Yesterday was my birthday.

I am now the rich, old age of 33. Depending on the perspective I hold at any given moment, I can either view myself as still quite young with a full life of potential in front of me, or, I can throw myself into the pit of despair because I am old. I can honestly say, "I remember twenty years ago..." and actually have real, live memories of twenty years ago, not just made up memories from the newspaper slider at the library. Also, my "twenty years ago" memories are nearing the point where I was an adult when I made them. I'm not quite there, but it's getting close. At this point, my twenty years ago memories are limited to jelly shoes, mile-high back-combed bangs, and acid washed jeans. Not entirely stellar.

My husband asked me yesterday if I felt like I was 33. My answer struck even me as profound. I said, "I'm not sure what 33 is supposed to feel like, but I've lived quite the life already that I really should be 33 by now."

The dawning of my birthday found me in the capital city, suffering with a terrible cold. The night before, I had hinted to my husband that I would like to be given a cup of Echinacea and Raspberry tea upon waking. Barely had I cracked my swollen eyes open, when I was presented with a steaming cup of freshly steeped tea. Already, it was a beautiful day.

After getting ready to go out, we piled into the car and ordered coffee to go from an American-style cafe in town on our way out to a popular tourist attraction. Armed with a sweetened-to-perfection Cafe-Americano, I relaxed back into my seat, enjoying the sights of an ancient village. We wandered around a long-ago palace, imagined what it would be like to live in a place with such steep stairs (buns of steel! no cellulite!), and moved on to the center of the city for some shopping. We ate a simple lunch of grilled meat, bread, and tea literally in the middle of a traffic jam while balancing ourselves on a rickety old metal bench.

Sufficiently knackered from a carb-rich lunch (is there any other kind in this country?), it was time for the well-loved birthday nap. Ninety glorious minutes of uninterrupted sleep were followed by bath time for the kids (never a chore to get Charlie and Lola into the tub - they usually have themselves stripped down to their knickers before I have even turned the water knobs) and a leisurely shower for myself. I got dressed and even make-uped in time to be taken out on the town alone with the love of my life. Charlie and Lola went on a date themselves with two especially attractive women for a pizza feast. I, on the other hand, mmm'ed and ahhhh'ed my way through my first spinach salad in 8 months and enjoyed a plate full of mushroom steak, grilled vegetables and fries - all for less than $10. That's what I'm talking about!

We met up with Charlie, Lola and their entourage at our favourite amusement park. Our plan was to take in yet another game of bowling but our plans were foiled by a massive party put on by VW to launch a new car model. I did, however, sit in the new car, allowing my inner sweet-16 self to squeal with delight... "You bought me a car?!?!!!!"... even if it was just for a moment. This was all followed by another indulgence at our new favourite dessert/coffee cafe run by miracle workers of chocolate mousse. If everyone could have a bite of this dessert, there would be no conflict in the world. Seriously, the words that went through my mind were "world peace" and "Oh Gawwwwwwwd".

Our dear friends gave me the best present ever of moving the Charlie and Lola's mattresses from our room in the guesthouse to their room, leaving us free to have a late night nibble of Belgian chocolate without the need to muffle the sound of package crinkles. We might have kissed a little.

All told, my birthday was fantastic. But, in reality, the celebrations spanned the length of a week, which just nails the coffin shut in my theory that I'm a princess worthy of epic celebrations of my life. Firstly, my out-of-country friend made me a delicious cheesecake with a contraband ingredient that was to die for. In fact, there are two pieces in my freezer awaiting my future enjoyment. Then there was a surprise birthday party with some loved ones in the capital city, complete with homemade carrot cake and pressies! Today, we rushed home so that we could celebrate with another special family with fresh made omelets (with bacon! shameful but fabulous!) followed by a massive cup of coffee and cheesecake.

One thing is clear, as the numbers are added to my age, my life is just getting richer and richer. The places I've seen and lived in, and more importantly, my family and the friends that have been added to my collection have made my life one that I never regret aging in.

Here's to seeing 34!

