`The horror of that moment,' the King went on, `I shall never, never forget!'
`You will, though,' the Queen said, `if you don't make a memorandum of it.'
Friday, February 29, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
Stranger in Strangerville
A Love Story
Once upon a time there was a man who nobody knew. His father had never known him and his mother had died when he was younger. Because they lived in a house in the middle of nowhere that nobody owned, the man just kept on living there after she died and nobody knew the difference. He could read and write and he ate squirrels and nuts and drank water from the spring. He knew how to do all of these things because his mother taught him when she was still living.
But then the man started getting restless, though he knew not why: he liked his life and didn't need anything else, or so he thought. What he didn't understand was that the restlessness he felt came from the simple and oh so controversial need to multiply.
And so one day he left and came upon the town of Strangerville. Everybody in Strangerville was a stranger. Sometimes they were strangers because they were exconvicts or pedophiles, and sometimes they just didn't like other people. The man fit into Strangerville like a glove and so was welcomed to Strangerville with open arms, or rather, closed doors, but the man didn't know the difference because he wasn't looking for anyone, unless it was female, and he didn't really know anything about that anyway.
One day a poor woman from the hills of Normalacia came to his home and knocked on the door. She had knocked on everyone else's door in the neighborhood but nobody had answered, because they were Strangervillians. But the man answered, because he didn't know about door knocks as a form of communication and thought that there might be a squirrel cracking nuts on his doorjamb. Or something. So he opened the door carefully and with a mallet in his hand, ready to catch his dinner, but it wasn't dinner, it was a woman wanting to clean his house.
She asked to come in and was surprised to hear his voice, high and not unlike the sound of broken harmonicas because it was horribly untrained. But she was used to accents down in the Normalacia valleys, and still wanted to clean his house.The man didn't understand why someone would want to clean his house, but he said okay because he liked the idea for some reason. The woman got to work right away and was surprised at his lack of furniture, toilet paper, shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste or toothbrush, refrigerator, trash cans, trash, stove, clothing, but was familiar with the skinned squirrels hanging on hooks in the kitchen and his homemade soaps.
The woman cleaned the floors until they shone and since that was pretty much all there was to do, offered to roast the squirrels in the fireplace for his dinner. The man was surprised again, but shook his head jerkily, yes.When the squirrels were done, the woman packed her cleaning supplies, looked around the empty house and at the man who hadn't really moved from the doorway since she arrived, and sighed. The man didn't stir, so she sighed again, louder this time. The man stared at her curiously.
"Well my work is lookin quite done here," she said, and then sighed again.
"Indeed!" He squeaked.
They stared at each other.
"I'm a be headin' back now," she said, her eyes flickering to the door.
But she didn't move.The man, wide eyed, was jerking his head in small movements to stare for longish intervals on different sectors of the woman's dress and didn't wonder what she was waiting for. He did wonder why she said she was leaving. The man had only ever met his mother before, so by that experience he resolved that the lady who cleaned would stay there till she died.
It was getting dark. The woman wondered if she should just leave, but she needed the money. If she didn't bring back her pay she'd be beaten gravely by her step daddy, Carl, who was surely moonshined to high heavens by now-- she'd spied Uncle Jim and Uncle Willy's big yellow truck parked out in front that morning while heading out to Strangerville.
So she stood there and let out a few more sighs-- long, exaggerated sighs, which she thought garnered no reaction from the man (who, if she had asked him, would have had trouble responding given the reactions that had been garnered) and then finally gave up and sat down on the floor in front of the fireplace, welcoming herself to a share of the squirrel dinner she'd prepared for him. After a long while, he came and sat down next to her and she fixed him a plate, and they ate together like famished swine.
It was too dark for the woman to go back now, and so they fell asleep there on the floor, in front of the fire, curled against each other in an S.
Once upon a time there was a man who nobody knew. His father had never known him and his mother had died when he was younger. Because they lived in a house in the middle of nowhere that nobody owned, the man just kept on living there after she died and nobody knew the difference. He could read and write and he ate squirrels and nuts and drank water from the spring. He knew how to do all of these things because his mother taught him when she was still living.
But then the man started getting restless, though he knew not why: he liked his life and didn't need anything else, or so he thought. What he didn't understand was that the restlessness he felt came from the simple and oh so controversial need to multiply.
And so one day he left and came upon the town of Strangerville. Everybody in Strangerville was a stranger. Sometimes they were strangers because they were exconvicts or pedophiles, and sometimes they just didn't like other people. The man fit into Strangerville like a glove and so was welcomed to Strangerville with open arms, or rather, closed doors, but the man didn't know the difference because he wasn't looking for anyone, unless it was female, and he didn't really know anything about that anyway.
One day a poor woman from the hills of Normalacia came to his home and knocked on the door. She had knocked on everyone else's door in the neighborhood but nobody had answered, because they were Strangervillians. But the man answered, because he didn't know about door knocks as a form of communication and thought that there might be a squirrel cracking nuts on his doorjamb. Or something. So he opened the door carefully and with a mallet in his hand, ready to catch his dinner, but it wasn't dinner, it was a woman wanting to clean his house.
She asked to come in and was surprised to hear his voice, high and not unlike the sound of broken harmonicas because it was horribly untrained. But she was used to accents down in the Normalacia valleys, and still wanted to clean his house.The man didn't understand why someone would want to clean his house, but he said okay because he liked the idea for some reason. The woman got to work right away and was surprised at his lack of furniture, toilet paper, shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste or toothbrush, refrigerator, trash cans, trash, stove, clothing, but was familiar with the skinned squirrels hanging on hooks in the kitchen and his homemade soaps.
The woman cleaned the floors until they shone and since that was pretty much all there was to do, offered to roast the squirrels in the fireplace for his dinner. The man was surprised again, but shook his head jerkily, yes.When the squirrels were done, the woman packed her cleaning supplies, looked around the empty house and at the man who hadn't really moved from the doorway since she arrived, and sighed. The man didn't stir, so she sighed again, louder this time. The man stared at her curiously.
"Well my work is lookin quite done here," she said, and then sighed again.
"Indeed!" He squeaked.
They stared at each other.
"I'm a be headin' back now," she said, her eyes flickering to the door.
But she didn't move.The man, wide eyed, was jerking his head in small movements to stare for longish intervals on different sectors of the woman's dress and didn't wonder what she was waiting for. He did wonder why she said she was leaving. The man had only ever met his mother before, so by that experience he resolved that the lady who cleaned would stay there till she died.
It was getting dark. The woman wondered if she should just leave, but she needed the money. If she didn't bring back her pay she'd be beaten gravely by her step daddy, Carl, who was surely moonshined to high heavens by now-- she'd spied Uncle Jim and Uncle Willy's big yellow truck parked out in front that morning while heading out to Strangerville.
So she stood there and let out a few more sighs-- long, exaggerated sighs, which she thought garnered no reaction from the man (who, if she had asked him, would have had trouble responding given the reactions that had been garnered) and then finally gave up and sat down on the floor in front of the fireplace, welcoming herself to a share of the squirrel dinner she'd prepared for him. After a long while, he came and sat down next to her and she fixed him a plate, and they ate together like famished swine.
It was too dark for the woman to go back now, and so they fell asleep there on the floor, in front of the fire, curled against each other in an S.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
The accent was what killed me
Last night in the middle of the night, this conversation took place. Im guessing it was around 4AM.
Me: CC? Hey, CC
CC: Hm
Me: CC... I can't sleep
CC: (without even a hint of hesitation) You ever try counting borregos?
Me: No.
CC: Imagine a fence, with borregos, and everybody's jumping
Me: . . .
CC: snore zzzz
Me: CC? Hey, CC
CC: Hm
Me: CC... I can't sleep
CC: (without even a hint of hesitation) You ever try counting borregos?
Me: No.
CC: Imagine a fence, with borregos, and everybody's jumping
Me: . . .
CC: snore zzzz
Monday, January 14, 2008
Today I made Red Snapper a la Veracruzana from the Epicurious website and my maid and I bonded and she showed me how to make rice. Im glad that we bonded, but now that she's my new best friend, she got the courage to ask me what she's been wanting to ask me for a month: Can she bring her six month old baby and three year old son to work with her? I had to say yes.
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.
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!)
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.
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.
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