WWAD? (What Would Allah Do?)

It's slim pickins in the pueblo when it comes to maternity garb.  Well, quite honestly, it's slim pickins when it comes to any kind of garb at all.  As far as I can tell we have three official dress shops, one of them doubling as hunting supply store during season.  Hey, it's crisis over here (pronounced kree-seize) so I guess you gotta make your buck/euro wherever you can.

Imagine the excitement when the Moroccan's wife branched out on her own and opened up a women's shop on the main avenida just a stone's throw from his souped up version of the Dollar Store.  Though I wasn't expecting to find anything too sexy from this Muslim shopkeeper, I'll admit to hopes of a flowing (and waistless) dress that might ease me into the inferno that is summer in southern Spain.   Maybe it would have a pretty floral design that would mimick a henna tatoo.  Exactly what I need floating around my rapidly expanding midsection.  Sadly, my maternity collection, though I think Liz Lange would take issue with me calling it that, from the past six years is chock full of little more than polyester pant suits, long sleeved tops and two button cardigans; telltale signs of the summer mating of the schoolteacher in hopes of springtime babies.  

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Caption?  Are you kidding me?!?
Let's make it a game, shall we?  
Post your best caption in the comments
section because I'm at a loss.

So with visions of airy cotton dresses, I hoofed it down to the new dress shop, so new in fact it doesn't even have a name, my 20 euro note burning a hole in my pocket.  And this is who greeted me.

Isn't she, uhm, subtle?
What in the hell?
And braless to boot. 

I had never seen such, such...what do I even call them?  Okay, so let's try again.  For a shop run by the only Muslim family in the pueblo, I couldn't believe my eyes.  Were those boobs or missiles?  Holy balls those things were huge!  Maybe Moroccan women are bustier than Spanish women.  Maybe Mohamed got some kind of a discount on this mannequin seeing as her boobs are twice as large as her head.  Is there such a thing as bargain basement for mannequin shopping?  Jeez o Pete.  Those tits are ridiculous.  And how did his wife feel about such bazookas in her storefront window?  It's not exactly Jihad material but it's gotta be cuttin' it close on a few of those doctrines listed in the Qur'an.

I shook my head to clear the image and entered.  Please have something that will fit me a month, 2 months, 5 months from now.  And may it not have rhinestones or leopard print.  Please. 

I scoured that store for far longer than it was worth.  I flipped past the zebra print leggings, ignored the "I Love insert African nation of your choice" tees,  and skipped the Spanish housecoat section altogether, though it was tempting.  And finally, found this.  Not bad and I still had some change left over to accessorize.  I would walk out for under 9 euros, thank you pueblo pricing but it remains to be seen how long the fit will last.  At three months I'm well, grande.  I guess if push comes to shove I can always go for the button down shown on the gal in the window.  In fact, at a closer glance, it just may be the perfect blouse for a  lactating mom, don't you think?

ALL WHINE, NO ROSES

We're in and we're settled.  Settled that is, for the most part.  So before I pen another Why Spain is the Best Country on the Planet, and risk yet another pair of rolling eyeballs I thought this post to be the perfect moment to tell you what it is I miss most from back home.  Be forewarned however, that I said what, not who.  No need to pack any bags for a guilt trip that I'm not taking for failure to mention friends and family.  That my dears, is an entirely different topic on which to blog.

LO QUE MAS ECHO DE MENOS~WHAT I MISS MOST 

1.  HABANERO PEPPERS     With tomatoes at 56 centimos a kilo (that's about $0.75 for two pounds worth), I'm dying for my homemade salsa, I mean DYING.  That bitch'll put hair on your nipples, more if you've already got it.  And no, it isn't for the meek.  It's HOT.  Fire in, Fire out kinda hot if you know what I mean.  And I miss it.  The produce here is out of this world; every color of the rainbow and picked fresh they day before.  But to date I have not found my habaneros and those (notice the plural) are the key, once secret, ingredient to my salsa.  I may have to go underground and have some of you mail me seed packets.  Surely the drug dogs don't sniff for produce now do they?

2.  FRAMED PORTRAITS     There are exactly four pieces that Joe promised that he would pack in the minivan which was to be shipped first.  I made him swear up and down and inside out that he'd pack those pictures.  You know where this is going now, don't you.  The first three of the bunch are my babies, my naked babies; each of them at 8 mos. perched and cooing from their makeshift throne, an oversized antique ceramic wash basin.  They look like triplets, distinguishable only by a dimple or a roll.  I spent 99 cents on each 10x12 picture and a small fortune for the matching frames and I don't regret one red cent.  Now the fourth portrait, that's another story.  That was the studio session that ended in us practically having to take out a second mortgage on the house but netted us the coolest picture of the three that I own so I guess it's a pill I can swallow.  Oh how I miss those pictures.  And oh how Joe will miss his balls when I cut them off because he forgot to pack them in the minivan.  Where are they?   The pictures people, the pictures.  They're in a storage facility deep in the heart of Hurricane Row: Charleston, South Carolina.  Lord help the man if the humidity eats my babies.  And I mean that of course in the nicest, most sincere Lorena Bobbit kind of way.

