A Puzzling Adventure

I always believed that I would be a great do-er of jigsaw puzzles.  It started when I was just a wee child.  I would work on my wooden puzzle that depicted a mother hippopotamus and her baby and involved, oh, maybe about seven pieces.  I worked feverishly numerous times reuniting that mother hippo and her baby, putting them back in order as if their very lives depended on it.  Then I graduated to the 25, and even 50 piece puzzles of furry kittens and sleepy puppies.  I was good at them.  Efficient.  I delighted in them.

So I always imagined that one day I would join my mother at her grown-up puzzles depicting the English countryside that were comprised of 1,000 or more tiny pieces.  However, when the time came for me to leave behind my childhood puzzles and join the world of adult jigsaw puzzles I found myself, well, disillusioned.  We would lay the puzzle out, flip the pieces over dividing the border pieces from the rest of the riff-raff, and with great anticipation start putting the pieces together.  But I found that sitting in front of seemingly millions of disconnected puzzle pieces that frankly, resembled nothing of the scene on the puzzle box when blown up to a larger size and chopped up like raw hamburger, was not relaxing or fun - but rather frustrating and futile.  I did not enjoy it.  I found it to be a giant waste of time that turned my brain to mush, made my neck hurt, and made we want to sweep the entire puzzle to the floor with a giant wave of my angry arm.  I was, in short, a great disappointment to myself. 

I gave up my puzzling ways.  I would stare in wonderment at my mother and sister who worked tirelessly at assembling these puzzles that were a staple in our house during the winter.  I envied them and their enjoyment.  Sometimes I would give it a go again to see if maybe something in my brain had clicked and I would now find this a pleasant past-time.  But nothing ever changed.  I would work for what seemed like hours to find two pieces that fit together and exhausted from the exertion, I would declare myself done. 

When I married Brian I discovered that he too was one of these odd breeds of people that enjoyed the process of piecing together a perfectly lovely picture that had been torn all to heck.  (Who ever came up with this sick idea?)  It is an endless source of amusement to me to see him drawn to puzzles that are laid out in people's homes.  An intensity enters his eyes and he slavishly labors over the puzzle, almost unable to pull himself away from it.  (One of the funniest things he's ever said to me was, "man, my back hurts from working on that puzzle."  Seriously!?) His child-like joy at working that puzzle is amazing and endearing.  I have to admit, he seems to be good at it. 

We've tried laying out puzzles here in the past because I know he enjoys them.  However, until recently our cats have always made that an even more frustrating and futile activity than what it already is.  (As in, we would wake up in the morning to find puzzle pieces all over the floor.)  But they are old, lazy, and fat and no longer express interest in...well, anything really.  So we are once again in the safe zone.  So this weekend, we purchased a puzzle at a thrift store and got to work. 

And - low and behold, I enjoyed working on that puzzle all weekend.  Is it that finally at the age of 33 I have enough patience and wisdom to find pleasure in the puzzle?  Or am I just bored and stir-crazy enough from winter that any task, regardless of how horrible it is, will appeal to me?  It also could be the fact that Brian and I made it a competitive sport.  I wanted to be better at it than him.  I became territorial.  (Don't you dare work on that turquoise dinghy!  That is mine!  And don't even think about touching the barn either.  I'm going to work on it!)  I trash talked.  (Yeah, I totally put together that sky border before you got your border pieces together.  And mine was WAY harder.)  I threw pieces into the area he was working on.  I blocked his light with my head.  I threw my elbow around.  I declared him arrogant.  At one point he said he might not be able to work on the puzzle with me anymore because I wasn't a good sport.  Whatever Mister High-and-Mighty.  Sheesh. 

Basically, it was a good time.  And I want to do it again.  And I feel so grown up and proud of myself now that I enjoy puzzles.  I feel like I have "arrived." 

And I also feel fairly geriatric, because at the age of 33, our wild and crazy weekend entailed putting on our pajamas, turning on some classic rock, and working on a jigsaw puzzle.  Well, call me old or lame if you will.  It was still a thoroughly relaxing and lovely weekend.

