How Will It Be Remembered?

Generally, I don't get caught up in any kind of doom and gloom media stories. Since the whole "world-will-cease-as-we-know-it" coverage of Y2K, where I frantically squirreled away cases of bottled water and canned goods, I have viewed the media with a jaundiced eye. I have felt that the urgency with which they deliver warnings is in direct proportion to where they sit in the ratings war. So yeah, I don't get too worked up about the latest cautionary tale.

(Except for tornado warnings because they're a special breed of terror and I pay attention to those babies)

Occasionally, I have been wrong. For instance, while meteorologists across the nation bleated on and on about Hurricane Katrina and how we could expect the apocalypse, I shook my head and cursed them for their fear mongering. We all know how that one turned out.

And earlier this year, as the first chatter about H1N1 hit the radar, I shrugged. I noted the hysteria in Mexico, heard about the illness in New Zealand and then our summer came, the immediate threat went away and I promptly tossed Swine Flu off my radar. Pandemic, schlemic, I thought. (insert wet raspberry sound here)

But you know what? It scares the crap out of me. I have never taken either one of my children to get a flu shot because I didn't see the reasoning behind injecting oneself with last year's strain and manufacturing obsolete antibodies. I thought it was a giant waste of time and resources. This year, however, we will be lining up with THOUSANDS of others to get whatever shots are made available to the public. I am terrified.

Chris at Rude Cactus discussed this subject in a post last week and it seems we've all heard the same numbers.

NINETY THOUSAND possible deaths in the US alone.

It makes the hair stand up on my neck. How exactly do you contain flu in a school? It's a part of life. Every winter at some point, my kids come home with fevers, dripping noses and wet, rattling coughs. I will be watching both of them like a hawk hoping that H1N1 gets a place right beside Y2K in the history books and doesn't turn into a disaster like Katrina.

The Adolescent Mating Dance

My son attended his first school dance last night. At dinner, I was trying to convince him to skip it because I thought it would be a complete waste of time since we are only two weeks into the school year and what the hell were they thinking scheduling a dance on a school night? Besides, I was in my comfy, bleach stained, not-for-public-eyes lounge wear and didn't want to change, because I'm selfish like that.

Dallas (being the reasonable and kind parent in this house) offered up a compromise which found us dropping Dylan's hormonal pubescent self at the school for an hour of mingling with his peers. As he got out of the car, waved and then pretended we didn't exist, I couldn't help but remember my own experiences with school dances.

I LOVED them. Except for this one.

My first was in sixth grade. I have no recollection of what I wore, which is weird, but I do remember that the gym had been decked out in silver and black balloons with disco strobe lights and gobs of crepe paper streamers.

All of the girls congregated on one side of the gym and the boys, looking distinctly terrified with their clip on ties and fresh haircuts, huddled on the other side. For years, some of those boys had been among my best friends. We had played baseball, hiked through the woods and smoked our first duMaurier cigarettes, stolen from our parents, together. That night, they looked at me differently, like I was someone they didn't know and it was both disconcerting and slightly electrifying. One of them, a boy named Mike, had been my constant companion for nearly four years but the nature of our relationship was evolving as we prepared to enter our teen years. I suddenly became aware that he was a BOY and found myself fretting over clothing choice and how my hair looked, which had never mattered before.

At the dance, he was the first to break rank with the rest of the boys. As casually as could be, he walked over to chat with the girls while his friends looked on in horror. We made eye contact briefly and he smiled. I smiled back, flushed deep red and waved. Then, I felt like a complete tool for waving because it seemed too eager and in a panic, I fled to the boys side of the room to talk with Tej and Greg, who I thought were safe.

"Sail On" by the Commodores came on.

"Wanna dance?" Tej asked.

"With you?" I sputtered. He immediately deflated, like a balloon that had been pricked and I felt horrible so I quickly agreed.

