Oct 30, 2009


Now that I am happily married to my own blue eyed gringo, I am always stricken by the differences between us and our respective families. Marriage is hard business indeed, (all that seating on pee because they won’t put the sit up, hearing them go the bathroom, or worse yet when you are warned not to go in right after they leave it…it’s hard work indeed.

Since my cousins, my sister and I are all married to men from different cultures, I never run out of things to compare notes about. We are one of those brave few who jump in a risky venture like marriage with the added variant of a cultural gap. Believe me they are never ending, from something as minor as the cartoons we watched growing up, pop culture references to something major like the holidays and how we relate to other family members.

Take for example when my Dear Husband and I started dating, my aunt and grandma where so curious they demanded I took a picture of him, they asked me about his profession, how tall he was, if he was cute and if he came from a good family. All I had to say was that he had pretty blue eyes (he insists they are green) a college degree and his parents were missionaries to guarantee the seal of approval.

I was present when Dear Husband called his grandpa for father’s day and the conversation was something like this: “I hear you have a new girlfriend” Grandpa L said. “Yes, grandpa, I do” He answered looking at me smiling and holding my hand all romantically. “Is she black?” Grandpa L asked making Dear Husband blush as I gasped with the spit I swallowed wrong.

Now I am NOT implying that my now grandpa-in-law is racist, not at all! The man is also an ex-missionary who has helped and lived with people of all races, nationalities and cultures, but the fact is, here in America marrying outside of your race or culture is still something that is worth discussing. Worth talking about. I laughed my ass off when he asked that and even more when Dear Husband said: “No, she’s Hispanic” and his grandpa said: “Ooo a hot Latina” Which I found adorable.

I have 27 first cousins, FIRST Cousins, and that does not include all the second cousins and the cousins of cousins that I also consider cousins. Dear Husband has five or six? Our differences don’t end there. Dear Husband is close to his family in such a different way I am to mine. Boundaries and privacy are practically non-existent when you are Hispanic, there are no secrets, no gossip left untold, no argument between couples that the whole family doesn’t hear about and no medical treatment that some cousin is taking that we are not all privy of. I knew the moment that one of my cousins was diagnosed with irritable bowel movement, I knew when my other cousin started treatment to get pregnant and how often and when during the day she took her shots, I knew when she got an urinary tract infection and I knew that my other cousin was suffering from an early form of ulcer.

We are so all up in each other’s business ALL THE TIME that I find it weird refreshing when Dear Husband doesn’t know intimate details about his brother or sister. I know details of my family’s sex life that I don’t want to know about but know anyway, that’s how it works for us, close to the point of sickness.

My parents in law came to our wedding and stayed in a hotel, to what my mom said: “What for? We have a pull out couch” In a completely puzzled tone of voice, and would’ve been offended if I didn’t tell her that is just the way they are, and they were trying to be nice by not inconveniencing us. “What inconvenience? We are family now” She said and to this day I still think she thinks they thought her couch was not good enough.

Pull out couches had to be a Hispanic invention. What a better way to guarantee family members to stay over at all times! My mom’s cousins (they were raised together they are not even related!) spent 5 months each year for two years living with us. They would come in December and leave in April and stay with us the entire time. Dear Husband who was living with me at the time (IN SIN! Scandal!) had a hard time understanding that concept. He didn’t understand why someone would want to spend five months cramped in one room when there were other alternatives, hotels, apartments for rent, etc. He doesn’t understand that Hispanic families have two problems, they have a problem saying no, so even if we didn’t want them there we couldn’t say anything and we have a complete disregard for our family’s space and need for privacy.

I am sure next time his family comes over they will rent a hotel room again and stay over there while we in a very civilized way see each other for dinners and brunches and then part company at night when everybody goes their until the next morning.

In my family there is no hotel room good enough when there is an extra bed empty where cousins, uncles, aunts and grandparents can crash, there is no meeting for brunch but two hours of complete and utter bedlam while ten people try to make breakfast, talking and laughing at the same time and asking for coffee at the top of their lungs. There is no room service but an uncomfortable yet common sharing of bathroom to pee while others shower. There’s the saying “Oh mija me guindas de cualquier clavito” which roughly translates to “Oh hon you can put me anywhere” Actually if one family member were to call the other asking if it was a problem to stay over we would assume they are mad at us. “I think she’s mad at me! Why else would she call to ask and make a sarcastic question about being able to stay? What does she want? A written invitation?”

Dear Husband opened the door to find some family members at the door who were staying the night to travel to a town close by. “Oh I didn’t know they were coming” He said to me hugging everyone and giving them kisses in the cheek like he learned to do since we met. “Neither did I” I said and he just laughed at us and our utter lack of etiquette when it comes to family.

I have been blessed with the most sociable of gringos who has not one complained about the size of my family, the frequency of their visits or the volume of their voice. He talks to my cousins, teases them on facebook, argues with my uncle and seamlessly and easily became one of them. I know I envy Dear Husband’s family respect of privacy and their so sweet and nice way of trying to make things easy for everyone and not inconvenience by staying somewhere else. But I know without a doubt that when my kitchen is as busy as a bus stop with people yelling and laughing and elbows are digging everywhere and we are all driving each other crazy and being insanely loud, that if they were in a hotel across town, I would miss them terribly.

Oct 29, 2009


I had an amazing conversation with some of the women I know today. After a few minutes of talking about marriage, relationships and how hard it is to keep the spark alive after decades, we got to talk about cheating.

Some said it was, regardless of who does the cheating, definitely something that both people are at fault for, one half because it does the cheating and the other half because it obviously not satisfying the other person in some level. Some of us said “fuck that” and agreed that the cheater is at fault for not doing the right thing and choosing to rub one off instead of confronting the issue head one.

What we all seemed to agreed one, regardless of who we thought the fault laid on, was the fact that we would all serve jail time happily if catching a cheating husband. There is something to be said about the fact that a group of women completely different background, nationalities (Russia, Germany, New York and Colombia) and upbringing could all agree on finding it perfectly excusable to cause bodily harm to the man that promised love eternal and gives us a VD instead.

What is it about cheating that makes our blood boil? Is it the betrayal? Is it the sex? Is it the possibility of them loving someone else? Or the fact that they lied? In a poll I found online women apparently thought it was worse for a man to fall in love with another woman, even if they didn’t act on it, than to actually have sex with someone they don’t care about.

As a child of a cheating man-whore I find infidelity unacceptable. I understand that monogamous relationships are difficult and maybe is childish of me to expect eternal fidelity but I would rather be dumped, divorced and never again thought of than to face Dear Husband telling me he cheated.

How do people recover from that? More importantly how do people walk away unharmed after confessing to it? I am not an aggressive person, I have never been on a fight, I have never caused anyone pain, I have never contemplate harming someone. But if Dear Husband told me one day he cheated, or worse I found out on my own, I don’t think I would be responsible for my actions (pay attention Dear Husband!)

So I guess murderous rage in face of adultery is another thing I have in common with my fellow Gringas and women everywhere.


Oct 28, 2009


I know I am probably going to step on a lot of toes writing this post but here I go.

My cousin, who is an even bigger flaming liberal than I am (and that’s saying something) has this blog war going on with another girl who shall remain nameless. Apparently the girl who is a devout Christian goes hunting and was excited about killing Bamby’s mom last week or so. My cousin is a devout liberal animal rights advocate; these two couldn’t be more incompatible if they tried!

As the blog war developed I couldn’t help but go visit this girl’s website. She is an innocent looking 21 year old newlywed whose entire blog is dedicated to her life as a servant of her Lord Jesus Christ and all that.

Honestly is like visiting a foreign country when I go to blogs like that because I have never really been exposed to extremely religious people until I came here because is too much effort to care and back at home the most stout Christian doesn’t give that much of a damn. I truly love to see these blogs because it uncovers a whole different world of people and costumes, beliefs and rules that I have never heard before.

This girl for example had a 6” rule. She was not allowed to be any closer to her boyfriend, then fiancé then husband, than 6 inches. Her own dad put her engagement ring on because her fiance wasn't allowed to touch her. Anything closer than 6 inches I guess was the road to perdition. In her own words “hand holding leads to hugging, hugging to kissing and kissing to fornication”.

That’s just a word I love, fornication. It has such an ugly connotation, so biblical, so strong, one of the few words left in that book that hold any strength. Adultery doesn’t mean shit anymore, neither does sodomy nor sodomite but fornication remains a word that still holds a little sinful tingle.

We Hispanics have a problem with rules, regulations and chains of command. We always want to see the president of the company, not a manager. We are used to rules standing there for only those who want to respect them and to be broken by those who are smarter and decide not to. Back at home is common for everyone to run the red lights after midnight, pay off the cops, drive without insurance, pay under the table to get your driver’s license even though you have never been behind the wheel of a car, we mooch off the cable of the neighbor, etc. I know that about us. We are laid back to the point of indifference when it comes to things like that because I guess we need to concentrate on bigger problems like money, rent, unemployment, crime rate, education, medicine, etc. Rules like those are easy to ignore when bigger things are going on which I believe also leaks into our religious life. It’s just too damn hard to be everything the bible expects one to be (although I never, in all my years in Catholic School, read anything about 6 inches of separation).

