Too Much Time On My Hands?

I was just accused of this, but I'll let you be the judge:

Yes, I crocheted a sweater for a friend's guinea pig. Big deal. But as it turns out, I may have found my niche, because nobody else is making them. At least not on Etsy (website for selling handmade stuff.) I did find a couple more by googling, but only the pattern to make it is for sale, not actual sweaters. So I listed it as a custom item. Barbiloulou's Shop Stay tuned.

I really don't have trouble filling my day. I might if I cared to clean more, do more good deeds, or cook for pot lucks. But I don't, and the days go too fast anyway.

Recently, I exposed The Secret to being happily retired in Mexico: One Task Per Day, Maximum. Already today, I did the dishes, washed and hung out 2 loads of laundry, and scrubbed out a rancid beer cooler that may have had forgotten bait in it. That's at least two days worth, right there. Plus I'm dressed! True, I left off the bra (hate'em, need'em but hate'em). Jammies are the norm unless I have a function to attend. And it's almost 2PM. Soon it's time for Phil and Oprah, then I'm grilling bass for dinner. Whew!

Rags To Riches

There must be a gene that causes this. None of my friends has this condition, although a few may be carriers. I call it Cheap Genes. (Get it? Cheap jeans? Never mind.)

I am categorically unable to pay retail for something if I know I can find better, cheaper, and more durable second-hand. The only things I buy retail any more are gifts, groceries, socks, and underwear. Except once we actually had a Goodwill-Only-Christmas with friends that was tons-o-fun.

As a child growing up in Omaha in the 50s and early 60s, there were no hand-me-downs because I only had one brother, and we were the same size. Mom (and later, I) sewed all my clothes. There weren't any garage sales or thrift stores then. Maybe our Throw-Away Society was still in it's infancy. But when we moved to Minneapolis in 1964, a new facet of my genetic makeup emerged: a thirst for finding treasure in someone else's discards.

There was a long row of thrift stores on West Broadway in North Minneapolis, and I would spend long hours sorting through the junk and crowing with delight: a plaid wool Pendleton shirt, lace curtains, a Levi denim jacket, a pair of Frye boots. One of my first finds was a 1940s gold raw silk halter dress and bolero, something June Allyson or Virginia Mayo might have worn. The premise was simple: the purchase must be something I'd actually use, and it must cost next-to-nothing.

Garage sales became plentiful, but true "finds" are rarer there in my experience. People selling their own stuff know their stuff has worth, and most of the 50 cent items are baby clothes. Thrift store stuff is donated, implying the donor did not value it overmuch. I once bought a car for $100, though, at a garage sale! A 1956 Chevy wagon that needed TLC and freeze plugs.

The best bargains are at church and small, independent thrift stores, followed by AmVets, Salvation Army, and Goodwill. Goodwills DO have bathrooms, though. Consignment stores are for special occasion items. Like my 1973 wedding dress...

The last 15 years brought online treasure-hunting to my repertoire. EBay for shoes and clothes, Amazon for used books, Craigslist for practically everything. I got a free lawnmower through Craigslist that worked for 1.25 summers. Just last year when I needed a blender, I scored one on Craigslist for $5 that has neon lighting while it's running! Here it is today, pureeing squash for soup.

Over the years, I gradually began to collect similar stuff. One strange addiction (per friends and family) was vintage Tupperware. Garage sales truly are best for those, often finding them in FREE boxes. Later, I actually sold some of it on EBay to other collectors. A woman paid me $50 for one of these. I'm not sure why, something to do with robots, she said.

After I'd amassed three leaf bags full of vintage Tupperware (still in storage), I switched to collecting vintage talking stuffed animals. And when we downsized to the RV, I was deeply shocked to discover nobody in the family wanted them. I still have a steamer trunk stuffed with stuffies (in storage).

My grandson Elijah in the steamer trunk

I also collected ugly Mexican pottery for a while, principally birds. Had over 75 at one point, then sold most of them on EBay. Still have a few in storage...

Buying to resell was never a motive: I just wanted the stuff. What is that? I don't consider myself having grown up poor or deprived of material goods, but we probably were lower middle class. Dad was a shoe salesman and Mom was a bookkeeper. I sewed my own clothes and wore my thrift store ensembles while everyone else had store-bought-mass-produced wardrobes. Once I made my homecoming dress with some brown velvet fabric from Dad's Kinney display windows. It had vintage ecru lace at the neck and cuffs. While stunning, it was not crushproof velvet, and soon looked like I'd slept in it. WHICH I DIDN'T!

