Chelem Christmas Dreams Toy Drive

I have a big favor to ask but it's not for myself. As some of you may know, I have become very involved in the Chelem Christmas Dreams Toy Drive. It's part of my "giving my all" to my new home. Last year we gave away 875 bags of toys. For most of the kids these were the only toys they received. Toys are very expensive and poorly made in Mexico but for us to try to ship toys down from the states is very expensive. If any of my friends would like to donate a toy and ship it to me, I will figure out how to get them down there. I will also take gently used toys. While we had several Barbie dolls donated last year, we didn't have enough to go around. It was heartbreaking to see the faces of the little girls that didn't get Barbies. Every little girl should have at least one doll. So if you have any gently used (or new)Barbies, Barbie clothes and accessories, or other dolls send them my way. Of course, we can also use boy toys (action figures)and baby toys. We also take money. We have a Paypal button on our website but, of course, Paypal has to make money too so they take a chunk out of the funds we receive. If you are kindhearted enough to send a toy please keep in mind that I will have to "mule" all the toys down in suitcases and we're weight limited. Please visit our website. http://chelemchristmasdreams.com/
If you have a little gambler blood in you, you can check out our online raffle http://chelemchristmasdreams.com/raffle/ If you win it will give you an excuse to visit our new neck of the woods. If you're interested in giving (and I know you will be)send me a comment down below with your email address. All of these comments go to my email first and won't be published here. I will respond with my shipping address.

I apologize to my facebook friends that have already seen this. Facebook automatically publishes anything I publish to my blog, http://firstmatemary.blogspot.com/. That's where all my long-ass posts on fb come from. You're welcome to visit and read my other blogs about living in Mexico, living on a sailboat, living in Colorado, and I guess just living.

P.S. Hey, I'll lower myself to begging if it's for a good cause. That or a Jack and Diet Pepsi. Thanks, all

You Can Go Back Home

I'm back in Kansas, the place of my birth and the following 40 some years. And while the cap'n cringes when I say this, it feels like home. It's hard to explain but it just feels like there is some kind of recognition deep in my DNA. My heart beats more sure. I know the smells and the feel of the air. The way the sunlight slants on an autumn afternoon is a touchstone for all other afternoon suns. I can tell what the day will be by the light that shines in my morning window.

I was born with wanderlust though. Always dreaming of faraway places and the unfamiliar. A wishful restlessness. And so I wander. To distant shores and lands that are as different as imaginable from where I came from. I'm not sure what it is I'm looking for but I haven't found it yet. I'm a little afraid that it's back here where I started. But it could be in Mexico. I had forty plus years to let Kansas seep into my marrow. I've been in Colorado for six "half" years and it's just starting to feel like home. I'll give my new home a fighting chance.

The cap'n is starting to sweat bullets while he reads this. Don't worry cap, I'm not ready to put the house in Mexico up for sale and move back to Kansas. Not even! I'm excited about our new life down there and the undiscovered possibilities. But just like anyone that moves on a boat or to a new place, foreign or not, I sometimes feel nostalgic for "home". That's okay. That's normal. But it's easy to mistake that homesickness for unhappiness with our new surroundings. It takes time and effort for strangeness to evolve into familiarity. It's scary, especially if you don't speak the language. And it's so tempting to surround yourself with only the familiar and do only the things that you already know how to do. But where's the fun in that? You have to confront the things that scare you, if you don't you are not giving yourself or your new "home" a fair chance. You will always ask yourself if you did all you could. Most importantly, recognize if it is yourself or the place you are unhappy with. If you are not happy or comfortable with yourself, no place is going to provide those things for you. (How was that for a Zen moment?)

However, if you have given your all and you've given it all the time you think you can spare, it's okay to say, "This isn't what I want." It can be heartbreaking to admit that the dream wasn't what you thought it was going to be. Plus, when you leave a "fringe" community like the boating or the expat community, you may feel or be made to feel that you've failed. You're abandoning ship. This is so not true. You tried. By God, at least you tried, which is more than most people do. It is more important that you recognize that you are genuinely unhappy and do something about it. If that means leaving and trying something else, so be it. Life's too short. I stayed on the boat longer than I should have. I waited until the cap'n admitted he was unhappy. I squandered some precious years and tinged a lot of happy memories with resentment.

Move on. Go back home if that makes you happy or keep searching until you find a place that feels like home. It's okay. You have my permission.

