The girl and I decided we’d avoid all the packed malls and bitter parking lot spats of the Christmas season in San Diego and head to Mexico for the week before Christmas.
I don’t mean to brag here, but Christmas is easy for me. My mother lives on the East Coast, my son is in Australia and my Significant Other is Jewish. An hour on Amazon and I’m done. I’ve put up enough trees and hung enough mistletoe in the past to consider my Yule dues paid up for life. If I want to bolt the country for Christmas, I’m entitled to.
In Mexico they don’t do lights and malls for the season; they do parties and poinsettias. Every hotel we’ve stayed at has hosted party or two while we were there. We just wander around the edges of them.
The news of the US is viewed at a distance here. I know that the FBI has positively identified North Korea as the source of the Sony hack, and subsequently that country’s Internet was subject to a hack back, presumably by US cyberforces. Good for them, although the general impression I had of the North Korean Internet was that it maybe consisted of four computers plugged into the same power strip, so not what military types would call a high-value target.
My girl and I share a bathroom on the road, which we don’t do at home. This requires some adjustment for me. The toilet seat rubric has to be obeyed, and matches employed for the mitigation of offensive odors. I am so careful of her bathroom space that when I accidentally clipped a fingernail into her makeup bag, I spent enough time poking around among the lipsticks and eyelash shapers in it to retrieve the errant clipping that she inquired “What are you doing in there?”
“Nothing,” I said, because explaining to your girl that you are digging through her makeup bag looking for a lost fingernail clipping is even more embarassing than actually doing it.
I suffered a wardrobe malfunction in San Quintin. My belt broke. Charitably, she did not ascribe the incident to me being several days into a regimen of three solid Mexican meals per. “It’s because you buy cheap belts,” she said. Which is true. I consider most belts overpriced, and hold my pants up with the least expensive ones I can find. And don’t ever try to sell me some kind of gigantic Texas belt buckle. Not interested.
The shorts I was wearing sagged alarmingly when worn beltless and I was holding them up with one hand while carrying my laptop in the other when she missed a step going back to our room. “Wow, I nearly fell over backwards just then,” she said.
“Just yell out,” I told her. “I would drop my pants to save you, darling.”
She snorted. “That’s good to know, I think.”
But I think it’s absolutely true. And I also think it would make a great title for a country-western song. Just strum a guitar and sing it softly to yourself.
Feliz Navidad, everybody.
I don’t mean to brag here, but Christmas is easy for me. My mother lives on the East Coast, my son is in Australia and my Significant Other is Jewish. An hour on Amazon and I’m done. I’ve put up enough trees and hung enough mistletoe in the past to consider my Yule dues paid up for life. If I want to bolt the country for Christmas, I’m entitled to.
In Mexico they don’t do lights and malls for the season; they do parties and poinsettias. Every hotel we’ve stayed at has hosted party or two while we were there. We just wander around the edges of them.
The news of the US is viewed at a distance here. I know that the FBI has positively identified North Korea as the source of the Sony hack, and subsequently that country’s Internet was subject to a hack back, presumably by US cyberforces. Good for them, although the general impression I had of the North Korean Internet was that it maybe consisted of four computers plugged into the same power strip, so not what military types would call a high-value target.
My girl and I share a bathroom on the road, which we don’t do at home. This requires some adjustment for me. The toilet seat rubric has to be obeyed, and matches employed for the mitigation of offensive odors. I am so careful of her bathroom space that when I accidentally clipped a fingernail into her makeup bag, I spent enough time poking around among the lipsticks and eyelash shapers in it to retrieve the errant clipping that she inquired “What are you doing in there?”
“Nothing,” I said, because explaining to your girl that you are digging through her makeup bag looking for a lost fingernail clipping is even more embarassing than actually doing it.
I suffered a wardrobe malfunction in San Quintin. My belt broke. Charitably, she did not ascribe the incident to me being several days into a regimen of three solid Mexican meals per. “It’s because you buy cheap belts,” she said. Which is true. I consider most belts overpriced, and hold my pants up with the least expensive ones I can find. And don’t ever try to sell me some kind of gigantic Texas belt buckle. Not interested.
The shorts I was wearing sagged alarmingly when worn beltless and I was holding them up with one hand while carrying my laptop in the other when she missed a step going back to our room. “Wow, I nearly fell over backwards just then,” she said.
“Just yell out,” I told her. “I would drop my pants to save you, darling.”
She snorted. “That’s good to know, I think.”
But I think it’s absolutely true. And I also think it would make a great title for a country-western song. Just strum a guitar and sing it softly to yourself.
Feliz Navidad, everybody.
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