In my humble opinion life is sometimes hard enough to impose in ourselves rules that are completely unnecessary. I think my own principles, standards and simple logic would be enough to keep me from fornicating with every man I have ever dated. I never needed a 6 inch rule to keep me from dropping my panties and spreading my legs. So why this devout Christian feels the need to keep such a distance from the man that is to become her husband I will never understand. Does she think she is going to be struck by lust in a moment of weakness and fornicate his brains out one day at a church picnic?

Aren’t life’s challenges enough to keep life interesting? Why make it harder on yourself? Why miss all those kisses, hugs, cuddles, hand holdings and ass grabbing that makes the beginning of a relationship so damn sweet? Why curve the impulse of tonguing your boyfriend goodnight? Even if it is to push him away later because you need to save yourself.

It’s so damn hard to be good. In the immortal words of Albus Dumbledore (who makes more sense to me than the bible) “Difficult times are coming, times in which we must all choose between what is right and what is easy”. Almost everything that is right is also difficult. I have discovered that to be an unequivocal truth, right along with “everything that is delicious is either fattening or sinful”. So if being good and trying not to gossip is hard, if being good and trying to not be mean is hard, if being good and trying not to judge is hard, if being good and trying simpley to BE good is already hard, why make it any harder?

So I’ll continue to eat meat in Good Friday. I’ll continue to cuss, I’ll continue believing in woman’s inherent right to choose abortion, I will continue to believe in a man’s right to love a man and choose to share that love in whichever way makes them happy. I will continue to believe that whichever superior power is out there, it would want me to DO good, BE good and live my life to the fullest.

To quote another “blasphemous” book:

"I stopped believing there was a power of good and a power of evil that were outside us. And I came to believe that good and evil are names for what people do, not for what they are."Philip Pullman (The Amber Spyglass)

Oct 27, 2009


Dear Husband is turning almost 30 today! Happy B-day to the man who rocks my world, wakes me up with coffee (after I scream COFFEE PLEASE! from the bathroom), the man who walks our dog and lets me sleep, who is sweet even when I am being a total bitch and who this morning talked to my cat Max called him “Sossy” and told him he would have to wait to drink from the sink because he was using it.

Today we’ll have a cake baked by yours truly (I already apologized in advanced to the guests) and beer, chips, laughs and company. I love other people’s birthdays. It’s so much fun to sing silly songs and have an excuse to eat chocolate, drink on Tuesdays and give presents. I hate MY birthday because I really don’t like that moment when the lights are off and the cake is blazing and everyone is looking at me! It’s so uncomfortable!

Thinking of birthday always makes me smile. Back at home (here I go) you usually wait for the weekend so you can have a proper birthday party with dancing, and dressing up, the music blasting till four in the morning without the neighbors complaining (mostly because usually the neighbors are invited) and lots and lots and lots and I mean LOTS of food.

I gotta say, since I am the hostess this time I do not mind the fact that cake, some beer and finger food is all I am required to offer to our guests. My coworker is upset because her husband told her today that they were going to have a party on Saturday for her Birthday and she complained because she didn’t have enough time to plan.

For people here three to four days it’s all you need to plan an informal gathering at one’s house but if you are Hispanic, like she is, you need more than three days to go shopping for the Pernil, the cheese for the empanadas, the dough for the tequeños, the mini wieners, the quail eggs, the industrial size icebox where the beer is going to go, the liquor, the plates, the cups, the music alone takes like a week or so to put together in sets, the salsa set, the merengue set, the reggaeton, the Spanish rock set, the crazy hour where we dance to kids music from when we were growing up and last but not least the songs from our respective lands that we left behind, heartbreaking music about getting old and that first grey hair that we sing to the top of our lungs with arms on each other’s shoulders, swaying and raising the warm beer to the heavens. Sigh.

I remember like it was yesterday the first time I went to a birthday party here. I was working at McDonald’s and I was 19 or 20 years old and have made friends with my co-workers (nothing bonds people like alcohol and a mutual hatred for the work place). I though a party was a party and didn’t even stop to consider that there could possibly be a difference between a party here and a party there. So I showed up all cute in my size 3 jeans (those were the days, 5 sizes ago) and cute heels and a top. I was shocked first of all that the music couldn’t be heard outside and was amazed by the soundproofing of the house, and then walked in to find people SEATING all over the place. SEATING! You don’t sit at parties *she notes scornfully*. First of all there is not supposed to be room to sit, there is no need to sit when you have an outfit and a cute ass to show off and usually people are too busy dancing. Duh.

Well there was no music, no dancing but there were several poker tables where teenage boys though they were cool smoking their cigar with their newly grown chin hair and several people watching Colin Farrell do SWAT stuff on a big screen TV. Oh the humanity. I stood around with my friends, talking and hanging and while I had fun, some part of me was a little horrified that this was the future looming in front of me. Years and years of “party” after “party” of people seating down and watching TV. Pretty fucking bleak.

Then I realized that is the beauty of being here. I get to hang out, talk, lose at poker, and play drinking games with my Gringo husband and my Gringo friends. I get to enjoy the company of those around without music blasting in the background. I get to enjoy a gathering where the cops don’t show up because the music is so loud. I get to enjoy playing board games while drunk (believe me it’s a challenge to play Pictionary when you have 3 bloody marys in your system) I get to enjoy the best of both worlds!

I get to dance the night away with Dear Husband a little drunk and screaming “I’m the tallest man here!” I get to dance until I sweat everything I ate like a pig the hour before, I get to click in a way one can only click when you share history, background, music and upbringing with someone. I get to feel depressed and cry over the countries we left and reminisce with my own people, as a friend puts it.

I am so incredibly blessed, because today Dear Husband will get to cut the cake I baked with all the love (and Max licked half the icing of) drink, hang out and celebrate the “blond” hair he found during the weekend while the other half of the party dances to an iPod, deep fries food they brought and sing three different happy birthdays.

So in the words of the Venezuelan Happy Birthday Song I say till tomorrow with:

May the moon light always shine upon you.

Oct 23, 2009


My mom has a sweet heart. She was an awesome mom growing up with a ready ear and an open mind, strict rules and a damn heavy hand. That woman could whoop your ass faster than George Clooney can fuck a waitress. She didn’t mess around either. She gave you a warning if you sassed her, told you to cool off but if you hadn’t shut the hell up by warning number three she would smack you with a wooden spoon hard enough to leave that imprint on your ass.

The thing is there wasn’t one time she hit me that I didn’t deserve it. From the time I went to a concert when I was 15 without permission (until 2 am) to the time I muttered “What do you know, stupid?” and got hit with my dad’s evil belt that hurt like a bitch. Thankfully I was a good child and didn’t give her any headaches, never did drugs, or got drunk before I was allowed to drink, of was bad at school (aside from talking back to teachers) or stole things, or was boy crazy, or anything. Thankfully also by the time I was old enough to misbehave my brother was two years older and my mom’s hitting arm had grown tired from smacking him around.

I don’t get parents here. I don’t get when media and authorities tell parents they can’t hit their children and they can discipline without hitting. I understand there is a fine line between abusing and hitting, but there is also a fine line when authority shifts and your kids start believing they're the boss. Believe you me, I am thankful for every ass whopping I ever got because I deserved every single one of them and I wouldn’t be the woman I am today if my mother hadn’t smacked when I was begging for it. Sometimes you cannot rationalize with children. Sometimes (especially with teenagers) you can’t sit there and pretend to have a conversation when first they don’t want to listen and second everything you say in their heads is wrong. People, regardless of their age, are always pushing boundaries, always testing the lines, seeing how far past it they can get. And sometimes seating down to have a conversation with the line pusher does absolutely nothing. I saw my mom trying the conversation thing with my brother and it didn’t work. He kept pushing and pushing and pushing until only punishing (and not necessarily corporeal) was the way to go.

I can’t go to a supermarket without seeing at least 3 to 4 kids that deserve to be smacked in the mouth (my hands itch!) One time I was in the supermarket with my mom and this lady was hauling this eight-year old who was screaming to the top of his lungs because he wanted some candy or whatever and when his mom threatened with “pow-pow” like she put it, he screamed even louder than before and said: “If you hit me I’ll report you” I had to haul my own mother away because she told the lady “If you don’t want to hit him I’ll hit him for you”. Thankfully the lady didn’t speak any Spanish. How do you react to that? Do you kneel over and tell the kid “Baby you can’t do that do mommy”? My mom would’ve slapped me hard enough to lose some brain cells and said “NOW you have a reason to report me, go ahead!” Some mothers say to me that it hurts them to hurt their child, that the love they feel for that little person is so big it doesn’t allow them to cause them harm. No mother could’ve loved their children better and more than my mom. That didn’t stop her from pulling out the belt when we were being impossible to reason with.

