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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… Which it’s true!!

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

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

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

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

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

Astrology: science or superstition?

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

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

These people haven’t met my husband.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If life gives you lemons, make calls.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

I took a sip of my drink.

It tasted like old horses blankets soaked in urine.

I coughed explosively.

- What happened? – asked my hubby

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

- You tried the wine, didn’t you?

- Uhhh? How do you know?

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

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

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

Blend it, and ready to serve!

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

Seasoning that pours out of you

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then:

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

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

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

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

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

So unfair!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Raise your glass... dirty little freaks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Puh-leeze!

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

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

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

All foreigners get together in NYC

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate stuck-ups.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Wait… WHAT?

Oh, I forgot to tell you about this story!

It’s a true story!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I laugh… I admitted.

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

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

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

Nail Polish or Nail Punching?

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All talk and no trousers

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t look so surprised!

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

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

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

Cow Intestines in Argentina means: Chinchulines!!

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

YUMMY!!

The perks of having Jane Bond in your family tree

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

The little wine bus

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

Still here...

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

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

http://www.thelittlewinebus.com/

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

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

Anniversary for us… for you… or for me?

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

Who was I kidding?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m getting old people!

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

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

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

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

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

The need to cast out ‘a’ kilo

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

It beats you to peaces...

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