Surfing on water is *completely* different than surfing on land

Let's go surfin' now, everybody's learning how,
come on a safari with meeeeee...

It's true. I don't want to ruin anyone's aspirations of becoming an Olympic surfing champion, but no matter how good you are at land-surfing to the "Hawaii Five-0" theme song (which I will admit to doing every time the show comes on) once you add a board and water, it becomes very freakin' difficult.

Joel and I recently traveled to the coast. It was our first trip away from Antigua since... Well pre-car theft, I guess. So it's been around a year and a half. We decided we would get surf lessons, since the place we were staying prided itself on being an excellent place to surf. When in Rome, right? If they offered para-sailing, SCUBA diving or finger-painting, heck, I would've happily tried those things, too. But no, their specialty was surfing. It was time to hang eleven. (I have an extra toe.)

Jennifer, the Land-Surfing Champion

In typical Guatemalan fashion, our surf instructors were over an hour late (punctuality is not a strong trait here) so Joel and I spent the time doing what we do best -- land surfing. You stand on the board and balance yourself and WAH-LA! You're surfing.

The hotel loaned us rash guards (those nifty shirts surfers wear to keep from getting scraped by the surf boards) and we decided we looked like a couple of bad-asses who knew how to surf. We were kidding ourselves.

It's hard to carry a wide board when you
have short T-Rex arms.

And a word about rash guards. They are made of thin fabric and are tight for a reason. You don't want a bulky t-shirt flapping around and weighing you down. However, even the tightest rash guard will sometimes scrunch up and without knowing it, your tummy area is rubbing against the board. This happened to me and I nearly rubbed my entire belly button off. After a day of surfing, whenever I saw the guys at the hotel going out to surf without a rash guard all I could think was, "How do they still have nipples?" I mean, wow. The pain! My knees also got scraped, but wearing knee pads while surfing would've made me look like an uber-dork. If you want to know what it feels like, rub sandpaper all over your body. Then jump into a kiddie pool full of salt water. Enjoy the pain. While you're at it, drink some of the water and/or ingest it through your nose. And try to look cool doing it.

Let the fun begin!

Ok, so the lesson. The instructor told me the wider the board, the better your chances of standing up. I requested something large -- like a garage door -- but they handed me a bright blue beginner's board. And it was so wide, it was hard for me to carry with my stupidly short T-Rex arms. The actual lesson was...hmm. Well, let me just say that for me, it was completely unnecessary. Not only because my instructor, Carlos, didn't speak English, but also because I just sort of figured it out on my own. We didn't spend a lot of time on the beach practicing the 1-2-3-step move to get up on the board. I was eager to get in the water and do it. I'd have to say the best thing about having an instructor was that he helped me paddle my way out to the waves and kept me from getting a concussion when the board smacked into a wave.

Uhhh, sorry about the view, Carlos.

Carlos was a tiny waif of a guy. He took me out to waist-deep water and patted the board (my signal to hop on up there). Ok, no problem. He pushed me out to deeper water and that's when I realized poor Carlos had a terrific view of my not-so-terrific Whitey-McWhite ass. (If I am ever lost at sea or get stranded in a forest, do not send search teams during the day. Wait for nighttime. Send a plane. I will remove my clothes and the glow from my pasty white butt cheeks will act as a beacon, glowing in the night.)

Ahh, but I digress... 

Anyway, so there I was, wading out to sea with my butt in Carlos' face. Whenever a large wave would come our way, Carlos would weigh down the end of the board, causing me and the board to pop up over the wave. It was a lot of fun, but in hindsight, it's like voluntarily getting whiplash from snapping your neck against your spine. (But mostly it was fun.) Oh, and the force of the board against my chest made me wonder if I was going to break a boob. (Do boobs break? I don't really know. Mine seem to have survived.)

Without warning, Carlos spun me around to face the shore. It was like the first time I was handed the car keys in my Driver's Ed class. I was like, "Really? You think I'm ready for this? What if I kill someone?" But it was now or never.

The wave came. I scooched my toes to the end of the board and gripped the sides. Carlos gave the board a shove...

...and I was off!

Ten second later...

...I was face-first in the water!

I consumed a lot of salt water. Salt water is like a never-ending margarita, but not as much fun because there's no tequila or a fancy bendy straw included in the deal.

Yeah, that's me out there. It looks like I'm saying, "Cheers!" In reality, 
it was probably more like, "Oh, craaap! I'm about to wipe out again!"

Carlos and I did this about three times before I finally got the hang of that oh-so-important word: BALANCE. And another word that was deeply embedded in my brain: DETERMINATION. I was determined, come hell or high salty water, to stand up on that damn board. I had the eye of the tiger, the thrill of the fight. Yada-yada-yada. It got to the point where Carlos would turn me to face the shore and I'd growl, "Ok, wave... It's just you and me... And the board... And the sand..."

