I'm feeling OLD

I admit it. I lied.

The fib began two years ago, immediately after I’d written and sent my first story to The Baja Citizen and Gari-Ellen had invited me to send her more pieces. That’s when “Ramblings of an Older American Woman Living in Mexico” was born. Or more accurately – invented.  The truth: I AM an American who lives in Mexico. And I AM a rambler. What I lied about was the “Older” part.  I wasn’t older. I was vibrant, enthusiastic and felt – young. But, all that changed this summer.

For the last two years I’ve survived: a gimp knee – a legacy of Zoomba lessons; an arthritic- riddled right thumb – overuse of  scissors while sewing a Carnival costume; bunions – an inheritance from my mother; and two frightening ultrasounds of my right breast. In addition, the right side of my face is scared because of an infected saliva gland that spewed poison into my bloodstream during a tiny face-lift procedure. But, these things merely ushered me from youngish to middle-aged. It took a dog, a carpet, and an e-reader for me to become “older”.

It was June 2012. Alex and I had arrived in Escondido for our annual house sitting adventure. The day before I’d joined the digital-reading world. We’d finished dinner and I rushed toward the office with my new e-reader in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. The dog chose that moment to cross in front of my rapidly moving body. I caught my foot on the carpet, tripped and fell. I saved the e-reader, the coffee, the carpet and the dog. Unfortunately, I sacrificed my right rotator cuff.

The medical appointments began. In the U.S. you can’t walk into a clinic and request and MRI. No, first you must see a “Primary Care Physician” who orders X-rays; even though everyone knows that nothing was broken.  That’s called “protocol”. Only then can an MRI be justified. It was during this procedure that I experienced my very first near-panic attack (more about that in another article). The MRI technician wasn’t allowed to give me any information so I had to make another appointment with the Primary Care Physician who was no longer smiling. He referred me to a surgeon who I saw a week later. He said, “Surgery ASAP and begin Physical Therapy immediately”. I asked, “Will the recovery be long and painful?” She said, “It will hurt like Hell”.

That afternoon I began P.T. three times a week. I had full range of motion so I questioned the need for surgery. I got a second opinion. The doctor said, “Surgery ASAP and don’t bother with PT until after the surgery; you’ll need it!” Just as a test, I stop taking the pills for two nights. Ouch! Yikes, it hurt. I began taking the anti-inflammatories again. And scheduled surgery for November 6^th.  In the meantime, I ask questions. I begin conversations with strangers and within the first two minutes, I mention rotator cuffs. Everyone either has had a torn rotator cuff or has known someone who has. We trade symptoms and experiences.

In the meantime, all medical personal agree that I should not fall again until a year after surgery. Fifteen months is a very long time not to fall. So I’m careful. I’m aware of the dog, the carpet, and the terrain. I don’t rush anywhere. I’ve become conscious of every step I take. Alex and I have always held hands when we walk, but now I sense it’s born of fear not romance. And THAT has made an Older Woman out of me.

PS – Oh, I also need cataract surgery, too. Bummer, huh?

 

 

Why I don't vote

I’m not pretty when I get really angry. My eyes bulge, lips snarl and my neck veins protrude. No, I’m not attractive when I’m furious – that’s why I don’t vote.

Some of you will stop reading here.  Others will assume I haven’t heard that voting is my Duty and Privilege.  Still others may be curious and continue reading. You may agree with me, or get angry, or it’s possible that you’ll have ideas that I haven’t thought of.  That’s okay; I’m still learning.

I was raised in the United States so it’s the only country I can speak about but I suspect that the leaders and voters of most “Democracies” are similar.  

Voters come in many varieties: some research the past performance of candidates, or a particular issue, others vote for a party, and some vote based on personality or appearances. Like many, I’ve voted based on each of these criteria.  And I have been disappointed or felt embarrassed by my gullibility. The roots of anger can be disappointment or embarrassment. Although most will agree that anger isn’t pretty, some say it can  be used to cause change.

Disenfranchised women spent decades fighting for the right to vote.  In the 1960’s angry citizens appeared on television and bitterly complained about the dangers of water and air pollution.  Men and women fought to change segregation laws and protested what they considered unjust military “adventures”. Did their efforts prompt change? Possibly.  But war persists.  Discrimination continues. And political corruption still exists.  Faced with these realities, how many of us are willing to dedicate the last decades of our lives to fight for a cause? How much are we willing to sacrifice? And what if that cause is misrepresented? 

