Ive heard of people dropping their basket, and losing their basket, but what happens if someone steals it?

The (somewhat) rainy season is upon us, which really only means that I no longer have to water my grass and postage-stamp size garden daily. Now I have to do it every other day. On a positive note, the rain we've had so far hasn't created "Lake Fabs" in the potholes in front of our house, as it generally does.



Another interesting developement of the rain, is that the laundry mat around the corner stole my basket.



I don't own a dryer. I find it senseless to purchase a device that creates heat, while living in Cozumel. The backyard is essentially full sun all day (hence the obsessive watering) and clothes dry in less than an hour. There are approximately three times a year when I need/want a dryer, and up until now that hasn't been an issue, since there was, what I thought to be, a quality lavanderia, two blocks away.



One rainy day last week, I dropped off a load of freshly washed, wet clothes to be dried and folded. They were in my trusty laundry basket. Let me tell you that this basket was nothing special, in fact, it even had a hole in the side. It was white, plastic and tall. I had it for years, and it was mine. To the right you can see a photo of the basket in happier days. (No cats were harmed during the taking of this photo, FYI)



Anyhow, I returned a few hours later, collected my folded clothes, and asked for my basket back.



"Oh, that basket was yours?" asked the girl behind the counter, "well the other girl that works here took your basket full of wet clothes to the other location, and I'm sure she'll return it shortly.



"Not a problem at all," I snarkilly replied, "I'll just take my clothes and when you give me back my basket, I'll pay you."



No one has 20/20 hindsight like I do, and as the afternoon wore on I began to feel a little guilty about not paying. What if the girl got in trouble with the owners? Was I over the top bitchy? I discussed this with the Fabster, who is the level-headed voice of reason in the family. We agreed that I should go back tommorrow and pay and collect the basket.



When I arrived, the other girl, told me that she did indeed return my basket, however, the first girl loaned my basket to a woman who lived around here, and had alot of clothes to take home. Second girl felt confident that in the next few days, neighbor woman would return with my basket. It simply wasn't her fault, but the first girl, who caused the entire situation. She then asked me if I was going to pay my bill.





End of story, I now have a new white laundry basket, that I don't like nearly as much (not that any sane person would get attached to a laundry basket, mind you) I can never ever go back to the laundry-mat on the corner, since I still owe then $47 peos, and, frankly, I'm not really sure what I'm going to do when it rains again.

Down Time

So this morning I packed up the husband and sent him off to Mexico City for a 10 day visit with his family. I’m actually rather proud of this decision on my part, since I highly encouraged this visit. My Mother in law had been making “I want to come and visit you” sounds for some time, and I could feel the weight of an impending arrival.

I’m not going to delve into the depths of my relationship with the MIL, since translation programs have come such a long way, but safe to say after 10 years, she and I have reached an uneasy agreement. Ironically enough, our big issue is that we both love the Fabster so much. He’s her (self admitted) favorite son and, well, he’s my only husband. So we tug o’ war over him when we’re together.

I won’t go into how she rearranged my kitchen to cook him his favorite dishes, or how she rooted though our hamper to wash his clothes daily, or how she massages his feet while he plays the playstation, because that would be petty, and, like I said, we’ve come a long way. In fact, I now answer the telephone when the caller ID tells me it’s from DF and she doesn’t hang up in my ear anymore! The Fab-man denies any knowledge of this rivalry , but secretly, I think he enjoys it a little bit and have even seem him “up the anty” a little bit.

I’m actually looking forward to this little respite. Being an only child, and an avid reader, I really like being alone. Secretly I sometimes even miss being single. I’m looking forward to a fat glass of wine in the backyard later, and then eating dinner over the sink, before climbing into bed and sleeping like a starfish. This single, John Belushi-like lifestyle will probably continue until at least Monday!

Riddle me this..

Why in Mexico do they have a word for puppies, cachoro, but no word for kitten? you have to use little cat, or gatito?

Why are Halls cough drops considered candy here, and not the medicine for a sore throat they are in the States?

