little tidbits...

We didn't have gas for about 3 weeks. One of those weeks I was trying to figure out why the gas didn't work (did a connection in back get rattled?), then, after realizing that I actually had to apply for gas utilities (I'm new to this: all my previous gas expenses have been included in the rent), it took two weeks for the gas people (that's actually the company's name) to decide to come visit our apartment. And there is only one gas company that serves my apartment building, so it wasn't like I could play the free market - pulling the dissatisfied 'I'm going to a different company' customer card.

Anyway, so when we finally got gas, after three weeks of beans in the crock pot, scrambled (or should I say nuked) eggs in the microwave, and instant potatoes in a coffee-maker (no we don't drink coffee, but the device was very useful when faced without a stove or oven for three weeks), what was my celebratory first-day-of-gas dinner?

Hard-boiled eggs.

I guess I forgot how to cook in those three weeks...

Another random tidbit: Thanks to some good friends, McDreamy and I have a couch. This may seem strange, but in our entire married life (4 1/2 lovely years now) we have never had a real couch - we had a futon for two years, and a few bamboo chairs the following two years, but never had a nice, fluffy, lay-all-the-way-down-while-you-snuggle-watching-a-movie actual COUCH!

It is a bit exciting. Our celebration for this new addition was much more exciting than my first-day-of-gas meal: we cuddled and watched a movie.

Well at least half of the movie.

I got hot and he fell asleep.

So maybe we're getting boring? Oh well...at least we're happy! And we have since had many a fantastic gas-cooked meal, as well as a number of nice couch-used evenings.

Fahrenheit 451

It never fails to amaze me. 

I clumsily wrench my stroller onto the brown line, the station one block west and one block south of our little first floor, one bedroom apartment, with a child bursting to everyone around about the twain! and the zoo! and the zebas! and the graffes! and the elphants! and...nobody even looks at him. One middle-aged woman might crack a smile for a split second, asking politely what his name is and his age, but then it's back to the device: ipod, ipad, iphone. The key is 'I'. Not you, us, we. I. 

We didn't have internet for a few days, and, being new to the city, I have been unable to get a library card - apparently here the desire to read is not as important as a proof of address. I feel sorry for the homeless bums - surely a library subscription could give them something more meaningful to do than just sit all day on the sidewalk begging or spewing crazy words out as you pass by. Anyway, this lack of ability to research articles online or read books on my bed during my sons nap time became very draining. With nothing to read, nothing to research, and no way of communicating during two hours everyday, I became a scrapbook fiend - a ritual I save only for Sunday, usually, and a routine with which I quickly became bored. I love scrapbooking. I enjoy reliving each memory as I paste it, ceremoniously, into an aesthetically pleasing design and jot a few shallow thoughts and feelings of the events illustrated. But doing two mindless pages a day every day, when I am used to only doing one a week, was simply too much. I became frantic: my mind begged for stimulation. I ran to the local thrift store and bought the first interesting looking book I saw. Two pages into it, I realized it was drab unworthy of even returning to the thrift and threw every last 25 cents of it into the trash. I normally treasure my quarters, as they are vital to my weekly laundry procedure, but that quarter was the slimiest, low moral quarter I'd ever read. 

So then I was back to where I started, back at the discount village, scanning the aisles of books, this time more carefully - more prejudiced. I found multiple titles I was sure were good - books on old AP literature lists, whose prose have stood the test of time. 

And I found Fahrenheit 451.  

I believe Ray Bradbury was inspired.

White seashell ear thimbles, he calls them - stuck in everyone's ears, droning music and programs, and making everyone excellent lip-readers. Parlor walls - which aren't walls, actually, but huge TV screens, which people watch together, and whose friendships and discussions are based solely on those shows. And school classes completely done via video screen - no actual discussion, just virtual interaction. 

All of these things, he illustrates in his book, have pulled the humanity out of people, shifted us from being social, interactive people, to being consumed in ourselves. We are so busy 'talking' on our phones and laptops and social networks, that we forget to talk to the real people in front of us, on the train. We are so plugged into our various TV programs, that all we have to talk about is what happened on those shows. And we are so plugged into our various music devices that we can only lip-read. We don't actually listen to each other anymore.

We are a society so 'connected' that we have become completely disconnected from each other. And Ray Bradbury foreshadowed it all 60 years ago, during "I Love Lucy" and the Cleaver times. 

I can't help but wonder when the wide-spread book burning will occur... 