I don't have any photographic evidence, but there are witnesses and I'm sure they'd swear that I did stand up on the board and travel all the way to the shore. In fact, I did it many times. Once you get the feel for it, it's not too too too hard. A lot of it depends on the wave -- how long it lasts and if you catch it at just the right moment. Carlos walked me back to the shore to re-explain how to stand up, but gave up after he realized that no matter how many times he went over it, I was still going to do it my own way. (Smart man, that Carlos.)

Was I good at it? Oh, heck no. I'd compare my stance as more of a chunky cinder block on a board than anything sleek and graceful. If you could picture The Incredible Hulk on a surf board (minus the green skin) that would be me. I did it. I was bad at it, but I did it. I was so sore the next day. Even my armpits hurt. I realized this as I was trying to squish a lime down the throat of my beer bottle. Aching armpits? How is that possible? Ouch.

Joel with his very own bright blue beginner's board. 

Did I mention the stingrays and jellyfish? Yeah, the water was teeming with them. The owner of the hotel suggested we do the "Stingray Shuffle" when walking in the water. He said people at the hotel who have been stung by stingrays say "the pain makes you feel like you are dying." Sounds like fun! So shuffle I did. I don't know how to avoid a jellyfish...other than not go in the water with peanut butter. (Get it? Peanut butter and jellyfish?) HA!? (Did I mention I took in a lot of salt water?)  

Sunscreen is very important, especially for a self-proclaimed glow-in-the-dark person like myself. I was wearing SPF 50 but somehow a critical part of my body got missed or the sunscreen rubbed off. What part? My butt. Yep, I burned my cheeks and the area below my waist. It hurt to sleep at night. The two-hour ride in the un-air conditioned shuttle back to Antigua was loads of sweaty, butt-bouncing fun. I've been putting gobs of lotion on my skin ("it puts the lotion on its skin..." Sorry, that will only make sense if you've seen "Silence of the Lambs") and it's getting better. But now it's starting to itch. And peel. Ouch ouch ouch.

This little piggy went surfing... it's hard to tell, 
but my "ring finger" toe is swollen. 

Oh yeah, and I broke my toe while surfing. I made it all the way to the shore and I was dismounting and let's just say I didn't stick the landing. I landed funny and my foot curled under me... It was one of those things you do and think, "Man, that is really gonna hurt..." but I kept surfing. You can't do anything for a broken toe, so why gripe? The worst part was trying to put on my flip-flops afterwards. One of my toes refused to wiggle. Try putting on a flip-flop without wiggling your toes and see how hard it is.

Joel's land-surfing stance

Joel did better with the surfing because he had a lesson in Costa Rica on our honeymoon. He got up on the board and surfed, but I also saw him eat it a few times. He didn't have the luxury of guy like Carlos helping to push him out to the waves, so I'm sure he got pretty tired pretty fast. I think he was secretly amazed that I did as well as I did. Wah-wah-waaaaaaaah!

Other than surfing, we did a lot of swimming and walking on the beach. Even though it was Easter Week and everyone had time off from work, the beach was almost deserted, which was so nice. We found a lot of cool shells, including The Holy Grail of seashells -- a whole sand dollar. Woo-woo! And we didn't just find one. We found five. FIVE! I could open my own store called "Jen's Shell Shack" or "Everything's a Sand Dollar."

One of the five sand dollars we found 

And not to sound too gruesome, but every time I walk on a beach early in the morning to see what shells washed up overnight, I have a secret fear of finding a human hand or a severed head or some other body part. Am I the only one? Or should I stop watching all of those CSI shows on tv? Geeze, I'm a sick puppy.

Below you will find a few more pics from our three-day getaway. That's it for now. Thanks for reading my blog. And until we meet again, stay thirsty, my friends.

-Jennifer

P.S. I was just kidding about the extra toe. It's actually an extra finger. So when someone says, "Gimme five!" I say, "I'll do even better -- I'll give you six!" Finding gloves is a real problem for me.

P.P.S. Ok, I was kidding about the finger, too. (I'm a compulsive liar.)

Our collection of shells. Check out the FIVE sand dollars!
The pink shells (on the bottom right) reminded me of ears.

That sand dollar was biiiig. 

I didn't realize until after I took this picture that sand had
gotten in my camera and the lens wasn't open all the way.
But it looks pretty cool, eh?

We spent a lot of time in the hammocks. It's a shame the
pina coladas weren't very good. I had hopes of sitting in a hammock,
killing off many coladas. The ones at the hotel were expensive,
small, and tasted relatively rum-free. Bummer.

Joel and I found a new hotel with a great restaurant just down
the beach from ours. We ate there several times.
Here's Joel chilling in their porch swing. 

Waiting for the surf instructors to arrive... 

Joel in our "loft" hotel room. We shared this big open room
with seven other people. I got to hear strangers fart in their sleep. 

