tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63316181083854882612024-03-13T06:11:49.919-06:00What Happened to the Subtitles?Figuring it out in Costa Rica.<br>
Sarcasm and boxed wine help. Some. more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.comBlogger110125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-13542912330227312642015-11-30T09:24:00.001-06:002015-11-30T09:56:41.414-06:00Step Away from the KeyboardStill alive. Still kicking, at least metaphorically. Since taking up yoga, I've discovered that kicking requires something called core muscles, which I apparently don't have. I've stepped back from the Internet some, people. It's just been so damn ugly out there. Thus the yoga. It's supposed to bring you to a calm, meditative state. That's not really working so far; it's hard to stay tranquil when you're trying to heave yourself up off your yoga mat with your nonexistent core muscles. I used to laugh at those<i> "I've fallen, and I can't get up!"</i> commercials. Yeah, that shit's not so funny now.<br />
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Anyway, still here. Just disgusted with the world and its cyber-reflection. I'll have something for you soon. </div>
more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-63496943022590903002015-11-08T13:27:00.000-06:002016-01-07T12:07:06.842-06:00Words Fail Me: Legend of ZorroSometimes a single word in one one language can represent multiple words in another.<br />
<i><b>Esperar</b></i>, for example, can mean<br />
1.) to wait for<br />
2.) to hope<br />
3.) to expect<br />
4.) to look forward to<br />
<br />
Seriously? Way to mess me up, Spanish.<br />
<br />
Come on. Different concepts here. Maybe you <i>expected </i>me to be a slackass and take three weeks to write this post, but you were <i>hoping </i>I'd put something up today. Or not. Fair enough. Were you just <i>waiting </i>to hear from me, or were you <i>looking forward to</i> it? See? Different. So I'm never quite sure if I'm expressing the subtle nuances with that single Spanish word. I feel like I have to clarify. Granted, I'm often not sure if I'm expressing blatant, simple-ass distinctions either, but whatever.<br />
<br />
Typical phone call between me and the esposo:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Him</b>: <i>¿Dónde estás?</i> (Where are you?)<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: <i>En la parada</i>. (At the bus stop.) <i>Esperando Godot.<br /> Bueno, "esperando-</i><u>waiting for</u>"<i> Godot ... no "esperando-</i><u>expecting</u>" him. </blockquote>
<br />
(See? Told you. <a href="http://whathappenedtothesubtitles.blogspot.com/2015/09/a-married-couple-walks-into-bar.html" target="_blank">I've got jokes</a> now.)<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CoqLNLbPfyg/VhVpbSptceI/AAAAAAAADDU/JoVcQmCj1VQ/s1600/animal%2Bmoose-elk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CoqLNLbPfyg/VhVpbSptceI/AAAAAAAADDU/JoVcQmCj1VQ/s320/animal%2Bmoose-elk.jpg" width="206" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Not the same.</i></td></tr>
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This happens a lot with animal words, especially animals that aren't very common in Latin America.<br />
<br />
Moose and elk: different animals, right? Bzzzzt! Not in Costa Rica, where they're both called <i><b>alce</b></i>.<br />
<br />
Hawks and falcons are both called <i><b>halcón</b></i>.<br />
<br />
Squirrels and chipmunks? <i><b>Ardilla</b></i>. <br />
<br />
Foxes and skunks are both <i><b>zorro </b></i>here.<br />
<br />
What the hell, people?<br />
<br />
In the dictionary, "fox" is <b style="font-style: italic;">zorro</b>, "skunk" is <i><b>mofeta </b></i>or <b style="font-style: italic;">zorrillo</b>, and all is right with the world. But that's standard Spanish. The Spanish of dictionaries and textbooks. Of logic. The Spanish of other countries where I don't live. Tico Spanish is a whole'nuther animal. In Costa Rica, the dictionary means jack because haha, foreigner! Gotcha.<br />
<br />
You can talk about a whole'nuther animal in Costa Rica if you want, but you're going to use the name of this here animal when you do it.<br />
<br />
Hold on, my cat is barking at something. Hush, Rover.<br />
<br />
So one night, the esposo and I were walking home from the bus stop. It was pretty dark, but it was a clear, starry night with a full moon limning the coffee fields and lending a Harlequin-worthy, romantic glow to the whole scene. It also backlit the bats zipping about, so visions of Satan's winged minions tangled in my hair kind of killed the romance for me, but still. (Spare me the infomercial about bats not bothering humans. We've been over this. You walk your dog past that <a href="http://whathappenedtothesubtitles.blogspot.com/2015/10/words-fail-me-batshit-loco.html" target="_blank">tree on the corner</a> with its magic -- and possibly hallucinogenic -- fruit that transforms them into deranged, dive-bombing defenders of the harvest, and then come talk to me.)<br />
<br />
So we're strolling leisurely along, because the esposo is a stroller, a saunterer, and I'm looking up at the moon, trying to ignore the occasional shadow flitting across its face, when the esposo says,<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Mira, un zorro!</i> (Look, a fox!)</blockquote>
<br />
I looked, but it had already slipped into the coffee field. I wondered if the moon was bright enough for a photo, foxes being prettier than bats and less interested in my hair. I fumbled for my camera.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Me (in Spanish)</b>: Where did it go?<br />
<br />
<b>Esposo</b>: That way. Into the coffee field.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: I can't believe I missed it! It would be such a beautiful picture. I think the moon's bright enough.<br />
<br />
<b>Him</b>: Why do you want a picture of a fox? It's one of the ugliest animals.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: What? How can you say that? They're gorgeous animals -- that beautiful fur and tail!<br />
<br />
<b>Him</b>: [derisive snort] The fur is ugly. It's practically bald. And the tail is the ugliest part of all. It has the tail of a rat. </blockquote>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_l5Djb5Y5O8/VhrK8pSr2LI/AAAAAAAADHQ/vpV962ntlK0/s1600/animal%2Bfox%2BOlga%2BGladysheva2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_l5Djb5Y5O8/VhrK8pSr2LI/AAAAAAAADHQ/vpV962ntlK0/s200/animal%2Bfox%2BOlga%2BGladysheva2.jpg" width="154" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>photo: Olga Gladysheva</i></td></tr>
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I actually stopped walking. How was I married to someone who found a fox, of all animals, ugly? I mean, if foxes were ugly, what next? Were giraffes on his ugly list? Wombats? Where the hell did I fall, for that matter? Foxes do not belong on the ugly list. In the 70s, your crush was "a fox" instead of a hottie. And that whole <i>Mask of Zorro </i>thing? Hello, Antonio Banderas. Zorro. Foxy. Lordy. I rest my case.<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Me</b>: Who ARE you? What kind of person thinks a fox is ugly? And if their tails are so ugly, why do people make coats and ... and ... those things you wear around your shoulders ... out of them? <i>Cómo se dice</i> "stole"?</blockquote>
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[Fruitless, exasperating side discussion about the word "stole".]<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Him</b>: No one would make a coat or ... anything out of this ugly animal. Much less its rat tail.</blockquote>
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By this time, I'm actually annoyed. He's obviously as demented as the bats. I've married a fox-hater. Everyone knows foxes don't have ...<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Me</b>: Why do you keep saying it has a rat tail?<br />
<br />
<b>Him</b>: Because they're like big rats. Rats in trees.<br />
<br />
<b>Me</b>: Trees? Foxes don't climb trees.<br />
<br />
<b>Him</b>: Of course they do. <i>Zorros pelones</i> (bald foxes) do. They use their ugly tails. </blockquote>
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And that's how I learned that in Costa Rica, a <i><b>zorro </b></i>is not only a fox, not only a skunk, it's a freaking possum as well.<br />
<br />
What the hell? Wasn't expecting that. (Or looking forward to it, or hoping for it, or ...)<br />
<br />
I'd learned possum as <i><b>zarigüeye</b></i>. The dictionary said so. You all know where I'm going with that. Ha-fucking-ha, foreigner! Gotcha!<br />
<br />
When pressed, the esposo admitted you can differentiate with descriptors:<br />
<i><b>zorro-zorro</b></i> = fox<br />
<i><b>zorro pelón</b></i> = possum (bald fox)<br />
<i><b>zorro hediondo</b></i> = skunk (foul-smelling, stank-ass fox)<br />
<br />
I don't know why people don't differentiate all the time, but I know one thing: I am not even asking about badgers or weasels.<br />
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<br />more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-12221490132787609712015-11-04T11:39:00.001-06:002016-01-23T19:38:35.484-06:00Lucidly Dreaming (Part II)<br />
(You'll either want to start with <a href="http://whathappenedtothesubtitles.blogspot.com/2015/11/lucidly-dreaming.html" target="_blank"><b>Part I</b></a> or just revel in the lost, confused feeling. Totally your choice.)<br />
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I've never figured out the why, who, or anything else about the Violent Bad Guy dreams. I can never see the face. There are no features, just dark, like a shadow, like just nothing <i>there</i>. He's big. Deliberate. He never speaks. Like when the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come won't say shit to Ebenezer Scrooge. Silent, scary motherfucker. He chases me (of course he does), and I can't run or scream. I mean, I try, but my legs are congealed oatmeal, they just won't <i>work, </i>and I fall down and my screams come out with all the force of a weak kitten, despite practically herniating my diaphragm with the effort. He doesn't hurry. He doesn't have to. He knows I'm not really going anywhere, even while I claw at the grass and scream my nonfunctional throat raw. The thrill is in the chase, and he likes it nice and slow. It's terrifying. Pins-and-needly prickling in my bowels, my organs go slack, like they're going to slip out of me. The grass comes out by the roots in my hands, and my feet keep slipping. My muscles won't fucking <i>work</i>, and he's coming.<br />
<br />
Could it be any more "classic nightmare" here? The only thing I'm missing is an escape route through my school locker where I can't remember the combination.<br />
<br />
He never actually catches me, though. I wake up. Every time. Which tells me that shit must be scarier to the lizard part of my brain than splatting onto the concrete was in the falling dreams.<br />
<br />
The Violent Bad Guy dreams would come maybe a couple of times a year. I could never tie them to any real-life event or person. I mean, I had a pretty idyllic childhood. My biggest trauma was probably when that deranged German Shepherd tried to rip my face off but had to settle for a goodly chunk of my arm when I instinctively blocked my face with it. Pretty interesting, having the deep tissues of my arm hanging out there on display, but nothing some stitches and a good plastic surgeon couldn't fix. I never had bad dreams about it, though, and besides, Violent Bad Guy was a two-legged stalker, not a berserker dog. Other than that, my most tortuous ordeals were mowing the lawn, toting firewood up the hill in the snow, and wailing tragically when my dad unplugged the phone without warning during my Very Important Conversations. He also made these annoying kissing sounds when I was talking to my boyfriend. Even so, not really the stuff of nightmares.<br />
<br />
So fast forward a couple of decades and change, from the nearly forgotten falling dreams to me closing in on thirty, still occasionally dream-fleeing Violent Bad Guy, but not giving it much thought. One day, in a rare conversation on the subject, someone asked if I'd ever considered lucid dreaming. I had to ask what that was. "Pfft, oh, that's some bullshit," I said. "Please. Like I'm going to magically be able to run now because I decide to. Gee, great idea, why didn't I think of that? Sure, okay: I decide I can run now. Poof!" My friend opined that maybe it wasn't about running. Maybe I should consider confronting Violent Bad Guy. Ask him what he wanted with me and who he was.<br />
<br />
And I freaked the fuck out.<br />
<br />
I did not want to know who Violent Bad Guy was, what he wanted with me, or anything else about his creepmeister ass. I mean, do you really want to know Jeffrey Dahmer's motivations when he comes a-calling? No, you just want to get the fuck away from his ass. You're not going to ask him to tea for a nice chat, you're going to run, Forrest, motherfucking <i>run</i>. Or at least claw the grass till your nails bleed and low crawl like an Airborne Ranger in the kill zone after you fall down. Ask him what he wants, my ass. I don't give a <i>fuck</i> what he wants.<br />
<br />
My friend quietly suggested that I may want to investigate my extreme reaction as well as the lucid dreaming idea, to which I emphatically replied, "Fuck that."<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EVM-qW5HMwU/VjjvW-8FvwI/AAAAAAAADQc/Y2VyP_RviE8/s1600/dreams5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EVM-qW5HMwU/VjjvW-8FvwI/AAAAAAAADQc/Y2VyP_RviE8/s640/dreams5.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
Some time later, at the library, one of the display books was about lucid dreaming. Weird. What are the odds? Flipping through the book, I realized that turning the falling dreams into flying dreams had actually been some form of lucid dreaming. Cue <i>Twilight Zone</i> music. I checked out the book. (This was before Wikipedia had emerged as the foremost authority on life and everything in it.)<br />
<br />
The next time Violent Bad Guy showed up in dreamland, I was vaguely aware of it being a dream. I still didn't want to ask him shit. The idea of hearing whatever voice he was packing ... too much <i>hell no</i> to even contemplate. Darth Vader would probably sound like Dora the Explorer by comparison. No. But I felt calm. Controlled. I think it's about the control. The deciding. It felt like <i>things change now</i>. I remember that calm from way back when I decided I wasn't going to fall anymore in the falling dreams. It's like things have already changed, even before you've actually done what you've decided to do, even before you know if it's going to work, because you feel different. Resolute. You're not afraid. It's really an incredible <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>[what the <b>fuck</b>, you mean this was all I had to do all along?]</i></span> feeling. I wish I could duplicate it in real life, feel that sure and solid, but I guess in real life you know way down deep that there's no out, no waking up. There's no locker combo to remember and no <i>National Geographic (Reader's Digest)</i> article assuring you it's physiologically impossible for the worst to happen.<br />
<br />
He was coming, like he was always coming, but I didn't have that fear where your organs go all loose and tingly, where your muscles go soft and weak. I didn't run or scream. He was getting closer -- I told him to stop. I told him I wasn't going to run. That I wanted him to leave. That I wasn't afraid now. I even threw in some hokey, woo-woo shit about him no longer having power over me. Hey, it was an intense moment; I went with it. He kind of expanded, genie-out-of-a-lamp style, like he was going to just envelop me, absorb me without chasing me at all <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>[</i><i>oh, fuck]</i></span>, but he didn't.<br />
<br />
He just walked away. <br />
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Yeah, kind of anticlimactic, but that's how it went down. Sorry.<br />
<br />
I'm not really a woo-woo type of person, but I do believe there are things that we as humans don't fully comprehend. Dreams are still a mystery to me. I don't have a clue why they're so bizarre, and I don't know how they relate to our lives or or what purpose they serve. What I know is that I've never again experienced the terror of falling in a dream since the night my I made my little-kid self fly instead. And that it's been nearly two decades since I told Violent Bad Guy to leave, and I have not dreamed about him since.<br />
<br />
I know. Woo-woo, crazyass shit. I swear, I'm lucid.<br />
<br />
<br />more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-14279629955860117932015-11-02T12:48:00.000-06:002016-01-23T19:26:58.105-06:00Lucidly DreamingSo the subjects of sleep paralysis and lucid dreaming have come up, what with so many of you writing about ghosts and weird dreams of late. I haven't experienced sleep paralysis (probably just jinxed myself), but I do have a lucid dreaming story. I know. Cue scornful eye roll. When I first heard of lucid dreaming, I pronounced it bullshit and made some joke about Ouija boards.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RsyardSPrlw/VjZVncFXKRI/AAAAAAAADOc/pssdoLMhRQE/s1600/ashi%2B%25232large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RsyardSPrlw/VjZVncFXKRI/AAAAAAAADOc/pssdoLMhRQE/s640/ashi%2B%25232large.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 12px;">My <a href="http://avorian.deviantart.com/gallery/" target="_blank">elder daughter's original art</a>. Perfect for illustrating a weirdass-dreams post.</i></td></tr>
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I'm not really a woo-woo type of person, but I do think there are things that we as human beings just don't have the capacity to comprehend. Things we just can't wrap our brains around. This is true even without the woo-woo aspect.<br />
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Take dogs, for example. A bloodhound has about 300 million scent receptors in his nose, compared to our 5 million. Dogs can smell cancer and Parkinson's disease. They're freaking scent savants. The smell section of their loyal, little pea-brains is 40 times bigger than ours. That whole "they smell fear" thing? Basically true. They smell pheromones and whatever weird shit gets released when we break out in a sweat. They can probably smell sad poetry in our tears.<br />
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Dogs are basically experiencing a whole world that we don't even know is <i>there</i>. Wild.<br />
<br />
Granted, it's probably for the best, given what dogs like to sniff. I don't care to know the intricate, subtle notes of the steaming horse dung enrapturing my dog any more than I care to sniff my friend's ass in greeting. I'm fine with a handshake, thanks.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Norm? That you? Come closer ...</i></td></tr>
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Sure, we trump dogs with our comparatively keen eyesight, but we're the naked mole rats of the world compared to eagles. Dolphins and bats hear a whole spectrum that we can't. Echolocation and shit. Vampire bats and pit vipers can find your ass by some kind of thermo-detection, and that hairy, eight-eyed spider? It can see ultraviolet light.<br />
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Good luck killing it with fire.<br />
<br />
So given that we humans can't even perceive normal, everyday goings-on that animals with sharper senses experience as the norm, it's not a stretch to think that there may be other things we can't pick up on, let alone comprehend.<br />
<br />
I don't know how or why my grandma was there at the end of the bed my first night home from basic training, shortly after her death. She was there by the collection of Avon decanters she'd given me over the years. You know, those bottles where the plastic cap is the top half of a lady and the bottom is a glass skirt full of noxious, flowery perfume you never wore because your signature scent was Love's Baby Soft. My mom said it was a dream. That's what people say when you tell them some crazy shit that happened at night with no one else around. Except it didn't feel like that. Grandma was there. Admittedly, as ghost stories go, it was kind of a non-event. She didn't say or do anything. She didn't levitate or make objects fly or reveal some profound universal truth that changed my life. She was just there.<br />
<br />
I don't mean like "in a dream" there. I mean <i>there</i>.<br />
<br />
But dreams are weird, too. If they do stem from something lodged deep in the subconscious, that's disturbing because that shit is bizarre. Bizarre like you might need therapy. Or a straitjacket. Do dreams try to give us weirdly coded answers to life or are they just completely random? Do they portend future events? My mom dreamed about Bobby Kennedy's assassination before it happened. Imagine seeing the TV replay your dream. Freaky. No wonder she said Grandma came in a dream.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_fyj0-rjh1U/VjaZprwrZZI/AAAAAAAADO4/FXYiEO97sbc/s1600/ashi%2B%252317large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_fyj0-rjh1U/VjaZprwrZZI/AAAAAAAADO4/FXYiEO97sbc/s640/ashi%2B%252317large.jpg" width="507" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Not sure I want to delve into my daughter's subconscious. Love you, honey. You know that ... right?</i></td></tr>
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<br />
I've never experienced sleep paralysis, but the esposo has. It only ever happened at the family house. Where both of his parents died. His siblings all agree that there's some kind of ... something ... in the house. A presence. I know. Woo-woo shit. Surprising, because the esposo could win the prize for most practical, sensible person on earth. So his stories of waking up to the feeling of something, someone, pushing down on his chest and him not being able to move were kind of freaky, as he's not generally down with nonsense or woo-fuckery. It seemed to fit the description of sleep paralysis. Okay. Reasonable explanation. But my reasonable, practical esposo still feels as though something, or someone, was there.<br />
<br />
And it hasn't happened since we moved into our apartment over four years ago.<br />
<br />
I said earlier that I'd thought lucid dreaming -- where you consciously take control of your dreams while you're dreaming -- was bullshit, but I actually had an experience with lucid dreaming as a very young child. I just didn't know at the time that it had a name or even that it was anything odd or controversial. It wasn't until decades later that I even realized that what I'd done was lucid dreaming. You know, that woo-woo bullshit I didn't believe in.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Like this, but from the cloud instead of the bank.</i></td></tr>
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When I was little, I used to dream that I was falling. Like from clouds or skyscrapers. High bridges. It was terrifying. I don't know if I had the falling dreams because of my intense fear of heights or if I developed that fear because of the falling dreams. I don't suppose it matters. I'd usually wake up before impact, petrified, but not always. Sometimes I couldn't wake up before splatting against the concrete rushing up at me. I never actually died in the falling dreams, but I always thought I would. My hands are sweating now, just thinking about it.<br />
<br />
