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. 

Tip #7

Get an ELF – no, not the Santa kind.

Bonaire is known as the “Diver's Paradise”. I, myself, have never partaken of this aspect of the paradise (darn you, small Eustachian tubes!), but my husband is now a diving connoisseur – and when I say connoisseur, I mean every snooty, look-down-your-nose-at-anything-less-than-amazing part of it.

After about 50 or so dives here on the island, he would only go diving if it meant dangerous, 8-foot-high-wave, rock-climbing entrances - places where no sane person ever dove. In his words, diving on the tranquil west coast side (the side that has coined the “Diver’s Paradise” phrase) was just too ‘easy’.

That was before the Lionfish.

Linofish are actually gorgeous fish (I’ve seen them live at the Georgia Aquarium! Well, and dead on my counter…). Unfortunately, however, they are mean little buggers. They eat all of the good, reef-cleaning fish, proliferate by the thousands, with no native predators (as they, themselves, are not native), and to top it all off, have very poisonous quills which discourage any potential predators (humans included). Thus, the Marine Park here, STINAPA, has begun a Lionfish termination program, providing free air and ELF’s (Eliminate LionFish – basically a miniature spear gun) to local divers who are willing to round up as many Lionfish as possible.

It was like diving was reinvented to my McDreamy. Not only was he able to participate in diving for free (as we already had the gear), but he suddenly had a will to live…I mean dive.

With his diving flame reignited, he now goes, giddy as a school-boy, with his other ELF-wielding comrades, trying to nab the biggest, fattest Lionfish. Once they’ve rounded up a sizeable amount of fish, we all gather (wives and kids, too!) and barbeque them up. They are all so proud of their ability to truly ‘provide dinner’ - sharing stories of how each fish was speared, beheaded, or otherwise exterminated in their diving process. They boast of their stinging stories, exaggerating the number of stinging quills, the amount of swelling, while obviously understating the amount of pain felt, and mocking those not ‘manly’ enough to experience a Lionfish sting.

So, even if you are not blessed to dive, as in my case, get an ELF for your husband. It will create many yummy dinners, and many fond memories.

Just make sure those ‘manly’ men clean the fish – being a woman you have no gender-based requirement to be a part of the ‘stung’ club.

Bronson the Boy

During my undergraduate work, I went through many child psychology and human development courses. Both included sections on gender theories, explaining differing toy preferences, types of play, language, etc., based on genetic attributes, socialization, or a mixture of the two.

I have to admit, I was unsure of which theories were true until I had a child of my own.

Now I know: It's genetic.

Bronson's first word after 'mama' and 'dada' was 'ball', followed closely by 'doggy'.

Instead of stuffed animals, he cuddles toy cars to sleep.

And just today he replaced the cars with a full-size football.

His grip only just loosened enough for it to roll out of his sleepy arms.

Anything and everything is thrown, as hard as physically possible (despite it often being something he's not supposed to throw, as in the cell phone or remote). He likes playing with animals, but not in a soft, delicate way - rather, a running, wrestling, jumping method. He will sit for hours (ok - exaggeration here) figuring out things, like building with legos or putting together a puzzle, but has absolutely no patience with me when I try to brush his hair and teeth.

I know, how can I say that all this was genetic, when it could easily have been unconsious socialization from my McDreamy and myself. But, you see, if anything, I try to socialize him against this genetic dispostion - being softer with the neighbor's dog, more cuddly with his stuffed animals, and more discriminatory with the items he chooses to make his next throwing-victim. However, it seems that, despite my best efforts, at the end of the day, he curls up with his football.

He's most definitely a boy. My boy.

Hair Theory

I recently read an article on baby names, and what these names illustrate about the baby’s parents.

I skimmed the article, disagreeing with some of its assumptions, but agreeing with most. I began philosophizing (yes, it actually IS a word – don’t worry, I checked) about other telling aspects of normal life. Through this process (and a recent haircut) came the 'hair theory'.

