Dec 28, 2009


I can safely say that in the twenty seven years of my life I have never, even once stuck to my New Year’s resolutions. At least not the whole lot of them. One year I did stick to one of them and lost a lot of weight and ended up 109 pounds of bony chin and clavicles (so unattractive) and another year I did finally learn how to drive (yeah I was 25 when I finally did it but the point is I got it done). Those are the two things I’ve stuck to. I haven’t ridden my $450.00 bicycle each weekend as I promised myself I would last year. I didn’t stick to my vegetarian diet (I did last 9 months, so yay me!) I didn’t learn how to play piano, or guitar, violin. I didn’t take ballroom dancing lessons and I didn’t try to learn Japanese or French.

I am a quitter, I must say. It is so extremely difficult for me to stick to stuff I don’t readily enjoy. I enjoy riding my bicycle but I enjoy more staying in bed and reading novels. I do love animals enough to become a vegetarian but it takes so damn long to cook meatless dinners! I would love to learn to do the quickstep and I’ve always dreamed of playing the piano. But I fear that the piano might take too long to learn and I don’t have the dough to spend on dancing lessons.

Nevertheless I am determined. This year is the year of the new me. No more half assed attempts, no more no-can-do, no more excuses. No more rationalizations. If I want to learn how to play the piano then I won’t get myself the $120.00 pair of shoes but the $30.00 option instead (Eeek) I guess I could stop spending $60.00 on haircuts…sigh. I guess I can stick to my guns. I will see results. As God as my witness I won’t be lazy anymore!!I’ll try my best to not be lazy anymore! ... I’ll make an honest attempt to not be too lazy I'll make an effort!! (Oh God, I can’t even commit on paper!)

No, I will not give in, damn it! Next year is the year. Next year I will:

  • Write no matter what or how badly every single day.
  • Show Dear Husband how much we love him.
  • Take Zoey for longer walks.
  • Finish the immigration paperwork.
  • Become a vegetarian…or pesco-vegetarian since I am not giving up sushi (I don’t care how much PETA wants to call fish the kitties of the sea) and don’t quit just because of the holidays.
  • Go bicycling with BT each weekend and exercise most days because she is getting married and I can’t let her down with her very important goal of losing 20 pounds before the wedding.
  • Use the Rosetta Stone to learn French at least 4 times a week.
  • Use my yet to be paid treadmill at least 3 times a week.
  • Be a nicer person (I always miserably fail with that one)
  • Volunteer at animal shelter (yes, sometimes they kill the animals, but stop being a pussy!)
  • Learn to play piano or guitar or both.
  • Try to be nicer, be diplomatic, not to hang up on, don’t murder tolerate dad.
  • Stop being such a smug, superior and snobby know-it-all.
  • Read less and practice hobbies that involve other people aside from me.
  • Get a hold of viper tongue.

Like Julie, from the movie I saw Saturday, I think I should set myself some timeframe. Since I don’t have A.D.D. as an excuse reason to not finish anything then it should be easier for me. I should have finished at least 2 of the 3 books I’m working on. I should at least know how to play some songs in the Piano by July. I should at least know how to say “I need the bathroom and can I have more beer” in French by April and I should have lost at least 15 pounds by July with my new pesco-vegetarian diet and exercise.

So prepare yourself 2010! Come hail or high water, no matter how much my comfy blankets reel me in. No matter how much I want to eat a piece of meat, no matter how lazy I feel or how pissed off I am I vow I will get up and bike, I will not lay down for 6 hours straight and hole up with a book (too often), I will not eat cute cows, pretty piggies or charming chickens! I will be active, I will, if it kills me, swallow the meanness and be nice.

So help me God.

Dec 27, 2009


Oh what a night. We, Dear Husband, sister and I, after a delicious (and expensive) dinner at an amazing restaurant called Leila’s went home to watch Julie and Julia. What a better way to end an amazing night but to enjoy the always breathtaking Meryl Streep.

Now I do not know about cooking, and as much as I hate to admit I don’t know much about blogging but I couldn’t help but relate to Julie Powell (played by Amy Adams) and her frustration with her professional life, her inability to escape a job she utterly hates, her fear of failure and her brimming hope that the big break was around the corner. Hope is scary shit.

As the movie went along I was so incredibly moved by both Julie and Julia’s dream come true of publishing, we hear in the end the many editors leaving offers and phone numbers in Julie’s answering machine and see the letter from the publishing house that after several years, continents and effort Julia received.

I could only imagine how that would feel and as I sighed and tear up a little at seeing MY dream come true in someone else’s life on TV, Dear Husband smiled at me and squeezed my hand letting me know that he thought that could be me.

Little did I know that an encouraging conversation about my future career as a writer could turn into an argument where he was fighting for one thing and I was about another! We spent ten minutes yelling at each other (ok, me yelling and he trying to speak on top of my yelling) just to discover minutes later than the only reason why we couldn’t agree was because I was fighting over one thing and he over another. We both said “oops” agreed that next time we should agree at least on what exactly we are fighting about before we start fighting and collapsed in a fit of laughter in bed.

The conversation pretty much started with Dear Husband trying to say that I could be a published writer if I put my mind into it and that if he wanted to be published he could. What he meant by that was that without writing abilities his drive alone would get him published because he would allow nothing, absolutely nothing get in the way of being published if that was indeed his dream. When he said it, it sounded to me as if he was saying that if he wanted to be writer he could. Regardless of the fact that he doesn’t write and he is totally left brained and his inclination are more mathematical. What I heard was that he, just by deciding to be one, could be a writer as simple as that and that if he wanted to he could outline a story and write whatever he wanted to write about.

Now, the subject of will and want is always been a touchy issue in our household since Dear Husband is a firm believer on “The Secret” and that anyone can do whatever they put their mind into and I am more of a pragmatic school of thought. To me it felt incredibly insulting that he felt that whatever ability God gave me to express myself, my thoughts and stories through the written word was meaningless when paired against the will of men. That whatever talent I have as a writer could be challenged by whomever person came along and simply decided to be a writer.

After we went through comparisons where Michael Jordan, Tiger Woods, Mike Piazza, Degas, Monet, Picasso, Beethoven, Bach, Nora Roberts, J.K. Rawlings and others were used as examples of abilities, talent and hard work, we got to the bottom of his point which was that talent alone is not going to get me anywhere if I don’t have the guts to go after it. And that some talentless fool out there may get what I want simply because they wanted it more than me. Because they fought for it, because they were fearless, because they let nothing, absolutely nothing get in the way of what they wanted.

I have to want it. Nothing is going to happen unless I make it happen.

Julie and Julia went after their dreams with an unstoppable determination. They fought against society, geography, lazy co-workers, and unsupportive parents and in Julie’s case crippling fear of failure.

Hope is indeed scary, it brings forth all sorts of dreams and feelings, plans and possibilities but I am going to embrace it damn it because nobody wants it more than I do.

You’ll see.

Dec 25, 2009


Oh the many things to be thankful for, family, friends, music, food, alcohol, alka-seltzer and extra strength Tylenol.

I woke up this morning and I am 27 years old today, almost 30 and lucky that I am alive, healthy and surrounded by the many people in my life that love me and enrich my existence. I usually hate my birthdays, it makes me uncomfortable cutting the cake with people looking at me and I usually just want to spend it in bed and ignore the fact that each year I get older and that soon there’ll be gray hairs and menopause, wrinkles and brittle bones. Agh!

Today it was different, today I woke up happy. I was happy because I had so many presents to open and the $300 worth of gift cards gives me this almost manic and giddy feeling because of the serious shopping I have to do in the near future, but more than anything I woke up happy because even though Dear Husband was in the bathroom spewing wine, beer and whiskey and even though my head was pounding and even though Zoey was waking me up way too early, even though the house was a mess of wrapping paper and tape I was happy that the place smelled like pine, and that everybody loved their gifts and that today I will celebrate another year that I am alive.

Today my dear friend Dick proposed to his lovely girlfriend BT and that is just one more reason to love this day.

Let’s think today about those much less fortunate than us, those who are poor, afflicted by disease or simply those who have many blessings and choose not to see them. We are so incredibly lucky to be alive and well and I hope I never forget it.

Merry Christmas to all!

Dec 21, 2009


As I prepared myself to read the sad news of Brittany Murphy’s death, I saw in Yahoo! News that Venezuela’s abductor president was saying that Angels Fall (Salto Angel) the tallest waterfall in the world was no longer going to be called Angels Falls since there was no way for U.S. Pilot Jimmy Angel to “discover” them since that would imply no one was living in the area at the time (1937). In other words the man refuses to name the UNESCO World’s Heritage Site after a gringo who happened to fly by.

I understand the logic behind the move, hell I can even I understand that is annoying to have something intrinsically Venezuelan named after some random pilot. But to strip such a landmark of its recognizable name seems a move made out of silly pride and not because he wants to keep the names local. Who the fuck is going to be calling the waterfall Kerepakupia Meru? Not the Venezuelan people let me assure you of that. Because we cannot pronounce it! I would understand if the name was an English name that was unpronounceable in Spanish, a very difficult last name like Schroeder (which took me forever to be able to say) but the name of the pilot who saw the waterfall and made it famous was Angel, luckily a word that is the same in English as it is in Spanish. If that is not fate then I don’t know what it is.

