Stop That Cough

Anyone seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding? My husband loves this movie, because "They're just like my family!" There's one important difference, however. My in-laws know that Windex isn't actually a cure all. That's ridiculous. Anyone with a brain can tell you Windex is only good for cleaning glass and killing ants. No, no. The real cure-all, of course, is Vick's VapoRub (be sure to pronounce that as in Spanish).

Yes, VapoRub is good for whatever ails you. Rub it on your chest, back, and feet at the first sign of a cold. They say it stops bug bites from itching. They say you can rub it on your abdomen to stop a stomach ache. They say you can melt a spoonful and drink it as healthful tea. And (get ready) to stop a cough, just dab a little on your anus.

I'll give you a moment to think about that.





I should be clear that I have never tried this remedy, nor do I plan to, so I make no claims about its efficacy. However, I'm all for passing along tips to my friends. Some of you might be suffering from a cough even now, so consider this information a holiday treat from me to you. Enjoy.

Mexico's Worst Mother

I'm daily reminded what a terrible mother I am. Here are ten reasons this is so.

I never dress my baby warmly enough. This freezing Mexican climate calls for hats and coats at all times.

I sometimes bathe him even when he's sick.

He's already six months old and not yet eating tortillas.

I nurse him, which is unhealthy for him and also very tacky of me.

I don't dress him in shoes.

I haven't bought him a walker thingy to play in.

I carry him too much and now he's used to it.

Sometimes I dress him in too many stripes, or, worse, in pink!

I let him suck on his fingers.

I haven't baptized him.

Oh, and here's number eleven - I take him to places where the goblins are without proper protection! For example, I took him up to the mountains yesterday, and that's prime goblin habitat.

I'm basically Mexico's worst mother.

Hiking

Happy Solstice, y'all.

Yesterday we went for a hike in the mountains above San Juan. It was great. Turns out San Juan is way prettier from a distance. Even from the Racket Club, the gated community on the hill, San Juan looks a lot nicer, and the lake prettier too. From the very top of the mountain, it's stunning.

Hernan and eight teenage boys and Hanix and I hiked to the tip top of the mountains. I haven't done anything that could really count as physically challenging since probably August of 2009 (um, except childbirth, I s'pose) so I was prepared for some serious huffing and puffing and maybe a little dying. I was pleased that I managed to keep up, though I admit that was probably mostly out of pride, and the knowledge that if I pussied out I wouldn't ever be invited again. Hernan, of course, led the pack despite being saddled with Tubby Baby and suffering from TB, or Pneumonia, or Swine Flu or Dengue or whatever it is that's throwing a phlegm party in his lungs. Still, he couldn't get beat by a pack of teenage boys. Talk about macho.

Anyway, we ascended by trail through the cactus and scrubby brush, and up at the top is a grove of oak trees. It's beautiful. And the view of the lake is amazing. We could even see Guadalajara at one point!

Once at the top, the boys started a game of Hide and Go Seek, which is kind of adorable, since they're all teetering between boyhood and macho manhood. We had sandwiches and soda pop and then came back down the hill.

I really love hiking, and even though it maybe sorta kicked my ass, I'm getting ready to go again.

Oll Raigth

This is awesome. OK, so maybe all I do now is just post videos I want the world to see, but hey, that ain't so bad.

"An Italian singer wrote this song with gibberish to sound like English. If you've ever wondered what other people think Americans sound like, this is it."

It's kinda catchy. And pretty much great. Oll raigth!

See more funny videos and Music Videos at Today's Big Thing.

Galloping Octopus!

If you read my blog you clearly have too much time on your hands, so you should instead spend it watching this video of octopi galloping away with coconut shells and then hiding in them, because it's pretty much fantastic. It has a number of good qualities. (1) It involves animals doing a surprising and clever activity. (2) It involves scampering. (3) It involves hiding. (4) It's educational. Kinda.

After a weekend of food poisoning, a sick baby, a house under construction, non-stop fireworks and a gang of mosquitoes in my bedroom... this video made me smile!

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/8408233.stm

Making Lemonade

I admire my dad. He's a cool dude. He was down here in January with my mom and took this photo. I suggest you peruse what else he has on this site, because the man's got some skills. It will probably also motivate you to get out of whatever ugly place you find yourself in and head for the hills. Or the desert. Or the coast. Today, though, I'd like to dwell on this particular shot. We were on our way back to San Juan from a trip around Mexico, and we were trying to make it back to Lake Chapala for some sunset shots. We were rushing and wouldn't have made it at all had I been driving instead of Hernan. Let's hear it for Mexican driving and passing on blind curves.

So, we made it to Ajijic, barely, and my dad took this shot. As I remember it, we were right next to a sewage treatment plant and there were all kinds of trash in the water. But you don't see any of that here. Instead, it looks quite lovely.

Besides giving my dad his propers, I wanted to write about this for another reason. For years I've been annoyed by happy, perky people. Shouldn't we be suspicious of such unwarranted exuberance? A recent study, as reported by the BBC, supports my gut feeling that miserable, gloomy individuals are maybe also more astute, or better at certain thinking tasks anyway. I couldn't find the paper online, but it's called "Think Negative!" and it's by Forgas. Here's something else you can read about it to see why now that I'm an optimist I'll make for a crappy writer and also why all you managers should make your manatees miserable. And, yes, I did just say "manatees".) Think about it this way, you must have missed something if you're that happy. You must not have been paying enough attention. If you had been, you would wipe that perky, contended smile off your face and start bitching and moaning about the sewage and the rubbish. You'd be thinking about pesticides, unregulated dumping, chemical runoff, and the poor, mutated fish.

Or maybe not. So, let me explain how this relates to this pretty photograph. It's not that all the rest of those things aren't important, but maybe they're important too. See how I made that word blue so it would stand out? Good. That is to say, the garbage and all is important, but so is appreciating a beautiful moment. The good things are also important.

There. Did I just blow your mind a little? If you're one of those happy, perky people, then probably not.

So, maybe not all optimists are insufferably perky dim-wits. And maybe not all critics do themselves a favor by focusing on their critiques. And in the end, criticism is useful, but sometimes it gets old. After all, one has to bitch and moan creatively if one wants to make a career out of it, and most of us moaners aren't half as talented as we need to be.

So I could say I gave up my friends, my career, my lifestyle, everything to end up living with my in-laws in poverty in an un-finished house surrounded by rats and cockroaches and dirt and raw sewage, and a highway, and no butter in sight. But, obviously, I'm living with my man-candy husband and am getting to better know his wonderful family, and I spend every day with my beautiful son, and I get to take one day at a time and shake things up and experience some new things. And have I ever mentioned the chilaquiles my mom-in-law makes? They're excellent. It's all perspective. Silver-colored glasses and rose lining and all that. It's whether you include the garbage in the photograph or not.

So I'm remaking myself into an optimist. I should be a great candidate, because Americans make such good optimists. You ever want to meet a pessimist, go to Hungary. Budapest has been conquered by pretty much everyone and their brother Béla. You ask a Hungarian how things'll turn out and you're not likely to hear roses. (What does a rose sound like, anyway? Maybe a chirping sound?) Of course, Hungary has boasted a great many artists and intellectuals, so maybe that backs up the study I mentioned earlier. But optimists supposedly live longer (see this article about a recent study and for a photographic example of an annoying perky person) and Hungary has boasted the highest suicide rate in the world for many years over the last century. (Yes, Hungarians did actually boast of this to me. A few even seemed miffed that they'd come in second to some other country that year. Denmark? Finland? The internet also tells you so. Hungarian Suicide Prevention Project. And if someone randomly finds this blog through some kind of internet search - Don't kill yourself.)

So why am I rambling about photographs and roses and Hungarians? It's because I'm an optimist now. I'm going to join the ranks of the perky (coffee, please) and keep on the sunny side of life. This is, of course, mostly a lie, because I'm sure I'll continue to bitch and moan. It's a habit I won't soon shake. But, I'm all for living it up here in sunny San Juan.

Or something.

Lessons From A Sales Woman

My mother-in-law owns a little shop she runs out of the front of our house. She sells all kinds of things, from baseball caps and hair gel to clothes pins and kids' toys. Every couple of weeks she has Hernan take her up to Guadalajara to buy more merchandise. We visit the marketplaces and street vendors, searching for bargains, and return laden with bags and bags and bags of stuff she can mark up for a few pesos. The profits are small, but she makes enough to put tortillas on the table.

Here are some things I learned today while accompanying her to Guadalajara.

1. Even if you're holding a baby and many large parcels, sprint across the street, because the taxi cabs will not slow down for you, though the driver may honk. He will hit you.