The thing is when you have tasted the sting of real leather you learn to measure your words, because when scolding is the only thing you are going to get then as a rebel teenagers it is not enough incentive to not be a smart ass. I am not talking of abusing or breaking bones, or bruising. I never had a bruise because of my mother and neither did any of my siblings who got hit a lot more than I did. I was an angel 0:-)

My mom’s friend told her the other day that children are for rent and that they do not belong to their parents so they cannot be hit, or mistreated or even scolded because they are individuals and they have to be allowed to make their own decisions. My mom promptly told her that we are all hers because we were her parasites for 9 months each and that makes us hers and that she will forever have the right to smack us if we get stupid. It’s part of being a parent.

I have never felt traumatized, humiliated, abused, ridiculed or anything when my mom hit me in the past. All that bullshit about the damage to the child’s mind happens when ABUSE is going on. Is not the same as smacking, or hitting with a belt twice (believe me; with my dad’s belt twice was all it took!)

I am sure that screaming child was screaming in the supermarket not because he wasn’t hit but because his mom never told him to shut the fuck up, so maybe hitting is not necessary when you actually teach your children to behave. I think the first time my mom hit me for real I was in my teenage years already. Before that she had very unorthodox methods of child rearing.

My brother and I used to HATE each other. Well let me rephrase that, he used to love to tease me to death and I used to hate his guts. My mom always took his side because he is her favorite child and we would fight and fight, and argue and drive my mother up the wall. I was probably 7 to 8 years old when my mom got fed up and she warned us that if we kept fighting she would tie us belly to belly so we had to spend every waking minute together and would HAVE to get along. My brother and I didn’t believe her and before the end of that day my mom had gotten so fed up she tied us together by the hand in a knot no 8 year could ever undo! We had to go pee together, eat in sync and went through hours of “STOP PULLING, YOU STOP PULLING, NO YOU STOP PULLING”

I lost count of the many times my brother busted my lip open. My dad (back when he was still playing at being a daddy) told my brother never ever to hit a woman. He did again and another time and then one last time when he threw a shoe at me and once more busted my lip open and my dad grabbed the same shoe and hit him with it and told him that was the LAST time he ever put his hand on a woman to hurt her. My brother had a psycho girlfriend who attacked him a couple of years ago and he didn’t lift a finger to hurt her. Sometimes lessons are learned the hard way and conversations don’t work the same way as a good spank in the butt.

My mom never raised her hand or her voice when a good conversation was good enough to solve an issue, she would sit us down and tell us if she was disappointed and expected more, she talked to us like adults and said she expected us to use the brains God gave us to stop acting like dumbasses and behave like the incredible people she knew we were. She raised the bar; she challenged us to want to be better, to act better to be good. When that didn’t work and we still acted like fools then nothing like a good smack in the head to unscramble our brains.

If I am ever a mother I hope my kids come out smart enough to know when not to fuck with me. Smart enough to know how far to push me. I hope I never have to hit them but I am sure sometime I’ll have to. And I think the fact that I pushed a cantaloupe out of a hole the size of a cherry gives me the right to decide when and how to discipline them. Sometimes a smack is the difference between a lesson learned and a lesson easily forgotten. Sometimes the memory of that stinging belt is what keeps you from doing something that you know you shouldn’t be doing. Sometimes knowing you will disappoint someone who loves you also helps.

Children learned fast, sometimes all it takes is a narrowed look before you move away from the flying spatula.

Oct 22, 2009


I am equally annoyed by racism as I am for the minorities who choose to use the race card and use racism at the drop of a hat over nothing and be like the kid that cried wolf and got eaten for being a dumbass.

Every single time that I have gotten accused of racism I really want to get violent. I am not a racist, I do not have a bigot bone in my body, something I do not take credit for but thank my mom for being open minded and having a heart of gold. When we were growing up there was a kid in the neighborhood the other kids weren’t allowed to play with because he was gay. He was 10 years old or so and was friends with my brother. He was sweetest, kindest kid and he used to tell us all the time he understood if we didn’t want to be his friend. The kid was also famous because he was on a TV show at the time and had no friends whatsoever. The only house he was allowed in was ours because the moms in the neighborhood thought his “situation” was contagious and they didn’t want him poisoning their kids and turning them fruity. My mom was even stopped and asked to recapitulate and consider the damage this child was doing on my brother’s psyche. My mom gave a rare show of her temper and told them to fuck off.
Stuff like that stays with you. I was taught from a young age not to care about what people are and concentrate on their actions.

I have been living all this time with pink colored glasses because although I have been a target to some ignorant people they have all been so damn dumb is hard to take offense (you cannot blame people for being stupid and racist when they have been fucking their sisters and interbreeding. Bloodlines deteriorate like that, is not their fault). I thought that the majority of us were above racism to a certain point. We have a black president! (I am NOT saying African American) and even though some crazy white people out there were not happy about it, still the great majority of the NORMAL people were okay with it.

I was so freaking mistaken is appalling! And I HATE to be wrong. This lady I know was talking to me about her child and how now that he is about to leave elementary school and start middle she is choosing schools. Apparently her child is “gifted” (aren’t they all?) and she is choosing magnet schools for him. She complained this morning in desperation because all the schools she is thinking about are all “black” schools? What do you mean? I asked thinking it stood for something. “They are all full of blacks”. I stood there thinking she was going to laugh (She voted for Obama!!) but she wasn’t. She was being serious! She meant it. She didn’t want her “gifted” child to associate with black people. I turned around and came to my computer to type this. As I do it she is still right now still complaining to others about it. She says the schools have “nothing but black people in it” What does she expect? For them to have their own school? For segregation to start again so her part Puerto Rican, part German, part Jewish and part BLACK child can go to school with people with her same skin color? The fact that the woman’s father is part black is just flabbergasting.

I have been so silly! I thought all this time that when some complained about being discriminated against it was just whining and complaining and manipulating those still ridden with “white guilt”. I thought that some were taking advantage of the fact that now everyone has to be extremely P.C. and everyone’s scared of being sued and everyone is scared of being accused of being racist, or sexist, of bigoted. I thought things were moving forward! Shame on me for being so stupid.

As I write this I remember another “friendship” that ended because of a similar issue. I was friends with a woman I met on ESOL classes when I first came to the country. She was Colombian and was married to a blond blue eyed Gringo who was simply gorgeous (kinda like me). They had two little girls about to start elementary school and one day we were driving around an area an hour away from where we lived and they were thinking of moving to. They were looking for schools and were checking out the playgrounds of some of them. After playground number four I asked “What the heck are we doing?” and he said. “I’m counting the blacks” and proceeded to tell me that there were more black children than white and therefore the school was unacceptable. She nodded her head at his brand wisdom and sighed at the trouble of having to keep looking for a school with enough whites.

I looked at the kids playing in the playground and felt incredibly and horribly guilty of being in that car sharing my air with those disgusting people that had seemed so nice and now were judging a school because of a group of 7 year old skin color. They knew nothing of it. They kept playing innocent of the devious minds of adults that should know better but are nonetheless thinking them less because they are black. That was the last time I saw them and never again accepted their invitations to hang out because if I were black they wouldn’t be inviting me anywhere. I guess my brown skin was good enough for them, well their rotted minds and souls are not good enough for me, thank you very much.

I’m feeling a little sad today. I actually liked and respected this fellow Obama supporter, this fellow woman, this fellow shoe lover I spend hours with. We liked the same books, the same movies. I lent her my Ann Rice novels! She and I had even the same virulent temper that sometimes gets away from us.

I feel a little betrayed, a little confused, a little nauseated. Vipers hide everywhere. One never knows where they are, where they hide their poison, when they’ll strike. I guess this will show Dear Husband why I don’t trust anybody, because inevitably some of them show their true colors, and theirs are never black and always ugly.

Oct 21, 2009


I love Jeopardy!, I was introduced to it by Dear Husband when we started dating and was amazed by how smart he was knowing all the Geography, Sports, History and Trivia questions (I kicked his ass on Literature, Mythology and Arts). Every time the Stupid Question, Stupid Answers category comes up (I’ve seen it at least 5 to 10 times in the last two years) I get pissed off, because the questions are truly so stupid I can’t answer them! I always end up thinking the answer cannot be the answer because this is Jeopardy! People! And the answer, therefore, cannot be that easy.

Sometimes people remind me of the Stupid Question from Jeopardy! Since my fateful arrival to this country I have been introduced to so many stupid people I have been truly amazed. Now I don’t want to make it sound like the stupid people reside in this country only. I do not want to imply that people here in average are stupid or dumber than anywhere else, because is neither true nor my intention to make it sound like that. But you see the U.S. is a country of extremes, I have met the kindest, nicest, funniest, smartest, sweetest and hottest people here in the U.S. I have also met the craziest, the meanest, the rudest, cruelest and dumbest.