Desperately Seeking Fellow Yucatecans

The cap'n and I were paying our tab at a Mexican Restaurant in Great Bend, KS the other night when I noticed a large map of Mexico hanging on the wall. The map was faded and several cities and towns had been penciled in.

"You don't have Progreso or Chelem on there," I pointed out to the cashier.

"You know Progreso?" he said, obviously surprised.

I explained that we had a casa in Chelem, which is very close to Progreso, and that we spent our winters there.

"There is another couple that lives here in Great Bend that has a house in Progreso", he informed us.

"Really?"

We were incredulous. We know of only one other couple from Kansas, Steve and Mary from Salina, that has had the good judgment to buy property down there. If this kept up the Kansans might be able to steal the expat majority title from those blasted Texans.

"What are their names?" we demanded.

"I don't know", replied the cashier, "but their son, Joel, works at Verizon."

The next morning I set off for the Verizon office with all of our important contact information in hand. Email address, stateside telephone number, Mexican phone #, Magic Jack #, stateside address, a hand drawn map to our house in Chelem. I even included illustrations of all the notable landmarks along the way. The Glorietta (that's what they call a roundabout in Mexico. It sure sounds prettier), the police checkpoint manned with friendly policemen armed with not-so-friendly looking guns, the big piece of rope laid across the road that is used as a speed bump, the coconut stand, uh make that the dozen coconut stands, The Modelo cervaza store, the little red tienda at the turn to our house. There use to be a pole with a rag tied to it and that's how everybody found the way to our house. But in the hot Mexican wind the rag frayed and eventually disappeared. Now sometimes even the cap'n and I miss the turn but that's usually when we're coming from Las Dunas or Playa de Chelem, two of the local drinking establishments.

It was a very nice map. I would have written out our address but I didn't have enough pages of paper for that and they'd never find it because Mexicans have very little regard for street signs. No Necessaria, the locals already know where everything is.

So I went up to the Verizon counter and inquired if they had an employee named Joel. The young man at the counter said, "Yes, but he is with a customer right now. May I help you?"

"No," I said, "I need to talk to Joel."

The young man and his other 14 yr. old counterpart shot me a quizzical look but they assured me that Joel would be just a few more minutes and left me wander about the displays of IPODs, and Blackberries, and other strange devices while the two of them tittered behind the counter trying to figure out whether I was Joel's long lost birth mother or a "cougar" he picked up in a very dark bar while a very inebriated state. Courtney Cox, I am not. Damnit!

Finally Joel finished with his client and I cornered him as he returned from walking her to her car.

"Joel, um, you don't know me and this may seem crazy…um, but do your parents have a house in Progreso?" I blurt.

Blank stare looking back at me.

"Progreso, Mexico? " I offer a little desperately.

Enlightenment dawns on his face.

"My parents have a house in Yoomah,"

"Where is Yoomah?" I ask thinking of all those strange Mayan names on the highway signs. All those unpronounceable "Dz" towns.

"In Arizona," he replies, "Yuma, Arizona. Is that close to Progreso?"

"No," I mumble. I ramble some explanation about a guy at a Mexican restaurant that gave me his name and said he might know someone. It's beginning to resemble a drug deal gone really wrong and Joel is starting to get that deer in the headlights look.

"Here," I shove my map at him, "If you're ever in Progreso, look me up." The guys behind the counter snicker.

I scuttled out to my car, jumped in and busted out laughing at myself.

If you've ever been in the Walmart in Merida desperately looking for an item and have been rescued by a fellow gringo who knows the lay of the land a little better and knows that in Mexico the baking soda is kept in the pharmacy not in the baking aisle, you understand that previous scenario. And you know that by the time you and your savior part ways you will have shared all the information mentioned and probably more. We expats band together, we're brothers and sisters in arms so I guess I was looking to reconnoiter with some fellow soldier

Just for fun, for the next week, I parked in the Verizon parking lot and waved and winked at Joel as he scurried back and forth to his car.

P.S. Dave, I hope you don't mind that I "borrowed" a picture of our sign. I owe you a cervaza if you ever cross over the bridge.

Another Day, Another Park

In my transient lifestyle, I found myself wandering the paths of another park. This one was not littered with the refuse of humanity but that was okay because I was feeling pretty bottom of the proverbial garbage pail about myself. It was one of those weeks when I had found myself to be embarrassingly human and even though the bruises weren't readily observable to the human eye, I was feeling pretty tender from the ongoing onslaught I was inflicting on myself.