3.  MY BED     Spain is great.  Spain is The Best.  Rah-rah-rah-blah-blah-blah.  But you know what?  Spanish beds fucking suck.  First of all they're not beds, they're cots.  And jeez-oh-Pete do they suck.  They're one step up from option B which is sleeping on the tile floor.  Coils in my back all night long is one thing but apparently I'm considered "Amazonian" at 5' 8" because none of the beds in this house are long enough for me.  I sleep like Andre the Giant, my feet dangling off the end of the bed.  This is particularly troubling to me as you'll recall the post where I mentioned having to make the bed before I get into it?  Well, when one's feet have no other choice but to go numb from the ankles down all night, there really is no point in hospital corners now is there?  And don't get me started on the pillows either.  In Spain the bed has one pillow, a uni-pillow if you will.  I know I'm not the only flip for the cold side sleeper out there.  Well, when you're sharing the uni-pillow with your partner who has a thirty pound head, it makes the flip impossible.  Pillow my ass.  The damned thing looks more like an oversized hot dog bun than it does a pillow. 

Well, there you have it, my rant.  Such a nasty little word, rant, isn't it?  Regardless, it's nothing that a seed packet, a knife (sorry, honey) & a bottle of w(h)ine can't fix. 

Right?

RIDING SHOTGUN FROM HEAVEN

My drive in to work each morning is a pretty easy one.  Not even 3 minutes out of my suburban driveway and I’m on the interstate, rolling straight into downtown. No turns, no lights just a sling shot eastbound in the left lane and I’m there in 15 minutes, 10 if I push it.

Today though it was different. The last 5 of my 15 was spent behind a pearl white Camry. We exited together at MLK and I followed him all the way down the boulevard, past the turn off for the hospital and right on down past the cemetery. Was this guy on his way to drop off a kid on his way in to work? It was kind of early but not entirely impossible.  Maybe he was on his way to the airport for the United flight out to Denver.  Or Detroit.  It wasn't until we slowed in unison for the yellow aglow at bottom of the hill that I noticed it.

In Loving Memory of Chris
1968-2009

Stuck to the back of his rear window in slanted cursive letters.  An attempt at classy with its italicized font yet painfully innocuous.  Pardon my ignorance but just who was the brainiac who decided to mass market this phenomenon?  The epitaph in a car decal.   And just how does one go about purchasing one of these?  It's been a while since my last funeral but maybe it's like an add-on to the package; a gift-with-purchase perhaps?

...And when you upgrade from the oak veneer to the solid mahogany we include not one but two widow decals to commemorate your dearly departed...   

What would Chris have to say about this?  His brother, his partner, his cousin, his little league co-captain, his whatever was driving around Des Moines with him stuck to the back windshield; the 9 of 2009 starting to roll downward after two years baking in the glow of a Midwestern sun. 

The whole thing just creeped me out.  I mean seriously, what happens when it's time to trade in the Camry?  Do you get out there with an X-acto blade and scrape Chris off the back window?  Do you even remember that Chris is there riding four inches above the ice scraper stored on the back dash? 

I do understand that people handle grief in many different ways.  I get it, I respect it.  And if centering your your loved one's name and stats on your back window somehow helps you move through your grief then all the more power to you.  As for me, I really have no desire to be remembered in this fashion but if you must, then consider this post fair warning: 

I'm riding shotgun across the front windshield. 

In a classy arc.

And scrap the italics.  I'll take the Gothic letters, 60 font.

Stretched all the way across. 

Because...

well, that's just how I roll.

Penny for My Thoughts

"Come on, Mama...what are YOU gonna wish for?"

A wink and a smile crossed my face, "Nuh-uhh. If I tell you Buddy, it won't come true."

Truth be known, I was a little too self conscious to share my thoughts on this question. That, and a four year old has not the time nor the patience to put up with listening to them. This was us a month ago standing in the middle of The Mall of America, our backs turned to a coin filled fountain; breeding ground of wishes, dreams and surely pseudomonas . Joe had given everybody one penny. One chance at making a wildest dream come true. Pennies were cast in hopes of that one wish granted; one lobbed haphazardly, one dropped clumsily, one thrown at rocket speed and mine...mine...mine was burning a hole in the palm of my hand as I strategized.

I can't really blame CF for ruining the moment. No, not this time. I'll take full responsibility for this one. Me and my big fat Type A personality. My parents nicknamed me Patty Perfect as an adolescent. Perfect? Ha! Far from it but the name stuck anyway, like a sticky wad of bubblegum to the bottom of a brand new shoe. Alas, in most arenas I have found this nickname to be a true fit and this moment was no exception. Think hard Patty, this wish has got to be PERFECT.

My strategy for this wish went against every grammatical fiber of my being and as a cool sweat began to bead my furrowed brow, I closed my eyes in deep concentration, willing my wish to come true.

I wish for the excellent health of my family as we live a long and peaceful life in our white washed casa amidst the rolling hills of Spanish sunflowers in the province of Andalucia where our children will recieve news that a cure for cystic fibrosis has been found before the reporters show up at our doorstep to confirm the news that we have indeed won the national lottery.