I guess diversity has a lot to do with that. There is such an amazing medley of cultures and races here I am sure one is bound to meet the worst and best of all without even trying. Since most of my adult life has been spent in the U.S (I was like a baby bird back home, featherless and wingless) I cannot be at fault that most of my knowledge and experience comes from interacting with people from here.

Now that the P.C. police have been appeased I can continue. As I was saying I have met my share of dumb people, bless their heart, and they have provided me with endless hours of entertainment and endless feelings of superiority (shame on me) and sometimes, I swear sometimes I do try to be nice about it, but come on! It’s hard to be nice or patient and not roll my eyes when people that should know better say stuff worthy of the Jeopardy! Category.
Here are a few sample moments that I am not making up and actually happened, I swear:

Them: Oh so you are from Venezuela? Cool. Do you guys have like... ketchup and stuff?
Me: Huh?
Them: Ketchup, you know tomato sauce.
Me: Like Heinz? Yes…. Why?
Them: Oh so even the same brands! Imagine that.
Me: ???
Them: So you had Coca Cola and stuff over there too.
Me: I’m from Venezuela, not Cold War Russia.
Them: What about hot water?
Me: Are you serious?
Them: So you have water heaters, because my mom was on a mission once and she said she had to shower with cold water.
Me: She was probably in a very small town.
Them: Oh so not all towns are small? You lived in a city? You didn’t see monkeys flying and stuff? Snakes?
Me: In the zoo! I lived in a city.
Them: Oh…so you had like cars and stuff…right?
Me: Yes, we have cars.
Them: Your English is very good, you barely have an accent.
Me: Thank you. I learned watching “Friends”
Them: Oh so they play it over there too!
Me: It’s called cable.
Them: So you were born in Colombia, how interesting.
Me: Thanks, I think so.
Them: So were you ever a drug mule?
Me: Excuse me?
Them: Well isn’t that what Colombians do?
Me: Go read a book.
Them: So where exactly is your country located?
Me: In South America.
Them: Oh! (laugh) I thought you were a foreigner, so what part of Florida?
Me: Kill me now

Oct 20, 2009


Just after we finished moving Dear husband sent me a picture of the half toe nail he lost while helping someone else move some furniture around. The funny thing is he moved all of our furniture two weeks ago without any incident and then while helping one of my mom’s friend he got injured (he learned that lesson of wearing sandals while moving beds). I couldn’t help but immediately think that we might have to go to the doctor and pay an arm, a leg, our first born, the cat, the dog, the LCD TV, my shoe collection (NEVER!!) if he fractured a bone since we are one of those millions uninsured in this country.

That of course made me think of the many of my republicans/conservatives friends and acquaintances who talk crap about those uninsured and how they are a burden for the state and their taxes. I have felt tempted to defy them but I always sometimes choose to remain quiet because most republicans/conservatives I know cannot be reasoned with when it comes to those issues, the same way us liberals cannot be reasoned with when we get asked about gay marriage, pro-choice, etc. I have never (for the record), EVER left an unpaid medical bill, regardless of how high they are, if I cannot afford it then I won’t go to the doctor, which has worked out pretty well so far since I am disgustingly healthy. The obscene hospital bills that doctors shamelessly ask for when they treat you is the reason why we have the B.O.B rule in my house (Bone/Organ/Blood), which estates that unless organs, blood or bones are showing there is no need for a doctor. Once I had to put up with a sinus infection for two months without treatment because there was no B.O.B, and only caved in when I couldn't kiss, talk or eat because I couldn't breath and do all those at the same time.

Stuff like that always makes me think of home (I know I am predictable, shoot me). I don’t know if is the resiliency you have to develop when living in a country where things are not as easy as here. Maybe is because people are used to make do with what they have and what they are given, maybe because you have to make what you DO have last, or maybe is just because we are a crafty bunch but every time broken bones becomes an issue I inevitably think of car accidents, totaled cars.

What the hell is wrong with cars here that won’t last past a good crash? The car in the picture is considered totaled here and back at home they would’ve patch that shit up and put it on the road again! (I am not quite sure yet why I make that sound like a good thing) Capitalism is what’s wrong with cars today. If your car looks like the one in the picture then forget about it, you need to buy a new one. Back home they would’ve put that car together with scotch tape if needed and made it safe drivable for another ten to twenty years.

Capitalistic societies are used to disposable things; disposable appliances, disposable vehicles, disposable houses, disposable clothes, disposable shoes, disposable everything! You don’t repair, or fix, or patch up when you can get a new one! And the same way they dispose of vehicles that are perfectly repairable in other countries they take forever to repair broken bones. The same way it would take thousands of dollars to fix a car, it takes also thousands of dollars to fix a broken wrist. I mean for Pete’s sake (why Peter and not Paul?) why do you need to go through days and days and thousands and thousands of dollars of physical therapy over a broken wrist? Are bones here made differently from bones everywhere else?

We had an employee once who broke his wrist falling on it in July and he was still receiving physical therapy in October even though he went three times a week. What the hell? If the wrist is going to take that long to heal just chop the fucking hand off! Do doctors really think patients don’t know that we know that they are just trying to milk the insurance companies? And if they do know we know then aren’t they ashamed of the people that have no insurance and cannot afford to spend 15 minutes of electric treatment for a broken wrist that doesn’t hurt, isn’t swollen, is working perfectly well? I mean if I break my wrist and have to go to physical therapy I’ll freaking stuck my tongue in an electric socket and get my therapy that way!

Why do you need to go to a Doctor (and pay him of course) so he can tell you, you need to see a specialist for your mammogram when you know perfectly well that is the case since you have a history of breast cancer and you need an exam every year?!

So now you have a go see a doctor to tell you to see another doctor, so that, that doctor can get your mammogram done and send you to yet another doctor that went to school specially to look at films, and then go to that film doctor to take a look at the films you have already paid THREE doctors to get done. When you have all that those bills up the possibility of breast cancer suddenly isn’t the scariest thing in the future, is it?

So what is it with the greedy Doctors, the disposable cars and the unfixable bones? Is it like this everywhere else where Capitalism is the order of the day? Is it really Capitalism or is it just my prejudice against it? Is it something else that I am missing?

Oct 19, 2009


When I flip channels and see shows like “Toddlers and Tiaras”, “John and Kate plus 8”, “The Duggars and their 100 children whose names start on J” and stuff like that, I get the shivers. I do, I swear, every hair in my body stands on end and I get all goose-bumpy because the Catholic in me cannot help but remember what happened to Sodom and Gomorra after its corrupted society deteriorated to the point there was no soul worth saving and because I am logical enough to know that every civilization that has ever reached that point of decomposition has inevitably fallen apart (Rome, India, China).

Last week people spent hours watching “horror” unfold on TV as the boy with the balloon was searched for hours and everybody thought the worse when the balloon finally made it down and the child was not there. I don’t know what is worse, the media that turned the situation into a freaking circus, the people that watched mesmerized as if the possibility of a child plummeting to its death was fascinating, or people like me that have become so desensitized with media frenzy that we couldn’t give a fuck. Our give a damn is busted.

Now that the jig is up and we all know the family did that in the name of entertainment and in the hopes of getting a Reality TV show I cannot help but being disgusted at us for allowing shit like that to happen. These people didn’t give a flying fuck about the safety of their children, the breaking of the laws, the impact this manipulation could cause on impressionable kids that age all because “of their fascination with the limelight” as the lawyer put it. People will speculate about the kind of person that does that, but all I can think of is who the hell are we to judge them when we have allowed that to happen before! We celebrate stupidity, we celebrate lack of morals, we celebrate dishonesty, hair pulling, back stabbing, rudeness, bitchiness, arrogance, dysfunction, we celebrate everything that should be considered wrong and find it interesting and admirable. Fuck that, I don’t consider it interesting, I don’t fucking watch it. YOU DO (you know who you are).

And I do not appreciate the fact that this post is making me sound all sanctimonious and self-righteous, damn it! That is not the kind of person I am. But enough is enough! I don’t want to see another woman whose vagina has to be as wide as a subway tunnel because of her inability to wrap it up “because every child has been a blessing” (Come on!). I do not want to see Kate being a bitch to her child army because of John. I do not want to hear one more time about Wife Swapping, Bachelors, Bachelorettes, Nany 911, Toddlers and Tiaras, Shot of Love with Tila, Rock of Love Bus, Bad Girls Club, Flavor of Love, The Beauty and the Geek, Keeping up with the Kardashians, that Denise Richard show, and every one of those tacky, disgusting and low class shows out there that appeal to the lowest common denominator and make ignorant, self centered, greedy and power hungry people like the Hennes put their children and the family’s future at risk, breaking the law because of the possibility of a reality TV show.

