Sunday, March 30, 2014

Bad Citizen

I write this post with only one eye open, as I may have stayed up too late last night with some of my best girlfriends acting just a tad too rowdy. Today is what Jane and I call a "Bad Citizen" day, where all you can do is lie around and watch bad TV, and it takes everything you have to muster up the energy to toast a bagel and bring it to your lips, in hopes that the carbs will absorb some of your pounding headache. It's really not that bad today, but I think many of you can relate to the feeling.

I can't remember all of the specifics of what our conversation rolled on about last night, but I do know that I (per my usual) made an outstanding number of travel plans. I often do this when I have drinks, with each cocktail I make another plan to fly off for a girls' weekend in New Orleans, or rent a beach house on the Cape, or head to South America for a month of backpacking. Huh, lofty goals. I also, apparently, am independently wealthy.

So, if I made a drunken travel plan with you please do not expect me to necessarily show up as I a). may not remember it and b). probably can't afford it anyway.


Thursday, March 20, 2014

Notes From the Super Lame

I am coming to realize more and more that I have to admit when I suck at things. As my friend said to me the other day when she was relating to this feeling "I just suck at life right now". 

I don't suck at everything, but there are some things that I really, really suck at. Little things that I find so totally overwhelming that I cannot possibly get them accomplished no matter how hard I think about them. Like The Bills that pile up around me and stare me down every morning when I get up. I don't pay them, or deal with whatever bank juggling needs to happen, instead I just smoosh the pile together and turn them over. That'll show you, Electric Company, if your envelope is face down you can't possibly make me pay you right this minute. Ha. Take that. Not even because I don't have the money, but more because I just don't want to. 

Also on a sucky note are the areas of clutter in my house that are slowly starting to take over the entire place, the crap slithering out across the hall and up my leg until it threatens to choke me if I don't admit RIGHT NOW that I am a teesy little bit of a hoarder. This is the kind of thing I suck at, figuring out where all of that shit is supposed to go (hint: the trash) and getting it there. 

I also cannot call people back who probably deserve to be called back. Nope, can't deal. Pretty much if you don't text and we haven't spoken in a long time, it's too hard and it's not happening. I don't walk my dog (or myself) enough. I can't possibly clean out the fridge. I don't really care if my daughter hasn't washed her hair in a week (a week!), which is the same amount of time it takes me to empty the litter box. I came to work last night realizing only after I'd been there half an hour that I wasn't wearing a bra (thank god it wasn't so busy I'd needed to run down the hall or somebody might have lost an eye). 

I am sucking at these regular things so badly right now that I wonder if there is ever a time when I am on top of my game. Maybe this is the top of my game, and that is so sad I want to weep, but not really, because that's too hard. Instead I will just shrug it off and assume that at some point the greasy hair, cluttered hall, or the stench of the fridge when they cut off my electricity will snap me out of it and force me to pay some bills. Until then I will just keep on sucking.

Friday, March 7, 2014

Coming Home

My family and I just returned from ten days in my husband's home coutntry: The Dominican Republic. I too have spent a lot of time in this heat washed, rough-edged paradise even prior to meeting Francisco. We both think of it as home in many ways, so I have been looking forward to this trip for months, albeit with some nervous anticipation.

It surprises many to know that my husband does not travel well. Even (or maybe especially) to his country of birth where his family still resides, he is shaking with anxiety pretty much until we reach the airport to return home. It's weird, but I'm used to it, so this time I was prepared to handle his jittery nerves. He is anxious about the poverty, he feels guilty for those he cannot help, he hates to make arrangements to shepherd us from one end of the island to the other, he is terrified that we are going to be robbed. He doesn't sleep, he barely eats, he's really just a man meant to stay home. Unfortunately, his family cannot come to visit us, so travel he must, and we all grin and bear the vibrations from his shaking legs.





I hadn't been to the DR in two years, so this time when the plane touched down I was awash with feelings of homecoming. The smell of frying plantains, motor oil, and mangoes assaults you when you set foot into the night air, even at the airport. The DR is definitely third world. It's dirty, people drive like lunatics, and the houses often resemble shacks with scraps of tin patchworked together to attempt to keep out the rain. It's gritty, it's often slow and disorganized, and as soon as you spend any length of time there you can't help but fall in love. I have been in love with the DR since the age of 16, when I stepped out into the night air with nine of my exchange student peers and felt the exact same way I did last week.



We spent a few days at my mother-in-law's small cement house in the rice fields in the center of the country. Hot, buggy, and completely devoid of anything to do, I am usually itching to get out of there after a few days have passed. This time I felt like I could spend a month sitting on her porch in a hard plastic chair, drinking rum from a metal cup, and watching my kids play cards with the neighbors. We moved on to Sosua, a beach town on the northern coast where a rental house awaited us, with room for all and a pool in the backyard. It was, even by the stuffiest gringo opinions, quite fabulous. My mother-in-law and another family friend stayed with us, and we were joined by several friends and family members throughout our week.



Sosua is one of the grittiest of tourist towns, a haven for European tourists and Haitian prostitutes. There are parts of town one doesn't frequent at night, and there are beautiful stretches of beachfront just waiting for you to sit down and soak up the sun. We spent many days on the popular Sosua beach, where Francisco is famous for once having owned a bar. Sofie never tired of trying to weasel pesos out of anyone within earshot to visit the many crowded gift shops laden with cheap trinkets marked up 400%. Everything we bought broke before we made it onto the airplane, but it always feels good to infuse the local economy.



I finally got to spend two glorious days with my long lost surrogate daughter Sindy, a girl I have known since she was a small child and considered my own for many years, but whom I had not seen in over 10 years. When she stepped off the bus we embraced and both cried tears of long overdue joy. It was amazing to experience her upbeat, adorable self now as a young woman coming into her own. She is beautiful in many ways, and it was relieving to see with my own eyes how well she is doing. I cried for a long time after she climbed the bus to make the long trip home, happy to have spent such a lovely time with her but sad for the many years of her life I missed.



People in the DR are poor but unfailingly upbeat. They can be in the throes of poverty and tragedy, and still there will be laughing and dancing in the streets. Music flows from every window and cheers of friendly hellos call out from passing mopeds. The people, the sunshine, and the strong rum makes for a pretty good time, and I was surprised at how much I did not want to come home. Granted, it was only 12 degrees when we landed in New York, but there is usually a small part of me that is relieved to return to my own bed, and a familiar routine. This time however, I felt nothing but pissed off and sad as I packed my things to return to the north. I feel a sense of longing to be back there that I haven't felt since my early years of traveling to the DR, when I would work for weeks at a job I hated just to make the money for my plane ticket so I could feel the familiar feeling of homecoming. It's hard to find a balance now that I am grown, with too many responsibilities to pick up and leave at the first whim, but a burning desire to be embraced into a culture that I love. Maybe it's time to play the lotto...