Motherless This Mother's Day and Glad About It

Think of me what you will, but the truth I am going to tell is that my mother was a real piece-of-work. It wasn't totally her fault - she was formally diagnosed with bi-polar disorder (manic depression), obsessive-compulsive disorder, narcissism, and borderline personality disorder back in 1998. Any one of these mental health issues would be a lot to handle (for the person and their family), but the combination of these made her absolutely horrendous to deal with and simply impossible to like, never mind love.

I better understood her and the intractability of what I was dealing with when I read "People of the Lie" by Dr. M. Scott Peck. If you have someone in your family or life who is making you feel as if YOU are the crazy one, you need to read this book (you can also read the basic premise and outline of the book on Wikipedia; Dr. Peck was advocating for a psychiatric definition and diagnosis of a form of personality "evil". Sounds pretty strong, but for those of you who have lived with this kind of "evil" you will get what he's talking about).

When I read the Harry Potter series, I came across the description of "Dementors" - the guards of the Azkhaban Prison. The very presence of these wraiths simply sucked the life and soul right out of anyone. I suspect author J.K. Rowling had experiences in her life with people like my mother!

While my sister and I were growing up, we came to realize how selfish and self absorbed Mom was but, society constantly reminds you she's your mother and you are expected to love her and care for her, simply because she gave you life, and you must make all necessary sacrifices. I can assure you, my mother made no sacrifices for her family. She came first in everything. I came to realize she was incapable of putting anyone's feelings or wants ahead of her own (unless there was something in it for her).

My father died of cancer back in 1995 at the age of 63. He had been my mother's "keeper", the stress of which I believe led to his early demise. After his death, "keeper" duty fell to me, as the only child living in the same city as Mom. I have one sister (I call her "Gigi" on this blog) but she'd purposely lived 3,000 km away from our mother for decades. Gigi rarely visited and really could not grasp our mother's ensuing decline.

Fast forward to January 2009 when, at 76, Mom had a stroke, wound up partially paralyzed and unable to live on her own any more. Now she was both mentally AND physically ill, and dealing with her and her health care and nursing needs all fell to me. It was made all the more difficult because she alienated everyone in the health care system she came into contact with.

I felt a lot of guilt because, after a few months, I came to deeply resent the drain on my time, energy, emotions and mental health. And, aside from the lingering effects of the stroke, my mother was pretty physically healthy, so I knew I could be looking at a long 10-15 years of dancing attendance on her in the nursing home.

The conventional wisdom is that when parents are aging and failing, you step up gladly and assume the responsibility because of all they did for you when you were a child. The assumption is you should be glad for the opportunity to show them the same patient, loving care and attention and unconditional support that they gave to you. But, what if you didn't get any of that from your parents? What if they have no "parental credit" in your bank to draw on?

Further, it is not an apples-to-apples comparison (child care to elder care). the fact is parents have the assurance of knowing things will get better - the child will soon be out of diapers and able to do more for herself with every passing day, week and month. Kids are really only highly dependent on parents for the first 4-5 years of their life.

However, it is the exact opposite with caring for aging parents. Things will only get worse - you have nothing to look forward to (except them dying - yes, we get to the point where we want them gone, admit it). They are only going to become sicker, more dependent, and more of a drain on you. Perhaps you can endure it better if you love your parent and feel they have really been there for you throughout your life. But, if you feel they have never been there for you, it's an unfair situation that I describe as "To those who have been given precious little, much will be required"!

I only had to suffer for a year. In January 2010, my mother accidentally set herself on fire with a Christmas candle in the nursing home and died. Grisly. Unbelievable. I would never have wished such a thing on her. But, as Mother's Day approaches, I do feel released from the 51 year sentence that bound me to her out of obligation.

Todo bien. (It's all good).

Living at "Fawlty Towers"

My recent experiences with maid service (both at our condo in Mexico and now here at the hotel we're living at while our Victoria condo flood damage is fixed) remind me of the hilarious John Cleese (of Monty Python fame) British comedy series "Fawlty Towers."

One of the Fawlty Towers staff members was a waiter/manservant named "Manuel" who was from Spain and didn't speak English. The mix-ups stemming from the language barrier and associated misunderstandings were a scream. I think they only made 12 episodes of the show, but it's classic British comedy and available on DVD if you've never seen it and need some belly laughs.

