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...?
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Musical Endeavors.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
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!
Que tiempos aquellos.
Ay, me pongo toda melancólica. Y con las cosas más irrelevantes. ¿Me debería dar pena?
... ¡Meh!
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
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
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.
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.
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
¡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.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
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?
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?
Monday, February 04, 2008
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.
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, February 02, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
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.
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.
------------------------------
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.
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.
------------------------------
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.
(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.
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.
Weird...
Most people who know me agree when I say freaky, absolutely stupid things happen to me out of nowhere. En serio.
Take today for example. Iba en una micro con una amiga rumbo al metro Xola, donde veríamos una exposición fotográfica. Como siempre, íbamos comparando desgracias familiares (annoying, tattling, copy-cat counsins, overprotective mothers and such), y me di cuenta que había un tipo en chamarra naranja tras de mí. But since it IS me, iba en la lela absoluta e ignoraba todo menos a Sara. Suddenly, in a creepy whisper, (the kind that makes you wanto to double-check you aren't hearing imaginary things again) escuché que llamaban mi nombre.
-Paola... Paola... Paola.
En serio. Parecía diálogo de mala película de terror. Al más puro estilo de algún filme del Santo. Al principio, como ví que nadie reaccionaba, supuse que sí estaba, de hecho, escuchando voces imaginarias otra vez. Yet, the whispers kept going on and getting louder.
Me empecé a poner un poco nerviosa. Digo, un perfecto extraño puede comenzar a hablarte, pero cuando murmuran tu nombre repetidamente -and in such a manic way, too- uno comienza a asustarse.
En fin, el wey ya estaba repitiendo mi nombre como mantra en un nivel de voz considerable, así que volteé a ver quien chingaba.
Oh sorpresa, era Gilberto; un wey que conocí en la UAM hace dos años y que aún recuerdo como el loser más urgido de la clase de Psicología Social. Seriously, this the guy that periodically went after anything that remotely resembled a female.
Recuerdo aquellos viejos tiempos: él, creyendo que Leo era toda una intelectual, la invitó al teatro. Al negarse cortésmente ella, invitó a Akemi, quien gusta vestir de negro y rojo pasión, a ir a tomar una chelas. La tierna y dulce Akemi lo mandó a la chingada sin más. Digo, Akemi-chan puede ser muy goth y sarcástica, pero tiene una aversión por el licor barato. Sólo buen vino para ella.
A mí, viéndome toda teta, pendeja y persignada (for some reason, everyone used to think that of me; must have been the long hair, glasses and childish looks. Sad thing when you are a precocious, bitchy girl) me invitó a La Feria y a tomar un helado. Yes, he asked me out to an amusement park and an ice cream shop, just like in a 1950's movies. How outdated is that?
He used to write saccharine notes to me in his butchered english. Algo como:
I so happy to have to meet a such nice, prety girl like your for my freind.
No recuerdo muy bien, tiene mucho tiempo. Pero sí me acuerdo de que Cuauhtémoc se burlaba sin cesar de mi infortunio (aw, such a sweet, caring boy he is) y Akemi casí se convulsionaba del horror que le producía el maltrecho inglés de Gilberto. Como profesora de inglés, le era tóxico tal nivel de pendejadas mal redactadas que este wey dejaba surgir de sus entrañas.
Era tan patético. Una vez me llamó para avisarme que no iría a clases (yeah, I too was perplexed as to why he thought I should be notified) y me mencionó que sentía una gran compatibilidad hacia mí, porque yo era una persona espiritual.
-¿Mande?
-Si, usted es una persona muy religiosa, ¿verdad?
-Soy atea (I was, back then).
-¡Ah! Este... usted es una persona con un gran alma. Con un gran amor a la vida.
Funny, and here I thought I was bipolar or something, what with all those continous depressions and suicidal urges I get now and then. You know? like when you are in the metro tracks and you wonder what it would be like if you just jumped in front of the train. Soy de ese tipo de personas.
ANYWAY, el caso es que aquí estaba yo, frente a este wey que no había visto -thank the lord- en más de dos años, en una micro atestada de gente y sin escape cercano.
-¿Eres Paola?
-Este (should I ...?) ¿sí?
-Te conocí hace tiempo.
- ¿Ah si? mira que interesante...
Deseaba que Sara interrumpiera la conversación o algo, pero mi dulce amiga estaba en la lela mirando hacia el espacio y no parecía percatarse de mi calvario. Entonces Gilberto comenzó a hablarme en algo que remotamente parecía inglés combinado con neanderthal, pero yo ya estaba impaciente y lo corté de tajo con un malhumorado "¿Qué?"
Le intentó de nuevo, pero al ver mi cara de pocos amigos se decidió por un idioma que sí pudiera pronunciar. Me mencionó que nos habíamos conocido en la UAM. Yo sabía quien era, pero por mi propia salud mental fingí demencia.
-¿En la UAM? tiene mucho que no voy. (As a matter of fact, I was there last tuesday in cinema class. Nearly a whole week! how time goes by).
-Sí, yo ya no he ido en 2 años.
Estoy segura de que la población femenina de la UAM agradece inmensamente a Dios la bendición de tu ausencia, Gilberto.
-Es mucho tiempo. ¿Cómo dices que te llamas? (Yeah right, like I hadn't remembered his name along with a few choice adjectives)
-Gilberto.
Sara, por fín, escogió ese momento para preguntarme dónde nos teníamos que bajar.
-Oye Gilberto, ¿hacia adónde está Ermita?
-Ya la pasamos desde hace rato.
-¡Vaya!, entonces mejor nos bajamos. ¡Cuidate!
Jalé a sara no del todo delicada por el brazo y presioné el botón para bajar. Mientras bajaba, ignorando los quejidos de Sara, alcanzé a escuchar al perv este preguntarme si vivía en el mismo lugar.
WTF? how the hell does he know where I used to live?
Scary.
Es increible; no teníamos por qué tomar la misma pesera que este wey. Nos subimos a esa pesera porque Sara la cagó y fuimos al paradero equivocado. Íbamos a esperar a unos amigos pero se tardaron demasiado y nos fuimos. Se nos hizo tarde e íbamos en chinga. Sara quería tomar taxi pero yo no quise.
Algún poder supremo conspira contra mí. En una pesera equis, en un momento determinado, Gilberto, un pendejete que no tolero y no había visto en más de dos años, y yo, coincidimos en rutas y nos encontramos (Insert Twilight Zone theme music here).
A la Humprey en Casablanca: Out of all the men in the city, out of all the micros around, HE had to walk into my pesera.
Cuauhtémoc se va a cagar de la risa cuando lo sepa.
Take today for example. Iba en una micro con una amiga rumbo al metro Xola, donde veríamos una exposición fotográfica. Como siempre, íbamos comparando desgracias familiares (annoying, tattling, copy-cat counsins, overprotective mothers and such), y me di cuenta que había un tipo en chamarra naranja tras de mí. But since it IS me, iba en la lela absoluta e ignoraba todo menos a Sara. Suddenly, in a creepy whisper, (the kind that makes you wanto to double-check you aren't hearing imaginary things again) escuché que llamaban mi nombre.
-Paola... Paola... Paola.
En serio. Parecía diálogo de mala película de terror. Al más puro estilo de algún filme del Santo. Al principio, como ví que nadie reaccionaba, supuse que sí estaba, de hecho, escuchando voces imaginarias otra vez. Yet, the whispers kept going on and getting louder.
