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!!!