Today is the 5th of January. Today is the day we were told we would move into our house. Today (right this minute actually) I am sitting in our makeshift hotel kitchen wondering WHY I’m not kissing a bathroom vanity and petting a toilet seat.

Everyday up until this point, Senora A. has asked me, “Tu es feliz? You happy?” And everyday I’ve mustered up a big, “Si! Muy feliz!”

Honestly, as far as economical hotels go, this one isn’t terrible. Okay, truth be told is great for the price we are paying and the “bend over backwards for our comfort” service we’ve been given. And considering we’ve seen the living conditions of some of the locals, our life in a hotel is incredible.

We went “exploring,” or off-roading, or destroying the vehicle shocks. The kids were looking out the window when we came to an area that was deeply impoverished. Make-shift shanties were surrounded by playing children. My initial reaction was to bring all the people to my house and share my canned tuna. (Which we’ve basically been eating about… every meal). I noticed Brooklyn deep in thought.

“Are you looking at all those kids?”

She sighed, “Yeah.”

“And what are you thinking?”

“I wish we lived in a tent.”

So I obviously won’t complain today. I’ll just give you a day in my life. Let’s pick last Sunday.

In case you thought I was lacking in the dare devil department, I’ll have you know, I balance my makeup bag precariously on the back of the toilet (the thing the flusher handle is connected to), along with my hair brushes, and hair spray. Over an OPEN toilet. THAT is BRAVE. Also, nerve wracking, what with little boys bouncing around like Pomeranians, while I’m trying to perform eyebrow surgery on my face.  (And no- I haven’t accidentally dropped anything in the toilet. Except toilet paper. SHHHH… I’ve repented).

Such was Sunday. Just when I thought I had everything ready, I tried to plug in my hair dryer and OH. Wouldn’t you know there is NO OUTLET in the BATHROOM? So I gathered all of my teetering beauty products and locked them in a suitcase. (Yeah. It’s the closest thing I have to a DRAWER).

I then enjoyed a relaxing blow-dry, jammed behind the hotel door, while Boeing ran through my flipped over hair like an old granny that just found the fountain of youth. I occasionally got whacked in the head by the door, because my husband couldn’t remember I was there since it had been an entire two minutes since he left the room. The sound of the blow dryer? Nope. Never clued him in.

I gave up before my hair was dry because it was tangled up like a fishing line. I glanced at the floor. It appeared that I had molted for the summer. Hair covered the ENTIRE room, because anything that should be thrown in the trash MUST exit the hotel only AFTER Boeing has stepped on each particle. At least 6 times. And kicked it for good measure.

If I am blowing drying my hair it is because I am going somewhere for which I am already late.

Sunday was no exception. I winced my way through the sweet tingling sensation of hair being ripped from my scalp. I teased my hair. (I don’t know why. It never laughs. That’s just in case you didn’t know I was corny).

I returned to the bathroom only to slip and nearly fall to my death on the remnants of the MONSOON splashing out of Starling’s shower.

I wanted to hit something, but couldn’t because my hands were full of brushes dowsed in bathroom floor. Boeing and Brighton, my pint sized shadows, were right behind me.

“Stop! This floor is slick. You’ll fall.”

Boeing, who listens like a brick wall, completely ignored me and cracked his skull. I stepped over him, since that is a tri-daily event, and tried to rub the fog off the mirror. The mirror measuring about the size of my hand. I was doing this while Boeing used my legs as ski poles.

At any given time, we only have ONE clean towel. I can’t compute how this keeps occurring, and it has turned me into a towel Nazi.

“Where are you taking that towel?? Dry off and hang it back, right HERE. Don’t take it to the other room.”

Starling said, “But I’m naked.”

“Yeah. So run fast.”

Every time I let a towel out of my sight I find it in a wet ball on the FLOOR. And I just CAN’T dry off with a towel that has basically mopped up foot fungus.  

  

“Kids! Are you dressed?”

“I am! But Boeing won’t let me put on his pants!” yelled a frustrated Brooklyn.

“MOM! Boeing is throwing dirt in my hair!” cried a hysterical Brighton.

“What are you doing out of time out!?” I snapped at Boeing.

He huffed back to his time out spot stomping and yelling, “NO! NO!” I wanted to thump off his head, but I didn’t have time.

I ran into the kitchen bathroom. To do my dishes. My whole five dishes. In a sink that only fits one bowl. I performed a balancing act, again, sticking dirty dishes on top of the toilet, all the while psyching myself out, “Don’t think about it. You are using gobs of soap. Your dishes are clean.”

“Eat fast. Don’t spill anything. Boeing! Don’t crumble up the bread! Why are you obsessed with destroying my sanity??”

“Let’s go, let’s go!”

“Starling? What are you DOING?”

“I’m just adjusting my guitar strings.”

“We are in a CRISIS! PUT a SHIRT on. We are LATE!”

I finally herded my mustangs to the giant door that we lock every night to separate us from the outside world. It is important to note that it is the ONLY exit door.

Starling turned the key. “Crap. We are locked in from the other side.”

“What!? How is that even POSSIBLE?”

“Well there is this little metal piece that-”

“Seriously? I don’t CARE how. We are TRAPPED!”

Mrs. A didn’t answer her phone.

My MacGyver kicked in. An open window. It was only 8 foot in the air.

“Starling! Look! I’ll give you a boost.”

Good thing we have been working out while we are here. (By that I mean, I do lunges across the grass while our kids play on the playground. And Starling uses the monkey bars to do chin ups. Its not weird).

He stood on the edge of the cement flower bed, about a foot away from being under the window to get a bit of height before he lunged up and away grabbing the windowsill. I climbed under him, and pushed him up. So basically, he used his feet to climb the wall and I was an extra wall decoration that would have become a greasy spot on the cement if he’d fallen.

It was a great sight. Starling playing Spider man in his Khakis. He lowered himself down. Into a toilet. And SURPRISE! No lid.

He freed us and we jumped into my sparkly new ride. A $2500 white mini van. It was the first and ONLY automatic we have found. Starling showed me a picture on the computer and asked, “Do you like it? We can get something better if we come across something later,” to which I responded, “Do I like it or will I drive it?”

And guess what? I will drive anything automatic with air conditioning.

   

Now, we are going to move into our house tomorrow. Oh wait. MAYBE. The dude currently renting (that has a family in Cancun and a mistress in Cozumel) hasn’t gotten his TWO things he keeps at the house out. (Probably a tri-pod and computer). He wanted to keep renting. (I guess his mistress is a keeper). According to Mrs. A, she told him her son-in-law’s brother was already here to move in and had his family waiting in a hotel. (She tells everyone that Starling is her CANADIAN son in law’s brother. Its so believable what with Starlings enormously tall, fair skinned, blond headed self. A spitting image of the picture of her son in law hanging in her living room. Well. They had different dads. And moms). Supposedly Sir Cancun is picking up his stuff tomorrow. If he doesn’t and we see this turning into an eviction process, we are moving somewhere else.

Not that I don’t love digging for clothes, literally watching my 3 year old grow a beard before I find him clean underwear, or risking my sanitary sanity daily, or even sharing a bed with my children wrapped around me like spaghetti. I can endure to the end. So long as the end comes before I’m ready to quit.