How much is $207,000,000 divided into, say 15?
(More than my cell phone calculator can compute, apparently).
It actually works out to $1,380,000. Before taxes and all that.
Of course, I didn't need to calculate it. It's been calculated more than a dozen times by several participants of our office lottery pool.
The publisher's secretary started one Tuesday to go after that night's Mega Millions drawing. In the course of collecting the money, the math was done. Over and over and over and ...
We learned our fate today. We got a $16 return on our $77 investment (which considering the odds you're talking about, isn't completely a bad thing).
But I think I'm more amazed at the reaction. We all had it spent.
One co-worker wanted to quit her job and become more of a freelancer. Everyone wanted to pay off their debts. Another one was ready to jet off to Europe.
Of course, the money won has been reinvested. And those who didn't play before, now want in.
Is it desperation, wishful thinking or both? What is it that's driving this mini-frenzy?
I can tell from my office that people are tired. Maybe this isn't about the money. Maybe it's about hanging on to the hope that we're all going to find a way out. That, despite the huge job losses and the amount of added work being piled on to the remaining workers, maybe, just maybe, luck will smile upon us and we'll find an exit.
Isn't that what we all want? We're all on this wild roller coaster ride called recession where we've been plummeting for a long time. And now we just want to stop and get off. Not even take the ride to the top again - just get off.
The conversation about the lottery has been fun. Watching people's growing enthusiasm for something that is a 1-in-a-billion or so chance is fascinating. But for me, there's this undercurrent of financial urgency to everyone's escapist fantasies.
But wouldn't it be nice if we won?
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Commentary: How insurance firms drive debate
(CNN) -- Having grown up in one of the most conservative and Republican places in the country -- East Tennessee -- I understand why many of the people who are showing up at town hall meetings this month are reacting, sometimes violently, when members of Congress try to explain the need for an expanded government role in our health care system.
I also have a lot of conservative friends, including one former co-worker who was laid off by CIGNA several years ago but who nonetheless worries about a "government takeover" of health care.
The most vocal folks at the town hall meetings seem to share the same ideology as my kinfolks in East Tennessee and my former CIGNA buddy: the less government involvement in our lives, the better.
READ THE REST
I also have a lot of conservative friends, including one former co-worker who was laid off by CIGNA several years ago but who nonetheless worries about a "government takeover" of health care.
The most vocal folks at the town hall meetings seem to share the same ideology as my kinfolks in East Tennessee and my former CIGNA buddy: the less government involvement in our lives, the better.
READ THE REST
Friday, August 7, 2009
Memories of our trip
So I'm still hung up on my trip to Costa Rica. What can I say? When you have that much fun, it's hard to let go. So here is a video that Bill made (with my input). It's a chronological photo account of the parties.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Costa Rica conversations (Part 2)
I’m back. And I’m bound and determined to finish my blogging on Costa Rica. A tough thing to do when you get swallowed by your work.
But I’ve been anxious to finish with some of my memories. Yesterday, I was reflecting back to the trip to the Volcan Arenal, Costa Rica‘s active volcano. The whole thing was a bit wild, literally and figuratively …
The long winding road
“Wow, that’s some bridge,” I told our tour guide Rodolfo in Spanish.
The van wagon, or micro-bus as they called it, had rolled up on a line of cars waiting for oncoming traffic to cross a very narrow bridge.
It wasn’t rickety. It seemed sturdy. But it was surrounded by twisted rusting metal. It spanned the length of a rushing river. That river’s banks and the mountain slopes near it were denuded.
“They built this after a landslide destroyed the original bridge,” Rodolfo said. Since we were not moving, he was able to turn from his seat and point to the towering cliff above us. We were just outside the borders of San Ramon. “About two years ago, we had heavy rains. It rained and rained. It finally brought the mountain down. It took everything out, the road, the bridge, everything.”
When we finally get moving, we could see the rushing water as we drive over. It just rains a lot, he said. Fortunately, no one was one the road at the time of the slide, so there were not injuries, he said.
This was one of the first introductions Bill and I got to the jungles of Costa Rica. I had traveled around them as a child. But obviously, the wilds change. And I was anxious to see, hear and feel it all.
From Ciudad Colon, where my cousin lives, out to the volcano was a two-hour drive. As we drove, a part of me just wanted to enjoy the fact I was being driven around. He had driven past the city, which then became rows of home.
Before long, the space between homes increased, until they almost entirely disappeared and thick jungle hugged the sides of the tiny road. The tropical moisture has taken its toll on all of Costa Rica’s roads. But this road to Arenal has been especially hard hit th
anks to the merciless weather. Holes are not unusual. In some cases, the road has been cut in half.
Along one mountain side was a piece of the highway that had been reduced to one lane because the land that had been holding it was washed away. About half of the lane on the cliff side was gone. To remedy the situation, warning signs have been put up and cars must yield in an orderly manner.
Our poor tour guide. I treated him like we were in Cash Cab. I was full of questions, which he patiently answered. He told me a lot about the terrain. He took us to a lake with a view of the volcano and introduced us to the captain of a small tourist boat who took us out on a tour.
When we arrived, it was pouring rain. Despite that, the captain was out giving a tour. So we took shelter under a tarp that covered a small vendor’s truck. It was manned by a young man who was selling everything from coconuts to chips and drinks.
And we started to chat.
“Hopefully it will warm up so you folks won’t get too cold,” the young man said. “I’m freezing.”
I hated to say anything to him, but I felt warm. It was almost humid to me, even though it was pouring rain. Even Lucky was fine, running around and having the time of his life in the rain. I finally did cave and tell him that we had come from a dry desert climate and were rather enjoying the rain.
“Really? I’m freezing,” he said. “Actually I do have an uncle in California. I’m not sure where he lives. He lives somewhere near Los Angeles.”
“Really? Well then while your freezing, he’s baking,” I told him. “It’s over 100 degrees where
we live in the desert areas. Los Angeles is in the high 90’s. It’s like sitting in an oven. Even when you get in your car.”
“Wow,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to go to the U.S. But I need to learn more English. I’ll be going back to school. I’ll make it there one day.”
I told him he’d be surprised how many people in the U.S. speak Spanish. He smiled. We chatted some more. I got the sense he really wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. Physically, he was selling pipas (coconuts) by the side of the road. Mentally, he was trotting about the promising streets of California. I didn’t want to burst his bubble. Who cares if life here is more am/pm and less Spagos. I let the boy dream.
Soon enough, I would learn that our economy is not the only one suffering, though. After we finished up there, we went to grab some lunch and I finally got the chance to have a conversation with Rodolfo about the tourism, one of Costa Rica’s biggest industries.
“It’s terrible right now,” he said.
Terrible?
Yep. Rodolfo has been providing tours for eight years. And business has always been good, he said. But when the economy collapsed here, it did there, too.
“I run bicycle tours for companies,” he said. “A lot of cyclists come here wanting to pedal around the roads. I take them around anywhere they want to go. And they are happy. But the companies are just not spending the money anymore. We had eight tours scheduled earlier this year. Guess how many actually happened?”
I shrugged, “Half?”
“One,” he said. To make ends meet, he has started working at a friend’s auto repair shop. Fortunately, his buddy lets him almost freelance. This is how he’s biding his time until the economies start to recover.
We talked some more, mostly about the volcano and the insanity of living and taking a vacation at hotels so close to an active volcano.
“I stayed at a hotel here once,” he told me. “I was lying in bed and I swear I could feel the vibrations. I heard the booms. I don’t know. It just seems like a bad idea to live so close to it. But everyone here just seems used to it.”
I had to agree. Not long after that, we got our meal, filled out tummies and headed down past the lush greenery back to the city and … into the horrid traffic.
Exhausting, yes. But beautiful. And memorable. I want to take that tour again and get another chance to talk to Rodolfo.
Anyone want to come with us?
But I’ve been anxious to finish with some of my memories. Yesterday, I was reflecting back to the trip to the Volcan Arenal, Costa Rica‘s active volcano. The whole thing was a bit wild, literally and figuratively …
The long winding road
“Wow, that’s some bridge,” I told our tour guide Rodolfo in Spanish.
The van wagon, or micro-bus as they called it, had rolled up on a line of cars waiting for oncoming traffic to cross a very narrow bridge.
It wasn’t rickety. It seemed sturdy. But it was surrounded by twisted rusting metal. It spanned the length of a rushing river. That river’s banks and the mountain slopes near it were denuded.
“They built this after a landslide destroyed the original bridge,” Rodolfo said. Since we were not moving, he was able to turn from his seat and point to the towering cliff above us. We were just outside the borders of San Ramon. “About two years ago, we had heavy rains. It rained and rained. It finally brought the mountain down. It took everything out, the road, the bridge, everything.”
When we finally get moving, we could see the rushing water as we drive over. It just rains a lot, he said. Fortunately, no one was one the road at the time of the slide, so there were not injuries, he said.
This was one of the first introductions Bill and I got to the jungles of Costa Rica. I had traveled around them as a child. But obviously, the wilds change. And I was anxious to see, hear and feel it all.
