Value wIT

Racing away from too much work, The Professor and I took the little children to Philadelphia to visit their older sister at her college.  After a hellish month of trying to hold it all together, I was looking forward to a relaxing low-key vacation that would satisfy the tail end of Spring Break.

Always supportive of historic preservation I selected the Morris House Hotel because of its National Historic Registry status.  At first blush the hotel was lovely – cozy fire, homemade cookies, afternoon tea…a grandfather clock with musket holes from the Revolution. However, around 12:30 a.m. it became obvious that turning on the air conditioner meant the rooms would be flooded with hot air.

One of the children was asleep, red-faced and covered in sweat.  The other child was moaning, “Mommy, it’s hot.” Uh, like I didn’t know it was  freakin’ as a hot as a McDonald’s coffee! After much negotiation we repacked and moved to another room.

Early the next morning the air-conditioner repairman was busy outside our new room banging on metal and waking us up. Apparently, he didn’t do such a good job because we moved back into the same room for the second night and the a/c was still broken!  Thank goodness we discovered this problem at 8:30 pm instead of midnight.

The bay windows provided nice cool air that was very refreshing, but it was the city traffic and neon lights that made it difficult TO SLEEP A WINK!  The nice manager brought a fan to move the air. Remember a few posts ago when I wrote about how I would rather have glass in my feet than hear low density noise?  I would rather drive a Hummer than hear the noise of a fan…well, maybe not.

The saving grace for the Philly trip was a trip to the Mutter Medical  Museum. With a tag line saying “Disturbingly Informative” how could the exhibits disappoint? There was no disappointment when the family saw an 8-ft colon that was 30” in diameter and formerly held 40 pounds of feces. The photograph of the poor guy who housed that giant colon held my attention for what seemed like hours.

The museum housed Siamese twin babies in jars, Grover Cleveland’s gall bladder, a horn protruding from a man’s head and a preserved penis.  We could have stayed for hours looking at skin disease, cancerous tumors and aborted fetuses, but lunch was calling. We had liver and onions……KIDDING!

The Professor is off to take the children to the Franklin Institute where there is a special Star Wars exhibit.  In fact, it's so special that the Storm Troopers are making an appearance today. Lucky for me that I'm visiting a day spa instead of making contact with the dark side. Hopefully, a massage will alleviate my need to channel my dark side.

Today there will be no layering of clothes to ward off the winter. There will be no expedition to ski slopes or museums.  In fact, there will be little activity at all.

The Professor and I were awakened to a “Fiesta” prepared by our children who had used a step stool to gain access to dishes and cups.  Upon entering the dining room we found the table set with a bowls of chips, plates of chocolate coins and cups of wine – real wine that was poured to the edge of the teacups.  Guess we’ve made quite the impression on our children – solid nutrition and quality vintage is the breakfast of champions.

Signs had been made announcing the fiesta and cutouts of animals had been taped to the walls. Oddly, our children, who are woefully uneducated with respect to religion, had fashioned a cardboard cross and erected it in the center of the table.  Curiously, the cross was embellished with Jesus’ blood (red marker) as they explained. Not quite sure what to make of this religious statement.

I say our children are not educated on religion, but that is really not true. Certainly they have had some exposure to Christianity, as until this year they attended an Episcopal school. Furthermore, they go to church at least every fifth Sunday when The Professor and I have Altar Guild duty. The kids help us polish the brass rail of the altar and set-up the communion vessels. However, I don’t push Christianity on them and only answer questions as they are asked.

My religious training was completely different, as my Southern Baptist grandmother read the Bible to me every night I spent at her house. She helped me say my prayers and assisted as I answered the daily questions in my daily Bible study guide.  On Sunday mornings I checked boxes on the front of an envelope that asked if I had:

• Read my Bible every day
• Witnessed to at least one person this week
• Answered daily Bible Study questions
• Tithed at least 10%
• Attended Sunday school
• Attended Sunday morning church service
• Attended Sunday night service
• Attended Wednesday night service

My grandmother gave me the appropriate combination of coins to constitute my 10 percent tithing goal. Not exactly sure what amount of my nonexistent income equaled 10 percent, but the weightier the jangle of coins the more pure I felt as I sashayed my well turned-out self into the Sunday school room and sat on the black-slated wooden chair.  The Sunday school teacher, Mr. Webb, weighed close to 500 pounds and could barely move his mouth because his face was puffed to such extremes that there was no room left to move his lips.

Mr. Webb would hold the basket in front of each child while making soul-connecting eye contact as the child placed his envelope inside the basket. On more than one occasion a child would sheepishly handover the envelope with few boxes checked as tears fell down their faces.  After the envelope collection, Mr. Webb would tally the results and my Aunt Flossie would pop into the class to collect our basket and statistics.  Aunt Flossie would then compare our class to the other classes.  At the big church service, the preacher would announce which class had the most participants reading their Bible, witnessing to sinners, tithing and attending the most church services. 

Devil be damned. I was always on the holy side because my grandmother monitored my daily progress, gave me money and dragged me to the church house every time the doors opened. There was never any doubt Mr. Webb could find in my heart. All my boxes were checked.

The poor kids who lived out in the country were another matter.  Their sinner parents didn’t have a car to get them to the church, or the discipline to make them read the Bible every day, or for that matter, a sharpened pencil to check the boxes on the envelope. Most definitely, they didn’t have the extra money to tithe. 

Mr. Webb found these children by his fierce commitment to the practice of witnessing. He would pick up a few members of his Sunday school class and drive out into the country where the crew would pay a kindly visit to the house of the unwashed.  The car ride was pleasant enough as it never felt like we were going to “witness”. It just seemed like a bunch of kids going for a ride. We joked and laughed and tumbled out the car when it stopped at the end of the Hinson’s dirt road. The Hinson’s house was crooked and made from failing wood, and the yard was littered with all matters of extinct car parts and old furniture.

