Let's Buy a House Today

March, 1992.  Vancouver, Washington.  It was bitter cold.  Bitter as a betrayed lover.  We’d already endured five months of rain and it wouldn’t stop for three more months.  So Alex did what any sane man would do.  He went fishing.

Alex came home from work wearing a drenched raincoat and a big smile.  He and his co-worker were going fishing.  In Cabo.  For a week.  I asked, “What’s Cabo”?  He showed me a fishing magazine.  I tried to ignore the man-sized fish hanging from a scaffold.  Instead, I focused on the blue ocean and the sunny sky.  I forced my lip to quiver.   I quickly developed abandonment issues.  It didn’t matter that I abhor fishing (I feel guilty about killing cockroaches).  My “abandoner” was going to sunny Mexico and leaving me in soggy Washington.  No way!

 I looked for a hook:  “You deserve a vacation, Alex.” I threw out the bait: “Alex, why don’t you and John go to Mexico, fish for a week, then John can return and I’ll join you in Cabo?”  I trolled guilt in front of him: “It will be like the honeymoon we never had.”

Two weeks later we landed in San Jose del Cabo. By Portland standards, the Cabo terminal was a mini-airport but there was nothing insignificant about the periwinkle Baja sky or the ochre dessert.  After two nights in Cabo, we rented a car and drove to La Paz looking for a more laid-back town and calmer beaches.  

Balandra Beach

We checked into a bay-front room at the Los Arcos Hotel, strolled on the Malecon, gawked at the sunset, and fell asleep to a symphony of Mexican music emanating from cars cruising by our window.   The next morning we grabbed our towels and headed toward Balandra beach.  The parking lot was empty and the beach deserted. We dropped our clothes on the sand and waded far out into the clean shallow bay.  Sargent majors nibbled our toes. We were living a scene from a movie.  Then, Alex turned and hurried toward shore.

“Where are you going?”  I yelled.   He yelled back, “I hid my wallet under a rock.  And there was a person jogging on the beach.”  Alex lifted the rock and – his wallet was still there.   I told him a dozen times he’d worried for nothing.

On our drive back toward La Paz we noticed a palapa restaurant. Our stomachs growled in time to the Mexican music that lured us in:  sand floor, wooden tables and chairs painted Aegean blue.  And the aroma of garlic and butter.  We ordered, and then went swimming.  The waiter waved us back to shore.   Our grilled red snappers hung over his large tray.  When only the skeletons remained we asked for the bill.  I was thinking, “This is paradise.”  Then I heard a crash.  The table leapt.  I looked at Alex and knew our honeymoon was over. His wallet was empty. More than $800.  Gone.   We considered returning home early.  To cold rainy Washington.  Instead, we bought a house.

But first we spent an entire day at the police station filling out reports in the hope that they’d find the thief.  Next, American Express loaned us $200. If we were going to stretch $200 until our departure date, we needed to be creative and find very inexpensive entertainment.

“Alex, let’s call a real estate agent who’ll show us the city.  I’d love to peek into some authentic Mexican houses.  It’ll be fun.  Maybe she’ll buy us lunch (she didn’t).” We frequently reminded each other that this was a lark.  We walked through houses larger than the Cabo airport.  And derelict houses.  And weed-filled lots barricaded by tall walls. But on Saturday, the day before our flight home, we parked in front of a small house one block from the Malecon.  It was well-maintained and well-priced but it was the Mexican fountain that hooked Alex.

That night we argued until the exhausted moon sank into the bay.

I pleaded my case: “Alex, I’m only 48; I can’t retire for 17 years.  We can’t afford a second home.  This was supposed to be a lark.”  I repeatedly insisted that his logic was flawed.

Alex’s logic: Judy, La Paz is warm and sunny.  It will be an adventure.  And I can fish all year.

The next morning, rummy from lack of sleep, we wrote a check as a down payment on the house. That afternoon we flew back to our normal life in Vancouver.  But six months later our lives changed.

