Sole Support

When we left home two weeks ago, I donned my trusty Puma slip-ons (they're soooo street) for the 23 hours of travel between the great Midwest and Dakar, Senegal.  I have walked hundreds of miles (literally!) in these shoes with no ill effects, so I felt comfortable I would survive the trip with my feet unscathed.

Unfortunately, I did not and developed a huge blister on my right heel.  My first purchase in Dakar was bandaids and anti-bacterial cream.  Because I'm certain there is some bacteria around here. Possibly even bacteria I've never been exposed to, although that would be a rare bacteria.  

It healed, but there was a bit of gimping, whining and complaining going on.  But, being the tough cookie I am, I overcame.  

During our palatial stay at the Dead Club Med, I was traipsing around the grounds, stepped on something sharp and punctured the bottom of my right foot.  After performing DIY surgery, I thought I had retracted all things foreign, but two days later this injury reared it's ugly head again and it was back to the pharmacy for rubbing alcohol and a razor blade for surgery aux duex. It's still a little sore, but I'll live.  I hope.

Sunday, I pulled on my reliable Footjoy golf shoes for our round of golf.  Again, shoes that have seen thousands of holes of golf and never felt the need to bite back.  Within the first three holes I had a bona-fide blister of mammoth proportions.  On my LEFT heel.

I'm such a delicate little flower.

Yesterday, FM and I went to the beach for a little R&R.  I played and splashed in the surf, and of course acquired sand in every crevice.  After we returned home and were beautifying ourselves for our nightly meal I noticed my newest blister looked. . . well. . . green!

Upon further investigation I found the blister sac (?for lack of a better explanation?) must have had a small hole in it, which then filled with sand.  Not being in the mood for another round of surgery last night, I left it till this morning.  

Traveling with a man who goes to work everyday doesn't give me many people to share such things with, so you, oh great and powerful internet, get to see this!

It's now been flushed with alcohol, rubbed with anti-bacterial cream and covered with bandaids.  My attentions can now be returned to avoiding malaria and severe sunburns.

But if you see someone gimping around Almadies, it's probably me.

This post was in no way sponsored by Puma or Footjoy, much to their great relief.

Six Weeks from Sunday. . .

Time. It's a funny thing. We waste it, pass it, bide it. Heck, sometimes we even KILL it.

Often, time seems long. When you're eight and waiting for Christmas. At work, when it's only 2:30 PM. Other times, it flies. When you're out with friends and suddenly its 2:30 AM. When you turn 40 and realize according to most actuary table, your life is HALF OVER.

Sigh.

But, FM and I tend to measure time differently. We refer to years by which country we were living in. Which, in our little universe, makes last year pretty much wasted time. And, although I can say I was in Macedonia, Croatia, Peru, Arizona and Vegas (and FM can add Mexico and Columbia), it still feels like we were home most of '09. And we WERE.

Now, It's been a year and a half since Beijing. Three years since Hong Kong. Five years since Rome. Seven years since Chad (shudder). Ten years since we were married.

Damn.

Which means I've been married for 25% of my life. Have known FM for 37.5% (of course, his stats are different, he's only been married for 17.8%, known me for 25%. He started late. . . heehee).

And last year? That wasted year? I was able to reunionize with people I haven't seen in HALF OF MY LIFE. Talk about time flying by. . .

The stats themselves are not important or impressive, just a reminder of how fast time elapses.

In the words of William Shakespeare, "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace of day to day."

Petty pace? Often I muse upon the ways I spend my days. Is it a waste of time to do the things we enjoy? Is reading a book a waste of time? Does it depend on what you are reading? When DOES it become a waste of time? When you are doing it instead of something else? Is Facebooking (is that a verb?) a waste of time? Watching television? Sitting on the beach? Taking a walk? What if I decide to not even leave the house? It can assume a petty pace, but tomorrows always beckon.

But, eventually we run out of tomorrow. Sometimes suddenly. Or the people we love cannot count another day.

The passage of time just feels sad. Not only in what it physically does to us, but in the lost seconds, hours, days and years we can never respend.

How do we live in the moment? How do you pass the time? What makes your time "worthwhile"? Being paid? Helping others? Enjoying yourself? All three?

I've been pondering this concept of time. The only conclusion I have discovered is, even if I have a hard time filling it, I want more than what I have coming.

This Sunday, we'll have been in Montevideo for six weeks. A relatively short period of time, but a chunk of my life that has figuratively flown by. And, I kind of want it back to relive and enjoy again. Yet, I also look forward to the next six weeks. And the next.

Time. It's such a conundrum.

Men talk of killing time, while time quietly kills them. - Dion Boucicault.

Out with the Old, In with the New

Yesterday, I stepped out on the front porch to have my first ciggie of the day, and found this "gift" laying on the steps.

