and asked me if I needed help finding my seat.  Um.  No.  I think I can find it...thanks.  Undeterred, Ramon, gestured to the door of theater 1 and followed me in.  He took my ticket and said, in clear, crisp English, "Let me show you to your seat."  (I don't have that much of a Gringo accent, so I could only assume that the "Aw, fuck." I'd mumbled when my cell phone let out it's final death-beep a moment earlier had tipped this guy off to my native tongue.)  I was the first person there and the lights were all on but he still used his flashlight to guide me to my seat, all the while studying my ticket as if it were a hand-held GPS device.  "Now," said Ramon "you can sit anywhere you like, but this is your seat and if you sit somewhere else and it turns out to be someone else's seat, you'll have to come back to this seat."  I hate being micro-managed while doing piddling every-day shit like picking out a place to sit.  I was there to see a (most likely) crappy summer flick, not attending an opera at La Fenice, why the hell did I need an assigned seat?  About that time, I realized that the large block of chocolate and four cups of coffee I'd had for lunch were now taking hold of my brain and it might be wise to just sit down and shut up before I pissed someone off for no good reason.  Once in my seat and smiling my thanks, Ramon slipped off to usher another theater-goer to their seat across the room. 

I had a good 30 minutes to kill before the movie started so I decided a little protein might make me more pleasant and went to the concession for a dog and soda.  Stupid.  The dogs were cold and nasty - no Kosher beef dogs here - and there was no relish or mustard, but I was offered a packet of mayo.  The drink took two tries because, apparently, the words "Pepsi Light" sound very similar to "Root Beer" and "Orange Fanta". 

I made it back in time to watch a chubby Latin kid, about 10 years old, throw his popcorn on the floor and scream at the two middle-aged women with him that he wanted more candy, he wanted to see Indiana Jones and that if they didn't take him right now, he'd scream through the whole movie.  I was relieved when the women took him at his word and followed him out of the theater.  Really, I don't think I would have been surprised if they'd just given him more candy and rode out the screaming...it's not like I haven't seen it before. 

The movie turned out to be, like other Shyamalan movies, a cool ride with a dull thud at the end.  As I  headed out to meet Tom and India at a restaurant across the street, I passed the kid who'd left to see Indiana Jones - he was lying on the floor in the lobby shrieking while the two women with him bribed him with a trip to Pops (ice cream shop) if he'd only stand up and follow them out.  Ramon, my usher from earlier, was nearly in tears laughing at the spectacle, but he still took the time to rush over and tell me that if I wanted a better seat next time, to ask for rows E, F or G, seats 7, 8, 9 or 10.  I like that dude.  I'll be seeing more movies there.  Like I've said before, it's the little things that make me love this place.

Catholic Country

Wanna know how Catholic?  Even the ants have a chapel in their nest....

Photo taken at the Children's Museum, San José, Costa Rica