Bubble Optic by ele, ink

Can You Hear Me Now?

It always perplexes....nay, pisses me off, whenever someone (like say, my husband) asks me to repeat what I've said because he couldn't hear me. 

It's not that his "deafness" annoys me. So much, anyway.

(And also, I'm not so obtuse to think it deafness as much as it is apathy. Or indifference. Or that he's just plain ignoring me. Which, from what I understand, is a common affliction amongst men.)

What really makes me borderline homicidal is that after I've been forced to repeat myself for the thousandth time and I finally lose my whole mind and scream like a banshee raise my voice "a tad," he has the audacity to snap back at me and ask me not to yell.

"Eggs" & Petri Dishes

My little ones recently started daycare. And by recently,  I mean a week ago.

I know from experience with my first that those little spawn, when forced into tight quarters for extended periods of time, become little disease-spreading petri dishes. I just wasn't expecting it to happen so soon.

They started Monday. Thursday they came home sick so Friday we didn't take them back. Because we're conscientious parents. Unlike the ones who took their nasty little snot-nosed bastards to daycare. And got ours sick. 

Of course, disease-spreaders spread disease. And so they did. To me. On the bright side, it was me they spread it to, and not my husband. And I'm still praying (and force-feeding him a probably very dangerous vitamin cocktail) that he escapes this plague unscathed. For all our sakes. He does not a very good (or nice) patient make. 

FDC, I love. Hep C...Not So Much.

What is FDC? 

Some would say that it stands for Fuera de Control. And that would not be an inaccurate statement. There's a crazy bunch of mofos in this group I hold so dear. 

More recently, there are some that have said that it stands for Familia de Carino. And that is also a veracity. 

But as usual, I start a post and reference a subject that would take far too long to delve deeply enough into. And this....especially this, is one of those subjects. 

In short, FDC are the initials of the very special guy who started the group. I want to say that it's a group of runners training for the ING Marathon in Miami. But THAT would be a falsity. Because FDC is so much more. But for now, let's call it a running group.

So today, I'll lightheartedly refer to one of the things about FDC that I'm not so crazy about: the team colors. 

They happen to be black and yellow. And yes, I am aware that many things share those same colors. Some football team. Little buzzy things.

I am also aware that there's a song celebrating this color combo. 

It doesn't change the fact that I'm just not a fan. Of the football team. The buzzy things. Nor of the song, really.  

Ok, so it's not so much the black I have a problem with. It's the yellow. 

You see, my skin color....it just doesn't allow for my wearing yellow. In the past, I've made exceptions. I've tried varying shades of this sunny hue. But it almost invariably ends the same. Instead of looking happy or perky, I just look ill. Jaundiced, if you will.

So when I joined this group and saw that the shirts were yellow, (not black with yellow accents as I had hoped) I was taken aback. 

But as the weeks progressed and my love affair with these crazy people deepened, I came to terms with the fact that I would, indeed, have to sport the shirt. (I mean, I didn't HAVE to. Nobody forces us to wear it. It's not THAT kind of group.)

Anyway, as the ING drew closer and I looked around at my fellow running mates, I found myself jealous of those who already owned the coveted yellow shirts! (We don't actually get to own one until we pass a very secret ritual that I could share with you but then, well....you know.)

When I was finally initiated and was deemed worthy enough to don the shirt, I was suddenly in a frenzy to find accessories to match. (For what I hope by now are obvious reasons, I didn't own anything yellow.)

And then, it dawned on me.  I love this team so much that to shout from the rooftops that I belonged, I would actually risk looking like I had Hep C. Now, that's a special group in my book!

Snooki Lips

Hubby left on a business trip this afternoon and I've been attempting to stay awake to wait for his call when he lands.

I should probably be doing laundry or some other domestic chore. Instead, however, I'm playing with photobooth.

What started out as a trip down memory lane, has turned into a very sad realization: I have Snooki lips.

A text to my eldest for support during this dark time only dragged me further into my Jerseylicious depression. Not only did she not disagree, she merely cautioned me to avoid "duckface."

You know, I was always opposed to injecting botulism into my body. But I now believe it's warranted. And necessary.

I May Be Old. But You're a Child Molester.

Being employed has its perks. Namely the paycheck. But it has its drawbacks as well. Namely, the work. It gets in the way of stuff. Like blogging.

Which is why I haven't been dedicating as much time to this little outlet of mine. Or any, really. Not any time. Nor any outlet. Except running. I've been doing a lot of that lately. But that's definitely fodder for 2, maybe 3 posts. Stay tuned.

Back to my story: I take mass transit. So as you can imagine, I see and meet a lot of interesting people. Like take for instance the guy I met last night.

After a long, stressful day at work, I rode the train to UM where the bus was scheduled to arrive in 5 minutes. As I stood there waiting,  another weary traveler approached and struck up a conversation.

After he informed me that the bus was running late (shocker!) he proceeded to ask me one of the 3 questions you should never ask a woman...."How old are you?" (The other two being, "How much do you weigh?" and perhaps the worst, "How far along are you?")

