Quixotic

So here's the thing...

2008-08-21T04:24:50Z

I first purchased the domain name "isahrai.com" in the summer of 2001. For several years, the website was a work portfolio and design testing ground but evolved into a personal blog (and my portfolio moved here). Through my website, you -- both friends and strangers -- have traveled with me from New York to New Orleans to Boston to Zihuatanejo. You've endured grueling details of operations and indulgent recountings of steamy tropical nights. It's been fun, eh? You might have noticed that I have become less and less faithful in my postings in recent months. There certainly has been plenty of things to write about but I have struggled to find any satisfaction in writing a blog that is basically just about me. Could it be that my vanity is ebbing?

Something like that.

I've mentioned (in my sporadic postings) that I've been working a lot to find a more stable sense of happiness in my life. Part of this work has been to address several personal demons and correct some parts of my personality that have been flawed. In the past few weeks I've had the privilege of spending time with a few amazing people that have revealed even more to me about myself, my journey, and the path I want to take from here. All of these things have led to a lot of questions -- and surprisingly, a lot of answers -- about how I want to identify myself, both in my day to day life and online.

One of those answers is a revision of what isahrai.com is and what purpose it serves. I've begun to lay the groundwork for this reconstruction and will be working on it over the next few weeks. I'm excited and hope that once it is revealed, you will be, too. While I'm working on this behind the scenes, I will continue to Twitter about random goings-on so you will get your Quixotic fill. Stay tuned....

Ch-ch-ch-changes

2008-08-13T05:10:00Z

Significant changes have been happening in my life lately. More importantly, significant changes have been happening in my attitudes, self-esteem, vision, deep thoughts by Jack Handy, etc. And most importantly, especially for readers of this blog, significant changes will soon be happening here at isahrai.com. How significant, you ask? Significantly significant.

Stay tuned......

Alt-Ctrl-Deleting Myself

2008-07-17T04:33:41Z

Since this past Saturday I've been starting to use a cane. Mostly, I use the cane when my walker is just too impossible -- skinny stairs to manage, hot coffee to carry, cute boys to impress. It has been a triumph (take that, Dr. Almerga!) but an exhaustive one that is taking its toll on my energy levels. Two months after my surgery, my leg still hurts like a motherbleeper. It appears from observation that I'm getting a lot better because I am so much more mobile and steady. And this is true, I am getting better. All incision wounds have healed quite nicely, my pacemaker is helping to maintain its rhythm, my stomach muscles get stronger every day, and my hip and pelvic bone no longer feel like they are about to explode. My surgeons did a magnificent job and I do not regret my surgery at all. Unfortunately, the nerve pain is a new massive pain that has not subsided. Medications make it possible for me to put minimum weight on my leg but as soon as the medication starts to wane, the pain not only comes back, it comes back with a vengeance, making it clear that is most definitely not getting better.

"Ha! You thought you got rid of me? I'm back! Suck on it!" Yeah, Jacques is a bit of an ass.

I'm extremely frustrated. By this time, I was supposed to be back to hiking. I was supposed to be dancing. I was supposed to be counting the mere weeks until I could wear high heels. For crimony's sake, I was supposed to be showering inside the shower rather than soaking the bathroom floor because I can't climb into the bathtub by myself.

Yet, I'm also extremely happy. Because I am not depressed. See how that works? I'm not depressed so I'm happy. No, that isn't a redundancy. It's just that for so long... for so very, very long... these setbacks (and oh how there have been setbacks!) sent me into a tormented, melancholy suicidal state. This time I'm frustrated but I'm also determined and goofy and focusing on the positive as much as possible.

How is this time different? Well, quite simply, it's different because I decided it would be. A few months ago, I made the decision to be happy. This required me to make a few hard decisions -- cutting toxic people out of my life, cutting mind-wasting projects out of my life, cutting negative eating out my life. There was a lot of cutting. I started saying mantras. I started meditating again. I started singing again. But really, I just started being happy. It sounds silly, simplistic, and impossible but it worked. When I started to get pessimistic, I blasted a great song on the iPod, I went for a walk, I chanted, and yes, sometimes I opened a bottle of wine or poured myself a Scotch. Some people might say that drinking isn't the healthiest option for getting happy but "some people" can shove it.

