Air-Conditioning

       You will be greeted by cooling ocean breezes and the soothing rhythm of the waves below. Panoramic vistas of the azure blue ocean, and a large oasis of palm trees give way to the beautiful sight of tranquil Sayulita, and then to the trees and flowers of the jungle. These views will captivate you by day, mesmerize you at dusk with spectacularly colorful sunsets, and entertain you by night, as the twinkling lights of Sayulita reflect off the waters of the bay. In the morning you will awaken to flocks of small green and yellow parrots playing in the vibrant surrounding jungle, while larger blue parrots and eagles fly through the air.         

         Sounds lovely, doesn’t it?

         What the description failed to mention however, was that it was a house with no walls. A structure consisting of a slippery-when-wet tiled floor, a partial ceiling held up by concrete pillars, and a half-wall holding up the staircase, the house was not a house at all; it was a not-house.

         Sure, the tiny bedroom claimed to come with walls…and, in the owner's defense, there were three….but the fourth wall - the front wall - consisting of large glass double-doors didn’t really close, rendering it open to the elements and, well, wall-less. And the bathroom? Well, there were three walls in there too, but the shower side of the room was also wall-less and, oddly, perfectly positioned so that the house next door would get a great (or not so great) view of you bending over to shave your legs, or pick up the dropped soap.  Heck, that might be a thrill for some (like my husband), but for me, I prefer to was my privates in private.  

        There was a beautiful, unobstructed and wall-less panoramic view of the bay, as the description mentioned, but I had no idea that the ‘captivating’ views really meant that you would be held captive by the view, (synonym:  landscape, environment), since there was absolutely no escape….from sun, wind, rain and ‘flocks of small green and yellow parrots’ pooping all around you. And I guess I must have misinterpreted ‘air-conditioning’ and ‘spacious’ to mean something else as well. Silly me. As a writer, I should know better…. But talk about lack of closure…I mean disclosure….!

         And as much as I tried, I couldn’t comprehend the need for screens on the windows in the bathroom with three walls? Are bugs that stupid? I must have missed something. Had we rented a tree?

         We had been warned, albeit merely minutes prior, by the caretaker of the not-house who was sympathetic to our situation. Before taking us up to view the less than adequate accommodations, she explained how her son had just finished axing out downed trees from our bedroom, and showed me the unsightly bruise on her hip from slipping on the wet tiles.

         “Normally, I’m not this honest and I just drop people off and let them deal with it, but since you’ve just had knee surgery…. I need to tell you, in case you don’t know, that the house is really wide open …um ….unprotected….um….exposed….um….wet right now. We’re not quite finished cleaning up. I don’t think you want to be hauling out branches and mopping the living room with that knee. You didn’t know this? The description on the website doesn’t mention that it’s outside living?”

         “Didn’t even say open floor plan.” I said, as I gave the ‘oh-my-god-I’m panicking’ look to my husband.

         “Hmm. And by the way, the hot water is out too…and we can’t get to the roof to light the pilot because of the recently downed trees….so it’ll be a cold shower outside tonight…in 60 degrees. Burr. Did you bring a rain shell? Sweater? We’ve been having strangely cold and wet weather.” She said as she sipped on her second beer.

         “Do you mind if I finish my drink, before we head up there? And did you rent a 4-wheel drive? Because the road is washed out in places…..and it’s a really steep long way up! The website said a 10 minute walk to town? Well, maybe if you’re Usain Bolt….on the way down! HA!”

         It was a not-road. A slippery dirt path, seemingly vertical in parts, and riddled with unreasonably deep ruts, the access to the not-house on this not-road was unsettling, even for adventurers like ourselves. It took us a couple of attempts to conquer that last hill, but sputtering and spinning mud, we managed to make it to the top….to our house with no walls.

         “So, what do you think?” the caretaker asked, as we stood on the platform which was apparently referred to as the sundeck/living room/kitchen/plunge-pool terrace/bedroom?

         “What are our options?” I grunted as I swatted at the bugs swarming around my head.

         “Maybe we can spend all day tomorrow looking for another place for you. Too bad you’re only here for 6 days…well five after this wasted day. Go get some dinner and sleep here tonight. I don’t think it’s supposed to rain until tomorrow, so you’ll stay dry. Oh, and ignore our barking dogs….we’re squatting here….downstairs….but we promise you won’t notice us….except our barking dogs…. And be careful going back down that hill. Some of those spots get slick and you can go right off the cliff!”