*Please note that you should NEVER ask a woman if she's pregnant until and unless you see a tiny head emerging from her vagina. But as usual, I digress.

Moving right along. I gave my canned reply of, "I'm 22," to which he quickly retorted, (with a wretched smirk that I wanted to slap off his face, I might add) "Shit! You ain't 22. You old enough to be my auntie!"

Why auntie and not mother, I don't get. But whatever. A teta is a teta is a teta. (I must pause here to explain the preceding quote. This has no relevance to the story I'm taking the long way to tell. But oftentimes I ramble on incoherently. Love me or me leave me, I say!)

Anyway, you must listen to this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2wruv6-aGcA&feature=youtube_gdata_player. It is simultaneously the best and worst song I've ever heard. But caution: It's raunchy!

Anyway, after I curtly told him to eff off, he seemed confused and asked if we could still be friends. Clearly not a Mensa candidate. Then he asked if I was on Facebook. Because he is not. He doesn't trust it.

His mistrust, he explained, stems from the fact that cops are on facebook, posing as little kids, just trying to catch him in the act.  And they're not going to catch him. Because he knows. He's on to them. Just like he won't give a kid a cigarette. Because the cops aren't going to bust him. Oh, no.

In under 10 minutes, some strange guy had called me old. And intimated that he's a child molester.

Luckily, he was waiting for a different bus. The short kind, I presume.  

Broadway, Beatles & Bubbly

In high school, I sang in the choir. Partly because my choir teacher was super cool. And the only male in my school (save for the gay priest they brought on after the last one got some girl pregnant.) But mainly because I love to sing (much to the chagrin of most of my car passengers.)

I bring this up because this choir teacher taught us a pretty cool medley of show tunes. A medley that I remember to this day.  It was this medley that I sang to my 19-yr old when she was a baby. The same medley that I now sing to my 1 and 3.75-year-olds. You know, when I'm doing the thing we get admonished for doing...rocking them to sleep.

But whatever. Since I started working again, that's pretty much the only time I get to spend with them. So judge if you must. I'm going to rock and sing until they don't want me to rock and sing anymore. Which may very well be tomorrow.

Anyway, the medley of which I speak included songs like Let's Call the Whole Thing Off from Shall We Dance, Getting to Know You from the King and I, Together (Wherever We Go) from Gypsy, Memory from Cats, Oklahoma from the musical of the same name.

Well, you get the picture. So imagine my pride the day my pre-schooler began to sing these show tunes along with me. To say I was beaming would be an understatement.

But recently, it occurred to me that I love all kinds of music. One of my all-time favorite bands is, of course, the Beatles. So I decided that I should start educating them early. I created my own little Beatles medley. Stuff we all know, like Yesterday and Michelle. And some of my faves like In My Life and I Will. 

So all of a sudden this evening, as I got to the chorus of Michelle, my pre-schooler started chiming in. In French! She actually learned "Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble!" She continued to sing along with the rest of the medley, making what had been a pretty crappy day just a little brighter.

I can now rest a little easier knowing that I just made the world a better place. I realize I may be setting a very low bar here. But I can't help it. I'm welling with tears and swelling with pride. Welling and swelling. And drinking champagne.

And with that, I bid you adieu. 

Starbucks: Observations

I'm not feeling well today so I decided to work from home. That was going alright, I suppose, until I realized I was hungry and could probably use some coffee, lest I fall asleep on the job. 

So instead of just brewing myself some coffee and scrambling some eggs, (because that would require much more work than I am willing to and/or physically/mentally capable of doing right now) I decided to saunter over to Starbucks. 

Now, I know I'm supposed to be working, and I was....really! Until it dawned on me that I've always dreamed of working from Starbucks (actually, from some little cafe in Europe somewhere would be preferable, but Starbucks will do for now. Until I get my book deal, that is.) 

Anyhow, that's fodder for another time. Another post.

As I sit here, I can't help but be distracted by some of the goings on around me. One of my favorite observations so far is that so many people are dressed like they are preparing for a blizzard. I'm in Miami. It's 72 degrees. It's really not that serious. 

Take for instance the lady sitting next to me. She is wearing a sweater dress over leggings. And she is legit wearing fur lined boots. Fur, people! This is just madness to me. 

And speaking of said lady, I wonder if she realizes that she chose to come to a public place to work. And I suspect she's working because she has a binder spread out on the table and she keeps clicking away at her laptop. That is, when she's not looking around, frying eggs, seemingly annoyed that there are people around her. Making noise. Getting phone calls. Breathing. 

Well, I should get back to doing what I'm actually getting paid to do. Until this little hobby of mine starts making me some paper. But I reserve the right to revisit this post. It's still early and it looks like I'm going to be here a while. 

 

It's Hard to Fish When You're Dead

I try to read every section of the newspaper. I really do. Ok. So "read" may be too strong a word. Let's call it "skim" for the sake of argument. But I'll admit freely that most times I, a) don't have the time, but most importantly, b) don't have the desire.

One of those sections I often neglect is the Dear Abby column. 