I can't go for a walk right now -- and sometimes just this fact is enough to start the pessimism cycle -- but I'm working on new ways to reboot happiness when frustrations come. I've found cruising Ebay for sassy canes to be a nice diversion. And speaking of walking sticks, a visit from Johnny Walker doesn't hurt either.

I'm Still with the Band

2008-07-07T23:39:17Z

For the past 6 months, a major source of sanity, craziness and major happiness has been La Boquita, the world music group I formed with Silvia, Paolo and Mauricio. I met Paolo & Mauricio through Daniel, the man who briefly invoked Fever but ultimately proved to be just a little too sick in the head himself. Despite our disastrous ending, I'm forever thankful to him, though, for getting me back on the stage, getting me back in the saddle of love, and getting me to be more open to all sorts of possibilities, musical and otherwise. When Daniel and I fell apart, Maurico & Paolo were literally right there, sitting just a few feet away in the audience, ready to scoop up the pieces. A week later, Silvia (who is Paolo's girlfriend) moved from Queretaro to Zihuatanejo. One day after that, the four of us performed together for the first time. Silvia playing el cajon, the box drum, and singing backup. Paolo on lead guitar, sitar, and flute. Mauricio on solo guitar. And me, out in front, singing away, wearing crazy dresses and high heels, pink hair and all. It was a damn good time.

And somehow, my little singing hobby has turned into a full fledged career, complete with a CD release, paying gigs 4-6 nights a week (and sometimes more than one a night), invitations to perform throughout Mexico, and an upcoming show with a band from San Francisco that will be passing through Zihua in early August. Our sound is definitively "world" as we perform in 4 languages (soon to be 5), mixing jazz with flamenco, folk with hindustani, opera with bossa nova, and 80's pop with Afrikaana beats. Although I'm not dancing around on stage these days, it is still the place I feel the most healthy and the most alive. Sure, as my operation wounds heal I'm not sustaining notes quite as long, but the exhilaration of performing is the best therapy I can do to get my stomach muscles back in shape and to define myself as someone other than Walker Girl. In fact, as soon as I situate myself on my bar stool at the mic, I pass the walker off to be tucked away out sight.

We've been performing reinvented covers for the past 6 months, everything from Nina Simone to Frank Sinatra to Cyndi Lauper to Bob Marley to Liuba María Hevia to Buena Vista Social Club to Andrea Bocelli to Enrique Caruso to Coldplay. This past weekend marked the premiere of my first composition for La Boquita -- a love song entitled "To Speak of Her" -- and we will continue premiering songs (written in English, Spanish & Hebrew) throughout the summer, working them out on stage while recording them for our sophomore CD release in the fall. And just as the vocalizations have been the best exercise for my recuperating body, writing music has been the best way for me to clear out my head following a difficult few months... and by "months" I mean "decades"...

And all of this is why, even though my earnings with La Boquita only make up for a small percentage of my income as I continue to design, write & consult to cover my medical expenses, when someone asks me what I "do" I simply reply "I'm a singer. I've got a band."

Introducing Jacques

2008-06-27T19:42:26Z

In all the reading I've done about nerve pain in the last week, a common thread has been "people will not understand just how much pain you are in" and by gosh, it's true. I have known people with pinched nerves or nerve damage and I've thought "I'm sure it hurts but have you ever tried bone cancer hurt? It's a whole new kind of hurt. So suck it up, pansy." Well, at this present moment I have both bone cancer hurt and nerve pain hurt and the only sucking I'm doing is through the straw in my whiskey on the rocks.

Tests this week revealed that the nerve problems are not getting better but in fact, 5 weeks after my operation, are getting worse. This means that there really is no hope that whatever damage was done during that spectacularly-timed seizure during my surgery will not repair itself. Further operations might help but further operations require further funding which I just don't have. What? You thought I had this endless fountain of money? If you think that, you are drinking more Jack Daniels than I am and you should probably consider talking to a professional about that.

So the nerve problems are here to stay. We'll think of them as an unwelcome houseguest. Let's call him "Jacques" and give him a French accent. "Oui, oui, Isahrai. I am here to zzztay. Pass me le bread with le cheese and some wine."

