Cats/Vacation/Earthquake!

For those of you that like to watch movies, you might recognize the three words of the title to this installment of my blog are all movie titles, too. They’re not necessarily good movies, but they more or less sum up what’s been happening in my life for the last few weeks.

The featured image for this post is the album cover from Pink Floyd’s ninth studio album, Wish You Were Here. It was released in 1975, and it’s probably my favorite album from the Floyd boys.

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Perhaps Little Known Fact About This Band: The name Pink Floyd was created on the spur of a moment in 1965 by Syd Barrett, one of the founding members of the band. The name came from two blues musicians in his record collection: Pink Anderson and Floyd Council.

Yeah, I’ve never heard of them either.

Wish You Were Here is essentially a musical tribute to Syd, who was booted out of his own band in 1968 due to mental illness and increasingly erratic behavior secondary to profound psychedelic drug use. Seven years later, his band mates still missed him.

It’s a musically sad album, but also very sweet and beautiful. It’s grief and anger, interspersed with doses of love.

* * * *

Cats is a 2019 feature movie directed by Tom Hooper, that was based on the 1981 play composed by Andrew Lloyd Webber, which was based on the 1939 poetry collection Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats by T. S. Eliot. I’ve never seen the movie. Or the play. Nor have I read the book. But I’m pretty sure I’ve heard a song or two from one of those productions.

Here at the Chula Vista Resort and Spa, Cats has been translated into los gatitos cuatros, and a great majority of my waking life has been focused on the care and feeding thereof. We gave Gremlin and Pixie, the two starving orphans that found us in early August, full run of the house 12 days ago, and then we held our breath.

Operation Kit-ten Integration is in full swing.

Mika and Mollie haven’t exactly been friendly with their new house mates, but there hasn’t been any overt declarations of war either. So this is probably going about as smoothly as it can, at least as far as Lea and I are concerned.

I was kind of hoping our adult cats would be a bit more welcoming. Now I’m hoping Mika and Mollie will simply come to grudgingly accept Gremlin and Pixie over the next several months. Or years…

* * * *

Gremlin and Pixie are snoozing on the couch in the living room as I type this. It’s a good thing because Pixie had been walking on the keyboard a few minutes earlier. I appreciate her trying to help me, but she doesn’t type any better than I do… The babies are about four months old now. They’ve been very entertaining to say the least. They’re cute as kit-tens, and almost irresistible.

Mika and Mollie are a little over four years old, and they don’t appear to anywhere near as taken with the cuteness of the babies’ antics as Lea and I are. Maybe they don’t remember they were once cute little bundles of furry energy, too.

The babies are finally healthy, having recovered from damn near starving to death, being covered with fleas and fungi, and being infested with intestinal worms. They have fat bellies, and their fur feels like silk. I’m not sure they could be any happier or more content with their new lives.

From my point of view, our older kit-tens should be happier with the new circumstances of their lives. They’re certainly getting better service and more attention from Lea and I because of the newcomers. I clean all four of the litter boxes twice a day now, and we both take the time to check on Mika and Mollie throughout the day to make sure they don’t look too miserable segregating themselves from everything and everyone.

It reminds me of the approach I used to take with my Borderline Personality Disorder patients back when I was a psych nurse. I’d meet with them first thing in the morning and go over a few reasonable and attainable goals. I’d drop in frequently during the day to give them little pep talks, give them whatever PRN medications they desired, and prayed for the best with those bitches. You can never trust a Borderline to do the right thing for too long.

Yo, Mr. Psychiatry. This is interesting and all, but what sort of fungal stuff did your cats have, if you don’t mind me asking…

Not at all. They had ringworm.

* * * *

Ringworm of the body (tinea corporis) is a common skin infection that is caused by a fungus. It’s called “ringworm” because it usually causes a circular rash (shaped like a ring, duh) that is very red and extremely itchy. 

I can personally vouch for the truth of the above statement.

It’s also very contagious, therefore, extremely easy to spread. You can also get ringworm of the scalp (tinea capitis), which is worse than ringworm of the body, mostly because it’s much harder to treat. And there’s also the possibility you could get ringworm of the groin (tinea cruris).

It’s unfortunate our veterinarian didn’t notice the ringworms the first two times we took the babies in to her office for treatment and vaccines and stuff.. Lea and I didn’t know we had been fungally contaminated until we were on the second week of our —

* * * *

Vacation is a 2015 American comedy film written and directed by Jonathan Goldstein and John Francis Daley. It’s the fifth theatrical installment of the very popular National Lampoon Vacation film series. As far as I’m concerned, they should’ve stopped at two. And there are literally thousands of movies that have the word vacation in the title, so if you don’t like this movie either, you can easily chose another.

Vacation is also a song released by the all-female rock band, the Go-Go’s in 1982. The song was the first single from their album of the same name. Vacation, the song, became one of the Go-Go’s highest charting singles, reaching No. 8 on the Billboard Hot 100 and was the band’s second US Top-10 hit. 

And there’s this little tidbit from a couple of the band members, “We still saw videos as an annoying waste of time,” Jane Wiedlin said. “After seven or eight hours we sent out someone to sneak in booze.” Kathy Valentine recalled, “…we drank lots of champagne. Lots.”

Yep. Being a rockstar in the 1980’s was every bit as banal and boring as you might have imagined it was.

* * * *

Lea and I flew back up to the States at the beginning of September, and we spent two weeks exploring the State in which we had resided the longest, Minnesota. We visited with a select few family members the first few days we were there, we shopped our asses off. We visited a few places special to us, and attended one activity that we loved.

We went to the State Fair — The Great Minnesota Get-Together — it’s a very big deal in Minnesota. There were just under 250,000 people at the fairgrounds on the day we went, and we spent the entire day with our youngest daughter, Abi. That was probably the best part of our visit — we never get to spend much time with her anymore.

We went to the North Shore of Lake Superior, where the entire population is less than 250,000 people. It’s probably my most favorite place that I’ve ever been.

I have to remind myself that we actually had a great time, most of the time. The timing of our trip ended up being perhaps the worst time we could’ve picked to leave our home. And all of our kit-tens. And then Queen Elizabeth II got dead!

Fortunately, our oldest daughter and her husband and their dog had just returned to live in Mexico for the next several months until they get bitten by the Travel Bug again and take off to…wherever…again. Gwen took care of the kit-tens. John took care of everything else, and he sent me pictures of all of the kit-tens every day while we were gone. What a guy!

The first week of our vacation flew by, and that’s when things started going a bit south for us. Ironically, we were on the North Shore when I realized the itchy red circles that had erupted on both of my forearms, and Lea’s forearms, too, was fucking ringworm.

* * * *

If I had been a Med/Surg nurse instead of a Psych nurse, I probably would’ve recognized the hallmark symptoms of ringworm sooner. And then I might not have ended up looking like unto a leper, or someone who had snuffed out half a pack of cigarettes on his forearms.

Lea had a milder case of ringworm than I did, but I had spent way more time with our malnourished orphans than she had. I ended up with seven fulminating lesions on my right arm, six on my left. Fortunately, I didn’t end up with ringworm of the scalp. Or on my groin, thank you Lord. The treatment was relatively simple. A lots and lots of antifungal ointments. And hand sanitizer.

My arms look almost normal again, whatever that is.

* * * *

Once we realized what was afflicting us, Lea and I cancelled all of our remaining visitations with everyone, simply because we didn’t want to take the chance of passing our fungi on to anyone else, and we just wanted to go home. Unfortunately, if we wanted to fly back to Mexico with the tickets we had already purchased, we had to wait four more days to do so. They were some of the longest days of our lives in recent history. We bunkered up in our Airbnb in St. Paul and binge watched TV shows and movies.

We flew home on September 13th. I wanted to scream at our veterinarian, Dra. Bereniece, when we brought the kit-tens to her office to be treated for ringworm the following day — but I remembered I used to be healthcare worker — and sometimes shit just happens. And Dra. Bereniece has given our kit-tens excellent care all of the other times we’ve had to bring them to her office, so I kept my temper on a short leash, and told my mouth to sit down and shut up.

It took ten days to complete the oral meds for the kit-tens. And I gave them antifungal shampoos as often as I thought they needed them. Somewhat amazingly, the babies endured all of those treatments remarkably well. And Gremlin just might be the coolest cat that ever lived because he essentially let us do whatever we needed to do to him without so much as a hiss.

* * * *

But wait, there’s more! If you’ve been following this blog, you might remember this is the Rainy Season in the Lakeside Area. We’ve had over 30 inches of rain since mid-June. And when you get that much rain, you better have a leak-free roof.

We didn’t think we had any leaks in our roof before we went on vacation from retirement. Yeah, we were wrong about that. But I’m pleased to say those leaks have been sorted out by Tacho and Lupe. The mold that appeared on the ceiling of the master bedroom has been remediated. The ceiling around the fireplace in the living room is going to need some cosmetic work, eventually, once everything dries out.