Alex was diagnosed with lymphoma.  He endured months of chemotherapy and radiation treatments. We shifted priorities and reconsidered our retirement schedule.   We made double mortgage payments, sold our Vancouver house, and in March of 1996, four years after discovering the empty wallet, we drove away from the rainy Northwest and headed to La Paz.

Today, if the police apprehended the person who stole our $800 nineteen years ago, I would thank the thief for the gift he inadvertently gave us – a journey that began when Alex said, “La Paz is warm and sunny.  It’ll be an adventure.” Alex was right.

     Let's buy a house today!

Ramblings of a Wise or Perhaps Foolish Older Woman

My brother Timmy came home from Korea in 1953 and did something wise, and perhaps something foolish. He enrolled in accounting school, and he bought a bright yellow 1949 Chevy convertible.  (this photo looked similian to Timmy's car)

Like the dutiful Greek son he was, he took our mother and father for the first ride. Then his girlfriend. Finally, my two older sisters and I got to jump in. The Boston evening smelled of springtime. I tilted my head back and watched the tree branches zip overhead, and I promised myself that some day I would own a yellow convertible. I was nine years old. 

After graduation from accounting school, Timmy got a job at a large insurance company and wrote lists of numbers on large sheets of “eye-ease green” paper. He also got married and had a son. His dream car got left behind along the staid pathway of his mature life. The blood that stirred him to buy that car drained out of him a drop at a time. But without his knowledge he’d planted a dream in my heart.

I was 21, newly married, pregnant, and poor when my new husband totaled his big Buick. I can’t remember why we went to the junkyard, but I’ll never forget the moment I saw it – a 1960 Nash Metropolitan black and white convertible. (the photo below looks exactly like our car but ours had lots of dents and scratches) We paid $125 cash. We drove him home, proud as any new parents. The car had only one major problem – a manual transmission that was reluctant to shift from first to second gear. But if you played with the gearshift carefully, it could be done. The other problem was strictly mine – I’d never learned to drive a manual. Like many girls my age I was an expert in shifting my boyfriends’ cars, but I never actually touched the clutch pedal. One day I wanted to go grocery shopping and Alex didn’t.  I called his bluff.  

“Then I’ll just go alone,” I said. “Give me the keys.”  He handed them to me.  Stunned I sat behind the wheel wondering how I’d gotten myself in this mess. “Okay, Judy, you’ve seen him do this at least 50 times,” I told myself. “You can do it.”

I drove the two miles to the grocery store in first gear. People stared and cars honked. Two hours and $30 later I was bucking my way back home and there was Alex walking toward me.  He hollered, “Judy, you’ve been gone forever - are you okay?” 

“Of course I’m okay – climb in.”  

In 1965 $30 bought six bags of groceries, so the only place for Alex to sit was on the trunk with his feet hanging into the tiny area behind the seats. Those bags held Alex’s legs steady so he didn’t flip over backward as I jerked all the way to our apartment. With hours of practice, I learned to smoothly slip through the gears of the Nash as well as my first year of marriage. But once our daughter was born and she outgrew the car bed we’d wedged into the back, we sold the car and bought a sensible Oldsmobile 98. 

My dream was put on hold until 1984 when we could afford to become a two-car family. It was May in Minnesota. The snow was melted and spring fever hit me hard. The newest incarnation of my dream was the color of root beer sprinkled with flecks of gold. An MG Midget. So small I could easily roll down the passenger window from the driver’s seat. I was 35, going on 17. I took the straight Minnesota roads as fast as that brave little car would go. And then winter came. Minnesota winter was unlike anywhere I’d lived. Weeks of 30 degrees below zero. Little car was no match for that climate. Most mornings he couldn’t start. In April I admitted defeat. We sold that baby car and once again I followed my brother’s path and bought a practical car. 

Fast forward to my 64^th summer. We are on a “fixed income” – translation semi-poor. And, although my dream never died, I decided to be content test-driving small convertible sports cars. I have photos of me driving 12 cars that summer, and in each photo I’m wearing a huge toothy smile. It was a very good summer. 

