silent day

i just realized i never shared episode 38 with you!  here's your sunday sillies a little late

After a few days of grieving heavily for the loss of our little baby-dog, Harley, my time got very busy to help me move on from the sadness and get shit done.

We had to prepare for the village.

It's been an intense week and I have had no time to tell you about everything.

We started off with playing Santa to the children in the village.

But first, we had to drive almost an hour to Puerto Plate to buy the toys.  It was a store Housemaid told us about where the toys are inexpensive and we can get a discount.

That was of course, after the boss finished his chicken.  No talking until his chicken was done.

On the day of giving, we walked out of our yard door to see the entire village of children jumping up and down, arms to the air with tight little fists pumping upon every bounce off the ground.

Of course, Papi and I had Housemaid to help us with wrangling the kids.  As we approached the excited horde of short people, she yelled, "You don't get your presents unless you are at your house!"

Immediately, they ran home to wait eagerly for our arrival.

Later that same day, we were going to give out rum to the adults.  The adults were very insistent about us giving them presents as well.

We also realized we couldn't just give to a few people, that we needed to give a lot more to the rest of the village.

Off we went, credit card in hand and bought a box full of bottles of rum.  Let me tell you, the kids were easy to get back to their houses to wait for their gifts, but the adults?  It was a very insane time.

Grabbing, yelling, frantically wanting their share and trying to get more than we had allotted for for everyone.

Next year, we will be giving out food and care packages instead.

That night, there was quite the party in the village, as we listened to sounds of gunshots.

Well, we thought they were gunshots.

It wasn't until being invited to the party last night that I realized what it was.

Housemaid and Dominican Daddy invited to me the Fiesta de Navidad.

My DR Family fed me a meal, in which they were so generous as to buy special Dominican chicken and rice.

I brought a huge salad, which we topped with the Dominican dressing.

I also brought the grapes, which are like a tradition for the dinner.

Oh, and a few bottles of red wine.

Another tradition is lots of apples.

People are lucky to be able to eat healthy, local, organic produce here, whereas in Canada, these foods are the more expensive of the choices.

Not here.  Instead, junk food is expensive.

Anyway, back to the 'gunshots' I heard.

They have what looks like a bazooka, that is filled with some kind of explosives and they put all kinds of chemicals in and "BOOM!!!" it goes, as I startled with every firing.

Last night, people danced and drank, ate apples and grapes, while sharing their beer with children.

Yes.

Children.

It seems normal to everyone here, but when I saw a father giving beer to his 8 month old baby, it really disturbed me.

What can I do though?  I'm not here to preach about anyone's culture and it seems this is what everyone does with their children.

The party then moved up to the street, where we found the village bar.  Lovely woman serving, who's house is below the establishment.

She invited me in to see her house and while she walked I spoke to her about playing and singing at her bar, reminding her that it would be for free.

It'll be my practise gig when I'm ready in a few months.

Anyway, that has been my week, and rest assured that it was all on video!

Today I settle in for a quiet day, while I wait eagerly to hear from Papi who is somewhere in Vancouver.

And it's a silent day in the village.

The dogs have had nothing to bark at.

i am grateful for the time shared with those who have left to be with angels

seriously, pass the wine

OK.

So, maybe the 'rules of etiquette' are that you only pour 2 mm of wine in a glass, but why?

My mother is Miss Manners to the extreme.

Right up there with Martha Stewart.

Not sure where this debutant social grace came from.

She really is just a Yukon child raised in East Van.

Did they have this protocol in the land of flannel?!?

She was a single mom who really had nothing and had a mother who didn't really help her out much, because she chose a family over school.

Yet somehow, she got this fancy pants personality.

So, when I said I'd like to indulge in the red wine, she poured me 2 sips in a glass.

2 sips.

I asked my baby sister as to why so little, wondering if maybe it's because she's worried because I'm experimenting with drinking like a 'normal' person.

Which kinda confuses me.

When I drank many years ago, she told me I had a drinking problem, in a not so sweet way.