Basil Fawlty (John Cleese), the inn's propietor, was constantly frustrated by Manuel's lack of understanding including his head cocked sideways in confusion and perpetual answer of "Que?" (means "What?" in Spanish). Many screwball events unfold with Basil always apologizing to the inn's guests explaining "Don't mind him, he's from Barcelona."

The sweet lady who provides the weekly housekeeping services at the Mexican six-plex where we have a unit doesn't speak a word of English. When I need her to do (or not do) something, I have to rely on my pathetic "Spanglish" and pantomime - neither of which work in the least to bridge the communication gap. I see the "Manuel" confusion cross her face and can just hear her thinking "Que?" as I try to communicate a request.

I've given up trying, at John's urging, as he found it so stressful watching me simply confuse this poor woman. And all I was trying to do was tell her she didn't have to wash the dirty dishes in the sink, that I would do it myself. She smiles, nods and says "Si", then fills the sink with hot soapy water and starts washing!

Today, at the hotel suite in Canada where we're camping while the flood damage is repaired, I had deja vu when the Asian housekeeping lady came to clean the suite. Apparently she doesn't speak any English either, as I told her (and motioned!) not to wash the dirty lunch dishes in the sink as I would do it myself. She smiled, nodded, said "Yes", and then proceeded to fill the sink and wash the dishes! I looked at John and he just shook his head at me, silently begging me to just shut up and let her do her job her own way.

I will lay low on any requests of the housekeeping staff at this hotel because we've heard them speaking in Japanese and Chinese (which could mean Mandarin or Cantonese, or both). We are so ill-equipped to deal with this United Nations of domestic help in our lives! I can't make myself understood in Spanish, even when I've gotten out my dictionary and really tried. There's no way I can wade into Japanese and possibly two Chinese languages.

While I was typing this post, the front desk here called up and asked if we had water running in our suite. I said no, and asked what was up. Apparently there is water dripping into the suite beneath us! This is so parallel to what happened at our condo and landed us here at "Fawlty Towers"! I call it that because of the language barrier, the fact their wireless internet only works intermittently, and I can't really say they "clean" the place all that well (I've spotted and killed some silverfish).

We're moving to a new hotel on May 1st for the next couple of months and I'm really hoping they speak my lingo. Fingers crossed.

Todo bien. (It's all good).

When your kids are doing better than you...

I am having one of those: "When I was your age I had to walk 5 miles to school, uphill both ways, in blinding snow..." sort of moments with respect to the first home purchases of both my stepdaughters.

Last year, at age 27, the youngest one (let's call her "Y" for youngest) and her new husband had a lovely, brand new home built - we are talking stainless steel appliances and granite countertops. It cost them about mid-six figures. And they bought all new furnishings to grace their abode including flat screen TVs, not to mention upgrading one of their two cars.

Yesterday, the eldest daughter who is 31 (call her "E" for eldest) called us with the very exciting news that she and her boyfriend have bought their first home together - a virtually brand new, luxury 2 bedroom plus den condo priced in the high six figures. They will also be buying all new furniture for their new pad.

Please don't get me wrong, I have never wanted anything but the best for both of these terrific girls, and over the last 20 years I have put my money where my mouth is in this regard, countless times. But I can't help but compare their home-buying experiences with mine, and notice quite a marked difference.

My first home purchase was a little pre-WWII dumpy box that I bought with my then-fiance, B. That house and yard needed everything, which is why we could barely afford it (I was 22 and he was 26). We had very little furniture - mostly worn-out, discarded items from our parents' basements, some yard sale finds, and plastic milk cartons and boards for shelving. To spruce up the kitchen a teeny bit, all I could afford was some brown, wood-grain-look self adehsive "Mac Tac" to cover the old fridge that had been streakily painted by a previous owner. The place stank even after we tore out some rotting and stained wall-to-wall carpeting. We knew it would take a lot of our time, effort, and untold elbow grease to polish this zircon-in-the-rough! For many unrelated reasons, I broke off the engagement within three months of moving into this house - drove away and did not look back. The horrors of renovation were avoided, that time.

During my engagement to my first husband, R. (or, we could refer to him as "The Cheater") we bought an amazing home together. It still needed a lot of work as it had been let go, but it was huge, architecturally unique and attractive, and privately situated on a rocky hillside with a glorious south-facing view over a golf course, along with a fabulous in-ground pool. It was like a resort...albeit one that was going to need a lot of updating and repairs, including replacing decks and new $10,000.00 roof (in 1987 that was big bucks); the long driveway needed repaving as mushrooms were actually popping up through the asphalt. Again, we had next to no furniture and no money to buy any. The capacious living room sat empty for about 2.5 of the 3 years we lived there. R's dad gave us a cast-off queen bed and his old dining room table, and we were glad to have them (I still have the table - it's now at the cottage). R. apparently cheated on me for a long while and then walked out in 1990. We'd done some of the more urgent repairs and painting that we could do on our own, but the expense of the new roof had pretty much tapped us out. I took my share of the profit from the sale proceeds and moved forward with my life.