For my 65^th birthday, Alex bought me a 2006 Mazda Miata, automatic, with air conditioning. (The photo above IS my car but I've added a few scratches since we bought it!)  I’m in love. Zoom is quick and cute. He loves curves. He zips up mountain roads. But he’s not yellow. He’s shiny black. The salesman said we could have him painted. The cost would be between six and eight thousand dollars. My husband said, “Judy, you look sexy in black” – translation “Are you crazy – we’re not paying eight thousand dollars to paint a perfectly good car.” Most days I agree it would be foolish. But at times I return to the original dream that was born the day I first sat in my brother’s yellow convertible.

Did Timmy do a foolish thing when he bought his yellow 1949 Chevy convertible, or did he do a foolish thing when he sold it? His wife has died, his son lives far away, and there are no grandchildren. Timmy is 81 years old. He still drives a sensible big car. Maybe I’ll suggest that he test-drive a yellow sporty convertible. And, of course, have his photo taken as he sits behind the wheel. I’d love to see that picture of my brother wearing the smile of the young man I remember.

Friends say that we should drive Zoom to La Paz but when I called to see if Mazda stocks a cattle guard to attach to the front of Zoom, the salesperson thought I was joking.  Zoom might deflect a chicken that’s crossing Route 1but if we hit anything larger than a rooster we’d all be in trouble.  So, Zoom spends his winters in San Diego and while we’re in La Paz every time I open my computer, I’m greeted with a photo of Zoom  that proves that this  older American woman has made a wise decision – I’m living the dream that my brother planted in my heart many years ago.

What Kind of a Place is This???

Living in a foreign country is a life-altering experience.  Different customs, unusual foods and a new language challenge our ability to adapt.  We try.  We really do.  But sometimes we mess up.  Humility and the capacity to laugh at ourselves can help.

When Alex and I visited mainland Mexico it was as if we’d entered a different Mexico.  We stuffed our Honda full of clothing, our pillows, goose-down comforter and a coffee percolator.  And lots of maps.  With a flexible agenda and no hotel reservations, we felt prepared for our two-month adventure. 

We have photos and good memories of Carnaval in Veracruz,  pyramids, cenotes (deep sink holes) in Yucatan, and Alex being cleansed by chanting Aztecs outside the Cathedral in Mexico City.  But super, 3-D memories require being shocked.

We’d had a long hard day.  We approached Puebla at midnight.  Our eyes were unfocused and our stomachs growled.   The beltway that hugs the city was so dark we couldn’t read the signs.  Or our map.  We’d circled the city four times. Traffic whizzed by.  We felt frustrated and scared.  Alex said, “I’m exhausted.  Let’s forget Puebla.”  We took the next exit and luck was with us.  We spotted a motel. Alex unclenched his grip on the steering wheel, and I threw the useless map into the back seat.

The motel entrance was barred. We stopped at the barrier and a tired voice greeted us through a speaker system similar to McDonalds.  That speaker should have been our first clue.  I leaned across Alex and asked the cost for a room. “$200 pesos ($16.67 U.S.) por ocho horas.”  That was the second clue.

She said that she’d send someone to collect the money.  Third clue.  We drove into the private garage and lowered the door.  Our accommodations were huge and immaculate – although, it did seem strange that the ashtrays were glued onto the tables.   

The doorbell rang.  But the only door led into the garage. I yelled, “Hola” from inside the room.  A female voice yelled back, “Hola.”  I asked, “Donde estas?”  “Outside”, she replied.   I lifted the garage door and saw a shock-faced woman looking at me.  I yelled for Alex.  He came, paid her, and asked for a receipt. Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline.  She said they didn’t have receipts. Fourth clue.   

Alex said what he always says after a long trip, “I’m starving – let’s go eat.”  I lifted the phone and requested a taxi (we weren’t going to risk getting lost again).  A familiar voice asked if we were checking out.  We’d been in the room for less than ten minutes!  I explained that we were hungry and asked for a restaurant recommendation. She said, “If you leave, you can’t come back.” Clue five.  But sometimes when you’re tired you’re clueless.  