* * * *

All of that crap was bad enough to come home to, but Lea and I both came down with terrible head colds when we were flying home. This isn’t the first time we’ve had that happen, but we’re hoping it will be the last time. We’ve been sicker than hell for almost two weeks, and have just now started feeling better enough to want to live again. It’s not COVID, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve had that shit, and I know what it feels like. And Lea appears to be immune to it.

We were expecting an actual true-to-life visitor to the resort last week, but I ended up begging her not to come down, and pleasepleaseplease reschedule her trip. Thankfully, she decided she’d like to celebrate her next birthday here at the resort in January.

Thank you, Jaye. You did the right thing.

* * * *

And that brings me to the third part of title of the post —

* * * *

Earthquake is a 1974 American ensemble disaster/drama film directed and produced by Mark Robson, starring Charlton Heston, Ava Gardner, and a cast of thousands. The plot concerns the struggle for survival after a catastrophic earthquake destroys most of the city of Los Angeles, California.

I’ve seen this movie, probably more than once. I guess it was okay. My kinda/sorta roommate when I was in the US Army, Specialist 4th Class Randy Paul was from Los Angeles. The movie gave him nightmares after he saw it because, “…that’s where I fuckin’ grew up, man! You don’t know what it’s like to see almost everything you know get wiped off the face of the earth, man.”

He had a point, so I stopped laughing at him.

* * * *

September 19th. It’s historically been a tragic date in Mexico. Three earthquakes have hit this country on that date. In 1985 at 7:17 AM, a magnitude 8.0 earthquake hit Mexico City, destroying huge parts of the city and killing at least 5,000 people, and injuring tens of thousands of people. 

In 2017 an earthquake struck at 1:14 PM with an estimated magnitude of 7.1 and strong shaking for about 20 seconds. Its epicenter was about 35 miles south of the city of Puebla, Mexico. At least 370 people were killed by the earthquake and related building collapses, including 228 in Mexico City, and more than 6,000 people were injured.

We were living in Mexico when that earthquake hit, but we didn’t feel so much as a quiver from it.

This year at 1:05 PM a magnitude 7.7 earthquake struck between the Mexican states of Michoacán and Colima. There were only two reported deaths attributed to the earthquake, and less than 500 people were injured. Somewhat ironically, there had been a nationwide disaster drill about an hour before the quake. Maybe that’s why there were so few deaths or injuries. Everybody already knew what they were supposed to do…

Like unto almost every earthquake that has ever quaked, there have been several aftershocks here of varying magnitude in the days that followed. We haven’t felt any of them, but several of the people I know here have felt them, and they haven’t been any more fun than the first quake had been.

* * * *

I was sitting in a restaurant waiting for our take-out lunch order to be filled when the earthquake hit. I was sitting in a wobbly chair — you know, it kind of rocked from side-to-side because of uneven ground. Or uneven legs. Or both. And then I noticed my chair wasn’t the only thing rocking back and forth in the restaurant, and I started feeling like maybe I was drunk or something.

Everyone seated at the restaurant was looking around trying to figure out what the hell was happening. I know I was.

“Earthquake! Everybody get outside! NOW!” I’m not sure who said that, but it was someone that had definitely been through an earthquake before. In terms of terror and destruction here in the Lakeside Area, this wasn’t much of an earthquake. Only one business that has closed because of “earthquake damage”, and it probably wasn’t in that good of shape before the quake hit…

The lack of terror and destruction aside, I have to admit it felt very weird to feel the ground beneath my feet jiggle like unto Jell-O. I immediately tried calling my lovely supermodel wife to make sure she was okay, and she didn’t answer her phone. This has happened every goddamn time there’s been an emergency, and I absolutely needed to talk to her, right now!

Seriously. That’s not a joke. So, in a way, I was used to it. I told myself she was okay, and paid for our take-out order. Hey, we were hungry, and if we weren’t dead we going to need to eat… The restaurant I was at is less than a mile from our house, so it was a quick commute back home. Lea was intentionally standing in the doorway when I pulled up to the gate to let me know she really was okay.

When the earthquake hit, she had done the same thing I had. She ran outside just in cases the house decided to collapse. And when she got outside she realized she had left her cellphone on the couch. By the time she had retrieved her phone and tried to call me back, the circuits were so busy from everybody in Mexico trying to call someone else to see if they were okay that no one could call anyone.

* * * *

I don’t think I have ever hugged her so hard. And I could not stop myself from shaking. When I was reasonably sure I wasn’t going to vomit, we sat down and had lunch with our kit-tens. French dip sandwiches. And peanut butter pie for dessert.

Life will go on for us, and thankfully, almost everyone else in the seismic country we have adopted as our new home.

* * * *

I had no idea how to end this post, so I took a break from it for the last two or three weeks. I’m still not sure how I’m going to wrap this up, I only know that I need to do it. It’s time to get moving again.

I meet with a few guys every Monday to discuss our individual life experiences, and anything else that pops into our heads. I just came back from this week’s meeting. I call it A Meeting of the Two Wise Men. It gives us a certain amount of leeway, just in cases one or more us decides to do something stupid.

Yeah, it still happens, even though we’re supposed to be old and wise by now.

One of the sometimes Two Men is a guy named Bill Merrill. Bill is a much more social animal than I am, and a lots of people stop by to say hello to him when we meet. I don’t know most of the people he knows, so Bill introduces me like this, “This is my friend Mark. Mark is on a spiritual journey.”

* * * *

I can’t argue with that intro. I am on a spiritual journey. I spend more time communicating with God, the Universe, and Everything than I do with anyone else. Including my lovely supermodel wife, and I know have to start doing a better job at that.

I have found God to be almost totally unlike everything I was taught to believe about God. And my relationship with Him. Perhaps the most surprising part is how easily approachable He is. And how near. My prayers don’t have make the Kessel run to reach him. Nor do I have to wait 78.24 light years to hear a response from Him.

The guy that wants a lightsaber will understand that reference.

* * * *

The fact that I have to essentially un-learn almost everything I know is somewhat daunting. The fact that I’m totally willing to do it might somehow shorten the process, but I really do possess a headful of crap in my brain. And how does one actually empty one’s mind? This task leads me to comparisons with Hercules cleaning the Augean stables. And even the Star Wars guy might have to Google that reference.

I don’t know where this journey will lead. I only know that I’m committed to finding out, and I’m not sure I could stop now even if I wanted to. From my point of view, the ending can’t be worse than anything I’ve already seen.

So there’s a better than average chance that will have to be an improvement…

Twisting by the Pool

My lovely supermodel wife and I have been living the dream down here in Mexico for almost six years now. Yeah, it doesn’t seem that long to us either, and conversely, it seems like we’ve always been here.

Like unto any other place in the world, there are pluses and minuses about living here. For one thing, it’s a foreign country. The language barrier would probably be at the top of my list– but, thankfully we live in Gringolandia. We don’t speak a whole lots of Spanish, but almost everyone living in this area speaks at least a little English. Conversations can be tricksy, but we almost always find a way to get our messages across.

The two things that bother me most about Mexico don’t have anything to do with language. Those two things are: roof rats and the swimming pool here at the Chula Vista Resort and Spa.

* * * *

The common roof rat has about fifty different names, and can be found no matter where you live. You don’t have to come to Mexico to see one. The first Mexican roof rats probably arrived with the Spanish conquistadors back in the 1500’s, and they are in no danger of ever being added to the Endangered Species List. Anywhere.

Roof Rats got their name from the fact that they build their homes under the the clay tiles that everyone puts on the roofs of their houses in Mexico. But if they can’t find a roof, they’ll live in trees. Or anything else that a rat can build a home in/on/near.

In essence, these fucking rats can live goddamn near anywhere.

There are probably people that love rats, but I’m not one of them. Remember the Black Plague? That was caused by a bacterium named Yersinia pestis, that lived inside of fleas that lived on rats. Commonly called the Black Death back in the 1400’s, this plague is estimated to have killed anywhere from 75- 200 million people — more than half of the population of Europe back then.

It’s still the most fatal pandemic in human history.

* * * *

I’ve no doubt written about both of these subjects in my blog before. I tried to kill one rat that was hanging out in our carport, and failed. I killed the second rat I found, which was hanging out on our back patio. There are possibly dozens of rats still living here at the resort, and I will never be able to get rid of them. Without using dynamite. Or a flamethrower. That’s the worst part of this scenario for me.

Two rats died to death when they fell into the swimming pool and couldn’t get out. That’s about the only good thing I can think of to say about the pool. It has killed more rats than I have. For the most part, the pool has been the bane of our idyllic existence here at the resort.

