DEATH BY CHOCOLATE

While I'm workin' the espadrilles and throwin' down what are sure to look like some heavy duty gang signs, one thing's for sure: no matter how many ways I tie my scarf, I'll never be European. This fact evidenced by the purchase and consumption of one single chocolate bar.

After nearly three weeks of hospital food, I broke down yesterday and high tailed it to the supermercado nearest the hospital under the guise of post c-section rehabilitation. What I was really doing though was hunting for deodorant and chocolate, two such things one cannot live without postpartum. Ten minutes and two euros later I had my fix, one of those really big chocolate bars, not at all like the American jumbo sized candy bar but more like the 'could be a tennis racket' size.

I will admit to being more Snickers than I am Nestle or Hershey but being that there are no Snickers, Whatchamacallits or even Milky Ways on this side of the Atlantic, the Nestle brick would have to suffice. It all started with my roommate, a Euro-waif, who not even a week after giving birth is back to wearing her size zero jeans. I'm not kidding. Size ZERO. Anyway, there she was her scarf draped casually over one shoulder and her chocolate bar resting in her lap, the tin foil folded neatly back like you would a fine linen bed sheet. Carefully, and what appeared to be in slow motion, she snapped off two little pieces along the perforated line in the chocolate bar. Until this moment of watching her fingers break those chocolate pieces away from the mother-load, I had naively assumed that executives in the chocolate industry had designed those perforations specifically to aid in my consumption. They were, in my small world, tracks for my teeth to rest in, leverage for the task at hand. Any notion of opening a chocolate bar but not eating it whole was unfathomable, dare I say sacrilege. Yet there she was, in her chic Euro scarf and size zeros wrapping the remaining 34 million squares back up for Armageddon. That's just about when I decided that a year's worth of Spanish living owed me the same luxury and so I set off for the supermercado.

As fast as my swollen little ankles could carry me, I waddled on down the road, entered the store and made a beeline for the novelties aisle. I'll admit, the deodorant I threw in the basket was just a decoy, and a pretty lame one at that. The cashier, fully capable of calling my bluff, thankfully did not. I'd convinced myself that I too can enjoy chocolate in moderation, one, maybe two squares at a time thus making it last until well into the following week. You know where this is going, don't you. [sigh]

So what happened once back 'home' at the hospital? Yeah, you know what the fuck happened. I snap off my two pieces, wrap the remaining bar neatly back up and put it to bed in the mini fridge for safe keeping. Fingers trembling ever so slightly in anticipation of what's to come, I sit down and pop the first perfect little chunk into my mouth. Heaven. The second piece chases the first, a sweet fountain of milk chocolate all the way down the back of my throat, almost pornographic. This, the European Way, should satisfy me but of course it doesn't. Instead it's like teasing a lion with a chicken wing from KFC. Not ten minutes later and I'm up for another two pieces, wrap it back up, mentally chastise myself for the indulgence and put it back in the mini fridge. Ten more minutes go by, same thing. Two more squares gone. The fourth trip I just say fuck it and eat the whole damned thing.

Sadly, the punishment for my crime is not the absence of the Nestle bar but rather the roommate's Cadbury sitting untouched since the day before between the strawberry and vanilla yogurts on the top shelf of the fridge, his wrapper snug as he hisses disapproval in his haughty French accent because European disapproval always comes with a French accent, “Go on now, Fat American. No more chocolate for you!”

Yes, moderation it appears is proof positive that I'll never be European.

No matter how many different ways I tie my scarf.

FAIRy TALEs

Spring has officially sprung.  I know this because the rose bushes that line the pueblo streets are in full bloom.  The walk to school with the kids takes twice as long because trying to take it one step past talking the talk, I have somehow brainwashed my own kids into believing that "Stop to smell the roses," means you must smell every single one of them. 


But we're not all about fragrant flora here in Andalucia.  Even those who have never set foot on the Iberian Peninsula are familiar with the springtime rite that is Feria.  Oh, so you think I'm mistaken.  Not so, my friend.  Not so at all.  Feria means fair.  Fair as in party til the wee hours of twilight, eat your weight in food so good you'd swear it was illegal, and dance until your toes fall off.  And the fair of all fairs happened last week in Seville.  Dating back over 150 years, the week long annual festivities were originally intended as a livestock fair but eventually evolved into what it is today.  Sound familiar, state fairgoers? 
Come on, let's take compare...

RULE #1: QUICK, FRY THE FOOD.  ALL OF IT.

Pesca'ito frito. Translation: Fried Fish.

Long John Silver's has nothin' on this shit.



In Iowa, we fry everything. 
And yes, I do mean EVERYTHING.



What Spaniard doesn't love sardines?  Oooh, they
stink so good!  Removing the heads is apparently
optional.  Charlie prefers his with-something about

the crunch of the eyeballs.

RULE 2:  DRESS TO IMPRESS                 

                                                   





Go on, Girl!  Sink your teeth deep

into that fried stick of butter. Mmm.

Nothin' like a coronary on a stick!



                  



                           


It's all about the accessories.  Every woman will have a giant

flower pinned somewhere on her head.  Fans, bracelets

& matching earrings are also a must.  FYI, cleavage is (not?)

optional.

It's not every day that the fair comes to town.  In Spain, fashion is very important and I might even argue too important.  Take a peek at some of the best dressed from this year (Seville) and last year (Iowa).



La gitana dress is a staple.  Lots

of bright colors.  Lots of ruffles.

And lots of dangerous curves.




Aaaw.  This Iowa couple chose to color coordinate.  It's like

loss prevention for adults.  'Have you seen my husband? 

He's got a purple tee shirt and a drumstick the size of my thigh.'

Even the men aren't afraid to

show a little skin in Iowa. 

Here we get the pleasure of this

man's back cleavage.  Yummy!



RULE #3: BEWARE.  FAIR HAIR.

