While I was outside cleaning the terrace in the main unit the other day, preparing for a new guest’s arrival, I heard, OVER the Ipod music blaring in my ears, the kind of fake, high-pitched girlie-girl laughter  one might hear in a bad soft-core porn movie.

I looked down toward the beach in front of the neighbor’s house and saw four fully naked, attractive young women laughing their fake laughter and building a giant sand penis.  Then I saw one older, unattractive bald man FILMING them. 

I admit, I couldn’t help watching.  The scene was just bizarre…first, it has been unseasonably cold here, and this day was no exception.  The sun was out, but STILL, it was far too chilly for full on nakedness. Second, while Tulum attracts the nudies and the hippies, this scene was just so unnatural and forced that it stood out much more than seeing some random crunchy-granola hairy man walking down the beach. 

As I went back to my work, two of the women were hugging up on the unattractive man, giggling and running their french-manicured acrylics up and down his chest.  My imagination portrays this man as a wealthy old perv with a skewed sense of the sexy from many years of watching porn, but I admit my own bias has the heaviest hand in painting that portrait.   I’m not averse to pornography and think it has its place in a healthy sex life, but prefer scenes that feature people who look like people engaging in relatively  normal activities.  Not, say, four naked women building a giant sand penis while a man old enough to be their father films them.  But that’s me. 

One thing is certain, I’ve never seen anything this interesting in Playa del Carmen.  I don’t know if they were all staying in the rental home next door, but at 2am, there was a lot of shouting and slamming of doors over there.  Trouble in paradise?

It’s two days before Christmas.  Everyone’s status updates on Facebook are all about Christmas comings and goings, family plans, snowfall, and shopping/present wrapping.  Without even a Christmas tree here at my little Casita-By-The-Sea, this “holiday” is pretty much a non-event and tonight I started feeling just the teensiest bit sorry for myself.

Since I’m so full of self-pity, I took myself on a little shopping excursion around the internets for stuff I want in an attempt to cheer myself up.  Here goes, in no particular order.

Urban Decay makeup, preferably a lifetime supply.  Because yes, I’m going to still be wearing glitter when I’m 70.  What’s it to you, bitches?

My mouth is totally watering, looking at these friggin’ pickles.

Vintage aluminum Christmas tree with working color wheel

New York Times Crossword Puzzle book, brand new, that I don’t have to share.  With ANYONE.

I have wanted a Cuisinart since the minute I popped out of my mom’s vag.  No kidding.

Frye boots.  OMG, size 9 please.

A super passionate kiss from someone who is as insanely in love with me as I am with him

So cute it hurts my heart.  Can be bought at Broken Cherry Boutique in Chicago.  Just saying.

Growing up in the orphanage, they wouldn’t allow us to have toys.  So I want this dollhouse now, ok?

Total spa day…massage, facial, manicure, pedicure.  Everything except where they wrap you up like a mummy because that sucks.

Full set of zombie dishes.  I refuse to die until I get these.

Hello, adorable little sterling star earrings.

Dig if you will the picture:  Me in my cute pink rainboots and a pink helmet on this little baby.

Ice Cubes chocolates.  I haven’t seen these since I was a kid.

Louboutin leopard print peep toe pumps.  I just stopped breathing.

Le Creuset.  I’d be a much better cook with these pots.

I detonated 2 live grenades when I was in the Army and I fell in love with the feeling forEVER.

More than anything else, I wish that tomorrow I could be at my Uncle Terry and Aunt Carolyn’s house with my entire beautifully insane family, eating Italian beefs and ham and Uncle Skip’s brats and sauerkraut and Aunt Sharon’s pink cherry salad and disgusting Luxumberger sausage and making inappropriate jokes while sitting on Santa’s lap (who, let’s face it, is probably related to me) and watching old home movies and fighting over who Grandma gave the ugliest pajamas and then afterward, playing Trivial Pursuit until we laugh our sides sore. 

Merry Christmas to those who do get to be with their families at the holidays, and a great big hug to those who don’t.  I’m so very happy and blessed and I hope you are, too.

xoxo

My new solitary life has in some ways seemed like a medication prescribed by a doctor to heal things that were “not quite right” in my psyche. Like any medication, side effects are common; the most common side effects I’ve experienced so far have been an occasional twinge of loneliness and an uncontrollable excess of thought.

Whenever I am feeling unmoored, I naturally return to the books and memories that have resonated in me throughout my life, searching for new insights or drawing familiar comfort from things that have already proved valuable.

