Prior to the last year or so, I’ve never really dated.  I was a serial monogamist–a good girlfriend, meeting my long term boyfriends at work or through friends.  My last relationship, I was friends with the man for a time and then one day realized I liked him liked him.  So I’m fairly inexperienced at the whole single dating scene and I have come to realize one very important thing about myself:  I hate dating.  I mean, I HATE it–more than exercise, more than dieting. I hate dating more than I hate things touching me in the ocean.

In the last year, I’ve gone on dates where the man was 30 minutes late and showed up wearing a multicolored vest.  I’ve had dates where the man was clearly unshowered, a date with a man with bad breath, with a man who told me my D-cup breasts were small (REALLY?!  How big do you want them to be, jeez?!).  I dated a man who told me he didn’t believe male dogs should be neutered, only females, and a man who told me he didn’t ‘believe’ in using condoms (uhhhh…bye bye).  In short, I’ve gone on some  bad dates with men with whom I’m truly incompatible.  I’ve  had ONE great date in the last year, and it was with someone who lives thousands of miles away, so the prospects of a 2nd date are slim, until such time as he comes to visit.

Ironically, it was something my last bad date said that stopped me in my tracks and made me vow to stop kissing frogs.  We were having dinner at my place–I cooked one of those rare, stellar meals where everything came out perfectly–and he stopped in the middle of our conversation and said, ‘Heather, you really impress me.  You’re smart, beautiful, funny, well-traveled, and you can even cook.  You’re really impressive, the whole package.”  I thanked him for the compliment, but later he committed several of the sins I mentioned above (I won’t say which) and I decided not to see him again.

Because he’s right; I am the whole package.  I’m not perfect, but I’m most of the things he mentioned and even more, and I’m always working hard on bettering myself.  Why would I waste my time with someone who doesn’t bring his A game?  I’m not second string, why have I been dating the bench sitters?  It’s not easy to find a good man in Playa del Carmen, but you know what, it’s not easy to find a good girl, either.  I’m rare as a unicorn and until such time as another unicorn appears, I’m not interested in dating at all.

I’m officially off the dating market.  I’m marrying myself. We get along well and the sex is great–and I promise never to leave myself.

(for Nancy Ann)

As a little girl, falling down meant
you would appear like magic,
a petite miracle bearing Band-Aids and hugs,
your voice a gentle hymn that calmed me
You’ve skinned your knee,
Show Grandma where it hurts.

Grown up now, I still want to run
at the sight of these tiny butterfly closures
like wishes holding your wound together.
When the doctors split you open,
sawing through muscle and bone,
they saw something no one else, not even you,
has ever seen–your heart,
fluttering helplessly inside
the cage of your chest like
a broken-winged bird;  your heart
with its unchangeable catalogue of events–
that quickened at the birth of your firstborn son
and, years later, tightened
into a fist of misery when he took his own life,
leaving behind only the space
he once occupied,
a paper doll cut from the page
and lost.

Unlike your jagged paperweight of pain,
my rage has rounded edges;
having no memory of him
allows me to hold his death like a gift,
a wordless warning of what not to do to my children.
For you, these unbalanced years
are still just crooked litanies of grief
that cannot comfort you,
his name indelibly written
in the sacred journal of your heart.

And when I stand here before you,
my arms full of flowers and
the weak salve of my love,
wearing green eyes and bone structure you helped create,
I am doing something I learned early from you:

I am saying Grandma, show me where it hurts
as if it was that easy.

My heart doesn’t look both ways when it crosses the street.  My heart ran away from home at 17 and never looked back.  My heart did all the work but failed to turn in the final paper required to graduate.  My heart sometimes wears its underwear two days in a row and just puts on extra deodorant instead of showering.  My heart is lip-synching, but only knows half the words. My heart once saw David Schwimmer in a crowd at a rock concert or maybe it was Fisher Stevens. My heart always wanted to learn to play drums and still secretly thinks it would be great at it. My heart loves spicy food even when the burn comes later.  My heart is why the caged bird sings.  My heart still plays with Barbies.  My heart took a road trip alone to New Orleans and didn’t once stop to ask for directions. My heart will never believe in the designated hitter.  My heart knows things it will never tell.  My heart listens to Journey when no one else is around.  My heart knows it was Shakespeare who wrote the plays of Shakespeare.  My heart has a list etched into it that contains your name.