Then one day I read that it was impossible to die in a dream because the shock to one's system would be too great; the brain protects us by making dream death impossible. I nearly peed from relief. Okay, the article also mentioned isolated cases in the South Pacific where people's hair had turned white overnight from the shock of having dreamed their death, but I dismissed that. I lived in Kansas, not the South Pacific, I reasoned. I was, therefore, safe from dream death, according to little-kid logic. Now, I want to say I read this in <i>National Geographic</i>, but it was probably <i>Reader's Digest</i> and of questionable veracity. No matter, it was an enormous relief to me as a child. This was one time when reading things that I was too young for worked to my advantage, unlike those unfortunate incidents with <i>The Amityville Horror</i> and <i>Audrey Rose. </i>Still not sure if <i>The Joy of Sex</i> and that whole Anaïs Nin thing worked for me or against me, but hey, that was childhood in the days before passworded Kindles.<br />
<br />
Anyway, the next time I dreamed I was falling, I wasn't quite as terrified. I knew, on some level, that I wasn't going to die. I remember waking up and being aware of the difference. The next time, it was stronger. Maybe I was closer to being awake, I don't know, but I was cognizant enough to know not only that I wouldn't die, but also that I wasn't going to fall at all.<br />
<br />
I would fly.<br />
<br />
And I did. It was wonderful. Even better than the time I dreamed I was galloping through open fields on a real horse. I never had another falling dream after that because now I could fly. Sadly, the flying dreams quickly tapered off until I didn't have them anymore, either. I tried to make them happen, but they never did. I never realized there was anything unusual about all of this. I was so young, I guess I just chalked it up to outgrowing the falling dreams. I never gave it much thought beyond that.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I wish my daughter could illustrate my life. </i></td></tr>
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I've had three recurring dreams in my life besides the falling/flying dreams. There's the tornado dream: a tornado is coming, and I'm responsible for kids and/or animals. I'm literally herding cats. Or toddlers or puppies. I get the last stragglers corralled in a basement, only to see that others have gone out to look for me or each other. I tell the remaining ones to stay put while I go find the others. Rinse, repeat. So freaking stressful. The tornado dream comes when I really feel out of control of my life.<br />
<br />
There's also the house dream, which is decidedly more pleasant. I'm exploring a labyrinth of a house, with towers and turrets and secret passageways and all manner of delightful secrets, sometimes even pets. This one comes when I'm facing a big change in life. It's usually good, though surreal, except when a stairway goes wonky so I can't get to where I need to be, and there's a black hole under the stairs. I've never actually fallen from a gone-wrong stairway, though, which I attribute to the flying dreams of long ago.<br />
<br />
And then there's the Violent Bad Guy dream, which brings us to the crux of today's tale.<br />
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<b><i>To be continued ...</i> </b><br />
<i><b><br /></b></i>
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Oh, get that knot out of your panties, it's already almost finished. This is a blog, not The New Yorker; I passed the bounds of brevity a couple of paragraphs back. Also, JP: payback's a bitch, baby.)</span></i><br />
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<br />more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-12166250179913229712015-10-20T20:18:00.000-06:002015-11-08T09:07:34.897-06:00I Need to Address ThisWhen the esposo was merely a pre-esposo and we were courting <i>a través la distancia</i> (bumbling about in a long-distance relationship), the misunderstandings due to culture and language happened even more often than they do now, and it usually took us longer to realize it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pretty much.</i></td></tr>
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The esposo is a librarian, though he doesn't work in a traditional library. He's in charge of the document center at one of the government ministries. I worked in an academic library before fleeing the rainhole that is Seattle. We're both grammar nerds who suffer from anxiety over the mistakes we know we're unknowingly making in our second languages. We both like editing and proofreading -- he even edits the annual ministry reports that go to the president -- and we're both readers. He's more into the classics than I am and has read some in English.<br />
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When we first met, I noticed that he had an impressive maritime vocabulary. Even among native speakers, words like <i>skiff </i>and <i>buoy </i>don't often come up in everyday conversation, so this being his second language, I naturally assumed he must be some kind of badass fisherman. Lures, hooks, maybe even a gaff. At the time, I was still working on words like <i>cow </i>and <i>hangover </i>in Spanish, and I still don't know many nautical terms. He told me no, he'd never been fishing, which made me wonder if perhaps terms like <i>mast head</i> and <i>harpoon </i>might be his way of flirting. I decided I was out of there if <i>poop deck</i> came up. It turned out that one of the first books he'd read in English was Hemingway's <i>The Old Man and Sea</i>, and he'd made vocabulary lists.<br />
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Hey, you never know when you might need <i>gunwale </i>in a sentence.<br />
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On my visits, I noticed that not many people had books at home, even people who liked to read. Libraries exist, but having a big, up-to-date circulating collection is not really a thing. After I got my residency, I asked about checking out books from the local library. You'd have thought I'd asked to check the Mona Lisa out of the Louvre. Books are terrifically expensive here, and the average salary doesn't support a lot of book-buying. Books are shrink-wrapped in bookstores. No browsing. And don't even think about coffee near the books.<br />
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Students don't get textbooks here. They make copies of photocopies at little <i>papelerías </i>clustered around schools and universities. (That made me twitchy; my boss was the copyright officer at our college library.) The esposo's chess group downloads PDFs of chess books and prints spiral-bound copies at the same copy shops. He's in a book club at work, but they download PDFs. Buying books just isn't a thing here.<br />
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I decided I was going to buy my not-yet-esposo a book or two and mail them to him. What better gift for a librarian in a place where books were hard to come by? So I asked him for his address.<br />
<br />
And that was when our long-distance relationship almost didn't go the distance.<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>Me (on Skype):</b> I'm going to send you a present! What's your address?<br />
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<b>Him</b>: ... emmm, that's ... a little difficult.<br />
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<b>Me</b>: What do you mean, "difficult"? What's difficult about it? Just type it out in the chat box.<br />
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<b>Him</b>: Well ... I don't really have an address.<br />
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<b>Me</b>: Okay, whatever you call it in Spanish. <i>Dirección</i>.<br />
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<b>Him</b>: No, I mean, I don't have one. Not exactly.<br />
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<b>Me</b>: How do you not exactly have an address? I mean, you live in a house, it's on a street, the street is in a town. How does mail get to your house?<br />
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<b>Him</b>: We don't normally receive mail, but if someone has mail, the post office has an idea where the house is, and someone comes on a moto and beeps the horn until you come out. Or he asks the neighbors.<br />
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<b>Me</b>: Okay, so the mail carrier can find it. What's your street name?<br />
<br />
<b>Him</b>: It doesn't really have a name. </blockquote>
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At this point, the yellow flag that had been fluttering in my brain is about to snap the mast head. What does he mean his street "doesn't really have a name"? Something is fishy here.<br />
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<b>Me</b>: Okay, well what do people call it? What's your house number?<br />
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<b>Him</b>: Number? It doesn't have a number.<br />
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<b>Me</b>: ... [activates resting bitch face]<br />
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<b>Him</b>: People usually just say it's the house with the green steps next to the seafood restaurant.<br />
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<b>Me</b>: ... mm-hmm. What's your ZIP Code?<br />
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<b>Him</b>: What's a ZIP Code? </blockquote>
<br />
Did I say fishy? I meant something's stank-ass rotten in TicoLandia. Why was he acting so weird, being so cagey? There's only one reason a man doesn't want you to know where he lives. Ladies, am I right?<br />
<br />
This motherfucker was married. Oh, hell no. I curtly ended the Skype call on some pretext or other and sought the advice of an expert. Google.<br />
<br />
What the ... ?<br />
<br />
Okay, fine. So he wasn't married. I sheepishly packed away my righteous indignation and deleted the draft of the blistering farewell letter I was going to send. By email, of course, because the man had no address.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Fifty meters past where that fig tree used to be, then ... </i></td></tr>
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Turns out Costa Rica really doesn't have house numbers or street names. ZIP Codes were finally instituted about seven years back, but no one knows that or has any idea what a ZIP Code even is. Even librarians at government ministries. Wait, let me amend my first statement: In San José (the capital) and other larger cities, there technically are street names in the city centers. Any tourist or potentially two-timed woman can look on Google maps and see a nice grid laid out with sensibly numbered avenues and streets.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to the first time I went to Alajuela on the bus by myself. I casually dismissed the esposo's advice to ask three people for directions in order to make sure they match. <i>(Time out for culture: Ticos are extremely polite and extremely nonconfrontational. They'd feel rude saying "I don't know" when asked for directions. They'd rather be "helpful" and guess wildy than tell you directly that they don't know. So ask three different people. Triangulate that shit. Old school GPS.) </i><br />
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I printed out this map, see? Google. I mapped out all the places I want to go, and planned my route. I won't need to ask anyone. I've got this, babe. </blockquote>
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The esposo looked dubious and didn't quite know what to make of the map. He turned it around a few times and handed it back to me.<br />
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Well, if it doesn't work, just remember to ask at least three people.<br />
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How could a map not work? It's foolproof. </blockquote>
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I got to Alajuela, super excited, because my route included a gringo-run bookstore that had loads of used books and a bookshop cat. Browsing allowed. I planned to buy some books and then head to a place that makes Tex-Mex food, where I would settle down for the afternoon with some enchiladas, my books, and some ice-cold beer. I know, right? Afterward, I'd walk to the park and maybe get some ice cream before heading home. I didn't see a street sign at the bus stop corner, so I walked to the next block to orient myself. No street signs there, either. Uh oh. I asked for help locating the nearest street sign. No one knew what the hell I was talking about.<br />
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There were no street signs.<br />
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What good does it do to name streets without putting up street signs? Apparently, the street-naming was from a big push 20 or 30 years ago to organize things. It clearly lost steam. I still thought I could find my way on my own because that's what stubborn, independent gringas who know everything do, but it was high noon, so my already lacking skills in navigating by the sun's shadow were shot completely to hell.<br />
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I asked people. Three. I never did find the bookstore that day, so I guess I should've gone for four, but there were still enchiladas and beer. The beer was pretty damn refreshing after all that wandering around and doubling back and sweating. I think I even had it on ice that day, <i>estilo tico.</i><br />
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I used the damn map as a coaster.<br />
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Since then, <a href="http://www.reuters.com/article/2012/09/28/us-costarica-streets-idUSBRE88Q1ZR20120928" target="_blank">street signs have been installed in San José</a>, and I'm seeing them pop up here and there in the larger cities. Foreigners were ecstatic, but it hasn't made much difference. Ask a <i>taxista </i>to take you to Avenida 2 y Calle 12, and you'll get a blank look. Tell him La Merced church, and he knows exactly how to get to that same intersection. Trying to meet up with a Costa Rican by using street names won't even get you a lackluster reach-around. Best go with 200 meters north of the soccer field, past the <i>licorera</i>, 50 meters east, then past the coffee fields to the karaoke bar.<br />
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So if any of you come a-visiting, go to the funeral chapel that's southeast of the vegetable stand -- you know the one, near that little bakery -- then head 100 meters east, 150 south, and then another 75 meters to the east. Or you can come the back way: just go down the "street of the turkeys" and go north on the gravel road before that house with the pit bull. There haven't been any turkeys on that street for years, so it won't help to look for them, but if you pass the house with the goats, you're heading the right way. There are no doorbells, so stand out in the street and yell "<i>Upe</i>!" a bunch of times until I come out. Nothing to it.<br />
<br />more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-16520488978866528832015-10-17T20:02:00.001-06:002015-10-18T10:17:04.680-06:00I Cyberlove You, Man<br />
I just ditched two drafts that were going nowhere in favor of this. Well, they were going somewhere, all right. Like down the Tangent Trail deep into Digression Forest. Another day.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M0aURjqtk5Q/ViFd5meEazI/AAAAAAAADJI/wfHkMFgL7iI/s1600/cyberfriends%2Bchalk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="315" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M0aURjqtk5Q/ViFd5meEazI/AAAAAAAADJI/wfHkMFgL7iI/s640/cyberfriends%2Bchalk.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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You guys know I teach English online. Finding a topic that's interesting, not too controversial, and that actually sparks authentic conversation can be tricky. The content writers don't always get it right. <i>The Spa</i>, for example. Fail. Every time. And for some reason, I always end up with a class full of guys for that topic. Deer in the headlights, poor bastards. Look, that one's trying to chew his leg out of the trap. Dude, it's either this or <i>Jewels and Gems.</i> Save the leg. <i>Tea Time</i> is another one. Really? Sure, in Japan or chatting up those posh Brits, but our market is Latin America. Coffee. Trying to get my students worked up about tea is like convincing a cat to fetch. Meh. So I just turn <i>Tea Time </i>into <i>Tea, Coffee, Mate, Cocoa, or Whatever-the-Hell-Else-You-Like-to-Drink Time</i>. Open it up for some enthusiasm.<br />
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Technology topics always go over well, particularly discussions on how technology has changed communication and relationships. Students love the tech topics almost as much as <i>Dating </i>or <i>Happy Hour</i>. And those are some entertaining classes, trust. Well, in the advanced classes, anyway. In my absolute beginner classes, I spend most of the time resolving tech issues, configuring mics, waving my pointer around, and repeating things sloooowly in my Happy Voice. It's a process.<br />
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One question that always sparks spirited debate is whether or not its possible to have real friendships online without meeting in the flesh, as it were. I tend toward the cynical; the Pollyanna outlook just isn't my thing. Life has made me a realist. Time was, I'd have said anyone wanting to be your "online friend" (wink, wink) either wants to get in your pants or in your wallet. Or both. </div>
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Back during the Seattle years, though, before Facebook turned everyone into meme-loving, like-clicking, mindless drones, I unwittingly fell into a cybercommunity. Yes, bloggers. Oh, please, people, get off your judgy high horses. I repeat: Seattle. What the hell else did I have to do? This was back when I was Drizzle's bitch, huddled under a Snuggie, wearing flannel Seahawks pajamas in front of my fireplace, drowning my sorrows in cheap wine. It was dark by 4:00pm, for Pete's sake.<br />
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So spare me the snickering.<br />
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Anway, despite my initial skepticism and (fine!) snickering, it was good. We became friends. Many of us have met in person. One year, when some asshole hit my car at the same time that my dog needed surgery and This Old Motherfucking House popped up with yet another issue, as it was wont to do, I found a check in the mail (for a substantial amount) accompanied by a witty, this-is-your-life story they'd written to make me laugh. None of them would cop to amounts or even who exactly had ponied up. No way to send it back. Well played.<br />
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I was a single mom, people. That shit meant a lot. I even cried. Hell, I'm getting a little misty now.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I was cold a lot in Seattle.</i></td></tr>
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Another time, one of the guys knitted me a gorgeous scarf, using some fancy stitch (they are called stitches in knitting, right?) that actually took some effort. This same guy sent me his old iPod when he upgraded. I still have that iPod. It's sitting right here, up above my two feet of of kitchen counter. I still think of Tony when I listen to Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings, whom I hadn't even known about before.<br />
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Another guy made time to take me to dinner during a layover in Seattle. He used to encourage me in the advocacy work I was doing. We were supposed to be working together, fighting The Man by now, but Costa Rica. Another time, I drove up north and had the most fun ever with the effervescence that is <a href="http://whathappenedtothesubtitles.blogspot.com/2007/08/mad-hattery_13.html" target="_blank">Auld Hat</a>. (For the last time, <i>no</i>, there are no hidden pictures from that day, you bunch of freaks.) There were other meetups, literally from coast to coast, that we all read about. We felt as though we really knew each other.<br />
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And we did.<br />
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There's a kind of intimacy that happens. I know about these people's childhoods. Their successes and failures. Fears. The hell-yeahs and the melancholy moments. The things friends know about. Meeting and mailing things wasn't really necessary. It was just extra.<br />
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They made me laugh (lordy, but these are some funnyass people), lent a sympathetic ear when shit hit the fan, read the boring, lame-ass crap I wrote that I didn't migrate over here (you're welcome), shared their own stories, supported me, and made me feel like I was a badass who could take on the world. I needed that during the Seattle years.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Wait, which one of us is the Skin Horse?</i></td></tr>
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They became my friends. Real friends. Like Velveteen-rabbit real. Yeah, that's sappy as hell. Just go with it. Boxed wine and nostalgia will do that shit.<br />
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Just this week, we cyberhooked up one night. Settle down, not that kind of hook up. Facebook group, not webcam. Freaks. One of us actually <i>is </i>badass and has a radio show, so we linked in, and he gave us shout outs on air and played tunes for us. We laughed and drank and shot the shit, and it was genuinely fun. A party with folks spread from Canada nearly down to the equator. If that's weird or geeky, fuck it.<br />
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Guess I'm weird and geeky.<br />
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Listen, the Interwebs is chock full o' bullshit. There are eleventy-jillion blogs out there -- most of which suck ass or only appeal to maybe 13 people on the planet -- along with Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, Ashley Madison, and all the other mind-sucking, entertaining places. A veritable sea of bullshit. So if you end up connected in any kind of real way with people, it means you've connected based on your ideas, your values. Your minds. Your humor. Not just because you work with this guy or live next to that guy or your wife is the sister of that other guy.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k94auAWPFbs/ViF0YYeSMfI/AAAAAAAADJ4/SiwwKZhD22c/s1600/cyber%2Bchat2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="204" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-k94auAWPFbs/ViF0YYeSMfI/AAAAAAAADJ4/SiwwKZhD22c/s320/cyber%2Bchat2.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Suckers.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Granted, you may end up connected based on a web of lies and fakery, but that's life on or off the Interwebs. People hide all kinds of shit. Be careful out there. Google is your friend.<br />
<br />
