Movies at the cinema, "always" a “democratic” event

As living residents in one of the continent’s most politically driven countries, my husband and I rely on democratic policies to choose almost anything worth debating for.
The cinema is one controversial matter that always pops-up when we’re deciding which movie to see.
“Chick flicks” are a constant choice in us (women). Always looking for the fairy tale that has the potential to become real and be our saving grace from cinema productions.
Who can stand to see those bullet shooting-police pursuits-action scenes types of movies? It seems that men can, because those are the films that my husband always wants to go see.
So picture this: if in a household you have two members, one being a man (my hubby) and the other one being a gorgeous, funny, loving woman (me)… where’s the democracy in this situation?
A tie-game… and a non-existing democracy… unless (that’s what I love about a democratic system, there’s always a “but”) you’re intelligent enough to withdraw at the right moment and save your energy for a worthy premiere.
In this particular week, we had a girlfriend of mine staying with us and on a rainy day the cinema it’s always a unanimous decision for entertainment.
So I searched the web for movie times (this country can be run with a computer directly from the comfort of your home) and choose the “chickest most flickest” movie ever in the history of “chick flicks” and we headed for the cinema.
I enjoyed the high dosage of love, kisses, pick-up lines and fairy tale… my friend too!
However, you should’ve seen my husband, slumped in his chair, hands in his face, doing disgusted-expressions during the hour and forty minutes that the movie lasted.
Where is the feminine side of men? If it were for my husband’s reaction, I should assume that they definitively don’t have one; or it’s hidden pretty well under all that dark-strong exterior, and on the inside they’re as slushy and comfy as a pillow.
Better not o find out, for slushy and comfy we have women… men need to be macho and stuff.
You’re still wondering: what’s the movie we choose?...
Here’s a hint: There’s always a time and year in life when you can take a leap to achieve something different.
Kisses from a clam, happy as a crustaceous…
Vengeance is a B@#$%, so prepare for the heaviest action movie ever!

www.fandango.com

Eighteen days of dieting and my metabolism doesn’t take the hint

It’s been more than two weeks since I was forbidden to eat anything with fat or cream or butter or sugar… the list goes on and on.
However, as usual, I haven’t lost more than three pounds; which it’s nothing considering the obligatory effort I’m doing, because my lazy metabolism it’s in the wrong page of the book… lost as always.
Realistically, if heaven would be the good naughty things that we have in life and give us pleasure and joy… and hell would be the flat-out boring things (like low-cholesterol, fat free, no-sugar… puaj!); I’m definitely a “heaven girl”; probably that’s where I’m going in the after life, I say probably because my gall-bladder removal crushed all my chances to being an angel in the white paradise, because with this diet I’m definitely destined to be at the bottom of the flame-burning hell.
My current alimentary chart is missing a lot of levels; the size of my stomach is more or less, the size of a pea, my clothes are non-loose fitting (no-change there) and I still can’t sleep in a comfortable position because my inner-things push at my internal scars when I try to get at ease while I rest.
And you imagine what I have to endure when is dinner time and I have a non-dieting husband to feed?
He: Honey, its dinner ready?
Me: Ohh… yeah!, come sit at the table.
He: what’s this? salad? (he’s thinking: grass?)
Me: sweet bunny, do you remember our wedding vows? … for better and for worse… ring a bell? (I’m thinking: if I have to eat cardboard, so do you)
Needless to say that cereals and milk are a constant menu for my husband’s dinner now… twelve days more to go until I can start adding items to my diet… come to mama dear heaven!

Prepping for a job interview… more difficult than the interview itself

I don’t have an established routine to drive me through the day… this is a permanent fact for us, unemployed people, so I try to cope with “unscheduled” on a daily basis.
Most of the time I don’t even know what day is or if it’s already lunch-hour or time to prepare for dinner or if my husband is almost arriving or not even close to.
So in the particular day when you have an appointment for a job interview, I start to prepare two days prior to the big event.
First I cleared my agenda (housekeeping and “housewifeing” are tasks for another day) and made arrangements to do my nails.
As I arrived to my usual salon, I couldn’t decide in what color to wear.
Is it light-pink too plain? As a marketing professional, do I need to stand out with a red color… a burgundy? Tough decision when you’ve to decide on a nail polish, it’s a choice that will live with you for the remaining seven-days of the week and it has to combine with your clothes during that period.
I opted for the red one, because I’m blond, and because we can… blonds I mean…red is our most engaging color (excuse the immodesty… someone has to brag for me)
After the salon, I came home and moved my whole closet to the bed… not that I have a lot of “working professional clothes”, but when you don’t use them that often, you kind of forget them and don’t remember what you have… so, to enlighten my head I tried a handful of combinations, choose the most promising ones, and then I exhausted four hours putting everything back in place.
When my husband came home, he found me doing a modeling show in front our tiny bathroom mirror (we’re definitely investing on a head-to-toe mirror soon) and trying different make-ups and styles.
He helped me in the final stages of the decision-making-process (talking sophisticated helps with my interviews) and I went to sleep with a knot in my stomach and a small prayer tucked under my pillow.
Safe to know that everything went splendid! Hope this is the one!
I will not change the name of the blog, but I’m really hoping that this would be my year!!
Married and soon to be employed greets you from NYC!

