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.