Me empecé a poner un poco nerviosa. Digo, un perfecto extraño puede comenzar a hablarte, pero cuando murmuran tu nombre repetidamente -and in such a manic way, too- uno comienza a asustarse.
En fin, el wey ya estaba repitiendo mi nombre como mantra en un nivel de voz considerable, así que volteé a ver quien chingaba.
Oh sorpresa, era Gilberto; un wey que conocí en la UAM hace dos años y que aún recuerdo como el loser más urgido de la clase de Psicología Social. Seriously, this the guy that periodically went after anything that remotely resembled a female.
Recuerdo aquellos viejos tiempos: él, creyendo que Leo era toda una intelectual, la invitó al teatro. Al negarse cortésmente ella, invitó a Akemi, quien gusta vestir de negro y rojo pasión, a ir a tomar una chelas. La tierna y dulce Akemi lo mandó a la chingada sin más. Digo, Akemi-chan puede ser muy goth y sarcástica, pero tiene una aversión por el licor barato. Sólo buen vino para ella.
A mí, viéndome toda teta, pendeja y persignada (for some reason, everyone used to think that of me; must have been the long hair, glasses and childish looks. Sad thing when you are a precocious, bitchy girl) me invitó a La Feria y a tomar un helado. Yes, he asked me out to an amusement park and an ice cream shop, just like in a 1950's movies. How outdated is that?
He used to write saccharine notes to me in his butchered english. Algo como:
I so happy to have to meet a such nice, prety girl like your for my freind.
No recuerdo muy bien, tiene mucho tiempo. Pero sí me acuerdo de que Cuauhtémoc se burlaba sin cesar de mi infortunio (aw, such a sweet, caring boy he is) y Akemi casí se convulsionaba del horror que le producía el maltrecho inglés de Gilberto. Como profesora de inglés, le era tóxico tal nivel de pendejadas mal redactadas que este wey dejaba surgir de sus entrañas.
Era tan patético. Una vez me llamó para avisarme que no iría a clases (yeah, I too was perplexed as to why he thought I should be notified) y me mencionó que sentía una gran compatibilidad hacia mí, porque yo era una persona espiritual.
-¿Mande?
-Si, usted es una persona muy religiosa, ¿verdad?
-Soy atea (I was, back then).
-¡Ah! Este... usted es una persona con un gran alma. Con un gran amor a la vida.
Funny, and here I thought I was bipolar or something, what with all those continous depressions and suicidal urges I get now and then. You know? like when you are in the metro tracks and you wonder what it would be like if you just jumped in front of the train. Soy de ese tipo de personas.
ANYWAY, el caso es que aquí estaba yo, frente a este wey que no había visto -thank the lord- en más de dos años, en una micro atestada de gente y sin escape cercano.
-¿Eres Paola?
-Este (should I ...?) ¿sí?
-Te conocí hace tiempo.
- ¿Ah si? mira que interesante...
Deseaba que Sara interrumpiera la conversación o algo, pero mi dulce amiga estaba en la lela mirando hacia el espacio y no parecía percatarse de mi calvario. Entonces Gilberto comenzó a hablarme en algo que remotamente parecía inglés combinado con neanderthal, pero yo ya estaba impaciente y lo corté de tajo con un malhumorado "¿Qué?"
Le intentó de nuevo, pero al ver mi cara de pocos amigos se decidió por un idioma que sí pudiera pronunciar. Me mencionó que nos habíamos conocido en la UAM. Yo sabía quien era, pero por mi propia salud mental fingí demencia.
-¿En la UAM? tiene mucho que no voy. (As a matter of fact, I was there last tuesday in cinema class. Nearly a whole week! how time goes by).
-Sí, yo ya no he ido en 2 años.
Estoy segura de que la población femenina de la UAM agradece inmensamente a Dios la bendición de tu ausencia, Gilberto.
-Es mucho tiempo. ¿Cómo dices que te llamas? (Yeah right, like I hadn't remembered his name along with a few choice adjectives)
-Gilberto.
Sara, por fín, escogió ese momento para preguntarme dónde nos teníamos que bajar.
-Oye Gilberto, ¿hacia adónde está Ermita?
-Ya la pasamos desde hace rato.
-¡Vaya!, entonces mejor nos bajamos. ¡Cuidate!
Jalé a sara no del todo delicada por el brazo y presioné el botón para bajar. Mientras bajaba, ignorando los quejidos de Sara, alcanzé a escuchar al perv este preguntarme si vivía en el mismo lugar.
WTF? how the hell does he know where I used to live?
Scary.
Es increible; no teníamos por qué tomar la misma pesera que este wey. Nos subimos a esa pesera porque Sara la cagó y fuimos al paradero equivocado. Íbamos a esperar a unos amigos pero se tardaron demasiado y nos fuimos. Se nos hizo tarde e íbamos en chinga. Sara quería tomar taxi pero yo no quise.
Algún poder supremo conspira contra mí. En una pesera equis, en un momento determinado, Gilberto, un pendejete que no tolero y no había visto en más de dos años, y yo, coincidimos en rutas y nos encontramos (Insert Twilight Zone theme music here).
A la Humprey en Casablanca: Out of all the men in the city, out of all the micros around, HE had to walk into my pesera.
Cuauhtémoc se va a cagar de la risa cuando lo sepa.
Fue uno de esos sublimes días.
Que día tan maravilloso.... Sólo faltaba que me cagara un alegre pajarillo para que fuera la velada ideal.
Turns out today was a waste of a perfectly good afternoon. First off, I went to get my Psychology homework, but it turned out that the professor had already picked the copies up. Later, my Análisis teacher decided she would not grace un with her presence for my 4 to 6 class, followed by my 6 to 8 Marco Jurídico profa. who did not make an appearance either. Las muy perras…
I was naturally upset, since I could have watched my faculty's movie club picks of the day: Breakfast at Tiffany's and Gentlemen prefer blondes. But noooooooooo, I spent a good 40 minutes in each class waiting for someone to have the decency to show up. Una maldita nota en la puerta hubiera sido suficiente; chingaa, un pinche ladrido desde el estacionamiento de profesores hubiera bastado.
So I met up with up with a couple of semi friends; (de esos que están entre conocidos y amistades superficiales) and actually had an ok time, but one of them got all depressed and managed to get me all antsy just by the woe-is-me vibe she was dumping off in massive waves. The other was getting all sweet and corny with her new boyfriend, which could have been cute, except for the fact I'm a resentful bitch and don't like to see happy couples while I'm single. Que es siempre.. Alguien por favor sáqueme de mi miseria.
Afterwards I went up to my last class of the day, History (which I'm taking all over again, since I somehow managed to fail it by being my lazy self), from 8 to 10, but the damned asshole of a professor I've got wouldn't let me in¸ the uptight bastard he is. I wasn't even all that late, just about 15 minutes. Tomando en cuenta que para mí media hora de retraso es decente, llegué puntualísima. But he claimed they were having an activity or something like that. All I saw were my stupid little second semester classmates (¿era yo así de pendeja cuando estaba en segundo?) playing around with straws. Their minds must have been seriously challenged by such a feat.