After a lot of theorizing, charting, and a randomly added flannel graph, the mystery has all but been solved. The nanny was ruled out. The gardener was ruled out. And my new theory (that I backed with much passion and fervor) about wall jumpers was ruled out.

The landowner's son arrived from out of town and requested a walk-through of the garden. Of course, the topic of the mysteriously disappearing mangoes came up in conversation. After presenting each theory, the final and more accurate "stupid foreigner not collecting the mangoes in time before they rotted" theory was presented and enthusiastically accepted. Apparently, during mango season, the one in charge of the garden is supposed to check the mangoes EVERY DAY and collect the mangoes off the tree, perhaps only one or two each day. Well, I checked on my mango faithfully until I forgot for a number of days and then it was gone, but I don't remember seeing any mangoes under the tree. That part of the mystery was solved when the gardener shared he'd taken 4 - 5 mangoes out to the trash each time he'd been here to take care of the greens.

Looks like I've got mango on my face!

Next year, I'm setting up camp under my mango chosen. When it falls, I'll feel it.

If I had to choose one book of all the books I've read to suggest as one to read, it would definitely be "Life of Pi" by Yann Martel. I love books that have a unique story line and leave me whirling in the wake of the story, wishing that I could grab hold of it again for the first time. My husband often wonders why I cry at the end of a book I've really enjoyed. He reads for knowledge, indulging himself in facts and theories that will prove helpful in future debate or practical application. I, rather, read to enjoy the complexities of characters and the struggles they experience. Their challenges become mine, their losses rip my heart apart, and their mysteries leave me bewildered. As the story draws to a close, I find my eye lingering over words much longer than necessary in order to delay the inevitable: The goodbye. It's the tragedy shared by every book lover. Losing a character that we've grown to love, never to have the chance to peer into their lives through the looking-glass of paper, left to imagine what might become for them. I read "Life of Pi" when I was newly pregnant with Lola. Now, 3 years after her birth, I'm still crashing around the waves of the story's wake.

I pose this question to those that have read "Life of Pi", do you think it really happened? Or was it the tale dreamed up by a boy's mind trying to cope with the trauma of loss?

I, for one, believe in the magical.

Forgive me for the silence. My inbox is not filled with any hate mail, so either my readership is just patiently waiting for a new post or they've given up. I do have a good excuse: international guests. A good friend living in a relatively nearby desert country visited for 3 beautiful days filled with activities such as a chilly mountain-top picnic, dancing in the hail-rain storm, playing a much-loved strategy game multiple times, and enduring a long, potentially dangerous car ride. Our current guest also endured the same car ride but in the opposite direction, plus she lived through a beauty-torture of waxing the armpits followed up by plucking any remaining hair with a tweezer.

I appreciated the feedback that I got on my last post about reading suggestions. I was surprised to see that 3 of the suggestions were already in my wish list, which did uplift my confidence in being able to judge a book by it's 3 line summary. The suggestions included the Twilight Series by Stephenie Meyer, 'Eat, Pray, Love' by Elizabeth Gilbert, and, of course, The Lord of the Rings trilogy. I read an article online about must-reads. I'm not sure who compiled the list or where they got the suggestions from, but one of them was 'Gone with the Wind' by Margaret Mitchell and another 'The Stand' by Stephen King.

Breathless and grateful, I accepted a gift of three brand new books specially purchased just for me by my first guest. Having given her no clear direction in what I liked in books, she chose to introduce me to a favourite-of-hers series by Anne Perry. I've been savouring each word over the past few days, not wanting to read too quickly and take advantage of this special treat. I have been known to take 2 hours to eat one piece of cheesecake in the past - taking a nap mid-eating in order to prolong the experience - because, at the time, cheesecake was something to be cherished. I like to draw out the pleasurable. Reading is definitely pleasurable especially when the novel is deliciously wordy.

Today, I received word that another book is on the way, scheduled to arrive in two short weeks. More importantly, this book will hail the return of a great friend. Almost as sweet as a well told story is the company of an understanding friend. Coupled together, it may well be the opening of the heavens and the flooding of blessing.

Fearing further empty silences, I return to the pages of Anne Perry's pen and a plate full of fresh chocolate chip cookies.