I probably looked quirky, but nothing in my background ever led me to seek or expect approval from others: I dressed to please myself. We weren't allowed to wear pants to school. Seriously. In high school, I was one of the year book editors, and one Friday we all went to the photography studio to do test shots for senior pictures. The following Monday morning, I walked into the school foyer only to see, in a wall case and SPOTLIGHTED, a gigantic framed enlargement of me in all my Thrift Store glory: a ruffled-front, black-and-white polka dot Lucy dress. SO embarrassing. But by lunch period, I had two offers to buy that dress. And I still have that picture. In storage. None of the family wants it...

Shoes have a special allure in my hunting, and I've stated before it's probably because Dad made me wear ONLY saddle shoes until I was 12. I'm hard to fit: very wide, short feet, like a duck: 6.5 EEE, but an 8M can be worn for a few hours without permanent injury. There are only a couple of brands that fit these feet, and they're not cheap: Birkenstock, Doc Marten, Born. When I find a new-looking pair of Birkenstocks in a thrift store for $2, you better believe I snatch them up. When we downsized to the RV, I realized my shoe collection would not be making the trip in it's entirety: there were over 150 pairs. I'll never forget the woman at our Downsizing Yard Sale, darting around in ecstasy shouting "OH MY GOD! Ferragamo!" and "HOLY CRAP! Louboutin!"

Living in Mexico hasn't slowed me down at all. They have Segundas here: second hand stalls, meccas for tourist cast-offs, dozens of them. My friends (mere carriers of this gene) beg to go with me the next time I go, but none of them can stay the distance: they're ready for lunch or a potty after only 3 or 4 hours. Mexico also has hurricanes, which leaves huge piles of flotsam and jetsam on the beach, providing hours of enjoyment as I scavenge for FREE stuff. Mostly yard decor: driftwood, coyote skulls, shells, dolphin bones. There's always a lot of shoes, however I've yet to find a matching pair. But stuff is stuff, and free stuff is best.

Since becoming fulltime RVers, my habit has necessarily morphed somewhat. I'm still hot for the hunt, but only little stuff. And the Buy One Throw One Rule for shoes and books is inviolate, because for 5 years we've been paying $90 per month for a storage unit in Buffalo, MN. It's not all my stuff, my husband has some responsibility here: he "collects" hunting and fishing stuff. It's all got to go, so stay tuned: big sale this summer. Need some Jimmy Choos? Tupperware Cake-Taker? How about a giant Buddha...

Put It In Writing! Notarize It! Copies To Everyone!

I'm all up in arms over a story playing out in Minnesota this week. There's an 85 year old man that's being kept alive by his 56 year old wife despite advice from the health care professionals to "let him go". The man's Advanced Directive appointed her as his decision-maker should he ever become incapacitated.

StarTribune Article
Another StarTribune Article

I've read all the comments from readers, and the overwhelming majority are screaming for this man's death due to the COST of prolonging care. But then there are also shouts of Obamacare, Death Squads,  taxpayer dollars, accusations that the wife profits financially, that she would have pulled the plug long ago if it was her own money, ad nauseum.

This comment was my favorite, and is what I feel as well:

"I am shocked at the overwhelming opinion here that the doctors have a right to override a health care directive signed by the patient. It is true that the wife may be wasting taxpayer money, prolonging the inevitable, and refusing to listen to the opinions of medical professionals. It appears society has reached the point where death panels are a reality. Never mind what the patient wants or what family members want. If the taxpayers are paying for it, then we the people get to decide if you live or die.
posted by Brad57"

Here is the only pertinent fact, in my humble opinion:
This man WROTE DOWN what he wanted done if he couldn't decide for himself. He named his wife as his decision-maker. He trusted her to know what he would want. Now if his six sons, or the doctors, or ANYONE ELSE feel she's incapable of making these decisions,  there's a procedure through the courts for replacing her, which is apparently what's next. But until that happens, it's nobody's business except hers. 


One blogger (an ER physician who writes "funny stories" about the ER) actually put into print the not-to-be-named concept of Slow or One-Fingered Code. (A "code" is CPR.) So now you know:  actually, we've always had Death Squads. ER Stories


No, I would probably not be prolonging his life if I were in her place. But I'm not. I wasn't married to him, I never had the conversations with him that led to him assigning her his health care decision-maker.