We walked out to the center of the gym, looked at each other, then at the other couples and awkwardly stuck our arms out like two zombies trying to mate. Sweat trickled down the side of his face and I concentrated all my efforts on trying to appear casual, like this dancing with a BOY thing was no big deal. My heart beat furiously in my chest and the song seemed to go on forever. As we jerkily shuffled around in a circle, I glanced to the sidelines and caught Mike staring. He wasn't smiling anymore. Crap.

When the song was over, Tej and I shook hands.

Because we were social goobers.

Then, I made a beeline for Mike and struck up a conversation about something I no longer remember. What I do recall is that while he never did ask me to slow dance that night, he did invite me to the movies with him and his brother that weekend and thus, I viewed the school dance as a complete personal success.

Dylan's first dance turned out to be just as great. He text, "I'm loving it!" midway through and I breathed a sigh of relief. When we picked him up, he was pleased with the experience and enthusiastically chatted about a "mosh pit", which loosely translated into a few boys, testosterone, a bit of roughhousing, a lot of posturing and an adoring female audience.

Some things just never change.

I Think I Am

Do you ever wonder what the point is? In life, I mean.

I'm not about to get all Nietzsche on you or anything but as I got out of my car this morning and unlocked the office door, the sheer routine of it knocked me for a loop. I have stuck my key in that door, at nearly the same time, hundreds of days before. I have walked in, turned the lights on in a specific sequence, checked the fax and my mailbox and walked the fifty steps or so back to my office five days out of every week for the last six years.

And for this, I receive a decent paycheque, benefits and three weeks of vacation a year, for which I am grateful.

The thing is, aside from my family, I really don't feel like I'm making much of a difference in the big picture of things. Most days, this doesn't bother me because like every other person on the planet, my life is chock full of obligations and indulging the existential philosopher inside my head takes a backseat to the business of managing everyday realities.

On those rare occasions, though, when I am completely at peace; when the nugget of persistent anxiety has left my belly, I wonder, "is this it"?

Birth, school, job, marriage, kids, retirement, death?

Really?

In a nutshell, of course, the answer is yes.

And the more cerebral, logical, self knows that it's the seeds planted and nurtured in the everyday from which the extraordinary grows. It realizes that this mild discontent is symptomatic of middle age and remedied not by the external but by the celebration of the mundane.

My husband is a person who deliberately, consciously, seeks the positive. Green lights, a good night's sleep, a perfectly cooked filet, the sting of an ice cold soda splashing down the back of his throat on a hot day, the feel of clean sheets and new contact lenses...

He views these things as small victories and daily, he mentally tallies the wins in an effort to keep his focus on what is good. I admire that.

Like most, I spend so much of my life at work that it is hard not to let my career define who I am as a person. I am not a doctor or a teacher. There is nothing remotely altruistic about my job and I probably need to accept that this is okay. I've got to get to that point where I view my work as the bread in a sandwich. It's necessary and provides structure but it's not much to write home about if you take away the meaty bits in between.

And that is where my contribution lies, I suppose. Being a wife, mother, daughter, sister and friend is what infuses my life with meaning.

I guess the answer to my question is that the point of a life is defined by the one living it. Søren Kierkegaard once wrote, "the thing is to find a truth which is true for me, to find the idea for which I can live and die". He was discussing the question of his life's purpose within the context of his religious beliefs but I think the principle is the same for all of us. Identify what matters and allow those passions to layer a life rich with texture.

Bitchfest

Wow.

I am ugly busy these days at work and if I was a more dedicated blogger, I'd be writing posts on the weekends since I am struggling to get them out during the week.

But alas, I am a lazy heifer. I'm sorry.

I'm also cranky lately, largely due to the fact that I am not sleeping well. I need to get a few things off my chest so be forewarned: I'm probably going to be vulgar or profane or both. My vocabulary is shrinking in direct proportion to the amount of shut eye that I'm NOT getting and thus, four letter words, (easy to spell and versatile) have become vernacular staples.