The cap'n kept trying to reassure me that I was a good person, a nice person, a kind person but….he has to say that because he loves me and he was desperate because it ain't fun living with me when I am in this state of mind. So I didn't believe him.

So I'm on this path early one morning and I see an elderly gentleman ambling toward me. He has the rolling gait and the vacant stare of a Parkinson's patient. I am really in no mood for any kind of encounter but my good manners kick in and I smile and say, "Good Morning."

The man's vacant eyes light up, and he says, "Not everyone is friendly. I just passed a couple and said Good Morning and they didn't say anything back." He says, "I speak to everyone."

I go a few more steps down the path and dissolve into tears. I know that man was Jesus.

P.S. Please don't write and tell me I'm a good person, that's not the point of this little article. Instead I challenge you to stop yourself today every time you tell yourself that you're stupid, fat, ugly, weak…..You're human and you're doing the best you can!

Borrowed from my friend, Marlee
"Dear God, Please help me see the truth about myself no matter how beautiful. " - Alan Cohen

JESUS DON’T LIKE PIZZA

Years ago we were stuck in St. Augustine, on the boat of course. But as far as cities go, St. Augustine is one of my favorite ones to be stuck in. I had gotten into the habit every morning of jumping on my bike and pedaling over to Café St. George for their wonderful ham and cheese croissants. My trek took me over the paths of one of the city parks and past several of the city's citizens that lived in the park, or at least slept there. Now the Sisters of Divine Torture from my Catholic school days had always taught me that every person is God's child and when you help a stranger you could be helping Jesus. I think we even used to sing a song that went something like…"When I was naked, you gave me clothes, When I was hungry, you gave me something to eat" Well, something like that. We always giggled when we got to say naked in mass because we were six years old and it was the sixties and naked was still a "dirty" word to six year olds.

Anyway there were a lot of Jesus' maybes lying around in the park and I could feel the steely finger of Sister Irene drilling into my back as I drove past them. So of course I picked up a few extra croissants at the bakery, after all it wouldn't be right to offer Jesus a lowly bran muffin while I hate hot flakey croissants. As I made my way back through the park I sniffed past the bundles of humanity and kind of threw the greasy sacks of croissants at them. With my final sack in hand, I approached the last of my lucky beneficiaries. I had to force myself to go up to him. He scared me. I had seen him lurking around the marina and he was one of those guys that stared at you with these spooky eyes but if he caught you looking at him he skittered away. He was wrapped up in a dirty parka and had a stocking cap on top his nest of snarls and mats. I slowly extended the bag to him and he took it just as slowly and said a very quiet "Thank You". I rode away.

A few nights later I wheeled back to St. George Street in pursuit of the best pizza in the world which is to be found at Pizza Alley. Their Garbage Pail Pizza is twelve big slices of paradise right here on earth. I was riding through the park inhaling that heavenly scent when I saw two of my favorite Jesus' waving at me. Fart! Oh well, sacrifice is supposed to hurt. I steered their way and offered them two slices. They smiled their beatific gummy smiles and proceeded to propose to me. And I think they planned to be married to me at the same time because I had a feeling these two did a whole lot of unsavory things together. Relieved, I was able to explain that I was already married and that's a good thing because as every man that has every dated me can attest I am easily convinced. All two of them.

I was headed for the exit when I spotted my scary friend huddled on a bench. I sighed and went over to him.

"Would you like a piece of pizza?" I gently asked.

"I don't like #%*&ing pizza," he snarled.

I jumped back and wagged my finger at him.

"No more #%*&ing croissants for you, Jesse!"

Then I rode away to try to explain to the cap'n what happened to those other slices of pizza.

Beauty Is In The Eye Of The Beholden

The birds have spread the word that we are back and our feeders are busy this morning. I took my first wander up the mountain but I didn't make it as far as usual because my lungs haven't quite made the adjustment from sea level to 10,600 feet of altitude. It was one of those glorious mornings when the air is crisp and the sun is shining and you break a sweat even though it hasn't broke 40 degrees Fahrenheit yet. I took a deep breath and looked around and for about the millionth time congratulated myself on living in a place most people only dream of living.