That Thing I Do

Every time I lose a piano student it feels like a punch in the gut.  It hurts.  I mourn and grieve.  I question my teaching abilities.  I wonder if there is more I could have done.  I feel like a total loser.

I go through this even when I sense it coming (because I can often feel it heading down the pike).  I experience the grief even when I know that the time is right for a student to quit and that it will be best for the student and myself.  I even mourn a little when it is a student that I never really "clicked" with or one that never did any work (making lesson time torture for both of us more than likely). 

So when, at the beginning of the week, I received a call from a mother of two students to inform me that they would be discontinuing lessons at the end of February (for reasons I totally understood), I found myself facing that familiar mixture of disappointment and regret again. 

I rarely talk about piano lessons in this blog.  Not because there isn't a wealth of material - because WOW! - there is a lot of good stuff there.  Not only are my students hilarious, but I continually learn so much through them.  But somehow it feels as though there is some unspoken teacher/student confidentiality vow that I have taken.  I don't ever want a student to feel as though they are the butt of a joke or are being violated in any way.  And I guess what happens at our lessons feels a bit private and maybe even a little sacred to me.

I have the privilege of meeting one-on-one with children and young adults once a week.  And some of these students I see once a week for six or more years!  We build a relationship, a trust that I take very seriously.  Some students open up to me at the first lesson but some relationships I have to coax and nurture and build.  I made a decision long ago that regardless of a student's performance at the piano, I was going to build a relationship with the person who comes to lessons each week. 

Because each student is a person:

• who is good at some things and not as good at others,
• who has passions and hobbies - even if it's not piano,
• who experiences angst and drama at school and occasionally gets their feelings hurt,
• who has tests to study for and lines to memorize for the school play,
• who has a beloved pet that just died,
• who is excited about a sleepover or cousins coming to visit,
• who has dreams of someday becoming something great. 

How narrow it is to only view them through the lens of the piano.  If I only viewed them through that lens I could potentially end up really disliking a student who is a delightful person.  So I try.  I try to get to know them all and value them for who they are.  Sometimes I fail and I never quite make that connection.  (And granted, I only have a few minutes a week which isn't super conducive to developing really deep feelings.)  Sometimes I am just not the right teacher for a particular student.  But I really hope that they can feel that I care.  I think they do.  I have even had a few students break down in tears when they told me they were going to quit.  Which then makes me cry and really, it's a big mess. 

Perhaps that is why it always hurts when it's time to say goodbye.  Maybe if I took a more clinical approach, more professional even, I could separate myself from the heartache.  I don't know if I want to.  I don't know if I would enjoy what I do as much without the richness of those relationships. 

And then, with perfect timing, a new student came to meet me at the end of this week.  One that will leave me eventually as they all do - but one that I think I will love working with.  I was reminded that there is a constant cycle to this job of mine, and the sting from earlier in the week lessened. 

Oops, I Did it Again

Well the Showalters are looking into refinancing the homestead.  What with me having given up some significant wages in the last year, and the interest rates being low, it looks like a way to possibly save a few bucks a month.  (What's that?  I could get a job you say?  Hmph.) 

We lined up an appraisal for Monday morning at 11:00 a.m.  Enough time for me to get my house, and myself, in tip-top shape for "the man" to come look at my home and judge the dickens out of it. 

Sunday night we made jokes about how I was going to be home by myself for the appraisal and that maybe I should show a little skin, if you know what I mean (wink, wink), in order to get a better value on the house.  Skin.  Honestly.  That's all we were talking about.  An ankle, maybe an exposed knee.  Get your minds out of the gutter people.  Alright, maybe flashing a hoot had been talked about.  But it was pure jest. 

Or so I thought.

Because honestly, who shows up an hour and fifteen minutes early to an appraisal?  When has a repair person, or the cable guy, or the plumber shown up early - ever?  The answer is: they don't.  If they give you a window they are always near the tail end of that window. 

