What a Girl Wants, or "My Christmas Wish List"

I haven’t posted for a few days and I feel a little embarrassed. Although I have been writing other things, I haven’t kept up with my commitment to blog every day. It seems I’ve been playing the role of “mom” and “housewife” too much lately, doing lots of cooking and cleaning and laundry, and it’s definitely wearing on me. I’ll be the first to admit, I’m not good at it, just like my mom wasn’t. Just like I’m not good at saying what I want or need from dear hubby, or the teenager who's become our “son,” whom we ADORE, and who is staying with us full time right now.

Our "son!"

But with Christmas just around the corner I decided I needed to start asking for what I want, so I started writing a “ Wish List” the other night. Not because anyone asked what I wished for, but more as an outlet for all that I've been holding in. And, finally the words just came pouring out that evening. It quickly morphed into something more than just a Christmas wish list, and I know it's a little long, but please hang in there with me til the end, because I need to get this off my chest.

So, what DO I want? Well, I want someone to throw away, refill, or replenish anything they’ve emptied, or write it on the shopping list if it’s completely gone. I want someone besides me to take the trash out BEFORE it overflows onto the cupboard floor. I want someone besides me to notice the breadcrumbs around the toaster, the juice spills in front of the fridge, or the jelly smeared on the counter, and wipe it up themselves. And the dried toothpaste in the sink. Just once.

And once in a while I want someone to say, “Can I help you make dinner tonight?” I want someone (besides me) to push their chair back in when leaving the dinner table, after saying, “Thank you for working SO hard on that delicious meal.” Even if it wasn’t delicious. Every so often, I want someone to offer, “Let me do the dishes tonight, you go relax.” Even if it was a bad day and you don’t feel like it. I have bad days too, I just never tell you. I know everyone works hard, and I appreciate it. And I probably won't take you up on the offer anyway. But honestly, I despise being “JUST the housewife" and cooking and cleaning and whatnot, and I rarely ever truly FEEL like doing any of it. Truthfully, I was NEVER cut out for this, but I do it to care for you, and for US. And I always appreciate the offer to help, even if it's refused.

I also want to be told your clothes need washed the DAY before, NOT the hour before, they are needed. I’m not asking anyone to do the laundry-GOD FORBID, please DON’T touch my clothes! Just give me a little advance notice, and I’d be happy to do it for you. But I am not a servant or an employee waiting to jump at your every request. I do have other things I am working on, even if it appears I’m just “looking at my computer.” Whether you don't understand, or don't want to believe it, I AM aspiring to become more than just the maid, cook, meal server, and laundry facilitator. And I intend to succeed.

I want someone to go downstairs in the dark with me every single night to take the puppies out to potty without fail. I want someone to say, “I am aware you have an irregular, childish fear of the dark, and even though I don’t understand it, I know it is very real to you, and I will not belittle you. I’m here to protect you, night and day, no matter what.” I want someone who will not make fun of my fears in front of others or write them off as irrational. I don’t ask for much, but I’m asking for this.

I'm Listening!

I want someone to say, “Tell me about your day,” and actually listen while I explain my day. No multi-tasking, writing of invoices, taking phone calls, checking email or texts, channel surfing, or scanning the internet at the same time. No wandering away while I speak, saying, “Go on, I can hear you from outside.” Just someone to be present, and actually listen. With eye contact. Even if only for ten minutes.

I want someone to say, “You look really beautiful today” and mean it--even if I’m a filthy, sweaty mess and haven’t showered all day. I’d love someone to say, “That dress/jewelry/hat, etc., would look great on you!” and then go buy it for me. And have it actually look good on me. Or suggest, “Get out your fanciest dress out and highest heels, fix your hair, and be ready by 7!” And not tell me where we’re going. It could be just a date at home, or a simple picnic dinner on a blanket under the stars, a drive to a romantic hideaway, or a unique destination. I want someone to wake me up with breakfast in bed. AFTER the dogs have been fed and let out to potty. French toast with lots of butter and syrup. Not everyday, once is enough. Ok, maybe twice. Surprise me, and I just might surprise you.

And finally, I want two back-to-back days off from ALL household duties, including cooking, each week. Yes, TWO whole days, a weekend, free from cooking, cleaning, laundry, and caring for the entire family! Everybody else gets days off, I want a weekend too. I’ll even compromise and accept just one day, as long as it’s completely free from caring for anyone other than myself. No household chores, laundry, cooking, or cleaning. I'll even up the ante by caring for "the kids" since they can't care for themselves. Because we all know, weekends are meant for enjoying time with your family and friends, appreciating the beauty and excitement life has to offer, and relaxing and recharging your batteries. And I'd like to have one day a week to do just that.