Why here do they play "Crazy 7s?"

spanglish lesson number 105

Me: Honey, do you want some of this soda?

Adorable husband: No, I can't drink that stuff! It's got too much gas in it and makes me bark.

Cue the Twilight Zone Music Now....

I know that yesterday was a full moon, and things are supposed to get kinda flukey when there’s a full moon, however, they’ve been rod sterling-twilight zone strange. Allow me to elaborate:

Yesterday I saw a family of 5 and a dog on a scooter. That’s a record.

I had two separate conversations with a man from Nigeria and a man from Turkey in Spanish, because both of them were more comfortable in that language then English.

I witnessed an ambulance, with it’s siren going, get into an accident. This Jetta saw the ambulance coming, and still decided to shoot the gap and pull out in front of it. To the ambulance diver’s credit, once he clipped the tail end of the jetta, he just kept going. He did have the siren going on, after all.

Yesterday I witnessed 3 separate drunks laying passed out on the sidewalk. Again, another record.

The Fab husband was kind enough to surprise me with some super nice silver hoop earrings, which I now covet. I wore them out last night. No less than six people literally said “hey, Laura, nice earrings. Dude, what DID you do wrong?’

I’m now paranoid that it was some sort of “pay it forward” karma thing, and that the Fab man is planning do to something really wrong…..

Currently, I am also afraid of my cat. Oddly enough, Orca the cat loves this repulsive plastic-strawberry yogurt drink the Fabster insists upon having every morning. That in itself is strange, however, Orca got a little over excited and batted it out of the husband’s hand, so it crashed to the floor, spilling neon pink slop everywhere. Husband’s response- he let the cat clean it up. Orca’s belly is now distended and I can hear the sounds that it makes.

And I haven’t even gotten out of bed yet!

Looks like someone just missed the entire concept there,captain obvious

Yesterday I was read on the internet a post that someone had written about how they couldn’t possibly come to Cozumel because we don’t flush the toilet paper, and that they thought that was really icky and prolly smelled kinda gross, eww!

I had to laugh out loud. First of all Cozumel is an island and we don’t have any water pressure at all to speak of. Second of all, have you ever been anywhere, restaurant, hotel, public place, that didn’t clean their restrooms at least once a day? that remained in business?

Seriously, what exactly is this person envisioning?? Calcutta? I’m thinking they might have missed the whole Caribbean island kinda vibe. That’s ok, more boat drinks for the rest of us!!

It's a small world after all....

Words are different here in Mexico, and maybe it’s my synapse-deficient brain, but sometimes I get confused when switching back and forth, especially if I’m translating something right away. The other day, I spent way too much time trying to think of the English word for “lima” (nail file).

I’m not bi-lingual, since I actually took Latin as a foreign language in school (only benefit: I’m pretty good at crossword puzzles). I can follow and understand a movie in Spanish, and, unfortunately I do understand my Mother In Law, way, way too well. I have a pretty good vocabulary and aside from my strange New England pronunciation most people, with a little patience, can understand me quite well.

Since I subscribe to the “living it and learning it school of Spanish” I oftentimes encounter words that are really weird and confuse me. For example, the other day in my yoga class, we were supposed to do small circles with our “munecas”. Now, I knew that “muneca” meant doll, and in all the years I’ve been doing yoga I’ve never brought a doll to class, so I watched surreptitiously as everyone else spun their wrists around.

So I get home, and I ask the Fabster, “You have the same word for doll and wrist? That’s weird.”
“Yeah, almost as weird as having the same word for the lower back of your leg and a baby cow,” he replied.

There’s also words in Spanish, that simply don’t exist in English. For example, Tocayo (or Tocaya if you’re a female) which means “person with the same name as me.” Think about it, the best we English speakers can do in this situation is high five each other and say “Same name guy!!.”

Another great example is “Provecho” which means “Enjoy your food.’ The best we can do with that sentiment is ‘Bon Appétit, which is, in fact, French, and defeats the entire purpose.