By 1992, I was 33 years old and married to John. We were househunting together, looking for something suitable for us that could accommodate the regular visits of his two girls (the aforementioned E and Y). We bought a solid, if fairly unremarkable, 3 bedroom, 2.5 bathroom suburban home that needed a lot of updating. We worked miracles with that place based on John's skills and talents in architectural design, construction, carpentry, plumbing and electrical, and my ability to do a fair bit of manual labour (cleaning, stripping wall paper, painting, sanding and staining). In 1994, with the help of John's moderate inheritance from his mother we set about transforming that place over the next 2 - 3 years. During that time I was sometimes working up to 70 hours a week at my government job (with no overtime pay - insane!) and coming home to work on the job site every evening, weekends and holidays. It was exhausting and contributed to my eventual burnout. But the renovations did turn out nicely. Over time we also furnished the place pretty decently.

Fast forward to 2001 and the condo we're now in. We gutted that place top to bottom, moved walls, and completely rebuilt it floor-to-ceiling. At least by then we could afford to pay tradespeople to do most of it for us. I was 42 and John was 49 by the time we reached a point that we could do this, but we still could not afford something luxuriously new and "move in ready".

I marvel at both of John's daughters having first home buying experiences that we could barely afford even now, and we've been at this a heck of a lot longer. It makes me shake my head in wonder. But, like I said at the beginning of this post, I am truly happy for them and looking forward to many delightful visits in their happy new homes.

Todo bien, amigas (It's all good, girlfriends).

My Theory About ADD

Considering what's been going on in my life recently, it's no wonder I am having trouble with focus, memory and attention span. Between menopause and stress, I feel my IQ is several points lower of late.

I'm hopeful that, as I continue to work at getting a handle on my menopause symptoms, and when our condo flood repairs are behind us, and when I've figured out what I am going to do to revamp and resurrect my coaching/consulting business, and when I've lost 20 lbs., that my brain may return to normal. Unless there has been permanent damage, that is!

I used to have a fabulous memory. My recall ability was even something colleagues relied on. The amount of intricate detail I was able to mentally store and easily retrieve was massive.

I managed to maintain my high performing memory in the late 1980's and throughout the 1990's even while the workplace computer and e-mail invasion immeasurably increased the amount and speed at which we had to receive, process and deal with detailed information and demands. During this time, I noticed people's capacity to deal with the onslaught initially increased, peaked, and then has done nothing but decline.

This decline in our attention and retention has been reinforced by mainstream media assaulting us in this era where the 30 second "sound bite" reigns so supreme it essentially determines most political decisions/direction and forms the local, national and international views of the majority of the populace.

I've noticed, especially with e-mail (even short e-mails) that people no longer "read", they simply "scan." They don't really take the information in, and what they scan they do not remember. This leads to a lot of miscommunication, errors, duplication of effort and frustration, all of which leads to more stress and even less capacity to slow down and take in what we do need to absorb. This is what I have labelled as a societally-induced form of adult Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD).

The good news is that because it's self-induced and we are complicit in this, we have a chance to change it. But I'm not saying it will be easy. I am going to start experimenting with myself - isn't that where all change needs to start? I'll keep you posted on how it goes!

Todo bien amigas (It's all good girlfriends).

On Being A Godmother

My husband, John, has a really wonderful extended family. His three sisters, his cousins, their spouses, and all the kids are intelligent, interesting, kind and funny people. I really love them and am so happy to be a part of the Mallett clan, even if it's just by marriage. They have all been terrific and have embraced me from 1990 when I first met John.

Part of being embraced included John's cousin's daughter asking me to be godmother to her firstborn child, a beautiful little boy. I was honoured, if a little bit bewildered. I had only known her for a couple of years but, more importantly, I am very obviously not a "kid person."

For the most part, I do not like and am not interested in children. I was forced by my mother to babysit from the age of 13 onward. At a very young age I learned children are a big commitment requiring a lot of sacrifice that involves next to no reward.

