Another Day in Paradise

We met some friends in Nuevo Progreso yesterday. This is a little border town on the south bank of the Rio Grande River. It has a private bridge with a canopy to protect pedestrians from inclement weather and provide shade. The streets are paved with pharmacias and the offices of dentistas as well as shops and street stalls that sell the kinds of things no one needs but everyone wants.

We did a little bar hopping and dined at the Red Snapper where the food is good and the margaritas were two-for-one happy-hour specials. Juan plays the electric guitar there. He plays just opposite the entrance and whenever I come in I am greeted with a warm hug. We exchange greetings of “mi amiga” and “mi amigo.” Juan plays a lot of Beatles tunes so we’ve nicknamed him Juan Lennon. He gave me a new CD he’s cut, but I haven’t had time to listen to it.

After a good meal we walked down to the Mercado area where we found a table at Arriba’s. We like the combo that plays there. The floor is made of moderately slick tiles, perfect for dancing when wearing rubber soled shoes. We danced. I love to dance.

We left our friends a little early as we had a bottle of duty-free Absolute Vodka that we had to liberate before 5 PM. We also stopped for some avocados.

These are not ordinary avocados. They are larger than bosc pears. They are also tree-ripened. There is no comparison between a tree-ripened avocado and the ovoid, green baseballs one purchases in the supermarket. The Mexican ones are rich, creamy and ready to eat.

The US customs laws prevent importation of fruit with stones or pits, so the vendors remove the pits and replace them with jalapeno pepper. The young woman we buy our avocados from wields a large knife. She picks up the avocado in one hand, and with the other, in a fluid, continuous motion, slices the avocado, whacks the pit to embed the knife, twists it to remove the pit, disengages it from her knife and stabs the point into a bit of jalapeno which she places into the vacancy. The hand holding the avocado closes the two halves and drops it into a clear, plastic bag. It took you longer to read this than it takes her to prepare four avocados for export.

We were home less than an hour when the gang we’d left at Arriba’s rang the bell. We made coffee and continued the party.

Which Pill is Okay Today?

I have a genetic problem with over-production of stomach acid and acid reflux to go with it. I need to be on the acid-pump blocking drugs.

We have excellent health care through the City of New York where my husband taught school for over 30 years before retiring. Our drugs are provided through a company that mails them to us.

Last Fall I tried to fill a new prescription for Prevacid. The year before the drug plan told me that my insurance company didn't like that drug and wanted to make me take Prilosec, which was over-the-counter. My doctor wrote them a letter explaining my genetic problem and the fact that Prilosec and it's next generation (change an atom and make a new patent) successor, Nexium gave me bad side effects.

I got a call from the drug plan telling me that the letter the doctor had written was only good for a year. I hadn't changed. My DNA hadn't changed, but the letter was no good after a year. The drug plan told me that my insurance company recommended another drug that I'd never tried. They contacted my doctor and he okayed the new drug. The new drug seems to be working fine.

Yesterday I got an automated phone call from the drug plan. The insurance company was changing their formulary. I would now have to pay an additional $20 (total of $60 for a two-month supply)to stay on the new drug. The drug they forced me onto! The formulary, after January 1, 2006 would accept Prilosec, the drug my doctor wrote the prescription for in the first place.

I called the customer service department. I figured that if I renewed my prescription the next time, it would automatically revert to the original which was written for Prevecid. Not so. The original one was destroyed when they asked the doctor about the new drug. If I return to the Prevecid, it will only cost me $40 for two months, but they can't do anything about it as the prescription of record is for the new drug.

Now I will have to contact my doctor and have him send me another prescription. This would be easier if my doctor wasn't in New Jersey and I wasn't in Texas.

Sometimes we wonder why the companies that are supposed to keep us healthy are the most likely to raise our blood pressure.

My Tomatoes

I am growing six varieties of tomato plants. This is the first opportunity I have had to plant a garden in many years.

The other day I was checking my plants and found several tiny tomatoes beginning life on my vines. They were not much bigger than cherry pits. I was so excited! I dragged my husband out to the yard and tried to show him my new babies. He didn't see them. I pointed again. He still didn't see them. I tenderly put my hand under them, lifting them slightly from their leafy camouflage and he saw them. I said: "you're going to be a grandfather!" He said: "make a salad."

Thespian : My History as a Stage Actress

One day I read in the paper about "cold-reading" auditions for the local Performing Arts Theater. We thought it would be fun to try out. We did and now we both have parts in "Love, Sex and the IRS" a comedy. The performances will be the last weekend in January and the first weekend in February.

When I was nine, I was cast in a day camp play as the giant in "Jack and the Beanstalk." It was some counselor's great joke as I was several inches shorter than the rest of my groupmates. I began my only line: "fee fie fo fum, I smell...." and there I stopped convulsed with laughter. I was laughing so hard it hurt! With a patient audience, I tried several times to regain my composure, but each time I could get no further than "I smell".