I am the type of girl who bounces between long and short haircuts like (insert any celebrity here) bounces between spouses. Some women share this ‘sheering’ pleasure. Others are risk-taking ‘color-heads’. And still others are ‘trimmers’, staying loyal to a certain length and style most of their life.

You may think this is a random act of the cosmos, but you would be wrong. At least according to my theory (which is right, of course). No, I am sure it is connected deep within our inner female psyches.

For one thing, I am not a ‘trim’ type of woman. I feel like paying for a haircut is a waste of money if no one notices a difference; primarily if no one compliments me on it. I am ashamed to say that it is my means of being in the spotlight every now and again. I am the middle child of five, so unless I made myself the center of attention, I was easily skipped over. Needless to say, I love performing, I love public speaking, and...I love chopping off my hair.

Despite my love of attention, I am too scared to play too much with my color. I have gotten simple highlights in the past, but that has been the extent of my experimentation. The ‘color-heads’ have much more confidence than me, in this regard – when you chop your hair off, you always have the guarantee that it will grow back. I’ve talked to far too many color-heads to realize the same is not true in dying hair. One friend of mine admitted she did not even know what her natural hair color was anymore. I have always been envious of these edgy, risk-taking women, who look stunning as brunettes, blondes, red-heads, combinations of all three, or even the more exciting hair streaked with blue, purple, or pink. My cousin was one of these women – very artsy, and very experimental with her hair style and hair color. I always looked up to her for her uncanny ability to make any hairstyle, crazy as it was, absolutely, and fantastically cool. That’s what color-heads are – the epitome of cool.

And then there are the 'trimmers'...these are my friends that are amazed at my lack of attachment to my hair. When they see me chop it off, they tell me they like the cut and think it looks great, but admit they would never do the same to their own hair. They keep their hair around the same length and same style, though usually with modifications to make it more up to date (like parting on the side versus parting in the middle, bangs versus no bangs, layers or straight cut, etc.) I am not sure, as I am not one of these people, but I imagine that they must not care about whether someone notices their haircut or not. They don't need the lime-light that I crave. They enjoy attention from their close friends, who will definitely notice their trim, but could care less about distant acquaintances approaching them with comments on their style. These people, I think, tend to be more intimate people, and less attention-seeking. They are the loyal, never-let-you-down type; true to the end.

Obviously there are outliers within these three groups - images come to mind of the women who still wear their hair in the permed, teased, big-bang 80’s styles, despite the rest of the world’s forsaking this hair atrocity year’s ago – but I can’t even begin to conceptualize what lies in these women’s inner-most psyche’s (nor, really, do I care to know…). Honestly, this style is probably on its way back, and I am the one out of the loop…

And then there's the fact that you compliment someone's haircut whether you think it is the prettiest thing on the planet, or if you think it is the most hideous thing you have ever witnessed. That, too, deserves some psychoanalysis...

Gosh...I hope people actually like my haircut...

Valentine's Day...

Please forgive me for the next bout of mushy love sickness. It is, afterall, Valentine's Day.

But, basically, I have the best husband in the world.

That's not to say that he is perfect - rather, it's his imperfections that make him even more loveable.

The night after my last post (regarding the long process of doing laundry here), I was snuggling with my McDreamy, and found that his stench was less than dreamy. After I couldn't handle it any longer, I pushed him away, and asked why he smelled so awful. He informed me that he was wearing dirty laundry. I asked him why he would such a silly thing.

And he sheepishly mumbled, 'because I wanted to help make the laundry easier for you.'

Where he was lacking in hygiene, he definitely made up for in sweetness.

I promptly made him remove the soiled clothes and replace them with clean ones, telling him he was being ridiculous - but smiling in my heart as I did so. I guess he really wants to help me in whatever ways he can...

Tip #6

Get used to laundry being an all day (usually two-day) affair. And get used to you being an integral part of that all day process (more so than just folding the socks).