My heart is whistling so it can pretend it’s not afraid.

Dear Woman in My Neighborhood Whose Unleashed Dog Got in a Fight with My Leashed Dog,

Look, that sucked.  It was late at night and I was taking my dog out for a walk after having left her alone in my apartment for a number of hours, so she already had anxiety about needing to go pee.  Furthermore, the neighborhood dogs were all howling/barking, so that adds to the drama.  We were just outside my dog’s territory–our house, and as I locked the gate, your small, unleashed dog came bounding up to my dog.  I was apprehensive, since I did not know how your dog would behave or how my dog would react to a strange dog approaching her in the area she already feels bound to protect.

The ensuing dog fight let both of us know how our dogs felt about each other.  After we managed to separate them, as you know, I unleashed verbal fireworks the likes of which Calle 28 has possibly never heard.  While I’m not proud of myself for cursing, I am giving myself a pass because I was so upset at what was such an avoidable occurence.

I certainly didn’t appreciate your coming back around again a bit later to somehow try to make what happened my fault.  I’m sorry you got bit and I’m sorry your dog got hurt–part of why I was so upset is because I don’t enjoy dog fights and I don’t want my dog to either get hurt or hurt another dog.  If we would have been able to calm down later and talk rationally, I would have said these two things:

1.  Don’t ever put yourself in the middle of a dog fight–you are guaranteed to get bitten.  You don’t even know which of the dogs bit you–I kept pulling my dog back, but your unleashed dog just jumped onto her again and again.  At a certain point, it’s got to be on, since I’m not going to just allow my dog to get hurt because you weren’t in control of your animal.

2. Leash your dog, period.  You derisively made remarks about my dog not being perfect and needing a muzzle.  No, my dog’s not perfect.  Dogs are unpredictable, which is why she’s on a leash and always under my control.  My dog doesn’t need a muzzle, your dog needs a leash.

I have stewed about this and felt bad about it for days, but the bottom line is that none of this would have happened if only you had chosen to follow the law and had kept your dog on a leash.  For my part, I promise to try to not come so unhinged should this happen again–I can imagine it was frightening to witness my almost totally out of control temper (totally out of control would have been me hitting you when you touched my dog) and for that, I apologize.

regards,
Heather and Vinnie
Responsible Dog Owner and Normal Dog

See, we're nice when we're not provoked.

Recently, one of my friends posted on Facebook what a good year 2011 had been for him–reading this, I was briefly taken aback because “2011″ and “good year” were such incongruent terms in my life.  It was momentarily hard for me to imagine that a year that had been so full of suffering for me could have been, at the same time, a great year for someone else. Although I am blessed with a sunny outlook and true gratitude for the good in my life, I entered 2011 with a badly broken heart and the ensuing months were an at-times grueling exercise in ‘getting through it.’  It has only been in the last three or four months that I have finally felt the fog dissipating and the heavy concrete lifting from what I thought was its permanent place upon my chest.

Each year, one of my dear friends, Maria, holds a ‘Let it Go’ ceremony on the last day of the year.  In the past, participants would write all over a helium balloon the things they wanted to ‘leave behind’ in the old year and not carry with them into the new year–things like anger, fear, heartbreak, what-have-you.  This year, we learned that balloons cause harm to marine life, so we decided instead to write lists of the things we would be letting go of and burn them, and like the mythical phoenix, our new resolve could rise from the ashes.

We gathered this morning at a small Mayan ruin in Playacar, on an incredibly gorgeous, sunny day across from the sparkling Caribbean Sea.  After a brief, but personal and touching ceremony, each of us burned our lists and let it all go.

My friends, I wish you peace, love, prosperity and good health in this new year and may you find the strength to let go of the things that are weighing you down and holding you back from happiness and the things you want for your lives.  I believe in me and I believe in you, too.

It was a beautiful day to let go

The Lo gets a ride on Kat's strong shoulders

How many years have you seen, dear tree?