First, the credit card companies suck. Over the last couple of weeks, we have received notices for nearly all of our cards informing us that as of October 1st, because of "unforseen market conditions", our interest rates would be switched from fixed to variable resulting in anywhere from 5 to 8 percentage point increases in APR. It doesn't really affect us for the most part except for American Express, who raised our rate AGAIN. When I decided to ring them, the woman on the other end of the line actually told me that she was expecting my call. Nice.

During the course of the phone call, I learned that American Express doesn't allow you to cancel your account and opt out of the increase, which was news to me since I believed opting out to be a consumer right. As of August 20th of this year, it is, but since Amex posted their letter to me before that date, they don't have to adhere to this new rule.

The poor woman on the other end of the line was very polite and kept nattering on saying things like, "I understand that this is upsetting for you Mrs. J." I asked her to stop talking.

I said, "I know that you are probably a nice person and that you are just doing your job but I'm going to hang up now because that script on your desk that you are reading from is just pissing me off". I hung up.

Then, I got my wallet, pulled out the American Express that I've had for nearly 15 years and cut it into 47 pieces. When I am ridiculously wealthy and famous after my brilliant novel soars to the number one position on the NY Times Bestseller List and gets optioned by a big Hollywood production company, I am going to have my agent tell American Express to take their proposed lucrative endorsement deal and go pound sand. And then Ellen, Jerry, Beyonce, Shyamalan, Tiger, DeNiro and I will discuss corporate greed over sushi at Nobu.

Second, I have been plagued lately with dreams of beating the tar out of Dallas's ex wife. I am not even kidding. I nod off to sleep with the peaceful sounds of a roaring campfire or a summer thunderstorm thanks to an application that Dallas has downloaded on his phone and then all of the sudden, I am in the proverbial dark alley throwing trash into a rubbish bin. I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around, hair raised on the back of my neck, to find Dallas's ex wife standing there. She smiles, mockingly, and asks me how I am enjoying paying her tax bill.

That's when I throw the first punch.

I don't think that I am a violent person by nature but something comes over me in this dream and I am crazed. I wake up in a pool of sweat, heart pounding, chest heaving and terrified that I have actually hit her. And then, safe with the knowledge that it was all just a bad dream, I try desperately to recall what it felt like to box her ears red.

Speaking of waking up in a pool of sweat...

The estrogen-ebbing, phantom baby-kicking, menstrual cycle havoc-creating, fucking HOT FLASH HELL known as perimenopause is original sin in overkill mode.

For ages, I've had serious issues with the whole pain-of-childbirth/subordination-in-marriage-for-all-womenkind curse thanks to some slapper named Eve. I understand she was told not to eat the damn apple. I get that. And I agree that she should have been tossed out on her fig leaf but bleeding every month for thirty eight years ought to be punishment enough. Suffering through transitional labour, papsmears, PMS and cheesy pick up lines is over the top. And now, sweet baby Jesus, my doctor tells me I can expect this new and final phase to last FIVE, MISERABLE YEARS.

And Adam's lot? What do they get?

Better pay, a request to "cough" once a year, Viagra and the ability to pee standing up.

It's all enough to make a girl drink.

Summer is Over

Tomorrow, my children return to school and if I wasn't so exhausted from the roller coaster ride that was our life this summer, I'd be clicking my heels. As it is, the mere thought of them climbing onto those big yellow buses causes joy to bubble up and spill out my ears.

My kids are a lot like me in the respect that they crave routine and seem to do much better when everything is orderly. When the schedule is up in the air, they come completely undone. They are natural born planners. More times than I can count, my son will inquire at the breakfast table about what he can expect for dinner. Drives me bonkers.

Olivia was enrolled in a great blood-letting summer program that while causing my wallet to shoot sparks, nevertheless kept her in the Monday to Friday groove. Dylan was another story.