As I was endlessly raking and cleaning the land last week, I could not stop thinking of The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupery, one of my favorite books (and for the record, only the Katherine Woods English-language translation from the original French passes muster with me. Don’t even talk to me about the new one). This illustration, in particular, would not leave my mind:

This illustration is from a part of the book in which the Little Prince is describing the danger in not carefully tending to his planet to rid it of the dangerous Baobab seed before it has a chance to grow into a big tree with huge, damaging roots. While the Baobab is young, it is easy to tend to and remove, but the longer one allows the Baobab to grow, the more dangerous it becomes. Here is what could happen if one is lazy and allows the Baobabs to grow unchecked:

This lesson is a new one for me.  My Baobabs have always been ignored or unnoticed, growing larger and larger until they have finally split my planet apart.  How many of my love relationships have been doomed by the quiet roots of the Baobab growing? By the jealousy, the resentment, the little slights I don’t mention until it’s too late, until my love has died?

As I raked, pulled weeds, and carted away dead palm fronds , I found myself strangely comforted by the work. My care for the land was tangible, and at the end of the day I stood and looked at what I had done and thought: “Nope, no Baobabs here.”

Now that I fully understand the risks, I mean to skirt the danger of the Baobab forever.  Don’t forget to mind your Baobabs, too, friends.

Here’s where it came from.

Thanks for bringing that to me, Zannie!!

In the two weeks I’ve been living my new life as an on-site “manager” at a private villa in Tulum, I have faced a number of challenges.

First, in the span of a week I decided to pack up and leave Playa for Tulum. And then I actually packed up and left Playa for Tulum, just like that; no fanfare, no crying, no going-away parties. Mostly I think this is because I don’t really feel as if I went away—it’s not like I moved to the moon, or whatever. The majority of my business is still Playa-related and I’ll see my friends often enough. My friends don’t even really like me that much, anyway. Plus, with the internet and Facebook, I’m able to keep in touch with them about as well as I kept up with them when I lived in Playa.

Second, I have had to learn to live completely alone. While I’ve always been a bit of a reclusive person, enjoying my alone time to an embarrassing degree, I’ve never been in a position where there was absolutely no chance that I could be with another human if I wanted to be. I live and work on this property and cannot leave it unattended, so without someone to relieve me, I don’t leave. Days could go by without my ever stepping foot off this land or seeing any people other than those who stroll by on the beach. What I find most interesting about this aspect of my new life is how well it suits me. I’m starting to wonder if maybe I’m not the Kaczynski-hermit type who’s going to go mad someday and either stalk some D-list sitcom star no one cares about or mail shoe bombs to ex-lovers (oh, who are we kidding. Like I’d waste a perfectly good shoe.). People who once met me at a party will say, “Wow, well, I always knew she was a little different from other people, but I sure didn’t see this coming.”

Finally, I’ve had to tweak my desperately-held desire to view myself as a delicate little flower. Go ahead and laugh—I’m a 5’9” big girl with shoulders a HS linebacker would covet, so this desire to appear feminine is a tall order, especially when it’s totally incongruous with the stubborn mule in me who refuses to admit she needs help or that there’s something she can’t do. For at least the last 15 to 20 years, I’ve presented myself as both a giggly, know-nothing girl who can’t fix things or program her DVD player without the help of a man and an inordinately strong ox of a woman who can carry a refrigerator on her back and can change her own tire, thankyouverymuch.

What has been the best part of this dual-personality? I have historically been able to call in the girlie-girl when I just haven’t felt like doing something “guy-related.” But now, here in Tulum, I have to do it myself. The palm trees don’t give a shit if I don’t feel like hauling all those fronds over to the burn pile and the gasoline can isn’t going to weigh less and not be so spilly just because I sink to the ground and squeeze out a couple of girlie tears.

So basically, I’ve had to learn to suck it up, and in the process, I’m learning how much I can do. I’m afraid of heights, but I have climbed up a ladder onto the roof many times. I don’t like reading boring-ass equipment manuals, but I had to when faced with the initially-daunting prospect of running the generator and the water pump. Did you know that if I have to, I can move mattresses by myself? And that I can go an entire week without looking in a mirror? And that my hands smelling like gasoline doesn’t even phase me?

All of this has reminded me that this isn’t the first time I’ve been out of my comfort zone and succeeded. I was once a high school cheerleader and pageant queen who joined the Army, where I became my platoon’s machine-gunner, grenade aficionado, and competitive-as-fuck Soldier of the month.

Living here has put me back in touch with that fierce girl determined to show everyone what I am capable of, but at the same time, I refuse to coarsen my soft, flowery side. So while I’ll dress up pretty for you, cook you dinner, and give you a massage, it is at your peril to forget that I was also trained to kill. I don’t want to kill you, but I will if I have to.

Now, would someone please buy me this stuff for Christmas?

Someone just found my blog with that set of search terms. I am not even kidding.

I wish I was kidding.