Whatever. Not like I missed an unforgettable class or something. Or maybe I did; after all, try as I might, I can't forget that infamous line of my wise professor: "Díganme si no, cuando los españoles conquistaron México se inventó la comunicación en América". How fucked up is that? Ah, but I must remember this is the pendejo that claims information, communication and knowledge are synonyms. Y pensar que en sus cultas manos reposan las incautas mentes de los pequeños de segundo semestre. Y la mía, por el momento.
So I'm guessing this day was life's blatant (and redundant) way of telling me it doesn't care much for my peace of mind. In fact, it appears I can take my peace of mind and shove it up where the sun don't shine. And we ain't talking of Paris Hilton's brain, either (aunque estoy casi segura de que ese órgano en particular no ha sido iluminado desde que la niña aprendió a decir "that´s hot").
To hell with it. I'll just sleep it off. Nightie.
Turns out today was a waste of a perfectly good afternoon. First off, I went to get my Psychology homework, but it turned out that the professor had already picked the copies up. Later, my Análisis teacher decided she would not grace un with her presence for my 4 to 6 class, followed by my 6 to 8 Marco Jurídico profa. who did not make an appearance either. Las muy perras…
I was naturally upset, since I could have watched my faculty's movie club picks of the day: Breakfast at Tiffany's and Gentlemen prefer blondes. But noooooooooo, I spent a good 40 minutes in each class waiting for someone to have the decency to show up. Una maldita nota en la puerta hubiera sido suficiente; chingaa, un pinche ladrido desde el estacionamiento de profesores hubiera bastado.
So I met up with up with a couple of semi friends; (de esos que están entre conocidos y amistades superficiales) and actually had an ok time, but one of them got all depressed and managed to get me all antsy just by the woe-is-me vibe she was dumping off in massive waves. The other was getting all sweet and corny with her new boyfriend, which could have been cute, except for the fact I'm a resentful bitch and don't like to see happy couples while I'm single. Que es siempre.. Alguien por favor sáqueme de mi miseria.
Afterwards I went up to my last class of the day, History (which I'm taking all over again, since I somehow managed to fail it by being my lazy self), from 8 to 10, but the damned asshole of a professor I've got wouldn't let me in¸ the uptight bastard he is. I wasn't even all that late, just about 15 minutes. Tomando en cuenta que para mí media hora de retraso es decente, llegué puntualísima. But he claimed they were having an activity or something like that. All I saw were my stupid little second semester classmates (¿era yo así de pendeja cuando estaba en segundo?) playing around with straws. Their minds must have been seriously challenged by such a feat.
Whatever. Not like I missed an unforgettable class or something. Or maybe I did; after all, try as I might, I can't forget that infamous line of my wise professor: "Díganme si no, cuando los españoles conquistaron México se inventó la comunicación en América". How fucked up is that? Ah, but I must remember this is the pendejo that claims information, communication and knowledge are synonyms. Y pensar que en sus cultas manos reposan las incautas mentes de los pequeños de segundo semestre. Y la mía, por el momento.
So I'm guessing this day was life's blatant (and redundant) way of telling me it doesn't care much for my peace of mind. In fact, it appears I can take my peace of mind and shove it up where the sun don't shine. And we ain't talking of Paris Hilton's brain, either (aunque estoy casi segura de que ese órgano en particular no ha sido iluminado desde que la niña aprendió a decir "that´s hot").
To hell with it. I'll just sleep it off. Nightie.
I am alive!!!! ALIVE I tell you!!! Mwahahahahaha
It's been a very looong time since I posted, I know. But Im doing this for Ale, who claims he reads it. Let us see.
Pero no fue mi culpa, lo juro. Bueno, sí lo fue, pero la clave esta en la negación. El caso es que tuve un semestre de esos que se van en un espiral descendente rumbo a la fregada y son extremadamente dañinos para la salud. I fell very ill; probably because I didn´t sleep and my diet consisted of a steady supply of Standard University Junk Food. Léase Cazares con salsa Valentina y Boing de diversos sabores.
Terminé con varios males estomacales y perdí peso (that I readily gained back during winter vacation; who says only bears stock up on food and hibernate?). En serio, mal semestre.
Pero me recuperé y hasta pude llegar a la facu con un nuevo look. For I have finally accomplished one of the greatest goals of my young life: I finally cut my hair.
Sí, uno de mis mayores deseos era un corte de cabello. Soy muy triste, ¿qué puedo decir?
-BUT- it was no ordinary task. Lets take into account that I hadnt gotten a haircut in more than ten years.Tenía el cabello muy largo, más allá de las posaderas. A la Rapunzel, nada más que la versión pirata mexicana, con orzuela y todo. Y me hice mechones beige! Me dicen que se ve lindo y me alegro. Chance y ya no veo tan lela. Of course, to actually stop being one is a vastly different thing. No miracles here kiddos.
Soooooo, Updates:
Saris is my bestest friend again! Turns out she was having a rough time with the family, work and school. No aguanto a su primita, es una verdadera pesadilla. Es de esas princesitas acostumbradas a la buena vida (chirpy, squeaky voice included) que quieren siempre llamar la atención y se la pasa compitiendo por ello.
Recluimos al enano mayor, Pancho, en un internado militarizado en Tabasco. He rained on my moms parade one too many times, apparently. No sé que pensar sobre ello; era necesario, sin duda, pero es raro no tener a mi nene aqui para vivorear a la gente a gusto.
He seems to have adapted to military school just fine, though I do hope he becomes a better man, cuz if he doesnt, hes getting taught all he needs to become a very dangerous person. Al parecer, parte del curriculum educativo es combate con y sin armas, armar y disparar pistolas, resistencia, disciplina y coco-wash del bueno, de ese que intenta practicar el peje pero se queda corto. (The Force is not necesarily by his side, unless, of course, hordes of elderly people count as The Force).
Escogí la opción de publicidad. Todavía no sé por qué, pero creo que no me equivoqué. Espero. I really do hope.
Sleepy.
Cuidaos.
Pero no fue mi culpa, lo juro. Bueno, sí lo fue, pero la clave esta en la negación. El caso es que tuve un semestre de esos que se van en un espiral descendente rumbo a la fregada y son extremadamente dañinos para la salud. I fell very ill; probably because I didn´t sleep and my diet consisted of a steady supply of Standard University Junk Food. Léase Cazares con salsa Valentina y Boing de diversos sabores.
Terminé con varios males estomacales y perdí peso (that I readily gained back during winter vacation; who says only bears stock up on food and hibernate?). En serio, mal semestre.
Pero me recuperé y hasta pude llegar a la facu con un nuevo look. For I have finally accomplished one of the greatest goals of my young life: I finally cut my hair.
Sí, uno de mis mayores deseos era un corte de cabello. Soy muy triste, ¿qué puedo decir?
-BUT- it was no ordinary task. Lets take into account that I hadnt gotten a haircut in more than ten years.Tenía el cabello muy largo, más allá de las posaderas. A la Rapunzel, nada más que la versión pirata mexicana, con orzuela y todo. Y me hice mechones beige! Me dicen que se ve lindo y me alegro. Chance y ya no veo tan lela. Of course, to actually stop being one is a vastly different thing. No miracles here kiddos.
Soooooo, Updates:
Saris is my bestest friend again! Turns out she was having a rough time with the family, work and school. No aguanto a su primita, es una verdadera pesadilla. Es de esas princesitas acostumbradas a la buena vida (chirpy, squeaky voice included) que quieren siempre llamar la atención y se la pasa compitiendo por ello.