I'll make this short. Hair is a serious part of fair couture no matter where you are. As the lone short haired blonde (though I now think of myself as brunette in spite of what the rest of the pueblo says), I am The Minority when it comes to fair hair. At least by Spanish standards. Take a look at the do's and take note. 

Meet contestant # 7 from the Iowa State Fair's

mullet contest. Business in the front.  Rock

& Roll in the back.  Sassssssy, isn't he?

The gal on the right has a lot going on.  Rose dead

center accented by Olivia Newton John Headband

style braid punctuated by big ass bun.  This is why

I have short/no hair.  But it's pretty, isn't it?



The Spanish peineta.  It sits proudly tucked into the back

of every Spanish girl's bun.  Some are tall.  Some are short.

Some are sparkly.  Some are plain.  Personally, I think Mr.

Iowa State Fair  (see above photo) would take first prize

with one of these tucked into his mullet, don't you?

So there you have it, the best of both worlds.  Though you missed the April fair in Seville by a week, don't worry, there's always the Iowa State Fair in August.  If you decide to brave it, be sure to represent and tell 'em Pickle sent ya.  Oh yeah, don't forget to say hi to the giant butter cow.

                                                          



CAVEAT EMPTOR

I have this really weird quirk that involves my beauty regimen, if you can even call it that.  On most days, I'm in and out of the shower with hair done and face on in under 10 minutes.  I don't spend a lot of time on much of anything, well, except for my eyebrows and I've already explained that red hot mess a time or two.   Come to think of it, I guess it's not really my beauty regimen perse, but it is my self image.  Basically, it all comes down to my hair.

I'm really particular about my hair. 

I don't mean it has to perfectly parted or glistening in the sunshine.  But it does have to be short.  And as far as I'm concerned, the shorter the better.  I've sported short hair for most of my adult life and since having kids it's only gotten shorter.  It's quick, clean, and easy.  I'm also lucky in that I can pull it off though I think that this has more to do with attitude than face shape because I've been every shade of two hundred and back again all the while sporting the same do.   And like clockwork I'm in the beauty shop every 5 weeks come hell or high water to get it trimmed back to nothing.  Because that's what a good pixie cut is...nothing.  Of course a pixie does not  a quirk make but the fact that each trip to the salon leaves me convinced of a five pound weight loss probably does. 

Unfortunately, the move to Spain has presented some challenges in the hair maintenance department.  First off, there's the unspoken rule - well, law is perhaps a better word for it - that if you are a female you will have long hair.  Period.  I've already been approached by women in the pueblo, "Por favor, you've got to stop shaving your head, darling.  Just let it grow out for a while.  You'll see, it'll be okay..."  Really?  How 'bout defining 'while'?  Is that  Crystal Gayle 'while'? Because anything beyond Susan Powter while is just not gonna work for me.  Secondly, my hair is shorter than most men's and by far the shortest of all the women's in town.  This fact I don't mind at all but it did have me a tad leary of that first appointment with the peluquera.  How was I going to explain that I needed it as short as she could get it without resorting to clippers?  Would she even do it?  Break the town norm and put her ass on the line for my five pound fantasy?  Point cut, texturize, oh yeah and don't forget the cowlick - all very minor details to you, the reader.  In English.  Ever try explaining all that in a tongue other than your own?  

Lucky for me, we've gotten past my Spanish 101 beauty parlor vocabulary and my girl does an awesome job each and every time.  I now sit back, grab the Hola magazine and let her go to town while my brain floats in and out of Spanish consciousness straining for only the most important of the pueblo's gossip that hangs like a soupy fog over the black vinyl salon chairs.  That is, once the shampooing is done.

Aaah yes, the shampooing.

I do realize it is quite possible that being follically challenged, in other words, practically bald (by local standards), I may be hyper sensitive to the Spanish approach to washing clients' hair but I gotta ask:  what the hell is the deal with washing my ears?  I lean back all the way, my head centered and hanging into the sink.  I make sure to scooch up all the way so my neck rolls seal the gap between me and the wash basin and I never complain about the water temperature even though it's always too cold.  The hair gets soaked, the shampoo goes on and the next thing I know it's gone from hairwash to aural assault with no warning whatsoever; a two for one special at no extra charge.  It's not just a pueblo thing either because I've had my hair cut on multiple occasions in Castellon, Valencia, Madrid and Cordoba.  It doesn't matter if I'm in the city or the pueblo - it's always the same, two minutes worth of scalp scrubbing and ten worth of sudsy ear swirls.  The first couple of times I thought it was just bad luck so I shrugged it off.  But then I started noticing that it wasn't just my bad luck but everyone else sporting a Superman cape. 

I don't know.  Maybe America's approach to customer service has made me soft.  The Customer is Always Right mentality may have prejudiced me to the point of no return.  Of this I'm not sure but one thing is for certain:  I'm already dreading my trip to the gynecologist.

COCK TEASE

Who needs an alarm clock when the neighbors have roosters?  Notice the plural on that my friends.  I'm not talking just one neighbor/one rooster, I'm talking multiple neighbors and God only knows how many cock-a-doodle-doing roosters.  The neighborhood in which we're renting is considered to be somewhat upscale as far as the pueblo goes which makes the rooster situation that much more comical.  Hey, buzz me in through the security gate but oh, wait.  Don't let the rooster out!  The pueblo streets, lined neatly with orange trees and flowering bouganvilla give no hint as to the feathered flock that sings us awake each morning, warning us  of the approaching dawn. Thinking back, I didn't notice it so much a few months ago.  Do roosters hibernate?  But now that spring is upon us it seems that the flock has doubled, perhaps tripled in size.  And in volume.


That trumpet tongued flock of cocks has my number too.  For as soon as my bare feet hit the cold tile floors and I shake off that last hope of a wink of sleep, they mock me.


With frosty silence.


Bastards.

