Everyone wants to be different...until they are

As most people in the world, much of my teenage and 20ish years were spent trying to figure out who I was and how I could make a unique contribution to the world. As I've gotten older, I enjoy blending in a little more and am more able to celebrate other people's strengths instead of feeling jealous and a sense of one-upmanship. Blending is nifty.
The problem is that I just don't blend in in Mexico.
Today, on the way home from the gym, I was walking on the sidewalk of a very busy road, against the flow of car traffic. There was only one other person on the sidewalk, a man in a suit walking towards me. What I didn't notice, until we just barely passed is that he had pulled his penis out of his zipper for my "benefit."
I have never been so offended as a woman. I'm not sure this would've have happened to me if I blended in a little more. But then again, maybe a psychotic, perverted, chauvinistic exhibitionist is just a psychotic, perverted, chauvinistic exhibitionist.
At the same time, this role of being an outsider has played a factor in the other 2 times I have been severely offended in my life, even more offended than today. Both of them were on my mission, again in a place where I was "different." Shortly after 9/11, we were teaching a very promising, young family the discussions. Their uncle came home and started ripping into me about how horrible the US is. Bad idea, especially when 9/11 was so fresh and I still had no clear idea of what had happened since, as a missionary, I was blinded to media. I cried convulsively. Another time, we tried to teach a family who was not interested in our gospel message, but only in what this "rich, gringa, church" could do for them monetarily. I had never felt such a strong sense of the Spirit leaving a house.
My first instinct after today's encounter was that I must leave this country ASAP and not return because all Mexican men are disrespectful and vulgar. But with that attitude, aren't I projecting the same xenophobia I feel is aimed at me?

Ain't no white girl here

First of all, as a follow-up to the last post, my arm is healing and David was the only one to lay a finger on my back. E’s response to dinner was, “these are different.” Claire and Iris didn’t near them. Oh well.
On to the meat…
A friend once told me, "Caroline, you don't dance like a white girl." I've carried that precious compliment with me for about 2 decades. While the statement still holds true, unfortunately, these days it's probably bc I dance more like a farm animal. Yesterday the young women I work with in our church had a dance performance. Each ward represented a different American country. We got Brazil. They were dazzling.

After the performance, I assembled a few hundred hot dogs while I listened to the music pumping up the gym. And I waxed nostalgic. Although this may sound lame, I am brave enough to admit that church dances were the highlight of my teenage life. It was a setting in which my nerves didn't play as much of a part in my interaction with the opposite sex. Although I feigned disinterest in boys (My cousin wasn't the only one who asked me if I "batted for the other team," or "swung both ways."), I secretly adored dancing with them. With the lights dimmed, I didn't worry so much about my appearance although every dance merited a pre-trip to Red, White, and Blue for 5 new outfits (usually totaling under $20 altogether) to choose from. I strategically timed my laying-out by the pool so that my sunburn would be at the point where it turned from cherry red to pinkish-brown and I painted my toenails a fresh coat of neon blue the morning before every big night. And then the aftermath was riding cloud nine, making it difficult to sleep as I analyzed every nuance of every conversation.
Intermission.
David is taking a Sunday afternoon nap and I hear my kids in the other room. They are on their walkie-talkie and have figured out which channel the security guards use. Those security men are getting some subliminal messages (including Gangnam style rapping) with lots of background giggling.
I should be afraid for my safety.
Back to the show.
Here, the youth can attend dances at 12-years-old and the lights are all kept on. Otherwise, I might have busted into the middle of the dancing circle. But my moves are too mature and this farm animal requires a cloak of darkness.

I broke my own arm

As all who know me understand, I fear the kitchen and have just a dash of hate for it too. Until today, I claim only one meal of pure success in my lifetime. During a summer of my teenage years, my mom went out of town for quite some time and I was a Girl Scout counselor in Northern Louisiana during the weekdays. One weekend I came home and there were a good number of vegis in the refrigerator that were on the point of rotting. As my mom taught me, throwing food away is the unpardonable sin, so I cut up the vegis and put them in a spaghetti sauce. The result was absolutely divine. As I sat eating my delectable creation with my dad and Leah, I made many vociferous ohhing and ahhings at my culinary prowess. My dad looked at me and said frankly, “Don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back too much.”
I love my dad.
Today I have officially broken my arm and it's guaranteed to break in several more places by the end of dinnertime. I'm predicting a bruised back too (that's coming from my kids, or else!). A few weeks ago Elijah said he wanted to move back to Arizona so he could eat pot stickers. Look what the queen of the kitchen made today! Homemade! I am just about the most awesome person I know.

Since I have 3 of 3 kids in school, I decided to work on my cooking weakness and have enrolled in a cooking class. Truthfully, I haven't tried any of the recipes (except for the homemade pesto sauce) but I feel like now I have permission to explore.