Then when I was clean 'n sober, she asked why on earth I'd want to do that because I never had a drinking problem.

But now that I wanted to experiment with drinking in a sane manner, she pours me a millimetre of the bevvie?

She might as well have put it in a plastic sippy cup.

Anyway, mother left after a few days here in the blistering cold and I spoke to my baby sis who explained that it's what charm school people do.

If you drink white wine, you get a half glass, if you drink red, you get a couple of sips.

Are we who like red automatically labeled the wine-o-s?

Curious.

Apparently, it's because red you sip and white you gulp.

So what!

Gimme me half glass of red wine just like your white!

You really want to keep getting up and refilling my glass until I drink my allotted amount?

That seems like a lot of work!

And besides, I want my half glass of wine goddamit!

Now, mother has left the building, back on her flight back to Vancouver, my baby sister poured me my half glass.

I don't need more than that.

It's all I want.

It's my only evil for crying out loud!

Except for the sugar I've indulged in over the past few days.

I have pimples that are rivalling my nose.

Not sure where my chin starts and my pimples end.

Really sexy.

Not the greatest femme look.

Pizza face.

But I only have a few days left of the bad food.

This size of jean is not going to be my permanent size folks!

Things are going to change when I get back.

Except for my half glass of wine.

Fuck etiquette.

Fuck manners.

Gimme my half glass of wine.

I know Papi will pour it properly.

i know i am loved by family

moto crutching

Our car is in the shop, but I had to teach yesterday.

So, off I hobbled with my crutches up to the main road.

The people here in my village are so damn sweet.

While I waited for a taxi, they offered me a seat, watching for a taxi and waved it down for me.  They then held on to my crutches until I got in the car and handed them back.

Not to mention, the people in the car all arranged themselves so that I could be in front to make space for my crutches as well.

Honestly, I've never experienced the hospitality like I do here.

Even on the way back, an entire bus load of people moved about to make sure I was in the front for space with my crutches.

In Vancouver, lazy assholes sit in the disability seats not even standing for a woman who looks like she's at the end of her pregnancy term.

We don't have jerks like that here.

However, when you take the taxi or bus, they only run along one main road.

I had to make the trek to get to Dream Project, which would be a good 20 minute walk from the highway on HEALTHY feet.

There was NO way I could walk that road in my state.

I took a moto.

There I was, crutches in one hand, other hand on the man in front of me.

Gingerly squeezing my thighs against his hips, I feared that it's not the way people do things here, and I thought I looked like a twit.

People look like they don't even hang on.

Not me.  The hand that wasn't holding on to crutches was white knuckled holding on the seat below me.

Even if I did do everything exactly right, people would stare because there was a gringa on the back of a moto carrying crutches.

That's more of a Dominican act.

But I made it over every speed bump, smiled and waved at the local coffee man, and we stopped at Dream Project.

Now to get off the moto.  Fuck.

While compensating for my meagre balance, for fear of falling because I was trying to stand on one foot, I burned the inside of my calf on the exhaust pipe.

I didn't want anyone to know, because I was so embarrassed that I forgot about the detail of getting off the back of a bike.

Watch the fucking exhaust pipe!!!!

It's been a while since I've been on the back of a motorcycle.

Anyway.  Singe.  Burn.

Seeing that my students were all there watching me get off the bike, I was holding back the profanities with gritted teeth, then made my way up to the class.

I didn't want them to know about my mishap, as I was humiliated, so I pretended it didn't happen.

One of my students noticed and pointed to hers as well.  She had an exhaust pipe burn that was half way through it's healing process.

I see what mine will look like in a week or so.

She laughed at me when I said, "One leg this, the other leg that!" indicating that I now have 2 screwed legs that look like I've been through battle.

I taught with the burn screaming at me for the first hour.

By the time I got home, it was a swollen rust coloured mess and Papi lovingly took care of it with polysporin and gauze.

Then he forced me into using ice and heat for my healing ankle.

Following that, he made me dinner and poured me my well deserved glass of wine.