But for some reason today I made the time for my friend, Abby. Well, she's not really my friend. It's just a thing I say. I pretend to be "friends" with people all the time. Now that I've written those words, it sounds a little crazy. More sad than crazy, actually. But whatever. It's not as sad or crazy as the letter from "Goin' Fishin'."

I've included a link (Dear Abby:) but I'll spare you having to read the letter about depression on the same page. On second thought, you may want to read that letter after reading this one. All I can say is, Abby's response was way too kind. And he's lucky his wife had only stopped speaking to him. If he were my husband, the bastard would be sleeping with them fishes.  

Anyway, see for yourselves below: 

DEAR ABBY: I recently bought a small travel trailer that I use for weekend fishing trips. My dog, "Goldie," accompanies me on these short trips and sleeps with me on the only bed in the trailer.

My wife, "Shirley," is now expecting to go on some of my fishing trips with Goldie and me. The problem is, Goldie is used to sleeping with me, and I believe she should have first dibs on the bed since she was there first.

When I informed Shirley that she'd be sleeping in the back of the truck, she came unglued. Now, Shirley and I are hardly speaking. Goldie is a young Lab pup who is my very best friend, constant companion and never nags. I think my wife is being selfish and inconsiderate, but I'd like your opinion. Am I out of line here? -- GOIN' FISHIN' IN MIDLAND, TEXAS

DEAR GOIN' FISHIN': If you're expecting sympathy from me, you're barking up the wrong tree. You are not only out of line, but it appears you're also in the doghouse. A real Texas gentleman would let Shirley and Goldie share the bed while he slept in the truck, and that's what I'm urging you to do.

 

The 8th St Bus Chronicles

I'm a  fan of mass transit. I may have mentioned this once or twice before. But it bears repeating. 

Part of its allure is that it precludes my having to drive. Which I loathe. Well, that's not entirely true. I like to drive. Just not in Miami. But that's a topic for another time. Many other times, in fact. 

But this post will focus strictly on today's transit adventure. Specifically, my bus ride home down 8th street, through Little Havana. 

In all honesty, it's merely a collection of my status updates during said bus ride. (And yes, I used hashtags but not on Twitter. Sue me.) But I've gone through the trouble of combining them all for your reading pleasure. Because I'm just magnanimous that way. You're welcome. 

Mighty interesting folk on this here bus.

I love how Cubans make the sign of the cross when passing a cemetery #ridingthe8thstbus

Little old ladies in orthopedic shoes with hurricane resistant bouffant hairdos #ridingthe8thstbus

Hardcore Vietnam vet in much-too- small leather vest to accentuate and flaunt his muffin top. #ridingthe8thstbus

If I ever need a liquor store, un envio a Cuba or a botanica, I know where to go. #ridingthe8thstbus

Not yet at 836 and I'm the last one on the bus. Except for the guy who fell asleep. And probably missed his stop. or he died from a stab wound inflicted by another rider who fled. Hard to tell. #ridingthe8thstbus

Bus driver just stopped bus in middle of nowhere and got out. I may be next stab victim. If updates suddenly stop, send help! #ridingthe8thstbus

We're on the move again. Stand down. Guy's still "sleeping," though. Maybe I should poke him. #ridingthe8thstbus

Finally in an area where carrying your passport is optional. #ridingthe8thstbus

Dead guy got off the bus. No poking necessary. Kinda bummed. #ridingthe8thstbus

Made it home safely after a very long, yet very entertaining bus ride. Have you ever taken mass transit? In Miami? You should. Never a dull moment!

 

 

 

 

Sex Kittens

Thanks to my eldest, Alexa Palmero de los Angeles, who first postulated the observation below, I have recently found myself pondering the meaning and origins of this phrase.

Who looked at a cat...nay, a BABY CAT, and thought, "ooh, that's sexy!"? Did he (and I'm assuming it was a he) actually want to have intercourse with the baby cat? Was he aroused in any way? Furthermore, how did this end up a socially acceptable term?

I don't know about you but I find this a bit disturbing.

According to the ever-trusty wiki, Zoophilia is the practice of sex between humans and non-human animals (bestiality), or a preference or fixation on such practice. A person who practices zoophilia is known as a zoophile.

The entry goes on to specify: Although sex with animals is not outlawed in some countries, it is not explicitly condoned anywhere. In most countries, zoosexual acts are illegal under animal abuse laws or laws dealing with crimes against nature, even though many zoophiles say such acts are usually non-abusive. (Oh! It's non-abusive. That makes it all better.)

Of course, my research on the subject brought up many "interesting" pictures and links to questionable sites (that for the record, I did not visit. I repeat: I did not visit these sites!)

Anyway, I hope I never commit a crime involving any type of feline for which they would search my computer and find the search string for this particular blog.

Because although a certain someone-that-shall-remain-nameless got away with murder despite having searched for such incriminating terms as duct tape,  internal bleeding, death and chloroform, somehow I fear I would not be as lucky.

On the bright side, however, at least I know what kind of prison tat I'd get!