10 Reasons You Might Confuse Cabo San Lucas With Paradise:

#1. Everybody from the Bus Driver to the Concierge to the Street Vendor to the person on the next towel at the beach treats you like family. Royal family.

A snapshot from one of our walks.

#2. Morning temperature 75 degrees. Midday temperature 85 degrees. Evening temperature 70 degrees.

#3. The price of admission is high, but you find yourself willing to pay the price.

View from our table at our favorite lunch spot.

#4. Palm trees, white caps, sunlight reflecting on the water, casual barefoot strolls along the beach and an occasional whale breaching in plain sight from the shore.

Something about the cute towel creatures in our room everyday made me smile.

#5. Fresh, warm, homemade tortillas.

The head of the Portuguese Man-of-War sticking out of the sand that was inches a way from my foot when a kind fellow beach goer pointed it out.

#6. Nobody is wearing a watch.

#7. Seriously, I didn't see any watches!

#8. Some Cabo-rific magic spell comes over you and makes you feel young, well-rested, newly-wed, stress-free, care-free, and as if time has stalled at the best possible moment. (thus, no watches?)

#9. Fish tacos, Mexican hot chocolate, and cheesecake in abundance. (Okay, I may have been personally responsible for the abundant cheesecake.)

And #10... It is exponentially better than you can imagine it to be, there is no description that will do it any justice, and there is no substitution for a personal trip.

The What and the Why

The "What"

is the defiling of our rather substantial front door by our neighborhood yellow pages handyman.

The "Why"

is the front door naughtiness that has been going on at our house.

Toddler + Chair + Muscles + Brain = Naughtiness

Observe:

Until finally he surrenders himself to the authorities...

Elapsed Time: Approx. 10-15 minutes including the total body wrestling required to transport said toddler back to safety.

And now...

The new and improved version:

Can I get an "Awwwww..." from the audience?

Elapsed time: ZERO! In fact, I am probably still reading my book on the couch or cooking dinner or...?

Now, if I could only figure out who to call about the crib escapes...

Normal.

Normal is a curious concept.

Example: I walked in on my girls cleaning up.
(Okay, the cleaning up part is not exactly normal for them, but stay with me...)
They were playing music very loudly on a cd player they had borrowed and relocated from another place in the house. The lights were turned off. The disco ball was turned on and swirling multi-colored lights around the room. The girls were dancing wildly while they tossed laundry into their hamper and made their beds.

This made me smile.

1. Because my girls were cleaning (wha?!)
2. Because this is exactly how I clean (sans disco ball & lights off - every parent dreams of their children "one-upping" right?)
3. Because my children consider this perfectly normal.

I love our brand of normal!

Also NORMAL:

*Singing showtunes at breakfast. Loud. Uninhibited. Between Bites. Will it be Annie, Wicked or Sound of Music or Scarlet Pimpernel this morning?
*Trash talking over board games. "You're going down!" "Prepare to lose!" and "Up for a good whomping?" Are typical game starters.
*Losing a hand if you dare encroach on the perimeter of another family member's popcorn bowl.
*Ice Chomping and Straw Biting.
*Ignoring the telephone. Because we can.
*Hugging in Excess. Each other. Our Neighbors. Our Friends & Extended Family. Our Cat (She is not fond of this). Random strangers who give us directions...
*The understanding that Thrifty's Chocolate Malted Crunch ice-cream can instantly cure any brand of hurt, sadness, or state of unwell.

What's normal at your house?

C'mon!!!

Is anybody else sad about this?

Karina is my favorite,

and I am just a little afraid
(read: certain, and sad about the absolute fact)
she may not be around as long as I would like this season.
And she did not get to stay very long last season...
(I am trying to say things nicely.)
What up?

Jeopardy Anyone?

I'll take The Latest Color of My Face for $500.

"What is periwinkle?"

(ding ding ding)

I'll tell you what periwinkle is. Besides just a silly word, periwinkle is both the new color of my face AND a color that is several shades lighter than the color purple.



This pleases me greatly, as I am ready to rejoin society.



I am hopeful that a nice shade of Puerto Rican will be settling upon my face again sometime soon, and that I will rejoin society in a way that doesn't draw the puzzled facial expressions of passersby looking on someone who must have done her makeup in a cave this morning.



There is hope.

Spring Break

Break for who?
I can't help but notice that Spring Break does not feel like much of a break to me.

Happiness is...

Little girl scouts with big, hopeful eyes that make the perfect excuse for bringing home a box of cookies.

For me: Thin Mints.

1 box of thin mints + 1 glass of nonfat milk = 1good day.

(No, I didn't eat the whole box.)

(This time.)

State Of My World Address

I firmly believe you can tell the state of my life at any given moment by looking at my purse, my laundry room, and my car...

My Purse:

My Laundry Room:

My Car:



Oh... ALL RIGHT...here's the whole truth...

Warning: Uncensored

The Color Purple

The Color Purple =

A movie starring Oprah.

A Crayola Crayon.

And now, my face.

