We adopted Stella in 2020 from a FB post. She had been used for breeding and then abandoned to fend for herself on city streets. She was found skinny, blind and traumatized.
One scared pup. Her life was about to change.
Today she lives a royal life without care, that is, until there’s a thunderstorm. Last night we were hit with a doozy. She shook and fought like a wildcat, until I lay on my side, held her against me with a pillow in her back and covered her tightly. There was lots of stroking, soothing talk and shushing. Not much sleeping.
One of my favorite pictures of her.
About four in the morning I got up with her. She had been panting a lot so I took her for water. As I walked into our living room my feet hit water. Slosh, slosh, it took my half asleep brain a second to register, flooding!
Getting a gray muzzle.
I woke Lisa and we squeegeed, mopped and toweled until five. Rain had come in under the side door, which had never happened before. The solar held and we were grateful to not be working in the dark.
Of course neither dog offered to help with the cleanup.
Luna sleeps through anything.
The sun came out and everything is dry and Stella is back to her calm self. Living on the street, rummaging for food must have been pretty traumatic for a little blind dog. I’m just glad storms don’t happen too often.
You may or may not have noticed that there was no blog this morning. Dos Tortas needed a break. From travel to having visitors to doctor’s appointments, back to back, well my head is spinning.
The decision has been made that we’re going to Austin for my leg surgery…wait!…what? Yes, I know, whiplash. We’re rearranging our summer plans and getting this party started.
Brunch with local friends is also a break. Lisa stayed home.
Hopefully we can make a surgical appointment for early August. Fingers crossed. Until then, enjoy your weekend.
Nobody wants to read about old women doing amazing things but you should, if you’re lucky it could be you.
Happy birthday Alice 82
My conservative, republican mother-in-law moved to Mexico to live with her ex-military lesbian daughter and her older wife. It’s been one hellava ride.
Alice’s 80 birthday
Alice is now eighty-two and living large in her own tiny jungle home.
Her house is a museum. She’s never seen a knickknack, or doll, or pair of shoes, or jewelry…that she doesn’t love. When her clothes washer recently died, her main concern for a new one was that it had to be pretty. She now owns a red washing machine.
A tour of Alice’s artistic bathroom. Who loves to have her picture taken?
Alice survived Covid and RSV (a respiratory virus) both of which put her in the hospital. She has more lives than a cat. She sets an amazing example of resiliency and living life on your own terms and we’re so lucky to have her with us.
Waking up daily in the jungle of southeastern Mexico is a dream for some and a reality for me. Depending on the time of year, the sun clears the horizon and hits me right in the eyeball in bed! Then there’s the cacophony of birds, (doves, parakeets, brown jays, chachalacas and more). The sound of the teapot heating water for coffee and dogs demanding “outside” and their breakfast, is also part of the wake-up call. It does beat an alarm.
Rise and shine.
The morning routine continues with a trip to the roof to practice my version of sun salutations and a quick check on the baby birds who are almost as big as their parents and will be flying the coop soon enough. I will miss them
The roof sanctuary. They’re doves, not pigeons 😂
I lean into my morning routine with meditation, exercise and vacuuming up the dog glitter left on our blue concrete floors.
The shedding maniacs.
There are so many possibilities for surprises in my day-to-day life, such as this week alone, smelling gas from the new stove, threats of severe weather, a trip to get MRIs for me and Lisa, and health concerns with Lisa’s mom who is 82. Morning routine is the anchor of my life.
Sometimes art just shows up. Not sure where this came from.
Having recently been diagnosed with anxiety, I scheduled a massage and gave a massage (I am a massage therapist) both of which got me out of my head. Getting a massage has been a way that I have dealt with anxiety in the past. Time for a reboot.
More art. Lots of circles.Postcard sized paintings. Touch to enlarge.
I am still playing my ukulele (badly) and furiously making art. It’s good to have a plan. And then I try to be aware of all that I have to be grateful for. There’s just so much. This blog and my community here are included. Thank you for showing up, leaving comments and hanging with me through the ups and downs. I appreciate it more than you can know.