Last week, in the Cozumel 4 You Newsletter, I featured this really cute one-eyed terrier up for adoption. (He’s cute, and still up for grabs, if you’re interested) and when the wonderful Rodrigo Rodriguez translated as “tuerto” so, essentially again, there exists in Spanish one word for a whole concept we don’t have.

Further investigation, again, via the Fab-man, reveals that there also exists “cojo” (one-leg guy) and “manco’ (the proverbial one armed man)

These little differences fascinate me. For example, here they play “Crazy 7s” and not “Crazy 8s” Turkeys do not say “gobble, gobble” but rather “gordo,gordo” (fat, fat!)
However, my all time favorite is the noise that roosters make. In English, there’s the “cock-a-doodle-do” of Farmer Brown fame. Here barnyard fowl say “Ki-ki-Ri-Ki”

Try it sometime, it makes for good cocktail party conversations!!

What is it with me and birds??

Seriously, is this the Chinese year of the bird? Am I working out some bad karma from a past lifetime? Is Alfred Hitchcock attempting to communicate with me from the grave?

First there was the drive-by vulture wrestling of last month, where me and the minion of death collided on a bicycle (well, I was on the bicycle, the vulture was flying obviously..).

This traumatic event has become such instant Cozumel legends that Rodrigo Rodriquez, who does the Living Legends on the Cozumel 4 You webletter wrote a poem about it!! (no, I didn’t publish it, it’s embarrassing!)

The other day, I was at Blu Bambu getting my haircolor totally changed (bye bye blondie!) and I’m standing over by the window, and I look up and screamed like a 12 year old girl. Literally about 2 feet away from me, and at eye level was this enormous albino peacock.

“oh, peacock, pretty..” you think. Not so. This was the nasty version of peacock. First of all it was hyperventilating (I didn’t even know that birds DO that) and it’s creepy forked beak-colored tongue was hanging out, and it was pecking at the window, like it wanted to come in and peck out my eye.

Katie (witness) who was with me tentatively tapped the window in a gentle attempt to encourage this freak of nature to perhaps pant elsewhere. No such luck, what the gentle tapping did, in fact do, was convince the disgusting thing to turn around.

Now, you’ve seen how distorted people’s faces are when they squish them into a pane of glass and make funny faces, right? Well, let’s just say that Katie and I got a birds-eye view of everything you ever wanted to know about peacock hiney. The worst part about it, because of the damn tail, the bird kinda got stuck, and the twist/mooning took place in slow motion.

“Eeewwww,” Katie actually said out loud. Unbelievably enough she actually had her camera with her and managed to snap a photo! The photo became incredibly important since as soon as the monstrosity tottered off I called the Fab husband, and told him the whole story, and he did not believe me.

It seems that there are some people out there who think that I have a tendency to exaggerate in order to make a story better, and the Fabster thought it was perhaps a large chicken or maybe a dove. And to all you naysayers out there, you know what I say? POPPYCOCK!

A selfless shout out...

I'm taking a break from my usual snark and carrying on, to tell you all about my friend Henry, who owns a B&B here on the island. Henry has taken it upon himself, to gather together volunteers and go over and clean the beaches of Cozumel, as well as other areas that don't get picked up by the city.

In the month of June, they removed over 1,500 KILOS of garbage! They don't get any government support or funding, and they're just doing it because it's the right thing to do....

Please go over and give Yo Limpio Cozumel a shout out http://yolimpiocozumel.blogspot.com/, the site is in spanish, but once you see all those jumbo black garbage bags you'll get the idea. Feel free to follow the blog, leave a comment, or if you're here on island, get involved!! I know I will be!

Reflections from under the mountain of dirty clothes...

The washing machine saga continues. Our technician had called the parts distributor in Playa del Carmen who supposedly was going to order the part and have it ready Monday. Since it’s now Tuesday, the Fab-man called Carlos (of underpants fame) who said that he had a friend who could probably dismantle the part and re-build it. Um, why didn’t we do that in the first place?

The amount of dirty clothes that two people have amassed in such a short time is staggering. There’s sheets, towels, beach towels, and mounds and mounds of clothing.