Doesn’t he feel some sort of respect for tradition? Doesn’t he understand that people don’t want to change the things that are familiar and dear to them? We didn’t want Venezuela to be the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela, we didn’t want the Avila Mountains to be called Guaraira Repano and we’ll be damned before we call Angels Fall Kerepujwhogivesafuck! Is his need to insult the United States so deep ingrained that he would strip the waterfall of its beautiful name? Because this has nothing to do with the pilot not being Venezuelan and everything with the pilot being a U.S. Citizen. If Jimmy Angel had been French, Spanish, heck Russian the Falls would’ve kept its name. He sees this as an opportunity to slap the U.S. in the face with his 8-year old boy attitude of not sharing a toy and this is “mine, mine, mine!!” One would think a leader of a country was above dick measuring. Apparently not.

I feel so incredibly impotent, seating here miles away while he ruins the country with his ideals. He doesn’t seem to understand that the country belong to its people, not him. Venezuela is not his property to deface, change, ruin and shit on as he wishes. Why oh why is he still in power? When is he going away? When is this going to end? What else is he going to do before he gets kicked out of power? What other sacred places, traditions is he going to soil, rape and claim as his? Until when are we going to accept his Attila the Hun attitude and let him conquer whatever the hell he wants to take?

He can change whatever the hell he wants to change because it won’t make a difference. He can make it officially Karewhateverthehell and it will always be Salto Angel, the same as everyone calls Venezuela simply VENEZUELA and the Cerro Avila will always be the Avila.

Some things remain unchangeable Mr. Chavez, the same way you will always be an ignorant, arrogant, dirty ex-con with no class, education or an idea of what the fuck you are doing!

Dec 16, 2009


I have a confession to make. I am a sucker for romance novels. It might come as a surprise to those who do not know me, and have never been in my house, or been overwhelmed by my ever filling bookcase, but I am. I think is a funny, inexplicable trait in me because I am in general an untrusting, glib, and sarcastic no-bullshit kind of girl, but there is something about true romance that makes my cold heart go gooey. I am not talking about grand gestures and candle light dinners, rose petals in bed (who is going to clean that shit after?!) and big movie proposals. I am talking about true romance. About the true meaning behind holding a hand, yearning that unreachable someone you think you can’t have. Covert glances, whispered confessions, secret rendezvous, and such. I am talking about Mr. Darcy & Lizzy, Mr. Rochester and Jane, Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth, Catherine and Heathcliff, Wall-e & Eve.

Whatever happened to that kind of romance? Did we all grow bitter and cynic? Whatever happened with writing sonnets and dueling at dawn for a lady’s honors? Whatever happened with slaying dragons and… okay I might be getting carried away but there is something so sweet in the innocent, all-abiding, all-consuming and inevitably tragedy of love stories of before.

I was doing my hair this morning while watching Reba reruns (don’t judge) and a Tresor commercial came on with Kate Winslet in all her Oscar performance glory running across a bridge to reach her love. The misty veil in which the commercial was shot gives you a hint of separated lovers, through hardship or simply a long commute one does not know, but when they hug and you see the blissful look on her face you cannot help but assume they have been reunited after a tragic something. There is no way that it is just a hug of “this was a long weekend”, it was a “we are finally together” hug.

I am a sucker for romance because I can’t wear perfume without having a head-splitting allergy attack and I was ready to go buy the damn thing!

It’s romance, only romantic when tragedy, difficulty and peril plague it? Is it only when couples have to overcome something that we find ourselves sighing? Lizzy and Darcy had to fight their prejudice and pride, Jane and Mr. Rochester his betrayal and his insane wife, Anne and Captain Wentworth the distance that almost 10 years had forged between them, Catherine and Heathcliff the sick tendencies of their personalities and death, Wall-e and Eve had to fight 700 years of technological evolution.

Have we been programmed and taught to believe that only difficulties can make a romance romantic? There is something to be said of struggle that makes everything after accomplished taste sweeter, or is it just the thrill of the chase? Is it simply a brain induced pleasure after deprivation? God knows a piece of chocolate tastes sinfully better if I haven’t had some for a while.

If that is the case then are we fooling ourselves into falling out of love simply because we have a comfortable, pleasant romance instead of a movie, tragic, dramatic one? Is overcoming the impossible necessary to have a fairy tale romance? Have we been brainwashed into thinking that struggle is the only way a love can be romantic?

Or is it simply that life has become so easy, generally speaking, that nothing can get between two lovers? Before there was social convention, war, famine, social stature, disease, long distances, race, gender, everything to get between two lovers. Life is so easy now that nothing tests love anymore. Before people pined for weeks waiting for a letter that would hold a precious lock of hair in its folds and would be kept close to the heart to be read, perused and wallowed over while wasting away with lovesickness. Now we text, shoot an email, call.

Is that a good thing? Did marriage last longer before when the possibility of tragedy was ever looming? Are we so used to everything being so easy that we get bored? Are we missing something? Are we lacking that bittersweet pleasure of loving at a distance? Or are we better as is, enjoying, gorging on the person we love without fear of anything?

I rather enjoy Dear Husband to the fullest without drama, without tragedy, without anything tearing us apart. That said I will keep being a sucker for romance, shed a few tears for those tormented separated souls…and sigh.

Dec 9, 2009


I have realized just now that I have never said the words “Te Amo” to anybody. I read them in corny, translated to Spanish, Harlequin books, heard Antonio Banderas huskily and sexily said them to irresistible women on TV, but never, not even once have I said those words to any living creature before. And for the first time since…ever, I have noticed it. What it’s in a name, Shakespeare would say, “A rose by any other name” and all that, love is love, amor, L’amour, Gram, Amore, etc. It shouldn’t matter what language I’ve said it in, but somehow it seems it holds more meaning if I say them in Spanish. What worries me is that I haven’t said them in Spanish to anybody before.

A name holds power, Dumbledore would say. Saying “You-Know-Who” gives power and sense of foreboding to a simple combination of dashes and words. Love or Amor should come out the same way to me, since both languages as just as easy, but Love in Spanish, holds a mysterious power for me.
I was tonight, in a haze of Shiraz, writing in my head my Christmas letter to a dear friend. You know one of friends who you cannot help but adore, one of those friends, who you don’t know why you love, one of those friend who stand against every principle you have, but a friend who has shared with you years of experiences, knowledge, a friend who has seen you at your worst, a friend who has cried with you, picked up your vodka puke, a friend who you don’t respect, but love nonetheless. A friend who knew you before you became you, a friend who knows your secrets, a friend who knows who you really are deep down, the geek, the slut, the insecure, the lame, the scared part of you and still loves you and for that you adore them. I was writing to them in my Shiraz inspired wisdom that I wished them a merry Christmas and in my head I wrote that I missed them in my life. As I wrote in my head the Christmas letter with a fond “You always made me smile” and a “I love you” I realized that I had to translate it to Spanish because it’s simply wrong to write to such an old friend in a foreign language… and then I couldn’t tell him all the things I had just written in my head in Spanish, I felt so much more comfortable baring my soul in a language that wasn’t my own.

Spanish it’s a romantic language, sexy, beautiful, “mysterious” to some, to me, however, it’s nothing else than an inflexible language that is as strict as an old nun who doesn’t let you wear makeup. I love English because it’s a language that allows you so many liberties; it allows you to do with it what you may. If you are creative enough you can do with it what you want. Kind of like Playdo or the Legos. Spanish allows no bullshit, no playing around. Spanish has one word for an irrefutable, undeniable, all consuming feeling and is Amor (love). You don’t use “Amor” on any other instance but I Amo my newborn baby or Amo my husband, or Amo my mom, or Amo my sister. There is no Amo my Levi Jeans in Spanish. In English Love has somehow lost all meaning. In Spanish there are levels of liking, or love, in English, colloquially at least, without getting poetic you have “like”, “love” and if you are creative enough, “adore”.

As romantic as the Spanish language is, I cannot be “romantic” with it. I can say the corniest, cheesiest, Nicolas Sparky things you can imagine in English and not bat an eye. The moment I have to say “I love you” in Spanish, I feel squeamish.

For the first time I have noticed that I have been hiding all this time behind the language. Not knowing all I’ve said held no meaning because I was hiding behind the meaningless barrier that speaking a foreign language lent me. I feel as if every word spoken has been a lie, a fraud, as if none of them had really come from the heart. My brain… well my brain and the writer in me, may speak fluent English but my heart is not bilingual and it speaks Spanish only.

