I was just going to put away a few Christmas decorations. Somehow, I managed to start painting my house.

Since Christmas trees go on sale so early in Costa Rica, they are prime fire starters come December 25th. By about the 24th, we even stop checking if it needs water. Ornaments begin to randomly fall off branches. A dear moose I bought in Minnesota fell and lost both antlers (last year he lost a leg, which I still hadn’t fixed).

I reached into the branches for ornaments and little clumps of needles stuck to everything and fell between my toes and stuck under the strips of my flip flops. I checked each light string to see if it still worked and packed them in neat little bundles with a little prayer that next year they will not only work, but I will be able to untangle them without being driven to drink in the process. Coco, who was occupied with a friend, gave no notice that I was dismantling the holiday. I kept going and began stuffing candles in boxes and plucked each stocking off it’s hook.

I grabbed the tree by it’s trunk and tossed it outside. I clapped my hands together and felt strangely like the Grinch. Goodbye to Christmas! Until next year! When I went to put a few things away in the garage, that’s when I eyed it. That can of paint. All of my walls are a not-quite-white, not-quite beige color. EVERY scuff, scratch, and blip of goo shows. My kitchen looks as though a long-haired dog stood in the middle of it and shook off his fur after rolling around in a mud puddle.

I popped the top open and was thrilled the paint was still good. I stole Addy’s little paint brush and began touching up the walls. How can I touch up the walls without shaking out the carpets? And dusting the tops of the bookshelves? And washing the entire floor on my hands and knees (remember no carpeting in Costa Rica - all of it’s ceramic or wood)? With Christmas half put away and a painting project under full force, I warned Coco and her friend not to come in contact with me or the living room.

I learned when Coco was a baby to never try to tackle a project that involves the mind. I do not read as the children play about. I do not write while they entertain themselves merrily with the billions of toys in the cupboard. No. I clean. As most mothers know, the moment we still ourselves and sit, children sense the vibration of joy and calmness and come running for any and all corners of the room to either whine they are bored or cry. It’s like flies to, well you know. Shoot long ago, I learned to clean. I am not sure what it is my kids like about my cleaning, but as I move about dusting or wiping or organizing a closet, they have absolutely no interest in me. They’ll find something that will entertain them for hours like unopened Playdough cans or a string of beads or looking through all their books.

At 4 p.m. I started to panick a bit. A day of wanting nothing more than to take down the tree had turned into a full-out cleaning and painting project. I fed the girls one more time and told them if they bothered me I’d place them on the roof. Since they don’t really know I’m kidding, they disappeared for two hours. I reassembled the living room, carried the last boxes into storage, topped the paint can and returned it to the garage.

After a shower, I poured a glass of wine and lit all the candles in the house. It’s not this delighfully clean very often. I cracked open the book I’ve been slogging through - Under the Volcano - and read a paragraph when the girls came running down the stairs.

We’re hungry!

I closed the book and had to laugh. I have to laugh or else I really would turn into the Grinch.

I know I’ve been in Costa Rica a long time when…

• I greet the cockroaches with witty salutations instead of smashing them to death. Then, I politely ask them to leave.
• I consider banding the cockroaches on their little ankles to follow their patterns and habitats so I can more appreciate this species that also calls my home their home.
• Once I swallow an ant, I calculate that into my protein grams for the day.
• I forgot what snow tastes like.
• Christmas with palm trees is the norm.
• I go back to the States and still speak in Spanish.
• Getting a white, bread bun at a Chinese restaurant is a regular thing.
• Stop signs are no longer required - they’re optional.
• I start to talking to all the cows I see, (which is a lot).
• Having no Internet, water, electricity or (name a utlitiy here________) is just another normal day.
• The sight of a new sidewalk makes me faint with delight.
• I see stray or wandering dogs are understand they are part of the landscape and though it never sits well, I’ve learned not to get so depressed about it.
• I know that poverty is not an isolated issue that lives across the tracks. It’s next door, over the hill, and behind the mall. It’s our issue and not something we can pretend doesn’t exist.
• It’s time to stand up for our sharks.
• My kids speak better Spanish than I do.
• I no longer make decisions, I take them.
• My kids like tamales.
• I begin craving bread and coffee at 4 p.m. in the afternoon.
• If rice doesn’t have little bits of red pepper in it, it just ain’t rice.
• I can’t live without coconuts.
• I can tell a young cocnut from a teenager from an old one by just a look and a shake.
• I can’t do without an avocado (for 25 cents!) for lunch.
• I can swing a machete with ease.
• Blueberries and cherries become odd, rare delicacies.
• The upside down moon is wrong-side up in the States.
• Potholes don’t make me blink - they’re just a challenging obstacle course on the way to ballet class.
• Scorpions don’t scare the living daylights out of me anymore.
• I now call paradise home.

