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!

What I'm about to say is going to sound very strange...

...but I'm very protective of my butt.

Yep, my butt. My derriere. My tushy. My bootie. My buns. My keister. My hiney. My arse. My backside. My caboose. Whatever you want to call it, I want to keep it from becoming public property.

Like I've mentioned before, I will never be a supermodel. I have stubby chunky-monkey hands. I have short little T-Rex arms. I don't have picture-perfect teeth. I can't even be a foot model due to a funky toenail from accidentally dropping something on my toe years ago. Perhaps I could be an earring model -- I do have nice lobes. Ok, so if there's anyone out there looking for an earring model, let me know. (I work cheap.)

Ahhh, but I digress...

Basically, I stand out here. I've had some experiences where my big ol' juicy butt has just happened to get in the way of a man's hand. I'm not assuming (ha ha ha --ASSuming) they were trying to find out if a white girl's bootie feels the same as a Guatemalan girl's bootie, but when you're walking down a wiiiide empty aisle in the market and an old man walking in the opposite direction wanders over and brushes his hand upon your butt, it does makes you wonder -- "Did my butt get in his way, or did he go out of his way to run into my butt?" Yes, even old men like to cop a feely. Pervs!

So after one to many "accidental encounters" I've gotten kind of protective of my butt. I go to great lengths to keep my distance so my cheeks won't be grabbed, groped, pinched, poked, squeezed, slapped, spanked or otherwise accosted by complete strangers. (Should you feel the need to do this [and why would you?] anyone who is a follower of my blog is welcome to grab, grope, pinch, poke, squeeze, slap, spank or otherwise get to know my chubby cheeks, because after all, if you are a follower of my blog, you must at least KNOW me and are not a complete stranger.) Maybe this will be our new way of saying hello to each other -- a quick little butt grab. Hmm. Maybe not.

That's what I'm talking about! Mmm-hmm!

When walking down the street, I am very aware of anyone walking behind me. Men on bikes are notorious for copping a feel as they ride by. I don't understand this. What gives them the right? I'd never look at a man and think, "Holy snarkies! I've got to see what his butt feels like!" and give a little squeeze as I walk by. Not even if he's wearing Wrangler jeans. I'm not into the country music scene, but let's be honest ladies -- there really is nothing better than a well-formed Wrangler Butt. (I once saw The Perfect Wrangler Butt on a bus when I was in college and DAMN did I want to bronze that butt and make it into bookends or something. And although my eyes were mesmerized by the "W's" stitched on his back pockets, I was a lady and kept my hands to myself.) (Although my thoughts made me feel like going to church to confess my sins... And I'm not even Catholic.)

Ahhh, but I digress...again.

I know some people think it's flattering to have your butt grabbed, but not me. I always have a little plan in the back of my head for how I'm going to karate-chop someone's throat or throw a rock at anyone on a bike should my butt come in contact with their hand. Strange to live your life that way, but that's how it is here in the macho world of Latin America.

So fellas, if you want to keep your dignity and not have your butt kicked by a screaming white girl in public -- in front of all of your friends -- many of whom probably have phones with video cameras and access to the internet -- please keep your hands to yourself. Thank you.

And until we meet again, stay thirsty my friends! (And keep your hands to yourself... unless there's a Wrangler Butt in the vicinity, and if that's the case you have my blessing to grab until the cows come home.)

Semana Santa -- The biggest baddest Holy Week in Antigua

 

Invasion of the purple people!



Last time I partook in Semana Santa was a year ago and it was really just a fluke that we happened to be here at that particular time. I had no idea what I was in for. And since I'm not Catholic, I really didn't understand much of what I was seeing.  



This year, I'm still not Catholic, but I was a little better prepared. Well, at least I knew what to expect. CROWDS of people. Traffic stopped to allow the processions to sloooowly go by. Really cool man-made street carpets (called alfombras). Hoards of men and boys (called cucuruchos) dressed in purple robes. Ladies (called cargadoras) dressed in black and white with veils over their heads. And about 900 million gazillion camera-wielding idiots called Tourons -- part Tourist, part Moron. (I used to be one of them, so I'm allowed to poke fun. These days I am a reformed Touron.) (Or so I think.)