I've lived most of my adult life moving from one country or city to another, leaving friends and making new ones. The Internet changes that somewhat. You're still leaving, but not really. Here in CR, I found another cybercommunity where people think like me, get me. When you're living in another culture, that's huge. Especially when a lot of the people from your own culture are either stoned surfers twenty years younger than you or folks twenty years older with a stick up their ass who want Costa Rica to be Little 'Murka where we speak English and eat Big Macs. Gawd. Finding like-minded people is good. I've met a few people from the cybercrew and count them as friends. Tomorrow, I'll meet two more. (I was supposed to meet someone today, too, but plans in CR have a way of falling through at the last minute. <i>Pura vida</i>. Maybe next week.)<br />
<br />
I miss the hell out of my face-to-face friends. Days when I talk with them, I'm happy as the proverbial pig in shit, and it's like no time has passed. But it's weird: sometimes you hear more from your cyberfriends than from your family or face-to-face friends. I think it's because with cyberfriends, that's the ONLY way you've ever communicated. Online. It's the norm. For your fam and "regular" friends, it's a switch. An adjustment. You're "gone" for them. Skype, Whatsapp, Messenger, and the rest get a lukewarm reception. Maybe not for the younger generation or habitual travelers. My daughters are good at keeping in touch, but 90% of our communication is online chat. That's great for me, but it doesn't work for everyone. So it can be hard to connect. A lot of folks overseas say if they're not the ones doing the calling, no one calls the other direction. I don't know why that is, but it's kind of a thing in emigrant circles. You're the caller, not the callee. Maybe it's left over from the Ma Bell days? I need to be better at it, regardless. Because I seriously miss my family and "regular" friends. I don't think they know how much. Probably because my slack ass doesn't call enough.<br />
<br />
Aaand, I digressed.<br />
<br />
Back to cyberfriends, before I go from misty to pathetically tracing the tracks of my tears. Back in the Seattle years, you bastards helped me keep at least a tenuous hold on sanity. And nearly a decade after falling in with you guys, we're still here. Okay, we got sucked into Facebook's cheap and easy e-thrills, but hey, shit happens. the pendulum is swinging back.<br />
<br />
So a toast to friends -- doesn't matter if it's via WiFi or from the next barstool: I love you, man. No, I mean it, a toast. Pass me that beer. No ice.</div>
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more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-37513306408287235372015-10-10T12:05:00.000-06:002015-10-12T06:27:59.538-06:00Columbus: Bold Explorer or Genocidal Asshat?<p><i><span style="color: #b2b2b2; font-size: small;">(In which I suspend snark and translation tales to address marked asshattery. Fine, there's still snark. I wrote this in 2007. I'm surprised every year by requests for it, so ... the debut at the new digs.)</span></i><br />
<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></em></strong></p>
<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;">In fourteen-hundred and ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.</span></em></strong><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0I1IQOHlCpc/VhulUAia5rI/AAAAAAAADHo/LLPOSP_eVjk/s1600/Columbus%2B-%2Bship.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0I1IQOHlCpc/VhulUAia5rI/AAAAAAAADHo/LLPOSP_eVjk/s1600/Columbus%2B-%2Bship.jpg" /></a></div>
Remember that? That little rhyme is probably why 1492 is the one date we actually remember from school. I bet you can name all three ships too: the <em>Niña</em>, the <em>Pinta</em>, and the <em>Santa María</em>. In third grade, I made miniature versions out of construction paper. I used Popsicle sticks for the masts. It was fun.<br />
<br />
Too bad they don't teach you the rest of the story in school.<br />
<br />
<strong><em><br /></em></strong>
<strong><em><span style="font-size: large;">In fourteen-hundred and ninety-three, Columbus stole all he could see. </span></em></strong><br />
<br />
What are we really celebrating on Columbus Day? Ask any school kid, and little Johnny's likely to recite, "Columbus discovered America." Except he didn't. He didn't "discover" it, and it wasn't present-day "America". The man thought he had found India by the backdoor. Like some 15th-century Rick Steve tour. He and his crew murdered, raped, and enslaved the people who were already there. Christopher Columbus never even set foot on what we in the United States call "America".<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, he has a holiday and a place in every textbook in this country. Textbooks that don't teach us what really happened. At best, you get a watered-down, whitewashed <span style="font-size: 78%;">[ahem],</span> quick mention. Like this: <br />
<br />
<br />
<blockquote>
Much controversy exists over Columbus' expeditions and whether or not one can "discover" an already-inhabited land. The natives of the Bahamas and other islands on his journey were peaceful and friendly. Yet many of them were later enslaved by the Spanish. Also, it is known that the Vikings explored the North American coast 500 years before Columbus.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, Columbus' expedition was unique and important in that it resulted in the first intertwining of Europe with the Americas, resulting in the first permanent European colonies in the New World<em>. </em></blockquote>
<br />
Wow, they actually mentioned enslavement, and the land already being inhabited (and therefore, already <em>discovered, </em>asshat). But we quickly move on past that unpleasantness, right on to the <strong>"Nevertheless..." </strong>bit. After all, his murderous asshattery did lead to <i>the first permanent European colonies in the New World</i>, and that's what's really important.<br />
<br />
Because nothing is real until the Europeans say it is, y'all. If you don't believe me, just pick up any US textbook. <br />
<br />
<blockquote>
<strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">History is written by the victors.<br /> </span></strong><em><span style="font-size: 85%;">~Winston Churchill</span></em></blockquote>
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You got that right, Winston.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JiV0gy2598w/VhhDGl26nWI/AAAAAAAADFY/uJOT4epN7mc/s1600/howard%2Bzinn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JiV0gy2598w/VhhDGl26nWI/AAAAAAAADFY/uJOT4epN7mc/s200/howard%2Bzinn.jpg" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>the lowdown</i></td></tr>
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In my daughters' <em>History of the Americas</em> class, the instructors taught from Howard Zinn's <em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Peoples-History-United-States-Present/dp/0060838655/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/105-9956134-5302011?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1191853960&sr=8-1">A People's History of the United States: 1492 to the Present</a></em>. If you haven't read it, click it, order it. I'm serious - please get this book. Anyway, they were fortunate. Howard Zinn is <em>not</em> usually found in high school history classrooms. My eldest's instructor also held a mock trial for Columbus, in which my daughter was prosecuting attorney. The kids in the "regular" classes don't get this perspective. They get the regular textbooks. Which could, if I were in the habit of digressing, bring me back to the subject of <a href="http://whathappenedtothesubtitles.blogspot.com/2007/09/it-2007_29.html" target="_blank">who is and isn't represented</a> in the IB honors classes, and the system of advantage in our institutions. But I won't digress.<br />
<br />
Zinn doesn't gloss over what happened. He presents a very different version of history, using primary sources (What a concept!) that we're going to look at today, such as the journals of Columbus and others who were there. This description of the Taino -- renamed "Indians" behind the faulty navigation -- was penned by the invader himself: <br />
<br />
<blockquote>
... they are so naive and so free with their possessions that no one who has not witnessed them would believe it. When you ask for something they have, they never say no. To the contrary they offer to share with anyone . . . <br />
<br />
. . . They do not bear arms, and do not know them, for I showed them a sword, they took it by the edge and cut themselves out of ignorance. . .<br />
<br />
They would make fine servants . . . With fifty men we could subjugate them all and make them do whatever we want.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><strong>~<em>Christopher Columbus, personal journal</em></strong></span></blockquote>
<br />
Ah, colonizer thinking at its best. Didn't even cross his mind to respect the people already on the land. Shoot, it didn't cross his mind to even see them as <em>people</em>. Because it wasn't really about exploration, it was about <em>ownership</em>. It was about taking whatever the fuck you want, even if someone else was there first. You want gold? Take it. Take it in the name of your Almighty God, because that makes everything all right. Those people already living here? Take them, too. Hell, make them get the gold <i>for </i>you. Less work. If they don't cooperate, kill them. Or cut their hands off.<br />
<br />
That'll learn 'em.<br />
<br />
Columbus got gold fever when he saw some of the Taino wearing small gold earrings. He brought 500 natives back to Spain as slaves. Well, 200 didn't make it, actually, but no matter; he managed to convince the Spanish royalty that there was gold in them thar hills, and was funded for a second voyage. This time with 17 ships and over 1,200 men to colonize their find.<br />
<br />
Hey, if there's gold to be had, go after it -- you can't expect uncivilized brown folks to manage a valuable commodity like gold. Or oil. (But that's another story.) It's time for some conquering and subjugation, by gawd. Problem was, there really wasn't that much gold to be found.<br />
<br />
So they instituted a quota. Zinn writes: <br />
<br />
<blockquote>
They ordered all persons fourteen years or older to collect a certain quantity of gold every three months. When they brought it, they were given copper tokens to hang around their necks. Indians found without a copper token had their hands cut off and bled to death.</blockquote>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V1RW9ZCZ9qQ/Vhg57xHgXVI/AAAAAAAADFI/e_BQcYDO2uI/s1600/Columbus%2Btaino%2Bmine%2Bquota.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="508" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V1RW9ZCZ9qQ/Vhg57xHgXVI/AAAAAAAADFI/e_BQcYDO2uI/s640/Columbus%2Btaino%2Bmine%2Bquota.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Taino who didn't meet the gold quota lost their hands.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So if your 14-year-old son couldn't collect his quota of gold because it basically <em>wasn't there to collect</em>, some guy who had just shown up on your land one day would cut off your son's hands. Maybe leave them dangling from his arms. For a laugh. Make you watch.<br />
<br />
Think about that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
According to James Loewen in <em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lies-My-Teacher-Told-Me/dp/0684818868/ref=pd_sim_b_shvl_img_1/002-3585489-7572048">Lies My Teacher Told Me,</a> </em>the Spaniards forced the Taino to work in mines. The ecosystem was affected, and the people suffered from malnutrition on top of the beatings, rapes, and disciplinary amputations. Diseases ran rampant, immunities were low or nonexistent. The Spaniards forced the people to carry them from place to place. Because who wants to waste energy on walking when you've got hands to cut off and people to string up? Those who survived all that were driven to suicide, abortion, even killing their own newborn infants in order to spare them from life in those conditions. <br />
<br />
Pre-Columbian population estimates vary, but run as high as 8 million.<br />
-- By 1496, the estimate is about 3 million.<br />
-- By 1516, about 12,000.<br />
-- By 1542, fewer than 200 were left.<br />
-- By 1555, they had been essentially exterminated.<br />
<br />
Yeah, that's called genocide. Mass murder at the hands of the bold explorer. But that's not all:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>
Because the Indians had died, Indian slavery then led to the massive slave trade the other way across the Atlantic, from Africa. This trade also began on Haiti, initiated by Columbus's son in 1505.<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: 85%;">~James Loewen, <em>Lies My Teacher Told Me</em></span></strong></blockquote>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WNr7bG39PcI/VhlJt3vxNQI/AAAAAAAADGM/KNnwl2m7ZNw/s1600/columbus%2Bson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WNr7bG39PcI/VhlJt3vxNQI/AAAAAAAADGM/KNnwl2m7ZNw/s1600/columbus%2Bson.jpg" /></a></div>
Whoa, <i>what</i>? Did you all catch that? Because this is important: after Dad and pals decimate the Native populations, Junior heads to Africa to replenish the labor force. The African slave trade. Because they killed off the Native slaves. Way to carry on the family legacy, Junior. Genocide and slavery.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>This is what we're celebrating, people. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
A Dominican priest's eyewitness account -- not an opinion, an actual eyewitness account:<br />
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<blockquote>
Their reason for killing and destroying such an infinite number of souls is that the Christians have an ultimate aim, which is to acquire gold, and to swell themselves with riches in a very brief time and thus rise to a high estate disproportionate to their merits.<br />
<br />
It should be kept in mind that their insatiable greed and ambition, the greatest ever seen in the world, is the cause of their villainies. And also, those lands are so rich and felicitous, the native peoples so meek and patient, so easy to subject, that our Spaniards have no more consideration for them than beasts.<br />
<br />
And I say this from my own knowledge of the acts I witnessed. But I should not say "than beasts" for, thanks be to God, they have treated beasts with some respect; I should say instead like excrement on the public squares.<br />
<strong><br />~<em><span style="font-size: 85%;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bartolom%C3%A9_de_Las_Casas">Bartolomé de las Casas</a>, Dominican priest and settler, personal journal</span></em></strong></blockquote>
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Damn. That's some greed, right there, folks. That's a serious entitlement complex. And, I'm thinking, it's not too far off from some things going on today, 500 years later.<br />
<br />
The Spaniards, in a clever act of rationalization, would read a proclamation -- in Spanish, of course -- informing the Taino that the land and everything on it now belonged to the invaders to do with what they would. If the people chose not to cooperate after hearing the proclamation, well, that's their own fault, isn't it?<br />
<br />
<br />
More from the Dominican priest -- again, dude was there. He <i>saw </i>this shit (emphasis mine):<br />
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<blockquote>
They attacked the towns and spared neither the <b>children </b>nor the aged nor pregnant women nor women in childbed, not only stabbing them and <b>dismembering them, but cutting them to pieces</b> as if dealing with sheep in the slaughter house.<br />
<br />
They <b>laid bets</b> as to who, with one stroke of the sword, could <b>split a man in two or could cut off his head or spill out his entrails</b> with a single stroke of the pike.<br />
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They took <b>infants </b>from their mothers' breasts, snatching them by the legs and <b>pitching them headfirst against the crags</b> or snatched them by the arms and <b>threw them into the rivers</b>, roaring with laughter and saying as the babies fell into the water, '<em>Boil there, you offspring of the devil!' </em>Other infants they put to the sword along with their mothers and anyone else who happened to be nearby.<br />
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They made some low wide gallows on which the hanged victim's feet almost touched the ground, <b>stringing up their victims</b> <b>in lots of thirteen, in memory of Our Redeemer and His twelve Apostles</b>, then set burning wood at their feet and thus <b>burned them alive</b>.<br />
<br />
To others they attached straw or <b>wrapped their whole bodies in straw and set them afire</b>. With still others, all those they wanted to capture alive, they <b>cut off their hands and hung them round the victim's neck</b>, saying, <i>'Go now, carry the message,'</i> ...<br />
<br />
They would <b>cut an Indian's hands and leave them dangling by a shred of skin</b> and they would send him on saying, <i>'Go now, spread the news to your chiefs.'</i><br />
<br />
They usually dealt with the chieftains and nobles in the following way: they made a rid of rods which they placed on forked sticks, then <b>lashed the victims to the grid and lighted a smoldering fire </b>underneath, so that little by little, as those captives screamed in despair and torment, their souls would leave them...<br />
<br />
<strong>~<em><span style="font-size: 85%;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bartolom%C3%A9_de_Las_Casas">Bartolomé de las Casas</a>, Dominican priest and settler, personal journal</span></em></strong></blockquote>
<br />
<br />
Yeah, that's the <i>real </i>story. <em></em>That's the unpleasantness that our history books left out.<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: x-large;">So if you skimmed over that part, go back and read it.</span></strong><br />
<br />
It's one paragraph, people. One minute.<br />
<br />
That's what is <em>still</em> being left out of your kids' history books <em>now, </em>and what your kids probably did not learn about last week<em>. </em>On Columbus Day. But hey, maybe they made a paper ship with Popsicle sticks, or a sailing hat. They might have learned about Old World foods and New World foods, or talked about what it might have been like to be on a ship for 69 days. <br />
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<br />
So ...<br />
<br />
That's what happened. And now we have this holiday. Why? Why, with all this information -- from the actual journals of Columbus and others who were there, no less -- are we still teaching our children that this racist murderer is some great icon of exploration and innovation? Why do we still have a federal holiday, giving the man and his actions the tacit approval of our government? <br />
<br />
Well, for one thing, our government still holds him up as an example for us all in the pursuit of our great goals. Read between the lines and weep:<br />
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<blockquote>
Christopher Columbus not only opened the door to a New World, but also set an example for us all by showing what monumental feats can be accomplished through perseverance and faith.<br />
<br />
<em><strong>~George H.W. Bush, 1989 speech</strong></em></blockquote>
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<blockquote>
In 1492, Christopher Columbus set sail on a journey that changed the course of history. On Columbus Day, we celebrate this voyage of discovery and honor an Italian explorer who shaped the destiny of the New World.<br />
<br />
Christopher Columbus' bold journey across the Atlantic opened new frontiers of exploration and demonstrated the power of perseverance. His journeys inspired other risk-takers and dreamers to test the bounds of their imagination and gave them the courage to accomplish great feats, whether crossing the world's oceans or walking on the moon.<br />
<br />
Today, a new generation of innovators and pioneers continues to uphold the finest values of our country discipline, ingenuity, and unity in the pursuit of great goals. <br />
<br />
<strong><em>~<a href="http://www.whitehouse.gov/news/releases/2007/10/20071004-1.html">George W. Bush, October 8, 2007</a></em></strong></blockquote>
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<blockquote>
Our Nation is built on the efforts of men and women who possess both the vision to see beyond what is and the desire to pursue what might be. Today, the same passion for discovery that drove Columbus is leading bold visionaries to explore the frontiers of space, find new energy sources, and solve our most difficult medical challenges.<br />
<br />
~<a href="http://www.whitehouse.gov/news/releases/2006/10/20061005-7.html"><em><strong>George W. Bush, October 9, 2006</strong></em></a></blockquote>
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Did you catch that bit about finding new energy sources? Wake up, people! How much has really changed? <i>Yesterday's gold is today's oil. </i> Our government, still today, holds Columbus up as an example of the "monumental feats" that can be "accomplished through perseverance and faith."<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">And to the victors belong the spoils.</span><br />
<br />
Here's the thing: <br />
<br />
<b>As long as Columbus is <em>officially</em> held up as a bold explorer, forcible domination of groups who have something we want -- gold, oil, land -- continues to be seen as the norm. Invasion and colonization of groups deemed to be "less civilized" than we are continues to be seen as natural.</b><br />
<br />
If Columbus were to be <em>officially</em> recognized as a mass murderer, if the holiday were no longer sanctioned by our government, then we'd have to examine history through a different lens. We'd have to examine ourselves, as individuals, and as a country.<br />
<br />
We'd have to ask ourselves the question: If forcible invasion and domination was wrong then ... how do we justify it now?<br />
<br />
History is indeed written by the victors. And it's perpetuated by those who benefit from that victory.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RTO6BEg8xUQ/Vhqg5Gw9GHI/AAAAAAAADGs/AJzoqYR9_AE/s1600/columbus%2Bblood2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="328" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RTO6BEg8xUQ/Vhqg5Gw9GHI/AAAAAAAADGs/AJzoqYR9_AE/s640/columbus%2Bblood2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Carlos Latuff, artist</i></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #b2b2b2; font-family: inherit; font-size: 13.6px;"><i><b>- UPDATE -</b> </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #b2b2b2; font-family: inherit; font-size: 13.6px;"><i>I wrote this in 2007. Since then, the city of Seattle voted to observe Indigenous People's Day instead, thanks to a lot of hard work by tribal communities and allies. Other cities have passed similar legislation. Alaska, Oregon, Hawaii, and South Dakota do not recognize Columbus Day. South Dakota, ahead of the curve, has celebrated Native American Day since 1990. Fewer than half of the 50 states still give a day off work for Columbus Day. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #b2b2b2; font-family: inherit; font-size: 13.6px;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #b2b2b2; font-family: inherit; font-size: 13.6px;"><i>Here in Costa Rica, they celebrate el </i>Día del Encuentro de las Culturas<i>, which is something like "the meeting of the cultures". Right. That was some meeting. Or you could interpret it as "clash of the cultures". Other Latin American countries celebrate </i>Día de la Raza<i>. People here are pretty clear on what old Cristóbal Colón was all about.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #b2b2b2; font-family: inherit; font-size: 13.6px;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #b2b2b2; font-family: inherit; font-size: 13.6px;"><i>I was disappointed to see the annual <a href="https://www.whitehouse.gov/the-press-office/2015/10/09/presidential-proclamation-columbus-day-2015" target="_blank">presidential proclamation</a> confirming Columbus Day for 2015, but heartened (a bit) to see that President Obama did at least talk about the effects on the Native population and the importance of tribal sovereignty. It's something. I guess. I'd hoped he'd step all the way up, though. At least he said "exploration" instead of "discovery". </i></span><i style="color: #b2b2b2; font-size: 13.6px;">Baby steps. But damn, that baby is taking hella long to walk. </i><br />
