Facebookism, Messengerism, Twitterism... my life in 140 characters or less

We're part of a society that communicates in a virtual manner.

I prepare dinner and let my husband know via Whats App what he'll be eating and at what time I'm planning to serve the food.
I get on my two-hour train ride to work and I complain about the weather on Facebook, bitching about my morning and the rain soaking the hem of my pants.
I go to my weekly contemplative prayer meetings with my friends, and I have to tweet about some witty comment that I heard or said during the reunion.

My life has become a series of short, but deep insights, translated on 140 or less on the cyber space that surrounds us.
As Descartes would have said: I "tweet/post/share" therefore I am.

I still have my blog where I can extend the line of thought on a particular matter and share more crap than usual (but within reason) of the events that surround my life.

I  don't know who reads me, what they think of me or the effect that my words have on them, but it's so good to get it out!

Manso "The Holligan"

We’ve a dog in Argentina; he’s called Manso, which in Spanish means tame.
This is an irony on itself because our dog is a Hooligan.

Our pets don’t behave like they KNOW; rather they behave the way they’ve LEARNED (not necessarily well) to behave.

Manso "the Holligan" learned to bark, be rude and incite fear on every visitors.

I stay at my home in Argentina at least two times a year.

This guy knows me and my husband, but every time we arrive at the door and press the ring bell, we have to be careful not to be eaten in pieces because he’s barking and chewing at the steel bars trying to get to us.

I’ve resourced to soothing voices, calling ahead so someone can wait for us at the door, but most times, Manso it’s the dictator at the door, barking away like a stressed/high dog.

He needs a daily Valium dose. That would be my prescription to make him normal.

In the mean time, I’m sure he’ll continue to be a thug.

A thug/hooligan/ruffian called “tame”. 

This is the weirdest paradox ever!

Family recipes... puff!

Women are very secretive, mainly about our period, our virginity and most important of all: family recipes.

At first, I started noticing that my cooking skills were going down the drain, but this only happened when I was trying some of my friends’ recipes.

If I was following up the steps from an online website or my mother-in-law’s recipes, I was sure to get the final result as similar as possible to the end product.

This started bugging me, because I attended dinners to some of my friend’s houses and the food was amazing (especially desserts), but when I tried the ‘so called’ family recipe in my kitchen, I was never able to replicate the dish as I had tested it during our get together.

Dripping Flans, weird looking corn puddings, dull dishes and a non-stop chain of failures.

And then, I finally got it! 

I was being completely cheated of the ‘secret ingredient’ of every recipe I was given. All the events were an ‘almost got it’ type of situation, but I never was able to ‘get it’ correctly.

So dear old friends: I’m onto you.

We talk about the weirdest things and share our most deep secrets when we’re together, but a simple family recipe can throw all that down the drain, all for the sake of continue being the one and only person on our circle that can cook that perfect dish without the overshadow of some of us stealing your thunder.

Well, two can play that game.
I’ll be sure to start switching ingredients on my recipes, or removing some key component so all you’ll get will be tasteless, shapeless, inedible dishes.
And when you come back to me and ask me: What happened? Why I didn’t do it as you?

I’ll tell you the true: because I wanted to be the only one to get it right.
Family recipe… puff.
I’m only giving ‘changed’ family recipe from now on.

The roundness of the wine, the square of its taste, the line of its smell

My husband and me had a business/pleasure dinner yesterday in a restaurant called Marea, just across the Central Park.

My husband has been teaching me to become a social drinker since we first started dating. 

I can now enjoy a glass of wine without tripping on my way to the bathroom… I used to have zero alcohol tolerance.

However, even though I can now attest to being a social drinker, I still lack the sophisticated palate to discern a bad grape juice from a refined wine.

We have an inside joke (that only I can do in public) when the Maitre d’ comes to our table for the first wine pouring. My husband had just ordered a Barolo wine, and when the waiter poured it for us, I imitated my big sister (who supposedly did a wine tasting course herself), by:

1.       Grabbing my wine glasses

2.       Swirl  the wine around the glass

3.       Put it against the light to see the thickness or darkness of the liquid

4.       Sip the liquid into my mouth and twirl it with my tongue to get the best flavors in.

And then, I start saying how 'round' it is, how the ‘squareness’ of the smells explode on my nose and my tongue can perceive the 'straight line' of its taste. 

