I am ashamed to admit that it has been over six years since my last visit to a dentist (as anyone who has come in contact with my glowing yellow fangs will tell you). I have a real phobia about dentists. All that prodding and scraping, the bright lights, the bad smells, the people in masks hovering over you and wiping whatever they have scraped from the bowels of your mouth onto your paper apron. I have always just found the entire experience to be incredibly distasteful. Actually, no...a VIOLATION.

It doesn't help that I seem to have inherited my father's teeth. My dad is a root canal soldier, unlike my mom, who is that irritating sort of "never had a cavity" person that makes the rest of us crazy. Jillian, for that matter, is one of these people as well. Just as my mom cheerfully refuses Novocaine for any work she needs to have done, Jillian smiles, lets strangers explore the inner workings of her face, and doesn't seem at all troubled by the experience.

The last time I was at the dentist, the bad news was that I had four cavities. Four. At 22 years old. So, after getting them filled, the answer seemed simple. Look, if going to the dentist brings nothing but bad news, why not just, erm, stop going? Unfortunately, I have run into far too many expatriates over the course of my life with just such a philosophy, and it is clear that the end result is an unholy mishmash of gum and bone. I have seen people who look like they just had a friend of theirs throw a fistful of teeth at their face, leaving them with a set of gums that look like they get used for nothing more noble than rubbing cocaine on.

Well, after a few panicked, late-night looks in the mirror with a flashlight, I became determined to visit the dentist here in Mexico. I knew that I had some cavities, and goodness knew what else, that had to get dealt with before I started looking like someone out of the middle ages. So, knowing that the medicine in Merida is world renowned for prices less than a tenth of what they are in the States, combined with state-of-the-art techniques (making Mexico one of the medical tourism capitals of the world), I finally broke down and made an appointment. Er, had Jillian make an appointment, with "Rehabilitacion Estetica Odontologica."

I, of course, worried all day, anticipating the crimes against my mouth that were about to happen. And in a foreign land, no less. Check this out: I couldn't have been more pleasantly surprised. Not only was Jesus Sanchez Ruz (my new, sweet, babyfaced dentist) perfectly kind and gentle...his office was state of the art, too. Now, maybe it's just because I haven't BEEN to the dentist in so long, but boy, things sure have improved. Gone are the mouths full of cotton while x-rays are taken. Dr. Jesus quietly prowled each of my teeth with a tiny fiber-optic camera, revealing all of the flaws of each on a giant, ceiling-mounted television. Each tooth became the size of a basketball, and each bit of decay screeched down from the monitors like an angry goblin. While he inspected each tooth, explaining each problem in a mix of Spanish and English (for my benefit) to his nearby hygienists, I got more and more worked up.

Not to worry. Now, my mouth is not without its problems, Turns out my gums are inflamed and swollen to the point that I have to use a prescription mouthwash before they can even do a proper cleaning, which will help them determine not just the effect my loose, 20 year old fillings that are LEAKING into my GUMS have had on the rest of my mouth. Nope. They'll also learn just which fillings they have to replace (likely all of them), and also how much new tooth decay there is, after which they are going to "show me how to take care of my mouth" and start trying to sweet-talk me into some whitening, I'm sure.

But you know what? I feel a lot better. I have a prescription for mouthwash, which we will go get filled at the farmacia tomorrow. It is a relief to be on some sort of PLAN, and not just be regarding my mouth as some kind of gaping wet black hole of mystery. Who knows, maybe some of this stuff is even preventable (who knew?). Sure, I have some issues, but nothing that can't be resolved...and I have absolutely zero doubt that Dr. Jesus and his team of professional, inexpensive, bilingual hygienists are the people to do it.

Share and Enjoy:

Posted by Malcolm at 07:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

I. Classical Hedonists
A. Greeks
1. Cyrenaics

The Cyrenaics are known for their sensualist hedonism in which bodily pleasures are preferable to mental pleasures, and we should pursue whatever will bring us pleasure now, rather than deferring present pleasures for the sake of achieving better long-term consequences.

When the Cyrenaics say that 'pleasure' is the highest good, they do not mean that pleasure in general in good, so that we should seek to maximize the overall amount of pleasure in the world, as utilitarians say. Instead, they mean that, for each of us, our own pleasure is what is valuable to us, because that is what each of us seeks. Also, each of us can only experience our own pleasures, and not the pleasures of other people. Thus, the Cyrenaic view is a form of egoistic hedonism.