The five Hinson kids raced up to our holy group and within ten seconds the whole gang was in full gallop across the dirt yard. Chasing chickens, playing hide-n-go-seek, climbing under the house or sitting on a rusted motorcycle – it was all great fun.  Mr. & Mrs. Hinson didn’t seem to enjoy Mr. Webb’s visit as much as the children, and it was always disappointing when the playtime came to an end.  Mr. Webb made sure the children knew that fun like this abounded at Littletown Baptist Church every Sunday and Wednesday, and he would swing by to give them a ride to the service.

The Hinson parents probably hit the hooch before Mr. Webb could drive us off the property. Because she told me years later, I know that when Mr. Webb popped in on my wayward cousin for a session of witnessing, she was often times in the midst of firing up her bong or snorting a little cocaine.  Mr. Webb’s attempt to drag Linda Faye back to church always provided her with immense entertainment because she was stoned out of her mind, and Mr. Webb’s porky personage sent her into fits of laughter.

Just a hunch, but maybe all my early exposure to hell and damnation (mixed with the odd spice of Christian racism) has caused me to leave the door to religion ajar for my children.  Surely, there are those who will differ with this way of raising children and say that it is a great disservice to leave children with an unexplained open void in terms of religion.

Maybe so.

After this morning’s Fiesta ended, I wandered back to the bedroom to find The Professor tucked under the blankets reading a book and watching the snow softly fall from the sky.  I cozied-up to him and we listened to the pounding of little feet coming down the hall in search of us.  The feet stopped and presumably looked into the empty room preceding the bedroom. Pound-pound back to the other bedroom. Silence. Pound-pound back to our room. Bingo. We are found.

Our little guy snuggles in to the warm bed between us and silently, father, mother and son, commune with the unspeakable force of nature and the power of the Maker to generate beauty and miracles. Salvation is obvious.

Meanwhile, in the living room, our daughter was watching Jaws and playing with her new pocketknife. How will it all turn out?

The ski suit was blinding blue and green with a giant sign on the back stating OBNOXIOUS TEXAN.  Accessorized by orange goggles, my four-year old son was more than pleased with his appearance. He seemed unsure if skiing meant slaying wild beasts or shooting errant intruders, never the less, the jumpsuit and headgear satisfied his every need to feel like a warrior. At least my daughter had the sense to wear all black skiwear (a testament to her future) so that she might be mistaken as a Coloradoan.   

Today marks the sixth day that The Professor and I have spent every single minute with our children. We love them, no doubt. However, the little people are loud and never stop making noise. Yabber, jabber, yacky-yak, hum, sing, squeal, yell, scream, cry, whine, snore. We dropped them at ski school and read the sign “Beyond This Point Children and Employees Only.” Bye-bye.

The sound of silence.

In exchange for cash the children will be skied, fed, napped, learned, snacked and skied again. What a deal. Once upon a time I tried to teach one of our older children to ski. Such a mistake. The middle daughter was about nine-years old and it seemed like she was getting the hang of it, so I took her a little too high, I guess. By the time we finally made it to the bottom of the mountain, the runs were closed for the day and the ski patrol was looking for us. The Professor was all a worry and the other daughter was crying for her lost sister – not necessarily for her new stepmother.

Granted, I do not own the most technologically advanced ski clothes. I learned to ski with some kids from Denver who taught me to never look like a Texan by wearing snow bunny and/or furry clothes. The lesson was that one should wear jeans, look cool and not fall. Today I decided that advice was so 25 years ago. 

Ski clothes these days, it seems, keep people warmer. The 10-degree weather accompanied by the prospect of skiing the side of the mountain that was shaded from the sun made me wish I was wearing better engineered clothes. I stopped by the bar to consider if I was a good enough skier to try the sunny side of the mountain.  Either the Painkiller (hot chocolate with peppermint Schnapps) would give me the courage to attempt a harder run, or it would lure me into ordering a second drink. 

Like magic a pamphlet for the spa appeared in my hand. There was initial excitement but experience told me the poor quality paper and graphics would mean a yokel beauty school dropout would be dabbling at an ayurvedic massage at my cost.  I would rather eat rancid tuna salad than have a disappointing massage.  Buttoning my sweater, activating the headband feature of my running shirt (smart, huh?), zipping my coat and slipping on my gloves, I headed out to buy a lift ticket.

Immediately, the wind slapped my face and bit my nose. Within 30 seconds I am frozen to the core. Watching the lift I imagine how cold the metal seat must be.  The lift stopped and the riders were held hostage as the seats swung to and fro as some mechanical problem was addressed or a rider was collected from a fall. Swinging in the air while the wind brutally attacks must be extra unpleasant. My lazy mind conjured the alternative of lying naked on a heated bed while Mandy rubs oil on my back.

It turns out that Mandy’s name was Chasta, and it wasn’t the best massage, but it beat the hell out of frostbite. When my 80 minutes were finished I begged Chasta for another service – a manicure, an eyebrow pluck, facial, colonic, anything -- no dice. Chasta was booked with Après Ski Sports massages for the rest of the day.  I was being thrown out into the cold again.

By this point, it was me against Winter. I had to find a way to avoid being outside. This is going to sound so snobby and very un-me, but when it comes to skiing I think the motto must be “Go big or go home.” It came to my attention that I was in a rinky-dink resort in New Mexico and aside from Chasta’s meager services that were received in a less than plush environment, there was nothing else to do….besides ski.

In Aspen, for instance, there are great stores, restaurants and tons of beautiful people to watch. As I sat on a lacquered picnic bench and ordered another Painkiller that I didn’t even want, the people seemed less than attractive. I put on my worldly, kind mind and tried to image how good and interesting the people with the long gray ponytails and Navajo sweatshirts must be. It was like the pirate fantasy … seems like a good idea as the pirate rips your shirt off, but when you are face to face with the pirate and he hasn’t brushed his teeth, the fantasy goes bad. 

