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!