Back to my routine… well, more or less

My first days at home have been pretty slow, and I’m not referring to the fact that we’re back to our habitual non-vacational schedule but to the fact that I move like a turtle… in slow motion… so you can imagine the little things I’ve accomplished regarding the unpacking, arranging Christmas gifts… even laundry takes me a ton of time!
I’m unable to floss my teeth without wincing as I put my arms up to my face, or bending to pick up something without looking incapacitated.

Even my dog has realized that I’m not my usual self because he’s not expecting me to feed him every morning, nor change his water… he just waits as the hours of the morning pass and I’ve only consummated menial tasks and not yet arrived to the kitchen.

I’ve a constant rumbling in my stomach (can’t say that I blame the poor guy because he hasn’t received anything worth digesting in the past few days) and I cheat hunger with a huge cup of tea and some toasts, pouring cereal or lifting the milk jug it’s too difficult to manage so I cry defeat without even trying… so much for my Italian heritage and super woman Latino force.

My husband has been helping all he can while I’m recovering…

I receive him seated on the couch, waiting for the door to burst open at six pm and with a to-do-list in my hands. He runs around our home and tries to comply with my petitions… I say “tries” because, let’s face it, it’s not an easy task to satisfy your grumpy bossy wife yapping away while she’s laying on the sofa and you’re doing all the hard work and she’s still using the “sick” card to evade housewife duties.

I've already read two books, saw all my TV series, applied to a hundred jobs, wrote like four more postings in this blog, uploaded new pics from our trip in Facebook, emailed, skyped, chatted, bossed around and I’m still bored out of my mind!!

I can’t wait to be back in full-mode-me… I think my husband is hoping for it to be soon, because if not, I’ll be a homeless, dogless, husbandless post-op recovering patient, with a authority complex and a cranky mood.

I'm coming home baby

Well, me, the stitches in my belly, two pillows for my pain, four overweight bags, my purse, the laptop case, and of course, my dear, loving, best-in-the-world, strong as a horse, husband.
Because, you know that when you’re in a post-op (with twelve stitches I might add) is humanly impossible to carry anything other than yourself and the clothes you’re wearing, because God forbid that I end up with a rupture in my wound and a huge scar in my stomach… okay, maybe I’m blowing this out of proportion considering the finger-tips sizes of my cuts, but nonetheless, like I always say: Safety first!... well, not always but in this occasion, I’m sure it was worth it.
So there I was, standing all by myself in a huge line in the airport, holding my belly to make it look completely real, and there he was (my husband, I mean), surrounded by bags, cases… you name it!
I was feeling for him… not that much, but enough to want to help him, so in my solidary soul, I search all my inner strength and I grabbed… my purse.
What were you expecting?! I’m a post-op patient; there should be rules against doing any effort at all!!… I’ll check into that for next time, not that I want a next time… just saying.
The positive news is that I never was a Tote-bag kind of girl, I always preferred the clutches, small purses… so if for a minute there you were getting worried for my health, a two pound bag wasn’t all that bad, I think with all the dieting I did after the operation, those two pounds were only a reminder of my weight four days before… so, no biggie!!
Thus, with my small purse and my husband’s goodwill to move our entire luggage during our waiting time in line, we finally arrived to the check-in point at the Airport.
I’m not a big actress, but I definitely learned how to lie in my adolescent years, so I put my best victim-in-pain face and I positioned myself in front of the airline’s employee.
The New York – Buenos Aires – New York route is really busy on this time of the year, so it’s a long shot to receive anything more that what you paid for.
Remembering Jerry Maguire’s movie, I said to her: What can YOU do for ME? (I think it was the other way around in the movie, but… who cares) and as a hocus-pocus spell, we were moved to the first row of the plane, with enough room to stretch our legs and near the aisle for my always demanding bladder.
Twenty hours and a connection flight later we got home with the need to be in a horizontal position, on my comfy bed.
So long throbbing pains, take these pills!!