Two girls from California walked in. No, I didn’t ask if they were from California, but there was no chance they were from anywhere else.  Momentarily, my stare-factor was appeased as I gazed at their blonde hair piled high upon their heads, their plumped lips and the black jumpsuit with a slate graphic pattern ornamented by a low-slung gold belt.  Who designs a get-up like that?  Are there significant skiwear designers? 

The California girls were the only action at Tippy’s Hide-a-way Bar and aside from a store that sold Alpaca teddy bears, there was nothing to do in Rinky-Dink Village.  A bookstore would have been nice, but I would have settled for an outdated People magazine or even a torn set of instructions for a generator – written in Chinese.  I guess when people go skiing, they ski. Go figure.

We lost our 4-year old boy on the streets of Mexico, and I asked my husband for a divorce.

Mostly I adore writing a story with high drama and feel compelled to exaggerate a fly on a melon to such extremes the reader wants a Xanax before the second paragraph. However, this story has real and true drama with down-to-earth fear, shock and horror so there is no reason to embellish.   I gave you the meat and dessert upfront - read the story as an after dinner drink. 

As mentioned ad nauseum in past blog posts, the Mexico vacation is not going so well. After all, it is Mexico – as in “made in Mexico”. Perhaps a visit to China would be similar. I would love to say we are a family of snobs with high standards and Mexico doesn’t measure up to our high ideals. However, after careful dissection, I can firmly assert with great confidence that my family is a group of tightly wound robots who would shit in a tub of gold if given the chance.  Truly, my family (mostly me) is like a tough piece of meat that no matter how strong your will and your teeth, the meat will not breakdown and digest.

How we got this way is complicated – too much food, too much time, too much money, too many wants, too little brains, too little imagination, too much freedom, too big a desire to hold onto every stale crumb in the cookie jar.   Who knows.

Brooding on the lanai (love writing that word) yesterday and contemplating Day Drinking, I hear the bell at the gate in front of our house. I considered ignoring the agitation because living in Mexico these three weeks has taught me to ignore grating noises like unbridled mufflers, screeching tires, pounding jackhammers, random fireworks, church bells and police whistles.

Nobody knows us here in Mexico; why would someone ring the doorbell?  Of course it could be like two Saturday nights ago when someone rang the bell after midnight and claimed over the intercom that they were the Policia. Yea, and I’m Frida Kahlo.  Good thing my husband got the hollow metal pole out of the closet and was ready to rumble.

Somehow I managed to drag my moping, triple-filtered-water-filled body to the gate to discover a family staring at me through the wrought iron.  Assuming they rang the wrong bell, I give them the “Hi, I-am-busy-being-self-absorbed-go-away” look.  In response the family stares back at me with the “Oh-God-she-is-a-clueless-numbskull-and-has-no-knowledge-or-care-that-her-child-is-wandering-the-streets-of-Mexico” look. 

Silence and darting eyes fill the time. 

Finally, I look down to knee level and see my 4-year old son on the opposite side of the gate. Que?

It’s all very confusing, but the overriding theme of the story is miscommunication.

My husband and children were at the park. The husband tells the 6-year old to tell the 4-year old to stay under the slide where he is building a grand castle because the father and the 6-year old are walking approximately twenty feet away to buy a bottle of water. This is where the story gets dicey.  The 4-year old said the 6-year old told him to stay at the park until nighttime.  The 6-year old denies this statement.

Who knows what was said and what was heard, but the 4-year decided to leave the park at this point and walk home – ALONE.  When he got home he told me that his father and sister left him at the park to go have lunch.

It’s easily a half-mile from the park to our house and it is not a straight shot. Many short streets, alleys and a fork in the road define the path to the park - plus it's MEXICO! It’s not an easy trip, but somehow the kid managed to find our house, which is also in a dead-end alley.  Needless to say I marched the baby boy back to the park to find the frantic father and crazed sister searching high and low for the missing boy.

After the missing boy escapade the family was a little tender so we treated ourselves to a nice evening at the Fabrica la Aurora – remember, that is the collection of studios and galleries I mentioned in an earlier post? Dinner was lovely as we had a nice bottle of champagne in an empty restaurant while the children sat at another table pretending they were adult customers. The end of dinner featured the family collected around a fondue pot full of chocolate (how can this story have a downside after chocolate fondue?)

This doesn’t seem so serious now, but last night it was important. My husband refused to get a taxi to take us the two-mile walk home. Normally, the walk is pleasant, but it started to rain. Towing the little kids down the cobblestone streets, the husband kept promising we were almost home and the rain kept getting heavier. CRASH – the thunder shook the streets as I walked on carrying my shaking 4-year old who asked, “Is the lighting trying to get little boys?” The rain is pounding and the lighting is connected like a jump rope across the sky.

Listen, I know drinking a bottle of champagne and walking in the rain while carrying a scared child is not the same as getting my house burned down by terrorists and being forced to walk out of my country with no food, no hope, no dignity and permanent pictures of my favorite aunt being raped by evil soldiers. However, in my flat-ironed head the night was such a tragedy that by morning’s light I decided to broach the subject of divorce with my husband.

Honestly, there were probably more issues involved in my request for a quickie Mexican divorce, but after the husband and I had a nice talk over a few Cuba Libres (Coca-Cola LIGHT, por favor– sin calorias!!) we worked it out. Perhaps, we had a productive conversation because the little people had a babysitter – second time in almost a month – and we spoke in complete sentences.   Anyhoo, all is well and we know that money is the root of all evil, which is why we are giving it all away!

