Luis arrives 15 minutes late to pick me up from the gym (it's a Mexican thing, 15 mins). Waiting outside is freezing and boring so I say 'hello' in a tone, and answer 'yes' to 'have you been waiting long?'. What is happening to my easy-going laid-back Aussie charm??
His bar of choice is a block from his parents house. So, his house. I'm dating someone who lives with his parents (which isn't a source of shame here, it's the norm) so, he decides to park his car there and we walk.
Luis comments that my hair has changed and before I have a chance to tell him I hated it at first but it's really growing on me, he tells me it's "not that bad".
I mention how thankful I am just to have hair, and he replies that he doesn't care that he's going bald.
He's moving to Australia next year, so over our beer he does a bit of research about meal times and what we eat etc. Leisure activites, bars.. and then,
"So in bars do the men usually approach the women, or the other way around?"
Pause.
"We're on a date and you're asking me how to pick up women in Australia?"
In revenge I tell him there's noone between the age of 17 and 45 in Adelaide so it doesn't matter. He mentions he likes older women. So I tell him, that's lucky what with him being bald and everything.
We have just got stuck into the issue of Luis openly rubber-necking hot women when he's with me, when the bill arrives. Well, if he's going to be a macho latino.. he can be one all the way and pay for my beer, thankyou very much. I give him a look that sums up that thought in one raised eyebrow, and he pulls out his wallet and pays.
Turns out there's a bit of Latina in all of us....
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Monday, December 25, 2006
Sunday, December 24, 2006
THE NIGHT BEFORE .. THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
Night of 23rd December: Posada. I wasn't quite sure what to make of the word (sounds like food to me), but it's something about singing and doing things to remember Mary and Joseph's quest for a place to stay.
We head to Ara's family's street for the night. It kicks off (in a turn-up for the books) on the dot of 8pm as scheduled. We emerge from injecting the turkey with white wine in the kitchen - if I'd known working with syringes was so fun I would have become a doctor - to find all the neighbours walking up and down the street. Two of them are carrying a platform with statues of Mary, Joseph and an angel. Everyone is singing.
Is the donkey trying to bite the angel?
For some reason, tonight is the night the electricity system has decided to crash, so it's all pitch black aside from polystyrene cups with candles burning through the sides and one portable florescent light that adds a slightly 21st century feel to proceedings.
This is a serious business. For the next hour we act out the search for a room. The songs have lyrics that are printed out in a Posada song book and the group splits in two. Half go behind the gate/door of a given property and the other half stand outside singing, "In the name of heaven, don't be inhumane, we're exhausted, I'm a carpenter called Jose".
The people behind the gate sing, "Keep going, I don't have to open up, I don't care what your name is".
And so it goes, back and forth, door to door. At one point the outside group hatches a plan to run away while the inside group is still singing and much hilarity ensues.
Finally we settle on a place, which has four piñatas.. and a steady stream of kids don blindfolds and wildly swing something like a baseball bat dangerously close to cars and spectators. When I say kids, I mean anyone up to the age of 35, so yes, I had a go. I was a bit worried about my new jeans falling down in the middle of my efforts but they made it. Must remember to wear a belt in future.
Fruit falls out and everyone scrambles.
Hot ponche circulates, it's a fruit drink that takes a day to prepare. Tostadas. Sandwiches. Other stuff.
Then we go upstairs where everyone chats and dances. The matriache is old and lost her vocal chords somewhere along the path of life. She is an absolute delight and we sit right in front of the speakers, each trying to decipher what the other is saying. She has turned out a family of beauties, and they all dance around her and later she jigs along. Until 2am.
After 5 farewells (it's a tradition to say goodbye and then keep talking) we finally head across the road for some rest. Tomorrow's a big day.
We head to Ara's family's street for the night. It kicks off (in a turn-up for the books) on the dot of 8pm as scheduled. We emerge from injecting the turkey with white wine in the kitchen - if I'd known working with syringes was so fun I would have become a doctor - to find all the neighbours walking up and down the street. Two of them are carrying a platform with statues of Mary, Joseph and an angel. Everyone is singing.
Is the donkey trying to bite the angel?
For some reason, tonight is the night the electricity system has decided to crash, so it's all pitch black aside from polystyrene cups with candles burning through the sides and one portable florescent light that adds a slightly 21st century feel to proceedings.
This is a serious business. For the next hour we act out the search for a room. The songs have lyrics that are printed out in a Posada song book and the group splits in two. Half go behind the gate/door of a given property and the other half stand outside singing, "In the name of heaven, don't be inhumane, we're exhausted, I'm a carpenter called Jose".
The people behind the gate sing, "Keep going, I don't have to open up, I don't care what your name is".
