Musings of a Día de Reyes

This year, like virtually every one of my life as an "adult", I got the plastic baby in my family's Rosca de Reyes, and a lovely porcelain one from the office’s rosca. Lo and behold, as I shakily sliced my bit of bread with sugar and fruit toppings, I nearly cut the feet off the baby (for some reason, it has undies on these days; it used to go commando).

That, of course, meant that I got the particular pleasure of inviting tamales for my coworkers in el Día de la Candelaria, as tradition requires. Good thing about the yearly layoffs -less mouths to feed. And yes, I do feel the tiniest bit bitchy for posting that, but only the tiniest. I didn't particularly care for those now ex-coworkers. Bite me and all that.

At least the kid is supposed to bear good tidings my way. One can only hope, though past experiences seem to show no Rosca Baby-Good Fortune correlation at all. Whatever; for all I know I should have rightfully died years ago and it's only that Rosca Baby Magic keeping me gallivanting on this world.

-I blame it on my sudden bouts of insomnia that THAT theory up there seems to hold some water in my actual mindset; let the ruminating meditations begin.-

I have to admit that although for me it’s nothing like the Day of the Dead (which I revere almost fanatically, true story), I actually like the Día de Reyes. It's sort of fun to see people try to evade that tiny, white plastic baby of DOOM and (financial) DESTRUCTION, and while the rosca bread is not my favorite (Bread of the Dead, all the way!) with some hot chocolate it's more than palatable.

However this all takes me a few years back, when I was in Tabasco for some reason, and my beloved uncle Valo invited Pancho and I to cut the rosca with his wife’s family.

Now, these are all very nice people: polite, welcoming and generally decent. It's just that they are... careful with their money. (Which is coded Poli-speak for saying they tend to be stingy. Very much so. On everything.)

So when the time came for Pancho and I to slice the bread, someone helpfully pointed out that, should we get the baby, my uncle and aunt would be responsible for buying our share of tamales. A brief sideway look at my uncle and aunt revealed them to be swallowing nervously. But hey! No pressure guys.

We got surprisingly lucky, though. No plastic toys.

-Or so I thought.-

I do remember someone remarking that the rosca was missing a baby. I didn’t give it much thought; it happens. In fact, this year my custom-made (and somewhat expensive) Superama Rosca included only three dolls instead of the advertised four, and two of those were BURNT and MELTED in a rather horrific fashion.

Detail of BURNT and MELTED

(with their normal siblings)

I probably should have complained. Meh.

Fast forward a couple of years later. I’m recounting the experience to someone, when dearest Panchito points out that he DID get the baby.

- No you didn’t. I don’t remember you getting it.

- That’s because I swallowed it.

- ... What?

- Well, I got the baby; I knew my uncle wouldn’t like me getting it, so I swallowed it. You do remember they thought it was one baby short?

- But... it’s plastic. And it's not big or anything, but it couldn’t have been pleasant to swallow it. And it's PLASTIC.

- Yeah, kinda scratched its way down. Not something I’d like to do again. Hopefully won’t have to.

And so, it turns out my brother is a bigger idiot than I gave him credit for. But in all fairness, I'll admit he's rather adept at idiocy. And we now have proof he has quite the hardy stomach.

In any case, from then on I absolutely demand that people hack up their slices in public before wolfing it down. With me always getting the baby, I'm not about to take chances and let someone off in Tamal Duty.

Random snippet

Just to prove the joke telling disability is a family thing:

Poli dice:
bored! entertain me, minion!

waldo dice:
So a jew and a catholic walk into a bar....

Poli dice:
right

waldo dice:
Yes

Poli dice:
and?

waldo dice:
Dunno

Poli dice:
that's it?

waldo dice:
Uh...

Poli dice:
where's the rest of the joke? you are an awful minion

waldo dice:
Ok, A black guy and a hispanic guy walk into a bar
And the bartender says
Get the fuck out!
Anything?

Poli dice:
I think that was marginally better

waldo dice:
Haha

Poli dice:
any more tries?

waldo dice:
what do you call a mexican baby's baptism?

Poli dice:
wetback initiation?

waldo dice:
No, Beandip
I told that joke at the Walmart.com job
It didn't go over very well with the hispanic moms

Poli dice:
er... you're kidding, right?

waldo dice:
No, haha. Everyone knew me so they didn't care that much.

Poli dice:
damn. You are kinda suicidal (and I'm guessing that you being mexican had something to do with it).

waldo dice:
Haha. That's why I want an Emo lawn

Poli dice:
emo lawn?

waldo dice:
Yes, no maintenance. It's grass cuts itself

Poli dice:
lol. bitchy

waldo dice:
Just saying. \wrist


Anyone in want of more proof?