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<i style="color: #b2b2b2; font-size: 13.6px;">I hope to update this post one day with a federal proclamation recognizing Indigenous People's Day. </i></div>
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<span style="color: #999999; font-family: inherit; font-size: 85%;"><i>For more real info about Christopher Columbus and other assclowns, ditch the textbooks and pick these up. This post is just the tip of the iceberg. Columbus is just one piece of a history that has been, in large part, mistaught.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Peoples-History-United-States-Present/dp/0060838655/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/105-9956134-5302011?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1191853960&sr=8-1"><em><span style="font-size: 85%;">A People's History of the United States: 1492 to the Present</span></em></a><span style="font-size: 85%;">, Howard Zinn</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 85%;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lies-My-Teacher-Told-Me/dp/0684818868/ref=pd_sim_b_shvl_img_1/002-3585489-7572048"><em><span style="font-size: 85%;">Lies My Teacher Told Me: Everything Your American History Textbook Got Wrong</span></em></a><span style="font-size: 85%;">, James Loewen</span></div>
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<em><span style="font-size: 85%;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lies-Across-America-Historic-Sites/dp/0684870673/ref=pd_sim_b_shvl_title_2/002-3585489-7572048">Lies Across America: What Our Historic Sites Get Wrong</a></span></em><span style="font-size: 85%;">, James Loewen</span></div>
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more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-82499968570050260782015-10-08T17:17:00.001-06:002015-10-10T12:02:55.521-06:00Words Fail Me: Batshit Loco<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WWM70za_hqc/Vhbtih19HRI/AAAAAAAADEQ/XM8XDh6IIfU/s1600/lang%2Btrojan%2Bwhores.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WWM70za_hqc/Vhbtih19HRI/AAAAAAAADEQ/XM8XDh6IIfU/s320/lang%2Btrojan%2Bwhores.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
When you learn a foreign language later in life *ahem*, words that sound similar can mess you up and make you sound like an idiot. When I lived in Hungary, I was constantly mixing up <i><b>szőnyeg </b></i>(carpet, rug) and <i><b>szúnyog </b></i>(mosquito). I would say dumb, but apparently amusing things like, "Urgh, these carpets keep biting me!" or "Take that mosquito out and shake it." <br />
<br />
And you guys already know about my little mix up with <i><b>preservantes </b></i>and <i><b>preservativos</b></i>. But let's not dwell on that.<br />
<br />
One time the esposo and I were down south, visiting one of my <i>cuñados </i>(really, it's so much easier than "brothers-in-law") and his family. I love it there. They have a nice little porch where we hang out in hammocks with ice-cold beer of an evening. Ice cold because they literally put ice in the beer here. Not even kidding. I drink mine gringo style, no ice, because I don't like to water my beer. Just put that bad boy in the freezer for a bit. Guys, I cannot express how much I'm loving the heat after the Seattle years. Where we live, in the Central Valley, it's actually not that hot. It's hot at my <i>cuñado</i>'s house. You sweat. You take cold showers. You sleep in your skivvies with the fan on high, and kick off the sheet. And there is nothing like heat to make you appreciate the qualities of an ice-cold beer. Even <i>estilo gringo</i>, without the ice.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CVk7aleDr8Q/VhbAMXLIifI/AAAAAAAADDw/p7dtKugxtpk/s1600/p%25C3%25A9rez%2Bporch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="401" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CVk7aleDr8Q/VhbAMXLIifI/AAAAAAAADDw/p7dtKugxtpk/s640/p%25C3%25A9rez%2Bporch.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hammock, beer, banana trees, good company ... what more do you need?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So after a long day of eating, relaxing, and drinking, we were all out on the porch for more drinking and relaxing. We'd just made our way back up from the river, where we'd gone to watch the sun set, commune with the neighbor's cattle, and get attacked by some pissed-off army ants after stepping on their anthill in flip-flops. Okay, that last part was only me, but whatever. It was a beautiful night.<br />
<br />
So we're relaxing and sipping, watching the moon rise, when I notice something zipping back and forth overhead. A whole lot of somethings. Silent somethings. No cheerful birdsong or, in the case of parrots, obnoxious grawking. These were no feathered friends.<br />
<br />
They were bats.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ue0rE7OECyU/VhbYP20GPOI/AAAAAAAADEA/2BEjNJuhx0w/s1600/bats%2Bmarietta.edu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ue0rE7OECyU/VhbYP20GPOI/AAAAAAAADEA/2BEjNJuhx0w/s320/bats%2Bmarietta.edu.jpg" width="272" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.marietta.edu/~biol/biomes/troprain.htm" target="_blank"><i>bats, lying in wait on the side of a tree</i></a></td></tr>
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Now these were early days, my first year, back before that weird little tree in the farmer's squash field on the corner had bloomed with its seasonal batnip. I still don't know whether it was flowers or fruit that drew them, but that tree sang some kind of siren song that only those bats with their damned echolocation could hear. It was like crystal meth to a junkie. McDonald's to a gringo. You always hear about how bats don't bother people, how our fear of them is irrational, how they've gotten a bad rap. I believed all of that.<br />
<br />
Until the little tree let loose its crack blossoms.<br />
<br />
Those bats became territorial. Taking my dog, Batman (no relation), for his nightly constitutional was like running the gauntlet through a cloud of winged Cujos. In fact, wasn't it actually a bat that gave Cujo rabies in the first place? Poor Cujo probably lived near one of these trees. Those suckers actually dive-bombed me. They didn't give two shits about mosquitos, they were on the attack. Even Batman was a little spooked by his vespertilionine brethren, and he was a calm dog. I took to wearing a sweatshirt with the hood tied tight. After that first season, someone cut down the little tree before it bloomed again. I guess I wasn't the only bat bait out there. I was enormously relieved but also a little sad, because every once in a while, when the tree wasn't in bloom, an owl would perch there, watching me and Batman as we walked by, and I didn't see him anymore after that.<br />
<br />
But back to our story, which takes place before the little tree bloomed and I learned what evil lurked in the hearts of bats. So I'm on the porch, soaking up the delicious heat, enjoying my cold beer in the moonlight, listening to the conversation from my hammock. An idyllic night if ever there were one. Wanting to make use of the animal vocabulary I'd just learned in my handy book, <i>6,000+ Essential Spanish Words</i>, I nonchalantly say,<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Look, bats!</blockquote>
<br />
Everyone stops talking to look at me. I helpfully point up at the sky, illustrating my keen observation. <br />
<br />
A beat. Then everyone bursts out laughing. Great. I know what that means.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
What did I say? </blockquote>
<br />
They all chimed in, laughing their asses off, practically choking on their ice:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Look, womanizers!</blockquote>
<br />
Typical. Turns out the vocabulary book said <i><b>murciélago </b></i>... not <b><i>mujeriego</i></b>. <br />
<br />
<br />
-----------------<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i>cuñado </i></b>- brother-in-law (koon-YAHD-oh)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i>cuñada </i></b>- sister-in-law (koon-YAHD-ah)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>murciélago</b> - </i>bat: mammal, not baseball. (moor-see-AY-lah-goh)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>mujeriego</b> </i>- womanizer (moo-hayr-YAY-goh)</span><br />
<br />more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-65934340299371331132015-10-02T10:36:00.000-06:002015-10-22T15:53:29.949-06:00Words Fail Me: The Staff of Life<i>(In which our new series, Words Fail Me, is introduced, and Cowbell learns that pride goeth basically every damn day.)</i><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NjA9Z1FRmak/Vg1yR6kDkxI/AAAAAAAADB8/va_iiR6_-1s/s1600/suzy%2Bhomemaker2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NjA9Z1FRmak/Vg1yR6kDkxI/AAAAAAAADB8/va_iiR6_-1s/s320/suzy%2Bhomemaker2.jpg" width="217" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Fold, mix, or knead?</i></td></tr>
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Those of you who know me know that I'm not exactly channeling Suzy Homemaker, here. I wish I were one of those people who find cooking relaxing or fun, but I'm not. I cook because we need to eat. Moving to Costa Rica, however, has forced me to embrace my inner Suzy. I wish she were more like an inner Sybil who could just completely take over in the kitchen while I go to my inner quiet place for a nap, but no, nothing so convenient. It's all me in the kitchen.<br />
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<div>
Logically, I know that not eating processed food is a very good thing. When I'm not actually in the kitchen, I'm all about it. In theory. When it comes time to actually cook, though, logic <i>me importa un bledo*.</i> Once in a while, you just miss a good box or package. An easy mix. That frozen Indian food from Trader Joe's. Actually, you can find packaged food here at AutoMercado, aka the Gringo Grocery, so named because the prices reflect what desperate people with US dollars are willing to pay for that imported taste of home. Which is a lot, and why I only go once a year, before Christmas. </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Anyway, "from scratch" has become more than just a fuzzy concept that happens in other people's houses or in books about the olden days. In the States, making spaghetti sauce meant I sauteed onions, peppers, mushrooms, garlic, basil, and oregano in olive oil, then dumped in a jar of store-bought sauce, added a few personal touches like a bit of sugar to cut the acidity, a pinch of cinnamon, aaand done. "Homemade." What? It's not like I used Ragú. Here, jarred sauce is either expensive (again with the import taxes) or nasty, and let's not even talk about the national brand that comes in those tiny foil packages. Single serving size. For a gnome. So spaghetti sauce here means an assload of tomatoes. This is where I should write about blanching and peeling tomatoes. Yeah, screw that. Did it once. Everyone knows all the vitamins are in the skins, anyway.<br />
<br />
My sauce is chock full o' vitamins.<br />
<br /></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wbnpd70IXFw/Vg6px87h8hI/AAAAAAAADCc/MI_aRScH0II/s1600/bread3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wbnpd70IXFw/Vg6px87h8hI/AAAAAAAADCc/MI_aRScH0II/s200/bread3.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sweet tooth, pfft. I have a carb tooth.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Anyway, I'm kind of domestic now, y'all. I learned to make yogurt in my Crock-Pot. Yogurt, now. Come on, impressive, right? Fine. I was impressed. I make beans on the regular. Cannot believe I ever used canned black beans in the US. <i>Guácala</i>. Blech. That is my skeleton in the closet here, people; do not out me to the new fam. I also learned to make my own bread. I wasn't feeling that at first, but after a few months of eating "air bread" I warmed to the idea. (Hey, it's a tortilla society. You want good bread, go to Europe.)<br />
<br />
Also, I found a no-knead recipe. That's what clinched it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The esposo, having been raised on air bread, was quite happy with this dense, warm, homemade manna from heaven, straight out of our oven. So we're talking about it over coffee and warm, buttered slices of deliciousness, and I say to him -- in Spanish, because it's <a href="http://whathappenedtothesubtitles.blogspot.com/2015/09/a-married-couple-walks-into-bar.html" target="_blank">Spanish week</a>:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Homemade bread is so much better for us because it doesn't have preservatives. </blockquote>
<br />
He stops chewing. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Because it doesn't have what?<br />
<br />
Preservatives. I don't use preservatives to make it.<br />
<br />
I hope not. That doesn't even make sense.</blockquote>
<br />
At this point, I should've realized I'd committed yet another word fail, but these were early days, and I had yet to discover how the intricacies of Spanish lace the language like so much barbed wire. I charged on. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Well, it does make sense if you want the bread to last longer.<br />
<br />
... the <i>bread</i>?<br />
<br />
Yeah. The bread in the store is full of preservatives. It lasts forever.<br />
<br />
Oh. <i>Preservatives</i>. You mean preservatives.<br />
<br />
Yeah. What did I say?<br />
<br />
Condoms.</blockquote>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Oh. <i>Preservativos </i>means condoms. <i>Preservantes </i>means preservatives. Go figure. To this day, I just avoid those two words. Whoever invented Spanish did that shit just to mess with me. <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">. </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i>
-------------------<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>me importa un bledo:</b> it matters to me about as much as a blade of grass. I couldn't care less about it. </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>guácala </b>(WAH-kah-lah) - Gross. Blech. Disgusting. That's nasty. </span></i></div>
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more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-57926376366548153962015-09-30T15:48:00.000-06:002015-09-30T17:12:29.620-06:00A Married Couple Walks into a Bar ...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5975Y9aWwAw/VgsLRZ8gK7I/AAAAAAAADAk/-97OUm1zyCs/s1600/Charlie%2BBrown%2Bteacher11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5975Y9aWwAw/VgsLRZ8gK7I/AAAAAAAADAk/-97OUm1zyCs/s1600/Charlie%2BBrown%2Bteacher11.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>wah wah what the ...?</i></td></tr>
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When your marriage comprises two languages and two cultures, communication is challenging at best. At worst, it's a drunken conversation with Charlie Brown's teacher over a bad Skype connection.<br />
<br />
The esposo and I switch languages every week. I know, weird system, but there's a reason. Turns out it's really hard to change a relationship language once it's set. I didn't even know there was such a thing as a "relationship language", but there is, and apparently after a while it feels unnatural when you attempt to use the other, sidelined language. It feels awkward. Affected. Like group practice in high school French class.<br />
<br />
Every dual-language couple we know has fallen into using only one language or the other because of this.<br />
<br />
Some couples start out in one language, but then the situation changes and they need to start using the other. Maybe they move, or one person needs practice to get a job in the other language. A lot of people have told me they tried but couldn't make the shift. Others don't <i>need</i> to change their relationship language, but say it would be nice for communication to be more balanced, to be able to express themselves or use humor the way they can in their native language. Or just for the person doing life 24/7 in a foreign language to get a freaking break.<br />
<br />
So the esposo and I decided from the get-go to use both languages. Now each of us knows what the fuck is going on about half the time, which is pretty good odds in a dual-language marriage.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vXXGmR3mUuw/VgshHrYhmDI/AAAAAAAADAw/n01iDabYJ80/s1600/bilingual%2Bjoke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="261" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vXXGmR3mUuw/VgshHrYhmDI/AAAAAAAADAw/n01iDabYJ80/s320/bilingual%2Bjoke.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>jejeje</i></td></tr>
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Sometimes I'm envious of English speakers whose relationship language is Spanish because they're more fluent than I am. They can argue in Spanish, they know all the slang. They can freaking tell <i>jokes </i>in Spanish.<br />
<br />
So bitter.<br />
<br />
Humor is the hardest thing in another language. Well, that and prepositions. It's a big deal for me. I was raised at the tit of sarcasm. I like funny people. I appreciate witty banter, a well-tooled phrase, penetrating conversation dripping with double entendre. Okay, maybe not quite that cheap and obvious, but you get my point. I like funny, but funny is hard in Spanish.<br />
<br />
So it turns out I have two personalities. There's English Me and Spanish Me. I'm not even going to lie; Spanish Me is kind of a dud. English Me is fun at parties. Spanish Me, not so much. I mean, I'm not "unfun", I'm just kind of ... there.<br />
<br />
Translating humor is a bitch. Take British and North American humor; even a shared language doesn't mean the culture translates. If you're North American, you either love or hate British humor. I find most of it brilliantly subtle and entertaining, but then there are those weird, over-the-top sit-coms bordering on slapstick, and it's like ... what the fuck is <i>that </i>about? And the Brits find our humor about as subtle as Jane Russell's bra. Now throw in a different language on top of the cultural divide.<br />
<br />
Imagine you're at a party where half the guests are Seinfeld fans, and the other half, Three Stooges fans. Like that. That's me doing humor in Costa Rica.<br />
<br />
If my friends were to describe English Me, humor would be mentioned. Granted, they'd probably make good use of the aforementioned witty turns of phrase to mock me and make me the butt of some excellent joke. Because that shit's funny. If my Spanish-speaking friends and acquaintances were to describe me, they'd probably say, "<i>Es muy amable</i>." Basically, "She's nice".<br />
<br />
Right. Just put that on my tombstone. "She was nice." Zzzzz.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tyCmRotu8UA/Vfhs7eFeQlI/AAAAAAAACd4/jubusLAfsRY/s1600/jokes%2Bkid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tyCmRotu8UA/Vfhs7eFeQlI/AAAAAAAACd4/jubusLAfsRY/s320/jokes%2Bkid.jpg" width="170" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>... because a banana.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'm making headway. You know how it is when a kid starts getting humor? Now he's got jokes. And he keeps starting over, like thirty-seven times, and he says "no, wait," and "okay, okay, so what happened was," and the punch line isn't that good, but the adults laugh because the little bastard has heart and doesn't quite realize he sucks, and there he is smiling, all pleased with himself, not noticing the adults winking at each other over his head. Poor little fuck. Yeah, that's basically me, doing humor in Spanish.<br />
<br />
It's an awkward stage.<br />
<br />
So, as you may well imagine, the esposo and I sometimes have misunderstandings. Like every day. It happens often enough that I've decided to make these "moments in the life" a regular feature here. <i>Lost in Translation</i>, perhaps, though that's been done. <i>What the Fuck Does That Even Mean?</i> is also a possibility. Now that you all have the backstory, you're all set for the ensuing chortle-fest. At least try not to point. That's just taking it too far. This is another good reason that we switch it up every week, people -- who wants to always be the one who doesn't get it? Spread that suckage around.<br />
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So stay tuned for the first episode of <i>What the Fuck Does That Even Mean?</i> or whatever I decide to call it. (This is where the possum story comes in, for those who are breathlessly waiting.) Hey, I know you guys lost the <i>This Old Motherfucking House</i> series when I moved. I've got your back, amigos -- new show in town. And this one's cheaper. Well, except for my pride.<br />
<br />more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-64581682092611701312015-09-23T21:32:00.001-06:002015-09-29T10:24:44.163-06:00Coffee Fields (Not) Forever<div class="MsoNormal">
(In which I introduce the child who will become the esposo, a trap is laid, and cherries are not cherries at all.) </div>
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I saw this while taking Tonka on his constitutional, and it literally stopped me in my tracks.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Yes, we have cloudy days here, too. But only during the rainy season. And only later in the day. (Score!)</i></td></tr>
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One of the coffee fields around the corner is for sale. See the terracotta building peeking out from behind the sign? That's my apartment. There's an empty lot behind us, then this little coffee field (<i>cafetál</i>) to the east of the empty lot. Makes for a nice view out the back windows.<br />
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So one more farmer bites the dust. Whoever buys it will surely put up apartments or cookie-cutter houses. Or worse. They already built a childcare center on the other side of the lot behind us. The teachers are either hard of hearing or sadistic, because they recently added microphones to the fun. Now the whole neighborhood can sing along to jolly songs. All morning long. They also painted the wall facing us a lurid neon blue that screams at me from across the empty lot. Along with the kids.<br />
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Anyway, this is my view of the soon-to-be-razed coffee field. The mountains are hiding.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My current view to the east from my back windows. Little coffee field rocks some verdant green. </i></td></tr>