If I didn't know any better from the various sources and ears to the ground I have around the world, I would think I have only one or two faithful readers. That is, if I reserved my judgement based solely on the emails I receive in response to something I've written. I know it's hard not to have the comments section activated because, like me, many people comment not so much for the comment's sake but for the attention that is garnered from said comment. When the comment is made for an entire audience of one, the gratification isn't quite as sweet. I get it.

I feel a bit like a big elephant peering down at a small spec, beseeching a small creature to come out of hiding, "Come on lil fellah! Don't be afraid!"

The reason I'm asking for some feedback is because when it comes to books, I'm completely lost, but I really, really, really want to read something. I've been visiting Amazon.com, searching through the bestsellers and the bargain bins, and I'm really not sure what is great reading and what isn't. One of my two faithful ego boosters wrote to me recently about how she's nearly finished reading a book series. This comment got me thinking, "What are other people reading?" So, I kindly request for an email listing your favourite books, your personal "must reads" and your "currently reading".

I can't tell you what a feel of desperation ensnares a book lover when there are absolutely no books in a familiar language available for purchase, borrowing, or theft. Not that I would steal, but I'm nearly getting to that point. I won't say that I would be able to leave a book untouched that I spotted abandoned in a coffee shop. I'm a desperate reader with nothing but Charlie's book collection to raid. Have you seen my "currently reading" in the top corner? Lemony Snicket? One, it's a children's book. Two, they are utterly and entirely depressing. I feel guilty for forcing Charlie to read 2 chapters a day of these books. How can a 7 year old stand under the pressure of such gloom every day? Those poor orphans never get a break, and I can only ever picture Jim Carrey with one big, gray eyebrow whenever Count Olaf is mentioned. The journey is getting a bit tiresome and I need a reprieve. Help me!

I will now begin to hit refresh on my email account until I have a sufficient amount of choices that I can confidently add to my wish list.

In advance, I thank you. My eyes thank you. My imagination thanks you. And this weary, vocabulary-dry mind thanks you.

**edited to correct spelling mistake. drrrrr

Remember when I wrote about how my husband and I are so compatible that we have the same thoughts about our hotel plans (chocolate mousse!)?

Today, he came into the kitchen and offered to do a guest spot on my blog about this little situation with a dude from another country calling our home phone number to flirt with me. I said, "You've aready been mentioned on my blog recently," which was met by surprise on his part and then pitter pattering of feet to go and read what I said about him. A few minutes later, he comes back and says, "I didn't know our night away was for our anniversary!" So much for being connected and finishing each other's thoughts.

But this miscommunication (or rather, complete brain-out on white boy's part) explains his lack of being sweet to me this morning. I really thought that he'd do something special for breakfast - make the coffee at least! Rather, my morning looked something like this: be pestered by the kids incessantly until I finally get up (I want breakfast, I have to pee, my ankle just detached from my leg and I'm bleeding on the beige carpeting in the living room! You know the drill). I stumbled around, getting breakfast together: cleaning out the french press from the previous day's coffee, firing up the stove to fry eggs, slicing the buns, putting jam on them, getting juice out (for myself ) because I was pissed and wanted to subtly show him that I was and have him GET it - "No juice? Ohhh... she's mad about goes into great detail and understanding about my beef with the ish at hand." Twas a brilliant plan, except that he didn't get it, and just happily got his own juice and even carried my plate and coffee out to the balconey as if that was going to make me forget about how he didn't make up for the dashed plans of the previous night (or morning - remember my favourit part of going away? Easing into the day? Enjoying a quiet, no-hassle breakfast?)

Apparently, my passive aggressive techniques need some work and my husband needs hearing aids. I distinctly remember telling him that "we should celebrate our annivesary before the big month of fasting because then it just gets awkward with eating in public and all that." Maybe he thought I was referring to the anniversary of a large computer software company's research arm. That figures.

Well, maybe we do need these extra 14 day after all.

**edited to close a bracket. drrrr

I am going to a girlfriend's house this afternoon for tea and a movie. I haven't been to her house on my own before because in the past she has sent her driver to pick me up. I phoned her for directions, and it reminded me of how much I love directions in the this country. No one really has an address because there are not many streets that have names and no buildings have numbers. It would be a bit difficult since the buildings are built on top of the other.