However you cut it, living with pain is not fun. For those of you who have been dealing with chronic pain for years or even a lifetime, my sympathies. If you have never experienced chronic pain, read on, life turns on a dime at any age. At seventy-four I am new to the game and surprised by it.
Life drawing class provides a lovely distraction.
I’ve learned that pain medication is a god-sent but a double edged sword. Even thinking about it makes me want to sleep (or cry.)
Medication handles the pain so I can exercise, walk or be halfway human. I have to be careful however because it can also eat holes in my stomach.
Models choose some interesting props.
So if you are waiting patiently for the doctor’s pronouncement, drum roll please…HIP REPLACEMENT. Yes the old hip is in pieces and barely able to keep me upright. An appointment has been made for yet another opinion and hopefully to schedule surgery, April 23 in Austin. Finally time to take advantage of all that health insurance I worked so hard for.
I added color later.
Until then, the meds keep it tolerable, as does my artwork. Carry on.
DOS TORTAS
My gastroenterologist has declared that my stomach pain is due to anxiety. And now I understand.
Last week was the much awaited Rendezvous, watercolor painting in Mérida, Mexico. Besides the five finished paintings I had committed to, I had one other goal for the week, to watch the half time Super Bowl show ie, Bad Bunny.
El Gran Santiago Restaurant and Bar
To be clear, I am not a music person. When Lady Gaga showed up on the screen of the sweet little neighborhood bar down the street, I didn’t know who she was at first. I know, don’t stone me. I did know Ricky Martin immediately.
I was intent on listening to the music but the mostly non-Mexican bar patrons, WOULDN’T SHUT UP.
The only painting I sold.
I realized that the bar-goers weren’t any different from folks I’ve spoken to in the States, the only history is OUR history, the only music is what I like and understand, and the only culture is white US culture (whatever that is).
Sunrise behind Santiago church.
Because of my algorithms, I have since learned about the history of Puerto Rico and how Benito (BB) schooled us on the world’s biggest stage. What an amazing show of unity, family and love.
I also found out that Benito wore a bullet proof vest to the Grammy’s and had a hospital-on-wheels parked outside “just in case.”
I have always been a creative of one sort or another. I’ve crocheted hats, knitted socks, doodled, quilted, painted, gardened, baked, sewn clothes, danced, kept a diary and written this blog.
Baby socks I made for no particular reason.
And still I tend to think of my art as secondary, inconsequential, and not terribly important. When in fact it is who I am.
Texas Star, A gift for my mother-in-law that was returned to me when she died.
While recently in Austin I got to see lithographs by Salvador Dali priced at six figures. Some of his drawings don’t look that much different from mine. Maybe you have to be dead to have your art appreciated.
Visiting the Salvador Dali exhibit with my niece.
And then this TED Talk by Amie McNee came across my screen. The Case For Making Art When The World Is On Fire. None of us would argue against the world being on fire, but make art? That seems like fiddling on the Titanic.
One of my wilder creations.
My suggestion is to take the time to listen to her passionate message. It has made me committed to putting down the phone and iPad. This week I dusted off and tuned the ukulele I HAD to have and has sat in a corner for too many years. Perhaps struggling to play it is just what this old brain needs.
Dusted and tuned.
Next week I will be in Merida, Yucatan, for five days, watercolor painting on site around the city with a group of fellow artists. I remember how scared I was the first time I joined this group. There was a wide range of talent, including one woman who had never picked up a paint brush in her life. Her fearlessness inspired me.
When I lived in Central Mexico in the seventies, a friend lived upstairs over… I don’t even know what to call it, a bread production company. At his invitation we dragged ourselves up before dawn to visit the bakery where traditional Mexican rolls, bolillos were made.
There was a huge rounded brick oven where bread was baking. Heavenly rolls, pillowy on the inside, crisp on the outside. They are cousins to the French baguette, left over from the French invasion of Mexico in 1838. The fragrance was swoon-worthy.