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On a clear day, you can see the mountains, too. Somehow, them basically being a parade of volcanoes isn't scary. Volcán Poás is the only active one within view, anyway. True, the world's second-most acidic sulfur lake sits up in the crater, but hey, the geysers can't reach this far, and the lake is such a tranquil, milky aqua-green that it lulls you into believing it's gentle. Okay, those three tourists were just struck by lightning there this week, but you can hardly blame the acid lake for that. Volcán Turrialba, which occasionally belches ash when it's feeling petulant, is southeast of us, out of sight, but it's the one that will coat the floors with a fine grit that's slicker than goose shit and makes you cough. It's the wind pattern, not the proximity.<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Cafetál by the empty corn field. </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Volcán Barva (inactive) is to the left.</span></i></div>
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I know the farmer who owns some of the coffee fields that run the length of the opposite side of the road, aka Tonka's Poop Path. He's an older gentleman with one of those really old, classic trucks. He plants corn in the one field that's not a <i>cafetál</i>. He has chickens and two grouchy little dogs that are Tonka's friends. I hope he doesn't follow suit. I sure would hate to see him sell.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Transporting coffee by ox cart, 1920s</i><br />
<i>La Nación - Manuel Gómez</i></td></tr>
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More and more independent coffee growers are selling. The big coffee corporations keep picking up more and more of the market. It's sad. Back in the early 1800s, Costa Rica gave land grants and free plants to anyone willing to grow coffee. Coffee became the country's most profitable export until bananas surpassed it more than a century later. (Tourism now out-earns them both, despite the occasional stray lightning bolt.) Yes, an elite class of coffee barons rose up, but there were a lot of independent growers, too, and those small-farm coffee growers made a huge contribution to the development of the country.<br />
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When my esposo was growing up, coffee was important, and not just for waking up in the morning. He grew up poor. His parents raised eight children and buried two more who had died in infancy. His father drove construction equipment, and his mother had the harder job of raising seven boys and a girl. She made tortillas by hand and washed clothes by hand. No family car. The kids didn't just share bedrooms, they shared beds. They watched TV through a neighbor's window. And every year, the boys picked coffee so they could buy clothes, shoes, and supplies for school. My esposo says they "weren't really poor". Because they only had to pick coffee before school started, not all the time. They didn't have to work during the school year. Perspective, people.<br />
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I never had to work as a <i>child</i>, so my perspective on what "poor" means has shifted.<br />
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Of course, you laugh about it later. Like childbirth. Or basic training. At family gatherings, once the beer and <i>guaro* </i>are flowing, the childhood stories start, and someone invariably brings up the coffee fields. I learned that picking coffee is no easy task. You're paid by volume, by the bag, but you can't just fly through there willy-willy. Only the ripe, red cherries (or berries) go on to become those brown, addictive, magical beans that breathe life into us every morning. You have to pick them individually, and carefully: you can't pick the green ones yet, the dried up purple ones are no good, and if you strip the branches or pick the stem from the plant along with the cherry, the flowers won't bloom in those places and next year's crop won't grow.<br />
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It takes some skill to pick coffee. To do it quickly, even more.<br />
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So one of the boys -- the name changes, depending on who's telling the story, but I'm pretty sure it was my esposo -- spied a big bunch of the reddest, ripest cherries, lying on the ground. One of his brothers must've dropped them! He must've been going too fast and missed his bag. What a prize! A good-sized pile, just there for the taking among the leaves. He snatched them up ... along with a big, steaming handful of dog shit. His trap-laying brothers <i>se cagaron de risa</i>, as the phrase goes in Spanish<i>.</i> In Costa Rica, you don't laugh your ass off, you shit yourself laughing. Appropriate.<br />
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Growing up in Ohio, we learned to watch out for yellow snow. My esposo learned to watch out for pretty, red coffee cherries on the ground.<br />
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Picking coffee here in Costa Rica is kind of like picking strawberries or grapes in the US. It's a job nobody really wants to do, a job people do to survive. A lot of Nicaraguan immigrants pick coffee here. There's a lot of prejudice and discrimination here against <i>nicaragüenses</i>. Some <i>ticos </i>complain about <i>nicas </i>"taking their jobs", but picking coffee is like working on the pineapple plantations; it's the last job people want. Everyone likes having that hot cup of <i>yodo </i>on the table, though.<br />
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I hope the fair trade cooperatives can get more of a foothold here so that small, independent growers and pickers here can have some security. If you guys have access to fair-trade coffee, please consider coughing up a little extra to support it.<br />
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A lot of ticos make coffee with a <i>chorreador</i>. This was my coffee maker for my first year or two here. If someone hadn't given us an electric one as a gift, I'd still be using it. Some of the more traditional <i>sodas* </i>make their coffee that way. Some of the fancier ones do it for the tourists who pay big bucks for "quaint" because they don't know enough to go to a regular <i>soda</i>.<br />
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Anyway, I'm sorry, little coffee field. I'm fervently hoping the bigger ones on the other side of the road don't follow you. I love our <i>tranquilo </i>little area. Selfishly, I don't want it to change. But more than that, this little <i>cafetál </i>is representative of a bigger change for small farms and for the country as a whole. I guess change is inevitable, but watching the coffee fields fall to housing developments -- or amped-up childcare centers -- is sad.<br />
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If McDonald's buys it, I'm out of here.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>cafetál </b></i>- coffee field</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>guaro </b></i>- sort of like Costa Rican moonshine. Made from sugarcane. There's a national brand you can buy in stores.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>cagarse de risa</b></i> - shit one's self laughing. Laugh your ass off. Crack up.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>tico </b></i>- a Costa Rican person. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>nica </b></i>- a Nicaraguan person.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i>yodo </i></b>- Literally, it means "iodine", but in Costa Rica it's also slang for coffee. I guess because of the color.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>chorreador </b></i>- old school coffee maker. Basically a frame holding a sock-like, cotton coffee filter.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>soda </b></i>- a little restaurant that serves traditional, cheap, basic food.</span>more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-64678910851705284642015-09-15T19:54:00.001-06:002015-09-22T10:04:53.142-06:00Happy Independence Day, Costa Rica<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>(Which was a relatively peaceful event, but into every history, some asshats must fall. This particular one came from Tennessee.)<br /></i><br />
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On this day in 1821, Costa Rica, quietly obtained its independence from Spain, as did most of Central America, with the exceptions of Belize and Panama. Costa Rica abolished its military in 1948, and people here are very proud of the reputation they've built as a peaceful, <i>tranquilo </i>country. They've avoided many of the hardships suffered by their neighbors, starting with colonization. Not that the colonizers didn't come. Of course they came. They just didn't amp up the raping, pillaging, and murdering to the levels they enjoyed elsewhere. They did pass around some smallpox because that's just the colonizer's calling card. A given.<br />
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When that genocidal asshat, Cristóbal Colón, (You may know him as Christopher Columbus) came a-sailing in 1502, he dubbed this place Costa Rica, meaning "rich coast", believing it to be rich in gold. It wasn't. Nor were there enough indigenous people for old Cristóbal to pull his usual stunt of enslaving them and forcing them to work their own land for his pleasure and profit. The settlers on the seemingly Rich Coast were largely left to their own devices, meaning they had to do their own work. Needless to say, Costa no-muy-Rica was mostly ignored while the Spanish colonization *<i>cough </i><b>genocide </b><i>cough</i>* continued in golder pastures.<br />
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Likewise, Costa Rica hasn't been affected by military conflict, dictators, corruption, or the effects of the drug cartels to the extent that its neighbors have. They did have to fend off an attempted takeover by one William Walker, a member of the Southern Confederacy who hailed from Tennessee. Willy decided he wanted a couple of Central American countries of his very own, by gawd, so he pulled a Cristóbal and decided to just go take them. Willy planned to convert Central America into a slave territory, extending the land of cotton right on down to the land of bananas.<br />
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Manifest Destiny wasn't just heading west, y'all.<br />
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He declared himself president of Nicaragua in 1856, and then set his sights on his neighbors to the south. The Costa Rican president rallied his people and raised a substantial militia in short order. Armed with farming tools, rifles, and (of course) machetes, they tracked down our Nashville native and commenced an ass-whooping. The Battle of Santa Rosa lasted about 15 minutes, ending with the would-be usurper high-tailing it for Nicaragua.<br />
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They followed him.<br />
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This is where the story takes on the stuff of legend and folks start with the toasts. Having cornered Walker and his men, President Mora asked for a volunteer to carry a torch and set fire to the building in order to drive the evil-doers out. A humble drummer boy, Juan Santamaría, bravely stepped forward, asking only that his mother be cared for in the event of his death. Our courageous boy-soldier did his duty and, tragically, met his end, but he succeeded in flushing out ol' Willy and his merry band of assclowns.<br />
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Costa Rica prides itself on its claim of being the only Latin American country whose national hero is a <i>campesino</i>, a humble laborer, rather than a politician or military hero. Juan Santamaría was also of mixed race, being partly of African descent, though you won't find that reflected in any of the statues. (French sculptor. What are you going to do?) Our main airport is named after Juan Santamaría, so if any of you head down, now you know the story behind the name.<br />
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This is the Costa Rican national anthem. I like how it reflects peace, the beauty of nature, and working the land with your hands. It briefly mentions defense in the context of the <i>pueblo </i>-- here meaning the people -- exchanging their tools for weapons to defend the country's honor, in the tradition of the militia that schooled William Walker. No rockets' red glare, no bombs bursting in air. I like the idea of a national anthem being about peace, work, nature, and the land providing sustenance and shelter for its people.<br />
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The video has some nice scenes of Costa Rica. Give a listen. It's short and sweet. (Lyrics in the comments)<br />
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The anthem sounds sweeter to me this year, as I just received notification that my Costa Rican citizenship has been approved. In about a month, I should have my <i>cédula</i>, or national ID card, making me an official, card-carrying citizen of Costa Rica, or as my favorite <i>taxista </i>likes to say, <i>más tica que gallo pinto</i>. (You're more Costa Rican than the national dish. Yeah, flattery, but I'll take it.)<br />
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Feliz Día de la Independencia, Costa Rica.<br />
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<br />more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-70007814271978788662015-09-12T12:38:00.001-06:002015-09-20T14:29:08.508-06:00Language Arts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Using another language on vacation is a whole different thing from living your life in another language. After a trip, sure, your brain is mush, but then you go back to handling life in English. And that's that. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xReQiN9fm1A/VfRnZZ_EG1I/AAAAAAAACdU/Ix7LocdxpIU/s1600/talk%2Bbubbles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xReQiN9fm1A/VfRnZZ_EG1I/AAAAAAAACdU/Ix7LocdxpIU/s320/talk%2Bbubbles.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Try moving, though.<br /><br />There is no "going back to English". Your new normal is brain exhaustion. But you keep plugging along, hoping someday you won't sound like a third grader. You master the basics. But you soon realize that those happy chats with <i>taxistas </i>and market vendors are not fulfilling. You have opinions, you are interested. You miss feeling intelligent. You miss being heard. You want depth, an exchange of ideas beyond the weather and the price of papayas. You resolve to fill your days with deep and fascinating conversation. Enough of this Spanish 101 business.<br /><br />It's time to level up, bitches. <br /><br />But despite having a somewhat steady grasp on the nuts and bolts of the language, you are blissfully unaware of the number of factors at play here:<br /><br /><b><span style="font-size: large;">Focus</span></b><br />You know how in your native language you listen to things without even trying? You talk on the phone while you check Facebook. You text and watch a movie. Or you update your blog while belting out some sweet harmony with your boys, the Eagles. You listen to your fifth-grade teacher perfectly well while reading <i>A Wrinkle in Time</i>, hidden inside your science textbook. (Curse you, Mrs. Dunkle. Give me my book back. Still got an A on your dumb test.) Yeah, well, forget all that. That's over. If you want to know what the hell is going on <i>now</i>, you have to focus. Your mind cannot wander. Multitasking? No. Done. Thinking about what to make for dinner? Sorry, nope. Full concentration mode. All the freaking time. <br /><br /><b><span style="font-size: large;">Background Noise</span></b><br />If there is music or TV in the background, forget it. You know how a sound engineer can adjust the volume on different audio tracks? Bring up the lead vocals, bring down the drums, mute that guy who coughed? Yeah, well, that's not you. Your brain cannot yet filter different tracks in your new language, let alone adjust or mute tracks. You never even knew your brain <i>was </i>automatically filtering out noise in your own language, did you? Now it's all on one track. Everything. Music, the person talking to you, the convo at the next table, TV, traffic, barking dogs, ticking clocks -- just one big, cacophonous assault on your ears. If you're a noise-sensitive person (hello), this is anxiety hell.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wnDaW0bwrjk/VfRRmIzfsgI/AAAAAAAACcc/dghqw9mUICY/s1600/group%2Bme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wnDaW0bwrjk/VfRRmIzfsgI/AAAAAAAACcc/dghqw9mUICY/s200/group%2Bme.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Groups</b></span><br />If more than one person is talking at once, same deal. Your brain cannot filter that shit. In a group, there is no pause for "your turn". This is not call and response, people. By the time you formulate a sentence, the point you wanted to address is three sentences back and someone else has the floor. You do a lot of smiling and nodding. Which you hate because you are not a passive, smiling nodder by nature. Groups are often in places with -- you guessed it -- background noise, as well as our next factor: alcohol.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">Alcohol</span></b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>There is mother-tongue tolerance and there is new-language tolerance. Never the twain shall meet. You have a window of opportunity. One or two drinks: you're killing it. You're confident, you're conjugating, you're clever. <i>Hola, mi compa, dónde está el baño, te ves guapa mi amor, siempre tomo el bus los miércoles, tengo un lapiz, regálame una birra, mae*!</i> You are in the zone. Okay, stop drinking now. Trust me, this is the best your language skills get. Order that next drink, and it's all downhill. It will hit fast, too. Like mid-sentence. Do not miss your window.<br /><br /><b><span style="font-size: large;">Accent</span></b><br />You know how in English, talking to someone from Boston is a world apart from talking to Honey Boo-Boo? How Scottish English is just a wee bit different from Texas English? Same thing. Costa Rican (tico) Spanish was, for me, a difficult accent. It's a river of softlyconnectedsoundsrushing past my ears rather than clear.distinct.separate.words. Then there are regional accents. You understand one guy easily, turn to his buddy and ... <i>nada</i>. Awkward. I quickly discoverd that <i>no podía entender ni papa</i>. Literally, "I couldn't even understand a potato". Which brings me to the next factor:<br /><br /><b><span style="font-size: large;">Slang</span></b><br />Every Spanish-speaking country has its own slang. I never know whether I'm learning standard Spanish or tico Spanish until I talk to someone from another country and they don't know what the hell I'm on about. Then there's <i>pachuco</i>, which is the really street tico slang. My husband is a librarian. I'm not very street in Spanish.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><b><span style="font-size: large;">You</span></b><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XgyCxoXu8tw/VfRa4e6lJ2I/AAAAAAAACc0/x45Cq5feUuA/s1600/brain%2Bdead2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XgyCxoXu8tw/VfRa4e6lJ2I/AAAAAAAACc0/x45Cq5feUuA/s200/brain%2Bdead2.jpg" width="156" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://panelgutter.deviantart.com/" target="_blank">DeviantArt: panelgutter</a></td></tr></tbody></table>If you are tired, stressed, sick, or angry, you can't <i>even</i>. This is why I still fail at arguing in Spanish, which is a pity because that shit would be satisfying as hell, <i>pendejos</i>. It's exasperating because the times when you are stressed, sick, tired, or mad are exactly when you need communication to be effortless, but nooo, your brain just shuts down. Access denied. That bastard retreats into its skull-cave to hibernate and leaves you to deal with the situation. Brainlessly.<br /><br /><b><span style="font-size: large;">Other factors</span></b><br />-- When people mumble, turn their head away, or cover their mouths.<br />-- Volume. Your brain can't fill in missing pieces like in English.<br />-- PA systems and microphones.<br />-- The phone. You can't see gestures, facial expressions, or the person's mouth, and sometimes audio quality sucks. If I don't pick up, take the hint. Leave a message. Better yet, text me.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TJrrc2RTEyQ/VfNXV2mbTxI/AAAAAAAACaI/s2W3IKm6zek/s1600/sheets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TJrrc2RTEyQ/VfNXV2mbTxI/AAAAAAAACaI/s2W3IKm6zek/s320/sheets.jpg" width="220" /></a>So it's a process. Sometimes it's just easier to smile and nod.<br /><br />It feels like doing life with your brain all tangled up in giant bedsheets.<br /><br />Sometimes it actually feels claustrophobic, and you go all spastic-freakout in your head, trying to mentally Bruce Lee your way out of the tangled covers so you can fucking <i>breathe</i>, but they're not real. You can't throw them off. The only way out is to calm your ass down and keep trying. Which is maddeningly slow and frustrating.<br /><br />But it's also fun and satisfying with a lot of <i>fuck, yeah!</i> to it, like when ...<br /><ul><li>you realize you just watched the news ... and totally got it. </li><li>you have a conversation without thinking about the language. </li><li>you've gone from "Rains. No parasol" to "If I'd known it was going to rain, I would've brought my umbrella." </li><li>some guy catcalls you and you cut him off without breaking stride. </li><li>you can read novels. (Yes, of course with the Kindle dictionary. What am I, Merriam-Webster?)</li><li>you can finally talk to someone in a crowded bar with music playing. (What is it with the 80s music? That shit just stays popular in other countries.)</li></ul>Right? Fuck, yeah. That's what keeps you plodding forward. Incrementally.<br /><br /><b>So listen up, friends. When you hear people speaking with an accent and making mistakes, don't you judge them. That shit is <i>hard</i>. Their brains can never relax. Their brains are probably fucking exhausted. And if they sound like a third grader, do not assume they're not intelligent. They could be a rocket scientist in their own language. Maybe smile at them. Maybe ask them what they think. Catch their eye. Maybe pause your own mouth for a minute so they can arrange their thoughts into words you can understand. Maybe include them if you're in a group and they're smiling and nodding a lot.</b><br /><br /><br /><br />I started this draft almost four years ago. Now I can say "I speak Spanish" without feeling like a fraud. A lot of the factors above aren't such a big deal anymore. I'm not going to lie, though; sometimes they still kick my ass. People ask if I'm fluent, and I never know how to answer. According to criteria online, I guess I am. Sort of. Maybe. In my own mind ... um ... no, I don't feel fluent. Hey, perfectionist here. Blessing and curse, people.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>My accent is getting better. Thankgawd. What I wouldn't give to have a sexy accent. Italian, Spanish, French, Hungarian. Face it, of all the world's accents, the gringo* accent has got to be among the ugliest. We are the nails on the chalkboard of accents. And that's what I'm working with here, folks. No matter how fluent I become, that accent will still be there, assaulting Costa Rican ears like an enthusiastic child learning violin. On an out-of-tune instrument. After guzzling Mountain Dew.<br /><br />Last week, someone asked if I was French after we'd been talking a while. (I know, right?) Seeing my expression, he amended it. Swedish? Not ... Dutch? I said I was from the States, and bless his heart, he was surprised. Apologized! I was like, nooo, no apology necessary, good sir; just let me shine those boots up for you and build you this pedestal real quick. Hey, I know what the accent of my people sounds like. I'm under no illusions. I totally took that shit as a compliment.<br /><br />Granted, it was probably just in comparison with the hordes of gringos who move here and never learn to speak beyond <i>Yoh kee-ay-roh Tack-oh Bell</i>, but still. I'll take it.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">---------------------------<br /><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-small;">*<i><b>Gringo/gringa</b></i> is not offensive or derogatory in Costa Rica. Took me a while to get that, but it's just what people say here. No negative connotation at all. Now, if someone calls you <i><b>yanqui </b></i>... okay, not good. </span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">*<i><b>Mae </b></i>= dude. It's like <i>güey </i>in Mexican Spanish. </span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">*Alcohol-induced, in-the-zone Spanish: "Hey, my friend, where is the bathroom, you're looking good, baby, I always take the bus on Wednesday, I have a pencil, bring me a beer, dude!"</span>more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-30474225665596495002015-09-03T14:02:00.001-06:002015-09-27T12:18:28.541-06:00Paradise Lost and Found<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">view from the laundry room window</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #999999;"><i>How many prodigal-blogger posts does this make? Whatever. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #999999;"><i><br />I found an assload of drafts in here. Apparently, I wrote a bunch of shit while strapped to the roller coaster that is culture shock, after blithely setting off for paradise with nine suitcases and a dog. </i></span><br />
