Baby talk (part un)

I see my four nieces once a year (maybe twice if I'm lucky).
Four little 8, 7, 5 and 2 year-old monsters...

Yes, all girls.
Yes, all sisters.
Yes, all scary.

Today, while working on my computer, the oldest three asked to see Facebook pictures.
I won't lie, this is, more or less, what the girls said about my GUYfriends, after asking "is he your boyfriend?" on every single one of the pictures:

- Is he?
- No!
- Well good, he's not smiling. He's not funny.

- Is he?
- No, he's my best friend from College.
- He's cute! why isn't he your boyfriend?
- Because I don't want him to be my boyfriend.
- You're dumb.

- Is that your boyfriend?
- No, it's a guy I know.
- He's handsome! We want him to be your boyfriend!!!
- Yeah, sure... I don't think his wife will like the idea.
- Bummer.

- Is he?

- Noooo. That one's not around anymore.

- REALLY?!?!?

- Don't you remember him? He came and played with you guys! You called him "tickle monster".

- He looks grumpy. We don't like him. Don't bring him anymore.

- Copy that.

[let's experiment a little and show the girls some guys that I like]


- Is he your...
- Nope.
- Who is he?
- He's a guy I met a couple of months ago. What do you think?
- Handsome AND smiling. We like him.
- So... approved?
- Duh!!!

- How 'bout this guy?
- He looks like my friend's dad... 
- Is that good or bad?
- It´s bad! you don't want to date a guy that looks like a dad!!
- What if I do?
- You're disgusting.
- No I'm not!
- Fine... you're a dork.

- Who's that one?
- Oh... a guy. What do you think?
- He looks too serious.
- Grumpy?
- Not grumpy, se-ri-oussssss. Do you have another picture of him?
- How 'bout this one? [same guy making duck faces at the camera]
- He's funny!
- He has nice eyes.
- Yeah... [sigh]... I know.
- That guy looks fun, you should bring him over sometime.
- I don't think so.
- Why not? we like him! We promise to be good. Don't be mean.
- We had a fight. We don't talk anymore.
- Whaaaaaaaaaaat?!?!?!
- We just don't. We're not friends anymore.
- Call him and say you're sorry and invite him to come and play with us.
- I can't.
- Chicken!
- I'm not going to do it.
- Why not?.... chicken!!!!!
- Yeah... [sigh]... I know.

Home for Christmas

Well... no, I couldn't make it to Colombia for the Holidays.
My adviser wasn't happy when I went there for a conference two months ago, I knew leaving again may be contra-productive for my thesis and my graduation so... "me no go nowhere".
My parents and my sister will soon be on their way to Argentina and my other sister will be on her way to another city for New Year's... they made plans and I was supposed to go with them but I had to cancel at the last minute.

To be honest, I didn't want to spend all these family days by myself, surrounded by strangers or people that didn't understand the meaning of family. I was... ugh! I need a "loaned" family"!!!

I'm lucky I have that family now, even though I can't be with my real real family, my adoptive family has stepped up to the plate and has promised to surround me with new amazing and happy memories.

Do you know how people say "make yourself at home" when you arrive at their house? well, for me it's "you know where your room is, go unpack and come and help fix lunch!"

I'm lucky. I'll spend Christmas with Mr. Big and New Year's with my uncle and his wife (Tito and Tita).

Mr. Big, is my best-est friend, he's my big brother, my cousin, my boyfriend, my husband... everything in one person. I already told him "You are the most amazing fu%^&*& bad-ass of a friend I could ask for".
He saved my life, literally. I'll never be able to pay him back all he has done for me.

Tito is my dad's cousin and Tita's his wife. When I'm home with them I'm another daughter. I have a room, family duties, a car and a place at the table. Their granddaughters call me Nani... having sleepovers with those 4 little monsters was just what I needed to start the new year happy.

I'm home. I am definitely home!

I'm happy.

Tiny ego boosts

It's been four days since I closed my other blog and it's still making me smile.

Real people telling me how much they liked my stories and how fun they all sounded. I got fan mail!

People living out of their countries that felt connected with my crazy thoughts.
Others thought my stories started as fiction but realized they were real by the time my life crumbled and I decided to leave the blog-sphere in January.

I don't know how'd they found my email address because that information is supposed to be confidential [can you say creepers?... Bah! creep away my babies!!]

Interestingly enough, all those emails were from people that used to read my blog, but never left comments.
How many of those are on this one? helloooooo... can you read me!?!?!?!?