Let’s rise above that people! Let’s watch some Animal Planet, Discover, A&E, History Channel. We can do it! Hell I’ll give up watching Dancing with the Stars, I will I promise. But let’s stop this nonsense. Let’s not watch one more Bachelor dump a Bachelorette on TV and pretend we actually believe is true. Let's not look anymore at OctoMom, Paris, Levi Johnston (prick has made me actually feel bad for Palin) and others who are famous for being famous! Let’s boycott shows like Laguna Beach and The Hills (Honestly who the hell watches that?) YOU people who watch that shit have made leeches like Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag crawl from under some muggy subterranean hell they should’ve never risen from! I will never forgive you for the fact that I actually know who these fucking people are even thought I have never watched that dumbass show. I’ll never forgive you, never, NEVER!

I swear if the Heene’s get a reality show after this, I am moving.

P.S: Okay, so I am in a bad mood today and I actually have no problems with the Duggars aside from the fact that they make money of the fact that they don't use contraceptives. Kudos to them for still having sex so long into their relationship, but really, is there a need to make a show of it? Is there?!

Oct 15, 2009


The Webster Dictionary defines change as: “To make a different in some particular or to replace with another” Why is this relevant? I have no effing clue, I just felt like I was writing an essay and isn’t that how they all start?

When I signed up to blog about Climate Change for Blog Action Day 2009 http://www.blogactionday.org/ to join in worldwide efforts toward awareness I had no idea writing it would be so hard. Usually writing is easy and fun for me when I am invested in the topic, but this was a lot harder than I thought. Even thought the subject is one close to my heart I was reduced after a few minutes of research to Googling for info. I was immediately bombarded by mind-numbingly boring facts and mind-numbingly boring people who actually denied the facts.

My tip for raising awareness would be to make the topic more easily understandable for us regular folks.

I don’t know much but I do know one thing, Climate Change may be a boring topic when one peruses the facts, it might not fun to talk about, it is not glamorous and sometimes overwhelming, but sadly all that doesn’t make it any less real.

In the past century industrialized nations have expanded and new ones have come to life, the use of coal and other forms of fossil fuel has increased exponentially (in that fact at least we can ALL agree). Being a Climate Change believer or skeptic doesn’t change those simply facts:

Sea levels are rising, glaciers are melting, hurricanes have changed in frequency and strength (oh Joy! And I live in Florida), heat waves are more common and animal’s habitats are shrinking.

I am a 26-year old college dropout with a passion for writing, reading, animals, gay rights advocacy and shoes; I don’t know in numbers, cold facts and figures why the things I just mentioned are happening and how it directly relates to Climate Change or Global Warming.

I do know, however, that preemptive measures to defend and protect our home planet cannot be a bad idea. Even if every effect on the world blamed on Climate Change was a lie manufactured by us bleeding liberals and tree huggers, the fact remains that we cannot continue to selfishly, unconsciously and indiscriminately abuse the planet we live in.

We have the technology, the ability, the brain power, the capacity to change NOW. We can change how people think, how things are done, how cars are built, how we dispose of our trash, what we consume. We have every resource to do the right thing in our hands, all we need now is the will do it, the will to make it real, the will to make it happen.

This is not US vs. Them, Liberals vs. Conservative, is not Right vs. Wrong, it’s simply about trying to improve what may or may not be broken before is too late. If we do not take our Planet’s changing face as a warning sign then let’s see it a plea, nay an invitation to change what has been in place for long enough, let’s see is as an opportunity to change the world.

So I invite you all to hug a tree, wear some hemp, pick up trash in the street (even if is not yours) drive only when absolutely necessary, turn off the lights, recycle. Do something, anything! Just don’t do NOTHING. Doing nothing is unacceptable; action is fundamental and required from each and every one of us.

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing to going to get better” Dr. Seuss’s The Lorax.

Oct 14, 2009


It took me almost four years to pay a $5,000 credit card debt that I racked up after buying myself a pretty bedroom set, a living room set and a 10-day trip to New York City and Boston. Every time I saw that looming $2,900 and $2,000 on two separate credit cards I got short breathed and panicky. How the hell was I going to pay $5,000 with a $10.00/hr job (that I loved) and with rent, cell phone, services and lawyer fees to pay also?

Don’t ask me how it happened, one day I was sleeping on a twin bed someone gave me when I came to the country, or that we got in a garage sale (I tend to forget the details of those dark days) and the next I am shopping for beds in Ashley Furniture and purchasing a $1,000 mattress (totally worth it, my mattress is delicious). I guess it was some remnants of that spoiled girl I was that I still have in me. I wanted so badly to have something pretty, something shiny and new, something I hadn’t inherited from a stranger. I wanted to sleep in a brand new mattress, not one already slept in by someone else. Those words “credit available” seemed to me like another daddy willing to buy me something without me having to worry about paying for it right away. I remember sleeping in my brand new bed and seating on my brand new couches and setting my drinks on my brand new coffee table and I felt so grownup setting a coaster in my table not to stain it. I was so happy laying in the middle of my queen bed, starfish-like and sleeping like a baby.

I don’t know when exactly I noticed that I owed $4,900 to two different credit cards. How did I get here!? Suddenly my bed didn’t feel quite like MY bed. It wasn’t mine after all, I hadn’t paid for it. I had gone to NYC and Boston on borrowed money. I had bought clothes there and food and walked around Cambridge with money that didn’t belong to me. I ignored it. I am ashamed to say I pretended the $4900 wasn’t looming over my head like a dark cloud, but it was. Before I had time to buy the matching night stands I was getting calls from the banks. I was so ashamed! And pissed off too! Why in the world would they give ME of all people the power to buy without having the money?! Why would they give me a credit card!? Why would they trust me with it? My dad made that same mistake and gave me an extension of his credit card, and believe me that shit didn’t last a month.

Credit is a weird concept to us, because back at home you cannot buy a house or a car, or anything like that without being able to actually buy it. There are no mortgages for any stranger that walks in a bank and says “I wanna buy that house” that shit doesn’t happen. I mean the mortgage business exists but pretty much everyone gets denied. If you want to buy a car you have to be able to pay for that car. My dad got my car when I was 16 and that car was almost completely paid for by the time it left the dealership.

Everyone here can buy anything. It’s one of those double edge swords of a capitalist nation. My question is if you can’t afford it, should you have it? I could’ve slept in my twin bed for years to come. I don’t know who slept, used or died in that bed before me, but it was clean and it was comfortable so what did it matter? Aside from my imagination running away from me and me picturing unspeakable things happening in my previously owned mattress the truth is it was enough. But we always want more don’t we?

I finally paid my credit card debt August of 2008. I cannot begin to explain how it felt. When I tell my friends about it they laugh at me. They think I am naïve and silly thinking that $4900 credit card debt was a lot when they have car payments, mortgages and stuff around with still 5 to 25 years of payment looming ahead. I guess it might seem silly to some to consider $5,000 as little debt but to me it was $5,000 that I owed that I didn’t have. I didn’t want to spend the next 3 years paying that money; I didn’t want to owe that money at all! I didn’t want to buy anything else, knowing that I partially owned stuff that I hadn’t paid! What if something happened? What I lost my job? What if I couldn’t work anymore? What if I got sick? What if? What if? What if? I have seen what ifs come to life, I am here in this country after a what if I didn’t expect and couldn’t control.

I guess the Amish are more right than we think. They do not believe in credit or the use of a service they have not paid for. Imagine how much free of debt we would be if we didn’t buy stuff we couldn’t afford. Granted, cars would be less cool, and houses less pretty and TV’s a lot smaller but at least we all would know they are ours and no one else’s.

One time I was listening to the radio and heard a commercial of a company selling computers saying: “Can’t buy a computer because of bad credit? Bad credit isn’t your fault! And we can help!” I was so pissed off I could’ve thrown that radio out the window. That’s how I got trapped into $5,000 worth of debt. Because I thought that I was not responsible, that it was not my fault. If you have bad credit whose fault is it if not yours? (Barring special circumstances). We are tricked into thinking that our bad choices and our stupid mistakes aren’t our fault. That they happened to us and not because of us. How about some accountability? How about being responsible and owning up to the shit you got into?

I went shopping this weekend and after spending $380.00 on pillows, wall décor, throws for our house and other completely useless but amazingly pretty stuff, I decided to give my credit card a little use since it hadn’t been used for an entire year and my bank actually called to say they would cancel it if I didn’t use it. As I swiped the card I was having cold sweats. I smiled shakily to the girl in the register and I am sure she thought that credit card wasn’t mine and I was just stealing from someone because I looked so nervous. I smiled some more and left the store with my loot sweaty hands and rolling stomach and I can’t helped but be annoyed at the fact that I didn’t enjoy shopping that day and that is unacceptable! How dare you ruin my religion!

What kind of institute calls you to threaten you with closing your account if you don’t shop? I’m like a recovering addict here lady! Does the AA call their members and say hey you are doing wonderfully, too wonderfully! Have a relapse already!