         Did you know that there are almost 1000 different kinds of tequila? And that the discerning patron samples each one of them with an astute yet constant verve in order to establish which suits him or her the best?

         Sometimes I just can’t make up my mind.

PT in Jackson Hole

         The competition is fierce….

in physical therapy.

         At present, most of the injuries and rehabilitation programs at the clinic seem to focus around knees, so, due to the fact that we’re all dealing with the same body part, a particular and underlying contest is pervasive.

         “ACL? So, how long ago was your surgery?” “Boy, he’s still in a splint…..”

         “Who did your repair?” “My doctor was better….”

         “She did 20 of those kicks without poles for support?” “Will I ever get there?”

         We don’t actively converse; us ‘kneedy’ people, but instead offer the occasional acknowledgement of the game to our fallen peers with a ‘thumbs up’ or a few words. We act like we’re really only concerned about our own progression, but the constant observing and comparing, although subtle, is absolutely present. I overheard a guy commenting on my ability to balance yesterday….which empowered me to foolishly hold my position long after I’d reached fatigue. Ouch. And today, I witnessed someone doing things I never even did pre-surgery. “Man, she’s doing slides like there’s no tomorrow.” I thought. “Why is she even here? She seems fine to me. Her knee is not even swollen!….Show off….” And more importantly, “How come I’m not doing slides yet…?” And then there’s always the guy who is behind in his program and even though you feel sorry for him, you’re grateful it’s not you….and frightened that it could be.....and secretly hope that his injury was way worse than yours which is why his progress is so slow.

         And when the new patient comes in with that “I can’t believe I’ve done this. This bites” look on his face, us veterans have to say things like “It’ll get better. You’ll be fine” and then throw in the “Just look at me….I’ve only been in here for 3 weeks!” All said more for our own pat on the back and motivation than as support. Pathetic. But then what else are we supposed to be excited about?

         The doc warned me about not attacking PT like it was something to conquer.

         “Take it easy at physical therapy and work at your own speed. This is rehabilitation, not training.” he said firmly. “It’s not a competition to see who can recover the fastest. There is no prize for healing ahead of schedule.” 

        Right….as if he’s ever been to PT…. Or did he forget where we live? Did he forget that the majority of people who dwell here are outdoor enthusiasts, sports fanatics, endorphin addicts and adrenaline junkies? Did he forget that a few months of limitations is agony for us? That what’s painful is not the surgery but being forced to stay inside? That ski reports make up newspaper headlines here, and that not being able to run with your dog is absolute cruelty….to us? Does he not know that in Jackson Hole, the motto of the Olympics is that by which we live our lives….?  Citius, Altius, Fortius!  Swifter, Higher, Stronger!

         And speaking of the Olympics, all of us with restrictions due to injuries right now are doubly hurting. We hear and see these great athletes accomplishing amazing feats, and we can’t even do anything with the inspiration that overtakes us.

         Boy, that gold medal skier sure inspired me to go out and turn a few…but then… guess I’ll just have another beer, and watch another episode of ‘The Biggest Loser’….because then I’ll know things could be worse…. Or I could watch FOX and maybe catch a glimpse of Sarah Palin saying something asinine. Hey, it could always be worse. Talk about handicaps.

         Alas, we rehab rivals struggle through our limitations and seemingly need medication not for the pain (pshaw!), but rather for anxiety and depression. We try to fulfill our senseless need for physical accomplishment, by creating pathetic goals within our own pathetic rehabilitation community.

         “Wahoo! I biked for 18 minutes today instead of the usual 15!” Gee Whiz.

         And I noticed that I am not the only one trying to maximize on my exercises either. I saw a girl adding arm movements to complement her leg lifts, and so I must admit, I had to increase the tension on the bike at least a few times.  She smiled and made her movements bigger.  In any case, there’s no point in doing something if you’re not getting the most you can out of it, and frankly, if I’m not breaking a sweat or feeling something being a little strained, what’s the point? I’m sure my opponent was sweating.  I will not accept defeat!  In fact, when my therapist told me I was done after only an hour today, I was frankly a little hurt and disappointed.

         “Already? But I can do more! But I’m just getting going. But I’m hardly sore….”

         He dismissed me with a wave of his hand but told me I could skip the icing this time.

         Ahh.  Progress.  Score one for me.

