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!

Paranoia, sí; pero justificada.

Bien bien; admito que no soy la más experimentada de las proletarias explotadas por este sistema capitalista, contando escasos empleos en mi existencia.

Still, tengo la ligera impresión de que algo no está del todo bien en mi nuevo trabajo.

Al principio me desconcertaba que en mi oficina trabajaran con la luz apagada. No me acomodaba del todo, pero, as the new girl, solo me metía al maravilloso mundo que ofrecía mi Mac y no hacia preguntas.

También me parecía raro que no hablaran, pero supuse que sólo eran así de callados y ñoños. Sí platicaban, pero sólo juntitos y con música de fondo. Supuse que no querían que me enterara de sus affairs personales y continuaba con lo mío (though I admit I did sort of send the evil eye their way).

Y claro, había visto las cámaras, pero supuse que eran de seguridad. Después de todo, mi jefe tiene una cantidad casi obscena de compus (both Mac and PC’s), plotters, impresoras y demás gadgets que rara la vez usa.

Yet, as always, there is always more to the story. Al parecer, esas lindas cámaras sí son de vigilancia; solo que nos vigilan a los empleados. Y tienen audio (which most security cameras don’t). Uno muy cabrón, por cierto, ya que todos mantienen niveles de voz muy bajos cuando el jefe anda en la oficina.

Esas cámaras están por todos lados; incluso en el jardín, la cochera y las escaleras.

Eso no es todo, sino que el jefe cuenta con otra linda herramienta de espionaje: un programa que le permite ver en una de sus computadoras lo que tenemos en pantalla en cualquier momento.

Así que si alguien decide mandarme un mail o chatear, con su debido cuidado. Por favor eviten hablar de sus negocios ilegales, infecciones embarazosas, problemas existenciales y demás, salvo que sea intencional y con un claro interés chingativo, claro.

Ah, porque claro que yo, en plena labor de filantropía, he decidido que si el jefe va a vivir intensamente a través de mi vida, será mejor que sea una llena de dramáticas y envolventes historias. Aunque mi vida en realidad consista en el trinomio trabajar – dormir - ser miserable. (He doesn’t have to know that, does he?)

In that note, thanks to Rozita my boss may or may not think that I suffer from a terrible, odorous vaginal disease. Luis managed to implicate some illegal businesses ventures and offered to off the boss as a personal favor. Oscar is leading the story of me being schizophrenic. Mau has implied pregnancies several times. Feel free to add your own little plot twist to any story, or hell! Go ahead and create your own! Have fun! Go wild!

Er.. but please inform me before you go on claiming I have made contact with aliens and will be their ambassador or something…

El caso es que todos andamos de paranoicos. Bueno, yo más que de costumbre. Es raro; creo que por primera vez mi patología está fundamentada y, además, es compartida. Es casi cómico ver a todos susurrar, ver a las cámaras con recelo, y estar constantemente cuidando lo que dicen/escriben/navegan.

¿Yo? Bueno, yo; este....

Sí Ale, tal cual adivinaste (mello...); sí volteo a ver la cámara de vez en cuando y le mando saludos o besos. O juego charades. O hago como que escucho voces.

¡Pero conste que dicen que mi antecesora era mucho peor! Por lo menos yo no ando de flatulenta y rascándome partes nobles sin pudor o recato alguno.

Pero demonios; me quedaron ganas de conocer a esa Caro de la que me cuentan. Creo que nos hubiéramos llevado re bien.

Going there, getting there.

El miércoles fue un día en general malo; era como si una gran sombra me abrumara de por sí, algo que debío de darme un pequeño insight de qué esperar. O a lo mejor ya estaba predispuesta. Meh!

Amanecí con mucho sueño; algo común ahora. Me siento cansada en la mañana y de plano agotada en la noche. Maybe I need to sleep?

El caso es que ahí me tienen corriendo (late, as usual) rumbo a San Jerónimo, que me queda BIEN PINCHE LEJOS (in bold and capital so you can understand just how far). Estoy sorprendida, de hecho; me hice sólo una hora tomando un par de taxis, metro y rezando el rosario entero.

Pero a fin de cuentas, la entrevista, que fue cansadísima por cierto (I swear; that guy did not need a publicist... rather a psicologist or anyone who paid attention. TWO hours of listening to his life story, really...) no redituó en nada.

Así que salí, triste, deprimida, sintiendo el terrible peso del fracaso sobre mis endebles hombros...

(frenen los comentarios sobre mi estatus de oink, all right? siguen siendo endebles a pesar de su grossor, que esperemos sea sólo momentáneo).

... y el de mi aumentado cuerpo sobre mis madreados pies, que venían ataviados de zapatillas. Creo que al tobillo ex-esguinzado no le pareció gracioso; decidió seguirle el juego al resto de mi cuerpo y se volvió una gran bola inflamada.

En corto, como diría Rous, me dolían los zapatos.

Llamé a Mau como pidió, pero lo encontré ligeramente abrumado por el trabajo ("¡no termino, no termino! ¡no saldré de aquí! ¡me convertiré en un fosil de exhibición en el WTC; y además ¡perdí el gafete! ¡no me han pagado y ya debo 150 pesos!) así que preferí limitar la conversación a lo básico, prometiendo avisar tan pronto llegara a la oficina.