From Ciudad Colon, where my cousin lives, out to the volcano was a two-hour drive. As we drove, a part of me just wanted to enjoy the fact I was being driven around. He had driven past the city, which then became rows of home.
Before long, the space between homes increased, until they almost entirely disappeared and thick jungle hugged the sides of the tiny road. The tropical moisture has taken its toll on all of Costa Rica’s roads. But this road to Arenal has been especially hard hit th
anks to the merciless weather. Holes are not unusual. In some cases, the road has been cut in half.Along one mountain side was a piece of the highway that had been reduced to one lane because the land that had been holding it was washed away. About half of the lane on the cliff side was gone. To remedy the situation, warning signs have been put up and cars must yield in an orderly manner.
Our poor tour guide. I treated him like we were in Cash Cab. I was full of questions, which he patiently answered. He told me a lot about the terrain. He took us to a lake with a view of the volcano and introduced us to the captain of a small tourist boat who took us out on a tour.
When we arrived, it was pouring rain. Despite that, the captain was out giving a tour. So we took shelter under a tarp that covered a small vendor’s truck. It was manned by a young man who was selling everything from coconuts to chips and drinks.
And we started to chat.
“Hopefully it will warm up so you folks won’t get too cold,” the young man said. “I’m freezing.”
I hated to say anything to him, but I felt warm. It was almost humid to me, even though it was pouring rain. Even Lucky was fine, running around and having the time of his life in the rain. I finally did cave and tell him that we had come from a dry desert climate and were rather enjoying the rain.
“Really? I’m freezing,” he said. “Actually I do have an uncle in California. I’m not sure where he lives. He lives somewhere near Los Angeles.”
“Really? Well then while your freezing, he’s baking,” I told him. “It’s over 100 degrees where
we live in the desert areas. Los Angeles is in the high 90’s. It’s like sitting in an oven. Even when you get in your car.”“Wow,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to go to the U.S. But I need to learn more English. I’ll be going back to school. I’ll make it there one day.”
I told him he’d be surprised how many people in the U.S. speak Spanish. He smiled. We chatted some more. I got the sense he really wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. Physically, he was selling pipas (coconuts) by the side of the road. Mentally, he was trotting about the promising streets of California. I didn’t want to burst his bubble. Who cares if life here is more am/pm and less Spagos. I let the boy dream.
Soon enough, I would learn that our economy is not the only one suffering, though. After we finished up there, we went to grab some lunch and I finally got the chance to have a conversation with Rodolfo about the tourism, one of Costa Rica’s biggest industries.
“It’s terrible right now,” he said.
Terrible?
Yep. Rodolfo has been providing tours for eight years. And business has always been good, he said. But when the economy collapsed here, it did there, too.
“I run bicycle tours for companies,” he said. “A lot of cyclists come here wanting to pedal around the roads. I take them around anywhere they want to go. And they are happy. But the companies are just not spending the money anymore. We had eight tours scheduled earlier this year. Guess how many actually happened?”
I shrugged, “Half?”
“One,” he said. To make ends meet, he has started working at a friend’s auto repair shop. Fortunately, his buddy lets him almost freelance. This is how he’s biding his time until the economies start to recover.
We talked some more, mostly about the volcano and the insanity of living and taking a vacation at hotels so close to an active volcano.
“I stayed at a hotel here once,” he told me. “I was lying in bed and I swear I could feel the vibrations. I heard the booms. I don’t know. It just seems like a bad idea to live so close to it. But everyone here just seems used to it.”
I had to agree. Not long after that, we got our meal, filled out tummies and headed down past the lush greenery back to the city and … into the horrid traffic.
Exhausting, yes. But beautiful. And memorable. I want to take that tour again and get another chance to talk to Rodolfo.
Anyone want to come with us?
Monday, July 27, 2009
Conversations from Costa Rica (Part 1)
Almost a week home and I finally emerge.
I am so sorry. It’s been an interesting few days. I’ll go into them at a later date. Not now. Right now, I wanted at least begin to spill the contents of my head about the trip to Costa Rica. I am surprised to be writing these words but: I miss it. And I wish I could move there. I just have no idea how to make a living. But if I find a way, like my like uncle likes to say, if you can count, don’t count on me (being here anymore that is)
But while I was there, I became a Chatty Cathy.
So I was chatty. Big deal. Actually it was a big deal. I found myself doing the reporter thing a lot because I desperately wanted to absorb as much as I could about the people I was spending time with.
I talked with the cabbies, I talked with our tour guide. I chatted with the young salesman who sold me the coconuts. And I asked lots of questions of my uncles and relatives. I had questions. And I got some great answers … and some interesting looks. Here‘s the first installment of my conversations of Costa Rica:
Taxi Please!
I did not catch their names and they never caught mine. But that didn’t keep the conversation from flowing.
“There’s not a whole lot to see in the city,” our first cabbie told us. “The museum is the best choice.”
We had approached our cabbie while he was parked in front of the main bus stop in San Jose, Costa’s Rica’s crowded capitol. The cabbie took us on a wild ride, diving between vehicles and through crosswalks. Pedestrians, many of them used to insanity of the traffic, boldly leaned in toward the cars. Their confidence in the driver’s ability to navigate around them was impressive if not well founded.
“There’s a big crime problem,” the cabbie told us. He went on to say, as unsafe as the big city was years ago, it was even worse these days as immigrants from Nicaragua flooded in. Our cabbie was surprisingly diplomatic about the issue. Others I spoke to, were less courteous.
Our diplomatic cabbie told us that many Costa Ricans are unhappy with how the immigrants don’t seem invested in their host country. They throw their trash on the ground, he said. Many are unskilled laborers desperate to survive the global downturn. Problem is that Costa Rica has been hit as bad as the rest of the world. So while some immigrants resort to hawking everything from cell phone accessories to plastic Bic pens for 100 colones (about 20 cents) apiece on the street, others have turned to crime. Jewelry, cameras, cell phones, hang on tight to your belongings or you may never see them again.
The conversation took on a lighter tone on our ride back to the bus station (after a very pleasant visit at Costa Rica’s Museo Nacional)
We hailed another cabbie, or rather stopped him, as he was leaving after dropping off people who were obviously tourists. One of them wore a college baseball cap. They left one of the cab’s back doors open. I ran to stop him.
“Well now that you’ve stopped would you take us to the Coca Cola bus stop?”
Oddly he seemed somewhat reluctant but then he said “sure.”
He told me he had picked up the group just before us at Pavas.
“What’s in Pavas?” I asked.
“Oh, lots of things,” he said. Bill and I were missing out apparently. There was lots of shopping and the national stadium where they worship soccer I suppose. Why those tourists came to San Jose, God only knows. I guess everyone is curious about the capitol, he said. He encounters a lot of tourists, he said. They jump in and, to his relief, at least speak in short choppy sentences. Or they may show him a brochure of a hotel where they are staying and give him the “take me there” hand gesture.
Good thing for a man who’s most practiced English phrase it “No speak-a Inglish.”
Sometimes when communication becomes impossible, he pulls out his cell phone, calls a friend who can speak English, and has him translate over the phone. It’s worked so far but for one time. In weird incident, he said a black man and a white woman shoved their suitcases in the trunk, jumped in the cab, then tried to tell him where they wanted to go. But neither spoke a word of Spanish and neither could make clear where they wanted to go.
The cabbie did what he usually does, pulled out the cell and tried to call his English speaking friend. As he did, the duo suddenly jumped out, and tried to hightail it out of there.
“I barely had time to get their suitcases out of my car before they took off,” he said. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he may have been lucky to survive that day.
When the riders are non-English or non-Spanish speakers, then they are all screwed, he said.
“I get them where they want to go, but other than knowing they’re human, I have no idea who I have in the cab,” he said.
Stay tuned. More fun conversations from Costa Rica to come.
GT.
I am so sorry. It’s been an interesting few days. I’ll go into them at a later date. Not now. Right now, I wanted at least begin to spill the contents of my head about the trip to Costa Rica. I am surprised to be writing these words but: I miss it. And I wish I could move there. I just have no idea how to make a living. But if I find a way, like my like uncle likes to say, if you can count, don’t count on me (being here anymore that is)
But while I was there, I became a Chatty Cathy.
So I was chatty. Big deal. Actually it was a big deal. I found myself doing the reporter thing a lot because I desperately wanted to absorb as much as I could about the people I was spending time with.
I talked with the cabbies, I talked with our tour guide. I chatted with the young salesman who sold me the coconuts. And I asked lots of questions of my uncles and relatives. I had questions. And I got some great answers … and some interesting looks. Here‘s the first installment of my conversations of Costa Rica:
Taxi Please!
I did not catch their names and they never caught mine. But that didn’t keep the conversation from flowing.
“There’s not a whole lot to see in the city,” our first cabbie told us. “The museum is the best choice.”