P.S.  Today is our 9th anniversary – wish us well.  We need it.
P.S.S. We are cutting the vacation short if you want a free house in Mexico!

It’s been a day of highs and lows.  My poor esposo packed one pair of hiking boots and one pair of dress shoes for our San Miguel vacation. Last week the sole of his hiking boots separated, but my vanity-free husband fixed the shoe with duck tape.  He looks a little mental walking the streets of Mexico with duck taped shoes. His response, “It’s Mexico,” as if the duck tape helps him fit in.

As you know, I am consumed by appearance – hopefully not, but probably so. In an effort to give my husband a spiffier look I selected a pair of tennis shoes for him at a local Zapata Store. In the States a men’s size 13 shoe is fairly normal, I think, but apparently in Mexico men have smaller feet and finding a size 13 shoe is as difficult as finding a fat-free meal.

Admittedly, the Zapata Store sold cheap shoes.  I thought the shoes were Nikes because they had a swish on the side, but as my husband pointed out the brand of the shoe was called Musher. In our rental house we opened the Musher box and discovered that while the shoes looked similar that each shoe was a slightly different style. Aside from the fact that I seem to have purchased two different shoes, neither shoe was large enough for my husband’s apparently gargantuan feet.

With my husband in tow, I drag across town to the Zapata Store to exchange the shoes. However,  the store has no shoes larger than the fake-sized 13 Mushers. Obviously, you would think that since there was not a shoe that would fit on my husband’s foot that the store would refund the money. But, NO.  It’s Mexico.

The salesgirl hauled my reluctant husband and me down the street to interrupt the Zapata Store owner in his second shoe store during his 10:30 am family breakfast in the back of the store.  It was a good thing that I didn’t understand the Hefe’s Spanish as he explained to me the reasoning behind his refusal to refund my money. His rationale might have sent me into a ballistic fit, but instead my husband and I walked out of the Hefe’s breakfast room and pretended we dropped $40 on the ground.  I hope the Hefe is pounding his heart right this minute as he chokes on his napolitos.

While my husband doesn’t mind wandering the streets with duck tape on his shoes, he does mind being in a cheap shoe store.  Unlike me, my husband does not derive pleasure from making a good deal, and in fact, he assumes that he will always be ripped off. Quarterly, he pays the government 40% of his hard-earned salary. Why shouldn’t he expect to be fleeced?

With such a typical Mexico morning, I had little hope for a promising afternoon, but the prospect of a good massage held my interest.  Thank goodness for a licensed massage therapist who seemed to be the first masseur in Mexico or the USA to listen to my complaint about how the muscles in the front of my neck were sore and how my jaw hurt.  Within moments this guy was grabbing the thin little strings of muscle in my neck and ripping them from my throat. Stinging pain ensued and continued when he asked me to open my mouth as wide as possible as he milked the muscles on my jaw. Certainly, I would have screamed in pain, but I was so weak with pain I remained silent. When the ordeal was finished I felt like a full bladder that finally had been emptied.

On the walk home I repeatedly breathed a sign of disbelief and associated relief each time I replayed the release of my jaw and neck muscles. Mr. Masseur asked if I held anger.  Anger? Me? Naw.  Masseur guy continued with “whether you hold anger consciously or unconsciously, at night your body tends to work-out the anger in teeth grinding or dreams (tell me about it.)”  Masseur guy gives me homework and instructs me to insert a folded towel into my mouth each night and bite down as hard as possible and attempt to pull the towel from my mouth as I exalt a guttural scream.

I’ll pause while you digest that image.

Now, on to the next subject.

The hubby and I very much enjoyed a night without our children as Gabby the 24% English-speaking babysitter tended the wee ones. Truly, the husband and I could have sat on the street curb and been happy with the relief from constant chatter, bickering and physical assault by our darling children. However, we did not sit on the curb, but instead attended a chamber music concert in a stranger’s home. Dicey.

Truly, watching an intimate performance in a stranger’s living room, eating their homemade food and sitting with unknown guests is a T-O-T-A-L crapshoot. Believe it or not, it was fabulous. The musicians were great and the company at our table was cosmopolitan and wonderfully interesting. I wish they were my friends forever! Now, in addition to holding onto to the inspiration of Edward Swift, who I ran into on the street this afternoon, there is one more reason for me to be happy in San Miguel.

I have tried different strategies for behaving during my Mexico vacation  - all with no success.  For instance, I have acted like an American in Mexico and rebelled against Mexico’s standard issue schedule: morning activity, big lunch, total shutdown for siesta time and late evenings.  Instead of complying with the Mexican schedule, I forced my children outside in the blaring sun of siesta time, into an early bath, and begged restaurants to feed us a big American dinners at six o’clock.  However, that blinding afternoon sun is a good reason to stay inside and the restaurants are really boring at 5:30 or 6:00 because we are the only customers. There is the occasional drunk from lunch who hasn’t gone home or the staff who are getting ready to close, but no other patrons.

Another approach I used was to pretend I was a Mexican in Mexico.  Like a real Mexican I had a big lunch with some margaritas and fell into the accompanying siesta. Well, sorta. I wish I could have fallen into a siesta, but the children must be tended and passing out in the afternoon is not conducive to overseeing the wellbeing of little children, especially when the children play games like “Senior Gato.”  Apparently, the child who plays the role of the gato must strip himself of all clothing and run outside naked.  Surely Mexico has no pedophiles??

Today I went with a new strategy, which was to act like a Mexican in America. The goal was to act like a Mexican mother but stay on an American schedule.  First of all, I did zero income-producing work (not like I’ve done much on vacation anyway, but some maintenance is required).  In the afternoon I sent the children to the park. Most American families pawn their children off on a housekeeper, but I pawned the children off on their father.