So anyway, creeped-out and all, it was a little ego boost and I decided to add a literary bullet to the "Smurfette gets a life" list. There are a few people in this world that like to read what I write so... what if... well... one of these days... [sigh]... we can all dream.

Funny. There was one message where someone said I should look for that "handsome dude with the pretty eyes" I mentioned in a couple of posts and ask him out.

Been there. Done that. Failed.

That one is dead now, only one post survived the debacle.

Euthanasia

Today I killed my beloved blog in Spanish... it's gone.
Six years of stories, 259 posts, 2200 comments... all gone.

That part of me is officially dead.

Dead people don't talk, dead people don't write.
When dead people show up, they come as ghosts and ghosts don't bring happy thoughts.

I don't need to be sad, it's Christmas, it's time to be happy.
The year is almost gone, a new one is coming, I have the chance to begin again.

I'm moving on.

A new verb

Unfriend...

Stupid Facebook, you're making people do weird things.

As far as I know, three people have "unfriended" me:

• One of my best friends from HighSchool. She was not contributing much to my life and in the end she, after calling me "the sister she always wanted" decided that I wasn't good enough to spend 2 minutes with. She surprised me with an invitation to her wedding two days before and expected me to show up all smiles. Mmmm... no, I have a little pride. Didn't happen. That one didn't hurt.
• One whore-ish girl who... blah, I was trying to do the "keep your friends close but your enemies closer", and I guess she couldn't handle seeing me happy; so she blocked me. That one felt good!
• The really painfully smart, funny and handsome dude that hurt me... bad. And I know in this rush of being "normal again" I hurt him... bad. I'm sure neither one of us meant it, but we did. He's someone who I never imagined could punished me for life. Being honest, I never imagined being deleted from his personal history was going to hurt, but as a matter of fact it did. It still hurts really... pretty... bad.

[Sad puppy face.. wipes a tear and keeps writing...]

So far, I've unfriended two people from facebook...

• My former adviser, we had a bad fight before he fired and threatened to deport me so... no thanks man!
• His wife... duh!

Today, I unfriended three more people, with a strong heart and a shaky hand. They are really nice, didn't do anything bad but knowing about their lives was bringing more tears than joy.

I'm sorry.

I need to leave without explanations, I have to disappear from your lives and make you disappear from mine, you've been nice and I don't have anything against you. You've wished nothing but good.

Honestly, I have to learn to be a little bit more selfish and stop worrying too much about others.
I can't walk straight into a bright new future carrying the dead load of a past that's not coming back.

I'm moving on.

[No more tears, the last 24 hours have been a Christmas nightmare and I deserve better.]

Dancing lessons

Christmas is time for forgiveness... and Christmas surprises.

Last night, I went out dancing with my friends [translation: non-stop-salsa-dancing-so-intense-today-I-dont-feel-my-legs-and-my-butt-hurts] and the "clap and whistle guy from Summer" joined us.

My friends new about the episode so, they were a little surprised when he asked me out to dance and I gladly accepted.

What they didn't know is that the same guy had offered a sincere apology a couple of weeks ago at a Thanksgiving party. We talked and he said he was sorry, I believed him. He was brave enough to face the facts and well... that's nice.

We're friends again. Last night he even taught me how to dance cha-cha-cha "ballroom style".

So, proposal ready, start forgiving people who hurt me, attempt to have a decent social life... my "Smurfette gets a life" list has THREE check-downs in less than 2 days.

Christmas looks promising...

Suco de Maracujá

Maracujá/Maracuyá is Portuguese/Spanish for Passion Fruit.
Suco de Maracujá is Portuguese for Passion Fruit Juice.

Yesterday I had to stand in front of my advising committee and defend my research proposal. After talking, talking, talking, talking and answering questions for one and a half hours [say whaaat?!?!?!] and then hearing them TRASH my topic for 30 minutes [ouch!]... it was cool to hear those three men talk about me, as if I was not in the room and say:

Guy No. 1: "Evidently, she wants to do something out of OUR comfort zone. That's brave".
Guy No. 2: "She's interesting".
Guy No. 3: "She's full of passion, it's comforting to hear somebody talk with so much passion".

And THERE!!... RIGHT THEN!!! At that moment I knew the deal was sealed!

Yes! this little juicy passion fruit is signed, sealed and delivered!!

Proposal approved. Me happy.

One teeny-tiny step for mankind, one HUGE step for Smurfette.

FYI: No, I didn't come up with the Maracuyá thing, it was one of my sister's. When I called her about the good news, all she said was: I'm ssssoooo proud of my PASSION FRUIT big sister!!!