* * * *

Twisting by the Pool is a song by the British rock group, Dire Straits. It was released in 1983 as a single record, and it probably got a lots of air time on the radio way back in the day. It’s a catchy tune, so if you’ve never heard it before, it’s worth a listen or two…

* * * *

I can’t say that I hate our swimming pool. I can say that I’ve never used it, and that’s mostly because I’ve never been a swimming pool guy. The first time I jumped into a swimming pool when I was in the fourth grade, I almost drowned. That’s because I didn’t know how to swim.

Over the years I’ve learned to swim a little bit, which would only lengthen the amount of time it would take for me to drown now if I were to find myself in water deeper than my height. So, yeah, I don’t spend much time frolicking in any water, no matter how deep it is or isn’t.

* * * *

Having a swimming pool might be a dream for some people. Not for me. Our house in Arizona had a pool, and Lea got a lot of use out of it. We lived at that house for nine years, and I can count all of times I used it on one hand.

Lea lounges in the pool here during the hottest days of April and May. Gwen and John hang out by the pool when they’re here, but I don’t think either one of them have ever used it. Todd uses the pool more than anyone else when he’s here, even in the winter. He must be part polar bear… I’ve never been inside of this pool when it had water in it. And I don’t see that ever changing.

* * * *

The one nice thing about our pool in Arizona was it was relatively new, so it was mostly easy to maintain. This pool was probably installed in the 1960’s. The easiest way to maintain this pool would be to drain it, fill it with rocks and soil, and turn it into a garden. The second easiest thing to do would be to completely rebuild it, which we aren’t going to do, mostly because it wouldn’t be easy. Or cheap.

We’re reasonably sure that our landlord isn’t interested in rebuilding it either, so we have to try to maintain the pool just enough to keep it fuctionable for the limited number of people that use it.

Even though we have a guy that cleans our pool twice a week, I clean the pool on the days our pool guy isn’t here. I grab the net and skim leaves, insects, and other sundry/miscellaneous shit out of it almost every day. I do this because it makes my wife happy to see a clean swimming pool, and a happy wife is so much easier to live with than an unhappy wife…

But finding a good pool guy here has been harder than it was to find a reliable dope dealer back in the ’70’s and ’80’s. That’s when I used to smoke a lots of dope…

* * * *

Our first pool guy was Miguel. He was the gardener/pool guy/yard maintenance guy when we moved into the resort. Miguel worked for us in that capacity for two years. After Todd and I started resurrecting the gardens, Miguel would grab his hoe and rip out all of the flowers and plants we had just planted. So we fired him as a gardener. Then we fired him as a yard maintenance guy because we figured if he had actually done the maintenance he was supposed to do, we wouldn’t have had to contend with the Royal and Ancient Hedgerow at all.

We kept him on as our pool guy for another year, mostly because he was the only person that understood how the complex plumbing for the pool works, and I felt guilty about firing him from two of his jobs and reducing his income. He has a wife and more than one child, and his oldest kid is in college.

Yes, I do have a soft heart. But don’t tell anyone…

It seems that Miguel was about as interested in taking care of our pool as he was in trimming hedges. He was a lousy pool guy most of the time. And that surprised me. Miguel works for the guy more or less across the street from us, and he busts his ass for that guy… Seriously, I’ve seen him work there. He doesn’t mess around.

It’s something that makes me scratch my head and wonder what his problem was with us.

At any rate, after one week of especially terrible service from Miguel, I sent him a text — in Spanish — telling him what I would like to see him start doing with our pool. I felt I wasn’t being too unreasonable in my requests. Apparently, Miguel did. He came over and gave me his keys to the gates, and said he couldn’t work here anymore.

* * * *

When Miguel resigned, we hired a new pool guy, Christian. He was referred to us by a pool service company just down the hill from the resort. Christian came over and spent an hour cleaning the pool, emptying the skimmers and filters and stuff. And we were impressed!!

We chatted with Christian while he cleaned, and we told him about Miguel — who was very prompt, but did a lousy job of actually cleaning. And everything went great with Christian for about two weeks. Our main issue with Christian was we never knew if he was actually going to show up to clean the pool. I had multiple, MULTIPLE conversations with Christian about his inconsistent arrivals.

Life is unpredictable. Shit happens. I get it. If something comes up and you can’t make it here, send me a text, I will understand.

Christian said he understood, too. But there was one thing he just couldn’t do. He couldn’t bring himself to let me know he wasn’t going to be able to get to our pool on the particular day he was supposed to. I put up with Inconsistent Christian for three months, and then I fired him. I changed all the locks on the gates, and that was the end of the Christian Era.

* * * *

And that brings us to Armando. He’s our latest pool guy. He’s been working for us for almost a month. Armando actually owns a pool service company called Pool Stuff. It’s a couple of miles west of the resort on the carretera, the main paved road in the Lakeside Area.

Armando does more than clean pools. He services water filtration systems, too. We have a filtration system, and all of the filters needed to be changed when I hired Armando, so this seemed like a good match for both of us. And he just completed a major overhaul of our pool filter. There were at least two broken pieces deep inside the filter, and he changed all the sand, which may or may not ever have been done before.

We’ve been pleased with Armando’s work so far. Both Lea and I have talked to Armando about our previous pool guys, so he understands the punctuality thing is important to us. And he’s probably shown up on time at least half of the time he’s been working for us. On the days he was late, he usually called to let us know he would be late. And he has a really good reason for not being here.

Armando’s wife has been extremely ill and has been in and out of the hospital for the entire month that he has been working for us.

* * * *

Lea and I have been where Armando and his wife are now. Shortly after we got married, Lea was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease. Over a three year period from 1992 to 1995, Lea spent a year and a half in the hospital. She had five major abdominal surgeries, and almost died five times.

I actually started writing her obituary before her first surgery. And then edited it four more times. I don’t have it written down anywhere, but I could probably write it in half an hour if I had to. I already know everything I need to say.

We are two people that can relate to the rollercoaster ride from Hell that Armando and Mrs. Armando are going through. And we listen whenever Armando needs to vent his frustrations, which is every time he comes here to clean our pool. When he says he has to go NOW, we understand if he can’t finish the job he’s working on.

I’ve gotten very good at vacuuming the pool. I actually like vacuuming, even under water. I’ve taken my wife on shopping trips just to buy a vacuum cleaner. We’ve had vacuums that my wife never figured out how to use, because she never had to use them. Ever!

* * * *

Well, that’s about it from here, boys and girls. Have a great summer. And if you ever find yourself in the neighborhood, be sure to drop by the resort. Don’t forget to bring your swimsuit! 👙 😉

When You Wish Upon a Star

Hey. How’s it going out there for y’all?

I hope all y’all are doing well, and that this year has been going better for you than the last couple of years have. I don’t know about you, but things appear to be returning to some sense of normalcy for me. And the pandemic has disrupted my life less than pretty much anyone else I know.

I am blissfully unaware of almost everything going on the world, but even in the severely limited news items I follow, the Coronavirus doesn’t appear to be front page news anymore. I don’t know if any of the people I know that still work in Healthcare would agree with that assessment, but I rarely talk to any of them. Now that I think about it, there are maybe seven or eight people that I converse with on a regular basis, and four of them live here at the Chula Vista Resort and Spa most of the time.

I have become a person that mostly exists in other people’s memories.

* * * *

When You Wish Upon a Star is a song written by Leigh Harline and Ned Washington for Walt Disney’s 1940 animated adaptation of Pinocchio. The original version was sung by Cliff Edwards in the character of Jiminy Cricket.

The Library Of Congress deemed Edwards’s recording of the song “culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant” and inducted it into the National Recording Registry in 2009. The American Film Institute ranked the song seventh in their 100 Greatest Songs in Film History.

When You Wish Upon a Star has become an icon of The Walt Disney Company. In the 1950’s and 1960’s, Disney used the song in the opening sequences of all the editions of its television series. All of the ships of the Disney Cruise Line use the first seven notes of the song’s melody as their horn signals.

Personally, I think it’s one of the most beautiful songs ever written, and listening to it will bring tears to my eyes. The song is pure magic.

* * * *

I can’t remember when I started writing this installment of my blog, or how many times I’ve deleted everything and started anew. It’s been a couple of months, at least. For a guy that doesn’t have much of an idea of what he’s going to write about, I appear to be pretty goddamn picky about what I actually post. I figure if I’m bored by my writing, no one else is going to get excited about it either…

I would like to give some props to Jane Castleman. She’s one of the many people I know that I rarely talk to, and she lives only a couple of miles from us. My lovely supermodel wife and I had dinner with Jane and her husband Al back in January.

That’s one of the reasons I think life might be getting back to normal. This year has seemingly flown by compared to the last two years, and they seemed to go on for, like, ten years or something.

Anyway, at the end of dinner I gave Jane a hug and she whispered this in my ear, “Keep writing.”

Jane is one of the few persons that I’m not related to in any fashion that regularly reads my blog. My wife reads everything I write, but only because I’m married to her. Jane almost always leaves a comment for me, and I have loved every one of them. For that reason, and a good many others, I love Jane.