Directions to my friend's house:
- Go down from the hospital
- You will see a cemetery.
- If you walk a little down from there, you will see a big blue door.
- Enter big blue door and go upstairs.

When we first moved here, my husband called a friend for directions to Charlie's new school. One part of the directions was, "when you see a bumpy road on your right, turn down there." I still think of those early days, looking at the directions with a "WTF???" expression on my face and wondering how the heck we were going to find our way with the verbal equivalent of a paper clip spinner as a compass. But it works! I have no doubt that I'll find my way to my friend's house and have an enjoyable afternoon. I even know my way home! (my husband is on speed dial har har)

Our big plans for a getaway have been set on the back-burner. My friend, the one that had offered to have Charlie and Lola over for a sleepover so that we could have a night to ourselves, called me to say that she would have to cancel our plans because her grandmother had died and she was trying to find tickets to fly out tomorrow morning.

Of course, I was the supportive and understanding friend. The way she talked about her grandma remined me about how I feel about mine. When we moved to the desert, we knew that it would be a harsh adjustment, and in the hardest of times any excuse to return to our homeland would be a good one. That is why we made our "short list". As morbid is as it sounds, we have a list of people that we will return home to attend their funeral. If they aren't on the list, we won't return home. I must say that I was tempted to return home when I heard the Mr. Baskin of Baskin and Robbins ice cream fame had died. Instead, I bought a gallon of ice cream and counted it a joy to celebrate the achievements of his life. Plus, calories don't exist when honouring someone's memory, right?

Anyway, my grandma is on my short list. I missed my maternal grandmother's funeral and I've always regretted it, so I understand why my friend needs to go home for her family.





Laying in bed after a swim and eating chocolate mousse while watching the Olympics: FAIL

This time of year brings two special occassions: my birthday and our wedding anniversary. My husband has lucked out because he can do one special event that covers both. This year, we've taken our friends up on the generous offer of having both Charlie and Lola over for a sleepover while we stay at the only nice hotel in town. My big plans include swimming, eating two bowls of chocolate mousse, and watching the Olympics. My favourite part of a night away is the breakfast. I can leisurely wake up, adjusting to the fact that I must leave the precious land of dream to face another 16 hours of reality. Then, when I'm good and ready, I make my way to the breakfast buffet where I can stroll along, casually looking at the food and choosing what I feel like eating. I don't have to contend with children running from one end of the restaurant to the other and whining, "I want pancaaaaaakes." Instead, I head to my table, pour myself a cup of coffee and immediately start eating! I don't have to cut anyone's food. I don't have to deal with any table-dramas. I can dig into my food while it's still hot. It's my rare chance to be selfish and self serving without any consequences.

Our anniversary isn't actually until the beginning of September, but since the month of fasting that turns life here upside down begins at exactly that same time, we decided to celebrate early. After 13 years of marriage, what's an extra or minus 14 days?

Yes, you read that right. We've been married for thirteen years! Our marriage is now growing little pubic hairs of its own, getting embarrassed when it's voice cracks, making daring, yet, unfortunate fashion choices, having awkward conversations with other marriages its age, and just passed the babysitting course for baby marriages! Don't get me started on the oily skin and acne!

Thirteen years, that is a significant length of time. Do you know what? I wouldn't change my choice of spouse. I still get belly butterflies when I see my husband - especially if he's wearing his hot, power suit. He's the one that I run to first for advice and support. I can relax and be myself, share my dreams even if they are unrealistic, and I love it when I get him to really giggle. One thing I can't do is share my mourning period with him after I've finished a book. He doesn't get how I can be so emotionally involved with people that are "just characters. They aren't real." I'd like to see what Harry Potter would do to him if he heard that bit of nonsense. Just characters. Pffft!

All in all, though, I'd say that we are pretty compatible. So compatible that as I was in the midde of typing the words "chocolate mousse", my husband's voice cut through the silence from across the room saying, "All I want to do is lay in bed and eat two bowls of chocolate mousse. Maybe even some chocolate cake."