The summer I was 13 we moved from Halifax, Nova Scotia to Kingston, Ontario. A family down the street from our new house had four little boys under the age of 6. My then 17 year old sister (the one I refer to as "Gigi" on this blog) took the job of babysitting for these boys, Monday to Friday from 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. as both their parents were working full time that summer.

Gigi no sooner started the babysitting gig when she landed a much better paying job waitressing. Rather than leave the family with four boys high and dry, it was somehow decided that 13 year old me was going to take on the 40 hour per week responsibility! I never volunteered and certainly didn't want to do it - it got foist upon me, no choice, no complaining allowed, suck it up kiddo.

Every weekday for two months I dutifully went down the block to the little house where four rambunctious little boys shared the second bedroom, and I kept them all alive and in one piece until 5:00 p.m. It was h-e-l-l. I've never been so exhausted and, at times, so revolted. I will never forget trying to get them cleaned up after dinner one night and prepped for bed. I'd sent them into the bathroom to wash up and brush their teeth. I heard a commotion and walked into the bathroom to see that one of them had emptied the full toddler potty into the sink (which had the stopper in) and they were all dipping their toothbrushes into a swirling mess of pee and the biggest turd a toddler could possibly poop out!

Another permanently traumatizing memory was taking them all to the park one afternoon and actually being taken for their mother! I was THIRTEEN, for heaven's sake!!! Yes, I was 5 feet, 10 inches tall by that age (another source of emotional trauma) but what idiot could have ever mistaken me for the mother of four! All I can think is that I must have had a very exhausted, world weary air about me.

Long story made short...I had my tubes tied when I was 30 years old. I did not want to be a mother. And I have never once regretted my decision. Don't get me wrong - parenthood and kids are great...for OTHER people.

So, now back to 1993 and the flattering request to be a source of guidance and support to a little person who is the apple of someone else's eye. Even I could not say no. What I did say was that I could not be counted on for much except financial support. I said I'd be good for Christmas and birthday cards and monetary gifts. I immediately opened a special savings account and I faithfully made deposits at Christmas and birthdays for 17 years, sending a special card each time with the new bank balance for my godson. As he got older, sometimes I would get a thank you, but most times there was silence. Occasionally his mother would e-mail me and let me know he appreciated what I was doing.

This continued until March 2010. My godson was turning 17. I topped up the savings account to an even $1,600.00 and sent him a bank draft cashable for the total amount. I have heard nothing from him. The way kids text these days I think it's unconscionable that he could not spare 3 minutes to e-thank me for the cashola. But, so be it. The gravy train has ended and the fairy godmother has retired her financial wand. Maybe he will miss the cards and the growing bank account, but more likely he won't. I know I won't miss the stress of ensuring these things get done twice a year so that I will have fulfilled my basic duty. Guess I should have volunteered to teach him some better manners.

Todo bien, amigas. (It's all good, friends).

Going Around the Bend

You know what I absolutely loathe? Packing and moving. Yup, it's right up there along with my intense dislike for stupidity, incompetence, arrogance and dishonesty. It's one thing to plan a move and pack for it, quite another to be forced to quickly throw your entire household (life) into boxes so your home can be repaired from a freak sewer back-up/flood.

The insurance adjustor and restoration services company have been great since we met them four days ago, upon arriving home from Mexico to deal with the mess. They are professionals and obviously know from experience I am hanging onto my sanity by my fingernails and could lose it at any moment.

We can hardly move in our 1,000 square foot condo, what with all the kitchen appliances and drawers pulled out and placed everywhere, and furniture shoved every which way. Flooring is already pulled up and baseboards pulled off and piled up in doorways where I continuously trip over them as I hustle around trying to figure out what I am going to need for the next three months, and what can go to storage.

My tripping makes John turn white; I am barely recovered from a bad fall 3 weeks ago at the La Patrona Polo Club parking area in San Pancho, where a rough concrete curb removed several layers of my upper left thigh/lower buttock. It's the worst injury I've ever had (been lucky enough to never break a bone, so far). I wasn't able to sit down normally for well over two weeks. I was blue/black with bruising and had several long and deep abrasions that are "healing" in a way that looks suspiciously like (more) cellulite! Augh! And the limping! Nothing will make you feel old faster than having a limp.