About denial

Pancho (walking into the kitchen): Say, do you know how to download computer games?

Poli: No. Ask Waldo, he’s my guru for these things.

Pancho: Yeah, I will. He’s on messenger right now.

Poli: He’s always on, he’s got it on his phone.

Pancho: Yeah... but he never answers back.

Poli: He always answers me.

Juan (getting a glass of water): He chats with me, too (walks out).

*Long pregnant pause*.

Pancho: There’s only one possibility.

*Expectant looks*

Pancho: My messenger is faulty.


My, denial is such a sweet thing.

Ma petite

One day my brother walked into the apartment with a wide smile on his face. Seeing as it was his birthday, it didn't strike me as particularly odd. Though, I admit he looked... giddy; akin to a tween schoolgirl after her first date with the class stud. As he'd never given me a reason to doubt his sexuality, I didn't immediately worry for my heels and makeup.

In his hands he held a small bundle of rags. Which suddenly moved.

'Tell me it's not a rat...'

No me juzguen; Mi hermanito es completamente capaz de muchas cosas -including but not limited to: random fires (TWICE, and one included the fire department); floods (we saved the computer just barely); flashy fights (even girls; he claims they were too manly to use that as an excuse); doodling on his own face with permanent markers (that was a fun one... rubbed his face raw with alcohol for a couple of hours afterwards); failing two years in a row; quarreling with military guys, or 3 year old girls for that matter; swallowing a plastic niño Jesús from the Rosca de Reyes (a tale in itself; I'll tell it another time); smoking and the nonchalantly walking up to my mother with a ton of cologne to "hide the smell"; sending his brothers to the hospital multiple times (they came thisclose to getting Ritalin); stabbing me with a belt buckle (... yes :S);

Jeez... I'm tired already; you get the point. He's a bit of a rambunctious mess. Nice kid, though. Just no common sense.

-Back to the matter-

I was a wee bit worried, until he pulled the rags to show a small, white, furry thing.

That's how Yuki came into our lives.

Like many new pet stories, we went through the cycles- mom told mon frère that there was no way -NO WAY- we were keeping it. No space for a dog, the money involved, the needs it had, and a BITCH, too, we'd be filled with unwanted litters and how manipulative of you, coming here with a puppy on your birthday thinking I'd fold just because it's your special day and it's a cute little PUPPY! Well, no way in HELL that will happen, you will get that damn thing out of this house TODAY!!!

Yuki's been with us for about four years. And mom goes bonkers if anything comes close to harming her “nieta” (I swear that’s how she introduces the dog to people – “Y esta es mi nieta, Yuki”). And she nearly burst into copious tears the one day the dumb, faulty little thing almost got lost. And after that day the taxi ran her over (and she miraculously ran away completely unscathed save for a couple of bruises) she wouldn't let the dog out of her grasp for a week.

I must say, brother dear was a wonderful father for a couple of months. Bought her special milk, taught her to drink from a plate and eat solid food, spent two days without sleep because she would whine and cry in the night, got her a cute sweater and all her shots, and endured all the laughs and taunts a boy his age would get for taking a cute little French poodle (we later realized she was a mixed breed; the poor defective thing) out for a walk, pink ribbons and sweaters not-withstanding (my initiative, of course; he hates it when I put her in ribbons, but won't defy me yet).

Until he got sent to military school. Since, Yuki's become everyone's dog.

Sure, the flighty little thing is not particularly cute when seen in detail (she looks like a huge rat when wet), and she's spoiled rotten. She whines and cries to get her way, needs constant baths (which she hates), and is a true coward. She can't defend the house or us at all -she's scared of kittens and squirrels, for heaven's sake.

But we love her. Adore her. We fall apart to please her, and fight over who gets to sleep with her (and steal her in the middle of the night otherwise). That little coddled, lazy thing is kind of useless, and I'm sure she'd die without us to care for her, since her instincts seem pretty lame.

Not to mention, she's pretty whorish.

We just can't go against it. She's more than a pet- she's real family. We'd probably be as lost without her as she without us. In fact, I'm pretty sure we don't own her, but rather belong to her. She can make any of us randomly start prattling stupid baby words with just a "look".

And, in turn, she's completely helpless to our malicious ways. Yes, we torture her with constant baths (she has an uncanny ability to turn gray at a moment's notice), poofy brushes and blowdryers, unrestrained smooches, yards of pink ribbons, and bright red nail polish.

Yes, we are just plain evil like that.

But it's a small price to pay, for either party.