Something as small as an egg can completely change how I think. When I arrived in Costa Rica, probably just like you, I put my eggs in the refrigerator. All my life I’ve done this. Why question it? Eggs go bad so we must keep them chilled.

In Costa Rica, nobody I know keeps their eggs in the refrigerator. At first when I arrived home from the market, I dutifully put them in the icebox. As I watched all those around me, I began to wonder about my egg habit just as I had mulled over my clothes washing habits and sink basket habits. Eggs sat on top of refrigerators, on the side cupboard, and anywhere else people can tuck them in the refrigerator without the cat jumping on them or Tupperware falling on them.

The USDA has “egg-safety” rules. The page goes on and on about how to keep your eggs from killing you. And perhaps in the States, where chickens are crammed into bins to live horrible existinces and eat hormones and antibiotics, I can see why a lot of rules must be established to handle the fiesty things.

I get my eggs from an organic delivery service. Many people just get their eggs from the lady down the road who keeps chickens. Heck even I have a neighbor with chickens, and I am on a super-busy, city road! They get put in a plastic bag and knotted to take home. In the supermarkets, eggs are never refrigerated. I’m willing to guess that this the egg habit in most, if not all, of Central and South America. We are still more connected to our food supplies and thus haven’t developed as many corporate farming techniques.

Moving to a different cultures keeps doing this thing to you: shaking your long-held beliefs and wondering why we do it in the first place. Perhaps we refrigerate eggs because of corporate farming. My mother lived on a farm, and I know they didn’t put them in the fridge. Sometimes we cling to customs “just because that’s the way we’ve always done it.” What kind of answer is that? A simple issue like egg storage will bring on a storm of debates. But the fact is, no matter how you crack it, we do it different here. And no one gets sick.

It wasn’t easy to let those little buggers sit on my counter, but now I wouldn’t have it any other way. And if you live here long enough, you will probably see people eating them raw. Oh dear, another thing to worry about.

So now we must ask the question: which did come first, the refrigerator or the egg?

Of all the fish in the sea, my kids picked me. I can just see the two of them plotting in “baby-waiting-to-be-born-soul-land” looking down at little old me, wasting my life on Late Night with David Letterman and getting those wonderful eight hours of sleep.

I think she needs us!

Yeah! Let’s go down to planet earth and jazz up her life a little bit!

Coco’s allergic reaction made a comeback at night. It was just like the week she had a fever. Every night, the fever rose before she went to bed - just to make her (and me) a little more miserable. I didn’t waffle a bit and went straight for the Benadryl. Her scratching all night means we’re both awake.

During the day, she felt good enough to get out and see the world a bit. Though she refused an interview, she did feel a tad better. She felt good enough to whine when I tried to have a cup of coffee with a friend I ran into. And she felt good enough to beg for pets she couldn’t have.

After begging me for a cute poodle in one pet store, I asked her if she would be able to pick up every single piece of poop the pet would leave. She agreed she probably wouldn’t.

Change the water on the fish tanks?

No.

Feed the rabbits morning, noon, and night?

No.

It was settled. And we head out to the parking lot, I listened to her begin again the discussion of getting a dog. I reached out for her hand as we walked. Yes, I thought, it is true. This child - and her brother - came here just so I could find heaven right here on earth. It’s just not at all what I imagined.*

*It’s been ten years since I’ve seen Letterman! 

Coco’s legs began to itch. She quickly ran to get the Chamomile lotion - an indispensable item in our house due - and we rubbed it into her shins. She jumped into the bath. I dumped in some Epsom salts, which I have to haul down from the States, and baking soda. She soaked for about 1/2 hour.