If you don't count that, I've never acted on stage. In school plays I was the one who painted sets and schlepped scenery. I was an assistant director in summer camp productions where I cued dumb kids who couldn't remember their lines, built more flats and painted more scenery. Always behind the scenes. Never before the audience.

For many years I presented training seminars to adults. Some were work related, like how to use a particular computer program and others were topical, like explaining planned giving programs to the boards of not for profits or the members of the local Estate Planning Council. More recently, I lectured at RV rallies about how to pack, what to pack and how to clean in an RV. I enjoyed it very much.

The thing that scares me, as I embark on this new undertaking, is remembering my lines. I shall post my progress.

Pumping Gas

Today was the second time in my life that I put gasoline in a car. The first time was about a month ago. I’m a Jersey Girl. It is against the law in New Jersey to pump your own gasoline. I never had to deal with a gas pump.

One day, a bunch of us female bank officers were attending a meeting in Pennsylvania. We needed to put some gas into the fleet car. None of us knew how to do it. There I stood in a full-length Beaver coat pleading with the fellow in the next car to help me.

By the time I left New Jersey, I had learned to pump Diesel fuel in to an 18 wheeler. Even though we had two Diesel-powered trucks for nine years, I never pumped fuel into a personal vehicle until I pumped gas.

None of my friends can understand my pride. They’ve all been pumping gas since their teenage years. I’m certain that somewhere in Oregon, the only other state that prohibits self-pumping, my counterpart is nodding in agreement.

Beer Can Chicken

I like making beer can chicken. The recipe that comes with the beer can holder is great. It states: “drink half of the can of beer. Insert the other half into the holder.” Already we have a happy cook.

Before putting the chicken on the beer can, I rub it with a mixture of Bell’s ® Poultry Seasoning, granulated garlic, paprika and freshly ground pepper. After I put the beer can up it’s butt, I stick an onion in the neck hole. We put it on the big grill with the temperature holding at 350 degrees F. If I remember, I soak some exotic wood chips ahead of time and put them in the smoker box.

I am making a beer can chicken. We are having company for dinner.

Camera Phone

My friend, Chip, called me last week. He was on his way south and wanted to let me know when he’d be arriving. I asked him where he was spending the night and he replied that he was somewhere outside of San Antonio.

I remembered that last year he had stopped at a Nudist campground on the way to Rio Hondo. I said: “are you at that Nudist park?” When he answered that he was. I told him that I knew it because I had a camera phone and I could see that he was naked.

What's For Supper

I wrote this as an exercise in a local writers' group. Thought I'd put it here.


You can try, but you can’t fool kids.

My children’s daddy worked late every other Saturday. He was one of those meat and potatoes guys so the three children and I were free to vary our diet on the Saturdays he was not home.

In the summer we would go vegetarian purchasing freshly picked corn on the cob at the local farm stand for our main course. We’d have a salad of cucumbers and tomatoes from our own garden happily dining on Jersey’s best. We did not need meat. Other times we’d experiment together in the kitchen, creating our own messy feasts with joyous abandon and much laughter.

One Thursday I discovered a sale on liver at the market. I love liver and onions with a big lump of mashed potatoes on the side. My husband hated liver but the longer I looked at those packages of dark, shiny organs in the meat case, the more I hankered for a big plate of liver and onions. While I stood there salivating, it dawned on me. This was his Saturday to work late! The kids and I would have liver and onions.

I had never cooked liver for my children. They hadn’t even heard of liver. I was working with blank gustatorial slates and I seized the opportunity to cultivate culinary education.

I began the build-up on Thursday afternoon. “You’re not going to believe the wonderful supper we’re having on Saturday”, I told them. “Their eyes lit up with expectation. “What is it, Mommy?”
“It’s a special treat. It’s something called liver and it’s one of Mommy’s favorite suppers.”

On Friday I continued the hype. “I just can’t wait until supper tomorrow,” I told them. “You are going to love it.” When their daddy left for work, I resumed my brainwashing in earnest. “Is it like meatloaf?” my son asked. Meatloaf was his favorite followed by meatballs and hamburgers. From this list of preferred viands, it was obvious he liked his meat pre-chewed. Liver, when properly cooked is pretty easy to chew. “It’s not quite like meatloaf, sweetie, but Mommy knows you will absolutely love it. It comes with mashed potatoes and you really like mashed potatoes.”


The little girl, who considered herself a “quasi-vegetarian” because she enjoyed hot dogs, wanted to know if it came from an animal. “It’s not much different from a hot dog,” I lied. “You’re gonna love it. It’s not like meat at all.” Well, it wasn’t like the meat she was used to.