<i><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span><span style="color: #999999;">I almost deleted them. But this is how I felt at the time, and this was my path from there to here.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span><span style="color: #999999;">I wrote this three years ago. I'd forgotten the post, but I remember that night so clearly. </span></i><br />
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<br />
<b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;">Paradise Lost and Found</span></b><br />
<br />
It's March. 2012. Seven months since the exalted move to Paradise and entering into wedded bliss with the proverbial Latin lover. Who needs Calgon? This chick probably spends her perfect days on the beach, being served cocktails in a coconut by her surf-instructor husband, listening to toucan calls and the spicy strains of salsa music while all her troubles are borne away on a sultry, floral-scented, tropical breeze.<br />
<br />
Bitch probably has a pet monkey, too. <br />
<br />
Well, sort of. I don't live anywhere near the beach. Or even a pool. The esposo is a librarian whose swimming skills are about in line with my salsa skills. We are, however, surrounded by coffee fields and volcanos, and we do enjoy the occasional coconut with a straw. Or box of cheap wine. The breeze, while often floral-scented, has not borne away life's troubles, but it does occasionally deliver volcanic ash or monstrous insects through the screenless windows. There are banana trees (which are not actually trees), palm trees, mango trees, papaya trees, avocado trees, and fifty-eleven-jillion types of flowers, birds, and butterflies. Sunshine. Always.<br />
<br />
No pet monkey, though. Sorry.<br />
<br />
I live in paradise. I wake up to sunshine, birdsong, and warm tile floors every single day. Except sometimes I feel like I'm <i>supposed </i>to feel like I live in paradise, and I am secretly guilty if I'm not 100% ecstatically happy all the time. Like I have to live up to living the dream, you know?<br />
<br />
There really is no magical place that is paradise, though you can be coaxed into believing in it when you're vulnerable, when you're shivering under a Snuggie, alone in your vast expanse of king-sized bed, listening to the endless rain beat down on the new roof you just paid for in your soon-to-be-foreclosed house, and it's dark by 4pm.<br />
<br />
You can sure as fuck believe in paradise then. <br />
<br />
I moved to Costa Rica, but my kids didn't. My friends aren't here. I feel isolated, emotionally and linguistically. I'm getting better at Spanish, but it's like communicating with your head wrapped in a thick, wet blanket. That shit's hard, people. I now have a husband to have and to hold till death do us part, but marriage doesn't magically transport your ass to the pages of Harlequin any more than taking a salsa class magically makes you Shakira. (Yeah, that shit didn't work. Turns out they don't actually put those footprints on the floor for you to follow.) I traded in my big, empty bed for the challenge of managing marriage across two languages and two cultures, after a largely long-distance courtship. And that, my friends, <i>no es nada fácil.</i> We could be a weekly sit-com, trust. Yes, I walked away from my job -- how great is that? Everyone's dream! But I also walked away from my own pension and salary, stepping into the role of a housewife completely dependent on her husband in a <i>machista </i>part of the world. And that kind of messes with your head.<br />
<br />
The separation from my kids and friends ... ain't enough paradise to fix that. My insides try to rise up and choke me if I let myself go down to that cellar where the real feelings live; oily, snakey things, locked up tight, away from the daily business of life. As a single mom, I got pretty good at compartmentalizing, at handling shit while appearing sane and competent, at keeping that padlock snicked shut. Tight.<br />
<br />
Until I'm alone.<br />
<br />
Because then no one has to know. <br />
<br />
So one night I'm cooking dinner (because I'm a housewife now, y'all) and my iPod pops up this lullaby I used to sing to the kids when they were babies, in that big rocking chair that got left on the porch of my now-foreclosed house. It was fast, too -- James Taylor reached out and gut-punched me with a baby's song, hard, and the padlocked things slithered out, into my consciousness where they don't belong, except I'm not alone now, because I moved to paradise and new husband is sitting over there playing computer chess, and James Taylor is singing <i>"and you can sing this song ... when I'm goonnnne,"</i> and now I'm the one who's gone, and freaking James Taylor slams me back into the rocking chair with that soft, chubby baby in terrycloth sleeper pajamas, except it's not real because now the baby has a goatee and a job and college and bills and is doing it alone, without his mom, because she's in paradise peeling beets ...<br />
<br />
... and then I'm in the laundry room of this tiny apartment, trying to get it under control because I need to be in control, but it won't <i>stop</i>, and I'm looking out at the coffee plants and banana trees (which aren't really trees) under the moon, with the mountains blocking the low stars, and this is paradise, where I'm not alone but I'm a different kind of lonely ... and then new husband is in the laundry room, probably hoping like hell it was nothing he did to make this gringa <i>volverse loca</i> in the laundry room (possibly wondering if this is an appropriate time to practice the "go nuts" phrase he just learned in English), and I try to tell him it's just that I miss the kids ... I just miss the kids ... only it's hard to speak clearly when you're crying and James Taylor is crooning his freaking baby's song, and I'm speaking in English because I can't <i>think </i>in Spanish when I'm crying, so it's harder to understand me, and we're doing that "¿<i>Qué</i>? ¿<i>Cómo? What?</i>" thing, and I want to punch James Taylor but I secretly believe I deserve to feel this way because <i>(<span style="font-size: x-small;">you wouldn't be missing them so much if you hadn't LEFT THEM</span>)<span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i>really, who deserves to be happy in paradise?<br />
<br />
And that's how it hits you. Like a fucked-up, run-on sentence that won't stop.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I've been doing a lot of thinking about paradise and happiness and relationships and about how <i>where</i> you are affects <i>how </i>you are. I'm having a pretty hard time, to be honest, living without my family and my friends. I was prepared for the whole culture shock thing; I didn't Pollyanna that shit. I know the drill, I've done international moves before. But not without my kids. And in those places, there were other transplanted people who got it. And who spoke my language. <br />
<br />
How can you feel sad when you're "living the dream"? I feel like an ingrate. I mean, you quit your job, moved to a tropical country and found love to boot? Bitch, shut the fuck up and get back to your fairy tale before I throw a mango at your ass. <br />
<br />
Goddamn. <br />
<br />
In Seattle, I had people whom I loved more than life, but I wasn't happy. I had happy moments with my people, but I wasn't really happy in general. I don't think most people know how deeply Seattle got in there, what it did to me. It was sucking the life out of me, sucking the <i>me</i> out of me. <br />
<br />
Here in Costa Rica, the sunshine restores me, I feel better, I feel more like me. I feel happy in general. I have someone who loves me. I have my dog. I have time to breathe. It's warm. It's yellow and red and so many greens and nothing is grey or cold or damp. I just miss my kids, my friends. Sometimes almost to the point of panic if I can't keep it shut up tight, where it belongs. <br />
<br />
Even in paradise, life is trade-offs, people. Always.<br />
<br />
I feel like I'm healing something, being here. It's a process, but I feel it happening. A location isn't really paradise, but it does make one hell of a difference. There will always be stuff, but sunshine makes handling the stuff easier. At least for me. I'm that freaking Seattle crocus escaping the cold, snowy ground, basking my ass off in the sunshine. Alive. Sunshine is so fucking good.<br />
<br />
Now if I can just find an agreeable monkey and teach it to ride on Batman, we'll be golden.more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-17226140479369255142012-02-27T11:33:00.001-06:002015-09-30T14:19:22.769-06:00Escape From Bitch MountainI actually forgot the password to this blog. So it's been two years. That has more to do with my surrender to Facebook than with me quitting my job, cashing in my meager contribution toward the retirement I would have enjoyed at age 87 or so, moving to Central America with my dog and nine suitcases, and marrying a Costa Rican socialist.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">coffee fields around the corner from my apt. with requisite volcano in the background</td></tr>
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Oh, please. Don't act so shocked, most of your asses are on Facebook too. You've seen the status updates.<br />
<br />
Maybe I need a new blog. Even the colors on the cowbell one reflect those years in Seattle. The grey years. Maybe my long cyber-absence and the idea of a new blog are just ways to separate myself mentally from that time, I don't know. <br />
<br />
So I've lived here now for seven months, and the mental transition ... let's just say it's a process. There's a part of me that is still surprised to see the sun every day, that doesn't truly believe it will really come back in the morning. A part of me that even on muggy days, when my deodorant has raised the white flag of surrender, still mentally pays desperate homage to the weather gods so they won't take it away. I still avoid the shade, and am weirded out when I see Costa Ricans using umbrellas <i>against the sun.</i> They probably think I'm an idiot, trotting down the sunny side of street like some clueless tourist. Dumb gringa. Never mind, even the tourists have the sense to walk in the shade with their visors and backpacks and Hawaiian shirts. And maps. They all have maps.<br />
<br />
Which doesn't help much because there are no street names or house numbers here. <br />
<br />
In Seattle, people literally call in sick on sunny days. No, really. Because you never know when it will happen again, and there's a kind of giddiness that hits you. Hey, I'm talking about a place where you literally may not see sunshine for a month, and then only that fleeting phenomenon locally known as a "sunbreak" before you're back in the grey. <br />
<br />
It's really not possible to explain the effect of living like that. There's this irrational fear: don't waste the sun, if you don't appreciate it, it will go away. And once that gets inside you, it apparently can't just be switched off by escaping to a tropical climate.<br />
<br />
In Costa Rica, summer runs from December to May, roughly. What they call "winter" is really just the rainy season. The idea of a rainy season struck fear into my Seattle-scarred heart, but it really just means it rains every afternoon. You still get sun almost every morning. Of course, "rain" here can mean torrents that wash your house into the river as opposed to nonstop drizzle, but I repeat: sun basically every day. (That house-river thing happened about a five-minute walk from us. Rain does not play here.)<br />
<br />
Going through said rainy season with no car, no dryer, and no furnace sheds a whole new light on rain, but that's another story. <br />
<br />
<br />
So in December these trade winds, <i>vientos alisios</i>, arrive and the Costa Ricans, or <i>ticos</i>, as they call themselves, get all nostalgic and happy because it signals the beginning of summer and the arrival of Christmas. (I know. Still trying to wrap my head around that combo.) They put Christmas lights on palm trees, and these nativity scenes pop up everywhere. Even in the bars. The manger itself stays empty until the night of the 24th when the holy plastic child makes his blessed appearance. Even in the bars.<br />
<br />
You know how the first snow and that crisp smell of smoke from the chimneys make us feel all happy and Decembery? The <i>vientos alisios</i> are like that for ticos. Except with no fireplaces or furnaces against the cold that rides in on them. The winds are insane. Laundry dries in half an hour, but holy hell, can it be chilly at night! The esposo loves it. <i>"Ah, ¡qué fresquito!" </i> I scowl and pull on my giant, fuzzy robe. The one you all laughed at me for bringing. <br />
<br />
I guess when you live your whole life where heat and sunshine are a given, every single day, those winds do seem refreshing, a relief, especially when they mean Christmas and summer. <br />
<br />
It's hard to imagine ever feeling relief instead of dread at the arrival of cold winds or rain. Even happy Christmas trade winds. I suppose someday I'll get there. Until then, the sunny side of the street feels just fine.more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-55127258722961337762010-08-13T23:05:00.001-06:002015-09-20T14:29:08.602-06:00She Lives!Not to be confused with the religious hymn, similarly titled.<br /><br />I've been missing out on all of your lives. Unless you're on Facebook. You know who you are. And you've been missing out on me bitching about the requisite lack of sunshine, the infamous This Old Motherfucking House, and other adventures in the land of rain.<br /><br />I ask you simply this: is it so wrong to consider up and leaving TOMH and moving to Costa Rica? For reals, people. Also, it appears that your favorite bitching blogger may be, finally, working on her love life. But it's complicated.<br /><br />Also, I've lost 37 pounds, can run almost three miles and will be happy as hell in about 20 more pounds. Although the aforementioned love interest says to stop now with the weight loss. Gotta love <i>that</i>, eh ladies? Nice being seen through a non-US-beauty-standards lens. So yeah, it seems that military training has kicked in, overpowered the Seattle slump that was clinging to my ass like a Puget Sound barnacle, and I'm currently kicking my own ass all the way to finish line.<br /><br />Hoooah, bitches.<br /><br />I leave you with these thoughts, for now I must make the rounds and catch up on your lives. I have missed you, contrary to my apparent slackassedness and lack of interest, and will return shortly.more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-84186998073672674772009-12-26T02:41:00.001-06:002015-09-20T14:29:08.637-06:00On a Cold Winter's Night ...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SzXTlYQtoFI/AAAAAAAACPE/7KTCRKFMlfg/s1600-h/pianosnowflakes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 0px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 121px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SzXTlYQtoFI/AAAAAAAACPE/7KTCRKFMlfg/s200/pianosnowflakes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419470365731430482" border="0" /></a>Another Christmas come and gone. Sitting here with the Bohemian, bathed in the glow of Christmas lights and our computer monitors, Nora Jones adding to the late night ambiance after a long and good Christmas day. The Ex is back at his hotel, Male Offspring and Not-So-Teen Demon are dreaming of sugarplums snug in their beds, dishes are done, dogs are tuckered out, wine is poured ... it was a good day.<br /><br />Tonight, during a break in the dinner preparations, I went outside for a few minutes, and thought about passing time. It was one of those rare Seattle nights - crisp, clear, glowing moon, twinkling stars, the whole bit. Maybe the rarity is a good thing; when you add Christmas lights, slightly chilled Shiraz, and the distant sounds of a busy kitchen to the aforementioned twinklyass stars, it all adds up to one tall glass of melancholy. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. <br /><br />Anyway, I'll leave it at that, and just say I'm exceedingly glad for the time with my family today, glad that we're healthy and together. I'm thankful for my children. I'm thankful that their dad could come spend Christmas with them. I thought about people I miss today, and people whom I know only via the wonders of The Internets. I'm a slackass blogger; you all know this. I entertain myself with thoughts of you accepting this as an endearing foible. Hey, my blog, my fantasy. Whatever. Seriously though, merry merry to all my cyber friends. Connections are important, whether in the flesh, or in the heart. So here's to making it through another year, and to connections that help maintain our tenuous hold on sanity. Merry thoughts, all.more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-27605864007307186612009-08-01T22:13:00.001-06:002015-09-23T11:54:20.280-06:00Adventures in Spanish Class<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SnX6lsTGTSI/AAAAAAAACNg/g1xEjSmnmZE/s1600-h/AmericanWorld.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365470056535182626" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SnX6lsTGTSI/AAAAAAAACNg/g1xEjSmnmZE/s400/AmericanWorld.gif" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 207px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
So I'm taking two classes this quarter, including Spanish. Given the work I'm doing with the school district and the commissioner position with the city, I figured I need to get off my ass and <i>hablar</i>. My German and Hungarian aren't doing me much good these days.<br />
<br />
Please. Look at me, acting like I ever could ever actually speak Hungarian. <br />
<br />
This is the first time I've tried to learn a language without living in a country where that language is spoken. Immersion is the way to go, folks. Also, having learned other languages is an advantage because concepts are familiar, but it's a disadvantage when the teacher calls on you, and you pop out with something like, "<i>Igen, tengo harom Kinderek,</i>" or some other fucked-up linguistic amalgam.<br />
<br />
The instructor is <i>excelente</i>. He's a native Spanish speaker who doesn't baby you or move at a snail's pace. Thankgawd. My kids' high school Spanish teacher was this white lady with the absolute worst gringa accent ever. Like when you jam pencils in your ears to make it stop. School districts won't hire qualified native speakers but will hire less-proficient people to teach a language. The only native speaker in my district is the Chinese teacher, and I bet you $10 that's only because they couldn't find a non-Chinese person who speaks passable Chinese. Sounds kind of like affirmative action for white folks.<br />
<br />
But I digress. So, my class. It's amazing, the comments that fall out of people's mouths. The instructor sometimes mutters under his breath that he only has X number of years before he can retire. He gives "cultural points" for extra credit. You have to write about one of his recommended books, films, restaurants or dance places.<br />
<br />
I wish he'd never assigned that shit.<br />
<br />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Classmate 1 (raising hand):</span> So, for the cultural points ... does Azteca count?</blockquote>
<br />
No. Not even kidding. But that was fine compared to what came later.<br />
<br />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Classmate 2 (to me): </span> Well, for <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> cultural points, I had a coffee date with a <span style="font-style: italic;">Spanish </span>man!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me</span>: <span style="font-size: 78%;">(ohmyfuckinggod)</span> I ... didn't realize you had a friend from Spain.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Classmate 2:</span> Oh, he's not from Spain! I wish!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me</span>: <span style="font-size: 78%;">(here we go)</span> So, he's not Spanish. He <i>speaks</i> Spanish.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Classmate 2:</span> (blank stare) Um ...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>If he's not from Spain, he's not Spanish.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Classmate 2: </span>Well, he's ... where <span style="font-style: italic;">is </span>he from? Oh! Brazil! He's from Brazil.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>Brazil? And he speaks Spanish? That's interesting ...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Classmate 2: </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span></span></span>Well, not really, seeing as he's from <span style="font-style: italic;">Brazil</span>!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>They speak Portuguese in Brazil.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Classmate 2: </span>(blank stare) Well ... I don't know about all <span style="font-style: italic;">that, </span>but a date with a Spanish man should work for cultural points! And, he was <i>muy </i><span style="font-style: italic;">caliente</span>!</blockquote>
<br />
Then there was the time she slipped me a note about our instructor that said, "<span style="font-style: italic;">He's such a Latin macho! But I like him!!</span>" Yeah, I'm sure the professor will be thrilled that he meets with your approval in spite of his alleged machismo. The reason he has been pegged as such is that he insists on proper grammar and pronunciation, and doesn't do a lot of hand-holding.<br />
