Now . . . Bring Me That Horizon.

New Year's Eve. And I'm thinking that one of the top reasons to enjoy the expat life of Costa Rica will be tonight's festivities. This, from the gal who generally hates New Year's Eve. Resolutions -- bah! That obligatory must-have-fun thing -- bah! Finding the perfect dress . . . again, bah! Why do people make resolutions for a new year? Why not for each new month, week, day? This phenomenon is completely beyond my comprehension. I've not made a resolution in years (except for that November-gain-five-pounds-by-baking thing).

I Don't Like The Way You Say With Your Face All Scrunched Up, "You're French, Aren't You?"

I'm half French, so why wouldn't I love the French? And they speak French! Not some bizarre Canadian language erroneously called French. The French speak beautiful, genuine French. 

Let’s have a little language lesson. In French the word for or is ou. In Spanish the word for or is o. Would you like steak ou chicken? Do you prefer roses o tulips? In French the word ou (for or) is pronounced ew . . . as in ew, that raw chicken is slimy. In Spanish the word o is pronounced just as it’s spelled: oh . . . as in Oh how I love France.

Rusty cannot abide my explanations of Latin-based Spanish words and sentence structure through comparison to French. He’s had it! He’s even verbalized several times this week that he is sick of hearing me say, Well, in French . . . .  

A Toast Before We Go Into Battle: True Love . . . In Whatever Shape Or Form It May Come. May We All In Our Dotage Be Proud To Say, "I Was Adored Once."

It's Christmas Eve. For those who do not celebrate Christmas (which is absolutely acceptable in my world), it's merely another date on the calendar . . . December 24th. 

We're hosting a luncheon today, and some of the invitees don't celebrate Christmas. So instead of a Christmas Eve luncheon we'll call it our December 24 luncheon. I'm thinking of making it an annual tradition -- like our Bastille Day Party (no need to be French to enjoy). After all, a successful party rarely depends on the date/holiday, nor is it about the food and drink. The measure of a gathering's or a union's success is always about the people (sometimes people and pets). Today we're blessed to be entertaining very dear friends. 

I often joke about the quantity of alcohol that I consume. As with any party, my cocktail consumption is never about the quantity . . . it's always about the quality. True, from 23 through 25 December, I do begin drinking in the mornings. . . after all, 'tis the season and Irish Coffee is de rigueur. And I happen to have a full bottle of Jameson from that trip north to Coco. When the caffeine outweighs the effect of the Irish whiskey and the Amarula, I'll switch to Greyhounds. Again . . . that trip north -- we have fresh grapefruit, which is perhaps my best Christmas gift this year . . . except for one. My husband.

We Are Protected By The Enormity Of Your Stupidity, For A Time.

Our dog constitutes 98% of my life's meaning. Rusty knows this. In fact, Jill The Pill occupies about the same percentage of Rusty's priorities in life (or so he claims) . . . which is really bizarre considering that his tools occupy about 98% of our 1.65 acres, more or less. So if we're working with percentages here, that leaves about two percent of our love and energy to devote to each other. Yep . . . sounds about right. I'm lying: last night we played a Christmas song game that Rusty found on the Internet, made Texas-style tamales, and had a generally fabulous evening. Plus, The Stars won.

Okay. So about our Sunday trip north to the Auto Mercardo -- we decided to visit the store in Coco versus Tamagringo. There is simply nothing good to be said about Tamarindo. Oh, wait . . . as my mother would say: if you can't say something nice, come sit by me. No, wait . . . . that's Sally. As my mother would say: if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. So here's something nice about Tamarindo: it is far from us.

Speaking of dogs and mothers, I know parents of human children who are more devoted to their pets than children. Of course, these parents are my age with grown children requiring fewer hands-on parenting skills; but my point is that the devotion to our pets knows no bounds. Here in Samara we have Perlita the Wonder Dog. Her owners coddle her. Yeah, Bill, you know you do. Then there's Miss Marley, second cutest dog on the planet. I want Marley's life. I want to be reincarnated as C&M's dog. Such a life. And Bonga certainly leads a charmed life, but she's a Tico dog and has her own Tica agenda. This doesn't mean that she's neglected. Hardly. Bonga gets what Bonga wants; but her wants fall into the simple-life category.

You Want The Moon? Just Say The Word And I'll Throw A Lasso Around It And Pull It Down.

Ready or not, there is no stopping the arrival of Christmas. Perhaps there is no escape, anywhere, from lights, trees, tinsel, and wrapping paper. Not that I necessarily need to escape; it's just a tad incongruous think of Kris Kringle in 90-degree-plus weather with a beach view. And it's not our first Christmas spent by a tropical beach; I simply never get used to palm trees juxtaposed to Christmas trees. My failure to embrace Christmas in the tropics is odd because DFW weather can be 80 on Christmas day . . . or 25. So my usual need to decorate, evidently rooted deeply within my genes, is certainly not weather-related . . . it's merely gone missing this year.

The Beginning Of The End Of The End Of The Beginning Has Begun

 

Bam. And just like that, dry season has arrived. Our last rain was 23 November. Prior to 23 November we had rain every single day for over a week (three inches, minimum, in a 24-hour period). We’re told that rain so late in November is unusual. What is unusual to me is that one day the rain just stops. For the first time since we moved-in in May we can see 360-degrees around our home, including all the way to the horizon of the ocean without one single cloud. Look straight ahead, there's nothing but blue sky.

And with the end of the rains the winds have arrived. Some say that this is the papagayo wind, some say not. Me? I’m inclined to agree with them. Imagine hours of sustained 40-50 mile per hour winds. Our large butterfly bush snapped in half. And we’re told by expats who have lived here for years that we’ve seen nothing yet – winds can be sustained for days at 60 miles per hour. I imagine pool furniture in the pool, along with our youngest papaya tree.