With time on my hands I set about shopping for dinner, which included a visit to the bakery and because I was hungry I bought one of almost everything and shoved it into my mouth as I walked to the chicken shop.  Shopping for dinner was laborious but entertaining:  the chicken store, the bread store, the various vegetable stands, but most importantly the apron store.

The domestic women in Mexico wear gingham pinafore aprons with cross-stitch decoration.  Stepping into character, I buy an aqua blue gingham apron with orange flowers sewn on the chest. However, if you combine a pinafore with a high ponytail you get an image fit for Hustler.  Putting on the apron, I felt funny…in a pornographic way, but alone in the kitchen cutting strawberries I countered the odd thought with “it’s just an apron.” However, I needed some SIN BAC to kill the sickness waiting to happen on the spinach, and I stepped out to the local store wearing my apron. 

It was extremely clear from the reaction I got from a truckload of workers that the apron sent a mixed message. If you wear the apron you need to be selling vegetables on the street or serving tamales out of a crock-pot.  You can’t wear the apron with strappy sandals unless you want to be raped.

Dinner at home went very well. The children had a well-balanced meal of meat, starch, vegetable , fruit and milk. Perfect. We played a game, read a book and the little ones went night-night.  Such a good night convinced me that shopping and cooking like a Mexican but on an American schedule was the strategy for me!

However, I carried my American strategy too far. After the children were tucked in bed I stepped out to replenish my Red Tent supplies. Oddly, I discovered that the tampons are on the same shelf as the Barbie’s.  What does that mean?

My errand was almost complete when I catch a glimpse of the hair color isle. NO!!!  Retail hair color is the devil and I know it. I KNOW IT. I KNOW IT. I KNOW IT. There are countless stories with bad outcomes dealing with hair color and me. It never, ever, never works out.   

Speaking or reading no Spanish I pick out the color Miel because it sounds flavorful.  Every morning in Mexico I order yogurt, fruta, granola and miel, and it’s super tasty.  I have no idea what miel is, but in my mind it’s something like quinoa or wheat germ – one of those healthy things that have no taste but add good benefits.  All those healthy things are brownish and my hair is brownish (when those few gray hairs are dyed.)

When I return home my husband sees the hair color and freaks out. He begs me to throw it away and reminds me of various times home hair color has failed me.  He brings up the time I dyed my hair in Omaha while on a business trip and missed an entire part of the back of my hair. Traveling in airports all day people stared at me. When I got home my husband informed me that aside from the fact my hair was maroon, it had a big brown spot in the back where I missed applying the hair color. He also mentions the time my hair turned bright red (see full story.)

Facts are facts. Hair color never works for me unless I pay James Devery of The James Devery Salon the price of a Lexus payment.  For now, the hair color, which my husband pointed out, is Honey (who knew that’s what I was eating every day!) remains in the bag. Should I do it? Honey sounds pretty!

Kurt Cobaine has nothing on me. I’ve been to Nirvana and all is right in the world, and especially in Mexico, and most especially in San Miguel de Allende –one of the most charming colonial cities in Mexico and possibly all of Latin America.   Sound like a different tune from yesterday? Today is not yesterday, nor is it last week or the week before. 

Today is the day I packed my bags for a week’s vacation in the Red Tent. I wept with joy to realize my previous hostility and anxiety was due to the fact that I was not adequately preparing myself for my upcoming trip to the shed. 

Just knowing the reality of the situation caused me to awaken early and cook a pound of bacon for my meat-eating family (minus one vegetarian six-year old who has decided to emulate her older sister and forego all meat.)  I scramble a dozen eggs and whip up a pan of biscuits and a pot of coffee.  The little family was happy, and we set off for a late Sunday morning at the park.

Because my give-a-shitter broke yesterday I decided to wear my culturally offensive running shorts that are a little too short and my jogging bra that brazenly peeks out from my favorite shirt that ripped summer before last and barely hangs together but always assures me a good run.  Inserting my ear buds like a junky inserting a dirty needle, I plug in and set out for a light jog. Meandering around the park and through the art sale is pleasant, but the music in my head demands I push for a bigger challenge.  Before I’ve consciously made the decision I’ve wandered to an alley and am climbing a cobblestone hill so steep my eyes are even with my thighs.

The hill is brutally steep and my legs are quivering as I ascend the never-ending path.  The intoxicating feeling is better than a Snickers after a day of fasting.  The pain gnaws into my legs as I force my jelly ass up the hill. The view at the top is stunning.

Full of endorphins, I nimbly skip down the cobblestone road and smile sweetly to the kind gentleman who approaches me with his fly open. At first I assume he has forgotten to zip, but then I realize that he’s got a great big prize that he has hung outside his open pants and wants me to see it. Instead tying myself into a knot and fitting-out about his indecency, I smile and give him a thumbs-up for having such an impressive endowment.

As if a good sweaty run wasn’t reward enough, the babysitter made her first appearance.   Heavenly day. Gaby, whom the agency told me spoke 24% English – how could they possibly measure – rang the bell at exactly 3:00 pm.  Even though Gaby and my children did not seem to communicate in words, I decided both parties were completely capable of getting along. I grabbed my husband by the sleeve and pulled him through the courtyard as we hauled-ass with a quick “Adios! See you at 8!”

The date started off with fat drops of rain on my coiffed hair, and I thought my luck had run out. However, the rain forced us into a new part of town where I found the best art I've seen in Mexico thus far.  Hundreds of thousands of teeny tiny ceramic people in a whole world created by Jose Luis Serrano. 

Not to mention, I found the hippy hideout!  I knew they were here – why have they been hiding?  Wearing un-dyed cotton tunics and smelling of patchouli a little group of longhaired, peaceful people sat with needle-nosed pliers making jewelry.    