Una pesera después, me dirigía al metrobus cuando escuché (which in itself is surprising, since I was listening to Razorlight's In the City "crecendo") un rechinar de llantas temible. Volteé justo a tiempo para ver, pareció que casi en cámara lenta, como un carro a no más de 10 metros de mí quemaba llanta al intentar frenar precipitadamente.

Empresa que falló, por cierto (grossly, as well). Desde mi punto de vista no pareció un choque mayor; el golpe fue sonoro pero no abrumador y no se vio como más que un ligero empujón. Pero la defensa y los faros tuvieron la súbita necesidad de que alguien les dedicara Las Golondrinas.

Me quedé algo pasmada, como el resto de los que íbamos en la acera, viendo granos de cristal esparcirse por el pavimento con un ligero tintinar. Vi al tipo del carro golpeado salir lentamente de un estupor, bajar del carro algo tembloroso, pero decidido, y encaminarse hacia los que habían tenido la cordial atención de arruinarle la tarde. He seemed oddly calm.

Dirigí la mirada hacia estos últimos y vi en su cara una inequívoca expresión del ya común La-cagamos-rotundamente; una mezcla peculiar de miedo, enojo y triste aceptación.

Y por un momento, me sentí acompañada en el dolor: sé que por lo menos alguien tuvo un peor día que yo.

Does that make me a terrible person?

I love my brother!

I really, really do. Waldo is such a great guy; has been ever since we were children.

Generally speaking, he is a very good person, and has become a better one ever since he took up Christianity (and nearly killed grandmother at it; she just can't understand why "her boy" didn't take to Catholicism, the family religion, instead) a couple of years ago. Now he follows all that good stuff they tell you in church, like not hating people, being compassionate... the works.

Sure, when we were kids he had his moments; he IS my older brother, after all. He induced me to stick keys in electrical contacts, to climb tall furniture from which I couldn't come back down (y terminaba gritando por ayuda desde las alturas del librero), sent me to buy soda in his stead, convinced me to run away from home when my mother refused to give him soda until he finished his homework(regresamos después de 20 minutos a pedirle dinero a mamá para poder cruzar el río en lancha y escapar... clásica lógica infantil), beat me up as a baby a couple of times (hasta que aprendí a dejar ojos morados), and so on.

As we grew older, there were occasional fights over the most random of things and disagreements, as always. But we became very close. I never showed mom my good grades (nearly all A's back then.. how time changes people) so that he wouldn't have to show his failing ones, kept quiet about the reports he got for his escapades at school, and always stayed a couple extra hours to wait for him while he was in detention.

I stayed quiet that one time I found cigarettes in his backpack, and covered up for his magazines. I helped him hide the bright red stain he put on his room's beige carpet, and stood, trembling, usually, in the way when my mother came at him after looking at his report card (well, I tried, my mother can be vicious).

He, in turn, drove me to the library for my books and always gave me money to spend when we went to the mall. He gave in to most of my requests, stupid as they might be. He cooked me food when we were left alone, and bought me sweets, bracelets and such when we went out. When I did something stupid, he would just roll his eyes and cover for me. He ignored me when I bullied him, and never contradicted me when he heard me lie to people.

He would help me with my homework when I didn't quite understand it (he was always that bit smarter, regardless of his terrible grades) and would do essays in my stead so that I was free to play word games with him when he was bored (tenía la terrible mañana de ponerle demasiada crema a los tacos. Hacía unos ensayos tanto emotivos como cursis, que me daba pena tan sólo leer en voz alta, sobre todo porque sabía que todo era una broma para él. A los maestros, en cambio, les encantaban; los creían llegadores. Waldo decía que ese era el truco. Wonder why he hardly ever did it for himself, though).

He would listen to my childish woes, and comfort me to the best of his abilities (which, considering he is not good with emotional outbursts means a lot). He let me sleep in his bed and hugged me through the night when I felt terribly scared for no reason and was afraid to sleep alone.

He was always a great brother. And that didn't change when we moved and he stayed. Even long distance, he finds the way to make us smile tenderly every so often.

True, I have to remind him of birthdays and other special occasions a week in advance, for he is terrible with dates, and he is not the most talkative when he calls, but he puts the most off-hand attention to details I have ever seen.

He sent the kids just the X-Box game they were dying for. Chitans has a collection of Spider Man, his favourite superhero, figures ranging from small to large. Pancho got a Simpson's chess set just when he was really getting into the game. Juan received just the movie titles he wanted to see.

As for me, I always got novels and books that interested me. I have a collection of videos and manga from my favourite anime. Bags, lenses, jewerly, lots of pretty things that make me smile.

This time though, when grandma came to visit she brought me a special gift from my brother: a novel.

Not just any novel, of course, but one I had SO wanted to read and couldn't because it's not in existence in Mexico. The book which one of my favourite movies of all time, from the great Miyasaki-Sama, is based on. One that I had resigned myself not to read for a while, and that I mentioned in passing to him.

I got Howl's Moving Castle. And it's beautiful, it really is. I just fell in love with it, and with Diana Wynne Jones as well.

The moment I saw it I knew it came from Waldo, and not my little cousin Abril, as my grandmother claimed mistakenly. And a great smile came to my face. It was so like him, sending the one thing I had desired for so long. I loved him so much then that I thought it impossible to feel any stronger.

Until I opened the book. In the first page, scrawled in his uneven handwriting, was a little message just for me:

"To my little sis Poli:

We may be miles away in distance, but close at heart."

And then I nearly teared up and loved him all the more. A Waldo le incomodan las cosas sentimentales, es malísimo para ellas. Which is why I realize the full worth of his scarce words. They speak an epic tale to me.

The words, as well, have such subtle echoes on the plot of the novel itself, though I doubt he knows that. I'm sure he only saw the movie and didn't read the book (he dislikes novels; he is more of a political and philosophical essay reader, oddly enough).

All in all, he made my day. Or weekend, really, since I started on the novel right away. It’s great fun.

I love my brother.

Saturday morning thoughts.

Los sábados por la mañana tengo terapia. Temprano, a las 8 A.M. Antes tenía un horario más accesible, a las 12, pero interfería en muchas cosas, así que opté por tan castigadora sesión.

Ello que implica que cada sábado, llueva, truene o relampagueé estoy corriendo rumbo a San Miguel Chapultepec desde donde me encuentre, sea San Rafa (donde vivo bajo el yugo de mi madre), CU (Sara), San Antonio Abad (mi tío Geova), Pantitlán (Rous), Iztacalco (Ale), o, la última vez, de la Del Valle (Argen). Así me muera de sueño, esté curando la cruda o todavía borracha (sólo un par de veces), no haya acabado mi extra a pesar de pasar la noche en vigilia, etc.

Hoy no quería levantarme de la cama. Toda la semana he dormido mal, y ayer particularmente peor, así que en la mañana estaba cansada, con mucho sueño y contemplé quedarme a dormir. Pero el sentido de responsabilidad, el conocimiento de que iba a faltar a dos sesiones futuras y, sobre todo, mi codera (me cobran las sesiones aunque no vaya) ganaron y me levanté, refunfuñando.

Me arreglé rápido para no llegar tan tarde como de costumbre y emprendí el viaje. Mientras iba en el taxi (me dio demasiada flojera caminar del metro) me percaté de una calcomanía de la bandera inglesa en el carro de enfrente.

Empecé a recordar buenos viejos tiempos, con una sonrisa enorme, pero tan absorta estaba en eso que olvidé decirle al taxista que se fuera en el carril izquierdo y pasé la calle. Cuando me di cuenta, fue más fácil bajarme y caminar las tres cuadras restantes, lo que había tratado de evitar a fin de cuentas.

Entonces ahí me tienen caminando a paso veloz esas cuadras, hasta llegar al edificio. Cuando entré, quedé muy sorprendida. Todo el lobby estaba cubierto de una capa de polvo blanco con olor fuerte, ligeramente parecido al de detergente. Por lo que entendí de lo murmurado por mi terapeuta, cuando nos condujo a un salón distinto al de siempre, el polvo cubría los tres niveles de la casa.

Mientras ella informaba a la secretaria del cambio de salón, pregunté a mis compañeros de terepia lo que había sucedido. Una me dijo que -no se explicaba cómo- un extintor había explotado.

-¿Y cubierto los tres pisos?
-Por eso no nos explicamos como.

Ante mi cara de duda, mientras maquinaba teorías en mi mente que no explicaban el suceso de forma terrenal (salvo un pequeño ventarrón o terremoto interno al edificio), otro de mis compañeros, en voz conspiracional, nos dijo que ya se había enterado de lo que en realidad había pasado.

-Alguien agarró un extintor y corrió por todo el edificio bañándolo -y a las personas en su camino- con polvo.

Todos nos quedamos un rato meditando eso. Pensé que alguien debió estar muy molesto con su terapeuta o psiquiatra para desquitarse vía agentes extintores.

-Bueno, hay psiquiatría por algo en el edificio...- mencionó alguién.

-No sé como digerirlo. No me gusta hablar de normalidad, pero creo que esto es algo pesado; digo, ¿correr por ahí rociando a la gente con un extintor?- digo alguién más.

Claro, al tener una visión pesimista, metí mi opinión al debate: - por lo menos fue un extintor.

Todos me voltearon a ver, confusos, por lo que creí pertinente aclarar -Pues sí; digo, ¿cuánto daño hace el polvo? Piensen que si hubiera sido un arma...

Fue muy interesante; nunca había visto caras cambiar de perplejas a temorosas en cuestión de segundos. Luego se vieron entre sí con risas medio forzadas mientras me daban la razón, en lo que entró la terapeuta y cambiaron rápido de conversación.

Pero a pesar de todo, creo que todos nos quedamos pensando en ello. Por un momento visualicé los repentinos ataques de furia, balaceras y atentados que pasan en la tele. Pensé en las probabilidades de que sucediera en cualquier lugar y, con mayor razón, en donde ofrecen terapia a personas que se aceptan enfermas.