And then I thought of our other home, Chelem,Yucatan, Mexico. Just a tad bit different. We had guests stop by for a short visit there a few weeks ago. They were on a cruise ship that made a stop in Progreso so they thought they'd take a gander at our new digs. We picked them up at the Mercado….. and then took them on a drive down the Malecon and then by the nicer homes of Progreso. It was a short tour. Then we crossed the Yucalpeten Puente (bridge). The weather was playing nice that morning and the sun speckled waters made the boats in the marinas look shiny and new or at least seaworthy.

We drove them by our favorite watering holes, our favorite place to grab a taco on the square, our favorite hardware store, Tocha, where we go first before we head off to the Mecca of Merida and her box store temples. Our guests were polite. They made nice noises. They actually oohed and ahhhed when we drove by a little tienda all freshly painted white with its bright red recumbent Coca-Cola bottle displayed on the side of the building. They said nothing about the trash that lurks in the corners and escapes across the dusty roads or the air of neglect that seems to permeate a good number of the buildings. They didn't have to. We knew what they were thinking. We knew because we think the same thing every time we take a drive. Why are we here?

The answer is always the same. The beauty.

The beauty is found in a crumbling bar at the table of a disparate band of expats struggling to figure out ways to make the burdened lives of the people of their adopted home more congenial without forcing their own ideas of "better" upon them.

It's there in a hot summer night with the sound of foreign and native laughter mingling in the joy of a child's first birthday.

It's there on an early morning beach in the shy smile of a sea worn fisherman as he offers a beautiful shell to the gringo lady he has seen devotedly combing the sands much in the same way he searches the seas.

They are both treasure seekers.

Beauty is that nugget of hope that if we look deep enough, work hard enough, and dream high enough, we will find the treasure.

 

P.S. I've added a link down on the left for one of the "nuggets" we have going in Chelem, The Chelem Christmas Toy Drive. Take a looksee.

P.P.S. Well fart! I guess we can't link facebook pages. Check out Yucatan Coast Animal Aid and Chelem Christmas Toy Drive on facebook. There is also a Toy Drive in Chuburna and several programs that support the local schools and there is so much more that needs to be done. So if you were wondering, that's what all of us loafers do down there all day....when we're not in the middle of construction projects.

Jimmy Buffett Laments the Fouling of his Paradise

Well, it took a monumental natural disaster to get me off my ass and start posting again. And for this post I'm cancelling my moratorium on cussing. You might have noticed that the title of this blog is "Jimmy Buffett Laments the Fouling of his Paradise". Oh Thank YOU, JIMMY! Read further along on the Margaritaville site and you will see that Jimmy is actually lamenting that the opening of his new hotel in Pensacola might be delayed. In the words of the Great Man Himself, the fucking fucker is fucked! Jimmy, your songs used to be the anthems of my life. Then I watched you singing at that TYCO party in Greece ($250,000 is probably small change for you). Cancel your Vegas concert and get your ass down to Mobile and hold a free concert for those eleven men that lost their life on that rig, the rig workers that are now out of work, the shrimpers, the oystermen, the waiters, the hotel housekeepers, the guy with his guitar case open on Bourbon Street.

Start being the man you sing you are.

Until then I'm holding a personal moratorium on anything "Jimmy Buffett" I will no longer drink from a Tin Cup Chalice, I will never buy anything with the Margaritaville logo including the mixes and the mixer(Hello? Who were you marketing to? The people who are rich enough to buy this shit would never wear that logo and the people that do buy it are probably up to their eyeballs in debt. I've been there. You?). I will never again coax bar crowds to go search for lost shakers of salt, I will never again win every trivia question having to do with you at the Schooner Wharf Bar in Key West. Do you remember that place and that bar? I think you used to have a studio right behind there. I went through a hurricane with my sailboat tied to the docks there. You? Your books sent me off on an adventure. I've lit the fresnel lens at the Elbow Cay Lighthouse, I've seen G.E. doing its best while sitting at anchor at Cane Garden Bay, and I've skated for 14 hours during a Labor Day Jerry Lewis Marathon when I was 12 years old and "Come Monday" was on the charts.

I will not be buying " A Pirate Looks At 70" because I don't see you as the same guy that bought his Dad an Oyster Po'Boy at the Mobile docks.

My friend, your Grampa has his hand on the starboard rail and he is just shaking his head at you. He doesn't recognize you. Neither do I.
Ever so humbly, Mary Kay

P.S. Always a PS. The cap'n only has two requests for his funeral: One is that I play "It's been a Lovely Cruise" the other is that I don't bring a date to his funeral. Of course, I will honor one request. Which one?