If you're reading this, and now have a niggling worry that this could happen to you, good. You SAY you don't want to ever be "hooked up to machines". Well, there are machines, and there are machines. Dialysis is a machine. Did you just mean ventilator? Better specify! (Put simply, dialysis does for bad kidneys what insulin shots do for a bad pancreas.) Wording like "DO EVERYTHING as long as there's a chance" is clearly not specific enough.

Get an Advanced Care Directive in place before you need one. Get it notarized. Give copies to your lawyer, your children, and your primary physician. Heck, ALL your physicians. It just may protect you, unlike this poor man. The court will likely decide that the spouse is incompetent, and the doctors will get to pull the plugs. Since none of us can foresee exactly what the future holds, maybe this is what he would have wanted. Better have that "What IF...?" conversation with your loved ones now.

My Dad

No secret to those who know me well, I've idolized my father from the get-go. His death in 2000 ripped my universe apart, and 10 years later I now realize I won't ever recover completely. I'm not sure if my progeny know his story enough to pass on to their progeny, so here it is in print.

Jim Frame

Separated at birth?

His parents were James and Edith. Edith Mary Jenkins was a Philadelphia society debutante. She met "unsuitable" James Frame, a funny and vibrant shoe salesman with Triangle Shoes, but was ostracized by her family when she married him. Their only child was my dad, Jimmy, born April13, 1926 in Miner's Mills, PA. Their sun rose and set on their son. Little Jimmy led a sheltered, doting existence, and wasn't allowed to get dirty. Tons of photographs depict a chubby, soft, near-sighted, smiling boy in knickers. The three of them specialized in comedy, and witty puns were common and expected.

Jimmy at 8

Jimmy at 10

Jimmy, Edith, James. High School.

Jimmy's passion was model airplanes, the big ones with engines. When he was drafted into the Army Air Corps after high school graduation in 1944, his parents were crushed. Luckily for them, Jim's eyesight was too poor to be a pilot: he became a radio operator. One night during Radio School in Sioux Falls, SD, he and a buddy went to the roller rink, where Jimmy (who couldn't skate, and was in fact athletically-impaired in all sports) ran into and knocked over a very pretty girl, Mary Brown. He loved her at that moment and forever. Turns out his buddy had once dated her, and Jimmy gladly paid him $5 for her phone number.

Shipping Out

Jimmy the Radioman

Mary Brown at 21. Jimmy fell hard!

Mary only knew dull farm boys until then, and this laughing, gentle boy from "the far east" stole her heart. She was extremely intelligent, and knew a good thing when she saw it.

Jimmy's parents traveled by train to Sioux Falls to meet Mary's family, where Edith whispered to Jimmy that there was something very wrong with them. (Edith's bon-mots have survived: she told her son "There's a fly in their ointment.") Blanche-the-mother (Blanche Delora Matthisen, one of 8 children) was self-effacing with a nervous giggle, and looked to be tired by life. Felix-the-father (one of 9 children) was silent and negative. And Evelyn-the-younger-sister was possibly slightly retarded in Edith's eyes. Even if they'd been Kennedys, she still would have hated anyone that stole her boy from her, but this was too much. Jimmy rejected her advice, and he and Mary became engaged.

I have all the letters that passed back and forth between Jimmy and Edith during his war service in Turkey, Northern Africa, Afghanistan, and Iran. He is quick to reassure his mom that he's safe, healthy, well-fed, happy, and looking forward to a life with Mary that does NOT exclude his parents. Edith is skeptical., but seems unwilling to crush his optimism.

Edith and James, much later!

After Jimmy was discharged, he and Mary married and moved into the upstairs apartment of Edith and James' house in Kingston, PA. Jimmy became a shoe salesman, but Mary pined for her home and huge extended family in Sioux Falls. And since Edith was unable to avoid criticizing Mary, love and duty prevailed: Jimmy managed to obtain a job transfer to Sioux Falls. Edith never forgave Mary.

Jim and Mary didn't stay in Sioux Falls very long, because Kinney Shoes transferred it's managers frequently. Within the next 6 years, Jim was sent to Davenport IA, Omaha NE, Fremont NE, and eventually back to Omaha with 2 babies. We stayed there 8 years.