Although I recognized that the movies The Snake Pit (1948) and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975) were entertainment, they shocked and angered me. The conditions they portrayed were abominable and the criteria used for mental incarceration was flawed. So when the movement to close mental facilities arose, I wholeheartedly agreed.  What I didn’t know was that the government’s push to deinstitutionalize the mentally ill in the 1980’s was, in part, an economic decision.  President Regan cut the budget for mental institutions by 25%. In New York the number of patients in mental institutions went from 93,000 in 1955 to 32,000 in 1984. Some who were released managed because of newly developed anti-psychotic drugs but sales also benefited the pharmaceutical companies.  Fortunate patients had Halfway houses available; others didn’t or couldn’t take advantage of those facilities or drugs. Today the public try to ignore the mentally ill who sleep under bridges and in doorways. I believed that the government was looking out for the best interest of these patients. Later, I realized that the government either hadn’t had the foresight to anticipate the problems that arose or we hadn’t been told the entire story – that we’d been fooled. No one likes to feel like a fool.

Another example – during Bill Clinton’s first presidential campaign he “sharply attacked Bush for extending trade privileges to China in the years following the 1989 crackdown on pro-democracy activists in Beijing’s Tiananmen Square, accusing Bush of “coddling criminals.” Clinton promised to deny China Most-Favored Nation status unless they stopped their human-rights violations. I supported him based, in part, on that promise.  In May 1994, when he was President, he reversed that promise. 

But instead of becoming angry or depressed, I’ve become a cynic.  I know that politicians are selective in the information they reveal to the public. So, voters have little choice but to base their selection decisions on sketchy or even slanted information. I also know the psychology behind voting:  when a person makes a selection, he feels obliged to stand behind his decision.  To do otherwise bruises the ego and, we don’t like to admit that we’ve made an error.

Being cynical doesn’t solve the problem, though.  As Muriel Barbery said in The Elegance of the Hedgehog, “Nobody is a greater schoolgirl in spirit than a cynic. Cynics cannot relinquish … the belief that the world has meaning and, when things go wrong, they say that ‘Life’s a whore, I don’t believe in anything anymore’”.  

When politicians’ words do not match their deeds, how do we feel? Apathetic? Cynical? Angry? Or betrayed? Although I support the ideal of democratic rule, I recognize that leaders suffer from the same imperfections that plague all humans – self-interest.  And it’s in my best interest to not be angry. For many, discussing politics is a hobby. It’s a game they enjoy.  But for some, politics is consuming. Although they’ve physically left their home countries in order to spend the last few years of their lives in La Paz (peace), instead of enjoying that peace, they’re angry. They discuss politics, get emotionally distraught, and, in some cases, get enraged with people who don’t share their opinions.  Finally, if their candidate wins, they’re frustrated by the new administration’s actions (or lack of action).

Don’t get me wrong – I’ll mail-in my absentee ballot in the upcoming U.S. Presidential election but it will be a vote with very few expectations because I’ve been disappointed too many times.

Camping, anyone?

The birds woke me at 6:17.  Or perhaps it was my bladder.  I shuffled toward the bathroom and had a fright as I passed the mirror.  A stressed older woman stared back at me.  I squinted at that traitor but the evidence was plain – I looked exhausted.  During the last two months I had accepted – no, arranged – back-to-back activities.  Each day I’d rushed from one engagement to the next.  And I still wanted to invite more friends to dinner, master Photoshop, learn the subjunctive tense, paint Alex’s birdhouses for Saturday market, and write a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel.  I was suffering from a chronic disease – “Big plans; little time”.  I leaned closer to my image and said, “Geez, you’ve done it again”.

I checked my calendar; every box was full. I said, “Alex, let’s go camping?  Just the two of us.”

Long-time friends were sympathetic when I cancelled activities for the next five days.  They’d been through this with me before. Like a social glutton, I often overfill my plate when offered a smorgasbord of activities.  And, after a while, I get frazzled and need to go on a “social-free diet”.  Camping in the remote mountains would be cleansing and calming.  Or so I thought.

“Where did we put the sleeping bag?” Alex grumbled. He had pulled everything from under our built-in couch.  Old electric heaters, tiles we stored – just in case, and Turkish throw rugs we laid by our bed one winter, plus other things we’d forgotten about long ago  But there was no sleeping bag. Now we were facing a small mountain of rarely used stuff.  It was decision time.  Keep? Or give away? We made two piles and shuffled stuff from one pile to another. Back and forth. Finally, Alex shoved the entire pile back under the couch and we continued our hunt. Next, we looked on the top shelf of my closet. Nada.  Then Alex rummaged through the huge black storage bin on the side of the house.  He discovered our giant frying pan big enough to scramble eggs for a dozen hungry friends. 

However, no sleeping bag.  