Recluimos al enano mayor, Pancho, en un internado militarizado en Tabasco. He rained on my moms parade one too many times, apparently. No sé que pensar sobre ello; era necesario, sin duda, pero es raro no tener a mi nene aqui para vivorear a la gente a gusto.
He seems to have adapted to military school just fine, though I do hope he becomes a better man, cuz if he doesnt, hes getting taught all he needs to become a very dangerous person. Al parecer, parte del curriculum educativo es combate con y sin armas, armar y disparar pistolas, resistencia, disciplina y coco-wash del bueno, de ese que intenta practicar el peje pero se queda corto. (The Force is not necesarily by his side, unless, of course, hordes of elderly people count as The Force).
Escogí la opción de publicidad. Todavía no sé por qué, pero creo que no me equivoqué. Espero. I really do hope.
Sleepy.
Cuidaos.
Friday, November 24, 2006
A cold day.
Mother asked me to go to bank the other day. It was sunday, she could go, but I was feeling complacent and agreed. I asked little Christian to go with me and, surprisingly, he actually did.
The bank is not far away from our apartment; only a couple of blocks, though we have to cross a mayor avenue on the way. We put our coats on and walked there.
It was a cold morning, enough to give a chill, but I didn't mind. The sky was a solid, light gray that was strangely comforting.
Gripping Christian's small hand, we made our way trough Marina Nacional during a stoplight.
Once on the sidewalk, Christian looked at me with his big, olive eyes, and asked me teach him how to run. I'm not exactly sporty; hell, it's been months since I last excercised. Yet, I felt like being childish: it had been so long since I allowed myself to act like a kid, if only for a second.
Smiling, I told him to run, and so he did, with me hot on his trail. Somewhere on the trail he lost a shoe and fell.
I turned and helped him up, found his shoe and tied it. Our laughter rose into the air, where it mingled luxuriously for a second, interwinding in a subtle caress to my sore heart.
Only for a minute.
My peripheral vision caught the ATM guard looking at us strangely. I sighed and held Christian's hand again, getting into the booth to retrieve the money.
But when I left, I was smiling.
In that one minute, it all seemed to go away. The depression, sadness, pain, annoyance, even hatred. My doubts and insecurities, lethargy and insignificance. It all leaked into the air, rushing past me in my haste.
For a moment I was wind against a face, shoes against the pavement, a coat fluttering in the cold. I was nothing and everything, and nothing at all.
I was happy.
And when I walked into the apartment, I was still smiling.
The bank is not far away from our apartment; only a couple of blocks, though we have to cross a mayor avenue on the way. We put our coats on and walked there.
It was a cold morning, enough to give a chill, but I didn't mind. The sky was a solid, light gray that was strangely comforting.
Gripping Christian's small hand, we made our way trough Marina Nacional during a stoplight.
Once on the sidewalk, Christian looked at me with his big, olive eyes, and asked me teach him how to run. I'm not exactly sporty; hell, it's been months since I last excercised. Yet, I felt like being childish: it had been so long since I allowed myself to act like a kid, if only for a second.
Smiling, I told him to run, and so he did, with me hot on his trail. Somewhere on the trail he lost a shoe and fell.
I turned and helped him up, found his shoe and tied it. Our laughter rose into the air, where it mingled luxuriously for a second, interwinding in a subtle caress to my sore heart.
Only for a minute.
My peripheral vision caught the ATM guard looking at us strangely. I sighed and held Christian's hand again, getting into the booth to retrieve the money.
But when I left, I was smiling.
In that one minute, it all seemed to go away. The depression, sadness, pain, annoyance, even hatred. My doubts and insecurities, lethargy and insignificance. It all leaked into the air, rushing past me in my haste.
For a moment I was wind against a face, shoes against the pavement, a coat fluttering in the cold. I was nothing and everything, and nothing at all.
I was happy.
And when I walked into the apartment, I was still smiling.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Well... I got my lasik surgery done.
And it was no walk in soft, blissful meadows, either.
Dijeron que no dolería, que la molestia sería mínima. Mintieron. It hurt! Digo, no fue un dolor agonizante, nada como lo que sufriré cuando decida procrear, pero aún así, I could feel the laser cutting into my eye! and my eyes burnt afterwards. No sé que me hizo pensar que permitir que un rayo laser se acercara a mi ojo (parte que no se regenenera de mi cuerpo, por cierto) sería buena idea. Sólo espero que haya funcionado y que no me tengan que volver a operar de nuevo. Oh, my beautiful baby browns!!! What have I done to you?!!!
Anyhoo... al menos mi familia se comportó lindísima. Mi mamá me llevó y se quedó conmigo. Cuando salí me ayudó a vestirme y a caminar, porque por un segundo me quedé ciega, which was freaking scary, not to mention painful. No obstante, I must have managed to still look smashing, even with swollen, teary eyes, porque cuando me encontraba convalesciente en el carro me preguntó si quería ir a comer a un Vips. Apparently, she had a craving for some tostadas.
I, being the sweet, thoughtful daughter I am, le dije que si quería fuéramos. Sin embargo, algo le ha de haber hecho ver la luz de la razón (I strongly believe it must have been my woeful tone of voice) porque decidió que mejor prepararía las tostadas en casa.
Mis hermanos se portaron muy bien. Sorpendentemente bien. Lucky me.
Dijeron que no dolería, que la molestia sería mínima. Mintieron. It hurt! Digo, no fue un dolor agonizante, nada como lo que sufriré cuando decida procrear, pero aún así, I could feel the laser cutting into my eye! and my eyes burnt afterwards. No sé que me hizo pensar que permitir que un rayo laser se acercara a mi ojo (parte que no se regenenera de mi cuerpo, por cierto) sería buena idea. Sólo espero que haya funcionado y que no me tengan que volver a operar de nuevo. Oh, my beautiful baby browns!!! What have I done to you?!!!
Anyhoo... al menos mi familia se comportó lindísima. Mi mamá me llevó y se quedó conmigo. Cuando salí me ayudó a vestirme y a caminar, porque por un segundo me quedé ciega, which was freaking scary, not to mention painful. No obstante, I must have managed to still look smashing, even with swollen, teary eyes, porque cuando me encontraba convalesciente en el carro me preguntó si quería ir a comer a un Vips. Apparently, she had a craving for some tostadas.
I, being the sweet, thoughtful daughter I am, le dije que si quería fuéramos. Sin embargo, algo le ha de haber hecho ver la luz de la razón (I strongly believe it must have been my woeful tone of voice) porque decidió que mejor prepararía las tostadas en casa.
Mis hermanos se portaron muy bien. Sorpendentemente bien. Lucky me.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Odio mi vida
I know I say it often, but it IS true. Sometimes I really do hate the way I live my life and everything about it. Or maybe I need vitamins. Who cares, the thing is, lately everything is been complete and utter HELL. In capitals, too.
En primera, los maestros son unos pinches, malditos, jijos de su chichimeca madre.
Seriously, all I can do lately is homework. Literally. Just as an example, I spent this glorious sunday afternoon in the central library in the UNAM doing homework with my journalism team. We have to do the very typical and equally stupid task of making a newspaper. Funny how most of us DON´T want to be journalists...