A big cucurucho carrying
a baby cucurucho.



I still have no clue about what's going on much of the time, but I'm pretty good at looking like I know what's happening. Basically, here's how it works... 

 Semana Santa is Antigua's Holy Week. It's not just Easter, but The Big Mac-Daddy, No Marshmallow Peeps Allowed, MEGA-Easter. The celebration in Antigua is huge and second in THE WORLD only to Spain. There are a lot of very big, very old, very Catholic churches in Antigua and each church sponsors it's own procession. Not only that, but each church also has its own Jesus and Mary. For example, one of the biggest and grandest churches is called La Merced. Their Jesus is Jesus Nazareno. Hermano Pedro Church's is Jesus Resucitado. Jesus Sepultado belongs to Cristo Church... and so on. So with each procession you will get one Jesus and one Mary float. Oh wait -- I used to call them floats -- as in parade floats -- but was told yesterday that I could be struck down by lightning for referring to them as such. They are called andas, not floats. (Get it right...or die by lightning.)



I scream, you scream,
we all scream for ice cream!



I've also learned that the people carrying the flo-- ooops, I mean ANDAS pay to do so. Yes, they pay to carry a very heavy anda around. Each anda is carried by anywhere from 60-132 people, depending on its size. The bigger the church, the more impressive the anda, the more cucuruchos needed... Yes, the andas are BIG, wooden, decorative and heeeaaavy. And if you want to carry the anda on a very public street where you will be seen by lots of your peers -- like around the park or near the church -- you pay MORE. Each procession lasts for 12 hours. People carry the andas in shifts and if you look at the pictures, you'll see little cards pinned to the front of their outfits. These cards tell each person when they are carrying the anda and what their place is. (Each spot along the sides of the anda has a number associated with it.) When a cucurucho isn't carrying the anda, he's free to roam the streets, so you'll often see these guys in their purple outfits hanging out in the park, eating an ice cream cone, puffing on a cigarette... Many of them choose to follow the procession route, which is why you see HUNDREDS of cucuruchos whenever there's a procession. Same with the cargadoras -- when they aren't carrying their smaller Virgin Mary anda, they are free to roam and do as they please.

Now, about these man-made street carpets called "alfombras." These are really cool. The biggest and most colorful ones are generally near the church sponsoring the procession. People put a lot of pride in making theirs the longest, most intricate, most colorful alfombra possible. It takes hours to create an alfombra and they can vary in size, but the biggies are somewhere around 35 feet long and 8 feet wide. Give or take. They are made using large wooden templates and are made entirely out of natural elements -- sawdust, sand, flowers, etc. Their sole purpose is to be lovingly and painstakingly created, looked upon in awe by the spectators (and the damn Tourons), then walked all over by the people carrying the andas. And 45 seconds after the procession is finished, the remnants are swept, scooped and shoveled into the bulldozers following behind the cucuruchos and cargadoras.

Here are a few pictures of an alfombra being born...

The guy on the far right is spraying water on the sawdust to keep it from blowing away...

Kneeling on a piece of cardboard on a cobblestone street... OUCH!  

Boards are placed across the alfombras so the workers can create the center designs.

It's slowly but surely coming along...

Stiiiiiill working...



Whatever you do... DON'T sneeze!

And drumroll, please... The finished alfombra!



Ta-daaa! Isn't it incredible? Hard to believe it's mostly sawdust, huh?
And see the smoke at the end of the street? That's the incense
from the approaching procession. The smell of that incense gets into
your nose and clings to your nose hairs for HOURS. Ugh.



OH! I forgot to mention the bands. Imagine the most depressing music you've ever heard. Now imagine it playing almost non-stop for 12 hours. I realize the whole idea of these processions is to demonstrate Jesus' suffering, and I also realize they can't play something lively and upbeat like the Charleston, but duuuuuude. Seriously. It's the most droning, depressing music ever played. It was surely written by someone who forgot to take their Prozac and was having a really bad day.