Jacques may be here to stay but I can at least make him tidy up after himself and do his own dishes. In other words, there are some ways to control him and minimize his annoying habits (those habits being throbbing pain, pulsing twitches, extremely sensitive skin). We were waiting to see if there was any progress in recovery before beginning any pain management so that the drugs wouldn't cloud the monitoring process. And by "we were waiting" I mean my evil bastard doctors were holding out on me.

(Hello Dr. Quintero, how are you? I'm fine. I love all the drugs you give me and rules you bend for me. I know your English isn't that great so let me translate what "evil bastard doctors" means: "gosh, Dr. Quintero is the greatest ever." Understand? Great. See you soon! Love, Isahrai)

After tests revealed the intention of Jacques to move in long-term, I started a new regimen of anti-inflammatory steroids and gabapentin, an anti-convulsant. Yes, yes, it is quite ironic that the problem caused by convulsions will now be controlled by a medicine originally developed to stave off convulsions. Yes, yes, I'm getting sick of my life being one big fun ball of irony. The new medications cause a whole new slew of problems, especially with the possibility that I will need to be using them long term. We're talking big time, long term sucking it up. But why worry about that when there is whiskey to be sucked down? I hope Jacques knows how to hold his liquor.

Self-Hyphenated

2008-06-11T19:24:43Z

I've had the best of intentions to write a blog entry in the last week with updates on my homecoming and medical progress but I've been kept quiet by wanting to have something more to report than "went to bathroom by myself".... I'm selfishly vain like that.

I've been self-bathrooming as well as self-nose-blowing and self-hair-blow-drying. I have not completely self-dressed and I haven't even partially self-bathed yet and, well, let's just say that my friend, Monica, and I are really close now. In a sucky turn of events, Monica is having her own surgery tomorrow and will not be able to wash me anymore so either I'm going to have to find a new really good friend or learn how to bathe myself again. In a fun turn of events, Monica is having her own surgery tomorrow and we have big plans to "recover" with a bottle of mezcal over the weekend.

My stomach wounds, draining and overall recovery is going swimmingly. I feel less tension and less pain every day. The only problem with that is that I'm horrible at self-restraint and as soon as I start to feel better, I start doing things I shouldn't and end up regretting it and self-flagellating myself when I am kept up all night in exhaustive pain. But it's still been a remarkable and successful recovery. Yippee!

And then there's the leg. Must I really talk about the leg? And yes it is "the leg" and not "the hip" because the damage done during my operation affects everything from my pinky toe to my kneecap to my sparkly new, non-functioning hip. Every day I try to put weight on my leg and every day I pass out from the massive wave of pain the rushes through my entire leg. Oh wait, that's not true. One day, I vomited and then I passed out. Ahh, variety really is the spice of life. Delicious spicy puke. Yum.

So "the leg"? No progress. Just lots of pain. And super sore arm muscles.

I'm still not regretting my decision to have the surgery and am still in a state of self-denial about the whole "may never walk without a walker or cane again" prognosis. I am accepting that this may take a while (even though every day I wake up and fool myself into believing that "today's the day" I'll be able to take a few steps on my own)... I've gone online and researched kick ass canes. I've worn my sparkly flat sandals in public and I even put my high heels in the bottom cubbyholes of my shoe rack since I won't be needing them for a while. This is what is called "baby steps" in progress... and that "baby steps" reference is what is called "bad walking humor"... and my overuse of emphasizing quotation marks and italics in this blog posting is what is called "bad writing due to using wine to self-medicate."

Is That a Surgery-Drain in Your Pocket or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

2008-05-28T18:24:56Z

When we talked about the huge possibility that I would have a seizure during my operations, there were four windows of time that were considered "the worst possible times" for a seizure to happen. Because I always take on a challenge, I had not one, not two, but three grande mal seizures during one of those windows. Things could have been worse. Obviously. I'm still alive. But the timing was nearly catastrophic. One surgeon surmised it this way: "When we got you stabilized and began to work on repairing the damage from the seizures, it quickly became clear that it would be far easier to amputate your leg than reconnect it. In fact, we discussed it at length."