To tree or not to tree

The other night, the roomie and I were debating about Xmas decorations: trees, lights and all those pretty things we are supposed to hang around the apartment during this time of year.

I’ve always been a crazy-Xmas-fan but a psycho when it comes to when Xmas celebration starts.

The only rule I follow is: NO DECORATIONS BEFORE DECEMBER 1st!!

I want my new place to look beautiful for the Holidays, we’re two single girls with excellent decoration taste. We’re expected to have an amazing home, right?

Last year, I got a beautiful and tall tree as a Xmas surprise, it was full of white lights, pine cones; red, green and white colors; a gorgeous tree topper in the shape of a rustic angel and a base cover that looked like the one my mom made for the one back home… and bows, lots of big red bows, all of them hand-made… made by me and… the guy that gave me the tree as a present.

Our house smelled like Xmas because the pine cones were fresh. Fresh from "Walmart", but smelled like the real deal.

This year I won’t have my tree. I had to leave it along with a part of my heart that’s still healing from being broken into a million pieces.

I don't want to miss my tree. I don't want to be sad because I miss my tree anymore.

If I think about it, my life should be like Xmas this year: everything brand new, with a tree that I got by MYSELF for MYSELF. Its size, color, smell, decorations... everything like MAFE wants it. Nobody else will have a saying on MY tree [well, nobody but the rommie and Mafe].
It'll fit MY space, with the things that I want, not too much, not too little.

So, if I decide to get a tacky pink tree with tacky purple lights and tacky cheap "Barbie-wanna-be" dolls hanging from the branches... it'll be MY problem.
Oh yeah, that'll be a problem.... ew!

EWWW!!!
Mafe, Mafe, Mafe... just because you want a nice tree doesn't mean that you are going to settle for the first pink horrible thing that walks by.

It's a good thing trees don't walk.

... wait... what was I talking about?
-

Roomie talk (iii)

Her: So, how was your night out with the boys?

Me: Fun, nothing big... oh, btw, I'm getting married.

Her: Cool. Who's the lucky guy?

Me: This guy...

Her: That's nice, I've always liked him... was he drunk?

Me: What makes you think a guy has to be drunk to propose to me??

Her: Why are you marring him then?

Me: I told him I needed a green card so he proposed.

Her: There's a thoughtful guy!

Me: Yeah, we're going to elope, you're going to be the only witness.

Her: Obviously!

[two hours later]

Her: Hey, you're NOT REALLY marrying that guy, right?

Me:  -.-

Her: Just checking...

Blood Sausage psychosis and the Biscuit Index

Being honest, I've had a "Blood sausage psicosis" my entire life.

Have you ever seen a blood sausage? the skin is soooo tight you don't understand how is that thing holding itself. You know that it doesn't matter how gently you touch it or caress it with the fork, it will explode and OMG! rice! blood! peas! everything inside will fly all over the place.

Just like that.

When you are fat, buying clothes is a complete torture: nothing looks good on you, all the pretty things you like are NEVER on your size, all your friends trade clothes and lend each other pretty dresses but you? noooooo. Try to wear what your best friend wore to the party the other day and you will look like, well... a ready-to-burst blood sausage. She's a size 8, you are a size 12... wait... I thought we were kinda similar! does that mean that I'm FATTER than she is?!?!? Oh triple fuc---csia!!!! She's big... oh motherfuuuudge... Am I a cow?

Wearing a skirt is shameful, there aren't shapes that can accommodate your so-called-pear-shaped figure. Pear-shape? HA! that's a nice way to say you have a huge ba-dunk-a-dunk. Trust me, mine was big.
Boobs? don't get me started. And no boys, it's not fun to carry those things around, it's heavy and it hurts your back.
Pencil skirt? big nono, your belly is not going to look appealing on that. Don't do it.
Your legs? well... no, don't show them around, those are little blood sausages themselves so, no.

So, that's truma number one.
[Disclaimer: all the opinions reflected on this blog are solely property of the writer. If you don't like how I, ME AND MYSELF didn't enjoy being fat, that's YOUR problem, not mine]

Trauma number two comes from this: in Colombia, pretty girls are called "bizcochos", meaning BISCUITS. Because you want to eat them... duh!
Don't look at me like that, I didn't make that up. I don't like it either!
No, I was never called like that. Bummer? I don't know.

So, "Smurfette" [that's how I call myself when I'm writing about myself] was, well... a little overweight... just a little... but enough to be beyooooooond overweight... like... obese.