2. Even if you're holding a baby and many large parcels, get out of the way of the ladies with push carts. She will not slow down; she will not honk; she will hit you.

3. All women evidently fit into a B-cup bra size. This is the only size bra my mother-in-law sells in her shop and the only size we saw for sale in GDL.

4. Why wear tight jeans when you can wear spandex leggings designed to look like jeans?

5. Only buy baseball caps that come with tags and stickers. These indicate that the cap is new. Dudes in San Juan pay extra so they can sport caps with tags and stickers still attached.

6. Girls' clothing must be pink.

7. Next time bring snacks.

Wal-Mart Campaign | International Labor Rights Forum

Wal-Mart Campaign | International Labor Rights Forum

Posted using ShareThis

Roughly a year ago Walmart opened up down here in San Antonio, outside of Ajijic. While many expats rejoiced, Hernan and I groaned.

When we say we miss things about the States, we mean our friends, our jobs, and dark beer. We don't mean big box stores that abuse their workers. That's part of American culture I'm not pleased to see is gaining ground in Mexico.

What I didn't realize is that Walmart de México seems to also own Bodega Aurrerá, Superama, Sam's Club, Suburbia, and Vips.

According to the website, "for the seventh year in a row [Walmart de México] was recognized as a Socially Responsible Company by the Mexican Philanthropy Center". So I looked at the Mexican Philanthropy Center's website, and found that "Philanthropic Institutions" are determined by "voluntary self-evaluation and self-regulation". Weak.

Canned Beans - Say What?

I like to read other bloggers' posts about what they love about their lives in Mexico. I'm by no means content to live out my days in San Juan Cosalá, and the very thought fills me with fright, but I still appreciate a lot about life here.

Most of my examples of what I like about being down here, though, I've come to realize, can actually just be summed up by "I like my in-laws" and "I like having more time and no commute".

I like to stumble across other good things about life here. They're unexpected little presents. Today I found one hidden in my silverware Tupperware (Tupperware is to keep the roaches off my spoons, yo).

When I got here I couldn't believe that my mother-in-law didn't own a can opener. "Is she that poor," I thought, "that she can't even afford a can opener??"

I finally got it, though. This morning I was putting silverware away and saw my can opener buried under everything else. I realized - we hardly ever eat anything out of a can. She doesn't own a can opener because it would be pointless to have one around. There are a few canned foods we use on occasion, but these come with pulltops. Everything else, though, we eat fresh, from veggies, to our own boiled beans, to homemade soups. I'm so used to making my own pasta sauce from scratch, I don't even think twice about throwing a pot of tomatos on the stove to boil down.

That, I most definintely like about life here.

Fixed!

This afternoon our geyser of poo was fixed! Now my house no longer smells like the neighborhood outhouse. I am beside myself with gratitude for the good folks who unclogged the sewer.

See, I knew this was a good day.

Ahhhhhhh........ (that's me breathing deeply again)

2010 California Marriage Protection Act

November of last year Californians voted on Prop 8 - to take away rights from a segment of the population. Some would say that that was wrong. Others might say, "Why stop there?"

"RescueMarriage.org is the brain-child of concerned Christian and political activist John Marcotte, who felt strongly that Prop 8 did not go far enough in protecting traditional marriage. With the help of attorneys and friends, Marcotte is attempting to ban divorce in the State of California."

2010 California Marriage Protection Act

And, if you're one of the many who seem to not quite get satire, go here.

The Sun'll Come Out

And it's a new day!

My mother-in-law was right, and this morning I heard the cuetes, but they were farther away from the house, and my baby slept through them this time.

The water is back on, so I can wash laundry.

And the sun is out so I can dry laundry, too.

And I feel inspired to get the sewage cleaned up.

And the day is off to a good start.

Yesterday was clearly a day for ranting. That probably is about half the point of blogging for me. I don't really vent to anyone down here. Hernan and I agreed to not get ourselves down by focusing on what we don't like or what we miss about our old lives in the States. And it would be pretty rude for me to rub it in his family's face that San Juan isn't exactly the cat's meow. So, I turn to the great world of blogging for a little venting from time to time. Ah. Now I can move on.

So I'm back in the game, people. Ready to make the world a better place (and wash the laundry?)

San Juan's Rivers

We're going on three weeks now, three weeks of raw sewage overload. Three weeks of inescapable shit perfume. Three weeks of the Bog of Eternal Stench. Three weeks of living in a porta-potty, on the last day of the county fair, the one located next to the chili dog stand.

My house is flanked by two bubbling streams of human excrement. One is just a few feet from our back door, the other is two properties away in the other direction. There's a third a few properties over from that, as well.

The foul water isn't just slowly oozing its way straight into the lake, either. It's a non-stop stream.

Hernan took this video last week and sent it into Primero Noticias, a morning news show that sometimes airs photos and video that viewers send in.



Our hope is that they'll air this video and shame someone in Jocotepec (our municipal capital) into finally fixing this. We've already tried reporting it ourselves to various people. But no one seems to care.

These Rivers of Retch exist all year long, but normally they just trickle along, and one only notices the stench when one has to jump across to pass by. For the last three weeks, however, and periodically throughout the year, something clogs up the poor pipes and the filth just comes geysering up. We can't escape the smell, not even in my bedroom, a room without windows. It's ever present, and really foul.

And it's going straight into Lake Chapala.

Water, Water Everywhere, Except Not in Our Pipes

Last night it started pouring rain, which was unexpected because we're in the dry season now. This bummed me out because I'd foolishly, foolishly left the laundry to hang on the lines. The clothes and diapers weren't quite dry, so I'd left them up over night. Now everything is soaked and filthy.

It's still raining, 12 hours later, and there's water everywhere. Except in our pipes. We have no water. Again. This happens about once a month, at least. Thank goodness for the water tank on the roof!

5 AM Fireworks and the Virgin

At 5:00 this morning I was reminded that it was December 1st. Fair or not, here are two generalizations about Mexicans. One, they really like the Virgin of Guadalupe. Two, they also like cuetes, those fire cracker rockets that go up in the air and go boom. Put the two together, in San Juan, and whadda ya get? Rockets going up in the air and going boom right outside my bedroom on December 1st. At 5:00 in the morning. Every ten seconds. For forty-five minutes. Every morning for twelve days.

I remember this from last year. It wasn't until about day ten that I complained about "those damn kids setting off fireworks in the middle of the night" to my mother-in-law. She laughed at me and explained that the fireworks were to "celebrate", but were really used to wake people up so they'd go to mass.

Last year was annoying, but this year it's worse. They startled Hanix and made him cry. And that almost made me cry, because I'd only just gotten him to fall asleep. Hopefully he gets used to the noise fast, because we've got eleven more days of it.

San Juan Gossip

Town gossip. It's terrific. And San Juanecos are into their gossip.

I imagine I don't hear most of the gossip that's about us, or I hear it and don't realize they're talking about me. I still don't understand Spanish unless I'm actually paying attention to whoever is speaking. If I'm just passing by, lost in my own thoughts, I tend not to hear what's being said.

I do know that there was a rumor going around for a while that we were growing and selling drugs. Marijuana, I assume.

And then, after Hanix was born a great deal more güero than other Mexican babies (um. yeah. it's because I'm white, people.) there was speculation that Hernan wasn't really the father. (And that may be the right way to write 'güero', but I went out of my way to include the diácritic just for Stuart.)

The latest gossip involving me appears to be that my mother-in-law is working me to the bone. Here's how we found out about it.

I went downstairs last night, to my in-laws part of the house, on my way to take the trash out to the street. My mother-in-law was visiting with my husband's aunt and cousin. When I passed through, Aunty exclaimed, "Ah! La Bebé is too skinny!" 'La Bebé' is how everyone refers to me, by the by. I'm pretty sure most of Hernan's relatives probably don't know my name - they just call me 'Bebé'. And, yeah, even though I'm pretty much always eating, my enormous child eats even more. Somehow he ended up gigantic and chubby and I ended up with a tortilla butt. But that's not the point of this post. Aunty then goes on to talk about how I'm altogether too skinny, and clearly it's the hard life I'm living here with my in-laws.

So my mother-in-law points out that I eat probably more than anyone else in the house - more than my husband, more than my teenage brother-in-law... I just pretty much always eat, which was kind of my hobby before I started nursing 'The Machine' anyway, so I'm thinking of going pro. Then Aunty concludes that really it must be because my mother-in-law works me too hard, just like they're saying.

Yeah, word on the street seems to be that she's a regular slave driver.

