We decide to take a trip… and “Hitch” tags along

No, this is not the story of how we met Will Smith at the airport…. although I wish it would had been.

My husband had this incredible ‘last minute’ idea of taking a plane to Argentina and surprise my father for his birthday.

Experience tells me that ‘last-minute-anything’ tends to go-south starting from the first minute, but we didn’t listened to our instincts and bought two round trips for the weekend.

My husband’s brother was in NY, so we had lunch with him prior to starting our adventure… arugula and prosciutto crepes were enjoyed over New York tap water.

We headed to the airport, high-spirited and full of excitement for the prospect of becoming the advanced Christmas presents to fifty members of my family (yes, we already covered the extent of my father’s side clan).

Whilst driving, a small bird defecated over my recently washed car, so being the clean freak that I am; I cleaned it with a baby wipe when we arrived.

Immigrations happened without any incident and we decided to peruse some bookstore and find something entertaining to read for the 17-hour trip ahead of us.

 While doing this, I started to feel strangely warm (considering that we were in a -2°C weather) and I removed my sweater and scarf… this brought some itching to my neck and I started scratching nonchalantly until I realized that I was rubbing my scalp… did I had lice? I didn’t think that after 20-year out of primary school the lice would’ve decided to make me theirs again, so a visit to the bathroom settled my curiosity… I definitely didn’t had lice, nor any type of bugs over me, however, I was starting to show some red areas in my stomach and my neck, as well as my whole face.

I assumed this was something related to a temporary itch, so I went out to look for my husband. He saw me and understood that something wasn’t right, so he insisted on going to the pharmacy to get an anti-allergic.

I stayed seated on a coffee shop and my ears began disturbing me, I couldn’t stop scratching them… this added to the fact that now all of my upper body parts were on fire.

I have a high-tolerance to pain and disturbing things… my husband doesn’t like this because I never get sick or complain about being sick, however, when I do have a problem, we usually end up in the E.R.

I called him (because it couldn’t take more than 5 minutes to get some medicine) and as soon as he saw my call, he realized that I was in utter and complete discomfort (I never call him for these things).

He run back and I swallowed four pills immediately, while staring at my wrist watch… the medicine was suppose to be effective ‘within 15 minutes’ and I wanted desperately to feel the ‘instant relief’.

My ears became bigger and my neck was scorching red, as well as my underarms, my back, my stomach, my inner thighs… I couldn’t concentrate hard enough to prevent myself from scratching and that’s when… even though I kept saying that I was A.OK… my husband; who knows something about ‘desperate circumstances calls for desperate measures’, requested the airport doctor.

Not 2 minutes later, I had an EMT with a defibrillator (he thought I was unconscious), two paramedics checking my vitals (they received a distressed called of someone dying on an airport gate), an oxygen mask tide to my face (allergy and asthma don’t mix too well… and I, supposedly, had both) all of our bags strapped to a stretcher and me and my husband, riding over the airport runways in an ambulance headed to the nearest hospital.

Needless to say that when we got home, it was midnight, we were exhausted, I felt renewed after that cortisone IV that reduced the swelling and the itching and the redness and the hives…. we missed our one-time opportunity to visit our family in an over Atlantic adventure, though.

However, we had our adventure … not cross-oceanic, not family related, no barbecue was involved… we spent 4 hours at the hospital, they drugged me until I was white enough to ease their minds that I wasn’t going to die of respiratory failure, we shared an overcrowded E.R. area full of sick people… and most importantly, we learned that ‘last minute’ anything, is not something we’ll be trying again soon.

As for my allergy, if it was the prosciutto, the arugula, the crepes or the bird’s crap… we’re not sure... what I definitely know, is that I’ll not be trying those in the near future.

Feeling under the weather

What does that expression mean?

We’re always under the weather, considering that the climate conditions are reflected in the sky, so all of us wake up every day feeling “under” the weather…. However, stupid people use this expression to express a mood or a feeling, like when you’re sad or going to be sick.

I really can’t put my finger on it.
I feel under the weather all the time… if the day starts like today: cloudy, cold, gloomy… I’ll most sure will feel under the weather… a “pilarsicle” working with the only purpose to be back at my comfy house, warm and toasty.

I’ll have to come up with a different phrase to express my “comfort (or uncomfortable) situation” when I’m coming down with a flu or something… maybe I can say: I’m feeling like the weather… but that will only work if it’s an awful day… the sun wouldn’t replicate my state if he’s too shiny and I’m too ‘grey’. 

I could say: I’m feeling opposite to the weather.. if it’s too sunny for my ‘sick’ state.

That’s it… Like or Opposite.
I think it’s catchy and a bit less moronic that Under.

So today, I’m definitely feeling LIKE the weather… I’m not coming down with the flu, but I’m sleepy and cold, I want to be at my home, cuddling with my pillow and burrowing under the covers.

I’ll love to be feeling OPPOSITE to the weather.

We're definitely UNDER it… but that doesn’t explain to you how I’m feeling at all.

To be more specific, I'm like the weather, wanting to be opposite and definitely under.

Blood makes you sisters… and personality makes you different

My sisters were visiting for Thanksgiving.

My big sister “S” was here for the first time since I moved. Her first visit was ages ago, so her memory needed to be refresh with new sightseeing, lots of pictures and different places to walk through.

My twin sister “D” has been in NY with me for, at least, 4 times since I moved, so for her was more about the time spent together, enjoying her new Kindle acquisition, the cooking-bonding process and so on.

I had to work some days of the week, but I got to spent Thanksgiving holiday with them… me and my non-born-from-me child: the turkey.

We named them after me because of a joke that has been around since my first turkey… my husband’s cousin said that my turkey was the best he had ever tried (I assume because he didn’t want me to feel bad after my first try) and from then on, the turkey and me share my name…. so when my husband asks:

-          Where is “P”?

Someone will answer:

-          In the oven … or in the kitchen

My sisters are two very different persons.

“S” was known for her volatile character when we were younger, however, she outgrew the need to yell at everybody (‘the world against me’ drama) and now she has a nice patience and lack of promptness that is soothing and unnerving at the same time.

“D” is a hurricane… always doing, pushing, moving, talking… she’s not the best listener but can be great to give good advice when needed and she’s one of the most reliable persons that I know.

Both her characters are so different… our characters are sooooo different… that you wouldn’t think we’re related if you’re blindfolded hearing us talk
“S” would be soothing the conversation, avoiding conflict and trying to bury the issue… good intentions but I get exasperated sometimes when I want to yell my throat off and I can’t.

“D” is the opposite, looking for a conflict at the round of every corner… it doesn’t matter if you’re talking about the weather, she’ll probably take it personally for the poor rain that’s being criticized for wetting everything and she’ll be over you like a lion.

Me… I can’t shut up. I need to learn to be polite and choose the moments and the time to be brutally honest, and accept the fact that everybody is not always ready to hear what I have… need… to say.

Needless to say, that blood makes us sisters… we’ll always have each other, for better or for worse, with turkey or not, sunny day or raining men… but our personalities are what defines us.
Separated we're three very disturbed (or not) persons… together, we’re completely and utterly perfect!

Heels and winter… not a good combination

Cold weather is here, and with it, came the snow, the morning dew turn to ice, and my increased inability to walk in heels from my car to the office.

13 steps a day that seems like the longest running track with difficult obstacles, when in reality it’s just the sidewalk, some pavement, and the door… but, the obstacles are the worse: wind, ice and snow.

Heels and me have a long lasting relationship going on… sometimes I decide to leave them and stick with my comfy flats, but since I occupy a responsible position in a company, I cannot show to work dressed as a student, so I try to befriend my shoes and accept their high heels and their pointy toes.

Designers never thought on women’s feet when they came up with the idea of heels… less in winter and the added difficulty to wear them… because if they would have had, round toes and flat shoes will be the latest fashion and everyone will be wearing them, specially on this time of the year.

But, we’re stuck with boots that are too tight and too high for my flat, square feet, and the matter that I don’t have an arch, doesn’t help the matter.

So every morning, I turn off my car, switch my tennis shoes for my high heel boots and try to walk, without falling on my butt in a spectacular fashion in front of every co-worker… most of the times I manage it by doing the process really slowly, like a 1-year-old kid that’s just learning to walk.

This strategy works to perfection, and when it doesn’t, I just pray that my pants aren’t damaged after my stumble, or that my heels are still intact, and then… I consider my body parts:

-          Ankles… check, no broken bones there

-          Butt… sore, but intact

-          Hands… no scratches

-          Shame… growing by the minute

Is on this days were I pray for winter to be over and summer to come back with its scorching hot days… too bad that the nightmare is barely starting.

Innovation… anyone?

This was the header of the newspaper this morning… I read it walking my way to the elevator on our neighbour’s front door (my only true ‘news reading’ is a 3 seconds stop to know if the world is coming to an end… or not… mostly not).
Bearing in mind the fact that I consider myself a most boring person, with a square type personality, set to become an hermit before turning fifty, reading my books and drinking coffee.. The newspaper’s header touch my self-esteem and I decided to write a bit about true innovation… the one that happens every day, even though it doesn’t get notice by the whole population of the world, mainly my husband, my dog and me.
Cooking… innovative cuisine is something that you’ve to experiment by default when moving to a new country were ‘calabaza’ is “butternut squash” or “pumpkin”… or ‘semillas de cajuil’ is “cashews… or ‘tomillo’ is “thyme”… just by going to the grocery store you get confuse by all the different names and even though you have your grandma’s recipe with you to get everything for that chicken casserole, parsley gets confused with basil, and so on… at the end, you have what it looks like a chicken casserole but smells like an Indian dish… all spiced up and smelling strong.
Drinking… innovative drinking comes with the territory when living abroad. One always has to try new brands, flavours, drinks. I’m a weak drinker, so other than a different juice flavour, I don’t try new stuffs, however, my husband and I made a trip to the vineyards and came back addicted to ‘wine-a-rita’… so I have to consider that as an innovation in my life.
Dressing… innovative dress codes are a given when you live in one of the Fashion capitals of the world… I would have never consider to use leggings before (my big butt and all), but here, leggings are a fashion statement that improves your appearance while making you look sleek and cool.
Pet Care… yes, as you know, I have a dog and he’s also been innovating on his diet (orange treats that taste like pork, or green treats that make your mouth smell like grass) and on his care routine… with special “play days” with his mates from the vet’s office or grooming sessions to improve his looks.
Technology… the most important innovation of this generation.
Since I’ve moved to NY I’ve acquired a razor for sweaters, a nail trimmer for dogs, a ultra light, ultra thin, ultra fast hair dryer, an iPad (for my hubby), 4 iPhones (we change them every year) and an egg cooker that can do amazing omelettes, eggs Benedict and poached eggs in less than 3 minutes.
So… to the New York Times editor that choose that header to come out on the Wednesday edition… please revise your choices for a selling front cover and try to asses more important matters, like traffic jams on the Long Island Express way to improve my driving time to work, or the subway on the 2nd avenue, so my husband doesn’t have to ride the subway like in a sardines can every afternoon, or even grocery prices, so I don’t have to travel 40 miles to do my grocery shopping in ShopRite at a reasonable price.

Innovation… everyone? Duh!

A cup o’ Joe from "Star-kin" for this Jane

There’s a bickering going on between coffee drinkers about the quality and taste that compares Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts when in need of a caffeine fix.


I’ve had the experience of having to throw away a Starbucks coffee because it tasted like burned horse piss; so I decided to move my 2 dollars into Dunkin Donuts coffee for a test.

True facts is that the ambience it’s not as nice as Starbucks and the pastries offered are reduced only to Donuts and Bagels, rather than a nice Cranberry muffin or a Lemon Loaf; however, the coffee smells and tastes fresh (no burnt smell to be found) and you’re in and out with your drink before you can say Jack Robinson (I cannot use the work Cock to replicate the Spanish phrase).

It’s a great choice if you’re having it in your office rather than staying on location to drink it.

Timing is another big issue for my impatient self, because wasting more than 3 minutes in buying coffee it’s more than I can cope with. I hate being in line waiting and it’s worse when I’m behind someone that wants their “Tall, Decaf, Non-foam, Skinny, Caramel Latte… with sweetener”.

I mean, how complicated can it be to order a coffee straight from the menu?

I had a discussion on Sunday regarding this matter. One Peruvian guy tried to convince me that Starbucks was the best coffee ever, without ever having tried Dunkin Donuts… needless to say that his argument wasn’t strong enough to change me (nor my caffeinated self); however mine, was strong enough to place an ounce of doubt into his brain… he’ll be trying a Chai Latte from Dunkin Donuts soon enough.

Dear tourists: keep crowding Starbucks’s ordering line, keep clustering the tables and seats, breathing the burnt coffee aroma each store breaths and maintain our Dunkin Donuts lines free and clear, for me to order my Latte in an acceptable timely fashion, without getting dizzy or crush by ignorant coffee drinkers who don’t understand the difference between a Cup of Joe and a Cup o’ scorched Joe.
 
Now while we're on the subject, how incredible would it be to be able to enjoy a mix between Starbucks and its pastries, as well as Dunkin and its coffee in the same shop... Star-Kin, with a decor between an Italian kitchen and a German billiard room, white tiles with wood furniture... NOT!

Wife, Friend, Companion, Parnter, Team player... everything but Masseuse

My husband has a high consideration for me. He respects me and thinks that I can accomplish anything that I commit myself to… if I want to (of course).

However, there’s one particular aspect of my talents that he knows, firsthand, I’m lacking: my massage-giving ability.

This is an issue for us, because he loves a back rubbing and I don’t particularly enjoy it.

I squirm under the hand of the masseuse because my muscles hurt whenever someone is giving me a rubdown, so I tend to avoid it. Not my husband though, he loves someone kneading her back… so my Neanderthal-type touch is horrible in comparison to what a real masseuse can offer him (and I completely understand and encourage him to try a massage somewhere else).

The thing is that with all the studying he’s been doing for an exam he has to do on December, his free time (or our free time together) has been reduced to dinners and 45 minutes of an episode of The Mentalist once a week… not much to work with if you want to add additional ‘activities’ in-between… So I’ve become the full-time masseuse in our household.

My husband tries not to make me feel bad (considering the sacrifice I’m making to doing something that I’m awful at and I don’t completely enjoy) but the other day, after a lame attempt from my side to achieve a decent massage, he stood up, looked me in the eyes and told me:

- Honey, there are few things that you can’t do in your life, and a massage is definitely one of them. You completely lack the patience for it!

… Which it’s true!!

I’m impatient and that profession is for someone with centered body energy, someone who practices Yoga and eats dinner at a slow pace… not me!

I roll over life, accomplishing professional successes and personal improvements (less stubbornness, more tolerability, less speed in my day-to-day activities, more slow-paced actions)… maybe when I feel the need to slow down and take importance in other parts of my life, I’ll be able to triumph in those aspects and develop the ability to do a decent massage; but until that time comes; I’m pretty sure I’ll not be performing any neck rubbing, feet smoothing, back kneading… to anyone… anymore.

I’m a spastic person; whoever thought that I could perform a flawless massage doesn’t know me or my lack in Spa-type activities likeness.

My husband now knows that I can’t even pretend to be good at it… my hands don’t help, my impatience doesn’t help, my revulsion to moisturizing-cream doesn’t help (such a greasy product, yuck!).

Some of us are born masseuses, I was just born everything else (minus the masseuse thing).'

Astrology: science or superstition?

We had a get together with one of my best friends here in NY.
She came to our house to have dinner with my husband and I… we ordered Pizza and Sushi, accompanied by a bottle of Argentinean wine, of course.

She’s kind of the guru of the group, always interested in the planets, the energy, the universe, the season changes, etc… I wouldn’t call her an expert, I'd call her a potential expert, someone that has the ability to understand all that mumbo-jumbo and get some sense out of it.
My husband and I are both Taurus, rarely enough, according to my friend’s diagnostic, we have the same ascendant, we’ve the same drive in our professional career (and the other ‘career’ as well), both were destined to succeed in foreign countries and we’re so similar that is boring to even describe it.
Some people might have been worried by these results… I mean, I don’t think that being different to the person that you’re with brings the fun in a relationship, however, for most people; the adventurous ingredient comes from the uncertainty that the other spouse might do something unexpected.

These people haven’t met my husband.

We might have the same planets aligned in a particular way when we were born, or have the same zodiac sign, or even have the same ‘possibilities’ in our future (at least that’s what our Astrology chart said)… but we’re far off being equal or boringly similar.
He’s crazy gorgeous with his Latino self and European behaviour (the perfect combination), he loves music and can extend the shower time just to try a new tune under the water, he’s risky when eating in new places and dresses as an English gentleman.

I’m strong willed, always right and straight as an arrow… but I’m also funny, I love to dance even though I get embarrassed easily. I’m a great cook (testimonies from my fellow guests) – which goes perfect with his savvy appetite – I accept suggestions for dress advice (but that’s it), I eat kind of boring (bread and cheese) but I don’t mind doing a feast for everybody else... and most importantly, I’m a sweetheart (at least most of the time).

