Today, Katie and I stuck our pale, bugbite-riddled city legs in the stirrups and went on a trail ride with our awesome new girlfriends Becca, Maria, and Wiebke.
We were thrilled at the chance to get to gallop freely through the Costa Rican pastures, feeling the wind in our hair, the sun on our skin and the extremely hard saddle under our butts.
The horses were maybe less thrilled.
Ok, and maybe Katie wasn’t exactly ‘thrilled’ either.
But I was. And this is my post, so I can remember it however I want. So, hah.
It turned out to be a truly fantastic day. At seemingly every bend in the trail, we’d come across something that made me so eternally grateful that I’d decided to grab my camera, after all.
Such somethings as this:
And this:
Just keep it movin’, sister.
And this adorable little guy…
whose large, less adorable mom arrived on the scene with a quickness. Fortunately, she ended up being a really good sport about us camera-stalking her child.
We even spotted capuchin monkeys!
There he is!
Ok, technically Weibke did all the spotting. I’m not entirely sure I would’ve known how to spot a capuchin (or even what a capuchin was) even if I’d had a pair of binoculars and a Spotting Capuchins for Dummies handbook.
In the end, we got to see some amazing things and no one was bucked, bitten or trampled.
Even Katie was a happy cowgirl.
It was a supremely fantastic day that we’ll remember for a long, long time to come.
Which is about the amount of time it’ll take us to walk normally again.
Well folks, as Katie mentioned earlier, we made it into Bagaces safe and sound despite our best efforts to get kidnapped and sold on the black market.
We showed up on our host family’s doorstep late Monday night exhausted, sweaty, and smelling like animals at the county fair. And, for some reason, they still let us in. Partly it’s because they’re the nicest people on Earth. And partly it’s because they knew we wouldn’t last an hour out in the Costa Rican wilderness on our own.
There seems to be a vast assortment of wildlife just waiting for a couple of clueless gringas like us to try to befriend it–and, considering my appalling lack of survival instincts, I probably would’ve been mauled by parakeets and lizards by the time I reached the end of their driveway.
Anyway, we’ve been extremely busy since we got here (hence the embarrassing lack of posts from me) getting to know our gracious host family, learning what we’ll be working on while we’re here, scoping out the area, settling into our super-sweet digs, and maintaining a code-red level of alertness for all potentially sting-y/bite-y things.
So busy, in fact, that we haven’t really had time to take any pictures. Gulp.
But we will. And toot-sweet. Promise.
In the meantime, you’ll have to settle for my first impression of Costa Rica, which is: It’s beautiful, humid, breathtaking, unpredictable, buggy, wild, quaint, laidback, green, quiet, noisy, and rugged.
And here Katie and I are, living all up in the mix.
On any given day, we see birds and volcanoes and horses and cows and huge thunderstorms and green fields and dogs and friendly locals in old pick-up trucks who wave and honk hello as they nearly run us off the narrow dirt roads. And that’s just on our mile-long walk to and from work.
Still, by far, the best commute than I’ve ever had.
The kind of morning where you awake, bleary-eyed and bewildered as to how you arrived in this bedroom, this body.
The kind where you open your eyes to find your shirt has twisted completely around you, your pajama pantlegs are hitched up past your knees, and your hair has fashioned itself into an intricate network of Sailor’s knots. Your mouth gives off the distinct impression that it spent all night gumming a gym sock like a Werthers Original.
And now you are jonesing for a caffeine fix.
So you sit up, spend a moment orienting yourself to your new vertical-ness, kick off the sheets, swing your knees to the edge and let your feet, Lewis and Clark, scout the way to the kitchen.
But upon arriving at your destination, something’s amiss. You go to scoop some coffee and…
Huh.
You stand there for a moment, unconvinced. Let out a little cough.
Perhaps you’d be more apt to appreciate the dramatic irony of the situation if you were able to fully open your eyes.
