Jezzie's Girl

Out on the road today I saw a Dead Head sticker on a Cadillac.
A little voice inside my head said don’t look back you can never look back

Those days are gone forever, I should just let them go, but

I’ve been obsessively listening to this song. I’m like an ad for eighties post-traumatic stress disorder. I miss being young and spontaneous and carefree and I’m reminding myself to be these things more.

I went to the doctor this morning. Massive soft tissue damage she said with a curved Iranian accent. She says it takes a long time to heal and any sudden jarring, any spontaneous, heavy, careless movement will send me right back where I started from. Her brow furrows at my children playing on the floor, oreo icing stains their cheeks. She eyes the permanent marker 8 on my forearm – tells me to be careful. I tell her I'm trying not to be.

A new friend of mine says she’s trying to pin me down, but I keep moving. We began as business acquaintances. She is far superior in the art of the savvy business woman. I use my heart, she uses her head. I trip and fumble, she sails through a master. After a long courtship she met my children last week. Contemplating one of her own she was pleasantly surprised – they were not the equivalent of feral Chihuahuas. Then she found out about derby. Yes, roller derby.

When I was a kid I lived on a hill. Not a big hill, but a hill and I didn’t have a mobile mother and I didn’t know of any parks and so I tried in vain to skate at a nearby school. Void of a single flat space I scraped my knees and layered scar tissue for weeks before I put my shiny new skates in the closet for good. 33 years old and I shyly call a new roller derby league nearby. I know this is for me. 3 months later I am Jezebel Jett. On skates I am fearless and calm. I’m on flat ground now. I can skate with my ass dragging on the floor I’m so low. I can skate on one foot without falter. Last Sunday I spent fighting for my life. Skating my ass off against women years ahead of me. They took me out time and again and I got up without fail. Finally I hopped off the court and drove home with my left foot pressed down hard.

Last week a boy I used to know saw I boyfriend I used to know. Apparently he is a cop now with a beautiful woman on his arm. The night before I knew this I dreamed of sharks. That next night I dreamt of one of the only two fair-haired boys I ever touched and saw him underwater, floating eyes wide open and smiling with a beautiful blonde girl at his side. I swear there’s a picture of this somewhere. I’ll find it oneday.

As for the boy who saw the boyfriend – he is the stereotypical unrequited love who will forever hold a place in my psyche. He occupies a little corner, occasionally stretches out and rises to the top. I’m always glad to see him.

Back to skating and soft tissue, etc. I will heal slowly now. I’m not that girl those boys knew once. I’m not as thin or firm or nieve. But soft is good, as long as you know how to do it right.

Oh, Mexico...

I look backward too much, forward with fear, shut my eyes to the day, or just can’t focus on it. 12 days in Mexico and I am floating, buoyed, at moments drowning a little. Where to begin is always a question too. How about right now. I am in 8 floors up in the state of Jalisco, the Penthouse aptly named Cielito Lindo. The house is open air so the sea breeze is unyielding, the weather is nothing short of perfect. I can see giant brown pelicans sailing by, parasails with tiny passengers landing on the beach below our deck. Decadence or not, this country has always felt like home to me. Whether that is because I have been so many times or because I am genetically and culturally linked I don’t know. My great-grandparents, two sets of them worked their way up the California coast, farm by farm to reach the beautiful San Francisco Bay Area. Two of their children met at the C&H Sugar factory in Crockett. My grandmother is 93 now, tells me that my grandfather promised her the moon and stars and she smiles and rolls her eyes.

Whatever the reason this is a country I could call home. I love to walk everywhere here. The cobblestones streets, full of potholes, littered with bougenvillia blossoms and trash. The smells of food and garbage and dirt of the jungle, the car exhaust, the coffees and pastries and dirty water thrown into the streets. The people here with the men who will at once pinch your children’s cheeks with such sincerity and eye their mother with machismo approval. One somehow does not nullify the other. For this I am truly grateful.

Our first day here my boys had the privilege to release baby sea turtles fostered by a rescue project there. Solomon had to be fought when he discovered his turtle would not be his forever – he loves all little things and all baby animals and had to be held back as the little turtles desperately made their way to the surf. He lived off of shrimp for the first week. We all expected him to be sick but he scarfed down literally dozens of them everyday until he finally moved on to cheese quesadillas and apple juice which he has consumed twice a day for the past week.