 

life...

Life is expensive. They say money won’t buy you happiness, which I would agree with, for sure…but I feel like it could be extremely useful when life turns its ugly side on you: namely when you get a parking ticket for $50, because of ‘street cleaning’ on a street that doesn’t look any different after the alleged ‘cleaning day’, or a renewal of registration for your car (which – by the way – you JUST registered 4 months ago when you came back into the states, and the only reason for this renewal is because it is your birthday. Some birthday gift, huh? I like Baskin Robbins’s gift a bit better…). Oh, and another soon-to-be ticket because the yellow lights here are so stinking fast that you ran a red light – completely on accident – and saw the little light flicker, and are sure your little yellow cabby car now has a terrible mug shot plastered on some greasy light-patrolling security officials screen. You would think this city has it out for our poor little yellow skittle. Parking tickets, registration, too-fast-of-yellow-lights…it’s enough to make you want to move back to Bonaire!  No lights, no parking tickets…of course I guess even there you can’t get out of registration…but regardless…it all comes down to money. And money sure does disappear fast here it seems…rent, that used to be $400, including all utilities, is now $870, excluding utilities.  Transportation which was $20-40 per month, depending on whether it was a school break time or not, has now become over $100 – regardless of using a car or the all-exalted public transit.

Food, however, is cheaper, thanks to a good friend named Aldi’s – oh Aldi’s, how I love thy 99 cent generic brand oreo’s as well as thy similarly priced pound of strawberries. You make me feel like it is somehow possible to make this budget work…

Of course, there are the free things here, which make life, in general, much happier – like the River Park swimming pool and water park across the street, with free toddler swimming right before Bronsito’s nap – the perfect way to tucker him out and ensure a full two hours of ‘me’ time, as well as the free zoo and free children’s museum (on Thursday nights!) across town. All make for a happy toddler, and thus, a happy mom (yes – you’ve heard the phrase, if mom ain’t happy ain’t no one happy – well in my house, if child ain’t happy, ain’t no mom happy). And, our apartment, though more expensive, is much bigger, allowing McDreamy to study here, rather than at the school, which also makes for a happier mom…

And at least I’m here with my husband and son, rather than working full time in Georgia, with Bronsito in Day Care, and my McDreamy here alone. That definitely makes everyone happier. Much happier!

So, I guess it’s true: money doesn’t buy happiness. We’re as poor as dirt, with a city out to get our poor little skittle car, but we’re together, and we’re happy. So, I guess I can take this blog entry as a lesson: before I start counting my challenges, I have to count my blessings: regardless of money, I have my wonderful, hard-working McDreamy, and my full-of-life, abc-singing Bronsito. What else could I want? Well, besides the mug-shot of my poor car erased….

Tip # 10

I've heard iguana soup is a delicacy here...I still need to try that before I leave...

Try peeling a banana from the bottom.

My whole life I have always peeled a banana from the top – you know, from the stem that connected it to rest of the banana bunch. Well, after moving here, I was taught by my friend that it is actually much easier to open the banana from the opposite side.

When you move here, try peeling the banana from the bottom. As it is a completely different country, with influences from many other countries, there are things here you have never even heard about, let alone tried. Don’t let what you think you know blind you from trying something different, that may be better.

For instance: cheese.

This island is part of the Netherlands. This should be self-explanatory in referring to cheese, but to be more explicit, frankly, I am astounded by how many students here choose to buy the big bags of Kraft cheddar and American cheese, when delicious Gouda is half the cost.

Also: chocolate.

Again, I never fail to see a Snickers bar or a Kit Kat dangling out of an unsuspecting student’s mouth, despite the wide array of delicious dark and hazelnut chocolates.

I think it has to do with peeling the banana.

We are so used to things one way, we won’t try anything else. And, because of this, we miss out on a lot.

You don’t often get the opportunity to live in a country with new things to try, so, try festival cookies instead of oreos. Try Fria instead of Sprite. Try cooking with plantains and cilantro. Try the bakery bread, rather than buying the fluff shipped in from the States.

But most of all, try peeling the banana from the other side. You’d be surprised how much easier and better it is. 

Tip #9

photo by Zsus of the Woodwind, since I don't own an underwater camera....

Bring a mask and snorkel.

Though he won’t openly admit it, growing up, my McDreamy’s favorite Disney movie was ‘The Little Mermaid’.  