Several men in white aprons stood at a table where golfball-sized rolls of dough were already lined up, clearly this was an all-night job
Here was where the magic came in. With each hand they grabbed a ball of dough. Two dowels, like miniature rolling pins rapidly flattened the dough. One side was crimped toward the center, flip, crimp, voila, an ambidextrous miracle. The dough was set on long trays and popped into the wood burning oven. At five am, they melted in our mouths.
The bakers encouraged us to try their two handed roll and crimp.The results had them rolling with laughter. They made it look so easy. We looked foolish.
Coming to Bacalar, I eagerly looked for bolillos. There wasn’t even a bakery in 2013. Today a poor facsimile is sold, mostly used for tortas or sandwiches. They’re not even crispy!
$.15 cheap and filling.
The bolillos of my youth are still sold in Mexico City and thereabouts. Mostly mass-produced with highly processed flour, they leave much to be desired.
This past week, a British chef in Mexico City made a disparaging remark about Mexico’s “bread culture”. Dear God did a shit-storm ensue. Chilangos (from Mexico City) are very sensitive to the “gringo invasion” and how it’s changing traditional culture, food and dress.
The bottom line was that yes, the poor quality of Mexican bread needs to be addressed but NOT by foreigners.
Here in Bacalar we have a friend who has a delightful restaurant, Madre Masa or Mother Corn. Reading the room, they began adding pastries to the menu and then large loaves of sourdough bread. I am a huge fan, buying enough to ensure they never go out of business.
My daily breakfast.
Back in the day I used to make my own bread. Those days are long gone.
So are we part of the gringo invasion? Yes and no. We’ve lived in Bacalar twelve and a half years. We speak Spanish, contribute to the economy and pay taxes.
Madre Masa is always hopping.
MadreMasa caters to tourists, many from Mexico City who also buy sour dough bread. Yes, the culture is changing. In my opinion it is due to wealth acquisition and an ever changing global population. It’s easy to blame foreigners but there’s a much larger conversation that needs to take place with respect and kindness. For now I will continue to enjoy sourdough bread with no guilt or apology.
When writing about siblings last week, I remembered that this week is the twenty-fifth anniversary of my brother’s death from brain cancer. I thought I’d repost a blog I wrote earlier this year and take a week off.
I am reading the book, Hello Beautiful by Ann Napolitano. It’s the story of four sisters, their individual personalities and how their close and connected lives fall apart due to death and questionable decisions. It has me thinking about my four brothers and where we’ve ended up as adults.
My oldest brother once told me that the worst day of his life was the day I was born. Nine years older than me, he was the fair-haired solo grandson and center of my parent’s universe. As the only girl and eldest of the next four children born in six years, the blame fell to me. He taught me about sexism, refusing to include me in the rough-housing because I was a “girl.” I adored him. He came for a visit to Bacalar in December 2023. Since then we talk every few weeks and enjoy long conversations.
2023 Bacalar
My next brother and I were always tight. We had special names for each other when we were little, Boody and Sany. My mother used to say that she held us, one under each arm to go to the bathroom. We were eighteen months apart. Today we talk every weekend like clockwork and he is my best friend and confidant. I’m not sure how he got to be so smart but I greatly appreciate his calm demeanor, insights and advice.
A year apart in high school.
Brother number three and I haven’t spoken in a year. When I had my accident last September (2024), he called both Lisa and me multiple times a week, to check on my condition and progress. I felt cared for. That all changed with a world-exploding US presidential election in November 2024. We were on opposite sides of the aisle which left me in shock. Many families deal with political differences by simply not talking about them. We’ve butt heads too many times and this was the proverbial straw.
Don’t I look happy?
And my youngest brother, who I was very close to, died in 2000 of a brain tumor. His daughter is now in my life and I feel blessed to have her.
Frozen in time. 1958-2000Undiagnosed brain cancer. The world changed a few days later.
I haven’t finished the book but I’m hoping that the sisters work out their differences. For me, three out of four connections aren’t bad. I don’t hold out hope that brother number three and I will work things out. And don’t give me that, “but you’re family”. Some things blood doesn’t seem to be able to heal.
the adventures of dos tortas 
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