Upon reflection I discovered that the Fab-man goes through about 3-4 fashion changes a day. First there are the tennis clothes, consisting of name brand, high tech, drip-dry fabrics, then there is the work polos and rash guards, followed by the relax-around-the-house cotton type stuff, which is sometimes even topped off by the going-out wear consisting of a Columbia shirt (in white or blue)and large oversize shorts with many pockets in which to stash napkins and beer tops (which is what broke the washing machine in the first place).

I, on the other hand, especially since I started working from this office (aka the back bedroom) can tell you that my clothes are broken down into two categories,; Pajamas, and outside clothes. Pass by my home any morning or evening and you’ll find me comfortable in PJs. In the afternoon, when I go and visit clients and generally make a public nuisance of myself, I’ll be “properly attired” (as possible for someone who hasn’t been able to wash anything in over a week).

It’s interesting that between the two of us, we’re going through about 5 outfits a day, and yet, none of them are especially state-side office wear appropriate, in spite of the fact that my flip flops are always color coordinated to my outfits….

Of undergarments and Television shows..

As I whined about last post, I was attempting to convince plumber/electrican guy to fix our dead washing machine. I had actually joked to the Fab man that when Carlos opened the back of the washer that all of the socks we had lost over the years would come tumbling out. What actually happened was way, way worse.


When the back of the washing machine came off, a blue and black striped Victoria’s Secret thong came tumbling out and landed on Carlos’ shoe. That in itself is mortifying, however; this particular thong had obviously been there for years, since, it was one of those ridiculously high-cut, 1980’s, purchased at the semi-annual sale, 5 for $40 bucks ones. In fact, it was so stiff with dust, large holes and grease stains that when it tumbled out and came to it’s resting place on Carlos’ foot that it retained the same mangled shape in which it had been lodged all these years.

I gingerly lifted them off his shoe, he attempted some semblance of composure and we carried on, obviously with the skanky panties forefront, yet unspoken in our minds, he replaced a belt, and the machine still doesn’t work. I’ve called him three times today and he won’t answer, I’m assuming that he’s experiencing some sort of mental trauma, and am thankful there’s no sexual harassment lawsuits here.


We did the TV show, and in accordance with Murphy’s law, everything went wrong, from start to finish. I collected our cute matching tank tops the day of the show, only to discover that they had placed the logo directly under our left breasts, not in the center as directed. As a result, not only was Cozumel 4 You not visible, however the cute tropical fish showed up on camera as some sort of displaced yellow nipple staring downward.

We also discovered 2 hours prior to showtime that we had no one to interview. Luckily enough they did score someone, however, they weren’t really relevant to the theme of the show, still they saved our butts and for that I’m grateful.

The TV station had a fair number of issues, including, they hadn’t finished our set, and made do with a slide projector and some bar stools. Have you ever seen anyone on TV sitting in a bar stool? That’s because they’re not flattering and produce all manners of slouching, muffin tops and other physical horrors. Also, slide projectors and TV lights are not friends. The General Manager/Show Tech was 20 minutes late, so our 7 pm TV show actually started at 7:38, during which time they ran Ricky Martin videos, so people just assumed they had missed us. Mics, batteries, and other electrical devices weren’t checked and sound and audio came and went throughout the show. It actually became so ludicrous that I actually laughed out loud. Ernesto from the Thai place was cooking on TV and got zapped my his hotplate, and HE swore on TV. After that it was a free for all and Katie, Ernesto and I hammed it up for the rest of the show. We didn’t get to the news portion, but we survived, and lived to tell about it, and there's no where to go now but up.

Lastly, today I stopped by a business who had enquired about advertising. I was announced by the receptionist, and told to go to the room at the end of the hall, which turned out to be the Manager’s personal living quarters. She called, “come in, hunny..” in a super friendly way and proceeded to greet me in her nightgown. It seems her close friend has the same name as me, she wasn’t paying attention and was now speaking to a total stranger in her undergarments. She carried it off with aplomb, and invited me to sit on her couch, and I went through my entire speel, all the while looking at her from the neck up, knowing this is how Carlos probably felt.