So I woke up on Monday morning and got my house cleaned, all in my pj's.  Now all my pajamas are cozy, fleecy, utilitarian numbers.  So I often stay in them until I really need to get out of them.  Why get in clean clothes to clean the house and dirty them up?  I think it's good stewardship.  (Although I did have that awkward encounter with one of my piano students who popped by in the morning to reschedule her lesson last week.)  So at 9:45, a generous amount of time before my 11:00 appointment, I went into my bedroom and started changing.  One pair of jeans and a brassiere later came a knock on the door.  I immediately hit the deck like a gun shot had gone off. 

The problem is that several years ago we repainted our bedroom and hung up roman shades on the windows.  We quickly discovered that they are SEE THROUGH from the outside of the house!  It's ridiculous.  So I really need to get some fabric to hang behind them.  But the headboard of the bed covers the front window pretty good so unless you're standing on the porch, looking in to the front window, you really can't see much.  So I haven't worried about it even though I probably should get it taken care of. 

But who knows what the early appraiser saw.  Did he decide to do a little checking around before knocking on my door?  I can just hear him saying to his young son who was with him, "Son, this is why you don't call if you are going to show up early."  In the end it was a frazzled and embarrassed woman who answered the front door, having exposed herself to the working man. 

And no, it didn't seem to help the appraisal, which makes me feel all the dirtier.  Guess he didn't like what he saw.  Ugh. 

Week Report

Well, there's nothing much to report from here.  It's been a pretty quiet week overall. 

There was that one evening that Brian and I played euchre with friends and he went ape-crazy over a very well-played and strategic move that I made.  He yelled at me for minutes.  He pouted for hours.  I gently urged him to apologize for his behavior for about two days:

• Laying in bed saying, "are you sure there isn't anything you want to say to me?" 
• Kissing him goodbye as he heads to work fishing, "is that everything then? Does anything look a little different now that you've had a good night's sleep?" 
• Snuggling on the couch, whispering in his ear, "are you ready to admit you were wrong yet?"

But I got nothin'.  He is stubbornly clinging to his deluded sense of euchre morals. 

Then there was that one night that I went ape-crazy a few nights after the euchre incident.  And I mean, I really lost my cool in an uncharacteristic way and said a load of stuff that was cruel and untrue.  Geez Louise.  After thirteen years of marriage you'd think we'd have this figured out.  Clearly that is not the case.

I, however, apologized immediately.  (You like my self-righteous superiority?)

But I was still a little sore at him for a day or two. 

Then there was the evening that I decided to make venison chili that I simply couldn't enjoy.  And then in the morning I threw up.  HA!  It could have been that I didn't eat much of the chili therefore I stuffed myself with odds and ends I found in the fridge and chances are one of those things had, shall we say, turned?  But the chili put me in such a state of extreme hunger that I was forced to eat rotten food.  I still blame it on the chili.

And I'm glad it's no longer in my belly.

I don't know what I'm going to do with the remaining ground venison and the venison steaks seeing as I don't like it and will therefore, likely not be cooking with it.  Oh and poor Brian was SO excited about that meat.  SO EXCITED!  (A co-worker of his hunted Darrel the Christmas deer for us.)  I don't want to be wasteful but...gross.

And then there's this:

This is a beautiful calendar that Brian's mother gave us for Christmas.  And I hung it up with great joy when the new year hit.  (I actually REALLY love the ritual of changing the calendars.) 

But last week I looked more closely at it - and my mind when into a complete tailspin.  Honestly, it turned to mush for moments as I grappled with the utter confusion the images brought on.  Look more closely.

For the love of everything holy, who is the cruel person that decided this was a good idea?  It looks so much like a regular calendar that I had been reading the days all wrong.  For who knows how long?  (Well, probably not that long considering it's only the 12th.)  What if I've made crazy plans for 27th thinking it's a Saturday?  There is potential for mayhem here.  Now that I'm on to it's little tricks though, I'll be on my guard.  But not cool, calendar maker.  Not cool.  (But Linda, I do love the calendar.  I'm just saying, perhaps a warning would have been in order.)