My vanity leads me to assume that they decided against amputation because they knew when I woke up, I'd take my cut-off leg and beat them all to death with it.

So that's how bad it was. And here I am, expecting to be recovered within a few days. (My vanity coexists quite happily with my hubris.) It's going to be a long road and I'm trying to accept that without accepting the pessimism of my surgeons who fear that I may never walk without aid again. Neither my patience or my pesos will allow me to stick around here to prove my doctors wrong so, as I write this, plans are being put in place to get me home. It will be a mult-stage, multi-city, multi-friend process that hopefully will begin Friday morning and will culminate in Zihua by the middle of next week.

And for my next trick....

Putting the "Coup" in Recuperate

2008-05-27T18:51:54Z

The first time I met Bethany, by the end of the night we had exchanged jeans. For six months I felt badly because my jeans were from the Gap and hers were Diesel. I stopped feeling badly after another long night when she confessed that they were actually her roommate's jeans. Those jeans looked really good on me and I never felt badly for wearing them again. The theft was on Bethany's conscious, not mine.

Bethany and I have a lot of good stories that involve really late nights and clothing swaps. Then I moved to New Orleans and she moved to London. Then I moved to Boston and she moved to San Francisco. Then I moved to Mexico and she moved to South Africa. And so we spend most of our time sharing stories via email from continents and oceans apart. When she emailed to see what I was "up to" because she had 2 weeks to kill, I didn't hesitate to ask her to come sit in a hospital waiting room in Mexico. She didn't hesitate to say yes. She hasn't indicated yet that she regrets doing so.

Not even when she has just finished emptying my catheter bag and is in the midst of filling a bucket to give me a sponge bath.

Brit and I are also long distance friends. We met just weeks before he moved to LA and became the bestest of pen pals. At times, he annoys me like a big brother. At times, he makes me swoon. At times, he makes dinner in LA and I make dinner in Mexico and we eat together via long distance. All of the sudden, here we are now, eating together-together. Well, he's eating and I'm taking in nutrients intraveneously with the occasional bowl of oatmeal for variety. He's even more annoying and swoony in person.

He hasn't emptied my catheter bag but he's given me 2 sponge baths and he puts lotion on my skin more than the average serial killer who's planning to make a suit out of me.

More importantly than doing some pretty gross stuff in the past week, Bethany and Brit have been the bestest at pretending that me being a crippled, oozing, vomiting, whiny mess is completely normal and that they just love hanging out in hospitals. And that has been really cool.

I, on the other hand, do not love hanging out hospitals. On that note, I just met with my surgeons to discuss breaking out of here as soon as possible. There is always criteria to determine release dates but with 3 surgeries and my usual cancer stuff, it's difficult to prioritize which criteria is more important. The doctors would really love for me to be walking with a walker and getting up out of bed without assistance and be drain-free. Heck, so would I. But what if it doesn't happen anytime soon? Rehab hospital? Assisted living facility? Live-in nurse? Those are all the options that were presented to me. And then I said, "or I could go home where there's a delightful 3 year old who has a penchant for running headfirst into my legs and recuperate there." The doctors snickered. The last time my doctors didn't want to release me from the hospital, I held myself hostage as a negotiation tactic. I'd do that again this time but I can't get out of bed by myself to lock the door so I need to think of another plan.

Wow, this blog has now referenced theft, serial killers, and (self) kidnapping. Either I'm on too many or too little drugs.

For Some Insane Reason, I Feel Like Crap

2008-05-25T02:20:03Z

It's been 90-some-odd hours since I've had a cup of coffee. And the last cup of coffee I had was from 7-freakin-11 which was exciting because it was the first 7-11 I've been to since I moved to Mexico in 2004 but was still coffee from 7-11. When I woke up from surgery, after I asked for water (which Bethany so sweetly publicly broadcast for me), I asked for coffee. And I've been asking for it every time any nurse or doctor walks into my room even though I know full well that I can't have any coffee until I've successfully eaten and "contained" 3 meals (1 down, 2 to go). I keep asking. I don't know why I keep asking. I want to be this wonderful patient that is so sweet and endearing that the nurses give me flowers when I leave and the janitorial staff forms a parade route down the hall and I leave amid applause and (happy) tears. But it's just not going to happen. I hate hospitals, I hate being stuck in bed, I hate catheters, and most of all, I hate being without coffee. Okay, even more than being coffee-less, I hate the obscene amount of pain that is coursing nonstop through my body, at times lifting me off the bed, at times, causing me to scream without control, at times, waking me from sleep screaming without control and lifting me off the bed. But the coffee withdrawal? It comes in a close second.