The world was so right until it got better. The one – and possibly only – lesbian couple in town walked by me.  As the women walked hand-in-hand down the cobblestone street in the rain, my heart leaped. Seeing the women in their heavy silver belts and gelled hair was such a reprieve from the masses of shawl-wrapped women toting nursing babies or Southern women wearing linen capris and yakking about getting good deals on Mexican dresses.

As if the treat of lesbians wasn’t enough to make my day, luck poured a bucket of fortune on my head. My husband and I went to a restaurant called Nirvana, which was recommended by our friend Lisa, and guess what?  The restaurant was full to capacity with roadies for an upcoming concert in San Miguel.  A visual feast was laid before my eyes and again I was touched with good fortune.  My husband and I were offered an opportunity to drink in the bar while we waited for a table. Hmmm. Let’s see – drink and stare. The life for me!

Settling on a low couch in a dark room decorated with delicious turquoise appointments set atop deep brown fabrics in strips and swirls made me wipe drool from my mouth. Imagine Frank Sinatra wearing a Mexican wedding shirt and singing a duet with KT Tunstall and you can hear the music.

When our table was ready, the waiter peeled the enormous plastic roof off the courtyard and early nighttime settled over our original pottery plates and hand-turned silverware.  My view focused on a table of ten roadies who are obsessively checking their Blackberries, taking photos of one-another with their telephones and calmly drinking shots. The group is multi-national, and I feel like someone has wrapped me in a warm blanket – a little Mexican, a little American, an Irishman, an English black guy, and of course the hot Mexican girlfriends who were picked up yesterday. 

My perfectly rare tuna arrives and simultaneously the most cosmopolitan gay guys ever invented walk in the restaurant– great hair, hip clothes, flashy sunglasses and the most imperious attitude I’ve seen in weeks. Embarrassingly, when I go to the ladies room later in the evening I stop at their table and introduce myself.  They perfectly condescend, but I know they appreciate the star worship they deserve.

Finishing a superb bottle of Tempranillo, I look up to see a beautiful blonde woman – not a blonde like Los Angeles blonde, but a natural blonde who embodies the San Miguel de Allende I imagined when I left Texas – cotton skirt, hairy legs, slight tan, embroidered shirt, happy eyes and a mouth that affects a smile in good times or bad. The woman is standing next to a guy who looks like a movie star and is holding their tow-headed baby. “Hey!” I elbow my husband, “That’s our landscape architect!”  Since I commonly mistake people, my husband begs me not to talk to these people whom he is positive are not the people I think they are.

Throwing my napkin on the chair, I bumble out of the iron chair and obnoxiously call across Nirvana’s dining room, “Ellie!” Low and behold it is Ellie!  Of all the great people to see in San Miguel, it’s Ellie.

To end this great day in San Miguel, I tuck my children into bed (after a Judy Blume book- lovin’ that!) and grab my new straw bag that is ideally shaped. Guess what? The 17-inch MacBook Pro that never fits into any bag slips into my new bag like Cinderella’s foot into the glass slipper. 

I grab my sweater and walk out into the brisk night and head toward the coffee shop. My coffee shop! I finally found a coffee shop that not only sells LIGHT leche, they freakin’ make it homemade! 

“Por favor una cafesita con leche LIGHT. Um, and, uh, can you, you know (acting out the word rip) dos Splenda’s en the caliente leche. OK? Gracias. Muchos gracias.”

There is no possible way for me to avoid Day Drinking in San Miguel de Allende. The frustration I feel from the slowness, the constant fleecing, and the sheer lack of quality in Mexico has forced me into a life of alcoholism.  Even though I fear an upcoming lynching from a local San Miguel Internet chat group who has been reading my blog and has emailed me en masse (some extremely nice and helpful notes-some not!)  The group has even discovered the address of the house I am renting and I’m a little fearful that the house might take an egging.

No matter. From this minute forward I will no longer be conscious. I am going to continuously- every single day, every awake moment- Day Drink, until I pass out and this vacation ends.

I’ve tried.

Really.

Honestly.

Truly. 

I have tried to enjoy the unique culture and revel in the rich Mexican lifestyle.  I’m no Ugly American.  In the past I have successfully assimilated into foreign countries - European, Middle Eastern, South American and even US North Eastern.  Oddly, I have even assimilated into Mexico before, but the circumstances were different. 

A group of friends traveled to Mexico via private plane and after several days of late night dancing and endless magnums of champagne in Acapulco, we helicoptered to Mexico City where I was ensconced in a beautiful home - so perfect I had no reason to leave. The next day for lunch, my posse was driving in the crazy hubbub of Mexico City amidst six lanes of packed traffic that was crawling. My driving friend issues the order that we should all evacuate the car. WHAT???

Mostly, I am the only bourgeois and confused person in the car.  The other rich kids hop out of the car slamming the doors and dragging their Gucci purses while they maneuver their way across the many lanes of traffic. My sheltered mind did not understand the concept of leaving a running car in the middle of intense traffic. I’m from Houston!  If a car is abandoned on the freeway, the driver is cussed and becomes a possible victim of road rage. 

Somehow my fashionable friends have secret knowledge, or better yet an entitled sense, that there is a car behind us filled with servants who have instinctive knowledge that we are going to leap out of the car and require their assistance. The servants do not disappoint either.

On cue, the hired help hustles from the trailing car and hauls-ass to our 1989 gargantuan Mercedes sedan tricked out with mahogany wood, a hard-mounted mobile phone and an Alpine stereo system capable of playing Dead or Alive (remember that band?) at a perfect volume - earsplitting.  The well-mannered and over-courteous bodyguards offer their hand to me, “the real girl”, and assist my reluctant exit from the car. 

My friends need no direction to the most exclusive restaurant in Mexico City where they immediately dominate the social scene and get the mid-day party started.  I am looking so Jacklyn Smith in my nautical jumpsuit with padded shoulders. The fashionable jumpsuit is a navy blue poly-cotton suit that speaks loudly at the top with its sailor collar, narrows at the waist and flairs at the hips with wide bell-bottom legs noting the upcoming fashion of the early 1990’s.  Eat me up. I’m better than flan.