My baby is back to being that loving, generous soul I fell in love with.

It's important to remember that relationships ebb and flow just the same as our own personal emotions.

The state of a relationship is just an extension of our own inner self.

Anyway, I'm not sure what it is about this country, but between Papi and I, we've both had nothing but wee accidents all over the place.

I guess we're going to toughen up.

It feels like we've gone to battle.

i give myself permission to both fail and succeed

 i missed a day of gratitude ... apologies ...Gratitude 4/10
1. I am grateful I toasted my coffee beans yesterday for awesome coffee today.
2. I am grateful I was able to teach yesterday and today.
3. I am grateful for the children making me happy.
4. I am grateful for air conditioning.
5. I am grateful Papi and I have lovingly communicated about our emotions.
6. I am grateful for the sweet people in this country.
7. I am grateful for all my friends showing me how much I'm loved.
8. I am grateful to have so many friends.
9. I am grateful for my Fuzzy Family making me laugh.
10. I am grateful I'm in a relationship with someone who works at it as much as me.

emasculation

Jeeeeezus ... I needed that.

I needed to look at a beautiful sight of people being happy and enjoying themselves.

I needed The Chef Extraordinaire to fry up some Dominican barbecued chicken, traditional side plate of fried bananas, and purple potato salad.

I've never seen that one before, but I suppose, here, it's normal to put beets in potato salad and it tasted just as good.

They laughed when I said, "Why is it red!?!?!?"

It was torture for me, walking to our spot, but once I was there, the only time I moved was to go pee in the bush like everyone else.

OK.  Forget about drunk crutching through a crowded bar with the potential of slipping in beer.

Let me tell you, if you've never tried to walk with crutches in the beach, it's a feat upon itself.

... hehee pardon the pun ...

It felt like every step I took, I was going to disappear like sliding into quick sand.

Then, once out of the sinking sand, I had to find a spot to piddle, bushwacker style.

Papi held me up by the armpits and I hoped for the best.

I obviously didn't think about the fact that there wouldn't be a toilet on a public beach.  The public beach IS a toilet for most folks who don't have one.

We watched children playing, teens making music with a güira and conga, and hawks flying above us all looking for their feed of fish.

We didn't bring the princess chair when we realized we were the transportation for everyone.  No room for the chair.

But what they do here is rent out chairs and tables at the beach, so we just rented it.

The funny part is, when these folks want to go home, they come and take back their chairs and tables, kicking you off the beach.

It's a riot!

Partway through our fun time, I noticed Papi was getting a little overzealous with the beer, so I stopped my wine intake quite early.

I was now the driver.

Papi said, "But I feel like it emasculates me!  Here the woman can't drive!"

What?!?!  Who are you trying to kid?

When it comes to wheels here, there is no problem to have 3 grown men groin to butt on a motorcycle.

In Canada?  You wouldn't even have ONE male on the back of your bike.

People are so weird about that in Canada and the US.

Here, I've seen women riding scooters with their boyfriends riding bitch.

The men here hug each other.

They touch each other on the arm, waist, whatever.

They wear bright pink, and are more metrosexual than ANY guy I've seen in Canada.

They don't have anything to prove of their sexuality and here, men just seem to come out of the womb macho.  Could have something to do with the fact that they're put to labour as soon as their arms can wield a machete.

Besides, as far as their concerned, there are NO gay people here.

With the exception of the male hookers, but even then, people rationalize, "They're not really gay.  They just need the money."

So, no, Papi, you will ride shotgun when you've drank more than your share.

And off we went with the portable BBQ to drive our newfound friend back to Cabarete, dropping our DR Family off along the way at our tiny little road to our village.

This morning, our new friend who did all the cooking came bay with a gift.  Sweeter than sweet.

There are some really good people here.

Yesterday, I watch the entertainment and forgot about my immobility for a while, not to mention, finished off the filming for this week's YouTube show.

It was wonderful.

In one hour, we go to the hospital to see if this damn cast can come off.

Wish me luck.  Let's hope this is the day I have my legs back.