Yeah, my face. Will someone please tell me why the "Grimace" is always smiling, because this is not cute on him OR on me.

I was in to see a specialist last Thursday (LAST THURSDAY! A WEEK AGO!) about a couple of "areas of concern" with my skin.

It was recommended that I undergo this light treatment, which would basically heat my face with a special light and remove the superficial layers of my face, and with that any pre-cancerous anythings, fine lines, blemishes, you name it.

This sounds great to me. I sign up, though it is explained I must stay 0ut of any light for 48 hours after. I clear my weekend.

48 hours later, I emerge from my cave to find my face is bright red and purplish. The treatment was a little intensive, and I admit I could tell immediately that it was a little more than I bagained for... but 48 hours is not so bad.

So on Monday 48 hours later why am I this ridiculous color? "Ah, yes - that slight discoloration could last several more days... or possibly a week or more."

Would have been nice to know.

And I can tell you right now that Doctor and I have different interpretations of the word "slight".

Wish me luck. (PRAY for me! Please!)

"I Am SO Glad It's You!" (A Coping Strategy of Sorts)

I am a perfectionist in recovery.

You may say you know me, and that I resemble no such creature - hence the in recovery.



To give you an idea:


*When learning to play a song on the piano I like to play this game with myself: If I miss a note I must immediately return to the beginning and start again. AND, I cannot leave the bench until I have made it clear through twice (to prove the first time wasn't a fluke).


*In college, I would hit the snooze function on my clock several times each morning, giving myself no more than the twenty (okay, thirty) minutes necessary for me to get ready and get to class. Five (okay, ten) of those minutes were spent ironing my clothes AND then my bedspread.


*I have a bottle of white-out in the top drawer of my desk. And in one of our kitchen drawers. And in the console of my car. Though, I must point out, I write almost exclusively in pencil - an automatic pencil, so that the lead is always perfectly sharp to accomodate my tiny, typewriter-like, all-caps printing. This being said, I still will not even attempt a thank you note unless I have at least three to allow for mistakes - as I write them in cursive and in ink and would not dream of sending you one with white-out on it. (I said in recovery, not recovered.)


Oh, I haven't scratched the surface, but I digress...

Surprisingly, I am able to lead a pretty normal life these days. Well, most of these days. Perfectionism doesn't fit into a household with four children. (Though, when there were only 3 children I still ironed their school clothes each morning...but not their bedspreads. Progress, yes?)

I have come a long way, and I have found that learning not to "sweat the small stuff" really goes a long way in preserving the sanity of those I love. I really try not to impose my tendencies on my loved ones. ( I said "try".)


I am human. Every once in awhile something happens to awaken the beast, and for these moments I have acquired coping strategies... especially for those somethings that are repeat offenders like the one I am about to discuss.


This brings me to the pretty flowers in the picture. I think I rambled them right off of the screen, so here they are again:
These flowers were a sweet love offering from a friend. Picked from her own garden. Hand delivered to my door. Unexpectedly.
Let me tell you that nothing, and I mean NOTHING wakes the perfectionist beast within me more than my home. More specifically, when I have company in my home. I want it perfect - perfect - and I nearly kill myself preparing for company just about every time. (4 kids, remember?)
So, if you really want to rock my world, you just try - JUST TRY - showing up to my home unexpectedly! No. Don't.
I usually will not even answer the door. I usually will not even peek through the shutters to even tempt myself to answer the door. I have a great imagination, and I will imagine the doorbell never rang.
As a part of my recovery I am trying to let go of this stinker thing that I do. (Though, admittedly, I still think it more stinky not to call and let me know you're on your way.)
To help me, I call upon an experience from my past: I was visiting this new mother. She just got home from having her baby. She had not slept. She had not cleaned the house. She was not feeling well, and I was there to hold the baby so she could rest a bit. While I was there, her doorbell rang.
Well... you know what I would have done.

Well, SHE got herself up - bedhead and all - and answered the door. I mean she flung it right open, AND she did not hide. She did not apologize. She sighed, loudly, and said "Oh! I am SO glad it's YOU!..."
I was shocked. I was humbled. I was suddenly very aware that I did not give my loved ones enough credit. It occurred to me that they would probably love me even if there were a few dishes in the sink, toys on the floor, or if I didn't have make-up on. (Well, I still refuse to try the no make-up gig, so I can't really say for sure on that one...)
I made a note of how warmly she greeted her guest, and also noted that if I ever tried to mimick her I would probably need to smile (or at least not frown) (and set down any kitchen knives or other sharp objects before answering the door).
Well, as evidenced by the flowers, I did it. I answered the door. I said the words too, "I am SO glad it's you, or I probably wouldn't have answered the door!" I even invited my friend in. (You have NO IDEA! I swear if she had tried to walk beyond the front room of my house I would have panicked and probably injured her during the tackling.) We chatted for a good half hour, laughed lots, and genuinely had a nice visit.
So, I conclude that I am just a little further in my recovery than I was a day ago... though I found myself painting my baseboards today for no good reason. Hmm...

Unforgettable...

In a word... The only way to describe my experience.