Lunch flips back and forth between Spanish and English language and I jump back and forth between Cuba Libras and well,  Cuba Libras.   A Mexican television personality was in residence at the restaurant and joins our table.  Laughter, lightness and the palm of Mexico sits in our hands.  My American clothes and mostly my fresh, taunt, youth that is coupled with my tiny bit of humor, is enough to propel me into the top echelon of Mexico. It’s all so surreal: beauty, happiness, humor, delight, depth, sweat.  To me the most complicated part of Mexico, in those days, was how to stay awake and entertaining until the wee hours of the night came to an end. They never ended. 

Well, until they ended.

Almost 20 years later I am vowing that Latin America is finished for me. Done. Kaput.  If my family can’t afford a decent vacation next year, we’re staying at home.

I don’t mean to be rude and should probably write these private thoughts in a journal, but hell, it’s the Internet, and isn’t the idea to vomit thoughts ad nauseam?

Today I took my children to make necklaces. It took them about 20 minutes to slap together a few incongruent beads on a wire.  I do not exaggerate this point:  the salesgirl took more than 30 minutes to write a receipt that noted the price of each crappy bead my 4-year old used on his throw-away-tomorrow necklace.  How much do you think this adventure cost me?  Almost $70 US-mother-fucking dollars!  Can you believe that?  This whole conversation harkens back to my point that San Miguel de Allende costs the same as other countries but lacks in quality.  In defense, my husband pointed out that Build-a-bear fleeced us for $70 too. For the record, I never planned to step foot in Build-a-Bear, but my child’s friend had a crying fit to go and since I can’t spank other people’s children, we went.

For days I’ve tried to find embroidery thread in San Miguel. Finally, I stumbled upon a place today and was elated with my find. Guess what? The store sells thread and fabric, but they don’t sell fucking needles!!!!!!!!!  Why would a fabric store not sell needles? Oddly I bought a needle at a store that sold paper flags, plastic flowers and crowns.  Where is the logic?

The absolute last thing I will say about San Miguel is about the restaurants, and there are a few exceptions. However, I am tired to death of paying $100 USD for a meal consisting of pre-frozen fish, pasta from Sam’s Club doused in canned Ragu sauce, and either frozen or no vegetables.  The meat must be avoided at all costs, and while the mole is good, how much can you eat?  Mostly, I thrive on trying new foods and don’t mind cultural differences, but if cleanliness and health issues are breached then I want a discount! If you use your dirty hands to pass me a piece of bread that is not homemade, then I don’t want to pay you $100 USD.

Speaking of homemade, if you are making tortillas two-feet away from my nose and I ask you for a hot, fresh tortilla instead of a stale dinner roll, you should not tell me that I can only have said tortillas if I order gorditas with beans and cheese.   I want the goddamned plain, hot tortilla –none of your fatty beans and cheese.  Force me to steal the hot tortilla out of your basket when you are not looking, and I will. Now, look what a bad example I’ve set for my children. 

Really.  This is the end of the rant and I will shut my mouth about Mexico and San Miguel de Allende forever and ever.  Bring me the g-d check and stop making me beg. I know it’s an American thing to expect the quick delivery of a check, but can’t you see my small children are climbing the walls, and we finished our dinner twenty minutes ago and the father of the children is out of town on business – I’m ALONE. Let us leave!!  Release us from the jail of your iron chairs.

I know I am the biggest cunt who has ever visited this city and you will all be happy for me to leave.   It’s just not a love connection.  We both know it, and aside from my absolutely adorable husband who speaks not a word of disdain for my heavy presence and still loves me on the percale sheets at our house, I would ask for a hasty plane ticket home.

Angelica

I would be remiss if I didn’t provide a follow-up to the Angelica story. For a quick recap to new readers, Angelica is the plucky 7-year old girl who sells wooden, head-bobbing turtles in San Miguel’s Jardin.  The short version of the story is that my 6-year old daughter is extremely worried about Angelica not earning enough money and has personally committed to financing Angelica’s turtle business for the rest of her life. 

My daughter’s charity is touching and heartfelt, but has taken a somewhat unhealthy turn.  She constantly searches for money in my purse, her father’s wallet, her brother’s lunch money and begs to do jobs to earn money for Angelica. It’s gotten a little obsessive.

The last post about Angelica detailed how my husband witnessed Angelica’s brother take from her the $50 pesos my daughter had just forked over.  In response to keep the older brother from taking Angelica’s money, my daughter hatched a new plan, which cleverly benefited both Angelica and herself.

When re-packing my daughter clothes for this vacation, I included an adorable brand new shirt that my picky daughter refuses to wear.  She claims it has puckers on the sleeves and therefore fosters too feminine a look for her sporty style.  Again, digging into the past, for almost one year now my daughter has worn a soccer uniform every single day MUCH to my dismay. I love smocked dresses, grosgrain bows and mary jane’s on little girls. Vehemently I fought my daughter’s horrid look for many months, but finally it was clear that I lost the war. In fact, earlier this week we made a new $8 purchase for a Mexico soccer uniform, and true to form, my beautiful girl put on the polyester green jersey and thin white shorts and has worn it every day. I hope she doesn’t get close to a lit cigarette or she’s going up in flames.

I digress.  My daughter wanted to give Angelica something that couldn’t be taken away from her like food or clothing. The perfect plan was to gift this new shirt because we’ve been here two week's and Angelica has worn the same shirt every day (hmmm..the girls have so much in common!)