I taped one of the processions just so y'all could get a feel for the the passion, the dedication and the sheer volume of PEOPLE who come to and participate in this event. I cut this video waaay down (believe me, it was a lot longer) but if 3:12 minutes is too long for you, feel free to skip it and get on with your life. 

 



You thought I was kidding about the
Hello Kitty balloons, didn't you? Hmmm?
The bulldozer behind me is cleaning up the
alfombra that took all day to create. *sigh*

And after each procession, what should follow? VENDORS. Yes, vendors selling an amusing assortment of everything from Semana Santa puppets, to pinwheels, to sunglasses, to cotton candy, to balls, to foam lizards, to Hello Kitty balloons. And what could possibly represent Jesus' suffering better than a Hello Kitty balloon? Noooothiiiing. Right? (Stand back... I might get hit by that lightning after all...)

So there you have it -- Semana Santa in Antigua Guatemala. Like I said, it's a VERY big deal here. And we're all very eager for the Tourons to go home. (Except the pickpockets -- the Tourons are easy targets.)

So until we meet again, Happy Easter -- and stay thirsty my friends! And please save some of those Reese's Peanut Butter eggs for me -- yummmm!  

Introducing: The Nightmare Bug! ((barrrf!))

"Barf?" you ask.

Yes, BARF. Barfity-barf-barrrrf.

This is the story of The Nightmare Bug.

This image was taken from the blog of a woman who
lives in Antigua. (Not me.) She, too, has experienced
The Nightmare Bug. I feel her pain.

I had seen one of these before, when the gas man mistakenly removed the cover to the water tank, thinking it was where the gas tank goes... He opened the cement lid and there it was -- a Nightmare Bug, clinging to the side of the water tank, just hanging out. It was the scariest bug I had ever seen. It had a flat body, long legs and even longer antennae. It was the stuff nightmares are made of. Children of the world need not be afraid of the Boogeyman any longer -- I've found something MUCH more scary.

The gas man and I exchanged an "EeeEEEEeeeEEeeeew" (by the way, "eeeew" does not need to be translated -- it is universal) and he picked up a broken branch and started whacking at The Nightmare Bug. The bug, startled from his sleep, scampered away, moving further down the hole. I told the gas man, it's ok, no need to kill it, just put the cover back on and I won't have to ever see it again.

But I was wrong. Oh, so very, very wrong.



This man is obviously high on crack.
There is no other explanation for his behavior.

 A couple days ago, I was getting ready for bed and saw something on the floor. I got closer and -- HOLY $#!* -- it was The Nightmare Bug! Lola, the rescue dog we're fostering, was with me and even she was afraid of it. (She's small -- easy prey for this bug.) Lola looked and me and said, "You're on your own -- I'm outta here," and left the room. I went to grab a magazine, afraid to leave the bug alone for too long (I mean, how freaked out would YOU be if you left the room, came back 15 seconds later and it was GONE?) and was relieved to see it was still there, slowly walking around... This thing was even scarier than I remembered it. It's antennae alone are HUGE -- I mean at least 4 inches long. It had 6 legs and it was unlike anything I'd ever seen before, which made it even scarier. I can handle beetles, spiders and flying bugs no problem. But freaky alien bugs from hell? No way. Noooo waaaay.

My plan was to coax The Nightmare Bug on to the magazine then toss that bad boy outside, then lock and barricade the door. (In case it knows how to pick locks.)

But things did not go according to plan.

The Nightmare Bug got away.

Hard as I tried to get that bug to climb on the magazine, it figured out my devious plan and scampered quickly toward the back wall, where there is a built-in bookcase. It managed to scoot it's giant body between the wall and the bookcase -- where I couldn't reach it.



I found this picture online. This poor kid is going to need
some serious therapy after this ordeal.



Oh damn. Damn damn damn damn DAAAMN. Needless to say, every night I turn on the lights and check over near the bookcase to see if The Nightmare Bug has made an appearance.

From what I've read online, these are called Giant Tailless Whipscorpions and according to one website, "They have a gentle disposition. Though they are harmless, these bizarre-looking creatures are fast and agile and somewhat delicate. They can pinch with their claws but rarely do, choosing to run away instead."

Oooh goodie! So I have a friendly, harmless creature with claws -- but chooses not to use them -- living about 6 feet from where I sleep. Yaaay for me! And guess what? A lot of the websites out there give hints on how to keep these as PETS. This thing? A pet? The Nightmare Bug as a PET? You have got to be kidding me. The world is full of crazy people.

Ok, so who wants to come visit? Anyone? Anyone?

Until we meet again, be on the lookout for creepy bugs and stay thirsty, my friends!

Bad bad bad and BADDER... Or "Why I am doing the Ten-Toe-Trek nowadays"


 

Well, crap.



The Von Trapp Children, singing the bad news to me



And I mean it. What I am about to tell you can only be summarized as "WELL, CRAP."  

Our car was stolen about a week ago. Yep. STOOOO-LEN. From the street right outside the Puppy Palace. Yep. My friend Amber and I went out to eat and then to listen to a band play, and when we got back to where the car was, all that was left were the Von Trapp Children singing, "So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, adieu... Adieu, adieu, to your green Su-ba-ruuuuu..." 

Damn those smug Von Trapp Children!

As if we have the money to replace it. As if we can afford to be carless. As if we had insurance on it. Let's put it this way -- most people (95% or more) don't have car insurance here. Why? Because it's an extra expense that most people can't (and won't) afford AND because most of the cars are pieces of crap held together only with duct tape, twine, and occasionally, bungee cords. So really, why insure a bungee-corded-duct-taped hunk of crap on wheels?


But not our car. Our car was not a crapmobile. Iggy, our 1998 Subaru station  

We could fit everything we owned inside Iggy. And yes,
we realize this makes us look like the Clampett's from
"The Beverly Hillbillies." But that's ok.

wagon, was a nice car. Other than being a gas-guzzling monster, it was the perfect car for here. Four-wheel drive, with a few dings and dents (but you can't avoid having dings and dents and besides, the dings and dents help your car blend in better) and a perrrrfect interior. Yes, Iggy was just right for Guatemala. And he was GREEN. Green is a good color for a car. It ain't easy being green, but Iggy pulled it off with style.

(insert hillbilly banjo music here)

So, now I'm left walking to town every day. It's not a terrible walk and I won't bitch too much about it because there are plenty of people who have it far worse than me. It takes about 25-30 minutes but the road I have to take is a winding, dusty, pot-holed 2-lane street lacking sidewalks in some areas, and in others, the sidewalks are about 2 feet off the ground so you have to jump UP to get on the sidewalk and when it ends you have to jump back DOWN. It's like a step aerobics workout AND a walk all rolled into one. Richard Simmons would be yelling to me, "You go girl!" if he could see me on this walk. Work it! Work it!

The municipality is attempting to repave sections of the road before Semana Santa (when a gazillion tourists will descend upon Antigua for numerous religious processions -- more on that later) so while they're out there working, I have to literally walk INTO traffic to go around their cones and equipment. Does the fun ever end? Oh no, it doesn't.

It's like a real-life version of the video game "Frogger" -- but this time I am the frog. Ribbit-ribbit.

And with every step I take on that walk to town, it only reminds me how mad I am that someone decided to steal what wasn't theirs. 

I want to find who did this and tie them up, coat them in bacon grease, pour hot cheese on them, then roll them in hamburger meat and offer them up to the dogs from the Puppy Palace as a human snack. I would just stand back and laaaaaugh and laaaugh... Heck, I'd probably take pictures, too.

And what's worse is that I had just purchased -- and lugged -- two giant 5-gallon containers of water into the back seat of the car. So, whoever stole the car is well hydrated, too. I wish I could go pack in time, pop open the lids of those water jugs and pee in both of them, just as a tiny form of revenge. You want to drink my stolen water? Fine. But I'm leaving you a little gift inside...

Until we meet again, stay thirsty (for non-stolen pee-laced water) my friends...

The definition of STUPIDITY

My natural hair color is something like this
(minus the termites)

For those of you who don't know, I color my hair. Oh, I know you guys are sooo shocked. People who have known me for years have seen my hair go from various shades of blonde to red to blondish-red to reddish-blonde. It's like a kaleidoscope of hair color. When people ask me if my hair is natural, I say something snappy like, "This is the color I was supposed to have..." I've been coloring my hair for so long, I don't remember what my real color is... I don't think my own hair knows what color it really is. All I can say is the color I see when my roots start growing out can only be referred to as "Tree Bark Brown." Booooo-riiiiing. Flat. Dull. BLAH. It's so dull, I would become invisible if I didn't color it. Sooo, to spare the world from my evil powers of invisibility (there's no telling what trouble I'd cause if I ever decided to go invisible) I color my hair.

SO, now you know. The cat's outta the bag. The color is outta the box. Whatever.

Now, the definition of STUPIDITY is when you decide, after having a couple glasses of wine, that it's a good time to color your hair. And even worse (or more stooopid) is asking your husband, who has also had a couple glasses of wine (we've found an excellent cheap brand of boxed wine here), to put the color on your hair. So I mixed up the color per the instructions given to me by my lovely hair stylist, Adriana, from Austin. I hand the bowl of color and the application brush to Joel and he proceeds to jam the brush into my scalp over and over, attempting to not only color the existing roots, but also the roots still located INSIDE my head. OUCH OUCH OUCH.

I inform him that yes, he's doing a GREAT job of getting the roots, but ask him to please angle the brush in such a way that the bristles aren't getting lodged in my skull. Slowly, but surely, he gets the color on and it takes quite a while... And per Adriana's instructions, the color is supposed to stay on 25 minutes. Hasn't it already taken more than 25 minutes to put this stuff on? I dunno. My brain was telling me not to keep it on that long, but the wine told me to keep it on longer. So I set the timer and waited...

Tick-tock-tick-tock...
DING!
Time to wash it out!
I went to the tub and wash and wash and washed until the water came out clean.
I toweled off my head...
and looked in the mirror...
and...

OH NOOOO!

Her hollow eyes always creeped me
 out... WHERE ARE HER PUPILS?

I knew there was a reason why
I love Happy Meals...

I looked like the illegitimate love child of Ronald McDonald and Orphan Annie.

Ohhhh nooooo. No no nooo.

Damn that boxed wine! DAAAMN!

It was so bad, the next day while I was at the Puppy Palace, one of our sweet volunteers -- a man from Spain named Carlos -- saw me and said, "Oh Jennifer! Your hair..." and all I said was, "Yeah, yeah, I know." And he said, "Oh, no! I mean, no, it looks good..." but you know how you can tell when someone was brought up to be polite no matter what? That's what his reaction reminded me of. As my mom always told me,“If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all."

I keep hoping hats will become the new fashion trend in Guatemala. Or maybe I'll start my own trend and wear a sombrero and tell everyone it’s just sooo much easier than putting on sunscreen every day. Or maybe I'll just suck it up and live with my SUPER DUPER FIRECRACKER EXPLOSION HOLY COW GRAB THE EXTINGUISHER BECAUSE HER HEAD IS ON FIRE SUPERNOVA RED HAIR.

*siiiiigh*

Until we meet again and/or until my color goes back to a color found in nature, stay thirsty my friends!

From rags to riches...or...HOLY CRAP! Check out the new house!



Courtyard with fountain... Stairs lead up to the giant guest room.

Yep, we've moved. And like the Jefferson's on TV, we've moved on up. WAAAAY UP. Not to a deee-lux apartment on the West Side, but to a bad-ass house in a place called Panorama.