Something to mull over, I guess.

Oooooosss pido posaaaAAda…

Christmas-time came and went; and with it the usual associations: the stress of present and food shopping, the lovely depressing moments, the wholesome family fights over the most random of things (papel navideño, cinta adhesiva, el tamaño ideal de la nueces picadas, el relleno de las codornices), an so on and so forth.

Lovely times they are.

This year, though, I was invited to Rozie’s aunt’s Posada. It had been a while since I had gone to her aunt’s, and even more since my last posada. Still, I remembered similar past events (digamos que los tíos de Rozita son espléndidos con la comida y el alcohol :D) and I was more than set to go.

I was supposed to meet Rose in metro La Raza after work, but she called as I was leaving the office for the second time (la primera vez recordé a cinco cuadras que había dejado la batería de la cámara en la oficina) to tell me to meet her in the house instead.

I agreed and went on my way. I considered taking the bus to metro Eugenia, but took a look at traffic and decided to go to Chilpancingo instead. The metrobus was out of the question- it’s impossible to actually get inside a bus from 6 to 8 (y no estaba de un humor particularmente condescendiente hacia los pervertidos que parecen pulularlo). So I chose to walk the 20 minutes to the metro.

The trip was uneventful until I got to Chilpancingo, where it all wet to hell. Under the most unpredictable (and unfortunate) circumstances, I ran into Gilberto. Or rather, he ran towards me while I tried to desperately to make my way through the line into the metro, cursing slow people, ticket machines, Gilberto, and the fates in general.

Needless to say, I didn’t make it. So here comes this guy who I AGAIN pretended not to know (¿podré algún día gozar de la bendición de amnesia selectiva en cuanto a hombres se refiere?) and starts off with the basic introduction, trying to remind me again of how we met in the UAM (something I have tried SO hard to forget).

Acto seguido, he decided to enlighten me about how life has gone for him since we last met, aquel episodio en que logré que el camión en que viajábamos se detuviera vertiginosamente, me aventé de manera casi rauda por las escaleras jalando a una quejumbrosa Sara del brazo –no podía dejar que la pobre niña sufriera tan ignominiosa presencia mientras yo salvaba mi considerable pellejo- y corrí –en botas y falda, me enorgullezco de admitir- hacia la salvación que ofrecía una calle desierta en un barrio dudoso, todo mientras escuchaba al tipo despedirse y pedir mis datos desde el camión. (See previous blog).

And I was so glad I had escaped, too. Who would have thought that nearly two years later I would have to face him again in an enclosed, crowded space with no means of escape? For some reason, he though it would be flattering to escort me home (I made up a fake address; there was no way in hell I would allow him anywhere near the apartment after that comment he had made about my neighbourhood the last time we met, when I have no recollection of ever telling him where I live. I might be clueless sometimes, but it takes a very stupid girl to reveal such things to an obvious pervert).

I declined, citing plans for the night, and desperately changed routes in an effort to run as far away from the tactless idiot. I decided to get off in Centro Médico, which I admit was naïve of me, because of course he followed suit undeterred, right into the green line.

I endured his presence for much too long, listening to his woes -considero que he sido una persona a la que se le ha discriminado mucho (he believes people always boycott him; must be his lovely personality), me interesa meterme a la política, pero no ser corrupto, porque soy congruente con mis ideales (and those ideals include harassing defenceless young girls, Gilberto?), tengo grandes planes a futuro (funny thing, so do I; the nearest one being half a city of physical distance between us), etc.-

Eventually, his comments became more and more absurd, frankly moronic, and I lost all semblance of patience, deciding to just let the inner bitch go for it. I methodically ruined his comments involving financial, religious and political views (I’m no great analyst; he was just remarkably idiotic) and his woe-is-me-poor-discriminated-victim-I-am tirade.

I finished off explaining, as if to a little child, than the Vatican was more than a catholic holy place, but an actual State, which gave the pope somewhat effective political standing and the implications that carried, in a tone that must have been more than a bit condescending, because several passengers looked at him as though he was brain damaged (which, in all fairness, he isn’t. He doesn’t even have that going for him).

Thankfully, it was around this time when we arrived at La Raza and I nearly jumped off the wagon, but no luck, since he followed. I made as if to get out into the street and effusively turned down his offer to accompany me (hay gente en realidad insensata; cualquiera hubiera entendido mi ferviente deseo de que el tipo se alejara, pero el oligofrénico este superó hasta mis expectativas).

Finally free, and so very happy to be so, I waited for him to disappear from my vision before following the way he had gone. The odd thing was that we were actually headed the same way; I just made sure to stay as far back as I could while still being able to see his unmistakeable bald head. I couldn’t trust him not to turn around and try find out where I live. He really is that frighteningly creepy.

Just to be sure, I called Rous while waiting for the yellow line metro, to inform her of the unfortunate encounter and state that, should I go unexplainably missing, she was to search (as good friends should) in the freezers of all bald men named Gilberto for body parts that might resemble mine.

