It beats you to peaces...

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

Deodorants that smell like Drain makes me Dizzy

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

"Life is a roller coaster"… uhh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pluh-ease!

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

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

I prefer werewolves… they are hotter, leaner and cutter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Over and out!

A bedpan situation…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-          Why’s the bedpan on the floor?

-          He asked to do number two… duh!

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

-          Huh? (dumb face stamped all over)

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

-          Isn’t there a hole in the mattress?

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

True story!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, who am I?

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

Me, the Flu and a Disgusting potion

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

Today I woke up with that feeling.

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

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

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

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

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

Who’s your mummy now? B-I-A-T-C-H!

The "Inactivity" individual vs the Vamp Woman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

The usual shpeel from me to you

You assume that with my uninterrupted pause over my writing since last week, that I had the most boring week ever… as usual, you assume wrong.

First of all, I went from being in a job for no more than 9 days to having a promotion in no more than 2 months… you heard it people: I’m a big top shot business woman; and as my brother –in-law put it: I will not stop until I’m in the Forbes list as one of the most influential women in the world (or in my house if it’s more doable... I know when to compromise).

Then I received my mother’s visit.

We don’t have one of those typical "mother and daughter" type of relations. We don’t see each other very often because of our different living locations and when we do see each other is usually to try and NOT to kill each other in the process (mainly me killing her) and have a good time with the remaining time left between the greeting and the killing part.

I’ll be honest though, this time the wind was blowing exactly right and we actually managed to have a good time (I can see the surprised faces of my sisters now, almost spraining their faces while reading this) so no blood or murder-type confessions to make.

My routine is pretty much the same. I won’t bore you with my commuting time, assassination impulses, ranting episodes or deprived sleep behaviour… as I told you since the beginning of the post: this is my usual delivery from your perfectly balanced and sane employed, housewife, to my dear reader who after Facebook, emails, BB and WhatsApp, manages to save time and read my incoherent thoughts.

Well, I can always give you my Crayola so you can paint your world and make it interesting and pretty… However, my world is going to get the looks of its owner, so go get your own blog!

PS: If you’re planning for a night out to laugh your guts out in the Big Apple, don’t miss Cirque Du Soleil’s Banana Shpeel… not your usual Cirque, nor your usual theatre event either, rather a mixture of a stand up comedy and clowns… or better yet: a stand up comedy for clowns! (No… not you).


Banana Shpeel: www.CirqueDuSoleil.com/BananaShpeel

Who’s right in a married couple’s discussion?

Thanks to my love for Lady Gaga and her incredible songs, I’ve mastered the difficult art of a perfect poker face.

With this incredible attribute I get to maintain a cool composure even though I’m picturing murdering feelings inside my head… and let me tell you, they’re vivid as hell!

Most of the time, these feelings are directed towards impertinent individuals that disturb my gazelle-like travel through life…

Like the lady standing in line in front of me at the supermarket who can’t find his wallet in her over sized purse; or the taxi that stops in the middle of the street to aid a hailing customer; or to our doorman, when he sees me, heavy with groceries, and walks at the pace of a snail towards me to open the door… pretty much everybody in my social and working life has been honoured with my bright imagination; however, in my personal life (being my husband and our dog) the impulse of assassination it’s not frequent - I think my mind gets tired with the over worked daily routine – at least, not enough to arouse suspicions of my interlocutors (namely my husband).

Every time we have a difference of opinion and are trying to get in sync, I think about calming and soothing things to control my building rage.

I mean, how is it possible that he can’t see the things as perfectly and clearly as I see them?

For me it’s obvious that I’m ALWAYS right and in those rare occasions that he gets to have the correct assessment, I prefer to drop dead on the spot rather than to give him the benefit of righteousness.

However, if you’re planning on a happy and long married life together with your hubby, it’s inhumanly possible for them to accept your truth every time; so even though you know you’re right, you’ve to bend a little and give him the winning hand… just for their sake of course.