The machines here are not like the machines in the United States. They are considered 'semi-automatic'. Really they are more like an over-sized version of something I used in Chem Lab than an actual laundry machine. But, I digress. Whatever it is, machine or overgrown Chem Lab instrument, is split into two sections - the 'wash' section, and the 'dry' section.

The 'wash' section is really just a glorified, non-bladed blender. It jostles the clothes around for fifteen minutes in the water you personally provided via the outside water hose. If you want your clothes extra clean, turn the dial for an extra fifteen minutes of jostling, and maybe add another cup of detergent. No, there is not a pre-wash, wash, rinse, or spin cycle. There are no 'whitest whites', 'delicates', 'bulky', 'casual', or 'normal' settings. There are no 'highly soiled', 'normally soiled' or 'barely soiled' applications. And the water temperature settings? Those are determined by the time of day. Filling in the morning produces cold water, while filling in the afternoon produces a more warm temperature. Suffice to say, it is, in fact, a washer with no pretenses. It has a simplistic trilogy of modes: suave(soft), normal, fuerte (strong). This means only that the non-bladed blender at the bottom of the tub spins for more or less time, depending on which selection is made. I always choose fuerte, despite whether my clothes are 'delicates', 'whitest whites', or 'casual'. I don't really know why. I guess I feel like the added two seconds of jostling cleans them a bit better...?

Anyway, after they are washed, I manually remove the clothes from the jostle tub and insert them into a separate tub filled with water and fabric softener. This is the 'rinse' cycle. I used to rinse them quickly then 'dry' (we'll get to this) them and hang them on the line, but my land lady taught me to leave them soaking in this tub for at least an hour, allowing the nice fabric softener smell to penetrate the clothes better, masking their less-than-clean nature. Since she taught me this my clothes have smelled much nicer.

So, after soaking in the 'rinse' tub, I then put them into the opposite side of the washer - the part that is reminiscent of Chem Lab. This side is an overgrown centrifuge. If you are not familiar with a centrifuge, think about the teacups at Disney World - you know, you spin round and round until you puke your guts out. This is my 'dryer' - I insert the poor, naive articles of clothing into the little teacup tub, with the slightest twinge of sympathy for their undeserved trust, then slam the lid down and turn the dial. Three minutes is all it takes for them to, I'm sure, be puking their dry guts out.

And if the torture teacup isn't enough, I then string them up by their smallest appendages, leaving them to death by dehydration in the hot Bonairian sun.

"Semi-automatic". I guess the name really does suit it.

(Will post picture soon - I thought I had one, but I must have accidentally deleted it - for now, you will just have to google what it looks like, I guess...)

Tip #5

Cockroach Prevention: Realizing that your freezer is your best friend.

It is common knowledge here, that, if a single dirty dish is left unattended in your sink, it will draw creatures from every corner of Bonaire to your little, humble, and mostly-clean kitchen. To prevent this, the obvious answer is to immediately clean every dish after it is soiled. That is, of course, the most logical solution.

But who said that logic coincides with real life?

After cooking in my hot, mosquito-infested kitchen, I simply don't have any desire to go back into that kitchen and wash the plates we just used. I'd much rather watch my McDreamy play with Bronsito: wrestling, bench pressing, tickling, etc. It's so rare that we get good family moments together, so I'm rather selfish about them when they occur.

Pretty good justification, right?

Anyway, I do not wash my dishes as they are dirtied.

But that is why I have a freezer. You may think that they are for ice cream, meat, and any other perishable item that doesn't fit into your fridge, but that was before you experienced Bonaire. Now you realize that it is a dirty-dish safe. Any unwashed dishes can be stored in there, for weeks at a time, without alarming any pesky rodents…leaving you plenty of time to procrastinate, I mean prioritize, your many motherly duties.