I arrived to her aunt’s house, thankfully in one piece, by the way of an amiable taxi driver who took pity on the confused, lost girl standing on a deserted side street (léase yo). I met up with the family, said my hello’s to Rozie, her mother, aunt, uncle, brother, and was introduced to her extensive line of cousins.

The posada itself turned out to be incredibly fun. Rouse’s cousins are fun and playful, and we enjoyed a wholesome, fun-filled night.

First off, we were forced to sing (-por supuesto, es una posada de verdad- mentioned Rose at my baffled question) in order to get access to food and alcohol, so we gave it our best shot, with all and falsettos included. We ate some tasty tacos before the hungry mob did away with it (and sweet little Pavel proudly explained he had helped cook), got our paws on some vodka and tonic, and waited for the piñatas.

I was surprised to find out that Rozie’s cousins were discussing strategies and logistics over candy recollection. When I asked about it, perplexed, they all turned to look at me as if I was slow, explained the importance of a well made plan, and went back to strategizing. I tried to be helpful, and gave a couple of ideas: “¿Y si cubrimos la piñatas por diferentes ángulos para que cuando se rompa podamos llegar por diferentes posiciones? ”

Rous, a couple of minutes later: “Pao suggested we split up and cover the piñata from different angles and jump at it when it breaks … But, we are not going to do that. We will stay on one side and barge in, with the people of the back pushing the front ones into the piñata craze.”

Dejected, I prepared for the first piñata, and as soon as it broke, dove right in along with Rose’s cousin. I found the experience to be rather savage, with lot’s of pushing, forcing and elbowing, but I managed to sit up with a bag full of fruit, utterly proud of myself.

That is, until I was mugged by a four year old.

Yes. Mugged by a four year old. As I was sitting on the pavement, feeling accomplished and childishly showing my goods to Rose, a little girl came from somewhere and took my plastic bag. Horrified, I held on to it, saying it was mine and looking to Rose for support while the kid went into the mild beginnings of a temper tantrum, repeating it was hers.

We stayed like that for half a minute, struggling for the bag until Aldo, Rous’s cousin, told me to let it go and give the kid the bag. Crestfallen, I obeyed, perfectly aware I was acting like a child but not really caring. I stood up, dusted myself, and waited for the next piñata.

This time, I got my turn at it, and found out Rozie’s aunt can be vicious with the blindfold. Not only could I not see anything, but I felt my eyes digging into my sockets and when, after my mildly effective attempt at breaking the piñata, I removed the scarf, realized everything looked blurry for a minute.

After the second piñata broke, I collected as much fruit as I could without a bag and immediately gave it to Rous before the girl could come rob me again. That is when the main event came into sight. In front of us stood a massive green piñata; so big that they had to take it out empty and fill it up on the street, to be able to pick it up.

Apparently, this is what we were waiting for, because Rous decided to change tactics and adopt my original plan after all. We rounded the piñata, all ready to go for it at a moments notice, and waited patiently for someone to break it. Which, technically, never broke.

Someone did manage to make it fall to the ground (¿o fue por el peso?), but even though it didn’t break, we still jumped at it and broke it with our bare hands.

It was a violent, bloody battle. During the craze I could feel people over me, pushing down as they tried to go for the candy. Someone managed to scratch me on the arm, leaving a bloody figure resembling an “A” near the elbow. Someone else grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled on it painfully, until tears came to my eyes. But I held my ground (y estaba en el suelo, literalmente) and grabbed as much candy as I could.

Since I didn’t have a bag, I resorted to stuffing all the candy into the front of my jacket, until it filled up (y Rous luego comentó que por fin tenía busto). And when it did, I just threw myself facedown and refused to move, until Rozita came from the back, grabbed me and hugged me until some people went away and we managed to sneak a plastic bag in to fill it up.

On the sides, I could see Norma, Karla and some other guys doing their best to fend people off their candy. All around me there were people going vicious, just for another piece of candy. To be truthful, it was a bit frightening, though fun.

In the end, though, we managed to get out with two plastic bags worth of candy. We went inside and continued the party, drinking, dancing (Rozita forced us, I swear! Y Beto se burló de mí). I asked for caballitos of tequila and lemon, for my sore throat, which might not have been that great of an idea, since it mixed with the vodka and we ended up discussing the most random of things.

For some reason, Rose brought up my ex’s, and we started talking about the nice Mexican boy and the sexy English one, discussing their particular good points. I’m inclined towards the latter, but I’m biased :D Since I was drunk by then (y creo que rous también), I got a little carried away and I think I might have talked too much.

When it got very late, and too cold outside, we went inside the house and I talked with Aldo about woman’s hormonal cycles while Karla, Rous and Norma divided the candy and fruit into even portions, giving each an equal share of goods and auctioning off the rest. Then we went into a complex trading system that involved candy flying from different sides of the room.

I never had seen such ordeals over candy before.

But, that’s when Aldo won me over by giving me his chili watermelon lollipop and jicamas (les agarré un cariño particular esa noche).

In the end, I gave up the idea of going home, and slept with the girls in Pavel’s king sized bed, after Rous sent for me energetically (I was discussing life with little Pavel; I guess they were sleepy).