We had approached our cabbie while he was parked in front of the main bus stop in San Jose, Costa’s Rica’s crowded capitol. The cabbie took us on a wild ride, diving between vehicles and through crosswalks. Pedestrians, many of them used to insanity of the traffic, boldly leaned in toward the cars. Their confidence in the driver’s ability to navigate around them was impressive if not well founded.
“There’s a big crime problem,” the cabbie told us. He went on to say, as unsafe as the big city was years ago, it was even worse these days as immigrants from Nicaragua flooded in. Our cabbie was surprisingly diplomatic about the issue. Others I spoke to, were less courteous.
Our diplomatic cabbie told us that many Costa Ricans are unhappy with how the immigrants don’t seem invested in their host country. They throw their trash on the ground, he said. Many are unskilled laborers desperate to survive the global downturn. Problem is that Costa Rica has been hit as bad as the rest of the world. So while some immigrants resort to hawking everything from cell phone accessories to plastic Bic pens for 100 colones (about 20 cents) apiece on the street, others have turned to crime. Jewelry, cameras, cell phones, hang on tight to your belongings or you may never see them again.
The conversation took on a lighter tone on our ride back to the bus station (after a very pleasant visit at Costa Rica’s Museo Nacional)
We hailed another cabbie, or rather stopped him, as he was leaving after dropping off people who were obviously tourists. One of them wore a college baseball cap. They left one of the cab’s back doors open. I ran to stop him.
“Well now that you’ve stopped would you take us to the Coca Cola bus stop?”
Oddly he seemed somewhat reluctant but then he said “sure.”
He told me he had picked up the group just before us at Pavas.
“What’s in Pavas?” I asked.
“Oh, lots of things,” he said. Bill and I were missing out apparently. There was lots of shopping and the national stadium where they worship soccer I suppose. Why those tourists came to San Jose, God only knows. I guess everyone is curious about the capitol, he said. He encounters a lot of tourists, he said. They jump in and, to his relief, at least speak in short choppy sentences. Or they may show him a brochure of a hotel where they are staying and give him the “take me there” hand gesture.
Good thing for a man who’s most practiced English phrase it “No speak-a Inglish.”
Sometimes when communication becomes impossible, he pulls out his cell phone, calls a friend who can speak English, and has him translate over the phone. It’s worked so far but for one time. In weird incident, he said a black man and a white woman shoved their suitcases in the trunk, jumped in the cab, then tried to tell him where they wanted to go. But neither spoke a word of Spanish and neither could make clear where they wanted to go.
The cabbie did what he usually does, pulled out the cell and tried to call his English speaking friend. As he did, the duo suddenly jumped out, and tried to hightail it out of there.
“I barely had time to get their suitcases out of my car before they took off,” he said. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he may have been lucky to survive that day.
When the riders are non-English or non-Spanish speakers, then they are all screwed, he said.
“I get them where they want to go, but other than knowing they’re human, I have no idea who I have in the cab,” he said.
Stay tuned. More fun conversations from Costa Rica to come.
GT.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
The party rolls on
As I write this, we have moved from the busy and crowded area that my uncle lives in (Alto de Guadalupe), to the much less developed area of my cousin. I'd tell you the exact location, but I have no clue.
So, let's recap:
* Saturday was a day of rest after a full day of parties Friday.
To be honest, I kind of freaked out a little bit. My grandma's house was crowded and insane. And after a while, Lucky got tired and cranky, so we left early, over the objections of the rest of the family (who didn't fly the whole day before).
But we went and ran some errands in town with my uncle. We went to the bank and exchanged money (roughly 745 colones per dollar), then went to the store. There we bought diapers, milk, juice, sodas, razors and shaving cream for 15,020 colones ($25.84). We estimate that back home, the diapers alone would have been about $13. So, as you can tell, the dollar is still pretty mighty here.
* Sunday was a busy day, with many events planned. I just want to make a note here to say what an amazing host my uncle has been.
Not only did he have our family as guests (screeching 2-year-old included), but he had his brother (my dad) who is limited in movement with his cane and his "sponge" girlfriend in the house while being one the lead organizers for the weekend's events. He was gracious host, up every morning setting the table and putting out breakfast, and acting as taxi for his guests, making two trips per event in his small car.
Friday was big, Sunday was huge.
We started, of course, with a mass at a small little chapel within walking distance of my grandmother's house, where 98 percent of the people in attendance were family.
Then, we moved to a banquet hall on the grounds of the college of engineering nearby. The place was decked out, the band was booked and food and drink flowed aplenty.
Things started slow. My uncle gave a speech, and the band played while people got their food.
But when the food was done, the slideshow put together by my cousin Alfonso, brought everyone to tears.
And then we danced and danced. That was one hell of a party.
This was likely one of the most joyous family parties I've ever been to. And I've been to some whoppers. All of the cousins were just so happy to be together.
Life hasn't always been easy for us cousins, there have been moments of resentment, things we regret. It was all forgotten and I just wanted to hold all of them. I was just so happy to be there and so happy to share this with my son and my husband. It was just the best. I haven't felt that type of joy in a very long time.
After the party wrapped up, some of us went to my cousin Marcel's house (which had been my family's house when we had lived here). He has completely renovated the place and it looks incredible. We hung out for a little bit, until it was time to head back and get Lucky to sleep.
* And Monday, we rested. Though, we shopped, Bill made salsa. Yes, you read right, Bill made salsa for the Costa Rican family. And we had a small gathering and barbecue at my uncle's house. It was nice ... until it ended on weird note with everyone (aka my aunt) having had a bit too much to drink and either taking naps or going to bed early.
So, that's the summary for now. As more comes into my head, I'll vomit it onto this blog (how's that for a visual?).
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Are you there God? It's me Gina
I went to church and did not burst into flames.
I didn't even get singed.
Nice. I was worried for a bit there. As most of you know, Bill, Lucky and I are in Costa Rica to celebrate my grandmother's 100th birthday. It is, by all accounts, a very big deal.
And what else would my very Catholic grandmother want to do on her birthday? That's right, she wanted to go clubbing. No, no, she wanted to go to church. And not just any church. The big church in Cartago. We have photos but, we're battling to get them to download. If they appear any time soon, you will see what I mean.
The service was beautiful to us, and boring to Lucky who decided the church perfect acoustics for the high pitched shrieks he likes to omit. They make him an ideal alarm for any occasion.
But that was just a start. I am in awe of what is being done for my grandmother. Things I would never have been able to afford for the ones I love at home. The church service was just the start of the day. After the mass, we all went to lunch at a place called Solo Rosas (Only Roses).
Set on a steep hillside, the place is a rose garden with a banquet area. The aroma of thousands of roses from around the globe swallows you as you step in. Small dainty bowls with a variety of roses rest on counters and tables.
The hillsides are steep. And the group, which included many elder members of the family, took a short tour while waiting for the tables to be ready. It didn't take too long, and we were all seated for lunch.
What do you get when you turn 100? A buffet style lunch with soup and salad, arroz con pollo, black beans and lots and lots of sweets. Chocolate fountain with strawberries, cake and cookies with coffee following the meal. And wine, tea and sodas to drink.
They rented a small van to help get everyone up there (and did it struggle up that hill). But my grandmother was surrounded by family and a nun. It was amazing. And the driver took the long way down the hill, so we were able to see some of the natural beauty of the region. Big forests with clouds misting around them. We were swallowed up by the clouds at certain points.
We were even stopped by the cops. They were looking for drug runners we were told. They took down the names and poked around the van for a second.
"It's getting dangerous over here. They just want to make sure they know who's coming and going," one of my grandma's in-laws said.
Sorry that all of these came in all at once, but we jump on when we can. We'll try to get more as we go.
I didn't even get singed.
Nice. I was worried for a bit there. As most of you know, Bill, Lucky and I are in Costa Rica to celebrate my grandmother's 100th birthday. It is, by all accounts, a very big deal.
And what else would my very Catholic grandmother want to do on her birthday? That's right, she wanted to go clubbing. No, no, she wanted to go to church. And not just any church. The big church in Cartago. We have photos but, we're battling to get them to download. If they appear any time soon, you will see what I mean.
The service was beautiful to us, and boring to Lucky who decided the church perfect acoustics for the high pitched shrieks he likes to omit. They make him an ideal alarm for any occasion.
But that was just a start. I am in awe of what is being done for my grandmother. Things I would never have been able to afford for the ones I love at home. The church service was just the start of the day. After the mass, we all went to lunch at a place called Solo Rosas (Only Roses).
Set on a steep hillside, the place is a rose garden with a banquet area. The aroma of thousands of roses from around the globe swallows you as you step in. Small dainty bowls with a variety of roses rest on counters and tables.
The hillsides are steep. And the group, which included many elder members of the family, took a short tour while waiting for the tables to be ready. It didn't take too long, and we were all seated for lunch.
What do you get when you turn 100? A buffet style lunch with soup and salad, arroz con pollo, black beans and lots and lots of sweets. Chocolate fountain with strawberries, cake and cookies with coffee following the meal. And wine, tea and sodas to drink.