<br />
I'm thinking that makes him a "good instructor" rather than a "Latin macho", but what do I know.<br />
<br />
So I go to this study group the other day. I was invited by a woman who speaks English fluently after only two and a half years in-country. Spanish will be her fourth language. I figure she knows how the hell to learn a language, I'm studying with her. Another woman in the group, a self-professed conservative Republican proceeded to trash President Obama, informing the younger students that the President is a socialist who's gotten the country into debt. Yeah, honey, I think the last eight years had something to do with that, actually. Anyway, she had these gems to offer:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Classmate 3:</span> Well, <span style="font-style: italic;">my </span>introduction to this culture was dating a Spanish man for five years. I was practically a member of his family! But I never learned the language.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me</span>: <span style="font-size: 78%;">(Again with the Spanish man.)</span> So ... he was from Spain?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Classmate 3:</span> Well, he was half Mexican and half Apache on his father's side, so you know ... <span style="font-size: 78%;">[waves hand, dismissively]</span> but his <span style="font-style: italic;">mother</span>, she was born in <span style="font-style: italic;">Spain, </span>so ..<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> So he was Mexican as well.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Classmate 3:</span> Well ... anyway, you know how most Mexicans have, you know, Aztec or Maya background? Well, he had Apache, so he had the very defined cheekbones. He never cut his hair; his father told him never to cut it because he was a warrior, you know. I got in touch with him some time later, and asked if his hair was still long, and he was all <span style="font-size: 78%;">[mimes annoyance] </span>"<span style="font-style: italic;">Yeeesss...</span>", and I was like, dude, you're 55 years old now!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me</span>: That's his culture, it doesn't have an expiration date.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Classmate 3:</span> Oh, totally! I know! He was just beautiful! So exotic! <span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Anyway, the reason I'm taking this class is so I can move somewhere and teach English as a Second Language. I want to get certified to teach Spanish too.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Another classmate</span>: Really? Where?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Classmate 3:</span> Well, I lived in Arizona for years, but never even crossed the border, because you know, <span style="font-size: 78%;">[dismissive wave]</span> Mexico, I just didn't <span style="font-style: italic;">care</span>. But Spain or Argentina ... I'd love to go there! Yep, much more interested in Spain or South America than Central America or <span style="font-style: italic;">Mexico.</span> But I wouldn't say that to my friend!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Everyone else:</span> ...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Classmate 3:</span> In fact, another friend -- he's a <span style="font-style: italic;">very</span> wealthy Argentinian -- actually said to me <span style="font-size: 78%;">[mimes snootyassedness]</span> "<span style="font-style: italic;">You're speaking with a Mexican accent!" </span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>But I wouldn't say that to my friend, the one I was telling you about!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>What friend? <span style="font-size: 78%;">(wondering how this chick is picking up a Mexican accent when our instructor is Puerto Rican)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Classmate 3:</span> Oh, my friend who helps me with my assignments. She checks all my homework for me. She's Mexican.</blockquote>
<br />
Are you fucking kidding me? So ... your friend is good enough to check your homework, work on your assignments with you, and basically help you get an A in the class, but you don't want to pick up her accent or visit her country? In fact, you want to learn her language in order to move to one of the countries with a higher population of what you consider white people, and get paid to teach -- probably in a position where your friend, the native speaker who helped your ass pass this class, wouldn't be hired.<br />
<br />
What the hell, people?<br />
<br />
Needless to say, she clammed up when I started up about how great it is that our instructor is a native speaker, because some schools pass over the native speakers to hire gringos, and then you don't get good instruction, because they're, <span style="font-style: italic;">you know</span>, <span style="font-size: 78%;">[dismissive wave]</span> not as <span style="font-style: italic;">qualified</span>.<br />
<br />
I'm going to go off before I hit Spanish III, I just know it.more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-27830463359924957462009-07-21T00:11:00.001-06:002015-09-20T14:29:08.785-06:00Help! I'm Being Held Hostage by Facebook!<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SmVfqN8LbAI/AAAAAAAACNY/5EBMRE4ZbPI/s1600-h/facebook-logo.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360796110355655682" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SmVfqN8LbAI/AAAAAAAACNY/5EBMRE4ZbPI/s200/facebook-logo.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 149px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /></a>I'm still alive. I've even been online. Just ... not here. Okay, let's just get this over with. I'm a Facebooker. I know. <i>I know!</i> Resistance was futile. <br /><br />I only did it as a way to connect with a group of kids who went through this year's Freedom School. But it kind of sucks you in. Like the Borg. I was all, "I'm only going to friend the Freedom School kids. Oh ... and the adult community organizers, I guess they have to be on there, too." But then, I realized I can't <i>not </i>accept my kids' friend requests. And then these requests started coming in from real-life friends who were already Facebooking. So it was like, okay, but only <span style="font-style: italic;">these </span>friends; it will be a great way to stay in touch, since I suck ass at that kind of thing. Then my uncle, aunt, cousins and sister were on, and then folks I used to hang with in Hungary, and then ... yeah.<br /><br />Snowballed.<br /><br />It's kind of chapping the ass of my comfort zone though. You can't be anonymous on FB. Blogging, yeah, anybody can <span style="font-style: italic;">see </span>your blog, but they don't know it's <i>you</i>. Unless you tell them. And with a pseudonym, no one can search for you. It's safe. Like you have control. You don't have to worry about pissing off the mayor or your coworkers or your mom with your "crazy Left Coast notions". You may piss off strangers, but who the hell cares? <br /><br />I found myself wanting a compartmentalized Facebook experience. Like, one FB window for my ultra-liberal homies, another FB for family who just want to know what the kids are up to but don't want to hear about universal health care, another FB for the official city/county people I do work with, another FB for the old crew, another FB for the youth we're mentoring ... you know, like that. <br /><br />But no. That's not the way Facebook works. Oh, no. It's one big old cyberfest. La-di-da-di, everybody. It brings all your circles of contacts crashing into each other like a giant cyberpileup. So the atheist uncle is BAM, right there with your conservative Republican relations. Your antiracist friends? BAM! Right there with that guy you knew in the 90s who says "Heil Reagan!" Your kids, right there with the folks you used to hang with in that little bar with the ... well, you get the picture. <br /><br />So I'm adjusting. It's completely different from blogging. And I've missed being here with you bastards. I feel relieved to be back in my Cowbell world, actually. But FB has it's own place, and ... I guess it's cooler than I thought it would be. <br /><br />Holy hell, people, I'm a facebooker.more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-11422260005650193562009-05-31T14:22:00.001-06:002015-09-23T08:58:59.043-06:00This Old Motherfucking House: Episode VIII<span style="font-weight: bold;">Episode VIII: Shiver Me Timbers</span><br />
<br />
Thanks to those who thought to call the authorities. I am not rotting among the worms and beetles in the crawl space. It's been sunny here.<br />
<br />
My time in the sun, while incrementally addressing my Vitamin D deficiency, ultimately pulled me into yet another episode of housing woes.<br />
<br />
There's a planter box in my front yard, about 8'x8', framed by landscaping timbers. The timbers go on to form a retaining wall that runs the length of my driveway. The previous owner -- you all remember him -- the guy who made $100,000 profit from a scant two years of home ownership? The guy who sold me This Old Motherfucking House about a week before the housing slump was announced? Yeah, well, he let grass completely overtake the planter box. Since moving in, I've been showcasing an 8'x8' square of monster grass. Oh, and a Japanese Maple tree. It's in the box, too. I wonder if my neighbors were ever able to reconcile their envy?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SiL3-QVsxyI/AAAAAAAACLk/LDR6dwAjetk/s1600-h/DSCN0606.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342104756924761890" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SiL3-QVsxyI/AAAAAAAACLk/LDR6dwAjetk/s400/DSCN0606.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 78%;">Male Offspring, adjusting his iPod about halfway through the de-grassing.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
Male Offspring dug out all the grass for me, on account of my lameass frozen shoulder that can't operate a simple manual shovel. Grass roots run <i>deep</i>, people. Deep. Good thing the boy's got first class tickets to the gun show. We found Hens & Chicks (the plants, not the animals) buried in the grass. I rescued them, and replanted them. Took forever. Anyway, my yard was finally going to look nice! I bought plants. Perennials. Forget that annual shit. Go with the ones that come back every year. I also got mulch and peat moss and gardening gloves. Cute ones. The plants are still babies, but by midsummer that box will be bursting with bloomage.<br />
<br />
Yeah baby, time for a little respect from the neighbors. That's right.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SiL3-6coxZI/AAAAAAAACLs/w1YLId2RMFI/s1600-h/DSCN0607.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342104768228148626" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SiL3-6coxZI/AAAAAAAACLs/w1YLId2RMFI/s400/DSCN0607.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 78%;">Right: rescued, replanted Hens & Chicks, plus other formerly buried plants.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 78%;">Left: monster grass.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
Anyway, everything was going fine, until I noticed the retaining wall was falling out toward the driveway at the point where it's supposed to connect to the planter box. Shit. Also the timbers at the front of the planter box were looking dicey. We took out a few pieces to assess the extent of damage, and found some serious rot going on.<br />
<br />
Holy hell. I just wanted to plant some friggin' plants and lay some mulch. But that's not how This Old Motherfucking House rolls.<br />
<br />
So I spent about $60 on galvanized steel brackets, a drill bit as long as my forearm, and some bigass galvanized screws. The plan was to remove enough dirt that we could pull the retaining wall back in place, reattach everything with the brackets, and call it a day.<br />
<br />
Long story short, it didn't work. Apparently, a wood retaining wall is supposed to have vertical support posts sunk in concrete OR these things called "tie backs" -- pieces of wood attached to the wall's backside, buried in the ground, anchoring the wall in place. My retaining wall, of course, had neither.<br />
<br />
Who chooses <span style="font-style: italic;">wood</span> in this never-ending rainhole anyway? CheapAss former owners who make a quick profit and leave you with a fucked up house, that's who.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SiL3_M-2iTI/AAAAAAAACL0/d7L-JSnLfUI/s1600-h/DSCN0612.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342104773203495218" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SiL3_M-2iTI/AAAAAAAACL0/d7L-JSnLfUI/s400/DSCN0612.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="font-size: 78%;">De-grassed dirt and rotting timbers exposed. See the wall falling out toward the driveway?</span></div>
<br />
<br />
So we're going with the interlocking concrete block option. The DIY ones that don't need mortar. Yep. Time all is said and done, probably about another $500 dropped on This Old Motherfucking House. At least they won't rot before I sell this joint.<br />
<br />
This shit was not even on my summer project list! Here's what <i>was </i>on my summer project list:<br />
<br />
1. Re-tile moldyass shower tiles (this is going to be a bitch of a job).<br />
2. Replace 80s wood vanity, fixtures, and cracked bathroom sink.<br />
3. Replace linoleum floor with tile, and paint bathroom walls.<br />
4. Install window blinds.<br />
5. Replace rotting front deck.<br />
<br />
Yes, CheapAss Former Owner used 1/2" thick untreated boards to build the front porch. In the Pacific Northwest. Bastard. New lumber and a nail gun or drill that can handle wood screws is going to be several hundred right there. I did not need another outdoor project, people!<br />
<br />
Other possible items for the summer project list included:<br />
<br />
6. Refinish wood floors formerly covered by urine-spotted burgundy carpet (another bitch of a job)<br />
7. Replace fucked up, mismatched tiles of fireplace hearth.<br />
8. Paint over uglyass dining room paneling<br />
9. Paint TeenDemon's pink and orange walls. This requires some kind textured paint skills, since her walls were spackled by a blindfolded drunk at some point in TOMFH's history.<br />
10. Install closet organization systems.<br />
11. Replace 1980s ceiling fan in dining room.<br />
<br />
None of this even <span style="font-style: italic;">touches </span>my 1950s kitchen with its ancient wood cabinets shellacked in Paint Coats of Many Colors, and its olive green and brown laminate counter.<br />
<br />
Seriously, I did not need this retaining wall bullshit. And it's got to be scheduled when Male Offspring is home, but he's working overtime on homework and finals so he can leave school early to go visit his dad in friggin' Oman until sometime in July.<br />
<br />
Really, Son? You chose world travel, diving certification, and adventure over building a retaining wall?<br />
<br />
For now, the front of my de-grassed, soon-to-be-beautiful planter box is not filled with gorgeous trailing plants. Rather, it is being shored up with big bags of mulch, so as to keep the remaining dirt and new baby plants from being washed into the street. Hello, Tackmeister? Nice yard.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SiMBhgaxzfI/AAAAAAAACME/rxtlQrJPotY/s1600-h/DSCN3169.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342115258141101554" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SiMBhgaxzfI/AAAAAAAACME/rxtlQrJPotY/s400/DSCN3169.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
I guess I'll have to wait a while for that respect from the neighbors. At least my new roof looks good.more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-57367307910616308012009-05-06T13:01:00.001-06:002015-09-23T09:09:51.319-06:00This Old Motherfucking House: Episode VII<span style="font-weight: bold;">Episode VII: Where's the Heat</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SgHwaAfVDxI/AAAAAAAACLc/f3oqiqHnnPE/s1600-h/water+heater.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332807763382046482" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SgHwaAfVDxI/AAAAAAAACLc/f3oqiqHnnPE/s320/water+heater.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 220px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 220px;" /></a>It's been a while between TOMFH posts, in part because I apparently skipped the mother of all disasters. I realized this today, upon trying to figure out what episode I was on. (Had I known this was going to be a friggin' <span style="font-style: italic;">series,</span> I'd have paid more attention to the numbering from the beginning.) Click the <span style="font-weight: bold;">home.improvement </span>tag for the big picture of my lovely abode.<br />
<br />
Anyway, while cleaning up the series numbering, I realized I'd never even mentioned replacing the gutter that fell down in front of my garage door, let alone replacing the roof.<br />
<br />
Yes, the roof.<br />
<br />
Last October I actually had to replace the <span style="font-style: italic;">entire roof</span>. I'm sure you all can imagine the cost. I'm sure you can imagine my reaction to discovering the sound of steady dripping, one rainy night at 2am, as I crawled through the attic portal in my closet, juggling my flashlight, plastic buckets, and the wood planks that served as a makeshift crawlway to prevent me from falling between the rafters and crashing through my living room ceiling. Yes, it would've been one hell of a ranting, railing, TOMFH post, but apparently I was too traumatized to write about it.<br />
<br />
So. Moving on.<br />
<br />
Today's episode. The water heater stopped working.<br />
<br />
Yesterday I was home sick. That's another thing -- looking back over my TOMFH series, I realized these things often happen while I am sick. Just one more way this house sticks it to me.<br />
<br />
Anyway, a sick day seemed an opportune time to address my maddeningly slow internet, so I called the cable guy. Then I realized he'd have to get behind the TV cabinet. Seeing as there was enough dog hair back there to build another dog, I got out the vacuum. And promptly blew a fuse. <span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br />
<br />
So when Male Offspring said the water wasn't very hot for his shower, I figured I'd blown the water heater fuse too. No biggie. We flipped the breaker switch, figured we'd be back in hot water by morning.<br />
<br />
You know where this is going. It wasn't the fuse. Of course it wasn't. <br />
<br />
It won't surprise you to know that my water heater, like my <a href="http://costaricalifeontheisland.blogspot.com/2007/10/this-old-motherfucking-house-episode-i_6.html" target="_blank">furnace</a>, is located under the house. Of course it is. I crawled into the dark maw this morning, but couldn't actually get to the damn thing, due to to the expert job Teen Demon and I had done wrapping it in its own special "water heater blanket". So the damn brokeass thing is warm and cozy, while I am reduced to scrubbing my goosebumps in a cold shower.<br />
<br />
No, I am not yet that desperate. I stink. You all know how I am about the cold.<br />
<br />
So I am now "troubleshooting". The son remembered that the water had seemed unusually hot the last couple of days. Best case scenario, it overheated, tripping its auto shutoff dealy thing, and <span style="font-style: italic;"></span>I just need to reset it. Those of you who are longtime TOMFH readers know that this most certainly will not be the case. Mid-level scenario, I will need to replace the thermostats, or possibly the elements. As with the <a href="http://costaricalifeontheisland.blogspot.com/2007/12/this-old-motherfucking-house-episode-v_23.html" target="_blank">oven</a>, I think I can do this myself, although draining the thing will be a bitch, seeing as how it's in the crawl space, below ground level. Worst case scenario, I will waste my money on replacement elements, and after much aggravation, end up buying a whole new water heater, paying some guy with plumber's crack $5,000 an hour for installation, and crawling back under there to wrap the new heater in a new cozy insulation blanket. It's a given that no one will be available for install for at least three days, and I will freeze my ass off taking cold showers, because that's the way This Old Motherfucking House rolls.<br />
<br />
If you don't hear from me, tell the authorities to look under the house.more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-35605473102126353762009-05-04T18:45:00.001-06:002015-09-20T19:19:58.349-06:00Luis Ramirez's Murderers WalkLast August I wrote about the murder of Luis Ramirez. Today I read that his murderers, local football heroes in the small town of Shenandoah Pennsylvania, have been officially deemed <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2009/CRIME/05/02/pa.immigrant.beating/">not guilty</a> of murder by an all-white jury. Apparently they are merely guilty of "simple assault".<br />
<br />
I am sickened, but not surprised.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/Sf933EvtikI/AAAAAAAACLU/bYdpLRb_S7s/s1600-h/footballrural.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332112271880325698" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/Sf933EvtikI/AAAAAAAACLU/bYdpLRb_S7s/s320/footballrural.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 185px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" /></a>My original post was called <a href="http://costaricalifeontheisland.blogspot.com/2008/08/hate-murder-and-small-town-football_5.html" target="_blank">Hate, Murder, and Small Town Football</a>, because it was as much about the particular dynamic between small rural communities and their football heroes as it was about the brutal murder of Luis Ramirez. When I read the details last summer, my first thought was, <span style="font-style: italic;">these boys are going to walk</span>.<br />
<br />
Shenandoah is a small town of 5,000 in Pennsylvania. I went to high school in a town of about 6,000 in southern Ohio. When I read the quotes from local police, the histories of the accused boys, and the comments of some of the townspeople, it was familiar territory. Not the murder, but that certain feel within an insulated community of "born 'n raised" folks and the relationship they have with their football team. It's not something that can be found or understood in cities, or even the suburbs. It's not something easily explained. But it is real. Real enough that I knew - and I bet the people of Shenandoah knew - that in the end, these boys would walk.<br />
<br />
What message does this verdict send, as our country becomes more and more polarized, the anti-immigration crowd becomes more strident, and Swine Flu is associated with a nationality, a skin color? What message? Will the next drunken mob of high school heroes, amped up on testosterone and hate, take heed from this verdict, or will they feel righteous and invincible? <br />
<br />