Now, unfortunately for me, and girls don't try this at home, the three problems stated above (Obesity, the blood sausage psycho-thing, and the biscuit blob) were solved by three different [sigh] men:

Problem No. 1. Overcoming Obesity:
I broke-up with a guy I was with for SIX YEARS and started what my friends called the "lipo-depression due to a divorce". I've lost 20 kilos in 9 months and counting.. I'm still 8 kilos from my ideal weight but now I know how to handle it:
Avoid ice cream and chocolate and cookies and sodas and carbs and pastas and sweets and bread and rice and everything tasty... all types of food whatsoever because you'll never know when you'll see him again and you MUST look amaaaaaaah-zing.
NOT!
All joking aside, if something like this EVER happens to you, don't go crazy.
What I did was, considering how I lost my appetite due to incredible sadness and I didn't want to get sick but I wanted to take advantage of the situation, I went to a nutritionist and together, we created a meal and workout plan (designed just for me). She measured my body mass, bone structure and other things I don't remember and gave me the number of calories I needed to consume daily to lose weight and stay healthy. The cool part is "there's an app for that"!!
Be smart! It's not about the missing dude, it's about yourself.

Problem No. 2: Overcoming the Blood Sausage Psychosis:
Career fair and I needed to look smart, pffff!! professional and interesting, but feminine at the same time. Oh man...
Even thought I've lost enough weight to wear THE pencil skirt, I was still feeling a little... well... meh.
I bought the skirt but didn't try it until the day I was supposed to wear it. This, to add difficulty to the task, of course and make it a surprise even for myself. I like challenges and sometimes I'm stupid. Sometimes.
With no one home to give an opinion about how I looked, I took one of those "duck-face-on-the-mirror-you-can-see-the-toilet" pictures of myself and sent it to the most reliable source of feedback: "my diet coach" who lives in Mexico. Thank you Whatsapp!!
Yes, I sound whiney, but please understand that my body is slowly gaining self-confidence. It's not easy, believe me. I trust my geeky knowledge, but this new appearance is still a mystery to me. I know it's not the most important thing but hey...
As I arrive at the fair, I still feel weird so I call this guy-friend and ask him about what does he think about my attire and he, well, very honestly said: WELL MAFECITA, YOU DON'T LOOK LIKE A BLOOD SAUSAGE READY TO BURST, YOU LOOK FINE.
You see? as gentle as a gorilla high on RedBull. Just what I needed.

Problem No. 3: Biscuit Index:
Last year, almost one year ago, one friend called me for drinks and introduced me to a guy who he calls "my good friend". Oh, ok, hi, how are you?... the guy leaves and blah, I forget about him the minute he walked out the door. He barely noticed or talked to me so, whatever. Biscuit Index = 1.3
Recently, I met the same friend who introduced me to the same guy. This time, the guy "gently" (ha!) pulls and sits me next to him at the table, buys me a drink, and 20 minutes later, poses his manly hands on my lap without asking for permission. Biscuit Index = 8.1
Yeah, last night out of the blue, I realized I've met the guy from the touchy-touchy post one year ago but by that time I was fat and he barely acknowledge my presence.
My personal Biscuit Index enhancement has been proven. I feel uselessly sexy.

[another sigh]

So, feeling stupid and knowing that I have to do things for myself and do not let others give me the push I need to do what I actually need to do, I've created a list called "Smurfette gets a life":

• Number one: Finish the #$%^&*() research proposal!
• Number two: Get a job, you have a killer CV and a huge ego, go ahead, don't be a chicken.
• Number three: Get some sleep, sleep deprivation will make you stupid, and we can't afford that.
• Number four: Forgive people for what they've done, after all, I'm nice... or something like that. Besides, I don't like this feeling of not having closure.
• Number five: Forget people, don't let them live inside my head and my heart without paying rent. 
• Number six: Take the FE exam, because I want to be a REAL engineer in this country.
• Number seven: Finish the $%^&* thesis.
• Number eight: Graduate and grow up.

Maybe not exactly in that order. That's something that I, me and myself are still thinking about.

More to come.


PostScript:
All credit to the "Biscuit Index" concept goes to Miss Olavia Kite, the coolest blogger / singer / ukulele players / dream-catcher I've have the pleasure and great fun to vlog-laborate with.
_

Polyglot storytelling

I just found out I can't write stories in English.