Me, Dad, and Edie

Four Frames

This was a newspaper photo in Davenport, "Welcome Newcomers"

 At first there was a large, shabby, rental house at 11th and Castellar. It's gone, now. Kitty-corner from us was the Calabro family, a boisterous Italian-American family, and two of their kids were the same ages as us (Donny and Cathy). They went to the Catholic school, but we were inseparable nevertheless.

My brother Thom, me, Donny, Tom, and Cathy Calabro

Mom worked the counter and did the books for the Kinney store downtown, so we had babysitters: Karen and Anita Trotter. They were very big girls, and their mom made homemade bread every day: without a bread machine. Covered with bacon gravy, it was to die for. I believe Thom and I lived on that, Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, plus whatever great Italian food the Calabros fed us. Mom's cooking was pitiful.

When I started kindergarten at Bancroft Elementary, we met The Murphys: two girls our age, Linda and Kitzie, plus two older brothers Harold and Mike. Their parents became our parents' best friends. Bernie Murphy was an amazing cook. She made fried tacos every Saturday. Kitzie became my best friend for life, after we fought over a cubby the first day of school.

Jim and Harold Murphy, after a big dinner.

Harold, Bernie, Mom, Dad

My parents had a house built and we moved when I was in the 4th grade to 2811 S. 4th. St. It was closer to the Murphys, and the bathroom was entirely lavender, Dad's favorite color. Toilet, too. The basement was flamingo pink. It was on a steep, curving hill and made for endless enjoyment with sledding and water balloon races: parked cars were natural hazards.We walked a mile to school, and home daily for lunch unless the weather was too bad. All our friends' parents watched out for all the kids, we couldn't make a move that didn't get home before we did.

Repainting-the-house trip in early 1970s. That's Dad's only car he ever bought new: 1971 Chevy Vega.

Our social contacts were primarily the Calabro kids, Murphy family, Mom's parents and sister's family in Sioux Falls, school events (Dad was the president of the PTA), and the Kinney manager Jim Lause's family.They had three kids: John was a couple of years older, Reta was a year younger, and Tim a couple of years younger. Every Friday night we all went to Joe Tess's Fish Place for fried carp. It's still there. Ribs or tails, and you get rye bread and pickles with it.

Fried Carp at Joe Tess's

Idyllic childhood, our parents gave us that. It all changed in 1964 when my maternal grandfather began sexually molesting me. He said if I told, my parents would hate me, so I didn't tell. We spent maybe a weekend there every month, plus school vacations and holidays. I'm certain now that my mother knew, and I'm also certain she was also molested and STILL left me with him. It continued until I was 17, and I was in complete denial the entire time. He died when I was 23, coincidently the night my son was born, and I then told my dad all about it. He held me and he cried, sobbing-shuddering-grief. He agreed it would serve no purpose to tell my mom, that she probably was a victim, and he thought it explained a lot.

Also that year (1964), Jim Lause was transferred to Minneapolis, and he arranged for my dad to transfer, too. There must have been fights between my parents over it, but I don't remember them. Mom had been so happy in Omaha, but never was again. She spent the rest of her life punishing Dad for moving her away from all she loved, and she developed an open preference for Thom and scathing condemnation for me. I have a couple of theories on this, most likely was my adoration for my dad, whom she now despised and treated badly. She became viciously critical of my words and movements, blistering with searing rebuke. Like Sade: "When people are screaming, I know they're paying attention to me." 

My brother and I adapted quickly to Minnesota, especially Thom-the-football-star. I made several new friends in sixth grade, however, the school "accelerated" them all (combined 7th and 8th grades in one year) and my mom refused permission for me to go with them because she didn't want me in the same grade as her golden boy. So I had to make new friends. AND, Mom got a job in the English Department at the same school. That sucked! One weird thing was my brother soon adopted Mom's hatred of me. It was much darker than sibling rivalry, and I remember studying my friends' relationships with their siblings and wondering which was supposed to be "normal". Mom assured me OURS was.

Somewhere in this time period is when I acknowledged that God was a myth. I've been an atheist since, trying to live honorably with no fear of hell, or hope of heaven. I already knew what hell was.