Damaged goods and no Post-OP recovery

Twelve hours after my operation I was back at home with a three-page list of things I couldn’t eat, indications NOT to be laying down and many, many walks to help my stomach move…function… you know what I mean: pelvic movements.
What a crappy recovery is this?
I wasn’t even being pampered.
Other than not being allowed to carry anything, I was just like my old self… except without an organ… and four holes in my stomach… and a pillow stick to my behind for occasional ache… and pain-killers (which luckly, improved my mood… I’m talking really strong ones).
My doctor really went out of his way to make this recovery as mild and unnecessary as possible, I was hoping for a: laying-on-my-back-food-to-my-room-TV-all-you-want type of recovery, instead I got the: walk-all-you-can-move-your-valves-release-the-gases-eat-healthy type.
And I was even allowed to travel!
I mean… what was this doctor thinking to allow me to get on a plane for a twenty-hour flight? Doesn’t he have one iota of compassion?
In Buenos Aires we were suffering the highest temperatures ever and I couldn’t even go into the pool, but a plane was okay… I tell you, medicine is going down the toilet (regards to my twin sister, the doctor-to-be in the family).
And the worst part was the annoying family follow-up phone calls… people always manages to ask the same thing when you’re sick:
How did this happen? (abrupt pain… really unexpected… no, I didn’t feel anything before this episode) Did it hurt? (I was medicated as a horse) Does it hurt now? (still medicated as a horse).
Don’t people know that if you had a stomach operation, when you talk you build up the gases in your belly? I had to reduce my answers to one to two syllables at the end:
sudden... no…hmpt!
They called the least talkative soon-to-be-recovered patient in the history of the gallbladder-removal-operation.
So now, I have to find joy in eating a lousy apple (not even the serpent wanted this boring fruit)… I fell like an eighty-year-old who’s not allowed to eat anything for fear of her to die… I'm completely attuned with my grandfather’s complaints now, I’m a twenty-five year old housewife, looking for a job in a new city, with a freezing cold weather and I can’t even have a warming heavy meal for the next decade or so…
My sweet-tooth is retiring early; so long dear friend… you’ll be missed.

A stop in the E.R.: four holes, ten stitches and an organ removal later…

With my body aching all over, seating in a ninety-degree position and a huge pillow holding my butt, we started our four-hour trip back to Buenos Aires.
My father can’t deal with traffic, so we did most of our travelling by night, arriving tired and hungry at four am the next day.
At six am I woke up with a pressing pain in my esophagus, and being a member of a pharmaceutical industry connoisseurs’ family, I decided that it was a heartburn and I popped two Omeprazole… after 45 minutes of being seated in the couch (laying wasn’t an option, even if my coccyx was killing me), taking water, a glass of milk and even a spoonful of salt and warm water (for nausea), I arrived to my father’s bedroom and pleaded for something stronger because this heartburn was eating my esophagus and my stomach was next.
He took one look at me, pondered wether it was worth it to wake up after only three hours sleep, and decided against his judgment to keep resting when he realized I was with bloodshot eyes and twisting in pain.
So the Grand Connoisseur declared (yet again) a heartburn, gave me two Ranitidine and went back to sleep. An hour later, seeing that the pain wasn’t receding, I decided to call my stepmom who very patiently gave me yet another medicine for heartburn; so after five hours, I was still grabbing my stomach, folded in half, trying not to throw-up and with fever/cold switching episodes.
One’s body can take so much, so I grabbed the phone and without the ability to even speak coherently I tried to explain to some operator that I wanted a doctor to be sent and explained that: NO, IT ISN’T HEARTBURN… HOW DO I KNOW?! BECAUSE I ALREADY TOOK EVERY POSSIBLE MEDICATION FOR THAT CONDITION AND IT HASN’T GET BETTER… He was impressed with my pharmaceutical experience and thirty minutes later, a doctor was examining me at home.
The physician declared it to be a “really strong gastritis” and without further ado prescribed me with two different drugs and left.
Needless to say that after six hours, five drugs and a doctor visit later, my stepmom realized that it wasn’t heartburn, or gastritis, or stomach-ache, or indigestion and we headed straight for the E.R.
With one look at my face, the attending doctor called the condition by its correct name: gallbladder stones; and with one echography, a blood test, and two very-strong analgesics diluted in an I.V. saline solution (complete bliss) I was assigned an O.R. and operated.
The next day I arrived at home seating in a ninety-degree position, the same pillow on my butt, four holes in my stomach with a total of ten stitches, minus an organ, a thirty-day diet and a learned lesson not to medicate myself, even if it means that I’m almost sure what I have (the key word-to-be: COMPLETLY)
Regards from a convalescent patient, drugged as a horse and 10 pounds lighter-to-be... so long pastries and cakes

Drive calves to a fattening-farm and don't die trying!

After a hell of a plunge and two days of mild rest to recover from my coccyx’s injury I decided to joined the horseback riders’ party to drive four hundred and sixty calves, thirteen kilometers to another field where they gain weight and then, bye bye little “calvies”… if you know what I mean.
However, who could manage to stay seated with this pain?! So I hop on a four-wheel and became the water-carrier for the occasion.
On that particular day, the sun shined on all his glory, and the coward little clouds were nowhere to be seen. The temperature was in its high 35º C (95º F) and the steam that the heart gave off was like riding inside a huge sauna.
My father was giving orders (as his usual self) and with a colossal task at hands, we started our way.
The calves are inexperience “little” creatures (whoever named them as baby cattle, didn’t know S… about sizes) who have never been herd to another place before, so no matter the road ahead, the rider showing them the way or us in the back pushing forward for them to move… they figured that running right and left was the correct approach.
As the injured one, I could've stay seated in the shadow of a tree and waited for the commotion to pass… but this damn temper of mine couldn’t stand inefficiency (the calves’… obviously!) so I grabbed my… bottle of water (ugh!) and headed for the thickest, most impenetrable underbrush to drive the calves back on the road.
One thing you learn while herding cattle, it’s if you get one, only one, to move in the right direction, the rest will follow…
So, there I was, swinging my bottle of water at them, screaming all this strange noises (a practical joke from our forearm who told us that they get scare by them), hunched like an old lady, with a hand in my lower back and trying with all my might to move thirty-five standing bodies from a big-ass bush, full of thorns and bugs… when the only thing that really did the trick was my little brother’s imaginative self, who turn-on the four-wheel and accelerated the engine, to make it sound like a motor-saw, and just like that, all thirty-five calves run towards the nearest exit… the road ahead.
So, the next time that you’re in a country house, doing farm labor, with precarious utensils and traditional methods… bring your top-of-the-line, high tech four-wheel.

Greetings from an injured/temperamental laborer

Polo injuries: an elite game for a lousy player

After a peaceful and relaxed time alone with my hubby, we headed back to my father’s country house to spend New Year’s Eve with the family.
The assortments of activities that you have to endure, while being my father’s daughter, are numerous and risky… "NO" it’s not an option, because for him, his first three daughters are in fact, his high-endurance, super-power, always willing three first children. It doesn’t matter the long hair, manicured nails, waxed legs and feminine manners; no sire! (Sagittarius guys are a pain in the butt, no offense to my future brother-in-law).
So in the particular day of the end of the year and the starting of a new decade, at 8 pm, with a temperature of 32º C (90º F), which felt like a furnace, and a humidity of 99.9% (my recent sleeky hair was a mess, a smoothing product can take so much… do you hear the irony?) I was up in a horse, with a taco (or polo mallet) and a helmet running around chasing a small white ball in the field playing Polo (or attempting to play).
We looked like stupid (definitely unintelligent) people being led by completely clever, bright beasts… they wanted to run to the fence and get out of there! (Why didn’t I listen?)
So after exactly four minutes and five seconds, in a slow-motion play, where I was almost hitting the ball in the right place for a change (almost being the key word in this sentence), the smart horse grasped his chance to escape and while I was aiming my body in the direction of the ball, he was aiming his body for the door… needless to say that I ended butt-first in the lawn (in a frozen portrait you could see my “F…” face, the potent angry one) with a hoof tattooed on my back and a acute pain in my coccyx.
The last day of the year, I spend it laying in a mattress on the floor, with twenty-three pillows, two blankets, drugged with analgesics and the awful realization that:
I HAVE TO LEARN TO SAY NO!!
Damn this italian heritage of wanting to be an almighty woman, when in fact I'm an adult latino female with a superiority complex and a damaged butt... So long comfy seats.

Getting together once a year while organizing a family picture: a titan´s task!!

This entry is dedicated to my BFF who reminded me of the nice occasion (NOT), where we took our yearly family picture…
While I was voiceless (greetings to my patience who´s back in my body, as well as my voice… nice timing you too!!) in my grandparents’ house, we organized a big lunch with my six uncles, their wives and husbands, and of course, us… their sons.
We make a total of forty-six people, without including my husband, and my sister´s husband to-be (still without “legal” rights to appear in the family picture), with three pairs of twins; thirteen blonds, two old people (my grandparents of course!), six dyed blond, twenty brown hair (it´s a wonder that we don´t have a redhead), thirty-four cousins being younger than twenty-six, the age of my big sister, and of course: all forty-six dreading the family portrait.
After ingesting a huge amount of food and desserts (the table looked like a buffett from a hotel before the ravenous attack) we were called like a herd, the key words for a no-show being: “Picture time!”, and after forty-five minutes of dragging kids from every hole in the house, we finally succeeded in getting everyone together in the same spot (and you wonder why I lost my voice – and patience).
Luckily, we have a big lawn where we all fit (almost). We were arranged by age, my big sister in the top, and then, all thirty-four cousins behind her. I attached the picture for the skeptical readers who need proof… You see what I mean when I´m apprehensive for a family vacation??

Back online after days without internet connection or cellular service

After Christmas, my husband and I decided to spend time by ourselves (a rare commodity when you´re visiting the family) and travel to Cordoba, an Argentinean province with beautiful sightseeing surrounded by mountains.
We decided to part on the 26th of December, with my husband driving and I, as the copilot… the one that reads the map, hands the snacks and beverages, screams when the car almost hits a pedestrian… typical stuff.
A non-stopping rain accompanied us from the beginning. After two hours on the road, we were deviated to another route because the path was water-flooded… with my map in hand and the sky pouring we chose another course, losing almost one hour in the process until we arrived to a major highway where the traffic was faster and safer.
However, as in most third world countries, only major cities are connected with well-tended roads. So, with another divert we ended up in a 20 km dirt road in a 500 kilos heavy car with no use of the four wheel drive (occupational hazards of an armored car).
It was truly a crisis, so when the (out of the blue) heavy rain caught us in the middle of the road, and the mud started to build up, we started grabbing the map, my husband swatting at the wheel and shouting like a mad man... I felt for him, I´m totally incompetent at understanding and being down to heart when I´m being shout at, but in that moment, I simply watched ahead and gave instructions: TURN THE HELL BACK!! (In a softly, low manner… of course)
Needless to say that we arrived with a knot in the stomach, the car covered in mud, a non-existent patience and all the need to be back at home, being looked after and pampered by our family… but it was only a tiny, minuscule moment…luckily we kept our wishes to stay with our mini-vacations in an inhospitable place, with no cellular signal, no Wi-Fi, no electricity, no pavement and, especially, no neighbors…
Entertainment wasn´t a problem though...

Beep beep beep… OUT OF COVERAGE AREA

Beta carotene, suntan, carrots and sunglasses... 4 different words, and "me" as their converging point

After an awful rain on Saturday (I can´t cope with humidity… neither does my hair), we decided to go for a ride in the Delta river with my family and some friends that were visiting as well.
It was a gorgeous day, the sun was up and I was looking forward to lie down quietly and soak in the heat and the wind… and then reality hit and I took in the situation: confined in a 40 feet long boat with 13 people and be able to relax, I mean, am I crazy?
We always have the different music tastes that collide together and leads to a fight for iPod control… reggeaton it´s the preferred choice but who can stand it more than a couple of hours? (No disrespect to Wisin & Yandel, whom I really like!) and then, my father with his 12 years of Caribbean living wants Merengue and Salsa (not the food!), as well as my husband… and I wanted complete silence (why haven´t someone invented a song of “nothing”? It would be a huge success with me as the number one fan!).
13 hungry people and being late to set sail is not a good combination; so besides having to manage the music I had to deal with eating the same thing as the day before; don´t get me wrong, I love Argentinean food, but is variety too much to ask?
With these two mood downers; having a tan with the shape of your sunglasses stuck to your face and the line of the sun block all over your arms was a walk in the park (or hell)… I got home with a raging need to take a cold shower, being red as a shrimp as I was, and not even a cream embalming could calm it…
Why is it that I have to inherit the worst family treats? Why can´t I have a perfect suntan in a smooth brown tone instead of this over-exposed-to-sun white skin (now pink/red)?
I´ll have to wait for it to tone down soaked in a bathtub full of ice… Not even carrots can save me from this!

http://www.allaboutar.com/st_tigre.htm

Family reunions and their awkward moments... nothing can save me from this one!

Yesterday we celebrated my father´s birthday… differently to a family reunion in other countries, every time we get together we have a huge barbecue (asado is the word we use) and lots of wine. We also have music (the really loud type) but you don´t get a police visit sent by a grumpy neighbor no matter the volume level and no matter the time… at least, not if it´s a weekend.
As a visitor in your home country, you get asked the same questions over and over again: “how´s your life in NY going?”, “did you get a job yet?”, “is it cold there?” “What do you do every day? (AKA: do you have a job?)”, “have you visited other cities?”, “how´s the economic situation there? Still slow? (AKA: how´s the job hunting?)”… Do you get my picture? It´s an impossible task to be unemployed while living in the USA; everybody is expecting for you to have this perfect life or at least, to be succeeding in the professional and employment department... I feel like Legally Blonde but instead of Harvard as my play field, USA is the conquering country and not even a tough back bone (the one that survived the 15 hours flight) can help me!
But my family is very supportive, and even thou they´re like 52 people bugging me about everything, I know they mean well… sometimes, you have to conceal (i.e. lie like your life depends on it!!) not to be pushed in a specific matter; and news travel really fast with them, so my acrylic nails, my blog, the book I´m reading, my dog´s temporary home, my Bach flowers and my new life coach are knowingly matters… hence, frequently questioned about.
Today´s a different day with different visitors, however, we´re still eating asado, as tomorrow, and the day after… and the day after… and so on.
Goodbye healthy, balanced, life… Hello uric acid!!

15 hours and a back pain later… we arrived to the sizzling hot summer of Argentina

We arrived at JFK with a temperature below freezing, wrapped in our coats and day dreaming about summer and a warmer weather. As predicted, our suitcase was overweight (13 lb above limit), so we decided to travel with two carry-on valises so the amiable lady in AA wouldn´t charge us USD 50 for it.
That we were over loaded with things was an understatement. My purse weighed two pounds, my husband has one of those Mac laptops that weights a ton, plus our coats, scarves, and a carry-on each of us - that was made to be dispatched in the first place - so my shoulder was killing me!!
As for the cordial lady who checked us in, at that moment she was pleasant enough… until the point when we were boarding the plane and our eight-month-old reservation, with incredible good seats was changed for two seats in the 41 line - two rows before the bathroom - and 250 people before us to get out when we arrived at Buenos Aires; this meant a two hour immigration line (Argentinean airport personnel are really friendly so no comment on that one) and an endless journey home… because, you see, my husband says I deflate during flights, as I go to the bathroom five times (minimum) hence I need an aisle seat, however I prefer the window because I can rest my head in the side panel. So I spent 12 hours jumping over my husband, but as I´m a little clumsy, I always ended butt first onto him … he was sleeping soundly until the moment where I landed flat on his face… and off he started with the cursing, half-awaked as he was…I don´t think he remembers every time this happened (is not as glamorous as I want to be remembered…a girl can dream).
Other thing to consider, is the on-flight entertainment. I was expecting a bunch of premier movies, something to help the time fly faster… we were completely unlucky because ¨Legally Blonde¨ was the only option (a eight hundred dollar ticket and not even a decent movie!); so I grabbed my book (reading is my hobby / fascination / obsession) “Twenties Girl” by Sophie Kinsella (I love her! Her Shopaholic series aren´t as good as her other books) but after ten minutes I started getting dizzy (other side effect that travel – by any transportation – gives me) so I dropped the book and opted for my iPod… after a while I was asleep, but nature calls really often in my department, and sleeping wasn´t as pleasurable for neither of us… me as the affected with the insistent calling of my urinary tract, and my husband as the bystander victim with a wife with early symptoms of temporary urinary incontinence… where would us be when we turn 80 if aging symptoms start now?