I told my friends I used my credit card this weekend and got a lot of stuff I couldn’t afford for the new house. They were all so glad for me and patted me in the back saying “How else can you get stuff if not like that?” and smiled at me paternally as if I had suddenly taken my first step. I smiled like a dumbass and said nothing. Thirty minutes later I ran to my computer and scheduled a complete payment. By this time tomorrow that credit card will be blank and everything paid off. Take that bank! You thought you had reeled me back in, well it takes more than that bitches! I put my credit card back in the chest in my closet that is locked with a key. Is not in my wallet anymore and it will stay in the closet until once more I can afford to buy more stuff.

I took a big breath yesterday when I saw the balance tomorrow will be cero. I am a shame to this capitalist nation and I don’t give a damn I know I am making the Amish proud.

Oct 13, 2009


I’ve always thought it was awesome when non-Hispanic people tell me of their assumptions or perceptions of us Latinos. I’ve always thought that even when sometimes they are not flattering or accurate assumptions and perception it was interesting to see what they thought and to view ourselves from their point of view.

Dear husband for example doesn’t understand why we (my family) are so incredibly loud, and when I thought he was being just picky and explained that it was just a lot of us he smiled and said nothing but brought it up when we were with his family last year for his brother’s wedding and there were like 20 or so of them in a room and I could actually hear myself think (I still don’t understand how so many people can make so little noise!)

Note to self: Research that phenomenon further.

He was right, we are incredibly loud, and articulate and use our hands a lot and point with our mouths instead of our fingers (pointing is rude) gossip a lot and respect no one’s privacy and so on and on and on. That doesn’t bother me though. I consider gossip nothing more than another form of communication and transferring of information and being loud is a given because if you aren’t loud then how do you expect to be heard above the yelling of those around you? Duh.

Another thing Dead Dear Husband criticizes has an opinion on is the fact that we tell lies.

One time we were invited to go somewhere and I didn’t want to go and he didn’t care if we went or not so after coming up (at the drop of a hat) with an excuse to refuse the invitation we stayed home to watch Jeopardy! And eat my mom’s cooking. Even thought he got to enjoy the fruits of my white lie, he decides to hop on his favorite high horse and give me a speech about the evils of lying (I didn’t see him running to the phone to tell the truth did I?!). The nerve of the man! He gets to do what he wants, he gets to not say a thing to the people we cancel on, he gets to be the good guy to our friends (because I am the one cancelling) and to top it all off he gets to feel morally superior because he isn’t the one lying!. After chewing his ass off one day after he accused me of lying once more he decided to drop the subject and simply enjoy his wife’s amazing lying abilities.

I am a good liar, I won’t lie (hehe) I am, is the truth I promise. It’s not my fault though we Latinos have been conditioned since birth to lie. Here they call it white lies, in Spanish is “mentiritas blancas” and I call it “The art of Diplomatic Bullshiting”.

We Latinos grew up thinking that a little white lie is preferable at times to telling the truth. Don’t get me wrong, honesty is always welcome (except when it’s not) and we are encouraged to tell the truth in certain situations but in general we lie about everything. Latinos as a group have a serious problem saying the word “No” and answering uncomfortable questions. We lie for everything, we are equal opportunity liars. From a dropped call to screening to not answering text messages right away to saying yes to an invite to the movies even though we hate it.

If someone ask us to a party for example and we are working late that day and we are going to have a problem making it we instantly tell the truth “Sucks, I won’t be able to make it, damn it, I’ll be working late” BUT if we simply don’t feel like going and want to stay home to watch re-runs of “So you Think you can Dance” we have to, we MUST come up with an lie excuse.

Because if you say “Sorry I can’t” and don’t offer an explanation you can bet your ass the person will ask you “Why the hell not?” and you can’t tell someone you don’t want to go to their party because you rather see people do modern interpretive dance on TV while eating Ramen Noodles, can you? Because they’ll get their feelings hurt and we don’t want to do that!

See? We are forced to lie. There’s no escape. Ms. Manners would say there is no reason to offer an explanation and that simply verbally RSVPing “No” is good enough and that someone who rudely ask “WHY?” does not deserve the nice gesture of a good response, but Ms. Manners is not Hispanic so what the hell does she know?

We have no other choice than to come up with an elaborate reason why we can’t make it and after years of repeating the process one grows quite adept at this lying business. Dear Husband would ask “Why don’t you just tell them you don’t feel like it?” Well that’s ‘cause us Latinos are not only white liars but also incredibly pushy. If you say just “no” they will insist on you going! Lying just make things so much easier for everybody and if you don’t lie then they will talk shit about you at the party and how pretentious you are and how the party apparently wasn’t “good enough for you” (Yeah we also talk a lot of shit about other people).

I’ve gotten used to people (Gringos) telling me they just don’t feel like it or they can’t make it without an explanation, but before I used to get pissed! At least have the decency to lie to me, you know? Make something up! Make an effort! But people here are incredibly candid that they don’t feel they have to. They (in general) are open about everything, and I mean everything. I have heard things from people I really don’t need (or want) to know. I mean we are the ones that are supposed to be up all in people’s business! Yet I’ve noticed that gringos are so much more open about their stuff than I wanted expected them to be.

From my friend Erin who told me her life story the first time I met her to my other friend who has no problem informing me about the night she spent with diarrhea. Candor is something I definitely appreciate now but took some getting used to.

My mom is new to candor. She has a problem telling people off and she is a perfect example of Hispanic manners to the extreme because she even hangs out with people she can’t stand because she feels mean or rude saying no! (My mom’s special) she even feels bad for not liking them. “I’m sure I’ll like them if I make an effort” Let it go mom they are a bunch of cunty bitches!

Honestly sometimes I wish I could be as candid and openly talk about my bowel movements, my daddy issues and my inability to eat M&Ms because they are so cute, but I am too comfortable in the bed of my excuses so why bother? I’ll keep on giving excuses and making shit up.

Now I have to go, my boss is here and I should be working (sounds believable don’t it?)

Oct 9, 2009


I don’t know who to credit with the idea of house warming parties, bachelorette parties, baby showers, bridal showers and all other celebrations that require a poor schmock to bring a present to someone who is getting more presents in a few days anyway (brides you know who you are!), or buying a baby swing for someone who is going to sit you down and make you guess the poop without offering some sweet relief in the shape of an alcoholic beverage share with you the joy of looking at baby clothes and breat pumps (I'm joking, I love every minute!) or buy a kitchen pot for someone who is going to offer you cheap wine and crackers in exchange of some household goodies. I don’t know who came up with it and to be honest I don’t care! I intent to fully benefit from the fact that it is an U.S. tradition and damn it I am shamelessly using it as an excuse to furnish my new house.

We have spent almost $1,000 in the new house (to those who are new to the blog I have recently fled the nest) and we still have no dishes (dear husband stained college plates do not count), no bowls to put a bag of popcorn or toss a salad in, no decorations, no toilet cleaner, no curtains, no cushions, no towels to match my pink roses bathroom wallpaper (don’t get me started) nothing! WE’VE GOT NOTHING! *cry hysterically in a corner*

People here have mastered the art of asking for presents for any reason whatsoever. Got engaged, throw a "I’m about to get hitched and sleep with the same person forever” party, got hired for dream job! Throw a “need professional clothes” party, graduated college! Throw an “I’m never going to finish paying that loan” party. As someone with a deep appreciation for presents (love giving them love receiving them) I cannot help but be amazed (and full of awed respect) at how easy it is for people to ask for presents (I bow to the masters)

I love the idea and I have been an eager participant of all kind of shanty parties for stupid reasons and brought presents because is the right thing to do, but even though I have “gone native” in this country and I am forgetting my Spanish and don’t kiss people in the cheek anymore, the Hispanic part of me that doesn’t throw house warming parties is a little uncomfortable by the idea because honestly I don’t know how I feel about telling people to buy me a new toilet seat because my bathroom came with one of those disgusting cushiony ones (yuck, ugh, nast and ick).

Ugh just thinking about it is making me move forward, I'm about to get over it.

Oct 8, 2009


I had a dream last night that Dear Husband was taking me to the airport because I was finally going to visit home (yay!) and on the way there we realized my passport had expired - a recurring dream that I always wake up from feeling frustrated and sad :'( - and my suitcases for some reason went flying off the car onto I-95. Dear Husband then proceeded to jump out to go get them and then had to fight with an alligator that came out from one of the canals on the side of the road and was intent on eating my clothes and shoes (nightmare!). I woke gasping because in my dream Dear Husband proceeded to jump into the canal to wrestle alligators! As if the loss of my shoes wasn’t enough now I had to witness my hubby getting munched on by a 10 foot pre-historical ultimate predator.