I can write a lot, A WHOLE LOT in Spanish.
I can be funny in English, but I'm funnier in Spanish.
I can write full and colorful stories in Spanish, but I can only ponder in English.

In Spanish, my writing can make grown men cry (score!)
In Spanish, I'm working on a love story and just got THIS review:
"I want to hug you [the main character], two seconds later I want to just scream at you. Right after that, you deserve a pat on the head, a minute later I just want to shoot you... but honestly, I can't stop laughing!!"
Music to my ears.


On the other hand, and against all odds, I can write "attention-catching-and-interestingly sexy" paragraphs in English (or so I've been told)... but in Spanish, those come out as ridiculous (yes, I've been told. D'oh!).

I speak a little French. Enough to sing "Je l'aime a mourir", "Rien de rien" and "L'hymne a l'amour" by heart, ask where the Champs Elisées are and order a café au lait. I can have a slow and lame conversation with a french person about colors, numbers and months or the year... but I can't write!!

German? well, all I know, from 11 years ago, besides the wordly-known "Ich liebe dich" and "kuss mich, mein liebe" is that someone took my name MAFE and turned into M.Affe and then Meine Affe. It was cute, and funny I guess. It had something to do with Harry Potter, or The Lord of the Rings... I don't remember. 
The same guy used to called his father "Vater" and since I didn't know much by then, I was convinced it was the old man's name. Don't tell me that's not a disaster waiting to happen!!! As of today, Herr Vater still emails and talks to me on Skype. Why? I'm the kind of girl you introduce to your parents and they LOVE, of course! [false advertisement is HIGHLY acclaimed on this blog. Sue me]
Writing? not a chance, I tried to learn German a long time ago and never went back after 2 classes. Still, I was able to go to the Goethe Institut dance parties, but apparently there are some things you cannot learn by osmosis.

Italian? Donne du ru ru, in cerca di guai. Donne a un telefono che non suona mai. Donne, du ru ru... Neri Per Casso, that's all I know. Oh, and some really helpful curse words only a few people can understand.
Writing may be dangerous for the human eye.

Portuguese? mmmm... what can I say? My heart was melted and fell in love with a Portugues--- LISTENING to a Portuguese song. Yeah, a song. 
I've been able to read three (three!!) entire books in portuguese. My speaking is not that bad, I think. I've survived four times in Brazil and was able to hail a cab, order "Caipirinhas" and ask for discounts on "saias". No more. 
According to my sources, my writing can be compared to "Antediluvian Mesopotamian". Impossible to understand so... yeah, that's not going to happen in the near future.

Useless pondering rambling, that's all I know how to do in English.
I guess there's hope it'll be enough to convince the world I can be a real "Expert in Transportation Engineering"... some day soon.

You're not normal

“You could NEVER be normal. You’re special… you’re nice.”

I know that, I’m REALLY special, and maybe TOO nice. It was nice to know someone else believed that.

Someone recently told me that I shouldn’t expect anything from anyone.

The same day, someone else told me: If we don’t expect anything, it means we’re not special or important to anyone.

What’s the meaning of sharing your life with someone if there aren’t any expectations? Why are we together in the first place if not to complement, love and care for each other and fill life with expectations of all kinds?

What about your friends? Are you supposed to expect much from them? Are you supposed to expect them to be “there”… by the way, where is that place called “there”? is it close? I need to know exactly so I can look for a lost friend.

Maybe I’m too nice, maybe I’m stupid, or maybe I’m just anxious to go back to a normal life. Again.

I expected too much and received just enough to break my heart. Again.

I expected to be treated as the “very special” someone I thought I was, but it turns out I was kidding myself.

I pretended to be cool… I can’t be, I can’t hide my feelings and they’re always on my sleeve. I can’t.

I expected too much and forgave more than I should.

Oh dude, I wish you could read this some day…

Every single word I said and wrote to you was true.
The day at San Diego conference, that was all real.
Those incredibly long email "chains"... all true.

I wish I could believe your words were true as well. But it’s hard to believe them when right after you reminded me how special and nice you thought I was, you turned your back as I needed your help because I felt someone wanted to hurt me, I was scared… much less, when you didn’t even noticed how sick it made me feel.

It’s not that I’m not going to miss you. I will, you know it. I'll cry, pffff! a lot! I'm a crybaby, you know it. You've seen me!

It’s just that I can’t let you keep hurting me when I don’t know if you’re being naïve or mean. Or you just don’t care.

It hurt to know that you “deleted” every single link from me from your life; but it hurt me more that you didn’t even notice how I deleted you from mine, two days before.