That's pretty much not at all the case. My mom-in-law is great. She cooks amazing food and lets me devour as much of it as I can. She watches Hanix for me all the time, giving me time to shower and eat (and blog). She's funny and kind and I really couldn't have hoped for a better mother-in-law/housemate. I hate to think of what kind of a mess I'd be without her. And I'm fairly convinced that if I ever think to pop out and rear another child, it won't be without family to help out, because I've been spoiled, and doing it all alone sounds hard.

So now my mother-in-law is very worried that the town is gossiping about what a terrible mother-in-law she is, to be working me down to the bone. She's been explaining to everyone who's come by today that it's just that the boy eats so much. I can tell she's kind of worried about it.

Here are my conclusions. (1) Apparently I have become altogether quite accustomed to my body and appearance being topics open to general discussion. This probably would have bothered or embarrassed me when we first moved down here, but now it's old hat. (2) I need to make an effort to eat even more, for my mother-in-law's sake. (3) I'm not really a small-town kind of gal. This gossip business might be amusing at times, but it's not for me.

What's next, I wonder? I can imagine it might have something to do with devil worship, since I've already been asked (by strangers, no less!) when I'm going to baptise my baby. When I replied that Hernan and I aren't Catholic, so we don't plan on doing the whole baptismal thing (do Christians baptise too, or just the Catholics?), I then got asked whether I didn't want someone to baptise my baby for me then. "No, really. Thanks. We're good." Since strangers are asking me about this, I can only imagine word is getting around about how we drink blood and whatnot. Who knows. I'll be sure to post about it when I hear it.

La Cucaracha

I would like you all to know that someone in my neighborhood has a car horn that plays La Cucaracha.　

Poor Food Choices

Sometimes when I'm hungry (read: always) and the kitchen is bare I do ridiculous, misguided things with food.

Example: I was living in Budapest but hadn't yet gotten the hang of grocers closing up shop Saturday afternoon and not reopening until Monday morning. I was used to 24 hour food access. So I forgot to stock the cupboard and lo and behold, by Sunday night I was desperate. So. I made pancakes. Except all I had was flour and water and salt. Come and get 'em!

Example 2: I once cooked a package of pasta by frying it instead of boiling and then frying (the latter option is delicious). It was a hunger-induced mistake. Don't ever do this. I ate about 2/3 of the results before a housemate intervened on behalf of my stomach.

Example 3: Limes + old tortillas + serrano chiles does not equal "casserole". Nuf said.

My other trouble is that I keep trying to bake even though I'm no baker. I shouldn't really migrate from the stove top. It's that I try to bake the way I cook, and I never cook with a plan. I constantly fuss with the food (because I'm impatient and hungry) and add additional ingredients, and then throw in leftovers, and then add more cumin, and then decide an egg would add some protein, and then maybe throw in some chile peppers, to "liven it up"... and it usually works out ok when I'm cooking, but that's not the way to bake, it would seem.

So, this brings me to Example 4. I've been going through a crisis this week because I really want cookies but I have no butter. I can't find any butter in San Juan, because it's a luxury item and all they sell is lard and margarine, and I'm on my snobby high horse this week and don't want margarine cookies. Actually I did make margarine cookies, and I ate them (of course I did!), but I was left disappointed because for some reason the margarine flavor, at least the kind for sale in the shop next door, just puts me off. So, snobbery admitted, I wanted non-margarine cookies.

I found a no-butter cookie recipe that seemed quite good. I almost managed to follow the recipe, and the cookies turned out almost really good. But I made so much that I had leftover batter. No problem, save it for later. Until later: I get hungry, think "I'll make some more of those banana almond cookies" and decide that I'll throw in the leftover french toast mix with the cookie batter (start shaking your head here), because milk and eggs and cinnamon are tasty, right? And then it's too liquid-y, so I toss in a handful of flour and some ground almonds, and some chocolate shavings and some more cinnamon and stir it up and then throw in some salt, because salt makes anything taste good (no it doesn't) and then mix it up and pour it on a cookie sheet and think I'm so, so clever. (Continue to shake your head.)

And yes, I'm eating the results right now. I wouldn't say "good", but I would say "it's a good think I resisted 'livening them up' with chiles".

It's not quite an apple pie substitute, but... I'm now finishing off the last one, so I suppose this wasn't a complete flop.

I guess I need to learn to always begin preparing food before I reach hunger-crisis moment. Or have more snacks on hand. And maybe to just stay away from the oven.

Teach, You're Wrong.

My sixteen-year-old brother-in-law came home from school today and told us he learned that the majority of children who grow up with homosexual parents are traumatized for it and that's why gay couples shouldn't be allowed to marry or adopt.

I could spit nails I'm so mad.

I told him I didn't believe that a bit, and asked who had told him such a stupid thing. When he told me it was his teacher... ooooh, I feel like marching (or taking the bus) over to his school and having it out. I'm so mad.

He said that his teacher told the class that kids grow up traumatized because they have two dads or two moms instead of one of each. You know, because all the other kids come from "normal" families, raised by their moms because their dads are in the States working to send money hone, or raised by grandma because both mom and dad are dead or gone, or bounce between mom's house and dad and step-mom's house, or (like my brother-in-law) have fathers who are alcoholics and are for all purposes out of the picture, or who have wonderful heterosexual, devout Catholic parents who beat them, or ignore them, or tell them that if they ever find out their child is gay they'll disown them and so help them God hope to see them burn in Hell. But surely having two moms or two dads will really screw them up.

I was pleased to watch Hernan jump right in, too. He really cares about his little brother, and often treats him more like his son than his kid brother. We were both really upset to find out that his teachers are saying this kind of thing in school.

I told him I'd like to read the "study" his teacher claimed to be referencing, and if he could please get the name of it or the author or a copy, I would love to read it.

Oh! I'm so mad. Even madder than a month ago when he told me that someone at his school told him that Darwin's theories had been refuted and were now popularly considered defunct.

On the positive side, I hadn't realized how good my Spanish had become until I started firing off reason after reason why I think that's the stupidest thing I've heard in a long while, at least since his aunt told me that brown eyes are healthy and "colored" eyes are inferior and "sick". I guess there's nothing like stirring up a person's passions (or a strong beverage) for getting that foreign language to come tumbling out a kilometer a minute ("kilometer" because I'm so metric now.)

At least every time I hear that gays traumatize their children, and blacks are all uneducated and lazy, and Chinese (which I understand to mean "Asians") are all ugly and smart and know kung-fu... and that goblins are going to steal my baby's soul, and so on and on... at least every time I hear it I can say that it's not true and hopefully that does something.

Especially with my kid brother. He really looks up to Hernan. I'm glad to see he listens to his big brother. Still, we're only two against all his teachers and all his friends. He's a smart boy, though; I think he'll wise up.

Oh! But I'm still so mad!

Dear Google

Dear Google Alex,

Please hire me to work on your speech recognition projects. And can I work from home?

Thanks.
Ember

http://googleblog.blogspot.com/2009/11/automatic-captions-in-youtube.html

I Did It For The Flowers

S0 if you're going to trespass, you should wear your glasses. And I'm not talking sneaky, throw 'em off your trail disguise sunglasses with fake mustache attached. I'm talking prescription eye wear. Because blind ladies like me shouldn't be sneaking across fences without them. The reason: there might just be someone watching you sneak onto their property, and you wouldn't know till you're right in front of them, because you forgot your lenses at home.

It's because I'm slick like that.

So, I offered to water my mother-in-laws plants for her, the flowers we planted at her father's gravesite. I try to go at least every other day to the graveyard here in San Juan. I bring a bucket, which I can fill from a cistern there at the graveyard. The last three days, however, there's been no water. Dry as dust.

Yesterday before I even entered the panteon a little girl stopped me, saying there was no water. She pointed across the road, though, to a ranch and explained that she was getting water from a well over there. All well and good, I thought, you're a cute little girl, you can slip through the barbed wire and no one will care, but I'm a weirdo gringa with a baby in a carry pack, and I doubt I can slip through that barbed wire without getting stuck and then drawing the attention of exactly one third of the town, who will probably come yell at me for trespassing.

I considered it, though.

And I got home, and kept considering it, and thought of those poor, thirsty plants. So today I left Hanix with his grandma, so I could have half a chance getting through the barbed wire. And you know what? it worked. I got right through, with my two buckets, to boot.

But now we come back to the topic of vision and the eye glasses I should have been wearing. Li'l ole me, so proud to have made it through the fence, starts sauntering up to the well, only to realize someone's been standing there watching me approach the whole time.

Ooops.

I thought about turning around right then, but that seemed even more embarrassing, since it isn't as if they don't already know or will not soon discover who I am. And gossip spreads fast in this town, so I sucked it up and said my good afternoons and asked if it wouldn't be alright for me to fill my buckets from the well.