This surf board belongs to someone who knows
what they're doing. (See how short and skinny it is?)
No garage door here!

The end. You are free to do something else now. Thanks again for visiting!

I refuse to be haunted...

Our house has slightly less concrete than this place
(and way more statues) but the creepy feeling of
emptiness is strikingly similar. 

Ok, so I live in a really weird apartment. It's big, it's airy (for lack of a better term) and there are rooms that I just never find the need to enter. Yeah, I get it -- it's creeeeepy.

Some people have walked through the door and immediately asked if this place is haunted. This has happened more than once.

Really? Has anyone out there ever gone to someone's home and immediately blurted out, "Hey, I bet your house is haunted." I haven't. Ever. Not even on Halloween. Well, unless it was Halloween and I was having the pee scared out of me in a haunted house. Then it sorta goes without saying. 

"Why, yes, our house is haunted.
And we like it like that." 

I never went to Debutante School or attended the "Miss Manners Polite Conversational Topics Course," but come on. I guess I was taught from birth that it's a Romper Room No-No to accuse someone of living in a haunted house. Unless it's the Addams Family. It's just not cool, y'all.

But on that note, I have to admit...

I have heard things.
I have seen things.
And there's this inexplicable... breeze at times.

"'ello mate! Any idea where I can find some
tasty eucalyptus leaves? Even a ficus tree
would do for now. Oi!"

And there was one very early morning when I woke to the sound of something clawing its way up the bedroom wall. (Luckily, it was on the outside of the house.) (I hope.) I have no idea what it was, but that thing had claws. Perhaps it was just a wayward Koala, looking for a gum tree. In reality, it was probably just a big fat rat...or a Komodo Dragon. Or a tiger.

But really, I have to be rational here. Why would a ghost want to haunt me? I'm a relatively good person. I capture spiders and set them free instead of squashing them. I cheer for people to win on "The Price is Right." (But I will admit to being mildly pissed off when a contestant on "Wheel of Fortune" buys a vowel for no apparent reason.) I feed stray dogs. I smile at strangers. (But I also carry mace, just to be safe.) I say please and thank you. I'm not playing a role in a Patrick Swayze/Demi Moore movie from the 80's. There's no reason for a ghost to haunt me, so I refuse to be haunted. It's that simple. Bing-bang-boom.

So what do I do when I hear and see these things?

I blame the cat. 

*Not an actual picture of Lolo, but a good
representation of his hatred. 

Oh, did I mention there's a cat here named Lolo? He hates me with a cat-like vengeance. I don't know why. I've never done anything but be nice to him, but you know how cats are -- no matter how nice you are, some of them will look at you and say, "Go to hell. I hate you. You suck and I want to claw your eyes out," with their beady little cat eyes. There's a certain level of hatred reserved only for cats. They can hate for no good reason, and Lolo is living proof.

There's one teeny little problem with this theory... Lolo never comes in the house. But I'm sure being the sneaky little furball of evil that he is, Lolo has figured out a way to get in undiscovered. Yeah, that must be it. Bad kitty.

So if anyone would like to call "Ghost Hunters" to come down here and set up their infra-red cameras and super high-tech ghost-hunting paraphernalia, go for it. I'd be interested in seeing what they find. For all I know, this place is a veritable plethora (that's right, I know big words) of paranormal ghostyness and lost spirits. Sorta like a frat house for poltergeists.

But until I'm proven otherwise, I'll blame the cat.

Until we meet again, stay thirsty my friends.

P.S. BOO! 

My Big Fat Greek Apartment

This statue is right outside our door.
I feel the need to apologize for surprising
her as she's stepping out of the shower. 

Guess what? We've moved again. I think this is the 6th or 7th place we've called home in about a year and a half. To say we are nomadic is putting it lightly.

We stumbled upon this place as we desperately drove around the outskirts of Antigua hunting for "FOR RENT" signs the day before we had to move. That's how things work here -- most people find things on bulletin boards or by word of mouth, like "Hey, I know a guy who has a cousin and his grandma's neighbor is renting a place..." We tried going the realtor route, but everything they showed us was ridiculously expensive for what you got.

Anyway, I saw the "FOR RENT" sign and knocked on the door. A lovely woman named Anabela answered and told us, yes, there was an apartment, but it was unfurnished. Did we still want to see it? Well, considering it was the day before we had to move, we were willing to try anything.

She opened the door... and we stepped into a Greek wonderland.

The wall itself is two stories high. See the
pillars? See the statues cemented
on top of them? If there's an earthquake,
those ladies are comin' dowwwwn. 

I was smiling on the outside and on the inside as we walked around the cavernous rooms. All I could think was, "This place is bizarre, but it has potential." I've heard a couple different versions on how this place came to be. One is that Anabela's father was really into Greek architecture and built it as a school. Another is that it had been empty for a long time (I believe it) and had fallen into disrepair until Anabela's family bought it. And now Anabela and her three sons were living downstairs and renting out the top floor.