I said that my husband was hungry and we wanted to go for a walk.  I imagined her rolling her eyes.  She mumbled to someone then said, “Okay, no problema.”  

I hung up and looked at Alex.  He didn’t need any more clues.  “It’s a no-tell motel.” he smirked.

After dinner, we hailed a cab and I realized that I’d have to give the driver the name of our motel.  My face felt hot.  I felt like the “other woman”.  Our eyes met in the rear view mirror but, to his credit, he didn’t crack a smile.

In the morning, with twenty minutes left until our eight hours departure time, we sat in bed sipping coffee. I noticed a device protruding into the room.  Alex went to investigate.  A small door slid open.  On the other side was a revolving shelf.  Coffee flew out of my nostrils.  We were supposed to put the $200 pesos on the shelf and close the door.  That way we would be invisible.  No wonder the woman looked amazed when I opened the garage door.  It was a “no-see-no-tell  motel”.

But I’ve learned that La Paz has everything that the mainland has.  Including No-Tell motels.  On a day when we were feeling adventurous, I sat in the car, grabbed my 29-zoom camera and Alex went to investigate. The prices were listed. I think that $350 pesos for a four-hour adventure is cheap. Particularly if we split the cost with another couple. No, it would be so much more fun if I invited four women friend.  We could have pizza delivered.  And play Mexican Train for a few hours.  Now THAT would be something we could talk about when we get old.  So, if you see my white Honda pulling into a “no-tell motel” with four women, don’t gossip because I’m merely doing research for a future article.  

How Hot Is it???

I remember it clearly.  October 6, 2011.  3:15 a.m.   It happened while we were asleep.  As usual, my full bladder woke me.  I slipped into my Birkenstocks and shuffled to the bedroom door, turned the handle and pulled the door open.  My entire body knew something was amiss. 

Alex and I returned to La Paz Sept. 21^st.   It wasn’t merely hot; it was sizzling and even though we were exhausted the night we returned, the noise of the a/c kept me awake.  It took three nights for my brain to accept, ignore, and finally welcome the whirling sound.  And every morning since, at 3 a.m., when I opened our bedroom door, I was assaulted by a blast of hot air that ricocheted off the walls, ceilings and floors of our hallway and bathroom.

But on Oct. 6^th the air felt – comfortable! 

I returned to the bedroom, turned off the air conditioner, and relished the quiet.  I opened the window.  A cool breeze fluttered the curtain.  I lay down and closed my eyes and smiled. Then - a dog barked.  A car without a muffler sped past.  The guards across the street laughed.  I turned onto my side which blocked out half the noise.  But not enough to let me sleep.  After ten minutes, I got up, shut window, and then turned on the air conditioner.  In less than five minutes I was asleep.

In two weeks I’d gone from not being able to sleep with the noise of the a/c to not being able to sleep without it. 

On the cool morning of October 6th I couldn’t find Alex.  The office was empty and the computer screen was dark.  I became worried.  In the fourteen days we’d been back, Alex began every day by turning on the a/c and the computer in the office.  We drank coffee, read, played Mexican Train and occasionally ate dinner there.  Although we have bars on the windows, it was the heat that imprisoned us.

I went downstairs and found Alex on the patio – barefoot and grinning.  He said, “Judy, even the tiles feel cool.”  He wiggled his toes happily.  He said, “I feel as if I’ve been paroled.”  He then added, “This has been the hottest two weeks – ever!”  

During that unbearable fortnight we needed to complain.  But to whom?  The women who clean our house?  Most likely, their only cooling systems are fans.  I didn’t dare whine to my friends who stayed in La Paz the entire summer because the one time I did, they said, “This is nothing; it was much hotter in August.”