'TIS THE SEASON

It's been a while, hasn't it?  Rest assured all is well in the pueblo and with Christmas fast approaching we are beginning to get into the spirit of things.  I really thought I was going to miss snow, having spent the past three plus decades frozen stiffer than Walt Disney from October to April.  Alas, that is not the case.  No, not the case at all in fact I can tell I'm acclimating to the Andalusian version of winter when I complain about sub fifty degree days.   

I came across this video purely by chance the other day that I want you all to see.  For some time now I've been trying to figure out a way to explain what this move to the pueblo has meant for me...for us but I was always short on explanation.  Long on feeling but short, very short on explanation.  Well, this snippet really does a fine job of articulating what we've found since our arrival here.  Or perhaps better put, what we've found we can live without.

Still, life in the pueblo doesn't come without its quirks.  Take today for example.  We took the kids into the grocery store to stock up for the weekend before the whole damned town shuts down for Sunday.  Anyway, we're not in the store more than five minutes when I notice a customer in the checkout line chasing his holiday pastry down with a shot of Christmas Cheer.  I smiled politely, said my 'hola' as is customary to do regardless of whether or not you've ever met the person, and then made a sharp turn down the aisle with my grocery cart full of screaming kids.  What was that all about?  My brain imploded under the weight of questions like, "Gee, I wonder if they have an international chapter of Alcoholics Annonymous?'  and "Dude, can't you wait 'til you get home to start with that shit?'  I mean it wasn't even close to time for comida and this guy was chuggin' away like it was his last Christmas.  Geez.

But whatever.  To each his own, right?  As we finished up at the butcher's counter I got the kids to distract The Grinch so I could sneak some traditional Christmas goodies into the cart and then we made our way back up to the bar checkout.

Hmmmm, interesting.  "I think the gentleman forgot part of his purchase," I offered.
Checkout Girl:  "No, no.  He got everything.  I made sure of it!  I packed his bags myself."
Me:  "But his 'spirits'.  The bottle's still here.  And look, there's still about half of it left."
Checkout Girl:  (Giggles) "Aaah, no, no, no.  That's ours." 
Me:  Come again?  "Excuse me?"
Checkout Girl:  "It's for everyone.  Here!" (pours me a generous shot) 
Me:  "Uhm..."
Checkout Girl:  "Go ahead, chug it!  It's Christmastime!"
Me:  "Uhm...okay, thanks!?"
Checkout Girl:  "It's just our little way of spreading the holiday cheer."

And then it dawned on me.  100 proof liquor has that effect on me in case you didn't know.  The Spanish just may be onto something.  Well, at least the ones from my pueblo.  We may not have Black Friday.  Our Christmas lights didn't go up until just this week.  And there isn't one bell guilting me into making a donation on my way out of Target, Costco or the grocery store. But nonetheless, there is still an overwhelming feeling of Christmas.  In spite of the obvious lack of marketing we feel the presence of Christmas spirit more than ever this year.

And I'm not just talking 'bout the liquid spirits.

A MINOR DETAIL

Well folks, sorry to be the Debbie Downer but it appears that even Paradise has its issues.

There we were, bright and early on Monday morning running around like maniacs trying to get ready for the school day.  So typically us.  Kids were (barely) up and (sort of) dressed, plugged in to their vests and well into their treatment session as I was elbows deep into a dirty diaper and Joe was juggling the breakfast order alongside the school snack order.  Not bad for a quarter after 7 on a school day, I thought.
Then the power went out.

We fumbled a bit, then scrambled, and finally recovered managing to get out the door in time for the walk in to school.  Not the best start to a Monday but we pulled it together.

Tuesday was better, the week taunting us to pick up the pace somewhat. 
And then the power went out.

Wednesday came and we joked about what time we'd lose light.  Joe chuckled as he buttered the toast.  I managed a laugh as I doled out the breathing treatments.
Then the power went out.

Okay, so maybe not so funny any more.  We were quick to notice that it wasn't just our house, not just our block, hell, not even just our neighborhood.  It was indeed the whole damned pueblo! 

Thursday the same. 
Friday too. 
And don't forget Saturday or Sunday.

What the hell?

Every single day for the past eight days there has been a power outage for the entire pueblo.  It's short lived, ten minutes tops.  And it is reliable, always at 7:24AM.  But what gives?  What's the issue?  I wouldn't have ever dared to call the pueblo third world but come on how, this was getting a little ridiculous.

So, as I imagined a good Spanish wife would do, I sent the husband out to get to the bottom of it at the neighborhood bar. Seriously, where else?  Nothing gets answers faster than a bar full of soccer fans and a few rounds of San Miguel (beer).  Now, just so you know, going out to get some answers is not an in-and-out kinda deal least of all on a soccer night.  This would likely be an all nighter for me, which was fine.  I had a lighter and candles at arm's reach and my glass of wine within the other arm's reach so I was prepared.  And just as I had surmised, some four hours later he came home with the full scoop; as it turns out, the one and only thing for which I was not prepared.

Rather than bore you with the four hour version, I'll just cut to the chase.  First off, no one in the whole freakin' bar even flinched when he brought up the pueblo's power 'issue'.
What 'issue'? 
What are you talking about? 
Huh? 
They just stared at him blankly, silently willing him to shut the hell up so they could concentrate on the game. 

The electricity. 

Dude, what are you talking about?  What about the electricity? 

The fact that every day we have none for a ten minute spell.  What's the deal? 

Ohhhh...THAT.  Suddenly, the game was of no consequence and they took some pity on the new guy.  You'll get used to it.  In fact, you can pretty much set your watch to it.  Wait til winter when it's out for a couple of days. 

Come again? 

Oh yeah, last winter it went out for two whole days.  Juan Carlos lost a week's worth of business because his freezer stock went bad and he had to dump it all. 

Pardon me, but are you fucking kidding me? 

