Modern-Day Princess (and Prince) and the Pea

Well, in Andersen's fairy tale, there was a prince who wanted to marry a real princess. He traveled the world looking for his princess but had no way of knowing if the young women who claimed to be royalty were indeed his equal. Frustrated and sad, he returned home alone.

Then one night during a terrible storm, there was a knock at the castle (I assume it was a castle) door. Standing there was a sopping wet young woman who claimed she was a princess. She sure didn't look like a princess with her stringy, wet hair and soaking wet clothes.

Okay, thought the old queen. I know just what to do to find out whether this young woman is an imposter or the real deal. The queen went to a guest bedroom (who knows how she decided which one of what must have been dozens), stripped the bed down to the frame, placed a pea on the bottom, and then piled twenty mattresses and twenty elder-down beds (whatever they are) on top. The supposed princess was instructed to relax for the night.

"And how did she sleep?" the old queen asked the next morning.
"Well, not well . . . not well at all."
There was, she said, something hard underneath her all night, and she didn't sleep a wink.

Ah, ha! She must be a princess after all, reasoned the prince and his parents.
"Nobody but a real princess could have such a delicate skin."

The princess and prince were married and, as best we know, they lived happily ever after and never had a mattress issue again.

Well, that's more than I can say for my husband and me. After almost 19 years with the same mattress, we took the plunge and bought a new one. Like Goldilocks who tested three kinds of porridge, three different chairs, and three different beds, we lay on almost every mattress in the store.

"This one's too hard," I said.

"This one's too soft," he said.

"I like the memory foam," I said.

"I hate the memory foam," he said.

And so it went. Back and forth. One mattress after the other. Finally, I laid down the gauntlet.

"Okay, either we make a decision or go someplace else," I said. "We're driving this poor salesman crazy."

"Oh, no," the young man said with limited enthusiasm. "This happens all the time."

My husband reluctantly agreed to try Serta's new memory foam mattress, a compromise between the glorified Tempurpedic and a regular firm mattress with inner springs. We were given up to 90 days to decide whether we wanted to keep it or return it for another mattress of comparable price in the store.

Well, it didn't take long for my husband to convince himself that we'd made a big mistake. He tiptoed out of bed in the middle of the first night with a sore back and slept fitfully the remainder of the night in our old bed that we'd moved to the guest bedroom.

"I'll never sleep in that bed again," he said. "So, we either return it or we're in separate beds forever."

Now, after living with this guy for more than 30 years, I've come to expect such dramatic pronouncements. So, I just nodded and went on with my day. He did sleep in the guest bedroom the next night but crawled into our new Serta on night #3.

"I can punch my fists into it," he said as he pushed his weight into his fists. "Look at the indentation. That can't be good. I need support."

So, back to the mattress store we went. At this point, I didn't care what mattress we settled on. I just wanted a decision. After spending far too much time, we (he) decided to go with a firm Tempurpedic.

Of course, a few days later he announced "I like the Serta!"

I wanted to murder him. Just like my husband to change his mind.

But change his mind he could not. So, out with the Serta and in with the Tempurpedic.

To tell the truth, I'm finding this new mattress a bit too firm, but I'll suffer through, if for nothing else to prove to my husband yet again that I'm the good sport who can roll with the punches - though will never be able to roll with ease on our new mattress.

Grateful

I'm back in the good U.S. of A. And for that I am grateful. Never mind the current crop of Republican Presidential candidates and their positions on everything from the ills of university culture to contraception. I again have unlimited hot water and took my first bath in two months.

Okay, Afghanistan is proving to be a disastrous failure just as Iraq. But I can drink the tap water without worrying about that nasty parasite giardia lemblis turning my lower intestine into a crampy, acidic, bloated mess.

Sure, I realize that the average gas price is now an outrageous $4.79 per gallon. But I can use my WiFi anywhere in the house at any time night or day without worrying that it's either going to crash or not work in the first place.