They rented a small van to help get everyone up there (and did it struggle up that hill). But my grandmother was surrounded by family and a nun. It was amazing. And the driver took the long way down the hill, so we were able to see some of the natural beauty of the region. Big forests with clouds misting around them. We were swallowed up by the clouds at certain points.
We were even stopped by the cops. They were looking for drug runners we were told. They took down the names and poked around the van for a second.
"It's getting dangerous over here. They just want to make sure they know who's coming and going," one of my grandma's in-laws said.
Sorry that all of these came in all at once, but we jump on when we can. We'll try to get more as we go.
Vamos al RostiPollos!!
I went to the RostiPollos Thursday night. A roasted chicken place for those of you not tipped off by the clever name. We were taken there right after we left what we could only describe as a bit of a Chinese Fire Drill at the airport. (You go there. No you go there. I don't want to ride with her, she's mean!) After a long journey and a bit too much snacking I was not hungry. But welcome to Costa Rica, if you ain't hungry, you better get hungry fast.
Nobody told me to run a mile before I got here, dangit! Food! FOOD! FOOD! We all crammed (about 10 of us) into a small booth and ordered several things. Boiled and fried plantain chips, chicken stripes, roasted chicken, black bean dip, fried cheese, tortillas ... it was a feeding frenzy that left me frightened. But they lured me out of my emotional coma with a diet coke, something I needed since I was sweating my hiney off at the humidity.
It was humid. I felt like I was sliding off of most surfaces. I've never been so intimate with my own clothes.
I should have known. As our plane was landing, lighting was flashing around the aircraft.
What an introduction for Bill. My poor husband, he looked like he fell in a swimming pool. And hauling around our youngster Lucky just made things worse.
So we're in RositPollos and I'm am mustering every Spanish phrase that indicates I'm not hungry. And it's not working.
So Bill and I ate again.
I hope this doesn't sound outlandish, but in case Norris and I explode, we loved you all.
Nobody told me to run a mile before I got here, dangit! Food! FOOD! FOOD! We all crammed (about 10 of us) into a small booth and ordered several things. Boiled and fried plantain chips, chicken stripes, roasted chicken, black bean dip, fried cheese, tortillas ... it was a feeding frenzy that left me frightened. But they lured me out of my emotional coma with a diet coke, something I needed since I was sweating my hiney off at the humidity.
It was humid. I felt like I was sliding off of most surfaces. I've never been so intimate with my own clothes.
I should have known. As our plane was landing, lighting was flashing around the aircraft.
What an introduction for Bill. My poor husband, he looked like he fell in a swimming pool. And hauling around our youngster Lucky just made things worse.
So we're in RositPollos and I'm am mustering every Spanish phrase that indicates I'm not hungry. And it's not working.
So Bill and I ate again.
I hope this doesn't sound outlandish, but in case Norris and I explode, we loved you all.
Start of the journey home
By Wednesday morning we knew were in trouble.
"What do we have left to pack?" Bill asked me.
"Not much," I said.
After a 25-year absence, I would be boarding a flight bound for Costa Rica where I would see my entire extended family. But first Bill and I had to survive a nine- to 10-hour ordeal with an anxious 2-year-old and an even more anxious 72-year-old.
So here it is in a nutshell. We were packed and had all our bags ready Wednesday night. Even the 72-year-olds (my father). Bill and I were taking count. Making sure everything was the right weight and making sure that we did not miss taking we needed.
Bill's question was more of a request for reassurance. I had asked a few dozen times what we had left to pack. Enough clothes for a week and a few days for me, him and the boy. So that question was asked often.
We left our Inland Empire apartment late morning Wednesday for the last time for the week. Got a new pair of glasses. Indeed ladies and gents, I now have reading glasses. Bill got some pretty cool glasses ... FASHIONISTA!
Then we headed to my sister-in-laws where we slept on her floor.
"I have plenty of blankets," she told us. Minutes before, we found out that an air mattress we had invested in had a pump that would require a 12 hour charge. We had eight hours left before we were leaving.
Nice!
We set up a ton of blankets and the floor. At 9:30 p.m. turned out the lights. That's when the Lucky show began.
God bless him, the boy got up several times and turned the lights on for us. It was perhaps four times. He wandered and played. And the clock ticked. He jumped on me. Then he hopped on pop.
It was, exhausting. He finally fell asleep at 12:30 a.m. Four hours later I got him up. He was not a happy camper.
We arrived at my father's house soon after and to no one's surprise, all hell was breaking loose.
My sister texted me. COME AND TAKE HIM! GET HERE NOW! A superstitious man with a number of anxieties, he was was burning something that he was sure would bring him luck and ward off the bad mojo. We were almost to his house and he was stalling putting on his socks and shoes.
Bill walked in under the impression that he was completely ready to go. So, he went in and my sister said, OK, you're ready, right? And he looked at her like she was stupid and barked at her in Spanish no, he couldn't go yet because he didn't have his socks or shoes on. So, she got down and put his two layers of socks (one a support because of his diabetes) and shoes and got him up and going.
But no, not ready yet. Even though Bill made it out, my father didn't. He made one last trip to his room, and closed the door because he had to get his money ... and no one else can see where he hides it. Why? Because he´s convinced that the second his back is turned, we will steal it.
So, Bill's tapping his foot waiting, Steph (my sister) is fuming, and Lucky's whining because he's awake and trapped in his car seat. Steph and Bill used every ounce of their powers of persuasion to make him move faster. We had to stop and pick up some of his medicine (thank you 24-hour pharmacy with a drive-through). He wanted to get breakfast, and yet was dragging his feet because he needed to get some CD´s to bring with him.
Long story short (trust us, it's a lot), we finally get to the airport and checked in. It was hell carrying all the stuff through the airport, but we got on the plane on our way to Costa Rica (via Dallas).
As usual, my father's demands continued throughout the trip. But at this point, we're pretty used to them. The usual stuff, needing to go to the bathroom (with the fasten seatbelt sign on), needing food (and getting a burger he ate the toppings off of, then about half the burger) and then refusing the in-flight food (then complaining that they didn't feed him on the plane to the family).
But, we made it alive and well, and have survived the first few days of family. We'd post pictures, but we don't have the proper cords and plugs, so you'll see them as soon as we can figure that part out.
"What do we have left to pack?" Bill asked me.
"Not much," I said.
After a 25-year absence, I would be boarding a flight bound for Costa Rica where I would see my entire extended family. But first Bill and I had to survive a nine- to 10-hour ordeal with an anxious 2-year-old and an even more anxious 72-year-old.
So here it is in a nutshell. We were packed and had all our bags ready Wednesday night. Even the 72-year-olds (my father). Bill and I were taking count. Making sure everything was the right weight and making sure that we did not miss taking we needed.
Bill's question was more of a request for reassurance. I had asked a few dozen times what we had left to pack. Enough clothes for a week and a few days for me, him and the boy. So that question was asked often.
We left our Inland Empire apartment late morning Wednesday for the last time for the week. Got a new pair of glasses. Indeed ladies and gents, I now have reading glasses. Bill got some pretty cool glasses ... FASHIONISTA!
Then we headed to my sister-in-laws where we slept on her floor.
"I have plenty of blankets," she told us. Minutes before, we found out that an air mattress we had invested in had a pump that would require a 12 hour charge. We had eight hours left before we were leaving.
Nice!
We set up a ton of blankets and the floor. At 9:30 p.m. turned out the lights. That's when the Lucky show began.
God bless him, the boy got up several times and turned the lights on for us. It was perhaps four times. He wandered and played. And the clock ticked. He jumped on me. Then he hopped on pop.
It was, exhausting. He finally fell asleep at 12:30 a.m. Four hours later I got him up. He was not a happy camper.
We arrived at my father's house soon after and to no one's surprise, all hell was breaking loose.
My sister texted me. COME AND TAKE HIM! GET HERE NOW! A superstitious man with a number of anxieties, he was was burning something that he was sure would bring him luck and ward off the bad mojo. We were almost to his house and he was stalling putting on his socks and shoes.
Bill walked in under the impression that he was completely ready to go. So, he went in and my sister said, OK, you're ready, right? And he looked at her like she was stupid and barked at her in Spanish no, he couldn't go yet because he didn't have his socks or shoes on. So, she got down and put his two layers of socks (one a support because of his diabetes) and shoes and got him up and going.
But no, not ready yet. Even though Bill made it out, my father didn't. He made one last trip to his room, and closed the door because he had to get his money ... and no one else can see where he hides it. Why? Because he´s convinced that the second his back is turned, we will steal it.
So, Bill's tapping his foot waiting, Steph (my sister) is fuming, and Lucky's whining because he's awake and trapped in his car seat. Steph and Bill used every ounce of their powers of persuasion to make him move faster. We had to stop and pick up some of his medicine (thank you 24-hour pharmacy with a drive-through). He wanted to get breakfast, and yet was dragging his feet because he needed to get some CD´s to bring with him.