2. Olympia Dukakis, Goddess

B. Romans
1. Caligula
Known for his extreme extravagance, eccentricity, depravity and cruelty, he is remembered as a [awesome guy to party with]. The Wikipedia entry was pretty tedious and contaminated with all sorts of irrelevant facts, so I´ve taken the libery of excerpting the highlights. He:

· would sell to the highest bidder of the wives of high ranking Senate members during sexual orgies,
· roamed the halls of his palace at night ordering the sun to rise
· named his horse as a priest
· opened a brothel in his palace
· made it a crime not to leave him everything in a will.
· never passed the bowl during a session

2 Giada de Laurentis wants to stuff you

II. European Hedonists
A. Monarchs
1. Marie Antoinette has been getting a bad rap of late. First biographers claim that the stories of her vast excesses are vastly overstated. Then portrayed by Snaggletooth Dunst in a shit film by Sophia Coppola. Kidnapped by a dirty mob, robbed of her pretty things and exectuted at the guillotine, doesn´t she deserve a little cake?
2. The boy who won´t be king wants to party with everyone, even wee African babies

B. Literary Figures
1.This is actually A Picture of Dorian Gray
2. Des Esseintes, the eccentric, reclusive aesthete and antihero of À rebours (translated into English as Against the Grain or Against Nature) byJoris-Karl Huysmans. He became the emblem of Europe's disaffected male youth suffering from mal du siècle. The book is sometimes regarded as one of the most profound works in the history of decadent literature, especially because it successfully transcended the definition of Romanticism into Decadence.

III. Contemporary Hedonists
A. The Famous
1. Beauty and the Baby (Shambles)

2. The Rat Pack swore fealty to booze, broads and the pursuit of pleasure. Follow the link, I´m tired of typing.

B. The Infamous
1. Malcolm
2: Jillian

Share and Enjoy:

Posted by Jillian at 12:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

As early as Adam and Eve's eviction from the Garden and new life out East*, people have been settling in to daily life in countries and cultures other than their own. Assimilation happens, but for the first few months (years?) there are many funny when completing a basic task is an exercise in both humility and small victories.

Typically I wouldn't boast of my ability to make a dentist appointment. But making Malcolm an appointment with a dentist in Mexico, well that is a horse of a different color. I've only been attempting to speak Spanish for, like three months. I studied French in school. I knew maybe four Spanish words (peligro!) from Sesame Street and could count to ten. And now, this Tuesday, because of my wondrous ability, Malcolm is either going in for a routine cleaning or a major root canal. We shall see!

Also in the last couple of days I've taken a dance class. Again, something I've done thousands of times, and which I normally would not find all that exceptional. But, taking a jazz class in Mexico. amazing. I have never, ever been foreign like this. And in a place so familiar as a dance studio. Dancers are gossipy, judgmental, and vain. And I arrive, out of shape, 28, an enormous, flushed face gringa, what must they have thought? Except everyone was great, trying our their English while I hobbled along, trying to remember verb conjugations and double pirouettes.

Every day like this. The most mundane things, questions, conversation, are beyond me. It's always been so easy, language. When I open my mouth to speak in English, people know who I am (or who I want them to think I am). I have nuance, personality, the upper hand. Here, I am leveled. My voice is the voice of a child, with a limited vocabulary, still learning the melody of speech.

I miss that element of confidence, where I can make a game of language, stretch it, combining argot and elegance, use it as I please. And yet to be stripped in this way is refreshing. I am liberated, vulnerable, mutable. What marvelous thing will I accomplish today?

* Dropped In does not in any way endorse the teaching of Creationism or "Intelligent Design" anywhere, ever.

Share and Enjoy:

Posted by Jillian at 11:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I just carried 8 shopping bags containing 450 pesos worth of food and wine home. I can barely lift my wasted arms to type. On our kitchen counter there is a cornucopia of food from the autumn harvest of Wal Mart: one fourth of a turkey, 2 cans of Campbell's salsa de pavo (turkey gravy), a bushel of vegetables, a box of wine, a wheel of Ile de France brie and Carr's crackers, a Toblerone, and a family size box of Kraft macaroni and cheese.

Malcolm and I have been speculating about how we should celebrate tomorrow's holiday. Malcolm's mom, who lived abroad for many years, advised that it might feel sort of irrelevant outside the context of the States. And indeed, though we had discussed it a week ago, when a fellow American wished me a Happy Thanksgiving earlier today I was caught off guard. It would be easy to not observe the day's rituals. Malcolm could work, I could flash around town, read, study, shop, and it might not feel unusual. But what if we missed it and lost something later, overlooked a day that acts as a portal to years past and future. We must keep what few traditions we have. But how?