I’m only asking for one day each week. Maybe we could spend it together and do something fun. Because when you look back on these days from the future, I guarantee you it won't be the memories of the days you worked so hard and your house was clean and your yard was perfect that you'll cherish.

So what do I really want? I want what most people want, someone to care FOR me, not just receive my caretaking. Someone to share my life with me, not just share my chores with. I want someone to occasionally say my name lovingly, like a song or a soft, sweet caress, as they would say the name of their beloved. I don't want to hear my name as just the demanding, identifying sound called out only when something is wanted or can’t be found. I want what I'm sure every mom wants, because even though I am not truly a mom, I sure do feel like one lately.

I'm not saying dear hubby, or our "son" do not do these things. They do. I also know I am just as guilty of forgetting to do the little things that mean so much, which is what prompted this diatribe and served as a reminder to me as well. But the best part of this list? It doesn’t even have to be Christmas to give or receive any of these gifts. Very few of them need gift wrap, or even a bow. And I think I'd better go get started working on some of these things myself right now.

Two Tiny Killers, One Big Creepy Crawler

I think I’ve mentioned before that I am learning to co-exist with the creepy crawlers that are everywhere in our lovely little village. But last week there was one (usually harmless) critter who tormented my dogs and me, and it became a battle of epic and humorous proportions.

It began when I heard our two tiny doxies, Kitti and Bunni, singing the canine "song of their people," calling their humans--and the entire animal kingdom--to action with a mixture of baying, howling, and high-pitched screeching. Those lyrics are reserved for the times they’ve found something particularly tantalizing. It’s a terrifying sound because it usually means they’re in danger. Hearing it sent me flying down the stairs three at a time.

When I arrived at the fence, which they were brutally attacking, there was nothing there. No angry tarantula, no pissed-off possum, no dinosaur iguana, no killer snake. None of the usual suspects. Not even a harmless (but tasty!) gecko. Yet they continued their frantic cries, pawing and chewing at the gate, splintering the wood with their tiny little teeth.

Having rescued my girls many times before, I’d at least had the forethought to grab a broom on my way downstairs. Irritated at the false alarm, I jabbed it at the gate to show my frenzied little monsters that there was nothing for them to worry about. However, as I pulled my broom away, one huge claw snapped out, and my two tiny killers nearly lost their minds.

It was a massive land crab! He was hiding by hanging upside down on the big rolling gate. Harmless enough, but as the pups continued to harrass him, his angry, powerful claw nipped closer and closer to their tiny, ferocious noses. By now, the neighbor had appeared, nervously checking to see if the depths of hell had opened up at my gate. The noise was unrelenting as my diminutive dogs voiced their rage at the crab's intrusion! Hurriedly, I scooped them up and tossed them inside. In response, they cranked up the volume, echoing their frustration for all the village to hear. I headed back downstairs, intending to shoo the crab away with my trusty broom.

And that’s where things got ugly. The more I pushed that damn crab around in an attempt to get him to leave, the more he came at me. I just wanted him to go away, but he wasn’t leaving without a fight.  He angrily snapped at the broom. Over and over, he grabbed the bristles just long enough for me to prepare to toss him, then dropped to the ground and scuttled back under the gate. I wielded that broom like a ninja warrior. He feinted and bobbed like Mike Tyson, and snapped at my bare toes with fury. His claws grabbed for purchase with every swish of the broom. And I started sweating. And cussing. And beating at that damn fence with a vengeance.

At long last, nearly crying, I managed to sweep that angry bastard from under the gate and into the middle of the lane. With one last heave ho, I hurled him into the tall grass next to the water. Severely mangled, one eyestalk broken and dangling drunkenly on his back, he clumsily plopped into the the canal. Exhausted, I returned to the yard where I saw the neighbor watching me. I waved and called out to him that everything was all right. He grimaced awkwardly and turned away. About this time, I saw the passengers on the water taxi, which cruises by our place many times a day, glaring at me with a mixture of shock and disgust.

“No worries!” I reassured them, “Just defeating a killer land crab. I’ve got it under control!” And there you have it, just another day in paradise.  And for the rest of the day, at least after the dogs finally calmed down, it most certainly was.