You guys are living up in the new part of town, right?  Well, it's not gonna be so bad for you guys.  Just the ten minutes or so every morning when the pueblo wakes up.  It's the unlucky saps in the old part of town that really have it bad, going for a few days at a time like that.  Don't worry though, you'll get used to it.

We'll get used to it.  Uhm, no.  I'm thinking this is something that I probably won't get used to.  I can get used to wearing shoes that pinch my toes.  Or I can get used to drinking luke warm coffee when I so prefer it scalding hot.  Hell, I might even be able to get used to everybody shouting at me as if I'm deaf becasue they think that if they speak louder I'll somehow understand all those colloquial phrases and inside jokes.  But no, living without a reliable energy source is not something I plan on getting used to.  I mean come on, we're well past the millenium folks.  Shit, my Nepalese student, the ones who's cousin was a Sherpa, had more reliable power than this.  I mean don't get me wrong, I think it's really cool and even a bit convenient that it happens to go out at the same time every day but there's a lot of shit that goes down regularly that I don't think we should tolerate just because no one has the wherewithall to fix the situation. 

So now added to my to-do list of
1. informing the universe about cystic fibrosis
2. writing and getting a grant to get computers (notice I said get computers not get new computers) for the pueblo's elementary school and
3. running a marathon
is
4.  stirring the shit up enough to get a revolution brewing so we can get the mayor/taxi driver to push for an update to the power grid which means at least two though preferably three to four new power transformers to replace the current ones which as we speak are about 40 years out of date. 

And they say that Stay at Home Moms don't work.

IT TAKES A VILLAGE TO RAISE AN IDIOT

I have no idea but for whatever reason, I've been off by a day all week long.  Monday was actually Sunday.  Tuesday was Wednseday.  Wednesday was Tuesday.  And by week's end I was ready to commit myself.  That is, if the rest of the pueblo didn't commit me first.  This is a Three Act Drama so be patient.

ACT 1:  Set in the middle of Calle de los angeles in front of Mohammed, the lone Morrocan guy's, discount shop.  Keke (track coach and sometimes firefighter) rolls up to Village Idiot (played by me).

Keke:  Hey!  How's it going?  We've missed you at RunClub this past week, everything alright?
Village Idiot:  We're hanging in there.  We've had a house full of sick kids.  Nothing major, just a nasty cold but it's knocked everyone out.  That, and then there's the car.
Keke:  The car?
Village Idiot:  Well, our car has finally arrived at the port but now it's a matter of how long it will be tied up in customs.  Joe will likely be heading to Valencia early next week to pick it up.
Keke:  That's great, isn't it?
Village Idiot:  Well yeah, except it means I'll probably have to miss one or two more practices. 
Keke:  Oh, don't worry about it.  You know where to find us.  We'll look forward to seeing you towards the end of the week.  Are you running today?
Village Idiot:  (Thinking he's referring to the race in Sevilla that actually occurred the night before)  Me?  Oh no.  I can't, no car.  Remember?
Keke:  (Looking quizzically) Uh, yeah.  Right, no car.  Well, we'll see you later in the week.  Take care...
Village Idiot:  You too. Oh and have a great time (referring to last night's race in Sevilla)!


ACT II:  Set about 200 meters down the block from the encounter with Keke.  Fellow teammate, Miguel, and his family drive by, honk and wave to Village Idiot.

Village Idiot:  Hey (waving spastically)!  You guys heading out now?
Teammate: (smiles) Yeah.  We're on our way.
Village Idiot:  Well have a fantastic time!  Good luck!
Teammate: (pauses, smile fades) Uh, yeah.  Okay. 
Village Idiot: It's gonna be great, you'll see!  Take lots of pictures for me, okay?   Bye!!
Teammate:  (nods and waves) Adios...



ACT III:  Set at the Village Idiot's house later that afternoon.  Paqui drops by for a quick visit.

Village Idiot:  So what time are you heading out?
Paqui:  Heading out?  For where?
Village Idiot:  For Sevilla.
Paqui:  Sevilla? 
Village Idiot:  The race, silly.  Aren't you running tonight?
Paqui:  You mean 'ran'.  The race was last night.
Village Idiot:  But I just saw Keke and Miguel heading out of town.  We just talked about it.
Paqui:  Well, I don't know what you talked about but I'm telling you that the race was last night.  I was there, trust me.  And so were they.  I rode in Miguel's car for crying out loud.
Village Idiot:  Then where were they going if it wasn't the race?
Paqui:  Someone died, a mutual friend I think.  They were on their way to the funeral.

Close curtain.

SIX DEGREES OF PUEBLO

Alas, the pueblo.  Village seems too small and dare I say, Medieval and city, well, as we hover at 5,000, that is far too big a word for here.  So pueblo it is.  Given it's relatively small size, I've concluded that it's made up of all of about ten families plus us, Los Americanos.  How can ten families be 5,000 strong you ask?  Why, marriage of course. 

Take, for example, my friend and neighbor Paqui.  Paqui is married to Pedro, an Archie Bunker kinda guy minus the bigot.  Her cousin, Pili is married to Pablo and they live two doors down, right in front of our place.  Pili is a painter and Pablo is a plumber and together they have a little girl, Ana,  Henry's age.  Every Friday night Paqui, Pedro, Pili, Pablo and a dozen or more other family members gather on the front patio of Pili and Pablo's house for drinks and laughs.  Pablo's brother, Oli(ver), usually pops by with his wife, Gema, who happens to be Paqui and Pili's cousin.  Not to be left out, Beatriz and her crew are good for at least every other Friday night.  Beatriz's husband is Juan and Juan's sister is a sister-in-law to Oliver's other brother, Rafa. 

Nevermind rereading it, just be glad you don't have to try to remember all of it.

So I tried to circumvent the obvious confusion brought about by the intermingled family ties by instead focusing on the Who's-Who of the pueblo; the key players if you will, the Don Corleones if there ever was such a thing which only led to further confusion when I learned that...

the mayor is the taxi driver, out on leave until her term is up
the baker is the goat herder
the hair dresser is the real estate agent
the auto mechanic is the taxidermist
the police chief is the grocer
the plumber is the insurance agent
and finally, lest we forget the banker
who is actually the bartender but only on Friday nights.

And somehow, though I haven't quite got it all worked out yet, they're all related to Paqui.

TIT FOR TAT

It would appear that my daughter is much more like her mother than I would care to admit.  She has learned the art of dangling the carrot.  Not quite three yet full up to the top with the cunning ways of a 37 year old.  God, help me.  In spite of promises to never utter the telltale threats echoing throughout my childhood memories, I have ever so sadly done just that as evidenced by our most recent confrontation: 

ME:  Come on now, Lola.  A couple more bites, you're just about done.
LOLA:  One.
ME:  One?  Whaddya mean, one?
LOLA:  One bite.
ME:  No, not one.  Just a couple more.  Come on, let's go.  You don't wanna miss Dora, do you?


A lone middle finger stands erect
 mocking &counting simultaneously

LOLA:  ONE.



ME:  Listen here, Missy.  If you don't finish there will be NO Dora.



Pause.  She hedges her bets.



LOLA:  You not 'vited to my birthday party. 



Pause again. 
Her brow furrows and she glares at the spoon heaping with the next bite. 
And her slow, deliberate whisper taunts, 

No Dora cake for you.

KNEE DEEP AND RISING

The new question that I'm greeted with from friends and family as of late is now an uninterested, almost obligatory,  "So, how's it goin'?" followed by an uncomfortable pause which I've taken as code for, "How's the packin' comin' along, Slowpoke?"  And to tell you the truth, it's the last thing I want to think about these days.   The very last thing.



Adios garage.  It was fun while you lasted.

 In a word, Notsogood.  That's three, I know.  We'll just call it poetic license because at this point I don't even care.  The bottom line is this: packing blows.

Ten years worth of living hoarding is not so easily compartmentalized into boxes carefully marked as Kitchen/Bathroom/Master/and Kids' rooms.  What was I thinking when I bought and then kept those overpriced ceramic fondue plates that I've never, ever used?  Thank you for that Crate and Barrel.  Thank you for convincing me that I need dividers on my plate to keep things from intermingling and screwing up my palate for life.  I'll take that as a form of culinary segregation, albeit subtle.  And why do I still have a George Foreman grill?  What's wrong with our gas grill?  It works just as well, in fact better in my opinion, and lives quietly out on the deck where I don't have to worry about storing its extra large self in my extra small cupboard.  Ahh yes, the hand crank lemon press.  Was that really necessary?  The only thing it's ever squeezed has been a finger or two and come to think of it I have yet to taste a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.  Quite honestly, the things I'm finding are absolutely, positively ridiculous.  So I did what any other person would do, I made a new box and marked it appropriately (or not), CRAP.

To clarify, the CRAP box was not born out of total exasperation.  There was, at least at one point in time, a plan for all of its contents: a spring garage sale.  What could be better?  But flashbacks to last year's fledgling attempt brought back bitter, bitter memories.  Basically, it amounted to me sweating my ass off in a broken lawn chair amidst the dust bowl that had become my front yard while carloads of Mexicans tiptoed up and down my driveway whispering nasty asides in Spanish about the overpriced shit I was so certain no one else could live without.  And as if that wasn't enough, not a one gave pause to the lone Gringa who sat drinking in their every word by the glassful all the while choking on her pride. 

You don't want my ten dollar Mr. Coffee coffeemaker?  Nevermind that hairline crack inching its way down the side of the carafe, just stick your mug right under the drip.  That's brand name shit, amigo.  ¿Comprende?

What?  Five bucks is too steep for a snow shovel?  You have got to be kidding!  Five bucks is a gift in this economy.  Besides, come December you'll be back, promise.

Hindsight is always 20/20 though, isn't it?  Maybe most of it was a little overpriced.  Okay fine, all of it.  Can I help it that I had to tag everything in five dollar increments because I suck at math?  Still, they could've at least made me an offer.
Bastards.

With a house full of shit and no hopes of a garage sale in my future I did the next best thing and so far it's not working out half bad.

That baby jogger that Juana rolled her eyeballs at?  Cha-ching.  Sold. 
The 2-cup plastic Espresso maker?  Cha-ching cha-ching.  Sold again.
The poker set?  Do you even have to ask?  Why sold, of course.

I'm seriously considering putting a picture of the house up on Craigslist too.  It sure would save me the hassle of having to keep it clean enough for a realtor to be able to show it.  And maybe I could sell it "furnished."  Now that would be fucking brilliant!  Think of the hours upon hours that I'd save having to pack up all this shit myself.  Mind blowing.  Simply mind blowing.

The shovel though?  That, I've decided to keep.  It's unlikely I'll need it in Córdoba which, let's face it, is basically the same as living on the surface of the sun.  It will be my very own reminder of home; a souvenir of winters past.  A reminder of the garage sale that never was and never will be again.  An homage to all those Saturday morning thrift seekers who waded knee-deep through my bullshit and somehow managed to keep on walking. 

Because in the end it comes down to The Principle.
Yeah, it's all about The Principle...

Isn't it?

YOU'VE COME A LONG WAY, BABY

Not sure if you knew this but Wednesday marks Barbie's 52nd birthday.  On this day, March 9th, 1959, Barbie made her debut at a toy fair in New York City.  Wow.  Has it really been half a century?  Time flies when you're warping the minds of young girls I guess.

Actually, I really have no place to be such a cynic.  I did afterall own a suitcase full of her and her friends, each and every one my very own fashion slave.  Barbie, Skipper, Ken and a slew of nameless Generics kept me entertained for hours during those long, dark Wisconsin winters.  I vaguely remember Ken groping one of them awkwardly with his stiff plastic paws in the upstairs bedroom of the Dream House while Skipper was downstairs making coffee in the kitchen. Thank you Mattel for that first sexual experience in my Madison basement. 

-Catering Barbie's Bakery-
complete with muffin tins & spatulas
(prescription pills & therapy sessions
 sold separately)

Trust me, I've seen enough media coverage to know that Barbie eventually evolved beyond baking and decorating though to what extent I'm just not sure.  I went out to her blog today and found this.  Yeah, I know, I know.  The bitch has her own blog!  Geez.  Well, the whole thing got me thinking and wondering why Mattel doesn't make and market a new Barbie.  If I were on the project design team this is how I'd approach it:

First off, she'd need a cool name.  Nothing too traditional like "Barbie" because this is afterall, 2011 and everyone has named their kid something different to set them apart.  I mean even if you were lucky enough to have gotten a normal name these days you can bet your sweet ass that your parents chose an alternative spelling of it so as to make it unique.

Then she'd needs a job (or two) because let's face it, we ALL work these days.  Even my stay-at-home mom friends have a thing or more going on the side:  candles, wine, babysitting, cooking crap...we're all trying to stay afloat in this economy that much is obvious.  Maybe she could be like me?  Professional by day but what by night? 

And what would her issue be because we ALL have those too.  Alcoholism?  Hoarding?  Eating disorder?  Maybe something less severe but still a real pain in the ass to manage.  Procrastinator?  Gotta think on that.  Might not work for her but it works for me.

So here she is, the New and Approved Barbie:

WORK:
Manager at Starbucks by day and Zumba Instructor at the local healthclub by night
MARITAL STATUS: 
Divorced once, current wife to Jim (Ken's co-worker)

CHILDREN:
(3) Addyson, Tennyson and Benson.  Benson has ADHD and Tennyson is hyper active

NOTABLE PHYSICAL FEATURES:
Taller than average (it is Barbie afterall), multiple criss-crossed and sagging c-section scars, chin whiskers (due to excessive caffeine intake) and bunions

PERSONAL CHALLENGES:
None that she's come clean with but her friends suspect bulimia, a growing addiction to prescription pills & the jury's still out on her compulsive Clearance shopping habit

Thoughts?

I know I'm missing something. I'll submit the final work up to Mattel with a proposed MRSP of $24.99. Surely they'll have more than enough opportunity to branch out with the following accessories:

teeth whitener kit for the caffeine stains ($7.99)

body shaping girdle for the hooch-pooch sag ($9.99)

  syringes for Botox injections ($16.99)

tweezers for the whiskers ($5.99)

The New and Approved Barbie by Mattel 

...because every little girl deserves a look at what her future can be!

ADDENDUM TO A MANIFESTO

Okay so a few days ago my good friend wrote and posted her very own manifesto of what-nots.  What not to do.  What not to wear.  What not say.  Not such a bad idea, I thought.  I mean how better to weed out the crap from your life, no?  While it wasn't exactly a manifesto per se, it was, at least in my opinion, a pretty damned good list.  And as with all good posts, I was having a schizophrenic moment (or two) and talking back to the laptop while my husband looked on thinking God only knows what.

Yeah...
MmmHmm...
Hell Yeahhh...
Oh no you di'int...

Seriously, what could possibly be that funny?  Lucky for me my husband gets my sick sense of humor but still, it's gotta be a buzzkill to have to wait for your wife to finish reading her laptop before you can, you know, 'get some'.  But I kid you not, this girl is freakin' hilarious.  Well, hilarious until I hit her Número Tres.

Oh NO. HELL NOOOOOOO you DI'INT!

My laughter went from roaring to dead silence.  I'm talkin' mime silent.  My eyes slowed to get her take on this.  While she penned a pretty convincing argument, I couldn't help but feel defensive.  Was she serious? 


NO DRAWING ON OF THE EYEBROWS.  NO MATTER WHAT.

So indulge me for a moment, will ya?  See although I was born and raised a natural blond, adulthood (mainly all these years of being pregnant) has betrayed me and I will, in the end, die a brunette.  Yet, in spite of this cruel twist of fate, I'm still left with remnants of my former self. 

Body hair?  Blond.

Fringe around my hairline?  Blond

Eyebrows?  Blond

Roots as black as the polluted waters of the Ganges yet all other indicators point to a Swede in the making.  What the fuck is up with that?  You don't believe me?  See for yourself.  Go ahead, look.

The older I get, the worse the contrast and the more problematic my eyebrows have become.    And until you nearly rip one off of your own face, which I actually did once, you'll never know the hassle that is a mismatched pair of brows.

I love my friend and she loves me.  At least I think she does.  I mean we talk and cut it up all the time and we have un mogollón (that would be tons to the non Spanish speakers) in common.  But after reading this she may not be able to make an exception to her Número Tres. 

I can promise no Crystal Gayle hair.  Ever.

I don't even own any cutoffs.

The sextales I'll save for our email chats.





But the Revlon Brow Fill-in Powder?

The drawn on brows?





Sorry honey, those bitches are stayin'. 

RIDING SHOTGUN FROM HEAVEN

My drive in to work each morning is a pretty easy one.  Not even 3 minutes out of my suburban driveway and I’m on the interstate, rolling straight into downtown. No turns, no lights just a sling shot eastbound in the left lane and I’m there in 15 minutes, 10 if I push it.

Today though it was different. The last 5 of my 15 was spent behind a pearl white Camry. We exited together at MLK and I followed him all the way down the boulevard, past the turn off for the hospital and right on down past the cemetery. Was this guy on his way to drop off a kid on his way in to work? It was kind of early but not entirely impossible.  Maybe he was on his way to the airport for the United flight out to Denver.  Or Detroit.  It wasn't until we slowed in unison for the yellow aglow at bottom of the hill that I noticed it.

In Loving Memory of Chris
1968-2009

Stuck to the back of his rear window in slanted cursive letters.  An attempt at classy with its italicized font yet painfully innocuous.  Pardon my ignorance but just who was the brainiac who decided to mass market this phenomenon?  The epitaph in a car decal.   And just how does one go about purchasing one of these?  It's been a while since my last funeral but maybe it's like an add-on to the package; a gift-with-purchase perhaps?

...And when you upgrade from the oak veneer to the solid mahogany we include not one but two widow decals to commemorate your dearly departed...   

What would Chris have to say about this?  His brother, his partner, his cousin, his little league co-captain, his whatever was driving around Des Moines with him stuck to the back windshield; the 9 of 2009 starting to roll downward after two years baking in the glow of a Midwestern sun. 

The whole thing just creeped me out.  I mean seriously, what happens when it's time to trade in the Camry?  Do you get out there with an X-acto blade and scrape Chris off the back window?  Do you even remember that Chris is there riding four inches above the ice scraper stored on the back dash? 

I do understand that people handle grief in many different ways.  I get it, I respect it.  And if centering your your loved one's name and stats on your back window somehow helps you move through your grief then all the more power to you.  As for me, I really have no desire to be remembered in this fashion but if you must, then consider this post fair warning: 

I'm riding shotgun across the front windshield. 

In a classy arc.

And scrap the italics.  I'll take the Gothic letters, 60 font.

Stretched all the way across. 

Because...

well, that's just how I roll.

SPRINGTIME IN PARIS

Yesterday was a first for me.  Against my better judgement and cloaked in my contraceptive nightware (sweatpants and a thermal long sleeved t-shirt), I called the kids into the master bedroom closet. 

"I need your help, guys.  I'm not sure what to wear to work tomorrow.  Whaddya think?"

Lola looked up at me bewildered as if  to say, "Clothes, dumbass.  Clothes,"  while Charlie ventured a bit more trepadatiously, "You mean we can pick it out?"

"Sure.  Why not?"

Lola eyed my shoe rack, eyes scrolling from summer to winter and back again as Charlie made a beeline for the pants hanging at eye level.  "Here.  These."  Nice.  My black fatties.  They hung too loose and I'd be tugging them up all day but they were far better than the alternative hanging two inches to the right.  Definitely dodged a bullet there.  Phew.  "And THAT one!"  A finger shot up to a silver sparkly top with a plunging criss cross neckline. 

"Ooooooo, " purred Lola, "I like shiny."

Conservative on the bottom and a little rock n roll on the top.  It's not like I had a choice at this point.  Besides, staying true to the rules of my Before 40 Bucket List, I would not try to sway the kids one way or another.  This was their choice.  I'd have to redeem myself at work another day.  "I like it Charlie.  Good choice.  But what about my feet?"

Charlie reached for my black pumps with the gray speck of buckle on the toe and I felt a wave of relief wash over me.  Apparently he had remembered these shoes as part of my standard "look" when wearing anything black.  That and I'm sure he was sick of the game and just wanted to get back to the pile of race cars strewn all over the living room floor.  I would go to work the next day having completed my first bucket list item and no one would be the wiser.

Well, Lola was all over that shit.  "No!  I want these."

So much for discretion.  She had selected a pair of brown strappy sandals with a wedge heel.  A mistake I had made three years ago and had forgotten to purge.  I briefly contemplated how to play this card as Charlie examined them.

Clunk. 

The pumps hit the closet floor with a hollow thud.  It was decided.  The brown sandals would be going to work with me in the morning. 

"You're gonna need some socks with those, Mama."

"Ya think so, Charlie?"  Oh boy.  Now I was starting to sweat.

"Oh yeah.  There's snow outside.  Your toes might get cold with these holes."  He wove his fingers through the straps of the open toe to emphasize his point.

"Ohhhhh, yeah.  I hadn't thought about that, good point." Shit.

He blew past me through the closet doorway and headed for the socks packed snuggly the bedroom's armoir.  Before I knew it a pair of gray ankle socks were thrust into my ribcage.  Thanking him, I managed two additional thank yous; one for the fact that he had pulled a pair with no holes and two that he had somehow, perhaps by Divine Intervention, missed the drawer full of white running socks.

And as fast as it had started, it was over.  My outfit for the the next day of work was laid out and ready to go.  The kids took off, content at having accomplished said chore so efficiently and I stood there taking inventory:

• 1 pair of black pants
• 1 silver, long sleeved shimmery top with a plunging neckline
• 1 pair of gray ankle socks
• 1 pair of strappy brown sandals on a wedge heel 

A smile crept past my lips.  And I remembered Paris, a city I have visited just four times in my lifetime and loved each time more than the previous.  The Parisian women with their silky scarves blowing behind them and their designer shoes clicking with delicate precision against the sidewalks crowded with foreign tourists in dirty tennis shoes. 

My foot.  My shoe.  My sock.
My Mission Complete.

Tomorrow I would be one of them - Parisian. 

Not in fashion but definitely, most definitely, in attitude.

MY FUNNY VALENTINE

Rewind about 12 years ago and I was a late twentysomething, fresh out of a string of really bad relationships and officially 'done' with the dating scene.  I was fed up, sick of the games and head over heels in love with my new job at a major financial house here in town.  On any given week I was jetting out to a cool city (or not) to do a my shtick - a bilingual financial seminar.  Boring you say?  Well, maybe just a little bit.  But you have to remember I was young, loved to travel, and got to practice my Spanish (most of my trips were of the bilingual variety) - all on the company's dime.

So one night after work I found myself checking email and messing around on the computer at home. This was back in the days of AOL and dial up modems just to give you a frame of reference.  About ten minutes into my surfing, I decided to find a chat buddy.  Three clicks later there he was, first on my list:  Joaquin.  The first thing to cross my mind was Spaniard.  The second In Des Moines?