How the taste of the wine it’s like a 'pentagon' (since it can’t possibly be just, simple, old wine) with a flowery scent.

I can come up with a lot of geometrical shapes to meet the wine’s character… I’m just that good!!

If you’ve ever witnessed an 'expert' doing a wine tasting, you know exactly what I’m talking about, and if you’ve seen my sister, then you can picture how ridiculous it looks to me, since I've never done a wine tasting course . 

I'm merely a social drinker with no palate, but sans course and all, I manage to look as ridiculous as her... for free!

My pals: Djoki vs. Davy @ the US Open

This past weekend we had our first US Open experience.

After living in New York for the past three years, we finally decide to give this tennis event a chance, or at least, I decided, since my husband has always been wiling.

Arriving was easy, but the “VIP” parking was two kilometres away and we had to walk a lot to get to the stadium. By the time we arrived my feet were a sweaty mess and I was eager to be seated, even if it meant to endure five hours of non-stop tennis.

The crowd at the Open was a pastiche of people: different smells (mostly sweat), different nationalities (mostly Americans), different styles (mostly non-fashion) and different characters (mostly fans).

We went to see Djokovic vs. Davydenko, the number one player versus the thirty-nine ranked player in the world (not rocket science to figure out the winner of that one); but we first had to endure the Women’s single match. You don’t know the players (neither did I) so no need to summarize that one.

After the Women's match, came the match between David versus Goliath, and of course, Goliath beat the crap out of poor little Davy.

During the game, at the end of each set, the crowd would make games, coordinate waves; we even had a dirty dance session by a crazy guy who danced his belly off along a rap song while the complete stadium did a standing ovation for his performance. He slightly looked like Conan (not the barbarian, the red headed one) and the crowd loved every piece of it.

After my dear pal Djoki won the match against Davy, he even joined the fun and performed an awkward ‘serpent’ dance that confirmed to all of us that he just plays tennis. 

Doing everything else with his body will be borderline impossible since he has zero style.

Dear Djoki: keep up with racket swinging and leave dancing to the experts please.

All mighty Irene... say what?

This past weekend we had the visit from dear old Irene.
Nope, she’s not the neighbour, rather a mean, old, scary looking hurricane with a weak name that was threatening the East coast cities in the US with lots of water and high speed winds.
Every time we turned the TV prior to Irene’s forecasted arrival, we were welcomed with mind-boggling data about our death sentence; since no one could possibly survive a category 1 hurricane in New York city (can you read the irony between the lines?).
My husband, and several million of other people in the world, who are native of the Caribbean islands can testify the little commotion that a category 1 hurricane causes in Dominican Republic, where their standard hurricane visits are from above category 4.
I’m sure they would be playing domino in the backyard while Irene blows some refreshing wind on their faces and spits some rain on them.
North Americans are exaggerated in this matter and they cannot be realistic over national disasters.
Their DNA it’s messed up on all subject pertaining calamities.
A red light goes out on their heads once they hear: National + Disaster in the same sentence and automatically starts a chain reaction where news become sensational and seasoned for the avid disaster driven American.
Nonetheless, there’s always a good excuse to do nothing and enjoy the weekend watching TV (not the news channel) in a coma-like state.
I spent two days stomach-up on the sofa, reading a book (to my husband’s annoyment, since he says I have ‘selective hearing’ while I'm reading) and getting up only when I was hungry enough to justify the effort of cooking something.

What can I say?
National disasters make me lazy.

Alex Berne got us in, Pink Jesus got us out

Living in New York has the ‘crazy’ perks that any other boring city cannot offer.
When I say ‘crazy’ perks, I mean those rare events that you get to enjoy on a random night with friends.
My husband and I were invited to a live music show from a Dominican friend. Please, bear in mind that we knew the music style and tunes level that our friend’s music offers, so we were happy to attend and enjoy guitar playing with solo singing: a Latino John Mayer style.
We arrived at Bar East a bit early and decided to go in and wait for Alex Berne’s show.
When going down the stairs (I forgot to mention that the bar was in a basement), we started to hear this noise: It cannot be described as music, rather a deafening sound that threaten to overwhelm you.
I grab a hold on the stair’s handrail so I wouldn’t fall on my ass, because I literally felt that I was pushed backwards by the music.
“Pink Jesus” was playing hard core, thunderous music; and we were caught up trying to decide if we should wait outside or lose our hearing abilities.
It was definitely one or the other; because there was no way that the noise they were making wouldn’t damage our eardrums completely.
“Pink Jesus” was definitely not performing church songs, or soft, slow tunes.
I turn and run for the door; I stumble a bit (as usual) since I was wearing high heels (I would’ve stumble anyhow), and got outside a bit short of breath and grabbing my ears.
My husband was right behind me, laughing like crazy. He couldn’t decide which was better: “Pink Jesus” singing heavy rock, or his wife, running for her ears’ life.
Sad to say that we had to wait at least thirty more minutes for Alex Berne’s show, but at least, we kept our distance from the Jesus guys and their NOT pink music.
The performance of our friend was totally worth it!

Ears safe 'n Sound

www.alexbernemusic.com

Plátano, Plátano!

One of the perks of having friends from all over the world is that when we get together there’s never a dull moment.

We try to keep our nights-out interesting by choosing restaurants from every possible place of the world.

So far we’ve tried Russian food, Lebanese, Argentinean, Italian and our most recent choice: a Dominican place recommended by my husband, so we could experience the culinary offers of his home country.

The restaurant was located on Downtown Manhattan, and we arrived at the place twenty minutes late after having hunted around for parking spots on the area: there were none.

On the other hand, it was out of the question to arrive on time, since Latinos are know for their unpunctuality, so we couldn’t brake the tradition and arrive on schedule: impossible!!

My husband was in charge of ordering for the whole group and his recommendations were diverse and abundant (Latin Americans don’t practice the word: moderation) and C.T.’s husband was asking questions left to right:

‘What’s this?’ ‘What’s in it?’, ‘is it spicy?’; he even asked if we could provide the recipe for some of  the Dominican dishes.

Needless to say he was appreciating the food and what the ‘Dominican style’ cooking had to offer.

C.T.’s husband is from Germany and since they only have ‘wurst’ and hot ‘bier’ there, tasting black beans and sweet plantains was a blast to his palate and his stomach.

The dish that most caught his attention was plantains. Dominicans eat it mature or green, fried or sautéed, pureed or sliced. Any way you want it, they serve it.

My husband, caught up on the emotion of having such an enthusiastic commensal, started saying the Spanish word for plantain out loud:
Plátano! (pride and joy on his voice)

And H.T. would repeat:

Plátano! (German smile on his face)

My dear hubby, enthusiastic as he is, tried to do a fist pump with him and offered H.T. his knuckles looking for the returning pump, but H.T. (caught up in the moment I’m sure) thought that my husband was offering him a ‘hand microphone’, so he put his face near my husband’s hand and said:

Plátano! Plátano! (Still showing the German smile on his face)

We couldn’t contain the giggles and hard on laughs for the next twenty minutes.

 We spent the rest of our dinnertime, doing several impersonifications of H.T.’s ‘plátano episode’ and trying to come up with other situations were the ‘hand microphone’ was used and one of us would shout:
Plátano!, and that would be enough to bring us back to grabbing our bellies and laughing to tears.

Soccer, my father and me

We are born fanatics.

This, I learned while accompanying my father on a three-hour ride every Sunday for a soccer match.

I was seven years old and after such a long trip, I was bored out of my mind, but the excitement to see him play and score a goal was incredible.

Going with my father to his soccer matches was an adventure, we had fun and we played hard.

However, not all is enjoyable for us girls regarding the all-loving sport of our fathers.

The establishments where soccer was played (a long time ago) were created for men; decent bathrooms were rare commodities and  ‘bushes’ or ‘holes’ were our best friends.