While Alex rammed things back into the storage box, I said, “This is so frustrating; let’s just forget our camping trip.” Then a wisp of an image tapped at the door of my memory.  I climbed the stairs to the guest bedroom, heaved up the corner of the mattress and there, lying flat between the mattress and box spring, was the sleeping bag.

I scrawled, “Organize stuff!!!” onto a slip of paper and stuck it on the fridge.

It took us three full days to arrange a two-night mini-vacation but on Monday morning we finally locked our gate and drove the long dusty road toward solitude.  We parked. I took a deep breath.  Let it out. But stress had hitched a ride on my shoulders and refused to let go.

Alex set-up the table, chairs and propane stove and I raked away cow pies.  I bent, looked closer, and grabbed my camera.  Then I ran over to Alex, showed him the digital photo and  asked, “Guess what this is?” He glanced at the camera and immediately said, “Judy, why are you taking pictures of cow crap?” Just proves that a farm boy sees crap where a city girl discovers art.

An hour later our camp was totally set-up. We’d been on holiday for four hours – and with the exception of my discovering cow-pie-art – I still didn’t feel calm.  I sat in tense silence.  Then I heard a bell tinkle.  The oak tree that shaded our camp rustled its leaves.  Palm trees swished their arms.  A creature scuttled beneath dead leaves. A snake? No, merely a lizard.  A symphony of sounds. For those few moments I’d forgotten to check my stress level.

Let’s go for a walk,” Alex suggested.  The crunch of sand under our tennis shoes sounded like the snowy Boston evenings of my youth.  Then, as we climbed higher, our labored breathing kept the beat with our footsteps and with each step I said, “Relax. Relax, damn it!”    

Back at camp four cows waited for us.  Should I have been frightened?  Our red apron was hanging from a tree limb.  Would they charge?  They glanced at us a moment and then continued munching the nearby shrubs. Cows know how to take it easy. For a few moments I pretended I was a bovine and immediately got hungry – for salad.  

We prepared arugula, pears, candied pecans and dried cranberries.  We crunched Pan d’Les smeared with a thin layer of blue cheese for me and slathered with butter for Alex.  The sun set behind the mountain and Alex built a crackling fire.  We roasted Argentina sausages on sticks. Alex’s right knee touched my left knee.  He placed his hand on my shoulder and I felt myself unwind. Finally. 

Relaxation can’t be forced.  For the next two days, I slowly let go of my schedule, the computer, and our friends trusting that they’d all be in La Paz waiting for our return.

     

I awoke to silence.  No barking, no traffic, and no swish-swish of our neighbor’s broom. Had I been struck deaf while I slept?  No, I could hear Alex’s gentle snoring. I opened my eyes and, instead of my sparkling bedroom ceiling, I saw gray fabric two feet above my face. We were lying in the back of our Blazer.  Camping.  Senior style.

I reached for my travel clock and shoved my arm back under the duvet.  I peeked at the illuminated clock: Feb. 15 -- 6:29 a.m. – 37 degrees Fahrenheit.  I shook the clock. 37 degrees inside the Blazer!  I needed to show Alex before the sun warmed the car. But how to wake him? I touched his bare stomach.  He screeched, I handed him the clock, and curled into to his still-warm body.  I grunted, “Man make fire; woman keep warm.” 

From a supine position, Alex wrestled into his clothes but I’d slept fully dressed including my hat (but not my shoes).  I snuggled deeper under the covers. Birds and roosters began to sing.  Cow bells rang. 

Alex rekindled the campfire and prepared coffee. I anticipated a lovely “do-nothing, see-no one” day.   

The dogs came first.  Then a boy dragging a stick.  Finally, the boy’s mother appeared.  We exchanged “holas”. She looked at the ground and asked, “Have you seen our cows?” I explained that yesterday four cows had spent an hour in our camp but we hadn’t seen them today, although we had heard cow bells. The woman, boy and dogs walked in the direction we pointed.

Alex, who rarely suggests walking, said, “Let’s look for the lost cows.” I asked, “If we see cows, how will we know if they’re her cows? And suppose we find what we assume to be the lost cows, how does one lead a cow, especially since we don’t know where the woman, boy and dogs live?”  

We heard – cow bells.  We hurried toward them but instead of cows, we found bell-toting goats.

On our way back to our camp a motorcycle drove by.  Alex asked, “Judy, remember when we rode our Kawasaki to West Virginia and camped?”  I said, “Alex, was that the night it poured, and the pup tent leaked, and we were miles from a hotel?  Is that the trip you mean?”

“Yea”, he said, “Wasn’t it fun?” I thought, “This man needs an adventure.”