The guy seemed so surprised to see me, I think he didn't know what to say, so he just nodded his head and watched me dip my buckets in the well and then teeter off as fast as I could without spilling the precious liquid.

Way to go, Slick.

So, in the end it all worked out, and I think the plants will survive, but I was sorely embarrassed and will have to find a new means of getting water if the cistern remains empty.

Not so bad. But I have learned my lesson. Don't go traipsing onto private property without my spectacles.

Mari II

I look forward to getting old. Maybe not the part where my body gradually poops out on me, but definitely the part where I start being able to get away with everything. Yes, I fully expect to be a batty old broad when the time comes.

Mari, Hernan's grandmother, gets away with a lot, and she fully deserves to. After ninety-six years, during probably eighty of which she awoke at five every morning to take the corn to the mill, to grind, to bring home, to make into tortillas for breakfast, I think we can all cut her a little slack.

Just now she woke up Hanix. This is a pain, because for some reason my giant child doesn't care to sleep much. His naps last about 30 minutes tops, and I can only get him to nap on occasion. (A line from the movie The Ring keeps coming back to me: "She never sleeps!") Mari woke him up by hollering at who knows who that she didn't know where the people who live in the house were, who knows when they'd be back. All the while my mother-in-law was there shushing her.

But like I say, the woman deserves some slack. Besides, although she may have woken him up just now, there are plenty of times when she prolongs his sleep by rocking his little hammock-crib thing that we suspend from the pig hook in the ceiling (Yes, the pig hooks in the ceiling for hanging pig carcasses from and pig scales for weighing huge babies). The movement keeps him happy and asleep. Sometimes she even does me the favor of rocking the crib when Hanix isn't in it. Just in case.

And for the most part she gets to do what she pleases. She rakes the back lot, for example, even though the back lot is just dirt, and, especially now that it's the dry season, raking just stirs up a huge dust cloud that comes billowing into the house.

I mentioned in an earlier post how things disappear into her room. Recently my mother-in-law tried to store a bag of my sister-in-law's belongings in Mari's room. Mari opened the bag up and started sorting through the objects, picking out what she would keep and what she didn't need.

And yesterday we were eating lunch in the back lot, where we'd moved the dining room table and chairs on account of the new floor project going on. When my mother-in-law told Mari to come sit at the table with us, Mari refused and decided instead to perch on top of a heap of boxes and scrap wood and bricks. It couldn't have been comfortable, but why not let the lady do as she pleases?

I usually can't understand what Mari says. Between my poor Spanish, her old-person accent and vocabulary, and her missing teeth a fair bit gets lost between us. I did understand her, once, when she told me that she hadn't bathed in some six years or so. Let me tell you, I believed her too. Since then, however, my mother-in-law has started to shower her once in a while, which Mari protests vehemently. She refuses to get up, and even fakes a cough to get out of it, since we all know you can't bathe when you're sick. Even in May, in the scorching heat, she complains that a shower would kill her, on account of the cold. My mother-in-law puts adult diapers on her at night, but when Mari manages to remove them she sometimes then soils herself. My mother-in-law is then firm about the shower.

So maybe there are some downsides to getting old too, such as being showered against your will and wearing Depends. Still, I'm fond of the woman, and I hope we help her enjoy her last years.

More Home Improvements

Some mornings while eating breakfast with that cute guy I married and his mother I ask Hernan what his plans for the day are. Often this results in him leaping up from the table to begin demolishing some part of the house with a pick. A wall, a floor, whatever has been bothering him most or whatever his mother or I have been bothering him about most.

If we're lucky, the demo is then followed by some kind of home improvement. When we're unlucky, we get to live in rubble for a few days.

Today's project - finishing the floor in his mother's dining room so that it will be (1) level, (2) made of tile instead of dirt, rock, and patches of concrete, and (3) safer for his grandmother to walk around on. He didn't finish today, but progress is looking good.

Machetes

Even in Mexico we have to keep the grass cut. While in San Juan there are no lawns (this isn't actually true. There are lawns. But mostly they only exist in the rich people's vacation homes and are hidden from view by high walls topped with glass shards) we do have grass that grows along the highways, and this grass needs trimming from time to time.

Certainly, the easiest way to tend to the problem of tall grass is to sic your burros, horses, goats, and cows on it. This isn't always feasible, however, since burros, horses, goats, and cows often wander where they're not meant to go, like into the highway.

Just three days ago I saw a policeman herding a cow off of the highway. (See, they do work!)

So a better solution? Machetes.

I'm sure it's not true, but I like to believe that every Mexican owns a machete. This must not be true, because I'm sure many, if not most, though certainly not all, city people don't own said multi-purpose instrument. It probably is true, however, of San Juan Cosalá residents, and I think it's great. Remind me to acquire one for Hanix.

The machete is a very useful tool. My father-in-law owns at least one, as does my brother-in-law. I'm pretty sure my mother-in-law can wield one handily, and Hernan somehow acquired one almost immediately after we arrived. I'm certain that even his grandmother could use one, no problem. That's just how things are here.

I see people walking around with machete in hand all the time. I've seen old, wizened men using them as canes. I swear. And once a man threatened Hernan and his brother with one when they were little boys, to which, by the way, my mother-in-law responded by hefting the family's shotgun. The gun is gone, but the machetes we still have.

I've seen them used to hack open coconuts. I've seen them lashed to poles to harvest fruit. I've seen them used to cut firewood. I've seen them used, as I mentioned above, as walking aids. But of course, they're most useful for clearing brush, which brings me back to the topic of grass.

Around here, when the highway grass needs cutting a group of men go to with machetes.

I understand this approach better for lawns, which usually occupy a small space. For the kilometers of roadside grass, however, I'm really impressed. I'm sure it's very hard work, so I hope those men are paid well (though I'm sure they aren't) and I hope they get a back massage at the end of the day (I'm sure they don't).

Now, please enjoy my poem.


Machete

Machete, oh! machete
Clear away the brush
For with all these growing things
It was a bit too lush.
Machete, oh! machete
Cut down grass and vines and trees
Clear me a swath as wide as the world
So that I may walk with ease.

White Woman Steals Bratty Child

It's funny that after a year in this town I'm still interesting enough to warrant outright staring. Sure, staring in Mexico doesn't seem to be the taboo it is in the States, but nonetheless I think the outright gawking I experience every time I leave my house is a testament to the exciting times to be had in San Juan Cosalá. I realize it's mostly curiosity (boredom?), so I try not to let it get to me. A fun new twist, however, is a bit more of a drag. I've heard it a few times recently, and it more or less goes like this.

Mother and misbehaving child are somewhere near me - in the plaza, on the bus, in a store. Child is really getting on Mama's nerves. Mama has had it up to here. Mama points at me and says to her bratty child, "Look! If you don't stop crying/whining/misbehaving then that white woman is going to take you away!" Then the child shuts up and stares at me with fear and horror, and I (got to love this reaction) stupidly smile at the child and wave.

OK, maybe just the first time I did that. The second time I glowered at the woman who said it, and the third time I just sighed and probably looked peeved in a way that only intensified the child's fear.

Thanks, lady. I'm glad to help out with your little bratty kid, who now thinks I'm some kind of boogieman.

Maybe next time, if I have Hanix in tow, I'll just throw it back at her, like "Hanix, if you don't stop drooling all over yourself that Mexican lady there, the one with the annoying bratty child, is going to come over here and give you the evil eye". You know I won't do it, but I wish I were better at Spanish so I could eloquently tell those women to shove off.

Besides, what would I want with their bratty kid? Can't they see my massive manchild and his adorable chub?

The IRS Loses Me

Hey Internal Revenue Service, what's shakin?

Just call me Waldo. It appears that the IRS had no trouble whatsoevah finding me when they thought I owed them 16 THOUSAND dollars. Now, just a few months later, when it turns out that they owe me money, they can't seem to figure out where I live.

Go fig.

But really, friends at the IRS, I have updated my address with you. I have sent you letters. I have filed my tax returns. You have even sent me mail at my PO Box in Mexico. You have called me at my house here in San Juan... what do you mean you don't know where I am?

Ah, but wait, that was all back when you thought I owed you money. Now that the shoe is on the other hand you can't seem to figure out where I am.

I'm in Mexico! I'm right where you left me two months ago! Send me my money already.

A Post About Mucking Around

Sometimes I hesitate to post the personal. I'm sure it'd be a lot more interesting if I got my lazy fingers to type up a nice piece about el dia de los muertos or our little jaunt to the coast. But then I remember that I'm selfish and I'm posting because that's what I feel like doing, and frankly it's other topics that are on my mind.