It was a fun night, even with the unfortunate encounter with the creepy guy.

Me quedaron ganas de otra posada.

The wonders of Mexico City.

Living in México City is fairly surreal.

I've come to such a conclusion after six years of living here. Of course, I HAD realized it before, but it wasn't until Dominik asked me about life here that I began to mull over it much more closely.

Truth is, my life is hardly ever linear or common; usually, all sorts of odd things happen to me on an almost daily basis, be it because of my unique personality or because some sort of omni-powerful, omnipresent being seems to drop cute little plot twists when I'm around. Maybe (probablemente) I just have the capacity to stumble rather ungracefully into the most unorthodox of situations.

Whatever.

Point is, I might just be biased because no matter what I do, or where I go, I always manage to add yet another odd story into my accumulating repertoire. Yet, though I've had my share of experiences in New York, Illinois, Canada and some bits of Europe, I still find day to day life in Mexico City to be absolutely, unabashedly, unerringly, (I could go on and on...) surreal.

I guess it's not so difficult to imagine surrealism in a city that, in full metropolitan extension, happens to be the largest in the western hemisphere and second worldwide, with a population of over 19 million (Wikipedia is oh-so useful. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mexico_city ).

Still, day to day life is more than a bit hectic. We get lots of manifestations, all day long, in any random moment, in any odd corner of the city, for any reason. It's most usual to find traffic blocked somewhere, or avenues closed, or suddenly see a bunch of people jump out of nowhere and run towards your car with no previous warning. In fact, we probably get about 5 days with no manifestations all year long.

Really.

Take the Peje for example: after losing the presidential elections in a rather obscure way (pero si los fraudes electorales son una tradición mexicana por excelencia, a true patriotic tradition, no sé por qué hacer tanto escándalo), he proceeded to set a camp on the Zócalo and Reforma Avenue for a couple of months. He literally had entire families living in makeshift crate beds while he, very happily, kept on living in his Copilco apartment.

That’s a true Man of State if I ever saw one. One who always puts the people before himself.

But on a much more personal note, I found myself in a … interesting … situation while going to work one day. I wore my cute beige heels, (las que parecen patitos, Rose) and when I tried to get on the Metrobus found that Insurgentes was closed off, and that the nearest working station, Insurgentes, was two stops away, which is about 15 minutes on foot.

Now, normally, I love walking (took a special like to it after spraining my ankle and using crutches for two weeks), but I happened to be late for work (como siempre) and I was WEARING HEELS.

Not only that, but I happened to walk through a throng of naked men protesting in Insurgentes. It wasn’t quite the rewarding experience – the 400 Pueblos are not exactly model material. Rather, I had to make my way as quickly as I could while wearing heels amongst a swarm of naked middle aged men who sure could have used a bath, some waxing, a couple of sessions at a gym and deodorant, at the very least.

While they were somewhat respectful and didn’t actually cat call, it was still mighty uncomfortable to avoid the “friendlier” young nude ones. I resorted to putting on my headphones, turning the volume as high as it would go and walked determinedly forward, ignoring everything else –naked or clothed- on my path, singing the Hot Chips’ Over and Over until I reached the Insurgentes station.

After that, I got the particular pleasure of seeing them parade around naked daily on Insurgentes while on the Metrobus for about a month. Seeeeee.

And people wonder why so many Mexicans were willing to participate on Spencer Tunick’s massive nude photograph on the Zócalo. It’s a fairly common occurrence to see naked folks (both male and female) run around our avenues for one cause or another.

And that is just one example of abnormality. Another time, for example, it had rained all day long, and by night, around 2 A.M., it was still pouring. Apparently, there were a couple of guys drinking outside the building in front of my apartment complex, which is something that happens regularly, so I paid them no mind.

Yet, when someone started singing opera, that changed. I was surprised at first, so I kind of just looked around trying to figure out what was going on and went into the room and turned to my little brother, who was playing a game on the computer.

-Juan, ¿Is it just me or is it opera I’m hearing?

He didn’t even look my way. –Sí, es ópera.

I was surprised. -How odd. They must be REALLY drunk if they decided to listen to opera.

He was still engrossed in the game. –No, un tipo está cantando.

-Huh?

So Juan finally turned from the computer and explained. Apparently, they weren’t listening to opera on the radio. Some drunk guy was singing O Sole Mio in the wee hours of the morning in the middle of a dangerous, problematic and crappy neighbourhood in Mexico City while we had a mild tropical rainstorm on us. And he was rather good, too.

-No mames. ¿O sea que un wey se puso a cantar O Sole Mio aquí, en esta colonia; ahorita, en la madrugada; con todo y lluvia casi torrencial; mientras él y sus amiguitos se emborrachan?

Ok, so I had a bit of a difficulty believing it.

-Yeah. Look out.- And he turned back to the game.

So I did. And yes, some drunk guy WAS singing O Sole Mio in my neighbourhood, at 2 in the morning, while getting wasted during a storm.

And he WAS good.

-Canta bien.

Juan did turn to see me briefly, pensive, for that one.-Yeah.

And I lost him to Age of Mythology again.


Not quite a serenade, I guess.

Walked into a pole.

Es en serio.

I was walking from my fac to metro CU, looking at my cell phone (I was about to phone my brother). Two dearly loved classmates of mine (who I was trying hard to ignore, since we're not on speaking terms. Such a socialité I am.) were walking right ahead of me. I can't even begin to guess how many were walking behind me, but surely about 15 in plain sight. Then, the most wonderful thing happened.

I walked into a pole.

Really, one second I was walking and the next I was stamped into a pole. Claro, it was a small pole, and I kinda didn't hit it head on, but rather on my side. Pero aún así, it was freaking embarrasing, and my left knee hurt for all of the trip home. In fact, it's still a bit sore.

I didn't bother to turn around and see who had been witness to my all-too-common act of stupidity, nor hear any malicious snickers behind me (*sob*). I just muttered a modest and lady-like "pendeja" and kept on going my merry way. Walking faster, obviously. Que, pensándolo bien, no fue lo mejor que pude haber hecho por mi maltratada rodilla.

On to other things:

-Saw 300, liked it quite a bit. What's not to like about hundreds of half-naked, sculpted males waving around big swords?

-Went to the stylist. My hair looks like shit. (Y yo que creí que fui justo para tener el efecto contrario. Pobre ilusa).

- My vacations were also shitty. I was in the service up until half my school vacation, while most of my close friends were away on some secluded beach. (Malditos) Only good thing is my baby bro is visiting.

-Though we haven't had all that many adventures lately, there was an episode in which Ale, Rose and I acted like the mature, grown-up adults we are and began running through the metro, from the back wagons to the front. A true fun-filled afternoon.

O, and that wondrous time when we stood up and exposed a dear classmate with the "tangente" episode by turning it into a spot. I (being the paranoid freak in our loving little group) felt everyone suddenly hated us about two levels more for being so heartless with our poor, lexicon-challenged classmate.

Yet, a couple of days after, Tangente-girl went up to us and chatted, smiled, and actually amicably touched Rosie on the shoulder. We were flabbergasted. Apparently, she didn't notice we very obviously made fun of her in front or a classroom full of people.

Will wonders never cease? Some people are even more stupid than I give them credit for.

Movie rundown, part I.

Hello. Hola. Bonjour. Konnichiwa. Etc...

Lately I've been watching movies as if on a marathon. See a couple or so every week instead of other things, such as: do homework, clean up the house a bit, go to school, make something worthwhile out of myself, etc. Osea, la hueva total.

Tons, here goes a brief list of some of the things I've seen these past couple of weeks. May have some spoilers, but whatever.

-----------------------------------

Hotel Rwanda-

The plot revolves around a luxury hotel in Rwanda, which served as a sort of temporal sanctuary during the mid-90's genocide of the Tutsi people and it's manager's heroic struggle to see all refugees -and his family- to safety.

The movie is well done. Nice and inspirational. Gives the general idea of mass-murder horror without being overly graphic, even giving a "happy end". I specially liked that whole "Hello sir. We're about to be murdered by a bunch of trigger-happy soldiers and machete-wielding rioters, but I just called to thank you for all you've done for me and my family" speech.

However, aside from it's take on such a difficult subject as genocide, it's not a film one can't miss. I also get the feel that the main character is seen on too keen a light. Kind of like Schindler, who later turned out not to be as heroic as portrayed in Shindler's list.

Hard Candy-

A cute and smart fourteen year old girl meets with a thirty something year old photographer she met on a chatroom and convinces him to take her back to his house, something any kid should know better than to do. However, little Hayley is not as naive as she first appears to be and the roles of predator and prey are reversed.

I actually liked this movie a lot. The girl is absolutely psychotic, but in such an intelligent, bitchy, even bad-ass way I just couldn't help but root for her. Go Hayley, unleash your righteous wrath upon that pedophile! Oh, and please do wash your hands after you are finished, if you don't mind. You don't know where that has been.

While the plot is quite nice, in my opinion, but there are a couple of drawbacks, the main three being:

1) The movie takes too long to set the story into motion, so the beginning does drag on for a bit.

2) Some things in the plot are kind of predictable, such as the castration stint.

3) Ellen Page's performance is much stronger than Patrick Wilson's.

The Last King of Scotland:

A young Scottish doctor becomes Uganda's president Idi Amin's personal medic. While at first captivated by Amin's strong, likeable personality, the doctor is witness to Amin's transformation into a ruthless, erratic and paranoid dictator.

This movie is actually very captivating. Withtaker's performance is very strong, giving such force to his Amin. McAvoy's character is also well done, acting the part of a fun-loving, superficial and sometimes decidedly stupid young man (really, everybody knows you just don't screw the mad dictator's wife).

Though there are a couple of strong visuals, it's nothing too overbearing. It's a good enough movie, though not excellent.

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Bueno, first part done. Will move onto the next when I get some free time. As it is I'm using my homework time at the moment.


Ta.