Of course, my initial reaction was EEEEEEK! I have a SNAKE! Living near my house!

Which of course, is insane, because we are surrounded by woods, ponds and other flora which promote snake-life, so the idea of a SNAKE actually living in this woodland paradise isn't that far-fetched.

Nor is it exactly comforting, but whatever. In the 4.5 years we've lived here I've never seen evidence of a snake, until now.

And you know what they say about snakes. If you see one, that's ENOUGH! LOL

But, in the interest of laziness, I've left the snakeskin lying (laying? hmmm) out there, and I've spent a fair amount of time outside in the last couple days, so I've seen it more than twice.

I got to thinking about that snake. I'm sure it's not an exactly pleasant experience to shed one's skin. And, I'm sure he picked the concrete, a rather less comfortable place for a snake than say, the WOODS, in order to facilitate this process.

Which led me to thinking about FM and my life right now.

Although I don't think we are as creepy as snakes, it may be time for us to shed our own exterior skins in exchange for newer, brighter, better fitting ones.

It may be painful for a while (I'm actually quite sure it's going to be), but in the end we will walk away with a fresh new skin.

Thanks Mr. Garter Snake for the life lesson. I'm glad I didn't immediately throw your old protective covering into the trash, but instead let it sit there and remind me that sometimes change IS for the better.

women need a code

Yea, Yea, I know. A good man is hard to find, and a hard man is good to find, and all that, but seriously, ladies, we need a commandment.

And the commandment should be, "Thou shalt not mess (physically or mentally) with another girl's husband".

It's bad enough men have been known to independently, of their own free will, cheat on their wife or fall out of love with their wife. But worse when they are seduced away by some siren who deliberately sets their sights on a married man.

(Clarification: This is absolutely NOT happening to me and FM right now, but rather we are watching someone try to split up a guy and his wife, who were already on some fairly rocky ground.)

It's bad enough to "worry" about your husband straying, but knowing there are women out there who are more than ready to sacrifice your marriage for their pleasure is B-A-D.

And, another thing gals. A guy who is willing to leave his wife for you is probably more likely to be willing to leave YOU for another sometime later down the line.

There are probably better ways to get a man than to steal one away. But, regardless, we need to quit doing this to one another.

And start worrying if our toenail polish matches our lipstick and our sandals. And where to find AVAILABLE men. Unmarried men. Men who are NOT already married. Get it?!?!?

Good.

Even when I was single, I didn't mess with married men.

Very often. :-)

How I Almost Died Last Night

Those of you who know me, know this. I am honestly, entirely, and completely afraid of worms. All worms. Anything that looks like a worm (except, oddly, a snake). I cannot tolerate these creatures are allowed to live on the same planet as me. I will NOT come into physical contact with them for all the darn tea in China. They scare me, and quite often will get up on their hind legs, hiss, show their fangs and threaten to kill me.

In other words, I HATE WORMS.

So, last night, I'm innocently preparing another fine dinner for Fantastic Man and I, including a lovely fresh salad prepared from exquisite and inexpensive Romaine lettuce. The potatoes were nicely browning in the skillet, the red cabbage getting warm, the salmon broiling beautifully in the broiler. I had shredded the lettuce, peeled and chopped the onion, cut up the red pepper, crumbled the feta and went to do a little clean up in the sink (of course we don't have a garbage disposal, this ain't America folks!).

And, there, right in my sink, was a light gray, dual antennaed SLUG! Oh God, I'm glad I took my blood pressure pill this morning. I think FM is napping on the couch, waiting for his call to dinner, and I make appropriate "I'm going to die" sounds, but quietly, so as not to wake him. I think, "It's okay, you can do this, you don't need a man,". I had just killed a big ole spider stalking my stovetop earlier that day. No biggie.

But, I'm freaking out. FINALLY, FM comes into the kitchen to see what all the low level whimpering is about, and I scream, "THERE'S A WORM IN THE SINK!!!!!". And do the uggah buggah dance and run for the safety of the living room.

Knowing fully this irrational fear of mine, he bravely goes directly to the sink to remove the offensive object. But, he's in there going, "What should I do with him?", and I'm wondering how he knows it's a male (okay, I'm NOT, I'm wondering what the H3LL he's asking me for, just get RID of it!). So, I suggest throwing it out the window above the sink (No, there are no screens on our windows, this ain't America!). And he does. And I live.

And, I toss the entire salad into the trash.

It's nice to be married to a hero.

Although I am afraid he didn't launch the little guy out the window far enough, and he may be slowly edging his way back up the wall, leaving a trail of slime and gore, to our unscreened window, waiting to take his revenge on me while I sleep. . . .
The whole experience lends credence to a thought I've had recently (READ: most of my life), that I should just STAY OUT OF THE KITCHEN (unless it's to get another beer. . .).