This place is a massive hunk of concrete scattered with Greek statues. Big, bulky concrete pillars are everywhere. Some have statues adorning the tops, as if standing guard (minus the rifles). The apartment is HUUUGE -- there are five different possible bedrooms. I've joked with friends that if they have anything they need to store (boxes, furniture, an elephant, a tank, etc.) they can bring it here.

Here are the stairs leading to the roof. See the twin statues?
One is the bouncer, the other is the hostess who
will take you to your seat. 

And the best thing is the roof. We have an incredible roof with an fabulous view of all 3 volcanoes, including my beloved Fuego. You could land a helicopter up there. It's a great place to have a party for 80 of your closest friends.  I'm already planning an "Ugly Toga Party" -- where people go to the pacas and buy the ugliest sheets they can find and fashion them into togas. When in Rome, do as the Romans, eh?

Friends who have come to visit all have the same reaction -- gaping mouths, eyes bugging out in disbelief, and laaaaughing over the strangeness of it all. I love it.

Our fancy-schmancy designer bathroom,
complete with suicide shower head
and snazzy avocado green sink.
The ceiling goes up another 4 or 5 feet. 
Trust me, it's cold in there!

My biggest complaint is how cold it is. Quite often it's warmer outside than inside so I sit outside to warm up, the go back inside and put on a sweater or two. The ceilings are about 15 feet tall and since hot air goes up... It is chilly. Oh and there is no indoor heating here. None. So, taking a shower is especially bad. Not only do we have the ever-popular "suicide shower head," we also have to reach up and turn on the water from a spigot right next to the electrical wires. Nice!

One of the many cupolas. 

And there are five (count 'em -- 1, 2, 3, 4, FIVE) cupolas! For those of you who don't know, a cupola is a big domey thing in the ceiling. Sorta like the rotunda in the state capitol, but muuuuch smaller. All of our cupolas have windows in them, which is good because most of the rooms don't have windows. (I *told you* this place was weird!)

But so far, so good. The rent is cheap and everything works in some form or fashion and that's just fine. Below are some more pics of the apartment, as well as a few of the awesome view from the awesome roof. Awesome.

A view heading down from the roof. Gee, I wonder why the neighbors
put up that tall green fence???

A lovely view of Agua Volcano from the roof on a clear day.

Agua on a cloudy day. Looks kind of like it's exploding, huh?

A view of my beloved Fuego Volcano (on left, erupting) and
Acatenango Volcano (on right, quietly sleeping).

Ahhh... A sunset view of the volcanoes. 

Until we meet again... Stay thirsty, my friends!

A few things you should know...

If you ever venture down to Antigua Guatemala, here are a few things to keep in mind and some of my brilliant words of wisdon.  

One way streets
Don't be fooled. Just because the sign says "ONE WAY" ("Una Via") doesn't mean that someone won't come barreling down the street going the wrong way. The streets are a little confusing to begin with and can suddenly become one way mid-street. (Yes, it makes no sense.) So, when crossing a street, be sure to look both ways or you might get plowed over.

Cobblestones

I swear to you, this is not a joke. This is really what the
weathergirl on tv wears during the news. She is
a good example of what the hoochie mamas who
flock to Antigua on the weekends look like.

Oh yes, they are so cute and charming and make the town look so picturesque and colonial, but trust me, no matter what kind of shoes you are wearing, THEY ARE A BITCH TO WALK ON. Not only that, but the sidewalks also leave something to be desired. They are patched together with cement, stepping stones, and yep, some are even made of the dreaded cobblestones. And some of them turn into hellish slip-n-slides when it rains. Oh, what fun!

One of the best things about the streets (probably the only good thing about them) is the "it sucks to be you" entertainment factor of watching the hoochie mamas that come from Guatemala City on the weekend  as they try to walk around in their high-high-high hoochie mama heels and their skin tight clothes. It’s pretty amusing.

What's for sale at the grocery store?

It's hard to see, but there's a
 packet of chicken soup
taped to the bottle of
SUPERIOR soy sauce.
(We only buy the best.)

Look for the clear packing tape. Yep. The grocery store (called "La Bodegona") is notorious for taping items together to indicate they're on sale.

For example:

• Buy one 4-pack of toilet paper, get three free (that used up a lot of tape)
• Buy a bag of laundry detergent, get a plastic bowl for free (Obviously you will need to eat a bowl of cereal while you do laundry.)
• Buy a bottle of rum, get a free 2-liter bottle of Pepsi (They encourage mixed drinks here.)
• Buy three boxes of milk, get a free package of cookies (Yum!)

…and so on.

They usually package items together that go together, like the milk and cookies, but quite often the combos don't make much sense. It’s like they look at their inventory and say, “Oh what the hell -- let’s put that bag of Doritos with the box of tampons.” Huh? My favorite "freebie" so far is the green plastic cutting board we got from buying -- ready for this? -- a box of corn flakes. (In case we needed to chop them up into tiny little pieces.)