We squatted around and did our business: that was the way for my child-self.

My sisters and I ate hot dogs with candy until we were bursting full, and then, we seated around the field (while holding our tummies) to admire the beauty of a game that, for us, was dangerous and enticing at the same level.

Amateurs’ games sometimes ended with 31 total scored goals (an outstanding number that we thought was the way - even Professional soccer - was played), and while sometimes our father was not part of the winning team, the emotion that filled the space around them, with victory cheers, hugs and back slaps made us happy nevertheless.

The winning team would take home a big golden cup, proof that even without formal training, they could be – for just a little while – the champions of their world.

My father was our childhood hero.

He was born a fan and has tried to teach us to be fans: loving the game, the emotions, the excitement, the scores and the team.

He might not have succeeded to make me a fanatic of his soccer team, but I’m a soccer follower, and even at 5,000 miles away from my home, when Argentina plays,

I still feel that I’m rooting for my father, who sometimes won, but others just played hard but lost.

My father who was born a fan, and will die one.

Note: this is my first article published at Revista 10 www.facebook.com/revista10

Bostera: female follower and fan of Boca Juniors soccer team

Most soccer fans are born to be followers of their father’s favorite team.

If you were born a girl, then your team of choice will be bestowed upon you, without conflict nor expected revelry.

You had the obligation to be a proud admirer of that unknown team that you neither learned to love nor impressed you with their winning strikes; rather by what your father thought was the best team that you could possibly be an aficionada of.

I was born a rebel and it was imparted, upon my birth, the admiration towards Independiente, an Argentinean team winner of seven Libertadores Cups, three of which, were consecutive victories. This achievement was enough for my father’s standards, but me, being an insurgent, decided that other options were better suited for my soccer criteria.

When I turned sixteen, at the prime of my rebellion, our father decided to take my family and I to Independiente’s soccer stadium for an out–of-season friendly match.

Our opponent was Boca Juniors, one of the most successful clubs in Argentina and in the world, having won 41 official titles at the national and international level.

Boca was playing with their substitute team so it was a safe bet for Independiente; hence, the interest of my father to make us witnesses of a predicted blood-bath for Boca, and finally convert us to his team.

Our seats were located just across Boca’s supporters and I was mesmerized by the enthusiasm of their songs and surprised that just in the middle of it all, there was an empty space, unoccupied and waiting to be claimed.

Independiente’s side was full, complete; however, Boca was waiting for their honor guest: La Doce, the team’s barra brava and most fervent supporter.

Minutes before the game, a commotion started across the field and I had premium seats for the development: La Doce begun to climb the stairs towards their seats, while singing and waving their team’s flag, declaring its rightful place on Independiente’s soccer stadium.

A proud and fearless supporter; tireless on the task to overwhelm their rivals with melodic weapons.

That night, Independiente lost 3-1 against Boca’s substitute team.

La Doce never stopped chanting and undulating their flag, even when Independiente scored his first (and only) goal.

La Doce vibrated harder and stronger than Independiente’s supporting public. I had goose bumps the whole duration of the game.

My twin sister and I became proud followers of Boca Juniors.

I don’t have a clue where they’re in the soccer charts, if they’re winning or loosing, which players its team has, if they changed the coach or attire, but of one thing I’m completely sure: La Doce is surely rocking the stands.

Battery Dog... NOT!

I’ve always been proud of my dog.
Everyone loves Buono. He’s like a teddy bear… but from the canine breed.
All white hair, plushy and soft. He’s also really intelligent (when he wants to be) and looks at you like if he’s having a conversation:  concentrated on what you’re saying.
Our German guests have been making fun of him and since Friday, Buono has received a new nick name: the battery dog.

-          Where is the off-switch? – they ask me – Is there an App to remotely control him?

-          There’s an App for that! – they say all proud of their wittiness – I control Buono from my iPhone seated in the couch.

Ha.
Ha.
Ha.

I am outraged over this. The private joke goes around daily and all I do is defend my dog.
And Buono is not helping because when they joke about him, he just moves his tail and jumps around: likes he enjoys being the center of attention!

Plueze.. don’t help me that much.

I have a plan of attack though: when the Buono App joke appears into the discussion, I’ll just play dumb, but when they’re out and about buying all of New York to fit on their overflowing bags, Buono will be rolling around their beds, playing with his toys over the pillows or pooping all over the balcony so they can’t go out and take some fresh air.

I’ll make sure he gets his revenge. Count on it.

The battery dog will become the revenge dog, and of course there’s an App for that: ME!

Dominican style

My husband and I went to the airport to pick up some friends that came from Germany to visit the big apple.

One thing that we’ve learned during these past three years is that visitors enter the country with light weight luggage and small suitcases; but leave it with overweighted bags and lots of small stuffs hanging from every possible place.
Most importantly, they wear a lot of clothes on them: to make the travel weight of their baggages more efficient. It doesn’t matter if it’s 30°C degrees outside; they wear jackets and coats like its winter.

Our surprise came when at the arrival of our friends, we realized they had four bags and all of them were really heavy. They hadn’t even started the shopping spree yet, but they were already doomed for overweight charges.
We tried to get everything in our car, but our efforts were futile and we ended up all crammed inside like in a sardine can.

Dominican style!

That’s how we referred to the situation, being that in my husband’s home country, the public transportation is performed by these small, crappy, old cars, that carry five people (minimum), and you have to force yourself inside and pray to god the door will close and you’ll arrive to your destination safe and sound.

 Our car is not small - in comparison to the Dominican ‘conchos’ - but the over stacking of luggage, plus passengers, added to all the knick and knacks they were carrying, we ended up arriving with cramps and back pains, all thanks to the uncomfortable positions we withheld for the forty-five minutes ride to our home.

Bengay and Icy-Hot for me.
Regards from an invalid hostess with a whole week ahead of moaning and bitching about the nuisances of Dominican style traveling.

Nutered or Neutered?

Our dog was neutered this past week.
It’s a simple procedure where in twenty minutes time under heavy anaesthesia, they remove one of his male parts and he’s left emasculated with a plastic cone around his neck to show for it.

I’m not laughing when I see him crash against the walls, crash against the floor or crash against us… at least, not on the outside.

It seems awful of me, but believe me: I can’t help it.

I’m being all tender with him: giving him treats, brushing his hair, and petting him more than usual to compensate for the cone-wearing state I have left him after a visit to the Vet.
My husband chastises me all the time because I stifle some giggles while helping Buono get onto his bed or while playing whit him and seeing how he can’t pick-up his favourite toy from the ground.

His cone is always on his way, he can’t even eat properly but growls at me when I get near his food.
I’ve come up with a strategy to make him learn faster how to properly walk for the next ten days: every time he has to walk some place and bums into chairs or the table, I grab his cone, and help him walk while saying: “up, up, keep it up”.

He looks at me with annoyance in his face, most surely thinking: how is it possible that I’m the uncoordinated one now?

Buono knows that I can’t walk straight and am always stumbling onto something.

I’ve seen him dreadfully looking at me when I’m stepping over him, afraid that I might fall over and make dog-puree out of him.

Now, I’m the one on the lookout, keeping an eye for “the cone”, hoping for him not to bump me from behind, because we’ll end up, both of us, splattered onto the floor: the clumsy one and the cone-head.

 Clumsy-Cone Puree

Tap-Water, Video and Meringue

Last Friday we celebrated C.T.’s B-day.
Our group is compound by three couples with very different backgrounds.

My husband who’s from Dominican Republic, C.T.’s husband who’s from Germany, and R.B.’s husband who’s from Switzerland. Me and my girlfriends are the only ones 100% pure Argentineans in the lot.

Every time we get together, I find these new and amazing facts about their lives that surprise me: like when I came across the fact that R.B.’s husband might (or might not) has been a Swiss porn start; his acting career reduced to only one line on the big screen: Aufmerksamkeit (Attention!).

One can only imagine the circumstances when this line was delivered.

Or this other time, when C.T.’s husband was found to have a weakness for Kahlua with berry juice: some story about it being an aphrodisiac for one of his early life girlfriends.
As he explained, the drink transformed the so called girl into this ‘experimental’ person.
With that, I came to the conclusion that: first, he’s really old (thirty five years versus our average twenty eight years calls for a lot more experience; experience equals age), second, he wants to see you wasted (he offers alcoholic drinks like candy; Germans have a lot of resistance to alcohol) and third, when being in a ‘happy’ state, he coughs in your face.

I, on the other hand, get stimulated with diet coke and tap-water.

-          Bring on the hard stuff!! – I said, and the waiter kept them coming.

Let me tell you, after seeing me laugh my ass off, everybody wanted to try tap-water straight up.
That’s to show you that you don’t need to get wasted in order to act insane.

My husband, on the other hand, behaves himself as the Prince he is: elbowing away under the table to every misplaced comment I did under my tap-water stupor, and always complaining about the music of choice by the deaf DJ (mostly dreadful Meringue).

R.B. always sits two miles away from her husband on the table, mostly to talk to him (screaming is more like it) over a sea of people and share dishes over everybody else’s dinner. She never heard about discretion and prudence.

C.B. is pregnant so, she finally has a real excuse not to drink (“I’m the designated driver” was getting old so she decided to get pregnant instead), and of course, we pamper her constantly when we’re together.

The night ended at 10:30 pm: to show that we’re crazy-nighters, party-goers, heavy-drinkers and most importantly, getting old.

www.apizz.com

Shoe-icide

My feet are killing me.

I just returned from work and even though I’m wearing flats I still feel like my toes and nails are screaming to get out of dodge.

It’s amazing what a bad inheritance does to your lifestyle.
Instead of being graced with my mother’s thin, narrow feet, I get stuck with my father’s “empanada style” lower extremities.

Having a messed-up base for my contexture in direct contact with the ground makes it almost impossible for me to walk charmingly as a model… not that I have the body (nor the feet for that matter) to achieve this, but as a woman, it’s a must have necessity to present yourself with grace while walking.

My husband knows not to push or criticize neither my posture nor my walking, however, he sometimes asks me to wear these uncomfortable high heels that destroy my feet beyond recognition.

No pedicure can sustain the amount of stress my nails endure daily, and sometimes I find myself polishing them several times a week to beautify them in a futile effort to make them look presentable.
The sole of my feet suffer as well, and sometimes I have to really be on top of them not to develop a second pair of shoes on them as well.

The only characteristic that my feet offer, which saves them from exile, is that the sizes of my toes are perfectly even between each other.
The longest one if my big toe, and the smallest one it’s my pinkie toe.
This feature is a rarity in female foots where sometimes the middle toe is the longest one… but my mother’s genes took a pity on me and at least, they grazed me with that attribute.

So here I am: feet over head in my couch, my husband looks at me from his peripheral vision and makes a smirk; I’m sure he’s laughing on the inside.. My feet, on the other hand, are full-on, completely careless, free as birds, laughing on the outside.

Good bye flats, hello socks!

Be patient... or not

Patience it’s an alien concept for me.

Rather you're patient, or you aren't: there's no in-between.
When reading a book, I sometimes need to scroll down to the end and then I’ll be able to continue reading; knowing that the hero or heroine of my story are having a happy-ever-after ending.

Books are one of my hobbies, and even though I know it’s like an assassination to the whole process of reading a novel, I just can start in the first page if I know that the ending wouldn’t be as satisfying as I expect it to be.

My twin sister and I share this curse.

Even with movies, I have to ask: - How does it end? -

My friends think I’m crazy and they don’t want to spoil the experience for me, but thank god for Google and the “spoilers alert” when reading reviews.

I always look for those because they’re sure to tell you if you’re headed for disappointment.

This particularly impatient side of my personality is not always reflected only on my hobbies, but rather all of my life.

I love surprises, but I prefer to know them ahead of time.

I know: contradiction alert!

 I do my research if I suspect of something; that’s why my husband could never surprise me when he was living abroad and tried to visit me without me knowing of it.

I’m a sucker for romantic gestures, but most of the time I predict them before they happen, so they don’t have the same effect on me.

My husband can usually work his way around my impatience and we’ve gotten to a point where if he asks me NOT to ask him something about anything: I hold my end of the bargain; even though sometimes it costs me my sanity.

What can I say: I wasn’t born in this world to die of a ‘surprised’ heart attack.

So there you have it: I read non-stop, but I always have to know the end of the books, I go to the movies, but I always read the “spoilers alerts” before paying for my ticket and most importantly, I’m never ever going to be caught off guard with a surprise… the last time that happened was when I got engaged, and let me tell you, it wasn’t an easy feast to work around my astonish face and create a reasonable thought to answer one of the most important questions in my life.

Needless to say, I’m NOT looking forward to anything out of the ordinary to make my life exciting.

I just looove happy “everybody knows about” endings.

To write... or not to write... that's the dilemma

I started a non-fiction writing workshop to improve my Spanish writing skills.

Not that I have none, rather that most of the time I create my stories in my head, and all of them are written in English.

I think it’s a phase; something related to the fact that I live and breathe in an English speaking country, and that forces you to doubt when putting your ideas to paper in Spanish.
My stepmom has been pushing for me to change my writing ways and embrace my mother tongue, but it’s proven to be more difficult than I thought.

Today I’m working on my first assignment: I have to write a letter to someone that hasn’t been in contact with me for the past ten years and I have to put him/her up to speed with my life.

Conflict arises when my first sentence comes alive:

"No time, no see"

The Spanish translation for this phrase is not as catchy, so I start over.

Hernán, our teacher, understands my predicament because he’s been living in the USA for a long time and he tries to use examples from several authors (not just Spanish speaking ones) to make a point over a lesson.

In our next class we’ll have to share what we wrote, but I’m worried that mine will look like a battlefield between the Spanish and the English Armada; with a mixture of Spanglish so entangled that I’ll need a dictionary to put it to sense.

Hopefully, we’ll run out of time in class before it’s my turn to present.

If not, there’s always the “bathroom” excuse or the “I don’t feel that well” excuse; men always think that you’re having your period and they leave you alone, oblivious to your lie.

I’ve never performed really well with an audience.
I was never a very good joker, I don’t have charisma to mingle with people, and I don’t feel comfortable being the center of attentions… so blogging and writing are perfect for me.

My sisters are already suggesting blogs to improve my Spanish writing techniques; and my mom sent me a list of books that I’ll have to decide if they’re too boring or worth my effort after I’ve perused them all (she sent me a 3-page document).

My friend, R.B. subscribed me to a magazine from Spain that’s proven to be really helpful… so luckily, it won’t be long until my pen name will be:

Casada pero desempleada.

Hasta la vista!

http://orsai.es/blog/

http://www.hernanii.net/

Ice doesn't help the uncoordinated

When God chose attributes for my complexion, he stared onto my gene pool and though first to teach my father a lesson for wishing so much for a son, and decided to give him twin daughters (he had three before God took pity on him and allow him for two sons).

Then, God said to himself that green eyes and blond hair would be enough beauty to make me feel comfortable, but not proud… he added all my father’s body characteristics (big butt, chubby, awkward legs, bad nails and crooked teeth) and the cherry to the ice cream came when he made me uncoordinated enough to never even master the art of walking properly.

Hence, I had to survive high school and braces at the same time, I never made it to any sports team and I live on a never-ending diet (thanks God, you shouldn’t have bother).

You have to picture an over achiever father with an activities calendar as big as a Triathlon athlete and me, who choses a good reading and coffee over any outdoor activity that involves body effort.

This weekend, my husband decided we should go skiing.

Aside from being the coldest weekend of this winter season, I had no proper clothes for the task and I didn’t want a body injury bad enough to show enthusiasm for his idea.

I have a huge complex… wouldn’t you?

Every sport I had to learn (skiing on water and snow, wave boarding, horse riding, aerobics... walking) was a complete disaster with tears involved, impatient screams, defeat and finally, the achievement that lasted long enough for me to survive and take courage for the next lesson ahead.