Both the boys have worked hard to use their Spanish. They now say Gracias and Hola without prodding. They pronounce Mexico without the hard English X and name colors and count all in Spanish. I realize what general jerks we Americans are when people constantly comment to me about the kids use of their language and my own. We have been complimented quite a lot and I am very proud to have learned such a beautiful language and have the ability to practice what I know without fear.

The days here have been undeniably incredible. We take taxis to town and shop for Hernandez Talavera pottery – colorful and graceful bowls and coffee mugs. We purchased a gorgeous sink for our little casita we are building in the backyard and handpainted signs for both houses. ‘Bluehaven’ and ‘Casita de Los Hijos’ for our little project on the back of the property. The bougenvillia is dripping from every window here and I am so grateful I planted some in our back yard this past summer. I plan to plant more this spring.

The house here is amazing. Four bedrooms with four giant bathrooms and an enormous great room with a fountain in the living room and the entire front of the house is shuttered so that you can open it up and live outdoors. Our bedroom is the only one with an open air bathroom. The shower has only pony walls and looks out onto the city. While the days are magnificent here is it the nights that have brought me most pleasure. Showering in this amazing bathroom has been nothing short of an experience. Looking out on the lights of the city and seeing the sunset, the clouds moving over the mountains. Smelling the rich sea air and hearing the surf. Feeling completely exposed but so private, surrounded by deep blue tiles inset with sunshine and giant handpainted pots full of flowering cactus.

Yesterday I showered earlier than usual. The sun was just going down and the light was filtered and airy. Two buildings away there is a rooftop several floors below that is usually pitch dark to me but yesterday I examined the empty hot tub and sprawling tiled expanse, empty reclining chairs and noticed a girl standing there. She rested her chin on her hands leaning against the side of the rooftop looking off toward the ocean. She wore jeans and a tanktop. A Mexican girl but I couldn’t see if she was 15 or 30, or what she was looking at but after a while I thought maybe she was watching someone or thought someone was watching her. After a few minutes I noticed her touch her lips and pull her hand slightly away. She did this three, four times and then slowly turned and walked across the rooftop, up a small flight of steps onto a higher platform – almost stagelike. She then turned to face the sea again and touched her hand to her lips, reached out her arm to the sky and did this several times. She then slowly walked down the steps and out of sight.

Two days ago we all took a day trip to Las Caletas – a beachfront location only accessible by boat. We spent the trip there drinking coffee, eating mangos and dancing to Merengue music. When we arrived we went snorkeling, Cai and I took a cooking class and made the best paella I’ve ever eaten. Thick chunks of Mahi Mahi, prawns, lobster, blue crab, squid and octopus, onions, peppers. Two days later my nails are still the color of saffron. We watched wild macaws, took pictures with a spider monkey and then I taught the boys food like this should only be eaten with your hands. Fresh lemonade, cold sangria and flan con pay de queso followed. Truly the best meal we’ve had to date.

I have slept better here than I have in a long time. Except last night when I began to think about home and the enormous stress waiting for me. So today I made a list, an oath of sorts to take my life back from the stress and anxiety which has plagued me and robbed me of the past six months. I am going to do my very best to determine my own destiny now. However I digress. Sleeping has been simply sinful here. Clean white sheets, no need for a blanket. We drink sangria in the hottub as the sun goes down, play dice until we are too sleepy to keep score and roll into bed without a sound. The mornings the kids wake up happy and rested. We loll around and drink coffee until we decide if we will hit town or the beach or the pool first. My favorite restaurant is a little hole in the wall down the street. They are only open until 1 and some days only offer two things on the menu which are usually eggs and bacon with homemade guacamole, beans and fresh tortillas. I think I could eat just that forever and vow to figure out how to eat this more without gaining 20 pounds when I get home. We used to cook Mexican a couple of times a week until I decided that health and fitness would win out. Tamales, quesadillas and rellenos were part of our standard fare am I am determined to figure a healthy way to do that again.

Only two days left to enjoy, just wanted to jot a few things down so as not to forget it all.