Mary Novaria

Aye yi yi. My beloved and I mail ten postcards in Mexico. Seventeen days ago. They are lost somewhere between Puerto Vallarta and Kansas. I have a feeling they're not in Kansas, Toto. It takes a lot to send postcards on vacation. It means breaking out of a sun-induced, sandy stupor to trot out to the bodega... choosing the perfect scene for each recipient... correctly counting out pesos... then actually writing something. I write the same message on several cards... the ocean AND the mountains: best of both worlds! That done, the search for stamps begins. The senora in the bodega is out of stamps for days running. She suggests the hotel lobby. They don't have stamps, but direct us to the bodega. We decide to walk to a nearby bustling neighborhood in search of breakfast and stamps. A shopkeeper directs us to the cambio (money exchange), where a kindly senora sells us a dozen stamps (not the recently-released racially controversial variety) destined for the USA--about 140 pesos w...

...that's what my dad would have said about this day. Many plot twists. Little direction. No script. Darling daughter had two teeth extracted with IV sedation--her first experience with mind-altering drugs. Trying to bring her out of it, I ask, "Who is the president of the United States?" " Idiot ," she replies. Well, she's not so wasted she doesn't know what's what. But she is awfully wide-eyed and giggly, like someone has slipped her a pot brownie. I think she likes her buzz just a little too much. When I get to Osco the prescriptions for antibiotics and pain meds aren't ready. I find this out after waiting in line for 15 minutes. They give me a number and say they'll call me when the Rxs are filled. "Number 40." Finally. I step to the window and am told that, yes, even though I have a number I have to go to the back of the line. Again. I fume because I've been cooling my heels in Osco for a half hour while my stoned, post-op ...