Hi everyone. I'm dictating this to Brit who has sworn to me that he will not edit nor add asides but I simply do not trust him. All references in this blog post to blondes with big breasts, Nintendo Wii, or blondes with big breasts playing Nintendo Wii should be attributed to my dear, sweet, gorgeously handsome, brilliant and unbelievably single friend Brit. Did I mention he was single? Did I mention he is both gorgeous and handsome? Did I mention that even though he is gorgeous and handsome, he is completely approachable? Did I mention that he gave me a sponge bath today even though I begged him to let Bethany do it when she returned from her coffee run? Yes, Bethany gets to drink coffee. And that's why I think she should have to give me sponge baths.

There are some of you reading this that want all the gory details of my operations, of my prognoses, and therapy plans. I'm sorry, but it's just not going to happen. I thought about it and decided I just couldn't do it. For one thing, a lot is still up in the air. For another, it's gross. And for yet another, Brit has promised to reenact "West Side Story" for me when I'm done blogging so I'm in a rush. (Note to Joaquin: Brit does an even better "I'm So Pretty" than I do!)

And so we're going to do a "best of, highlights, Isahrai's greatest medical hits" version of the last week instead.....

I'm sorry to those of you that I didn't warn about the surgery. I'm sorry to those of you that I didn't talk to for the past 6 months. It's been hard. I promise to try harder than my life tries to prevent it in the future. Really.

I'm also sorry that I didn't explain better that the pacemaker part of the surgery was really the EASY part of the surgery. I know, heart surgery sounds like a big deal but pacemakers are often installed under local anesthetic (I'm special so they not only knocked me out for the surgery but for the next 3 days!). I was given a biventricular pacemaker (for those of you heart snobs out there, it's also known as cardiac resynchronization therapy) because not only is my heart beat irregular, it's also out of sync with itself. And now you all know why I am such a bad dancer. My heart is still incredibly weak from years of harsh medical treatments but the pacemaker was a requirement before I could even consider any other surgeries. So I'm now wired. And I still get to use a microwave! Yay, modern medicine!

This stomach surgery was the 6th time my stomach has been operated on to remove stomach tumors. It was successful in that my stomach was successfully closed after as much tumor was cut, scraped and sucked out as possible. The tumors will come back. They just love me that way.

The hip surgery... oh, the glorious hip surgery... which was also pelvic bone surgery. Damn, I really messed that one up. And by "I messed it up" I mean, "my mother-bleeping seizures messed it up"... My surgeons are amazing. They did the best they could when I started thrashing uncontrollably, strong enough to break straps that were holding me down, strong enough to break a bone in my foot and dislocate my shoulder, strong enough to rip open all of the stitches on my stomach and pull out the drain. They managed to minimize blood loss, close my stomach back up, finish the hip and pelvic bone surgery, and add in some muscle and nerve repair surgery without ever bitch slapping me for being so difficult. Or maybe they did. I was alseep.

Brit has just told me that when I came out of surgery I had curse words written in lipstick all over my body. I believe he is lying. He doesn't speak Spanish, how does he know they were curse words?

So today was the big day when I was supposed to get out of bed and walk on my brand new hip (and reworked pelvic bone which wasn't "removed" but was drilled and then the holes filled with cement like potholes in the street... except the potholes were in my unmentionable region... ow). Instead, I fell flat on my face. It had nothing to do with too much pain -- although there certainly is Too. Much. Pain. There is just something wrong. We don't know what it is. It isn't paralysis -- have I mentioned how much pain there is? It may be nerve trauma/damage, muscle damage, a problem with the new joint, or a problem with my spinal cord. We're being patient. Or rather I'm being a difficult, whiny patient and everyone else is being patient with me. If I still can't walk on Monday, there will be tests and perhaps further surgery. Bev has already promised me a kick ass wheelchair, though, if I come home to Zihua unable to walk so I'm really not that worried. I think I'll add streamers and a speaker system on the back. And maybe a bumper sticker that says "ass, grass, or cash, nobody rides for free."