Speaking of cars and the price of gas, I'm grateful to Honda for their fuel efficient CR-X and even more thankful that I can depend on the car and not on my two aging legs for transport. Walking is great exercise, no doubt. But try walking up the hill from San Miguel de Allende town center to a casa perched way high up. The view is grand, but the schlep can take a hike.

The Congress remains gridlocked; civility is a foreign concept. Still, I can speak my native language and not worry about how to conjugate irregular Spanish verbs in the past tense.

And the quiet! No damn roosters, sheep, chickens, or whining dogs (Oh, did I mention the church bells?) to prevent me from falling asleep or being rudely awakened at dawn.

And never mind that it's only March. Mother Nature (with the help of climate change) has shown mercy on us mid westerners and brought a very early spring. It was a balmy 65 degrees here today. Early spring bloomers are up, and the promise of resurrection is in the air.

We Americans take so much for granted: good (well, sometimes) drinking water, central heating, electronic sophistication, farms in the countryside, not in the midst of cities . . . The list of conveniences goes on.

It feels good to be home, even though those three out-of-control boys two houses down have begun their screaming and fighting and tears AGAIN. But I've vowed not to complain after the daily cacophony in San Miguel de Allende.

I'm back in the U.S.A. and grateful.

Good Morning, San Miguel

I can thank El Senor de la Conquista for the festivities that woke me out of a sound sleep way too early this morning. The drumming and dancing began last night with celebrants from a host of cities in the Mexican state of Guanajuato converging here in San Miguel de Allende. And the celebration continued long into the night (for all I know, it never stopped) and began anew with gusto at the crack of dawn. Even the highest-rated earplugs were no match.

From what I gather, there are two versions of how this festivity began. One version has it that in the late 1500s two human-sized figures honoring the Lord of the Conquest were made out of corn paste (Don't ask because I don't know) and carried to San Miguel and another town. The two Franciscan friars carrying these guys were attacked and killed. The friars were goners and so were the two figures - until they were later found by a group of Chichimeca Indians.

The other version of this ruckus festivity has it that the figures were found by a Chichimeca Indian and hidden in a cave, where they ostensibly still reside. The statues revered today are said to be replicas.

Whatever the version, suffice it to say that this is a wild and wooly time in San Miguel. If I weren't on meds for the typical intestinal parasite that lays thousands of travelers low, I might consider getting dressed and walking down to the plaza where hundreds of the celebrants have assembled. Maybe I'll find the will after a healthy breakfast and another round of pills.

What I can say for certain is that after returning home next week I will NEVER complain about noise again - not about the kids two houses down who scream and yell all summer afternoon, about the neighbors on the other side who put their stereo speakers on their back porch, about the gardeners who rev up their lawn mowers and leaf blowers too early on a Sunday morning . . .

No, I will relish these sounds as sweet background noises against which I can easily fall back asleep or read a book or enjoy the peace and beauty of my sedate Midwestern town where few if any folks would dare to bring out the drums at 5 a.m.

Noah's Ark

It must have been a sign, those ornate ceramic candelabras that depicted Noah's ark. I even walked into the tienda to take a closer look. (Not exactly like the one in the photo, but you get the idea.)

A day later, the weather gods of San Miguel rumbled and roared, lit up the skies, and then wept with a deluge that has been constant now for three days and three nights.

With only one paragua (umbrella) between us, my husband and I have to take turns leaving the casa. Yes, of course, he could go out and buy one, but he has several umbrellas sitting at home.

It's easy to understand why he didn't shove one into his suitcase. Last year at this time, a cloud, a single cloud, was an event. "Oh, there goes a cloud." We'd almost forgotten what one of those fluffy white things looked like, let alone what can happen when hordes band together and let loose. So, this rain business is new to us and definitely not welcome.

Sure, the rain is good for the farmers and their crops. And all those flowers and small trees in pots that adorn the courtyards and terraces of San Miguel are much better for the wet stuff. But we tourists with limited time in what we thought was Paradise are not so thrilled. Hell, I woke up this morning, took one look out the ventanna, and was certain that we'd gone to Seattle, not sunny Mexico.