Stuff I don't wanna do..

I spend entirely way too much time doing stuff I don't wanna do. I like to kid myself that since I live here, on an island, hang out at the beach, have fun, irresponsible friends, that makes me hip, and cool, but the facts are, I still spend way too much time doing stuff I don't wanna do...

This week life got in the way of my life, meaning that I had to do alot of the stupid grown-up stuff, that made me feel irresponsible, selfish, dumb, and re-think the whole Peter Pan state in which I seem to dwell.

Sunday the Fab man went fishing, and came back with 3 tunas, my absolute favorite. When he arrived home, I immediately headed out for wasabi...in a torrential downpour. The Fabster, who is a reasonable adult, warned me about flooded streets, while I nodded vacantly and relentlessly carried on with my selfish mission. Did I mention that I had to walk my narcissistic self to Rita's house? to call for a ride? while clutching a sodden tube of wasabi?

That stupid little jaunt into arrested adolescence cost us $150 USD since apparently I didn’t get the amphibian option when I purchased the Mimi-mobile. Long suffering husband, again, just gazed at me plaintively as he shelled out the cash.

The washing machine, after years of mistreatment and faithful service on it’s part, also chose Monday to crap out. Trying to get someone to repair something here, is about as easy as milking a cat. It might be possible, however at the end of the day, the repair guy is pissed off, since the Fabster has gone to his shop 90 bazillion times and bothered him, the husband and I have already had a tiff about the associated frustration, and at the end of the day, we’re still drowning in dirty clothes. Today I’m calling a new guy, so the entire cycle can begin anew.

I’ve also got a new cleaning lady starting today. This, is, actually harder than dating, and I didn’t enjoy that and wasn’t very good at it either. I got the new maid from the Jehovah Witness Maid pimp, who’s the connection here on the island to good, reliable help. The Maid pimp is a necessary evil, since it’s really hard to find someone who won’t drink out your liquor cabinet, rob you blind, hit you up for a loan, or bring friends and family members for a visit while cleaning your house. Go ahead, laugh, I’m not exaggerating, I’ve had all of these things happen to me. I’ve also been forced to purchase Tupperware, Amway, and Avon. I’ve discovered broken keepsakes stuffed in sock drawers, mummified lizards under the sofa that the cat brought in, and even found a bottle of salad dressing mixed into the products in our bathroom.

The husband has been shockingly responsible. I have not. I’ve flown off the handle, yelled, screamed and made bad decisions, almost on an hourly basis. I really truly hate it, when he comes off as the mature, responsible one. Then, to make matters even worse, he indulgently pats me on the head, and claims he understands all the stress that that I’m under. Again, somewhere I don’t wanna bee, shew-vllle.

Alfred Hitchcock ain't got nuthin' on this.....

Yesterday morning I was riding my bicycle up on the north side of the island. I've got the Ipod on super loud, listening to some Linkin Park,rocking out, in the zone, doing the exercise thing.

As I'm riding, a garbage truck pulls out, and as they swung to turn, something icky fell out of the back of the truck and lands on the street.

This giant vulture swoops down and starts ripping into it,as I'm approaching. I see the icky giant bird and hook left. The bird, who is facing me, takes off inflight and dodges right.

We collide mid chest. I've got a wing in my face and I'm batting wildly at the damn thing while attempting to remain upright on the bike, all the whiie shreaking like a little girl. We're talking screams here, where it's just sounds, ACK, ACK, ACK, since I'm not even capable of forming a sentence.

I managed to remain upright while beating off the messenger of death, although I did susain a minor injury to my private parts as I jammed the handbars into my pubic bone.

It was one of the most repugnant things that has ever occured to me. Have you ever smelled those things! Aside frrom being literally butt ugly, they stink. Really badly.

You know as soon as I got the bicycle under contol I started looking around to see who actually saw that. The You Tube video is probably worth some serious cash.

I showered with bleach, and did some serious exfoliation.

I think this is a sign from God that exercise is bad for you.

My first day of filming..