So, officially to Dear Husband I will say. “Te amo, y confio en ti como nunca pense que confiaria en un hombre” and to that friend who has been my friend forever: “Ver tu foto siempre me hace sonreir”

Dec 8, 2009


According to Sarah Dowdey of “A smell can bring on a flood of memories, influence people's moods and even affect their work performance. Because the olfactory bulb is part of the brain's limbic system, an area so closely associated with memory and feeling it's sometimes called the "emotional brain," smell can call up memories and powerful responses almost instantaneously. Bear with me I am going somewhere with his, I promise. “Despite the tight wiring, however, smells would not trigger memories if it weren't for conditioned responses. When you first smell a new scent, you link it to an event, a person, a thing or even a moment. Your brain forges a link between the smell and a memory. When you encounter the smell again, the link is already there, ready to elicit a memory or a mood”

I smelled home in the air this morning on my way to work and I’ve spent all morning feeling homesick. I cannot remember the last time I even felt homesick (probably last Christmas because firewater always makes me homesick and weepy) or maybe in my civil wedding this year when I couldn’t enjoy the company of people I wish were there with me. As much as I felt the painful twinge in my heart I couldn’t help smiling. The smell was some sort of soapy, clean, disinfectant smell that reminded me of a bathroom (a private one, not a public one) and I really cannot recall what the moment was but it made me think of a trip I made to Colombia one summer almost 15 years ago. It’s amazing that I am now old enough to have 15 year old memories (Eeeek!) but also amazing is the fact that I can recall the moment on a flash of smell. I remember how I felt that moment. I couldn’t recall the day, or whose bathroom it was, but I remember the sense of expectation for the vacation days to come. I remembered the wondering what I would do with my time and the books I would read. I remembering feeling love, for the place, the people I was with and hot with the sticky Colombian summer.

I spent this last weekend alone with Dear Husband in California doing some business stuff and I sat on my couch watching TV and feeling homesick. For two whole days I thought I was just missing Dear Husband and our depressed dog Zoey wasn’t helping matters much with her “I-miss-daddy” puppy eyes. Then I realized I only felt like that (down and a little depressed, and therefore hungry) when I was seating on the couch. Dumb that I am I didn’t notice that the smell of our Christmas tree was making me miss Christmas at home. The smell of dog and pine and freshly cleaned house was bringing memories of home.

I still miss home so much. I miss the music and the people, the plans, the city that shines blindingly on Christmas, the Avila Cross that sits on the mountain, turned off all year and then lit up brightly for the whole month of December and that looks like it floats on the air at night, when the mountains are so dark they blend in with the night sky. I miss the chilly air and the chilly mornings, I miss the Christmassy billboards and the 15 foot blow up Santa one of the banks put on its building climbing up to the roof to leave some presents. I miss the Gaita concerts, with songs we’ve all heard before a million times and still make us want to cry. I miss the grapes, and the preparations, I miss the smell of the city, a combination of pine, smog and food. I miss my home with its high view of the valley and how it seemed to glow all twinkly at night with the city bellow us shinning green, red and yellow full of Christmas lights.

I wish the smell and the barreling emotions that come with it would give me a warning instead of swallowing me whole in bittersweet memories of moments lived so long ago but I still remember as if they were yesterday.

One of my exile buddies living here in Florida after leaving Venezuela posted in his Facebook how depressing Christmas is away from home, how he misses the celebrations that start in December and don’t end until half way January. It’s not just the parties he misses, but the familiarity, the sense of belonging. His immediate family, like mine, it’s here in the same city and even though it feels ten thousand times better now that they are here, we are all still castaways during Christmas time, away from all familiar, drifting around listening to jingle bells and eating turkey instead of listening to danceable Christmas music and eating hallacas.

Nothing, not even being away from home can ruin Christmas from me. I took a deep breath Saturday of my Christmas tree smell, the sweet, sharp, crisp and clean scent made my heart weep for all left behind, and the twinkling lights mocked my mood. Ahead we move all the time, leaving behind precious things that will never come to be again part of our lives. Thank God for the sense of smell that won’t let us forget.

Dec 7, 2009


At lunch today we were all discussing our memories of prom night. Some were dumped by their boyfriends, others (like me) had the guy they liked showing up with their ex girlfriend, and another had their graduation so long ago she had to waltz with her father as a tradition. When you work with someone from Argentina, Puerto Rico, Bulgaria and New York, recounting war stories from high school can get pretty interesting. As it happened my prom night memories were pretty similar to everyone else except of course for the New Yorker.

School here is so different from back home that is like a parallel universe I’ve never visited and not matter how many times it has been explained to me it remains confusing, scary and clouded in an almost science-fiction-like fog of mystery.

It has always baffled me how school works here. From electives classes and going to different schools for each phase (elementary, middle, high school), to the school districts things by neighborhoods and homecoming parties and prom queens and kings. Back at home you don’t get to elect your classes, even if math is not your strongest area, you still have to suffer through eleven miserable, terrifying, traumatic years of algebra, geometry, arithmetic and my nemesis… trigonometry. Fucking trig I still have nightmares about it. When I watched TV and teenagers said hi to each other tentatively in school saying “You are in my history class aren’t you?” I never understood what they meant. Back at home we got a classroom assigned with other 30 to 40 students, you get assigned a seat at which you are to remain for the rest of the year and teachers come to you. Back at home you have no choice but befriend your classmates, you spend five days a weeks, 6 to 7 hours a day in a classroom with them, breathing the same air, sharing the same torturous math teacher and forced to work in groups. You sit in the seat next to someone for 6 to 8 hours for five days weeks and you learn to like them whether you like it or not.

I was the new girl on my sophomore year in High School. Since wretched math was kicking my ass I had to change schools to one that allowed students to choose if they wanted to spend their last two years learning social or science studies. Since the left side of my brain is stunted and never developed I went with social and spent my last two years in heaven with classes like French, Latin, Sociology, Philosophy, Psychology, Art History, English, and the right side of my brain enjoyed the party while the left grew cobwebs.

Whenever I think of high school here I remember how easy it was for me to change school and make friends. I had a blast on my last two years in high school and I shiver to think how much harder it would’ve been here. I was the new girl in a graduating class that had been in the same school since elementary. I was the new girl among teenagers that had seen each other for eleven years, five days a week. They knew each other’s grandparents, cousins, they knew each other secrets and had memories dating back to the time when some were still sucking thumb. Here it would’ve been impossible for me to befriend them since I don’t make friends easily, but back at home was so easy because we were stuck with each other all day.

Here is so different! Prom is before you actually graduate and the parties are unsupervised and at hotel rooms… I can’t even wrap my mind around it. Our graduation party was the day we got our diplomas and we work our dresses and suits under our gowns, we partied with family members and friends until five in the morning at a rented hall, had dinner, a champagne toast (even though most student were under 18 and therefore not allowed by law to drink). We partied as if it was a wedding, with a DJ, a photographer, a band and flowers. The party was the last time I saw some of them and a big way to say goodbye with a bang. It would’ve felt sort of anticlimactic if I had to see them all the next Monday after such a celebration.

Here you dress up, rent a limo and go to a hotel room to have drunken sex with a boy who has no idea what he is doing. Even if things were done that way back home parents would’ve never allowed their kids to go to a hotel room after a party. Here let me pay for hotel room where some randy teenage boy is going to pop my little girl’s cherry. Riiiiight.

Doesn’t anybody notice how simply wrong that is? *She says failing at trying to sound non-judgmental* Don’t get me wrong there were plenty of people that were sexually active at my graduation, but that didn’t mean we were allowed to celebrate our high school graduation party at some random hotel room without adult supervision. Back at home even the most rebellious rebel wouldn’t have dared to smoke in school property. There, school grounds are almost holy grounds and you don’t fuck around with school ground, you don’t graffiti, have sex under bleachers, smoke, drink, and give birth in bathrooms.

My poor cousin had to finish her high school years here and she was once almost took a mint from a guy who offered without knowing he was giving her Ecstasy. She saw people getting high in the bathrooms and I can’t even imagine getting away with smoking a cigarette at my old school, where the Spanish (from Spain) priests had eyes like a hawk and would know if someone skip school and called your parents if you talked back or misbehaved.

I love this country and I am happy to be here but I am also happy that I came here when I did, with two years of college under my belt and that I didn’t get electives that were going to keep me from meeting my friends, I am happy I didn’t have prom king or queens. I am glad I finished school back home where my graduation class was of two hundred people instead of getting lost in a sea of anonymity in a class of a thousand like my cousin and two of my friends.

I am forever grateful that I didn’t have to celebrate getting out of school by going to a hotel room to feel pressured into having sex with some pimply inexperienced boy with sweaty hands who didn’t know the clitoris from the anus. Amen.

Dec 2, 2009


So Tiger is spreading the love even though he has a wife of six years and two children. When a beautiful woman like Erin cannot keep her husband satisfied it makes one wonder. Who can? If success, fame, fortune, health and love cannot keep you happy then what can? Tiger is THE numero uno golf player in the world. He is at the height of his career, he has a beautiful family, he has everything anyone can ever want. Respect, success on his field, money, EVERYTHING. And apparently everything was simply not enough. Is it men as a gender who have an inability to stay faithful in spite of everything going well? Or is it more human nature?

What does it take to cheat? It is a disregard for that other person’s feelings? A need for instant gratification without regard of long term consequences? Is it carelessness? Is it loneliness? Horniness? Is it because that other person is offering something the person you chose to share your life with cannot give?
Or maybe is it because society places such a burden on marital rolls. Men are expected to be hunters, gatherers, providers, brave, romantic, strong yet sensitive like in the movies and women are supposed to be nurturers, sex kittens, cooks, mothers and everything in between. Who can fill such shoes? No one. We are all left dissatisfied because we have unrealistic expectations of the people we married and expect them to make us happy in each facet of our lives.