Driving...again

After my run-in with the Mexican bus with the driver who blamed me, I swore I'd never drive here again. But a combo of convenience, necessity, frugality is the mother of broken promises. Besides, the other alternative was to have a driver, which a lot of people here have (someone told David he needed one as a status symbol).
I'll get one when I'm queen.
Truth be told, I did have a chauffer for the first year and a half of marriage. His name was David and he had a cute butt (still does, I might add). We used my Grandma Iris' generous wedding gift to buy our first car just before marriage. A '98 green Honda Civic. It was a stick shift and since my ego at the time was staggering, I thought, "How hard can it really be for someone like me to learn standard." Years before, Jon Schmitt was the first one to try teaching me. I believe his car was named The Beast and The Beast unjustly bore the blame for my deficiency. My ego continued to hold up even throughout the lessons from my dad, then Hunt, and last was David. David gave up on me and therefore became my chauffer until a year and a half later, after moving from Utah and then Staten Island, where driving wasn't a necessary skill. We were in Michigan where we effectually lived above a frat mansion (our downstairs neighbor had an amazing sex life, or at least amazingly loud, in case you wanted to know). I needed to escape and find a job and my chauffer had a better situation in grad school. So I found myself waking up at 2am several mornings, practicing shifting and trying to assuage my troubled ego on empty streets as tears ran down my face because why the heck did I stall at every stop light and stop signs on hills are of the devil. But I finally conquered the beast. It only lasted for a few years until we totaled the car in a bad snow storm when I was 7 months pregnant with Claire. And I've had a semi-hard time eating Mediterranean food ever since because I remember going back to the car after spending the night in the ER to pick up our belongings and seeing the contents of our doggie bags, mangled meat and baba ghanoush, strewn across the back seat. The good news is that we got the insurance money and got rid of our first, and probably last, stick shift a few months before moving to NYC.
Anyway....This convoluted story brings me back to the point that I no longer have a chauffer; he's more of my personal assistant now. And so I got my first Mexican driver’s license a few weeks ago. All I needed for the license was to show a copy of a bill (to prove place of residence), my passport, my visa, and about $60. That’s all I needed. What if I had never driven a car before? What if I were legally blind? What if I had committed a million vehicular homicides? No problem. I still got the license.
Can I just say that now I understand Mexican traffic patterns.
The anarchy has a genesis.

My half-post. Because I get stuff done!

I started this post a week ago and it looks like I won't be finishing any time soon. So, here's my half-post

David is teaching Institute (Old Testament) and here I am, the first time I've turned on a Mexican TV channel. Of course, it's a telenovela. I think I could turn off the sound and understand it just as well. Not bc I don't understand the Spanish, but bc screaming, crying, kissing doesn't need explanation.
Another Mexican experience: The girls and I took a cab to mutual one Saturday morning (we are a 1-car family here). There was a hole in the floor of the cab. We couldn't take our eyes off the road.
And some others: Today I saw the insides of a dog strewn across the street. Yesterday I saw a dead or unconscious motorcyclist on the road. A few weeks ago I saw a dog hit by a car a few feet away from me. Walking through the mall with Iris alongside Federal Police who were carrying guns bigger than my child. Driving through the countryside and seeing quaint, brightly-painted churches in every pueblito. Walking through Sams, listening to repetitive lyrics over the loudspeaker: "Die, Bi&%$!!!"

Now it's time to start updating with summer pictures. First, when we put the house on the market, I packed and stored a lot of decorations and all of the toys. The kids found new toys to play with. Like fire. And sometimes knives too.

Taxco

For Mexican Independence Day, we escaped he city again and went to Taxco, about 2.5 hours away. It is a beautiful little town built into a hill: cobblestone streets and all white houses with red brick trim and red adobe roofs. City Center was abustle, getting ready for the big night. We saw part of the big show that night with beautiful costumes and dances, but gave up early when the kids were getting tired and it was difficult for them to see the stage anyway.

We got a tour of the main church. The detail was amazing with all of the altars gold-leafed. The gold leaves were stuck on using cactus juice.

We drove up a labyrinth of streets to get to this Rio-esque Christ. The platform was littered with big black beetles which terrified Iris.

View of the city from the teleferico.

The kids pretended to be afraid of heights. Iris wasn't pretending but isn't showing her terror in this pic.

View leaving the city.

On the way home we stopped at the Grutas (caves) de Cacahuamilpa.

 

The stalactite/mite formations were absolutely amazing. As I walked through the caves I couldn't help but compare it to the ornate church in Taxco, which was beautiful too, but man-made never holds a light to the divinely-created.

 The guide claimed the stalagmite below is the biggest in the world (a falsehood), but more importantly, it was the star of a Corona beer commercial.

I'll leave you with a disgusting story, because that's what I do best.

As I have mentioned before, traveling with David can be arduous, often involving blisters and starvation. On the way out of the caves, we bought some food for the road. We thought we didn't have time for a real restaurant bc we were afraid of returning holiday traffic. I ordered quesadillas for the kids and a torta (sandwich) Americana for me. I found not 1, but 2 long, black hairs in my sandwich, but I was so desperately hungry (I'll blame David) that I ate around them. Needless to say, my stomach didn't feel quite right for the next few days.

forgot a few things

Just a few notes I forgot to put in about the last post. As we were traveling to the campground, I made a list of the items places on roofs to prevent the roofs from blowing away: Fluorescent orange safety dividers, laundry baskets, sticks, potted plants, scrap metal, upturned wheelbarrows, dogs, and more. Or maybe people were just using their roofs as attics?
I found it amazing how many houses we passed that were partially made out of cardboard, or tarps, or corrugated metal, yet they all had cable dishes on the roof.
And, most importantly, Claire announced, "If God were here, I'd invite Him camping and I'd share my sleeping bag with Him, but He'd be too big." Iris' response: "Like a donkey."
And a few pics David posted to Facebook from his phone. Gotta keep FB updated, people!

And a few from FB (David's phone) from when my mom came: