What's Mine is Mine and What's Yours is Ours

We went into Cabo today armed with a list and the confidence of people who apparently still haven’t learned.

Costco. Walmart. Outdoor thermometer. Furnace filter—for one of Clint’s light bulb ideas.

We came home with neither.

Again.

The furnace filter has been particularly entertaining because every time we show someone what we’re looking for, they stare at us.

“What is it for? A window?”

It took us an embarrassingly long time to realize:

We are standing in Cabo San Lucas. In August. Looking for a furnace filter.

Suddenly the confused looks started making a lot more sense.

Maybe we’re the weird ones...do they have furnaces here?

We’ve also learned not to put too much faith in Apple Maps.

On one of our Cabo drives, we typed in Home Depot and ended up on a deserted road with a backhoe and a cactus.

Apple Maps:You have arrived.

Us: Have we?

Then we tried to find a bank.

Same thing.

Middle of nowhere.

Except this time we paid a $7 US toll to drive three minutes farther, only to discover that the bank we were hoping would save us money on the exchange rate was, in fact...

a shack.

So we didn’t save money.

But we paid $7 US to visit this...horse shelter??

At this point, when Apple Maps says You have arrived, we look around before getting excited.

And posted business hours?

Also apparently more of a general concept.

A place can say it’s open online and still be very much closed.

Or not even there.

So shopping here has become less:

I need this. I’ll go buy it.

And more:

I need this. Let’s see where today takes us.

Don’t get me wrong. We’re not living in the middle of nowhere surviving on canned beans.

Cabo has Walmart. Costco. Big grocery stores. Beautiful specialty markets. If you’re willing to drive, you can find almost anything.

Eventually.

This laid-back town has everything we need.

But every once in a while, even something as basic as Diet Coke or Pepsi (I know) isn't readily available. Especially when you really want one.

Last week Clint went into town to get a haircut, so I asked him to grab me one on his way home. Whatever he could find.

In his defence, I did say, “Just stop somewhere you’re passing anyway.”

He came back and told me they didn’t have either.

I must have looked disappointed because I asked, “There was nothing else there you could’ve grabbed me?”

His face lit up.

“Yeah! I got you a V8!”

A V8.

I had asked for a cold, fizzy Diet Coke and Clint brought me home a can of vegetables.

I just stared at him looking very confused.

That’s like Clint asking me to pick him up a beer and me coming home saying:

They didn’t have beer, honey, but I got you a can of tomato soup.

Those are not substitutes.

Not even distant relatives.

And the worst part was how pleased he looked with himself.

No Diet Coke? Don’t worry, babe. I found tomatoes!

Thanks, Clint.

Exactly what I had in mind. lol

Also, I don't drink alcohol anymore and back home I barely had to think about it.

Canada has jumped headfirst into the no-alcohol trend.

There are non-alcoholic beers, wines, canned drinks and entire sections of things pretending to be alcohol.

Then we came to Mexico.

Mexico, it turns out, has not been nearly as concerned about my beverage situation.

There are a few non-alcoholic beers, and sometimes I can find them at the OXXO down the road.

Sometimes.

If I’m there at the right time and the stars align.

The Walmart in downtown Cabo carries some when they’re in stock.

Costco doesn’t sell any.

Today I bought 36 individual cans of Corona Cero and Michelob Ultra Zero with electrolytes.

See? Healthy.

It was everything they had.

Because who knows when I’ll find it again right?

And then one glorious day in Cabo, I found a grocery store with one lonely little shelf of zero-alcohol wine tucked away at the bottom.

I nearly heard angels.

So now when we go into Cabo, I buy a few bottles.

Better stock up.

I’ve become very creative tho, I use creative loosely.

Sparkling water/Plain water/Flavouring

Berries. Fruit. Ice.

Put it in a pretty glass.

Mocktail.

Look at me.

Mixologist.

Apparently this whole better get it while you can mentality has also spread to food.

More specifically, sweets.

I have developed an absolutely ridiculous sweet tooth over the past year.

And living here has apparently made me slightly territorial about it.

When I find the cheap dark chocolate I like, I stock up.

Again:

Not hoarding.

Planning.

Last weekend, as a treat, I was going to buy a slice of cake for us to “share” after supper.

It looked like cake.

It was shaped like cake.

I had emotionally committed to cake.

Then I decided to use my phone to translate it.