Although rationally I understand how difficult it is to remain faithful to someone until death, emotionally I don’t have any tolerance for the issue. I understand how hard it is to completely satisfy someone else, in and out of bed but how do people get past the sense of betrayal, the anger and the hurt? How do they move on? How do they open themselves again to the person who did the one thing they promise not to do in front of friends, family, the law and for those who believe in that, God?

In my family’s case forgiveness did absolutely nothing except for extend the humiliation and make more obvious the inability of my cheating father to commit to the woman he married and promised to love until death, the woman he chose as his mistress or the children he had with both. In which circumstance is forgiveness a good idea? I have been shown forgiveness when it comes to cheating is just a form of denial and silly hope that things will change.

In situations like these I wonder why would anyone marry? It’s such a risk, such a gamble, such an irrational promise of love, commitment, faithfulness and loyalty that we give too freely and without taking into consideration that there might come a time when we will be able to break it. Back at home almost all my friends had parents that were cheating on their spouses. Let me rephrase that most of my friends had cheating dads. Is it a Hispanic thing? Or are all men potential cheaters? Does it have to do with nationality, status? Or simply with having a dick?

Are women simply more discreet and conniving enough (don’t fight it you know we are) that we’ll cheat without getting caught? Or is it that we simply are brave enough to admit defeat and end a relationship before it gets to the point of cheating?. For men is it a case of wanting to have the cake and eat it too? (an expression that makes no sense to me because what else could you do with a cake if not eat it?) Or is it that their fear of confrontation (don’t bitch you guys know it’s true) keep them from facing the truth of their failing relationship and it’s simply easier to look at greener pastures without permanently leaving the farm?

We all dream (secretly or openly) about that breathtaking love that will last forever, epic and with a soundtrack, we all want to be Noah and Ally, or Lizzie and Mr. Darcy, Anne and Captain Wentworth, Mr. & Mrs. Potato Head…but how realistic is it to really be with someone for 50 years without forgiving some step outs?

Every time I see a couple that has been together for 20 to 50 years I always wonder which one has cheated, which one has forgiven. I haven’t decided yet if that makes me a cynic or a realist. I guess anyone can cheat and anyone can be cheated on. Maybe everlasting love isn’t about a perfect love but loving in spite of fucking cocktail waitress and spending too much time on the phone or leaving the toilet seat up.

I rather think Mr. Darcy loved Lizzie all the days of his life and never looked at another woman the way he looked at her. I rather think Dear Husband will do the same.

Nov 30, 2009


I apologize to those of you who kindly take the time to read my blog for the long days of not posting. I was hit with a thing I call writer's block (and other folks just call sheer lazyness) and couldn't find a thing to say. If you have nothing interesting to say better stay quiet right?. I didn't want to bore you guys with blathering nonesense just for the sake of posting something.

Anywho, Oh the holiday season is here! Tra-la-la-la-la-la and all that! I am so excited that December starts tomorrow and that finally I can go all Christmas-crazy with a reason. I woke up this morning feeling completely blah and ech and icky (a combination of spicy chicken wings for dinner, a fight with Dear Husband and the start of my monthly cycle) and then I remembered November is over today, I get paid and Christmas for me starts tomorrow woot woot, yay, holla and all those!

I had an amazing time from Wednesday on when Dear Husband and I left to go to Indiana to see the family for thanksgiving. As I have shared before, I have of late developed this paralizing tiny fear of flying and a dear friend of mine was sweet enough to share some of her Xanax with me so I could relax on the way there (bless your heart AL). I rode the flight to Atlanta on nothing but a rum&coke and experienced THE worst flight I’ve ever taken. We were delayed for an hour and thirty minutes because of bad weather and the entire way there was so rocky we couldn’t even get drinks because it wasn’t safe to pull the cart. I spent the flight shaking, watching Cash Cab and pretending I wasn’t praying for whichever God above to let me see another day.

We landed safely in Atlanta with plenty of time to catch our flight to Indy and I sat at the TGI Fridays in the airport downing martinis and trying to get my heart rate back to normal. Twenty minutes before take-off I chugged the last of my third dirty martini with the Xanax I should’ve taken on the first flight and let me tell you I completely understand why people get addicted to prescription medication because I haven’t been that relaxed since I stopped sucking thumb and drinking chocolate Nesquik from a baby bottle. I was laughing in the face of death the entire flight to Indianapolis and every time the plane shook I contemplated my mortality with a cheery thought and prepared with eagerness for my next life (I am a firm believer in reincarnation). I am never flying any other way but with Xanax and Grey Goose running freely through my system.

Indianapolis was as always cold and grey (I’ve only been over there during the fall) and we had a great time on Thanksgiving eating turkey and spending time with Dear Husband side of the family I don’t get to see much. I talked to his charming grandpa who recently lost his wife and was touched by how much in love he still seemed to be with his deceased wife. We exchanged presents (we are not seeing them for Christmas) and spent a few hours playing Monopoly. Spending time with Dear Husband’s family (I haven’t been married enough time to start thinking of them as my family just yet) always makes me think how obviously different we are. Not just his family and mine but how different the interaction between him and his family is, the interaction between them and myself and my family and him. There is an air of… formality I am not used to and that I think is normal here but completely foreign to me. I am used to being irreverent and used to talking to my family members the same way I talk to my friends. With his family there seems to be a more delineated line between “adults” and “children” even though we are now ALL adults there is that deference to the uncles, aunts, parents etc that we don’t use in my family.

I know people that read this blog might think I get repetitive when I say that I get these moments when I realize how different we truly are, Dear Husband and I. But it seems as if I never run out of them. You know those moments when the light goes off and I am presented with yet another example. I try to convey to Dear Husband how I see the differences as interesting but I think sometimes the words come out a little critical as if I was comparing his family to mine (with his losing to mine) instead of just comparing notes.

As his family said goodbye, and his aunt and uncle and cousins left for the day to go back to their hometown which is several hours away from Indianapolis I couldn’t help but be surprised at how differently we express our love for each other. They obviously love one another since they drove hours to come to Indianapolis to spend an afternoon together; but as they left waving goodbye I found it so weird that they would wave goodbye instead of hugging each other or kissing each other. The whole departure was so sudden and efficient I was left reeling! One moment they are saying “we gotta go because we have a long drive” and the next they are all bundled up and waving goodbye at the door.

Do you have any idea how damn long it takes for my family to actually leave a freaking place?! We say goodbye like seventeen times and then there is always someone who has to go pee and another starts telling a story of something that happened twenty years ago and then we are all involved in the story and we say goodbye again and we start talking all over and by the time we are at the door we have hugged, kissed and hugged and kissed and hugged and kissed each other goodbye so many times it could last us a lifetime.

Friday we went to Chicago. I couldn’t help but be in utter awe at the sight of Lake Michigan. That thing looks like the freaking Ocean! The cold wasn’t that bad and I loved seeing my breath puff in front of me. We saw a PETA demonstration in front of a fur store and even though I really don’t like PETA I also really don’t like fur so I was just hoping for some fake-blood throwing scenario but nothing happened (sucks). We spend the night playing Sequence with mom in law’s family whom I adore because they are amazing and laughing at the stories they had to tell. My new grandma is one of those saucy women that haven’t let religiousness get in the way of their humor. She is tiny, white haired and full of spunk.

Saturday came too soon and it was already time to go, a grumpy Dear Husband was suffering from a horrible migraine that wouldn’t go away and concerned family members were getting on his frayed nerves. By the time we made it to the Atlanta Airport after an uneventful flight from Indiana we were exhausted, hungry, annoyed and ready to make it home. All of the sudden a simple conversation trying to compare Chicago to D.C. for our next home turned suddenly into a fight over Dear Husband selfishness and his marriage to his iPhone and my daddy issues. Believe me it was not a fun flight to Miami but again Lady Xanax came to my rescue and I was just too chilled to give a damn.

Oh the issues that come up when families get together and emotions are running high…

We made it home exhausted and emotionally beaten. I hate arguing with Dear Husband and I know he hates arguing with me because I am hard to beat in a verbal fight and if I am angry I get mean.

Today though I saw the calendar and the slate was wiped clean. There is no silly argument that Christmas cannot cure and all I can think of now is the pretty gifts I’ll give, the pretty tree we’ll get, the decorations, the Christmas music, having family over, and how lucky I am to have a husband who loves me, a family that I adore, a roof over my head, money in the bank, an evil cat who loves me in spite of his better judgment and a dog who peed on her bed last night after a doggie nightmare.

I might fight with Dear Husband. I might complain about my weight. I might have a homicidal hatred for Dear Husband’s cell phone and his obsession with it. We might be strapped for cash and my birthday this year might be celebrated less than gloriously. But our house will smell like pine and Max and Zoey will spend their first Christmas together and my sister will come down from NOLA and we’ll have a great time together and there isn't any need for Xanax for that.

Nov 19, 2009


I was reading today about Kate Moss’ comment that was taken completely out of context but that sparked a lot of controversy (you people just loooooove the word “outrage” and “controversy” way too much) and made the people fighting the “beauty is bones” view have a mini stroke of rage. Apparently Moss was asked what motto she lived by and her answer was: “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” which is apparently one of the mottos of Pro-Anas and Pro-Mias everywhere.

When I read the term I was clueless, Pro-Ana and Pro-Mia or sometimes just “Anas & Mias” was something I have never heard of before, but oh this country never ceases to amaze me! Most of the times the shocks and surprises this country brings me are good, 99% of the time is something that makes me smile and makes me see that moving here was the right choice. There is, though, that one percent that is completely fucked up.

Pro-Ana and Pro-Mia, as my research revealed, are websites and groups dedicated to support anorexia and bulimia as a “lifestyle” and not as a mental disorder of any kind. They see it as a choice, as a way to control the one thing you can do something about, yourself. I entered the website thinking I was going to find it funny and that I was going to spend 15 minutes making derisive comments about the silly girls who wanted to be skinny and fit the twisted mold of today’s beauty. I was very wrong.

I spent three horrying hours reading how these girls (mostly girls but there were some guys) spend their life torturing themselves over a 9 oz. tin of cashews!! It would’ve been funny if they would’ve been just vain and superficial people with an obsession of being pretty, but every line spoke of deep-rooted problems., of pain, cutting, feeling invisible, sheer loneliness and it wasn't funny at all, it made me incredibly sad. There are pictures all over the place called "Thinspiration" where a skinny bobbled head Victoria Beckham poses looking like a skeleton, a bare backed bony Keira Knightly whose every back bone you can see, protuding hip bones, deep clavicles, ribs galore.

It’s confusing because at moments they seem so in control of it, as if their disease was part of who they are, as if it was soothing in a way. Some of them know it's sick, they know it’s not normal and still they do it. They want to stop but can't, they don't hesitate about cutting out people from their lives, friends, family who worries about their health and choose the disease or lifestyle instead. They rather be lonelily counting the calories daily to a high of 400 per day (which was the highest calorie count I read most barely survive on 245 calories a day) than to let people in their little circle of celery hell. They choose lonelyness, emptyness, pain, over anything and everyone else.

Some were angry at being judged, others had survived almost dying after being force fed and taken to hospitals and were trying their best to retain their anorexic lifestyle and not dying at the same time. They were struggling for a balance where they could be what they wanted to be, THIN and remain alive to be able to enjoy it. They all say that happiness is 3 pounds away and then another 3 pounds and another 3 pounds but no matter how thin they got, how their bones poked through, how they faded away into almost nonexistance they still sound unhappy about their body. A girl was worrying about the cup of salad she ate at lunch and how she knew it wasn’t bad for her because it had been only 200 calories but how the feeling of fullness made her want to purge. Part of her obviously recognized how irrational it was for her to worry about those 200 calories but the stronger part, the sickness in her made her want to get rid of it. In the forum she asks for guidance asking if she should or should not purge and even though I didn't get to see what happened later I am sure she went to her office bathroom to throw up the little nourishment she gave her starving body.

Others, thought were simply proud of their accomplishments. Proud that they hadn’t eaten anything solid in 8 months and that they were 84 pounds and 5 foot four. Some of them were in an imaginary war against the world. A war with battles they won each day by refusing to conform, by refusing to eat. To them their disease is control, it’s pure, it’s beauty and the world is simply keeping them away from that higher place where they are above all mere mortals who weigh triple digits.

After spending hours reading about these people torturing themselves over an unhealthy look and goal I couldn’t help but be thankful I spent my teenage and formative years back home. I remember when I started college I decided to drop a few pounds and was 109 pounds at 5 foot 3. My guy friends made an intervention in protest of my fading ass. They all complained that I could no longer pass the “towel test” (a test invented by a pig friend of mine where a girl puts a towel on her butt without holding it and the curve of her butt alone it’s supposed to keep it there) and that they could see my hip bones and that was not pretty. I came to the U.S. when I was 19 and my cousins hadn’t seen me in two years, they both thought I had an eating disorder because they could see every bone in my body pocking out. And I was in a healthy diet! I wasn't starving myself like these people do. As if food was an enemy sneakily waiting for them to fail.

I am so ever thankful that I was expected to have curves, that society back home demanded that I looked like a woman and not like a boy. I was so thankful that my guy friends wanted my ass to be bubbly and out there and liked it as it was and will ever be: Big. I would’ve never survived high school here. I would’ve never survived having my formative years being told I was ugly and fat. I would've turned out like those girls who starve themselves and have breakfast of celery sticks, lunch of a cup of peas and tea as dinner. How can they help but feel inadequate, fat, disgusting, ugly and unhappy when everything out there points out the same thing? That the body they have is not good enough? That happiness and success depends on them being skinny.

I grew up being told that curves were beautiful so I think they are, is it their fault that they think curves are disgusting when they were told that by television, magazines, friends, family, men that sharp angles are preferable?

I read this list of “inspirational quotes” to be thin in one of the websites and cannot help but feel depressed for these lost hungry souls.

  • What nourishes me also destroys me
  • Food is like art. To be looked at, not eaten
  • Anorexia is not a self-inflicted disease but a self-controlled lifestyle
  • Empty is pure
  • If you close your mouth to food, you will know a sweeter taste
  • If it taste good is trying to kill you
  • Giving into food shows weakness. Say not to food and you’ll be better than everyone else
  • Bones define who you really are, let them show
  • They’ll say they are concerned about you, your health. All they want is to control you, they want to pin you down and force feed you that fat they call love
  • People who eat are selfish and unrealistic (?)
  • You don’t NEED food, you just want it.
  • Don’t you want to walk on the snow and leave no footprints?
  • When you start feeling dizzy and weak it means you are almost there
  • Food rots your teeth
  • Anorexia is not a disease. It is not a game. Anorexia is a skill perfected only by a few. The chosen, the pure, the flawless.

I truly hope those people someday see that having body fat is not the same as being fat. Eating one cookie it’s okay. Bones are not meant to be seen the same way we don’t see beams on a building because otherwise it’s falling apart. That life isn’t about counting the calories on celery sticks, it’s about being healthy and laughing, crying, eating, living, loving, not about secrets, and purging, misery, loneliness.

See the light, people! Have a doughnut!

Nov 18, 2009


Yesterday I read in the news that Transparency International published its annual Corruption Perception Index which ranks 180 countries according to the “perceived” levels of corruption. While the sentence “perceived corruption” makes it sound less factual and more conjectural I am sure it is a fairly accurate list.

Venezuela was ranked 162 on the list, just 18 spots from the last, only 9 above from Iraq and 5 above Iran. How does that make any sense? We are talking about two nations that have been at war with each other, with themselves, with other countries for the greater part of a century!

Venezuela was lucky enough to only have one battle in its history, the battle for its independence and never ever since has been at war. It suffered through three dictatorships at the beginning of the century and although forever plagued by the corruption of its dictators (Castro, Gomez and Jimenez) who stole millions from the country and even more corruption from its elected presidents like Lusinchi and Perez (who also stole billions) Venezuela was blessed with a certain level of peace, safety, openness, embracing all. Immigrants from China who wanted to have more than one child came to Venezuela and were happy to have as many children as they wanted. People from all over Europe (Portugal, Germany, Spain, Italy, Greece, etc) made Venezuela their home and it welcomed them with open arms. Jewish people felt safe to also make Venezuela their homes and migrated there from countries all over the world during WWII and before that.

How does a country so rich in natural resources, so rich in culture, so diverse, so beautiful and generally peaceful finds itself ranked among nations like Iran and Iraq that have not met peace in decades, Haiti who has been ravaged by nature and political unrest since I can remember? How could it be bellow countries like Vietnam who just 30 years ago was at war? Ethiopia who was just 10 years ago at war with Somalia who is the most corrupt on the list? How could be tied at number 162, TIED with the Democratic Republic of Congo! TIED!!! with a nation who just declared its independence like 10 freaking years ago for Christ’s Sake!!

While I find myself so incredibly thankful that I am here (in country number 15), I cannot help but be thankful with a heavy heart. I cannot feel fully satisfied for having move on when some family and plenty of friends remain behind. I cannot help but remember how it was before I came. I lived in Venezuela for 17 years. It seems so little now that I have been here in the U.S. for almost half that much, but it was an important 17 years. I left Colombia when I was three years old and I hardly remember the 3 years I spent there. Venezuela has always been home. I grew up there. Ran, kissed my first boyfriend, danced my first dance, drank my first beer, went to college, and graduated high school. All that I did never feeling in any way that my country lacked anything! How silly I was. In 2008 Caracas (the capital) was declared murder capital of the world. I was never even robbed once in the 17 years I lived there!

Now more than ever I am enraged with its “President’. For his appropriation of every privately owned industry in the country, for his appropriation of the Hilton Hotels in Margarita Island, for everything he has ever done in the almost 11 years on power. Now he is talking about declaring war to Colombia who is Venezuela’s sister land. Simon Bolivar must be dust rolling on his grave!
God forbid that from happening.

Note: I dont appreciate the fact that I have practically turned this into a political blog. I don't like! I don't like it!

Nov 16, 2009


I need to stop reading the news because all they do is put me in a bad mood at the stupidity of some people. Some people (I am hoping is just “some”) are apparently outraged over President Obama bowing to the Emperor of Japan (some dude named Akihito). I was reading the reactions and everyone seems to think the same, that it was some sort of humiliating move that makes the United States seemed weak.

And…off I go with reason number 501 why people don’t like the United States. There is absolutely nothing wrong with following protocol in a foreign country. Bowing is the traditional and formal greeting so what is the issue? That President Obama bowed to the Emperor? or that he did and the Emperor didn’t bow back? Some dickhead called William Kristol, a republican pundit speaking on Fox News (Naw, Fox? Really? No way!) Said:

"I don't know why President Obama thought that was appropriate. Maybe he thought it would play well in Japan. But it's not appropriate for an American president to bow to a foreign one" "I'll bet if you look at pictures of world leaders over 20 years meeting the emperor in Japan, they don't bow"
So again, I ask: What is the issue with the President bowing? Is he above regular protocol because he is A president or because he is The President of THE United States of America? And why the word ‘outrage’? How about some outrage over something worth being outraged about? Even if the bow was some sort of presidential faux pas the fact is there are plenty more important things to worry about than if the president bowed or not to another head of state, emperor, prince, king whatever the fuck.

Wasn’t it bad enough that President Bush managed to ruin the relationships between the U.S. and half the world? Shouldn’t it be considered a step in the right direction? Isn’t some humility a welcomed change? I bet the leaders of the world see Obama’s bow as a breath of fresh air after the dumb arrogance of a president who said:

"I'm the commander -- see, I don't need to explain -- I do not need to explain why I say things. That's the interesting thing about being president."

I am sure because I feel the same way that the world is tired of what they view as the U.S. arrogance. We don’t want to hear another President saying:

"Goodbye from the world's biggest polluter." --in parting words to world leaders at his final G-8 Summit, punching the air and grinning widely as those present looked on in shock, Rusutsu, Japan, July 10, 2008.

It is for a reason that for the first time in decades the U.S. isn’t disliked by people all over the world. Some people here might say that they don’t care and that it doesn’t matter and that leaders are usually disliked, the same way the popular cheerleader and the team’s Quarterback is disliked by all in school. The fact is alliances are important for all countries, supporters, backers, friendships, good relationships are important, no country can afford to go around stepping on everyone’s toes and for far too long the U.S. did. For the first time in a long time a current President is doing his best to change that and is faced with the disapproval of his own people!. I can bet my ass that after a comment like the one in Japan by President Busch just a year and a few months ago, President Obama’s bow was not seen as submission, or weakness but as a respectful indication of his willingness to work with them, as a respectful way to show he isn’t above anything and that the arrogance that the world thought the U.S only flavor is far behind, that those days are over.

So let President Obama bow. Stop getting your panties in a twist over such a meaningless moment, over a gesture that was meant to be respectful and meant to breach differences that were carved by eight years of mocking arrogance.

I have nothing else to say but to part with my favorite quote that actually makes some sort of stupid twisted sense:

"I know what I believe. I will continue to articulate what I believe and what I believe - I believe what I believe is right" President Bush Said in Rome, Italy 2001.

Nov 11, 2009


I have to admit that this is the first year this day holds any meaning for me. Not because before I was indifferent to its meaning, or because I didn’t care or wasn’t thankful, but because a Veteran I knew passed away this morning. He was sweet, kind, funny, spunky, witty, stubborn, smart and had so many things to say. He lived to be 92 and I feel it was just yesterday we celebrated his 88th birthday.

I am not very familiar with death, I am one of those blessed happy few who had never lost a close family member or friend, but Papou was special, not in the way all dead people are suddenly great and flawless but in the real way. He lived a remarkable life, saw the world change, his children grow, his grandchildren be born, lost the love of his life and did it all it a flair. I never asked what he saw or what he did, the things he witnessed so many years ago at war will remain forever private but I can’t imagine how he did it all and remained true to his spirit, how he survived the lost of a loved one, war, leaving his home country of Greece and remained the sweet man he was.

I remember having lunch with him two years ago and Dear Husband, who was just my boyfriend then, called me and I didn’t want to answer because I didn’t want to interrupt the lunch we were having and he said: “Answer and tell him you are having lunch with a hot Greek stud” I did and I remember how Papou belly-laughed when Dear Husband screamed “What?” over the speaker phone. He had such a young soul for such a long busy life.

Today has more meaning because is not just a celebration of millions of faceless people all over the world who sacrificed everything for the greater good. Today it has a face, it’s Papou’s and next year, and the other years to come I will raise my glass for those like him but specially for him who sacrificed, gave joy and touched so many, many lives.

I am consoled by the knowledge that you are finally in Yaya’s arms Papou. We’ll miss you.

Nov 10, 2009


I don’t think most people here realize just how amazing it is to be able to enjoy watching the seasons change. Most people here take for granted the breathtaking coloring of the leaves, the white pristine snow that cover their cars, bloomy spring that comes and greets you when you’ve had enough of white and gray and blistering summer when you are yearning for the beach. They rather concentrate on the leaves they have to rake, the salt to break the ice, the allergy from the pollen and the humidity that comes with heat. Ungrateful bastards you all! (Sorry, I am bitter).

Oh how I wish I could enjoy some snow fight and catch some ticks on the leaves (I read somewhere they love dead leaves) or walk under full bloom cherry blossoms in DC and…well to be honest I could give up summer for a while. I know people in cold weather envy the Florida heat, ignorant bastards all of you (again I apologize) but believe me there is something to be said about change. About pulling out the boots and gloves, and thick woolen socks and scarves. Something to be said about wishing for spring so you can wear that cute white summer dress you didn’t get to wear as much as you wanted.

There is no break in this Florida monotony. No kaleidoscope of colors, no white to the horizon, no romantic and tragic naked trees, just green and green and green and more green. Back at home we didn’t get a change in season; we got hot summer with cool breezes and no humidity and lots of rain and then blissful chill that lasted for months.

I don’t think there is anything as frustrating for me than to go shopping for a Christmas tree when is 89 degrees outside. So freaking discouraging! How is one to choose a beautiful tree to light one’s Christmas if is blistering hot outside? Last year I had to wait until almost the 20th when it finally got chilly (Florida chilly) the nerve, the fucking nerve!!!

But no matter, there is no weather wretched enough to ruin Christmas for me. Hell, October ends and I get the tingles! What is going to make this Christmas more special than others is that I am married this year for the first time and you know what that means? Only one set of gifts from the both of us!! I knew there had to be something good about being shacked up (I kid, Googly Bear, I kid).

Every year Christmas gets here and I go a little crazy. I admit it, there are worse problems to have than this. I am one of those psycho people who are done with Christmas shopping by Thanksgiving and is totally broke in January because of the 12 foot tree she jammed in her living room. I go all out, I go insane I even buy presents for my cat Max who cannot possibly celebrate Christmas since he is the spawn of Satan and that would make no sense... And the worst is (for those around me not for me) that I don’t consider Christmas just the 25th of December, for me Christmas is to be celebrated for the entire month of December from the 1st to the 31st!! *She gives an evil cackle* I sing carols at the office, my iPod plays nothing but Christmas music and Dear Husband hates me because he ends up with: -“Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring-ting-tingling too. Come on is lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you. Outside the snow is falling and friends are calling ‘Yoo-hoo’ Come on is lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you!”- Stuck in his head until May.

I tell you, you people have AWESOME Christmas music. I mean don’t get me wrong I have wonderful memories of my dancing to my Christmas music from home but there is just something so typical Hollywood and United State-y to the music, so cheery and happy and I can feel myself going crazy already and I can’t wait for December to start!!!! (Yes, all those exclamation points are needed). Poor Dear Husband is probably already dreading the month to come and my obsession with it. I guess is because I am myself a Christmas baby I consider the whole month my month.

I am flabbergasted every year when I see the 27th of December, sad looking trees thrown carelessly on the front porch of some houses, littering the sidewalks and just thrown there, ignored without dignity as if they didn’t matter as if they hadn’t gifted them with hours and hours of shiny sparkly color. I name my tree every year (hey, don’t judge) and every year I feel the loss when is time to say goodbye and I am holding onto one end and Dear Husband is pulling the other screaming “It’s February!!” Sigh, good times.

Back at home Christmas starts sometime in October and doesn’t end until late January. We enjoy the hell out of Christmas, with concerts, food, more food, drinking, never ending dancing, shopping and some more food. Back at home Christmas is a black tie event. Even if you are just throwing a party at your own house with the three members of your family (which is impossible because we are Hispanic) you still dress to the nine to welcome baby Jesus and the New Year. We don’t wear jeans, or cotton, or flats. We do our hair, our nails, our makeup and in full attire gorge on pastries filled with pork, beef and vegetables.

Here you have Christmas during the day, which is so odd. We first of all celebrate Christmas Eve so the 24th we spend the day preparing, getting ready, cooking last minute, finding shoes to go with the outfit and then around 10 pm we start eating and drinking and dancing and then at midnight we wish each other a Merry Christmas.

On New Year’s Eve we wear yellow underwear, eat 12 grapes for 12 wishes for 12 months, we carry money for a prosperous New Year and carry suitcases around so the year to come brings some traveling. We dance until our feet weep and vow never to wear the shoes again that go so fabulously well with the outfit we purchased to wear that day.
I have seen friends here welcome the New Year in their PJs. That is unacceptable! What kind of year can you expect ahead if you welcome it on your Hello-Kitty slippers and your hair like a nest? Hell New Year it’s so damn important that even Microsoft Office 2007 knows it because it won’t let me put it on lower case!

Back home and now here, in foreign land we choose to spend them with family because that’s how we want your next year to be, around family and friends, surrounded by love ones, with plenty of food, money, travel, adventure, awesome clothes, looking beautiful and full of hope for the things to come.

