Miami, My Crazy B*tch

By Mahlia Lindquist

Carlos, a trainer at the gym, recently remarked that living in Miami is hell. His fantasy is to live in Colorado and he asked why on earth I moved from Boulder back to Hades. I get that question a lot. Boulder friends who have never been to Miami are mildly curious, while most Miamians are, like Carlos, incredulous. 

“Are you crazy” they ask? I didn’t think so, but then I have never been able to explain my attraction to Miami. As it turns out, I am a bit crazy, which I discovered while researching for my post on the Hot/Crazy Matrix. The epiphany that I am actually crazy helped me to understand why, for me, Miami is like the Hotel California -- I can check out but I can never leave.

It’s like this…

If Boulder was a woman, it would be beautiful, wholesome, reliable, cheerful, organized, great with kids and a gourmet cook. The sort of city you feel proud to take home to mom.

As a woman, Miami would be an ignorant slut who leaves people wondering, “are those real?” Miami has a nasty temper and won’t think twice about taking a key to your car. If Miami had kids, they would be in foster care. If your son came home with Miami, you would change the locks and disinherit him. If Miami was a woman, my ex-husband would move her in and later have to obtain a restraining order and hire a mover to get her out.  

In terms of the hot/crazy matrix, Boulder is a unicorn or maybe even a transexual while Miami is a 10 crazy. While I love and respect Boulder, I spend an inordinate amount of time hating on Miami. That I left Boulder for Miami can mean only one thing: When it comes to cities, I am irresistibly drawn to crazy bitches. 

Admittedly, whether we are talking people or cities, having an affinity for crazy bitches is messed up. Yet, I can’t deny that when it comes to places I am drawn to the off-kilter. It would take too many years of therapy to get to the root of why I get the chills at the thought of suburbia. Or why I have chosen to reside in the Twilight Zone that is Miami. 

Instead of overanalyzing, I have simply accepted that I live in a city that exists in an alternate dimension and that, inexplicably, I like in a sordid, sick sort of way. 

Take butts for example. The female buttocks situation in Miami is different than anywhere else. In the rest of the US, big asses are generally considered to be inferior to ones that are more compact, the famous song “Baby Got Back”  and J.Lo notwithstanding.  This is why over my lifetime, in order to keep the size of my rear end in check, I have tortured myself with thousands of squats and lunges. 

In Miami, bigger is better when it comes to cars, houses, jewelry, hair, boobs and now butts. Boob jobs are a Miami staple, and even post-menopausal women proudly display theirs in outfits that would make a Victoria Secret model blush. However, surgically enhanced breasts are passé compared to Brazilian Butt Lifts. 

The lift procedure rounds and enlarges the butt, so that it juts out like a window ledge. I learned about the Brazilian Butt Lift recently while viewing the local wildlife at the Fontainebleau pool on Miami Beach. I commented to my friend Jackie that a lot of the women around the pool looked like the Jessica Rabbit character in Who Framed Roger Rabbit. She explained that’s what happens with the boob/butt plastic surgery combo. 

I was simultaneously shocked, horrified and fascinated. Just to make sure I fully understood, I clarified, “do you mean they made their butts like that on purpose?” Jackie assured me that, yes, women actually pay a doctor to enlarge and enhance their butts, which is accomplished by liposuctioning unwanted fat from one body part and injecting it into the rear end.

I reflected on what getting a butt lift means. It means going to a doctor and actually asking for a bigger butt. It means researching the best butt doctors, making an appointment, driving there, getting naked in front of someone who injects fat into asses for a living, measurements, perusing before and after photos of other butts and then finally deciding, “That one. That’s the rear end I want.” 

Weird. 

The other bizarre part is men who choose to be with butt enhanced women. They seem proud. I saw a guy at the Fontainebleau encouraging his girl to pose for photos. She struck various poses in and out of the pool, all of them akin to cheesecake shots that grace the pages of men's magazines. After they finished taking photos, the couple spent the rest of the afternoon by the pool sucking face and gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes. 

I saw the same scene play out at a bar last week. A woman in a tight red dress, tits and ass protruding, lifted her butt up off the barstool and looked back over her shoulder demurely as her boyfriend took photos of her ass from various angles. They cozied up to review the results afterward, perhaps debating which ones to put on Instagram and which ones to use for their Christmas cards. 

Neither of the couples were self conscious. Dozens of people milled around the pool and in the bar, and the couples posed just as casually as sneaker clad tourists in front of the Eiffel Tower.  While I was agog, no one else seemed to even notice. 

So, what do brazilian butt lifts have to do with an irrational attraction to Miami?

The ass-enhanced women at the Fontainebleau and bar are nothing like me. 

The same goes for the cross dresser who loiters on “crack corner” near my house. Nor do I have much in common with the WASPy members of the nearby yacht club where my friend Mary occasionally invites me to lunch. Ditto for the many latino parents at Zoe’s school who speak broken English, and whose teenaged children drive Mercedes and wear Tiffany jewelry. 

They are all foreign to me. I can’t fathom what they talk about, or what type of movies and books they might enjoy. We are unlikely to ever be close friends, but for some reason I like that they are part of my community.

I also like to complain about them (and the withering humidity, mind-numbing traffic, homicidal mosquitos, lack of recycling, lack of civility, and political corruption.) Every day, to whomever will listen. 

I have never seen anyone like the women with the surgically enhanced butts in Boulder. Nor have I seen anyone like the cross dresser, prim yacht club WASPS or conspicuously rich latinos. I have a good idea what the people in Boulder are reading, watching, and doing for fun. And I like that too.

Even though I also complained in Boulder (about the homogenous population, political correctness, tameness, brittle weather and restaurants that close at 9.) Every day, to whomever would listen. 

I get a lot of satisfaction from being outraged, scandalized and amazed, and Miami provides that in spades.  Only one thing compares to the pleasure of living in a bizarre alternate universe. That’s living among healthy, happy people with shared values in a beautiful place.

After spending a month in Boulder this summer after a year in Miami, I felt the remorse of a guy who has gone on an extended midlife manic bender, and discovers that he has abandoned his wife and kids for Jessica Rabbit. 

Fortunately, unlike a wronged wife, Boulder will take me back when I'm ready. And, if worse comes to worse and I can't stay away from my crazy bitch, when it comes to cities, polygamy is perfectly legal.

Deep Thoughts

By Mahlia Lindquist

If thoughts were countries, on the average day mine would range from bland Canadian to ugly American to psychotic North Korean. One of my ongoing projects is to create a United Nations of the mind, where thoughts peacefully coexist, so that I might extend my attention span beyond 5 minutes. 

It started with meditation classes at Boulder’s Shambhala Center. The word Shambhala sounds weird, but compared to traditions that include a virgin birth, parting of the sea or sacred underwear, it is positively mundane. From what I know about the Bible, Koran and Torah they are confusing and kind of scary. Ruling Your World, and the other Shambhala texts, take a more simplified, practical, and positive approach to spirituality. I especially appreciate that the Shambhala teachings don’t have anything against homosexuals, dancing, caffeine, sex or alcohol, all of which have an important place in my life.

The one sticking point for me is the Shambhala tenet that we all have basic goodness. It’s hard to imagine people like Hitler, Stalin, or Glenn Beck as having even a modicum of good. While I still don't totally get basic goodness, a group that believes humans are fundamentally okay is infinitely preferable to one that preaches we are inherently sinful. 

What really sold me on Shambhala is its emphasis on mindfulness, which they say will help rein in my thoughts and cultivate a gentler attitude toward shameless cretins who finagle a handicapped permit even though they are perfectly healthy. While I welcome the opportunity to a be a nicer person, that is a secondary benefit to being able to focus long enough to balance my checkbook.

One way to cultivate mindfulness is through meditation, which is usually done by sitting and focusing on the breath. This is surprisingly difficult because of the members of the United Nations vying for attention. Another way to cultivate mindfulness is to go about the day, observing and taking note of thoughts without trying to judge, censor or control them.

On the way to my friend Kathleen’s wedding in Boulder last week, I decided to give it a go.  I would simply observe each thought from the time that I got out of the car until I got back in. 

When subject to close scrutiny, it turns out my my thoughts are an incoherent, running commentary that to the untrained ear might sound like, “blah, blah, blah.” They went something like this…

As I got out of the car: 

“Is the taboo against guests wearing white to a wedding still a thing?… Maybe this dress was a bad idea … come on Mahlia, don’t be so shallow, think serious thoughts, the miracle of life, global warming … Geez, my hands looks awful, why didn’t I get a manicure, it’s not like I don’t have the time for heaven’s sake… Mahlia, you really need to get a job… It’s so beautiful here, I must have been temporally insane when I moved to Miami …

That was within the first 2.3 seconds. It was going to be a long, tedious night at this rate.

As I walked into the party:  

"This is awkward, I don’t see anyone I know… maybe I will feel less anxious if I plow myself with alcohol  … Oh, there’s Jill thank goodness, a friend… wow, Kathleen looks so beautiful and radiant (hallelujah, finally a worthy thought) … this sure is different from Miami, I don’t see anyone dressed like a hootchie mama… ”

Sitting down to dinner:

Geez, another uncomfortable moment, not a single name I recognize at my table  … I should text Zoe and remind her to play her cello … at least the guy sitting to my right is good looking, though that does not bode well for dazzling conversation… maybe I should have brought someone ... hey, he's actually charming and funny … darn, good manners dictate I also chat with the person to my left…. argh, is it possible to die of boredom in ten minutes or less?… Mahlia, be nice and grow up …  

Walking back to my car alone, it was much easier to notice thoughts:  

Kathleen and Craig are such a beautiful couple… I should NOT have told that woman her claim to be awful with names is an excuse for disinterest … if she just hadn’t said was too busy concentrating on a person’s energy to remember names I could have resisted … why, oh why, did I over-share with the charming man at my table, it really was unnecessary, not to mention unattractive, to admit to my habit of skipping showers …

In thinking about my thoughts at the wedding that night, I got sort of depressed. They were so trite and superficial. Worse yet, boring. So boring in fact, they could be used in place of water-boarding to torture enemies of the state. Even more boring than the guy to the left at dinner who inspired thoughts of suicide. 

Oh yes, did I mention, many of my thoughts were unkind?

The good news is that in the world according to Shambhala, good, bad or boring, I am not my thoughts. 

The  other good news is that I was able to balance my checkbook yesterday.

The Pleasures and Perils of A Pink Pet

By Mahlia Lindquist

Most dog owners are delusional. They imagine their dog to be extraordinary, to possess human or even super human characteristics not shared by other dogs. Not me. I have always considered my dogs, ages 15 and 9, to be on the  average side, and certainly not an interesting topic of conversation. However, I recently experienced something akin to a spiritual revelation and now can’t help but wax poetic about the younger dog, Willow: 

Exceptional in  appearance, demeanor and spirit. A white, fluffy bichon frise, Willow's prissy looks belie a hardy hiker who has braved steep mountain climbs, long runs in the freezing snow, and even a coyote attack. While game to act the part of rugged mountain dog, he is most content in the role of lap dog.  When happy, which is almost always, Willow wears a huge doggy smile. He never picks fights with other dogs, patiently endures the manhandling by children that is inevitable with cute little dogs, and is indiscriminately affectionate.  Best of all, his poos are small, which means a lot to someone who strives to be a courteous dog walker.  In short, he is the Dalai Lama of canines — adorable and perfect.

Perfection. It means no room for improvement. Though Willow has always been a charming dog, it turns out that he was not exactly perfect. I learned this when something happened  to make him more fantastic than ever... perfect in fact. That something was pink dye, and it was life changing, or at least life affirming in its own small way.

I initially accused the culprits, one of my daughters and her friend, of dog abuse. They denied it, arguing that they used strawberry kool-aid, which was harmless.  Even so, it just seemed wrong.  

What about the dog’s psyche?  Willow is male and has long suffered his girlie name. Pink fur just seemed to add insult to humiliating injury. What about my psyche? I am the primary dog walker in the house and just the thought of being out with a pink dog made me turn pink with embarrassment.  I pictured people cautioning their kids to stay away from the crazy dog lady and her freaky pink dog.

My only consolation was that having moved from Miami from Boulder, I would not risk public censure and possible arrest. In Boulder, it is illegal to dye your dog.  Lawmakers there actually took the time to debate the pros and cons of color treated pets, and came out against . And, there aren’t any safe dye, did it for a good cause exceptions.  A Boulder resident -- and I am not making this up -- was fined $1000 for dying her poodle pink, even though she used organic beet juice and did it for breast cancer awareness.  Imagine how I would have fared in Boulder having used non organic Kool Aid  and for the crass purpose of amusing a couple of teenaged girls. 

The good and the bad part of Miami is that political correctness is not a thing.  While dyers of pets, toters of guns  and drivers of Hummers may be social pariahs in Boulder,  no such stigmas exist here.  Indeed, Miamians seem to view vegetarian hybrid drivers who bring their own bags to the grocery store, so common in Boulder, with not a small amount of distaste. The bad part is that I am a vegetarian hybrid driver (who usually forgets her bags.) The good part is that I would not be prosecuted or otherwise vilified on account of my pink dog. 

My initial reaction when Willow emerged from the pink tinted bath was “this is so wrong.” However, after the girls had him dried and brushed, I couldn’t help but admire their handiwork.   The kool-aid left Willow a beautiful soft pink hue so that when standing still he could be mistaken for a stuffed animal. While running he looks like a ball of cotton candy blown loose from it’s stick.  It also looks like a bizarre case of doggie sunburn or radiation poisoning. Whatever the association, he undoubtedly looked different.

As different as Willow looked, the change that I saw in people on our daily walk was remarkable. Our walks take us through a busy park where few people  make eye contact, much less strike up conversations with a stranger. However, a pink dog brings out the small town in everyone who crosses his path.  From the homeless dude, to the hip skateboarder, to the elderly cuban couple, they all smile with delight when they see Willow.  Kids can barely contain their joy at the magic  of a pink dog. Instead of getting the evil eye when I unleash him and he intrudes upon picnics, Willow is treated as an honored guest.   More than one person has gotten off their cell  phone to take Willow’s photo and chat me up about how he came to be pink  A friend told me that a friend of hers called and raved about the adorable pink dog she had seen walking down the street. Willow is a minor celebrity.

Although I have not acquired any corresponding celebrity as owner of the local pink dog, I have experienced my own little transformation.  Before Willow became pink, I was not the type of person who  dyed her dog.   Not only was I not the type, I did not look like the type.  Despite appearances to the contrary, and even though I didn’t actually make Willow pink, when out with him people assume that I did. I’ve learned that someone who people think would dye her dog is more approachable than someone not so inclined.  This means that I have become acquainted with many new and interesting people whom I would otherwise have passed without even an exchange of nods. This also means, and this is my favorite part, I get the pleasure of seeing the obvious jolt of joy experienced by everyone who encounters Willow the pink dog.  

If having a pink dog is wrong, I don’t want to be right.