Finding Jesus? My Re-Birth Day

Last week, I posted on Facebook that the hubby and I were going out, as we do every year on the Monday after Thanksgiving, to celebrate my “Re-Birth Day.” Later, we saw friend in the village who asked if we were celebrating the day I “found Jesus” and was “reborn” the religious way. Um….. No!…. Hell NO! But I found it pretty funny considering my extreme aversion to religion, and after I stopped laughing I explained the story. So I thought today I’d share with you what my “Re-Birth Day” is all about.

In 2009, on the Monday after Thanksgiving, I suffered a massive hemorrhage of a blood vessel in my brain. The medical term is a “ruptured aneurysm.” It causes physical and mental impairments similar to a stroke, and often death, because the blood in the cranium kills brain cells. The bleeding was so extensive the doctors didn’t know if I would live through the night. Luckily they stabilized me, and the neurosurgeons were able to repair the blown-out vessel using small titanium coils and a stent. Amazingly, when they pulled me out of the drug-induced coma five days later, I was functioning! And I wanted my Blackberry so I could get back on Facebook- STAT!

Fortunately for me, I recovered fully within a few months and that is part of why we celebrate the event as my “Re-Birth Day” every year. Some of our friends say they wouldn’t want to be reminded of such a painful life-threatening event. But the other part of why we celebrate is because it was the beginning of some wonderful changes in our life. Surviving it was the catalyst to our seeking out a way to live a different life, a life we’d only dreamed about previously.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying being left with a permanent hole the size of a pinky finger in my head, which dear hubby calls my whale hole, was wonderful. It wasn’t. The pain was unbearable, like having a sharp axe buried in my head for months. And four years later I still feel out of balance on stairs. And at least a quarter of my memory seems to be wiped out. And I have scars that make my hair grow funny. And even a normal headache scares me to death. My party-girl life is over because enduring a hangover is unthinkable. But we still choose to celebrate because I DID get to live again, and we realize we could have had a very different ending to our story. We celebrate because we have decided to make it a priority to do whatever WE WANT with whatever time we have left. We're still alive to celebrate, not everyone is so fortunate.

So for us, celebrating my Re-Birth Day is a symbol of more than just surviving, it’s a celebration of the start of living our life the way we dreamed. It’s the day we say thank you, precious ruptured aneurysm, for giving us the opportunity to celebrate living instead of mourning dying, and start realizing our dreams. Without the valuable lesson that tiny but deadly hemorrhaged blood vessel taught us, we wouldn’t be living the life we always wished for, but never thought we could have. We wouldn’t be here in Placencia. And right now, here is exactly where we want to be. So Happy Re-Birth Day to me - I wish the same for you. Minus the aneurysm, of course!

Beware of the Bitch, She's Giving Birth

Wow, I’m sure after yesterday’s post, you’re thinking that I am quite the overconfident, conceited, arrogant bitch, aren’t you?  After all, didn’t I just completely shred a fellow writer’s hard work? Didn’t I just “slice‘em & dice‘em” just because they composed an article and then (*GASP*) actually had the balls to get it published? Even worse, then I proceeded to say that I believed I could have done better? Pretty goddamn superior and full of myself, aren’t I?

Perhaps I should have been more clear about my thoughts, and that any perceived flaws were ONLY in MY OPINION. The connection I was trying to make was that obviously the editor didn’t see any faults, but yet I still saw things I would have changed. Maybe a better choice of phrase would have been to say I would have written it DIFFERENTLY, not “better.” At any rate, the point is, there is no doubt I am a severe, exacting, and harsh critic, whether of my own work or someone else’s. But ESPECIALLY of my own work.

Which is why, until now, I’ve avoided submitting a single thing to any publication. No matter how much effort I’ve put into guiding my message to perfection, I always think it could use just a little more revision. And because I work so hard at creating, nurturing, and revising what I write, my literary creations become almost child-like to me. And I’m afraid to give birth to them. I am terrified of sending that fragile, tiny, innocent bundle of thoughts and feelings out into the world, kicking and screaming, naked for all humankind to examine.

And like any mother, I want my baby to be perfect beyond compare. I want to protect it from the terrible things that could happen once it arrives in the world and takes on a life of its own. Horrifying things-- like having a fellow writer or a cold-hearted and ruthless critic shred it to pieces. And that’s the biggest obstacle that's been holding me back. Plain and simple FEAR. The fear that fruit of my labors isn’t good enough, or might be viewed as inadequate, possibly criticized, rejected, scorned, or disapproved of.