So long bone chilling cold!!!
Your 25 year old unemployed house wife on vacation…. Jealous?

The most awaited day is here… Don’t let them get meeeeee!!

Today we're traveling to Argentina and as expected, I'm still receiving last minute requests for "tiny" things to take there.
However, I'm not letting anything ruin my mood because I'm saving patience for the lovely and always so helpful guys of immigrations and customs in the JFK airport... you know, the only ones that are permitted to watch you undress in public without giving you a ticket for inappropriate behavior or disturbance.
They're so cute, whit their long faces and demands... and watch out if you are a Latino; because they're even worse.
My advice when you’re treated as an ignorant and humiliated by their remarks, is to imagine them really tiny in your head… like this tiny man, with his tiny pants and a tiny little voice… that way, I don’t let them get to me; because in my head, I’m the master and commander of him (or not… but I feel much better afterwards).
I’ve decided to travel without a belt (even thou it’s really uncomfortable when your pants start to fall down and you’re, very discreetly, pulling from both sides to get them up again) and with loafers. Ever since I got stuck in line trying to unbuckle while untying my shoes at the same time that I was putting my bag, laptop and cell phone in a bin... while checking for liquids and my nail clipper (which I lost in a bucket full of them)… don't get me wrong, I'm a multi-tasker: while writing this post, I’m travelling in a bus, singing at the pace of my mp3 player (the guy next to me has bad breath and awful music; by his face, I can tell that he hates my voice…louder now… eat that!) and checking the bus stops so I don't miss it.... but the immigration people, just push it to the limit.
I can’t complain thou, because now I can check-in in the first class line (I’m an unemployed frequent flyer… the best kind!) and I don’t have to go throw those small capsules with the pst pst pst pst things of air (my husband loves when I use onomatopoeias) that pull up your hair and your blouse; and I don’t have to open my bag to be scrutinized by them.
So yeah! They’re tiny little people!
And I’m the leader of this pack (of one, big person: myself!).
So if it’s your time to travel also, no belt, no tying shoes, no watch, no creams, no metal accessories, no water, no nail clipper, no tweezers (NO of anything that it isn’t clothes)… and most important: your imagination and the tiny little people in it!!

Next post’s writing destination: Buenos Aires, Argentina

Home sweet home… for me, my husband, our dog… and everybody else!

Visitors are really common if you live in a city like New York.
You can try to move to...let’s say, a remote island located in the middle of the South Atlantic Ocean; where nobody is going to want to get a hold on you, and your family and friends will be a distant memory of people that you don’t see very often (maybe two times a year... or one, who knows?)
However, as you’re living in the Big Apple, I'm pretty sure you'll have to make a schedule, pinpoint the visits of the year in a calendar and plan for them not to overlap… it’s almost like a strategic chess game where you move your pieces to avoid total disaster!
Can you imagine what would happen if you mother came at the same time that your mother in law? (my mother in law came from a fairy tale, but she’s a rare case… or at least, that’s what I’m told… thank god for small favors).
Anyways, at this time, we have a foreign visitor staying at home…and sightseeing is another thing that you have to consider when you receive a guest; because I can assure you that no matter how many times you’ve been to the Rockefeller Center, or up the Empire State, or hop on the Ferry to the Statue of Liberty, or walked the 5th avenue and visit Central Park or go inside Saint Patrick to light a candle and ask for forgiveness and a job (I hold the record for candles offered in that department)… I’m a hundred percent sure that you’ll do it over and over again for your remaining time as a New York resident.
As you’ve confirmed in other posts, my lack of patience (or the nonexistence of it) is a key element in my day to day basis as a host… I’ve been put to the test in this one, and I keep failing no matter my persistence. I get anxious when I have to wait in line to pay for something and there’s always this guy in front of me that can’t grab the 25 ¢ coin that’s stuck in the bottom corner of his wallet, and you just want to snatch the thing from his hands and throw the coin at him (I have a really vivid imagination)... didn't this guy hear about Debit Card? or for example, when you have to go shopping to Macy’s, because everybody has to go there, and your advises are: “perfect, if I were you, I’ll take it!” … but at the same time, my insides are turning and I just want them to make a swift decision and get the hell out from there! (If you give me online shopping, I’m happy as a clam).
So yesterday, for the hundredth time I took my picture in the Rockefeller Plaza, with a smile sticked to my face and an invisible tag in my forehead that said: PLEASE GET ME OUT OF HERE!!