It has only been since moving here, that I have realized how well this movie suits him…us, really.

There is a world here that is completely different from what we know back home.

You get sucked into it. It’s magical, really.

Carrot-orange Elkhorn coral stands erect and unfaltering, in huge castles, towering over rigid hills of amber fire coral. Violet sea tubes trumpet out from the sand in a harmonious pipe symphony. Iridescent emerald and amethyst sea fans, with wide-stretched, vein-ridden fingers, wave, regally, as you pass.

And that’s just some of the coral.

What really rivets your attention is the bright aquamarine parrotfish, noisily crunching on the reef, and the graceful, elegant angelfish. Spotted cowfish, filefish, and trunkfish, all who look like they’ve been painted for some ancient Indian war, ironically lazily and absent-mindedly swim nowhere. Long, skinny trumpet fish swiftly skim the surface of the water, speeding away from you, as you shy away from a menacing open-mouthed moray eel. 

And then there are my favorites: the fat, Muppet faced puffer fish and the unicorn zebra fish (I think these are actually called spotted drums, but unicorn zebra fish is a much more fitting name).

But it is the special occasions that you remember most: the times when you witness several playful turtles surfing inbound currents, and quietly observe stingrays burying themselves in sand to lure future prey. Or the singular occasion when your mind is feverishly fixated on following a six foot long reef shark, despite the nagging trepidation in your body, willing you to escape in the opposite direction.

The seaweed really is greener here.

And all you need to have to see it is a mask and snorkel. 

Well, and you may want a fish ID card, so you don't have to make up the names of the fish...like I do. 

My husband is a dolphin.

In High School AP Literature and Composition, I was required to read a book called As I Lay Dying. Or was it my sister who read it? To be honest I can’t remember. There were so many books I had to read throughout High School - a few that I read, some that I skimmed, and most that I only read spark notes - that they tend to get jumbled in my head. Regardless, I remember one part from this particular book, and one part only: an entire chapter comprised of only five words: “My mother is a fish”.

I remember being both confused and intrigued by this sentence. It contained no explanation, no context. It seemed that William Falkner, the author, didn’t feel the need to explain. The metaphor was stated as a simple fact.

Until Saturday, I had completely forgotten this book, this sentence, and really most of my AP Literature and Composition class. But Saturday, two days ago, I realized:

My husband is a dolphin.

Don’t worry. I won’t be rude like Mr. Faulkner, and make you guess my meaning and/or create a logical context. No, the revelation was quite fantastic, actually.

Bronson woke us up early that morning, with a punch to McDreamy’s face, and a nice jump on my bladder. 7:30, sharp. Bronson is better than an alarm clock. My McDreamy looked at me, sheepishly; almost apologetically. He said “Heidi…”, and I could tell something was on his mind. Trying to read it, as usual, I sighed “yes, I know, you’ve got to go study. Can we just cuddle thirty more minutes?” He chuckled nervously, “Ummm…no actually, it’s blowing 23 knots out today. Wanna go kite?”

I immediately and excitedly approved, as it was exam week, and Dev had been studying late every day for the past two weeks. We were out of the house, swimsuited, sunscreened, and PB&Jed, in a matter of minutes.

The beach was deserted. I’ve never seen it so empty. We had arrived before Rauren and his kite instructors, who practically live at that spot, had even shown up. Dev usually waits until they arrive with the chase boats before going out, but there seemed to be something in his eyes this time – an aching, yearning, pleading. He hadn’t been kiting in a long time. And he didn’t have much time to play – he had to get back to studying.

So he strung up his kite and went out alone.

And as he made his first tack, I saw the first rubbery fin peel out of the water.

Dolphins. Eight of them. In the shallow waters. Maybe 30 feet away from me, on the shore with Bronson. Playing in Dev’s kiteboard wake.

Now, just so you realize the significance of this appearance, we know people here on Bonaire that have lived here for five years, and never seen a dolphin. Yes, we live on an island, where we see sea turtles, moray eels, even barracudas, regularly. But not dolphins.  And definitely not close.