  

Righty Tighty

       “Do you think you’re an appliance technician now?” my husband asked sarcastically.

       “Uh…how hard can it be? It’s just a couple of screws and some glass….” I said looking around at the oven door…scattered in sections…all over the kitchen floor.

       I truly don’t know why I thought I could fix the oven door by myself, except that I honestly didn’t think it would be that difficult. I’ve done my share of household plumbing, electrical wiring, audio/visual repairs and computer troubleshooting, so naturally, the neglected oven door would be next. No big deal.

       My intention was to just get the bloody crumbs and drips cleaned out from within the two pieces of glass that makes up most of the front, and adjust the hinges so that the door didn’t sag upon opening. The task didn’t seem worthy of a $125 service call, which I could see turning into an order for new hinges, more parts and labor fees and an additional service call for installation. All I needed to do was turn the screws a little to the right (righty tighty…) and spritz a little glass cleaner on the window. Seriously, how hard could it be?

       How the hell the crumbs and scum managed to get within that sacred glass space in the first place had perplexed me for some time. Where was the weak point? Where was the hole? How do morsels of meatloaf, grains of granola and particles of pizza jump from the rack’s horizontal plane to the glass’s vertical door anyway? Did it happen during entry? Exit? Where did the drips come from? Sauces or greasy condensation? It was driving me crazy, because it was the one place my disinfecting hands couldn’t get into; escaping my relentless wipe-downs and frantic cleaning sprees. Also, every time the oven light was turned on, those food fragments and dark drips were illuminated like a backlit modern display at the MoMa. Sparkling in their glory, the patterns would randomly change with every tilt of the door, and bop up and down occasionally during cooking. I tried to think of my oven door as ‘art in motion’, but my poor overcritical and persnickety mind just couldn’t make the transition.

       So, deciding to conquer the contraption, I got out the screwdriver and dove in. The door lifted quite easily out of its hinges (probably the reason it overextended and sagged so easily too), and so I figured the remainder of my project would be straightforward as well. I had no idea of the intricacies of oven door assembly, however, and after carefully placing components all around the floor, I realized that perhaps it was a little more complicated than anticipated. Other than the actual door, there was metal, glass, rubber spacers, metal spacers, glass brackets, another piece of glass and screws in places you wouldn’t think you’d need screws. It seemed excessive and redundant at times, but I nevertheless managed to disassemble the uncooperative unit in relatively little time and with minor effort. And let me tell you, wiping those burned and hardened bits out of there was oh-so satisfying! By the time I was done, the machine looked brand new…assembly line new actually, since it wasn’t yet assembled….

       When my husband walked in, I had already failed at several attempts to reposition the glass pieces. You’d think they’d just slip in as easily as they slipped out, but they were seemingly a one-way part, with no apparent indication of what way that would be. Every time I thought I had mastered the construction, when I re-attached the door, the inside glass would fall in, out or down, rendering the door unusable. My husband had no choice but to get down there on the floor with me and try to put the thing back together. By this time, my frustration level was elevated, but my determination had skyrocketed and there was no way in hell I would have called in a professional to clean up after me. How embarrassing would that be? Not only would I be insulting the guy by telling him that I thought it could do his job…which I thought was probably simple…but I would most likely have to pay extra for his time and lost parts. Ugg.

       But four hands working together, and an hour and a half later, we finally got all the parts back in what we thought were the correct places, and the door tightened to the oven. Phew. It was an ultimate case of teamwork, patience, critical thinking and problem solving.  And although I wasted a lot of our time and endured needless irritation, I did learn a lot: Mainly, that if you have to remind yourself how to use a screwdriver with ‘righty tighty, lefty loosey’, you should leave the damned thing alone. It’s just not a sign of competence.

       So, that was 7 months ago.

       Today, I’m at home waiting for the appliance guy to come and fix the oven…..that has had a broken glass window for months, and is practically touching the floor when opened from the extremely lax and damaged hinges. I maintain that my attempt at being an appliance wizard had nothing to do with the downfall of the oven. After all, had it not failed to begin with, I would have not had to fix it, right? Frankly, I don’t think the hinges ever worked properly, and I know the glass was put back in there securely….’cause my husband did it…..and even though he’s not an appliance guy, he can fix things pretty well….sometimes. For example, I think the television looks fine bolted to the wall with 2 x 4’s….

       Besides, isn’t there such a thing as a heat crack?