1. Accept that I don’t have to live the life everyone else expects me to (incl. me)
2. Travel the globe for most of July and August. (sorry, Scott)
3. Write another novel. and publish it this time.

The next 6 weeks are going to be intense to make #2 and #3 happen… but saying my goals outloud is the first part of the journey.

The whole time I was in law school I felt unsettled, like I was in limbo because my future hung on wherever I got a job. And i had no idea where or when that might be. Thankfully, I had a job when I graduated. Unfortunately, it was temporary, so I stayed in limbo. As my clerkship started to wind down, I explored my options and decided to move my family to California.

Afterall, the job market for lawyers was much stronger there and I didn’t really know where else to go.

California–oh, California, you had so much promise! When we moved to California we weren’t free of limbo right away. We’d moved into a small, temporary apartment since we wanted to find jobs, feel out the area, and then decide where we wanted to live. What was a few more months of limbo, after all?

For 6 months we lived in the worst kind of limbo. We were living in a furnished apartment with boxes of our belongings all over the place. I’d periodically tear open a box looking for a shoe. Scott and I both found jobs, and then quit those jobs. And found other ones. The whole time I was also wondering if I passed or failed the California bar exam. All the uncertainty was almost too much to bare.

But finally — we found an apartment we loved, jobs we could stand and it felt like maybe–just maybe— I could finally put down some roots… and then we both got laid off.

Well, to be fair, I got laid off and Scott was on the chopping block at his office.

After too many bad things happened in California, we decided to abandon it for my hometown of New York. I needed to be somewhere that made me happy to get through the tumultuous year that California had been.

Shortly after moving to New York I had a crisis of identity–I didn’t know if I could be a lawyer anymore, after everything that had happened to me in California (read: sexual harassment). I felt unsettled not just in my home but my life. Then I got a book deal and my limbo got worse.

For the next year I had one foot still in the law, and the other foot in the another career. I spent the entire year feeling like I was holding my breath. I was waiting to see if the alternative career would work out–would my book sell? or would I have to go back to being a lawyer? It was the most uncertain time of my life. I had absolutely no idea what my future would hold. I didn’t know what foot to move.

And in the midst of all that Scott found out he might be transfered. His company beat around the bus for weeks and I didn’t know if I was coming or going. Were we moving or not? And it wasn’t just a move up the street but a move out of the country.

I’d lived in limbo for a long time, bit it wasn’t quite like that.

Some relief, albeit temporarily, came when we moved. At least that question was answered but I still continued to hold my breath.

The move abroad only perpetuated limbo too since it was a year assignment. It was a year of more limbo.

My book eventually came out, and it did well, but not so well that I could decide between my two feet. I’d exhaled, but couldn’t shake the feeling like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

We have 6 months left on this island and I don’t know where we’re going from here. I don’t know what career I’ll ultimately choose. I don’t know…anything…

but I have to believe I’ll plant a tree someday.

It reminded me of that grade school lesson how when you point one finger at someone, three other fingers point back at you.

Ever since then I’ve realized that every time someone is accusing me for something I’m clearly not, it’s because that characteristic, trait, etc is actually something they hold inside of them. Whether they want to admit it or not.

Tonight, for example, I was called a racist. Actually Scott was the one called a racist but the speaker was talking about us and “our people” in general.

This person had left his dogs unattended on the beach.

Actually, let me back up. There are a lot of “wild dogs” on this island — and while some are friendly, most are not. Since no human was around these two dogs, we assumed they were wild and like any prudent person does with a wild animal you leave it alone and avoid it.

So, Scott & I went to the far other end of the beach away from the dogs. We stayed there for a long while enjoying the sunset and noticed one of the dogs kept creeping closer. We moved down still farther until there was no where else to go.

Eventually the dog had gotten so close that Scott started making very loud bark-like noises at the dog trying to scare it away. He wasn’t trying to hurt the dog as much as he was trying to scare it away or show the dog who was in charge. It’s what dogs do to each other when their hair stands up and they bark. It was natural. It was the best option–we had no where else to go (the beach ends with a giant rock formation), and the dog was also blocking the only way we could go to leave the beach…we figured us walking towards the dog would be ever worse, so scaring him off with words was the best choice.

Two Scott-barks later, the dog leaves but the owner then quickly comes running down from a parking area near the beach (where was he before?) yelling and screaming at us. We explain that his dog was coming too close, and we were trying to protect ourselves, and also our tiny dogs. We asked that he kindly put a leash on his dog or call his dog off. He then starts cursing at us and calling us racist.