This doesn’t mean that you can’t rebel about it.

I always use my household tasks as a payback.

When I’m folding his clothes, I make a perfect mess to improve wrinkling, or I put the dirty pillow cover in his side, or I let our dog walk over his pyjamas and then I fold them neatly in his drawer, or I use his shaving machine for my underarms… not that he’s ever going to notice… well, maybe now that I’m confessing in my blog he would be more aware of this little details.

Nonetheless, there has to be a reward for being so unselfish and offer them the precious gift of the last word in a discussion: Yes, Honey!!

Greetings form a non-murdering feelings individual, with the purest heart ever!!

It hit me: living far away makes people forget you

As you know, I’m from Argentina and all of my family lives there. When I say “all” of them, I want you to imagine a huge group of people, roughly 60 relatives directly connected. I’m not talking about second cousins or distant relatives; 60 blood bounded individuals who get together every weekend for barbecues and know all the family secrets that cook below the surface.

This weekend was a long holiday in Argentina, remembering the Revolution and independence… in other words, there’s always a good excuse for some little time off.

My father has this strange ability to be like a magnet to every family member in need of a Holiday place. My stepmom always has to buy groceries for 30 people, even though at first, only 12 where going; because between the moment when the decision gets made and the get-go, the phone doesn’t stop ringing and every cousin, uncle, boyfriend, husband, wife, friend wants to join the party (they’re so predictable).

I always try to call them during these oversized family reunions because with one phone call I get to talk to everybody and hear about all the family gossip that I missed because of the distance that separates us.

They climb on top of a water mill to get some signal in their cell phones, so there’s always this creepy feeling when I call, that someone is going to fall over their asses on the ground and I’m going to be held accountable. I hear the wind and how they switch hands with the phone and all the time I’m like:

Me: Are you there? (I was talking to someone but there’s another one of them in line to talk to me)
Them: it’s my turn now… Hello?
Me: Who’s this?
Them: Hi! It’s me… (No idea who that is). You’re missing so much… wait, I’m switching hand because the other one is getting cold (its winter there)…. Much better now.

And while they talk, I cannot concentrate in another thing other than the fact that they’re hanging 90 yards above the ground, on the top of a water mill!!

My father never climbs up to use his cell phone, country house for him it’s the freedom of being disconnected from the world. However, in this particular weekend, he ascended to the top and waited in line for his turn after all my siblings and cousins bombarded me with news and greetings.

It is not unknown for fathers with a brace of daughters to reel off their names in order of ease of memory when summoning the estranged one that lives abroad. I had long ago become accustomed to being: “Sofia… Dolores…Pilar… Damn it!"

This is his usual greeting for me… I got baptized with only one first name, but circumstances greeted me with the longest first name ever… can you imagine if all my big sisters where in fact brothers?

So much for self-esteem and being unique in a family nucleus… greetings from me, or her, or her.

The ending of my Fall TV Series brings me to the harsh reality of the boring Summer TV Calendar

I think I’m not the only one that would miss Jack Bauer’s 24, or Lost’s never ending rescue of that god forsaking island… but most importantly, Grey’s Anatomy and Vampire Diaries would have to wait until September to return to our schedules.

I find Summer Series really boring… True Blood is the only TV show disturbingly enough that gets my attention, but with all the vampire things going on, it becomes another insignificant program.

We still have some Glee episodes left (for the happy smile of my best friend who shares the liking of this show with me even though my husband thinks it’s the most girlish, childish, ridiculous show ever and runs out of the room every time I start singing along – which makes me wonder if it’s for my voice or the show… mmmhh).

For the lovers of a more “detectively” show, Castle and The Mentalist would be much awaited for (and please don’t ask: Castle who?).

I’ll have to resource to my books for some entertainment, and the cinema, with a much awaited Sex and the City 2 and Eclipse (another vampire thing that we all love… ahhh, so you don’t have to ask Edward who? Ehhh????)

I have a pressing presentiment that I’ll be receiving several visitors this summer… it doesn’t matter if it’s the liking of a cold Christmas season or to visit a flowery Central Park, tourist from our families always have the best excuse to land in our apartment.

Luckily, I’m a working wife now, which is the best excuse to run away from the sightseeing and museum hoping activities. Who can endure a hot Manhattan day while being a tour guide for the hundredth time?

Looking forward for the summer season in our Big Apple… no visits to the Hamptons though, when you have a husband from the Dominican Republic, it doesn’t matter how convincing you can be, nothing beats a beach in the Caribbean… common area pool for me.

An antibiotic that doesn't exist, an erupting volcano (and not of gas), Boston and the city of Amsterdam... that's what you missed on: ME!

Sorry for the delay, I was dying to write about my amazing life; however the timing was always awful.

My husband and I traveled to Boston for his Master’s graduation. Considering that being in enclosed spaces while in inactivity makes me nervous, a four hours trip unable to move brought all of my impatience afloat and I could hear in my husband’s voice that he was resisting the urge to strangle me… strangely I get this a lot… I’m still alive so his endurance is admirable.

We attended a Stand-Up comedy event (which I found quite therapeutic) where a 40 year old mom beat the tears out of our eyes and was even funnier that the two leading male comedians (www.momicillin.com); so much for boring household anecdotes.

Then I traveled to Amsterdam for 4 days. Planes make me nervous also (what else is new?), but the fact that I don’t know the Flight Attendants in a personal manner prevents me from pestering them as I do with my husband.

Amsterdam was grey, a bit dirty (considering the garbage piles in every corner) and full of canals (Venice is a dry land in comparison). The most shocking thing where the “Coffee Shops” where instead of having a variety of coffee grains offered to you, you could have a decent “flight” without even bothering to go to the airport.

In my return flight I stopped in Iceland and I got a glance of Eyjafjallajökull… You expect that a volcano’s name would be easier to remember than this engulfing of letters forming an unpronounceable word. Can you imagine in the state of an emergency?:

RUN!!! Ey… Eyja…. Eyjakallajul… uhh??? THE F&^%ING VOLCANO IS ABOUT TO ERUPT!

Colossal error in name choosing let me tell you.

Between the road trip to Boston and the overseas flight to Amsterdam, I arrived at my house jet lagged, bored of restaurant food, tired out of my mind so the only thing that I could offer my husband was complete and utter silence.

A woman’s silence is wonderful to listen to… I think my husband would agree on that.

Beautify-Me process or Hard-Core movies?

I’m heading to Boston with my husband for his Master’s graduation ceremony and then I’m traveling to Europe for a work thing and I’ll be out of my house for several days, without the luxury of my dear manicurist, pedicurist, blow-dryer, hairdresser…

You really started believing for a minute that I was fretting about beauty, didn’t you?

Don’t you know me long enough to recognize that I don’t have that particular gene in my feminine contexture?

Nevertheless, since I’m traveling tomorrow, I needed to “re-touch” my natural and immaculate beauty (attained with several layers of concealers and age rejuvenating products that set the word “natural” out of the sentence) with a visit at the Nail salon.

As usual, I’m out of time and a lot of things in my To-Do list, and the most important of those DO things is going to the movies with my husband to see the recent premier of Iron Man 2.

I’m always complaining every time we decide to go to an action film because that’s the way it’s supposed to be!!

I can’t possible enjoy Terminator or Hulk or Transformers, I need to make him feel miserable and to appreciate my sacrifice, so when the next Chick Flick arrives at the box office, he must definitely take me (or else).

But, who am I kidding?

I love the thrill of the scenes, the explosives and bullets, but most importantly, who can resist a beautifully formed 6-pack on our hero’s chest? (No offence to every beer belly out there).

So this afternoon I need to head to the manicurist but at the same time, I cannot miss the movie with my husband!

Well, if it comes to a point where I shall decide the most viable and needed choice… please come find me at the Lincoln cinema, in the IMAX theatre, seated next to my husband, enjoying Iron Man 2.

Don’t reprimand me; I’m not your typical gal.

PS: After we enjoyed a night out, with dinner and a movie, I had to get home, make the bag for the trip, wash my dog, paint my nails and blowdry my hair... at 2 am in the morming I realized that Beauty is a tough price to pay for an Action Film.

I'm sixteen... going on eighty (la, la, la, la, la)‏

After my jam-packed birthday (considering that this year we were more than our usual three people – my husband, our aunt and me), my week passed by with “non-worthy to comment” incidents.

One would expect that being a business woman would add excitement to your life experience, but other than some highway crashes and some heavy rain, my days went by in a soothing mode.

Yesterday was my haircut day. I have one of those every five to six months because I can’t possibly fit that tedious task in my schedule.

Don’t get me wrong, I love to be pampered by experienced hair dressers and their top-of-the-line shampoos, but it pains me (and my wallet) to pay more than forty bucks to get my tips cut.

But after almost six months without stepping under the scissors, I decided that my hair needed a strong rejuvenating treatment.

As you might already guessed, I don’t know many salons, I don’t have a preferred hair dresser nor I care if he’s recommended or not. I just want to go in and out of the place as fast as I can, because to put it mildly, I get really bored with insignificant chit-chat while someone has scissors in their hands and I’m concentrating not to snatched them and beg him/her to please pay attention!! It’s my head we’re talking about!!

(Another Taurus perk that comes with the horoscope: we always want to control everything around us).

While Israel (the hairdresser’s nickname… even thou he’s Russian and his real name is Boris) was manning the scissors, chit chatting away and cutting my hair, I was holding my breath and counting to a thousand so I wouldn’t snap at him.

He did a good job, I’ll give him that… the only inconvenience arrived when out of nowhere he started analysing my hair, its strands and roots, if it was wavy, dyed, etc. and with pin-point eyes he grabbed a WHITE HAIR….

Do you know how difficult it is to find a WHITE HAIR in a blonde’s head?

My first white hair and I have the awful luck that it was found by other person without giving me the possibility to cut it from root before someone (other than me) knows that I’m stepping out of young, into ancient.

I’m 26 years old, one white hair (reported found, who knows how many more do I have up there) and have four more years to prepare for full decrepitude.

30, here I come.

http://dramaticsnyc.com

Birthday presents… not mine…and not an easy task

The secret of why my husband and I get along so well together (beside our awesomeness) is the fact that we’re both Taurus.

Not to crumble your spirits, but this sign is the best one of the Horoscope; what we lack in docility, we compensate with intelligence, affection and an unstoppable desire to succeed in our life.

So, as you can guess, considering that my birthday was last Monday, my husband’s is tomorrow.

I wanted to surprise him at his office so his co-workers could congratulate him and embarrass him, the way he doesn’t like it when it’s his birthday (such a considerate wife I am); so I cracked my skull thinking on innovative ideas to do after almost 7 years together (I can’t imagine what would I give him in 50 more years).

He has a sweet tooth the size of a house, but this craving only gets activated in front of Nutella, Dulce de Leche, Key lime pie or Pecan Pie… neither of those are proper birthday cakes.

Flowers, stuffed animals, chocolates and cup cakes were too girlie, I wanted him embarrassed, but I didn’t want me dead… so I opted for balloons.

In the comfort of my home (whoever came up with online shopping was a lazy SOB whom I love!) I surfed online in the millions of websites that offered Balloon bouquets (you’ve to use the appropriate word) and found the choice that most suited me: lots of colors, and a corny card (if I’m going to do the deed, I wanted to succeed with flying colors – too bad for my Taurus efficiency defect).

I couldn’t pick a regular cake to be sent, so I choose two of his favourites and made another online order for those.

If he wanted to pass overlooked, my gifts didn’t help.

Today, he received the Balloons and confessed that he entered his office from the back door, so nobody would notice the gift. Too bad for him, the bright colors didn’t let him walk by unnoticed.

The cakes arrived later in the morning and all his peers in the office, came by to congratulate him (and to steal a piece, of course!).

So, take note my dear minions, If you want to embarrass your cherished one, until their cheeks are all red and his hears are on fire, then mucho, mucho corny love for him!

1-800-Baloons: www.1-800-balloons.com

Buttercup Cake Shor : www.buttercupbakeshop.com

Now the problem lies, in fitting all my other responsibilities, into my work routine.

Human beings are wired to always have something to complain or pout about.

Doesn’t matter if you’re the King of Persia or a regular guy with a regular job, one would always want a low profile life and the other would always regret not to have born with royal blood and have lots of millions.

As Michael Bublé said: That’s life (or Frank Sinatra for the previous generation).

So now I’m working from 9 am to 4 pm, arrive at home 20 minutes to 6 pm, put on my rubber gloves and I summon the energy to scrub every place in our house, but if I choose to clean, grocery shopping and poop-scooping our balcony (Buono keeps doing his business even though he knows I don’t have time to clean up after him) have to be left for the next day.

On the other hand, attending my hubby is in my priority list; so if I’m too tired to do anything at home, I just cuddle by his side and harass him the rest of the afternoon, so he doesn’t feel that he’s been left out and I have the perfect excuse not to move a finger.

However, we manage as a team together. He helps with small menial task that in the long run, reduces my available time to do anything else.

Dinner is another issue. Who has time to cook a proper meal when you can’t even see straight, and the recipes gets mixed in your head. I’m opting to freeze some dishes, having an endless load of cereals and sandwich ingredients to get by during the week, and make more elaborated dishes during the weekends.

Dieting is always the best excuse. I always say that we should take care of our weight, and keep the line, when I’m not in the mood to go near the stove.

Having a blog damages all my chances to keep pretexts (because my husband is the first one to read my posts), so if you have some new ideas that I can use from now on, please write.

In the mean time, regards from yours truly.

Happy B-Day, Feliz Cumpleaños, Bonne Fete, Alles Gute zum Geburtstag, Buon Compleanno… do I need to make myself more clear?

Birthday days have their pros and cons.
Presents and family love are definitely pros.

Even though every family has that pesterer individual that calls you at 6 am, makes you talk with every member of their household (dog and maid included) even thou it’s too early for you to process any information and most importantly: WTF is he doing calling at this hour??

So you mumble incoherent sentences while the penance endures, and then hang-up, already sleepless and in a bad mood because you missed your extra 45 minutes of sleep.

Twenty-six years of experience and you still haven’t mastered the expertise of filtering caller-ID’s during your sleep.

But you cheer up, because nobody can ruin this day for you… until you open the window and rain is pouring uncontrollably, everything is grey and depressing and you wish your birthday would have been another day of the week, maybe Saturday or Sunday if you were lucky enough… but NO, Monday and rainy for you, missy!

Suddenly, the bed looks really appealing and you’re trying to make an excuse to miss a day in your first 2 weeks of work; but you man-up, lock your back straight, walk to the bathroom and wash the sleepy feeling away.

In our birthday, we always want to look our best, so I picked my nicest outfit and accessorized it with a headband, a present from my twin sister for when my hair is unmanageable and blow-drying sound really difficult.

I’m heading to the door, and suddenly I hear a heavenly music in my ears, because I just suddenly remembered that going down the elevator, parked in our garage is our new car!!

So God isn’t that mischievous, and you have a perfect day ahead of you.

All of a sudden, the prospect of driving 40 miles, shuffling the music in your iPod and accepting calls with the Bluetooth device imbedded in the car doesn’t sound so awful.

It even sounds glamorous.

Unsafe, considering the storm; but attractive, nevertheless.

So long public transportation, hello Doris!!