Skinny jeans
Should not be worn. By anyone. Anywhere. Ever. Unless you are in a famous rock band and are under the age of 25. But ONLY then. And your band has to be REALLY famous.

Puddles

It rains so much, things grow out of old,
abandoned buildings like this.

It rains here. A LOT. I know my dear family and friends in Texas are in a drought and I feel bad about hogging all of the rain. (I’d sent some to you if I could.) Anyway, this explains why it’s so green in Guatemala. It rains about every day.

Lotsa rain = Lotsa puddles. I walk everywhere and take it from me, as a pedestrian it is very important to think ahead while walking. Gauge where you are in comparison to where cars are along the road – if a car is coming, slow down so they hit the puddle before you get near, otherwise you’ll get hosed. This has happened to a friend of mine. Luckily, it hasn’t happened to me yet (QUICK -- knock on something wooden) but with the amount of walking I do, I’m probably overdue for a nasty rainwater splash bath.

Slashers
Nope, I’m not giving a shout out to the “Friday the 13th” movies. I’m talking about the people (male and female) who seek out unknowing tourists and slash their purses/backpacks. These unscrupulous folks are clever – they will “accidentally” bump into you in the park or in the crowded market and the next thing you know, your bag has been gutted and the innards removed. So watch out! This hasn’t happened to me (keep on knockin’ on that wood) but I know several smart people who have fallen victim to this crime. I keep an eye on the crowd and carry a thick, knife-proof crocheted purse. It would take someone quite a while to saw their way through my bag -- and if I caught them doing it, I’d give them a hearty karate-chop to the jugular. Ka-POW! Do not mess with the little white girl and her crocheted purse.

Pee
It’s not just for bathrooms anymore! Men will do it anywhere, anytime. If it’s sunny and there’s a strange puddle on the sidewalk, STEP AROUND IT. That’s not water. I’m just sayin’…

I passed a group of guys who were relieving themselves on a truck one afternoon – and if that wasn’t bad enough, I don’t believe it was their truck. Oh, the humanity! I can only imagine how awful that must’ve been for the owner. I mean, it’s one thing to have your car vandalized and your stereo stolen or your tires slashed. But to come back to a pee-soaked vehicle? Eeeeeeeew. Just sell it on the spot and buy something new.

Volcanoes and earthquakes

This was a pretty rare sight. Fuego erupted and sent ash
and debris rushing down the side of the volcano. I was
 lucky to find my camera and get this shot in time.

Don't be afraid and don't freak out. Experiencing these forces of nature is very cool. The earthquakes are pretty random, so if you feel one, you’re lucky. Fuego Volcano erupts day and night. During the day, you’ll see clouds of ash billowing out, which is cool. If you are staying at a place with a rooftop terrace, grab a beer and sit up there at night. If it’s clear, you will see lava flying in the air and rolling down the sides, which is SUPER COOL. If you’re reeeeally lucky, you will hear the deep rumbling booooom beforehand.

Words to know
If you’re like me and your skin tone doesn’t match that of the locals, you will be inundated with people trying to sell you things on the street. You’ll be offered everything from carved wooden flutes, necklaces, ice cream, scarves, table runners, bracelets and even… pot. Yes, there are a few people in town (usually young guys, carrying backpacks) who will boldly walk up to you and say, “Hey lady, you looking for pot? Good stuff!” Even if you’re not wearing a Bob Marley shirt or sporting a knitted Rasta hat, it’s always good to know there are herbal entrepreneurs out there.

So! Here are a few things you can say when people are offering their goods.

“No gracias.” (No thanks)

“Otro dia.” (Another day.)
“Posible mas tarde.” (Maybe later.)
“Yo tengo no dinero.” (I don’t have money.)
“Yo soy policia.” (I’m a cop. This will scare the pants off a pot dealer.)
“Lo siento, mi espanol es malo.” (I’m sorry, my Spanish is bad. This is helpful if you want to play dumb when someone is rambling on and on – I use this one a lot.)
“Yo vivo aqui.” (I live here – as in “I’m not a tourist so I’m not an easy target for your overpriced goods.”)

Ok, that’s it for this time around. Until we meet again, stay thirsty my friends!

I feel like I've been chewing on razor blades...



This about sums up my experience today,
except my dentist wasn't wearing a tie.



HOLY MOLARS, BATMAN!
The dentists here are evil!

I just went to my first-ever dental appointment in Antigua. Since I have no money and no insurance, I went to the low-cost hospital called Hermano Pedro. Yep, it's a hospital attached to Hermano Pedro Catholic Church. (Hermano Pedro [St. Peter] is a BIG deal here -- I think he lived in Antigua for a while and was also buried here at one point. Well, he might still be buried here. I'll have to look into that. I'm a little rusty on my "Name that Saint's Burial Location" trivia.) Anyway, this hospital covers everything from x-rays, surgery, pediatrics, cancer treatment, psychology, and yes, even dental care.