I got chills thinking of how many rituals and ceremonies these ruins have seen

Shawn lets go

Burn, baby, burn

Loretta lets go

Kat lets go

Maria lets go

My list was thoughtfully-created and well-burning.

Finally, I would like to leave you with one of my favorite poems by e.e.cummings:

let it go – the
smashed word broken
 open vow or the oath cracked length
wise – let it go it
was sworn to
go

let them go – the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers – you must let them go they
were born
to go

let all go – the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things – let all go
dear

so comes love

I don’t get out much, but last night I went to Bad Boys on the beach between Calles 2 and 4 to see the amazing Brent Parkin and his band playing the kind of rocking Blues that makes it impossible not to tap your feet and wiggle in your seat.  Overwhelmed by the urge, a bunch of folks (including me) got up, kicked off their shoes, and danced themselves silly to the beat.

How I loved watching the parade of humans dancing around me, the noisy, bright, sloppy spectacle, crazily beautiful in its discordance.  We’re fat, we’re skinny, we’re old and young, smart and simple, wrinkled and fresh-faced, but all of us dance and sing, tell jokes, laugh, smile, wink and flirt to get love and attention.  We all need it and deserve it, and if we are true to ourselves there will inevitably be someone–the right someone–to give it to us.  Some of us dance in public with visible scars and the rest of us only with the scars we wear on the inside, but despite the sometimes difficult and painful chore of living and no matter how many times we get knocked down, we get up, we move our bodies, shake our tail feathers, sound our barbaric yawps over the rooftops of the world– announcing that we are here, right now, today.

How could I not love a world so full of hope and faith in the process?  This holiday season, I wish you love and peace in the coming year, and urge you to remember every day that our time here is short, but that our lives matter.   And when someone asks you to dance, you really should just dance.  What harm is there in dancing?

On my first trip to Playa del Carmen in early 2002, sitting in a tourist bar on the then-unpaved 5th avenue, I remember seeing a darling little boy of about 3 years old selling gum to earn a few pesos.  Only the hardest of characters could resist the pathos and everyone in the bar–including me–gave him a fistful of coins.

Several years later, after I’d moved to Playa, I continued to see this boy working the bar circuit, now a bit older and with his skinny ankles and feet sticking out of pants he’d outgrown.  One night, in a seeming effort to appear ‘cool’ or like an old-timer, an ex-pat man with whom I’d become acquainted coldly said (in English the boy could not understand) “Go away, kid.  You’re just not as cute as you used to be, sorry.”

I’ve now lived in Playa del Carmen for over 7 years.  I don’t much visit the tourist zone anymore, but I still from time to time see that boy, who now must be about 12 or 13 years old.  Well past the cute and viable money-making stage, he is now a wisened boss working the streets, managing a core group of little ones who I can only assume are his brothers and sisters or other family members.

Tonight, my memories of this boy put me in mind of a short story I’ve loved for many years, called “Salvador, Late or Early,” by Sandra Cisneros.  Please allow me to share it with you.

Salvador, Late or Early
Salvador with eyes the color of caterpillar, Salvador of the crooked hair and crooked teeth, Salvador whose name the teacher cannot remember, is a boy who is no one’s friend, runs along somewhere in that vague direction where homes are the color of bad weather, lives behind a raw wood doorway, shakes the sleepy brothers awake, ties their shoes, combs their hair with water, feeds them milk and cornflakes from a tin cup in the dim dark of the morning.

Salvador, late or early, sooner or later arrives with the string of younger brothers ready. Helps his mama, who is busy with the business of the baby. Tugs the arms of Cecilio, Arturito, makes them hurry, because today, like yesterday, Arturito has dropped the cigar box of crayons, has let go the hundred little fingers of red, green, yellow, blue, and nub of black sticks that tumble and spill over and beyond the asphalt puddles until the crossing-guard lady holds back the blur of traffic for Salvador to collect them again.