For several weeks, we allowed him to pass his summer holidays as he pleased figuring he was old enough to be left alone during the day. Dylan is remarkably responsible for his age and I often forget that I'm dealing with a child. Nothing bad happened but it became clear that he was spending the majority of his time cooped up in the house with his laptop and cell. He wasn't getting a lick of exercise and he found each and every one of my emergency chocolate stashes. He didn't seem to be bathing as often and there were days, I'd come home from work to find him on the couch in his gitch, looking exactly like his father as he had the moment he rolled out of bed that morning. A few times, Dallas gently mentioned that he thought Dylan needed to attend some sort of program. Eventually, I agreed but there's not much available for tweeners except the Boys and Girls Club, which turned out to be the best thing that happened to Dylan all summer.

But that's all behind us because tomorrow, my baby boy starts grade seven.

JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL.

A few weeks ago, we had to take his supplies over to his new school and get his locker assignment. I taught him how to open the combination lock and then we practiced doing it once or twice so he didn't find himself frustrated and panicked on the first day (like I would be). I nattered on about how he could personalize the inside of his locker with pictures and oh, wouldn't the addition of a shelf be handy? Dylan just stood there looking around and taking it all in, humouring me with absent nods. He was composed, entirely unruffled and eerily calm. I was a wreck. On the way out, we saw a ton of eighth graders as we passed by their section of the school and I was floored at the sheer size of some of the boys. And oh my god, there was nothing naive or fresh about some of those girls.

I loved junior high. I went to my first school dance, bought my first pair of heels and kissed a boy for the first time, which was fine and dandy when it was ME who was experiencing all of that but I can't quite get my head around my son being old enough to look at girls that way.

I'm going to have to be medicated.

The Cat Has Shat

The unthinkable happened this weekend.

Our female cat lost her everloving mind and defecated in our house, twice. Then, she peed. In my office.

I can't look at her the same way now.

Fat Cat has always been a twitchy, bitchy thing. Teenage daughter apparently found her several years ago and convinced her loon of a mother to let the cat stay. Once the crusade to save the world was over, teenage daughter lost interest and man child assumed cat care duties.

In that filthy, free-for-all, house-destroying environment, three humans, two cats and a dog shared space. Fat Cat was the weakest in both personality and brawn. The other cat was an enormous orange tabby with testicles intact. He didn't know his own strength. The dog was something small, yappy and psycho. Fat Cat never stood a chance. She basically lived in man child's room under his bed to avoid the near constant attacks from the other two animals.

When she came to us, she was riddled with ear mites, obese and sporting a matted coat of hair. She growled like a dog whenever she felt threatened and it took months for her to make an appearance in the general population of our home. We took her to the vet and got all of her physical medical problems fixed. She was put on an eating schedule and as a result, she naturally slimmed down to a reasonable weight. While still a nervous creature, over time Fat Cat assimilated pretty well.

She did begin to pull her hair out in white tufts which caused us to have to vacuum nearly every day and she would often turn up her nose at any wet food that wasn't fish but we could live with these small neuroses. She still startled at the slightest thing and she groomed obsessively but overall, she improved a hundredfold.

Then, disaster struck.

Our automatic litterbox finally bit the dust. I rushed out and spent a ridiculous sum of money on a new, fancier model. When we unpacked it, Dallas and I were thrilled with the flashy mechanics, built in ionizer and odour control filters. We may actually have done a little happy dance in the laundry room, oohing and aahing the first time we watched it in action. Our male cat wandered in, gave it a curious sniff and used it almost immediately.

Fat Cat, on the other hand, had a nervous breakdown and decided to use the office as her own personal toilet, instead.

What Dallas and I didn't know was that some cats need to be conditioned to use a new litterbox. Apparently, you are supposed to leave the old one sitting next to the new one but you don't clean the old one. According to theory, cat will choose the new, clean box because they are fastidious. Whatever.

WHY IS THIS NOT PRINTED IN LARGE BLOCK LETTERS ON LITTERBOX PACKAGING?

How are ignorant saps like us supposed to know such things? The old litterbox didn't just die one day. It was a slow, painful, frustrating, decline over a period of several months where the rake would jam or chatter or run for hours. So, when the thing finally quit for good, Dallas threw it into the outside trash bin, WITH GUSTO, relishing the sound of it splintering into pieces. This was after I'd taken a screwdriver to it in an effort to fix that bloody rake. When I realized it couldn't be repaired, I tore the rake out with my bare hands (in a mild fit of premenstrual rage). The point is, we couldn't get it out of our house fast enough. Big mistake.