  When we were in El Norte I “Skyped” a friend and, on my computer screen, I saw her sweet face dripping sweat.  There was panic in her voice when she said, “Judy, the heat just doesn’t stop.”

Oralia, another friend who moved here from Hermosia said that In August she was ready to give up and leave La Paz and go back to Hermosia because the heat was “insoportable” here.

I think these die-hards should be rewarded with tee-shirts that read, “I Survived the Sumer of 2011 in La Paz.”

Two week in the heat of La Paz may not merit a tee-shirt but when it was hot I wanted to grumble.  But, if I shouldn’t complain to Mexicans who spend their summers here and I don’t dare moan to the extranjeros who stay behind, who can I complain to?  There’s third group, like Alex and I, who are able to escape a portion of time when La Paz turns into a 100- degree prison.

But some ex-pats swear they’ll never belong to this third group.  I remember asking a couple who recently bought a house here where they planned to spend the summers.  The man said, “We won’t leave La Paz!  We’re not on vacation; we live here now.”  Alex and I traded tiny smirks.  We’ve heard they spent July and August on the mainland and they’ve arranged to return there next summer.  Welcome to group #3. We are kindred spirits.  Grateful to be able to escape even though some feel guilty that we’ve “jumped ship”.

 So, if we must whine, it would be best to complain within group #3 because no one who has endured the entire summer heat wants to listen to us moan and groan.  Or we can wait until the next wave of ex-pats return to La Paz and when they complain about the 90 degree heat, we can say, “This is nothing!  When we returned to La Paz in mid- September it was 96 degrees every day … for two entire weeks!  And the water temperature must have been 87.  It was soooo hot we had to go swimming every evening.”

    

Can You Guess Where We Are?

Would you like to play a game?  A guessing game?

Take a peek at these photos and guess where I shot them.  The goal – to accurately name the location.  The prize – to be determined later.

A cowboy from a rancho on the Baja?

Could they be Queretaro? La Paz? Mexico City? Todos Santos, or somewhere in Chiapas or the Yucatan?

Need a hint?  The location is hidden. Look very carefully.

Give up?  What’s the Spanish word for HIDDEN?  That’s right.  Escondido.  As in - Escondido, California which is 30 miles north of San Diego.

Two weeks after leaving La Paz homesickness struck like a severe case of the turistas but it affected my heart not my intestines.  Oh, there were plenty of Mexican restaurants around but they were so Gringo-ized (every dish drowned in melted cheese) that I felt even more depressed.  Then one day on our way to Safeway I spotted a small sign in front of a humble-looking market.  Tacos $1. 










Zoom, our little Miata, made an illegal U-turn and as we pulled into the parking lot, I smelled Mexico.  

 The moment we entered I saw Mexico.  And when I squeezed limon onto my carnita I had to squeeze back my saliva. I took a big bite and I tasted Mexico.  I was home.

Alex eats four tacos!

Jose, the chef, who had piled a mountain of meat onto the hand-made corn tortilla, gave me directions to the tortillaria where they are hecho a mano and it was while we drove there that I noticed that Mexico was all around me. I hadn't noticed because it was merely Escondido.

Would they accept pesos?

 

Alex and I have been in The States for four months this summer and we've housesat in six towns.  One of the first things we do after we arrive in a new city is search for hidden Mexico.  So far we've scored 100%.  It's easy when you know what you're looking for.

It Should Have Been Simply

I went shopping for white slacks.  Size 10.    Light weight.  Thin enough that I could easily tuck them into a corner of my already bulging suitcase. Instead, I bought a living room chair.

This wasn’t just any chair; it was the chair that I’d dreamed about since I’d seen a photo of it in a (insert a decorating magazine name) two summers ago. It wasn’t as if I imagined I’d find this chair. It was merely an abstract desire.  But the situation became concrete when I first noticed it, pointed and said to Alex, “Look Alex, there’s my chair.”  Then I turned over the price tag. I grinned.