Salvador inside that wrinkled shirt, inside the throat that must clear itself and apologize each time it speaks, inside that forty-pound body of boy with its geography of scars, its history of hurt, limbs stuffed with feathers and rags, in what part of the eyes, in what part of the heart, in that cage of the chest where something throbs with both fists and knows only what Salvador knows, inside that body too small to contain the hundred balloons of happiness, the single guitar of grief, is a boy like any other disappearing out the door, beside the schoolyard gate, where he has told his brothers they must wait. Collects the hands of Cecilio and Arturito, scuttles off dodging the many schoolyard colors, the elbows and wrists crisscrossing, the several shoes running. Grows small and smaller to the eye, dissolves into the bright horizon, flutters in the air before disappearing like a memory of kites.

As many of you know, each Christmas I volunteer my time in the interests of helping local children of lesser means to get their wishes to Santa answered by finding generous and compassionate donors to purchase toys.  For many, if not most of these children, it will be the only gift they will receive all year.

Christmas Dreams Playa, the organization founded by Playa del Carmen locals, is still seeking about 60 gifts for low-income, Special Needs kids.  If you are planning to visit the area and would consider donating a toy or two, please contact the group on Facebook or leave me a comment on this blog.

I dedicate this blog and my efforts this holiday season to that gum-selling boy and the thousands of others just like him all over the world, who  have never gotten to enjoy just being a child, and whose names I will never know.

Photo from the files of Roger Schulz, Playa's 'Santa'

I quit love the way some people quit smoking or drinking–in fits and starts, with backslides and relapses, broken-down, crying promises to myself to do better, to finally get the upper hand and beat this thing that is slowly killing me. Then one day, it hits me.  Some message from God if I believed in Him, from somewhere else because I don’t– maybe a benevolent universe, luck, payback for being patient when old people are telling stories, whatever.  Finally, all the cylinders align and the clarity almost audibly clicks into place.  Afterward, I measure the healing in increments; like an accident survivor learning to walk again–two days here, a week there, and little by little it is two months and then three.  Eventually, I wake up one day and realize I’ve not thought of him in a year or more.  Only then do I know I’m in the clear.

At the end of it all, once I am through the misery and the suffering, when I have strangled the lies of the way things were, quieted the obsessive drone in the brain that says Him, Him, Him and uncovered the hiding places of The Ways In Which He Actually Sucked, I find myself.  Myself, again.  Faithfully intact, with a heart that is still honest and unafraid.

“Let’s do this shit again,” my heart says.

The last of Margie’s puppies, El Niño, has gone to live with Lucy and her family, a woman who works in my apartment building.  I felt good about this adoption, since Lucy often brings her young son to work with her, who loves dogs and often plays with my own dog, Vinnie.

My new name is Bruno.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have a camera with me when I took El Niño to his new home, so I have no photographs of him with his new family.  As I walked back to the car to drive away and leave him, my arms and my heart felt strangely light and empty.  It was weird to realize that we were at the end of that race, that we had done it, that all four of Margie’s puppies we’d been given charge over had been brought to good health and had found new homes.

I credit and give thanks to my dear friend, Russell Granger, for having the heart and compassion to assume the commitment and responsibility of caring for these defenseless animals and heeding Mahatma Gandhi’s call to ‘be the change you want to see in the world.’  Russell, I’ve said it many times and I will say it again:  I learn so much from you and aspire every day to be more like you.

I can’t be remiss in thanking Coco’s Cat Rescue for their support, nor the support of the hundreds of people who read Margie’s story on this blog, Facebook, or Playa.info.  Your good wishes, donations, and help in getting these pups adopted were invaluable.

Only Margie remains homeless, but she is being well cared for by foster dad, Russell, while we continue to search for the perfect home for her.  Russell said that after each of her puppies left, she would look for the missing pup for a couple of days, but is now a healthy, playful, active dog.  For the first time in her short life, Margie gets to run, jump, play, and simply be a dog.  No more worrying about starvation, illness, or caring for puppies.

Smart Margie. When she needs to go out, but Russell's not up yet, she gently nibbles his toes to wake him up

It’s hard to believe it has been just two months since this family came into my life in such a significant way.

Family meal time

My blog will now move on to other topics, but I will carry this story in my heart for the rest of my life.  Goodbye, puppies.  I will never forget you.

From left to right, Monkey, Chiquita, El Nino, Sophia

*all photos by Russell Granger.  Of course.