As I flat ironed my hair in the bathroom this morning I was struck by how much of a pussy I’ve become! I used to be fearless! I used to be the girl who rollerbladed down a mile-long 90-degree steep hill without a helmet or pads and made it safely down in a pure rush of adrenaline. I used to go down the stairs on rollerblades (I almost killed myself once doing that with my twin cousins) I used to climb walls, break into people’s houses (my cousins were a bad influence! Ok?) I remember one of them“borrowing” her boyfriend’s motorcycle and we going on it for a spin that ended taking us to the highway even though neither of us had any idea of how to drive it. I remember us graffiti-ing another boyfriend’s wall (I know is bad for the environment but I was a dumbass then) and running away from the HOA when they caught us.

Sigh. Those were the days.

Now I am afraid of everything! I don’t know if age just caught up with me or what, and I can say I usually don't worry about much, I don’t worry about the state of the economy, or my health, or my legal situation (which is always changing) or my marriage or my weight, I don’t worry about my family or my pets (they are all healthy and generally happy). I worry though, about staying alive. I have an unreasonable fear of dying before I get everything I ever wanted and I am also afraid of a painful death. Can't I just go in my sleep? Pretty pleaaaaaase?!

All of the sudden in the past 8 years I've become afraid of flying. I used to LOVE flying and to look out the window to the land bellow. Now just the thought of looking down the window makes me queasy. Although my fear of flying is not a crippling fear (I still fly if is a long distance and I have no other choice and I do it without getting hysterical) I hate doing it. My fear is not even limited to myself! Even the thought of Dear Husband flying, or my sister (or any other love one) flying makes me nervous! I live in a state of mild panic until I get a call telling me they landed. And when I'm the one flying I spend the time in the air praying for the minutes to fly by and don't breath easily until we are about to land in which case I feel confident enough that if we crash, we are close enough to land to make it (I'm a glass half full kinda gal)

I am suddenly terrified of alligators. I love animals! I do, I could spend hours watching Animal Planet and I am an avid supporter of the ASPCA but ever since I got to Florida I am scared shitless of alligators. It’s ironic because people who don’t know where Venezuela is (there are a lot, believe you me) sometimes ask me if I kept cattle, or if I lived in a jungle and the first wild animals I’ve seen were here in Florida, because this place is a fucking jungle! I lived in a city for Christ’s Sake! The extent of my contact with the Wild Kingdom was limited to the birds flying overhead, the pigeon’s that shit on us and the occasional stray cat or dog.

I remember when I was driving with my aunt and uncle from one end of Florida to the other and I reaaaaally had to pee (my bladder is tiny) and I asked my uncle (who was lost and will deny until the end of time) if we could stop. It was dark out and we couldn’t see shit and he told me “I don’t think is safe because of the alligators” I was frozen to the chair filled with equal amounts of fear for my life if I stepped outside and fear that I would pee in the van.

I miss walking in the rain back home and being surprised by a warm sweet shower or a downpour on my way home from school. It was so nice and refreshing to play in the rain and jump into puddles and make my white school socks brown with dirt and act like I was a little girl. Now when is raining I squeal like a chick (uhg) and try to get inside before I get struck by lightning and I can't help but think further into it and be scared that if for some reason I survive the electric jolt (an amazing amount of people have) I will forget who I am or how to write or start replacing the word “Yes” with “Duck” or some shit like that.

Fact: Florida is almost the Lightning Capital of the World (to those of you rolling your eyes)

I am afraid of Hurricanes and the possibility that if one strikes hard enough I would have to leave my Max (cat) and my Zoey (dog) behind and that they will be forever lost. I am afraid the house would fall on our heads I would die and they will find my naked body floating somewhere, half eaten by the alligators (double whammy!)

I am afraid of going to a public place and get shot in the head by some bitter whiny emo teenager with anxiety problems because the world won’t like him (insert waa-waa here) and that I will die just because the little bitch was picked on by the high school jock. See, back home if people have a problem with you, they’ll shoot you in the head, have your ass kicked, steal your girlfriend/boyfriend, jump you in the parking lot of the shopping mall and steal your shoes or something like that. People back home take out their aggression on the person that pissed them off. There is no fear of going to Wendy’s and getting shot at when you are hanging out with your wife and kids for no other reason than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I'm scared of random, senseless violence because I can understand crimes of passion (holler at my girls from Snapped!) back home there are plenty of crimes of passion, and crimes over money and food and gang problems and crimes for the sake of feeding the families that depend on the perpetrators. So for the first time I am being presented with the possibility of being the victim of a violent act to a person I have never met before, I have done nothing to but who feels the need, nevertheless to erase me from the planet. We have regular murderers, rapist and thiefs, we don’t have any of those psychos who kill children and then eat soup out of bowl made of their heads.

My Dear Husband mocks me but I am so afraid of the crazies that I walk the dog with my pepper spray in hand and I live in a place so safe that one armed robbery becomes news for the next 3 months. I don’t know if all these fears developed after being shoved in a plane to come to a place against my will and that experience ruined flying forever. I don’t know what happened to the fearless me. I miss that me a little.

Now I have to go, Dear Husband is walking the dog along the canal and I’m having the cold sweats.

Oct 7, 2009


As a blogger who writes about the differences between this country, its people, its costumes and the ones I left behind I am always presented with the problem of what to call its citizens.

I am sure a U.S. Citizen wouldn’t have a problem calling himself North American but as a Colombian/Venezuelan from South America I understand that the description is not completely accurate since North American not only is comprised by the United States but also as a continent of Antigua and Barbuda, Bahamas, Barbados, Canada, Cuba, Belize, Dominica, Dominican Republic, El Salvador, Haiti, Jamaica, Mexico, Nicaragua, Panama, Trinidad & Tobago among others (got bored of typing all).

I also have heard them call themselves Americans but that would include all the countries I already listed plus the ones in South America: Colombia, Venezuela, Argentina, Chile, Brazil, Uruguay, etc.

So what do I call you people?! I have tried to stop the use of “Gringo” which I do not mean in a disparaging, racist, stereotypical way, but in the easy and convenient way of describing the citizens of this country since apparently there is not a word that describes them to the world. I don’t want to use the formal “U.S. Citizens” since I am so used to calling nationalities with the “an” at the end. German, Colombian, Canadian, Brazilian, Irish… wait… French... damn it okay so is not an infallible rule but at least the Irish, French, Afghans have ONE word to name their nationality, and aside from my cluelessness of what the people of Papua New Guinea are called I have never felt so frustrated when it comes to know what to call you! Is hard enough to remember that people from Finland are called Finns in the English language and not Finlanders (as it would be said in Spanish) but now I have a problem naming the citizens of the country I actually reside in! (I’ll worry about Finland and Papua New Guinea when I have to).

In Spanish this is a non-issue since in Spanish there is a name for citizens of the U.S., see the United States is Los Estados Unidos, so citizens are called Estado Unidenses. Simple yet beautiful.

I don’t want to be accused of racism or shit like that by calling you guys Gringos (see? I even did it with a capital G!) but what else is there to call you? I cannot call you Americans, or North Americans (I just can’t) and U.S. Citizens sounds too damn formal, too damn long and makes me sound like my nemesis (the immigration agents).

So please understand it is not racism, not stereotyping, not disparaging when I call you Gringos. (at least that is not how I mean it, I cannot be held responsible for how you perceive it) I like you, I am thankful for your country and grateful to you for letting me stay here and be part of it. I am thankful for my Gringo husband whom I adore and who can now recognize the difference between Salsa and Merengue (Reggaeton still sounds all the same to him).

I don’t care when people call me Latin (even though that is a language not a nationality) I don’t care when they say I’m Spanish (even though I am not from Spain) call me what you may and I’ll keep calling you Gringos and know that I do it with all the love from the bottom of my heart.

Those who don’t like it can’t just put a sock on it.

Oct 6, 2009


Talking about hugging irrevocably reminds me of the time I was hanging out with my cousins at their Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (back when they were members of the religion and I had nothing else to do) and they gave us a class on how to “properly” hug.

If a girl and a guy hugged side to side (shoulder to shoulder) it was acceptable as well and front to front as long as chests didn’t touch and hips remained away. They seemed to think that rubbing hips led to temptation, temptation to fornication (I love that word!!) and fornication to burning hell. I was tempted to let them know that I had rubbed hips and chests many a time while dancing salsa or merengue and had amazingly managed to hold onto my virginity while I was at it, but I was distracted by their rendition of the “acceptable” hug between women where chests and hips were allowed to touch since temptation couldn’t possibly arise between two females (I guess they didn’t consider the thrills lesbians may get from rubbing titties) and as I tried to rebel against the sheer stupidity of spending my Sunday being taught how to hug “properly” I was hit by a case of the giggles so hard I actually think I killed some brain cells from lack of oxygen.

That day was the first day I was first introduced to the depth of feeling and belief when it comes to religion in this country. I am not sure if it is because the freedom of religion diversity (which is a beautiful thing that I am thankful for) makes people believe in their God even harder. I don’t know if it’s that here in the U.S. everything is bigger, louder and stronger.