To my love: I'm so glad it's you.

I don't know where it came from, but Charlie got it into his head somehow that he wanted to buy a mini-bar fridge for his bedroom. We told him fine, as long as he paid for it himself. He seemed to take the offer as a great idea and stood up straighter in light of the challenge. However, reality hit him like a ton of bricks when we went to the appliance store to pick out the new fridge. As we looked our way through some models, Charlie also purused through the selections, carefully opening each door an noting the various features of each one. He was devasted to learn that the fridge of his choice cost $250, but the real blow came when he realized that he had less than $5 in his wallet. Instead of asking himself, "Why did I get sucked in by the wiley ways of the girl that I love and buy all those shells that I could have gotten for free at the beach on my own?" Charlie kept dragging me back to that fridge, hoping that either the ticket price would magically change itself or mommy would relent and buy it for him anyway. The embarrassment for me began when he folded his arms over a glass-topped deep freeze, smearing his snot this way and that as he sobbed over the injustices of this world (when he should have been throwing his fist in the air and shouting, "Get far from me, harlot, I will not be taken by your charms and give you my money. Ever! Again!") One of the salesmen came by to ask what was wrong, and again, I found myself in a situation where I had to haltingly try to explain an awkward situation in a language that I've refused to practice for the last 2 weeks because I'M ON HOLIDAY! Charlie did end up getting a free soda out of the his sobbing from the shop keeper. Usually I don't accept such gift-in-the-face-of-crying offerings, but I felt inclined to accept the offered soda as three were brought - one for Charlie, one for Lola, and one for my husband (it's not polite for women to drink in public, not even water, unless you are in a restaurant behind a "family section" curtain, but I was in an appliance store. No soda for you!).

People here really can't stand to see children cry. They will give the child anything to stop crying because? It's painful to hear them cry? They just want to make them happy? God didn't create children for sorrow? I'm not sure what the logic or philosophy is behind shoving candy and whatever else it is they are crying over into their faces to just STOP THE CRYING ALREADY, but it really isn't something that is helpful to a parent that holds to the thinking that we shouldn't give a child everything they want. Especially when the child is crying! I'm sure there are many a wagon-filled-with-candy merchant in the downtown core that think I'm the nastiest woman alive because I will not accept candy when my children are crying. When Lola sees one artificially coloured sugar pop that she desperately wants, asks for it and is denied, her immediate reaction is to open her mouth and let out the greatest squeal known to man that you would think her leg is being pulled in such a way that the flesh has ripped, yet the tendons are still in tact but being stretched out and out and out until they finally SNAP! No, I will not reward this type of behaviour with exactly what she wanted in the first place just so that she will stop crying. And, yet, some people wonder why their children throw things, yell incessantly, don't listen, won't obey, etc, ect. (I'm not saying my kids are perfect because oh-my-gosh they aren't because oh-my-gosh I'm not)

*breathe*

Charlie slumped his way out of the store, reality weighing heavily on his shoulders as he grasped the bottle of free soda that he hadn't even touched. Lola bounced along behind him with a mouth stained pink from the weeping soda. She didn't have to throw a tantrum this time and she got sugar!

The conversation about the fridge in Charlie's room is still on-going. I don't think he understands how long it's going to take to save up for such a large purchase. Even today, he went with his dad to buy some eggs (so I could make banana pancakes for lunch! Num!) and just before leaving he said, "I should get my wallet in case I see a fridge that I can buy."

I wonder how many more free sodas I can get out of this life lesson.

Living in a new culture, no matter where you are from and where you are settling, can pose many challenges especially when adjusting to the new culture also brings along the daunting task of learning a new language. It's all fun and games at the beginning when you can learn charming facts about your neighbour and impress the local merchant as if you were a dancing monkey. But there always comes a point in the learning process when the student realizes that he/she doesn't know very much at all. This dilemma usually presents itself when one is feeling angry towards an injustice, most likely personal, and to explain oneself is especially difficult.

