When Will You Make an End? When I am Finished!

Okay, a grand estate it's not. But it's ours, and I'm already thinking of it as home. I thought to myself this morning (whined, actually): I wanna go home. Ah, our little two-bedroom Samara home -- the home with no closets on 1.65 acres, more or less, so near, and yet so far . . . but we're getting there. Check-out this photo as it shows several items of interest, not the least of which is an absence of curb appeal, the remaining mauve paint . . . and the fact that you'll never see the home from this angle unless your driving downhill. The front terrace needs some tall planters/plantings beside the door. Still lot's o' machinery on that western slope.

There's our utility pole in the foreground. True, a utility pole isn't exciting . . . but just wait until I paint it and cover every inch with little shells that we'll collect at the beaches. Such is my plan. The pole is also notable as it marks the northern boundary of Mil Colinas. An unresolved issue is the overall plan for this area -- how to transition and landscape an almost vertical hill that denotes our northern lot-line from the flat, garage-level area. The transition plan depends on Rusty's garage plan. I believe that he's already got a few ideas.

I'll Have What She's Having.

My friend April has a knack for getting anything she wants from her husband. For ten years she's tried to explain her secrets. I thought I owned a brain, but clearly such is not the case. I want this knack that April has. She should write a book.

You should see our DFW home, or not. Still packed with boxes going first to storage and then to Samara; a game room, garage, and patio filled for a garage sale; and a wreck of a bedroom full of once-clean, never folded laundry. For an obsessive organizer, it's my idea of heaven, or not. Too bad it's the maid's year off.

Years ago I learned a little trick. I don't think it was from my mother-in-law, though it's certainly her style. Here goes: Wanna look as though you've not sat down once all day and have been working hard to please your hubby?

Gone To The Dogs

So there's this old movie called If A Man Answers starring Sandra Dee and Bobby Darin . . . Cesar Romero, too. Anyway, newlywed Sandra struggles to make Bobby into an ideal husband and approaches her mother for advice. Her mother presents her with a little book on . . . wait for it: dog training. It's entitled something like How to Train Man's Best Friend. Sandra is appalled! She's disgusted . . . even more so when she realizes that her parents' perfect marriage is the product of tips in a dog-training book. But wait, ChouChou, she tells Sandra, and turns to the chapter describing how to make your dog come to you. "Rule Number 1: Always associate something good with the words "come here."

Suddenly it all made perfect sense. In my junior-high-school brain, I now had a plan to live happily-ever-after, one day. Of course in the film the scheme blows-up for both marriages . . . but everyone still lives happily ever after. Hey, it's Sandra Dee . . . we expect nothing less than a fairy tale.

Things Are Not What They Seem. Nor Are They Otherwise

Last October we placed a contract on our new Samara home and closed in January. It's now officially late March. Not early March or mid-March. It's late March; and we're still back in Texas waiting to sell our home. That's not quite right. We're still waiting to put the For Sale sign in the yard. We're waiting on my disposa-phobic husband; but that's a whole 'nuther story, another blog, or at least another post. Yes, I am the victim of a disposa-phob. There. I said it.

I have FEVER! Cabin Fever . . . at 22 Degrees!

Cabin Fever - noun; A state characterized by anxiety, restlessness, and boredom, arising from a prolonged stay in a remote or confined place.

I'm back . . . still complaining about the snow and ice in Dallas. Intellectually, we realize that this may be the last time we experience snow, in person -- and it is indeed a beautiful covering of snow. So we should appreciate it, right? But emotionally, we want sunshine, sandy beaches, monkeys, and cold cerveza on a hot Samara day. Today in Samara is Thirsty Thursday at our favorite beach bar, Lo Que Hay. And Samara will reach the mid-90s today. What are we doing here?!

I Feel Good, I Feel Great, I Feel Wonderful . . .

I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful . . . I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful . . . I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful. 

OK, it's true, we both feel wonderful . . . winter-wonderland wonderful. Winter precipitation so rarely visits DFW; and we should never complain about such a wonderland. But I have things to do. And we can't help but wish that we were in Samara today.