Writing this blog has been an amazing process in helping me overcome that anxiety. I haven’t completely conquered my fears. But with each post I write, I'm building courage and gaining confidence, even as I share my thoughts and feelings with the world  for anybody to dissect or destroy.  Yes, I’ve received a little negativity. And I've had a few people who don’t “get” me (dear hubby is probably number one on that list!). But it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as I was afraid it might, and I survived.  OMG, I’m Gloria Gaynor, and I WILL SURVIVE!

But more importantly, I have received an amazing and overwhelming amount of encouragement, advice, and positivity, and I am incredibly grateful for that. You, my friends and readers, are helping me move towards my goals by leaps and bounds! I admit there are still days that I have to swallow my panic and force myself to hit the “publish” button on my blog page. And when I do, my inner voice is still screaming “OH MY GOD, NOOOOO! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”  But those days are getting fewer and farther between.  And someday soon, I hope I will be sharing a link with you to MY first published article.  And my writer friend will get the first shot at publicly and mercilessly shredding it. I promise you that.

I want to leave you today with a quote that has been all over the news feeds after Nelson Mandela’s death last night.  It couldn’t have been more appropriate for me at this point. He said, “I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.” RIP, Madiba

Trapped Behind the Velvet Ropes

The Mayan Mountains

What a gorgeous morning in Placencia! It’s warm, but not too hot yet. The sun is glinting off the water, lighting up the tips of the mountains behind us. It’s breathtaking. We’re having one of our frequent power outages, but my “Mactop” is charged up so I can sit on the deck and catch a breeze while I write, and just soak in the beauty!

So I wanted share with you another jolt I received while I was wallowing in self-absorption and questioning my writing abilities. Someone I know got published. Let me emphasize that: SOMEONE that I KNOW got PUBLISHED! That may not seem like a big deal to some of you. But for a “wanna be” writer like me, it’s one of those milestone moments we all strive for. And while I’m genuinely pleased for my fellow writer, even though I don't know them that well, it also causes my heart to constrict ever so slightly with envy. Because I want that to happen for myself someday too.

Rock Stars!

For me, it’s like being a musician and seeing your band-mate become a huge rock star in a popular band -- the band YOU always wanted to play in and know all their songs by heart. It’s like being an actress and seeing your cast-mate land a pivotal role that was perfect for YOU, and go on to become wildly famous. Of course, you knew that script like the back of your hand. But of course, you’re THRILLED for your friend, they worked hard for it, and they finally made it! Their success is a beautiful thing! But you’re left standing on the sidelines, trapped behind the velvet ropes of their red carpet moment, happy for them but wanting what they’ve achieved for yourself. Childish, selfish, and petty, I know. I'm a bit ashamed.

Big deal, right? So what’s really got my panties in a bunch? Well, the article was written about two people that we know well, who became our first close friends in the village. And it was in a publication that I’ve been following closely for at least five years and secretly hoped to write for myself someday. For a long time, I’ve read and studied this company’s style and its submission requirements closely, and I’ve often hoped to see my work in their pages. I have written at least a hundred articles for them over the years. BUT ONLY IN MY HEAD. Although I’ve wanted to, I have never submitted a single word to this publication. I didn't think I was ready! But my acquaintance felt they were, and did. And although their work may not have been quite perfect (in my critical writer's eyes), it still got published.

I know I can hear you all yelling at me, “So just be happy for your friend, and start submitting your own work, you jackass!” I am, and I will. The biggest "take-away" for me is that even though the work wasn't without a few minor flaws--again, in my humble opinion--the editor still considered their work good enough to publish. This realization has been a turning point for me, nudging me to take some serious action toward submitting my own work. Even if I don't feel it's completely perfect yet.

And that’s what Oprah would call having an “aha moment!” I’ve spent some time reconsidering the height of the bar I have set for myself. I’ve been reassessing the level of “flawlessness” I thought I had to achieve before I was ready to submit my work. And I’ve also been seriously thinking about what’s REALLY been holding me back from accomplishing my goal of "being a writer." Because the truth is, no matter how arrogant, repulsive, appalling, or self-righteous it sounds to say, I believe that I COULD have--and SHOULD have--done a better job writing that article about our friends. And tomorrow, I’ll talk more about all of those things! Hope to see you then!