One or two of the big hotels are offering a buffet dinner, but we thought it better to be at home where we could overeat and drink vino tinto and play Gin Rummey and be fat and thankful in the privacy of the Suites del Sol. So, even though there isn't any stuffing, which is essentially a travesty, and there aren't orange colored leaves and visions of Pilgrims dancing in our heads, and we won't get any visuals of a bloated Al Roker sailing past Macy's suffocating children and tourists from Fargo, ND, we're going to celebrate. We're gonna carve that quarter of a turkey dressed with god-knows-what, and give thanks for this sweet strange life, cause that's what it's all about.

Have a beautiful day.

Share and Enjoy:

Posted by Jillian at 06:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

My BFF, so far away in Nueva Zealanda, has done a list like this on their blog and since I needed an idea that didn´t totally bite (stay tuned for ¨Cheetos Salad¨on my next un-inspired day) I pilfered hers. Plus, as you know, I love lists.

Jillian in Mexico´s Likes, Following Her Dislikes, So As To End On A Positive Note

Dislikes (stay focused!)

• tuna fish. Pardon my redundancy. But this really can´t be overstated.
• wood paneled living room furniture, ouch.
• ham as a legitimized pizza topping
• a bathmat made of felt
• no fitted sheet
• the phone bill (mea culpa)
• The Sweetest Thing, starring Cameron Diaz, possibly the most low-brow, vulgar film ever made; It was, for more than a month the only movie on Universal Channel, one of maybe three English language stations here
• the giant dancing pharmacist puppet who tries to make me dance with him. nightmarish.
• not becoming alarmingly thin as I had sort of hoped I might (again, not so much Mexico´s fault)

Likes

• Telehit. Unlike its Stateside counterpart, they actually play music videos. Remember those?
• the sexy ¨conductores¨ of Telehit, Uriel and Amanda
• pop songs. there are two right now, as far as we can tell. and they are hypnotic.
• street lights built into the sidewalk
• families enjoying their own company. joyful, genuine.
• Sundays are for bicycles are brunch and dancing
• watching TV in English but following along with the subtitles in Spanish
• there is always a party, a parade, lights going up for a festival or holiday, something being celebrated
• rocker teenagers in their Ramones shirts
• samples at the grocery store every day, e.g., cake, cheese, & vodka
• panela. a cheese unto itself. a happy new discovery. a little like mozzarella, feta, or even haloumi. The word ¨whey¨comes to mind whenever I eat it.
• superior chicken. Maybe it isn´t all jammed up with antibiotics, I don´t know. Mentioning chicken makes me think of mole, and in particular mole verde. yum. There is so much to say. It may demand its own entry.
• enormous (fake) Christmas tree being erected and decorated for the last month or more across from Gran Plaza
• me. I like me in Mexico.
• ubiquitous horse drawn carriages

I could go on. But I won´t. I have to go to the market, sample some wine, buy bread and cheese and hurry home to Malcolm, whom I also like very much in Mexico.

Share and Enjoy:

Posted by Jillian at 05:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It's been a long time since our last installment of !Lunes Sabroso!, so I knew that we had to go big. Larger than life. Sure, energy drinks and Bubu Lubu may be interesting, but they're not exactly risky. Mainly because marshmallow is delicious. No one on Earth would argue with that. So, on the last trip to the market, we walked each isle slowly, trying to find exactly the right Mexican food item to tantalize you with. And we found it. Meet Rojitos.

What are Rojitos, you ask? Oh, you mean, you can't tell from the above photo? Allow me to educate you. Rojitos are "Chabacano con limon y chile," and they promise "Una Experiencia de Sabor." And I have to confess, that these descriptions are, indeed, facts. These ARE dried apricots, floating in a bright red chili and lime fluid of unknown origin, as bright as a watermelon Jolly Rancher. And they did, indeed, deliver a flavor experience.

Unlike our other !Lunes Sabroso! subjects, what was most challenging was not the shockingly red appearance, or the surprising lack of odor. The challenge came in figuring out what to DO with them. I mean, who knows what Mexicans do with these? Do they go on ice cream? Get made into muffins? I wouldn't want to eat them straight if that was not at all the intention. But how would I find the answers?