I am more disheartened by the fact that I am absolutely, unequivocally, in no uncertain terms forbidden to dance (or engage in other nighttime, high hip-action activites) for at least 6 months. And no turquoise high heels for a very, very long time. Don't send flowers, send spangly, sexy (flat...blech) sandals.

And did I mention, that despite my being a miracle patient and not dying and all that, they still won't let me have coffee?

And that's it for now. I will Twitter and blog more (hopefully caffeinated) details when I have them.

Legalese and Medical Jargon

2008-05-19T23:25:13Z

For legal reasons, several major events in my life in the past 6 months were un-bloggable... a few were even un-speakable to friends. These legalities ranged from difficult trials in both my life and the lives of loved ones, really exciting turning points in my life that needed to be fully "turned" before I could speak publicly about them (almost completely revolved! stay tuned!), and, most recently, one bizarre day that can only (legally) be summed up by saying: "It involved an eye patch, feathers, a confidentiality agreement and half a dozen cases of grappa."

And now, I'm simply blogging to say... I won't be blogging again anytime soon. I am headed into surgery in almost exactly 36 hours. I've been planning this operation -- or rather these operations -- for a very long time and am extremely excited that they are finally coming to fruition as they will help me to manage with several of the health problems that tax my day-to-day living and ability to function the most. They won't cure my cancer but they sure will make me a more comfortable, happier person. I've saved for these operations for over 2 years and had to make a lot of sacrifices (ahem, like working on a computer with a haunted keyboard rather than buying a new one) and am beyond excited to finally be here.

Here being... getting a pacemaker put in on Wednesday to help regulate a heartbeat that has been unbelievably mucked up by a decade of illness, surgeries, treatments and physical pain...

And then on Thursday... getting my hip bone replaced that has been eroded and cracked by tumor for the past 5 1/2 years.

And while we're at it... having my annual stomach tumor "maintenance" since those buggers just don't seem to want to go away.

And I might just get a pedicure.

Whenever I talk about these upcoming procedures, I feel like I'm sitting around playing canasta with my friends at the nursing home and that I should start complaining about the warm applesauce they serve in the dining hall and how my kids never come to visit me anymore. 'Cause nothing screams sexy 30-year-old like "I just got a hip replacement and a pacemaker." Yum, yum, get me some... with a side of ben-gay ointment.

For those of you who want gorier details, you'll be able to find them out at www.twitter.com/isahrai/ where my friends Brit and Bethany will be posting updates. 'Cause they had nothing better to do for their vacations than fly to Guadalajara and sit in a hospital waiting room.... and give me pedicures, of course.

I've been Twittering for a while (although recent attempts at doing so via my Blackberry were somehow lost in the ethers...working on remedying that today). I will keep at the "Tweets" and will, someday, when I'm back in the land of "Legally able to speak about my life AND not in the hospital AND doing something interesting" I'll start Quixoticizing again as well. And who knows, I might even return a phone call before the end of 2008. But I'm certainly not holding my breath... the breathing tube they're going to shove down my throat will do the breathing anyways.

Update: As of 9:30 Monday night, I have the 5 most recent Tweets popping up on my blog but for more comprehensive coverage, stay tuned to my Twitter homepage or subscribe to updates via instant and/or text message. (See website for how to activate your IM or mobile phone.) It really isn't as scary as it sounds!

On Honor

2008-03-18T18:28:02Z

In recent weeks I've had my honor questioned. Some of the questioning has been done by people who were clearly delusional, some by people who clearly had ulterior, unkind motives, and some by people who clearly had never met me face to face. The accusations made against me were all ludicrous but ugly. They made me feel ugly and they made me question myself. I've been severely depressed before, I've even hated myself before, but I've never doubted my integrity. I knew I was innocent but... still... I'd lie awake at night, wondering how people could think this of me, trying to pinpoint that moment when I did something that would lend even a small part of the universe to think me capable of truly horrific behavior. I tortured myself far more than necessary but just couldn't stop myself. I haven't necessarily felt guilty but I've felt tainted. Tainted by images, whispers, gossip and by my authentic shortcomings. I've tried to laugh it all off and to believe my friends when they told me it would all blow over and that the truth would come out in the end.... but... it's really hurt me deeply.

I can honestly say that I really don't care if people like me. They can think I'm weird, silly, a talentless hack, or even a bad dancer and it doesn't bother me one bit. But I cannot bear to think of people hating me. I can't bear to think that people would associate me with maliciousness. So many really amazing, super groovy things have happened to me this year and it makes me furious that I'm instead writing about this garbage instead. I suppose I just need to say, for myself, in a public way, that I am honorable.

It's Getting Hot in Here

2008-01-27T19:39:35Z

I made this decision recently (considering this is January, one might call it a "resolution") to be happier. This may sound like a completely unquantifiable goal (which, according to my dear friend, Sylvia, is not appropriate for a resolution and thus my calling it a "decision" instead) but I have put into place and into a Moleskine journal how I want to accomplish raising my happiness quotient. It's working. By golly gosh, it's working.

I'll write about how and why it's working soon. Promise. But in order for me to be able to write about it, my brain needs to stop smoldering long enough to form coherent thoughts. Because I'm really working the happiness but I'm also currently working my second round of dengue fever. Yes, I know that I said a person can't get the same strain of dengue more than once but apparently my immune system is too busy trying to contract any tropical virus it can find that it forgot to read the CDC website's guidelines for dengue.

So I have dengue -- again -- and I'm physically miserable and it couldn't have come at a worse time as La Boquita is kicking some major musical ass right now. I joked last night that I'm finally living the life of a rock star: performing for 6-7 hours each night while drinking whiskey from a coffee mug to keep my throat from burning out and then sleeping until time to get ready to perform the next night.... sometimes crashing out so hard that I don't even take off my dress and high heels before collapsing. Now all I need is a tour bus with which to lure my groupies. I've been existing on orange juice, tortilla soup, te de manzanilla, and the aforementioned whiskey. Not exactly what the happiness plan called for but, quite miraculously, between the freezing spells and the ice baths and the prickly pain of a terrible fever and the fainting spells from overheating, I'm quite content... or maybe the word I'm looking for is "delirious."

Why I Live in Zihua

2008-01-23T12:33:10Z

(That's right. I'm back. Please disregard previous nonsense about moving.)

I had just left my office downtown to head home for a few hours of work on the computer before my band and I went to Ixtapa for an audition. My cellphone alerted me to a text message from Sylvia. She was in full on work crisis mode and needed to vent. I quickly checked my email to make sure I didn't have any pressing matters to attend to and made a detour for Sylvia's apartment. 30 minutes later we were at The Pancake House ("The only pancake house in Zihuatanejo with a cocktail lounge!") working through our first round of bloody marys and coconut mango muffins. Soon, our friend David passed by and joined the commiseration.

2 1/2 hours later, Sylvia was ready to face the world - and the trials of being a business owner in Mexico - again and I dashed home for a shower before the audition. I'd like to think that the 3 extra-picante bloody marys that I drank were the added push we needed to nail our audition. Our new gig begins Thursday and doubles La Boquita's weekly income. Obviously, we needed to go out dancing to celebrate.

When I got home around 3am, the house was quiet, cool, and the DSL connection was all mine... the perfect environment for me to squeeze in those few hours of work I had abandoned earlier in the day. Sure, I only get in about 2 hours of sleep sometimes. But having the flexible schedule so that I can be available to friends at a moment's notice is worth it. And having a local pancake house with a full bar? Priceless.

Fan Mail

2008-01-22T01:49:41Z

"Dear Isahrai,
I was so happy to see that you had finally updated your blog. One question though, aren't pictures supposed to go in 'Pixotic,' the photo section and you're supposed to write in 'Quixotic,' the blog section?
Love,
Name Withheld to Protect the Annoying"

"Dear N.W.t.P.t. Annoying,
Suck it.
Love,
Isahrai"

I kid. I kid.

I'm With the Band

2008-01-20T21:42:42Z

Our name is "La Boquita" which means "Little Mouth"... you know, because I'm so quiet and demure. Details soon...