Yesterday was my day to shoot the promo video for my upcoming cable show. Luckily, I had the foresight to rope my friend Katie of Blu Bambu into my nefarious scheme. Katie spent over a hour doing my hair and make-up, and I have to admit it, I looked great. She used some voodoo magic,since I actually had an upper lip and more than 5 eyebrow hairs.

Anyhow, we arrive at the TV station, and the camera crew consists of one, very nice, very nervous 20 year old boy, who I later found out, had only worked there for a month, which probably explains why he was more nervous than I was.

The station manager had left instructions, that he wanted the shoot to be outside on the waterfront…..in July….in the sun…..at 1 pm. The one block walk, toting all the camera stuff, already started the sweat running down all of our faces.

Then, embarrassed camera man has to wire me for sound, which involves clipping a microphone to my chest, slipping the wire under my shirt and leading it out the back. Doesn’t sound too hard, does it? Well it is, if you refuse to touch me. Katie finally had to come and help him because he was bright red and flustered, and just sort of flapping his hands around in front of me uselessly.

We were forced to move further downtown, after the CB radios of the taxis interfered with the audio of the tape. This involved us walking about 3 blocks, in the sweltering unshaded sun; me leading, still wired for sound, Katie carrying the cable, and the camera guy taking up the slack.

After blotting off the rivulets of flesh colored sweat, and unpeeling the hair matted in my lip gloss, we’re ready to shoot. Camera guy asks me to remove my sunglasses. Um, blinding sun! People with corneal transplants are very photo sensitive! As a result, I have to close my eyes, until taping actually starts and rush through my speel as quickly as possible before my eyes get all squinty, like Morocco Mole.

I am now slimmingly positioned, sucking in the gut, shoulders firmly unpinned from my ears while wearing my “go to” photo face the second I open my eyes.

“Hi I’m Laura, join me this Thursday for Cozumel 4 You, a brand new program of news, events and island happenings all in English, right here on Channel 5 from 5 to 7 pm,”

“How’d I do?” I ask camera man

“I don’t know, I don’t speak English so I didn’t understand it,” he shugs, but helpfully adds “you didn’t stutter or slur or anything.”

Essentially I could have recited Mary Poppin’s Supercalafragjalistic and as long as I didn’t drool or fall over, it would have been ok in his book.

We shoot a few more, just in case, repeating the closed eye game, and we’re packing up, and camera boy DROPS the camera. On the STAIRS. Made of CEMENT.

We then got to wait around in the square (aka Wet Wendy’s Bar slipping something cold) while he checked to make sure “he had what he needed. “ (AKA: found someone who spoke English to see what I said on the tape, and also to check if the camera was still in working condition after the stair tumble)

IMPROVED NOW WITH CLIP:

Maybe I just don't get it.

I know that I'm a gringa, and here in my adpoted country, we have different customs, holidays and traditions. I can really get behind alot of them (hello, pozole!) and some of them, well, I think I'm missing the whole point.

Let's talk about pinatas. Saturday was Braden's 3rd birthday party. I went with his mom, and my partner in crime, Nancy, from http://www.cozumelislandrealestate.com/, to go and order the cake, the pinata, etc. a few days prior to the event. Now, Nancy chose one of the coolest lion pinatas I've ever seen, and it had to be, because she made me to to THREE different pinata stores to find it. Yes, three. I live on a small island, where you can't always find fresh milk, but apparently anyone can find a pinata a mile away from their house.

Now, this lion pinata was BIG, and Nancy had no where to hide it from a active 3 year old, so lion came to live with us for a few days. I had to put the thing on the dining room table, since that's essentially the only place we've been able to convince the cat to NEVER go, (which is ironic, since we actually eat at the thing about 4 times a year, but I digress..)

So here's where you pinata affictionados lose me. It's your kid's birthday. You have a theme for it, in this case, lions. So you go and buy your child's favorite character and then encourage them to beat the crap out of it with a stick? Seriously, if that's not years of therapy, I don't know what is.