I digress a bit, but have to share this - John looked at my severely skinned butt and said "We have to go home" meaning drive 40 minutes back to Bucerias to our condo, and miss the polo match, sunset dinner and live jazz at La Patrona Polo Club on that Saturday night. No way, I wanted to see polo. So, I staunched the bleeding in the ladies room (miraculously, my dress wasn't torn, and it was black so didn't show any blood) while John got us seats for the evening. He had to decline the white leather chairs initially offered for fear of staining, poor lad. Crimson velvet chairs were deemed safe, I sat on my right cheek all evening and, a couple of double vodka martinis later, I was in no pain. The polo match, dinner and music were fabulous - I'm so glad I didn't miss it. In fact, the photo on my blog site was taken that evening at the polo match. I don't look like I'm suffering - that must have been my second martini!

Back to the hell of packing...

Now, I have a tough time packing for a mere weekend away, never mind a three month stint. I don't know what I am going to want to wear, or what the weather is going to be like...it's a weird form of stress for me. I really like clothes and I care a lot about my appearance; it's hard to put together and pack outfits ensuring you have everything to make it work - from the right underwear to the right belt, shoes and jewelry. I am having to pack up during that difficult "between seasons" weather - winter clothes can be too heavy, summer clothes are too light - you know what I mean. Between seasons dressing is a bitch!

I did the best I could...packing was made somewhat easier due to the fact a lot that is in my closet is currently too tight on me. But that's a whole other blog topic.

I am ensconsed at Swans Hotel in Victoria, in a loft suite, drinking a wonderful Australian Shiraz/Viognier (Johnny Q.), surrounded by stuffed bags and boxes that can just wait to be unpacked. Most importantly, John and I need to decide where we're going to have dinner this evening.

Todo bien, amigos. (It's all good, friends).

A Smudge at Mudge

I have mixed blessings - we own three homes. Each is very different, but all are in very lovely, unique, and quite enviable locations. We're very lucky to have been able to sequentially create these abodes: first a downtown Victoria condo for living and working, followed by a waterfront cottage getaway on a small Gulf Island, and now a sunny little condo in a quaint Mexican beach town for escaping from rainy west coast winters. Each of these is both a dream-come-true and a living nightmare.

Apart from the initial and ongoing expenses of furnishing, equipping, cleaning/maintaining, and paying taxes on three residences, stuff always goes wrong, always. We have triple the homeowner headaches. I no longer envy people with multiple real estate holdings (unless they are super duper rich).

Our steel and concrete highrise condo developed water penetration problems which resulted in a horrendous 18 month and $8 million "remediation" project (our share of the cost was a whopping $120,000.00 for our 2 bedroom unit). Completion of remediation was in sight when a severe windstorm totally collapsed 9 storeys of steel scaffolding from our side of the building (thankfully, no one was hurt). But, no sooner are things put back together inside and out, when we experience a freak sewer back-up (into just our unit) which flooded and destroyed most of our kitchen and all our hardwood flooring throughout. This happened while we were in Mexico. We are now in the process of totally moving out of our home for up to 3 months while they fix everything. Thank heaven for good insurance coverage is all I can say.

Our second home, the waterfront cottage, came about when my husband started going squirrelly living in our urban condo (we downsized in 2001 from a large suburban home with huge back deck and in-ground pool).

We had owned the raw land on Mudge Island (near Gabriola Island) for about 11 years, but hadn't had the money or time to do anything with it. John got to work as only he can and found a beautiful little arts-and-crafts-style house to have barged onto the island (Nickel Bros. house movers are amazing).

Since 2002, this little place has been undergoing constant transformation - it started out at 600 square feet with a verandah, but now we've reached our ideal 1,800 square feet and have a 360 degree wrap-around deck. All this has made our two neighbours incredibly unhappy. They are both bitter, divorced guys with places next door that can only be described as seasonal shacks. They have screamed in our faces (eyes bulging and spittle flying) that we are "tree killers", "destroyers of privacy" and have accused us of "bringing the city" to their island. One of them also allowed his kid to point a .22 in our direction.

The two of them are only here inhabiting their one and two room hillbilly shacks for 4 to 6 weeks per year at the most, yet resent and begrudge us our architecturally attractive cottage with electricity. Funny to note that, after we spent thousands of dollars bringing electricity down to this neck of the woods (putting in power poles so the lines could be run), one of these ornery neighbours has since hooked up to the power line we put in, for a mere fee to BC Hydro of $350.00. Ingrate.

The new 1,200 square foot addition is only at the lock-up stage as it's when we reached this point that the 2008 global financial economic meltdown hit and my consulting business fell off drastically.