If it's not, I will do my best to find ways to enjoy myself none-the-less.

Enough of that fucking bed.

i have the ability to see the brighter side

A.W.O.L.

So, I've been off the blog for a few days.

I've been kinda 'troubled'.

I don't want to whine about the torn ligament in my ankle, because I've heard other people whine about being on crutches with a cast and thought, "Good thing you've never rolled off the hood of a car, flying through the air 15 feet, then landing on your head."

But now, I realize, that this is fucking brutal and feel for anyone who has to deal with it, as well.

At least after the motorcycle accident, I felt I was more able to try walking, and with the proper pain medication, I was able to push through the pain.

Now?  My other foot?  The one I've been hopping on for almost 3 weeks?

Well, it's royally fucked to the point that I can't walk on it, and they don't have proper pain meds here.

Not to mention, I can't even use the medicinal marijuana, because this month they're testing our blood again for our residency in the Dominican Republic.

I'm truly losing it now.

I have Breaking Bad to thank for keeping me company.

But seriously.

Instead of whining about lying around on my blob ass, that seems to be oozing and extending a mile a minute like a pancake spreading on a grill, I'll talk about Our Fave's Mom and her husband.

They keep asking for money, but doing it in a really sneaky way.

They told us that the husband's boss wasn't paying them and that they needed diapers and food.

We knew they were fishing for money, but didn't have any to give them anyway.

Then other day, we were out and saw the boss.

He told us it was a flat out lie and that he was considering firing the man because of other things he's been doing that are not tolerable.

Like stealing from him.

Then they told us they needed money to get the mom back to Gaspar Hernández, when all the while, she was still here.

I'm sorry, but I just can't be in friendships, or any other kind of relationship for that matter, with a liar.

I know they're desperate.

I understand how hard it is here, but we're not doing so great financially, either.  I guess we won't be seeing Little Angel anymore.

We didn't come here for dodging thieves and liars.

Neither did we come here for lying around in a fucking bed with feet up on pillows.

One thing I've learned, is wine is great to stop the whining.

It's kept me company while I lie around watching time pass by in my recent existence of 'my life is watching Netflix' a little more bearable.

So, no, I haven't been blogging for a few days, because I have fuck all to talk about, other than complaining about lying in bed and not being able to walk.

For that matter, I haven't been filming either.

Your Sunday Sillies YouTube show won't be happening this week.

It would be boring to watch me lie with my fucking legs up (and not in a sexy way), all day.

One foot with a torn ligament and the other with some weird ass fucking pain from using it too much.

Yeah.

Not very thrilling.

I haven't taught in days, because I can't walk and I miss the kids.

I didn't teach The Garage Band today either.

I'm just gonna lie here and fucking swear and whine a little more.

And for entertainment tonight?

Drink more wine to stop the whining.

i like long walks

i need my love ...

... your sunday sillies ...

OK.

So, if it's not bad enough that those of us with O.C.D. check our alarm clocks non-stop, what happens when that damn thing doesn't work?!?!?!

Well, then, we with O.C.D. are going to be EVEN MORE frantic about checking the time throughout the night.

I had mine set.  All ready to go.

My new Samsung Galaxy actually tells you, every time you save or make a change, that the time is set for 'X' amount of hours and minutes from now.

Great for someone with O.C.D.  Unless that fucking thing doesn't go off.

OR!

It's possible the alarm isn't loud enough to wake me up.  That may be the case as well.  I might download something REALLY obnoxious to wake me up.

Never-the-less, as per my usual checking of the time all night long, I looked at my clock, only to realize I was supposed to be out for The Garage Band kids 5 MINUTES PREVIOUS!!!!!!

Seriously.  I woke up 5 minutes after 8.  I was supposed to be up at 7 to prepare for the niños!

I limped out as fast as I could, because when I woke up in the morning, my damn ankle had ballooned again.

I suppose I did something to it the night before when I went to the birthday party in the village for the Housemaid.