I was not blessed with good teeth. My mouth is what you'd call an "Orthodontic Wonderland." I've had braces and bridges and retainers and fillings and caps and root canals and the whole shebang BUT I am lucky in one tiny way -- I have no wisdom teeth. Not even one. And due to being an Orthodontic Wonderland, mouth pain doesn’t bother me. When I had braces during my teenage years, I’d double or even triple the number of rubber bands the orthodontist told me to wear to move my teeth. (God, I was such a dork with my Stainless Steel Sex Appeal braces.) Anyway, blah-blah-blah, I must have a high threshold for mouth pain.


I don't know what the little
multicolored things are, but I
remember seeing them today.



I loved the dentists I went to at Advanced Smiles Dental in Austin. They were so nice and their office was so clean and inviting. And clean. They had the prerequisite aquarium in the waiting room AND a supply of mouthwash and toothbrushes in the bathroom AND you could even get a paraffin hand treatment while you were getting your teeth cleaned! How cool is THAT? Plus, every exam room had a TV and a massage chair! Needless to say, it was run by women and had that special female flair to it. And did I mention how clean their office was? Cleeeean. Clean is gooood.

Ahhh, but I digress...



So we get to Hermano Pedro at 7am. Things work soooo differently here. You get to the hospital, find the area you need (dental, x-rays, pediatrics, etc.) tell them your name and what you need done, and they give you a little piece of paper with the cost of your procedure. You take the little piece of paper to the cashier, pay for your procedure, then go back to the office and show them your receipt. Very efficient, right? My question was what if you go in for a cleaning and they find you have a cavity that needs a filling? Then what? Do you rush over to the cashier with drool running down your chin from your halfway-completed check-up and stand in line to pay, then run back to the dental area and wait your turn again? No one had a good answer.



Hermano Pedro Church is on the left, the hospital is
on the right. It's beautiful from the outside, huh?

Joel went with me because he also needed a check-up and because mi espanol es maloooo (my Spanish is baaaad). So it was Q75 for each of us to get a check-up and cleaning (about $10 each). You then take the little piece of paper down to the cashier at the other end of the hospital and pay for what you are having done. (I use the term "hospital" loosely -- it's a giant old rustic building that has been pieced together bit by bit and many areas don't have a roof and you have to go up-up-up and down-down-down ramps that are in NO WAY wheelchair accessible and through courtyards and dodge the ladies who are breastfeeding their babies in the hallway and the kids who are sitting on the floor and the people who are so obviously so sick you are afraid to breathe as you walk past them…. Get the idea?) And there was NO toilet paper or soap in the bathroom! EEEEEEW! Sorry, I just had to throw that in.

Although we arrived at 7am, there’s a weird “whoever is there first when the dentist arrives” rule to actually getting IN to see the doctor. Needless to say, due to the long line at the cashier and due to us being told to come back when the dentist arrived at 9am, we didn’t get called in until after 10am. So a mere 3 hour wait. And you guys in the USA complain about waiting an extra 30 minutes in a nice air conditioned germ-free doctor’s office with fun “Highlights” and “Redbook” magazines for your entertainment? Pshaw! We sat on cheap plastic chairs in a long, crowded hallway with only one window. Count your blessings. I mean it. COUNT THEM.

I knew going in that I had cavities. When eating causes little lightning bolts of pain in your teeth, it’s time to have ‘em checked out. I brush. I floss. I’m a good little girl when it comes to making sure I have clean teeth. But cavities have been my enemy since I was a little kid. I actually thought it was so cool to get a filling in my younger days because I looooved having my mouth injected with that super-fun numbing stuff. What can I say? I was weird even when I was a kid. But in my defense, I was never, ever, ever afraid to go to the dentist.


Put long hair and mascara on
this guy and you'll know what
Dr. Cruella DeVille looked like
holding the Dremel Tool of Torture



Well, today’s experience has changed my feelings toward dentistry.

And fear.

And pain.

I now truly believe there are people in the world who enjoy causing pain in others. The dentist I went to – let’s called her Dr. DeVille, as in Dr. Cruella DeVille – hurt me in ways I only thought were possible in horror movies or at Guantanamo Bay. I think her first career was as an insane chicken bus driver, but her boss probably fired her and said, “Whoooah now, Cruella! Must you be so EVIL to the passengers?” So when that didn’t work out, she took a long, hard look in the mirror and asked herself, "How else can I cause extreme pain and human suffering?" And so, she became a dentist.