It was simple. I wouldn't find the answers. So I cut the top off the bag, and dug in with a fork. At first taste, these weren't bad, though it would be absolutely impossible for anyone to ever know they were eating dried apricots under blind taste test conditions. And blind taste test conditions are probably commonplace for this particular delicacy. If this were the only complaint, and these still-firm fruits were floating in a delicious sauce, that would have been the end of it. The texture was nice, and they felt good to chew. Who cares if they're not very apricot-y? Mysterious water-sauce can save anything!

Unfortunately, this mysterious red-dye #40 liquid was also not this snack's saving grace. The chili/lime flavor tasted of neither chili nor lime. The taste of the pickling liquid can only be described as similar to, I suppose, some type of hospital antiseptic or preservative, like formaldehyde. Could it be that, devoid of any of the natural flavors promised on the package, all we were left with is bright red liquid that tastes like it could have just been used to preserve a flatworm for a high school biology class? Well, eating just one wasn't going to give me the hard-hitting answers regular DroppedIn readers have to expect. So I braced myself for a second whole apricot.

The situation hadn't improved. The second taste was worse than the first, and I knew I wasn't going to explore my thoughts on the subject any further. Rojitos are a bust. It's a shame...there is an entire half aisle in the supermarket of various delicious fruits dipped in chili and lime, and I was getting particularly excited by the tamarind lollipops, dusted in spicy sugar. But if Rojitos are any indication of what similar items taste like, with their disturbing appearance, and their utter lack of discernible flavor (other than perhaps tasting the way propane smells), I don't have to try the rest. It is an aisle in the market I can safely skip.

Share and Enjoy:

Posted by Malcolm at 03:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Just because we are living outside the States doesn't mean we have to miss out on all of the delicious pleasures conceived there. Nature Valley granola bars, Real Simple magazine (print version), and now Heroes, the new quasi science/super hero/simultaneous emergence of a revolutionary consciousness NBC drama, are all easily available for our consumption.

These are troubling times. With fascism and communism vanquished and the cold war ended, we enjoyed a period of relative calm, secular, rational, and peaceful. I said it was relative. Productive talks in the Middle East, G8, a certain sax loving American President all were conspiring to make the 21st century the best ever. What went awry?

Now we've got unchecked fundamentalists exploiting their hegemony over simple people worldwide, and a planet that seems rather pissed and making it known in myriad and creative ways. We need a hero. And it's not going to be Bono or Clark Kent.

I think Bonnie Tyler said it best:

Where have all good men gone
And where are all the gods?
Where's the street-wise Hercules
To fight the rising odds?

I haven't thought about who my heroes are in a long while. I had to write a paper in the second grade on "My Favorite Hero/Heroine". I chose Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis. I think because she seemed vaguely French, smart and cultured and had flippy hair. My priorities haven't changed that much since then, I guess.

Whose life do I admire? What values and actions do I find noble? If I gave a dinner party for marvelous, moral people, whom would I invite? To begin with Daniel Berrigan a poet, priest and peace activist still fighting at age 85. I'm gonna do some more thinking and get back to you on this. Let's end here for today with some Bacon- inspired chair dancing. 5,6,7,8...

I need a hero
I'm holding out for a hero 'till the end of the night
He's gotta be strong
And he's gotta be fast
And he's gotta be fresh from the fight

Share and Enjoy:

Posted by Jillian at 10:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Just what in the hell happened to CafePress, and why is it so awful? With the notable exception, of course, of our three award winning shops, and of course a handful of others, almost every single design I see presented for sale on CafePress is an absolute abomination. This really got hit home for me today after I received an email about a new site, imaginatively titled "CPDesignRank." The idea is simple, a Hot-or-Not approach to ranking the designs in the CafePress database. All with the owner's affiliate link all cleverly built in, of course. I must admit, my first thought was, "Damn, good idea. $79 dollar script and a little imagination, this kid might be on to something."