I didn’t know then that it would take me this long for my scattered thoughts to congeal enough into something I felt writing about. But Jane is the main reason I’m even attempting to write now.

Thank you, Jane! You are a sweetheart.

* * * *

If you’ve ever read my blog before, you know that I lead an incredibly boring and bucolic life. If this is your first visit here, prepare to be underwhelmed.

If you’re thinking I’m bored because I don’t have anything to do, you would be wrong. We have something like unto a dozen gardens here at the resort, and I am the primary caregiver for most of them. During the Dry Season, which we are in the very peak of dryness right now, the gardens need to be watered on an almost daily basis.

It takes hours to water them all.

Granted, watering a garden isn’t something that most people would describe as their favorite thing to do. I’m not sure even I could say that, and I mostly enjoy watering my plants. It gives me a lots of time to ponder stuff deeply, and I’d probably have to say that is my favorite thing to do.

Deep thinking isn’t something most guys appear to be capable of doing, mostly because guys are the least complex organisms on Earth. And most guys that think they’re complex are not. They’re just confused — probably because almost everything going on around them is complex and they have no idea how process most of it.

A truly complex guy is almost as rare as a unicorn.

We don’t really look like this, eh

* * * *

Yo, dude. Have you ever considered the possibility that you’re not complex. Maybe you’re just confused, too.

I will freely admit that I am confused about a great many things. But I am not the only person I know that thinks I’m complex. My wife says I’m considerably more complex than she is, and she’s the most complex person I know. I’m confident both of her daughters would corroborate that statement. They’ve both lived with us, and I doubt either one of them knew what the fuck to think about me at that time.

If you need additional information about my alleged complexity, I can provide you with a list of references upon request.

* * * *

When I’m not hanging out in the gardens, I still play golf badly several times a week. I usually play with our roommate, Todd. I used to golf with Todd and Phyllis, but Phyllis has more or less given up golf. The way I’ve been playing lately has reached a new low, and I didn’t think I could get any worse. I’ve thought about giving up on golf, too. But I don’t want to spend that much time in the gardens.

I’ve often heard people say that golf is mental game. That would certainly go a long way to explaining why I suck at golf. My mind rarely focuses specifically on golf.

I enjoy playing golf, even if I can’t do it well most of the time. It’s incredibly satisfying to smack the living shit out of a golf ball and watch it soar through the air like a missile, then land in the middle of the fairway. Or slip your golf ball cleverly through a group of trees. Or sink a really long putt. There’s nothing else like it. Those are the shots that keep you coming back when you suck at golf as much as I do.

Golf is also an easy way for me to meet to people that I can add to the long list of people I know that I will rarely speak to. I enjoy getting to know people on a superficial basis. It’s a helluvalot easier to like someone when you don’t know much of anything about them. Well, it is for me.

* * * *

So. What are these incredibly deep and complex thoughts that so completely occupy your mind?

Mostly, I think about God. And the Truth — whatever that is. You know, stuff like that.

* * * *

I’ve written a lots of stuff about God in my blog. You could look them up in the archives if you don’t have anything else to do. I’ve probably written a lots of stuff about Truth, too. I don’t think I’ve ever been very specific about it because Truth is something that doesn’t appear to have any consistency to it if you’re not talking about science or mathematics.

Those truths are seemingly absolute. All the time. Well, except in the quantum universe, where pretty much anything appears to be possible. Every other truth appears to be nothing more than a matter of opinion. Don’t agree with me? If you believe something to be true, isn’t that the truth to you?

Okay. I see where you’re going with this, but what if I change my mind about what I believe?

Then whatever you have decided to now be true still remains the truth to you, does it not?

* * * *

Probably the one thing that mystified me most about God was the fact that if there was one person, or entity, or whatever you want to describe God as being — He has to know what the real truth is. There had to be a Ground Zero for the Truth at some point in time, even if no one knows what the hell it is anymore. What happened to the Truth, and how could our All-Knowing, All-powerful God allow something as vital as the Truth fall off the fucking radar?

How could there be so many differing opinions on just who and what God is, and what He really wants from us. Where did all of these religions come from, and why, oh why would He allow something that might lead millions of His children to wander down these dusty roads to perdition? Are we not the masterpiece of all His creation?

How do we know if we’re being saved, or if we’ve been pranked?? Is one religion really more better gooder than any other religion? Is there One, True religion? If so, which one is it? How does one determine a religious truth when such truths can essentially be anything you want them to be? What the fuck!

Why???

* * * *

In nursing school we had to take a class entitled Anatomy & Physiology. We learned everything that was known at that time about the human body, and how every part of it functioned because as nurses we would be caring for people whose bodies, or parts of their bodies, no longer properly did its job, or jobs.

I’m pretty sure I learned a lots of really important stuff that I’ve probably forgotten about now that I’m no longer a working nurse. But there are two things that jumped out at me when I was a student, and I will never forget them. The first was: form always follows function. And the second was the All or None Law.

* * * *

Form always follows function. Every part of your body has a shape that directly corresponds to what it does. I took that one step beyond: We are created in the image of God, according to the Bible. If that is our form, then what, exactly, is our function supposed to be? Yeah, I pondered over that sucker for decades, and some of the answers I’ve received to that question still make me chuckle.

By the way, you should never ask a manic person that question…

* * * *

The All or None Law is a principle that states the strength of a response of a nerve cell or muscle fiber is not dependent upon the strength of the stimulus. If a stimulus is above a certain threshold, a nerve or muscle fiber will always react to that stimulus. Essentially, there will either be a full response or there will be no response at all for an individual neuron or muscle fiber.

* * * *

I’ve tried applying the All or None Law to a lots of things outside the realm of human physiology, like, you know, religion. Based on that principle, either all of the religions on this planet are true. Or none of them are. I found both of those speculations to be morally and ethically abhorrent.

It’s probably not a good idea for anyone to try this line of thinking without professional supervision. Even then, the results aren’t likely to get any better than mine. And I like to think I’m extremely good at abstract thinking…

* * * *

I had pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I was asking questions that could never be answered by me, myself, and I. Nor did it seem that any of the religious “authorities” I questioned knew the answers to those questions either. I label them as authorities because that’s what they thought they were.

They went to school and studied the Bible, and holy scriptures, and stuff. So what could I possibly know about God that they did not? It’s like unto seeing your doctor and telling him you’ve looked up all of your symptoms on WebMD, and this is the treatment he should give you.

* * * *

You might wonder why I spend such an inordinate amount of time contemplating questions that don’t appear to have an answer, like I was some kind of Zen mystic or something. My lovely supermodel wife certainly does. I’m sure I’ve asked myself that same question more than once. And for me, the answer is simple: Spirituality.

Spirituality is a vital aspect of health and well-being, even if you don’t believe in God. That might not appear to make any sense, but even atheists believe in Something. Nature. The Universe. Call it what you will. Almost everyone on this planet believes in a God, or a lots of gods, or something that is externally greater than themselves. As far as I’m concerned, that constitutes spirituality.

In nursing school, we were taught about this spiritual component in terms of the Health-Illness Continuum. You can Google that up if you want more information on it.

I don’t think most people consider Nursing to be a spiritual profession, but every nurse I’ve ever known has prayed to God to save someone in their care. Or to save them from killing someone that the world would be much better without. Nurses know they are going to need all the help they can get from God because so many things can go wrong in healthcare, and very few of them are under our direct control.

* * * *

Many people equate spirituality with religion. Spiritual people go to church, don’t they? I mean, like, every Sunday — not just Christmas and Easter. I consider myself to be a spiritual person. and I rarely go to church anymore. Mostly because I think organized religion is the most successful scam operation ever invented by man. I could seriously elaborate on this topic for hours, but that’s the last thing I want to do because that would entail one helluvalot of typing, and I type about as well as I golf.

* * * *

I am not a great writer. I’m a great re-writer. I edit everything I write about 10,000 times. Sometimes even I don’t know what I was originally trying to say.

* * * *

Religion isn’t just the opium of the masses, as Karl Marx pointed out a couple of hundred years ago. It’s much, much worse that that. Organized religion has created far more problems than it has ever solved, and it has harmed just as many people as it has ever helped. Blatant hypocrisy and sex scandals aside, there’s this undisputable fact: Organized religion is Big Business.

The Roman Catholic Church is a corporation that has a net worth greater than General Motors, and possibly every other automobile manufacturer worldwide, combined. The Church isn’t just rich, it’s filthy fucking rich. Not bad for a bunch of dudes that took an oath of poverty…

And don’t get me started on television evangelists. I seriously hate every one of those motherfuckers.

* * * *

If you’re wondering where I’m going with this, take heart. I’m almost done.

I went to church on last year on Christmas Eve. My wife and son-in-law wanted to go to church, and even if I don’t think organized religion serves much of a higher purpose to me, it meant a lot to them. So to church we went. Gwen, John, Lea and myself.