You see, I brought the birthday girl some red wine, and of course, I indulged, as it seemed myself and the birthday girl were the only ones they were pouring it for, and everyone else drank beer.

I wasn't out to get snapped, as I had to get up to teach the next day, and besides, the object of the game isn't about getting corked anymore.

It's just for pleasure of some relaxation.

No pain.  As in, no fucking hangovers!

Surely, I wouldn't want to have a Buffalo Breath while singing for the kids.

Nor would I like to have a llama shitting in my mouth the night before teaching, as I wouldn't have the time to shave my tongue before class.

Alas, the wine I brought ran out.

People just kept sending children off to buy more beer, and I just stuck to sipping my wee glass of red wine, giggling at the drunken antics of others.

Then someone showed up with a bottle I'd never seen before: Dominican wine.

"Try some!" they said.  So I did.  I thought they tricked me into drinking some kind of whiskey.

I had to ask them a few times, "True?  This is wine?"  They explained that it is made from apples.  Who knew apples could be so evil!

I just kept saying, "This is strong!" as they laughed at the lightweight gringa.  I didn't need to tell them who I used to be in a former drinking stage of my life.

I only needed the one glass, even though Mr. Gummy kept prodding me to drink more to match his own level of alcoholism.

They kept asking, "But who will drink all this?!?!"

I'm sure you did fine without me, folks.

Off I went to my house, and as the wine wore off, with the help of time and a lot of water, that damn ankle began its wailing of disdain of my treatment toward it.

I guess I walked around too much, not realizing it, because I had that magic elixir that took away all pain, allowing me to walk MORE!

I thought little sleep would take care of that!  I'm in the land of healing, no?!?!

I guess it doesn't count when you've done something 'new' to yourself.

So, I lied in bed all day yesterday, trying to get the swelling down with my legs up, doing my best to ignore my throbbing toes.  It is bloody angry.

I listened to dogs fart and snore all day, and I suppose that's my lot again as I rest it today.

I have the feeling I did something a little ominous to my dear wee ankle.  Oh, how I wish I had pain meds.

Come home Papi!!

9 sleeps left.

Oh, how I need you, but how I miss you even more than that.

i believe i can be kinder to myself

it is possible!

I'm tired and I want to kill the Fuzzy Family today.

Apparently, so does Old Ghost Face.  We're all a little cranky.

I'm sure it was Pathetic Puppy who tore into the garbage.

The Thug has been hunting cats all night.  That is of course, when he wasn't panting from the heat.

The Donkey has been jumping on to the bed, causing Sir Bark-a-Lot to do what he does best, and Jake-a-Like has been sprawled along my body, making me warmer than I thought possible.

This is the first day here that I can actually say, "I'm too hot."  This will be the first day I'll experience what gratitude for a pool really means.

It's not so much the heat, so much as what comes with it.

Our air conditioner doesn't work when there's not enough city power to juice the batteries.

That means nobody in the village has had any power for a good day and a half.

At least we had enough to run our water.  People in the village have nothing.  It fucking sucks and don't get me started on how the government doesn't care about the people here.

Anyway, it was hot last night, but I don't usually mind the heat.

However, when there's no air conditioner, it means windows are open.

When windows are open it means mosquitos come in looking for snacks.

When they use my body for a meal, I'm up all night scratching.

Every available body part was eaten.

I was ready to tear my skin off last night.

Then, couple that with sweating and bug spray, and you have a sticky mess of dirt that beads and rolls on your skin as you scratch, making it look like you have miniature mouse shit all over your body.

Of course, the mosquitos are NOTHING compared to the ants that bite.

Seriously.  Way to harsh my mellow.

Thought I'd have some wine to help me sleep through the heat, and the ants thought it was a great idea as well!!!

In no time flat, I was flailing from being covered in ants who were biting my hands and arms, and those bitches hurt!!!!!

Then there's the itch that comes with the welts due to their chomping.  It's like the devil himself has crawled under my olive casing, adding salt and vinegar to the wounds.

When the ants nip me, I scratch until I bleed, leaving my derma with great gashes guaranteed to weep with pus later in the day.