Ok, and let me backtrack a bit. First, Dr. DeVille was bad at what she did in purely a “does she know what a cavity looks like” sort of way. I told her (rather, I told Joel and he relayed it to her in Spanish) that I had pain on both sides of my mouth, waaay in the back. She found Cavity #1 right away by using some torture device to blow air on my tooth -- when I jumped, she said, “Yep, it’s a cavity” (but in Spanish). She never even looked at the other side of my mouth, even when Joel told her I had pain on the left side, too. I thought, “Screw this, I didn’t come here and wait all this time to only get ONE tooth fixed,” so I finally had to get her attention and POINT to the other tooth that was hurting. She took out the air-blowing device, put it on my tooth, I jumped and – ta-daaa! -- Cavity #2 was discovered. Oh, and she also mentioned that the two bridges I paid over $2,000 for (with insurance!) a few years ago needed to be removed and redone. WHAT? Seriously?

Fillings cost Q100 each (about $12.50) and they handed Joel another little piece of paper for my Q200 worth of cavities and sent him back to the cashier.

You know how I said when I was a kid I liked getting the numbing stuff when I had a filling? Wellll, they don’t do that here. Or at least Cruella didn’t. She just drilled away at the tooth while my eyes bugged out of my head from the pain and then she globbed some white filling stuff on my teeth. I wanted to puke. Plus, at one point I had so many globs of cotton and instruments in my mouth, I thought my jaw was going to crack. The corners of my mouth felt like they would split open from being pulled so tight.

It was not fun. Not fun AT ALL.

And then it got worse.

She took a drill – and I mean DRILL – similar to a Dremel tool but with a single, pointy drill bit on the end, like a nail. I looked on in horror as I realized THIS was what she was going to use to CLEAN MY TEETH.

This is close to
the actual size of the
pointy end of the
Dremel Tool of Torture

I am sooo going to have nightmares about the look and SOUND of that tool. Yeeeeikes.

Remember how I said I had a high threshold for mouth pain? Well Dr. DeVille picked me up by my teeth and personally carried me across that threshold and kept on running. By the time she was finished, the threshold was just a tiny dot on the horizon.

All I could think was CODEINE. Just one. Maybe two. Just give me a pill and the pain will float awaaay. But no, there was no codeine in my future. Only PAIN. (By the way, you can get ANY drug here without a prescription. Yes, ANY DRUG. Just ask the pharmacist and they’ll hand over as many as you want, as long as you have money. It’s amazing there aren’t more drug addicts here.)

She did not try to make it pleasant. I may have even heard her laughing demonically as she worked (but it could have been my imagination, being delirious from the pain and all). She used the pointy-tipped Dremel Tool of Torture to go BETWEEN my gums around each and every tooth. Did I bleed? Oh hell yes, I bled. Joel, who was back from the cashier and watching me being tortured, said he was concerned about the amount of blood in my mouth, but was afraid that if he said anything, Dr. DeVille might make it worse.

Mmmm, what's for lunch?

Finally, it was over. I was handed a paper cup of water and told NOT to drink it, but to swish and spit. I swished. I spat. And I spat blood. Looooovely. And I paid money for this? Really? I could have chewed on a handful of razor blades and gotten the same experience. And it wouldn’t have cost me 4 hours of my life and $35.

So next it was Joel’s turn. Joel had no cavities that she could find, even though he asked her to please look at a tooth that was hurting him. Nope. According to Dr. DeVille, no cavities. Whatever. It was near lunch time and she probably didn’t want the hassle of doing another filling. So Joel got his teeth cleaned. NOT with the Dremel Tool of Torture, but with that nice polishing thing and that gooey pastey fluoride stuff they put on your teeth when the clean them in the US. I asked her why she hadn’t polished my teeth like that and she gave me a load of BS about how I needed to come back for another visit because they had to remove tartar from my teeth. WHAT? I told her that in the US you get the tartar removed AND your teeth cleaned in one sitting. Nope, she told me to come back. I asked if I had to pay another Q75 for the visit and when she said yes, I responded with a snort, saying, “SCREW THAT! It ain't gonna happen.” I couldn’t help it – those semi-hick words just flew out of my bleeding, miserable mouth before I could stop them.



Well, no I haven't... But I've run
screaming out of one's office today.

So please, friends and neighbors, if you think you can come here and get high quality, painless dental care for a low price, think again. I encourage all of you to get on the phone and schedule a cleaning with a nice, gentle, knowledgeable dentist in your area RIGHT NOW. And while you are there, hug your dentist and dental hygienist for being kind and not using the Dremel Tool of Torture on your teeth.

Until we meet again, stay thirsty my friends!

P.S. Ha ha haaaa! When searching online for dental tool images, I came across this text: For painful dental procedures, the dentist will need tools, like syringes and disposable needles, that provide anesthesia.

Anesthesia, my ass! They don’t believe in it here!

The Stir Fry Adventure of 2011 or How to make a big freakin' mess in the kitchen

Ok, let me start by stating the obvious. Some people were meant to cook. I am not one of them.