P.S. On the occasion that your freezer and fridge are both full, and you still don’t feel like becoming the thanksgiving meal for your herd of mosquitoes, leave the soiled dishes in the sink (rinse them out, at least), and quickly spray around the corners of your kitchen with whatever variety bug killer you prefer - Raid/Plagatox/DET - the possibilities are endless. Make sure you do this at a time when no one will be entering the kitchen, though…you don’t want to accidentally poison any non-creepy-crawly specimen.

Also - just as an FYI - my kitchen is seperate from my house, so the mosquitoes are only a problem in there, not in our main living area. Maybe it is egotistical of me, thinking you all care about that aspect of my living, but just in the slight chance that you were worried, hopefully I put your fears to rest.

Tip #4

Buy Damp-Rid pouches.

And Milton's sterilizing tablets.

And Lysol.

And don't bring your McDreamy's nice suit to Bonaire.

Or anything, for that matter, that you don't want to get moldy.

Yes: mold. What is it? I don't know - I'm not a biologist. I'm a mom with an education and psychology background. So, while I could probably psychoanalyze its painful history of abuse and degrading labeling, I cannot explain how it appeared, in its milk-white, splotchy form, all over my husband's dress shoes and black Sunday suit.

I thought mold only grew in the back corners of my fridge, in Tupperwares filled with the less-than-successful meals I felt too guilty about throwing away...

But I guess when it rains every day for five months, in a climate that never goes below 85 degrees Fahrenheit, and in an apartment whose windows and doors leak profusely, white, splotchy, smell-like-your-grandma mold appears on all articles of clothing and shoes. And black shows it especially well.

But never fear. You came prepared.

Take the suit to the dry cleaner. Soak all stained clothes in Milton's sterilizing tablets. Wash all musty clothes. Hang to dry in hot sun (or dry in a hot dryer, if you have that luxury). Clean all surfaces with bleach water. Spray all surfaces with Lysol. Hang damp-rids (bags with silicon beads) in your apartment. Throw or give away all clothing you never wear. Get suit back from cleaners. Revel in its clean, black, non-smelly-ness. Wash all clothes, because now the non-musty ones are musty. Spray the air conditioner with Lysol - yes - it is the reason your clothes are musty again. Go through your clothes again, this time folding and storing clothes you want to keep, but never wear. Clean all surfaces with bleach water. Spray every surface with Lysol. Yes. Again.

You may think you are done...but no my friend. Mold is like a cancer - it lurks, unawares, growing, without notice or trace, until it is beyond control. You must not become complacent - never consider yourself 'mold-free'. It is just this mentality that made you do two full loads of laundry and deep cleanings rather than just one. Instead, do a systematic chemotherapy of wafting every article of clothing you own (especially the ones that you said you would wear, but don't) and rewash any that smell questionable. Also, watch your son carefully to ensure he doesn't wipe grubby fingers in unseen areas...or hide pieces of food (raisins) in areas you don't often sweep.

Oh, and the shoes.

I just left them outside on our roof for a while. After one rain, and a lot of sun, and they seem to be back to normal.

Happy de-molding!

Fashion Blues...

I thought I had a 21 month old son - not a self-conscious, 'fashionista' teenage daughter.

But the past two days now, when I have attempted to dress Bronson, I have, inevitably, chosen the wrong shirt-and-short combination. After flailing his legs out of the shorts, and practically ripping his head off along with his shirt, he then points to which outfit is acceptable for his public to see him in.

And he is completely content , and even sadistically rueful, once he is wearing the proper attire.

What will I do when I have a daughter?

Everyone out of the water!

I remember the sorrow, the frustration, and the cold-blooded malice I used to feel, when, while serenely swimming away to my childhood delight, the whistle would blow, informing everyone to leave the pool - and it wasn't just for a ten minute adult swim. Rather, for an all day cleaning, because some calloused, irresponsible, and vindictive parent chose to not clothe their toddler in the correct garments: yes, the fateful poop-in-pool experiences, I remember them well.

I guess the proper idiom is 'what goes around, comes around'.

