The first time Mr. Moon and I went to Mexico, we met a wonderful Norwegian woman named Anne-Helene. She came and lived with us for six months and I learned so much in that time.
One of the things Anne taught me was that the tune we sing "Oh Tannenbaum" to, is sung in Norway to the lyrics of a song which is NOT a paen to the holy Christmas tree but which is about public transportation or something and which starts out, "Oh bus driver, oh bus driver."
Another thing I learned about Norway is that they do not circumcise their baby males unless there is a medical necessity and that she, even being a nurse, had never once seen a circumcised pee-pee.
These are the sorts of things you do not forget and are wonderful examples of the benefits of international exchange.
Anyway, above you see a picture of Ms. Moon's Christmas tree. I bought it, I tucked it under my arm, I brought it home, I set it up, I personally decorated it, which took about five minutes because it's branches are approximately two- to eight- inches long. However, as you can see, it is fully adequate to the task of holding up the approximately one dozen ornaments which mean Christmas to me, including a miniature birch bark canoe and a baby Capezio ballet slipper which I bought for one of my daughter's (well, I bought the pair, actually) and which would not stay on the child long enough to take a picture. But I love those slippers and one stays on top of a window frame in my bathroom year-round and one comes out to adorn the Christmas tree every year.
The tree is not, however, sturdy enough to hold up the cardboard angel so she is resting at the base of it.
As small as this tree is, it will be big enough to put the presents under. Believe me. Sorry kids.
Your crazy, insane mother is doing all she can.
The stove issue is still not settled. I think we have decided against repairing this one as there are more problems than just the one that the one hundred and eighty-nine dollars would solve. I don't know. I really wish we could just take the money it would require to buy a new one and go to Mexico. This will not happen, but it is my dream. I looked up ticket prices last night and for approximately three-hundred dollars apiece, we could fly there and back. Mr. Moon was not impressed. In his selective memory, we have always flown there for around "$220" although I personally think he whipped that number out of his butt.
I do know that for $35 a night we could stay at the Hotel Pepita which is in the heart of Cozumel and which is where we stayed on our first trip down there and it was introduced to us by Anne-Helene and her traveling companion, an impossibly and outrageously handsome Norwegian man named Sven (or something like that) whom I thought, upon seeing him the first time, must be a rock god, but no, he was a psychiatric nurse.
Appearances can be deceiving, y'all.
Anyway, Pepita has it all unless by "all" you mean things like a pool or a balcony overlooking the sea or toilet seats which do not cut into your buttocks. But shitfire! (whoops! little pun there, especially if you've been eating habeneros) at least they have toilet seats, which every bathroom in Mexico does not.
And as I was telling a friend, if I had the ovaries of a gnat, I would simply leave all of this behind: my beloved Lloyd, my precious family, the stove situation and all the holiday fru-fra, get on a plane by myself, fly to Cozumel, get a taxi to Pepita, check in and spend a few days eating sopa de lima and swimming in the ocean of seven shades of blue,
and sitting in the courtyard of Pepita, listening to the cardinals in the cage and sipping rum drinks that I would make with Bacardi anejo, Coca-Colas and limes.
Hell. I might even get that tattoo of Ixchel on my shoulder that I've always wanted.
All right. I've gone from my tiny Christmas tree to the Mexican Moon goddess in one semi-short blog.
Let me just say right here that if my blog posts suddenly cease, you will know where to find me.
I'll be raising a glass of rum to you all, listening to the cardinals chip and chirp, and wondering which beach I should visit and whether or not I should get a tattoo on my other shoulder of the map of Cozumel.
This all sounds festive and fantastic to me and probably, on my death bed, I'll be wishing I had done it. Dammit.
What would you do if you had the ovaries of a gnat?
Tell me, tell me. What are the visions of sugar plums going through your mind as you dream on this four millionth day of December, 2008?