Long story short (trust us, it's a lot), we finally get to the airport and checked in. It was hell carrying all the stuff through the airport, but we got on the plane on our way to Costa Rica (via Dallas).
As usual, my father's demands continued throughout the trip. But at this point, we're pretty used to them. The usual stuff, needing to go to the bathroom (with the fasten seatbelt sign on), needing food (and getting a burger he ate the toppings off of, then about half the burger) and then refusing the in-flight food (then complaining that they didn't feed him on the plane to the family).
But, we made it alive and well, and have survived the first few days of family. We'd post pictures, but we don't have the proper cords and plugs, so you'll see them as soon as we can figure that part out.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Jon and Kate's terrible fate
I just read Bill's blog post on Jon and Kate Plus Eight, and all I can say is amen, brother!
I used to watch the show because it was the story of ordinary parents trying to get through the day under extraordinary conditions. Then, I slowly watched as Jon become resentful that he "had" to give up work to stay at home with his wife and kids ... and the cameras. No break for poor ole Jon. Pobrecito huerfanito.
Kate made it more difficult than it had to be, too. I could tell she was trying to be less controlling and more "let the chips fall where they may," but she pissed it all away by letting her emotions get the best of her.
Of course the money they got for doing the show probably made the separation (not the divorce) easier. No fear of going hungry means less hurdles for the hurt to fester. "If I leave him, how will I survive?" Not an issue anymore.
She's a former nurse. I hear nurses talk the way Kate does all the time. All of these people who are criticizing her for being such a so-and-so are jerks and witches themselves, but they don't seem to realize it. All of a sudden, tabloid readers became good-hearted Samaritans? Get the hell outta here!
For shame! When the hell did we get license to judge anyone! Bunch of emotional cripples that are! HAH! I felt sick to see so many people almost rooting for divorce.
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH EVERYONE???
My heart goes out to those children. They weren't given much choice and are just along for the ride. Like hell am I coming near that show again. Holy mother of pearl. If I want to experience a family in turmoil, I'll go see my dad.
I used to watch the show because it was the story of ordinary parents trying to get through the day under extraordinary conditions. Then, I slowly watched as Jon become resentful that he "had" to give up work to stay at home with his wife and kids ... and the cameras. No break for poor ole Jon. Pobrecito huerfanito.
Kate made it more difficult than it had to be, too. I could tell she was trying to be less controlling and more "let the chips fall where they may," but she pissed it all away by letting her emotions get the best of her.
Of course the money they got for doing the show probably made the separation (not the divorce) easier. No fear of going hungry means less hurdles for the hurt to fester. "If I leave him, how will I survive?" Not an issue anymore.
She's a former nurse. I hear nurses talk the way Kate does all the time. All of these people who are criticizing her for being such a so-and-so are jerks and witches themselves, but they don't seem to realize it. All of a sudden, tabloid readers became good-hearted Samaritans? Get the hell outta here!
For shame! When the hell did we get license to judge anyone! Bunch of emotional cripples that are! HAH! I felt sick to see so many people almost rooting for divorce.
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH EVERYONE???
My heart goes out to those children. They weren't given much choice and are just along for the ride. Like hell am I coming near that show again. Holy mother of pearl. If I want to experience a family in turmoil, I'll go see my dad.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
You are entering another dimension...
So here’s the itinerary, folks.
Dateline, Cartago, Costa Rica: Mass at 11 a.m. at the Cathedral of Our Lady of Guadalupe.
Which means I have less than a month to make it up to God and apologize for all the times I made the comment Jesus Saves, but Gretzky scores on the rebound.
Noon: Lunch in a restaurant to be taken over by the clan. This includes at least three educated, and well dressed, fully functioning alcoholics. One of which has absolutely no filter (who spent the first meal with her recently widowed brother, asking me when I was going to start popping out the “bebies.”) So, please, remain seated and keep your hands and arms inside the ride at all times.
That’s Friday. Saturday is a baby shower. A day of normalcy (unless they look at Bill and Lucky and ask “Who brought the testosterone?”)
Sunday, we get to go to Mass … again. Which means I’ll have one day to grovel for forgiveness for all the horse manure I’m going to pull the day before. Oh, it will happen.
Then off to the hall they have rented at the College of Engineering for a grand party with food, drink, cake, drink, dancing, more drink, videos, drinking, pictures, drinking while watching videos and looking at photos and even more drinking. And then we’ll drink some more. And then we stagger home around 7:30 p.m., where we’re probably continue drinking (hey, Grandma’s turning 100. We’re going to drink until she looks 40.)
Actually, if we all drank and got shitfaced, my Aunt “Whitey” would be so underwhelmed. The woman has a bottle of Jack for breakfast. Aren’t the rest of us wusses.
Fortunately, I’ll have the rest of the week to sleep it off before the Desert Sun sees me again.
This whole celebration is just building into this huge event. I know it’s a big deal (it got our asses down there). But it is a bit intimidating seeing everything mapped out in an itinerary by my uncle. I feel like I should walk in with my notebook and a press pass. I don’t usually attend these events unless I’m writing about them for the paper.
I’m sure I’ll have fun. I’m just a cynic. There’s so much room for me to be sarcastic. For me to dig my claws in and go for a laugh. I’ve never taken my family seriously. In fact, I plan on following some of them around with a video camera, hoping to turn the highlights into money on “America’s Funniest Home Videos.”
Stay tuned, team coverage.
Dateline, Cartago, Costa Rica: Mass at 11 a.m. at the Cathedral of Our Lady of Guadalupe.
Which means I have less than a month to make it up to God and apologize for all the times I made the comment Jesus Saves, but Gretzky scores on the rebound.
Noon: Lunch in a restaurant to be taken over by the clan. This includes at least three educated, and well dressed, fully functioning alcoholics. One of which has absolutely no filter (who spent the first meal with her recently widowed brother, asking me when I was going to start popping out the “bebies.”) So, please, remain seated and keep your hands and arms inside the ride at all times.
That’s Friday. Saturday is a baby shower. A day of normalcy (unless they look at Bill and Lucky and ask “Who brought the testosterone?”)
Sunday, we get to go to Mass … again. Which means I’ll have one day to grovel for forgiveness for all the horse manure I’m going to pull the day before. Oh, it will happen.
Then off to the hall they have rented at the College of Engineering for a grand party with food, drink, cake, drink, dancing, more drink, videos, drinking, pictures, drinking while watching videos and looking at photos and even more drinking. And then we’ll drink some more. And then we stagger home around 7:30 p.m., where we’re probably continue drinking (hey, Grandma’s turning 100. We’re going to drink until she looks 40.)
Actually, if we all drank and got shitfaced, my Aunt “Whitey” would be so underwhelmed. The woman has a bottle of Jack for breakfast. Aren’t the rest of us wusses.
Fortunately, I’ll have the rest of the week to sleep it off before the Desert Sun sees me again.
This whole celebration is just building into this huge event. I know it’s a big deal (it got our asses down there). But it is a bit intimidating seeing everything mapped out in an itinerary by my uncle. I feel like I should walk in with my notebook and a press pass. I don’t usually attend these events unless I’m writing about them for the paper.
I’m sure I’ll have fun. I’m just a cynic. There’s so much room for me to be sarcastic. For me to dig my claws in and go for a laugh. I’ve never taken my family seriously. In fact, I plan on following some of them around with a video camera, hoping to turn the highlights into money on “America’s Funniest Home Videos.”
Stay tuned, team coverage.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
They grow so fast
I had one of those giggle inducing/head-shaking moments today.
It’s my weekend but not Bill’s. So Lucky and I went to visit daddy at his office and have some dinner.
After dinner, we stopped by to get Papa a drink at 7Eleven. For fun, he got me and Lucky a small Slurpee to share. With our drinks, we dropped Bill back off at his office and drove home. As soon as we walked in the door, Lucky, walked over this his play table - it has a computer keyboard that was given to him by my boss - put his drink down, grabbed a toy cell phone, started hitting keys and talking into the phone “Yeah. Yeah. Oh, no no no no no.”
I watched in amusement and realized Lucky’s action were a reflection of his parents. I catch him doing that from time to time. It’s cute and amazing. My baby is growing up and I’m having troubles with it already.
Every morning, it seems we’re picking a different child up out of that crib. Sometimes it’s obvious he’s grown. I see the changes in his face. He’s tall enough to reach things once out of his range. He can open almost all doors. He loves flipping through his story books and pretending to read.
He’s outgrown most of his clothes. And I can tell he knows more than ever what his father and I are talking about.
I sometimes flashback to what I was told by a few other moms. “Think it over carefully,” they told me when I was considering having children. I did. And I continue to think about it. I know the toughest part is yet to come. There will be school, early mornings, extra curricular activities, oh and the dreaded teen years.
But then I realized that none of these mothers, if they had the choice, would change a thing. None of them regretted having their children. Times can get tough. And you feel every minute that ticks by when things get difficult.
And yet the weeks and months have FLOWN by. Before I knew it, Lucky was 2.