He then makes several broad, racist-slurs about white people. He then tells us that we are not welcome at the beach and need to leave. I point to our condo and say “we live here, we have every right to be here. We’re not trying to fight with you or cause trouble, we would just like you to keep your dog with you. There is plenty of beach for everyone and for every dog to be safe.”

Still he makes more racial slurs and among other things tell us we shouldn’t be allowed to live on the island because we’re not from here. (By this point I’d caught where he worked since it was on his shirt and he makes a living selling food and drinks to tourists…hmm…)

Anyway, as I’m gathering our things to leave (sunset ruined!)  he encroaches on Scott with a rock in his hand and basically forces us to leave threatening to hit one, or both of us, with a rock. He literally bullies and follows us all the way back to the security gate at our condo. I’m sure he only retreated because we have guards!

As angry as we were over this situation, we realized that we are not the problem here. We’re clearly not racist, we don’t need to prove that because we know that we’re not. BUT HE IS RACIST. And that is just really sad.

Still, I am thankful for this experience because it only makes me appreciate MORE what all the minorities in America have gone through.

The first time I was abroad was during Bush’s second term. When I left the United States, like many others, I didn’t care for Bush, I was just waiting for his term to be over. I really didn’t think it effected me individually.

But it did. By my third day in Europe, I was ashamed. I was too embarassed to pull out my passport and avoided doing so like my life depended on it _ I didn’t want people to know where I was from. I stopped speaking in English. I tried to pass myself off as a Canadian, or Dutch or from Spain — ANYthing but American.

It wasn’t just the general distrust, distaste and disapproving attitude the Europeans seemed to have for Americans then, it was the stereotypes that latched on. A stereotype that I didn’t want attached to me.

“Do you own a gun?” No, I do not. I don’t  have any friends that do either.

“Do you like Bush?” No. and I did not vote for him. Most people I know don’t like him either.

Now I’m abroad again when Bid Laden was killed (murdered?).

When I first heard about it, I wasn’t happy. I didn’t feel the urge to get up and cheer. To raise a glass and celebrate. As my friend Haley wrote on Facebook “All life has value. I’m not comfortable celebrating death, just accepting it. I’m hoping for peace and tolerance to come.”

But then when I heard about Americans cheering in the street, *I* was appalled… and embarrassed. Really, we are a country that celebrates death with dancing in the streets? I recall Americans had a very different opinion of that practice 10 years ago.

My initial response, which I put on Facebook was the following: “I fear revenge and retaliation — for the U.S. and world.”

When I say that I fear revenge and retaliation I don’t only mean more terrorist attacks. I’m talking global image as well. I’m also talking about how the world will react not just to the death of Bid Laden but of America’s reaction.

It is an interesting time to live abroad and watch how other nations view Americans… but let me tell you: it ain’t pretty.

While there is some sympathy (? right word), especially with nations who have dealt with their own terrorist attacks on a large scale (like the UK), there is much more distaste. Distate for how Americans are celebrating in the streets. Distaste that America spent 10 years, a trillion dollars and so many innocent lives to kill ONE man hiding in the mountains. Distate with the American “we kill people to show that killing people is wrong” moral turpitude (or lack thereof).

Less we forget: He was ONE MAN, Al Qaeda still exists. People have lost sight of the forest for the trees.

Overall America is now proving to look like the dumbest nation in the eyes of our worldly neighbors… but hey! the good news is: I’m not sure its possible for he global image of the US to get much worse.

and Obama just got himself reelected.

Anyway……

One of the coolest bar in SXM has the following sign:

I would hope it goes without saying that if I can get free drinks, I get free drinks. Especially if I was planning to be topless anyway. That’s what I like to call a bonus.

My sister (a fellow nudist) was totally into this so off the tops came and the free drinks followed.

I’m the one in the thong.

Having been topless with my sister a time or two before (on the beach, pervert!) I know how these things go: we tend to get hit on exponentially more, which we really don’t mind. However, the Americans at this bar really make for great stories.

Story #1. There is a couple sitting opposite of us at the bar. Courtney points out that they are having a very heated, and VERY public fight… about us. The fight ends when the girlfriend forces her boyfriend (husband?) to sit behind a support beam so he physically cannot see our breasts. He can only look at her OR he can stare at the wall – literally.

I found this to be exceptionally amusing and decided to take a picture of them. This did not help the lovers quarrel. The girl kept giving us the stink eye, but honey, we’re not the ones who are going to be shamed here.