Flat tire woes

Para comenzar y dar contexto, cabe mencionar que antes de este peculiar incidente no había visto a mi queridísima Rous en al menos un mes. También vale aclarar que la señorita en cuestión y yo somos conocidas por que nos ocurren sucesos de otra manera inexplicables (mucho más frecuente a mí).

Entonces, en típica lógica linear-matemática-improbable, Rose luck + Poli luck: llanta ponchada.

Así, como lo leen. Pero empecemos desde el principio, shall we?


Tras pasar varios meses sumidas en un cúmulo actividades, Rozita y yo decidimos que una reunión del sector más macho/femenino de las dragas era justa y necesaria. Mi última semana de libertad coincidió con la primera de ella, así que acordamos vernos un jueves cualquiera que ambas podíamos.

Al principio todo salió bien: no me perdí demasiado para encontrarla, fuimos a un Wal Mart de compras

- si, lo primero que hicimos después de no vernos en tanto tiempo fue ir a un supermercado... ella por el banco, yo por esmaltes de uña (lo sé, WTF? pero soy yo niños...)-

comimos en ese lindo restaurante chino donde nos pusimos al tanto de los chismes de la otra, and so on and so forth.

Fue cuando Rous ofreció llevarme a casa que todo sucedió. Todo.

Nos decidimos por Reforma, ya que el GDF sigue de topo sobe Circuito, la vía más directa. Y no llevábamos tanto cuando le dimos a un bache justo.

El carro como que brincó, la llanta como que sonó -POP-, y como que creímos que algo malo había pasado.

Sólo para disipar dudas, un onomatopéyico shhhzzzzshhhhzzz nos sacó del reino de los supuestos para darnos la fría bienvenida al de la triste realidad. Teníamos una llanta ponchada. Y muy ponchada, al parecer.

Rozita se estacionó en una calle entre las calzadas esas -la virginal y la misteriosa- y a llamar al seguro. Por alguna razón, ella estaba segura de que la aseguradora pagaría la llanta ponchada. Yo tenía mis dudas.

Pidieron la dirección y fui a una pozolería que estaba convenientemente enfrente y oportunamente abierta. Me prestaron un menú y le llevé la dirección a Rous.
Calle Juventino Rosas, colonia Peralvillo.

Eso sonó alarmas en mi cabeza... no recordaba bien qué había escuchado sobre el lugar, pero algo me decía que dos jóvenes señoritas con una llanta ponchada en la colonia Peralvillo a las 10:30 de la noche no podía ser un buen augurio.

Estábamos en eso -entre la histeria/llamada/mensajeada- cuando de pronto nos sale de la oscuridad un señor ataviado de un chaleco verde fluorescente y franela naranja vivo, a preguntarnos si todo estaba bien.

- (¿Quién demonios es usted?) Esteeee..... Sí. Se nos ponchó la llanta.

Rose, claro, yo no articulé palabra alguna, tan absorta estaba en mi sorpresa.

- Se la cambio señorita.

- Ay señor, muchas gracias, pero ya llamé al seguro.

- Uy señorita... va a tardar. ¿Por qué no me llamó? Yo se la cambiaba.

- Pero cómo iba a saber yo, señor, si no lo conozco (y es la primera vez que lo veo en mi vida, o que se me poncha una llanta en la Peralvillo…).

No leo mentes, pero estoy casi-casi convencida de que es lo que la Rous pensaba.

- Mire señorita, me hubiera llamado. Para eso estoy. Trabajé muchos años de llantero en San Diego, en el over there, con un peruano que se llamaba (inserte nombre aquí... algo como Tony).

- Ay señor, ¿Cómo iba yo a saber? (no, en serio, ¿cómo íbamos a saber? WTF?)

Creo que sobra decir que para estos momentos estábamos las dos muy sacadas de onda, algo temerosas, entre carcajadas sofocadas, preguntándonos qué carajos nos importaba el que el franelero hubiera sido llantero en el “over there”, y por qué chingaos no se alejaba el tipo con todo y su franela naranja y llegaba el seguro (en ese orden).

En ese momento, gloriosamente, entró una llamada para Rozita y el señor se alejó, momento que aproveché para llamarle a The first of the gang to die, quien, estaba yo segura, era de los contados (si no es que el único) del planeta que entendería la situación en todo su esplendor/contexto/plenitud. Y no defraudó -la comprendió completamente.

Tras deleitarme con una sinfonía de sonoras carcajadas y tintineantes risitas por teléfono, sobretodo cuando regresó el señor a preguntarnos si éramos hermanas (no), universitarias (sí), qué estudiábamos (política...)