The sun was on its downward arch when the woman returned. Alone.  No dogs; no boy. She averted her eyes and asked, “Will you take me to search for my cows?”  Alex hurried to the Blazer.  Two bucket seats.  In the back lay our “bedroom”. I said, “You take her, Alex, I’ll read.” Our intimate, “do-nothing, see-no one” day had evaporated.

I grabbed a cookie and my novel Olive Kitterich. Olive was the controlling and demanding protagonist.  Sort of like me but without my sense of humor. I checked the clock – Alex had been gone an hour.  I sighed.  I couldn’t blame Olive’s husband if he ran off with his young shy assistant.

When I was 14 I’d watched Sayonara twelve times. I’d wanted to be shy like Marlon Brando’s Japanese geisha.  I practiced the art of lowered eyes but never managed to subdue my mouth. Or my temper.  Poor Olive.  Poor me.  Poor husbands. I looked toward the west; the sun was fading fast.  They’d been gone almost three hours.  I wasn’t jealous. Really. But what man can resist a woman with lost cows?

Alex looked discouraged when he returned. He and Pati had picked up her physically-handicapped husband (both had squished into the passenger seat) and had driven high into the mountains.  They’d stopped often and Pati walked up and down steep canyons listening for their cows.  Over and over. Finally, they’d given up.

 Alex said, “Judy, can you imagine how desperate they must have been to ask for our help? If they lose those cows, it could mean financial disaster.”  I looked at the ground and felt ashamed of my doubts – a feeling that Olive wasn’t capable of.

I decided to do something un-Olive-like.  I said, “I’ll make the campfire; you relax.”  I lifted a piece of wood. Do large spider families hide in wood piles? I began to regret my impulsive offer when we heard a roar. Then one dull headlight appeared. The dusty young motorcycle rider who’d passed us that morning stopped and said, “English?”  We nodded; he groaned, “Thank god!”

Peter had dropped his bike six times on the impassible sandy mountain road.  Alex said, “Pitch your tent here.” I wondered if we’d be robbed while we slept.  I thought, “Geez, Judy, you’re jealous and paranoid.” We shared our sausages, coffee and campfire and Peter entertained us with stories of mechanical disasters and broken bones. He claimed to be held together with pins and bolts.  Alex said that Peter was held together by determination. Were his stories exaggerated?  Perhaps.  But Peter’s enthusiasm was 100% real.

After breakfast he rode off. Would we (an older-American-couple-camping-in-the-remote-mountains-of-the-Baja) be added to his anecdotes? Maybe. But he’s become one of our memories.

On the drive to La Paz Alex asked, “What about Peter’s body”? Since he turned 65, Alex has become a would-be Body Snatcher; he’s searching for a young, strong, healthy male body to inhabit. I said, “I bet the pins that hold Peter together will rust before he turns thirty.” And, like the good wife I am, I added, “Nah, I prefer your body, Honey.”

Alex asked, “Did you have a good time? I answered, “This trip wasn’t the quiet get-away I’d imagined but perhaps I’m not a “do-nothing, see-no one” kind of woman.”

 At home Alex, the man who knows me so well, said, “Let’s invite friends for dinner tomorrow night.” I grabbed the phone, a pen and headed toward the calendar.

  

   

       

Separation Anxiety

Don’t move to La Paz if you suffer Separation Anxiety.  I didn’t figure this out until we’d already moved here.  It might be too late for me but perhaps my experiences will help you.

You know who you are.  You dream of a life in the sun.  Near the clear Sea of Cortés.  Perhaps you want adventure. A sailboat. Scuba diving. Hikes in the desert.  Or maybe you’re looking for a laid-back life. A hammock and a good book.  Possibly living in a foreign country is the allure. A new language and a rich culture.  Conceivably, you want it all.  Who can blame you?  But if there’s the remote possibility that you have Separation Anxiety, don’t do it!

Alex and I had no problem driving away from our life in El Norte.  We didn’t miss our jobs.  And we assumed our friends and family would flock to La Paz for long visits, so we didn’t feel separated from them.  We had begun our adventure.

Within our first week here, I’d joined a Spanish class at Marina Palmira.  The students, mostly cruisers, entertained me with their travel tales.  I developed ties to these new friends.  Then one day, after we’d lived here four months, anxiety hit me like a virus.

Dave and Vickie mentioned that they were going sailing.  I asked, “For the weekend?”  Dave said, “No, first we’re sailing to Hawaii for a few months and then The Marquesas and later who knows?”

“When will you be back?” I asked. 

Vickie shrugged.  I tried to keep the panic out of my voice. “You are coming back, aren’t you?”

I felt as if I was six years old again.  Alone in our car in Boston.  My father had said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”  I didn’t know where he went or why he didn’t take me.  I waited.  And waited.  Was he lost?  I flattened my nose against the car window and searched the faces of each passerby but, until I saw Daddy’s face, I felt queasy.  Empty. Alone. 