So here I am, bracing myself for the inevitable. He’s growing up. Sigh.
In other news:I got passport yesterday. It’s been more than 10 years since I’ve had held a valid passport. As I said in an earlier post, I let mine lapse years ago. I never intended leave the country again, at least not willingly. The new passports look nice, all colorful and everything.
It looks better than it did when I was a child. Much to my relief, I also got back my birth certificate.
I was unaware that they take the original copy of your birth certificate and mail it off to the Department of Homeland Security or wherever. We applied for our passports at the U.S. Post Office. The woman helping took the copy of my birth certificate, which I’ve had since 1973, clipped it to an application and walked off with it.
“Um, you’re keeping it?” I asked.
“We need to send the originals,” she said.
YIPE! I’ve had that birth certificate since I was 3. It was the one I used to apply for my original passport. It’s all taped up to keep it from falling apart. That certificate has been to Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, , Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama. It’s even made stops in Miami and Texas. I was not happy to let it go.
Seriously folks, I was anxious to get it back. It’s my personal information pulled out of my hands and sent to some government office. And not just that, it’s an old and fragile document.
Fortunately it came back in one piece. Phew! On the other hand, I wish I could have seen the reaction of the person who was inputting my application. I imagine she turned to her co-workers and yelled, “You guys have to look at this.”
It’s my weekend but not Bill’s. So Lucky and I went to visit daddy at his office and have some dinner.
After dinner, we stopped by to get Papa a drink at 7Eleven. For fun, he got me and Lucky a small Slurpee to share. With our drinks, we dropped Bill back off at his office and drove home. As soon as we walked in the door, Lucky, walked over this his play table - it has a computer keyboard that was given to him by my boss - put his drink down, grabbed a toy cell phone, started hitting keys and talking into the phone “Yeah. Yeah. Oh, no no no no no.”
I watched in amusement and realized Lucky’s action were a reflection of his parents. I catch him doing that from time to time. It’s cute and amazing. My baby is growing up and I’m having troubles with it already.
Every morning, it seems we’re picking a different child up out of that crib. Sometimes it’s obvious he’s grown. I see the changes in his face. He’s tall enough to reach things once out of his range. He can open almost all doors. He loves flipping through his story books and pretending to read.
He’s outgrown most of his clothes. And I can tell he knows more than ever what his father and I are talking about.
I sometimes flashback to what I was told by a few other moms. “Think it over carefully,” they told me when I was considering having children. I did. And I continue to think about it. I know the toughest part is yet to come. There will be school, early mornings, extra curricular activities, oh and the dreaded teen years.
But then I realized that none of these mothers, if they had the choice, would change a thing. None of them regretted having their children. Times can get tough. And you feel every minute that ticks by when things get difficult.
And yet the weeks and months have FLOWN by. Before I knew it, Lucky was 2.
So here I am, bracing myself for the inevitable. He’s growing up. Sigh.
In other news:I got passport yesterday. It’s been more than 10 years since I’ve had held a valid passport. As I said in an earlier post, I let mine lapse years ago. I never intended leave the country again, at least not willingly. The new passports look nice, all colorful and everything.
It looks better than it did when I was a child. Much to my relief, I also got back my birth certificate.
I was unaware that they take the original copy of your birth certificate and mail it off to the Department of Homeland Security or wherever. We applied for our passports at the U.S. Post Office. The woman helping took the copy of my birth certificate, which I’ve had since 1973, clipped it to an application and walked off with it.
“Um, you’re keeping it?” I asked.
“We need to send the originals,” she said.
YIPE! I’ve had that birth certificate since I was 3. It was the one I used to apply for my original passport. It’s all taped up to keep it from falling apart. That certificate has been to Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, , Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama. It’s even made stops in Miami and Texas. I was not happy to let it go.
Seriously folks, I was anxious to get it back. It’s my personal information pulled out of my hands and sent to some government office. And not just that, it’s an old and fragile document.
Fortunately it came back in one piece. Phew! On the other hand, I wish I could have seen the reaction of the person who was inputting my application. I imagine she turned to her co-workers and yelled, “You guys have to look at this.”
Friday, June 5, 2009
What's short and red all over?
I got a hair cut !
Yes I did. Cut and color. It’s part of our “Operation: Get Ready for Costa Rica.“
Getting a haircut is great but weird for me. I grew up thinking that haircuts were for men. That doing anything to your hair would damage it.
This belief was a childhood gift from my mother. So was the belief that makeup ruined your skin and that you invited trouble by looking pretty.
When I got older and A) wore nothing but jeans and baggy T-shirts - which concealed much of me, B) refused to wear make up or jewelry and C) always wore my hair in braids, my mother made it clear how disappointed she was in me. How was I supposed to know when the rules no longer applied?
Funny, now that I’m older and have no one really impress with a fabulous look, I actually do a bit more for myself.
But today, I took another leap into beauty. My hair is probably the shortest it’s ever been. And boy is it RED!
Bill made the appointment for me. I told the stylist I did not want my hair color to go too dark. She choose a warm brown tone. At least it looked brown on the swatch. When she put all the goop in my hair it looked brown. When she dried it, IT LOOKED RED. I like it. But it is a bit shocking. I keep doing double takes at my reflection. It was long past time for the cut. All my original hair color had faded or grown out. My ends were so dry and split , they could have sanded wood. Strips of gray hair ran down sections of my head. Not all over. So it looks goofy. I can’t even gray normally, sheesh.
Yup, it was time to get the hair done.
And given how much I’ve been agonizing over the Costa Rica, Bill wanted to make sure I had a boost of confidence.
But it’s short and it’s RED!
It’s not just my hair that’s getting done. We’ve been making progress, buying little things here and there that will help us along including a few items for Lucky to wear while we’re there. Of course the one item I want to buy is a ball gag for my father who’s complaining knows no bounds.
The trip must be causing his anxieties to kick into overdrive. He is slowly driving my youngest sister mad. She’s living with him for a bit. As a special service to his house guests, my father has created a list of my sister’s inadequacies that he expects her to fix IMMEDIATELY! The lists instructs my sister to fix her car, replace her tires, be a more attentive caretaker to him (her job has become inconvenient for him), clean the house and drive him places.
Yes I did. Cut and color. It’s part of our “Operation: Get Ready for Costa Rica.“
Getting a haircut is great but weird for me. I grew up thinking that haircuts were for men. That doing anything to your hair would damage it.
This belief was a childhood gift from my mother. So was the belief that makeup ruined your skin and that you invited trouble by looking pretty.
When I got older and A) wore nothing but jeans and baggy T-shirts - which concealed much of me, B) refused to wear make up or jewelry and C) always wore my hair in braids, my mother made it clear how disappointed she was in me. How was I supposed to know when the rules no longer applied?
Funny, now that I’m older and have no one really impress with a fabulous look, I actually do a bit more for myself.
But today, I took another leap into beauty. My hair is probably the shortest it’s ever been. And boy is it RED!
Bill made the appointment for me. I told the stylist I did not want my hair color to go too dark. She choose a warm brown tone. At least it looked brown on the swatch. When she put all the goop in my hair it looked brown. When she dried it, IT LOOKED RED. I like it. But it is a bit shocking. I keep doing double takes at my reflection. It was long past time for the cut. All my original hair color had faded or grown out. My ends were so dry and split , they could have sanded wood. Strips of gray hair ran down sections of my head. Not all over. So it looks goofy. I can’t even gray normally, sheesh.
Yup, it was time to get the hair done.
And given how much I’ve been agonizing over the Costa Rica, Bill wanted to make sure I had a boost of confidence.
But it’s short and it’s RED!
It’s not just my hair that’s getting done. We’ve been making progress, buying little things here and there that will help us along including a few items for Lucky to wear while we’re there. Of course the one item I want to buy is a ball gag for my father who’s complaining knows no bounds.
The trip must be causing his anxieties to kick into overdrive. He is slowly driving my youngest sister mad. She’s living with him for a bit. As a special service to his house guests, my father has created a list of my sister’s inadequacies that he expects her to fix IMMEDIATELY! The lists instructs my sister to fix her car, replace her tires, be a more attentive caretaker to him (her job has become inconvenient for him), clean the house and drive him places.
His official full-time caretaker, the second he's had in less than a year, recently quit after he made it clear she was inferior to him.
Sigh. This is who I'm taking to Costa Rica. Sometimes I try to find reason behind my father’s behavior. But most times, I’m in reactionary mode, trying to deflect his criticisms. He has fewer of them for me because he seems to approve of some of my choices. Suffice to say my father is a snob and appearances are extremely important to him.
He’s prone to bragging even about things he’s never done. Sigh.
I try not to dwell on these things and focus on looking forward to a vacation and time spent with Bill and our little one. I just need to find the strength.
Sigh. This is who I'm taking to Costa Rica. Sometimes I try to find reason behind my father’s behavior. But most times, I’m in reactionary mode, trying to deflect his criticisms. He has fewer of them for me because he seems to approve of some of my choices. Suffice to say my father is a snob and appearances are extremely important to him.