Another minute of silent reflection. Then, you start grasping at straws:
You check the coffee machine just to be sure you didn’t already scoop coffee, then suffer a mild stroke that damaged the coffee-scooping short-term memory region of your brain.
Coffee? Are you in there already? Do I need to go to the hospital?
No such luck.
You stand there stupidly in the center of the kitchen, scratching yourself. Giving this information a minute to sink in.
“Well that sucks,” you say out loud, to no one in particular.
Then you get serious. You consider your options. You do a quick equation in your head, calculating the time it would take to get dressed and brushed and scrubbed into a version of you passable enough to venture into the outside world and adding that to the distance to the nearest coffee shop, then subtracting by how much you despise Starbucks’ burnt-tasting coffee and insane price tag and, finally, dividing by how weak your resolve is to go entirely stone-cold caffeine-sober today.
You’re not exactly sure what the final answer is since you’ve always sucked at math, but you know you don’t want to go.
In the midst of all the packing and airline melodrama Katie and I had going on last week, my body decided thatit, too, would capitalize on this opportune time to start actin’ a fool. And act a fool, it did.
I could easilyramble on for the next five paragraphs about the symptoms I had and what all led up to the final diagnosis — and I did in the first draft, before remembering that long-winded monologues detailing your every pathological idiosyncrasy generally make people want to chew their legs off or jump in front of moving vehicles to make it stop.
So, instead, let’s just say the good news is: I’m not dying. Can I get a what-what?!
However, the bad news is… I can no longer drink wine.
While there’s no way to test for it — since, technically, it’s not even an actual allergy — recent events seem to indicate that I’ve developed an intolerance to the sulfites in wine.
For those of you who’ve had no reason to ever learn about sulfites — because, why would you? — they’re preservatives added to extend the shelf life of processed foods such as baked goods, soup mixes, pickled foods, dried fruit, potatoes and potato chips, trail mix, jams, maraschino cherries, condiments, juice, molasses, guacamole, etc.
Dang. There goes my world-famous Molasses Pickled Prune Bread with Guacamole Marmalade recipe. The PTA Council will just have to find another Refreshment Coordinator for the monthly meetings.
Even then, sulfites and I would be cool if that were all but, for whatever reason, they had to go and “naturally occur” in grapes. And then wine had to go and “be made out of” grapes. And then I had to go and “be sensitive” to grape sulfites. Really, there’s a lot of blame to throw around here.
By the way, I couldn’t find any pictures, but here’s what I’m guessing a sulfite looks like:
Sulfites are characterized by douche-y smirks, Ray-Bans and circa-early ’90s soul patches. Also, they’re known to lurk around local high school hang-outs, wear button-down flannel shirts with the sleeves ripped off, and drive beater Camaros they claim to be “restoring”.
It’s no wonder my body decided to wisen up and lay the smackdown on these suckers.
The cause for sulfite sensitivity is unknown, but apparently it’s pretty common for people to randomly develop it later in life, and the only “cure” is to avoid foods that trigger a reaction. Which is a pretty lame cure if you ask me.
Never in a million years would I have suspected such an utter betrayal by my internal organs but, apparently, developing new allergies is one of the many sadistic tools your body has at its disposal to destroy your will to live as you get older, thus paving the way for your bitter-ass retirement years.
Fortunately, my sensitivity seems to pertain specifically to wine and certain juices (Orange, I’m looking at you), so I guess I should be thankful that my culinary habits don’t require a major overhaul. Plus, some friends have put me onto certain low-sulfite wine brands to try and I can still drink beer like a champ (or at least as well as I was able to before, which was actually not at all like a champ).
Normally, this would be the part where I indulge in a little righteous self-pity but, during my exhaustive Google research over the past week, I’ve come across a number of blogs written by people with sensitivities to all sulfites, and it definitely puts things into perspective. Considering they’re as much a staple of the American diet as flour and eggs, this means every grocery shopping trip, restaurant, social gathering, buffet, snack tray and baked good made by a well-meaning neighbor is a minefield of potential toxins for them. And you don’t hear them whining.