And don't get me wrong...it is still a good idea, and if CPDesignRank can convince users they are providing a service rather than just shilling for affiliate sales, it will probably catch on and make the owners a decent amount of money. After flipping through the rankings, though, a fact I had always known became even more painstakingly clear. There is no one in their right minds who would buy any of these t-shirts. Every t-shirt currently for sale (again, with a few notable exceptions) is either weirdly military themed, a photograph, a horrible drawing, or a tired slogan. Oh, you need a sample? Here we go, conveniently linked so you can see for yourself:

	Want to recreate this design? Open MS Paint. Select Airbrush Tool. Select System Red. Scribble like a toddler trying to form her first words. OMFG! YOU'VE GOT A SHIRT!
	What exactly does the artist think his target audience is, here? Is he trying to corner the market on "Otter Eating Own Foot" apparel? It's one thing when you see a picture of someone's dog on their shirt. But an OTTER, for chrissake? Got a picture of an otter? OMFG! YOU'VE GOT A SHIRT!
	Sticky fingers! Tee hee! Is it a commentary on how cool petty larceny is, or are we just talking about a frog with sticky, webbed feet? I'll never tell! OMFG! YOU'VE GOT A SHIRT!
	In addition to being simply a piss-poor design, this has got to be one of the most moronic sentiments I have ever seen expressed in t-shirt form, and this comes AFTER having spent a few weeks visiting my parents in the deep south. Got some gun clip art? OMFG! YOU'VE GOT A SHIRT!
	Ooooh, fractals! FRACTALS! You would not BELIEVE how many people are slapping fractals on t-shirts and then acting like they've got a clothing store! Look, we all had a fractal flirtation...until we realized they were entirely mathematically computer generated and didn't reflect an ounce of talent. But if you've got a fractal program? OMFG! YOU'VE GOT A SHIRT!
	What sass! This will no doubt be purchased by the one person in your school or office that no one, in fact, talks to. "Oh are you still an asshole?" Wait a minute, that's actually way better. OMFG! I'VE GOT A SHIRT!
	The problem with just uploading any old piece of clip art into CafePress is that sometimes, it just doesn't make any sense. Are we to believe that a mighty golfer, standing behind the wearer of this beautiful tee, hit a golf ball with such magnificent fury that it blew right through the person? OMFG! YOU'VE GOT A SHIRT!
	Enough already with t-shirts designed for children who are ostensibly proud that their parents are in the military, even though they probably don't even know how to count to five yet. Great, kid, your Dad's a Marine. Good job. He'll probably be dead soon. Get a shirt that says that. OMFG! YOU'VE GOT A SHIRT!

There is a point to all of this, though. Through its open policy of letting anyone with an Internet connection and a pulse submit a "design," what began as a great tool for independent designers is now pretty much a joke. Actually, it's worse than that. Anyone serious about running a CafePress store has to go to great lengths to HIDE the fact that that's what it is, because the CafePress logo alone scares off customers who are wary of garbage. What is the solution? At the end of the day, CP is still the easiest to get up and running with, with the greatest variety of items available for printing. However, their "base prices" continue to be terrible, and you will only make a dollar or two per item if you want to keep your prices competitive.

Luckily, there is competition on the horizon. Sites like Zazzle and Spreadshirt are just as easy to use, have an ever growing range of items available to print on, have lower base rates so you make more on each sale, and perhaps best of all...require vector-based artwork, ensuring that the marketplace won't soon be flooded by scanned photographs of snowmen passing for t-shirt designs.

Are you running an independent t-shirt company, or a good CafePress shop? Be sure to leave a link in the comments.

Share and Enjoy:

Posted by Malcolm at 01:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

It´s mid November and the weather is changed. It´s five o´clock in the evening and darkening earlier and earlier, as it should. In the Yucatan the passage from one season to the next is subtle. Unlike Connecticut, where an Indian summer first day of school mocks scratchy new clothes and patent leather shoes, so that after and for the next few weeks children revert to the rags and sandals they´ve nearly work out from three months of sunshine free play. One Friday your face was flushed from the jacket your mom made you wear home from field practice, and the very next morning you are freezing in your favorite dress and you can`t ride your bike home fast enough to get warm. Here otoño slips in sidways every other afternoon. An aberrant breeze from a Norte, a delicious respite, 80 degrees. It is cooler. And dark now; that happened fast. The light remains the same it seems, light so late you wonder whether the earth rotates here at all, until you see one day at 5, that shadows cast by sculptures along the Paseo are long and lean. Again you receive the gift of liminal time, after afternoon but before dinner, when it´s dark but not late and your thoughts are unhinged, happy and autumnal. This is what I´ve noticed today.