I usually find myself faced with this when dealing with money. See, a lot of people here don't work on an hourly wage, rather relying on the generosity of the temporary employer to determine the amount given. This system lends itself to all sorts of problems, especially when one does not know what a good price is, but it is especially frustrating when one knows an appropriate rate, yet the person is insisting on a ridiculously inflated price.

Sometimes, with limited language skills, I come out the other side a winner. Take for instance story #1:

I was taking a Photoshop course (the poor instructor realized as the class began that he was the only male, teaching a class full of women. He didn't laugh when I tried to suggest that I didn't know how to turn on the mouse for my laptop) for two days. The first evening I caught a cab with a girlfriend, she being dropped off first and me being driven up the mountain to my home. (It was a bit disconcerting when the taxi driver said that he knew my home. How does he know my home?) Our taxi cab fare was the equivalent of $2. The next evening, I again caught a cab home with a friend, but a different friend this time. Her home was more on the way to my home than my friend's house from the previous night. I haltingly told the cab driver where we wanted to go and he gave me the price equivalent to $6! I wanted to shout, "Just because I'm a woman and a foreigner doesn't mean that I'm an idiot! I know the going rate." I argued with him for a moment, and even told my friend to "Walk! We can find another cab!" Finally, he relented to the price I requested - $2.50. It was a win moment for me! I had successfully argued with this MAN on the price of the cab fare, and came out the other side of the argument successful.

Other times, the situation doesn't resolve itself so nicely for us. Take this story from two days ago:
My husband likes to randomly and spontaneously take on new tasks. He could be sitting, writing emails and at a moment's notice decide that now is the time to defrost the back-up fridge! This time, however, he came shuffling back into the kitchen, shoulders slumped, looking defeated. He looked at me sadly and said, "I killed the fridge." I'm not sure what he had been doing exactly, but he punctured the freon line. We knew the day would come when this fridge would breathe its last because the door had never sealed shut properly, causing the motor to run constantly, but we didn't expect its end to come so soon. A few days later, we found a replacement fridge and anticipated its delivery later in the afternoon. Much to our surprise, the fridge was delivered close to the time previously negotiated (a minor miracle in a land where the "will of God" is the excuse for everything agreed upon with no intention to complete the task). Two men were present for the delivery - the driver and the lifter. After the job was done, the time had come for payment. We have only lived here for 7 months. Not enough time has gone by to make us forget that when we ordered a crapload of appliances (fridge, stove, washing machine, etc) we paid a certain amount to the driver and a certain amount to the man that lifted everything. This time around, in a spirit of generosity my husband paid the lifter 5 times the amount that he remembers paying last time. Does the man offer words of thanks? No. He turns to my husband and says, "This isn't enough. I need more." My husband's reply was, "I might be a foreigner but I'm not stupid, yeah?" Even the driver was saying, "It's enough. Stop." But the guy kept insisting. When I saw my husband come inside to grab an extra bill, I was livid! The extra amount wasn't very much, but that wasn't the point. The point is that I knew what we had paid previously. I knew what the fair price was, but still this man was demanding more! Demanding!

It's been bothering me a lot the past couple of days. This injustice of the foreign tax and my inability to really rebut the unfair treatment. In response to my frustration vent, my husband relayed another story of an attempted "cash grab from the foreigner" and he said, "Whenever someone here sees an opportunity to get more money out of me, they take it." From the guy who washes our car, demanding more money when we already pay above his regular rate to someone in high up places lying about the payments he gets from another company in a greedy attempt to flush out some extra cash, it can all get very overwhelming at times. Now is one of those times.

I'm not a smart man, Jenny, but I know what love is.

And I know how much I should pay for a freaking cab fare!

The world being what it is today, I've decided not to publish the real names of my children. This is to protect them from whatever boogie men this paranoid mind can conjure up, and to also, well, just to protect them.

Instead of their true monikers, I have decided to use their favourite television characters as host names: Charlie and Lola. These characters are also a brother and sister team; their age difference very similar to my own children's. Charlie is a good brother that often finds himself in the position of needing to guide Lola through the trials and lessons of life, and he's so sweet about it. The only thing missing in my own children is the adorable British accent. If my daughter really spoke like Lola, I just might smother her and squish her to her demise. Lola's accent is just too much. I love it! I guess the good Lord above knew what he was doing when he didn't bless my children with sweet British accents**. He knew they wouldn't survive. They are lucky to have lived as long as they have under my parentage as it is!