I mean I was in Catholic school all my life and in Catholic University for two years, I went to obligatory mass every Wednesday, I kneeled and stood, sat down and kneeled again, crossed myself, said Hail Mary’s and Our Fathers, sang halleluiah, and was thankful for God’s sacrificial Lamb (Cordero de Dios!), I went to confession, prayed with a rosary, knelt in front of the Virgin and asked Saint Thomas de Aquino and John Bosco (Patron Saint of Students) for help with Math and Physics class (didn’t work); I lit candles, said “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you but only say the word and I shall be healed” so many times I lost count and yet...

As exposed as I have been to the joys of Christianity and fervent religion I have never seen it the way is practiced here. I am not saying my way is the right way or the way back home is the way it should be. I am just pointing out that after almost eight years of living in this country I still find it surprising when I see people (young people too) bowing their heads in prayer in restaurants, in public! (They wouldn’t have survived a day in high school back at home).

I am always amazed at how open people are about it, my believes and my relationship with the higher power is such a private one that I cannot picture doing that unless I have to because I am having dinner with the in-lawns and even then I keep a roaming eye open to see who’s looking at me pray (childish I know).

It’s very hard for me because, despite my upbringing and to the despair of my very Catholic mother, I am on the other side of things, I am not religious, I do not practice, I do not appreciate it when strangers knock on my door wanting to talk to me about Jesus neither do I appreciate it when I receive condemning looks from strangers when I say I don’t go to church. I never had to defend my believes before because back home you believed in whomever you wanted to believe, prayed to whichever God you wanted to pray to and fucked whoever you wanted to fuck without anyone giving a damn.

Here is different because they believe so firmly that they feel the need to recruit you and I feel the need to not be recruited! The more I am confronted with Christian beliefs, the more I am pressured, the more I am asked about my “relationship with Jesus” the more I am pushed away from everything I was raised to believe.

My relationship with the higher power was based on camaraderie, trust, long one sided conversations at night with me talking to the ceiling and a lot of thanking for everything good in my life. The Christians I have met here believe that if you do not believe in Christ you go to the fiery pits of hell and that alone is enough to scare the believing out of me. The more they quote the bible, the less I believe.

My mom taught me that God was a loving forgiving someone who was happy with you leading a life of good and that it was enough just being good to go to Heaven. The God here is different from the one I grew up believing in and the differences have pushed me to the brink of non-believing *stare up guiltily waiting for lightning to smite me*

My life has been so chaotic these past eight years that I can’t help but doubt and question what’s out there. Question what I believed in. Question the logic of believing in a book that was written by sheep keeper. Question the fact that a loving God won’t condemn you to hell regardless of how just a life you lead.

My mom would say that all my blessings, in spite of the chaos, prove that Jesus loves me and believes in me, even if I sometimes don’t believe in him or love him back.


I’m starting to believe that part of me has become too accustomed to this country. I am so happy here that at some point in my life I stopped wanting to go back home, except to visit (every time I say this out loud I feel like such a traitor) I am forgetting some words in Spanish and I shake hands when I get introduced to people without pulling them forward to land them a kiss.

I was so used to saying hello that way and following an introduction with a kiss that I never stopped to consider how weird it is and how uncomfortable it makes some people to have their personal space invaded. As a Hispanic person you have no choice but to say “Hi” this way and you better get used to it because no itty bitty thing like personal space is going to deter a determined cheek-kisser. I never stopped to wonder before how different it is for people here to be kissed in the cheek or hugged even before names have been exchanged!

Now what I wonder is why in the world would we want to kiss someone we don’t even know? Ew! Because we don’t do any of that air-kissing shit that you see in movies. When we kiss on the cheek, we KISS ON THE CHEEK, little saliva pools left behind and all *shudder*. When we say hello or goodbye we fucking mean it.

It took me literally one single embarrassing moment to get cured of the kissing disease (I don’t mean mono). All it took was to have the person actually bend over backwards to avoid my kiss to learn my lesson. I made it a rule that unless a person is Hispanic, French or Persian that I will not kiss them on the cheek unless they try it first. I will be a receiver of kisses from any nationality except for those but never will I be the kisser anymore, always the kissee (that should so be a word)
I have gotten so used to not hugging or kissing that when I meet someone that tries to say hello to me with a kiss I find myself trying to avoid it as if the person has the cooties! I guess I am a disappointment to my race in more ways than one. I miss feeling comfortable about kisses; there is something to be said about leaving a trail of saliva on a stranger’s cheek that breaks the ice, nothing like the exchange of bodily fluids to bond over!

I have been friends with Dick and Erin for almost seven years and I can count the amount of times we’ve hugged with one hand. They both have cried on my lap, I have cleaned Dick’s puke, held Erin’s hair up while she projectile vomited, slept with both (just slept smart asses) shared secrets, talked to the wee hours of the night, lent money, asked for money, exchange shameful stories, childhood traumas and mommy/daddy issues, I’ve slapped them both around (I’m a mean drunk) and still we have barely hugged or kissed on the cheek unless is Christmas and we are exchanging presents and even then it was awkward for them (I love you both, but you know it's true)

The two of them didn’t even know how to hug properly when I met them, bless their hearts. They were all loose arms, shoulder’s barely touching and their butts high in the air and away from my body as if they were afraid that touching hips might turn into something dirty. I know is not a Hispanic thing that makes me a better hugger, is simply that practice makes perfect and I have had years ahead of them in that department.

When I met my father and mother in law I wasn’t sure on what to do, kiss? Shake hands? High five? Bump fist and blow it up (such a gringo thing), hug them? Kiss them? Wave at them? Agh! I was having a panic attack just thinking about it and I would’ve been mortified is I had tried to kiss one of them and they had petted me in the head or something (true story). Thankfully they were expecting my very Latin kiss and returned it in kind.

I guess part of me will always feel inclined to reach for a kiss and part of me will always know when not to lean forward and to recognize the unreceptive ones who will do a bend a la Cirque du Soleil to get away from me if I try to French their cheeks.


In a totally unrelated post, I just wanted to share with you guys the shaming fact that I am being booty called every night by a dark creature with dark hair and green eyes.

He is mean, rude, sexy and sleek. He slaps me around the face to wake me up and I let him. I like him; I can’t help it because I love him.

Every night around two in the morning he struts his stuff inside my room, up my bed and wakes me up and I am helpless to resist him. It doesn’t matter that he is mean during the day, ignores me in front of other people because when darkness come, he rubs himself against me and I forgive him all.

I do what he asks me to do and smile sadly when he snaps at me after he gets what he wants. I don’t care, I love my dark beast and I will answer his booty call, whenever he makes them.

Oct 2, 2009


Among the many family members I am proud and happy to have, there are a selected few who are lucky enough to have solved all their immigration paperwork.

For the records I would like to clarify that although I am an immigrant I have never been illegally in this country the name of the blog just sounds cooler with the word illegal in it but in support of my fellow immigrants that struggle I named it so.

I have family and co-workers that have currently gone through the process of becoming citizens, they took the tests, pledge allegiance, and in a moving (I am assuming is moving since they all cried) ceremony they became U.S. Citizens. Some would say they are not U.S. citizens since they were not born here and some could complain of the “browning” of American (an expression I was lucky enough to read at this White Supremacy website that I read when I want to have nightmares).

Someday I hope to be lucky enough to go through the same process of being a citizen. And it will not be a step I take lightly. I lived in Venezuela all my life before I came to the U.S. and never once considered changing my nationality. I was when I lived there and still am a Colombian. It won’t be easily but with a heavy that I relinquish that.

I have given up a lot to come here, to change my life, to make a different future than the one that expected me back home. I have given up friends, family, identity, memories, pictures, everything I once was I left back home. The person that is here, typing this post is not the same person that years ago got on that plane, against her wish to come here.

Which is why I am incredibly annoyed by people that were born into this country with the many privileges that come with it and do nothing but complain about the state of things. I don’t think the U.S. is a perfect nation by anyone’s standards, I think there is plenty of room for improvements. But it drives me insane when people that were born here complain about the state of the economy or the state of the political environment, or complain about paying taxes, about welfare, complain about the ever shrinking social security and how there will be none left for them when they retire. Every whine, every complain, every criticism makes a mockery out of the people that really struggle somewhere else.

How about a little gratitude, a little humility, a little perspective. How about a little reality check and appreciation for a country who lets you vote, lets you speak your mind, lets you marry your partner (in some states, 5 down and 45 to go wooohoo!) lets you be yourself, pray to any God, dance to your own tune, fuck whatever hole you choose. How about some appreciation for a minimum wage that you can actually live off, for the clean streets, for the laws that keep you safe and defend you, how about being thankful for the blessings instead of whining and bitching and complaining because you want more.

How about some appreciation for a president whom you might have not voted for but that remains regardless your president. How about some support, some loyalty, some respect for the system that you may not agree with but that does its best.

Rebel, complain, try to change, improve, dissent (as someone said) but all while keeping in mind how thankful you should be for the many, many things that you do have, instead of concentrating on the ones you don’t.

Things to be thankful for: