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.

This? Why, I Can Make A Hat Or A Brooch Or A Pterodactyl . . . .

Reason number 38 to move to Costa Rica and enjoy more free time:

Pinterest is the answer. 

What was the question?

I lived a happy life until . . . one day my friend Sally spoke one word: Pinterest. Blah, blah, blah. Another Internet site in which I have zero interest. Like Facebook. But wait, Sally insisted, I must show you the miracle that is Pinterest, how it works, and what you can do with it. I patiently, if not enthusiastically observed the demo. So Pinterest was fine for someone like Sally. Someone who has crafty coursing through her veins. Someone who can take an antique ironing board and make art (she really can . . . and that was years before that detestable portmanteau: Pinterest). 

Years pass.

Oh, We're Going To Talk About Me Again, Are We? Goody.

Golden years: noun, plural; the years of retirement, normally after age 65.

Perhaps I am the most gifted person on the planet, leading the most charmed life. Perhaps I’m an utter failure at everything. Of course the truth lies somewhere in between, but some days that needle leans closer toward utter failure. As we grow we hear proverbs . . . some so old that they’ve become adages:

• For better or for worse . . . .
• Where there's smoke, there's fire.
• A stitch in time saves nine.
• The early bird catches the worm.
• Slow and steady wins the race.

Adages come from many sources, but what they all have in common is that they’re now accepted as truths in life. Today we’ll address not merely the adage, but a very silly idiom, golden years, and the beat-to-death idiom, bucket list.

In This. . . Grave . . . Hour - Fuck Fuck Fuck - Perhaps The Most Fateful In Our History - Bugger Shit Shit.

The most clear, beautiful day we've seen in a week arrives, yet 'tis a dark, grave time at Mil Colinas.

Accept it: we live in the tropics. Accept it: I am an excellent diagnostician . . . by anyone's standards. And I have a complete understanding of blood work/chemistry and internal medicine. I know what your platelet level should be. I can make your eyes roll back in your head discussing a left-shift of your differential. See?! You're already rolling your eyes.

So imagine poor Rusty. Perhaps he mentions an ache, or a new insect bite . . . or perhaps it's merely a series of sneezes. I go through my routine interrogation. Okay, honey, we've now ruled-out dengue fever, bot fly larvae, meningitis, encephalitis, and the common cold. You'll live.

I Hope That You've Had Enough To Drink. It's Going To Take Courage.

It's one of those oh-so-typically Kathy days. I'm staring into the abyss. I'm doing everything within my power not to cause Rusty to jump from the railing in an attempt to escape my world. Let's review:

Tick fever is caused by . . . (two guesses, you'll only need one): ticks. Not just any tick. The brown dog tick. This is not a tick with an affinity for brown dogs. Neither is this tick always brown. So as with everything else in my life today, the term brown dog tick is a lie! Anything in that photo below appear brown to you?!? It's like every suggestion for a Mason jar craft on Pinterest. Liars!

Tick fever in dogs is deadly. Period. There is no cure, so it's all about early detection and management. Think malaria, which can lie dormant in your liver for weeks or years only to surprise you one Christmas. Think of a slow-acting ebola where the patient essentially bleeds-out (internally and externally). Yeah. This tick fever stuff is serious.

Sometimes, I Guess There Just Aren't Enough Rocks

Paris je t'aime. I was proud to see my home town included in the photos here.   There are no sufficient words, only this video and only tears.

Maybe We Could Express Ourselves More Fully If We Say It Without Words

Under the heading of 1001 Reasons to Move to Costa Rica, reasons 99-801 should involve completely embarrassing yourself. I’m really good at it. Luckily, I packed my sense of humor.

I love Eduardo. He works at our little specialty store. Eduardo is the gentleman whom I kissed in my joy about the arrival of grapefruit juice. Last night we made a quick run to town for a few items. I’ve learned to always grab one or two tins of cat food. One really doesn’t want to be around Nut-Meg when she’s low on food. She senses it. I declare, Meg can see that there is only a single tin in the home. So I squirrel away cans of cat food in secret places as I used to squirrel away a joint in my college days. Why, look, Meg/Kathy . . . here’s an unexpected little surprise.

I'd Make You Most Unhappy, Most. That Is, I'd Do My Best

Let’s stroll back in time. Our darling neighbors are back on the mountain. We stopped by their home yesterday, and up for discussion came the Texas flag that we’re proudly displaying to welcome them. To welcome them, and for the celebration of Sam Houston’s birthday on the date of their arrival last Tuesday. Rusty said, Honey, it’s wasn’t Sam Houston’s birthday, it was the birth date of [insert name of some other dead Texan here]. I said, No, it was Sam Houston. Rusty said, No it was . . . blah, blah, blah. Okay, dear, I replied.

Well our neighbor (who is Scottish) jumped all over that noting how quickly I acquiesced to my husband’s brilliance. I assured John that if I had my calendar with me, I would at that very moment be flipping to the November 3 page to prove Rusty wrong. But John’s point was made . . . wives should all be happy little ladies, such as myself, and support their husbands, if not in silence, then with a smile, a cocktail, and a wink-and-a-nod. Actually, John implied almost nothing of the kind. He’s Scottish . . . therefore way too smart for such talk among the lassies. Way too smart.

Moments ago my computer popped up with a window saying that Your Sarcasm Is Not Responding. Now I ask you, is that the ultimate in irony? Is that truly mind-blowingly ironic? Yes, in order to have a Sarcasm Not Responding prompt, one must have a Sarcasm folder, and I do . . . oh, I do.