Nobody wants to read about old women doing amazing things but you should, if you’re lucky it could be to 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 eats 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.
Celebrating my birthday is not optional for me. Since I am not a big fan of the usual fawning, gift buying and everything that goes with it, I make a plan for what works for ME. This year I bought tickets to see Shakira in Merida, Yucatán. My wife played a supporting role so I didn’t have to worry about the details. We had a blast, learned a lot and were not awakened by dogs at six am.
Returning home to Bacalar, I found myself exhausted, (it’s amazing how vacations can be so tiring) with little motivation for anything, especially exercise. I used every excuse under the sun to deflect, sidetrack and put off. However, my education and lifelong interest as a Health Educator means I knew better. Time to do better.
My triathlon days. If only I had that energy today.
Back in the day, when counseling was my paid gig, I was a broken record. “Walk! Just walk, 15 minutes. Put on “X” on the calendar. Increase frequency, then increase time. Keep track, you can do it!”
People’s excuses were consistent, no time and I don’t like exercise. But leading the pack was, EXERCISE HURTS. My pat answer was, “it hurts if you do and it hurts if you don’t”.
And now I find myself in the, but it hurts camp. Pain can be a good motivator but so can lying in bed.
This week, I came across a clip on my YouTube channel from a trainer I used to follow during Covid quarantine, many moons ago.
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 they 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.”
The AIDS activists of the 1980’s coined the motto Silence=Death to protest the government’s non-response to thousands of gay men dying of an unknown disease, HIV.
It wasn’t until I went to work for the City of Austin Health Department that I paid much attention. When my job was testing anyone and everyone and later giving out HIV results both negative and positive, that I was really aware of the crisis. I once gave positive results to a pregnant woman who didn’t speak English. I probably wasn’t the best person for the job but I was it.
More marching in the 90’s weren’t we cute?
This week I’m seeing influencers of all stripes, comedians, chefs, artists, exercise trainers, dancers and athletes etc speaking out against the horror that is going on in Minnesota USA. Silence surely equals death. The pressure is on not to stay quiet.
Lisa and I could not have predicted any of it, but we knew long ago that we did not want to live in the US. I feel guilty for not protesting or being able to take action. After all, I’m an old hippy who marched in New York City with thousands, protesting the Vietnam War.
Diversion Equity Inclusion
My effort to do our part has been awareness of political contributions by various companies to Trump and refusing to give them a nickel, including Amazon, Whole Foods, Target, and Home Depot. It’s time to put our money where our mouth is, so to speak. I know it’s not a lot but every bit helps, at least I’d like to think so.
A veterans hospital nurse who tried to help.
So this is Dos Tortas not being silent. I’m sorry it took two white people being killed for people to take to the streets. Here in Mexico we have met numerous people who were evicted or self deported. Their lives have been turned upside down. Some have no family, and don’t speak Spanish. Others like us are relieved to be away from the chaos.
Please look around your sphere of influence. Speak up or at least get to know your neighbors. Let’s do what we can to put a stop to it. We owe it to future generations.
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.
I am visiting the States and staying with dear friends Isa and Laird in Austin. When they say “welcome home” they mean it.
Isa and I shared a tiny office at the Health Department many years ago. People told me to be “careful.” She’s difficult and hard to get along with. I found out later that they were telling her the same thing about me.
2024 Mahahual Mexico
Yet we hit it off fabulously. We once closed the office door in the afternoon and danced to Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie and laughed until we cried. It is still our song.
I did the Heimlich Maneuver on her one day when she was choking on a carrot. She tells everyone that I saved her life.
I can’t count how many times we’ve stayed at their home. Lisa stayed for months after neck surgery. She helped Isa prepare for their exploratory trip to Costa Rica before Covid.
I was here to hold Isa’s hand while she cried over Laird’s early-onset alzheimers diagnosis.
They have visited us in Mexico, stayed in our home and sat naked on the dock in the sun.
I love being in their home, surrounded by pictures of their grandchildren. They don’t fuss. I am always welcome. Laird’s bearhug is the same although I don’t always know if he knows who I am.
Family
I am truly blessed to have these people in my life. They are our family, no strings attached, which is the best kind to have.
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.
Making eggnog is a true labor of love. Separate the eggs and whip the whites until they form perfect peaks. Beating egg whites was always accompanied by the story of how my grandmother used to achieve perfection using only a fork and willpower. Her forearm must have rivaled an Olympic weightlifter.
Nan on her 81st birthday wearing a wig because she hated her thinning hair. She lived just shy of 95.
Next came the heavy cream, again beat into submission. Vanilla, nutmeg, all came together in Mom’s glass punch bowl, only used for the heavenly concoction.
My grandfather wanted us to call him Uncle Ed so his coworkers didn’t know he was a grandfather.
Christmas dinner brought family together. My grandmother and Jewish grandfather were long divorced, but that didn’t keep them from both showing up. My grandfather’s sister, Aunt Tillie was a favorite guest as well. Uncle Jack made a foursome and the folding table was brought out for a raucous game of poker, complete with trash talk and accusations of cheating.
Uncle Jack lived to be 100. His daily drink of Jack Daniel’s never slowed him down.
Mom proudly presented the “perfectly chilled” eggnog, high cholesterol in a glass. When no one was looking, my dear uncle brought out his flask and dumped the contents into the eggnog. Of course this meant that the children could not partake, not to mention that neither of my parents drank.
Mom and I dancing in my kitchen.
I’ve never seen my mother so angry, and that’s saying something. Lightening was flashing from her eyes. I think if she could have gotten away with it, there would have been a Christmas Murder that year. Ah, siblings.
I invite you to whip up this delectable treat. Feel free to empty your flask, but only in your own glass, please. You’ll never drink store-bought again.
the adventures of dos tortas 
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