I immediately began crazily waving my arms in what I considered to look like dolphin jumping movements, and shouting ‘Dev’ as loud as my vocal cords would allow. I have only seen dolphins once here before, and they vanished as soon as we spooted them. I was afraid the same would happen this time, and I couldn’t bear my McDreamy being so close, amd not being a part of the experience. As soon as I finally caught his attention, and pointed out the ~flap my arms~ (luckily he proved very good at deciphering my exuberant sign language), I darted for my camera, a good 100 yards away, up the beach. Panting and readjusting Bronson on my hip, I watched and recorded in awe, as my McDreamy tacked in and out of the pack, reaching down and almost touching their slippery bodies as he passed. I wondered why they didn’t swim away. Surely this kite and board were things unknown and intimidating to these beautiful, wild creatures. But then I realized: they are just as excited about this as Dev is. They were racing him, trying to touch his board, and jumping his wake. They were acting in the same enthusiastic, excited-as-a-school-boy manner as Dev does during and after a wakeboard, kiteboard, surf, snowboard, etc. session. Neither of them, the dolphins nor my husband (nor me, really), wanted the fun to end, so they played together for three spectacular hours. It wasn’t until there were ten other kites on the beach and in the air that the pack finally retreated, leaving Dev alone in his playground. And I realized:

My husband is a dolphin.

He works hard, but then he plays hard. And his favorite playground is the water. To deprive him of it, is to steal a piece of his soul away. Just like a dolphin. 

Thanks, William Faulkner. I think I finally understand.   

Tip #8

Bring meds, and be up to date on your immunizations.

I don't really want to go into the mucky details of this meds aspect...but just plan for anything that may happen, and if you have the ability, grab whatever you might need to self-medicate. I have saved myself from 4 expensive doctor's office trips simply by coming prepared (thanks to Uncle Lloyd and his generous donations of antibiotics). 

I can't say I was so lucky regarding the immunizations.

Stupid rusty nail. Whoever decided you needed to be in my walking path, anyway? And why on earth did you decide to jut all the way through my perfectly good flip flop AND into my foot? I know…I didn't have my contacts in. And I know I was focusing on grabbing my Houdini chicken. But did I really deserve the rusty-nail-through-your-foot-tetanus-scare?  

My mom, the vengeful - I mean helpful - nurse.

Of course as soon as I realized what an idiot I was, I ran through my memory trying to determine my last tetanus vaccination. All I could remember was being in eighth grade, driving back from the doctor’s office with my mom, telling her how I couldn’t possibly go back to school because the excruciating pain in my arm made it impossible to write (and, I wasn’t lying, it DID hurt. I may have fabricated the extent of the pain to better promote a day off of school, but it DID hurt). Of course, she, a calloused nurse and daughter of a strong-as-an-ox father, reminded me that I had been immunized in my left arm, not my right, and that actually using my arm would make it feel better, faster. She actually made me do lifting exercises with the arm to, as she said, ‘help disburse the vaccine into my muscle’. I felt like the only thing she was trying to disburse was some sadistic vengeance on instances of past disobedience.

I couldn’t remember ever being in that much pain (over a shot) since that time, so I realized I was way past due on my tetanus immunization. Why hadn’t I thought of this before I came to Bonaire? Immediately, the images of twisted, bent-in-half people from my ninth grade biology book came to life in my mind. I felt the wound in my foot suddenly become menacingly hot, searing fear throughout my body. It was twisting me, I could already see my body bent in half - my jaw smashed shut.

Panicking, I grabbed Bronson and raced to my McDreamy. In already clenching jaws I described my morbid adversary, and confirmed my forthcoming death.

Thankfully, my McDreamy is a very patient and compassionate man. He sensed my urgency, and skipped his class to scour out professionals capable of reclaiming me from my assured demise. After a visit to the hospital, where I decided my life was not worth a $250 deposit for an emergency room tetanus shot, and a visit to a health clinic that only did shots on children (and apparently would not make exceptions, even for dying individuals), we found a clinic that provided said death-denying treatment for $50. Oh - and a really sore arm.

It wasn’t until later that day that my McDreamy explained to me how rare tetanus actually is, and how he had stepped on many a rusty nail (as his father was a roofer) with no tetanus shots, nor any resulting tetanus to show for them. That’s why I married him, though – when I am in need, he patiently and compassionately helps, despite how crazy and imaginative I may become.

Oh – and my mother would be proud. Following her advice, after receiving this life-saving shot I went swimming, hard and long. Three days in a row. You would think that would be enough to ‘disburse’ that lousy vaccine, but you would be wrong. My arm still hurts, two weeks after the shot.

But I guess a sore arm is better than dying the slow, aching, twisted death that I was absolutely destined for after stepping on that pitiless nail.

I guess $50 and a sore arm is worth that.