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.