We make a good team... Taurus and all, Professionally driven and all, Strong willed and all… we’re perfect for each other. I don’t think that any other person in the world would ever endure my personality if he didn’t love me as my husband does… and I particularly think that no other person in the world would tolerate the protectiveness of my husband if she didn’t love him as I do.

Between my crazy beautiful dog, my crazy gorgeous self, and my crazy stunning husband... we make the most strikingly crazy family.

Dealing with handymen… difficult enough, and if you add the language difference, impossible!

For the past four months we’ve had a leak in our bathroom… it started small, but as every water trickle, the damage builds up with every day that passes.

Being that me and my husband are not always in the apartment during business hours for the handymen of our building, most of the time I have to call the manager (who speaks Polish) and explain to him in English (with the difficulty that I don’t know the technicalities in that language) what do I need from them.

Finally, after several months of trying to ‘discover’ the source (which every plumber can tell you it’s an impossible task if you don’t tear down the wall), we finally pinpointed the problem in the shower.

The verdict was that we spent 10 days without taking a shower… well, not literally, just not in our bathroom.
6 am every morning, I’ll cross the hall to our aunt’s apartment in my PJ’s and the pillow still stuck to my face – ‘quite in the morning mode’ as my mom refers to it – dreading to find a fellow neighbour and give them the harsh reality that my blond, sleek, brushed hair, is not that sleek and smooth when I just stepped out of bed… neither is my face that friendly, nor my mood that welcoming… needless to say that at 6 am, no one is their usual, polished self!

Ten days later, we had our bathroom fixed… in the in-between, during my stealth visits to our aunt’s bathroom, I forgot my shampoo twice, I finished the soap in the middle of my bath (no new one in sight), I dropped my towel running to the door (luckily, no one gets up that early) and I even forgot my clothes… needless to say that when the time came of finally having the problem fixed, I was ecstatic!

Two days later, I still had daily visits from the Handymen… wall kept showing leakage remnants… now the problem wasn’t in the shower, it was in the faucets… later on, was the Dishwasher… after that I lost count.

Handymen are always driving around the problem thinking that you’re stupid enough to buy all the bull they feed you, like your master degree doesn’t apply to plumbing… they haven’t met me.
I set my mind to pester them with requests… daily ones… so they have to; no… NEED TO, fix my problem… because if they continue coming to my house with new theories as to why my wall is falling apart, I’ll come back with real facts to call and call and call and call… you get me?

If life gives you lemons, make calls.

Wine: really god, good for a mix or good for nothing

In the alcoholic beverage industry, ‘drinkability’ refers to the fact that a product has the aptitude to give your sobriety a bit more time before drunkenness takes over.


For me, ‘drinkability’ is the adjective that I give to a drink that has the standard to be ingested (or not).

According to my taste, not many beverages attain this level; mainly because I’m an awful drinker (I get drunk pretty easy), everything tastes sour or needs more sugar (I have a sweet tooth, what can I say) or more importantly, the level of alcohol is indigestible.

As a truthful Argentinean, Malbec wine is one of my favourite types of grapes, and I like it even more if the brand is Fabre Montmayou (my father’s vineyard of course); however, not every Malbec wine taste the same and when I can’t find my brand of choice, my husband chooses for me.

When we have a get together at home, our friends bring their choice of beverage and we offer the food. That’s the way it works for us, because we’re always so many!!

At the end of every party, we have our refrigerator full of alcohol, some of which we’ve never seen nor tried in our lives... and pity to say that even considering the fact that I'm from Argentina, most of our friends bring us wines from Australia and Chile, rather than from my home country!! COME ON PEOPLE!

This weekend, my husband was studying (yet again) and I was bored out of my mind, so I decided to pour me a drink. I found a bottle of wine from Chile (not my preferred choice of origin) and grabbed a glass from our countertop.

I took a sip of my drink.

It tasted like old horses blankets soaked in urine.

I coughed explosively.

- What happened? – asked my hubby

- Nothing – I responded with water in my eyes and dabbing my mouth with a napkin

- You tried the wine, didn’t you?

- Uhhh? How do you know?

- Brave girl – he said while patting me in the back – THAT one was to be mixed with the 'Wine-A-Rita'… Fermented… that’s how it tastes.

- Rotten… putrid… THAT’s how it tastes! – I said still coughing.

For you, ignorant readers, ‘Wine-A-Rita’ is the best invention ever… it permits you to recycle an awful wine into a sugary, fruity, tasty margarita… made from wine… hence: Wine-A-Rita.

Blend it, and ready to serve!

I bought 6 packs online for my sisters who’re coming from Argentina and the Dominican Republic for Thanksgiving… I’m planning on get them completely wasted!!
 
www.wineglace.com
http://www.domainevistalba.com/

Seasoning that pours out of you

Have you ever pondered over the expression: ‘it doesn’t suit me’?

For example, I have this weak stomach and I try to eat pretty blandly because nothing ‘suits me’…no, I’m not referring to clothes (even thought that is your first perception when you hear the frase), I’m referring to the fact that anything that I eat (out of cheese, bread, yogurt and green vegetables) does not sit well on my stomach.
After several months of eating like a two-year-old, all the insipid, wishy-washy food tastes like crap; so in my attempts to spicy up my dinner a bit, I decided to try some new seasonings… or better said, the same old flavours, but applied to new dishes.
Thursday night is on us, so my husband and I opened a bottle of wine and started perusing the refrigerator for an ounce of inspiration regarding our dinner options.
I love baked food… anything that fits in an oven, so I decided to do some Bruschettas and cut some cheese, to go with it. Since I can’t eat tomato (the main ingredient for this dish) I started mixing several spices into the mozzarella to create a culinary rarity (maybe I was going to be famous for it), and more importantly, to avoid have to eat plain Bread & Cheese yet again.
We removed the sizzling dish from the oven and in a silent ceremony; we separated our Bruschettas… tomato for my husband…‘weird looking cheese’ for me.
At first, the explosion of flavour was too much to handle… it was so long since I tasted anything that… ‘tasty’ (excuse the repetition). The cheese melted with the garlic, oregano, salt, nutmeg, olive oil… simply: incredible!

(5 minutes later)
I noticed that my skin was oozing a particular scent… body odour plus something else… so I decided to take my night shower and get it off me before my husband would notice that he had a smelly wife.

(10 minutes later)
Even my nails had a particular aroma… while I tried to decipher the reason that I smelled like a decaying old lady, my husband enter our room and said:

- My god! What is that smell? (ugly smell face)

I couldn’t possibly tell him that I was decomposing so I just mastered my ‘innocent’ face and looked dumbfounded while thinking: I’m positively dying!

(1 second later)
Of course!
The garlic!
I was breathing an aura of garlic that even an individual with an olfactory deficiency wouldn’t miss.
I breathed a sigh of relief, I wasn’t dying after all… and I told my husband:

- It’s me honey… it seems the garlic, doesn’t suit me after all (sweet wife face)

And then:

- Get used to it, because we still have 8 hours of sleep to do and I’m positively sure that I’ll be emanating our Bruschettas in the process… my skin will be complaining of my dinner choice all night (rude wife face)… and don’t even think about sleeping on the sofa.

Karma is what I’m dreading… one thing is me with a ‘Garlic Aura’… another completely different thing is my husband with another type of aura… onion, pepperoni, red pepper...
C-R-A-P!

Who let the dead out? Who let the zombies out? Who let THEM out?

Halloween came and went, and with it, our only chance in the year to become whomever (or whatever) we want.

For us, boring people, Halloween it’s a lame excuse to get wasted, so we simply avoid all the fuzz and stay in the house receiving the trick-or-treaters and reward them with candy.
What we didn’t took into notice, when signing us up into the building’s list, was that you have to cover a 10 hour shift of: door bell ringing-kids/parents receiving-candy giving-holding the “beast” (our 12lb dog)-costume congratulating-door closing process… non-stop.
At the same time, I was cooking Tacos for dinner, a tedious process of a meal that my non-existent gall-bladder doesn’t let me enjoy, so it was a sacrifice to even stand in front of the stove (while salivating over the chicken) and don’t taste the results of my amazing seasoning (pardon my boasting)… 10 hours of running between the door and the kitchen: controlling my cooking, controlling the candy… and I didn’t even got rewarded with a double-decker.

So unfair!

When 4 pm arrived, I was exhausted… a truck must have run me over for sure, and I hadn’t even noticed; so I decided to flee for the door (accomplishing the best disappearing act in the history of Magic) and headed to Union Square to visit a friend’s Photography exposition, with the only goal in mind of avoiding (at least for a few hours) the craziness of Halloween.

B-I-G, B-I-G mistake!

Union Square is the central station for the Halloween parade every year, so without even noticing, I sank even more into the heart of the ‘wackos’ that think that a bloody costume is AWESOME! (Yuck… can you hear me gagging?).
I attempted to get out of the subway and walk to my destination, trying not to lash-out to every person that bumped my shoulder while walking in the opposite direction (that’s the reason I hate shopping in stores)… and not succeeding.
10 paces
Creepy people pushing me around.
12 paces
Ugly smells all over the place.
14 paces
I almost fell over a Zombie on a stop light
… And there I was, heading the other way…
14 paces (in retrocession) later, I was safely concealed into the subway, heading home and plotting for an explanation to give to my husband for the reason that I left the ‘Candy-Fort’ unmanned:

- Dear, I went to buy bread… to Little Italy... Why that far you ask? … Always the best for you, my sweet-pea (all said in a soft, warm voice)

Needless to say that by the end of the day, I was cranky and hungry… cheese tacos are a lame substitution of the real stuffed ones.

YO QUIERO TACO… NO BELL
YO QUIERO TACO A "LA MOI"

Raise your glass... dirty little freaks

Driving three hours a day has its perks… not many, but at least I get to be on top of the big hits that the radio has to offer when new songs are launched.

The last release from female singer Pink it’s a tribute to all the people (like me) that are proud to be “wrong in all the right ways”, the loud talkers (Italian inheritance that you can’t possibly get rid off), the geeks that prefer to read a book rather than see a TV show, the weak drinkers who get wasted with one glass of dessert wine, the 'picky' eaters who prefer a sorbet ice cream rather than a chocolate fudge sundae…

Its 7 am, autumn is here so at that time, the sun is still to make its appearance, I’m driving to the office, bored out of my mind and with still 45 miles left to go, when my favorite radio station (92.3 NOW… Rolling with Nick Cannon!) starts playing this amazing song and before I notice I’m dancing while driving (probably the police will stop me in any minute because you can’t possibly dance while you drive, or because my dancing skills are so lame that I’m an embarrassment to the professionals).

Anyhow, it’s amazing how a simple song on a simple moment, can modify the rest of your day… I spent the rest of my trip to work, going over every radio station to see if I could hear that song again (in two opportunities I almost hit a the rear bumper of a fellow driver... don't seek and drive neither) needless to say that I love it!

I’m sure that my sister is taking notes to download it, because I try to keep her up to date with the newest music hits, since in Argentina you can maybe hope to hear it 6 months after.

I thought that I was alone in the world of the geeks with spastics dancing skills and weak stomachs; however, after I heard it several times, I came up with a list of all the people that could be placed into this song… all of us who’re proud to be utterly and completely different.

Word of advice: don’t try to change us, can you imagine how boring the world would become if we all talked in low tones, or laugh in queue of the same things, or eat the same boring stuffs, or agree on everything… and I mean: EVERYTHING!

Puh-leeze!

I prefer a challenge, so bring in the weird stuff… bring me in!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tpziHpmC4lM&feature=related

http://923now.radio.com/shows/nick-cannon/

All foreigners get together in NYC

Being a foreigner puts you in the situation were you’re introduced to people from your own country or people that speak Spanish (as this was the rarest thing to happen in a country where the majority of immigrants are from Latin America) and most importantly, people that shares your line of business or have the same interests as you.


It’s a chain of events that starts with new friends and continues as new individuals come to live in the New York… it’s a circle that never stops nor ends, where you’re being introduce to a bunch of new persons that might, or might not, be appealing as possible acquaintances to you.

All of us have one thing in common though: we’re not from the US.

Since I’ve traveled and lived abroad the majority of my life, I started to become picky (even demanding) when meeting new connections. I prefer to have a small group of friends, rather than a vast gathering of “I just know you a bit” type of people; so I’m popular for my lacking in warmth and my over critical personality when I’m first meeting someone.

For me, they have to pass a test… they don’t have to do anything other than be themselves, and if I don’t find that “click”, then I move on to the next poor bastard that’s in line to meet a Latino girl, whit a great character but a bad temper (when provoked), who defends her friends and always has time for a meet-and-coffee type of gathering.

Life as gone easy on me when introducing me to these new friends… so far, no freaky individual as come in my path, nor have I had the need to relegate anyone. I can remember only one time when I met a girl and we talked for one hour ; enough time for me to do a “one-day-long list” of all the things I hated about her; from her nails, to the way she expressed herself - with a potato stuck into her mouth - down into the way she looked down at you from the point of her noose, as if her superiority was visible for everybody (except me, it seems).

Needless to say that I never (ever) got together with her again… thank god for that!

I hate stuck-ups.

I still have friends… all of them pretty worthy in their own way:

I have RB, who loves astrology and can know “who you are?” just by learning the day you were born; or CT who’s always trying to soothe everybody around her to avoid conflicts, or LM who interrupts while you’re talking but it’s always to say something more interesting than what you were saying in the first place (I want to kill her every time she does it, but she’s such a good person, I can’t manage the strength), or PC who’s recently pregnant and continues her habit not to say bad words (now with the excuse that the baby might be hearing), or LC who even though she lives far away, manages to keep track of my life and have time to hear me bitch about my day, or WS, my ex-boss who transitioned with me when we both moved from Dominican Republic and ended up in the States… becoming better friends in the process, or my recently acquired friendship… JS, who I don’t know yet that well, but her tidiness and compulsion for order, tells me that we’re going to have so much in common!

I’m picky but I know when I’m surrounded with worthy “friend” material…

Ask the stuck-up B*%#@%: who’s your “superior” mama now?

Step one: apply, step two: get an interview, step three: get a job... or not!

I’ve been looking to hire people in my job, to help us develop the European market for the past 2 months.


I receive resumes from all over the world, with people with all kinds of backgrounds:

Old people, young people… females, males…. Experienced, non-experienced… educated, non-educated… with brain tumours, without brain tumours.

Wait… WHAT?

Oh, I forgot to tell you about this story!

It’s a true story!

So last week I received my usual amount of applications via email.

Most people are in the situation that I was six months ago… lots of experience, but no viable offer coming to them.

However, one of those applications caught my eye because of the bizarre, unusual, out-of-nowhere statements.

Let me tell you, I didn’t know if I wanted to cry or laugh when I read this guy’s profile.

Or if I should hire him because he spent 6 years backpacking the “earth” when he was 20 (his words), or discard him because he sent me a 3 long page resume (what is that?) with dates starting from 1974????

Or maybe hire him because he had a clarity regarding the reasons he hated every other job he had had (hierarchy wasn’t for him, or his boss was too demanding, or he wanted to move to a more easy job), or not hire him because he quitted 27 jobs in the past 40 years (no wondering the three page curriculum).

Or give him the opportunity because he had two children (“dependents” as he express them to be) and his mother had died of cancer when he was 30 years old… or maybe not, because he said he didn’t take authority very well, and he preferred to be his own boss (don’t ask).

But most importantly, I didn’t know what to do because his life had been so wonderful (full of change and novelty), but at the same time, so sad and conflicted.

He even admitted to have a brain tumour, so I didn’t know if I should write and ask him how he was coping with this news or tell him, how on earth was he planning on achieving the tasks that I needed for the position with all that baggage?

Jeez! I would be signing on an ashram should I be him… committed to dedicate all my life to love and peace, because, what else is to life when you have a brain tumour?

I laugh… I admitted.

I laugh till my eyes watered, but I also was sad, because I had to decline him as a possible candidate, and I couldn’t possibly tell him that he was too straight forward and provided with too much information for someone to even consider him… because truth is, we need more people that are like that:

In your face, no turning back, pushy, resilient, brutally honest and full speed straight forward…

LIKE ME… and my twin sister (one of the little things that we have in common… aside from looks, of course).

Nail Polish or Nail Punching?

I have this awful habit of wanting to paint my nails in the most inconvenient and inopportune times, when I’m doing laundry or fixing dinner… or both.


Even though I have a very intelligent dog, who knocks the door if he wants to go out, asks for his treat when he’s done playing and follows you around when he wants to take a walk, it doesn’t matter how much I’ve tried, Buono hasn’t achieved the ability to use nail polish remover on my nails… I think the matter gets too complicated for him when the cotton needs to be soaked instead of eaten, as he always prefers to do.

Other thing that plays against me (besides my lack of patience for a proper dry) is the fact that I rebel in my color choice. My husband always wants me to use the light pink, white, creamy color… and my picking is always into the reds, purples, blues, and browns... the more exciting colors.

So my last (and only) resource ends being my husband, who with his huge patience, sits me on the toilet seat, grabs the cotton, soaks it into the remover and tries to fix my nails.

Since men don’t understand the science involved into the process of polish removing, and the acute potency of the liquid, force is their only explanation, so they think that by pushing and sliding the cotton hard onto your nails, the polish would be removed sooner… rather than later, and all this for the sake of me don’t forgetting that it’s my husband who’s doing this girly task.

I imagine while he’s crushing my finger and trying to remove the dark purple polish, he’s thinking: “why did I agree to do this?”… At the same time, the polish tarnishes his fingers, so he has to resource to compulsively wash his hands to remove the purplish color.

So there I was, sitting on the toilet, wringing under his strength, trying not to show him that my poor little nail only wanted a nice finished polish, not a badly beaten one.

I’m probably ending with a purple spot on my fingernail; I might even decide to wear it “nude”, because the bruise would match my dark purple polish any way.

I’m definitely training my dog harder for this task, at least he seems to enjoy the process of eating the cotton and jumping around me, without any harm coming to my poor little nails.

All talk and no trousers

I know you missed my posts, that’s why I’m getting up to date after this past month of silence.


We’re receiving the visit of my mother and her husband.

My kidneys and liver are starting to prepare for the two days marathon, because as they live in Dubai and try with all their might to behave as proper immigrants (doing as many things as possible equal to the inhabitants of the United Arab Emirates… all except converting to Islamism), drinking is one of their deficiencies when they’re residing abroad and every time they step onto America, the phrase “working it up-to-date” doesn’t even begin to cover it.

My mom loves fruity champagne, my husband prefers a Malbec over any other wine, I’m a Bellini drinker and my mother’s husband always takes beer… so, in the intent of not to sound too alcoholic, we all love a drink, served at the proper moment and in the correct amount.. and a bit more. Beer, Rosé and Malbec run like wild into our meetings.

We would probably take turns when driving, because I cannot be a permanent designated driver (even though I’m the only one with a licence).

Food is another important matter, because one of the benefits of living in the Big Apple is options baby! In the two days “epic” visit, as I like to refer to the sporadical but advantageous holiday, we like to touch as many cultures as possible… Argentinean, Mexican, Indian… Pizza.

My gall bladder is shinning in its absence, but I still have all my other organs, prepared and ready to step-up and fight over indigestion and inebriety.

I would probably add some Ranitidine to my diet (the perks of being a member of a pharmaceutical expert family is that you know what to take without having to go to the doctor… and no, pharmaceutical doesn’t mean “drug-ceutical”) and lots of water too…

Don’t look so surprised!

I mean, it’s not like I’m an irresponsible twenty-six year old gal!

One tiny, little, drinking weekend never killed anyone.... one or two neurons at the most!

Regards from your love-aholic (at whom her husband is laughing right now because her bad-ass attitude always ends with the first drink… All talk and no trousers! Softy!)

Cow Intestines in Argentina means: Chinchulines!!

My husband loves his meat.
I couldn’t believe his mother when she told me that he was a vegetarian for the first 1/3 of his life, I mean, he sure as hell is taking advantage of lost time, because I have to cook him skirt steak twice a week (minimum).
I don’t know how his stomach takes it, but he hasn’t dropped flat from indigestion so I assume, the meat is not killing him… or so it appears.
I still remember our first trip to Argentina to visit my family.
Buenos Aires is a pretty tough town; known for its coarse traditional fare like guts and tongues, all the parts of the animals that other parts of the world, throw away.
My father does this amazingly huge barbecues with lots of meat varieties (and non-meat varieties as well).
My husband took in his responsibility to try everything that was put in front of him, so my father, who does not miss a challenge, put in his mind the idea to make him cry uncle.
I was 100% confident in my hubby’s strength and resilience towards my father’s efforts to exhaust his oesophagus; however, my convincement started to crumble once the aliments changed from cow meat to everything else.
His cow intestines tasted OK (for me), as long as he didn’t think too much about what they were. They’re cooked in the barbecue, with just salt… and the intestines had a kind of… well… intestinal consistency. Kind of like liver, buy mushier.
I could see my husband’s face and even though he wanted to spit the thing out of his mouth, he didn’t want to disappoint so his mind tried to imagine other flavours than the ones he was experiencing, other consistencies…. and failed… miserably.
He did well until he started trying to think how he should describe the dish and he thought: it doesn’t look like intestines... It actually look like worms.
Just then, he pushed it aside and asked for a salad.
- You don’t like it? – I asked, batting my eyelashes like an innocent angel
- I bet you’ve never ate cow intestines in your life – he said gagging.
- Of course I have!
- No, you couldn’t. Not even wholesome carnivorous could eat... that.
- But carnivorous don’t have to eat that, because intestines aren’t meat, honey, they’re just.. shit.

YUMMY!!

The perks of having Jane Bond in your family tree

I don’t know if you know this, but I have a twin sister.
We’re pretty much alike regarding appearances; same eye color, same hair color, same skin color… different weight though, if I loose some pounds, she gains that same amount of pounds, so my theory is that we’re always weighting the same when together, the matter comes when we’re weighted apart, when I gain, she looses and vice versa.
Must be some mystery regarding identical twin sisters that only presents itself in our case, but nonetheless, we’re pretty similar concerning looks.
Regarding other areas however, we’re not so alike.
I’m more of a business driven person, always looking to get the “next best job” and trying with all my might to become a billionaire (millions aren’t enough); while she is the doctor-to-be of the family, whit several years ahead still to produce enough (if any) money to sustain herself. She’s not rich… not yet… and probably never unless she specializes in cardiology, oncology or face-lifts. Medicine it’s not the type of career you go into in order to make money right away; I’m pretty sure that if you break down her shifts into hourly rates, every receptionist in the Hospital makes more money than she does.
However, she’s happy and this, my friends, is something that it took a while to get.
I believe it is better to live your own destiny faultily than to live an replication of somebody else’s life with flawlessness; my sister in the other hand, spend several years trying to comply with everybody else’s wishes, rather than her owns.
But now she has started living her own life; defective and clumsy as it may look, it resembles her now… in detail.
She would kill me when she reads this but she has boundary issues... with everybody.
Or maybe that’s not fair to say.
To have issues with restrictions, one must have boundaries in the first place, right?
But she disappears into the person she loves. If she loves you, you can have anything from her.
You can have her time, her dedication, her money, her family, her dog, her dog’s time, her dog’s devotion...
If she loves you, she will carry all your sorrows, she will assume for all your debts, she will defend you from your insecurities… your family’s insecurities… your pet’s insecurities.
You get the point.
She will project on you all sorts of good qualities that you never actually cultivate in yourself; for in her eyes you’re the best there is!
So being her sister and allowing her to love me is like becoming the Queen of the most beautiful and richest country ever existed; but if you’re not too careful, you can deplete her of her energy and leave her spent; because she can’t honestly stop being her extra-giving-self.
So to all my sister’s friends, love ones, family and companions, beware that if you don’t GIVE in the same amount that she gives you, and as uninterested as she gives you… you’re probably dead by now; surely killed by me in a most unpleasant way – drowned in the sink or hanged with your shoelaces or skin shaved with your dog’s nail trimmer – don’t hesitate to call me if you have any doubts; my assassination services come with a full informative package for my soon to be targets.
Regards from my sister’s privately hired, widely confessed, assassin (for free, of course... with her income she can't even keep a turtle and their 100% lettuce diet).

The little wine bus

Not many of you know that while living in New York you can visit Vineyards as near as one hour away from the city.
Isn’t it wonderful?
One of those boring summer Saturdays, we decided to hop on a tour towards the northern part of the state to visit several Vineyards that, even though you can’t compare them with Argentina’s (puh-leeze) they’re worth every minute of your time!
(I can assure you that my husband is strangling me at the moment for the bold comment... this might be my last post... so long dear world).

Still here...

And who am I kidding?... most of all, I was looking forward for all that free sampling and tasting… let’s face it, wine makes me a jolly good fellow!
(And yes dear hubby, you can say “fellow” when referring to a Girl– he always check my spelling errors).

There are five steps for a proper wine tasting, or so we were taught:
See… Spin… Smell… Sip… and Spit.
Isn’t it gross?
So there I was, tasting these wonderful flavors, swirling the liquids in my mouth and then…
I would spew out everything into a recipient!!
Just like that.
And we shared it with other people!!
Puaj!
I would re-act the moment in my mind, over and over again, seeing my pouting mouth sputtering around like a crazy volcano with incredible accuracy… I’m definitely not going to repeat that experience again.
Next time, it would be lots of wine for me, yes sire!
What a nitwit… just to think that we tried almost 20 different types of wines and we threw everything away.
By 6 o’clock in the afternoon I was completely sober and aware of my tiredness.
Such a hard effort and not even a tipsy brain… bummer.
Worst of all were my toes.
I have terrible feet problems (thanks to my father’s inheritance) and when I’m standing for a long period of time, they start getting cranky and needy, just as my “mosquito-self”… the bastards!
After a whole day I wasn’t sure if it was wise to release them from the prison of my shoes; they might have revolted and run off into the Vineyard and refuse to return.
So 8 hours later, I returned home with amazing pictures, several bottles of wine, 100% sobriety and non-existent feet.
Should you decide to do the same tour, I’m going to give you the best recommendation:
Get completely and utterly wasted!!

http://www.thelittlewinebus.com/

Me, The Mosquito and My Husband... one big happy family

Sometimes, my husband thinks that spending time with me is like watching paint dry (boring), except without the home improvement.
I would have to agree with him because if I’m engrossed with a book I act, and behave, like a zombie.
If he talks to me at some point and says:
“Can I ask you something?”
I can surely answer:
“Is ‘no’ an option?”
I mean, it’s the end of the book… or the beginning (who cares?), the point is that I’m busy.
If I’m at the moment where I don’t know if the hero is going to get the damsel in distress, I cannot possibly concentrate in anything else… right?
That’s how we start... badly… and then, progress to worse because my lack of attention on anything else rather than passing the pages gets him extremely annoyed.
So I lift my eyes from the book, cough a bit to add some drama to the scene, and force my face into a mask of penitence (which wouldn’t have fooled even the most incompetent of mind readers) and I try to show repentance for my absent of interest for anything other than my story.
In my head, however, I’m still plotting with the writer for future outcomes for the book.
He doesn’t need to know that I’m still “reading” though, so my “interested” face stays on for the duration of the chastisement; and my brain is all over the place, paying zero attention to what’s coming out of his mouth.
He knows that I’ll get him when he’s studying.
I’ll pick the moment when he’s most concentrated in his lesson to unleash “the mosquito”, the nickname that I gave to my Pestering-Self-Mode; that annoying needy creature that clings over you relentlessly and with no mercy.
I’m more capable than a mind reader in perceiving deception, so if by any point he tries to pull a “mask of penitence” on me, I’ll catch him in-fraganti.
Next time, he would restrain himself before saying anything other than:
“Honey, do you want anything to read?”

Anniversary for us… for you… or for me?

Last week was my two year anniversary with my husband and I had this plan in my head that I could master an elegant dinner, candles, wine and the whole nine yards… playing make-believe that I could pull off a Hot-Housewife routine with my tight schedule.

Who was I kidding?

I arrived to our home after work and made a quick stop at the supermarket to buy ingredients to cook something meat-related (my husband was born a vegetarian and transformed into carnivorous, I assume, a well played move from the cosmos, considering that he’s married with an Argentinean, who her meal by default is cow-related)… I already had the wine bottle (a treat from my father who has achieve the hard task of exporting our Malbec wine to NY) and I was only missing the ambience.

I got home and quickly decided to take a shower and transform my persona from an ordinary working woman into a spectacular cooking super-hot-mama-wife (black dress and high heels included). After some light make-up, I headed for the kitchen, arrange my apron and started the preparations.

I first set the table, lit some candles, turned-on the music… so far so good; I started getting a bit hot (surely because of the anxiety), buy not a big deal.
Thanks to being in the XXI Century, A/C’s are a commodity in every house, so I started them full blast and continued my tasks.

I chopped veggies and made some fresh salad… some cheese to start… I was getting hotter by the minute and while chopping I took resting minutes and I fanned myself with a napkin.
Then I started the meat on the Cuisinart electric grill; and I could feel my brow getting wet, sweat running down my back, my hair getting all messed-up and entangled, humidity running my make-up… definitely not a good portrait.
At that particular moment, my husband decided to appear… I don’t know how Lucy or Angie or Kim or Jenny can manage a Super Model Housewife act, but I assure you, that they never tried the routine while cooking real food!
A headache, made an assault in my temples at that same instant, and I stopped dead still against the counter hoping that a spinal realignment might ease the squeeze in my skull… no luck, maybe a cranial amputation would work an I could have the excuse not to present myself to my husband as a sweaty (not at all appealing) wife.
However (and that’s why I love him like crazy), just one glance from him and I knew he was planning something different…I could smell the gourmet meal being cook by a chef at a fancy restaurant by just looking at him; he wanted to go out… and so do I!

I’m so hard-headed, you could have hit my frontal lobe with a crowbar and made no impression whatsoever; but just that one stare resigned me completely to the dumb idea that I could manage to cook while avoiding sweating like a pig in the middle of the summer. I mean, surprises are well deserved and enjoyed, but for an Anniversary, it’s better if the surprise it’s for both of us.

Closing my eyes, I sent up a prayer to anyone who was listening; asking please, for God’s sake, keep sending me signals that we were right for each other.
I’d read the books, seen the movie.... I knew every reason that aligned us, and I was so damn happy that; stubbornness and all; I am still perfectly loved by him.

Needless to say that after another shower, I was Hot-Mamma again and ready to head out…
Who knows…? I might have even gotten lucky… or him… or both.

Wine: Fabre Montamyou Malbec 2007 (www.67wines.com)

It’s Tuesday and I already look “pureed”… urghhh!

Have you ever made a smoothie before?
I’m a blender fan, everything I cook related to veggies or fruits can be put into the mixer and become the best meal ever.
However, there’s a button I never push, because its strength it’s not enough to ‘Ice crush’ or it’s too strong to just ‘blend’.
So, when I write and tell you that I look like somebody dropped me into a blender and pressed ‘Puree’, it means that I look too bad for a Tuesday and too good in comparison, because if this rhythm it’s going to continue until Friday... THEN I’m going to look ‘Liquified’.
Translation: not hot enough for a Friday night!
This is a sentence I never thought I’d have to think - much less articulate - at 26 years of age.

I’m getting old people!

My psychiatrist once told me that we lie best when we lie to ourselves, so from this day on, I’ll pretend that I’m already 30 years of age.
The tiredness and lack of energy aren’t going to sound so outrageous coming from an old woman…

Sorry to my friends entering the third decade of their lives, the truth can be harsh; but my advice is: embrace it!

In all modesty, isn’t this a wonderful inspiration?

I have to admit, my idea stinks with the reek of genius!!

Greetings from your 26, fast forwarding to 30, year old blogger… looking fine and dandy, of course!

The need to cast out ‘a’ kilo

Women are always worried about weight and that extra amount of skin (fat) that falls over the sides of your jeans; however, it amazes me how less concerned are women who are ACTUALLY overweight, in comparison with those who aren’t but can find an ounce of fat in the slimmest body.
So I’m talking to a friend the other day, and we’re describing the painful experience of having to eat outside after the hundredth time during the week…
I’m not joking!
After you’ve received every family member you could possibly hold as a guest in your house in a crazy short amount of time, eating in restaurants (doesn’t matter how good the restaurant is) it’s an excruciating experience to endure.
We were teasing about that when she said, matter-of-factly:
- … because I need to banish a (one and only) kilo that’s been bothering me non-stop because it doesn’t go away! I mean, I love my wine so I can’t give up that glass with every meal, do you think if I cut the flour, would “it” cry uncle?
And all the while that she’s talking I’m thinking “what is her problem?... is she drunk while we’re talking and I’m not realizing?... mmmhhhh… maybe she needs to lay down the wine after all”.
Because, you see, she’s what I like to call a ‘feather weight’ person.
Her height holds 54 kilos perfectly fine… and I don’t know why is she soooo worry about 1(one) kilo when I need to figure out how the hell am I going to get rid of half my body mass?... and I’m not fretting that much… should I?
I mean, I’m plump where women are supposed to be plump… I miss when we were babies and everybody loved our body fat (babies of the world: enjoy society’s acceptance of your body fat while it lasts).
There you have it; women are psychos when they’re obsessing about their chubbiness (or lack of. for that matter).
My friend was still fretting in my ear about the “kilo” that was stalking her… I love her to death—it’s just as well we didn’t hook up to meet that day... What with the bitching about being stuck with 2 pounds of fat she didn’t ask for and didn’t want, and the way she manages (quite unconsciously, I’m sure) to make everything about her . . . nope, nope, nope. If she was with me now, I probably would have jammed a needle full of morphine into my heart before the end of the day.
I’m chubby but happy… deal with it!
PS: R.B., don’t kill me now!

It beats you to peaces...