Yes, there we were loving the shallow and salt-free Plaza Resort pool water - we had even paid to enjoy its amenities, lavishness we not often allow ourselves...and then it happened. Little swollen raisins began floating around my fish, and I instantly realized my fatal error.

Now, I know what you are thinking...but what you don't know is how expensive those "Lil' Swimmers" are, or how hard they are to come by here in Bonaire! They are practically gold here, and the tourists always snatch them off the shelves before I can even attempt their purchase.

And usually it's a non-issue, as pool water is a luxury; the majority of our swimming occurs in the ocean, where, if poop happens (which it does), one can quickly rinse boy and suit out, without anyone being the wiser...

We were only planning on being in the pool for one hour.
It wasn't Bronson's scheduled poop time.
But here I was, the very same irresponsible parent I used to loathe.

So what did I do, you ask? Now, please, don't judge. Maybe by realizing the hatred I used to feel towards these situations will vindicate my subsequent action: I quietly pulled the poop-machine out, rinsed everything thoroughly, and...quietly got into the other pool.

I didn't tell anyone. No one else was playing in the pool at the time, and I figured (hoped, I guess is the better word) the filters and chlorine would fix the little mess that was there...I had, afterall, dispelled the situation as soon as it had begun, and even took the liberty of cleaning the aftermath a bit, in my hasty retreat.

And I especially didn't want to be the cause of everyone leaving the pool.

So in all honesty, I was helping, right?

I don't know...I'm still feeling the pangs of guilt; as we were leaving, a darling boy and his loving mother (not too far in age from my son and I) were stepping into those same waters...

Tip #3

Get an apartment with a Dominican Landlord: more specifically, Amada.

You will have the best neighbors you can ever imagine having, your grocery bill will decrease by about half, based on the food they constantly bring over, and your son will have a never ending supply of cookies (I'm not sure if I love that point, but Bronson sure does...)

Plus, they will put up with your chickens roaming throughout their yard (and house), not mind all of the random boards that pile up in their driveway, watch your son while you cook, and sometimes even help you with your laundry (especially if it starts raining while you are out).

To top it all off, you will be lulled to sleep every night by the sound of their warm laughter and neighborhood-wide hospitality.

If anyone tells you Antriol, Bonaire is the ghetto, they have never visited Kaya Fidelia #11.

P.S. If you are lucky enough to get a Dominican landlord, don't forget to yell to them 'hey, compadre - que lo que?!' in your deepest, roughest, Dominican accent. They'll love it.

Tip #2

Find some big, old windsurf boards (most everyone here calls them "barge's" - I guess because of how ancient and massive they are). Try any local windsurf shop, or just keep your eyes peeled as you're driving places. Both of ours were found on the way to the dump. Fiberglass any holes or dings so that they are water tight...

(I would explain how to do this step, but, unfortunately, I am unaware of it's procedure. That is the job of my McDreamy. Fiberglass is, to him, like epoxy is to my father: the all-encompassing panacea, for defects ranging from the minuscule board ding to the extensive whole body car restoration... )

Then voila! You've just cheated the system and gotten a normally $1000+ paddle board for about $20 of fiberglass repair equipment.

Then use the leftover fiberglass to adhere a piece of wood to an old windsurf boom (also found at the dump), hacksaw it (the boom) in half (again, the job for McDreamy) and you've got the best date-on-a-plank you can come by. Paddle out to Klein Bonaire, and watch, like a kid in a candy shop, as 20+ turtles swim underneath you. Wave to the Dee and Joe as you pass their Trimaran (The Woodwind), and take a swim in the best (ok - this is my opinion) snorkel spot on Bonaire.

Oh...and don't forget the water-wings for your son. He will more than likely jump off your board when he sees an 'ishy' (bronsonian for fish).


P.S. This board will also be handy as you try to teach yourself how to windsurf. Those teeny-tiny boards all the professional's ride...you know - the ones that make windsurfing look so easy...well, yeah. They're not as easy as they look...