Then as she got ready for bed, the itching had spread to her thighs. The skin was red and covered with welts. This was no bug bit. Plus she’d been wearing jeans all day. Her arms itched and were covered with the same welts. It was on her stomach and her back. The rash was spreading. And fast. This had to be something she ate.

Once, when Coco was only seven months old, I ended up in the emergency room due to a bee sting. But if Coco had been stung by something, I’d have heard about it. I began flipping through our menu from the day. Since Coco’s been sick from a whopper of a cough, she hasn’t eaten much, or at least anything out of the ordinary.

She disrobed and sat on the toilet with her feet in cool water and baking soda. I caked her body with a poultice. She sat shivering, coughing, and scratching. Man, it doesn’t get any sadder than watching a child suffer. Plus her fever had come back.

But she made it. As kids do. I plopped my laptop on her desk and looked up dosages of Benadryl. She basically passed out from a safe dosage of drugs and pure exhaustion.

I followed suit and plopped in bed, though not itching, as exhausted as my small companion.

Coco needed a few more dosages of antihistamine to get that rash under control. My best guest is that it was the orange rind. A bugger of a thing. But I, like many parents, may never know. What I do know is that my life could kick butt over all those lame reality shows. Anyone know where I could find a could camera crew?

As Coco crawled around under the tree looking for all the presents with her name on it, I knew exactly how she felt. I remember being that little girl. I did the exact same thing. Even though Santa wouldn’t bring his load until the morning of the 25th, aunts, uncles, and others would drop off gifts for us in the count down to Christmas.

I think perhaps that’s one of the underlying things we all so crave: the feeling of being remembered. That somebody thought of us. Let’s face it, the gifts are great, but the novelity wears off after a few weeks. The items become incorporated into our lives and we go about our business.

But do you remember how great you felt picking out those special “things” for that special someone? I have a hunch that when we think of others, it’s an even greater high than looking for that present under the tree.

Firecrackers boom in the distance (a Central American custom I’m not terribly wild about, but oh well here I am), I wait just a bit longer to be sure my nosey daughter is asleep. She got a terrible cough a few days ago and has been so sad about not being able to eat cookies or dance about. And it’s been sad to watch.

Dayton’s has long been history. I take my kids to Cemaco now and Hypermas. Our customs throughout the world may be different, but we all have to admit there is something magical happening in the air. Whether you light a Christmas tree or a Menorah or dance to the winter solstice, let’s all make a miracle wish. Let’s wish that we keep on thinking of others 7 days a week/24 hours a day/365 days a year.

Whew, what a gift that would be.

Here’s to all of you. May each and everyone of you have a miraculous year.

(P.S. Even though I promised myself I was done eating for the night,
I couldn't help but finish off the cookie we left out for Santa.
I mean, they were gingerbread!!)

Shopping for shirts thrills me not, and the thought of trying on a new pair of shoes is a bore. Jewelry? It’s glitter grabs me no more. But pens? Notebooks? Office gadgets? I’m Charlie in the chocolate factory.

Office stores abound in Costa Rica. There are small, family owned ones like Jimenz and Tanzi. A large chain seen throughout Costa Rica is Universal, which has a nice office supply section plus like a billion toys around Christmas. Then there’s Office Depot.

I go to all the stores I’ve mentioned above. Yet, Office Depot has more consistency than most stores in Costa Rica. For instance, I went to the department store called Cemaco to find an alarm clock for a Christmas gift. A few months ago, they had loads of them. Now, nothing. Not one. It’s like that a lot here. Items once seen at a store may never been seen from again. In Office Depot, I’m pretty sure I’ll always find the big piece of cardboard I need or the printer ink (I always need more ink!) or the plastic folder thingy that I have no name for.

They also make copies and are pretty efficient at doing it. They will not copy original books anymore (as some smaller drug stores might still do). Most outlets, I believe, also have a few computers to get Internet. The one disadvantage is that Office Depot will not break open packages and sell you two envelopes or one pen. In little librarias in most small towns, they’ll sell you exactly the number of DVDs or envelopes or pieces of paper you want. This can be more of a money saver than you’d imagine. (You can even buy individual cigarettes at corner stores.)