And so it goes, back and forth, door to door. At one point the outside group hatches a plan to run away while the inside group is still singing and much hilarity ensues.
Finally we settle on a place, which has four piñatas.. and a steady stream of kids don blindfolds and wildly swing something like a baseball bat dangerously close to cars and spectators. When I say kids, I mean anyone up to the age of 35, so yes, I had a go. I was a bit worried about my new jeans falling down in the middle of my efforts but they made it. Must remember to wear a belt in future.
Fruit falls out and everyone scrambles.
Hot ponche circulates, it's a fruit drink that takes a day to prepare. Tostadas. Sandwiches. Other stuff.
Then we go upstairs where everyone chats and dances. The matriache is old and lost her vocal chords somewhere along the path of life. She is an absolute delight and we sit right in front of the speakers, each trying to decipher what the other is saying. She has turned out a family of beauties, and they all dance around her and later she jigs along. Until 2am.
After 5 farewells (it's a tradition to say goodbye and then keep talking) we finally head across the road for some rest. Tomorrow's a big day.
Friday, December 22, 2006
LEARNING THE RULES
I have studiously ignored Ara's strongly-worded advice not to go out with Luis again, due to his bill-splitting tendencies, and am preparing myself for a night out in a surprise location.
Ara is showing signs of distress, so I get a fifth opinion from her visiting friend Yvonne (I've already sussed it out with a few Mexicanas, they all agree)
They both start shaking their pointer fingers and saying 'no no no no no' in a descending tone.
As I don black tights and top under little black dress with little green flat shoes and scarf of various shades, Ara and Yvonne start dispensing emergency advice. ALL Mexican men have been EDUCATED to pay, it is unthinkable to let the woman pay in the first dates and he is 'aprovechando' the fact that I am a gringa.
(Aprovechar is a great, handy verb that means 'make the most of')
When the bill comes, I MUST go to the toilet or if I have gone to the toilet recently, just keep talking. Only if he asks for money should I pretend I have completely forgotten about the bill and comply with a smile.
This goes against every grain in me... whaaaaat? How do you just sit there and watch someone pay the bill without feeling like a tightarse yourself?
No, they say, this is about respect. And Ara adds that if I offer him money, I have to buy her dinner. It's a bet that she's just unilaterally installed.
When I arrive to the car, Luis informs me I look like a ballerina (was it the tights??)(or did I go anorexic overnight without noticing?) and we set off.
We arrive at a club called La Perla, he pays my entry. So far, so good.
It's fantastic. Lots of red, lots of silver... retro chairs. Kind of like the hamburger joint John Travolta and Uma Thurman went in Pulp Fiction, but without the car booths... Hmmm, what am I trying to say? Lots of stainless steel and vinyl but with a Mexican feel, 60s Mexican music. The DJ is about a hundred, he's long and stringy and wears a tailored suit. A cigarette permanently dangles out of his mouth, dancing around as he sings. The owner zips around, also very old and in a diamond-checked vest.
"If a place can completely sum up someone's personality," Luis says, "This is mine".
Only in the bathroom when I come across someone with a lot of glitter on their fake eyelashes do I realise we're in a drag joint.
Is Luis trying to tell me something?
We dance. I walk past a table with two gay guys and one of them grabs me and starts speaking very quickly. All I can gather is that something about me is 'the best'. I'm pretty sure he's referring to my dancing, so I thank him profusely and move on before I can find out that he's actually referring to the best ballerina outfit or something.
Next thing we know, there are heaps of strangely-dressed people doing movements that vaguely resemble those of the person beside them. The women are wearing practically nothing, the men embroidered satin shirts.
Then the drag queens come out. Shakira is big-boned and very, very ugly. A large black wo-man shakes her arse like there's no tomorrow. There's I Will Survive (of course) and a duet involving a bald man fondling a transexual.
The surgery is amazing. Some of these women have really good breasts. One of them looks a bit like Michael Jackson.
Then they disappear and there's salsa music. Luis propels me around to some private beat of his own, until the gay guy (introduced as Olivier) grabs me and informs me 'my boyfriend' is wasting me. He's actually very good, but when the third song starts and he's still got me in a lynch grip I start worrying about Luis.
His friend goes over to explain the situation, and Oliver finally lets me go, but spends another ten minutes explaining he hasn't intended any distress to 'my boyfriend'.
When they finally leave, Luis explains that it's not normal to ask a girl to dance when she's out with a man.. but why Olivier thought that Luis would be threatened I'm not sure.
When the DJ can't seem to get past his Bee Gees record, Luis orders the bill and without so much as a look, pays it. Pity, I really needed to go to the toilet.
Ara is showing signs of distress, so I get a fifth opinion from her visiting friend Yvonne (I've already sussed it out with a few Mexicanas, they all agree)
They both start shaking their pointer fingers and saying 'no no no no no' in a descending tone.
As I don black tights and top under little black dress with little green flat shoes and scarf of various shades, Ara and Yvonne start dispensing emergency advice. ALL Mexican men have been EDUCATED to pay, it is unthinkable to let the woman pay in the first dates and he is 'aprovechando' the fact that I am a gringa.
(Aprovechar is a great, handy verb that means 'make the most of')
When the bill comes, I MUST go to the toilet or if I have gone to the toilet recently, just keep talking. Only if he asks for money should I pretend I have completely forgotten about the bill and comply with a smile.
This goes against every grain in me... whaaaaat? How do you just sit there and watch someone pay the bill without feeling like a tightarse yourself?
No, they say, this is about respect. And Ara adds that if I offer him money, I have to buy her dinner. It's a bet that she's just unilaterally installed.
When I arrive to the car, Luis informs me I look like a ballerina (was it the tights??)(or did I go anorexic overnight without noticing?) and we set off.
We arrive at a club called La Perla, he pays my entry. So far, so good.
It's fantastic. Lots of red, lots of silver... retro chairs. Kind of like the hamburger joint John Travolta and Uma Thurman went in Pulp Fiction, but without the car booths... Hmmm, what am I trying to say? Lots of stainless steel and vinyl but with a Mexican feel, 60s Mexican music. The DJ is about a hundred, he's long and stringy and wears a tailored suit. A cigarette permanently dangles out of his mouth, dancing around as he sings. The owner zips around, also very old and in a diamond-checked vest.
"If a place can completely sum up someone's personality," Luis says, "This is mine".
Only in the bathroom when I come across someone with a lot of glitter on their fake eyelashes do I realise we're in a drag joint.
Is Luis trying to tell me something?
We dance. I walk past a table with two gay guys and one of them grabs me and starts speaking very quickly. All I can gather is that something about me is 'the best'. I'm pretty sure he's referring to my dancing, so I thank him profusely and move on before I can find out that he's actually referring to the best ballerina outfit or something.
Next thing we know, there are heaps of strangely-dressed people doing movements that vaguely resemble those of the person beside them. The women are wearing practically nothing, the men embroidered satin shirts.
Then the drag queens come out. Shakira is big-boned and very, very ugly. A large black wo-man shakes her arse like there's no tomorrow. There's I Will Survive (of course) and a duet involving a bald man fondling a transexual.
The surgery is amazing. Some of these women have really good breasts. One of them looks a bit like Michael Jackson.
Then they disappear and there's salsa music. Luis propels me around to some private beat of his own, until the gay guy (introduced as Olivier) grabs me and informs me 'my boyfriend' is wasting me. He's actually very good, but when the third song starts and he's still got me in a lynch grip I start worrying about Luis.
His friend goes over to explain the situation, and Oliver finally lets me go, but spends another ten minutes explaining he hasn't intended any distress to 'my boyfriend'.
When they finally leave, Luis explains that it's not normal to ask a girl to dance when she's out with a man.. but why Olivier thought that Luis would be threatened I'm not sure.
When the DJ can't seem to get past his Bee Gees record, Luis orders the bill and without so much as a look, pays it. Pity, I really needed to go to the toilet.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
I LIKE MY TWIST WITH A SHOUT
Going to the movies on your own is one thing.
Going to a rock concert alone is completely another.
Technically, I didn't. The Killers, Mexico City, December 13: Sarali and Pablo have taken me there, both of them equipped with tickets for the main floor section, me equipped with money to buy scalped tickets for the main floor section.
When I discover the Mexican scalpers here are just as bad as Australian ones, and prices for that section have tripled to around $200, I decide to shell out $45 to a guy whose friends have cancelled and hope that the seated C4 section is not somewhere behind the stage. From now he will be refered to as The Tall Guy.
I strike off on my own, buy a beer (it comes in one-litre paper cups here), buy a water (another paper cup) and then make the mistake of buying a donut. Apart from the unmanagable flavour combination, there was the small issue of not having four hands (one more to keep showing the ticket to people in the neverending sequence of doors).
I make it to my section with minimal spillage, find my seat and look around. Hmmmm. Three rows behind me, empty. Three rows in front of me, empty. All the seats stretching off to either side of my, empty. There I am, with my various refreshments, feeling quite in the middle of a wide, open space.
I sit down, give myself a little pep talk about this being just a 'different' experience and really, you don't get to talk to your friends during live music anyway, you're just standing with them, that's all.
Still no people.
I look down at the people in the fun zone. Someone throws a cup of beer 20 metres onto a guy who extends a finger in the general direction of where the cup originated. Everyone is waving to each other, finding their friends, talking. On the big screen, the camera zones in on one person until they realise and wave, before moving onto someone else.
This goes on for 40 minutes. Rivetting viewing. Noone thinks to flash.
The area around me gradually fills. I attempt conversation with the girl who has bought the other ticket the guy was selling, and she's either hostile or shy. Or racist. Actually, that would put her in the hostile category, wouldn't it?
Finally, thank the Lord, there is a loud drum beat that reverberates through my ribcage and fills me with that glorious, swelling live music feeling.
It's one of the sound guys doing a test.
And then, when I have almost run out of pep-talk momentum... the music starts.
I immediately transform from vaguely-self-aware-mute to rabid-screaming-fan (who knows most of the lyrics) The Tall Guy materialises and like me he is bellowing words that sometimes coincide with what's being blasted out of the speakers. Between us we pep our whole section into action. The hostile girl is even raising her arm and omitting intermittent sound.
Brandon sings and sweats his way through Sam's Town, then the prelude, then When You Were Young and then produces "Bienvenidos". The crowd goes wild.
Whatever he produces next though, is open to question. Noone is sure what language he has spoken, or what the general message is... which cures him of talking for the rest of the show.
Palacio Deportes (Palace of Sport) is more affectionately known to Mexicans as Palacio Rebotes (Palace of Bounce) in reference to the sound dynamics and yes, the beginning of Jenny Was A Friend of Mine is unrecognisable. The tambourine in Indie Rock And Roll is absent.
WHO CARES????? This is the best show EVER!!!!
The difficulty is jumping up and down in the seated section without falling down the crack behind the chair in front. The Tall Guy secures a deal with that chair's occupant that I can use it to put one of my feet, despite the fact that my beer doesn't always stay in its cup.
But for serious jumping, I just steady myself using The Tall Guy's shoulder.
I can see the profile of a guy three rows in front, who is also singing to many of the words. I love watching Spanish speakers singing in English, because the words don't always match. And both of us do that thing where, if you don't know the words, you just move your mouth in a generic fashion.
My neighbours are screaming something that sounds like 'a-wim-ba-way' - are they requesting the jungle song?
The Tall Guy explains that they're actually screaming 'Oevo-wey' which he loosely translates to 'Fuck Yeah'.
My job of explaining the title Glamorous Indie Rock'n'Roll is a bit more difficult.
And then, after what seems like five minutes... All These Things That I Have Done is over, and they are leaving the stage.
Inevitably they return, Brandon utters his only other spoken words "This is a Killers goodbye" (for someone who writes such interesting lyrics, he's really not holding up with the light banter), they sing the Exitlude and Dave the Drummer throws no less than 10 drumsticks into the audience. One of them, he throws so far I suspect he might have a career in javalin after music, if he's not too busy fighting a civil action for personal injury arising from a high-velocity drumstick incident, December 13 Mexico City.
Then, the lights are on and I find myself kissing the hostile/shy girl goodbye, hugging The Tall Guy, and being swept by a sea of singing Mexicans out onto the street.
"I've got this energy beneath my feet - like something underground's gonna come up and carry me."
The Killers, Sam's Town
Going to a rock concert alone is completely another.
Technically, I didn't. The Killers, Mexico City, December 13: Sarali and Pablo have taken me there, both of them equipped with tickets for the main floor section, me equipped with money to buy scalped tickets for the main floor section.
When I discover the Mexican scalpers here are just as bad as Australian ones, and prices for that section have tripled to around $200, I decide to shell out $45 to a guy whose friends have cancelled and hope that the seated C4 section is not somewhere behind the stage. From now he will be refered to as The Tall Guy.
I strike off on my own, buy a beer (it comes in one-litre paper cups here), buy a water (another paper cup) and then make the mistake of buying a donut. Apart from the unmanagable flavour combination, there was the small issue of not having four hands (one more to keep showing the ticket to people in the neverending sequence of doors).
I make it to my section with minimal spillage, find my seat and look around. Hmmmm. Three rows behind me, empty. Three rows in front of me, empty. All the seats stretching off to either side of my, empty. There I am, with my various refreshments, feeling quite in the middle of a wide, open space.
I sit down, give myself a little pep talk about this being just a 'different' experience and really, you don't get to talk to your friends during live music anyway, you're just standing with them, that's all.
Still no people.
I look down at the people in the fun zone. Someone throws a cup of beer 20 metres onto a guy who extends a finger in the general direction of where the cup originated. Everyone is waving to each other, finding their friends, talking. On the big screen, the camera zones in on one person until they realise and wave, before moving onto someone else.
This goes on for 40 minutes. Rivetting viewing. Noone thinks to flash.
The area around me gradually fills. I attempt conversation with the girl who has bought the other ticket the guy was selling, and she's either hostile or shy. Or racist. Actually, that would put her in the hostile category, wouldn't it?
Finally, thank the Lord, there is a loud drum beat that reverberates through my ribcage and fills me with that glorious, swelling live music feeling.
It's one of the sound guys doing a test.
And then, when I have almost run out of pep-talk momentum... the music starts.
I immediately transform from vaguely-self-aware-mute to rabid-screaming-fan (who knows most of the lyrics) The Tall Guy materialises and like me he is bellowing words that sometimes coincide with what's being blasted out of the speakers. Between us we pep our whole section into action. The hostile girl is even raising her arm and omitting intermittent sound.
Brandon sings and sweats his way through Sam's Town, then the prelude, then When You Were Young and then produces "Bienvenidos". The crowd goes wild.
Whatever he produces next though, is open to question. Noone is sure what language he has spoken, or what the general message is... which cures him of talking for the rest of the show.
Palacio Deportes (Palace of Sport) is more affectionately known to Mexicans as Palacio Rebotes (Palace of Bounce) in reference to the sound dynamics and yes, the beginning of Jenny Was A Friend of Mine is unrecognisable. The tambourine in Indie Rock And Roll is absent.
WHO CARES????? This is the best show EVER!!!!
The difficulty is jumping up and down in the seated section without falling down the crack behind the chair in front. The Tall Guy secures a deal with that chair's occupant that I can use it to put one of my feet, despite the fact that my beer doesn't always stay in its cup.
But for serious jumping, I just steady myself using The Tall Guy's shoulder.
I can see the profile of a guy three rows in front, who is also singing to many of the words. I love watching Spanish speakers singing in English, because the words don't always match. And both of us do that thing where, if you don't know the words, you just move your mouth in a generic fashion.
My neighbours are screaming something that sounds like 'a-wim-ba-way' - are they requesting the jungle song?
The Tall Guy explains that they're actually screaming 'Oevo-wey' which he loosely translates to 'Fuck Yeah'.
My job of explaining the title Glamorous Indie Rock'n'Roll is a bit more difficult.
And then, after what seems like five minutes... All These Things That I Have Done is over, and they are leaving the stage.
Inevitably they return, Brandon utters his only other spoken words "This is a Killers goodbye" (for someone who writes such interesting lyrics, he's really not holding up with the light banter), they sing the Exitlude and Dave the Drummer throws no less than 10 drumsticks into the audience. One of them, he throws so far I suspect he might have a career in javalin after music, if he's not too busy fighting a civil action for personal injury arising from a high-velocity drumstick incident, December 13 Mexico City.
Then, the lights are on and I find myself kissing the hostile/shy girl goodbye, hugging The Tall Guy, and being swept by a sea of singing Mexicans out onto the street.
"I've got this energy beneath my feet - like something underground's gonna come up and carry me."
The Killers, Sam's Town
Monday, December 11, 2006
FINDING MY VIRGIN ... (ity)
I have never reeeally understood the Catholic fascination with Mary. It's kind of like thanking the postie for a gift you got in the mail, rather than the person who sent it.
But nevertheless, this day - the birthday of The Virgin of Guadalupe - is as important to many Catholics here as Navidad. And it is a sight to behold.
The story goes like this: after the conquest, Mexico's indigenous population wasn't taking up Catholocism as quickly as the conquistadores would have hoped (due to that fact that they already had their own religion).
Then, one day in 1531 an indigenous man called Juan Diego was walking along when the virgin appeared to him and told him to take roses to the Bishop. She was 'morena' - brown-skinned - and is thought to be a manifestation of the virgin in the Americas and the indigenous goddess Tonantzin, kind of mixed in together.
Despite roses not being in season he found some (miracle), gathered them in his cloak and took them to the abbey at which point a picture of the Virgin appeared on the cloak. To this day it hangs in the basilica and everyone prays to it.
Thousands of people from all over the country head to the Basilica La Villa for December 12th. I went today because by tomorrow there are too many people to even get near the place. These people have walked the hundreds of kilometres from their towns, or in an interesting twist: ridden their bicycles.
I want to know when the wheel got introduced to religious rituals.. wonderful.
I talked to one man from Guadalajara ... which is 12 hours away by bus. He and 30 of his friends had ridden for four days, resting in the heat of the day and a bit at night. He must have been about 60 and he was a delight, despite the fact that I could only understand about half of what he was saying. He was a 'fast-talker'.
Then, after all that walking or riding, some people do the final hundred metres or so over the stone paving ... on their knees.
There are people in masks dancing, some of them carrying dead weasels (???) and even some people dressed up as clowns. That'd be a tribute to the little-known clown who appeared to Mary while God was talking to Joseph.
It got me thinking, we think Christmas is a marathon effort because of epic journeys to the shopping centre to to battle for carparks before taking on the crowds. Here's it's a three-day walk to line up for hours in order to honour Mary. Kind of the same thing except our deity is capitalism, and here... it's... well, it's the reason for the season.
Did I just use not only an americanism, but a christian americanism??
Thursday, December 07, 2006
NEXT OF SKIN...
Today was weird: in a first since high-school, I 'got in trouble'.
More on that in a moment.
Three times a week I accompany Ara to the profilactis class. As far as I know, profilactis means 'prevention' and frankly, it's a bit late for that. So I just call it 'ante-natal' and roll up for the 2.5 hours Wed, Thurs and Sat.
The woman who takes the class hates me. In return, I have a strong aversion to her and her claims that 'there is no pain in labor, it's all here (pointing to head)'.
Um, what about your pelvis splitting in half to let something akin to a rockmelon through??
She's convinced everyone in the class that epidurals are OUT OF BOUNDS, because everything has to be 'natural'... instead, the whole class is having their babies in water. If you have an epidural, you can't have the skin on skin contact with your child after labor (because they take you away somewhere else to recover from the drugs) and that's a fate worse than death.
But then tonight she informed us the boys should have circumcisions because it's more heigenic and 'bonito' (pretty).
HELLO??? Did someone says "21st century"??
What's 'natural' about slicing half the kid's penis off within hours of his entry into the world? (most of a new-born's appendage is the foreskin) 'Skin on skin' is pretty cold comfort when he's just experienced 'scalpal on foreskin'.
I completely respect the right of parents to let religious texts written in a time when plumbing and soap hadn't been invented over-ride their own rational analysis of the fact that there's a reason for everything in our body (except the spleen.... and maybe earlobes .....oh, and nipples on males - but by Jeez we don't start hacking them off as soon as we're finished with the umbilical chord, do we?) - but for non-practicing people... whaaat?
I had rushed from the gym to ante-natal class without time to eat.. the teacher did relaxation exercises, turned off the lights, put on videos of women giving birth with Coldplay soundtrack including such lyrics as 'Nobody said it was easy, it's such a shame for us to part... let's go back to the start'.
What? - put it back up there?? There's one song that'll never sound quite the same again.
So there we are, sprawled all over the floor on our beanbags and cushions, when (without turning on the lights) she wheels in a doctor who was nice, but completely incomprehensible. It seemed as if he'd taken his hand-writing, and verbalised it.
And somehow it was MY fault that I feel asleep? Apparently, I made HER feel 'fea' (ugly) (there were no mirrors nearby, I checked) for inattention to the doctor.
I wasn't even asleep, I was just listening with my eyes closed.
I would have told her to turn the f&#^ing light on if she wants a conscious audience, but Ara says I lose the power of Spanish when I'm angry.
Below is the photo evidence of an exercise we did so that the 'papas' can 'understand how it feels'.
My immaculate gestation was aided by 5 kilos of rice, which was delivered later that night.
She's right, there's no pain at all. Now I understand.
More on that in a moment.
Three times a week I accompany Ara to the profilactis class. As far as I know, profilactis means 'prevention' and frankly, it's a bit late for that. So I just call it 'ante-natal' and roll up for the 2.5 hours Wed, Thurs and Sat.
The woman who takes the class hates me. In return, I have a strong aversion to her and her claims that 'there is no pain in labor, it's all here (pointing to head)'.
Um, what about your pelvis splitting in half to let something akin to a rockmelon through??
She's convinced everyone in the class that epidurals are OUT OF BOUNDS, because everything has to be 'natural'... instead, the whole class is having their babies in water. If you have an epidural, you can't have the skin on skin contact with your child after labor (because they take you away somewhere else to recover from the drugs) and that's a fate worse than death.
But then tonight she informed us the boys should have circumcisions because it's more heigenic and 'bonito' (pretty).
HELLO??? Did someone says "21st century"??
What's 'natural' about slicing half the kid's penis off within hours of his entry into the world? (most of a new-born's appendage is the foreskin) 'Skin on skin' is pretty cold comfort when he's just experienced 'scalpal on foreskin'.
I completely respect the right of parents to let religious texts written in a time when plumbing and soap hadn't been invented over-ride their own rational analysis of the fact that there's a reason for everything in our body (except the spleen.... and maybe earlobes .....oh, and nipples on males - but by Jeez we don't start hacking them off as soon as we're finished with the umbilical chord, do we?) - but for non-practicing people... whaaat?
I had rushed from the gym to ante-natal class without time to eat.. the teacher did relaxation exercises, turned off the lights, put on videos of women giving birth with Coldplay soundtrack including such lyrics as 'Nobody said it was easy, it's such a shame for us to part... let's go back to the start'.
What? - put it back up there?? There's one song that'll never sound quite the same again.
So there we are, sprawled all over the floor on our beanbags and cushions, when (without turning on the lights) she wheels in a doctor who was nice, but completely incomprehensible. It seemed as if he'd taken his hand-writing, and verbalised it.
And somehow it was MY fault that I feel asleep? Apparently, I made HER feel 'fea' (ugly) (there were no mirrors nearby, I checked) for inattention to the doctor.
I wasn't even asleep, I was just listening with my eyes closed.
I would have told her to turn the f&#^ing light on if she wants a conscious audience, but Ara says I lose the power of Spanish when I'm angry.
Below is the photo evidence of an exercise we did so that the 'papas' can 'understand how it feels'.
My immaculate gestation was aided by 5 kilos of rice, which was delivered later that night.
She's right, there's no pain at all. Now I understand.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
THE TRIPLE-SIDED COIN
Today was one of those 'what the f@#* have I done?' days.
Fresh in my mind were email reports from the team of Friday afternoon Bollinger and glowing reviews of my old show (you know, Michelle Crowther's conversation hour... .with Richard Fidler) from the nation's movers and shakers... upcoming work trips to Sydney.
At this end I have a limited social life and fast-dwindling resources... and have just discovered the difference between speaking Spanish, and speaking Spanish.
Well, I guess going from communicating for a living, to just living ..for.. to.. comunicate (gracelessly, with little brainpower left for anything else) was always going to be... um, depressing.
Parties, that's the kicker. When everyone standing around you is laughing at a joke you didn't even know had been made... what with the background noise, music.. slang. Do you know that not having access to everything you want to say completely changes your personality? I notice people really en-unc-iat-ing and then looking over my shoulder. Awful.
Went to a party at 2am the other night, wall-to-wall with Mexico's beautiful, TALL men. I have been wondering where they were. Virtually no women. Sounds like a dream, hey?
Gay, all of them. Gay and straight don't seem to mix here, I think it's a macho thing.
Anyone who wanted to write a thesis suggesting gay is actually a higher level of human evolution would be best off coming here (if the premise was that higher evolution is measured by beauty, income, habitation and dress sense).
I was sniffed out by the only straight man in the place, turns out his presence was only due to the perils of party-crashing... he'd bluffed his way though the security doors and was nose-to-shoulder with the Latino love gods before he realised.
So he grabbed one of the only three women there. Needless to say, I'm flattered.
We went dancing at midnight a few days later, but Ara says I can never go out with him again because he didn't pay the whole bill. It seems that that's the upside of living in a macho culture - if a guy wants to do you, he has to buy the food/drinks. I am not sure whether to operate within the laws of the country of habitation... or capitalise on the gains made by feminism and assert my right to go broke even more quickly.
I am starting to wonder about Ara's bill-paying theory though, because I have a hundred percent hit-rate of men-who-split-the-bill. Two out of two is bad, thankyou Meatloaf.
As for where the beautiful men are the rest of the time... they seem to be at the gym (which I have joined)(no causal link). The gym doctor - that's right, you read correctly, we're talking about the sort of gym fees that could fund your child's education - has informed me I have to lose 3.6 kilos in order to be 'perfecto'. I didn't have the heart to tell him it'd all come off my 'boobies' and not my 'cadera'... and therefore 'perfecto' would just be 'pera' (pear-shaped)
So, it looks like at the end of this whole saga I may just end up skinny (gym + no money to buy food - social life, drinking etc) and bi-lingual.
ps. given that Britney Spears is the most searched person on the internet, if I put the words 'Britney Spears' and 'Vagina' in my blog... does that make it more accessible in google? Ssomething about the more hits/keywords... it's a complex algorithm I don't have time to explain - as I would have to google it first, in order to do so.
Fresh in my mind were email reports from the team of Friday afternoon Bollinger and glowing reviews of my old show (you know, Michelle Crowther's conversation hour... .with Richard Fidler) from the nation's movers and shakers... upcoming work trips to Sydney.
At this end I have a limited social life and fast-dwindling resources... and have just discovered the difference between speaking Spanish, and speaking Spanish.
Well, I guess going from communicating for a living, to just living ..for.. to.. comunicate (gracelessly, with little brainpower left for anything else) was always going to be... um, depressing.
Parties, that's the kicker. When everyone standing around you is laughing at a joke you didn't even know had been made... what with the background noise, music.. slang. Do you know that not having access to everything you want to say completely changes your personality? I notice people really en-unc-iat-ing and then looking over my shoulder. Awful.
Went to a party at 2am the other night, wall-to-wall with Mexico's beautiful, TALL men. I have been wondering where they were. Virtually no women. Sounds like a dream, hey?
Gay, all of them. Gay and straight don't seem to mix here, I think it's a macho thing.
Anyone who wanted to write a thesis suggesting gay is actually a higher level of human evolution would be best off coming here (if the premise was that higher evolution is measured by beauty, income, habitation and dress sense).
I was sniffed out by the only straight man in the place, turns out his presence was only due to the perils of party-crashing... he'd bluffed his way though the security doors and was nose-to-shoulder with the Latino love gods before he realised.
So he grabbed one of the only three women there. Needless to say, I'm flattered.
We went dancing at midnight a few days later, but Ara says I can never go out with him again because he didn't pay the whole bill. It seems that that's the upside of living in a macho culture - if a guy wants to do you, he has to buy the food/drinks. I am not sure whether to operate within the laws of the country of habitation... or capitalise on the gains made by feminism and assert my right to go broke even more quickly.
I am starting to wonder about Ara's bill-paying theory though, because I have a hundred percent hit-rate of men-who-split-the-bill. Two out of two is bad, thankyou Meatloaf.
As for where the beautiful men are the rest of the time... they seem to be at the gym (which I have joined)(no causal link). The gym doctor - that's right, you read correctly, we're talking about the sort of gym fees that could fund your child's education - has informed me I have to lose 3.6 kilos in order to be 'perfecto'. I didn't have the heart to tell him it'd all come off my 'boobies' and not my 'cadera'... and therefore 'perfecto' would just be 'pera' (pear-shaped)
So, it looks like at the end of this whole saga I may just end up skinny (gym + no money to buy food - social life, drinking etc) and bi-lingual.
ps. given that Britney Spears is the most searched person on the internet, if I put the words 'Britney Spears' and 'Vagina' in my blog... does that make it more accessible in google? Ssomething about the more hits/keywords... it's a complex algorithm I don't have time to explain - as I would have to google it first, in order to do so.
Monday, December 04, 2006
GOAL!!! ... CHAVEZ
Last night was the football semi-final.
Mexican war-cries:
Chivas.. Chivas (Team name translation: goats, sorry .. .rams)
It's a sentiment I can't deny
It's a drug I don't want to quit.
Which boy band wrote the lyrics, that's what I want to know.
They don't rhyme because it's a translation... and I suspect I cut and pasted between different songs.
Me, and 120 thousand fans. Given that they've banned the Mexican wave in Australia... any behaviour more enthusiastic than that of cadavas was going to be exciting, but yes! what a great bunch of fanatics.
This game was a big deal, but even for a 120 thousand people who spent days lining up for tickets... noone could muster one lousy goal. That's why we love Aussie Rules, because the score is always in the hundreds. Maybe I exaggerate.
I was wondering why I had the urge to cheer for the other team... I mean, they were all tiny specks on the horizon so what difference did it make. But for some reason every time I saw a yellow jersey, I wanted to scream encouraging words. Only halfway though the game did I realise the subconscious link between YELLOW and MY BRAIN.
MY COUNTRY. Green and GOLD aka YELLOW.
Came home after a few festive cervezas to find an email from the International desk asking me to file on Chavez victory in Venezuela. Good old Hugo, threw in a few Bush 'devil' references for colour in his victory speech.
At least someone scored...
Chavez... Chavez...
It's a sentiment I can't ...
Friday, December 01, 2006
A WHOLE NEW MEANING TO 'SWEARING IN'
Came home from travelling to find the Mexican Parliament in chaos... lawmakers being taken to hospital after beating the shit out of each other.
Watching Calderon try to take the Presidency was like a sporting match, only with chairs instead of balls.
The midnight ceremony featured such highlights as outgoing President Fox dropping the ceremonial flag and tapping the microphone several times to test it, as though he were in a karaoke bar.
Calderon comes up to Fox's waist, and one of Fox's hands could crush Calderon's head... so all round it was like watching 'Twins'. I'm pretty sure Swarzenegger was actually there for the 9.30am formalities, but none of the visiting dignatories had time to take a seat before the 40 second ceremony was finished.
The swearing in was over before you could say "Who the f@#* threw that chair?"
Watching Calderon try to take the Presidency was like a sporting match, only with chairs instead of balls.
The midnight ceremony featured such highlights as outgoing President Fox dropping the ceremonial flag and tapping the microphone several times to test it, as though he were in a karaoke bar.
Calderon comes up to Fox's waist, and one of Fox's hands could crush Calderon's head... so all round it was like watching 'Twins'. I'm pretty sure Swarzenegger was actually there for the 9.30am formalities, but none of the visiting dignatories had time to take a seat before the 40 second ceremony was finished.
The swearing in was over before you could say "Who the f@#* threw that chair?"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)