High school was fun. I was "smart" (labels always) plus my brother was so popular that it was hard for me to fly completely under the radar. I had a steady boyfriend (friend of my brother, he was still useful to me for that!), always had after-school, weekend, and summer jobs, and my dad's love and support for me sort of made up for Thom and Mom. My Dad's general affect toward me was one of delighted approval and deep affection. (Mom called me a whore after my first date.) Plus I liked Thom's girlfriend Sue, who was nice to me, and ended up being the mother of my niece and nephews.

Dad was now a traveling "Window Trimmer" for Kinney's, which he loved. He was forever a "putzing" type, perfectionism the result when one's entire ethos is "doing the right thing". Putzing in the garage (where after his passing, we found stashes of Scotch, cigars, and salted peanuts), putzing in the kitchen, putzing in the yard. He loved sitting in a lawn chair at dusk, with a highball, watching cars go by. "Wonder what the rich people are doing right now?"  He always took the road less traveled. "Wonder where that goes?" is in my heart.

(Segue 10 years, another story to be told later. I now am married-with-child, and a dialysis RN.)

The estrangement between my mother and I became official when I divorced my first husband and moved in with my current husband. She could not accept the divorce, refused to even meet Ron, and my parents were not present at our wedding. Partly to distance myself and my son Jon from that toxic situation, we moved to San Diego in 1982. And so began 14 years of meeting my parents in motels and restaurants so Mom could see her grandson without my husband present, and I could see my beloved Dad. Dad didn't support my mother's dictates, and a therapist once pointed out to me that he didn't forbid them either. But as I told the therapist, no one on earth would ever again tell my mother what to do, especially Dad. Dad did get to know Ron, and continued always to ensure I knew he loved me. But I lost forever all those years with my Dad, missed him achingly, and can never get it back.

Dad, Jon, Mom at Coronado Beach

(Segue another 12 years, another story to be told later. I'm now a traveling dialysis nurse educator, a recovering alcoholic, and my son survived childhood.)


In 1994, we lived in a condo we'd bought in Lakeside, outside San Diego. Jon worked summers at Grand Tetons National Park (his field of study was sort of Political Anthropology) and we'd go visit him there. In 1996, we accidentally ran into my parents there in the park, having failed to coordinate our visits properly. Mom airily suggested we all have lunch together, and Voila! The estrangement was over. Ron graciously never mentioned to her the 14 years of her boycotting our marriage.

In 1997, my Dad was recuperating from a heart attack and valve failure, and mom was unable to cope with it. In retrospect, I think this was the onset of her dementia. I got my company to transfer me home to Minnesota, and we rented a lake home in rural Buffalo, MN, only 30 minutes from them. Little did I suspect I only had a few years left with my Dad. They were good years, though.

After valve replacement

In 2000, I lost 2/3 of my family: both my dad and my brother died from cancer, and they both went fairly quickly, Thom first from chemo complications and Dad 3 months later after radiation therapy at The Mayo failed. As sick as Dad was, losing Thom took a lot of the fight out of him. Dad had unconditional love, much pride, and respect for his son, and his grief was terrible to witness. Mom was utterly devastated, and her dementia began accelerating then. (She said to me at Thom's funeral "Why couldn't it have been you instead of him?")

Dad was otherwise outwardly confident and cheerful throughout his ordeal. He had just begun chemo (his last hope, per the oncologists) when he began bleeding. They talked frankly to us all, and I'll never forget the moment and his face when Dad accepted he wasn't going to beat it. He withdrew from us gently, turned inward, and died in my arms 5 days later.

Dad and Linda

That was one of the last photos of my dad, on tube feedings. There's a later one, in a wheelchair at the Minnesota State Fair, but he's absolutely skeletal. I want to remember him "squashy".

During the interval after Thom died and before Dad died, Dad was anxious to assure my Mom's future needs. He asked me to avoid ever placing her in a home, IF I COULD HELP IT (a loophole!) Turns out I couldn't help it: Mom's Alzheimer's was the worst kind, and I had no background that commanded respect or duty toward her.

I would have gone to the moon for my Dad, though.

Relics and treasures in my possession (for my progeny) include Dad's letters and military memorabilia, Grandma Edie's beaded evening bag she carried at her coming-out ball, and every pair of round steel-rimmed eyeglasses my Dad wore as a child. Edie saved them all. I even have the pottery jug he used to pour his milk on his cereal every morning, and the china teaspoon caddy with sterling teaspoons.