Early on in our Mudge sojourn we were vandalized once, and then broken into and robbed; we immediately installed an expensive state-of-the-art security system and haven't had any crime problems since.

Since Mudge Island doesn't have ferry service, you can only get here by private boat. We come and go from the city of Nanaimo on our 18 ft. power boat. Not too long ago, hitting a submerged log cost us $5,000.00 in engine repairs.

And don't get me started on the hot tub - it constantly breaks down. Fixing it involves unhooking/disengaging it all from under the deck, and hauling the heavy pump/motor off the island and down to Victoria. It was working fine back in December when we drained and winterized it in anticipation of leaving for Mexico. When we tried to get it up and working this weekend, no go. Go figure.

And, last but not least - the Mexican condo. I've ranted on a bit in a previous post about how gringos are over-charged and taken advantage of by the Mexicans. And, once you've started over-paying and over-tipping, there is no going back. On the flight home last week, I was chagrined to compare notes with other Canadian snowbirds who are paying about $3.00 an hour for their maid service; we are paying about $10.00 per hour. This in an area where the daily minimum wage is $15.00 - for an 8 hour day. Now, I do not think anyone should have to work for that little pay, but that's about $2.00 per hour and we're paying $10.00. I wouldn't mind nearly so much if I could be sure they were showing up regularly and doing the work. But they can't be relied on for this when we are there, so I can only imagine what it's like in the 8 months of off-season when no owners are around!

Last but not least, there are the joys of conflicting visions and expectations among the 6 condo owners - barely any of whom agree on anything. We're all frustrated because this is meant to be a haven of relaxation - our "place in the sun." But, the reality is we have to develop and agree on budgets, staffing, maintenance, short and long term capital plans and improvements, and none of this is easy.

I'm resorting to the smudge method of clearing and cleaning some of the bad energy that seems to be stuck swirling around us. I have my big oyster shell, an eagle feather, and a mix of dried sage and rosemary which I will burn and wave the cleansing smoke around with my feather. I've smudged before and it seemed to work. Fingers crossed for this time. Too bad there is no "fast acting" smudge. Now, where's the lighter...

Todo bien.

The Waves of Change

We spent yesterday at the Costa Azul Resort on the beach in San Pancho, Nayarit (check it out at http://www.costaazul.com/). It's my favourite beach in the "Costa Vallarta" region although it's not a swimming beach by any stretch of the imagination. There's huge surf ("olas altas" - tall waves) and a strong undertow. We've never seen more than a handful of people on this wildly gorgeous strip of soft golden sand. San Pancho is not over-developed and the homes (many of which are multi-million dollar villas featured in architecture and design magazines) and hotels/resorts have a tasteful, understated presence. San Pancho feels like "old money."

A lone surfer braved the waves yesterday; I watched him as he did some stretching on the beach before launching himself and his board into the roiling water, and I do believe I saw him pray first. Could have been just a yoga move, but a prayer couldn't hurt before facing Mother Nature's version of the spin cycle on your washing machine.

In just the 18 months or so that we've been regularly going to San Pancho, the beach sand has been significantly re-shaped many times. The relentless ocean waves and wind just push against the shore, which constantly adjusts; the shore doesn't complain and doesn't actively resist. It just beautifully and gracefully reshapes itself in response to the forces enacted upon it. Note to self: try to be more like the San Pancho beach!

Unlike the ever resilent beach sands, we humans try positions of "Enough, stop already! I'm tired of the pressures and constant change forced on me! It's just all too much!" I admit to having been mentally spending a lot of time in this realm of late. I know it's futile, but I seem to need some whining space and time before I can move forward. I remind myself that the beach dunes get reshaped by trillions of single grains of sand shifting. I've shifted many times before, in large ways and small ways. I can and will do it again.

I smile to think of my latest example of changing things up and making adjustments. I love collecting shells and can spend hours beachcombing. Unfortunately, the Bay of Banderas and Costa Vallarta don't offer much in this department. What I did notice and started collecting this year is "beach glass", also called "sea glass." Those bits of broken bottles and other glass that get smoothed round and frosted from being tumbled in the surf with sand and pebbles. I am taking home quite a collection of frostily translucent clear, pale aqua, and green beach glass, along with three prized pieces of deep blue glass (internet research tells me that only about 1 in 100 pieces of beach glass will be blue).

As I go home and face the challenges ahead, I will keep open to seeing the "blue glass" moments that are waiting to be discovered.

Todo bien.