Fast forward forty-eight years. I was sitting at Marina Palmira and the queasiness had returned.  I said to Yvonne, a classmate, “Dave and Vickie are leaving La Paz and might not come back!”  Yvonne said, “Judy, that’s what cruisers do.  They come for a week, a month or a year then many of them decide to sail away looking for new adventures.”

She might as well have been speaking in Martian.  How could they think of leaving La Paz?  And their friends?

Since then, boaters have sailed into my life and often, after a time, they’ve floated away, and I’ve tried to prepare myself by remembering Yvonne’s words. 

Cruisers may sail off, however, I expected stability from land-lovers. Their homes are made of concrete not fiberglass.  What could shake them from their lives here?

 Health issues are a major factor. Jorge and Marjorie were pillars of our ex-pat community.  They’d been in La Paz forever.  Almost as long as their historical home.  Saturday night meant only one thing to Alex and me – “movie night”.  Twenty-five people.  A collection of artist and poets. The ceiling timbers shook with talent. A cocktail of egos and a sprinkling of humility.

One night I said to Marjorie, “Do you realize that you and I are the only people in this room that don’t do anything?  We don’t write, paint or sculpt.”  She merely smiled and asked if I wanted more ice cream.  Later, a friend who had overheard whispered, “Don’t you know that Marjorie is a published poet”?  Later, Marjorie invited me to join a new Wild Poetry group that Lee Moore had formed.  “Me?” I asked.  Marjorie said it would be fun.  And it was.  I loved it.  And I loved them.  So when Marjorie and Jorge sold their house I was incredulous.  How could they leave La Paz?  And their friends?  My rational self accepted that health issues and family were involved but my damn little six-year-old still felt betrayed.

Family. Like the biological clock that can turn a formerly happy, childless  couple into frantic baby-obsessed individuals, a similar fixation may strike grandparents.  Without soccer games, dollhouses and playtime, they feel empty.  Alone.  So they sell their houses, promise to keep in touch, and leave La Paz while I sit on the warm beach feeling deserted.

Nevertheless, as quickly as people leave La Paz, others arrive. It takes something special to leave your birth country, your family and friends.  A drop of Gypsy blood.  But no blood or personality test exists to determine if one has “staying power”.  Some people move their bodies and belongings but leave their hearts and desires in El Norte.  They begin to complain about Mexico.  And, in time (if they can afford it) they return “home”.

Alex and I have had friends in each of these categories.  It’s been hard to see them go.  Some return to La Paz for a visit and it’s as if I can breathe more easily.

Luckily, Saturday has morphed from “movie night” into “Farmers Market Day”.  I meet friends. Chat.  And eat sweets. Last Saturday I traded hugs with Ginger, Helga, Yvonne, Sharon and Pat.  A normal Saturday morning.  Wait-just-one-minute!  Pat?  Pat Lowe-Bonner?  Pat who left La Paz and moved to Australia? Here for only three weeks? I had hugged her as if she still owned Casa Tuscany and we still saw each other three or four times a week including “movie night”.  In two weeks she’ll get on a plane and return to Australia and I’ll feel as queasy as if I’d hit air turbulence.

Is it possible that the drop of Gypsy blood that drew us to La Paz will boil again, pushing us to seek new adventures elsewhere?  Will the biological clock strike and pull us back to family?  Perhaps health issues will force us back north.  Maybe.  Until then, La Paz is my home. My friends are my family. And until a vaccine is developed, I will suffer Separation Anxiety each time a friend leaves.

      

Tonight's The Night!

The Last Chance

Beth roamed through the large empty house.  So clean it squeaked of loneliness. She looked into the mirror above the dresser and her eyes narrowed with determination.  “Enough”, she told her image.  “Tonight’s the night.”

She picked up the photo of Ralph.  Young.  Handsome. Muscular.   And said, “Honey, forgive me but I can’t spend another night alone.”  She opened the drawer and gently placed the photo deep within.

She walked into the bathroom and filled the tub, reached for bubble bath, and instead, poured musk oil into the steamy water.  Slowly her body sank into the slippery liquid.  She felt a shiver of excitement, sighed, leaned back and imagined Ralph.  His warm body as he sprawled onto her side of the bed, their early morning runs, his loyalty and his death.  Eighteen months ago he had been struck by a hit-and-run driver as he fetched the newspaper in front of their house.  He died before she could reach him – before she could whisper one last time that she loved him.

 Anger and regret turned the bath water cold.  She stood and tried to shake-off the bloody memory.

“Enough”, she said aloud.  “Tonight I won’t sleep alone”.