It was a candle-light service, which was very soothing, even to me. The pastor of this church gave a little sermon about the birth of Jesus — the kind of stuff you’d expect to hear at a Christmas Eve service. I would have probably fallen asleep if it weren’t for the lit candle I was holding in my hand. And then the pastor said this, “Redemption always requires blood.”

It was a seemingly random sentence that popped up out of nowhere. I’m not sure he was even aware he said it because he didn’t elaborate on it. I’m not sure anyone else inside the church even heard what he had said.

But I could not forget it.

I thought about what he said for hours. When we went to bed that night, I was still thinking about it. And because I couldn’t stop thinking about that one random line, I decided to do something I had never done before.

I opened my heart, I opened my mind, I opened every cell in my body — I opened my very soul to God, to the Universe, and Everything.

* * * *

I’ve prayed to God a million times or more in my lifetime. I’ve prayed for a lots of things. Mostly things, I think. I’ve prayed for other things, too. Strength in times of trouble. Wisdom. Patience. That’s something you should never pray for because I can guarantee you will not like the way God will answer that prayer.

* * * *

I didn’t pray that night. I simply opened my soul to God and asked Him one question.

What is the truth?

I know I’ve asked Him that question countless times, expecting to receive some sort of response, only to hear the disappointing sounds of silence echo inside my head.

But on that night, Christmas Eve, 2021, exactly at midnight — God, the Universe, and Everything — answered me.

Takin’ Care of Business

Hey there, little buckaroos. Yes, it has been awhile! I’d apologize, but I doubt anyone has gone through withdrawal symptoms because I haven’t written anything for a few months.

* * * *

If you aren’t familiar with the song Takin’ Care of Business by the Canadian rock band Bachman-Turner Overdrive, I don’t know what to say to you. It was released in 1973, and it’s their best-known song of all time. The song has been used in a few hundred thousand movies and commercials. If you can honestly say you don’t know the song, you need to get a life.

* * * *

I’ve been retired for five years now. If you’re not retired, you should try it sometime. If you are retired, you may have noticed the same thing that I have: Retirement is literally days, weeks, and even months of not having to do anything if you don’t feel like doing it. You don’t have to go work anymore. You don’t have any pending appointments or meetings you have to attend on your calendar.

There might be some things you’ve been thinking about getting around to doing, but they’re not anything pressing, so if you decide today isn’t the day to tackle them, no one is going to care.

And then it’s almost as if all of the things you didn’t have to do conspire and BOOM! all of a sudden there’s a whole lots of shit that needs to be done.

Right. Now.

And that’s one of the reasons I haven’t been writing about my mostly incredibly boring and bucolic life. I’ve actually been busy.

* * * *

Way back in September, I conceived an idea to write about. A lots of goddamn stuff has happened since then, and I’m no longer interested in writing about it. I may get around to explaining that — we’ll see… Instead of writing, my lovely supermodel wife and I flew back to the States to attend my Aunt Noreen’s 90th birthday party at Lion’s Park in beautiful downtown Swanville, MN.

Aunt Reen is the last surviving matriarch on my mother’s side of the family. All of the elder relatives on my dad’s side of the family got dead years ago. Reen is my mom’s youngest sister, and to the best of my knowledge, she’s the oldest living person in my family’s history. We don’t tend to live much beyond the age of 80. And far too many of us tend to die much younger.

Noreen is a really neat gal, very much like unto my mom. They were best friends, and when Reen came over to my parents’ house to say good-bye to my mom just before she died, that was the sweetest thing I have ever seen in my life. It still makes me cry whenever I think about it.

It’s the only reason why I thought it was important to go to her party. I doubt any of my cousins will ever come visit us in Mexico, so I don’t see a preponderance evidence that suggests I need to spend a lots of money and energy connecting with people that aren’t going to make any effort to connect with me.

And speaking of people I don’t want to ever connect with again, there’s John, my Idiot Brother. As you have probably deduced, John and I are not good friends. Mainly because every time John contacts me, he threatens to kill me. I don’t believe 99% of the bullshit that emanates from him. I’m not sure if he’d actually kill me if he ever saw me again, but I have no doubt that he’d try to.

I knew there was no way John would miss going to Reen’s party, if for no other reason than there would be a whole lots of free beer there. So, yeah, this created a bit of a dilemma for me. As it turns out, I’m not the only person in my family that doesn’t want to be around my Idiot Brother. None of my cousins wanted him at their party either, however, they didn’t think he would even bother to attend.

Cut to the chase: John arrived at the party about half an hour before Lea and I arrived. My cousins messaged me to let me know he was there — even though they still didn’t think he would come — then they asked him to leave. John said, “You don’t think I’d really kill my brother with all these witnesses present, do you?” And they replied, “Because you say things like that, you have to leave. And if you don’t leave now, we’ll call the police.”

It was a very nice party. I got to see my old friend, Shorty Girtz. I’ve written about him and our epic vacation in Dallas, TX. You can look it up in the archives if you’re really bored. He took Lea for a ride on his new touring motorcycle, which I have to admit surprised me. Lea has never been all that interested in motorcycles, but she had blast.

According to the 2010 census, there are 350 people that live in the city of Swanville. At least half of the town was in attendance at Noreen’s party, mainly because she is probably related to almost everyone in Swanville in one way or another. Reen was very happy that we had flown up all the way from Mexico for her party. I gained a new level of respect for my cousins. And my Idiot Brother messaged me to tell me he was really going to kill me the next time he saw me, this time for sure. Again.

* * * *

We were in Minnesota for five days. On short visits like unto this one, you scramble like hell to see as many people as you can before you leave. The list of people that I’m willing to try to see keeps getting smaller, mostly for the reason previously stated above. The other reason is the impermanence of life itself. And that’s the other reason we went back to Minnesota.

I wanted to see Paul Anderson before he died to death.

* * * *

Paul and I were registered nurses, and we worked together at the Minneapolis VAMC in the In-patient Psychiatric Department for the entire twenty years I was employed there. Paul was mostly an excellent nurse. I had the utmost respect for him as a colleague, and I learned a helluvalot from him about how to do my job with the most efficiency. We supported each other through every fucking miserable event that befell us during that time, and we both had more than our share of traumas and tribulations over those two decades.

We celebrated every victory together. We celebrated even when there wasn’t much of anything to celebrate. I taught him everything I knew about smoking marijuana, and he taught me everything he knew about craft beers and red wine. Yeah, he was my drinking buddy. Unlike all of my other drinking buddies — who didn’t want to have anything to do with me after I quit drinking — Paul and I remained close friends.

In vino veritas. We knew everything there was to know about each other. He was my best friend, possibly the best male friend I’ve had in my entire life, despite the fact that he rooted for the much-despised Green Bay Peckers.

* * * *

If you’re wondering why I’m not writing another installment entitled For Whom the Bell Tolls, I just don’t have the courage to do it, even though Paul is more than worthy of a tribute from me. I’ve lost two of my best male friends in less than four months. Those losses have taken a lots of wind out of my sails, simply because losses like unto these are roughly the emotional equivalent of getting kicked in the balls.

The pain from the grief is acute enough as it is. Opening myself up to further pain by writing about it is more than I am willing to take on right now. And it’s one of the reasons I haven’t written. I rarely know what I’m going to write, and yeah, the idea that something like unto that would pour out of me honestly scared the shit out of me. I had to wait until I was sure that wasn’t going to happen.

Writing about Francisco’s death helped me process the shock and dismay that plagued me in his absence. I needed to write about him. I don’t have to do that with Paul. I’ve known he wasn’t going to live very long for the better part of this year. He told me he was dying in May. I told him to stay alive until I saw him in September.

He promised me that he would.

Lea and I drove out to see Paul, one last time, at the house he built, mostly all by himself, on September 20th. It was a bright and sunny day as we headed east on Highway 94. We visited with Paul and his wife for about an hour. That was the extent of the strength he had left. Lea and I have a boatload of fond memories of Paul and Synneva’s house. We got together frequently, usually at their home in rural Wisconsin, and shared many an ice cold beverage and a lots of laughter over the years.

It wasn’t bright and sunny anymore as we drove west, back to Minnesota and the Airbnb in St. Paul we had rented for our stay. Dark gray clouds had rolled in, and the skies opened up, unleashing torrents of rain that fell like rage. It was as if the sky had offered me an unction by crying the tears I no longer possessed.

If you were to ask me where I am in my grieving process right now, I don’t know if I could tell you. I’m not even sure who I’m grieving over half of the time. I don’t know if I can grieve individually anymore. It’s all become a kind of Grief Casserole to me, and I don’t really know how to cook.

The one thing I have going for me is I discovered I have a really great support system. My friends and family here have been there for me every time I’ve needed them. And they will be there if I need more from them.