Bust my buttons if I’m not just chock FULL O’ surprises.  Where have I been, you ask?  WHERE IN GOD’S GREAT NAME have I BEEN? Well, I’ll tell you where I’ve been:  Tulum. I moved to Tulum two weeks ago

(pregnant pause for effect)

…yeah, you heard me right. I moved out of Playa del Carmen, where I have lived and worked and sweated and played and cried for the last 5 and a half years or so, and now I live in a place on the beach in Tulum that is so secluded, if I see 4 people in a day I’m feeling overscheduled.

Dollfaces, the short version is this: I was offered an incredible opportunity to live on and care for a gorgeous beachfront property in Tulum while still fulfilling my other work-related obligations. How could I say no?

The months following the end of my relationship in PdC proved to be an interesting snapshot of what life in a “small” town can be (and by interesting, I mean “petty” and “pathetic”). Rumors abounded, as rumors will, and I found myself dreaming of a simpler life. Gentle readers, I have found it.

I wake up at 6.30 am or so and am in bed by 10.30 pm or 11. I rake, clean up fallen coconuts and dead palm fronds. The sound of the waves crashing onto shore has become the audio equivalent of a screensaver.

There is much more to tell, but since this opportunity/decision came on so suddenly, I’ve not yet sufficiently regained my footing to tell the tale. I’m caught in a huge wave, loving the roar of the surf and the sensation of weightlessness, but unsure yet I’ll be able to right myself like a cork on the sea’s surface. Stay tuned to see the outcome.

Oh, here is what I’ve got to look at every day. Disgusting, right?

My favorite night of the year has come and gone once again.  Playa del Carmen’s Halloween action just seems to get better and better each passing year.  This was my 6th Halloween here and each year it seems the costumes get more creative, parties wilder, and decorations more elaborate.  Here are a few photos.

Kiss deserved every accolade and prize they won that night…they were fantastic.  Costumes totally homemade with bits and pieces of various items (tubing, garden hose), covered in lots of glitter and spray paint.  Phenomenal job, guys.

I thought my costume turned out pretty well, too…it sure was a handful of hours and two burned-out glue guns to get all those feathers onto the fan.  Kudos to my friend Anita, who brought me 100 peacock tail feathers and the blue wig; all the rest was scrounged up here.  I was lucky enough to win the Best Female Costume contest at Luna Blue Bar, 500 pesos!! I also won a free dive with Abyss Dive Shop from La Ranita Bar (but I don’t dive, is anyone interested?).

I am so naughty…the look on Centaur Corbin’s face cracks me UP.

I just love how Playenses really get into their costumes.

Dick in a Box

I was kind of trapped outside most of the bars…the tail was great, but I think I’ll go with something easier to manage next year.

Gulp.  I don’t know how to start, so I’ll just throw this out there:  In June, my 8.5 year relationship and 4 month engagement ended.  The decision was mine, and it was not undertaken lightly.  Without going too far into the highly personal stuff that went into this decision, I will say that this end was the result of years of heavy thought, an almost totally debilitating depression, and tureens of tears.  Finally, it felt necessary in the way that surgery to save one’s life is necessary, but it was the most difficult decision I have ever made.

The last almost-five months since the breakup have been an enormous learning curve for me.  For the first two months, I felt like someone awakening from a long coma who had to relearn how to walk, talk, smile, swallow.  Although I have always been a person who enjoys her alone time, at times the loneliness has been crushing, and feelings of guilt at hurting someone I have cared about for nearly a decade weighed upon me like the lead apron the dentist uses to protect you while taking x-rays.

The third month, I started to feel somewhat better.  Although I could not go out, could not see people, didn’t want to blog, didn’t want to work, didn’t want to talk about it, I started to improve.  I spent my afternoons in the pool and my evenings alone, reflecting.  In the last two months, poco a poco, as Mexicans say, I have crawled out of the depression and started inching back toward the self I knew I really was…one grain of gratitude and happiness at a time.

I’m happy, though I still suffer at night from time to time when I lie in bed in the dark and think about how this happiness has been selfishly won by hurting another human being.  There is no joy in what I felt I had to do.

But there is joy, and this is something I had resigned myself to thinking was not meant for me.

I couldn’t even remember the password to log into this blog.  My domain had expired. I had 4,021 comments to sort through.  Like a patient coming out of a coma, I had to relearn how to even write a new post.  The moon was aligned with Jupiter.  A beast with six heads arose from the sea, and all six heads were wearing crowns.

I owe a huge apology to the three of you still checking this.  I’ve got lots of stories, so many stories you’ll grow sick of me.  I’m on my way back; I think it’s still going to be about another week before I can get back into the groove.

Consider this a warning.  See you soon, dollfaces.