Dallas was up and out to Wal-Mart first thing Saturday morning to get the same kind of litterbox that we had just thrown out to try to appease Fat Cat. I was online reading about anti anxiety medicine for felines until I wrenched my head from my ass. Long story short, Fat Cat spent most of the day and all night Saturday locked in the laundry room, bleating like a lamb, until she gave up and used the 2nd new box.

Yesterday, we let her roam free but it was a stress show. Every few minutes, we'd say, "Where is she?" "Can you see her?" and truthfully, I never want to be THAT occupied with my cat's bowel habits EVER AGAIN. Last night, after wearing our nerves thin, we gave up and went to bed figuring that the ultimate test would be how she handled herself overnight.

She used the box. Oh joy.

I'm not convinced she can be trusted, though. She's neither smart nor sane and her choices were limited because we blocked her access to most of the house. Still, we didn't awaken to another mess and this is a very good thing because if we had, she'd be on her way to man child's apartment with the imprint of my shoe on her arse.

Winning the Lottery

Last weekend, Dallas and I rode up to Missouri to get some moonshine because we live in a dry county which is one of those absurd places that believes alcohol is the root of all evil. While there, we thought we'd buy a few lottery tickets and some scratchers because neither are available for purchase in our puritan town and we are sinners
heathens
flawed human beings.

We won about sixty bucks on the scratchers which tickled us to no end.

"Maybe this is an omen. Maybe we will win the Powerball tonight," I said breathlessly, flushed with excitement and a near religious certainty.

Of course we didn't win a plug nickel but it was fun to play. And then we got to talking about what we would have done had we won, which revealed big differences in our financial philosophies.

Dallas chatted about custom motorcycles and refurbished classic cars. He wanted to retire our parents and gift our siblings with large sums. He dreamed of a modest but upscale home with no mortgage and lots of grazing land.

Me? Well, I was all about getting financial advice from a professional about whether to take it in one lump sum or have the winnings paid out over twenty years. I wanted to snap up lots of affordable real estate while the market was low, with an eye to generating rental income. I wanted to purchase a business or two in an effort to make the money work for us.

Even though we appear to be at opposite ends of financial theory, we compliment each other. Dallas is not afraid to spend and he makes no apologies, which I admire. I spend, for sure, but I am plagued with buyer's remorse. I research things to the point where I get overwhelmed with information and can't make a decision. Sometimes though, I am the no nonsense accountant executing a plan and Dallas is fine with that as long as it doesn't cut into his weekly car wash budget (surprised his truck still has paint). We both agree that travel is important, mortgages should be paid off early and that too much credit card debt is debilitating. All funds earned are in a joint account and we never use terms like "your money" or "my money", which works for us. Because I am a Type A freak of nature, I need to be the one that pays the bills and Dallas has absolutely no problem with that. In fact, he often thanks me for my efforts as he considers balancing a cheque book a burden.

So, who knows what would happen in the unlikely event that we won the lottery. I'd probably take the time to write a book and if it turned out to be an indulgent piece of crap, it would still make me smile to see it sitting on my bookshelf, even if I had to pay to publish it myself. I think the first thing Dallas would do is march down to the travel agent's office and book an extended stay in New Zealand.

Even though we won't be figuring lottery winnings into our retirement plan anytime soon, it's nice to dream.

Infidelity

In my flawed opinion, infidelity is a death blow to a marriage.

I understand that people make mistakes but I find it difficult to classify an indiscretion as an "error" per se because it implies that the act itself merits forgiveness.

Not in my book. Because at every step in the process: feeling an attraction and allowing it to manifest, flirting, meeting, the first touch... a deliberate decision is made. Infidelity is not so much a mistake as a choice with consequences that shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone.

And hey, I know that's an easy position for me to take from the safety of a relationship that I believe won't face these kinds of issues.