...and click... nice pic!

http://www.rockefellercenter.com
http://www.macys.com
http://www.centralparknyc.org
http://www.saintpatrickscathedral.org

Luggage keeps pilling up and I didn’t even put my clothes in yet!!

Here we are, 3 days before our departure, and as always, we women tend to get ahead of things so I started packing for our holiday trip to Argentina.
Have you ever lived outside your home country? It’s like this:
2 months prior to our arrival, I started to get these emails:
“Could you please bring me a blouse / pant / shoes / boots / wallet / purse / belt that I saw online, is really tiny, and it’s not heavy, I promise” or “I’m dying to have those new sunglasses / watch / key ring / cuff link, but here they’re really expensive, would it bother you if I ordered them and you can, maybe, bring them with you in a small corner of your bag?” or “I want an iPod / headphones / cover case / new laptop / Wii / Stereo system… I’ll pay the custom taxes, but could you please go to the store and bought them for me? They don’t accept international cards”… (To someone else with that story; do I look stupid to you?... ok, don’t answer that) and they add “pretty please?” as if THAT is going to make the difference… come on! You’re asking for a 10 pound favor… didn’t you notice that we have weight restrictions in airplanes now? Where do you want me to put MY clothes? Send them by courier? Pay overweight for my 0.01 pound bathing suit?
What is it with people and decency? Forget about shame... nowadays people just ask and expect that you’ll be OK with them; don’t even think about deny them a favor… let me warn you, families keep grudges; so if you want to be in the white list, you better do whatever it takes to get that stuff down there; and I mean WHATEVER IT TAKES!
It all started with this spectacular idea that today I’ll finish with the packing business, so I dived inside our spare mini-room / closet to get our biggest valise; and I started to put the presents and requests first; big mistake there; because now the bag is full and where am I suppose to put all of our stuff? Is not like I can tell my husband to bring a few things, it’s a 3 week trip! Its summer there, so no coats or heavy clothes, but a girl needs her attire!! shoes, bathing suits, hair products, make-up… options, options, options!
So, yeah… maybe I’m a bit stupid because you should really see my luggage! I look like a walking department store; except for the beauty department (thank god for small favors! or our very nice relative that forgot to ask for a perfume / rejuvenating cream / make-up, etc.).
Anything to be kept away from the family's black list; I don’t want to be poisoned when we get there… and I want nice Christmas presents. So I did the second logical option: I found the other big valise and started dividing the weight between both of them… problem is; both are overweight now; and I’ll probably pay USD 200 to get them to Argentina; USD 500 when we arrive at customs and USD 75 to rent a mini-van to transport them to my father’s house.
In short, next time, don’t even let them know you’re coming! A surprise is much more fun, don’t you think? And you don’t have to worry about requests!... or better yet, change your email address and don’t even tell them… or commit to everything they ask and arrive with your empty hand and tell them you got robbed!
Laugh now, but this is definitely going to happen to you as well, and when it does, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Saying goodbye to your dearest, dearest... pet

Today was a tough day for me.
As we're going away for the holidays, we decided to leave our dog in a friend's house...
Buono is like an only child; everyone think he's spoiled... why wouldn't they?
If he drinks water, there's someone drying his whiskers with a paper towel; if he goes to the balcony... you know, to do his business, there is someone cleaning his paws; he even knocks the door to be let outside and knocks to be let back in again, he has his teeth cleaned every day, I cut his hair every week, he gets a bath as well and we use oatmeal shampoo for his skin... do you get the picture?
So you can imagine that when the time arrived to drive him to New Jersey, I started packing all his belongings (every dog has "belongings" of course!!); toys, brushes, shampoo, towels, food, platter, leash, tooth brush... should I go on?
If I say that we looked like gypsies, was to put it mildly.
The problem was that our best (and only) option to get to New Jersey was by train.
From our home to Penn Station is like 10 minutes taxi ride, but you can’t get in the taxi with a dog; so we opted for the subway.
My husband was holding a 20 pound bag of dog food and all of Buono’s knick knacks. I was carrying his cage and my purse.
We walked 3 blocks to Grand Central Terminal and arrived covered in sweat in the middle of the winter with a low temperature of 40 F (6 C). We got stuck in the door; it was closed… you know when you’re with someone for a really long time and you get to “learn” his or her signs? So there we were, standing in front of the door, rolling our eyes to each other to get the other person to open the door while neither of us was loosing the packages. (it looked like a staring contest! Where have all gentlemen gone?)
Then, we got to the turnstiles to enter the subway system. You have to swipe your card to get in, but I couldn’t even get to my pocket… and I wasn’t going to ask some stranger (that’ll be weird) to do it; so my husband left his bag in the floor and put his hand in my pocket (have you had that experience yet?) and I start: “not that one, the other side. Yeah! That one… to the left, no… down a bit, you missed, to the right… there!” While doing this I was moving my hips at the rhythm of his hands to help him find the card (really… truly) although I think we invented a new spastic move for foreplay.
At last he found it and we went through… we and all our packages.
Next move: get to the train and find a seat; my arms were killing me!!!
It was Sunday, raining, the subway was replete with people, we were gypsies in a circus and my patience was non-existent.
Buono, in the other hand, was comfortable enough in his cage, pretty exited to be outside, watching everything around him… lucky bastard!
Saying goodbye to him was horrible… nearing traumatic… he, on the other hand, stayed completely happy with his two new dog friends, a big house, lots of room to play and his food.
Can I blame him? He will have 3 weeks vacation from his owner, the one with the bach flowers drops, the life coach and the beauty crisis… enjoy while it last!!