One blog I especially loved was Wine NOT!, written by a spunky, hilarious lady who’s adapting hilariously to her new lifestyle. Seriously, cannot emphasize the hilariousness enough.
Hilariosity? Hilariality? Hilaritude?
Whatever, just go read her blog.
(Ed. Note: Ok, I actually just clicked on her blog and today’s post is about scooping a growth out of her neck with a melon baller. So if you’re not into that sort of thing, maybe wait until tomorrow to start reading.)
Anyhoo, what I’m trying to say is, in the Grand Scheme of Things, considering all the potentially horrible diagnoses I could’ve been handed, I got off easy like Lindsay Lohan on a drug charge.
And because it’s 4:38 p.m. and I’m still in my pajamas.
And because my brain is mush from the last three chaotic days spent rescheduling the trip to Costa Rica** since the airline we were going to be flying out on Monday decided to — how shall I put this delicately? — sh*t the bed.
And because I think we all could appreciate somethin’ cute n’ fluffy right now. Or maybe it’s just me. Either way, we’re all gettin’ somethin’ cute n’ fluffy.
And because the only productive thing I’ve done all day is brush my teeth and I intend to keep it that way.
A few notes about the video:
1. That’s Roxy. We have two cats, but she’s the only one we like. The other one shrieks at us and hides a lot.
2. The clip ends rather abruptly because, a millisecond later, I say something to the camera and my morning voice is not cute. I sound like a transsexual undergoing hormone replacement therapy. And if you’re at all familiar with that, you know it’s not a good sound.
2. This video was taken at our old house. Please do not gaze upon the abject horror of our living conditions and pity us. We did this to ourselves. Those shoes and boxes by the couch? Stayed that way for four months.
3. I promise I will not dredge up an old cat video from the archives for my next post. At least, I’m pretty sure I won’t. I mean, I’ll try my hardest not to but being lazy is feeling pret-ty good right now…
* Oh, and, by the way, we’re happy to announce that the Costa Rica trip is back on track with only a week-long delay. In the words of Chuckles: Boo -yah! Details to follow when I feel like rejoining the human race. Thank you and goodnight.
** Ok, Katie did most of the calling and negotiating. But it was really tiring hearing about it.
Ok, I hadn’t planned on mentioning Saturday’s fateful episode because I’ve already done a few of those “Hah, how delightfully kooky I am!” kind of posts and I figured I’d better cool it on those for a while before you guys start thinking a typical day for me entails sobbing hysterically in the shower, scratching the eyes out of people in magazines, writing rambling letters to the President warning him that Wilford Brimley is trying to poison the local water supply, etc.
That’s strictly a Sunday thing.
I’m watching you, Quaker Oats man.
However, since Katie brought it up — with a little dramatic flair added for comedic value — I feel I should explain the situation so that my mother-in-law doesn’t have to worry that I’m going to snap under the stress of packing some day this week and go after her baby boy with a frying pan.
So, it went like this: I drove to the REI in Rockville on Saturday for what started out as an entirely innocent errand to exchange a rain jacket I’d bought online for a smaller size. The exchange went smoothly and that might’ve been the uneventful end to the most boring cocktail party story ever except, just as I was turning to leave, some dark, twisted thought sprang from the bowels (ew) of my mind.
Oh, what the hey, I thought to myself. Shucks, since I’m here anyway, I might as well take a look around this here shoppin’ establerment and see if I there’s anything else I might could use. Git ‘r done! Earnhardt forever! Because, naturally, that’s how I talk in my head.
When I finally made it outof the store two and a half hours later, I imagine the parking lot surveillance cameras caught a wild-eyed, disheveled person who vaguely resembled me bursting through the front doors like I’d just been released from a 48-hour hostage situation, pausing just long enough to whip my head wildly left and then right, and then tearing off in a dead sprint across the parking lot without looking back.