These are the kinds of days I wish I didn't have to wear a bra.  A bra in the heat is pure hell.

It's not just the fact that it's tight up against my sweaty skin, but trying to get it on is like a game of twister.

It sticks to my shell before I can get it into place, then trying to adjust it once it's stuck is game of skill.

Forget about trying to get a sports bra on.  That will NEVER happen.  It will just roll along my skin, looking like the world's thinnest tube top.

It's the kind of day where you can shower away the sweat, but once you dry yourself from the shower, it's back in mere seconds.

It could be that I can't handle the heat because I had no sleep last night from the dogs' antics, and Papi up all night trying to get power back on.

That could be why I'm not enjoying this amazingly beautiful day.

Or, it's the fact that the heat has made it hard to sleep, leaving me a bitchy mess.

Today, I made my coffee extra strong.

Not to mention, I don't give a shit what I'm 'supposed to wear' as a white person to keep me safe from predators.

At this point, I'm wearing my fucking tank tops and cool, short, breezy skirts.

I'm bitchy enough that if anyone violates me today I won't have any problem telling them to fuck off.

Even if it's in English.  They'll know what the hell I mean by the nasty look on my face.

Maybe I'll pack my stun gun.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go scratch.

Indeed, it IS possible for ME to be TOO hot.

i sleep soundly and beautifully through the night

the thug.

I was so afraid.

We drove 2 hours to meet the rescue dog and I knew I'd fall in love, but that didn't change the fact that perhaps he could be aggressive toward our others.

He was obviously used as the bait in the dog fights they have here.

The scars.

Oh, the scars.

Hundreds of them and some, really deep.

It's heartbreaking.

When he was dumped at the side of the road, the people who found him rushed him to a vet to take care of the horrifically terrible gouge on his chest.

They kept him in their yard while searching for someone to rescue him and give him the loving home he needs to repair his past.

They weren't taking any chances with their own Fuzzy Family by introducing him to them.

I don't blame them.

However, I suppose the poor thing was just not a very good fighting dog, as they wouldn't have just tossed him and his chain off to the side of the road if the fucktards thought he was worth keeping.

So, that gave me confidence that MAYBE, just maybe The Thug wasn't going to kill our dogs, but you still never know.

We picked up Pathetic Puppy from the AAAS after being sterilized and damn!  The Thug got a woody upon seeing her.

The Thug spent the rest of the ride home wanting desperately to get to the girl in the back.

I sat with her to protect her from the horndog in the front, and held on to his leash in front that was tied up to the holy-fuck-handle.

That damn handle comes in handy for more than just white knuckling it while Papi drives like a lunatic.

Anyway.

I still couldn't be sure if The Thug's pecker hanging out was for excitement of love, or excitement at getting in a fight.

Well, when we got home, we put Pathetic Puppy upstairs for her post-op rest, and released The Thug out to the rest of the hounds.

Unbelievable.

He fit in right away.

Everyone likes him.

Everyone got along.

The Donkey is thoroughly enjoying running around with him and The Thug is thoroughly enjoying marking everything he possibly can.

I hope the hundreds of scars on his head and body fade, as much as I hope his memories of a previous life do the same.

He's quite lovely and cuddly, even though I am definitely allergic to him.

I have welts and hives all over.

That doesn't matter.

Just means I'll have to wash my hands and arms a little more frequently.

Or hop in the ocean.

So far, he's working out just fine, and the AAAS will be PROMPTLY removing his balls tomorrow to dispel his testosterone.

Something else that is working out fine, is having let out my now not so secret secret.

So far, I haven't had too many people tell me I'm doing the worst thing possible.

The shame and embarrassment are pretty hard surrounding this.

Yet, that glass of wine after a long stressful day being lost in the bumpy, dirt roads of the Dominican Republic mountains, with a battered, emotionally damaged dog who would give Dave Batista a run in the ring, was just the thing I needed to defuse the day that never seemed to end.

It truly is all good.

i am supported