Examining My Intentions

I’m back, and happy to be writing again! I appreciate all of you who noticed, enquired about my absence, and offered me kind words and encouragement. And an especially big thank you to those who urged me to continue to write whatever I wish, and to be true to myself regardless of outside influences. You are ALL quite right of course! And I intend to! However, I feel I owe my readers, whom I don’t always see in person, an explanation for my break in writing this past week.

A few off-the-cuff remarks after my last blog post made me think I needed to reevaluate how I was presenting my thoughts. Although cloaked in “jest,” the comments implied that I was seeking “freebies” for writing about or promoting businesses belonging to my friends or acquaintances. Being a pro at hiding my emotions, I politely smiled along with the “jokes.” But to hear people say (out loud!) they think I am writing a blog just to get freebies hurt my feelings. A lot.

Truth be told? It was more like a knife in my delicate, struggling writer’s heart. It stopped me cold in my tracks, because the thought of freebies never even crossed my mind. So I wondered, did people even GET me, or what I was trying to express? Had they read ANY of what I wrote?? Or were they just projecting their own desires for freebies onto me?  Of course, I knew dear hubby didn’t have a clue, he still thinks this blog is about cheesecake and cupcakes! But was everybody else confused as well?

I hadn’t realized how much it mattered to me to have my views be received, but to also be HEARD and UNDERSTOOD. Obsessed that I was being MIS-understood, I spent four days consumed with self-doubt. Was I--even if unintentionally--promoting a business or a friend? Did it really appear I had an ulterior motive buried in my writing? Even worse, was THAT the ONLY thing my readers were taking away from what I was laboring so hard to write about?  If so, OUCH!

 

So I took a step back for a few days, and re-read what I had written in my first sixteen posts, and examined them closely. I WAS being authentic in expressing my thoughts about my quest to accomplish “finding my thing.” After re-reading all sixteen posts several times, I am reassured that I’ve been pretty clear about the purpose of this blog. And anyone who interpreted my posts as seeking freebies, or ANYTHING other than expressing my respect and admiration for people who have found their “thing,” well……  those people just DON’T GET IT. And I'm ok with that now.

I love this guy, and this t-shirt!!

I’m sure it won’t the last time I feel misunderstood, or have my confidence shaken. And I am oddly appreciative of the reminder that it doesn’t hurt to re-examine my “work” from time to time. Ironically, during those four days, I got another jolt to my self-esteem that I’ll be telling you more about tomorrow. But one thing I’ve made my mantra over the years is: “I only write TRUTH.” If you take the time to really absorb that statement, you may understand why it’s often hard for me to write. It’s not easy to write “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth”-- to throw your honest and heartfelt thoughts out there for everyone to dissect, analyze, reject, or even misunderstand.

But I know what MY truth is: I truly do admire the people I’ve written about so far, for finding, creating, and living their passions. And I will continue write about others that I discover, AND ANYTHING ELSE I damn well please, as I try to find the path to my OWN passions. The people who just don’t "get it" can do as the t-shirt in the picture suggests. Or just go straight to hell. And they can pickup their freebies on the way.

I Want To Be a Barefoot Beach Bar Girl!

If you have been reading along with my blog from the beginning, you know that I am writing this blog as part of a personal “quest” to figure out what I want to do with the next chapter of my life. And last weekend, while at a birthday party for a bar--yes, the party was for the BAR'S birthday--I had an epiphany. I want to be a Barefoot Beach Bar Girl! Wait, let me clarify. What I mean is, I want to be LIKE the girls who OWN and WORK at this magically entertaining place where every day feels like a party! If you’ve been to Placencia, you’ve probably been to the Barefoot and may understand what I’m saying. But for those of you who haven’t, I’ll try to explain.

Watermelon Bliss!

There are lots of really great places to eat and drink in the village, but the Barefoot is my personal favorite for good-natured fun in Placencia. Originally started as a small bar and grill on the beach, it’s been through a couple of reincarnations, including a short move off the beach to Main Street, and most recently, its joyful return to the beach last summer. Created by two sisters, Cassie and Brice, the Barefoot is popular with visitors and regulars alike, and serves great food and very imaginative, tasty STIFF drinks.

But the "Foot," as it's often called, has morphed into something so much more than just another beach bar and grill.  With the help of another sister, Ellie, who does most of her work behind the scenes, the girls and their awesome staff have made the Barefoot into an establishment where you have an enjoyable visit every time you go. It’s a neighborhood-watering-hole “Cheers” kind of spot where both regulars and visitors are heartily welcomed. And soon, given courage by the deliciously deceptive stiff beverages, everyone finds themselves joining in on the fun.  