My daughter spent hours drawing pictures and coloring sheets of paper that she taped together to form wrapping paper.  Carefully, she wrapped the shirt and in her best Kindergarten handwriting wrote:

Dere(sic) Angelica,

Thank you for the tortugas. I like them. I like you.

Your friend,

Package in hand we set off to find Angelica.  When we arrive in the Jardin a little girl runs up to my daughter. For some reason my daughter has turned shy, so, I facilitate the transaction and tell the girl my daughter has a gift for her.  The girl takes the present.  Something about this kid looks different – I say, “You are Angelica, right?” The kid informs me that, yes, she is in fact Angelica. As we walk away,  my daughter informs me that it wasn’t Angelica.  She did look different, but she answered to Angelica…

The next day I see the kid proudly wearing the shirt (and it’s so cute!)  We tried to explain the mistake to the real Angelica, and I think she was happy to have been thought of, but it was so sad she missed the elaborate gift-wrap and excitement of getting a present and a note.

Either I’m boring or there is not that much to do in San Miguel de Allende.   The promotion materials describe SMA as a cultural Mecca, but all I can find to do is shop, eat (breakfast, lunch and dinner), drink margaritas, drink coffee and eat ice cream.  There are cooking, Spanish and art classes, but I don’t want to learn to cook more food involving queso; do not want to spend my vacation conjugating verbs and am not an artist.

This enormous amount of time leaves me to consider what my friend calls Day Drinking. Any college student can attest that Day Drinking is fun at first, but is not at all pleasurable when the sun sets.  Especially, mothers should be fearful of Day Drinking.  It might be a tad fun while preparing dinner, but when twilight turns into darkness, you’re screwed.

Day Drinking finds that the lamps have not been turned on and the dirty dinner dishes sit on the table.  If Stella from Streetcar Named Desire was afraid of bright lights, I am afraid of no lights – well, not afraid, but depressed.  Perhaps a dark house reminds me of high school when I came home late to find my mother sitting in the dark with the orange tip of her cigarette providing the only light. She would take a deep drag and the orange dot would grow bigger and I could hear a slight crackle before the bright orange faded and the whoosh of her exhalation filled the dreadful silence.

Perish the thought of darkness without a plan. Slit my throat.

So while my children take an art class, and Mexico blasts the full sun on my Irish head, I am forced to deal with myself. I am not a hugger or a touchy person. In fact, my mother used to beg me, “Please hug your grandmother. Don’t act like a cold fish.”

Embracing is not natural to me.  I hug my children and husband, but it ends there. To me a hug is how a horse must feel when guided into a shoot that he instinctively knows will lead to his future existence as a bottle of glue.  Like the horse I flinch and back-step when I see the hug coming toward me.  Oddly, though, I seek out opportunities for strangers to touch my skin.

Sicko!  Quit thinking I’m a secret prostitute!  What I mean is that I relish any opportunity for someone to give me a massage, pedicure, manicure, shampoo, physical exam, palm reading or any service where my skin is touched. 

Today instead of Day Drinking I decide to get a manicure and score some skin touching.

Aside from the touch of a stranger, I love cleanliness, order and cozy comfort.  When I found the address of the manicure establishment, the white iron burglar bars on the door told me there must be something valuable inside that needed protection.  The place looked like a cross between a hacienda and a hospital. Well decorated and spotless – I’m in.

Peering through the glass I see a petite, black-haired woman wearing expensive clothes and consulting with the proprietor, presumably about a skin treatment. Positively, this woman is from Mexico City.  Both the owner and Mrs. Mexico City turn their attention to the door as I clumsily struggle with the knob and rattle the glass.

Mrs. Mexico City’s face looks wet. Her complexion is so dewy it looks raw.  Clearly, she is a facial junky and has had so many treatments that her face looks like a character from Star Trek (and like a mother of one of my children’s friends).  Her face looks like it is coated in Vaseline.

Mrs. Mexico City flutters like a captive bird when I enter the “doctor’s” office. She is annoyed that Sergio has interrupted his focus from her – her, the most important, most shapely, most beautiful, most worthy, most moneyed – and while Sergio flamboyantly welcomes me to his establishment, Mrs. Mexico City flits about the room pointlessly touching chairs, products, her hair. She is disturbed by the break in attention from her, but when Mrs. Mexico lays eyes on me, she is calmed by intrigue.

Frenetically, Mrs. Mexico City ogles me from head to toe, studying my American face and wondering what superior facial treatments I have access to.  Instead of hating me for stealing the undivided attention of Sergio, she pitifully worships me and my foreign clothes, which, btw, are not too exciting – cotton skirt and t-shirt, but the clothes are different and therefore, it’s easy to see Mrs. Mexico City wants what she doesn’t have.

Mrs. Mexico City’s nanosecond of envy is gone when I drag my backpack through the door.  No purse. No driver. No need to bother with me.  She and Sergio dismiss me to the manicure table while they continue plotting the best skin treatment for Mrs. Mexico City’s gooey face. 

Perhaps Sergio will douse Mrs. Mexico City’s face in donkey milk like the sign on the wall says “Donkey Milk Products – Feel and Look Yourself Like Cleopatra”. Even without Day Drinking, I feel the need to fall on the floor and laugh. For some reason I can only picture a donkey I saw when I was about 12 years old, and that donkey had an embarrassingly long and erect penis. Made me laugh at 12 and makes me howl at 40.

Even though I love the thought of someone cutting, scraping, picking or piercing my skin, it cannot compete with my new Augusten Burrough book. A technician wearing a saucy sea foam green uniform sits down and begins sawing my nails with a file. I’m glad someone is touching my skin, but I’m also fully engaged in Augusten’s fight with a rat who has crawled out of a bathtub faucet.  Who knows how long the manicure lasted, but when I rejoined reality my fingernails had been filed into sharp points, and it looks like I have talons.

Despite the fact I did not Day Drink, my nails suggest otherwise.