She dressed like a woman on the hunt. Jeans with a tiny bit of wiggle room, a red turtleneck, and black boots.  No flowery perfume. Ralph had preferred her natural scent and had sneezed whenever she wore cologne. 

Beth drove to the outskirts of town. The road was familiar because she had already taken the same route three times that week. She had parked outside The Last Chance, had drummed her fingers on the steering wheel waiting for the nerve to open the door, but each time fear had glued her fingers onto the wheel and she’d driven home alone.  But tonight was going to be different. 

She pulled over a block away from the seedy, old concrete building, slammed the lever into “park”, pushed the car door open, and could hear the sound of a hundred hungry souls.  She took a deep breath and walked toward The Last Chance. 

Doubt slowed her steps. Beth thought, Sally better be right!  Short, plain Sally. She’d met Fred at The Last Chance and they’ve been together for three years.  And he’s totally devoted to her.

 Then she imaged her mother’s face if she knew that her only daughter was about to open the door to “a place like that; a haven for losers”.  The image of her up-tight mother worked.  Beth yanked open the heavy metal door. 

Every face in the place turned toward her.

She smelled desperation and loneliness.  She blushed; she wasn’t a woman accustomed to such attention. But being timid wouldn’t get her what she needed.  She strutted into the room. 

Beth felt the room vibrate with energy.  A trim guy with long hair openly stared at her.  She ignored him.  A blond stud winked at her; he was drooling.  She shivered in revulsion and was about to turn and walk out the door when she noticed him.  Alone.  Unkempt.  Old.  His head rested on the bar. He was the only one in the room who wasn’t begging for her attention.  She willed him to look up, and, as if she were the moon and he the tide, he lifted his head and met her eye.  And in that instant she imagined his past -- a youth spent with inattentive parents and abusive siblings, a long line of promiscuous sexual relationships, and finally his life on the streets.   

“Turn around and walk out that door!” She commanded herself.  But her heart drove her feet.  She walked toward him, suddenly bold, and whispered, “Hi, handsome, do you have a name?”  He raised an eyebrow. Beth continued, “Would you like to go for a walk?”  Hope leapt into his red-rimmed eyes.  “It’s going to be okay”, she said.  He got to his feet – slowly. She brought her face close to his.  He needed a bath.  Badly.  She fantasized about soaping his bony body.  Slowly, gently. And she knew that although he would never replace young, strong Ralph, chemistry was based on something deeper than a young healthy body. 

Beth paid his tab. She held the door for him and they strolled to her car. They sat for a moment in silence, and then she said, “Viejo, let’s go home.”

He barked and licked her face as they drove away from The Last Chance.  

Note:  If you have lost a dog like Ralph or if you have a sliver of space in your heart and the ability to properly care for a pet, there is a lonely, desperate Viejo waiting.  Willing to give his devotion, love and ready to bring joy into your life. For these animals it may be their last chance.   

Sad news

The phone call came at a decent hour.  Perhaps it was noon.  It certainly wasn’t the middle-of-the-night phone call that we all dread.  But the news would have been more appropriate for 3 a.m.  My niece’s voice.  Casual. Almost happy.  But maybe it was merely nervousness.

“Aunty, Judy, Mary has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.”   I felt a moment of shock.  Then a second of relief.  Followed by shame.  For more than a year whenever I’d called my sister, Mary, she was quiet.  No gossip about our mutual friends.  No funny stories.  She responded to my questions with a simple “yes” or “no”.  I suspected that the four thousand miles that had separated us since Alex and I had moved to La Paz in 1996 had finally dissolved our relationship.  That she had become indifferent or angry.  But this wasn’t about me. 

I booked a flight and as I flew from San Diego to Boston, my mind and emotions flew faster than the aircraft.  I grabbed my pen and on my napkin I wrote:

Big sister where have you gone?

Each day you travel further

To a world I cannot enter,

You’ve been handed a one-way ticket,

Photo ID required – just in case

You can’t remember who you once were.

Older sister, where does your mind travel?

To a vanilla ice-cream, sugar-cone world?

Where you lunch with long-dead friends,

And you remember how to use a fork?

Big sister, what memories do you carry aboard?

Your childhood cut short by Depression?

A marriage killed by cancer? And indifference?

Your only child paralyzed by anxiety?

Maybe forgetting isn’t so bad.

Dear sister, you’re my little sister now.

How can I

                   Ease

                             Your

                                      Trip?