Blah, Blah, Blah, New Years Resolutions, Blah, Blah

Oh 2011, how you loom brightly before me with your endless possibilities and promises of new/good things.  I have so many things that I resolve to do in this year that my head is swimming.  I was going to stick to just one thing and then I decided that lacked enough ambition for 2011 to respect. 

On new year's eve I decided I wanted to start a new tradition, inspired largely by the burning of Zozobra that I witnessed in New Mexico.  I found the burning of my "glooms" to be so cathartic that I wanted a little more of that in my life.  So I sent Brian outside with a challenge: to create fire using several pieces of soggy wood and a few newspapers.  He did not disappoint.  An hour later he had a blaze going worthy of burning the most wicked of glooms.  We wrote our woes down on slips of paper and cast them into the fire.  Gloom!  You shall haunt us no more!

Resolutions:  (Laces her fingers together, cracks her knuckles, rubs her hands together, prepares to type.)

1. As per my earlier entry, stop obsessing over what others think of me.  I have decided that when I find myself in the throes of obsession I will inform Brian who has been instructed to then slap me across the face and tell me to get a hold of myself, thereby creating a link between obsession and physical pain that should cure this bad habit.
2. Earn more money for our household, i.e. pull my own weight around here.
3. Stop obsessing over money and self-worth.
4. Drink more water for the love of Pete.
5. Read more books.
6. Stop feeling guilt over reading books.
7. Knit myself a garment that actually looks good on me.
8. Stop being a vampire bat and actually have a regular sleep schedule.
9. Move to Europe.
10. Be content in Indiana.
11. Become a travel agent.
12. Win the mega millions and be independently wealthy and move to Barbados.
13. Find out what I want to be when I grow up.
14. Embrace a simpler life - without feeling guilt that I am not living up to my potential.
15. Stop accumulating so much STUFF!  Stop buying stuff and wanting stuff...
16. Right after I get my new pair of boots.
17. Be kinder to Brian, avoiding references to his large head (both figuratively and literally) and the gray hairs on it.
18. Blog more.  I totally blew it last year.  I was going to try to beat my 2009 number and failed.
19. Be healthier - including the need to quit singing songs about how much I love butter.
20. Find the solution to world peace.

Okay, some of these are more dreams than resolutions.  But I don't care what you think.  (There.  See.  That wasn't so hard.)  HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!!

Living the Pura Vida

Again I am faced with the challenge of summing up an incredible, and full, week of vacation in a way that doesn't bore you to tears and yet captures the essence of our experiences.  Costa Rica was wild, amazing, beautiful, and adventurous.  Our group of six had an amazing time.  This entry will be long.  I can feel it already and I warn you of it now.  Here goes nothing.

The Players:

Felicia Baker

An American woman of loose morals who professes her love to strangers on the beach.

Heather Birky

An American woman of loose morals who kept trying to sell herself on the street corner.

Dan Buell

An American man who wrangles Costa Rican wild life and enjoys singing Lady Gaga in the shower.

Colin Shafer

An American man who enjoys long walks on the beach - without telling his companions where he's going.

Brian Showalter

An American man who holds on to his rafting oar in any circumstances.

Lisa Showalter

An American woman of loose morals who clearly looks like a pot-head as she was offered a toke from a hippie joint.

Day 1:  (a.k.a. The Never Ending Day, Take 1)

The trip begins at 12:00 AM on Sunday as we head to Chicago for our early flight to Costa Rica.  Many of us did not sleep due to excitement, even though we knew this would haunt us later.  Our flights go off without a hitch (except that Felicia's luggage is lost), we pick up our car, pack in like sardines and begin our 138 mile, five-hour car ride to Manzanillo, Costa Rica.  Exhausted and travel-weary, we had no idea what was in store for us. 