Excuse me, I’m going to have to take a break here…

* * * *

I talked to Paul almost every day after we got back to Mexico. Our conversations rarely lasted even five minutes. I just wanted to hear his voice again, knowing there wouldn’t be many times we would talk.

I sent him all the pictures I had taken of our adventures, and his family, because I had fucking forgotten to pack them when we flew up there. I had pulled them out of storage, meaning to give them to him when I saw him, and set them on the bookcase in the Peach Room. And that’s where they were when we got back to Mexico.

He appreciated the pictures. We had had a lots of great times together, and he smiled a lots remembering them. His wife told me that.

I was going to call him on his birthday, Monday, October 11th. But when I opened my Facebook account, I had received a message from Synneva. Paul had passed away in his sleep during the night. He would have been 65 if he had lived three more hours. On the bright side, he got to see his beloved Packers win one last football game that they should have lost at least twice. So there was that.

* * * *

Time ceased to exist for me for awhile that morning. I went to the end of the patio because it was it was in the sunlight, and the mornings are getting a little chilly here. The birds were chirping in the trees. A light breeze was blowing, just enough of a breeze to tickle the hairs on your arms, but not enough to really do much more than that.

A few hummingbirds flitted from flower to flower in the garden. A vermillion flycatcher flew into one of the plumeria trees, looking for a meal. The warmth of the sun felt good. And I smiled, remembering the good times, wishing there had been at least one more visit…

Paul would have liked Mexico if he had ever gotten down here. He was planning to visit us in May of 2020. He had even bought his airfare. Then the pandemic hit and brought the world to a screeching halt. Paul cancelled his trip, with the idea to reschedule for a later date. Then he got too sick to travel, and that ended up being that.

True to his word as always, he stayed alive long enough so we could say good-bye to each other in person. Thank you for doing that.

Twenty days later, he, too, was gone.

Vaya con Dios, Mr. Anderson. The last thing you said to me was we will meet again. That is a promise you had better keep. I’m counting on you to show me the ropes again.

* * * *

In early October, our oldest daughter, Gwen, her husband, John, and their dog, Tori Belle, took up residence in the casita we had set up as a guest suite. They’re going to stay here for the next five months until they decide what they want to do when they grow up. They both work remotely from here. I guess that’s one positive outcome from the COVID-19 pandemic.

This has been somewhat of a surprise to us, that one of our kids would want to move back in with us, but it has been a good surprise. We have a kind of communal living experience going on here at the resort — minus the drugs and free love that were so popular back in the 1960’s.

It’s also somewhat ironic. Prior to moving into this house, I observed that there are a lots of gringo mansions down here. Huge honker homes that were probably occupied by one or two old, white people and maybe a couple of dogs. And then we moved into one one of those huge honker places… That’s why we invited Todd to move in with us. We had more than enough room for another person here.

When Gwen and John asked if they could take over our casita for an extended stay, we were well-versed in the process. Things are going smoothly for all of us as far as I know. If there’s anyone that is not satisfied with our current living arrangements, they haven’t talked to me about it.

* * * *

Because we no longer had a guest room for all of the people that said they were going to visit us, but probably never will — and because I needed something to do — I repainted the Peach Room and turned it into our new guest room.

I guess you could call the Peach Room a bonus room/flex space. We had it set up as a second living room/den, but we never used it. The kit-tens used to hang out in it occasionally. They probably used it more than any of the people that live here.

Yes. It’s a very big room. And that’s a queen-size bed. There’s an adjoining Jack and Jill bathroom between the guest room and Todd’s room. In this picture, the bathroom would be to your right. If you come to visit, you’ll have to share that.

* * * *

The next thing that needed to be done was repairing the ceiling in the master bedroom. I can’t remember exactly when it happened, but a few months ago our landlord finally replaced the malfunctioning solar heater for the swimming pool. Said heater rests on the roof of our bedroom.

The summer months here are the Rainy Season. We received over 40 inches of rain this year, so yeah, they call it the Rainy Season for a very good reason. That’s how we discovered the leak in the roof. We assume it originated with the new solar heater because it wasn’t there with the old solar heater. Our property manager sent a crew here to repair the roof three times. The Rainy Season has ended, so we probably won’t know if the leak has actually been sealed until sometime next June…

Just in cases you didn’t know, all of the buildings in Mexico are primarily constructed of bricks, mortar, and steel. Someone told me it was because of the termites, which are pretty much everywhere down here. Maybe that’s true. I don’t really know. Concrete might have a lots of advantages as a building material, but one disadvantage it has is it is very porous and sucks up water like unto a sponge.

And that’s pretty much what happened on our roof. Water followed the path of least resistance and after one particularly heavy thunderstorm, part of the ceiling in our bedroom kind of collapsed — not much, just a little — but it continued to do so with each consecutive rainfall. After a couple months of this process repeatedly repeating itself, the ceiling in our bedroom was in a very sorry state of affairs.

Repairing the ceiling amounted to scraping away all the loose mortar and paint, then plastering all the cracks and crevices and canyons that the leaking roof had created, and then sanding all the rough spots down until they were more or less smooth. Plastering isn’t something I would call one of my strengths, but the end result looked comparable to the other repairs that had been done to the bedroom ceiling prior to when we moved in.

Lea said she was happy with it, and that was really all I needed to hear.

The worst part of this process is the mold remediation. If you have never attempted to get get mold out of a concrete ceiling, you haven’t missed much. It is a long and tedious process. Oddly enough, the mold is no where near the spot where the ceiling first started falling apart. I might be done with that part of the job by Christmas…

When we moved into this house, we hired Francisco to paint almost every room in the house. Just about the only surfaces he didn’t paint were the ceilings — except in the master bedroom. It must have looked like hell, so that’s probably why Lea asked him to paint it. It’s the only reason why I had paint that matched perfectly, and I won’t have to repaint the entire ceiling.

The final bedroom renovations entailed moving the TV set that had been in the Peach Room that no one ever watched into the master bedroom and connecting it to the DVD player I had purchased at Best Buy® while we were in Minnesota.

* * * *

Probably Little Known Fact About DVD’s and DVD Players: they are coded for the country they are manufactured in. Yeah, I didn’t know that either, until I bought a DVD player that was made in Mexico. It would not play any of the DVD’s I had purchased in the United States of America.

* * * *

It took me awhile to switch from VHS tapes to DVD’s, but once I did I thought it would be stupid to have just one DVD. Hey, do you want to come over to my house and watch my DVD? See? I told you… So I bought a lots of them over the years.

* * * *

It took me the better part of an hour to figure out how to change the codes in my Mexican DVD player so we could watch a movie, and I’m pretty sure we didn’t bother to even watch it after we finally got everything working. I don’t use that player to watch movies. I have it hooked up to the stereo on the patio because DVD players also play CD’s, and I have a lots and lots of CD’s.

* * * *

The last thing that kept me from writing was working in the gardens here at the Chula Vista Resort and Spa. They were starting to look tired, so I tore almost everything out of most of them. Then Lea decided she wanted to trim the Royal and Ancient Hedgerow in the South Garden.

I guess I should have asked her what she meant by the word trim. Lea more or less ripped out everything that had regrown, leaving the fence looking almost exactly like it did one year ago when we originally attacked the hedgerow.

I was originally a little bummed out because the hedgerow looks like hell now, but as we have seen, it will return again. And her extreme trimming may even benefit the vines that I actually want to grow. Time will tell on that account. All I know is they didn’t fill in the places I wanted them to this year…

* * * *

It’s been a tough year for me. It just goes to show you that you should never think things can’t get any worse than they were last year…

I had originally planned this post to be about the Anti-Vaccine Movement, and how incredibly selfish those people are in the midst of a global pandemic that has changed, and will continue to change our lives for the foreseeable future.

I think they’re moronheads. And that’s about all I have to say about that anymore. Except I hope the Green Bay Peckers don’t secure a bye in the playoffs because of Aaron Rodgers being an anti-vaxing sissifated sniffle-snaffle. It’d serve him right.

It’s also been a very good year for me. I am very aware of that. I don’t need anyone to point that out to me. Life is all about balance and equilibrium. My life is balancing out gradually. I no longer experience the wild mood swings that owned me in July.

I remain resilient. The losses I have felt this year have bent me and stretched me to my limits at times, but they did not break me. At least, I don’t think they did.

I have lost dear friends, but I have also found support from a group of people that I didn’t expect it from. That was another good surprise.

Thank you, everyone. Everyone that has supported me. Everyone that has helped me support Francisco’s family. Thank you all from the bottom of my broken heart.

It isn’t as broken as it used to be. And that is very much because of all of you.

Q & A

It’s been a busy year so far at the Chula Vista Resort and Spa. We’ve had illnesses, cancer scares, and various and sundry other medical issues that needed treatment.

I  had the Mexico City Flu, and a couple of precancerous lesions by my right eye that were removed in January. At the same time, our roommate, Todd, had a Shingles outbreak around his right eye. It took about three weeks, but that has resolved, so things are getting back to normal for both of us again.