Then, the pinatas almost never break. Seriously, all of my firend's kids are under 5 years old, meaning they're not that strong, and they have a three minute attention span, tops. There's always the excitement at the beginning, when the kids all have their first turn, and we all sing the silly song loudly, and nothing happens, because the people that make these things make them super, super thick. Can't they make special, easy to break ones for the young and the elderly?

So what generally happens is the adults stop paying attention, and only sing when it's actually their kid, and the children start wandering off to discover other shiny objects. Then some well meaning adult steps up, with a determined look in their eye. In all the years I've lived here, I have never seen a child break a pinata, it's always the desperate parent, who realizes they're losing the audience. (In one notable occasion, I actually saw a granmother take a kitchen knife to a particularly durable pinata).

I won't even get into the whole concept of arming children with sticks. Someone once told me they wen't to a party and the host used a broom handle made out of metal, and one of the kids got a little swing happy and broke someone's arm.

How about the moron who pulls the rope to make the pinata move around? First of all, it's always the wise-guy of the group, since no one else wants the job. Secondly, when you're swinging, and just want to get this whole pinata/stick thing over with, the last thing you want is some yahoo, jerking the pinata around making it harder!

So finally, the whole pinata thing comes to it's happy end, the thing breaks and candy and other edible stuff falls to the ground?? Not one of my friends would let their kid eat off the floor (that I know of..) but if it comes out of a pinata it's ok. And, generally speaking, the stuff they fill those things with is horrble. Waxy chocolate, peanuts, oranges and even toothpicks. You've gotta be kidding me here!

Again, maybe I just don't get it! Maybe I'm just missing the joy. I know Fabs has never really been able to embrace the whole concept of Groundhog Day.

Here's the pinata in the store, in happier days, prior to it's unwarranted beating.

I'm pretty sure the CSI Crime Lab is on it's way

Does anyone know how to get rust stains out of cement? I've always said; Here, if it doesn't mold it rusts, and, as our BBQ did the slow walk of death, it left rust marks all over our patio. It looks as if we've been conducting mayan sacrifices.

New Grocery options!!

Cozumel is really getting developed in a big way. Recently we got a giant new grocery store, that has actually made shopping for food less gruesome. I can’t tell you how much I hated to go to the grocery store. I’m not a squeamish person, really! However, the other grocery store, where I used to shop, was often frightening and frustrating.

There was no consistency. Just because you had seen a particular item on your last visit is not an indicator that you will ever see that item again. I’ve coasted in there, shopping list in hand only to find out that key essential ingredients for Thursday’s pot luck were unavailable, forcing me to mentally recreate recipes in my head. “Ok, so the pasta salad is out, but perhaps I can work these beans into something nice..”

Once upon a brief time they had veggie burgers, and Oh how I loved them. I would race expectantly over to the refrigerated section searching for my beloved veggie burgers. First they were there consistently, then sometimes and then, never to be seen again. I finally asked one of the clerks, and she told me they were no longer carrying them “They were really popular, see? And we couldn’t keep them in stock all the time, so we got complaints, so, no, we’re not going to sell them anymore.”

Like I said, I’m not a super girly girl, but even the vegetable section grossed me out. There were fruit flies, and it smelled. There was half rotten produce that had been fondled by multitudes of strangers, trying to see if they could salvage enough for a meal.
Most importantly, the roof leaked. Dripping water would mix with the rotten vegetable pulp, creating a slick area of spooge. Rather than clean this spooge up, what the staff would do was place flattened cardboard boxes over them. That way you were cross the sea o spooge on your cardboard surfboard.

One particular incident stands out clearly in my mind. I was shopping and had a full cart of selections. I stopped in the veggie section, hit one of the cardboard flats just right and landed IN the spooge. I was literally covered from hip to ankle in sludge. It was probably one of the most disgusting things that had ever happened to me. Fellow shoppers looked on in both revulsion and sympathy. I stood up, wiped my hands on my pants, collected my purse and headed directly for the door, leaving the full cart. I drove directly home, with only one cheek touching the seat. I arrived home, and as I went up the stairs stripped off my clothes, in route to the sanitizing bath. I considered bleach. I mean, isn’t that where polio comes from?


