Tuesday, December 4, 2007

CAPITAL

We didn't end up going to Lake Zirahuen, which is too bad, because I love it there, but we did go on a little vacation to Patzcuaro and Morelia and it was actually fun, even though I thought it was going to be so boring since we weren't going to LAKE ZIRAHUEN as I was promised. I actually didn't want to go on the vacation, so I was falsely promised Lake Zirahuen.

We went to Patzcuaro in the first place because CC's dad entered a 50 years old and over basketball tournament, and his team was representing the great state of Queretaro. They were the suckiest team on the tournament, no question. Every time they played they got beaten by at least 50 points. They also were the only team without proper uniforms, and most of the other teams had matching bags and warm-ups and were sponsored by Coke or Wonderbread. Team Queretaro had on San Antonio Spurs jerseys bought last minute, probably from La Cruz or some other outdoor flea market. It was fun watching the games though, and some teams were really, really good. But, I NEVER WANT TO SEE another over 50 year old man's body again..... How shamelessly they ripped off their shirts to change into their uniforms right in front of everyone. Just because you're playing basketball doesn't mean you're an athlete, and Im mostly talking about Team Queretaro, unfortunately. WHO EVER SAID THAT MEN GET BETTER LOOKING AS THEY AGE??? Not True. Thank God.

So anyway, we lasted a couple of days in Patzcuaro, and then we went and hung out in Morelia again, and I love Morelia because in Morelia you get to eat GAZPACHOS. Gazpachos are made up of finely diced jicama, mango, pineapple and orange, then they put queso cotija with red chile all over it and they give it to you in a cup. There's this famous story about this little man who started out with a cart of fruit on the street and now its this big mega business and he's a millionaire because his gazpachos are that good. They are good, and thats where we go to get them, but I see no signs of him being a millionaire. He's probably got lots of money, but we're in Mexico where "really good money" means 12,000 pesos a month. Mexicans are always bragging about some guy who has worked his way up from selling something on a street corner, but those stories, like all stories, tend to be exaggerated.

That night we stayed in Cuitleo, a tiny little pueblo surrounded by this lake. CC's cousin Daniel lives there with his family and he went out and picked us up to spend the night at his house, which we have never been to. We also got to see his kids, and on the way there CC found a phone in the car and he gave it to his cousin, who then gave it back to me and told me to give it to his nine year old daughter as a present. He was like, if you give her that present, she will love you forever. His kids are so cute and they hung out with us for a while. It was 2 AM and the kids were still hanging out with us and we all played Operation. So I gave Daniela the phone, which turned out to be the cheapest, most horrible phone you can ever imagine. I didnt even know that phones like that existed. She was SO EXCITED about it and kept asking me questions, like, where's the charger? Where's the manual? Is this a joke phone? Because it doesnt look like a real one. I kept thinking to myself, God, that phone is garbage. No wonder your father didnt want to be responsible for getting you that.
But she still loved it and early the next day she gets her dad to buy her a charger, and it's charging, and she asks me where the menu is. This phone doesnt even have a menu. Well it does, but its like, the worst menu on the planet. She asks me if it has a camera. At this point, Im like, ask your uncle. Ask your uncle. Ask your uncle.

Oh, and I almost, almost went to a Pelea de Gallos. Pretty soon. I know I'll hate it but I have this strong need to experience the misery at least once.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Turkey

Last Thursday was Thanksgiving, and since nobody celebrates it here, I decided to make my own, only that Friday, naturally, because my decision to "cook a turkey", as my husband CC puts it, was intelligently made very late at night that Thursday and I have no patience and move like a insane fish when I've got an endeavor.

We went out and bought a 14 pound turkey at Walmart and I downloaded a recipe off Epicurious. We informed everyone of the Thanksgiving dinner that would be held the next night and of course I blew it up and made it a huge deal, biggest party of the year.

I came home and excitedly started to brine my turkey. I was following the directions from my recipe, but mid-brine process, something just didn't feel right. I trusted my killer instincts and went and called my Mom, who laughed at me and asked me if I bought my turkey frozen. Appalled, I said yes, and added that just because I am in Mexico does not mean that we buy all of our meat straight out of the slaughterhouse. We do have supermarkets, and nice ones, I said. She laughed again and said, "No, it's just that it takes 3-4 days to defrost a turkey. You can't have your Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow, sweetie."

So I had to WAIT. It's excruciating to have to wait for something, and at that point I hated turkey and thanksgiving and was already on to something else, WRITING A MYSTERY NOVEL like Patricia Highsmith or Paul Auster, specifically Paul Aster because I just started "City of Glass" and it's inspired me.

It's about a man named Quinn who is a writer of mystery novels. Quinn accidentally becomes involved in a mystery himself when he answers the phone and it's people looking for Paul Auster to do some detective work, and he accepts, to make his life more exciting, and impersonates his own character that he's created for his mystery novels, Max Work, who is a private eye, but at the same time pretending to be Paul Auster, the person who really writes about him. So cool.

Anyway, since I invited the whole world to my in-law's house for Thanksgiving dinner, I had to make the turkey, so I was obligated to go all out on it once it defrosted (on SUNDAY). Turns out that I make the world's best turkey. OH and I started a tradition. I also made a new tradition with my mashed potatoes with Manchego cheese and chipotle, which is my own creation.






(It's waving hello!)

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Research

I just got back from getting coffee at Italian Coffee Company. I got an espresso and started putting the top on it and accidentally knocked it over all over the front counter. I started apologizing and even helped clean up a little bit and kept saying "Perdon, perdon, disculpame" like an idiot, and NOBODY said anything, not ONE person said a thing, like, it's ok, or, don't worry, or, I hate you... nothing. They just shot nasty looks at me out of the corners of their eyes with their mouths shut in tight little straight lines. The manager lady did ask me if I got burned, but when I said "oh no, not at all, I just feel so sorry that I knocked over that coffee" she averted her eyes and said nothing else. The employees at Italian Coffee Company need a seminar in "How to Make a Person Feel Nice While Buying Coffee and not GUILTY about BEING ALIVE" and "How Feeling Great to be Alive in Italian Coffee Company Promotes Comsumer Loyalty".