He’s prone to bragging even about things he’s never done. Sigh.
I try not to dwell on these things and focus on looking forward to a vacation and time spent with Bill and our little one. I just need to find the strength.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Doctor or Clown? How about both?
I can put another “celebrity” sighting notch in my belt for I got to listen to Patch Adams today. Yes this was for an assignment in Palm Springs.
Yes that Patch Adams. The one portrayed by Robin Williams in that less than critically revered film fittingly titled “Patch Adams.” For those of you who are not Robin Williams fans (he’s the main reason to see the film), Dr. Patch is a rogue physician who believes that conventional medicine is one big joke.
So instead of joining the circus that is the American health care system, he dons clown clothes, big shoes and a red nose and goes to other countries where he tries to make the sick and dying laugh.
I’ve never seen the film, but I remember seeing a reviewer say that the movie is just unbelievable because of the Patch character’s outrageous behavior. Today, during Dr. Patch’s speech, he scoffed at how tame the film was.
“They toned it down a lot. The noodle bath you see in the movie is definitely toned down compared to what we did,” he told a crowd of sports medicine teachers and students.
Noodle bath?
For much of the hour-plus, he was on. Patch claimed the title social activist, provocateur, geek and clown. He told us he despised capitalism. He hated HMO’s and thought people should embrace the thought of caring for an elderly loved one and felt all of us should embrace the ill just as they are, even if they suffer from a violence inducing mental illness.
This same man, however, told us he was in discussions for Patch Adams II, believed that it was OK, that he be given that special final cocktail should he ever lose faculties and insisted that depression was not a mental illness.
He showed videos of himself clowning with children in other countries. One of them, a young Russian boy, was expected to die within weeks. He told stories of children who are molested or abused.
I kept thinking, “He is doing good, he is making a difference.” I wanted to like him. But then I really couldn’t. There was something disingenuous about him. I desperately wanted him to be legitimate in heart and in action but there was something almost arrogant about him.
Maybe there were a few too many contradictions about him. I don’t know. What I do know is that these children would trade in the goddamned red nose and handful of chuckles for the arms of a loving parent. I’m sure they would trade it in for a minute of security or the chance to feel confident, normal, safe.
It’s nice that Patch gives them a laugh. I guess it’s better than nothing.
Yes that Patch Adams. The one portrayed by Robin Williams in that less than critically revered film fittingly titled “Patch Adams.” For those of you who are not Robin Williams fans (he’s the main reason to see the film), Dr. Patch is a rogue physician who believes that conventional medicine is one big joke.
So instead of joining the circus that is the American health care system, he dons clown clothes, big shoes and a red nose and goes to other countries where he tries to make the sick and dying laugh.
I’ve never seen the film, but I remember seeing a reviewer say that the movie is just unbelievable because of the Patch character’s outrageous behavior. Today, during Dr. Patch’s speech, he scoffed at how tame the film was.
“They toned it down a lot. The noodle bath you see in the movie is definitely toned down compared to what we did,” he told a crowd of sports medicine teachers and students.
Noodle bath?
For much of the hour-plus, he was on. Patch claimed the title social activist, provocateur, geek and clown. He told us he despised capitalism. He hated HMO’s and thought people should embrace the thought of caring for an elderly loved one and felt all of us should embrace the ill just as they are, even if they suffer from a violence inducing mental illness.
This same man, however, told us he was in discussions for Patch Adams II, believed that it was OK, that he be given that special final cocktail should he ever lose faculties and insisted that depression was not a mental illness.
He showed videos of himself clowning with children in other countries. One of them, a young Russian boy, was expected to die within weeks. He told stories of children who are molested or abused.
I kept thinking, “He is doing good, he is making a difference.” I wanted to like him. But then I really couldn’t. There was something disingenuous about him. I desperately wanted him to be legitimate in heart and in action but there was something almost arrogant about him.
Maybe there were a few too many contradictions about him. I don’t know. What I do know is that these children would trade in the goddamned red nose and handful of chuckles for the arms of a loving parent. I’m sure they would trade it in for a minute of security or the chance to feel confident, normal, safe.
It’s nice that Patch gives them a laugh. I guess it’s better than nothing.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Lost in translation
One of the challenges we encounter in planning the whole trip is the language barrier.
Only one cousin speaks fluent-esque English. Pretty much everyone else in the family speaks the textbook/American television brand of English. My husband meanwhile is muy gringo, although he may know how to ask where the library is.
Still, my husband needs to communicate via email with some of my family and can‘t always wait for me. So he runs many of the things he write through a translating program.
Sometimes, things seem to get a bit muddled in the translation. You be the judge:
Gina necesita saber si puede usar el asiento del carro de Marifer. El que ella uso cuando tenia 2 anos. Le pregunte a Mary y dice que se lo regalo a Los Chiwines, asi que que Please necesitamos que nos lo presten por unos dias para que ellos no tengan que traer el que tienen aqui.
translated to this:
Gina needs to know if it can use the seat of the car of Marifer. The one that she use when tapeworm 2 anuses. It asks Mary and it says that the gift to him to the Chiwines, so that Please we needed that they lend it to us by days so that they do not have to bring the one whom they have here.
Actual translation:
Gina needs to know if she can use Marifer's carseat. The one she used when she was 2 years. I asked Mary, she said she gave it to Los Chiwines, so please we need them to loan us one for a few days so they won't have to bring the one they have here.
Only one cousin speaks fluent-esque English. Pretty much everyone else in the family speaks the textbook/American television brand of English. My husband meanwhile is muy gringo, although he may know how to ask where the library is.
Still, my husband needs to communicate via email with some of my family and can‘t always wait for me. So he runs many of the things he write through a translating program.
Sometimes, things seem to get a bit muddled in the translation. You be the judge:
Gina necesita saber si puede usar el asiento del carro de Marifer. El que ella uso cuando tenia 2 anos. Le pregunte a Mary y dice que se lo regalo a Los Chiwines, asi que que Please necesitamos que nos lo presten por unos dias para que ellos no tengan que traer el que tienen aqui.
translated to this:
Gina needs to know if it can use the seat of the car of Marifer. The one that she use when tapeworm 2 anuses. It asks Mary and it says that the gift to him to the Chiwines, so that Please we needed that they lend it to us by days so that they do not have to bring the one whom they have here.
Actual translation:
Gina needs to know if she can use Marifer's carseat. The one she used when she was 2 years. I asked Mary, she said she gave it to Los Chiwines, so please we need them to loan us one for a few days so they won't have to bring the one they have here.
Hitting the purchase button
Let the games begin.
That’s what ran though my mind as I tried explaining to my father where plans for a trip to Costa Rica stood.
No more than a minute before I dialed him, the travel Web site we used to book the trip had stopped flashing all the pretty banner advertising and put up a more stark page with a final, and large, price. Below that was a small “purchase” button that allowed us to reserve for four coach tickets to San Jose Costa Rica.
“Dad!”
“YEA!?!”
“We’re about to buy the tickets. This is what we have …”
“PIA!?” (My nickname)
“Dad.”
“YEAH!?”
“Dad?”
“PIA!?!”
“Dad. Listen.”
“Pia! Como van los planes? (How are the plans coming?)”
“Dad. Can you hear me?”
“YEAH! Que paso? (What’s up?)”
By this point, a small aneurysm starts to throb in the back of my brain.
Me: “Dad. If you can hear me listen, OK. We are about to buy the tickets. We’re going to hit purchase. To get the best deal, we may have to do a few extra things. Our flight leaves at 9 a.m. so we have to be at the airport no later than 7:30.”
Dad: “OK!”
Me: “OK, Good. We have a layover in Dallas. There we hook up with Vicki (my cousin) who is taking the same flight out of Dallas to Costa Rica…”
Dad: “What time do we get there?”
Me: “About 7 at night.”
Dad: “How long is the layover.”
Me: “Only a couple of hours. We won’t have to wai…”
Dad: “What will we do?”
Me: “Maybe we can grab some food.”
Dad: “Oh. So can I change my plans if I need to?”
Me: “What did you have in mind?”
Dad: “Depending on how I feel, I may want to stay longer.”
Me: “Dad, we’re traveling with you because the doctor said you shouldn’t travel alone.”
Silence.
Me: “Do you think you’ll stay longer?”
Dad: “Depends on how I feel.”
Me: “Well, we can’t stay longer.”
Silence.
Dad: “Bill said he might want to go to Panama.”
This last statement is not true. My father has been trying to convince my husband to go to Columbia. Bill has tried to make clear that traveling for any extended length of time to another country with our 2-year-old is difficult enough, let’s not add any more countries. Plus we want to see as much as we can of Costa Rica and the family, and we’re already going to be short on time. My guess is that Dad figured, if he said no to Columbia, I’d say yes to Panama which is only one country over from Costa Rica.
Me: “No dad. We can’t go to Panama. But if everything sounds OK, should we go ahead and buy the tickets?”