Next!

Story #2. This one correlates with the above picture. The man goes on to compliment my thong. Before I can even get in a “thank you” Scott (my husband) jumps in to say “I bought it for her!” Scott then gets a prompt high-five. A “yo-da-man” stare and I get nothing. Sure he might have bought me the thong but it’s my ass that makes it look good. Hello. A little respect please?

Story #3. A TV was playing near us–some basketball game, whatever. A 10 or 11-yo boy kept wandering over to check the score (sooo smooth that kid!) Eventually his mother realized what he was up to (I guess it’s not normal for a kid to check the score every 3 minutes) covers his eyes with her hand and literally whisks him out of the bar at 40mph.

You’d think these people have never seen boobs before.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go get a free drink.

Give or take $3,000 later, I had two crowns. (Yes, that is the price, with insurance — my insurance covered half-ish of the total cost).

One of the two crowns was ungodly painful when he put it on — to the point where I screamed out in terror and proceeded to sob uncontrollably for several minutes. The crown throbbed for days and even though the pain eventually went away (My dentist assuring me all of this is “normal”) it always seemed a bit sensitive to hot or cold, and occassionally, it would throb.

Usually it was just a minor annoyance, but last Sunday the pain was more than a minor annoyance and eventually it was so excruciating that I was sobbing on the floor in pain and terror.

I was in hysterics — not only because my mouth was killing me slowly, but because I was on an island. Did they even have dentists here? Scott assured me they did, but then came the question “Do they speak English?” My French is only good enough to order food – not convey the pain I’m experiencing in a tooth!

There are three dentists on the island. 2 are French. 1 is Spanish. I went for the Spanish dentist (who, praise that sweet woman, tried to speak to me in English realizing I was in far too much pain to speak in anything but my native tongue).

I needed an emergency root canal. Having had this same procedure in the United States I cringed at how much it would cost without insurance. (It was $1,500 with insurance when I had it done last time— in the 90s!)

I wasn’t even sure Scott & I had the money between our bank accounts and credit cards to pay for it. If it cost more than $1,000, we were pretty much screwed, unless they took credit cards (and since most places here do not accept anything but cash, this was cause for concern). We were both in a panic but because I was in such excruciating pain, we were willing to do about anything to get me the surgery I needed.

Drum roll please:

The total cost for my dental surgery (4 visits) without insurance: $380

The total cost for my prescription medication (1 weeks worth of antibiotics and pain killers), again, without insurance: $10.70

Clearly there is something very, very wrong with health care in the United States.

With my insurance, a root canal in the U.S. would cost at least $1,000, and that’s before I got hit for emergency visit fees, sitting in the chair fees, fees to pay fees-fees.

In talking about this experience with a friend — he pointed out that “Sure, we pay through the nose in the United States, but we have the best technology.”

Do we? Or is it all smoke and mirrors?

Admittedly, the office here was not as “fancy” as the office in New York City. There was no flat-screen TV in the waiting room, or a big fancy camera/TV setup in the surgery suite so I could see what was happening inside my mouth (Did I really want to see what was going on inside my mouth? I might be self-conscious about what the inside of my tooth looks like!).

There were only the basics — the chair, an x-ray machine, sterilized equipment, and various tools, etc. in this office and surgery suite. It was clean, sterile — got the job done, what else matters?

That’s right! Fancy stuff be damned! Is it nice? Sure. and perhaps the equipment in the U.S. is a little newer, but it’s certainly not worth 10x the price! (An emergent root canal not covered by insurance will run you about $3,000).

If you’re wondering if the prices are low because of universal health care, or European socialism, the answer is no. Although I live on a French/Dutch island; we don’t operate like Europe in the sense that it’s socialist with huge taxes and free health care.

(To be fair, this may exist on the French side, but I don’t think so — it doesn’t on the Dutch side).

Here there is no insurance. Or free health care. You just go to the doctor, the dentist, the hospital, wherever, get treatment and pay for it — only the prices are REASONABLE.

I can’t believe how I’ve neglected this blog.

Perhaps my true colors are showing — I go all in then tire of it and retreat.

Or perhaps it’s reflective of how I’ve felt about island living: listless.

Since my last post I’ve left the island twice — I’m actually still off island.

Prior to my first departure — to Canada, I never really came to disliking the island. I just sort of tolerated it. Leaving though, was bad in a lot of ways as I was purged from what was still feeling like a long and weird vacation, back to the real world — the world I left.