Tools of the Foxy Trade -- It's a Trick!

Stereotyping isn't a good thing. Sexism is considered poor-form, too. I try to avoid both. With that said, you might imagine where this post is going.

What about stubbornness? Rusty, my dear, whose name is synonymous with stubborn? Isn't stubborn as bad as stereotyping? Go ahead, ladies, raise your hand.

I own a number of power tools. Some are pink or lavender in color . . . so clearly tool manufacturers recognize the female market for power tools. I own a sander, drill/screw guns (is there a difference?), a jig saw, a small circular saw, more than one Dremel with thousands of tiny attachments, and one of those 400,000-piece bit kits. So I'm relatively handy with power tools . . . I'm even more accomplished with a cocktail in my hand. I think that women should embrace power tools . . . it frees us from complete dependence on a man to hang curtain rods . . . a task that Rusty absolutely detests.

Rusty and I have been at an impasse in the packing-for-Samara negotiations. He wants to ship an entire garage full of tools, power and otherwise. Picture it: over 2,873 flat-head screwdrivers. Yeah . . . that's merely the flat-heads. Me? I want to purchase and ship about 2,873 dollars worth of gorgeous new poolside furniture. Rusty is adamant about his tools. Dare I say it? Stubborn to a fault. Yet I'm holding plenty of bargaining chips to get our poolside furniture . . . or so I thought.

Big Things Have Small Beginnings

While living in Burkina Faso, my friend Yaya would say to me, un peu un peu, which is a French idiom (at least in Burkina) that means little by little . . . and it always seemed to contain the strong implication of For the love of God, woman, have some patience! This, from the most patient, understanding man in the world.

Yaya, we've been digging this well for nine weeks and still haven't hit water. Ah, Kathy, un peu un peu. Yaya, will those hens ever lay eggs? Yaya, I will never-ever speak French. Ah, Kathy, un peu un peu.

Enough, already. I'm back in The States . . . and I expect quick results. Here, I don't do patient. I'd be great on Chopped because I can really cook . . . and I'm fast. I don't have a Slow button . . . not here in the U.S. Living or traveling abroad is a different matter: I am certainly capable of island time. In Burkina we called it W.A.I.T. West Africa International Time, and I was fine with it.

There is an entire hemisphere called the Americas. North America, Central America, South America, Latin America. And, culturally sensitive person that I try to be, I really dislike calling myself an American. But being born and raised in the United States, what should I call myself (besides nuts)? A United-Statesian? Of course not. The French certainly understand the term . . . they even distinguish between a male American and a female American: Il est américain, et elle est américaine. Boy, those French! They have a different word for everything.

Like So Many Others, I Had Become a Slave to the IKEA Nesting Instinct

And what will you do in Yuriatin? Just live!

Part of our motivation to live in Samara, Costa Rica is:

• To live, insofar as possible, off the grid.
• To end the verbal bombardment by Republican and Democrat pundits. Somebody make it stop! Rusty and I remain almost total opposites, politically . . . so we cancel-out each other and can leave the U.S. without fear of drastically tipping the scales of American politics. Whew! 
• To lower our cost of living while increasing our quality of life (yeah, everyone says this -- I know).
• To wake-up every single morning and ask ourselves, what do you want to do today? Do you want to built a snowman . . . whoops, wrong movie.
• And (this is the big one) to simplify most aspects of day-to-day life, which is why we're packing at least four or five pallets of goods . . . at about 450-plus pounds each! So what's the key to this paradox? As previously stated, I like my things and need (or at least want) said things in order to be comfortable and serene. Not too much, you know - just more than enough. Incidentally, when was the last time anyone described me as serene? 

The good new is that Rusty and I are in almost complete agreement about what to take for the inside of our home. Almost. As for the outside . . . that's the Horse of a Different Color you've heard tell about. If we don't get a garage built within a few months of our move-in, I'll go stark raving mad.