I guess in a lot of ways life has settled down here. I've become a whole lot more content being here, though maybe it's not so much contentment that I feel as acceptance or resignation. Or maybe I've just been happily distracted by visitors, friends from home who've kept my spirits buoyed. Or maybe I'm just too busy and too exhausted taking care of my baby to think about much else. Any way I spin it, I'm not living in the pits of woe I was in nine months ago.

Blogging has helped. I guess it's therapeutic. I always knew I was blogging for my own benefit not because I thought anyone else would be entertained much by what little I have to say. Still, I started blogging, and just getting it all out in English was a big help. And then, oh and then, I found all these other American women living in Mexico with their husbands, many of them with young kids, and they're all blogging away about all this crap we're all facing, and all the wonderful stuff too, and suddenly I had this weird feeling of community or that at least I wasn't alone. And misery: it sure do love its company. So here I am reading these other blogos every day, half the time the posts are about exactly what's been going on in my head, and I want to write one big "I know exactly what you mean!" comment over and over again, and "Thank you so much for blogging. It means so much to me." and suddenly I find myself, still not thrilled to be here, but somehow managing it a whole hell of a lot better.

And then there are all my amazing friends - who send me email or come visit or send little gifts for my fat man child, and every gesture, every laugh, means so much.

And maybe it's just time - that I'm getting used to living with cockroaches and rats and the smell of burning garbage and sewage in the streets and constant noise and sexism and machoism and being stared at and not having any friends down here, and having to explain and defend every assumption, value and opinion and just being really lonely. At least a little bit used to them. Those things still drive me crazy.

I'm still frustrated a lot of the time. It bothers me how Hernan forgot how to do any housework since moving back in with his mother, how he now expects me to do it all. I still have no idea what to do about him going out all the time with dudes and leaving me alone and lonely, and I have to nearly break his arm just to hang out with me, because I used to think we enjoyed each other's company. It's hard that I feel like the freak all the time because I don't have anyone who shares my persectives on child raising (or anything else), and I feel like a bad mother for holding my baby "too much", for nursing him, for using cloth diapers. And I wish I had friends here. And I wish I had money and a job. And I wish sometimes for a whole lot of things.

But then I know too that I'm handling those things better than when I first got here. That I've come to really value the company of my in-laws, and I'm daily thankful I like them so much, and they're so accepting of me, and that my little Hanix can grow up with a big, loving family. And I've started liking a lot of things about being here and maybe I'm a little less uptight than I used to be. And probably this is all character-building anyway, right? So I'll look back on it all and feel it was a good thing in the end. Right?

So why am I sharing this (unintersting, poorly written, overly-personal) brain fart with you all? (Because I'm selfish. I think we alrady covered that.) Because (here's where I make up a reason for the time you just wasted reading it), in the end I guess we're all just mucking around in our lives, trying to make them satisfying and pleasing, or maybe noble and good, or maybe just entertaining. But somehow we're trying to do it right. And for me to "do it right", this whole living business, I guess I've needed a lot of practice and a lot of support. The practice I'm still getting, but the support I've had. So I guess, in a way, this is one big "thank you" to all the great people who've been rooting for us, and to all the strangers who support me by sharing their stories. And I guess I'm just saying I'm trying not to let you all down, and I swear I'm starting to get the hang of it.

Fishing For Criminals?

So I took Hanix, my giant baby, for a walk today. Sported him in the Baby Bjorn carry pack thang my sister sent me. I frickin love carry packs for babies. The hands free thing is just a bonus. The real deal is that I can no longer carry my baby in my arms for any significant period of time without my arms going numb. I should probably start working out so I keep up with his weight gain.

Anyway, this post is not about my baby or my weak mom arms. This post is about police fishermen. As in: I walked down to the malecon (boardwalk thing), and the only people down there were two men fishing. They were each holding a coke bottle, around which they had wrapped some kind of wire or twine, to the ends of which were attached hooks, I assume. Coke bottle in one hand, they would swing the loose end of the wire laso-style in the air and then toss it out into the lake.

The funny part of this is that both men were police officers dressed in full uniform. Full uniform down here means they had big ol' rifles slung over their backs.

Oh how I wish I'd had my camera!

It just makes me wonder... were they on duty? I assume so, given their fancy getups and their rifles! So... were they bored and thought, "Hey, let's go see if there's any crime happening at the malecon. Plus we can pick up dinner." Or maybe, "Hey, partner, it's lame we haven't gotten to shoot anything all day, let's go catch some fish and then shoot 'em." Or perhaps, "The people in this town or so poor, we'll have better luck getting bribes from the fish in the lake."

Who knows? I certainly wasn't going to ask.

Less Poop In My Life

Out brief stint as pet owners has come to an end. While I was away, Goblin the Puppy got attacked by a bigger dog and ended up buried in the back yard.

No more cute puppy pics.

Baby Giant

This is my baby update. If you don't like babies, and stuff, don't bother.

So my baby is a giant.

He's four months old and weighs over 20 pounds - the average for an 11 or 12 month old baby (so say the Internets). How did he grow that much in so short a time?? He's not that chubby, just really long and ... can you call a baby "strapping"? You know, he's just big boned! Apparently he's over the 95th weight percentile. He dwarfs his 5 month old cousin.

And I think he's got super powers because he totally sits by himself and can support all of his weight when standing on his legs, though he needs help getting into that position and maintaining his balance. Kind of like a drunkard. Maybe that's not that crazy. What do I know about babies' physical development? Maybe every mama thinks her baby is growing crazy fast. What if I told you he were already running and doing back flips? Would you call me a dirty liar?

But the oddest thing is that he's growing one long, white hair out of the top of his head, right in the middle. It's ridiculous.

Ah, well, it's entertaining. Have I mention that San Juan is boring?

Today I got belly laughs out of him by doing the following hilarious activities: tickling him, blowing raspberries, singing nursery rhymes, banging a spoon on a pot, hanging laundry, getting peed on, and chopping an onion. I should be an entertainer, because apparently I'm a riot. (This is also a tip off of just how thrilling my life is these days.)

He has also learned to screech like I imagine a velociraptor might have screeched when expressing annoyance at its velociraptor buddy for having made off with the whole kill. He enjoys this new skill and uses it whenever boredom sets in. Or whenever he wants help getting onto his feet (to do his buoy dance.)

So that's my baby: a giant, screeching, wobbly, super-powered, bundle of cuteness with one long, white hair growing out his head. Makes a mama so proud!

I Heart Interacting With Government Agencies, Except Not Really

I've been getting lots of practice filling out forms and filing applications and running around government buildings which only allow me to bring in one (ONE!) diaper with my baby (thank you, US Consulate).

Throw this at ya:

Hernan's immigration paperwork

Hanix's Mexican paperwork (birth certificate, health card, etc.)

Hanix's American paperwork (passport, birth abroad certificate, etc.)

My paperwork to get a residency visa (including registering our marriage in Mexico)

Plus, hello! IRS wants to know why I didn't file taxes back in '03 or '04.

Fan. Tastic.

I didn't file back then because I was a student and was earning approximately, give or take, more or less, ballpark figure, rounded to the nearest dollar, about "jack".

Turns out they got it in their heads that I had earned my father's income, because he was still claiming me as a dependent back then. Let me assure you, one and all, that that was not the case. So, plus fees and fines and interest, they reckoned out a debt of more than 16,000 dollars.

And they've been withholding my 2008 refund.

Makes me so mad. I need that refund! I'm broke, damnit! I have no 16,000 US dollars to give up. Give me my measly refund so I can buy tortillas!

Jerks.

This all kind of came to a head right around Hanix's birth, but has been stewing ever since, what with Mexico's rapid mail system and all. Plus the IRS can't seem to figure out where I live even though I've thrice given them my address. Maybe they just don't want to pay the extra postage, so they just keep sending my mail to my folks' place.

I will say that it seems to be settling down now. They've agreed I didn't have to file for 2003, and for 2004 they're assessing me fees and fines and interest and spankings summing just under 300 US Dollars, which I also don't really have, but not in the same way I don't have 16,000. So I consider this a win.

And hopefully one of these days I'll be seeing my 2008 refund. Wish I could charge them interest on that. And late fees.

So tired of dealing with government agencies.

In Oregon

Here's my mini-update. I'm in Eugene with my fam. I'm pretty bummed that I didn't get to do my California tour and visit everyone in SC, MV, OAK, SF, etc. Since we pretty much just went from the US Consulate in GDL (to get Hanix's passport) to the airport I didn't have much of a chance to plan anything out. And then I was dependent on Hernan's in-laws for putting me up. My broke ass can't afford a rental car or a cell phone, and I didn't have much access to the internets, so I had a boohard time getting ahold of anyone. Boohard- yep I just made that up, but it's a good word I suggest you adopt (PRO). I didn't even call my brother!