It seems the Barefoot girls and their crew are always having a party of sorts, whether planned or spontaneous. Somehow, the girls find a way to make their imaginative and creative theme parties happen almost every weekend. There are horseshoes and backgammon, a variety of live music most evenings, sports on the tv, and of course, that beautiful beach.  Unless you’re a zombie, you just can’t go and NOT have fun at the “Foot.” And just last weekend, at their Birthday Party to celebrate nine years in business (which lasted all weekend long!) the Barefoot Beach Bar girls and their team were STILL having a blast.  Nine years later, they’re still loving what they do, and celebrating it.  And I realized -- I want to do THAT.

I want to do something in the next chapter of my life that I’m still having fun with and celebrating nine years later, just like the Barefoot girls. Something that makes me happy enough to want to supply a four-foot tall piñata filled with goodies for all the guests!  And though I’m still searching to find “that thing," I hope when I do, it continues to make me feel like having a party every single day. In the meantime, you can find me at the Barefoot, having fun and looking for it in the bottom of my glass!!!

If you haven't been to the 'Foot, check them out here, and start making your plans to go!  https://www.facebook.com/BarefootBarPlacenciaBelize

That Ain't What It Takes To Love Me

In 1974, Jim Stafford released a song called “Spiders and Snakes” which quickly topped the pop charts in several countries. I was just seven years old but I loved that song! And now, the chorus of that little ditty has become my battle cry in my "adopted" village, where we are cozily nestled between the beach and the far, far edge of the jungle, and directly in the path of all kinds of critters. The song goes something like this: “I don’t like spiders and snakes, and that ain’t what it takes to love me, like I wanna be loved by you.” 

Okay, yes, it’s true, I’m a city girl. And yet, I willingly chose to move to a tropical country harboring a slightly irrational fear of creepy-crawlers. I’m scared of them all--spiders, snakes, bees, cockroaches, lizards, beach crabs, scorpions, moths, toads and caterpillars. Yes, toads and caterpillars. Laugh if you want, but there are some scary-ass poisonous toads and caterpillars! Look it up! No matter how many legs, two, four, or six or eight--with wings or without—if they crawl or fly, or bite and sting, or slither on the ground, I’m scared of them. Especially the skittery, scampery prehistoric-looking ones. And prior to our move to Placencia, I used to gleefully maim and murder any kind of “pest” that dared to show its exoskeleton in my presence. My mantra was “kill ALL creepy-crawlers!” 

But unbelievably, at least for this city girl, I am learning how to coexist in their world, here between the sea and the "back-a-bush." I’ve learned to welcome the darling little geckos inside the house, because honestly, they’re cute! They bark like tiny little dogs! And they eat bugs, roaches, and spiders. Who wouldn’t want a friend like that in the house? Our first resident gecko we named Philbert, and he was adorable. Until Kitti ate him. And then puked him up on the bed in the middle of the night. Sadly, we’ve had to stop naming our geckos. It was just too sad.

Truthfully, I don’t really mind the iguanas, lizards, wish willys, and land crabs, although they do still startle me sometimes. But the biggest surprise is that I’ve even learned to simply take a wide berth around the tarantulas, and not run screaming bloody murder for the hills. And even though I am still quite terrified of them,  I let the hairy monsters hang around (outside of course), because I’ve been told tarantulas eat scorpions. And I despise scorpions most of all.  When it comes to scorpions, sorry, but my old rule kicks back in and all bets are off.  ALL scorpions must die.  

I moved to Placencia knowing that it is the creepy-crawler’s domain. This land belonged to them first, and I am just a guest. I knew I had to learn to coexist, just as people here have done for generations. I’m trying hard to adapt, and believe it or not, I've learned a lot about bugs and other critters since our move.  We even try to "relocate" the ones we are able to with the help of our friend, Elvin, who's not afraid at all. And as long as they stay outside, I will let them live in peace--unless it’s a scorpion. But I make no apologies, any creepy crawler that steps across my threshold and into my home should be forewarned--it is likely taking its last step on this earth. Especially the scorpions!

(Don’t know the song “Spiders and Snakes?”  You can see it here:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_TRJUAaQ2WU 

UFO's in Placencia, Belize?

So, a funny thing happened to me the other night….. WAIT! Please don’t stop reading! I know all lame, boring comedy routines start with that phrase. But this is no comedy routine, and it really happened to me.