We are only 16 days away from Thanksgiving and we all know that means December is around the corner.

Poor baby, get ready!!

Nov 9, 2009


Yesterday I woke up at noon and spent my afternoon lying on the couch watching TV. I ran across the movie Milk and was about to change it because of my previously discussed feelings of anger toward Sean Penn but… I can’t stand the man but it cannot be denied he is an amazing actor, the motherf*cker had the nerve to make me forget it was him and before I knew it I was riding along with Harvey on his quest for equality in the 70s.

I am a sucker for movies. Good movies touch me for days and I am left with weeks of an aftertaste that haunt me. When I was 14 years old I spent a month depressed over the death of the people aboard Titanic, Kill Bill left me with an eagerness to learn Japanese and martial arts, Ratatouille made me want to be a chef instead of a writer, and I think my family it’s still trying to forget that summer I saw Gone with the Wind and walked around talking like Scarlett O’Hara (it wasn't pretty).

Milk was a movie that made me feel even more than usual because the issue it’s so close to my heart. I have plenty of out and closeted gay friends and family members and there is nothing than incenses me more than people with no “tolerance” for homosexuality. I am not even comfortable with the word “tolerance” since the dictionary defines it as “capacity for endurance or the act of allowing something”. Homosexuality shouldn’t be something to endure or allow to happen by those of us who are heterosexual. The same way heterosexuality isn’t “tolerated” but simply accepted as a natural thing homosexuality should be.

When Maine voted “Yes” last week for Prop-1 I wasn’t angry (okay I was) but more than anything I was sad. I was sad because I thought we were moving forward and then something like this happens and the disappointment feels so bitter. It wasn’t as disappointing as Prop-8 in California was but it was a disappointment anyway. I want this country that it’s my home now to be as good as it can possibly be. Some people might argue that since I am an immigrant only I have no right to want to change it and should be happy that I am allowed to be here, count my blessings and shut the fuck up. And to them I say that I left my country without a battle, I left it without ever having the chance to fight to make it better. This is my second chance now to make the place live in a place I respect, love and I’m proud to call home.

My friend Erin was livid last week over the Maine’s loss (she is the weirdest republican) and all I could think of was to tell her that progress cannot be stopped any longer and sooner rather than later the country will see that their archaic views on what a marriage should be have not place in the law. As rational as I wanted to be when I told her this inside I was feeling just like her, which is why I decided against making a comment on the blog then, because I was so upset I didn’t want to sound like a radical.

After seeing Milk yesterday I realized that I am, all of us are incredibly lucky to be here in the U.S and even though the battle seems impossible and loses like the one in Maine and California earlier this year makes us despair, I am now filled with a new sense of hope. Hope that no matter how many steps we take in the wrong direction what is right and what should be will one way or another prevail. Because we have seen it happen time and time again here.

Only 145 years ago white people thought that black people were property, that they were inferior beings, that five blacks amounted to one whole being, that a few of them could only come close to the value of a one white person. Only 62 years ago we women weren’t considered smart enough to vote. Our opinions weren’t as valid as those of men.

One person in my acquaintance who for religious reasons does not support, condone or accept homosexuality as anything but a sin, told me he didn’t understand why the cause was so important to me, why I cared. He said that the “issue” should be battled by homosexuals only and that the rest of us shouldn’t take sides.

What if only Black people fought for their rights back before abolition? What if those uninvolved didn’t care and didn’t fight. Justice has no color, or gender, no religion, or sexual "preference" (another word I have a problem with since homosexuality is neither a choice, nor an inclination or a preference). What if we sat back and never fought for what was right except when what is right directly affect us? How can we sit back and ignore the rights of others? What if they were our rights? Wouldn’t we want others to fight along with us?

I understand the problem people have with homosexuality. I understand that some people are repelled by the idea of homosexual sex. That some people think of the act as only anal sex, penetration, fucking, and fornication, a dirty and unnatural deed. But most of them have no problem with lesbian sex. The double standard is galling! What I don’t understand is what they think is important to keep marriage as a union between a man and a woman. They are worried about the corruption of the sanctity of marriage. As my favorite blogger (who happens to be a flaming gay guy) would say "Bitch please!" People don’t respect the “sanctity” of marriage anymore regardless if they are gay or straight so why deny a group of individuals the right that other of us have? Who are we to decide who gets married and who doesn’t? The church has the right to deny marrying a man with another and a woman with another woman, but the state should protect, deliver and offer each and every right, benefit and opportunity to every single one of the people that reside in it regardless of how some people feel about how others live their life.

The banner for Maine’s Prop-1 is disturbingly obvious in its attempt to convey a need to protect the American Family. Protect them from what exactly? I am not sure. I am incredibly annoyed by the faces of the couple with the two kids who smile beneath the lines “Stand for Marriage”. I am annoyed because they don’t get it. We stand for marriage, those of us who believe is everyone’s right to make the unrealistic and hallow promise of loving someone until death. We stand for a marriage that should include all and exclude none. Some go as far as to say the term “marriage” is taken so they should find their own. I don't even want to touch that one because this post will never end.
As upset as I am for Prop-1 passing I am filled with the sense of wonder the movie left in me. Against all odds, when faced against shameless bigotry and narrow values, victory was theirs. How the movie ended is meaningless. I am not saying that the death of Harvey Milk was meaningless, what I am saying is that the death of a man who didn’t sit, didn’t conform and didn’t rest, couldn’t stop progress from occurring and makes me see Maine as nothing more but a stumble on our way to victory.

America is brave, because when people everywhere were still hiding their homosexuality, here in the U.S. they were fighting for what is right. Back at home indifference is a disease that helps us in some cases and works against us in others. I don’t see the kind of progress happening here happening any time soon back at home because nobody cares. Because even the ones affected don’t care and maybe because they are all afraid of what might happen. People here are never afraid it seems. They shout, they march, they speak up, they fight for the rights that are theirs and I am so eager to do the same.

So bravo U.S. for fighting the good fight for so long. I know we want to despair and want to give into the hopelessness of another failed battle. But there is nothing else to do but fight and nowhere else to go but up. President Obama signed the Matthew Sheppard act into law just a few weeks ago and with the flick of a pen made a move that now protects the LGBT community from hate crimes against them. It is not a shield against bigotry. It won’t protect them from name calling, humiliations or even physical blows but it will protect other young Matthews from being killed and hung from a fence from having their death treated as any other crime, it will make the perpetrators pay a harsher sentence.

So, Maine enjoy your victory while you have it. Wallow in the mean spirited joy of having taken someone’s right away from them. In 50 years when the country in its entirety defines marriage as the union between two consenting adults you will be seen by the future the same way we see now those who thought themselves above a Black person.

The future is coming, equality is here, move along or get out of the way.

Nov 6, 2009


My body aches, I have crammed this week two 40-minutres sessions of cardio on the treadmill, yoga, abs and arms workouts and even my lashes are weeping. People here are obsessed with fitness which is funny specially when one considers the fact that America is one of the heaviest (I don’t like the word fat) countries in the world. Like I have pointed out before this is a country of extremes where the morbidly obese and the scarily thin coexist in shaky harmony. Since I am neither skinny nor obese I find myself being in that unhappy middle where obese people hate you because you complain about your weight and you hate the skinny people because they complain about theirs. I gave the gym a shot last year. I went every day for six painful, miserable months and actually gained two fucking pounds.

I am now happily exercising at home with my yet-to-be-paid-for treadmill. I rather bust my ass at home in the privacy of my own four walls than do it in front of a bunch of strangers. Granted is not really easy to exercise around a hyperkinetic dog that licks, pushes, barks and shoves her snout on your crotch but I’ll take that over talking a stroll down to the bowels of Hell. Dante didn’t talk about it in his Comedy, but I am sure it was a mere oversight. What else can you call a place where they make you weigh yourself in front of your husband and make you take measurements of your body so you know IN NUMBERS that your ass is too big and your boobs too small? As if you weren’t well acquainted with that fact. What else can that place be, if not Hell? With all the mirrors and the unflattering harsh lights, the inane music that makes you feel trapped in an elevator while you endlessly loop on a treadmill. You add to that the people around you that are a walking promise of what you might become (Gym Barbie and Willie the whale are your choices) and that sounds to me like a cocktail for insanity.

I remember clearly a girl in particular from my six-month stint in hell (a la Persephone) she was a chubby girl who was trying so hard to lose weight, you could see it. She used to jog/crawl on the treadmill next to mine, sheer determination coming off of her like waves. I could feel her need to fit in a pair of single digits Jeans. So there she was, wheezing air in and out, everything jiggling while her face got purple with a mix of pain, heat and concentration. She would watch Dancing with the Stars on the TV in front of us, seeing the graceful dancers and the cute outfits as an incentive to lose some weight and the shimmery lights distracting her from the pain. Inevitably damnation came in the shape of an Applebee’s commercial, with their fake “healthy” food and their yummy, greasy goodness. You could see the bodiless hands dipping the boneless wing in the sauce, damn them! And the girl would stop jogging, she knew that I knew that she was going to go home and wolf down some wings and there’s no point for her to kick her ass any longer for the night. Right when she is fantasizing about the drippy wings up come from the stairs the trim gym goddesses, in matching Nike outfits and perfect hair. They don’t sweat, they glisten and they climb the stairs gracefully while they pat the nonexistent sweat with a hand towel.

