Tag Archives: insanity

The drop-ins

Here we are! What’s on the stove? Where’s the tequila? Let’s dance!

LIVING IN Mexico can be a challenge. Don’t let anybody fool you with that “it’s magical” hooey.

The pluses outweigh the minuses, of course, but some of those minuses can be maddening, especially to me.

Way up the list is what I call the “Mexican yes,” or as I often say it to my child bride, “el sí mexicano.”

She does not dispute the point.

This refers to the custom of responding positively to pretty much everything. Are you coming tomorrow to fix the faucet? Yes!  Are you coming to lunch tomorrow? Yes! It’s always yes, and it never has any connection to reality whatsoever.

Maybe you’ll come. Maybe you won’t. No telling.

The only exception to this occurs when the positive response is not yes, but no. Are you going to drive my car that I’m loaning you 200 kph over potholes? No!

But, like all Mexicans, I have become accustomed to the “Mexican yes,” knowing that it’s meaningless.

By the way, the “Mexican yes” is just one example of a broader problem, which is rampant lying. This habit stems from trying to make other people feel good on one hand, and avoiding embarrassment to yourself on the other hand.

Mexicans get embarrassed a lot.

Most of the lying falls into the “little white lie” category, the fib. It’s no big thing really, but it becomes a bigger thing due to its being spectacularly widespread.

What all this means is that you often cannot depend on what people say. I am convinced this is a major factor in our not running a First-World economy, which relies on trust.

There is little trust between the Rio Bravo and the Guatemalan border. Probably not south of the Guatemalan border either, but I have never been there, so I don’t know.

I suspect this is not a Mexican thing, but a Latino thing.

But it’s not lying or lack of trust that inspires me today. It’s another Mexican habit that drives me nuts.

It’s the drop-in.

If relatives want to visit, they just do so with no warning whatsoever, and it can happen at any hour of the day or night. And they rarely do so individually or in couples.

Think groups. I call them mobs.

Do they phone first to let you know they’re on their way? Do they wait for an invite? Do they think for a nanosecond that you may be busy with someone or something else? Do they attempt not to come right at a meal time? No.

My wife says this is just part of the culture, and nobody thinks anything of it, including the recipients of the drop-in. Relatives are always welcome. Always!

I very much doubt this. I think the recipients of the drop-in often are faking it to avoid that widespread embarrassment.

We usually end our days the same way. I make a big salad for the two of us. We’re in our PJs, and we sit in our recliners upstairs, eat and watch a movie on Netflix. This rarely varies, and I do not want to hear the doorbell. It will be ignored.

We had been eating our salads for about 45 seconds last Saturday night when my child bride’s phone rang. Here we come! it was said in Spanish, the five relatives driving down from Querétaro.

They were five minutes away. They knew when they left Querétaro hours earlier that they were coming here. They surely knew the day before, but did they let us know? Of course not.

It would have ruined the drop-in!

The five of them sat in our living room for over an hour, shooting the breeze while our salads wilted upstairs. Then they got up and headed downtown at 9 p.m. to “drop in” on other relatives who had no clue they were coming either.

Actually, we got off lucky because they did not decide to spend the night on our floor. The other relatives won that prize.

The drop-in.

Living in Mexico can be a challenge.

Separate summers

Datura outside our bedroom window yesterday. There’s also aloe vera.

MY FATHER DIED a quarter century ago when he was just three years older than I am right now.

He was a sad man, but he loved summer. He worked evenings, which gave him days free to labor in the yard where we lived in Northern Florida in a ranch house.

He loved the Atlantic beach, sand and saltwater, and he loved tending the yard. Neither interfered with his drinking, however. Heat stirs well with highballs.

I don’t drink — well, not anymore — and maybe that’s why I don’t like gardening, and I don’t live near the beach though we can get there in three hours down the autopista.

And I loathe heat, the lack of which makes my mountaintop home wonderful in summertime. But things really grow here, much better than they did in my father’s yard.

Gotta be the latitude.

Every winter I blaze through the yard like a machete-wielding madman even though I actually use a small saw and branch trimmer. The golden datura is slashed back to basics, leaving the trunk and some nubs. It’s soft wood.

It booms back in June once it feels a touch of rain.

My father had a pink-flowered mimosa of similar size in our Florida yard. It was the only thing of any height. The rest were pansies, petunias, such stuff, all planted in rows.

Here I have a Willy-Nilly Zone where things grow, hemmed in by rock and concrete, in any direction they desire.

And for things of size, there’s monster bougainvillea, the towering nopal, a gigantic fan palm.

I was pressed, as a boy, into yard-mowing duties, and I received a small sum. I forget how much. And I once cut the Hacienda lawn too, years ago, but not anymore.

That’s why the Goddess invented pesos for me to pay Abel the Deadpan Yardman.

About a decade back, after I moved to Mexico, I drove a rented car slowly by the Florida house. The mimosa was gone. Everything was bleak. The grass was spotty due to cars being parked on it, just like a rack of rednecks would do.

There were no flowers at all. Nothing.

In the 1950s, the area was the middle class moving up. Now it’s the working class barely holding on.

Summers separated by half a century of time.

Gone, not forgotten

AS LEFTISTS continue to swoon, roll their eyeballs and riot in the streets over the presidency of Donald Trump, let us pause and gaze back at the Barry Obama years.

A tip of the sombrero to The Beltway Times for bringing this video to my attention.

De common code

green

I GODDA CODE. Yes, a cold. Started last Friday night, and it’s marching on, day by day, not improving, not worsening.

I loathe colds with a passion. Everybody dislikes them, but my feeling toward them is red-hot, sizzling. And if anyone around me has a cold, expect me to stay 10 feet away.

That, or I’ll be running out the door, screaming.

My biggest fear is that it will lead to a sinus infection, which it can do. Sinus infections are hell on earth or, at least, that’s how I see them. Any ailment above the neck is dreadful.

Since moving to Mexico, I’ve been fascinated with the locals’ cavalier attitude toward colds. First off, few seem to make a distinction between the common cold and the flu, which is a whole different ballgame.

The Spanish-English dictionary defines cold as resfriado, but I’ve never heard anybody use that word. The word they use is gripa, which the dictionary defines as flu.

Go figger.

No Mexican I know shares my horror of the common cold. You can have red eyes, a scarlet nose and be dripping snot all over the place,  sneezing your head off, and you still get the damnable cheek kiss if someone wanders by.

Last Saturday when my current cold was still iffy, I was downtown, and my sister-in-law appeared.

She leaned over to plant the damnable Latino cheek kiss on me, and I said, “Better not. I have a cold.” “I don’t care,” she replied, and let me have it. These people are loco.

Many years ago, when I still lived above the Rio Bravo, I often neglected the yearly flu shot. Then I got a case of the flu, which a doctor told me was rather mild. If that was mild, I sure didn’t want to risk the whole enchilada.

Now I get a flu shot yearly. Been doing it for ages. My child bride never got a flu shot before she knew me, but now she does, at my insistence.

I haven’t been away from the Hacienda since Saturday. I live in my pajamas. My feet are in Polar Pairs (c) shoe-socks. My cold remains relatively low-grade, and I am waiting it out.

After breakfast, I wandered out to the yard, noticed the view above, and snapped a photo. Gotta have artwork.

Now it’s time for another movie on Netflix.

How dey tawk

PRINCETON UNIVERSITY recently banned the use of the word “man,” one more example of leftist lunacy, especially leftist campus lunacy. It all comes from the crowd that votes for Democrat candidates.

Democrats have long since shot themselves into outer space over words and stuff. From down here in Mexico, watching much of the American scene these nutty days is like seeing a bad Fellini movie.

Though the video above purports to be lip-synced, it’s actually the true version. What you saw on television was lip-synced. It was altered in an attempt to seem sane and win votes.

Trust me on this.

Geezer dreams

easy-rider-dennis-hooper-peter-fonda-jack-nicholson

OVER THE PAST month I’ve been embracing some very thrilling ideas.

Dreams that have reached the very edge of realization though the reality has yet to happen and likely will not.

We all have dreams, but what sets these dreams of mine apart is that they were given very serious consideration. One or both might still happen, but likely not.

Without further ado, here they are:

(1) Buy a motorcycle. I’m a biker from way back and even though I sold my last ride around 1990, the siren call remains. Over the past month, research has narrowed my future ride — if the dream were to get off the ground — down to this:

The 2016 Suzuki Boulevard C50, an 800-cc, cruiser-style machine. I think I would look very fine astride it.

Much of motorcycling is about style, of course, and I’ve even investigated that. Were I to buy the bike, I would also order appropriate accoutrements from this place.

They’ve told me they ship to Mexico. I told you that I was looking into this very seriously.

I already have a biker babe here in the house, the most important accoutrement of all.

Given the spectacular exchange rate these days, the motorcycle would cost about $8,000. The Harley Sportster I purchased in 1977 cost $5,000. That the comparable Suzuki is just $3,000 more almost 40 years later is surprising.

(2.) Buy a new car. This is slightly more likely to happen, but just slightly. My current ride is a 2009 Honda CR-V, which I purchased new. I’ve never liked it.

It’s about eight years old now, and has never given me a lick of real trouble. It’s a great car. Its sole defects are some design lunacies that only the driver would notice.

Of course, that is always me.

No matter. If I buy a new car, I’ve narrowed it down to the 2016 Chevrolet Trax.* It would be the fourth new car I’ve purchased since moving to Mexico, if you don’t count the 2014 Nissan March we bought for my child bride 18 months ago.

With the current resale value of the Honda factored in, the Chevrolet would set me back about $8,000, just like the motorcycle. How about that? I have $8,000.

I don’t need a new car, and I probably would perish on the bike, so neither of these dreams is likely to happen.

But you never know.

Magic happens in Mexico.

* * * *

* The two cars previous to the Honda were Chevrolets, a Pop (Geo Metro clone) and a Meriva, also available as a German Opel. I loved them both.

Diversity unveiled

BILL WHITTLE knocks it out of the park yet again.

The gals celebrate

MY MAN TED CRUZ went down in flames, of course, a tragedy. Perhaps if we’d shown a little more enthusiasm.

Trump people don’t lack enthusiasm, and two of the most enthusiastic, of course, are these ladies who go by the names of Diamond and Silk. We’ve invited them here before.

Now that the smoke has cleared, and it’s obvious that The Donald and Hillary will compete in November, I confess that my “flipping for Hillary” in April was a touch of lunacy.

Perhaps my coffee had not kicked in.

From this moment forth, I am enthusiastically boarding the Trump Train. Read The Thinking Man’s Guide to Donald Trump from the American Spectator magazine.