And what I mean is that some people have the gift of looking at random ingredients and saying with the confidence of Bobby Flay on Iron Chef, "Ok, I can whip together sauteed eel tails with ostrich sauce and a side of radish and pimento-stuffed eggplant." And whatever they make will taste good and their cooking will not kill anyone. Again, I am not one of those people.

Easy Mac! Oh boy oh boy oh boy!

It always cracked me up when I got invited to Pampered Chef parties. ME? You want me to attend your Pampered Chef party? Are you kidding? Do you know me? Have you ever seen me cook? If your party has the word "chef" in it, please don't invite me. That word scares me. (Unless it is followed by Boyardee.)

EASY MAC is more my speed. God bless the people at Kraft when they developed Easy Mac. It was made for people like me. A delicious Mac & Cheese meal in less than 4 minutes? No mixing, no measuring and no stove required? Hand me a fork! Nummy nummy!

Even better, POP TARTS were made for people like me -- the instructions are basically:
 

Dulce de Leche Pop Tarts?
AWESOME! (I believe it
means "straight to the hips"
in Italian.) If anyone out there
can find a box of these,
I'll be your new best friend. 

Open package
Remove Pop Tarts from wrapper
Put them in toaster
Toast them
Eat them
Enjoy and go on with your day

Ta-daaa! That's what I call COOKIN'!

Some people cook with reckless abandon. I cook with reckless abandon and a little bit of fear. And a fire extinguisher. When I bought my condo, I liked the saying, "I only have a kitchen because it came with the house." So true. I probably made popcorn more than anything else in that kitchen.


Ahhh, but I digress...

Holy crap! Look out! She's trying to
cook with the woka-woka-WOK!

So, we're staying in a new house. It's very nice here, but don't get me started on the surly housekeeper. (She sort of came with the house. Me no likey having a housekeeper.) This place also came with a WOK, which I like better than the surly housekeeper. (And every time I say that word, WOK, I have to fight the urge to get in touch with my inner Muppet Show geek and say, "Waka-waka-wakaaa!" like Fozzy Bear.) (I never claimed to be normal.)

So, back to the waka-waka-waka. I got inspired to try something new.

That's right. I was inspired... to cook.

I hope no one fainted just now.

This is NOT what mine looked like. This
was taken from the website of someone
who knew what they were doing.

So I cheerfully gathered my victims -- uh, I mean vegetables from the market. Onions. Broccoli. Red peppers. Carrots. Sugar snap peas. Garlic. And chicken. I thumbed through a cookbook simply called "THE WOK" and saw something about how much oil to add. I didn't have the sesame oil or peanut oil or whatever other oils they suggested for cooking. What did I have? Olive oil.

(A few days later, when I mentioned the Stir Fry Adventure of 2011 to my friend, Linda [one of those people who enjoys cooking] I told her I used olive oil and she laughed and said, "And olive oil has a much lower smoking point temperature than regular stir fry oils." Huh? Terms like "smoking point temperatures" are foreign to me. She may as well have been speaking in Swahili.)

Ok, so there I am with bowls of veggies around me, ready for the attack. Some people claim that their food sings and makes happy noises when they're cooking. Not mine. I threw the chicken into the oil and it made a hissing sound. I threw the veggies in on top to sort of cool everything off and it didn't work as well as I had hoped. (I mean it, the chicken sounded like that girl in "The Exorcist" movie.) And here's a note for all of you Stir Fry Virgins out there: there's a reason it's called STIR fry. You actually have to take a spatula and move things around or they'll stick to the side of the wok and you'll have to pry them off with a crowbar. Just a friendly little hint from your cooking buddy, Jen. And you know how you see professional chefs flip things around in the pan just by flicking their wrist? Well, don't try that. Ever. Woks are heavy. And if you're as coordinated as I am, attempting that trick will mean you'll be picking pieces of broccoli off your ceiling for days.


This is what it really looked like. Too bad I can't add
sound to this image. And smell. And a sense of fear.


Not only were my veggies and chicken bits hissing at me, the oil was making them pop around and they were trying to save themselves by jumping out of the wok. I had to keep pushing them back in as I stirred -- they were eager to jump overboard. A few made it out before I caught on to their plan.

Oh, and I forgot to mention the soy sauce. I had no idea how much to add, so I just popped open the bottle and dumped some in with a flair. Viola! I am a cooking goddess!

Everything turned brown.

Not a delightful yummy grilled-looking brown but a smooshy sloppy dirty sickly mushy yucky brown. Mmmmm! Brown sloppy stir fry! Dinner is served!

Served over a bed of rice, the whiteness of the rice almost made the colors look like something you'd find in nature. Or at least like something you'd want to eat. But no matter how it may have looked, I am happy to report that no one died as a result of my Stir Fry Adventure of 2011. But there are still leftovers...

Until we meet again, keep on cooking with reckless abandon and stay thirsty my friends!