Jim never met his great-grandchildren, but Dylan James DeMent is named for him, and to me, Nora often looks like him (only pretty!).

Introducing Dylan James

Miss Nora

I quote him daily, if sometimes only to myself. For some odd reason, I believe he became a butterfly, and whenever I see one, I feel all warm and happy.

La Turista

So it finally happened. I have encountered Montezuma's Revenge.

Montezuma

Not just for Mexico anymore, other names for it include:

Gringo Gallup

Aztec Two-step

Delhi Belly

Rangoon Runs

Mummy's Tummy

Thai-dal Wave

Corre-Corre (means run run)

I've blogged before about the wonderful food here, how I've braved eating from street carts and dodgy "restaurants" because it smells SO good, never gotten sick, blahblah. I haven't even been doing any of that. Lately. Only the tried-and-true dining places, plus my own cooking (which may be implicated, see later in post...) I've never worried about the ice they put in drinks, just assumed it was purchased ice from "clean" water. Maybe not...

No, I didn't eat from the Sushi and More cart.

I'm into day three of (stop reading here if you're a pansy) watery explosive bowel movements, maybe 6 or 8 daily. Zero appetite, nausea, general abdominal aching, plus the OMG sharp cramping preceeding a BM, fever, and shaking chills. No fun whatsoever, in fact was uncomfortable enough to Google it this morning. (Yes, I'm a nurse, but I just know kidneys.)

"Most cases are mild and do not require either antibiotics or antimotility drugs".

Good to hear, and coincides with my own (non-traditional-for-a-nurse) belief in letting whatever needs out COME OUT.

 "If diarrhea becomes severe (typically defined as three or more loose stools in a 24-hour period) — or if diarrhea is bloody, or fever occurs with shaking chills, or abdominal pain becomes marked, or diarrhea persists for more than 72 hours — medical treatment should be sought." 

OK, tomorrow is 72 hours, if I'm not better, I'll go to the clinic.

"With serious cases of cholera, there is a rapid onset of symptoms, which include weakness, malaise (feeling rotten), and torrents of watery diarrhea with flecks of mucus (called "rice water" stools)."

Whoa! Cholera? This actually forced me to examine the bowl for "rice water". I don't even know what that looks like. Whenever I make rice, there's no water left when it's done. I didn't see anything that looked like rice. A couple of risk factors for cholera are O positive blood type and immunosuppression. I'm an O and I take antivirals and steroids for my Ramsay-Hunt Syndrome.

I'm hydrating plenty, not worried there. But am pretty concerned as to how I got it, when nobody else is sick.  Hubby's been "malaise-like" for several days, but he ALWAYS has loose BMs. Besides, he'd be utterly prostrate with this, including snivelling and moaning. You know how men are.


I did eat clams I dug, but that was over a week ago. Says it can come from undercooked shellfish, which steamed clams are. They're only steamed long enough for them to open, otherwise they get tough and rubbery.

Our water here isn't filtered whatsoever, and I've seen "bug parts" in it, which is concerning. We don't drink it, cook with it, or make ice with it, but we do wash dishes in it. However, the hot water is REALLY hot, so I don't think that's it. Besides, everyone else gets this same water here...

 

All ingested water comes from here.

We do use the kitchen sink for handwashing and mouth care, as there is no sink in the bathroom. This has always bothered me. But again, the hot water should mitigate...

New bathroom sink, not installed yet.

  

I do wash all the fruits, veggies, and eggs before they get put away, but I've never used that anti-microbial wash they sell for that purpose.

So no real insight here re: how I acquired this, but we will be adding a bathroom sink shortly. And I  intend to go buy that veggie-wash-stuff, just as soon as I can stay away from the bathroom long enough to drive to the village.

UPDATE: Jan.15, 2011
On Jan. 13, I was given Treda, tablets of what sounds like Neomycin (yeah, like the ointment for owies) plus Kao-Pectate.  Only one episode of La Turista on the 14th, and "normal" since. Folks here swear by it.

How Does A Minnesotan End Up A Gringa Vieja?

I lived most of my life in Minnesota, but spent enough time elsewhere (San Diego) to know there's life outside of down-filled parkas and frozen nose hairs.

 

Minnesota Barbeque in the snow. It got up to 45 that day...