New Year's Eve

I had planned the perfect New Year’s Eve.  Alex would meet my flight at 6:30 p.m. in San Diego and we’d pick up Thai food on the way to Escondido, where we were housesitting.  Alex would lay wood in the fireplace and I’d set the “good” china on the glass coffee table.  We’d sit on pillows and the fireplace and  candles  would illuminate our dinner. The dog wouldn’t beg for food and the cat wouldn’t jump onto the coffee table and knock over my wine glass. And at midnight, we’d kiss in the New Year. Instead, at 11:55 p.m., I stood among strangers at the Hertz Rent-a-Car parking lot in Los Angeles, praying for a rental car.  

Things had begun to go wrong early that morning. My niece had said, “Auntie Judy, be careful; the front steps are icy and the driveway looks like a frozen lake”.  I’d spent an emotional week with my family.  My sister, Mary, had recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and I had flown back east to help out. Driving to Boston’s Logan airport on icy roads merely added to my stress. We arrived with barely enough time for quick hugs and promises to keep in touch.

The flight departed on schedule and for some reason the pilot seems overjoyed at the prospect of spending the last day of the year flying us from coast to coast.  He said, “Folks, I anticipate landing in San Diego by 6:25 p.m. – a few minutes ahead of schedule.”  I felt exhausted and his cheerfulness irritated me.   I dozed.  I dreamed that my sister wouldn’t recognize me the next time I visited.  I awoke and forced myself to visualize a happy scene – Alex and me toasting the New Year.

At 6 p.m. the pilot announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, San Diego is blanketed in fog but we’ll circle for a while; let’s hope conditions improve.” He didn’t seem upbeat anymore.  I heard a collective groan.  Passengers pulled out cell phones.  Although I had my phone, I had no way of reaching Alex because we’re a one-cell-phone family.  I imagined him pacing at the airport.

Conditions didn’t improve.  We headed to Los Angeles and flew in circles, waiting to land.  The pilot hinted that the airline might make arrangements to bus us to San Diego.  I felt relief.  But all around me passengers muttered, “They never supply ground transportation.”  Text messages flew into cyberspace.  But I had no one to call.  I willed Alex to call me, but my cell phone sat mute in my purse.

We landed. There were no busses.  Some passengers deplaned.  I pictured myself renting a car and then getting lost in East L.A.  Alone.  With no way to contact Alex.  I sat paralyzed in the plane. Two women sat next to me.  For hours I’d overheard them chat.  At first their honey-sweet voices had been pleasant but with each passing hour the lilting sound began to grate on my nerves.  I had hoped that they would deplane in LA but they didn’t.  Their conversation affected me as if they were inconsiderate toddlers kicking the back of my seat.  I changed seats.

Later, the pilot said that the fog was lifting in San Diego.  But by the time we got clearance, took off, and flew back, San Diego was fogged in again so we turned around and, at 11 p.m., we landed at LAX for the second time.  

Customer service agents announced that the flight was cancelled, they had no bus transportation to San Diego, no hotel rooms and the flights the next day were completely booked. “We are very, very sorry.  Happy New Year.”

I followed the crowd.  A woman asked me where I lived and after I answered she said, “Those ladies live close to Escondido.”  She pointed – toward my two seat-mates!  Desperation humbled me.  I took a deep breath, approached them and asked, “Excuse me; I heard that you’re heading toward Escondido.  Are you going to rent a car?”  I heard the sugary voice say, “You’re welcome to drive with us.”  My eyes smarted with gratitude. 

I looked after Diane’s 86-year-old mother and their luggage while she called several rental car companies.  Most didn’t have cars available but she was persistent and at midnight she was signing a rental agreement. And as I stood with her mother in the Hertz parking lot, fireworks lit the sky.

 I reached into my purse, took out my cell phone and a moment later it vibrated.  I had somehow set it on vibrate mode so, although Alex had called me, I hadn’t felt the vibration through my purse!  I assured my panicky husband that I would be home in a few hours. 

I had planned a romantic Thai dinner; instead Diane, her mother and I hungrily wolfed down “In and Out Burgers” while driving south. And miraculously their conversation no long annoyed me.  In fact, as we got closer to Escondido, my shoulders relaxed.  Diane’s mother said, “Will we be late for church tomorrow?”  Diane replied, “Mom, I think God will forgive us if we miss Mass just this once.”  I thought, “Amen.”

At 2:45 a.m. my Good Samaritans dropped me at our front door. I opened my wallet and they shook their heads.  “We didn’t go out of our way and we enjoyed your company.”   I hugged them “goodbye”.  Then Alex hugged me “hello”. 

Fifteen minutes later, at 3 a.m. Alex and I sat on the couch in front of a cold fireplace sipping sherry wine from thick juice glasses. The dog rested his head on my lap and the cat sprawled on the back of the couch.  Together we snuggled into 2012.  This wasn’t the New Year’s Eve I’d planned but I’m sure it will be one of our most memorable.