For those unfamiliar with REI (which stands for “Recreational Equipment, Inc.” Droppin’ knowledge like bombs!), it’s a national outdoor and sporting goods retail chain that supplies every conceivable brand and type of gear for the knowledgeable climbing, camping, mountain biking and general outdoors enthusiast.
Which, basically, translates to the seventh circle of hell for people like me.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I consider myself an outdoorsy person — I like to hike, camp, trail-run, mountain bike, eat possum, etc. — but me stepping foot into an REI is akin to someone who likes to read attempting to plow through the entire Encyclopedia Britannica series in one sitting. You’re just in way over your head, my nerdy little friend.
The thing is, I’m not what you would call a “decisive” person. If you give me two options, I will choose Option A, then change my mind and choose Option B. Then change my mind again. Then ask which one you’d choose. Then try to listen to which option fate is telling me to choose. Then make a list detailing the pros and cons of each option. Then convert said list into a color-coded Excel bar graph. Then, if given enough time, have a nervous breakdown.
So, it goes without saying that I don’t do well in scenarios where I’m given too many choices. And, being a major retail chain, choices are what REI is all about. So, being the person I am in the situation I was, I ended up spending half the day wandering aimlessly up and down each aisle (and possibly through part of the Men’s Big & Tall next door somehow) trying to discern the difference between 10 similar shiny packaged products, praying that someone would swoop in and save me from this private hell of personal freedom.
Every once in a while I’d see a busy store clerk bustle by, at which point I’d shuffle after him a safe distance, whimpering and holding out two items like a toddler asking to be picked up.
What is a ‘nonadjust Poly/Neoprene retainer’ and why is it trying to make me insane?
And on the rare occasion they actually stopped for me (and didn’t break into a jog after looking back and seeing my hungry eyes and quivering lip), here’s how the exchange typically went:
Me: Please. I’m looking to buy a hydration bladder for my backpack. Just tell me which one I should get.
Bearded, Teva-Wearing Store Clerk: Well, that depends. How many liters is your pack’s capacity? Is this for a technical daypack or a multiday excursion pack? Does your pack have an internal frame or external?
Me: Um, see, it’s a backpack. It’s about yea wide and yea big (hold my hands appropriate distance apart) and it goes on my back like this (mime putting on a backpack).
Bearded, Teva-Wearing Store Clerk: What capacity is the pack’s reservoir sleeve? How many drink tube exit ports does it have? What type of access port design are you looking for?
Me: (Blink several times. Maybe drool a little.)
Bearded, Teva-Wearing Store Clerk: Do you want a rigid or molded hydration bladder? Made of rubber or flexible plastic? Do you intend to use a water purification-adaptable system?
Me: Lookie here, Brent. I guess your carabiner key chain and your “Life is Good” T-shirt qualify you for some sort of Eagle Scout merit badge in smug condemnation, but I will not be suffering your crap today, my friend. So just tell me what to get or I will rip off your stupid ponytail and make you eat it.
Okay, so that last part was in my head. What I actually did was mutter something incoherent and then scuttle away like a crab.
So, by the time Katie called, I was a bit stressed out. I mean, I was so confused and uncertain that I almost bought a fanny pack. Fortunately, I regained my senses in the nick of time, paid for the few items I’d manage to decide upon, and got the hell out of there.
So, hopefully, explaining that episode has now put everyone’s mind at ease that I’m not a neurotic nutjob.
So, I started packing for the trip this morning. Seeing as how it’s less than two weeks away, I figured it’d be prudent to start now so that I don’t, in a last-minute panic-blind frenzy, end up with a suitcase containing 20 pairs of shoes, a waffle iron and no underwear. And, frankly, I’d rather not spend my first week in a Costa Rican jail facing public lewdness charges for trying to mime ‘Where can I buy underwear?’ to the locals.