A Place in the Sun - 2nd Anniversary

It's two years to the date that we flew down to Puerto Vallarta on a condo-buying mission. We were excited and nervous - buying foreign real estate is a big deal, especially in Mexico. But we had a terrific lead on a reasonably-priced one bedroom condo, on the top floor of a six-plex, with not a bad ocean view (3 blocks back from the beach and up a hill).

In April 2008, things were looking pretty rosy. My executive coaching and leadership consulting business was thriving (I had launched my own business in 2002, following a 20 year career in the BC government); John had retired in 2006 (after 35 years in government), and we were busy starting a 1,200 square foot addition onto our cottage. Now, here we were in Mexico, about to realize my dream of "a place in the sun" where we'd spend our future winters.

We made the condo deal...and things have done nothing but unravel since then. In the past two years:

- my elderly and difficult-as-hell mother fell and badly broke her shoulder in May 2008;

- our Victoria condo had to undergo "remediation" and we were hit with a $120,000.00 bill for our unit's share of the total cost in August 2008;

- by September/October 2008 global financial/economic meltdown occurred, destroying much of our savings;

- with the stroke of a pen, the BC government pretty much destroyed my livelihood when they banned all contracting for "training and development" and "professional services" the fall of 2008, which were my major sources of business. One and a half years later, this ban still continues and is expected to last a long time.

- January 2009 my mother had a stroke and was permanently hospitalized; I had to take over all her affairs and deal with her medical situation (I have one sibling but she lives 3,000 kms away and really couldn't help, although that didn't stop her from having views and opinions on my efforts).

- Spring 2009 I turned 50 and menopause symptoms hit me big time, negatively affecting me on so many levels physically and mentally. Suffice it to say I understand how sleep deprivation is considered a form of torture.

- Summer 2009 my sister (let's call her "Gigi") and I had a major falling out over issues to do with my mother and future financial planning. We are now estranged.

- January 2010 my mother mysteriously set herself on fire in the middle of the night in a nursing home. She suffered critical injuries that were not survivable. I was in Mexico and had to approve removal of life support with the ICU doctor via Skype. Totally surreal.

- April 2010: a freak sewer back-up into our Victoria condo caused a flood and serious damage throughout our suite. That is what we're going home to on April 15th.

But, for today, the sun is shining, the palms are waving in the breeze, and we are headed to the beach.

Todo bien.

Random Thoughts and Observations on Mexico

We've learned that, in Mexico, we can expect daily surprises and frustrations. Luckily, most of these are not serious and are usually pretty funny. Most of these incidents would be less confusing and upsetting if we spoke some Spanish but, we don't (not yet, anyway) and so must take our share of responsibility for what ensues.

We've learned some interesting lessons around the cultural norms and practices including:

1. The word "manana" does not necessarily mean "tomorrow" in the literal sense when being promised a service or delivery. It really means "definitely not now, but perhaps sometime in the future - come and check back multiple times and then we'll see."

2. In a fender bender, even where you are 100% not-at-fault, you will still incur a fine, basically just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The municipal transit police attend the scene, along with insurance adjustors, and no involved cars/drivers are allowed to leave until the matter is settled between all the parties. This can mean standing around a hot, busy intersection for h-o-u-r-s while much wrangling occurs in Spanish, which is very unsettling - especially when you get the distinct impression they are starting to try and pin the blame on you (the gringos). At one point in our case, they actually tried to claim we caused the accident by making an illegal left turn against a red light, at rush hour, across 6 lanes of traffic! If we had attempted such an insane driving manoeuvre we would have been squashed like cockroaches long before reaching the point on the side street where the latina teen princess actually drove into us. Sanity prevailed when the two separate insurance adjustors did some CSI (crash scene investigation) work and forensically proved to her domineering father that she hit us, and not the other way around. Happily, we negotiated our 800 pesos fine down to 100 pesos.

3. Great marks in high school give you the opportunity to work for tips at the local supermarket...bagging groceries. Certainly it beats pushing a heavy wheelbarrow of food or trinkets to hawk up and down the beach all day, but still...wouldn't you want to give your "A" students something more inspiring in the way of opportunities?

4. Many gringos want to make friends with the locals and go to great and generous lengths to make, and then deepen, connections (bringing copious gifts and socializing/celebrating special occasions together etc). I think this is great for all the obvious reasons, of course. But, where I see problems crop up is with making "friends" with the people who are supposed to work for you.