So instead of my magical mystery tour of friends and food in California I was worried I'd end up having to spring for some shady Santa Cruz motel. So I jumped on a train and now I'm in Eugene. Ah well, at least we made it to the funeral.

It's not the trip I'd been hoping to make Dec. or Jan, which is almost certainly off the table now. But I am appreciating being back in the US.

I like flushing my TP. That's fun.

And I like drinking tap water - it's so clean and tasty! and won't give me hepatitis!

It smells so god damn good here - like trees and flowers instead of sewage and car exhaust.

Food Fantasia

I get to feel so smart using my complex English syntax.

I saw the ocean, and it was real pretty

I saw snow and tall trees

It's so quiet here without bullhorns.

Newspapers.

I just miss my friends. Dag nabbit. Boo hard. Well... next time , I s'pose.

Now it's time for a walk through the neighborhood. We're going to look for any blackberries that might have lingered.

Grandmother's Funeral

Hernan's grandmother passed away. She was the matriarch of a very large family, and Hernan was extremely close to her. Everyone is grieving.

We're going up to GDL Tuesday to see whether my mother-in-law can't get special permission to travel to the States to attend the funeral. At the same time, I'll be trying to get Hanix's passport. We had an appointment for him to register his birth down here with the US consulate and to get his passport, but it would be too late for us to fly. So we've requested a special urgent interview. I hope they give us the passport then and there on Tuesday, but I don't know how it works.

So I might find myself in California next week. Then again, I might not.

I really hope my mother-in-law is given permission to travel. She had a green card back when she was a teenager but it somehow got lost (I didn't understand the conversation, but I think it involved her husband) and she was then issued a visitor's visa instead. But that visa expired last year, and they wouldn't let her renew it. I have no idea why not, and they never gave her a reason. She traveled about once a year to the States, stayed a few weeks visiting family, and then flew home again. She never stuck around or tried to work or anything like that, so I don't know why they wouldn't renew it for her. She's such a sweet lady, but is awfully timid in front of The Man. I'm wondering whether we can't get her her greencard again, since her name surely exists in the government's records.

Anyway, there's no time for that right now. I just hope she gets to go to her mother's funeral. Poor Hernan has no chance at all of going. He hopes his son gets to go. I hope so too.

Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With String

This one's for you, Margherita.

Moving to Meheeko isn't all bad. Down here, for example, you can have fresh tortillas whenever you want! Mexican food is bombdiggity, especially if you can score an in-law to cook it for you.

Avocados. Mangoes. All manner of strange, foreign fruits.

And much of the food is pretty fresh, because is was grown in Mexico. The meat is often butchered within a few block radius of where you are, the eggs are often local.

You can send a small child to the store to buy you beer.

You won't have to shovel snow.

You'll probably be within two blocks of four or more small tiendas, so when you realize you forgot to buy milk it'll probably only take you five minutes (tops) to go back for it, and that includes the time it takes to think of the Spanish to explain to the clerk why you're back so soon.

You get to enjoy seeing people ride horses to run their errands (at least I do. Maybe not in all of Mexico, eh?)

People spend a lot more time outside of their houses (at least in small towns, it seems), especially in the evenings. They chat with their neighbors in front of their houses.

Houses come in surprisingly many colors.

Taunting children who try to climb up a tall pole greased in lard to get to the presents tied at the top (what inspired this post- because that just won't fly in the States).

Men who dance.

Strangers will love your babies.

Um... the opportunity to get to know yourself better.

Not worrying about deportation.

And fresh tortillas whenever you want! Did I mention that?


Feel free to add on, other Mexico residents.

Greased Pole Woe

It is with a heart laden with sorrow and regret that I post today. This year, to celebrate Mexico's triumph of independence there was much revelry, there was joyful celebration, there was great festivity, but alas! there was no greased pole.

Last year's greased pole event was the highlight of the entire Independence Day weekend celebration. It beat out the drunk-driving/water-fight/bicycle-race mayhem, the crowning of the Queen of San Juan Cosalá, and even the street fight, which placed second in the Memorable Events of Independence Day Weekend 2008 Contest. After all, it's not every day I get to see my husband pantsed while shimmying up a pole greased in pork lard to throw presents to a cheering crowd. (Oh, but that it were!)

But this year, the traditional greased pole event did not take place.

The news gets even sadder here, so steel yourself. The reason that there was no present-bearing pork lard greased pole event in the plaza this year is that the "winner" of last year's event shirked his responsibility in organizing the preparations for this year's present-bearing pork lard greased pole event. You can only imagine my credulity when I discovered that the man who deprived me and the whole town (but mostly me) of the year's greatest ado is the very man to whom I pledged my love and lifelong commitment.

To atone, he will begin this very month the preparations of next year's present-bearing pork lard greased pole event, so that this great tradition will not disappear from San Juan Cosalá.

El Grito

Last night we walked down to the plaza for el grito. I was sorely disappointed.

Someone on stage read off the names of Mexican heroes (Morelos, Hidalgo, Allende, etc.) and the crowd responded with "Viva!" and then came "Viva Jalisco" "Viva!" "Viva San Juan Cosalá" "Viva!" and then "Viva Mexico" "Viva! Viva! Viva!" I like the idea of everyone getting together and shouting things in unison. (Also why singing "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" with a crowd of strangers is the only part I like about going to a baseball game. Ok, that and the jeering.) But I was disappointed by the crowd's lack of gusto. It seemed half-hearted. I was ready for some proud yelling. AND, I didn't hear a single person do that Mexican laugh/cry thing "Aaaahhh-jai, jai, jaiiii!" and normally all it takes is a good song and a few shots of tequila. I thought of all the days in the year, I'd surely hear some good cries last night.

My in-laws tell me the national anthem has some 28 verses, and most people don't know them all. I'd like to hear them all some day, but I imaging that would try most people's patience. The anthem was played in part in the plaza last night, but sadly it was just a recording and again the crowd let me down, as not very many people joined in.

Otherwise, there was some pretty mediocre folk dancing, the crowning of this year's Queen of San Juan Cosalá, and a mariachi group. We actually have a really good folk dance group in town, but for some reason they didn't perform. The three "princesses" were paraded around in their big, poofy, colorful gowns, but they didn't even have to do anything interesting like answer tough questions about geography or about saving the children in Africa. And, as for the mariachi, they were pretty decent until they invited some high-pitched, off-tone, child to come sing with them. That's when we decided to head home.

So that was last night. Tonight, I hope, oh how I hope! we'll be back in the plaza for the greased pole tradition.

Soda Boppy

My in-laws drink Coke or Pepsi at every meal. They pretty much only drink soda, coffee, or beer. I'm the crazy one in the house who drinks water. Anyway, to each his own, I suppose. I drink Coke sometimes too (when it's mixed with rum, for example), and I certainly am no model of healthy eating (I'm pretty sure a bar of chocolate a day is not considered healthy eating), but what freaks me out is sometimes seeing toddlers around town with baby bottles filled with soda. If the child is too young to drink from a normal cup, I'm pretty sure they're too young to be drinking Coke. Obesity, diabetes, heart disease, tooth cavities anyone?

On the subject of health and soda, NY has a new ad campaign.

And I enjoyed reading this op-ed "Big Food vs. Big Insurance". While we've all a right to gluttony and poor choice making (and I enjoy regularly exercising this right), there's a lot not right about government subsidies making crap food so cheap. I like the angle this op-ed takes. Let's get the big fellas to take on the other big fellas.

Anyway, soda in baby bottles. Let's make an ad campaign against that.

A Woman's Place

I realize I should follow a fellow blogger's example and start using a label "rants". We all know I do plenty of that.

So here's my rant of the evening.

Men and women can't be friends. This may not be true across Mexico (I'm not claiming any expertise, here), but it sure seems true in San Traditional Juan Podunk Cosalá. It's not that I'm trying to cruise for man friends in particular, but I've been down here a whole craptastic year and don't have a single friend to speak of, save my BFF the Internet. Men go out drinking together, they go to pool parties (apparently!) and to play billiards (the other pool party). Hernan invites his 16 year old brother, but not ONE STINKING TIME have I ever been invited. Not even when I make statements like "I'm lonely as all hell and bored out of my frickin mind and I'd really like some company tonight. You think I could come along?" ... Nope.