So yesterday I had the proper excuse to stay reading and drinking coffee while my husband rode the mountain as an expert (or at least better than me)… but proper didn’t assure me anything, so after much insistence from his part, I decided to give it a try… again (I’m a sucker for ‘pretty please’).

I armored myself with thick pants, scarf, jacket, thermic socks, gloves, proper equipment and headed for the ski slope showing defeat and fear at the same time… disaster was to come and I was willingly walking towards it.

To my surprise, I didn’t even stumbled once… I realized that most of my incoordination came from surviving the wrong teaching lessons and that I wasn’t as incapable as I thought… granted, I’m no sports lover, but needless to say that it was my first enjoyed ski ride.

Our next weekend activities would be beach-laying or mountain-staring or city-contemplation… but for this one weekend, I really enjoyed an outdoor activity with body effort involved.

Winter love, Winter food and Winter city

Marriage, like Lentils and living in a big city, was something I had never thought I would get used to.

I change my mind about New York when I saw the city from the top of the Rockefeller Center, the New Year’s Eve when my husband (by then Fiancée) proposed to me... some three years ago.

From then on, I was a devoted fan of this amazing metropolis and all it had to offer.

Even so, I miss my Caribbean weather… more now that we’re in winter; but New York has grown on me... whatever that means.

Regarding marriage… it took being in love with my husband to make me change my mind about that one.

I was always this independent spirit, never ready to be ‘dominated’ by the male inhabitants of the world, but now, I found it exciting: two people, together, as one.

They say you get used to your wedding ring, but I hope that’s not true.

Since the day I changed from Miss to Mrs., it’s a proud trophy that I carry with me everyday – except when I visit my family in Argentina… security is not one of this country’s major assets -.

I’m where I’m supposed to be. 

I’m happy, I’m content. I’m fulfilled.

As lentils go… I’m still waiting.

Holiday recapitulation

‘Drinkcember’ started with a Brunch in our house.

Some friends were invited and by 1 pm we were all tipsy from the Bellinis (crazy stuff, uhhh)… the bagels and omelets absorbed the little alcohol we were drinking and by 4 pm, it was already dark and my husband and I were exhausted, splayed on the couch, watching TV.
As you can see, it’s a risky business being in our social network (can you hear the irony?).

However, after some days passed, we realized that the tolerance to alcohol began to increase. We made Wine-A-Ritas every weekend. During work days we tried 1 or 2 glasses of wine along with dinner… our excuse being that ‘drinkcember’ happens once a year and we couldn’t let it go to waste.

A small restaurant in our neighbor (which we love and always go for special occasions) was our destination for Christmas Eve… we ate until our bellies ached, and drank enough to fell content and relaxed.

 The walk home was 3 blocks in a really cold weather but we managed to arrive without precedent (my spasticity increases with alcohol and heels, but since it was a short stroll, I survived).

That weekend, we had the 6^th most important snow storm in the last decade, hence, we went out and drove the deserted streets of Manhattan with 6 inches of snow building up by the hour… completely irresponsible, but is not everyday that you get to see (or not see… considering the 10% visibility) Manhattan covered in white.

By New Year’s Eve, the alcohol in our house was reduced to almost nothing… we had succeeded in the difficult task of consuming 6 bottles of wine in a whole month (sarcasm… you think?).

For some people, partying and club hoping are fun ways to enjoy the start of a new year, my husband and I enjoyed a fondue during dinner, drinking wine and watching the Times Square ball event that happens every year.

What can I say? We enjoy each other’s company… and it’s really too cold outside to motivate us out of the house… and it’s a crazy scenery on the streets, where everyone is too excited for their own good.

So, in the end, this was our first holidays alone since we got married.

We realized that youth and adventure go hand-in-hand in our lives (what white the surprise flight fiasco, the driving in the snow... and other events transferred in this blog), however, craziness and partying it’s a whole new level of youngness that we decided not to pursue… low alcohol levels and decent sleep hours are something that we don’t want to give up.

Therefore, if you’re looking for a night out in the city, with lots of booze, long nights, sleepy days and crazy events… don’t count with us.

Convivio Restaurant (www.convivionyc.com)