We were in a consignment (aka thrift) store.  Near San Diego.  Where slacks are clean, hung neatly and arranged by color. Where sweaters smell like Woolite.  And where chairs seem new except for the tiny faded spot near the rear left leg. Where price tags are too low to ignore.

“How will we get it to La Paz?”  asked Alex.  He looked through the store window at Zoom, my tiny Miata, and asked, “How will we get it to Vickie’s?”

“It will be easy”, I replied.

We paid the cashier and asked if they’d hold the chair for us.  We sent an e-mail to Vickie, the person we’re housesitting for, and asked if we could borrow her SUV, and  began to search for methods to transport the chair south 1,100 miles. The first estimate was $499.  Alex grabbed the calculator.  If he flew to La Paz, drove our Blazer north to San Diego, and we both drove back to La Paz instead of flying the cost for gas and hotel would be slightly less than $500.  

Alex said, “Tell me again why this chair is so special.” 

I said, “I know you already have a chair in La Paz.  But it’s dark green leather so it looks like it belongs in a house where you need a fireplace and mittens.  Plus, it’s big and clunky. And the footstool is huge. And it’s a recliner! Our living room is small so it’s about scale and creating the illusion of space.  While both may be the same size, notice that the new chair is much more open and light looking.  Yes, I know that we paid $1450 not including the matching footstool for the leather one.  But this chair is labeled Pottery Barn on the bottom so I bet it was expensive, too. And you can’t find chairs like this in La Paz. Also, I bet that we can sell the leather chair for $100 in La Paz.”

After calling several ground transport companies, we thought of Volaris Airlines.  While Juan was working up an estimate I twirled my hair, a nervous habit I’ve recently developed. $2000 pesos (about $170 U.S.).  But we’d have to bring the chair to TJ airport.

Once again we e-mailed Vickie and asked to borrow her SUV.   We called Ginger and Ray, our friends in La Paz.  Yes, they could drive to the airport, pick up the chair, and take it to our house.  We bought tape, bubble wrap and cardboard.  We protected the chair as if it were a newborn.

Yesterday morning we filled Vickie’s car with gas and headed to the border.  After circling the airport three times, we found Customs and paid $150 pesos duty.  Juan at Voloris measured and weighed the chair.  $800 pesos.  Not, the $2000 he’d estimated.  Of course, he neglected to include the legs when he took his measurements. One of the many things I love about Mexico is that if you’re pleasant and respectful, most often you’ll get a break.  And, since I’d called Juan at least three times, what he might have considered just another ordinary item became known as “The Chair”.  He gently took The Chair, placed five fragile stickers on it and we shook hands.

We had been so concerned about getting to the airport that we hadn’t considered the route back to the border and we took a wrong turn.  We stopped, asked for directions and finally found the line.  Unfortunately, it was reserved for frequent border crossers. The U.S. border patrol had no sense of humor and took our passports, wrapped them in pink paper and placed them under our windshield wipers and pointed us to a secondary inspection area.  We waited.  Turned off the engine and turned on NPR and heard about the budget deficit. For a moment I wondered if buying the chair was adding to our family’s deficit.

 Finally, the car in front of us moved forward.  Alex turned the key.  Silence.  The inspector waved us forward.  Alex flushed and swore.  The inspector helped us push the car forward.  While Alex used the bathroom I went from car to car asking for jumper cables. I noticed that all the other cars contained Hispanics.  I was embarrassed at how they were treated Finally, I turned to the most unlikely prospect.  An older woman alone.  “Si, tengo cables”, she said to me.  The inspector allowed her to pull up to Vickie’s car.  And by the time Alex returned, she had the cables connected and with the turn of two keys, our engine was running.  I folded a large bill in my palm and tried to hand it to her but she acted shocked and said that next time it might be her that needs help.  Here was an older woman who’d been pulled over, had waited for more than an hour, and remained patient, generous, and, more than anything still, willing to help two Americans.

The inspector never opened our doors or trunk.  He merely told Alex that they could have fined us $5000 because we went into the wrong line.  That would have pushed up the cost of the chair up to a level that even I couldn’t justify.