I should start by clearly stating that I don’t believe in creatures from another planet, aliens from outer space, or any of that “sci-fi” crap you see in movies. But just the other night, I saw a UFO! It was hovering over our neighbor’s house in all its enormous and terrifying grandeur, basking in the sinister blackness of night, its horrifying red and green lights blinking like glittering eyes of evilness.

Let me start at the beginning. In case you weren’t aware, I love my little dogs and would do anything for my tiny doxies, Kitti and Bunni.  And every evening they have to go outside, in the dark, to go potty before we go to bed. And they won’t go downstairs by themselves, at least not in the dark. So I decided to take them down for one last potty break, in the dark, while the hubby snoozed on the couch.  

Did I point out it was dark?  And, have I forgotten to mention that I am scared—really more like petrified--of the dark? I don’t just mean just that childlike, ”I’m scared of the dark, get me my teddy-bear” kind of scared. I mean the “I am PETRIFIED something’s gonna kill & eat me--in a Stephen King-horror-story-way” kind of scared of the dark. And it gets really dark in Belize in the evening. VERY dark.

So, as I’m walking down the stairs, flashlight in hand, my terror of the darkness simmering just below the surface, I see a large, square-shaped object hovering just across the canal, its red and green lights illuminating the skyline, thin vapors of smoke trailing out of its backside. I know it’s not an airplane because it’s way too low. And it’s square.  Besides, airplanes aren’t allowed to fly after dark in Belize! I must have stared, unblinking, for a good minute, trying to make sense of this unrecognizable “thing” in my mind. Then I suddenly I realized—Oh My God--It’s a flying saucer! It’s a goddamn SQUARE UFO!!

I was frozen on the bottom step. I couldn’t move.  Sheer panic rose in my throat. Visions of aliens hauling me away for unimaginable acts or harvesting of my organs flitted quickly through my stunned brain. But wait, we are in Belize--not the middle of the Nevada desert! This is not Area 51! There is NO such thing as UFO’s!  But I know in my heart and my soul that THAT is an EXTRA-TERRESTRIAL SPACECRAFT! It's a UFO! I have never been so certain of anything in my life. I was seeing it with my very own eyes. My paralysis finally broke. Screaming in terror, I ran back up the stairs, hollering at the hubby “OH Jesus God, Get up, you bastard! Get the (bleep) UP!!! RIGHT NOW! Come and LOOK!!” I drag him off the couch and down the stairs. “What in the HELL IS THAT? Is that a UFO?!”

Some call it a "Crow's Nest"

I call it a Widow's Walk

As the hubby shambles down the stairs and takes a good look through his sleepy eyes, not hearing the urgency or sheer terror in my voice, he quietly says, “Yeah, I heard some rumors about UFO sightings in Belize lately. But honey, that’s just the neighbors, putting up their Christmas lights around the railing on their widow’s walk…. And they seem to be grilling out.”    

My friends tell me that even though we call it a “widow’s walk," the proper term for it is a “crow’s nest” or an “observation deck.” It’s a simple structure commonly built at the rooftop level on many houses in Placencia, meant to allow for catching a cool breeze or watching the sunrise or sunset over the water. But in my “Stephen King-horror-story-terrified” frame of mind, I looked across the canal in the black of night and saw a UFO. And probably always will. At least until Christmas is over and the neighbors take their lights down.

If You See Me Smiling......

Thought I was smiling.....

I have a confession to make.  Some of you won’t be surprised by this confession, some of you may be shocked.  But, the cold, hard truth is:  I don’t always smile.  At least not effortlessly, or randomly, or even on cue, the way some people are able to.  It’s not that I’m an UNhappy person, although dear hubby would sometimes disagree.  And it’s not that I don’t WANT to smile.  I AM happy, and I DO smile often, and when I do choose to smile, it’s REAL.  It’s just that I’m not naturally one of those blissfully, joyful, grinning weirdos who bounce around smiling ALL the time.  You know who I’m talking about, those people whose brains are full of rainbows, lollipops, unicorns, and puppy dogs, all bursting to get out.

Fake Smile

But there’s more.  I have to come clean on something else.  When someone finds me sitting somewhere, seemingly emotionless, bland-faced and yet, contentedly minding my own business, and flippantly instructs me to “Smile!”, I want to smack them in the face.  With a board.  (Now, that might make me smile!)  Listen up folks: For those of us who are not “natural smilers” – telling us to smile is only going to accomplish the opposite.  Unless we happen to like you, and then we may or may not choose to humor you with a fake, emotionless smile.    