  Here's how I became a Gringa Vieja (non-Mexican old woman):

• I was able to retire early because the VA finally agreed my husband really was totally screwed up from Viet Nam and decided to decently compensate him.
• Around that time, my dad and brother both passed away from cancer, way before they were done living the good life, and then my mom got dementia. Life was looking dismal.
• We decided to sell everything and become fulltime RVers, to see the beautiful and WARM parts of the US while we still could. Face it, Minnesota's weather sucks.
• And then we discovered Mexico...

We're not even very far into Mexico, only 235 miles from the Arizona border. Some refer to it as Mexico-Lite, but it's plenty Mexican for me.  If you can't buy real Cheetos or flush the TP, it's Mexico.

Our RV Resort membership in the US included a resort near the tiny fishing village of Kino Bay ("a drinking village with a fishing problem") on the Sea of Cortez. Google Map WAY off the beaten path (and I use the term beaten extremely literally) and all white people, mostly from Canada and Colorado. Gated. Gorgeous, but somewhat quirky...
 WHR Kino Bay
This RV resort does not have water (it's trucked in) or sewers (they come pump your tanks), so one learns to conserve water and deposit TP in a wastebasket. Mexican TP does not dissolve. Ever. We buy drinking water, but use the trucked-in water for everything else and nobody's died from it yet. Martin drives his fresh vegetable truck out weekly. He often brings fresh seafood, too.

Veggie Day

The beaches are deserted and gorgeous with great fishing, clamming, and beachcombing. Potlucks and typical lame RV Resort planned activities galore. We drive to the village 2 or 3 times weekly for provisions (read: beer) or to eat out, and to The City (Hermosillo) monthly for a larger stock-up. Hermo has Costco, Sam's Club, Home Depot, and Applebees. Plus there's a town, Miguel Aleman, between Kino and Hermo with most everything you'd need anyway. I found you can definitely live forever and well on only fresh produce, seafood, beer, and sunshine.

Gringas Who Lunch

It was idyllic, but we wanted more. We wanted to stay forever, but NOT at an RV park. So we bought a tiny house with RV pad just up the hill from the park. We're 1.5 miles from the water's edge.

Rooftop Palapa View

Our casita is orange and purple and made of straw bales. Seriously, a toddler with a bread knife could break in easily. But it has roll-down locking steel window and door covers, called Cortinas, that lend an aura of security. Plus all of our neighbors have large barking dogs that deter all except my mean cat, Rocky. They won't go near him.

There are no fears of the Mexican Cartel Wars out here, but there have been isolated episodes of thefts in the neighborhood, probably by the very poor and indigent. We are near the primitive Seri Indian village, and Kino Bay itself has areas of heart-rending poverty. There's a large barrio outside Old Kino where a dwelling might have a towel for one wall, cardboard for another, corrugated tin and plywood here and there. No utilities, no windows.

Somebody actually lives here.

And yes, I felt like The Ugly American driving around the barrio getting that photo.

There are a couple of down sides. We've learned to not expect to find all our favorite American products in their little stores. They don't have Mountain Dew, for instance. Thick, marbled steaks are hard to find, but then I've not once seen a fat steer. I had to learn to make bread because their bread is too sweet. There are starving street dogs. Mordita happens (crooked "cops" that stop gringos and expect a bribe), but we remain smiling-but-dumb, and keep our truck dirty to discourage attention. Fuel is cheaper and better quality, but food (except produce) costs more. The hot dogs are inedible, but the shrimp is amazing.

The locals need and appreciate our commerce, and are friendly and helpful. Why, one guy even hollered at me today "Hey! I wash trucks!" There's even movie theaters in Hermo that run English versions once a week, afternoons. DirecTV and Hughes Net by satellite with east and west coast feeds (plus TiVo) ensure I get all the news that's fit to print. And lots that isn't.

So here's where things lie today:

• We're developing good friendships here, both gringos and locals.
• We've adapted our casita for fulltime, self-contained living, and will only go NOB when it's too hot to be here (August, September)
• While we do NOT miss Minnesota or its weather whatsoever, we miss the kids and grandkids in Minnesota deeply and daily, but with IM and SKYPE, it's almost mitigated.
• We're involved in "good works" projects in the village that softens our guilt over their living conditions.
• We're well-fed and hydrated, ambulating without assistance, and feel lucky to wake up here. 
• I haven't frozen my nose hairs in 6 years. 

Seashell Collector