I, for once in my life, was actually half an hour early, while my team was houlf an hour late. So I had to wait an hour for the first one to show up. I hate how most of us mexicans have a problem with punctuality, but then, I´ve been known to arrive an hour and a half late, so I really shouldn´t complain.
The meeting was pure hell; I hate having to deal with children who can´t seem to do things by themselves. I hate my team. Period.
But then, my Comunication Proyect Design team is no better. There I actually do have to play mommy for a bunch of clueless idiots who can´t think to save their lives, much less write decently. Come on people, I´m not asking for Nobel-worthy literature, just for simple grammar and sintaxis. It wouldn´t hurt if they knew how spell and use accents, either.
And to think I have to lead them in a tv production class for children, for which we have to be somehow paid. Who is going to pay me to teach kids the basics of tv production? Maybe I should make a fund: Give-money-and-help-a-poor-innocent-child-not-fail-class fund.
Mi vida familiar es un vil y putrefacto asco.
The other day I had a row with my mom; It all started with me telling her she never was open to discussion and concluded with her throwing me a spoon. Charming, I live among mature adults.
As much as I love my brothers, they do tend to drive me insane. Seriously so. Today we went out do dine in a Woolworth (which, for some strange reason, is one of moms fave casual restaurants) and I had a terrible headache. The kids kept on banging their silverware on the table and I asked them to quit it, but they went on until I confiscated the dammned things, and then they whinned and bitched until I gave it back so they could resume banging on the table.
At least the pozole made my pain a bit better. The tamarind water, though, was a disgrace. I dont´t think they understand that Aguas frescas implies they actually use natural fruit to make it, not some Cool-aid crap. How globalization hits us all...
Mis amigas, mis queridas amigas son un AMOR!
A quién trato de engañar... I´m actually feeling tired of my bestest friends. Saris, weird as it is, is not being a bitch, but rather decent and human being. Still, I hardly ever see her, though we skip the ocassional class or stay late (in my case) or get there early (in hers) so that we can chat for a while. I miss her being in the morning classes, but I hear the afternoon classes are much calmer.
Palmera, though, is annoying me. She´s keeping secrets from me! Stupid, worthless secrets too!
I mean, I understand if she decided to not tell me she is gay, or really a guy, or that she stole my boyfriend (who I haven´t had the time to break up with, sad as it is, cuz the guy keeps calling and I keep ignoring him). I mean, that´s either private or does not conduce to a safe, friendly enviroment. But no, she´s keeping football secrets. Sí, como oyeron. Football. Fútbol. Soccer.
Last monday she told me that she would have to leave early because she had to go to the doctor. Then she told Ale that she was going to do something with her sister. Then yesterday she told me that she could not get to the journalism meeting in time, but that she would get there a bit late.
Then I found out that the Pumas played today agianst Toluca (we lost too, 3-1) and I thought that she might have gone there. Then Ángel told me that she had mentioned to him something about getting tickets for the game. She get´s them for free because she is on a scholarship.
So, basically, she lied to me about something totally stupid. And then she didn´t bother to show up because I didn´t "confirm we were meeting". The Estadio Olímpico is a next to the central library. She couldn´t cross ONE dammned avenue, Insurgentes, to just check if we were there doing homework. I´m very, very upset with her, and I plan to tell her something tomorrow.
We´ll see.
I´m off now, must finish homework.
Mientras tanto, no dejen de ver las noticias. Chance y algo pasa y me sacan de mi miseria.
En primera, los maestros son unos pinches, malditos, jijos de su chichimeca madre.
Seriously, all I can do lately is homework. Literally. Just as an example, I spent this glorious sunday afternoon in the central library in the UNAM doing homework with my journalism team. We have to do the very typical and equally stupid task of making a newspaper. Funny how most of us DON´T want to be journalists...
I, for once in my life, was actually half an hour early, while my team was houlf an hour late. So I had to wait an hour for the first one to show up. I hate how most of us mexicans have a problem with punctuality, but then, I´ve been known to arrive an hour and a half late, so I really shouldn´t complain.
The meeting was pure hell; I hate having to deal with children who can´t seem to do things by themselves. I hate my team. Period.
But then, my Comunication Proyect Design team is no better. There I actually do have to play mommy for a bunch of clueless idiots who can´t think to save their lives, much less write decently. Come on people, I´m not asking for Nobel-worthy literature, just for simple grammar and sintaxis. It wouldn´t hurt if they knew how spell and use accents, either.
And to think I have to lead them in a tv production class for children, for which we have to be somehow paid. Who is going to pay me to teach kids the basics of tv production? Maybe I should make a fund: Give-money-and-help-a-poor-innocent-child-not-fail-class fund.
Mi vida familiar es un vil y putrefacto asco.
The other day I had a row with my mom; It all started with me telling her she never was open to discussion and concluded with her throwing me a spoon. Charming, I live among mature adults.
As much as I love my brothers, they do tend to drive me insane. Seriously so. Today we went out do dine in a Woolworth (which, for some strange reason, is one of moms fave casual restaurants) and I had a terrible headache. The kids kept on banging their silverware on the table and I asked them to quit it, but they went on until I confiscated the dammned things, and then they whinned and bitched until I gave it back so they could resume banging on the table.
At least the pozole made my pain a bit better. The tamarind water, though, was a disgrace. I dont´t think they understand that Aguas frescas implies they actually use natural fruit to make it, not some Cool-aid crap. How globalization hits us all...
Mis amigas, mis queridas amigas son un AMOR!
A quién trato de engañar... I´m actually feeling tired of my bestest friends. Saris, weird as it is, is not being a bitch, but rather decent and human being. Still, I hardly ever see her, though we skip the ocassional class or stay late (in my case) or get there early (in hers) so that we can chat for a while. I miss her being in the morning classes, but I hear the afternoon classes are much calmer.
Palmera, though, is annoying me. She´s keeping secrets from me! Stupid, worthless secrets too!
I mean, I understand if she decided to not tell me she is gay, or really a guy, or that she stole my boyfriend (who I haven´t had the time to break up with, sad as it is, cuz the guy keeps calling and I keep ignoring him). I mean, that´s either private or does not conduce to a safe, friendly enviroment. But no, she´s keeping football secrets. Sí, como oyeron. Football. Fútbol. Soccer.
Last monday she told me that she would have to leave early because she had to go to the doctor. Then she told Ale that she was going to do something with her sister. Then yesterday she told me that she could not get to the journalism meeting in time, but that she would get there a bit late.
Then I found out that the Pumas played today agianst Toluca (we lost too, 3-1) and I thought that she might have gone there. Then Ángel told me that she had mentioned to him something about getting tickets for the game. She get´s them for free because she is on a scholarship.
So, basically, she lied to me about something totally stupid. And then she didn´t bother to show up because I didn´t "confirm we were meeting". The Estadio Olímpico is a next to the central library. She couldn´t cross ONE dammned avenue, Insurgentes, to just check if we were there doing homework. I´m very, very upset with her, and I plan to tell her something tomorrow.
We´ll see.
I´m off now, must finish homework.
Mientras tanto, no dejen de ver las noticias. Chance y algo pasa y me sacan de mi miseria.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
I´m such a bitch....