Corn cake.

Not cornbread. Not corn fritters.

Actual cake with fancy piped icing.

I’m sure it was delicious.

I’m sure someone loves it.

I have absolutely nothing against corn.

I just don’t want it pretending to be dessert when I’m vulnerable.

I wanted cake cake.

Thankfully, there is Agricole.

It’s this beautiful little grocery store just down the road from us, and they sell this beautiful work of art:

I don’t even know what it’s called.

I don’t care.

Oh. My. God.

Heaven in your mouth.

The problem is that it’s about $10 Canadian. For one.

Technically, it could serve two.

But cutting it in half would be a shame. You wouldn’t get to carefully peel away those thin, flaky layers to get to that dreamy chocolate-moussey filling spread throughout.

I’M NOT SHARING THAT.

At the rate I could eat these things, eventually my wallet, my shorts and quite possibly my flip-flops are going to suffer.

So I’ve been trying to make responsible choices.

Apples and organic peanut butter.

Healthy...somewhat.

Reasonable...maybe.

Safe...

Until there is only one apple left.

One night I sliced up our last apple, put some peanut butter on the side and sat down to watch TV.

This was a pre-Cabo trip, so times were hard.

It was every perimenopausal woman for herself.

A few slices in, I noticed Clint looking at me.

He didn’t say anything.

He looked at me.

Then at the apple.

Then back at me.

Can I have one?

My face clearly said:

This is my last apple.

I gave him a slice.

An entire slice.

Hey, relationships are about sacrifice.

And in my opinion, I’m a generous person.

Chocolate and coffee is another evening craving choice.

And before anyone starts feeling sorry for Clint, when I bring out the chocolate, I bring the exact same number of squares for both of us.

Equal.

Fair...most of the time.

The problem, according to Clint, is that apparently I don’t actually give him his chocolate.

I ration it.

One square at a time.

I prefer to call this portion control.

He has other words for it.

But there’s a reason.

If I hand Clint all of his chocolate at once, he eats it all at once.

Then I’m sitting beside him still eating mine while he has none.

Nobody wants that pressure hovering next to them when you are savouring every tiny bite.

In fairness to Clint, he’s actually a very good sport about all of this.

He knows the seriousness of my nightly sweet-treat situation.

In fact, if there’s only one of something left, he’ll almost always save it for me.

He knows better.

I’d like to think it’s love.

He’d probably call it survival.

Another evening he reached over and pretended he was going to take one of my 3 chocolate pieces.

I reacted so quickly I almost threw my coffee across the room trying to protect my precious squares.

Clint thought this was hilarious.

I called it good reflexes.

Then he said:

“So what’s yours is yours and what’s mine is ours?”

No truer words have been spoken.

And that isn’t even the worst of it.

Because, oh yeah...my relationship with chocolate has a history.

Before we came to Mexico, I had developed another habit.

Sometimes when I’d get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, I’d make a small detour past the fridge on my way back to bed and grab a piece of chocolate.

Yes. I know.

One night I apparently did exactly that.

Got up.

Went to the bathroom.

Stopped at the fridge.

Got my 2 pieces of chocolate.

Climbed back into bed.

And fell asleep with it in my hand.

I knew none of this until morning.

I woke up in a pitch-black bedroom and immediately knew something wasn’t right.

My hands were sticky.

Really sticky.

I had absolutely no idea what was on me.

So I stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the light and looked in the mirror.

What.

The.

Hell.

Chocolate was everywhere.

My hands.

My face.

My clothes.

Apparently I had spent the night cuddling the chocolate instead of eating it.

Later, when Clint got up, I told him what had happened.

That’s when I learned he already knew.

Apparently after I’d gotten out of bed, Clint rolled over onto my pillow.

He felt something sticky.

Now, I feel like this is the point where most people might become concerned.

There should be questions!

Clint conducted exactly one investigation.

He smelled it.

Chocolate.

And went back to sleep.

No questions.

Just:

Chocolate.

Amy.

Seems about right.

Exhibit A...Photo of Shame

So yes.

Maybe Clint has a point.

Maybe I’ve become a little protective of the things I like.

But when you live somewhere where today’s fully stocked shelf could be tomorrow’s empty one, you learn something:

If you see it, buy it.

And if it’s chocolate?

Buy two.

Just don’t tell Clint where you put them!lol

-Amy

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