Me:  Hola.  ¿Qué tal?  ¿Te apetece charlar?
Him: 
Me:  ¿Hola? 
Him: 
Me:  Sorry.  I thought you spoke Spanish.  I just wanted to practice.
Him:  ¿Quién coño eres?

Alas, an unwitting invitation for me to pepper him with every colloquialism learned from my year abroad in Valencia.  Spanish oozing from my fingertips; the accents, the tildes and the inverted punctuation all in their proper places, my professors would have been so proud.  And so it went, two complete strangers with nothing in common save for a late evening on the computer and ganas de charlar. 

That chat eventually led to a phone call which then turned into a date:  coffee at the bookstore.  And in spite of me being 'done' with dating I was hopeful that this one would work out, at least long enough for me to get some good Spanish in.  We seemed to 'click' but the real test was yet to come:  would we be attracted to one another?

As the doorbell rang, a single thought crossed my mind: please be normal.  You don't have to be Prince Juan Carlos, but please, please be normal.  Funny how I wasn't concerned about him being a rapist or serial killer lest I digress...

He knocked and I opened. 
In one word, my first impression was more like a sound, Hmm.
I wasn't bowled over by his looks.  I just kind of stood there taking him all in.
Taller than me but only slightly.  Dark, thick hair.  Clean cut.  Smelled good. Not particularly athletic looking.  Nice, big, strong hands.  A rather solid first impression.  And then he spoke.

"Se empieza con los dos besos, ¿no?"

Oh my God.  Did I just wet my pants?  I went from comfortably confident to weak in the knees and stuttering.  His one liner still caught in the side of my mouth, I was now reeling myself in.

"Uhm, lemme just...uhh...I gotta grab my pullover...uhh...and yeah, uhm...then we can head."

I grabbed the royal blue windbreaker, my favorite running standard, and slipped my arms into its sleeves flipping it up & over my head in one giant arc.  But in my haste to get Don Juan out the door and to the bookstore, I had forgotten that the cinch in the jacket's waist was pulled tight and locked.  Oops.  Not to be outdone by the locked cinch, the zippered opening at the top was also pulled up.  Smooth move dumb ass.

There I was standing in my the entryway of my condo with my arms full up over my head and the jacket cinched tight and not budging one more inch as it sat parked right above my boobs.  My head stuck somewhere inside, this would go down in the books as one of my better How to Look Like a Jackass Without Even Trying moments, of which I have many.

So much for first impressions.

That was how our first date started.  And for whatever reason - perhaps the cd changer loaded with Paco de Lucia and Gypsy Kings that he had (planted?) in place of Metallica and Iron Maiden?  Maybe he just felt sorry for the busty blonde who practically suffocated herself inside of her own jacket?  I dunno but we've been together ever since. 

He was there when my brother broke his neck in the accident. 
And he was there when my brother learned to walk again.
He was there when I quit my dream job.
And he was there when the new job turned into a living nightmare. 
He was there through my second go 'round at a Masters.
And he was there tight lipped when I cast it aside.
He was there when I shut my dad out of my life.
And he was there cheering when I let my dad back in.
He was there when CF joined our happy little family the first time.
And he was there when it socked us in the gut the second time.

In more than ten years of being my Valentine, he's seen me at my best.  And stuck by me at my very, very worst. 

So this post is for you Joaquin Jose...
aka El Americano...
aka Joey...
aka Joe...

No importa el apodo que te darán.  Tu eres y siempre serás mi media naranja.  Te quiero más de lo que sepas y mucho más de lo que puedas imaginar.

Happy Valentine's Day, cariño.
I love you.
k.

FENG SHUI MY WAY

A quick Internet search and I'm told that Jennifer Anniston and Victoria Beckham follow its practice.  And seeing that the Lunar New Year is now upon us, I must concur:  feng shui is the way to go.  If it's good enough for Jen and Vicky, then why not me?  Not even three clicks away and I discovered that feng shui can even help you sell your home.  Really?  Buddha at my front door will bring in bids at or above market value?  Well, sign me up!  I scrolled through the article like a heroine addict digging for a metal spoon.  My eyes, frantically searching for the 1-2-3 on how to unload this house; a house which we love dearly but a house that has been loved a little too much if you know what I mean. 

We're now a month behind schedule in our attempt at readying the house to put on the market for a spring sale and I've accomplished little more than fine tuning my drinking habit.  Where has the time gone?  How did Labor Day turn into Valentine's Day?  It's a sad day when the 25lb bags of mortar lined up in the foyer get vacuumed and repositioned so as to look tidy in the construction zone that is our life right now. The to-do list isn't so much long as it is time consuming, falling predominantly upon Joe's (hulky yet strained) shoulders as he manages the business that is his Blackberry and the butt wiping of our kids simultaneously.

1. finish tile projects in kitchen, foyer, bathroom, laundry & dining room
2. replace carpet in master bedroom and great room
3. replace kitchen counter tops 
4. declutter and start packing up non essentials (non-essentials?!?)

Aaaah yes, decluttering.  Have you ever tried to declutter a house decorated by Fisher Price?  What does Mr. Buddha say about that?  I'm also still highly suspicious of Lola's ever growing pile of dolls.  Could it be that they're fornicating at night as we sleep?  I wake up each morning to a dozen more of them; each one mocking me with its painted on grin and come hither stare.  Indeed it will be a miracle if and when this house is ever ready to meet a realtor. {sigh}

I love you feng shui.
I mean, I think I love you.

MAIN ENTRANCE and ENTRYWAY

How well the house is able to maintain and nourish good energy is much determined by what is happening in the main entryway. What do you see as soon as you come into the house? Assuming you do not see the back door right away, what else is there that would be a potential bad feng shui set-up?

Yet the real question remains...

Do you love ME?