I don't think that I would be able to forgive because I'd take the betrayal very personally. I'd be horribly hurt and I'd likely make it about my failings as in, "What's wrong with me?" instead of, "How could you?"

And then there is trust, one of the pillars of a marriage. It's unreasonable to expect that it will ever be fully intact again. I know I'd be rifling through jacket pockets, checking phone records and constantly peeking around corners waiting to hear the other shoe drop because that would become the new standard: guilty until proven innocent. Yuck.

What about respect? For wife or husband? For children? For the the vows? If the relationship has deteriorated to the point where one feels it necessary to seek intimacy elsewhere, wouldn't it be more respectful to just end things rather than introduce a third party to the dysfunction? Sure, that's a painful process too but at least it would avoid the absurdity of those conversations where the offending spouse tries to justify the infidelity.

"You're frigid"
"I'm not attracted to you anymore"
"You drove me away"
"I don't feel loved"
"You rejected me"

The fundamental problem with these conversations is that the responsibility for the behavior is magically shifted from the cheater to the spouse in a "you made me do it" context, which is nonsense.

I do hear about people who try to patch things up. I think it is mature and admirable to walk that path, especially when children are involved but the labour necessary to redefine a marriage needs two people who are fully committed to the process and frankly, I think that's rare.

"But I love her", he says.

And the truth is that love, by itself, is not nearly enough.

Postponing the Inevitable

This aging thing really sucks.

I've been reading a great book that discusses the fact that we all age but we don't have to grow old. And there is a difference, which went unnoticed by me until our holiday in Mexico.

I never thought about wrinkles or osteoporosis in my twenties because I was too busy soaking up every last moment of unburdened youth. In my thirties, my body started to change but I was absorbed with motherhood, career and a disintegrating marriage. I went weeks without looking in the mirror.

Then forty arrived like a punch in the face and practically overnight, my forehead creased, my eyes began a pilgrimage to the back of my head, I developed batwings under my arms, my bottom dimpled and my boobs needed wrestling into a bra each morning. Suddenly, people stopped asking me for i.d. and called me "ma'am". My doctors are infants and I'm old enough to have given birth to some of my kids' teachers. The point is that time is passing, I'm aging and the whole process scares me just a bit because it's like being tied to the tracks and feeling the rumble of an approaching train.

Case and point:
On the Friday we arrived in Mexico, we spent about an hour at the pool and then the entertainment staff announced that it was time to head to the beach for a game of volleyball. Excellent. I'd played throughout most of high school and considered myself a decent player. I was completely delusional. I sucked. The sand made a BIG difference. What's worse was the physical response that I had to the heat and the exertion. My face turned as red as a beet and I found myself gasping for air. My heart rate was so high that I thought I might vomit. The one clear thought I had as I struggled through the game was, "WHEN DID I GET SO OLD?"

When it was over, I focused on trying not to do a big face plant as I slogged through the sand with quivering muscles, to the pool area. After rinsing off in an outdoor shower, I dove into the pool, desperate for some icy relief. As I came to the surface and swam back to the edge, I felt the first whimpers of pain in my quads, hamstrings, lats and glutes. I medicated with fruity cocktails and vowed to exercise every single day of vacation.

Sunday afternoon, I played beach volleyball again. This time, I was far more effective as a player. As I warmed up, I became more confident and consequently, more aggressive, diving for balls and blocking at the net. Somewhere along the way, I forgot that I was forty two and living a largely sedentary life behind a computer. Midway through the second game, I planted my left foot and twisted violently to bunt the ball back over the net. My knee screamed in protest and I found myself limping. No big deal, I thought. Just a twist. Yeah, maybe at twenty it would have been minor. It's still buggered.

