Home Is Where The Hard Is.

I figured that since it was the 4th of July, I'd bug Mike to do something. Jackie-O needs to get off the compound. I'd like to have a nice, easy, tranquil day. Maybe do an arts-and-crafts thing. Take a nap later. Crank the a/c. It's pretty early, so I wake him up saying, "C'mon, let's do something! It'll be fun! Let's go for a motorcycle ride. C'mon, it'll be FUN!" For whatever reason (probably just to shut me up) he says yes. So we gas up the motorcycle and head up the beach to an area called the Farrallones (the cliffs). It is incredibly beautiful, no one is ever there and there are a lot of pretty shells stuck in the rocks from high tide. Quick zip and we're there. That was easy! I'm walking around on the rocks and whooops, I fall on a slippery rock. One leg goes right, the other left and I'm on my butt on top of the rock with my leg stuck in between a crevice (the proverbial "stuck between a rock and a hard place," I guess.) Ok, this could be bad. I'm bleeding and my ankle is already turning an interesting color. Pain level, 3. Worse yet, the Dolce & Gabana sunglasses Susan left me last time she was here flew off my head and are now being claimed by the waves crashing all around me. All I could think of was, "God, I'm gonna miss those sunglasses" and then "I could die out here if Mike doesn't find me" and then "God, I'm really gonna miss those sunglasses." A woman of substance knows how to analyze a situation and focus on the important stuff.
A couple of minutes go by, so I figure it's time to assess the damage. Twisted ankle, for sure, twisted knee, possibly, millions of flesh-eating bacteria entering my wound, definately. I scoot my way out of the rocks and limp into the water on the other side of the beach - the secluded-er side. I figure a little salt water might help, so I wade in a little deeper with visions of sharks and carniverous fish dancing in my head Dr. Seuss style. They're the cute kind so I'm not too worried. I finally see Mike down the beach and give him the Taxi Whistle (perfected in Pennsylvania, it works for taxis, dogs and boyfriends with equal effectiveness.) I'm desperately missing my sunglasses (essential for the Jackie-O personna) but then I see a cropping of really nice shells. Again, priorities people, priorities. During this whole ordeal, I managed not to drop my big red bucket, so I have that going for me. I think I'll mail these shells back home to NY if I live. Pain level, 4.5.
I limp my way back over the rocks, toward the motorcycle and wait for Mike. Normally, he's the one telling me we have to go, so I'm a little surprised that he's still walking around. He says later that he found a couple of lots that people had said they bought last year. I am serious, folks, these lots are in between 2 big rock formations and completely inaccessible. The beach is pretty, but there's no way to get to there! It amazes me what people pay for. Pain level, 3.5, because I'm getting annoyed at why I can't sell more property here.
Moving along, we finally get back to the compound and I clean myself up. Pain level, 6. Anger can only sustain me for so long.
So now I'm in my living room, a little mad at myself for ruining my only chance to get out, and the Eskimo Ice-Cream Delivery Guy comes. Here they say "Es - KEE-mo" not "ES-kimo" which always makes me giggle. Remember where we are, though, so if you're thinking a guy in a white truck with a sharp white hat and music being pumped out of speakers, think again. The Eskimo Guy is about 40, very few teeth, and carries a beat-up styrofoam cooler filled with newspaper for added insulation. It's covered in bungees and pieces of string tied together. The ice-cream is usually half-melted, but it's ice-cream and he's a nice guy, so I usually buy a lot. This time, however, the Eskimo Guy is actually yelling at me. It seems that 2 weeks ago when I asked the Fat Guy Who Delivers Beans if he saw the Eskimo Guy, things got twisted around that I was mad. Small Town + Big Mouths + Extreme Boredom = Ridiculous Gossip. or T+M+B=G for short. I think I straighten it out but deep down inside I'm filled with fear that the Eskimo Guy will never come back. It's possible. They hold grudges here like there's no tomorrow. Later, when the Fat Guy Who Delivers Beans comes, I say "What was up with the Eskimo Guy?" and he says "He's just bravo, ignore him." Now I know I'm in big trouble. No ice-cream for you....ever. But then the Fat Guy Who Delivers Beans says that he'll take over the Eskimo Guy position if I want him to. I really don't care which scary man brings me my ice-cream, just give it to me dammit!! Pain level, 6.5 and rising. Blood loss, about a cup as far as I can tell.
I go back on the computer, why isn't anyone emailing me? Where are all my clients? I could DIE out here.
And then Nino comes. Nino is a young guy who lives about 5 minutes away with his very cool family. He is also the Jeep Meat Man on Wednesdays and Saturdays. He wakes up at 2 a.m. the day before, slaughters the cow, puts the cuts in different buckets and then drives around in his Jeep selling the Meat. If you ever want to see the cow before it's slaughtered, just drive by his house the day before. It'll be tied to the mango tree next to the road right out front. Nino checked in on Rob's Montero which has been in Managua for almost 3 months. It's getting slowly taken apart by theives, and we need $1,000 to put in a new transmission. That is not going to happen. Then Nino says, "I have your dog, by the way." I say, "Oh great. What dog?" He says, "The dog that fell out of the 2 story house and broke it's back. The one that you said you would take care of." I say, "I was just joking about that." He says, "No you weren't." I say, "Yes, I was." He says, "Well either way, I have your dog." Darn, beaten by the master AGAIN. Never try to argue with your butcher. Pain level, 7 and rising. Mike is furious. "I better not set eyes on that animal once. It better be tied up in the back of the property for the rest of it's miserable life." Naturally I agree, smile sweetly and gimp on over to the Jeep to see what I've gotten myself into this time. She's pretty, a typical Nica dog, not unlike Coquetta, but she's got a huge hole in her hip and just sort of drags herself around. She's only 6 months old. Oy vey. To top it off, she keeps growling at me. Not helpful at all, Princessa (that's her silly name, remind me to change it to something funnier.) So I grab an extra collar and some rope and have Nino carry her over to the Ranchos in the back. She starts howling and crying the moment we leave. Super oy vey. Pain level, 9 (from walking.) I decide to start a serious self-medication plan with the bottle(s) of wine that the Fat Guy Who Delivers Beans brought me (he's a real jack of all trades, aint he!) Pain level, 6.5 after 2 glasses.
Relaxing upstairs again. I reflect on my day and chalk this one up to the "best made plans" category. Pain level, 4 after an equal number of glasses of wine. Better stop while I'm ahead. It seems that Jackie-O will live to see another day, minus the bomb eyewear. Maybe July 5th will be my day, after all.
p.s. I'm writing this the next morning, watching Princessa drag herself around the property. Super, duper oy vey. Looks like I might have to shoot for the 6th of July being "my day."