It hurts!

You see? I was expecting more from you than I should, and it came back and hit me in the face.
My bad.

Remember how you told me: “Don't worry, I’m not going anywhere”?

Tonight I’m wondering if I should make you stick to that promise or just finish clearing all memories from you from my computer, my cell phone, the notebook, that napkin you scribbled last year (no, I never lost it, I found it!)… and my heart.

Roomie talk (ii)

Me: I'm starting to dislike men... at all levels. Ugh!
Her: I know! what's wrong with them!?!??!?
Me: So, it's not me... I'm not sub-normal, right?
Her: No, we are perfectly normal girls, we are actually BETTER than many others.
Me: Agreed.
Her: We are smart, funny, independent...
Me: Absolutely!
Her: We have good taste, pretty... sexy...
Me: Hell yeah!
Her: C'mon, you even have nice boobs!!!
Me: Ah---- wait, what?

A knight in shinning armor

Here's one thing:

I don't believe in feminism, chauvinism, machismo, and those isms. I think we are all the same.
Obviously, there are some jobs or things SOME women can't do (myself included) that require a higher physical ability. Sure, for every 3 incredibly strong girls there are 3 incredibly weak guys, and we're even. Right?
Additionally, there are jobs that require attention to detail that SOME men can't do because, well... it's not in their nature. Yes, it's true, SOME guys, not every guy. I've met men that are more into details that some women I know so yeah, it's not fair to generalize.

In other words, there are some people that can, and some people that cannot. Talking about people is easier than talking about gender in this matters, but I need to make a point.

The other thing is:

Yes, I like chivalry. Guilty, sue me.
I like guys that open the door for me.
I like guys that hold an umbrella when it's raining.
I love it when guys offer their coats when it's cold.
It's cool when a guys offers to walk you home.

And it's not because I don't think I can't open a door, or hold an umbrella, remember to wear a jacket or walk by myself or take a cab. No, I'm old fashioned. I can be your buddy, but I'm also a lady so, whatever.
But wait, not because a guy's a gentleman will mean that you can have a Mafe for yourself dude. That's ONE requirement, but not the only one.
Actually, I expect that kind of behavior from all men, not just my husband / boyfriend / lover / one-night-stand. Now that I think about it, most of my guyfriends are complete gentlemen.

Well, and I think this is because yes, I am a Latina, and we're brought up that way.
Theoretically, we are tough cookies, we love to feel sexy and expect to be treated as ladies so... we're tough AND sexy lady-cookies. Does that make sense?
Latin men are brought up to fill the gap, they are taught to open doors, hold umbrellas, offer coats and walk girls home because "It's dangerous! keep her safe! Be a man!"

All things considered, turns out all this education screws things up when decide to live in a part of the world where being like that is not a custom but something, to put it simple, useless if not really a nuisance.

When a Latina meets a guy that does not behave that way, we feel, well... violated. At least I do.
When a Latino meets a girl that does not expect chivalry, it unscrews their bulbs. Trust me, I've seen it happen.



All this to say one thing:

Dude, I don't expect you to come to my rescue when I see a bug or carry me when walking in the rain, but when I say:

"I don't like your buddy because he tried to feel my thighs under the table"

You are NOT supposed to laugh about it and say:

"I don't think so, I'm pretty sure it was a mistake... 

he has a girlfriend, he bumped into you, that's all."

NO.  I KNOW WHAT I FELT. THAT'S HOW RAPE BEGINS.
I may be nice and funny, but nobody, hear me: NOBODY is allowed to touch me if I don't want him/her to. Ok?

By the way, don't worry about txt'ing me lame condescending apologies and trying to justify your asshole of a friend, your phone is no longer on my contact list. Don't bother.

You failed dude, you're out.

PostScript: This is my second post about guys getting too touchy-touchy 

with me...what kind of ass swipes am I surrounding myself with?!?!?!

... full disappointment

Roommie talk (i)

While watching tv - an engagement ring ad.

Her: Annoying!!!
Me: Boooooo... screw you dude!!
Her: Twice even!!!

Roomie talk (iv)

I just listen, everything she says is wise:


- And then I told my EX: dude! chill! the world is such a fun place... with our without you... well... specially without you, but chill!!


- What do you mean I'm going to hell?? My thing is purgat--- wait, mayb--- and if we don't count the time I... never mind, I'm going to hell.


- That guy's caaah- ute! A funny guy is a sexy guy. Don't you think?
- Sure... and being F***** HOT helps as well."