Friday Morning

Here, from left to right, is my teacher's adorable professional partner, another student dancer(Ellary), my teacher & me.

It was an early morning, after a really late night, and the troops were raring to go - what better support can you ask for than your own cheering section?

Ellary & Me

Why Ellary has a special place in my heart:

Ellary, another student dancer from our studio, was my dear and newly adopted friend who talked to me from take-off to landing on my "bus" (airplane) ride.

I warned her that I may not be pleasant company.

She sat next to me anyway.

She didn't have to dance until Friday evening.

She was up early Friday morning and came to support me anyway.

How could you not like this girl?

And we're off!

I came for the experience and to have a great time. And except for a fleeting moment of nausea right before we walked onto the ballroom floor - that's exactly what I did.

One of our cheerleaders calls out our number

"134! 134!"

I was already having fun, but now I am addicted.

This is so exciting!

I am dancing!

You can't even see my face, and you can still tell I am smiling.

I don't think I ever stopped smiling. I would have loved to pull a few of those sassy expressions that I saw other dancers make - but I wasn't thinking of that. I was thinking I was having a good time, and that makes me smile.

A Little Mambo

And that arm is about to loop over my head.

A Little Swing

You have no idea the photographic genius that goes into timing a photo to capture the warp speed moment of this pose.

The next day

(sans make-up and basketball hair),

it's my turn to break out the pom-poms while other dancers in our group (Lauren & Jo) have their time on the floor.

***

Seriously, five women dancers total
- one man.
Why, again, don't more men dance?

***

Okay, I skipped a couple of things...

I went into this competition with one expectation - to have a good time.

Along with my good time, I got 13 first places out of a possible 17.

One of which happened to be the overall championship for my level. (Totally unexpected!)

Here, we celebrate as we leave the floor having just received 5 first places for our first five dances.

The other four of seventeen dances were second places.

One of which happened to produce a check for a prize. (Also totally unexpected!)

A Few Momentos.

The competition cup, my championship medal, and a bracelet.

(What gives with the bracelet? Well, as if the experience had not rewarded us enough - and it had - the bracelet was just icing on the cake - a lovely and thoughtful gift to each of us girls from my teacher and his professional dance partner. )

And last but not least...I refuse to name drop, but in honor of all my fellow Dancing With the Stars fans, how could I not include a little evidence of my star-studded kodak moment?

(So, while my teacher is standing on the sidelines in between his professional heats - he pops his head in at our table and says if we would like a photo with Edyta "Grab your cameras and follow me." At times like these you don't ask questions. You grab your camera, forget that you are wearing 4 1/2" heels and run! We appear, she graciously obliges, and Lauren and I have a very exciting moment! Oh, darn, I said her name. Ah well, if you must know, she was even more beautiful in person, and so, so gracious to allow us to have our moment with her.)

There is a bit of a debate, now, about which is the most prized possession in the end - the championship medal or the picture with You-Know-Who. Either way, this day my teacher is my hero, and I win!

(No. I will not say which I love more. Oh, you think so, do you?)

TMI

I am warning you, that TMI stands for Too Much Information.

Seriously.

You really didn't want to know this about me.

I can write about it if I want to because - as you have no doubt noticed, I often come here to vent - but you are under no obligation to read any further.

And you have been properly warned.

Stop reading.

Stop.

Stop it.

Go do something.

Last chance...

Okay, so, as a very generous holiday gift, and in thoughtful response to an incident of my complaining (in logistical detail) about certain grooming requirements, I was awarded the gift of Laser Hair Removal.

(Hey, look, I warned you.)

I first need you to know that as the prior recipient of frying pans, a broom-vaccuum combination contraption, and valentine's day cards with Snoopy on them, I was actually pretty thrilled with the choice of gifts this season. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind "bad" gifts. I am not even the type that minds no gift at all. (Sometimes the no gift option being preferable.) But, hey - this was a gift I could use!

So why tell you about it now? It is March, and Christmas was in December, yes? Yes. Well, sometime after celebrating the fact that I could sever my relationship with the salon waxing lady, but prior to running off and making my service appointment, a couple of thoughts occurred to me.

#1. Wait a minute! How exactly is this done?

#2. So, again, um, How exactly is this done?

Well now I know.

I would not write about this, except for the fact that I had no idea what I was in for. So, in case you ever wondered:

This is done by baring all for a spa technician who operates an ultrasound-looking device (but much meaner!) and repeatedly zaps you where the sun does not shine. The good news is that this happens relatively quickly - the whole appointment took about 15 minutes. The bad news is in those 15 minutes this device delivered hundreds of seering hot rubber-band snaplike light rays to every hair follicle.

While I found the physical pain cumulatively nominal, the emotional pain of presenting myself to a perfect stranger in such clinical lighting is ongoing.

This is why it took 2 months to make that first appointment.

Now I must go back for 2-3 more sessions to complete the process.

I am waiting for that childbirth phenomenon to set it - you know the one where you really only remember the better parts, so you are willing to do it again.

I dunno. Not quite the same.