We’ve been enjoying two weeks with my small brothers (who don’t have one hair of ‘little’ or ‘small’ in them) and our challenge has been food.
They have it into their heads that we’re to show them all the different culinary amazements that New York has to offer; always eating something from another country, with a different spice or ingredient.
After 14 days of taking them to eat Italian, Indian, Chinese, Japanese, Portuguese, Mexican or any other nationality you can remember, they came up with a phrase that reflects how filling or tasty or good the food was.
So we could be seating in the fanciest restaurant, as last night, eating Italian pasta in Little Italy; when the smallest of my brothers, finished a huge amount of gnocchi with a spicy tomato sauce and, grabbing his stomach, without a care in the world, he said:
- It F&%$ING beats you to pieces!
It’s difficult to translate an Argentinean slang into English, but let me tell you that I’m going to regret having fed their enthusiasm with the phrase by laughing every time they said it… because I can see the reprimand of my father when they arrive in Buenos Aires and start saying that the food is so good that you’re crumbling into F&%$ING pieces… being beaten-up by a steak or a pasta or a hamburger.
I’m sorry dear father; I’m returning you two little brats, with an acquired taste for spicy and rare food, difficult to please and possibly, six pounds overweight and most importantly for you: they now love Americans, speak English fluently and want to stay and live in NY... so long third world countries, hello United States!

Deodorants that smell like Drain makes me Dizzy

I have this vivid memory, of a family trip to Brazil, when my sisters and I were very little and we loved small rubber toy ponies with dyed hair the color of strawberry and smelling of tutti-frutti.
We used to fight to get the opportunity to hold the most beautiful one; squeeze it against our small chests and try to impose a hateful glare to your sisters, who were trying, just as hard, to snatch it from you.
In this journey, I remember we traveled in my mom’s yellow Peugeot 504, an ’84 model that lasted almost 15 years in the family until its engine gave out after a flood in Buenos Aires.
We used to travel in the backseat (as proper children must do), and try to come out with entertaining activities that always ended in huge fights over the poor little toy pony.
In that particular trip, I understood that while going in a sinuous road you can’t be doing anything else than concentrating not to throw-up; I learned that I could no longer sustain the smell of tutti-frutti (doesn’t matter the appealing appearance of the toy) and most importantly, I realized that for as long as I should live, I would need to sit in the front seat of a car or drive; if I didn’t want to experience that sinuous road all over again.
With that in mind:
My husband and I are really picky with deodorants.
I hate fruity smelly body products, I cannot wear a perfume for more than 2 hours (baby colognes are better tolerated) and he’s always looking for the last innovation in odour control, because he definitely hates the smell of plain and simple sweaty skin.
So I shop around pharmacies scouting for new items all the time, and last night, I found a ‘clinical strength’ deodorant with a ‘light’ fresh scent (that was what the label said).
I bought it right away to try it (I’m one to think that we should change shampoos and deodorants every moth) but since I’m kind of a coward, I put in on my husband’s side to receive his feedback after the use.
We awoke this morning and I ask about the new and improved (with ‘clinical strength’) deodorant and he makes a face (like when you smell baby poop for the first time) and tells me that it had a strange fragrance, one he didn’t particularly liked.
In equal measures, I’m a coward and headstrong, so disregarding that comment as a ‘too picky’ for comfort, I decided to try the deodorant myself.
Huge mistake!
While driving from my house to the office I perceived a headache building up at the back of my head, I started to notice the slightest smell of strawberries, mixed with chewing gum and apples, my stomach started growling (and not from hunger), my eyes started to dance inside their sockets and all the awful memories of my trip to Brazil with my toy baby pony came rushing back at me.
I hate to tell you that I’m sticking to Baby powder as deodorant, and as soon as I get home I’ll throw the ‘clinical strength’ down the garbage chute.
I cannot stand my armpits, smelling sooooo fruity!! And I don’t know how I’m going to drive the way back home with that awful smell inside the car… 40 degrees outside and I’ll have to ride with my windows down.

"Life is a roller coaster"… uhh?

Have you heard this particular tacky line more than once in your life?
I have… and let me tell you, it’s all wrong!
This past weekend we were with my two ‘big’ little brothers at Six Flags.
They love theme parks and since that one in particular has the fastest and highest roller coaster in the world (Kingda Ka)… the phrase ‘running towards the entrance’ doesn’t even begin to cover the excitement they had when we arrived.
If you had the experience of riding a roller coaster you’re familiar with the previous building excitement that becomes pure adrenaline when you’re almost to launch off, the expectations about the length of the trip and the steep falls… not that I know anything of it, I couldn’t master the art of ‘food holding’ with my stomach so ‘Six hours into the Cyber Café’ was MY theme park.
But nevertheless, I know second-hand the exhilarant emotion that comes with a roller coaster… no bad feelings, no sad moments… even the drops are funny!!
It’s not like you’re thinking: ‘Nooo!! Here comes the fall, let’s start preparing for the worst’
When you plunge down into the empty air you’re screaming your hat off, eyes open, prepared for anything that comes next… the drops are the astounding parts of the experience!!
So, regarding that particular phrase, I think that the ignorant that wrote it, didn’t know S#*T about life or roller coasters for that matter.
Life for me it’s like a family barbecue: you have the juicy, tender steaks, the warm roasted potatoes, the Italian sausage… but you also have the disgusting liver and chewy kidneys, the lettuce salad or the afterwards indigestion… those are real reasons to cry over for!!
Don’t you think?
I’m institutionalizing the phrase: Life is a barbecue… enjoy it! (while it last).

Every time my husband and I spend some time apart; we cannot find our usual rhythm right away

When I returned from Argentina (thankfully with the good news that my grand-father was back at his house, driving our grand-mother crazy again) I had tons of work to come to, and my husband just started a financial course… and my brother in law was visiting… and our dog needed a bath… and all the household duties were pretty much falling behind… so no time for chit-chat either.

However, we both appreciate each other’s company very much, so while he was doing his thing, seated in the couch, I would find something useful to do while accompanying him; that way, we could share, at least, our presence.

I’m awful with finance and economy and all that involves my husband’s work. I love marketing, and promotions, and commercials… you know: funnier things. But every time we’re seated together, doing what we like, with the muted TV as our witness, he always tries to involve me in his things, so I can learn the stuff that he finds most interesting (the key word being: HE).

So he starts these monologues, presenting all kind of boring facts, whit the enthusiasm of a two-year old with a Popsicle and I stare, trying to look interested... and failing.

After he finishes (I notice because his lips stop moving) he looks at me intently, waiting for an answer, and I try to say something dazzlingly amusing and erudite in reply, but I can’t think of anything, so instead I just give him my most gaily smile, hoping to get away with it.

That’s when he stands, looks at me in a reproachful way and storms off, thinking to himself: how is it that I cannot show curiosity for something as interesting as finance?

Pluh-ease!

It happened to me for trying to reach higher than what I’m intended to… I have to stick to books, food, cinema, TV, history and maybe some maths… or not!

Greetings from you serial overachiever who just learned a hard lesson: being married to someone doesn’t mean that you like or enjoy the same things… most of the times, it means the exact opposite… opposites do attract.

I prefer werewolves… they are hotter, leaner and cutter

While in Argentina I took advantage of the fact that I have sisters… all of them engrossed in the Twilight Saga and Edward and Bella’s never-ending love story; so it didn’t require much begging from my part to go to the movies and see Eclipse, the latest release of the series.

It was my last day in Argentina after a week full of hospital visits, so a change of scenery was well deserved.

One of the perks of Buenos Aires is that everything is open late… you can have dinner at 2 am in the morning or attend the cinema at the same time; so after a succulent meal in an Spanish restaurant (you have to be Argentinean to understand the reasons that even though you’re in Argentina you decide to eat a paella instead of a barbecue) we headed for the movies.

The film started and the three of us where seated just in the middle of the theatre, with the perfect view of Jacob’s amazing six-pack, when three girls entered and, in complete darkness, where trying to find some chairs and at the same time, keeping track of what was happening on the screen.

I don’t blame them; it was rather difficult to get your eyes off that tanned skin!

At just the moment when a kiss was coming and all the audience was expectantly waiting for the scene to happen, one of the girls staggered and fell, face first, over the stairs….

That’s when the whole theatre exploded, in unison, to a laugh; and my sisters and I realized that being part of a huge family gives you the warmth and love of many persons, but at the same time, you get to stumble over your cousins in an awkward situation, where she’s looking like a spastic individual and at the same time greeting you, so no point in denying that you’re probably related!!

So much for inconspicuous places and sister’s night out… WITH a family like mine, don’t bother!!

Small gatherings don’t exist in our language and most importantly, even though Buenos Aires is huuuge, we’ve GOT this magnetism that pulls us together, no matter the time NOR the place.

Next time I’m planning a night out with my sisters, I’ll suggest we stay home… at least there; we can control who enters and who leaves the house.

Over and out!

A bedpan situation…

Last week I travelled to Argentina because my grand-father was hospitalized… I guess that heart problems and old age don’t get along really well in an 88th year old person.