Tip #1:

Buy chickens. It will likely be one of the only times in your life that you will live in an area that allows you to do so, and they are terrific pets. Not going to lie, it has taken me a while to get used to the after-rain stench that occasionally wafts into the house, but the two to three fresh eggs I pull out of their cage daily more than compensates this vice. And there is nothing cuter than your son, strutting around, garbling like a chicken. Well, except for the times when he comes up to you with big, betrayed, puppy-dog eyes, finger extended and pouting 'ouch', all because while he was happily feeding them they got too excited and pecked his finger a bit...

don't worry, all their beaks have been filed, so it really doesn't hurt as much as it scares....

new leaf...

Slow and steady wins the race...right? RIP Stinky (unless your still alive out there)

 So it’s a new year, and we’re supposed to turn over new leaves, right? I think the last time I consistently kept a journal was in High School, so I guess this is as new as it gets. And leaf – well, I guess electronic book pages aren’t considered ‘leaves’…but, it’s close, eh?

Journal keeping is something my McDreamy (this nickname was coined by a classmate, so I can't claim it...) has always been good at. He is especially against me reading it, though, not because he has secrets in it, rather just that he’s a little embarrassed by it or something…I’m not really sure…anyway, being the wonderful, sweet, obedient wife that I am, the second he is out of the house (and I’m not busy doing other things), I love ripping it open and pouring over (deciphering, really, as his penmanship is rather rough and fast) what he has written…I’m usually pretty disappointed after these moments of true child-like mischief, however, as he usually just accounts our everyday hum-drum experiences…I mean what’s that all about!? Aren’t secret journals supposed to be emotion-filled and juicy? Despite this, I still rip it open when it’s left unattended, as sneakily as ever, and am occasionally satisfied with a wife-brag section (can you blame me?)

Anyhow, now it is my turn. And this one won’t be secret.

The main reason why it has taken me this long to rekindle my oh-so-important-journal-writing flame, though, is that every time I decide to start again, I instantly feel overwhelmed. I realize how much and I need to write this thought and post this picture and tell this story and oh how could I leave this out and oh she’ll want me to include this and….

I end up immediately shutting the book – better to just not begin. There’s too much to tell, and not enough time. Or at least that’s how I justify myself.

As I creep on my friend’s facebook page.

Not enough time…

So here I am, starting again, with these thoughts of no time again rising out of my head, all while my heart desperately tries to relinquish them. Luckily my fingers type faster than my head thinks.

Funny, though. This time, I’m not as worried about getting everything written as I am about making it an extraordinary beginning. Along with journal-writing, a new goal I’ve made for myself this year is reading more ‘classics’. Oliver Twist and Jane Eyre have such splendid, romantically tragic beginnings. If only I could begin my journal in the same way as some classic romance, perhaps all of the stories left out would be recompensed. Of course, both of these characters were orphans...and fictional...hmmm...

All I have is a stream of consciousness, rival to Virgina Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway.

So, I’ll be brief. I am a mother of an almost two year old, chicken-clucking, cat-loving, lego-skyscraper-building, best-hug-giving boy, Bronson (yes, as in Charles), and a wife of my ruggedly handsome, best-dad-achieving, do-it-yourself-ing, any-board-sport-mastering, medical-school-going Dev. Maybe I’m biased, but I’m pretty darn lucky. And me? I’m a stay-at-home mom living in the Caribbean while my previously mentioned McDreamy does medical school, finishing my own graduate degree (MS in Education) online during Bronson's nap-time. Isn’t the internet incredible?

Anyway, in this blog/journal I’ll write about our lives here in Bonaire, medical school (and medical-school wives) tips, Caribbean living tidbits, and the ever-exciting tales associated with a little ball of energy (i.e. my son). Maybe I’ll even throw in little flashbacks of our past, just so I’m taking care of that unfinished business…it would coordinate well with my Mrs. Dalloway stylings, so who knows?

I guess it depends on whether my friends have anything good posted on their facebook statuses….