Don't Get on the Dreaded Scale ~

The average person gains eight pounds during the Christmas holiday.  Eight pounds!  Eight pounds is nearly one dress size. Eight pounds feel like your jeans were washed in boiling water and then dried in hell.  Eight pounds is groaning climbing up the stairs and grunting when you bend over to cut your toe nails. Eight pounds won’t be ignored.

For us who add Mexican celebrations to our already food-laden holidays, those eight pounds might turn into ten because in La Paz holidays are stretched far beyond our willpower.  Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Evening, Dia del Santos Reyes (Jan 6^th…think hot chocolate and sweet bread with plastic babies hidden inside), and finally on Feb 2^nd,  Dia de la Candelaria (a tamale party hosted by those who cut into the baby on Jan. 6th). And, of course, we can’t forget the sweetest day of all – St. Valentine’s Day.

 But don’t despair, help is available.

Starting in October women’s magazines offer advice, first on how to avoid the weight gain, and then after the holidays, when readers are lugging around those extra pounds, they publish diets that they guarantee  will melt away the newly acquired weight.  And we buy the magazines.  We’re hopeful, desperate, and finally disappointed. Because there are two major problems with their approach:  first, the diet articles are sandwiched between photos and recipes of irresistibly gooey, sugary desserts, and second the suggestions only work if you’re anorexic.

Here are a few tips I actually found on the internet – honest-to-god:   

1.      To shave calories, go easy when adding nuts, cheese, cream sauces, gravy, butter, and whipped cream -- additions that don't add much to the meal. Don’t add much to a meal??? Who are they trying to kid? Turkey breast can’t be swallowed without gravy.

2.      Hold a mineral water in your dominant hand so it won't be so easy to grab food. No problem; I’m ambidextrous.

3.      Be a food snob. If you don't love it, don't eat it.  Great, I won’t touch the Brussels sprouts.

4.      Eating sensibly throughout the day will take the edge off the appetite and empower a bit of restraint.  Sensible eating just primes my appetite for decadent goodies.

5.      When you arrive at the party wait at least 30 minutes before eating. What??? There won’t be any food left.

6.      After dinner, try a spirited game of charades, or rent an instructional dance video followed by a dance-off. The only exercise our men want is going to the buffet table for seconds. 

7.      Skip the appetizers. Or choose veggies and fruit. Let’s see:  Blue cheese wrapped in filo pastry or celery sticks?  No contest.

8.      Put only two items on your plate at the buffet table. Return as many times as you like, but only take two items each time.  Pecan and Pumpkin pie – every time!

Can you see how nutty these suggestions are? But don’t despair. After losing and gaining the same eight pounds hundreds of time, I’ve come up with my own practical advice:

1.      Don’t stay home during the holidays.   Travel.  To a deserted island where nuts, cheese, cream sauces, gravy, butter and whipped cream aren’t available.

2.       Forget cookie exchanges.  Instead have a fruit exchange. Every person brings a piece of fruit for each guest, and at the end of the exchange, everyone will go home with enough fruit to give them the runs for a week.

3.      Go on an Overeater’s Anonymous cruise for 14 days. Where steamed veggies are the main entree and the plates are the size of a baby’s palm. A cruise that confiscates smuggled treats upon boarding and doesn’t allow land excursions.

4.      Find a doctor who will prescribe some old-fashioned diet pills – just enough to get you through the holidays.  You’ll be the hit of every party; not only will you rattle-on like a Carnaval blanket hawker but, long after the other guests have gone home,  you’ll scrub the hostess’s kitchen cabinets, linen closets and bathrooms.   

5.      Find a doctor who will sell you lithium – why not sleep through the entire holiday season?

6.      Check yourself into a hospital.  The red Jell-O and dry chicken breast will ensure that instead of gaining weight, you’ll be so weak when you leave; they’ll push you out in a wheelchair.

7.      Start a really big argument with your husband or your best friend.  Bring up the ugly past.  Guaranteed to ruin even the best appetite.

8.      Avoid friends who say, “Oh, I’m always forgetting to eat; look how lose my jeans fit.”  Or, “I’ve stuffed myself all season and haven’t gained a pound.” You know who they are.  Ignore them completely.

Get real, friends. You’ve got two choices:  You can remain slim but feel deprived or you can simply embrace the eight pounds you’re going to gain.  Enjoy each bite of special holiday food.  And be really nice to friends that are one size larger than you.  Ask them to borrow some of their clothes until you shed those extra pounds…sometime in April.  Or May.  Don’t feel timid; after all, they’ll need to borrow clothes from friends that are even larger than they are.

 Happy Holidays!