Besides, my Puritanical beliefs require me to wear old-timey pantaloons to hide my shame from the ever-vigilant eyes of God. And those suckers are a nightmare to shop for.
So, as I said, I started packing this morning and would like to pause for a moment to share with you a photo that accurately reflects my mental state right now. (Okay, that, and I didn’t feel like doing any more packing.)
Somewhere under there is a kitchen table. And possibly another cat, because I haven’t seen the other one all morning…
Mind you, this may not look like a travesty just yet, but keep in mind that (a) I’m a neat-freak to the point of being emotionally crippled by mess and disorder, (b) I started packing less than an hour ago, and (c) this is just the dining room.
Believe me when I say that in the bedroom lurks a massacre of clothing, toiletries and unspeakable, butt-clenching horror. But I refuse to show it to you because what also lurks in there are a few small, mildly annoying mystery stains on our bedspread that have since become one large, gruesome mystery stain after I sprayed stain remover on them. So, the boudoir is off-limits until our bed no longer looks like the scene of a ritual animal sacrifice because I’d rather not have any of you jumping to any conclusions about what sort of kinky shenanigans go on in there.
Man, I hate packing. Whether it’s for a weekend trip or a two-month-long excursion, it’s always accompanied by the same irrational fear that I’m going to forget something important and irreplaceable and be royally screwed for the rest of the trip.
Holy crap, Katie and I leave in ten days. TEN DAYS.
That’s not nearly enough time to become fluent in Spanish.
That’s not nearly enough time to become a well-read expert on Costa Rican geography, history, politics, economy and culture.
That’s not nearly enough time to tone my thighs and abs and cultivate a warm, golden brown tan so that I can cavort playfully in the surf in a skimpy gold lame bikini likethey do on Sports Illustrated covers.
I’m fully anticipating total anarchy mixed with periodic insanity and bouts of uncontrollable crying before all’s said and done.
Just thought I’d stop in and let everyone know that I have decided to forego the Frederick apartment and Costa Rica trip and pretty much my life as I know it to live out the rest of my days with my in-laws in Cape Cod.
I haven’t run the idea by them yet, but I’m sure they’d be cool with it. I mean, who wouldn’t want an unemployed 28-year-old shacking up with them for all of eternity?
They shouldn’t have a ‘Welcome’ sign if they don’t mean it.
I love visiting Chuckles’ folks. Aside from being two of the nicest, most laidback people on the face of the Earth, they’ve managed, over 17-odd years, to transform their property into a heavenly piece of mellow, stress-free paradise.
Here’s how a typical morning goes when we visit: I wake up around 9 a.m. to find freshly ground coffee waiting for me in the kitchen. Amen. Then, I shuffle (because that’s the only way I know how to transport myself in the morning) out to the porch where I’m greeted by the warm sun, a cool morning breeze and this…
…and these…
…and these.
And then I proceed to lounge around in my jammies in a drooling, zen-like trance for the better part of the morning until a plate of cheesy scrambled eggs, fluffy waffles topped with fresh fruit and homemade Kahlua whipped cream, and a Bloody Mary that’d make you slap your mama magically appears in front of me.
And then I silently give thanks that, for some insane reason, Chuckles’ parents keep inviting me up to mercilessly sponge off their polite hospitality. Obviously, these people haven’t learned enough about me yet.
Seriously, I’m not even kidding when I say that being here is the best high you can get without a dealer on speed dial. Everything about this place is quiet and peaceful and homey and just so frickin’ picturesque, from the flowers Jude planted out front…
…to the vegetable garden Rick cultivated out back with his 10 green thumbs…
…to the stone patio they recently put in bythemselves…
…everything about this place screams, “CHILL THE FRICK OUT, YOU NEUROTIC HEADCASE.”
And sometimes I need to be bossed around a bit, you know?
“Dude. You’re, like, totally harshing my mellow with that camera.”