**side note: Has anyone seen the movie "August Rush"? And was anyone else confused how a small boy, raised in a New York orphanage for all his life, managed to have a British accent? If we are supposed to believe that his accent is genetic, then why didn't he have an Irish accent like his father, or an American English accent like his mother?

Look what we did!

Little Lola just wouldn't listen, so we pierced her.

No. However, I did bribe her with a bag of Skittles and said, "Look how pretty and shiny these earrings are? Wouldn't it be nice if they were stuck to your ears always? Oh look! A purple Skittle!"

She sat on my knee, and very bravely waited for the first round. The look of shock and betrayal on her face was heartbreaking. Her daddy had "prepared" her for the pain by softly pinching her arm and saying, "It will feel like this." You don't want to know how he prepared me for childbirth (he dropped a feather from ceiling height and as it touched my belly, he said, "Contractions will feel like this.") I didn't want Lola to go around with only one ear pierced. How lame would that be? So, I did something that was justified in the moment: braced her head still against my chest and bit my lip really hard.

After 1/2 an hour in front of the mirror gazing at her lovely earrings, and some Children's Tylenol, Lola is finally happy with the assault and trauma that she had to endure.

Now I understand why people here pierce their daughters ears when they are babies. The smaller the head, the easier the hold.

Do you remember this?

Well, so do I and now that's all I've got: just my memories, my tears, and this rottenly photo-shopped photo.

My mango has been stolen! But that isn't the end of it. There were many, healthy sized mangoes on that tree. I went out to check on them often. Now, two weeks later, they are all gone, save 4 tiny ones. Where have the mangoes gone? That is the real mystery. We aren't sure if we can blame the bats/monkeys because there are no mango carcasses left on the ground underneath the tree, as has happened in the past. My husband suspects the nanny because there was one time when she took a bag of mangoes home. I don't agree with him because the nanny showed me the bag of mangoes before she took them, explaining that they were the ones that had fallen from the tree. I don't think she would start simply taking mangoes without saying anything. She talks to me about everything (even asking if she can take my husband's discarded shirts from the garbage for men in the prison). I think the gardener did it. In the conservatory. With the candlestick. He is mostly blind. He didn't sweep the back walk-way today. He sings weird songs while he works. See? The gardener.

The nanny will be returning tomorrow to do housework, at which time, I will ask her about the mangoes. I'm sure that my non-suspicions will be confirmed and then I can turn my eyes toward the gardener and squint while imagining deep, ominous music playing loudly.

He will pay!

Being that we are situated between a sandpile and a pile of rocks, obtaining water can be a challenge. We do have indoor plumbing, but the water only arrives once a month, or more accurately (as of late), every 50+ days. When we hear the water rushing through the pipes, my knight in shining armour dashes out to the garden and opens the valves of the complicated piping system, allowing the water to fill the 5 tanks that we have on the property in order to store the water until we get another refill 50 days down the line. Unfortunately, the two water sources aren't highly ideal. One is highly brackish and the other is polluted with sewage. Nummy! When brushing my teeth in the morning, I often hum a song to myself about poop water. Nothing starts a day quite like the poop water brush-a, brush-a song.

Poop water isn't so bad, as long as you don't drink it, but it can cause some other complications, like, "How do I wash my fruits and vegetables?" Well, my friends, there is a solution. I must admit, the idea for this post came from my sister-in-law (who I affectionately refer to as "pea-ness") when she emailed me and asked how I clean my produce. She likes to obsessively clean each grape thoroughly, so I thought she'd find this post amusing (and also breathe a sigh of relief that she doesn't have to live here).

STEP ONE:
after rinsing dirt, dust and debris from the apples with infected poop water, place them in a large bowl.

STEP 5: remove produce from now clean but vinegary water, and leave to dry on a tea towel. Drain leftover water into a bucket in the bathroom to be used later for flushing the toilet once the "if it's yellow, let it mellow" is too rancid to stand much longer.