No puedo negarlo, simplemente lo soy. Conocí a un chavo, dulce, divertido, no guapo, pero he andado con peores (I´ve had my baaaad moments) de la manera más estúpida posible, que debió de haberme servido como presagio para no entrarle al asunto. Una noche fuera con las niñas a un antro (palmeris suffered the painful affront to her ideals) condujo a que Zaris conociera a su último ex (she readily dumped him a few weeks into the relationship, as usual), que llevó a que este wey por alguna razón le mostrara una foto de las tres a su hermano cuando estaba junto con su mejor amigo.
Sooo, este tipo (Zaris´ex-boyfriend´s brother´s best friend) me llama de la nada, diciendo que soy lindísima y demás y que nos tenemos que conocer. He sounded like a nice enough guy, hace ejercicio, toca en una banda, estudia en la UAM, he sounded funny... Así que accedí a verlo. Three times, no less, which is a record for me. Es un buen chico, en serio, pero ya me hartó. Es demasiado cursi, se la pasa enviando mensajes mamilas, me llama diario, es fan obsesivo de alguna banda obscura y poco conocida, no es tan gracioso después de todo, no tenemos nada realmente en común y no hay nada de química por mi parte. He even used this really stupid line on me once "si nos vemos directamente a los ojos, eventualmente no enamoraremos". So far, he´s been totally off.
Now, I know I´m simply horrid with men. I lead them on for a couple of days and dump them soon after, when the whole interest-on-my-part-thing dies.
Uno creería que alguien con un resumé como el mío sabría cómo demonios deshacerse de un pseudo-novio no deseado. Sin embargo, no tengo la más mínimaidea de como chingaos hacerlo, considerando que las últimas dos ocaciones no resultó tan bien. Darn, I miss my teenage sweetheart, who acted so maturely even when I broke up with him. That guy was a keeper. Too bad I was moving to another country.
Lo he consultado con varias personas, incluyendo a tres hombres (my beloved Alex Banks White included) y me han dado tres respuestas: 1) Mándalo a la chingada sencilla y llanamente; 2) Deja de responder a sus llamadas hasta que la capte y se harte; 3) Se una persona madura y presentate físicamente para darle las malas nueva de una manera cortés pero tajante. Creo que la más apta es la última opción, en especial considerando que tengo un video suyo.
I´m beginning to think I´m a serious danger to men who look my way. Cero y van tres; ¿No es eso el límite?
Cuestionaría mi sexualidad, pero un tipo ya me ha idiotizado antes. Entonces, o soy muy perfeccionista hasta en eso o la verdad pura miseria se fija en mí. Not so good for my self esteem...
Así que voy a tirar a este wey, volver a mi vida de soltera urgida y solitaria y tratar de alejarme de los hombres otra vez, para evitar todo este engorroso asunto de botar a los hombres después de unas dos o tres citas. And I look so young, so innocent and inoffensive...
En otras cosas, brief summary of things done since the last post:
Sooo, este tipo (Zaris´ex-boyfriend´s brother´s best friend) me llama de la nada, diciendo que soy lindísima y demás y que nos tenemos que conocer. He sounded like a nice enough guy, hace ejercicio, toca en una banda, estudia en la UAM, he sounded funny... Así que accedí a verlo. Three times, no less, which is a record for me. Es un buen chico, en serio, pero ya me hartó. Es demasiado cursi, se la pasa enviando mensajes mamilas, me llama diario, es fan obsesivo de alguna banda obscura y poco conocida, no es tan gracioso después de todo, no tenemos nada realmente en común y no hay nada de química por mi parte. He even used this really stupid line on me once "si nos vemos directamente a los ojos, eventualmente no enamoraremos". So far, he´s been totally off.
Now, I know I´m simply horrid with men. I lead them on for a couple of days and dump them soon after, when the whole interest-on-my-part-thing dies.
Uno creería que alguien con un resumé como el mío sabría cómo demonios deshacerse de un pseudo-novio no deseado. Sin embargo, no tengo la más mínimaidea de como chingaos hacerlo, considerando que las últimas dos ocaciones no resultó tan bien. Darn, I miss my teenage sweetheart, who acted so maturely even when I broke up with him. That guy was a keeper. Too bad I was moving to another country.
Lo he consultado con varias personas, incluyendo a tres hombres (my beloved Alex Banks White included) y me han dado tres respuestas: 1) Mándalo a la chingada sencilla y llanamente; 2) Deja de responder a sus llamadas hasta que la capte y se harte; 3) Se una persona madura y presentate físicamente para darle las malas nueva de una manera cortés pero tajante. Creo que la más apta es la última opción, en especial considerando que tengo un video suyo.
I´m beginning to think I´m a serious danger to men who look my way. Cero y van tres; ¿No es eso el límite?
Cuestionaría mi sexualidad, pero un tipo ya me ha idiotizado antes. Entonces, o soy muy perfeccionista hasta en eso o la verdad pura miseria se fija en mí. Not so good for my self esteem...
Así que voy a tirar a este wey, volver a mi vida de soltera urgida y solitaria y tratar de alejarme de los hombres otra vez, para evitar todo este engorroso asunto de botar a los hombres después de unas dos o tres citas. And I look so young, so innocent and inoffensive...
En otras cosas, brief summary of things done since the last post:
- Vi El increíble castillo vagabundo de Hayao Miyazaki, creador de El viaje de Chihiro, Princess Mononoke and My neighbor Totoro, entre otras. Como siempre, salí con el corazón hecho una gran bola de fluff, añorando ese tipo de romance y preguntándome por qué demonios yo no tengo acceso a eso (maybe because I dump them befor we get to that).
- No he cumplido en la escuela como es debido y el Profesor Carrásco me la sentenció de una manera tan cortés y gentil que me hizo sentir larva, en las sabias palabras del Profesor Molina.
- Fui con la Palmera a una tienda de videos VHS/Sexshop (weird combination when not dealing with pornos, really. But good movies, altough the sexshop was a bit of a letdown) y los clientes del sexshop nos creyeron lesbianas, por lo que nos miraban extrañados. We should get used to it, people have though us lesbians before. I wonder what gives off that impressión.
- Sarandeada sigue actuando como toda una maldita; parece que ya nos descartó en favor de otras viejas. Two years of friendship, forgotten just like that.
- It´s nearly been a year since daddy´s demise. I feel all weird thinking about that.
- Fue el cumpleaños de mi mamá; aflojé (yo, solita, por mi cuenta, sin la ayuda de nadie) $450 pesos en un set de aretes, anillo, brazalete y gargantilla de plata con cristales de swarovski. Con lo coda que soy, me dolió hasta donde no.
- Still having problems with mom, but that´s a constant.
- Hoy ya es el Día de la Independencia. ¡Viva México Cabrones! y demás. Today we celebrate our independence from Mother Spain only to become the US´s backyard, as a truthful politician once said (he got immediately fired, wonder why).
- Aún así adoro a mi país y a la mayoría de su gente (there are exceptions, of course). Les deseo un feliz 15 de septiembre. Disfruten su puente, el grito, el tequila y los fuegos artificiales. Critiquen al presidente y a Martíta, a los precandidatos. Disfruten de lo bueno antes de volver a nuestra paupérrima cotidianeidad.
Así que ¡Viva México cabrones!
And don´t you forget it.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
He estado meditando sobre las mujeres y sus relaciones con sus respectivas madres.
I have come to the conclusión that most women (I haven't quite talked to men about this to see their point of view) tend to fall under one of two categories: 1) either they idolize their mums and spend every waking moment as near to them as they can; or 2) they resent their mothers and tend to want to be as far away, or as different, from them as it's humanly possible.
You can distinguish them since the first will likely talk about her mother in every conversation you have ("y entonces fui con mi mamá a tomar un café", "mi mamá me comentó que...", "estaba visitando a mi mamá"). The second, on the other hand, will most likely never talk about her mother unless she is complaining and her greatest fear is to someday wake up and realize she has become her mom (matenme porfavor, no quiero continuar con la maldición).
¿Y yo en que categoría caigo? Con todo el dolor de mi alma, en la segunda.
Truth is, as a child I idolized my mom: I did everything she asked of me and believed her to be the Absolute Bearer of Truth. I grew up being very close to her and being always atentive to her wishes and needs, and while I recognized that she messed up sometimes, I always excused her, no matter how childish she could be.
y entonces llegó la "adultez".
And then I realized that she was human. Suddenly, she was just another person and I began to see her flaws in a completely different way. I realized, quite shocked, that I resented her. For several reasons, no less. No me malinterpreten, I love her dearly and couldn´t envision my life without her. However, she fell rather nastily from her altar and I saw all that I had not seen before.
Mi madre no sólo es humana, sino que es castrante (de manera figurativa, claro, no puedo ser castrada ténicamente...), obsesiva, posesiva, bipolar, temperamental, violenta, autocompasiva, depresiva, impulsiva, floja, egoista, narcisista, paranoica...
And I probably forgot some other adorable traits. Sure, she is also a loving, liberal, defensive and somewhat devoted mother who really does care for us and tries to do her best. It´s just that her best usually comes at our expense.
When I entered college I realized that most kids did not have to raise their younger siblings, that it was perfectly acceptable to go out with friends on weekends and that having the occasional boyfriend was not supposed to be a maratonic spree of hide and seek. I mean, it´s not that I didn´t notice it before, it´s just that it never seemed so pathetic as it did then. And does now.
My mother is the kind of woman who believed her husband to be unfaithful, the need for evidence be damned, and had no qualms discussing it in front of her children. Por lo tanto, I was subjected for years to the emotionally-scarring torture of seeing my mother pick fights with my stepfather, who I always considered my real dad. No dudo que mi padre haya sido menos que perfecto, but I never saw daddy treat mom wrongly. If he did, he hid it rather well, while my mom didn´t. This put her in a rather unfavorable position, since she came out looking like the villian in a Cuento Vaquero, bad dialogue included.
Sometimes the fights were justified, like when dad picked on one of us and mom defended us, he got all macho and picked fights with other drivers, or when he came home upset and began a Reign of Terror while we cowered, trying not to invoke his screaming anger. Other times, however, she begun fights for incredibly irrational reasons, like the time dad wanted to hear Barry White after one of her typical bad-cumbia marathons and she screamed of how unfair it was because he didn´t take her out to have fun.
Muchas veces iniciaba peleas sin razón válida y yo le mencionaba que tratara de dejar competir con Elba Esther Gordillo por el mayor número de disputas dentro de un mismo partido. She never paid attention, claiming she would never let herself be treated badly again. She fought with daddy nearly daily right up to the morning he had a brain hemorrhage and he did not ask her for help, perhaps because she was upset, or perhaps because he did not think it was a big deal and stupidly tried to be strong. No creo saberlo nunca.
Dad lasted all of 11 days before he could not hold on anymore. It was a painful, tiring and horrid affair for everyone involved. When daddy finally passed away I felt one of the only good parts in me wilt with a rather destructive force, and though I was sourrounded by many, I was really alone. Pero después de todo, siempre lo estoy.
I needed my mother. So did my brothers. We needed unity, but she was too consumed in her own pain and guilt to even bother to return our hugs, let alone help us deal with our father´s passing.
The kids were affected by it, but they, like kids do, seemed to bounce back much better than I. No sé como, pero lo asimilaron de manera sorprendente, aunque probablemente hay cicatrices.
A lo mejor fue que no tuvieron que ver lo que yo. They never saw my dad cry, immobile, incapable to speak or move anything but his eyes. They did not spend endless nights in stiff plastic chairs, holding daddy´s hand against their cheeks and speaking soft words of encouragements and promises of things that we would never do again.
They didn´t live through That Night, the one where the doctor and nurses rushed in a last effort to save dad. Where the doctor said that daddy would not make it, and that it would be a good idea to call my mom. They did not have to swallow their tears and walk back into that room, pretend to be strong and speak to daddy about how everything was going to be fine.
That Night I stood alone for hours, holding dad´s hand and looking out the window of the sixth floor (neurocirugía) of Hospital La Raza, watching the rain fall upon an always lively Mexico City in the early hours before dawn; waiting for my mother and trying not to drown in sorrow; willing myself not to break down and sob, because that was the last thing dad needed. I never, ever, felt so alone and lonely as I did then.
Sí, quedé muy traumatizada por eso. Mamá también, pero a ella le fue peor, porque sintió todo el peso de la culpa acumulada en esos días. For the last 11 days she wondered if things could have been differently; if she had not been so bitchy with dad that morning before he collapsed, would he have said anything? Could it all have been avoided? Had she been a bad wife?
No voy a mentir. Siempre le dije a mamá que no, que todas las parejas discuten. En realidad, sólo era de dientes para afuera, porque no podía sentir pena por ella. Se lo había dicho muchas veces antes y me ignoró. No había sido una esposa atroz, pero pudo haber sido una mucho mejor. I do not blame her, I do not think she is guilty of anything, any more than I am. I do not condemn her, that is not my job. I, however, do not excuse her behavior either. She is a grown woman who had her reasons and made her choices; it is up to her to evaluate her behavior now.
She has not matured. She has not grown up. Neither have I. I resent her, and sometimes wish I could just go far away and forget all. I love her yet hate many things about her. Aunque suene como mala canción.
I feel she is rude, crude and impolite. She is superficial and immature. She feels all men want to seduce her and all women are out to get her. Her idea of help is for others to take over her responsabilities. She has some seriously paranoid moments where she blames people for things that are hardly believable or even plausible. She is controlling, bad-spoken, and lazy.
She complains she never goes out, but she never lets me do it either, under the pretense that I will have my whole life to do it. She constantly complains that I am fat, saying that she does it to inspire me to lose weight. She is volatile and treats the kids like crap when she gets upset for any reason, until I have to tell her to not be so offensive. Y eso que mi boca no es de santa.
Pancho, my 13 year old brother, resents her as well. He feels she is paranoid, bitchy and immature. He complains on her laziness, which comes down to an all-time record when she calls on us from our various duties, like homework, just so that we can change the channel or answer the phone when it is right in front of her. Él es más valiente, él si se hecha sus rounds. Aunque, claro, siempre pierde, como tiende a pasar en los matriarcados.
Si alguna vez se preguntaron por qué estoy tan dañada, ps ya lo saben. Una muy mala combinacíón de genes defectuosos con una infancia de las que no salen en Disney. De esas en las que no hay querubines rechonchos y culones, pero sí pajaritos cantarines que te la mientan melódicamente. Donde el conejito peludo sí brinca ansiosamente a tus brazos amorosos, pero no por bondad, sino porque tiene rabia y quiere morderte con sus babeantes fauces.