But we arrived home safely and at this moment, I’m twilling my hair and waiting for a call from Ginger and Ray.  They should be on their way to the airport.

 

Shhh, can you keep a secret?

Promise that what I'm about to confess will stay between the two of us.  And that you won't think less of me.  

You know that I'm basically an honest person.  

I always stop at Alto signs — unless there's no policeman around.  And if you had a $1000 bill on your kitchen counter, I'd never consider touching it.  However, since I'm being totally truthful, if it was a plate of brownies instead of money, I might not be able to control myself.  But I wouldn't steal the plate.  I'm sure about that.  

And your husband is safe with me.  He could walk into the kitchen butt naked and I'd be too busy eating the brownies to notice him.  Okay, you get the idea.  I’m an honorable older woman.  Or, I WAS trustworthy until I invited five women friends to my house for brunch. 

I decided to prepare low-fat quiche, high-fiber muffins and a juicy fruit salad.  Delicious, quick, and easy.  Or so I thought. 

A while ago my friend, Ana, the gadget queen, gave me this—thing.  A hollow tube eight inches long with a handle on the end.  “It resembles something I've seen at my gynecologist’s office,” I said.  She laughed and said, "It's to peel and core a pineapple, silly."  

The next day, Alex bought a pineapple and we tried out our new kitchen toy. A few twists of our new gadget resulted in a perfect pineapple swirl.  

I imagined a heaping platter of ripe papaya, mango, pear, apple and kiwi with a long spiral of pineapple crowning the plate. What I couldn’t picture was going to the store to buy the fruit. 

I don’t like to shop. I don't enjoy huge stores where you run the risk of being mowed down by the floor-cleaning machine, where bras hang next to the fish counter and I don't appreciate having my car doors dented while I’m in the store. 

I like to shop where I can't afford to buy anything.  I love to wander through specialty shops where they charge $39.99 a pound for cheese.  I adore the samples at Harry and David’s but always leave empty handed.  I take photos of old world type delis where cured meat hangs from the ceiling...where you order by the slice, not by the pound.  You get the idea.  I'm high on standards but low on resources. 

So Alex does most of our grocery shopping.  Except – the week of the brunch he had a nasty cold.  The fridge was almost bare. 

I considered cancelling the brunch but had a little talk with myself and said, “Self, buck up!”  I grabbed keys, money and a shopping list.   I dashed through the store and was back in my car before my car doors got dinged.

Back home Alex said, "The pineapple is green."  I replied, “All of them were green but I have four days before the brunch; it will ripen”.  I gently wrapped it in newspaper (NOT the Baja Citizen) and checked it three times a day.  Green.  Green.  Green.  The day before the brunch I consulted the internet.  It said pineapples don't ripen after they're picked.  Damn. And that's when my strict code of ethics bent like a cabaret contortionist. 

I didn’t return to the store where I bought the green pineapple since all their pineapples were green; I went to DIFFERENT store.  At the Servicios de Clientes desk I told several tiny fibs, "My husband bought this green pineapple yesterday …he doesn't know how to choose a ripe pineapple so I want to exchange it for a yellow one.  "No, lo siento, I don't have the ticket." 

In order to exchange it, I dragged myself up three levels on the inflexible chain of command.  Finally, the senior manager took my pineapple and handed me a refund.  

I hurried toward the fruit department and saw them – a mountain of pineapples. I tossed pineapples around as quickly as my honor.  Each was greener than the one I'd handed over to the manager. 

 I ran back to the Client Service Desk but neither the original clerk nor the manager was there.  I told this clerk, “I left a pineapple here five minutes ago and I need to buy it back.”  She looked under the counter and in the lost and found.  No pineapple. Karma chuckled as I walked to my car empty-handed. 

My five friends enjoyed the pineapple-less fruit salad.  But I had a hard time swallowing – guilt sometimes affects me that way.  Of course, they have no idea. So let's keep this quiet.  I've learned my lesson.  Honestly.