Fashion faux pas

Two new embarrasing moments to add to my already generous collection (like that one time I got my bag stuck in the metro doors and didn't realize it wouldn't open until Potreros, in the other end of the city... yeah. ):

(1)

Fui a tirar la basura de la casa como de costumbre: vestida en pijama, con el pelo hecho un vil desmadre, en chanclas; en resumen, como toda buena ama de casa baquetona. Sin embargo, incorporé un nuevo accesorio de moda: una estrella azul en la frente, de esas que la maestra de la primaria me pegaba con babas hace ya algunos años.

Al parecer, Mi dulce hermanito Christian me regaló tal muestra de su afecto mientras dormitaba. El niño lo mencionó, pero como estaba medio muerta al mundo, ni me percaté de ello.

Explains why the trash guy and a couple of neighbors looked at me funny for a while.

(2)

En un raro (muy, muy raro) momento de vanidad, me vestí con mi lindo saco azul (which oddly reminds me of a bellboy's uniform) y una camisa blanca pegada. Para darle un boost, usé mi veintiúnico push-up bra, que resulta ser negro.

La camisa es gruesa, por lo que no se nota el brasier. No obstante, no tomé en cuenta un par de cosas:

-La camisa es pegada, razón por la cual la decidí usar.

-Tiene un botón algo flojo.

-Con el push-up mi tamaño de busto incrementa un poco.

Resultado:

El botón se salió del ojal, por lo que la camisa se abrió en la parte del busto y anduve caminando por Insurgentes enseñando parte de mi lindo push-up negro a través de mi camisa blanca.

And I felt "oh so pretty" too, with all those stares in my direction.

I'm such a dimwit.

Been a while...

Han pasado muchas cosas desde el último blog.

For one, I went to Shakira's Oral fixation tour. Si, así de mal.

My dreadfully childish, useless, womanizing, leeching uncle (un hombre de muchas cualidades; it's a wonder how I still care for the idiot) gave me a ticket as a present. And he looked SO happy and proud, too.

Apparently, he thought that I, being such a good girl and all (de dónde sacó esa idea no sé, pero me hizo sentir culpable por alguna razón) deserved a nice gift as a reward. And, for some reason that I can't fanthom, that gift came in the form of a concert ticket. For Shakira.

Yeah, the belly-dancing, "haría-todo-por-amor" pop-tart. Shakira.

I enjoyed howling (ok, so I can't sing) her latest hits and attempted to belly-dance (nor dance, apparently.) just like the next girl.

When I was 11.

But somehow, my dearest of kin believes I'm still into that, decade notwithstanding and such.

So I just stood there, fake, forced smile on my face, pretending to be delighted over the oh-so-toughtful gift that I knew cost him a lot of effort and money he could use for far more useful things. Como pagar parte del préstamo que le hice.

I tried reselling the ticket, but I was offered less than half it's original price (Si eso no habla de la calidad del concierto...) so I endured the whole thing, money-grabbing bitch that I am. Must say, en mi humilde opinión, it was not worth the 550 pesos.

Much more fun and fulfilling was the trip I made into a glorious male strip-club with my mother and a couple of her friends.

Yessir! I have seen heaven in the form of a barely-clad, dancing, grinding, muscular, tanned, oiled hunk. Y fueron como 8 de ellos. Casi me arrodillo y doy gracias.

It was pure, unadultered fun. We bought the mandatory vodka bottle, and I got a tad bit drunk. I think my mother had never seen me so, and was more than likely very surprised, and perhaps a bit ashamed at the way the fruit of her womb was behaving. Y se supone que soy su roca, la hija responsable y calmada.

Lo admito, I'm no good when drunk. I usually lose inhibition with my, and other's bodies. I have yet to go overboard, but I get a bit naughty.

So couple a drunk version of me and a bunch of entincing, nearly-nude men and you get your regular groping, wanton party animal.

I was like a child in a candy store. Sort of.

I would grope any piece of flesh I could when any of my dear, mouth-watering gods walked by, and screamed all sorts of pleas until my throat was raw. Good thing I wan't the only one, so mother can't place the blame fully on me. Aunque creo que sospecha...

I bought my mother two lap dances, 90 pesos a piece, from the cute, enthusiastic spanish youngster and the decidedly seductive, delicious, experienced Angel. Este último traga fuego y se columpia en telas que cuelgan del techo. And the way he dances is just sinful. Creo que estoy enamorada...

She had no clue what hit her, just felt those scrumptious boys get up close and personnal with her. Since she wasn't participative enough for my likes, I brought her hands to the boys' pert, and wonderfully tight, rears and made her fondle them, declaring "Agarra, aprovecha. Para eso pagué." She got the general idea after that. Guadalupe, her friend's sister, got a bit wilder and made her grope the family jewels.

Mom got naughty. I was giddy with laughter. Those boys seemed surprised I demanded they fondle and kiss my mother throughly. I guess it isn't often a girl roots for a couple of perfect strangers, delicious as they were, to misbehave with her mother. But I'm odd that way.

It was great fun, the most I've had in a while. Dreadfully expensive, but SO worth it. I encourage anyone to try it.

Una experiencia educativa, sin duda.