Our kit-tens, Mollie and Mika, are doing great. Mollie is helping me type right now, so this could take a while. Kit-tens are apparently immune to the flu. And Shingles. They’re still the cutest kit-tens ever.

* * * *

We’ve had visitors in February. Our beautiful and talented oldest daughter, Gwen, and her husband, John, were here for a week. While they were here, we had a major plumbing problem with the kitchen sink. It started leaking. And then it stopped draining.

I can usually fix most simple plumbing leaks on my own, but this is Mexico. I’m not sure if there are any construction codes in Mexico, and if there are, they’re probably viewed in the same manner that traffic laws are. They’re more like unto suggestions than anything else.

The pipes under the kitchen sink are a perfect example of that.

The plumbing looks something like unto this…

So I called Jaime Mendoza, our property manager, and he called Tacho, our general fix-it guy. Tacho looked at the weird configuration of pipes and started swearing in Spanish.

“Now you know why I wanted you here.” I said.

It took Tacho two weeks to fix the leak because he would fix one leak, and another one would mysteriously appear. After the first week, we were pretty sure that dynamite would be the best solution because houses in Mexico are made of concrete. But Tacho preserved, and he eventually fixed all of the leaks and cleared out the huge clog from somewhere under the kitchen floor without having to resort to explosives.

* * * *

We also had a couple of issues with our swimming pool. The solar heater stopped heating, and there was a leak in one of the pumps. Those problems took closer to a month to fix because the replacement parts had to be ordered from Guadalajara, and then the repairmen had to be reminded that they had to come back to install the new parts, even though they had the parts that needed to be installed.

There was a defective valve in the solar heater. Once that was replaced, it worked better than it ever has. Our solar heater isn’t the top of the line model, so we ordered five solar heating lilly pads to augment the heater from a guy named Rodrigo. He owns a garden store that sells a lots of pool equipment. We’re going to pick them up later today. The total cost on those is less than $50 US.

And the leaking pump was sorted out with a new gasket.

Mischief. Managed.

* * * *

The heat shields on my propane grill needed to be replaced because they had more or less disintegrated in the eleven years that I’ve been using it. Finding replacement parts for your grill isn’t a big deal in the States. It’s a huge deal in Mexico. The easiest way to replace the three heat shields here seemed to be to buy a new propane grill, and while a lots of things are way less expensive in Mexico, propane grills aren’t one of them.

And then I met Ed and Kat. Ed is grizzled-looking gringo who kind of retired down here, but still wants to work for some unfathomable reason. Kat may or may not be Ed’s wife. She’s a very attractive Latina, probably thirty years younger than Ed. She has really big eyes, so she’s a lots of fun to talk to.

I love the Google Image Search!

Ed opened a shop called Baja Grills that sells propane grills and smokers. And fishing bait and supplies. And hot tubs. And fireplace inserts. And stuff…  He didn’t have the replacement heat shields I needed, so he made new ones for me. They probably cost me $60 US. 

Winter in the Lakeside Area lasts about a month — from the middle of December to the middle of January. It doesn’t get freezing-ass cold here, but there’s about a ten degree difference between the outside temperature and the temperature inside of the cavernous gringo mansion we’re renting.

It’s colder inside of our house than it is outside. We have three gas fireplaces at the Chula Vista Resort and Spa, but none of them have the requisite inserts that make them functionable. Probably because propane fireplace inserts are outrageously expensive down here, too. 

We have three portable propane heaters that we use during the coldest month of Winter. But one of Ed and Kat’s fireplace inserts might work perfectly in our living room fireplace. Lea and I are going to go take a closer look at it later today…  It’ll all depend on what kind of deal we can get.

* * * *

And there’s been golf. Todd and I play at least three times a week, sometimes more often depending on how we feel. So far, we tend to take turns having reasonably decent rounds of golf. Last Sunday, we played 36 holes of golf. I beat Todd by three strokes on the front nine with an 89. We both shot 88 on the second 18.

Yesterday, we both sucked.

I started playing golf back in my thirties because it was the only way I could talk with my dad. He loved to play golf, and he was a wicked good golfer. My favorite part about golf back then was I could drink beer and smoke cigarettes while I golfed. And there was that whole hitting the shit out of a little white ball thing…

The more I golf, the less it resembles what I thought it was in my youth. “Good golfers hit the ball as hard as they can. Great golfers hit the ball as hard as they need to.” I can’t remember who said that, but he was right. I would add this: Good golfers have a strategy. Great golfers are able to execute it. 

Golf is like unto playing chess with an opponent that never moves any of its pieces. Hitting the shit out of a little white ball has become the least important part of my game anymore.

Strategy was something I had no concept of until I started playing in the Go-Go tournaments at my country club. Go-Go is like unto regular golf, except with a twist. Or two. And that’s where all the strategy comes into play. I would like to take this opportunity to thank Dave Naisby and Bill Merrell. They’re the guys that organize and coordinate the Go-Go tournaments at the Country Club de Chapala.

I can’t say they’ve made me a good golfer, but I suck a whole lots less than I did three years ago.

And then there’s that whole balance thing. I need to be physically relaxed when I hit a golf ball because my fucked up back can take only so much abuse. If my swing isn’t relaxed and fluid, I’m going to be in for a long and very painful day. But my mind has to be laser-focused because half of this game is 90% mental. And trust me when I say this: I can be too relaxed when I golf sometimes, and that’s not good.

It’s an odd set of contradictions that I have to manage every time I pick up a golf club. Sometimes it works very well. And those are the days that keep me coming back for more abuse.

It’s kind of like being a psych nurse, except the pay is worse. But you meet way fewer assholes.

* * * *

I’ve spent a few days trying to imagine this post as a question and answer piece about my nursing career. Or just a question and answer thing about anything. There’s one major obstacle to this concept. No one ever asks me anything about being a nurse. Come to think of it, they don’t ask me about much of anything else either.

So if I’m going to do this, it’s going to be all my imagination.

There’s one compelling reason for me to go down this road. A couple of my former patients have been on my mind lately. And I’ve learned not to ignore those things when they happen.

* * * *

What was the most heartbreaking thing that happened when you were a nurse?

The suicides. I was a psych nurse for thirty years. I couldn’t tell you how many of the people I had a role in caring for killed themselves after they were discharged from the hospital. There were dozens of them. In 1990, twelve Vietnam veterans at the MVAMC took their lives in one month.

I remember my first patient who took his life at the Minnesota State Hospital in Anoka. He drowned himself in the Rum River. I remember the last one, too. He was at St. Luke’s in Phoenix. He had had a stroke, and the day before he was discharged he met with everyone on the evening shift to thank them and say goodbye. He shot himself two days later.

And I vividly remember each of the five patients that killed themselves while they were still in the hospital. Those are things you never forget, no matter how much you try. If I exclude the suicides, there’s one person who jumps to the top of the list. That said, I probably have a hundred stories similar to hers.

* * * *

Her name was Audrey. I met her at the Minneapolis VAMC. She was a sweet woman in her forties. She was admitted for depression, and if I remember correctly, a lengthy list of somatic complaints. She was a cancer survivor, so one possibility was her cancer had returned.

As I’ve said before, diagnosing is essentially a process of ruling out all of the things that aren’t wrong with you until your doctor figures out what’s left. The first thing her doctor did was order a full body CT scan.

One of the great things about working at the VA was the ease of doing consults with other specialty clinics. Sometimes the consulting physicians would come to the unit, but usually we had to transport our patients to the various departments, then return them to the unit when their consult was done. 

I was transporting Audrey in a wheelchair to Radiology for her CT Scan. And she told me this story:

“I remember when this began. I had just turned 30 when the pain started. I went to see a doctor. Hell, I went to a lot of doctors. And none of them could find anything wrong with me. One of them said my pain was a figment of my imagination. You know, like I was crazy. After awhile, my friends all started thinking I was crazy. It went on for months. After about a year, even I started thinking I was crazy.

“It was so frustrating. There was nothing wrong with me, but the pain was unbearable. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t have a life. All I did was go from one doctor to the next, only to hear the same fucking thing: All your tests have come back negative. We can’t find anything physically wrong with you…

“And then I was diagnosed with cancer, and this is going to sound really crazy, but I almost felt happy! I think I cried genuine tears of joy when I heard that! I was so relieved because it wasn’t just all in my head. There really was something wrong with me! I wasn’t crazy!! That’s just so fucked up, isn’t it?”

I couldn’t answer her. She looked back over her shoulder to see if I was still there. I was trying unsuccessfully to choke back my tears. 

* * * *

What’s the weirdest thing you saw in your nursing career?

There’s a lots of competition for this one. Lesbian encounters in the night. Guys accidentally getting foreign objects stuck up their asses. Guys jamming foreign objects into their penises. The list goes on. And on…  But the hands down winner has to be the guy that drove his girlfriend from Arizona to Michigan. It doesn’t sound that weird, except she was dead for most of the trip.

I don’t have any other stories like unto this one.

Her name was Christine. She was 31 years old, and was a frequent flyer at Aurora Behavioral Health in Glendale, AZ. She was a dual diagnosis patient, meaning on top of her psychiatric issues she was also chemically dependent. In layman’s terms, Christine was a trainwreck. She was one of the most exhausting patients I’ve ever met, and I wasn’t her nurse. Now that I think about it, she wasn’t even on my unit, and I probably spent more time interacting with her than I did with all of my patients combined. 

Christine lives forever in my Top Five Patients From Hell List.

In June of 2014, Christine was discharged from the hospital. She was picked up by Ray, her 62 year old boyfriend, and Ray’s 93 year old mother. We cheerfully waved goodbye as they all climbed into Ray’s van and headed off to Michigan. We prayed that they all made it there safely and never returned to Arizona again. Ever.

Christine probably accidentally overdosed on her discharge medications by swallowing the entire contents of a bottle of OxyContin on purpose, and then died to death somewhere in Oklahoma. See? I told you she was a trainwreck.

And then the weird part happened. Rather than stop and report what happened to the police, Ray put a pair of sunglasses on her face, placed a teddy bear on her lap, and kept on driving.

Across hot and humid Oklahoma to steamy Missouri, through sweltering Indiana into Illinois — you get the picture– stopping only for gas, fast food and bathroom breaks until he made it to Michigan. And then Ray decided to notify the police that something had happened to his girlfriend. It didn’t take the police long to figure out what was wrong because Christine’s body had begun to decompose. 

Police chose not to press any charges against Ray. Or his mother.

This is Ray. The story of his road trip made National News. You could look it up on the Google…

* * * *

When I first envisioned this post, I had imagined a lots more questions and a few more stories. And then I realized most of my stories bear a lots of similarities to each other, so there’s that.

It might explain why no one asks me a lots of questions.

Home For The Holidays

¡Feliz Navidad!

My lovely supermodel wife and I want to take this opportunity to wish you a blessed and joyful Christmas season. Well, and probably any other season too, for that matter. Unless it’s football season. If you’re a Packers fan, or a Bears fan–all bets are off.

In that instance, we hope that your team sucks and that you, as a fan, are miserable every time your team plays our team.

Despite a mediocre record this year, the Vikings still have a chance to make it to the playoffs as a wild card team. I had pretty much given up on them, and didn’t even bother to watch their game last week. So they played their best game of the season and clobbered the Miami Dolphins.

We’ll probably watch the game today. They’re playing the Detroit Lions. Besides, we’ve already watched every Hallmark Christmas movie at least five times. I’ve written about the Hallmark movies before. Despite the fact that they’re all essentially the same movie, we’ve apparently become addicted to them.

I’ve had my heartstrings pulled a few times watching them this year. As predictable as they all are, it’s Christmas. And everyone loves a happy ending at Christmas. 🎄🎅

* * * *

This will be our third Christmas in Mexico, but it’ll be the first Christmas in our new home. It actually feels like Christmas this year. For one thing, it’s freezing inside of our cavernous abode. Lea and I are from Minnesota, and Christmas is almost always cold there. Like, below fucking zero cold. It’s one of the reasons we moved to Arizona.

We have a couple of portable propane heaters at the new house, and we’re getting good use out of them. They kick out a lots of heat, until their tanks run out of fuel. The propane guys who fill the two big tanks that supply the main house and the casita can fill the portable tanks whenever they’re in the neighborhood, but I hate to request a special delivery from them if I only need a few liters of propane.

There’s a place called Zeta Gas about a mile west of here. They have a drive through facility. You pull up to the pump, hand the guy your tank, and he fills it up for you. It’s a minor hassle in the Big Scheme of Life, but the last two times our heaters died, they died on a Sunday. The one day of the week that Zeta Gas is closed.

Back in the States, you don’t actually buy propane tanks. You more or less rent the canister, and when it’s empty you take it back to the store and rent another full one. And you can do that at probably a dozen different places any day of the week. Here, you buy an empty tank at the hardware store. It’s up to you to get it filled and keep it filled.

It was one of those “on the job training/This is Mexico” things for me. We didn’t have this issue at our last house. So I bought a backup tank the other day, and filled it right away. Take that, Sunday! I’m ready for you now.

* * * *

Second, our Christmas decorations are on display. We even have a Christmas tree, thanks to Al and Jane Castleman. They loaned us one of theirs. It even looks fairly festive. We set it up on the patio so our kit-tens, Mika and Mollie, can’t destroy it.

Kit-tens. I don’t remember our last kit-tens being so…mischievous. I struggle to find the right word to describe their antics. From their point of view, all they’re doing is what comes naturally to them. They’re smart, they’re curious, and they’re very good at jumping. And they like us, so of course they want to help us, no matter what it is we’re trying to do.

I’ve discovered I spend quite a bit of time talking to our growing furbabies.

“Mollie! Get off of the table!” 

“Mika! How the hell did you get up there?”

“Don’t make me get the squirt bottle!!”

I don’t like having to use the squirt bottle on the kit-tens, but it’s the most effective tool in feline behavior modification, ever.

* * * *

And thirdly, we have guests this year. Gwen and John Henson flew down from Austin, TX to celebrate the holiday with us. Gwen is Lea’s oldest daughter. She’s also our brilliant financial planner. John is her loving husband. He’s a very good man.

Historically, Gwen and John have always traveled back to Minnesota for Christmas. I’m not sure why they decided to come here this year; I’m just glad they did. And Lea is thrilled beyond words.

Other than Lea’s boyfriend, Todd, they’re probably the only people who actually like us. They’ve come to visit us more than anyone else.

* * * *

We’re finally settled in at our new house. It feels like home. We’ve been here about two months, but it seems somehow longer. Like, this is the place we were supposed to be when we moved here. All of the big things we wanted to do when we moved in have been crossed off the list. Pretty much all of the little things that needed to be done have been taken care of, too.

I can get back to resting on my…laurels…again. And playing golf.

I went golfing last week with the guy who painted our house. Francisco Flores Bernini is a caddy at Vista del Lago, the country club that I’m a member of. He showed me several of the houses he had painted out there. That’s why I decided to hire him to paint our new house.

Francisco is a very good caddy, which has been good for me. He’s also a very good golfer, which wasn’t so good for me last Thursday. I played the best round of golf I’ve ever played in my life, and Francisco still beat me by seventeen strokes. He gave me a lots of tips while we golfed, and some of them even worked when I tried them. I might end up being a decent golfer someday if all of his suggestions work.

But my favorite best memory of that day was buying coffee from Luli, the refreshment cart girl. I was paying for our drinks, and I gave Luli a nice tip. You know, it’s Christmas…

“Do you want to give her a hug?” Francisco asked me in English, but the way he said it made it more of a suggestion than a question.

“Sure. Why not.” I replied. Francisco told Luli that I wanted to give her a hug, in Spanish. She speaks some English, but I guess he didn’t want there to be any confusion about this. Luli giggled, and she hugged me. That’s when I figured out why Francisco wanted me to hug her.

Luli has what we call in America an epic set of tits.

“¿Puedo tener un abrazo también?” Francisco asked Luli, and she smiled and hugged him, too. “Man, I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.” Francisco confessed, as we drove to the next tee box. “When I’m caddying out here, she won’t give me the time of day. But today, I’m a golfer. After you gave her that tip, I knew she wouldn’t say no to hugging you.

“I was just hoping she wouldn’t say no to hugging me. I’m never going to forget this day. I’m going to remember this as one of the best days in my life.”

Because of Francisco, I’m going to remember it that way, too.

* * * *

Christmas, as every Hallmark movie will tell you, is a time for family. I can tell you it doesn’t always work out that way in real life. The last time my entire family got together for Christmas was 2006 when my mother was dying to death from cancer.

It’s not one of those warm, fuzzy memories for me.

Given the fact that Lea and I are now living deep in the heart of Mexico, it’s not likely that we’ll travel to the Great White North. Lea has sworn that she will never go back to Minnesota during the winter. To be honest, it’s not something I would look forward to either. It’s even less likely that anyone in my family would come down here to see us.

That’s the reality of life. Even so, if I don’t spend another Christmas with my family, it won’t be the worst thing that will ever happen to me. Or them. We still love each other. Well, most of us still love each other. I can always call them. Or at the very least, send them a deeply affectionate text.

Once you grow up, you realize that family is a word that can have multiple layers. There’s the family you were born into. There’s the family you make when you get married. There’s the family you make with friends, co-workers; pretty much any group of people you want.

Family, much like unto reality, can be anything you imagine it to be.

So, Merry Christmas to us. Merry Christmas to you. And as Tiny Tim so eloquently stated, “A Merry Christmas to us all; God bless us every one.”