The big girl, the adventurous one when it came to new foods, didn’t seem interested. “Aren’t you excited about the wonderful supper we’re having tonight?” I asked. She just looked at me the way eight-year-olds do; head slightly tilted, eyes mildly questioning.

I wouldn’t even let them into the kitchen while I prepared our special feast. This had them really revved up. I floured the liver and sauteed it gently in the pan with the caramelizing onions. The scent of fried onions permeated the air. Little voices called: “Mommy, is it ready yet?”

When it was ready I called them into the kitchen with great fanfare. I put their plates on the table. They looked at the liver. They looked at me.

“Go ahead, give it a try,” I encouraged. They did.

Three little faces screwed up at the same time. Three little mouths spat unchewed liver onto three plates. In unison, three little voices said: “yuk”!

Nope! You can’t fool kids.

The Fool on the Hill: A Usenet Character Study

I have been playing on several Usenet groups for many years. Everyone who plays on Usenet knows that there are many kinds of personalities in these groups. For the most part, the personnas represented on the newsgroups are nothing like the real-life personalities of the posters.

There is one particular annoying personality on one of my Usenet groups. In real life, he's a devout Christian and pillar of his community and a very charitable soul. He loves his family and he cares for his neighbors. That said, you would think he was a nice guy? Not! He is probably one of the most obnoxious posters I've ever come across.

The fool on the hill reads a post and decides, in his unchallengeable opinion, what the poster's motive is. Almost always, the poor poster is just asking a question or stating an opinion. Hill-fellow enters into his famous tirades. His two favorite epithets are "bozo" and "moron" Lately he has combined them into "boron." Kinda cute.

Whenever he disagrees with a woman, he declares that she has "her panties in a knot." He rarely refers to male undergarments, so I feel quite justified in stating that he is most definitely a sexist.

Anyway this Hill-fellow gets himself involved in discussions that he hasn't a clue about. He is very insecure because he doesn't know "everything" so he lambastes the original posters, calling them liars, frauds and his favorite pet names (see above). Then he catches it from the other members of the group because he's acting like a jerk. His next step is to twist the original poster's words around to make himself look legitmate. He winds up looking foolish.

Admission of error is not in his portfolio. In order to climb out of the holes he digs for himself he tries to become the "nice-guy" Those of us who have known his posts recognize that when he becomes the "nice-guy" he's lost. The posts drift away or, as this group is famous for, become something entirely different and off topic.

Usenet is fun. It's cyber-people watching at its finest.

My Bowling Ball

I've been bowling since the late fifties. I've owned at least a half-dozen bowling balls since then.

When we became full-time Rvers, I sold my last bowling ball. It was a twelve-pound concoction of plastic, gold glitter and green and blue swirls. I believe the manufacturer called it "Peacock." When I sold it, I hadn't bowled in several years. It was too bulky and too heavy to go into the RV to be schlepped around the North american continent.

We have just purchased a stationary home after 9 years of living on wheels. I joined a bowling league and also bowl in a Senior's group on Wednesdays. The bowling alley balls were awful so I decided to purchase my own.

That may sound easy to urbanites, but here in the Lower Rio Grande Valley, nothing is that simple. I had to travel to McAllen, a 90 mile round trip, to get a custom-drilled bowling ball. A friend recommended Andy.

I called Andy several days earlier and made an appointment. (I told you nothing here is easy) Andy suggested that I bring my own shoes because he needed to watch me bowl in order to fit me for a ball.

I showed up as scheduled, slightly flustered and mostly stressed because of the traffic and construction. (Again, nothing here is simple). We both agreed that a 10 pound ball would be the best weight at my stage of life and bowling expertise (110 average). I had the choice between a glittery, cherry-red ball, a swirly blue -toned ball that reminded me of "The Big Blue Marble" of the 70's and a red and yellow swirled one that was not appealing.. I chose the blue one.

Next, Andy had me bowl a few frames. He gave me some excellent tips on how to start my approach. After watching me bowl, we went back into the pro shop and he measured my hand and fingers. As I've said, I've had many cutom drilled balls in my life, but this fellow has made an art-form out of measuring. He was as careful and concise as a plastic surgeon marking a patient.

I had to give him an hour to work on the ball, so I did an errand and went to Sam's Club. When I returned, he took some more measurements, had me put my fingers in the ball, refined the holes and made me bowl an entire 10 frame game before I left just to make certain the ball fit right. While I bowled, he gave me some more pro pointers. He also put my name and last initial on the ball. The entire process, not including the hours of driving, took close to 3 hours.

The ball was under $65, including tax. I don't think this wonder-ball will make me a 200 bowler, though Andy's tips should certainly help. I am still amazed at his professionality. Who would have thought that drilling a bowling ball could be so complicated.