Mr. big: You girls are sooooooo going to hell!
- See you there!!"


- If you ever needed a reason to love Canada... Ryan Gosling.


- Reality check: who do we know that's available and looks like Ryan G??
- Mmmmm?? I don't think we know anyone like THAT.
- Fuuuuuck! I feel so sorry for my existence!!!


[calling a guy, making him think he MUST throw a party at his place]
- Mafecita!!! aren't we amazing? we organized a party in five minutes!!!
- We are so--- wait --- we? ... we???? ... WE?!?!?!?!
- Fine, I'm amazing... 

Next stop: COLOMBIA

I'm off... going home for business doesn't sound fun or believable.

Well I am.

I'm going to renew my visa before "the man" founds out it was expired (don't worry, my school papers are fine so I'm fine).
I'm going to present my findings at a conference.
I'll teach a class an the Master's... or is it another type of thing? somewhere else.
I'll see some people that may help me with my research and possible job opportunities.

I'll see my family as much as possible and eat as many goodies I can without losing my new acquired and amaaaaah-zing killer shape.

See some friends and some not-so-friendly people I need to see.

I'm off.

Good luck to me.

Clap and whistle

Here's a thought Mr. Man,

The fact that we were introduced a couple of years ago,
the fact that we run in the same circle of friends,
the fact that we speak the same language,
the fact that you are a... meh, decent dancer,
the fact that you didn't even know my name when I was a size 12, but a size 4 "Mafecita" caught your attention,
the fact that I'm not longer "with gentleman",
the fact that I'm really tiny compared to you...

... does NOT give you the right to feel me, grab my butt or do whatever it was you were trying to do the other night... EWWWWW!!

The next time you try something like that, I will react REALLY violently and scream. That night I was really scared and the only thing I could think of doing was pulling myself away from you as fast as I could.
Another attempt like that and, oh yes, my lovely bodyguards will kick your ass. They've already warned you: "One signal from petite little Mafe and... you... are... dead"
Please show your hands at all times and if the lights go off, CLAP AND WHISTLE.

Are we clear?

Oh, and please, don't play dumb and don't ask why is it that I don't want to talk to you anymore.
It's not flattering, grow up.

And yes, don't bother and stop asking my roommate out for coffee, we girls talk about EVERYTHING and, honestly? she hates your guts.
Eres un cabron!

The calorie count that doesn't count

I'm on a counting calories diet... booooooooring...

I'm supposed to eat between 1200 and 1350 calories per day with a goal to burn almost half of it at the gym. And, just so my diet sister knows, here's this semester's weekly train of exercise:

• Spinning 3 days,
• Boot camp 1 day,
• Zumba and ballet classes 1 day each (yes, ballet - I know now how to releve, plie, grand plie and susu like a Black Swan. It's just that mine don't look like Natalie Portman's but Bjork's ...),
• Racquetball and volleyball practices (with an almost-broken-wrist and my fingers swollen and purple after every volleyball practice/game. Ha! but according to my trainer - aka nemesis - my racquetball technique is getting better and better!),
• Swimming 3 miles in 80 min once a week 3.5 miles in one hour twice a week.

... and that is, actually not that bad.

Here's the bad thing: OKTOBERFEST.

According to the app, the number of calories on an Apple Strudle is 290 and 425 on a Cheese Strudel, add those two and I'm more than halfway my daily calorie intake.

The problem is... I love strudel. Specially the one they sell during Oktoberfest here in Zinzinnati.

The ugly part of the problem is the fact that I used to share my strudels. Do I have to eat them all by myself now? Who's going to munch on them during the night? How am I supposed to wake up the next day and find each slice almost gone? It's not pretty...

What if I buy a mini slice of each flavor and mourn eat it and don't think.

It doesn't matter how many calories are there, or how will I burn them.
I just can't see myself doing it.
It doesn't feel right.
Karma's a bitch

Strike one, two, three... and four.

When you become single after [undisclosed number so I won't feel so bad] years of living with a cool dude most people like (ugh), you find out that some of your friends can't picture you as a single-single-single-really?-you?-single?-single lady.

So, those friends will see a prospective life-partner in each male specimen that walks into your scene. Problem is... after a while, you start believing, like them, that every man that walks by and asks you for directions is really dying to meet you because you are "THE ONE".

Go figure.

So, batter up!