So, here is probably the second most boring photo on the web (next to my Tupperware photo a few posts back.) But if office supplies make you as happy as I do, this is one place I bet you’ll be stopping by.

Slowly, over the course of the next few months, the coffee bean is ready to harvest. Immigrants, if not already here, begin to cross the border for seasonal work. The branches hang heavy with a mixture of red, orange, and still green seeds.

At this point, it’s a bit hard to see where a good cup of coffee comes from. But inside the red berry is where Starbucks and Caribeau and every other coffeehouse and package sitting on the shelf gets it’s juice from. The work starts long before we ever place our lips upon the rim of the morning cup.

The work starts with people. Since coffee is grown along the sides of rambling hills and crooked mountains, I don’t know how the harvesting could ever be done with machines. The rows must be scanned many times over the course of a few weeks of months, depending on the climate which can vary a lot from mountain to mountain, since beans ripen at different times.

After people pick the beans, each person brings in their “catch” for the day. They are paid according to weight. Not a highly skilled job, but a very hard day’s work. There’s the hot sun, dirt, snakes, the beans are heavy, and the long day of standing on your feet.

My friend, who posed for this photo, demonstrated how to hold the basket and then began picking. Her hands ran over the branches without a thought. She knew exactly which was ripe and which bean needed more time in the sun. Though she’s left coffee picking behind, I sense it’s something that hangs deep in within her. For good or for bad.

Humans and machines take over the process once the bean arrives at the plant. The red skin is peeled off to expose a jelly-like goo, which must be removed. There’s a lot more steps like raking, drying in the sun, and roasting, which finally gets the bean ready for that vacuum packed bag that will eventually arrive in your kitchen or nearby cafe.

Every time I take a cup of joe, I try to remember what went into this “dessert” crop - this non-nutritional, extra plant that the world oh-so loves. It makes the brew just that much richer.

Never been a fan of tamales. Never had one I really liked. What’s a tamale? Just a huge holiday tradition in Latin America. Basically, it’s a meal wrapped up in a banana leaf. The path to get there is the real story.

When stores putting out those long, green banana leaves, families start gathering to begin the process of chopping and boiling and assembling the rectangular bundles. All this work typically spans over a two day period or more.

Each family has it’s own recipe, that’s why tamales differ as much as six Italian mother’s comparing spaghetti sauce recipes. Over the years, grandmothers and aunts and cousins bring their own special touch to the family recipe. I also imagine region and class inject differences as to what is available either from the nearby markets. The more “traditional” tamale usually is laden with pork fat. One of the reasons so many people get “fat” by eating a few too many over the season. Over the years, the fat has given way to chicken and beef with the consume used as a flavor rather than the lard.

Each base of a tamale is made with a puree. These also vary in composition. In general it sounds like mushed corn and potatoes are often found on the bottom of most tamales. For the family I watched, they added prunes, raisins, peas, rice, and olives. Something I’d never heard of before.

I was luckily enough to taste a few of these after warmed them bundles in boiling water. To my surprise, I liked them. And then this strange thing happened as I nibbed away at the warm pod of puree and chunks of vegetables of beef: I began forming my own recipe! I now see how contagious it can be. I most likely will never make a tamale in my life, but now I can more fully appreciate a custom I am so surrounded by every year.

There is no rhyme or reason why the Internet goes out. It’s like trying to figure out why there’s a traffic jam at 1 in the afternoon on a Tuesday. There just is.

So again, as before, I am at an Internet cafe. I’ve learned to bring my extension cord along so I can always reach an outlet. I’ve learned which cafe has free Wi-Fi and which costs.

There’s always a bonus though. I get to to people watch. Cute Latin girls chat away with their boyfriends over super-sweet ice-creamed drinks; Latin girl friends chat with each other while texting or calling their girlfriends; parents bring their kids for a light dinner; and a crowd of even cooler people sit outside under patio heaters while they smoke and order yet another drink.

I’m the only single geek with an orange extension cord. But I get used to being alone a lot. And it’s not a place I don’t like. I mean, I get to talk to you instead. And you, my friends, are true friends indeed.

(Hopefully all will be well tomorrow. If not I may go see if they guy perhaps tripped over the plug that connects my little corner of town to Internet world.)