 Don’t let my gracious comments misguide you; we were all worried by the situation, but with a family member in the ICU, you have to lead your emotions to other less important matters and stop fretting every time a nurse enters the room.

As you learned before, we’re a numerous family with members ranking in all ages… during visiting hours, the waiting room was crowded by us, chatting along, trying to send good vibes to our bed resting grand-father, even though we couldn’t enter his room all at the same time.

 We took turns to accompany him during his stay, so I got to experience the uncanny feeling of being left in the ICU alone, with an 88th year old person who was as demanding and difficult as a child. Whoever thought that high doses of medicine and being in a hospital bed was a synonym for recovery and tranquility, didn’t spent 5 hours with their ex-military grand-father into a four-walled room, stranded on a bed.

Everything bothered him, the light… the dark, the noise… the quietness, the cables, the pinching needles, the tasteless food (he was always demanding for a steak with fries)… just like a bored child who wants to push your buttons until you crack.

But I managed to stay strong and attend all his requests without uttering a single word.

My problem arrived when he requested the bedpan (you know, to do his number 2) and I entered the bathroom to get it and without even thinking about it I put it on the floor, at the bottom of the bed, below him… and he stared at me, while thinking (I’m assuming): What’s her problem? Does she think that my poop is going to teleport there?

At that particular moment, my twin sister, future doctor of the family, entered the room and asked me:

-          Why’s the bedpan on the floor?

-          He asked to do number two… duh!

-          I’ll rephrase then: why’s the bedpan below the bed, on the floor, instead of being below his butt?

-          Huh? (dumb face stamped all over)

-          What is he suppose to do? Concentrate hard enough so the poop can travel through the mattress and get to the bedpan?

-          Isn’t there a hole in the mattress?

Her face told me everything I needed to know… I’m definitely not cut out for nursing.

True story!

One week in England and I already think I’m Jane...

As you probably would’ve guess, I was vacationing in England with my husband’s family.

You can’t go just once in your life to that country, because once you’ve stepped onto its cities, you would want to go back over and over again.

True, summer time it’s not an intelligent time to do tourism in any part of the world, because most of the time, you’re walking down the streets and doing the mandatory sightseeing while sweating constantly, feeling like you’re decomposing at a slow pace.

However, the beautiful places, the awkward accent and the rudeness of the people compensate for the heat… (Yeah! rudeness… you’re not in England if people don’t give you orders and commands).

Tourists form an anthill onto the streets and you walk awkwardly like an elephant ballerina performing an impossible dance; while being pushed and throw forward (and I thought that New York was impossible to walk on!!).

We celebrated my brother in law’s graduation, so most of the time we spend it having fancy dinners and lunches (Argentineans and Dominicans don’t need a worthy excuse to celebrate), hence, we did obligatory walking to digest the meal down afterwards.

We carried boxes and luggage to move the 4 year’s worth of rubbish collected by my brother-in-law (I think I improved my arm’s strength in the process so no exercise for the next year or so) from Oxford to London, his next 4 years destination… Where more rubbish would be added to the pile and then, he would probably decide to throw everything away, because who on earth’s name would be able to carry all that back to the DR! (So all the moving we did was in vain… I think I’ll probably kill him when I get home tonight).

Anyhow… you can’t be in England without the need to become a sophisticated person, with a weird accent, who drinks tea, attends mass every day at 6 pm to hear the Gregorian chanting in the church, rides the tube (subway it’s too cheap of a word), takes the lift (elevators weren’t invented in England) and most importantly, attains this “double-identity thing” that makes you the next undercover agent in the story of tourists visiting the UK.

So, who am I?

I’ll have to kill you if I tell you… but call me Jane… Jane Bond.

Me, the Flu and a Disgusting potion

The worst thing that can happen to you is to know that you’re going on a trip and start feeling the symptoms of an awakening cold, creeping out from your nose to the outer world, ready to throw you on a permanent bed rest.

Today I woke up with that feeling.

I couldn’t differentiate the cold from an allergy, so I didn’t know if my trip to London was going to be pestered with tissue paper and decongestives, or if I only needed a couple of hours for the morning allergy to pass its usual course.

Reluctantly, I started to prepare my husband’s usual concoction when in suspicion of a cold.

Unenthusiastically I took a Thera-Flu with honey, a pill of Centrum and a glass of orange juice; all this without my usual morning coffee… yuck!

At first I didn’t feel anything, but after a while, somewhere up inside the “mucusy” caverns of my cranium, I thought I felt my sinuses throw their hands up into the air and admit defeat.

I can be really persistent when I want something (or don’t want it); big surprise when the cold decided to recede to its usual hibernation mode and allow me for a 10 days vacation without the torments of a runny nose and constant headaches.

Who’s your mummy now? B-I-A-T-C-H!

The "Inactivity" individual vs the Vamp Woman

Sunday was my first relaxing day after 2 weeks of non-stop activity.

It was a rainy day and my husband decided to invite me to a Yankees game, however, I found the perfect excuse and showed my generosity by offering my spot to my brother-in-law who’s here on vacations (I’m such a considerate person!); so I gratefully stayed while they went along to the stadium, hammering rain and all.

I mean, I love to do stuff with my hubby, but let’s face it; I’m not such an outdoors type of person and for me, the most appealing thing to do (ever) is to be wrapped like a blanket-burrito with the A/C in full blast and a movie playing in my computer.

At one point, my eyes where getting tired and I threw myself (gracefully positioned, doesn’t fit my profile) over the sofa and let my legs dangle over the arm, the position on which nature intended music to be listened to, and I played my favourite artists on my iPod.
Slow music on a rainy day has to be considered the most remedial treatment to be invented by mankind: it’s free, it doesn’t involve drugs (prescription type people!) and you get to do it at home.

By 5 pm, I was a new and improved person, my mood was back on superior mode, I had tons of energy (whoever said that endorphins only get produced while exercising never tried my inactivity therapy) and on top of all that, I had the free time to continue reading my books.

The down size of all this laying around is that once you get back to a fast paced routine, your body requires extra time to accommodate to the new hysteria around you; so today I was feeling dizzy just by driving in my car towards the office.

While the city, traffic jams, people, cars, stop-lights and chaos unravelled around me, I made a mental note to find out if bright colors can cause nausea…

With a sudden realization, it hit me: I become a “vamp” during these therapeutic processes.

I continue to live among common people without the need to feed on blood (rather on coffee and cheese cake) and the sensibility to light and noise and chaos, for the next two hours or so, until I’m back to my normal self: still an inactivity lover; but grateful for summer and vivid colors.

Regards from your recovered "Forks" girl, who’s not a vampire, rather a quiet-type-of-Sunday individual.

Monday… Tuesday… Thursday… Wednesday… Friday… Sunday… Saturday

Don’t take The Godfather as the Bible; it DOES matter what day of the week is.
Today started as a regular Friday: getting up earlier than usual to avoid all the vacationers that leave town in the weekends and decide to use their cars only in that particular day.

I didn’t have my lunch ready so I grabbed a yogurt and a fruit for the whole day (I started to see little bright lights in the screen near midday); all for the sake of leaving Manhattan with the first commuters that understand the precious time and patience that one wastes on a traffic jam.

However, twenty psychos decided to collide head-on with each other and packed the highway with tow-trucks, police cars and imbeciles that have enough free time to stand there and watch while the destroyed vehicles are being towed away.

A four-lane highway reduced to a one-lane street translates as the wonderful idea to fit the ocean in a fishbowl... impossible.

If it takes me 75 minutes to get to work every day, today I drove for 180 minute at an ant-paced velocity, with my mood decreasing every two seconds.

While I was standing in this 6 miles long lane waiting for my turn to finally be free of the traffic jam, I made a note of all the unuseful quotes that The Godfather has to offer:

- “monday tuesday thursday wednesday friday sunday Saturday”: can you please explain to the guy that Monday and Friday are not the same?? Jeez!!

- “Leave the gun. Take the cannoli”: Give me the gun! I want to shoot something!!... Leave the cannoli, I don’t get hungry when in “assassination mode”.

- “I make him an offer he won't refuse”: I wouldn’t stay in a traffic jam no more than five minutes, doesn’t matter what you could offer, my patience wouldn’t take it.

- “Go to the mattresses”: What is a mattress has to do with anything? The mattress makes me sleepy, no fighting when I’m sleepy.

No wonder men don’t have a clue about anything. For them, The Godfather is their Bible, they abide by its rules as if God himself wrote the script.

One thing I do agree with The Godfather is: .. "your business is a little....dangerous”.

Yes it is!
Not an easy task to be a Working commuting housewife with no tolerance for anything other than silence.


I hear you… I’m still hearing you… Mum’s the word.