Manzanillo is literally at the end of the road on the Caribbean side of Costa Rica.  To the south of town is a wildlife refuge and then it's Panama.  Brian had to adjust to Costa Rican driving (and all of us had to adjust to riding with his adjustments), which involved:

• barely dodging bikers with no reflectors and pedestrians loitering on the streets dressed in dark colors who seemed to dart out in to the black night without warning
• passing slow moving vehicles in no-passing zones
• maneuvering roads that seemed to be more pot hole than road
• being sent airborne - time seemed to stand still as everyone soared through the air at one point, hitting their heads on various vehicle parts. 
• the Garmin singing "bing-bing" to warn us of dangerous bridges - bridges that are only one lane and sometimes impossible to see if anyone is coming from the other direction. 

We finally arrived at Cabinas Faya Lobi at 8:30 PM, unfolded ourselves from the vehicle, and began claiming rooms like we were on Big Brother.  We also discovered that the Cabina is the "Cabina of No Secrets."  The open roof allows us to have conversations with people while they shower.  There would be no vaulting of any secrets during the week.

Day 2:

The idyllic beach day.  The howler monkeys wake us up at 5:30 AM.  Dan discovers a sloth in our front tree.  Colin goes missing in the morning for a three hour walk down the beach.  The rest of us check out the little town of Manzanillo in the daylight.  (We spot Colin riding around on a bike later, safe and sound.)  The afternoon is spent on the beach where a massive sand-ball fight goes down (which is a rather painful game) and Dan and Brian engage in an endless game of coconut ball.  (This is a complex game involving a stick, coconuts, and the ability to dodge shards of exploding coconuts.)  Felicia, luggage-less, with the typical loose morals of an American woman, ran down the beach with me topless.  (She did have a towel wrapped around her.)

We enjoy a lovely dinner in town and then the gaming begins.  Lively games of Catchphrase were enjoyed many a night in our cabina (boys against girls) along with the occasional bout of euchre, rummy, and others.  We discover we have a fridge toad.  Some try to evict it.  Dan believes this is cruel and carries a urinating toad back to the fridge where it belongs.

It rained in the evening.  We at rice and beans.

Day 3:

Our zip lining adventure began with a bumpy ride in a bus and then a bumpier ride in the back of a pick-up truck.  Some of us were frightened, some of us were not.  23 zip lines, a LOT of uphill hiking, and one Tarzan swing, comprised our morning.  I have come to the conclusion that all the guides on these adventure excursions feed off of our fear.  They seem to be sort of sick individuals.  I wish that I could say that we all kept our language clean for the video that was made, but extreme fear will lead to salty sailor talk.  I loved it!  In general I think we all enjoyed it to some extent and were glad we did it.  However, I don't think everyone will be booking this on their next vacation.  When we arrived home Felicia's luggage had arrived!  No more topless beach jogging for her!

We discovered at lunch, after struggling with our Spanish all week, that Colin is apparently nearly fluent in Spanish and had been holding out on us.  He defended himself saying, "well you guys seemed to be struggling along alright."  Seriously?

In the evening we fed a leaf bug to our fridge toad (who we discovered had a wife under there with him). 

It rained.  We ate rice and beans.

Day 4:

We explored Puerto Viejo and did a little shopping.  At lunch Colin discovered his wallet was missing.  Here's where things get loopy.  We immediately send Colin to search for it while we settle up the bill with the insufferable American ex-pat who owned the place.  He thought he may have lost it at a bench we sat on earlier in the morning.  The whole gang splits up.  (Heather and I begin to worry about our teamwork for the next day's rafting adventure based on our disorganization.)  Our group canvasses the little town on a mission for the wallet.  I start worrying about how we're going to cancel his credit cards.  Heather starts trying to sell herself on the street corner to raise money for the rest of Colin's vacation.  Brian finds the wallet in our truck.  (Okay, Heather was just trying to signal Dan down the street, but it didn't look good.)  Meanwhile, Colin had discovered the wallet was in the truck and started looking for us.  He went into a pharmacy and liquor store to see if we were in there.  How much do I love that he thought that we would be so unconcerned with our traveling mate losing his wallet in a foreign country that we would just decide to buy some booze and take a load off while he searches. 

That night we grilled in.  Literally, we grilled in our living room. 

It rained.  We ate rice and beans.

Day 5:

Rafting the Pacuare River was on the agenda for this day.  I had very little trouble zip lining but am terrified of white water rafting.  I may be the only person on earth who has been white water rafting four times despite not really enjoying it.  Oh but the scenery on this river was amazing, something right out of Jurassic Park.  The Pacuare River is ranked as one of the top five in the world to raft.  So yeah, pretty neat. 

The river was very high from all the rain but we were tackling those rapids like pros, getting down in the boat when in danger, paddling forward and back when called upon.  Just as I was coming to terms with rafting, even sort of enjoying myself, disaster struck.  It was the last class IV rapid of the day, Dos Montanas, where it went down. 

All I remember is paddling air because I was too high up to reach water.  I fell down into the boat...and watched as one by one all my comrades fell into the raging rapid.  It was horrifying watching Brian slip out of the boat.  I thought the whole thing was going to flip.  I braced myself...but miraculously we didn't flip.  Bernie (our guide) and I remained in the boat.  But there I was, watching all of my friends struggling against the rapids.  I was pacing around in the raft wondering how to save them, counting heads, which was difficult because they kept bobbing down and coming up in different places, and watching them heading towards a sheer cliff wall.  I kept waiting on instructions from Bernie as I watched the terror in the faces of my friends but he was giving me nothing. (Okay, a few faces showed only exertion, the other two - pure terror.)  But in no time, everyone was rescued and put back in the boat.  I figured they would all dislike rafting as much as me now.  But no.  They all seemed to come alive from it.  Jerks.

We finished out the day successfully.  I might as well tell you that somehow this whole story has been turned on me.  While clearly, having stayed in the boat, I am the most skilled rafter in our group, some think otherwise.  And in fact have come up with a ridiculous conspiracy theory which involves me and Bernie plotting to get Brian's life insurance money and my leg giving Brian a swift kick out of the boat.  I'm sorry that they feel such shame that they have to fabricate stories. 

Also, on the ride back to our cabina we were reading the Costa Rica guide book and discovered that many Costa Rican men believe that American women have loose morals.  Hmmmm....

It rained.  We ate rice and beans...three times.

Day 6:

In the morning the men headed off with a local fisherman to catch us some dinner.  Us women tried to take in yoga but they didn't have a class going that morning so instead we ate pastries, chased a blue butterfly in our truck trying to get a picture of it, were offered marijuana and a jungle night-hike from hippies, and may or may not have married off Felicia to a Costa Rican life guard. 

Heather, Felicia, and I went to Playa Cocles to watch the surfers.  It was delightful...until Felicia decided to say "hola" to the life guard passing by.  He immediately came up and crouched down beside us.  Except, he didn't really speak English and we didn't really speak Spanish.  Felicia tried her best.  She really did.  He wouldn't go away.  It was getting awkward.  She kept trying though.  Eventually she said, "the only thing I really know how to say is 'te amo.'"  But you know that all he heard was probably "te amo."  So basically, she professed her love to Donny the lifeguard.  And when it appeared he was not going anywhere (what with his new-found love and all) we made an excuse that we were hungry and skedaddled. 

What awaited us upon our arrival back at the cabina was like a scene from the Jonestown Massacre.   Three lifeless, and sick men were lying around in various locations like beached whales throughout the cabina. Evidently the ocean didn't so much agree with them.  And it took A LONG time for those men to recover!  But they had caught us some fish and secured a cook from the local restaurant (who had gone fishing with them) to come and cook the fish. 

After our delicious supper the men went to a local poker game (that the owner of our cabina invited them to) at the home of a man who evidently has a $35,000 hit out on his family.  It sounds like there were other notorious characters there along with illicit substances.  I was glad they made it back home alive.  

It rained.  We ate rice and beans. 

Day 7:

The howler monkeys awoke us at 5:00 AM only for us to discover that we had lost power.  Heather feared that the jungle was working a hostile takeover of our property.  When we woke up for real, we headed out to the Jaguar rescue center where all of Brian's wildest dreams came true.

How do I begin to tell you about a man and his love for monkeys?  It would be impossible for me to describe.  All you need to know about the Jaguar Rescue Center is that there is a room that houses baby howler monkeys, AND THEY LET YOU GO IN AND PLAY WITH THEM.  It was unreal.  They jumped on your head and pulled you hair and cuddled up in your arms and sat on your shoulder.  It is nothing but pure joy.  And for my dear husband, having his head groomed by a monkey was more joy than his body knew how to handle.  He and Dan even snuck in for a second turn with the monkeys.  We also were able to hold the sweetest baby sloth.  I have fallen in love with the gentle sloth.  And for a real treat, we were able to see a defecating sloth.  (They only defecate once a week.)

We played around on the beach the rest of the afternoon.  Over dinner that night at Malbec's Argentinian Steak House (which was by far the best of our vacation) we shared our favorite moment of the trip.  For many of us it was rafting, for me it was time on the beach, while Brian - a bit chagrined - admitted it was the quality time he spent with the monkeys.  He declared that our guest room would be turned into a monkey room upon our return from vacation. 

I don't remember if it rained.  Surely it did.  However, we did not eat rice and beans on this day.

Day 8: (a.k.a. The Never Ending Day, Take II)

Always the hardest day, leaving paradise and heading back to the daily grind.  We were up at 5:00 AM and because of snow and wind at home, flights were delayed and we didn't walk in our front door until 8:30 AM the next day. There were calamity and shenanigans the entire time - and then utter exhaustion.  

As Brian and I headed up to Goshen for church this morning, we pondered how we could make a move to Costa Rica.  We both long for a simpler life, one that just doesn't seem attainable here and one that seems impossible NOT to embody there, and we lack the courage to make it happen.  We discussed selling all of our belongings.  I still didn't think we'd have enough cash to get started.  (And frankly I don't think the humidity of the rain forest is great for pianos so I doubt I'd find many piano students.)  Brian suggested we turn in the family that has the $35,000 hit on them.  If only we knew who to contact!

Pura Vida is a Costa Rican expression meaning "pure life."  How lucky the six of us were to experience it - at least for those seven days.

Daily Dose of Pathetic

So a few of you have wondered how our "second date" went, and I admit I have sadly neglected my dear blog.  To fill you in, the "date" went off without a hitch.  We had a great time.  We laughed, we ate, it was a very enjoyable and civilized gathering.  I don't think I made a fool of myself.  And I imagine we will see these people again socially.

But through that experience, and then a week in Costa Rica with five other people, I have had an epiphany about myself.  I care WAY too much about what other people think about me.  (Not really a new revelation for me.)  And I know that we all do it, but I'm realizing that I do it to the point of obsession.  I find that I change a bit of who I am depending on the person I am with and who I think that person wants to be around.  So, last week, around five other people, my mind almost exploded with the challenge of being who I thought each of those five distinct individuals wanted me to be.  Poor Brian had to walk me through a mental break-down one night half way through the vacation.  I literally ended up sitting on his knee crying.  (There's a pathetic image that I bet none of you particularly wanted.)  Don't get me wrong here, the vacation was amazing and everyone was fantastic (a trip report should be following soon).  This was just one "off" evening for me and it triggered baggage that I realized needed dealing with.  

As 2011 looms ever closer, I have decided that I need to "let go" for my new year's resolution.  I really don't know how I'll do it.  It's not like deciding to floss or exercise every day.  Those things are concrete.  But I may need to adopt a mantra for handling my unhealthy concerns - even though I'm afraid of becoming callous and mean.  I just need to do my best, and if others don't like it it's their own problem to deal with.  (Even typing that gives me hives and leaves me convinced I will end up friendless and alone.) 

Perhaps I should stick with the experts and adopt the daily affirmation of the wise and timeless Stuart Smalley: "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!"