Blurring the borders between employer and friend would be tricky in any culture. If you own any kind of vacation home in Mexico (we have a small 1 bedroom condo in a six-plex), you have to have a building manager, pool guy, gardener and maid(s) to maintain the place - year round. Even though you may only be here a few weeks or months of the year, you are expected to pay a decent price for staff all year round at the same rate, if you want to "retain" them, so say. So, you pay for regular weekly or bi-weekly maid service, even though your place is clean and closed up tight for months. You pay for pool and garden maintenance even though these will not be attended to regularly during your absence (after all, they are not even attended to regularly when you ARE on site!).

We not only pay a decent ongoing rate for these sporadic services (i.e., well above a Canadian hourly minimum wage), all of us owners also tip generously when in residence - under what I think is a mistaken gringo impression that decent base pay, combined with tipping and also friendship, will somehow help ensure that prompt and appropriate services are continuously provided.

But you know this formula (i.e., good pay + tips + friendship = good service) is not working when the already erratic pool guy/gardener shows up and expects you to serve him coffee before he gets to work! (And his "work" simply consists of over-chlorinating the pool and precious little else).

Our "pool guy/gardener" actually subcontracts the "gardening" to some other fellow who occasionally comes to cut our minute patch of grass. And neither of them ever wants to deal with the neighbourhood dog poop that gets deposited in our off-street parking area, no matter how often you ask to have it swept out. Guess there must be a sub-subcontractor that needs to be hired for doggie-doo disposal.

The bottom line for me on the issue is this: I already have enough friends. What I actually want and need more of is work from the people I am employing in Mexico.

5. Lastly, yesterday I learned that iguanas can't swim. I was relaxing alone in our pool, listening to folk rock on iTunes, floating face down on my lurid green Walmart air mattress and enjoying the heat of the 2:00 pm sun. Suddenly, I heard a commotion poolside and raised my head to see the neighbourhood cat, nicknamed "Mamacita" (white with some tortoise shell markings and one blue and one green eye) in hot killer-pursuit of a huge, lime green iguana - she was driving him right towards me! I was taking all of this "wild kingdom" moment in right at eye-level. I thought the iguana was going to land on me, but he sailed right over and plopped into the pool, while I rocketed off my air mattress and thrashed my way to the pool ladder - screaming my head off! In my nightmares I can never work up a good scream when scared, but not so in real life!

I didn't know where the iguana was in the pool and I didn't want to encounter him as I've heard they bite and have sharp claws. John, my husband, raced downstairs in response to my bloodcurdling howels and was able to scoop "Iggie" off the bottom of the pool with the pool skimmer pole, but only after the little green dinosaur had scooted around on the bottom long enough to start drowning. Then he was exhausted enough to be rescued. John then resuscitated me with an icy cold vodka martini so, all in all, a happy ending.

Todo bien.

Bienvenidos a la Mujer Ardiente!

Welcome to my first ever blog post - intended to become the collected reflections and rants of a mid-life woman whom you'd love to have for a friend and confidante. Time will tell, right?

To explain the title of this post, I'm not hispanic nor do I speak Spanish (although maybe one day...). I just happen to be writing this from our winter home in Bucerias, Nayarit Mexico. My Spanish/English dictionary tells me the words for "woman" and "burning" are "mujer ardiente." I'm sure I've gotten something wrong grammatically with the phrase, but you get the picture.

I was excited to see the word for burning is "ardiente" because of course it brought to mind the English word "ardent", and I certainly am ardent about many things! In due course, these will be revealed.

"The Burning Woman" blog title is meant to cover a whole lot of territory. Although I've never been to it, the name of the "Burning Man Festival" held annually in the Black Rock Desert of Nevada, had a lot of appeal as the event is rooted in "radical self expression and self reliance." Cool! Those are the only things that have ever seen me through life!

I'm also 51 years old and dealing with menopause - especially hot flashes, which have made me feel like I'm burning up. As previously mentioned, I've been living in Mexico off and on; between sunburns, heat and occasional humidity, I often feel like I'm melting here. Then there are the various political and social issues of the day that get me fired up and hot under the collar. Finally, there are the meltdowns I experience when faced with challenging and/or just plain horrendous circumstances. In the past 12 months of my life these have included unemployment and dire financial straits, family estrangement, death and, just this past week, a sewer back-up that completely flooded our home in Canada.

All these things, plus a whole lot more have led to me sitting here, in Mexico, drinking red wine ("vino tinto"), and typing these thoughts. More to follow.

Todo bien, amigos (it's all good, friends).