The beauty of a wish is that there are no rules - something I clearly took advantage of in that run-on sentence of a hope. Lottery, sunflowers and white washed casa aside, there was no way I could leave out good health. But CF? Damn it! How do those two dreadful letters find their way into EVERYTHING?!

Is a penny enough to grant all that AND a cure? Probably not. Maybe next time I'll pack away the Type A, keep it simple and just wish for happiness.

ME.

I like to think of myself as an open book; chock full of dog-eared pages and wrapped in a weathered cover. So you'd think that starting this blog would have come easy. Actually, it has been anything but. I liken it to jumping into the deep end of the ocean. I really didn't have a plan, know what direction it would ultimately take, or know if anyone would care to read it which is probably why I find it so easy to push it aside 'til the next week, the next month, or the next full moon. So for those of you still reading, here's a little fodder about Yours Truly. I'm actually cheating by posting this since I wrote it quite a while ago but it's me 100% cut and dry when my brain takes a vacation from cystic fibrosis.

25 Random Things about Yours Truly

1. I still think cell phones are stupid. Who is really THAT important that they need to be on call 24/7. A cardiothoracic surgeon? Okay. Manager of a nuclear power plant? Fine. The other 98% of the population? I don't think so.

2. If I were 20 pounds thinner and had the balls, I'd shave my head like Sinead O'connor. I've come to terms with never sporting long, wavy tresses like Cindy Crawford or Drew Barrymore. The only thing holding me back would be the guffaws from friends and family as they wondered aloud if I was undergoing chemotherapy.

3. I have not slept 8 hours uninteruppted in nearly 5 years. This may be why I sometimes fantasize about throwing a brick at Joe's face when he complains of being "Soooooooo tired."

4. I currently have four different sizes of clothing in my closet. They are, in order from smallest to largest, affectionately referred to as: "Back in the day, " "Ooooh, maybe that second helping wasn't such a good idea afterall," "Elastic waistband: friend or foe?" and "It's official, my ass is huge."

5. Before I die, I would like to have written and published a book.

6. Had it not been for Kat and Annie Loo, I would have QUIT the sorority. Erh...I mean "deactivated."

7. I take my cream with a touch of coffee and a snippet of sugar. Yes, creamer overload. As I remind Joe, who at this stage of the game needs no reminding, "Make it the same (previous) color as the kitchen walls - a cross between mocha and taupe." Whadda guy!

8. I have singlehandedly (and unintentionally) taught my 3 year old every naughty word/expression that he knows. The other day he confessed that he "was REALLY pissed off." This from a 3 year old because he couldn't finagle the play button on the remote control. I'm such a failure.

9. I regularly "discuss" (aka. argue) with radio talk show hosts as I drive around town. Though I'd never call in to make my point heard to the listening audience, I feel quite confident that my points are valid nonetheless. I can only hope that other drivers think I'm using my "hands-free" device since I do this while driving alone.

10. If it were covered by my insurance I'd voluntarily have my breasts surgically removed. As far as I'm concerned an A cup would be too big.

11. Hawaii is overrated. I think I'd rather go to the Badlands than back to Hawaii.

12. I'm going to have more kids. Ideally, I'd like 4 but wouldn't object to an accidental 5th.

13. I've had the same earrings in for over a year - minus the hospital stays of course.

14. I brush my teeth in the shower. Always a multitasker, I realize that this is taking it to the next level.

15. I voted for George Bush. Twice. I'm hoping that the last election will redeem me. Don't let me down, Barack.

16. Lately I'm freaking out. I mean REALLY freaking out about being middle aged. You know, 36 is more than half way to 70. Holy crap!

17. I still solve 7+4, 7+5, and 8+4 equations on my fingers. I don't know why, but those three combos never stuck. It would foreshadow quite accurately my future troubles when it came to math.

18. I've never, ever lied to my husband.

19. It stresses me out to talk to someone with a wandering eye. I never know which eyeball to focus on and oftentimes end up staring at their nose. I have to keep the conversation short because focussing for too long on someone's nose usually leads to a headache for me.

20. I've accepted the fact that my Spanish has indeed fossilized. I've become my father-in-law, speaking in a strange Indian tongue as I ask my son to "Comer el comida mucho rapido." It's all so depressing.

21. Once - and only once, while pregnant with Lola, I confronted and yelled at a woman who had parked in the "Expectant Mother" parking spot in front of the grocery store. In my defense, it was about a month before my due date and I was miserable. Plus, the bitch was skinny.

22. Had I not gone down the family path, I think I would have made a great secret agent for the CIA. I have to be honest though, the basic skills portion of the interview process may have gotten me booted from the selection pool (see response to #17).

23. If given the chance to take a free trip to the moon or another planet, I think I'd decline. Who wants to travel that far to someplace without maid service? No thanks.

24. I love to rock out to John Denver in the car. "Rocky Mountain Hiiiiiiiiiiiiigh, Colorado..." really gets my blood pumpin'.

25. If I could have one superpower, it would be the ability to stop/freeze time. I've always thought what great fun it would be to wander around undetected. I would totally take advantage of it too - posing people in awkward &/or embarrassing situations would be hilarious.