Dad: “Who’s going to drive us?”
Me: “Don’t worry dad. We have time to take care of that. Does everyth…”
Dad: “Are we going through Miami?”
Me: “No dad, Dallas.”
Dad: “We’re not going through Miami?”
Me: “Dad if we go through Miami, we don’t see Vicki.”
Dad: “That’s true. Have you called Fernando? (my uncle).”
Me: “No dad. Not yet. I wanted to buy the tickets first. I think we’ll go ahead and hit ‘purch..’”
Dad: “So how long are we going to be there?
At that moment, Bill announced, “I’M HITTING PURCHASE!” so that my father could hear. I’m not sure that he did. My father went on about buying things for the family and so on. You could argue that my father is 72 and people his age think a bit differently. But he’s behaved this way since he was 35. If anything he’s mellowed with age.
Now he knows that he can ask for a lot and when his requests bring people close to the boiling point, he will slip into the ‘Oh I’m sorry. I’m a harmless old man mode.” How do I know this? He’s told me.
So far. This appears to be the launching pad for the trip. I’m not whining about it. It is hilarious. And it is also just the beginning.
That’s what ran though my mind as I tried explaining to my father where plans for a trip to Costa Rica stood.
No more than a minute before I dialed him, the travel Web site we used to book the trip had stopped flashing all the pretty banner advertising and put up a more stark page with a final, and large, price. Below that was a small “purchase” button that allowed us to reserve for four coach tickets to San Jose Costa Rica.
“Dad!”
“YEA!?!”
“We’re about to buy the tickets. This is what we have …”
“PIA!?” (My nickname)
“Dad.”
“YEAH!?”
“Dad?”
“PIA!?!”
“Dad. Listen.”
“Pia! Como van los planes? (How are the plans coming?)”
“Dad. Can you hear me?”
“YEAH! Que paso? (What’s up?)”
By this point, a small aneurysm starts to throb in the back of my brain.
Me: “Dad. If you can hear me listen, OK. We are about to buy the tickets. We’re going to hit purchase. To get the best deal, we may have to do a few extra things. Our flight leaves at 9 a.m. so we have to be at the airport no later than 7:30.”
Dad: “OK!”
Me: “OK, Good. We have a layover in Dallas. There we hook up with Vicki (my cousin) who is taking the same flight out of Dallas to Costa Rica…”
Dad: “What time do we get there?”
Me: “About 7 at night.”
Dad: “How long is the layover.”
Me: “Only a couple of hours. We won’t have to wai…”
Dad: “What will we do?”
Me: “Maybe we can grab some food.”
Dad: “Oh. So can I change my plans if I need to?”
Me: “What did you have in mind?”
Dad: “Depending on how I feel, I may want to stay longer.”
Me: “Dad, we’re traveling with you because the doctor said you shouldn’t travel alone.”
Silence.
Me: “Do you think you’ll stay longer?”
Dad: “Depends on how I feel.”
Me: “Well, we can’t stay longer.”
Silence.
Dad: “Bill said he might want to go to Panama.”
This last statement is not true. My father has been trying to convince my husband to go to Columbia. Bill has tried to make clear that traveling for any extended length of time to another country with our 2-year-old is difficult enough, let’s not add any more countries. Plus we want to see as much as we can of Costa Rica and the family, and we’re already going to be short on time. My guess is that Dad figured, if he said no to Columbia, I’d say yes to Panama which is only one country over from Costa Rica.
Me: “No dad. We can’t go to Panama. But if everything sounds OK, should we go ahead and buy the tickets?”
Dad: “Who’s going to drive us?”
Me: “Don’t worry dad. We have time to take care of that. Does everyth…”
Dad: “Are we going through Miami?”
Me: “No dad, Dallas.”
Dad: “We’re not going through Miami?”
Me: “Dad if we go through Miami, we don’t see Vicki.”
Dad: “That’s true. Have you called Fernando? (my uncle).”
Me: “No dad. Not yet. I wanted to buy the tickets first. I think we’ll go ahead and hit ‘purch..’”
Dad: “So how long are we going to be there?
At that moment, Bill announced, “I’M HITTING PURCHASE!” so that my father could hear. I’m not sure that he did. My father went on about buying things for the family and so on. You could argue that my father is 72 and people his age think a bit differently. But he’s behaved this way since he was 35. If anything he’s mellowed with age.
Now he knows that he can ask for a lot and when his requests bring people close to the boiling point, he will slip into the ‘Oh I’m sorry. I’m a harmless old man mode.” How do I know this? He’s told me.
So far. This appears to be the launching pad for the trip. I’m not whining about it. It is hilarious. And it is also just the beginning.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Into the Wild Blue Yonder
Welcome to my first real venture into the blogosphere.
I start this journey on a significant day. Today a check for a large sum of money has been deposited into an account. The result will be the purchase of three round-trip tickets to Costa Rica, Central America, a country I have not set foot on for nearly 25 years.
You see where this is going. I am packing up my husband and my 2-year-old child - and likely my 72-year-old father - into an aircraft for some eight hours and head to a country that traumatized me so severely in childhood, I tossed out my passport and have refused to leave the country.
And here I am getting ready to pack up and head there again. Stupid is as stupid does.
My goal is to document that and a bit of my life here as much as I can. I do have a small child, so posting daily may be impossible. But my hope is that I’ll be able to get to a computer in Costa Rica and keep track of my experiences there.
This blog is really as much a way for me to keep track of the insanity that is my life as it is a way to give others insight. Often, I can’t believe some of the stuff I’m experiencing.
I don’t always remember my experiences. Some things I try to put behind me. Of course, the biggest reason is I simply forget. Other things I can never forget.
This trip I want to remember. Not only will I see family I have not seen since I was an awkward teen, my grandmother celebrates her 100th birthday.
Yay.
Obviously it’s an event that should not be missed. So the husband made arrangements so that we would not miss it. When he told me we had the money I thought, “Good. I think. I guess. That’s fine. Whatever.”
I am not a whiny person. I’m just a whiny relative. Picture this for a moment. My cousin Mari was the first female to be head of a major Costa Rican bank. My cousin Vanessa is a doctor of some kind and her brother is a lawyer. My cousin Marcel is a banker. How do I know this? My father tells me everyday. And his family tells him every other day.
Lets count them up: doctor, teacher, lawyer, accountant, banker, banker, ahhh piss poor journalist.
I suck at math, but I don’t like the total I come up with. The comparisons have gone on for a long time. Now I will have to go face them. I’m not sure what they’ll be mesmerized with more, my layoff or the furloughs.
I do have a plan though. I call him son. A little blond wonder I think will shock and awe. Or is that shock and Awwwwwwwww!
Of course what actually happens remains to be seen. I’m just at the beginning of this journey. Stay tuned.
I start this journey on a significant day. Today a check for a large sum of money has been deposited into an account. The result will be the purchase of three round-trip tickets to Costa Rica, Central America, a country I have not set foot on for nearly 25 years.
You see where this is going. I am packing up my husband and my 2-year-old child - and likely my 72-year-old father - into an aircraft for some eight hours and head to a country that traumatized me so severely in childhood, I tossed out my passport and have refused to leave the country.
And here I am getting ready to pack up and head there again. Stupid is as stupid does.
My goal is to document that and a bit of my life here as much as I can. I do have a small child, so posting daily may be impossible. But my hope is that I’ll be able to get to a computer in Costa Rica and keep track of my experiences there.
This blog is really as much a way for me to keep track of the insanity that is my life as it is a way to give others insight. Often, I can’t believe some of the stuff I’m experiencing.
I don’t always remember my experiences. Some things I try to put behind me. Of course, the biggest reason is I simply forget. Other things I can never forget.
This trip I want to remember. Not only will I see family I have not seen since I was an awkward teen, my grandmother celebrates her 100th birthday.
Yay.
Obviously it’s an event that should not be missed. So the husband made arrangements so that we would not miss it. When he told me we had the money I thought, “Good. I think. I guess. That’s fine. Whatever.”
“Just get me to the airport put me on a planeYou said it Joey!
Hurry hurry hurry before I go insane
I can't control my fingers I can't control my brain
Oh no no no no no”
I am not a whiny person. I’m just a whiny relative. Picture this for a moment. My cousin Mari was the first female to be head of a major Costa Rican bank. My cousin Vanessa is a doctor of some kind and her brother is a lawyer. My cousin Marcel is a banker. How do I know this? My father tells me everyday. And his family tells him every other day.
Lets count them up: doctor, teacher, lawyer, accountant, banker, banker, ahhh piss poor journalist.
I suck at math, but I don’t like the total I come up with. The comparisons have gone on for a long time. Now I will have to go face them. I’m not sure what they’ll be mesmerized with more, my layoff or the furloughs.
I do have a plan though. I call him son. A little blond wonder I think will shock and awe. Or is that shock and Awwwwwwwww!
Of course what actually happens remains to be seen. I’m just at the beginning of this journey. Stay tuned.
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