Granted, Hernan is in a hard place. He always invited me along in the States to go out with his buddies, and they accepted that, and understood that I should be offered beer because I'm, apparently, one of those crazy loose women who imbibes on occasion (and when isn't there an occasion?) But once we got down here to Macho Land Hernan had to start navigating new cultural waters and I got the plank.

And, too, if he were to invite me I'm pretty certain his buddies would be uncomfortable and the evening wouldn't be much fun. Even when they come by the house I might get a "Buenas tardes" but that's about it.

So men go out and DO stuff, and the women stay in their houses and tend to their children, or, in my case, my child and my puppy.

I should respect cultural differences and blah, blah, blah, but I think it's sexist and jacked and staying in the house all the time is boring.

Gah!

OK, end rant.

September 16th, 2008

Happy Mexican Independence Day! Last year we had just arrived in town when the festivities began. It was a pretty exciting weekend, so I looked up the mass email I'd sent out to remember all the fun that went down. Yes, before I discovered the joys of blogging I was in the habit of mass-harassment in e-mail form. Blogging feels so much less pushy.

So here is the email I sent out, more or less, a draft of it anyway. The numbers are footnotes, as I apparently found that amusing. :) I'm waiting to see whether this year turns out as exciting.

Oh, and don't you just love the rehash? It's like when a sitcom has an entire episode of flashbacks because apparently no one could come up with a novel storyline in time. Or maybe they were over-budget. So here you go: 2008 rehash!


It was an exciting weekend.

Contrary to US tradition, Mexicans celebrate Mexican Independence Day on the 16th of September instead of on Independence Day, which, as all Americans know, is either the fourth of July or the fifth of May (1). It's unclear why they do this. Anyway, on that particular day, it rained all day and we just stayed in the house with the fam and played cards. But, come the weekend, things got awfully exciting.

Saturday I spent the day in Guadalajara with my sister-in-law and her gringo boyfriend. That was not that exciting (2). We were buying merchandise for the little shop she runs out of the family's house. She sells things like hair products, baseball caps, underwear and children's toys. It was good to get out and see the city, though.

Things picked up after we got back. We went down to the plaza and there was a stage set up for performances. There was a mariachi band, folk dancing, and some local guy graced us with his interpretation of singing. Also, they crowned the 2008 queen of San Juan Cosalá – basically a local beauty pageant. Then we drank cantaritos (think tequila and squirt) and danced to a live band.

That was a lot of fun – but wait until I tell you about Sunday.

Sunday was the local bike race. Cool – one might think – everyone turns out to watch the cyclists race up and down the highway that runs through town (3), between the town to the west (Jocotepec) and the town to the east (Ajijic). Probably they close the highway so the cyclists can have room to compete. Ah, but wait! This is Mexico! Close the highway for a bike race?! Preposterous! Instead, let's do something different: let's get everyone out on the road with their pickup trucks. In the back of every pickup let's pile between 10 and 20 people. That's right, up to 20 people. Then let's drive up and down the highway following the cyclists. In addition, everyone who couldn't fit into the back of a pickup should come out onto the street or up onto their roof with buckets and hoses with which to douse all the people in the pickups. Also, let's get everyone to drink beer, including the pickup truck drivers. Yeah. Now that's a bike race!

So the bike race / town water fight was a lot of fun, and apparently the Independence Day tradition of San Juan Cosalá. I found myself in the back of our truck with only eleven other people. We got soaked the four or five times we drove through San Juan. But my co-riders had planned ahead, and we had our own ammunition: balloons filled with water. It's amazing we made it to even see the cyclists cross the finish line. I'm not sure who won. I'm not sure most people knew.

So then I crawled home like a drenched rat with my cousin Estela. I changed clothes and waited for Hernan to come back. At one point I saw him riding off to Jocotepec with the three queens of San Juan Cosalá and two of his buddies. Hm. Suspicious. When he finally came around again, we made off for the plaza.

We got there a little early and the festivities hadn't yet started up again. So we helped some of his buddies to dig a whole in the middle of the concrete parking lot. I mean, really, why not? This, it turns out, wasn't a random act of vandalism, but a part of another local tradition.

Every year, a group of people get together downtown and dig a hole somewhere. Fun enough on its own, but it gets better. Then they put a bunch of presents - kids toys, DVDs, clothes – into plastic bags and attach these bags to one end of a very long pole. Next, we grease the pole with lard. Obviously. Then, with the help of Random Drunk Dude On A Horse, we put the pole into the hole. Da-na! Now you're ready to watch a group of children struggle to climb 20 feet of greased pole to get the presents down! What could be more fun!? It makes American Independence Day barbecues and fireworks seem suddenly so lame.

So we stood around and shouted encouragement and ridicule at a group of children for two hours. Got to love it. This new generation, it seems, is not quite up to the tradition, because they managed to get only one present down. Finally, after two hours, it started to rain and Hernan decided it was time to step in and show the snot noses how it's done. Part way up the pole someone pulled his shorts down and the crowd got a full moon. That was pretty funny. He managed to both pull his shorts up and get all the way to the top. From the top of the greased pole he threw presents to the children, like a Mexican Santa, and then slid down that pole: more like a stripper than a fireman, and nothing like Santa would. Ah…! That's my man!

After showering off the lard at home, we returned once more to the plaza. Disappointed with the one-beat music that was playing in the town disco, we decided to go home early. But, to top off the weekend, three drunkards started shouting at us and following us home. And that's when we got into a street fight. By "we", of course, I mean Hernan. I just tried to stay out of the way. He was getting all three of them pretty good when about 20 people appeared out of nowhere and jumped in to break things up. The three dudes, plus one more that jumped in at the first sign of a fight, were all major assholes. Apparently they were looking for an easy fight and jumped us because they thought we were out-of-towners. Apparently they hadn't seen how Hernan has just become King of the Greased Pole and the town's favorite son. Moreover, it seems they're now the shame of the town for (1) having picked a fight with someone who's related to probably half the town, and (2) getting beat up pretty badly in a fight of three against one. One of the guys, it turns out, is even the son of a family friend, but didn't recognize Hernan in his drunken state. So we got home ok. A group of relatives and acquaintances who'd shown up suddenly out of nowhere took us home. Hernan only had a scratch on his hand and a scrape on one knee, so he's fine. Monday, we had a stream of visitors all day come by to ask how we were and to tell us that those assholes wouldn't be bothering us again. There's nothing like living in a town of 3000 for getting gossip fast.

So that was the weekend. Folk dancing, beauty pageant, bicycle race, water fight, a greased pole, and a street fight. I can't wait until next year.


Footnotes:
(1) I'd like to make it clear that I do, in fact, know that the fifth of May is *not* Mexican Independence Day. This is a joke. Please laugh.
(2) There was one exciting moment when said gringo boyfriend asked me who I was planning to vote for. So far, I've refrained from talking politics with him at all because I'm certain he's very conservative and I'm extremely liberal, and I haven't wanted to get into it with him because I know my sister-in-law doesn't want that to happen. It's clear she's uncomfortable with us arguing about politics. I told him I'd be happy to talk politics with him, but that we should leave my sister-in-law out of it, go somewhere where we can hash things out just the two of us, you know, somewhere where there'd be no witnesses.
(3) This highway that runs through town is the road that runs in front of the family's house and also the only paved road in town.

Folk Wisdom

When I was pregnaz down here I thought I'd heard the limit on folk wisdom, but then my son was born and I have since harvested a whole new crop.

I've already written about goblins and the evil eye. Here are some new snippets of advice. Inform yourself.

Beginning in pregnancy and continuing on into the first postpartum weeks, mothers should wear earplugs, particularly when leaving the house, to prevent air from entering their heads.

After the birth of her child, a mother must visit the church on her first excursion out of her house. If she does not (and, say, visits family first), she is scorning the grace of God and her child will suffer.

Until a new mother has visited the church to express her gratitude to God for the birth of her child, she may not eat any pork products. I'm not sure what happens to her or her child if she does. Chicken and beef, however, are A-Ok.

A newborn needs to have a marble bound to his bellybutton or it will never sink in. The child will be cursed forever with an "outie".

A mother must never drink water while in the act of breastfeeding. If she does, the water will pass directly through her to her infant and drown the baby. Presumably, the water triggers a physiological change, bypassing the woman's normal digestive system to flow directly from her mouth to her breasts. Somehow, the infant also undergoes an immediate change whereby the water then passes from the mouth to the lungs, rather than to the stomach.

And finally, if someone clips a newborn's fingernails, the child won't develop the ability to speak until a year or more later than it's taloned cousins.

Also, with regard to childrearing, it seems to be common knowledge down here that holding your baby too much will spoil it, so you should limit that kind of contact.