- respondido por Rous; de haber contestado yo las respuestas hubieran sido (novias), (sí), y (mecatrónica y etnomusicología)-

y a solicitarnos que como politólogas no nos corrompiéramos. Le pedí amablemente al carnoso que dejara de reír como colegiala japonesa en película cómica/romántica y nos prestara la más seria de las atenciones. Petición que ambos ignoramos: la situación no daba para eso y somos nosotros, de todas formas.

Lo que le siguió fue una serie de acontecimientos que no recuerdo bien, entre los que se mezclan:

- Tres amables jóvenes de la pozolería se ofrecieron a cambiar la llanta.

-El mecánico, cuando por fin llegó, nos quiso cobrar 80 pesos por ponerle aire a la llanta, seguida de una llamada al ajustador para verificar qué demonios (si hay tanto aire en la ciudad, mire, es como un bien nacional).

- Asesorías telefónicas de Paco sobre diversos temas (“No Rous, la llanta la pagas tú”).

- Héctor preguntándome perplejo si tenía pila y crédito ilimitado (creo que era una indirecta para que terminara la llamada, ahora que lo pienso).

- La pérdida en el background del llantero/franelero amante de los tonos eflorescentes.

- La preocupación de que no llegara el Pollo con mi taxi de sitio -no me iba a poner a buscar sitio en la Peralvillo a las 11:30, ni a dejar a Rous sola- después de una hora, cuando estábamos a 20 minutos a lo mucho de su casa (Héctor y yo sacamos conclusiones que no estaban completamente erradas). Y no poder llamarle porque convenientemente, me enteré, su celular no sirve más que para mensajes.

- El que le había dicho a mi mamá que estaba en la oficina terminando boletines (sí, me cree, porque lo he hecho en realidad), y no se le fuera ocurrir ofrecer recogerme al WTC.

- Que por fin llegara el Pollo echando chispas (fue Rous la que dio mal la dirección, lo mandó a la calle Peralvillo) y yo brincara vertiginosamente al taxi, dejando mis compras en el carro de Rose.

- Que el taxista estuviera poco complaciente, pero yo estaba demasiado ansiosa y preocupada como para notarlo, y terminé (creo) contentándolo con mi afable personalidad (sólo hacia taxistas... mejor verme linda y comadrezca a que me asalten o secuestren) y diez pesos de propina.

Total. Llegué a mi casa poquito antes de medianoche, murmurando algo de "harta chamba", y tratando de no pensar en que solamente a Rous y a mi nos pasa esto, y juntas. (Que por cierto, como está eso de "qué bueno que está Paola, por lo menos", Rous?)

¿Deberíamos de dejar de salir juntas? ¿Qué hubiera pasado si Héctor se hubiera unido a la odisea (Rous luck + Poli luck + Carnoso luck: ¿?)? ¿Cuales son las posibilidades? ¿Por qué demonios todo mundo se mostraba perplejo de que dos señoritas anduvieran en la Peralvillo en la noche-noche?

No saber... at all. Pero a todo esto, ¿importa?

Mejor no pensarle demasiado.


* Esta entrada está redactada para complementarse con el Rosigerante y The first of the gang to die POV con el afán de dar una experiencia complementaria. Esperemos que ambos blogueen sus respectivas partes pronto, y los conmino efusivamente a que visiten sus blogs para ver el resultado final.

Musical Endeavors.

It has long been a standing, outrageous dream we -the dragas- hold.

We have lot's of them, really: crear una fundación para los amantes del pepinillo (imagine buying a burger in McDonalds and getting asked if you wish to donate your pickles); celebrar el festival de Río de Janeiro en Río -si, la cerrada en la Condesa; escribir un par de libros (Life in the Pretentious Way and Discapasutra); and so on and so forth.

Yet, we have toyed around with the idea of starting our own band, which should be aptly named "Stomp your feet and say no" (vilmente copiado de los Clap your hands and say yeah).

The idea, basically, is that since none of us have musical inclination or visible talent, it should be something terribly cacophonic, with some half-cooked philosophy about breaking the common place of beauty and esthetics, going beyond the form or something like that.

In any case, Rous and I had decided to do something among the likes of El Maestro Roberto Quenedy.



That is, until Alex decided to illustrate me on the possibilities. Perhaps we can go all the way with the washawasheo; perhaps, we might even go to the next level. The one of absolute ozzo.

This far:



Is it possible? Should I dare to hope...?

Tetris humano.

Andaba vagando por la red y encontré algo que me puso toda nostálgica/asombrada. Por una parte, ¡qué coordinación! Por otra, el tetris me recuerda a mis torneos infantiles contra Waldo, cuando nos peleábamos la computadora para tratar de superar el puntaje del otro.

Que tiempos aquellos.



Ay, me pongo toda melancólica. Y con las cosas más irrelevantes. ¿Me debería dar pena?

... ¡Meh!