Along with the rain came cooler temperatures. I hesitate to write that it dropped to the lowers 40s because, as a Chicagoan, a thermometer reading of 40-something in February is cause to bring out the shorts and tank tops. But here there is no central heating. There is no insulation against the chilly nights. Windows barely close, doors are made of glass, and, in our casa, the center of the house is open all the way to the terrace on the third floor.

Yes, we have fireplaces - one in the living room and one in the master bedroom - but they're small and gas. If you sit practically in them, one can warm up. But they are useless for heating an entire room, let alone an entire house.

So, like my brothers and sisters up north who face the frigid weather daily, I'm dressing in layers, (two pair of pajamas at night), taking an inordinate number of showers (though the hot water either never gets really hot or runs out much too quickly), and scouring online weather sites, praying that the cloud icons with rain drops change to bright yellow suns and SOON.

SHOOT THE ROOSTERS (And while you're at it, take out the sheep and dog)

In the middle of Paradise, away from the cold and snow and dark, dark days. What else could one ask for this mid-January?

Well, I hate to complain (I know all my friends back in Chicago won't have a whit of sympathy), but the roosters, sheep, and unattended dog that live a stone's throw away from our casa have forced me to wear earplugs at night, turn up the iPod during the day, and generally curse the management company that never bothered to mention the friggin' farm next door.

Now I've lived a few blocks away from the el in Chicago but never felt like blowing up the tracks. I've had neighbors in Evanston whose hot tub gatherings late at night pushed me to call the cops. (The neighbors finally got the message and shut it down by 11 p.m.) But now, here in the "quiet" colonial town of San Miguel de Allende, I'm itching for a BB gun.

From what I'm told, roosters crowing at all hours of the day and night have started feuds, forced people to move, and sometimes led to violence like the kind I'm considering. I mean, I can handle the bah, bah, bahs of the sheep. Even the whining, barking dog is manageable. But the piercing crowing of the damn roosters reverberates through my entire body like a nightmarish audio electric shock.

The web offers all kinds of advice to rooster weary neighbors and owners: Create a "blackout" effect in the coop to trick roosters into believing it's still night; use cages that allow the rooster to sit and stand comfortably but not to stretch (apparently, roosters stretch when they crow); make sure there are plenty of interesting things for the roosters to do (yeah, right!); and my favorite, clipping the vocal cords. Alas, this is merely a temporary solution because roosters will apparently learn how to crow AGAIN. There used to be a hormone called DES that was used to stop roosters from crowing, but it produced bad side effects and is now illegal in many countries.

No offense to all you animal lovers. But if I could get my hands on this DES stuff, I'd gladly feed it --- better yet, inject it --- and stop the roosters from crowing. Anything to shut them up. In the meantime, I'm off to find a pair of Hearos Earplugs that, according to one obsessed person who conducted years of research, actually "reduced the pounding sounds of the jackhammer to a pleasant thud."

(If you call and I don't answer, you'll understand why.)





Mi dios, yo pienso que puedo tener que disparar a los bastardos

San Miguel: Take Two

Groggy with sleep and dark skies outside, I rolled out of bed on this our departure day to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, where Alan and I were to spend the next two months. We'd both finished packing the night before, save for a few toilet articles to be stashed in our suitcases.

As usual, I'm the front traveler, up earlier and responsible for those last odds and ends like washing a dish, feeding the cats, packing some fruit to take on the plane. Things moved along on schedule and, by the time I woke Alan, I was dressed and ready to hit the road.

"I've rolled my big suitcase to the top of the stairs," I said. "It's too heavy for me to lug. Please carry it down for me."

"No problem," Alan said as he tied his shoes.

For anyone who doesn't know Alan, he is always late. I can't count the number of times I've spent egging him on, telling him to hurry up, scolding him for making me wait --- not to mention others who may be waiting. It's a tiresome task, believe me.
But today he was moving right along. I think he realized that it's no way to start a two-month trip aggravating me before we get out the front door.