OH-- and THEN since everyone was so busy ignoring my empty drink, I asked the girl if she would make me another one, and she said yes, and then the manager charged me for it. and since I was already feeling guilty about being alive and all, I paid.

I forget... but I think in Starbucks or anywhere that sells coffee in the US will get you another espresso if you spill it all over the counter, free of charge, right? I mean, now I don't want to go back there because of the bad experience and the way that the goddamn baristas made me feel all suicidal and all, and for just a smile and a "no problem" and a free refill for being an idiot would have made me a customer for life.

But maybe that was the point. After all, the baristas there don't rake it in, so whats one less troublesome customer to them? Less work, and I don't blame them.

I wonder if it is possible that they pick up on the fact that when I see them I feel sorry for them that they're working at such a shitty job at shittier wages, and the guilt I feel that I'm not working at anything and that I do whatever I want all day everyday. I wake up when I want to and I have no real responsibilities.

Maybe they pick up on that and that's why I get treated poorly wherever I go... perhaps. I did notice that if I act like a bitch I get better customer service, whereas if I treat them nicely I get treated like a bitch. Odd... Needs more research. The Research shows that I'm right, thus far.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Cultural Etiquette Lesson for the Day: Why the Statement "invite all your computer programming friends" is Morally Wrong

In parts of the English-speaking world and in the entire Eastern European country of Bulgaria, popular culture has deemed it taboo to speak in wide, sweeping generalizations about people who are known to Hax0r the planet on a regular basis. Therefore, the statement "invite all your computer programmer friends" is a sickening display of demeaning insensibility, because in it you assume that the person in question has programmer friends, just because he hax0rs the planet all the time, which may not be necessarily true. It also suggests that the said Hax0r has a boring life, which he most likely does not, although that he might not should never be determined, either, as it is in itself yet another disgusting assumption of the worst kind.

Remember, when you ASSUME, you make an ASS out of U and ME.

Stealing

It has come to my attention that crime is steadily seeping out of the Distrito Federal and into the lovely city in which I live at a rapid pace. Today on the nearest main street from my home, two men held a car up that was sitting in traffic and demanded that one of the passengers give him his watch. Rumor has it that it was a Rolex, which I HIGHLY doubt. But anyway, the guy said No, and they responded by shooting him twice, I'm not sure where, and then they ripped his watch off of his wrist. The guy driving the car tried following the guys but when the coldblooded culprits realized that they were being tracked, they shot at them and the robbed and bloody people stopped their chase and the perpetraitors got away with their fake Rolex, free and clear.

My car was stolen outside of my apartment complex here two years ago in the middle of the night. The surveillance cameras captured a funny video of it being stolen and leaving the street in fast motion but the video failed to show the perp's face or even his figure. It was partially my own fault because I left it out on the street in front instead of in the underground parking lot. Luckily the car was only used as a getaway car or something because the police found it unscathed and abandoned in the middle of nowhere about six months later. They probably had something to do with it, but I don't care, because it was returned.

I am now banned from giving pesos to beggars or their children while stopped in traffic or to accept flyers from anyone or to have my windows down at all or to wear any of my Rolexes when I drive.

Friday, November 2, 2007

Reincarnation

I thought long and hard about reincarnation last night, and as everyone else who has ever thought about it, I had fun flattering myself over and over as I tried to figure out who I used to be. Exhilirating, yet exhausting. I must have suffered greatly, because I don't suffer in this lifetime. Sometimes I wish I did, then I'd have something to write about.

It came down to this: I was either Virginia Woolf, Marguerite Duras, Jean Rhys, or James Baldwin. I most definitely was not Tolstoy, or Jane Austen, or a Bronte. And I most definitely was not anything but a literary genius.How great does it feel to tell yourself that you matter as a writer, in any way you possibly can? When the little voice that never dies trashes what you know is good and denounces it as hopeless, doesn't it help to shut it up by shoving the fact that you were once Ernest Hemingway in its ugly little face? After all, any reincarnate of any literary genius is still a literary genius. Everyone knows that.

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Halloween

Last year, for Halloween, I dressed up as Samara. It was a genius costume. I had on a black wig with long slimy hair, white makeup with black circles under the eyes, a white plain dress that was really a nightgown that I bought at Chedraui for 5 bucks, white knee socks and black mary janes. I looked like death. But that wasn't the genius part: I made a TV and wore it around my shoulders like I was coming out of it. The TV was crafted out of a box I found at my old apartment and I attached a real TV antenna to it, and wrote the word SONY on the bottom. Genius. Everyone thought it was hysterical and I won, of course. It was so successful that my friend and old roommate is going to make a Samara costume this year and wear it to her work, because they're having a costume contest and she's going to win a cash prize. Of course she'll win.

Last year, CC's best friend went as CC. He wore a gross mask that didn't even look like him and tied a preppy hey buffy sweater around his neck. Nobody laughed, lame. So this year, CC says he's going to the party as his best friend, as revenge. He's going to stuff his stomach and make a beer belly and somehow fake a receding hairline (all exaggerated, of course) and draw a massive fake tattoo on his arm thats all messed up because he got laser removal that wasn't 100% effective. Because this friend of his is an alcoholic and his beverage of choice is beer, I had the suggestion that I go as a human beer bottle (indio) and that CC can walk around hanging on to me all night.

Here is a preliminary sketch of my costume.