When I get in a funk it’s usually because I feel like I’ll be stuck here forever.
I don’t have a car, I can’t seem to find a car to buy, I won’t be able to drive the car without plates out of this town to find another town…I’m priced out of the US plus, are y’all okay?
I feel invisible and no one cares about the work I’m doing which makes sense because a town that needs rescue work and care for this many abandoned dogs doesn’t really see them as a priority and so I am, by proxy, not a priority.
I’m more interesting or maligned for being the only American. That is notable. Pulling ticks and spending money and time feeding and tending dogs that aren’t mine is weird.
And of course I feel the collective heave of humanity outside of this barely populated pueblo and I can feel twisted and sick from it all. Are we shifting timelines and moving into fifth dimension light and love? Or is it the apocalypse that’s exhausted us. Finally! Bring on the aliens already!
The suspense is (sorta literally) killing us.
I don’t have a television for years but I do post on Instagram and try to keep my feed light but I will cop a scroll from time to time. I notice all the tricks and fuckery therein. Certain times of day I get an actual lift from laughs and some hilarious skits and commentary. Most of the time though it’s WWIII and I almost feel guilty for having a good day. I hate the phone and put it in a drawer sometimes the energy is so rank.
A friend said the other day that he’s finally making really good money for the first time in his life and he has no one to play with because everyone’s in a bad mood. Talking politics, feeling broke, a real Bummer Bunker.
Oh, no! Have I been in a Bummer Bunker? Have you? We’ve preemptively put ourselves to faux sleep from tending to the pending doom.
Sometimes I don’t leave the house because of my funk and I work it out being extra prudent or I’m not sure of the word. Pious? For not leaving the house, not buying anything AT ALL, not dropping my laundry off and spending 10 whole dollars to have someone wash and fold my gross old yoga pants and sheets that dogs lay all over. I scrub in a bucket and hang outside like Laura Ingalls Wilder and mop the floors with acrid white vinegar and only leave the house at 6am to walk the dogs, feed street hounds, flog myself and get fitted for my *hair shirt. I won’t eat meals, I’ll stir the dry broth powder into hot water, munch on saltines, eat one rubbery egg for dinner. Or nothing. I do a lot of sweeping and dirt raking.
Because this is a small, small town, I do get questioned about my whereabouts. When I emerge after a time and show up to buy a papaya or get milk to have my instant coffee that now I’m used to…the cashiers will say, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? We thought you went back to El Otro Lado (the other side…the USA, that’s what they call it) the carne asada guy’s wife after 5 days will either call or outright YELL AT ME for not being visible walking around with a gaggle pack of goofball dogs each day around 6pm.
You didn’t get to go food or your chips and we have your root beer in stock and you haven’t had any!
My landlord runs the dog food and beer store so he sees me at least once a week for the former. Another guy who used to own the Manta Rey taco shack said, you never go out. No one ever sees you. Que Paso?
Well, Monday I was in another dark night of the soul and crying for no reason all day. How are you?
Mostly I don’t go out much because there’s no food to be had and I find the people boring and drunk but they do still say hello and would likely help me out of a burning building if I needed it. The long and the short of it is Depression but that’s never talked about in rural Mexico. Are. You. Kidding. Me.
I try to buy yams at the tienda and finally asked the pharmacy if, in their budding “natural supplement” section if he had yams for Menopause his eyes popped out and said, YOU? Um, yea. Did you think I’d look like Mrs. Doubtfire?
He said they did have some MenoPauxe
s herbal remedy and it had of course Mexican Yams and soy and st john’s wort (that I’m worried will make me too sun sensitive in the desert but hey. Give it a go) I’m pretty sure it’s rice flour pressed into tablets, the lack of oversight on supplements in general is a joke, I’m not sure I can trust the Mexican pharmacies even to buy Vapo Rub. And I’m in Every Store is a Front Landia.
Where have you been? He said. Did you see we got in new body creams. Which one were you looking for? In a rare flash of service I think last year I was looking for unscented Lubriderm. They have that now. I bought some.
I went to the carne asada store and got a grapefruit soda to show my face in there and hear some gossip. Just old lady pratter, but it’s fine. Better than thinking about the Middle East or the full moon in Scorpio or 100 other things that I can’t control. She got in the Costco toilet paper without perfume, so I bought some of that.
The Tamale Guy rolled by and said, Hey! Where you been? And so we chatted and I got a tamale to give to the dogs because I’m not crazy about tamales. The corner store guy waved and said they had new cookies in the Coyotas I liked. I popped in. He asked why I didn’t start an English school and I said because no one practices and no one pays and he said for sure he believed that and we laughed and I paid for my cookies and me and the dog pack kept moving.
Tonight I’ll likely go to Highway Taco Dad and get some tacos because he seems happy to see me for 140 pesos even though I’m an early bird eating at 7:45pm.
I know I’m only going into retail shops and spending money a few bucks at a time but in a town this size I have no other purpose, so I better show up. It’s not like I’m a dentist (which they don’t have) or the vet (also don’t have tho they think I am) or provide any other service that would make me a welcome part of the community. The dog rescue thing doesn’t count. I’d be more popular if I did porcelain nails, trust me.
In Mexico there’s something called the Floor Tax. El Piso (the floor) is all it’s called. A mafia charge for not robbing you proper of all your inventory and profits. We call it sales tax in the US, it’s called The System I think in Italy, the cartels run it some. If you make a haul on shrimp or sea urchins or avocados they come knocking, palms extended. Also why Mexicans are good at poor mouthing and keeping the front of their house looking like it’s abandoned and inside it’s the Taj Mahal. Curb Appeal = Target on your Back
What I’m doing is sort of a floor tax. Just a few pesos here and there, showing my face, making conversation, telling a dog name, tipping the bag boy. Being a part of community without having kids in school or going to church or showing up at the beer guzzling at the beach.
They won’t understand my hormone vacancies or my existential navel gazing ‘what’s my purpose’ bullshit. But the person who “keeps to themselves” in the neighborhood who seems a little anti, who’s from another land is usually thought to be up to no good, and I’d like to avoid that stigma.
It’s a simple life here and a simple game I’m playing but it’s their game so I have to play by their rules and that means not overcomplicating things, being seen and making chit chat. Most days I feel better for it.
*eco fundamentalists and ascetics wearing a hair shirt, deeply adding to discomfort. Going without, extreme austerity.
*
Like to leave a tip, support the rescue work and don’t feel like subscribing? You can leave a donation on Ko-fi above.
More info and links to tshirts and dogs and our Instagram at linktr.ee/lolasdogrescue