In other news, Hanix is doing well. He smiles all the time, enjoys watching telanovelas with his abuelita, and today learned to chortle.

It's Raining, It's Hailing

And suddenly it was raining something fierce. Not buckets, exactly, more like the angels suddenly drained their heavenly swimming pool, and the drain empties out directly over our house.

I ran upstairs to our deck/living room and found that the tile roof wasn't keeping up with the downpour. Water got everywhere. Meanwhile, Goblin, our pooch, got scared by all the thunder and expressed this by emptying his food dish all over the floor. And it was then, of course, that Hanix woke up crying. We managed to fix the roof leaks by shifting the tiles and wiped the water off the couches with the basket of dry diapers and towels I'd just grabbed off the line. We cleaned up the floor and calmed the baby. And then it was quiet.

But then! Yes, but then came the hail. Hail! In September. In Mexico. And good sized hail, too, about a half inch in diameter. The floor was white with it. We worried the skylight would break.

So we re-fixed the roof, and swept out the hail and wiped off the couches and calmed down the pooch and calmed down the baby and then just shrugged our shoulders and laughed.

Introducing Goblin

"Can I keep him?"



That's more or less what my husband said yesterday when I encountered him cuddling an adorable little labrador puppy. Yes, friends, we're now pet owners.

The story goes like this: a friend of my husband had a lab, and she had pups. Mama dog passed away. Husband's friend wanted to give away all the pups. One pup ended up at a cousin's house, but Aunty said "No". Cousin told husband, and husband said "Yes". Now the puppy lives with us.


I really had no interest in having a pet, but I was emotionally blackmailed. Try saying no to a wriggling puppy who will otherwise end up out at "the ranch", alone all day, guarding wire.

Plus he sat in my lap and licked my toes. And, needless to say, he's got puppydog eyes. Yeah, how can you turn those down? Poor little orphan puppy with puppydog eyes who sat in my lap and licked my toes... whimper, whimper, whimper.

I asked whether someone else wouldn't take him, and apparently not, since all the likely puppy owner candidates have already been convinced to take the sibling pups.

So. There you have it. We're puppy owners.

Here he is getting comfy in his new home.



His name is Goblin. He has a play date with his brother puppy tomorrow. I'm reading up on puppy training. Please send me your puppy training tips, because I grew up with cats.

Evolution Shmevolution

39%. According to a Gallup poll earlier this year, only 39% of Americans believe in the theory of evolution.

Shock.

Not even half. Not even close to half! Oh, dear me.

25% report that they do not believe in evolution. More shock.

Thanks for leading me to this discovery, Jenny Jo.

I poked around the Interweb and found more mad statistics. It appears that there are hordes of non-believers all over Europe, too, just maybe not in as high proportions as in the good ol' U.S. of A. http://www.newscientist.com/article/dn9786-why-doesnt-america-believe-in-evolution.html

I then found this article http://www.angus-reid.com/polls/view/16178 which made me think well of Canadians with their whopping (still so small!) 59% of believers of evolution, until I read the rest of the article, which asserts that 42 percent of survey respondents believe that humans and dinosaurs co-existed.

I wonder what percent of Mexicans believe in evolution.

Another great question is how well most people even understand the theory. I thought this article dealt well with the poll numbers: The Problem with Evolution Surveys.

Still, I'm surprised. I guess I need to get out of my bubble a whole lot more often.

"Adios"

I have a new tactic. I'm going to just say hello to everybody.

When the grandmothers sitting in front of their houses stare at me as I pass, I'll say hello.

When the group of neighbors falls silent as I approach, I'll say hello.

When I can't remember if I've met that man or not, I'll say hello.

When a woman sees me coming, says something to her friends and then they all turn and stare, I'll say hello.

When a group of men stare me down as I go by, I don't think I'll be saying hello, but you get the idea.

I've been trying this out and it may not win me friends, but everyone says hello back, and it's at least a lot more pleasant than being silently stared at.

I guess I should add that I might not say hello. I might be saying good bye, because "Adios" is my new favorite way to greet people in the street. It's like saying hello, but doesn't open you up for conversation. You can say it and just keep walking. I'm a fan.

One Year

It was a year ago today that we arrived in San Juan Cosalá. It's been a whole year. A whole hard, stinking, terrible, amazing, boring, crazy year.

I guess it's time for a little reflection, a little confession, and a little resolution.

We chose not to tell everyone that Hernan wasn't in the US legally. There's so much anger and hate directed at undocumented immigrants, and we also didn't want to risk alienating our friends and coworkers. We tried to keep it a secret from a lot of people. This was a little heartbreaking because it's been a huge part of our lives and hiding it made me feel dishonest and distant from people. Yet, the fear we also lived with, fear of deportation, fear of rejection, fear of discrimination, made us decide to keep it (mostly) under wraps.

Hernan came to the US when he was just seventeen. He needed to work and send money home to his family, who were living in poverty under the burden of medical debt. Being here now, I can understand why so many people choose to risk their lives and leave their families for that ol' American dream. Job opportunities down here, in a word, blow.

So he worked hard, learned English, adopted American cultural norms, and fell in love with me. What a great immigrant story, no? But in 1996 the government came up with the 3/10 year bar, by which anyone illegally present in the US for more than a year would be barred from getting a visa for ten years.

Knowing the immigration process is jacked, we decided to try anyway. We decided to try to get Hernan legal status. We were tired of worrying about getting caught. Somehow, if we'd just kept going, we'd almost certainly still be in the US with our friends and families. Because we tried to do "the right thing", and initiated the process, we're now living in San Juan instead.

But we're still hoping. We're hoping we can show that we're both honest, hard-working people, that I've been suffering miserably by being down here, that they can really let us back in and we'll be good. We're hoping eventually we'll get a waiver of that 10 year bar. We're hoping we can both go home again. Maybe we're dumb to keep hoping. Maybe we were dumb to try.

So, after a whole lot of time and a heap of money, the government sent us our appointment date in Ciudad Juarez, the shittiest place I've ever been. We quit our jobs, left our home and friends, got rid of some things, packed up and headed south. September 11th we had our appointment date, and that afternoon processed the despair and heartbreak that came with the big "Fuck You" we of course got from the US government. We got out of that miserable city as fast as we could and headed to Hernan's home town. The silver lining: as least he would get to know his family again, all his loved ones he'd left behind for so long. And we needed to regroup.

So here we are, a year later. We have an amazing baby, who's beautiful and smiles all the time. We have Hernan's wonderful and kind family. We have each other.

We don't have any money. We don't have our friends or my family. We don't have the way of life we miss so much.

I was told that after a year here it would get easier, and miraculously it has. The shock of turning my life upside down and shaking has worn off. I still miss home, and everything that means, but I'm no longer depressed every day.

And I feel overwhelmed by the love, kindness and generosity my family and friends have shown. Every care package, every email, every kindness and word of support, every humorous blog comment has made it easier to persevere and has made me feel less far away.

And then a few months ago I ventured into the blogosphere and found so many other women living down here for the same reason as me, and now I feel a little sense of community and understanding, and a lot more courage. And if these other women can survive and maybe even flourish then maybe I can too.

A year. A whole stinking, difficult, depressing, wonderful, life-changing, awesome year.

So we'll keep hoping and keep persevering and keep doing the best we know how. Somehow, we'll figure it out.

Hungry Mama, Hungry Baby

We took Hanix to the pediatrician Wednesday. Apparently he's heavier than 95 percent of babies his age. Yes, my little gordito could pin the other two and a half month old babies to the ground with just one of his meaty little thighs.

The doc says we shouldn't worry because all he eats is breast milk and I guess the excess weight should come off easily whenever he has his next growth spurt or whenever he gets mobile. He didn't get fat from eating deep fried twinkies, after all.

And since his whole body is big - his bones, his head, his hands and feet - it's not surprising that he's heavy, or that my arms are now nicely toned and my wrists nicely broken.

The problem, though, lies in my poor little baby's reflux. He wants to nurse all the time to keep the milk (and stomach acid) from coming up, and to comfort him when he's in pain. I'm trying to comfort him in other ways and to keep him from overeating, but sometimes it's hard to not just give him what he wants. Comfort eating? His mother certainly doesn't do that! No way.

So, we're trying all kinds of things to help him out, like keeping him upright and burping him frequently, and I'm on the most horrible of diets, which excludes dairy, citric, spicy food, coffee and chocolate. Since I'm also vegetarian that leaves me pretty much just tortillas. Try not eating tomatoes, chiles, meat or cheese in Mexico. It kind of sucks. I'm planning or reintroducing all those foods one by one to see if any affect him more than others. I'm HUNGRAY!