Share and Enjoy:

Posted by Jillian at 06:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Every November, people from all over the Yucatan gather in X'Matkuil for a month-long carnival of epic proportions. This isn't just corn dogs and a ride on The Zipper. We're talking a huge expanse of land, with barely cobbled together rides, food, crafts, massive shopping areas selling t-shirts and luchadore masks, a dolphin tank, a shark tank, an entire free circus, and more. It is a big event here, so we had to go check it out. We rented a car ($50 bucks cash, no questions asked) just to get there, as the town is about a half an hour away from Merida. It's unclear what happens to all this land when the fair is NOT happening; it almost seems like it could turn into a functioning town, but we're sure it doesn't. So, needless to say, we have a ton of pictures. You can click each one for a larger version in a new window, because you really need the details on some of them:

We arrive rather early on a Monday, and meet a nearly-empty parking lot.

Giant indoor shopping space, with everything from local art to bins full of blue metal spoons.

The spider woman, right in front of an intricate roller coaster that must have arrived on a truck.

I can't imagine what this ride does; I just know that I will never ride it.

Many of the attractions were brightly painted facades, inviting you to come in and look at animals with "deformidades genéticas."

Miniature train ride. One of the concrete theme jesters fell over.

At the dolphin tank, a team of Mexican stunt divers dressed as clowns and did flippity-flips while loud music blared.

A diver makes the long climb.

Trained sea lions. Not just trained...but trained in Spanish.

Jillian and Mexican Elvis statuary.

The creepiest rendering of Marilyn Monroe ever seen.

See! The cat with two faces!

See! The baby with two heads! We chose not to, out of fear of actually seeing a baby with two heads.

...and that's about it for now. The fair runs through the rest of November, and we are making tentative plans to return next weekend for souvenirs and presents. So, if you dug these, be sure to check back next week for the nighttime versions, where there will be more people, more food, and more blinky lights!

Share and Enjoy:

Posted by Malcolm at 04:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Politics and I are on a break. We’ve been taking some time apart to find out who we are. We first got together in the mid 90’s. I was an idealistic university student. Politics was experiencing an adolescence of sorts as well. I neglected my studies to stay up late, taking long city walks, talking about everything, my cheeks flushed with passion, later crashing on politic’s threadbare sofa. When I transferred schools, dutiful politics came with me. We had a good summer together. We said we were keeping it light, but I knew my feelings were intensifying. We flirted a bit at a certain party, but we both knew it wasn’t right for us.

That fall was a critical time for politics. I was as supportive and doting as any first wife. After some heavy campaigning, I gave up my innocence to politics. He is nothing if not persuasive. It wasn’t until morning, when I found myself alone, furious and ashamed, that I realized I had been misled. I felt cheap, used, and naïve. Politics went out for cigarettes and didn’t come back. Dejected, in tears I filled a box with our mementos, cards, buttons, a little book; I burned the mix tape he made for me. I got on with my life.

After graduation I moved to New York. I had heard politics was there too, but I was busy with work, struggling to make my way in an unforgiving city. I couldn’t believe it when politics called and asked me to meet for a drink. I was once again seduced by his charming, boyish guile. Once again, I put politics first and almost forgot who I was. There was magic in the air, as we took tentative steps toward making a go of it. We set up house. I wanted to feel smitten and secure again, the way it was in the beginning. But something was off. Politics couldn’t blind me with his skillful rhetoric like in the old days. Had he changed or had I? I was more mature, in some ways disillusioned; I had different priorities and politics couldn’t see that. I disengaged. I broke it off, “it’s not you, it’s me”, but I stayed in body if not in spirit for a few more torturous months.

By spring I was furious, I took my few things and left, determined to make a clean break. I let him have our friends, the apartment, even our dog, whom we called “Buster” for short. I cultivated other interests. There was one night years later when we saw each other, for old time’s sake. He was no longer green with envy, but he was still an ass. My heart wasn’t in it. I could barely look at him. All the bad times came flooding back, “You’re such a nag. I need my space”; “You’re just like your father. Dick.” Once again, I was left feeling cheated and lost. I was disappointed in politics, in myself, in the whole world. I was uneasy in his milieu.

So now I’ve decamped, left the country altogether. The distance does improve my perspective. I can laugh at myself, at the situation. Understand where politics was coming from maybe. No, oh I don’t know. Maybe it’s just nostalgia. Being objective I can see his beauty despite his faults. He has a lot of work to do.

We’ll certainly never be lovers again. And I think being friends would be too painful after all that has transpired. But I’d like to believe that if ever we meet by chance in the street, maybe during Christmastime, all bundled and laden with gifts, we would be cordial, even kind and wish one another well, sincerely. Politics, if you’re listening, take care of yourself. You could be so much better than you are.

happier days, at the beach

Politics was always up for a fancy dinner

Share and Enjoy:

Posted by Jillian at 03:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)