Last August I hoped justice would win out in the end. I hoped I would be surprised by the verdict. In the end, those boys walked. And I am not surprised.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 78%;">Photo: Joe Spring, New York Times, Sep-07</span>more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-10214477940299877022009-03-28T13:31:00.001-06:002015-09-23T11:58:27.698-06:00The Hell That is Frozen Shoulder<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/Sc6ZUzE9ErI/AAAAAAAACHA/1dBUJ4wMfEg/s1600-h/frozenshoulder.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318356792558555826" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/Sc6ZUzE9ErI/AAAAAAAACHA/1dBUJ4wMfEg/s400/frozenshoulder.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 121px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 391px;" /></a> I have Frozen Shoulder. Again. I had a it a few years ago, before I started blogging. Never heard of it? Neither had I. It's officially called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frozen_shoulder">Adhesive Capsulitis</a>. See, your tissues freak the hell out and form bands of tight, inflamed <em>adhesions</em> throughout the <em>capsule</em> surrounding your glenohumeral joint. This scarred and inflamed capsule constricts the joint, locking it into its own private hell. Range of motion is severely restricted, pain is basically comparable to having your shin broken with an axe, and duration can range from a few months to two years or more.<br />
<br />
<div align="left">
This shit <em>hurts,</em> people. It has three stages:</div>
<ul>
<li><div align="left">
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><strong>FREEZING:</strong> this is when you're basically wracked in pain. All the fucking time. Two kinds of pain, actually: chronic pain that is worse at night, and acute just-kill-me-now pain when you accidentally move past your ever-decreasing range of motion. This is where I am now.<br /></span></div>
</li>
<li><div align="left">
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><strong>FROZEN</strong>: this is when the pain supposedly starts to fade, but the capsule has basically locked your arm into a very limited range. Good luck wiping your ass. This is the time to introduce excruciating physical therapy, in order to try and coax your shoulder into moving again.<br /></span></div>
</li>
<li><div align="left">
<span style="font-size: 85%;"><strong>THAWING</strong>: this is where your motion is supposed to gradually come back. It's not very common to regain your full range of motion. The agonizing PT is continued through this phase.</span></div>
</li>
</ul>
So yeah, I had this three or four years back. Took over a year and a half to run its course. I remember when I was diagnosed. I thought Frozen Shoulder sounded stupid. Like some wimp-ass diagnosis for big crybabies or hypochondriacs. Adhesive Capsulitis sounded better, but still. Didn't sound like a "real" condition, like torn rotator cuff, or bone spur, or something badass like that. I soon found out different. <br />
<br />
Frozen Shoulder is not for pussies, people. <br />
<br />
Put it this way; I had three babies with no drugs. Two of the offspring were just under nine pounds, one was just over nine pounds. No drugs. I made it through shin splints in basic training with only Ben-Gay for relief. Hell, I made it through basic training, period. I had two wisdom teeth pulled with only local anesthetic. I can do pain. I'm a woman. But dealing with that Frozen Shoulder wore me down. It was rough.<br />
<br />
And it's back. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/Sc7PRZbD9DI/AAAAAAAACHQ/hdcEsWwpR3E/s1600-h/screamingpain.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318416107760251954" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/Sc7PRZbD9DI/AAAAAAAACHQ/hdcEsWwpR3E/s200/screamingpain.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 153px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 133px;" /></a><br />
The other night my shoulder suddenly seized up in a cramp. (This would be the aforementioned "acute pain".) I screamed like a girl and cried. Literally. Screamed and cried. Male Offspring was about to take me to the emergency room. Of course, he probably just wanted to drive, but still. He gave me what he called hug therapy afterward. This is from a teenage boy, folks. If I had to deal with <em>that </em>pain for the length of a labor ... I couldn't do it. I'd be screaming for the drugs in five minutes. <br />
<br />
When my shoulder started hurting a few months back, I figured I had wrenched it somehow, you know, with my active lifestyle and all, and didn't think much of it. But as time went on, I had to face the fact that I was having a relapse. According to the literature, relapses are extremely rare. Surprise, I'm one of the lucky few who get to experience that rare treat. <br />
<br />
Whee. <br />
<br />
<div align="left">
This time is worse. Worse because I know what I'm in for. The first time, I could trick myself. You know, say things like, "Maybe I'll be one of those people who heal in a few months." or "The physical therapy will speed up the process." Complete bullshit, but it had a psychological placebo effect. This time, I know what's up. I don't think I can do this again, people. It's like getting scared of childbirth once you're already pregnant. Ain't no getting out of it now - you're in it for the duration.<br />
<br />
And my neck's not long enough to gnaw my arm off.</div>
<div align="left">
<br /></div>
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/Sc6ZuTwH4yI/AAAAAAAACHI/br6-ysOuFpI/s1600-h/frozenshouldercapsule.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318357230826283810" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/Sc6ZuTwH4yI/AAAAAAAACHI/br6-ysOuFpI/s200/frozenshouldercapsule.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 164px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 151px;" /></a>I can't tuck in a shirt, let alone reach in a back pocket. I can't hook my bra. I can't reach across to wash my other shoulder. Shaving under that arm? Please. Deodorant is spotty at best. Taking a coat off sucks. <br />
<br />
Washing, drying, and styling my hair mostly one-handed is frustrating, painful, and makes me mad as hell. It also renders me unable to let go of my anger and resentment toward <strong>Laura</strong>, the heifer who <a href="http://costaricalifeontheisland.blogspot.com/2009/02/dear-split-end-salon_13.html" target="_blank">butchered my hair</a>. Every day I hate her more, and I'm not generally into hate, except for George Bush. I'm telling you, every day it festers, and that shit's not healthy. Catching her in an alley while armed with a pair of pinking shears has replaced winning the lottery as my main fantasy. <br />
<br />
Showering has become a dreaded ordeal and leaves me feeling like a big crybaby. I've considered going to work in pajamas rather than face getting dressed. And my pajamas aren't pretty, people. Sleep is difficult. That's an understatement. I'm ODing on Valerian and Unisom. I don't want to go on prescription pain relievers or sleep aids, because of the length of time involved with this thing. I mean, popping hard drugs for a couple of weeks or even a month is one thing, but when you're talking upwards of a year, that's something else. Who wants to end up like Rush Limbaugh?<br />
<br />
<div align="left">
The worst is making involuntary movements - like if you stumble and try to catch yourself, or automatically reach out to catch something, or if something startles you and makes you jump. <em>Agony</em>. There's a fraction of a second between the time you make the movement and the time that agony slams you like a rabid water buffalo on crystal meth, when you realize what you've done. That's the fraction of a second you consider bashing your head on concrete to knock yourself out. But there's not enough time. <br />
<br /></div>
<div align="left">
To add to the fun, it's my right shoulder. I'm right-handed. I already mouse left-handed at work, so that's okay, but I'm starting to do other things left-handed. I'll be ambidextrous by the time this shit's over. <br />
<br /></div>
<div align="left">
I've heard of some people who get bilateral FS. That's right, both arms at once! How the hell do those guys wipe their asses? Or drive? Or eat? Or do <em>anything? </em>Holy hell. If that happens, you'd better hope you have a partner or a live-in aide, because I don't see how you'd manage. It sucks having FS as a single person, even with only one arm affected. Basically, I can reach forward, to a certain height, with no problem. Any other direction is a definite no-go. At least I can type. Good thing -- that's pretty important for my job, hello. Like anyone needs a reason to stand out in this economy. <br />
<br /></div>
<div align="left">
There is a surgical treatment option, but my HMO wouldn't go for it. Likewise the cortisone injections I've heard some patients get. The only treatment my HMO approves is physical therapy. Cheapass bastards. Last time, they did a few initial sessions with me, but basically handed me some papers with instructions and cartoon illustrations and told me to do it on my own at home. Then they collected their copay. But hey, we've got to guard against the evils of "socialized medicine" because US medical care is the best in the world!<br />
<br /></div>
<div align="left">
Actually, maybe I was better off doing it at home. Check out this poor bastard. I can't even imagine being able to move my arm up that high, so he must be coming along nicely. Pay no attention to the screams. It's all about progress in physical therapy. No pain, no gain. <br />
<br />
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<br />
<div align="left">
Brutal. My former drill sergeant is probably a physical therapist now. The one who got kicked out for trainee abuse. Anyway, this whole thing is making me really pissy. <br />
<br /></div>
<div align="left">
I mean more than usual. </div>
more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com56tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-46725399995491905572009-03-23T19:46:00.001-06:002015-09-22T20:19:20.625-06:00Xylitol: Sugarless Gum Can Kill Your Dog<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/ScfwBWpSNrI/AAAAAAAACGY/WgIZ7oHtyNQ/s1600-h/Batman.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316481791183435442" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/ScfwBWpSNrI/AAAAAAAACGY/WgIZ7oHtyNQ/s320/Batman.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 222px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 268px;" /></a>Last week Batman ate some Orbit Sweet Mint sugarless gum. The rogue canine taught himself how to pull open the junk drawer. The <span style="font-style: italic;">top</span> drawer. He pulled out a box of gum from Costco, along with a bag of hinges, instructions for the thermostat, a couple of magic markers, and some pizza coupons. I don't know how many packs of gum were left in the box, but in hindsight, I don't think it could have been many.<br />
<br />
Oh. No wonder you look so guilty. Foolish Labradog, how much gum did you eat? Did you learn nothing from that emergency surgery situation? Yeah, that's right, hang your head, I'm talking about the <a href="http://costaricalifeontheisland.blogspot.com/2007/01/batman-amazing-gastro-adventure_19.html" target="_blank">Great Tampon Escapade, not to mention the Toothpick Incident</a>. You'd think that would've cured you from indiscriminately snarfing down whatever you come across.<br />
<br />
Well, when you're blowing bubbles out your ass, don't come whining to me.<br />
<br />
But then, I thought, I'd better look this up. Just in case. And I was stunned. Orbit has an ingredient called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xylitol">Xylitol</a>, a natural sugar alcohol, first harvested from the bark of birch trees in Finland and found in various fruits, vegetables, berries, even mushrooms. Xylitol has been used in Europe for some time now, but didn't find its way to the US market until about 2003. It's used in sugarless gums, candies, and in some baked goods.<br />
<br />
Xylitol is great for humans: it's natural, has no aftertaste, is as sweet as sugar with only 40% of the calories, and studies have proven it actually <span style="font-style: italic;">reduces </span>cavities. Something about the way it interacts with bacteria in the mouth. It's a godsend for diabetics, as it does not require insulin to metabolize, therefore does not impact blood sugar levels. And it tastes great. There are even studies suggesting a possible use in fighting osteoporosis! Great stuff, right? So what's the catch?<br />
<br />
The catch, for dog owners, is that it can kill your dog. And it doesn't take much. I was lucky I didn't come home to a dead dog last week, people.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/Scf059yFSTI/AAAAAAAACGg/cpQUnQeyFrc/s1600-h/with+xylitol.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316487161808505138" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/Scf059yFSTI/AAAAAAAACGg/cpQUnQeyFrc/s320/with+xylitol.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 142px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 188px;" /></a>Dogs metabolize Xylitol much differently than we humans do. We process the stuff slowly. Dogs' bodies metabolize it all once. Xylitol tricks the dog's body into dumping massive amounts of insulin into the system, but guess what, there's no actual sugar there for the insulin to act on. The dog's blood sugar levels plummet, and acute hypoglycemia sets in.<br />
<br />
Within <span style="font-weight: bold;">30 to 60 minutes</span>, a dog can present with lethargy, ataxia, seizures, and even unconsciousness. Basically a diabetic coma. If it is not addressed <span style="font-style: italic;">quickly</span>, the dog can die.<br />
<br />
The other problem dogs face, in addition to the hypoglycemia, is liver failure. This can be accompanied by internal bleeding, due to clotting abnormalities. Even a dog exhibiting few hypoglycemic symptoms can end up with liver damage, or even acute hepatic failure. The liver damage may not manifest until 12 - 48 hours after ingestion, and it can be permanent.<br />
<br />
There is no antidote for canine Xylitol poisoning. The acute hypoglycemia can be countered by inducing vomiting if the ingestion is discovered quickly, and/or by administering a dextrose IV solution. However,<span style="font-weight: bold;"> if the hypoglycemia is not treated quickly, liver damage or failure can follow</span>, and vets are not able to do as much for that.<br />
<br />
If you see any of these symptoms in your dog, especially if you suspect your dog may have had access to sugarless gum, candy, or sweets, get your dog to the vet immediately:<br />
<ul>
<li>Weakness or lethargy</li>
<li>Pale gums</li>
<li>Ataxia (uncoordinated movements)</li>
<li>Depression</li>
<li>Vomiting or diarrhea</li>
<li>Hypokalemia (decreased potassium)</li>
<li>Seizures</li>
<li>Collapse</li>
<li>Unconsciousness</li>
<li>Liver dysfunction and/or failure</li>
</ul>
<br />
If discovered quickly, and you're sure about what your dog has ingested, you can induce vomiting using fresh hydrogen peroxide, 1tsp (5cc or 5ml) for each 10 lbs of body weight. <span style="font-style: italic;">(I've done this with Batman before, and it took 4 or 5 tsp. He weighs nearly 70 lbs. I did it with Mason once, it only took 1 tsp.)</span> CALL YOUR VET FIRST: depending on your dog's symptoms, s/he may advise against inducing vomiting to avoid possible aspiration into the lungs, or if more than two hours has passed since the ingestion. Activated charcoal does <b>not </b>effectively absorb Xylitol in the stomach.<br />
<br />
After hours, you can call the <a href="http://www.aspca.org/about-us/animal-poison-control-center.html">ASPCA 24-hour emergency poison hotline</a> directly at <span style="font-weight: bold;">1-888-426-4435</span>. They may apply a $60 charge, but you don't have time to waste if your dog has eaten this stuff. If this happens after hours, take your dog to a 24-hour emergency animal hospital. You guys know I don't say that lightly -- I know how much that shit costs.<br />
<br />
What happened to Batman? He showed few symptoms, but that is apparently NOT typical. He was lethargic, but not terribly. I paid $160 to have the vet run complete blood work and liver enzymes on him, and tell me he was going to be fine. My vet said a few dogs seem to react more mildly to Xylitol than most. Apparently Batman is one of those few. I feel like he cheated death. I swear that dog has nine lives.<br />
<br />
Let me stress, that is <i>not the norm</i>. I read story after story on the Internets about people coming home to dead, unconscious, or seizing dogs. Dogs DIE from this. Not just a few here and there, either. Others are euthanized because the damage to the liver is too severe in the end. Some dogs are under critical care treatment for days or even a week. This is nothing to mess around with, folks. It happens fast, and it doesn't take much. A couple of sticks of some gums can kill a smaller dog. Batman is the exception - extreme illness or death are the normal results. Or maybe he just didn't eat that much? I read about a dog named Copper who died from eating the exact same gum that Batman ate.<br />
<br />
By all rights, Batman should've been dead by the time I got home.<br />
<br />
Most Americans don't know about Xylitol. Many vets are still unaware of the dangers. The number of cases is rising quickly, as more and more products use Xylitol. If the owner is unaware that Rover got some Tic Tacs from the car, or snatched some gum from an open purse, those incidents get chalked up to an unknown cause, so the number of deaths is probably higher than reported.<br />
<br />
For the record, other sweeteners like sorbitol and mannitol are <i>not </i>harmful to dogs. The gum Batman ate had Xylitol listed as "less than 2%", with sorbitol as the first ingredient, and mannitol also listed. Other gums, like Trident, have higher amounts. Orbit made a new line called Orbit Complete, in which the main draw is the high levels of Xylitol. Like I said, it's great for human teeth.<br />
<br />
There is pressure on the FDA and manufacturers to use warning labels. The FDA says they're in the business of people, not animals. The manufacturers are afraid people will think the product <span style="font-style: italic;">itself </span>is bad, when actually it's just the way dogs process it. So, no labels yet. Greedyass corporate bastards. Capitalism at its best.<br />
<br />
So no cookies, gummy bites, muffins, mints, or gum for Fido. I'm glad we still have Batman. I read a lot of heartbreaking stories about people who lost their animals. Be careful with your canine friends, people.more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6331618108385488261.post-54053674343020830522009-03-02T11:26:00.001-06:002015-09-20T14:29:09.025-06:00Stalking Anthony Bourdain<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SaxQDdfTJWI/AAAAAAAACFw/v9X0Qh7NQWk/s1600-h/AB3.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308706081148708194" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SaxQDdfTJWI/AAAAAAAACFw/v9X0Qh7NQWk/s200/AB3.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 177px;" /></a>I'm home with a roiling gut today. This is what it takes for me to get time on Male Offspring's computer. I'm on the couch, hanging with my man, <a href="http://anthony-bourdain-blog.travelchannel.com/page2">Anthony Bourdain</a>. Yes, the Travel Channel. I know, right? Trust, this guy is no Rick Steves or Samantha Brown. No offense to Rick or Sam. Just not my thing.<br /><br />I watched Samantha once. Destination Ireland. The whole time, I was like, okay, is she really trying to do a fake Irish accent? It was intermittent, but definitely there. Weird! And what's with the cheery, eager-beaver act? Girl would be perfect working the Starbucks drive-thru speaker at 5am. That brand of perky just pisses me off. But guess what came on right afterward? Anthony Bourdain's Ireland show! I know, too good, right? I don't know what those folks at the Travel Channel were thinking, unless they're going for a mass exodus of SamFans over to Anthony's side of the pub. Basically here's the difference: kissing the blarney stone with an affected faux-Irish accent complete with cheesy soundtrack, versus quaffing Guinness in a smoky bar after a walk through Belfast, Northern Ireland, touching on the not-so-cheery history between the Protestants and Catholics.<br /><br />Yeah, pour me the Guinness.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SaxIJ5wtKDI/AAAAAAAACFo/UUb9E0yrB4s/s1600-h/AB6.bmp"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308697395724101682" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_QumjD6MpRic/SaxIJ5wtKDI/AAAAAAAACFo/UUb9E0yrB4s/s200/AB6.bmp" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 124px;" /></a>Most travel shows work my last nerve with their exoticism and touristy bullshit. I will actually set a reminder for Tony's show. There I said it. I'm addicted to a travel/foodie show.<br /><br />He's so goddamn <em>appealing</em>.<br /><br />This guy is the only smoker and pork <strike>eater</strike> worshipper that I could consider dating. Or marrying. Or stalking. Whatever. Those of you who know how extremely anti-cigi I am, in addition to my vegetarian status, will appreciate the depth of my obsession, here.<br /><br />Anthony's show, <strong>No Reservations</strong>, comes with a parental warning. A deliciously sardonic New Yorker, the FCC's obscenity rules are clearly not foremost in his mind. He tends to drink a lot. I don't mean like sampling a good Cabernet with dinner. I mean like slamming it back and dealing with the hangover later. He also says "fuck" a lot and is basically irreverent, caustic, and sexy in a tall, slightly bowlegged, boots-and-leather-jacket kind of way. He's likely to bust out with a "holy shit!" while masticating a juicy mouthful of meat, and you'll never catch him with an umbrella in his drink. And yes, he can occasionally slide toward disdainful when it comes to his travel and food compatriots:<br /><br /><br /><blockquote>I think the Travel Channel knows it's not getting Jamie Oliver or Rachel Ray when they throw their lot in with me.<br /><br />Even Samantha Brown would have a hard time summoning a "wow" for this.</blockquote><br />He eschews the tourist traps and five-star restaurants, heading instead for street vendors, family meals, and, as a self-described aficionado of the dive bar, any place where local home brew and home cooking can be found.<br /><br />He will eat any local specialty, from seal eyes to chicken anus to still-squirming octopus tentacles. What's cool about that though, is that he doesn't do it in that <em>"Ohmygod this is so exotic and freakish, watch me gross you out!" </em>kind of way. (Looking at you, Andrew Zimmern.) No, rather than playing the obnoxious <em>dude-check-this-out </em>American, Tony, for all his general snarkiness, is all about genuine learning, about respecting and honoring the people, cultures and traditions of the countries he visits. He uses his show as a vehicle to challenge assumptions and stereotypes. You can see he is honored that people would invite him to their tables, share their food and their stories.<br /><br />So yeah, I'm smitten with a travel show foodie. I was considering becoming a full time groupie, when my stalking turned up the inconvenient fact that he's now married, and has a little girl. He's apparently a very proud parent:<br /><br /><blockquote>...she goes absolutely bat shit over risotto made with wild nettles. And when her Mom dips a finger in the local red wine, she greatly prefers it to juice. This makes me very proud.</blockquote><br />Damn. I missed my window. Word on the street is, he even gave up the smoking in the interest of extended parenthood. Cruel irony. Stay sweet, Tony.<br /><br />Okay, stay snarky. Whatever.more cowbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867825812404503048noreply@blogger.com7