Así como la ven, pudo haber sido mucho peor.
You can distinguish them since the first will likely talk about her mother in every conversation you have ("y entonces fui con mi mamá a tomar un café", "mi mamá me comentó que...", "estaba visitando a mi mamá"). The second, on the other hand, will most likely never talk about her mother unless she is complaining and her greatest fear is to someday wake up and realize she has become her mom (matenme porfavor, no quiero continuar con la maldición).
¿Y yo en que categoría caigo? Con todo el dolor de mi alma, en la segunda.
Truth is, as a child I idolized my mom: I did everything she asked of me and believed her to be the Absolute Bearer of Truth. I grew up being very close to her and being always atentive to her wishes and needs, and while I recognized that she messed up sometimes, I always excused her, no matter how childish she could be.
y entonces llegó la "adultez".
And then I realized that she was human. Suddenly, she was just another person and I began to see her flaws in a completely different way. I realized, quite shocked, that I resented her. For several reasons, no less. No me malinterpreten, I love her dearly and couldn´t envision my life without her. However, she fell rather nastily from her altar and I saw all that I had not seen before.
Mi madre no sólo es humana, sino que es castrante (de manera figurativa, claro, no puedo ser castrada ténicamente...), obsesiva, posesiva, bipolar, temperamental, violenta, autocompasiva, depresiva, impulsiva, floja, egoista, narcisista, paranoica...
And I probably forgot some other adorable traits. Sure, she is also a loving, liberal, defensive and somewhat devoted mother who really does care for us and tries to do her best. It´s just that her best usually comes at our expense.
When I entered college I realized that most kids did not have to raise their younger siblings, that it was perfectly acceptable to go out with friends on weekends and that having the occasional boyfriend was not supposed to be a maratonic spree of hide and seek. I mean, it´s not that I didn´t notice it before, it´s just that it never seemed so pathetic as it did then. And does now.
My mother is the kind of woman who believed her husband to be unfaithful, the need for evidence be damned, and had no qualms discussing it in front of her children. Por lo tanto, I was subjected for years to the emotionally-scarring torture of seeing my mother pick fights with my stepfather, who I always considered my real dad. No dudo que mi padre haya sido menos que perfecto, but I never saw daddy treat mom wrongly. If he did, he hid it rather well, while my mom didn´t. This put her in a rather unfavorable position, since she came out looking like the villian in a Cuento Vaquero, bad dialogue included.
Sometimes the fights were justified, like when dad picked on one of us and mom defended us, he got all macho and picked fights with other drivers, or when he came home upset and began a Reign of Terror while we cowered, trying not to invoke his screaming anger. Other times, however, she begun fights for incredibly irrational reasons, like the time dad wanted to hear Barry White after one of her typical bad-cumbia marathons and she screamed of how unfair it was because he didn´t take her out to have fun.
Muchas veces iniciaba peleas sin razón válida y yo le mencionaba que tratara de dejar competir con Elba Esther Gordillo por el mayor número de disputas dentro de un mismo partido. She never paid attention, claiming she would never let herself be treated badly again. She fought with daddy nearly daily right up to the morning he had a brain hemorrhage and he did not ask her for help, perhaps because she was upset, or perhaps because he did not think it was a big deal and stupidly tried to be strong. No creo saberlo nunca.
Dad lasted all of 11 days before he could not hold on anymore. It was a painful, tiring and horrid affair for everyone involved. When daddy finally passed away I felt one of the only good parts in me wilt with a rather destructive force, and though I was sourrounded by many, I was really alone. Pero después de todo, siempre lo estoy.
I needed my mother. So did my brothers. We needed unity, but she was too consumed in her own pain and guilt to even bother to return our hugs, let alone help us deal with our father´s passing.
The kids were affected by it, but they, like kids do, seemed to bounce back much better than I. No sé como, pero lo asimilaron de manera sorprendente, aunque probablemente hay cicatrices.
A lo mejor fue que no tuvieron que ver lo que yo. They never saw my dad cry, immobile, incapable to speak or move anything but his eyes. They did not spend endless nights in stiff plastic chairs, holding daddy´s hand against their cheeks and speaking soft words of encouragements and promises of things that we would never do again.
They didn´t live through That Night, the one where the doctor and nurses rushed in a last effort to save dad. Where the doctor said that daddy would not make it, and that it would be a good idea to call my mom. They did not have to swallow their tears and walk back into that room, pretend to be strong and speak to daddy about how everything was going to be fine.
That Night I stood alone for hours, holding dad´s hand and looking out the window of the sixth floor (neurocirugía) of Hospital La Raza, watching the rain fall upon an always lively Mexico City in the early hours before dawn; waiting for my mother and trying not to drown in sorrow; willing myself not to break down and sob, because that was the last thing dad needed. I never, ever, felt so alone and lonely as I did then.
Sí, quedé muy traumatizada por eso. Mamá también, pero a ella le fue peor, porque sintió todo el peso de la culpa acumulada en esos días. For the last 11 days she wondered if things could have been differently; if she had not been so bitchy with dad that morning before he collapsed, would he have said anything? Could it all have been avoided? Had she been a bad wife?
No voy a mentir. Siempre le dije a mamá que no, que todas las parejas discuten. En realidad, sólo era de dientes para afuera, porque no podía sentir pena por ella. Se lo había dicho muchas veces antes y me ignoró. No había sido una esposa atroz, pero pudo haber sido una mucho mejor. I do not blame her, I do not think she is guilty of anything, any more than I am. I do not condemn her, that is not my job. I, however, do not excuse her behavior either. She is a grown woman who had her reasons and made her choices; it is up to her to evaluate her behavior now.
She has not matured. She has not grown up. Neither have I. I resent her, and sometimes wish I could just go far away and forget all. I love her yet hate many things about her. Aunque suene como mala canción.
I feel she is rude, crude and impolite. She is superficial and immature. She feels all men want to seduce her and all women are out to get her. Her idea of help is for others to take over her responsabilities. She has some seriously paranoid moments where she blames people for things that are hardly believable or even plausible. She is controlling, bad-spoken, and lazy.
She complains she never goes out, but she never lets me do it either, under the pretense that I will have my whole life to do it. She constantly complains that I am fat, saying that she does it to inspire me to lose weight. She is volatile and treats the kids like crap when she gets upset for any reason, until I have to tell her to not be so offensive. Y eso que mi boca no es de santa.
Pancho, my 13 year old brother, resents her as well. He feels she is paranoid, bitchy and immature. He complains on her laziness, which comes down to an all-time record when she calls on us from our various duties, like homework, just so that we can change the channel or answer the phone when it is right in front of her. Él es más valiente, él si se hecha sus rounds. Aunque, claro, siempre pierde, como tiende a pasar en los matriarcados.
Si alguna vez se preguntaron por qué estoy tan dañada, ps ya lo saben. Una muy mala combinacíón de genes defectuosos con una infancia de las que no salen en Disney. De esas en las que no hay querubines rechonchos y culones, pero sí pajaritos cantarines que te la mientan melódicamente. Donde el conejito peludo sí brinca ansiosamente a tus brazos amorosos, pero no por bondad, sino porque tiene rabia y quiere morderte con sus babeantes fauces.
Así como la ven, pudo haber sido mucho peor.
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