One time tired of seeing her defeat I did the unthinkable and talked to her, I NEVER talk to strangers but her face was just so sad that I couldn’t help it so I look at her and I could hear her thoughts: “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!!!” and I didn’t judge her because they were my thoughts too. Granted I didn’t really hate the skinny bitches in matching outfits and washboard abs. I would totally push them out of the way if a bus was going to hit them. I would just push reaaaaal hard. So filled with pity for my kindred spirit I told her: “Whatever they have like no ass” and smiled at her. She looked at me and I guess she thought I wasn’t heavy enough to hate along with her because her withering stare still gives me the hibbie jibbies and she replied: “Yes, they have no ass, but I have TWO” and she spits that “TWO” at me like a dart.

Even after that I kept going to the gym. I became one of those people I “ugh” about. I never really belonged there, tough, but kept going anyway. Dear Husband loved the routine, the endorphins (an urban myth as far as I am concerned). He would be all peppy and smiley and my eyes were stinging from the sweat, I was blinded by the fog in my glasses, my muscles cramping all confused because they were never worked like that before and my lungs didn’t know quite what to do with the air.

I hated that fucking place; even just remembering makes my blood boil. I still remember Dear Husband’s voice saying: “When you cheat while exercising you are only cheating yourself” every time I took a break. I love that man. God knows I do but when we were at the gym he would say stuff like “Don’t lock your knees” or “Give me two more”, “Love the burn, feel the burn” or my personal favorite “There is no can't here” and I swear I would feel this homicidal urge that only the fear of being someone’s bitch from 15 to 20 and that horrid orange jumpsuit, would stop me from going “Snapped” on his ass.

I tried. I really did. I would wake up tired and achy and not an ounce thinner and I would just say to myself “muscle is heavier than fat” and fool myself into going again. I would try to be all positive and shit and imagine myself jogging at the beach in my thong with nothing jiggling. I would repeat “The Secret” in my head over and over again “Don’t just wish to be happy, be happy, feel happy” Smug bastards.

The pain, I assured myself, was a gentle reminder of my efforts, I would someday, laugh at my pains, no! Someday I wouldn’t even remember what it was like! And I would be curling 35 pounds and I would run around naked in the beach, thong? Who needs a thong!? I would walk around the gym doing nothing, patting my forehead with a towel and being hated by all. Sigh. That’s when you know you are hot when petty women hate you on principle.

I am a stinking failure because no matter how obsessed this nation becomes with a 100 pound ideal of beauty I am never going to be it. I am Hispanic! My ass alone weighs close to 100 pounds. I cannot fight genetics. I am not meant to be thin and I am okay with it. I just wish every commercial, TV show, model; clothing store would stop ramming their ideals down my throat. Only in this country you go to a store where the size L is actually small enough to fit a 130 pound woman. Who do they think they are catering to? The average American woman is a size 10 to 14 but the stores carry jeans from 0 to an 8. Cero is not a size damn it! It’s a non-size! You have to actually go to that dark, musty area of the store where the “plus sizes”. Nobody wants to walk to that area of the store. That means the cute, tiny and acceptable jeans don’t fit your fat ass! Just walking in the periphery of the “plus” size is bad for your reputation, people look at you funny and you want to get violent... remind me, why do I like shopping again?

No matter. I will work out at home and be healthy and fit and God forbid curvy.
Fuck this country idea of beauty.

Nov 4, 2009


I was reading the news the other day and ran into the case of the Justice of Peace in Louisiana who resigned his post after refusing to marry an interracial couple. When Dear Husband told me about it he wasn’t really incensed but he was a little put out by it since we are an interracial couple ourselves and I just couldn’t muster enough caring to give a damn.

I will be honest and say that maybe since the issue hits so close to home I should be offended, annoyed, outraged, enraged and all those other superlatives, but in reality I am feeling somewhat indifferent about the issue. Not indifferent enough not to talk about it but indifferent enough that it didn’t ruin my day when I read about it and indifferent enough that I actually laughed when I read the article.

I was too busy reading it and trying to wrap my mind around the man’s logic to be able to get pissed off and weeks later I am still not angry at him. See the problem with this guy isn’t that he is racist; his problem isn’t that he is close minded, mean spirited or cruel. I don’t know the man, I don’t think any less or more of him because of his stand. I do not understand why he “worries about the children” of such unions and I truly don’t give a flying fuck. Why I do care about is the fact that he took it upon himself to decide not to marry this couple. The description of his job as a justice of peace isn’t to decide who marries whom; it doesn’t include deciding someone else’s future because of personal misgivings. As a government official he should do what the job requires regardless of how he feels about interracial marriage or the future of the possible offspring. When gay marriage happens all over the U.S. (Don’t bitch, is happening) Justice of Peace like him won’t get to decide to marry a gay couple or not. They shouldn’t be protected by their personal feelings, religious inclination or their inability to grasp why a man would want to marry another man. They should get the job they are being paid for done. They should perform the job and move on to the next couple who hopefully to them will be a man and a woman of the same color that will keep their need for uniformity satisfied.

The problem isn’t that Keith Barthwell refused to marry this couple. The problem is that the Parrish that hired him allowed this to happen before, since by his own words he has refused to marry interracial couples before and referred them to someone else. The problem is that the Parrish that hired him didn’t do a good job at doing check on the man and weren’t aware or didn’t care about his prejudice. He isn’t require to think, feel, ANYTHING he should be blind to anything else but the law who states "the freedom to marry, or not marry, a person of another race resides with the individual and cannot be infringed by the State."

See that is a thing that happens here in the U.S. that doesn’t happen back home. Back home when a black man marries a white woman or vice versa there is not going to be a Justice of Peace who gives enough of a damn to “take a stand” and not marry them because of their skin color. First people wouldn’t give a damn and second if they did they still wouldn’t care enough not to do it. Indifference works wonders in such cases. Back at home people do not think their inclinations, preferences, racist bias etc, should be respected enough to do something like that. We do not think that because this is what we feel, because this is what our conscience tells us, then the state, the country need to respect it. Citizens in this country feel the country needs to respect whatever brain fart comes out of their mouth which works in some cases and in others simply doesn’t.

I harbor no resentment toward Mr. Barthwell, first because he is an old, set on his way bigot who is not going to change his mind so why bother getting pissed off, and second because the poor man is obviously slow since he doesn’t even recognize his actions and words as racist when he says: “I'm not a racist," "I do ceremonies for black couples right here in my house” Well bless his generous heart for being so open minded as to allow the darkies in his living room.

The man is a closed minded fool to be pitied and ignored. Instead he is being sued by a couple who saw an opportunity to make some money out of the situation. If they were truly interested in justice they would sue the Parrish for hiring a racist and allowing him to refuse to marry interracial couples. Instead they are seeking unspecified damages claiming “emotional distress as a result of the incident”.

Give me a fucking break. I don’t think is right that this couple had to be reminded of the narrow mindedness of people the day of their wedding when it should’ve been a happy day for all involved but if all it takes is that to cause emotional distress then I wonder if this emotionally fragile couple should marry at all instead of being institutionalized until they are balanced.

This man was given free reign by the Parrish to decide on his own accord based on his personal beliefs who to marry and who not marry. The Parrish should be the one held responsible for not monitoring this man who abused his power and got away with turning interracial couples away for two and half years. The thing is he is right. He has the right to choose what to believe in. It stinks that what he believes in is stupid, backwards and ignorant, but he is entitled to those beliefs. I don’t like them but since he isn’t riding in the night (as far as I know) in a white hood burning trees and stoning people then I say he is a pretty harmless old bigot like there are all over the world. What he did was wrong disgusting, but he righted that wrong by removing himself from the position that gave him the opportunity to excert his bigotry on other people. I do not believe his stupidity and ignorance means he has to pay the rejected couple any money.

This couple have the opportunity to open the eyes of many in that Parrish of Louisiana, they have the opportunity to bring light to a problem that we all want to believe is gone, but is in reality alive and well all over the country, and instead of choosing to turn this opportunity into something good, they are victimizing themselves and looking for monetary compensation for something that was wrong, annoying, insulting, hurtful but hardly traumatizing. They should, as someone who has been touched by this issue, make sure that the Parrish does a better job at hiring unbiased individuals that won’t put their personal beliefs before the job. Instead they choose to go after a guy who is no longer working as a Justice of Peace in the Parrish and therefore holds no power to repeat his abuse in the future. The Parrish however, holds the power to choose to hire as many bigots as they please. This couple seem to be aware of the fact that is easier to get money from a civil suit to an individual than to sue the government. If justice is what they were after instead of money, they would make the Parrish and the whole freaking State of Louisiana pay for their negligence and indifference. Instead they rather make a few bucks of the dumbass who already quit.

I have nothing else to say on the issue aside from: Mr. Barthwell you needn’t worry about any of the mixed children I may or may not have with my blue-eyed, lily white husband. I assure you any children I have with him will be incredibly smart, bilingual, culturally rich and hot as hell.

To the couple who is suing Mr. Barthwell instead of the Parrish: Shame on you for ignoring justice for the sake of some cash.

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