We arrived at O'Hare in plenty of time before out 9:20 a.m. flight. The cab driver unloaded the suitcases and went on his way.

I rolled my small bag from the curb to the attendant, got in line, and waited while Alan toted the remaining suitcases.

"We have three suitcases to check," I said when it was my turn.

"Where's the third bag? I see only two."

I spun around and looked at our remaining suitcases. The big tan one with all my clothes was missing.

"It must be in the cab," I screamed. "Cab Number 212."

Alan took off running as if he were going to be able to catch up with the taxi. I frantically dialed 4-1-1 to get the cab company number.

"We have an emergency," I said to the dispatcher. "Cab 212 drove away from O'Hare with one of our bags. You've got to reach him and tell him to turn around."

"Stay on the line," he said much too calmly for my satisfaction.

While I'm hanging on the line, Alan returned to the curbside check-in, out of breath, mumbling something about he can't take this and he's never going to Mexico again or to anywhere else. "How could you forget your suitcase?"

"Did you bring it downstairs like I asked you?"

"I can't remember. I can't remember anything."

The dispatcher started talking, telling me that there was no suitcase in cab 212.

"It's not there," I said, fighting back the tears.

"Maybe someone walked away with it while we weren't looking," Alan offered.

I tried to restrain myself and mimic those twosomes on "The Amazing Race" who seem to be gentle and kind to one another even when one of them has lost his passport or driven on the wrong road. "I don't think that's likely. If it isn't in the cab, it's either on the street in front of the house or upstairs" because you forgot to bring it down.

"You're not going to blame me, are you? It's your damn suitcase."

He was right: I should have accounted for all luggage before we walked out the front door. But I hadn't, and it looked more and more likely as if we would miss our flight to Mexico.

"Did you try to call any neighbor? They could at least look to make sure it's not sitting on the street."

By then, it was 8:30 a.m., and I was sure the neighbors on either side had left for school or work. But I fumbled with the phone, called each one, and listened to unanswered rings as long as I could bare.

Then Alan had the brilliant idea of calling the taxi company again, asking if one of their guys close to the house could drive by, maybe look in the front window to see, if by some chance, the missing suitcase was sitting in the vestibule, forlorn. While the minutes ticked away and other, obviously happy, organized passengers checked their bags, I realized we were shit out of luck. Still, we persevered, hoping for the first time in our lives that the plane would be late. Very late.

No such luck. The plane was on time, and the second taxi driver verified that the suitcase was neither in the street in front of our house or in the vestibule. Either someone did swipe the bag (highly unlikely) or Alan had never brought it down the stairs. Whichever way you sliced it, we were headed home, not to San Miguel.

Exhausted, we dragged our luggage into another taxi and headed home. What if my suitcase weren't there? I'd have to go on one major shopping spree in just an afternoon and spend all the money I'd saved for the vacation. I shut my eyes and tried to repeat my mantra in a failed effort to relax.

"Give me the house key," I said a block before pulling up in front of our house. With the key in my hand, I ran up the front stairs, unlocked the door, hightailed it upstairs and, for a moment, saw nothing but my dear cat Zuni who'd had part of his tail amputated just days before. (But that's a story for another time.) But as I turned my head slightly to the left, there was the infamous suitcase staring back at me as if asking "What up?"

So, tomorrow we do it all over again. Alan has already carried it downstairs. We're leaving nothing to chance.

The Tail End

I stepped on my beloved cat's tail not once but twice.

In over eight years, I'd never stepped on his tail. Why now? Why me? I really have no answer. He got underfoot when I was opening mail and, without knowing he was there, I took a step forward toward the dining room table.  Crunch!

The scream echoed throughout the house. I'd heard Zuni complain in the past but never anything like this.

I bent down to see what I'd done, but Zuni ran for the hills. He wanted nothing to do with me. I was his caretaker, his mommy, and I'd let him down. Even his cat brain understood that.