My "resting" face.  Natural.

I don’t know why, but my “resting” or “natural” face has always been rather serious, stoic, and devoid of emotion.  The funny thing is, I am rarely aware of it until someone points it out. I know part of my problem is that many times I honestly THINK I’m smiling when I’m not. I feel the joy in my heart, the delight in my brain, and the humor in my soul, and so I take for granted that it’s also showing in my face.  But it seems the signals from those neurons and synapses upstairs don’t always make it down the chute to my mouth, ready to go to work pulling up the corners of my lips.

I thought I was smiling BIG here!

I hereby admit and acknowledge my smiling dysfunction, and even submit that I have tried to reprogram myself.  About four years ago, I got a new laptop with a built-in camera, so I used it to take some pictures of myself.  It was shortly after my brain surgery, and I wanted to know what I REALLY looked like, and if I still looked "normal."  So, I took a whole bunch of  “selfies," doing a nice smile in each picture I took.  Ironically, I not only smiled, I literally laughed out loud, but not until I went through them later.  My “smile face” looked like someone had put dog poop in my Cheerios and I had a mouthful!  So, I took a bunch more pics, and really studied when I “thought” I was smiling, and figuring out how much harder I had to work to actually “be” smiling.  It was an eye-opening experiment.

And so I've spent the last 4 years teaching myself how to not only feel the smile, but to “smile” the smile.  I still have to practice sometimes, and I still don't always remember to do it.  But, I just thought I should tell you.  Just so you’ll know.  In case you see me walking around the village, just smiling and bouncing along with lollipops, puppy dogs, unicorns, and rainbows falling out of my head…….

The Real Deal!

I Have Become My Mother......

My parents on their wedding day

Today would have been my dad's 69th birthday, and it got me thinking quite a bit about about my parents, who have both passed away now.  Whenever I think of them, I often wonder, how do we end up becoming just like our parents, no matter how hard we try to avoid it?  As a kid, I swore I was going to be so different-- I was going to be the one to "break the chain."  I was going to be normal! Even though I didn't think my parents, or the things they did were remotely normal, I vowed I was not going to do the "abnormal" things that they did.  I believed I would do things.....well.... different.  And, of course in my childish righteousness, I was certain I would never make the mistakes they made.

Dad, Me, Brent, and Mom (circa late 60's!)

And though I have a few of my father's personality traits, there is absolutely no doubt that I am my mother's daughter.  Before she died, people used to say I even looked just like her.  My voice sounds just like hers.  I am built just like her.  And when I look in the mirror, I see her face staring back at me, especially the older I get!  But even more telling is the fact that I have made all the mistakes I believed she made, and many more.  I've came up with some even crazier stunts, and done so many more things completely ass-backwards than she ever dreamed of doing.  Even though I was so determined to be different, and not do the "imperfect" things I believed she did, I have somehow become EXACTLY like my mother.  

The look I was aiming for

That realization hit me smack in the face this weekend, when after coloring my hair for the third time in one week, I still hated it.  And, yet, I was already thinking about coloring it one more time.  And THAT, my friends, is classic Donna Lou--my mother, who was practically famous for her botched home haircolor experiments!  My face even looked just like hers; with a hilariously surprised, yet knowing expression, staring back in the mirror as I unwrapped my towel and saw yet another failed hair-coloring display.  

My ends were breaking off unevenly, even though I'd toned it and conditioned it as much as possible.  I'd even added a little brown to counteract the yellow, but it still wasn't the color I wanted.  The outgrowth of my naturally dark and "mousey" hair just would not go blonde enough, and I now had three colors--yellow at the scalp, a mucky brown in the middle, and peroxide-fried blond at the frizzy, lifeless ends. And yet, I was still thinking of to giving it another go!  Worst of all, this isn't the first or even the second time I've done this throughout the years.  I've done it over and over.  Just like mom!

My natural color, last seen 4 years ago

Later that day, a close friend told me it was "cute" and that it looked just like Austin Powers' hair.  I was crushed--Austin Powers wasn't exactly the look I was going for.  I have finally resigned myself to making an appointment with a professional next week.  I'll be having it all cut quite short again, and letting it go back to my natural color, so I can start over once more. Just like mom!

Have you ever found yourself doing the things you swore you'd never do "just like your parents?"