While we were unable to find a pet escort flying to Seattle, Laura from Coco’s Cat Rescue came up with the great idea to fly Sophia with a willing pet escort who was flying from Cancun to Vancouver, BC, by way of Dallas.  Once in Vancouver, Sophia would be fostered for 4 days before her new adoptive family could drive from Seattle to pick her up.  My dear friend, Leasa, immediately volunteered to foster Sophia in her home near Vancouver (in fact, she practically threatened bodily harm if I DIDN’T allow her to foster for a few days) , and then offered to drive to meet the new adoptive family that weekend on the US side of the border, to save them some time.

Friends, getting this puppy to her new adoptive home was truly a triumph of teamwork and compassionate collaboration. On Tuesday, August 16, Russell and I drove Sophia over to the Vidas clinic site, where Andrea from CANDi was waiting to bring her to the airport to meet the pet escort she’d found, a kind lady named Susan who is apparently a veteran pet escort.

Laura from Coco's takes a break from her Vidas duties to give Sophia a hug goodbye

Andrea from CANDi and Sherry from VIDAS smooch Sophia for good luck on her journey

This is where it got a little ugly.  I had been so focused on finding a way to get Sophia to Seattle and her new adoptive parents that I hadn’t gotten around to realizing we were actually going to have to give her up.  Sophia turned out to be the most wonderful puppy, so playful, but relaxed and obedient–a true joy to be around.  As I held her that morning, reality started to set in and I felt these very strong, conflicting emotions building up in me–true joy in knowing she would be in a loving home, combined with tremendous sadness that I would no longer get to know her. Finally, I couldn’t help it anymore.  I cried.

I do believe Russell's photo perfectly captured my happy/sad state.

Sophia is so clever, she drove herself to the airport

Andrea let us know later that Sophia was great on the ride to the airport, apart from barfing all over the place. Once at the airport, Andrea made the puppy ‘handoff’ to Susan.  Susan reported that Sophia was a perfect angel on the both the flight to Dallas and the subsequent one to Vancouver.  She apparently charmed everyone so much that Susan was allowed to have her snuggling on her lap for much of the flight.

Susan showing off Sophia napping in her carrier, hugging her favorite toy between her paws

My friend Leasa met Susan late that evening at the airport in Vancouver to take Sophia to her temporary home.

As Russell said, she's come a loooong way from the chicken coop!

Sophia giving her foster mom, Leasa, some loves

It didn’t take Sophia long to make herself right at home at Leasa’s.  After a brief standoff, Leasa’s dog Moses even took to liking Sophia.  Leasa reported that Sophia was a lovely houseguest, doing her business outside like she should and being a good, well-behaved little pup…except for barfing in the car on the way home from the airport (Poor Sophia!).

Sophia immediately made herself at home on the couch (Russell, don't look!)

Do you remember what it felt like the first time you ever rolled around in soft, green grass?

Look, Lady, you're not getting me off this grass for a while, so just give up.

Sophia even got to go to work with Leasa

First time at the beach!

Leasa had to do some back-to-school shopping for her kids, which she normally does in the US, so she arranged to meet Sophia’s adoptive parents, Traci and Josh, across the border in Bellingham, WA.  Understandably, Sophia was a little freaked out by all the changes she’d been going through, but Traci didn’t report any barfing in the car, so perhaps Sophia’s acclimating to vehicular travel.

Ok, big guy, I'm a little shy right now, but give me a few minutes and I'm gonna adore you.

Traci and Josh's dog, Howie, didn't think much of Sophia that first or second day

...But Traci came home from work the next day to this happy little crew. Well, Howie still looks a little put out, but he'll fall in love with Sophia eventually, everyone does.

Traci says Sophia (whom they are now calling 'Sophie') reminds her of a spider

Both Russell and I miss Sophia, but have been happy to monitor her adventure from afar.  Leasa and Traci have been just wonderful to share with us photos and videos of Sophia’s transition–thank goodness I am facebook friends with them both!

From the bottom of my heart, I would like to thank everyone who had a hand in helping Sophia get to a home where she will be cherished, cared for, and loved.  Knowing people like you is what keeps me tied to this earth.