Here's the situation. The lady who owns the house wanted to move back to San Francisco. The house is for sale and she needed someone to stay here and look after her dog and cat. So, here we are -- living in a quirky house with a nice dog named Ailsa Craig (named after an island in Scotland) and a very vocal cat named Squitten. Did I mention the gal who owns the place is a tad bit...ooooh, what would you call it... ECCENTRIC? (Other words come to mind, but this was the most fitting.) And damn, wouldn't you know it -- two days after we moved in we got an email from her saying she got an offer on the house. DAMN DAMN DAMN! Well, we will enjoy it while we can.

This house is AWWWWWWESOME. For those of you who have been amusing yourselves by reading about the death trap known as the CRAPartment (complete with a light switch INSIDE the shower), you will be happy to know we are safe and sound in a little nugget of Guatemalan heaven.

We have a garden.
We have a courtyard with a fountain.
We have a garage.
We have a washer AND a dryer. (Which we will never use because it will kill our electric bill and that is why everyone here hangs their clothes out to dry. At first, it really sucked, but I'm getting really good at hanging laundry out to dry. You can't imaging how creative you get when you are running out of clothespins and still have half a basket of jeans, socks and t-shirts left to hang.)
We have hot water.
We have a balcony with a hammock.

Former president says, "Hello neighbor"
(but in Spanish).
And is it just me, or is this man
making love to you with his eyes...?

We have not one, but TWO guest rooms.

We have two and a half bathrooms.

We have an office.

We are living across the street from the former president of Guatemala (Alvaro Arzu) so there are armed gunmen walking around the neighborhood. Ahhh, home security. Makes you feel warm and fuzzy all over. (Or totally creeped out by all of the guys walking around with rifles.)

My clothes are now in a DRESSER! Yes! I am so organized! No more throwing everything together into an orgy of undies, socks and bras. I can actually reach in the drawer and know exactly what I will find. It is so nice.

The kitchen has an over with NUMBERS. Nummmmmberrrrs. I can bake things and have a fighting chance of not burning them to a crisp. (Wish me luck anyway.)



The way cool kick-ass bathroom with the way cool kick-ass bathtub

 The bathroom is amaaazing. I mean, realllllly niiiice. It's like something you'd see at a fancy spa hotel. And it has a BATHTUB! I can take baths! BAAAATHS. It's sooo much easier to shave my legs in the tub than trying to do the flamingo one-legged stand in the shower.

View from guest room balcony... There's Agua Volcano looming
in the distance. Arzu's house is across the street
(where the big-ass man-eating view-killing monster ficus trees live).

The only bummer about the view from the upstairs balcony is that we can no longer see my friend, Fuego Volcano. Why? Because the former president of Guatemala has these big-ass ficus trees planted along the edge of his fence creating a screen so people can't see into his yard. (Yep, ficus trees grow that big here -- they are MONSTER-SIZED.) Nevermind the fact that every house here has a 10-foot high wall around it (homes are like mini-fortresses, minus the moats) he still felt the need to grow these gigantic trees. Who knows -- maybe he likes to sunbathe in the nude and wants the extra privacy? I need to go have a little talk with him and ask him to pretty please cut those trees shorter so I can continue with my obsession of watching the volcano erupt at night. I will promise -- Scout's Honor -- to never watch him sunbathe in the nude. He's about 65 years old -- believe me, if he's out there in the nude, I really DON'T want to see anything he's got swinging in the breeze. *sigh* We have an excellent view of Agua Volcano, but it's dormant and booooring. *sigh*sigh*siiigh*

And here are some more pics of our lovely new place. Enjoy!
 

Entryway looking toward houses

  

View of front garden



Bedroom with freakishly high ceiling...
We could put a basketball hoop in here and practice our free-throws.

 

Big ol' guest bedroom... There's a fireplace off to the left that you can't see in this picture.

  

Guest bathroom



View from guest bedroom down to courtyard


Until we meet again (or until next time we need to move), stay thirsty my friends!

-Jennifer