Brittle nails got me here... beauty parlors in NYC

I have this "new" (nasty) habit, of biting the sides of my fingers... I don't know when it started but it was sometime between my moving to NYC and my wedding; so roughly, a year and a half.
Adding to this, is the fact that I haven't been to a salon for a Mani/Pedi (that's what they call it here) for a long time and I tend to change my nail polish really often, so the over use of polish remover it's also an important reason that my nails started to came apart.
My husband started, really gently, to caught my hand every time it was near my mouth, in an unnoticeable way, but at the end I was reprimanded as a little kid... humiliating!
At first I had one nail (out of 20) cut in a weird shape or really short in comparison with the others... and then, one by one they cracked and now I've the hands of a 8 year old with a serious case of stage fright, giggles and nervousness; all together.
The cherry that topped the ice cream was a comment made by my husband: "I see women in the subway who have their hands nicely done all the time"
(do they cook for you? Clean? Do laundry?... have you used detergent once? do you even know what bleach is?)
I tell you, in my mind, he suffered...for a minute (or two); but then I realized that I needed to put my act together and spend some beauty money... not a difficult task, if you ever want to try it... and less difficult considering that it's your husband's salary (you know, he who made the "nail" comment in the same sentence with the word "women" in it?...the bastard...)
Where was I?
Oh, yes! money spending... So I did some research and the best way to recover my nails was getting new ones, at least that fastest way... and who knew that there were so many different techniques, you practically need to be a nail technician to get to a decision; but I'm not a quitter, so after much googling I chose to try the Acrylic ones.
When you first think of nails, you imagine a Korean place, or a Chinese one... even a Japanese, they have all the credit in the nail department; but my research drove me to an European salon; Fifi's International Salon... and a woman with French accent and heavy make-up was the one that build up my nails from scratch. As well, while at it, I did my pedicure and some eyebrow waxing... (too much information)
So when my husband got home that day, he asked: "where's my wife?"
"out to dinner" (I told him) "and she is going to be late".

and cut!!
Curtain closing, end of act 1, scene 10.
Next scene, rated: R.

Serenity Nail & Spa II Inc
717 2 Avenue, New York, NY
(212) 297-1757‎

Tea time @ Serendipity with my girlfriends

Serendipity it's a Cafe/Restaurant/Tea House/Desserts Paradise where everybody must go at least one time if you're visiting the Big Apple.
Recession and this place don't get along so well; so no matter the economic condition of the country (or the world) you can always count to find Serendipity brimming with people.
It's one of those rare places that don't take reservations, so to go there we had to organize and make a plan. Have you noticed how difficult is to agree to something the easy way if you're meeting with your girlfriends? (men tend to go with the flow; but women go against it without even asking; just to rebel... I think it has to do something with our history).
First of all, we all talk at the same time so it's pretty impossible to understand what the others are saying; second, we change the subject every 2 minutes so we're completely incoherent; third we gesticulate a lot so you get dizzy; then everybody else does too; fourth; between the talking, changing the subject and gesticulating; it's pretty impossible to get anywhere... I'm impressed we even manage to arrange for a get together!
On that particular day, New York was soaking wet and my shoes were dripping, even my socks! My hair was a frizzy mess; the subway was crowded (more than usual) and like every rainy day, people get disoriented so everything runs slowly; the walking mass don't advance at the usual pace, your only option is to elbow your way head-on into the sea of people to get in time to your destination; and Serendipity doesn't wait... so there I was, clutching my bag under my arm, tightly grabbing my umbrella, arranging my scarf and elbowing... and I mean a lot!
There's something you don't know about me and it's that I'm not a patient person... I don't like to repeat myself, I can't cope with hysteria and I don't like to deal with a crowd of people in the street.
Tough for me living in this small island with so many people (1,634,000 people to be exact); one of the most densely populated areas in the world (can you imagine what this information did to my nerves??)
Tough luck!!
If you've been to Serendipity you obviously want to come back, I was like the donkey and Serendipity was the carrot, and it was a really palatable carrot!!
So after 34 SMS from the girls (we really CAN'T agree that easy, sorry humanity), 13 thousands elbowing, 55 percent drench-er, 20 percent humidity free hair (the rest 80 percent not so lucky) and 2 reschedules later; I arrived at the place 30 minutes before the arranged time to put our names on the list and have a table ready by 4 pm.
The good news is that after you're seated and enjoying yourself, the place is great, the food is incredible and the sweets are fantastic!
It's definitely worth your while!!
My only advice: don't go on a rainy day, always get 30 min before, the waiting area is non-existent so you most definitely will wait outside the door... ohhh! and no strollers. Sorry mamas!!
http://www.serendipity3.com/