I felt like such a louse and prayed that whatever I'd done wasn't that bad.

The first vet was unable to get Zuni to settle down enough to get a good look.

"We'll have to put him under."

That seemed rather extreme.

"And what if you find that his tail is broken? What next?"

"We put him on pain medication and antibiotics, if necessary. Beyond that, nothing. Cat's broken tails usually repair themselves."

"Then give me the pain meds."

With difficulty, I maneuvered Zuni back into his cat carrier, put him in the car, and raced for home.

Over the next few days, as the pain subsided, I was able to investigate his tail. I didn't see any open wounds but did feel what I thought were possibly two scabs. Thank god. He was going to be just fine.

Almost a week later, I was in the basement putting a load of laundry in the dryer. I didn't see Zuni around my feet, focused as I was on not dropping a wet sock or small kitchen towel. And it happened again. I stepped on his tail!

This time, neither Zuni nor I was so lucky. The tip of his tail protruded like a small hot dog, red and glistening. Whatever hair had covered the tip was miraculously gone. Something was terribly wrong.

It was the afternoon of December 31. Our vet had closed his doors at noon. So, it was off to Animal 911, a 24/7 care center about a 10-minute drive from my home.

"You'll be fine," I mumbled to my wounded cat as he sat stoically in his pet carrier stationed securely on the passenger car seat.

Zuni was whisked away by the attending at the emergency pet hospital. I felt like such a bum. And I was embarrassed. What I'd done, albeit unintentionally, made me look like an abusive pet owner who had absolutely no awareness or consideration for my cat. It was if I'd broken a child's arm not once but twice.

"I have a theory," the vet said. "I think the damage was done the first time you stepped on his tail. He's been operating at half mast and, this second time, he just didn't have enough control to move his tail out of the way."

I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe it was an accident waiting to happen.

"Still, there is no doubt that we'll have to amputate."

My stomach turned.

"How much? How much will you have to cut?"

"I won't know until we get him in surgery. My best guess is about three inches."

"There's no other option?"

"No other option. The tip of his tail is almost dead. The injured section has sustained nerve damage, and there's no way of restoring it."

"What about the hair?"

"It will grow back. In time, no one will know."

Right, except me. I'll know. That long, bushy tail won't be long enough to wrap around his legs like a winter scarf. It will no longer stand like a periscope when he walks.

"What's the healing time?" I asked, worried because we had only eight days before leaving the country for two months.

"Ten to twelve days."

My heart sank. "We don't have that long. We're going to Mexico and leaving Zuni with a house sitter who likes cats but . . ."

The vet explained the protocol. He'd be given antibiotics twice a day for a week and pain medication, as needed. That meant we could finish that part of his treatment before leaving.

"And the stitches?"

"They'll dissolve on their own, so you won't have to worry about that. But he'll have to wear a collar to prevent him from licking and scratching."

There was no way. Zuni was a wild man who bit attendants during routine exams. To stick one of those plastic Elizabethan collars on him and expect him to get used to it was as likely as asking me to move to Alaska during the winter.

"Good luck getting it on him," I muttered, suddenly exhausted.

They did manage to attach the collar. And he hated it. The minute we arrived home and I opened his cat carrier, he catapulted out and flew through the air, landing on his feet, and then running up and down the stairs, bumping into walls at every turn. When he came to a halt, he was panting, his little tongue hanging out, his breath fogging up the plastic collar. It was pathetic, really.

The next morning, we found Zuni sitting calmly in the upstairs hallway, his collar crunched up against an adjoining wall. Our little Houdini had somehow squeezed out of a collar that was good and tight the night before. My husband and I knew then that we'd have to take turns making sure that he didn't bite or lick the stitches until they dissolved.

It's Day #4. Zuni seems more and more like himself despite the missing 3 inches of tail. Still, we're not out of the woods yet. I caught him licking his stitches earlier this morning and have had to sequester him in my office where I can keep an eye on him.

Small penance for the harm I've caused.