I never really considered myself “materialistic” or “consumeristic” (is that a word?) but I was surprised by how much joy I found in buying lattees, good beer, fountain beverages at 711…

Yes, Canada had a LOT to offer and when it came time to leave, I grew a distaste for the island, which was only exacerbated when I returned.

As we were sitting in Atlanta waiting for our flight to St. Maarten I asked Scott just how much he’d hate me if I jumped on a plane to New York instead. Then life was especially cruel and the plane next to ours happened to be going to New York.

I thought that maybe if I acted confident enough they wouldn’t even look at my ticket and I could get on the NY-bound plane.

Somehow I found myself on my way back to the island, knee deep in vodka.

Two weeks and many temper tantrums later, I was back at the airport. Going home to New York.

By then my book had been released and it was doing so well I insisted I deserved the right to go home and celebrate properly with my friends. I also needed to meet with my publisher, go on some kind of press/book tour and frankly, get off the island.

One of the first things I said to my husband after arriving here (in New York) was that I didn’t plan to leave. That I wanted to find a way to make it work so I could stay — and he and the pugs could come back too.

Scott paused and said “but you HATED New York, you were dying to get out of there when we left.” and that’s only half-true.

I hated my situation. and I blamed a lot of it on New York because I had to point the finger at someone. at some thing.

Sure New York and I have had out conflicts, but it wasn’t this city. No — I love this city. I love it too much… and when we’re miserable we often take it out on the people — the things we love the most — and I took it out on New York. I see that now.

I wanted to leave because I thought leaving would change my situation. It didn’t. Moving to an island simply froze me in place.

Perhaps thats the benefit of moving to the island, though. It gave me that backed out, wide view. I see now what I couldn’t see before.

Figuring this out was—pardon the bad example— like watching a black and white movie turn into full-color.

I once again saw this city for what it is — it’s beauty, it’s character, the energy. I really don’t belong anywhere else but here.

It’s not good-bye, but I’ll see you later.

I’m going back to the island, but home will always be New York and my god, I’ll be home soon.

Because the climate here is tropical–it acts like a time warp for me. I’ve been trapped in June.perpetually. It’s getting annoying.

Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years—they were all literally lost. It’s like they never happened. I couldn’t “get into the spirit” and neither could Scott. On 12/31 he looks at me and says “does it feel like New Years to you?” Hell no! I repled.

It just didn’t “feel” like the holidays—but after 29 holiday seasons, I suppose missing one won’t kill me. It saved me money, at least!

Still, today I finally found myself really missing New York. I was IM-ing with an old neighbor about our neighborhood (which is covered in snow–NYC has one massive Xmas blizzard) and memories of walking up and down my street came over me–and I missed it. I missed it horribly. I missed my friends horribly.

This day was bound to come…and for the slightest moment I thought I might even want to move BACK to NYC after our tour here; even though it’s not really an option.

When I left New York, we were on the “hate” end of our love-hate relationship. Don’t get me wrong, NYC has been and will always be home for me. I love that city with every cell in my being. You could rip me apart at the seems and all you’ll find in the heart of me in New York.

I am New York, but I also get pissed off at New York. New York is a BAD boyfriend. He treats you like shit, and just as you’ve come to your senses and are ready to drop him like the sack of shit he is, he does something sweet–out of his character, and then you fall weak, have rockstar sex and go back to thinking “maybe he’ll change” and the cycle starts over.

When I left, New York and I were on the outs, and there was no time for make-up sex. Well, we briefly had made-up sex…when I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge with my sister and high school sweet heart — looked back and wondered “Do I really belong anywhere else?” and the answer is: I don’t. I don’t even know that I belong there. I don’t really belong anywhere…which perhaps explains why I love New York. In all the places I’ve lived, I circled back to New York every year, ever so briefly to feel “at home” and I left just as quickly as I came to prevent anything other than the bliss of a WHAM BAM THANK YOU MAM.

But after a year and a half in New York — we saw each other for what we both really were. and what we were not.

We don’t have the kind of love that can last a lifetime. But we do have a history.

and even when we’ve moved on, we can still miss. I mourn the loss of New York, even if he was an asshole to me.

I’ve been busy–you see, cooking vegan meals for an A List celebrity at La Samanna (the hotel where Scott works). I’ve also been hired as a consulting chef there–where I have been designing vegan and vegetarian menus for all four of their restaurants!

womp womp.