The book that I'm reading tells me that this type of injury is to be expected because my body is in a state of decay due to my lack of daily exercise. It says that if I want to stop the rot, I have to move my ass, vigorously, every single day without fail. I know this. On some level, I've ALWAYS known this to be true. Since turning forty, I've been obsessed with the cosmetic repercussions of aging. After hurting myself, I realized that it didn't matter how wrinkle free my face might be if I had to use a walker to get around. I don't want to battle cancer. I don't want to be another heart disease statistic. I don't want to wake up each morning having to swallow a fistful of pills just to keep myself alive. Obviously, I can't stop time and I am going to age but I don't want to get old.

So last weekend, with a commitment to health at the forefront of my mind, I accompanied Dallas to our local clinic while he got his Mexican intestinal issues sorted. This clinic takes a whole body approach to wellness. One half of it is purely medical. The other half is more like a spa offering services like massage, nutritional counseling, supplements, weight loss programs and..umm...Botox. They want you to get well, stay well and look well. I like that.

I got into a conversation with one of the staff members concerning a skin check for Dallas and me since both of us have had plenty of sun exposure. I'm not sure how that led into a discussion about Botox, but it did. She told me that they were running a special for the month of August....$11/unit. Since I had no frame of reference as to whether that was a good price or not, I had her explain it to me.
And I learned that it's totally affordable. She pointed to her own forehead (smooth as a baby's behind) and the to the non existent creases around her eyes admitting that she'd had it done.

"But why?" I asked because she looked to be in her late twenties.

"Because I'm forty," (GET OUT OF HERE!!!!)"and Botox is my little gift to myself," she replied.

And in that moment, my vanity took over and I decided Botox would be in my immediate future. Feel good, look good...why can't I have it all?

Keep you posted.

Medicinal Tequila

Mexico was a dream. A lovely, sunny, white sandy, relaxing, refreshing slumber.

We arrived in Cancun just after lunch. Mexican customs was a breeze and so, we found ourselves comfortably ensconced in our ride before one o'clock. We made a detour at the first convenience store on the way and picked up a few snacks and a six pack of beer for the forty five minute drive to the hotel. I've heard it said that heroin addicts spend years chasing after the feeling they get from their very first high. Well, let me tell you. When I took that initial sip of beer and felt the ice cold sparkle wash down my throat, I experienced a moment of pure joy that I wasn't able to replicate for the rest of the week. And that's not a bad thing.

We stayed at The Royal Playa del Carmen and it was absolutely fantastic. On our honeymoon, we'd treated ourselves to a luxury resort a little farther north and didn't think that any other property would be able to live up to that experience. I'm so glad that we were wrong.

And we spent about $2000 less.

TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS. LESS.

Which makes the whole holiday that much sweeter, if possible.

Highlights:

The staff.

Fell in LOVE with them. Exchanged emails. Plan to keep in touch. Yesterday morning, back at my desk and missing my poolside lounge chair, I went out to the Royal's website and clicked on the webcam for a few minutes hoping to catch a quick glance of one of our new friends. No such luck but I'll keep trying. I find myself glancing at the clock, noting the time and thinking, "the beach volleyball game will be starting in twenty minutes" or "they'll be doing the kayak tour now if the seas aren't too rough". My wistfulness is either evidence of a good holiday or I am a total sap.

The location.
We walked out the front doors and two minutes later, we were on 5th Avenue, which is notorious in Playa del Carmen for shop after shop of really cheesy souvenirs, silver boutiques, pharmacies and vendors hawking everything from Chichen Itza tours to Cuban cigars. We bought all sorts of stuff but my favourite purchase would have to be the diuretic I got for $10 that works like a charm and makes my monthly ordeal bearable. Just say NO to tankles.

The massages.

Dallas and I went a bit overboard. We each had an hour long deep tissue combo massage on Saturday night at a place called Veronica's on 5th Ave. It was the best massage I've had. EVER. It cost us $48 total. So we booked another for Monday night with the same therapists and learned that it was no fluke. They were incredibly skilled. We decided on a third visit for Thursday night with exactly the same results. And now, we will have to go back to Playa del Carmen because I don't think there is a massage therapist on the planet that can hold a candle to my boy Magdiel. I'm officially an addict.

The two seater giant jacuzzi.