Bachelor No. 1: You meet at a dinner party at a friend's house. You two start talking and by the third appetizer tray you end up talking about how you two like this very particular author. He makes a comment about how the guy will be in the city signing his most recent novel and you two make plans to go see him together... two hours later, you're Facebook friends and let the world know that you two, indeed, will attend the book signing. Your friends are excited and you don't understand why.
The guy is 5 years younger than you.
You are now, a cougar.

Bachelor No. 2: You see him at the entrance of the restaurant where you two are meeting the same group of friends. He's funny, you both like the same type of food and make fun of the same people at the dinner table; not bad for his type. You two have the same academic background so there's lots of conversation. Once he leaves, your mutual friend is smiling and smirking and telling you that "oh my God! he likes you! he's totally into you! I've never seen him talk to a girl like that!!".
Of course, you don't believe it, but that sets a weird image in your head and deep down in your brain you think that it might be true.
Half an hour later you're home, turn on your computer and find that he requested you as a friend on Facebook.
You scream and hide under the covers because maybe he can see you.
You are now, stupid.

Bachelor No. 3: You meet at a concert at a retirement home, because now you do weird stuff you didn't do before and you volunteer for good causes and things like that, blah, blah, blah. He's super smart, super funny, he's kinda cute, he's a short divorced Latino and he looks a whole lot like the one you left a couple of months ago BUT you pretend not to notice. You start making fun of each other and start laughing so hard you almost get kicked out of the place in between the Allegro and Andante of whatever it is their playing... or was it singing? Anyway, you don't care. You two leave the concert room and keep talking and laughing. Not bad. Not bad at all.
After the concert, there's coffee and cookies for the old folks, and more music of course: salsa and merengue!
As good Latinos you two jump to the dance floor and swing the nigh--- afternoon away. Oh... the joy! exchange numbers, emails, and since he doesn't live in the same city (bummer!) you two promise to have a beer the next time he's in town. You don't like beer but... mmmeh.
One week later, you're driving on a parking lot and while looking for a parking spot... you run the guy over, or almost ran the guy over? that part is a blur.
You are now, a wanted criminal.

Bachelor No. 4: You know him from years and years before, you know him well. He doesn't live in the same city as you do. He's one of your best friends but you never saw him "that way before". After all, you were unavailable. But you are single now, and so is he.
You start talking more often than you did before, texting back and forth, emails come and go, he's the shoulder you cry on, he calls to check on your mood, you "accidentally" run into each other on Skype several times a week, he compliments you on how cute you look wearing your pink sheep pajamas and you mention how good he looks after a night at the gym, you talk about how fun it would be to see each other again and... awww... it's nice.
You find yourself thinking about a lot him and... he's funny, smart, ho-- hot?!?! the full package? Tall, dark and handso--- wait, what? what is wrong with you Mafe???? Are we talking about about the same dude?! FOCUS!!!
He comes to visit for a couple of days and you go out for an after-lunch coffee, and the coffee turns into a couple of drinks, and the couple of drinks turn into dinner. Dinner turns into staring at the riverfront cuddling and walking around downtown holding hands, and then... you can't stop smiling. You're the only woman in the world when you're with him.
After a couple of days he leaves and you realize how stupidly blind you've been ALL THIS YEARS for not seeing what you had in front of you ALL THIS YEARS.
You are now...
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Writing is easy... right?

Sure, easy when you know what you're doing!

The only reason this new blog exists is the need to force my brain to think and write in English (or at least more than what's happening now). I'm a Spanish speaking geek trying to finish what started as a "sweet life ambition" of a thesis and it has become the reason I can't sleep at night, I have to wake-up at 3.30am 2 times a week, the reason I feel guilty every time I go out with my friends and the reason I forgot what a normal life is. Yes, I'm a graduate student.

... well... that and the fact that I had to kill the one blog in Spanish I loved writing on (don't ask, I can make you cry with the story, trust me) and then created a new one with sad little love lines of how my absolutely little broken heart is, well, absolutely broken.

I don't really like that one, and I don't want to sound like a bad blog-mother. But it's just not right, it's  alive but is not my best work.
Not only because of the reasons that brought that cyber-baby into the cyber-world, and the I-want-to-shoot-myself posts; but because just a few people knew about it and.. well... zero comments don't serve the narcissistic goal of a personal blog --- 'cause let's be honest, we bloggers want to become Arianna Huffington, Harvey Levin, ,Yoani Sanchez or AT LEAST Perez Hilton at one point or another, right? --- no? no one? well, at least I do.

Anyway, here goes, hold on tight... my English is not perfect so I know "lovers gonna love and haters gonna hate", I don't mind, as long as you show up and say something.
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