This new grocery store, smells nice, and the floors aren’t slippery, and they seem to have things consistently. Looks like progress has finally hit the island.

Broken Down Bear

Yesterday as I was toiling away at my website, I noticed a funny smell. A really bad funny smell. I sniffed upstairs, nothing. I followed my substantial nose downstairs, and although the smell was stronger, it wasn’t inside. Outside the smell was positively feral.

At the end of my street, about 3 houses down was a bear. You see, the circus is in town and in an effort to drum up business they had sent trucks with the exotic animals and loudspeakers all over the island. Good idea in theory, however, my bear was experiencing engine trouble, judging by the open hood of the truck.

I stood outside and marveled at the smelly bear, thinking “only in Cozumel can a bear break down in front of your house.”

Later I noticed that my friend Tony had posted on his Facebook that the camels were parked in front of his house. He wins, camels are way more smelly than bears.

Cozumel Intruder

After a long day camping at the beach we returned home exhausted and I feel asleep really early. I woke up to the sound of husband rummaging around like a crazy person in his nightstand. After 10 years together I’m used to the Fab man doing some weird stuff at night, so I just rolled over, however, it really got my attention when he leaped out of bed, grabbed a tennis raquet and charged down the stairs screaming, “motherfuckers!,” like an extra in the movie Platoon.
I heard our front door slam and realized that someone was in the house, so I ran out onto the front balcony so I could inform the husband which way they ran off. Never saw anyone. Meanwhile, he’s conducting a room to room search and finds our burglar trapped in the backyard, attempting to hide behind our grill. (we have walls on three sides and barbed wire on the one open side.)
“Call the police, baby, call the police,” he yells.
From upstairs I dial 066 my hands are shaking and I can barely speak, but I manage to say (in Spanish), “I live at 25c between 21 and 23 and someone is robbing my house.”
The imbecile at the other end of the line tells me she doesn’t understand me, and what was the address again?? I repeat it no less than 3 times, with Fabian, and the burglar yelling at each other in the background.
I’m standing in the middle of my street in PJ waiting for the cops to show up when the phone rings, and it’s the same stupid woman. “There’s no 26 Av. We’ve been looking at a map.”
“No, between 21 and 23.”
“26 and what? (and then as an aside) “It’s that she’s foreign and I can’t understand her,”
“Look, stupid, is there someone more competent that I can speak with?” (ok, not really proud of that one, but it did get results…)
Meanwhile, the husband, still brandishing the racquet, has made the burglar, empty his pockets, and take off one shoe. Our burglar is crying and pleading to be let go. Fabs drops his guard for one second, the burglar sees the opportunity and takes off running down the street, headed directly for me, who is still one the phone with the police.
I realize now that I made the wrong decision and I should have tripped him or kicked him in between the legs, but at the time, this was the best thing I could come up with. I attempted to football tackle him, I drove my head into his stomach and threw all my weight into it. We ended up rolling in the road and into a pricker bush. Burglar gets up and starts running with the Fab man, and the tennis racquet in hot pursuit. It’s then that I realize that my brave husband has NO PANTS ON.
The police show up at that moment, Fabian speeds them off after burglar. I pick burrs off my PJs while convincing Fabian to cover his bottom half so he no longer resembles a cartoon bear. Back at the house, we discover that intelligent burglar left his driver’s license, not to mention the one shoe, intended to hamper his ability to run.
Now, there’s at least 3 cop cars at the house, and I’m making offers of coffee and sodas, when another squad car comes by and they have our guy, and his lookout, who was waiting on a further street corner away.
Burglar is formally identified, the Fab man goes off to make formal complaint, and it’s my job to check our house and see what’s missing, since there was nothing on his person.

He got nothing. I’m so proud of my husband, for holding a robber at bay while half naked! He has to go back later to see the judge, but the case is closed as far as the cops are concerned.
The husband isn’t really ready for the Agassi jokes yet…but we’re working on him!!