The picture doesn't give you the full scope of this contraption. You climb into it and it's like sitting in a roomy car, with water jets. We used it every single night before going to bed. The last evening that we were there, we came back to our room to find that housekeeping had drawn a bubble bath for us complete with essential oils and rose petals. The first thing we did when we got home was measure the master bath to see if one of those babies would fit. Sadly, it won't.

We did experience a few hiccups in the vacation. Dallas woke up in the wee hours of our first Sunday in Mexico with a painful, debilitating belly. The side effects were with him the whole week, which somewhat diminished his fun factor. We had a fabulous poolside server named Denys who took great care of us while we were there and she recommended tequila as medicine for Dallas.
For two or three days, he consumed several tequila concoctions and strangely enough, he DID feel loads better. Who would have thought? Although, it's not a big stretch that something that can strip paint can be equally effective at killing intestinal germies. Once we got home and the free flow of tequila was eliminated, Dallas couldn't bear it any longer and made a visit to the local clinic. I am happy to report that he is drying out on the mend.

You know, Mexico is a great bang for the buck. We're already planning our second anniversary. Only 51 more weeks to go.

Adios Amigo

Back from Mexico and the second that we landed in Houston, reality hit us like a bucket of ice cold water. Both of our iPhones lit up like Christmas trees with text messages, voicemail and email that would have us buried for a week. One message, from our tenant made me want to turn around and run screaming back into the jet.

Long story short:
Big bad storm at Easter.
Hail.
Tenant calls with leak in foyer.
We think roof damage. Insurance adjuster claims "fluke".
More foul weather.
Tenant calls to say leak has progressed from intermittent drip to steady flow.
Purchase bottle of rum.
Roofing companies called.
New roof needed.
Adjuster is an asshole. Please send another.
New adjuster agrees we have serious problem. Issues first cheque. Skies part, sun shines and angels sing. But contractor doesn't show up.
Contractor doesn't start for ten weeks as he experiences numerous personal "emergencies".
Call doctor for valium prescription.
Tenant asks to move rental due date to the 10th of month. Agree because they've been so patient.
Contractor finally starts the job on a clear Sunday morning, nearly three months after leak was first detected.
Monday, with roof tiles off and only paper for cover, torrential rain pours down.
More damage.
Buy bigger bottle of rum. Contemplate mainlining it through intravenous drip.
Roof gets on house. Whew. Relief. Pay contractor balance for roof.
Tenant calls.
Water on the floor of the bedroom beside the bathroom.
What?
Fuck.
Contractor, who is nice man but one rung shy on the ladder of life, cuts holes in the walls to find source of leak. To no avail.
"Call a plumber", I say through mouthful of opiates.
Plumber called. Comes right over.
No worries, simple fix. Ice maker hose from fridge. Bada bing, bada boom, problem solved.
Wet carpet, wet pad, spotty mould.
Big, big fans and bleach.
Contractor agrees to be back Monday to begin interior repairs.
We fly to Mexico.
Seven glorious days lapping up the sun.
We arrive back in Houston to find our tenant has blown up our phones.
CONTRACTOR DIDN'T SHOW.
Apparently, some sort of personal emergency. Feel certain that if I see him, there most definitely could be an emergency situation.
We decide to fire him.
And order a cocktail with dinner between flights.
Holiday isn't officially over yet damnit.
Get home to find children happy, healthy and safe but the house a freaking wreck.
Look at each other and contemplate church on Sunday even though we are agnostic.
Collapse into bed instead.
Wake up Saturday morning and clean. Oh joy.
Call another contractor out on a Saturday afternoon, get a bid, agree on a start date and voilà, we are back in the hunt for landlord of the year award.

So, besides the pleasure of tucking my kids in the past couple of nights, being home has been like a kick in the teeth. Sort of.

Our bed, with crisp, fresh sheets, was just a hair shy of nirvana. And, when we closed our eyes, we could still feel the sun on our faces, taste the salt in the air and hear the ocean waves as they lapped at the pier.

In spite of the absence of ruby red shoes, there is still no place like home.