Gross.

I'm super unsanitary and bite my nails too, but seeing someone else's dirty bitten off nail on the public computer keyboard was too much. I need this day to be over now.

my fan base

I received a possibly backhanded compliment from a homeless man this morning.  "You're rocking the black tights again today." Like, he noticed that I'm wearing the same pantyhose as yesterday. I guess he's not one to mind that sort of thing, but I'm still embarrassed that he noticed what I assumed no one would.

My husband mocks my style and meager wardrobe, but I'll have him know that there's a market of men out there who think I rock clothing he deems grandmotherly and repetitive.

just a thought...

For a more believable breast augmentation, plastic surgeons should add chunks of lard to those skinny bitches' armpits. Not to brag or anything, but as someone with real, as in actual, not like rul, large breasts, I know all about those two bonus boobs. Apart from ruining every outfit and all of my wedding photos, those tufts of excess skin and fat are the marks of authenticity.

xmas pics

Our li'l Christmas nook. This is the falsely advertised tree we bought three years ago. I actually love it, every 20 inches of it. My fave is the paper polar bear on top. We also stuck my sister's kids' Santa photo in there.

Best damn tortilla soup. Maybe it looks gross, I can't accurately decipher because I know it's heart warming and delicious.

Monkey balls, balls of monkeys,a family Christmas delicacy

Neno surprised me with new running shoes. This is the only photo documenting my presence in xmas 2011. I deleted all 50 -- literally, 50 -- of my double chinned, bug eyed self portrait attempts and decided to stick with legs. I'm not photogenic. That's what I'm going with, "not photogenic." I'm a looker, the camera just can't quite capture it. Luckily, even when I'm chubby and old, my legs will always be on point. I'm blessed with the body of Kermit the frog.



At first

we weren't going to exchange gifts. Then we decided -- OK, one. Only ONE. Eugenio broke the rule and has two presents under the tree for me. I've been telling everyone -- when asked, not willy-nilly -- I'm getting a web cam for Christmas, because that's what I want and what I've been not even subtly hinting at for months. Eugenio, laughing out loud, informed me during a guess-the-present talk that neither box contains a web cam.

"Why do you even want a web cam?" he asks, in a tone that suggest my request is a joke, which it is not. So I can start my amateur porn site, duh. And also so I can video chat with "friends and family."


It seems I may be buying myself the web cam, which is fine. It's not like I want a smartphone or an e-Reader or anything modern but monetarily unattainable to my broke ass. I just want a cheap camera to attach to my laptop. I wouldn't even want a good one if it were possible because the good ones might be better at picking up details, and I just want people to get a blurry gist of what I look like. I figured a gift exchange between adults is more or less an exchange of To-Dos. To prove our love this holiday season, you go get me this, while I go get you that. But I like Eugenio's style: Surprise! I didn't run your errand, but I got you something from the heart. He always has to be the genuinely nice guy. It's annoying.

Perhaps I can do as my niece did. Last time we were in San Antonio, Eugenio and I took her to Target with us after dinner. She ran ahead and when we caught up to her, we found her in an aisle staring at web cams, eyes darting pensively from one to the other.

"I'm saving my money for one of these," she said. "My friend has one."

"Well, which one do you want? We'll get it for you," Eugenio replied.

"No. I'll get in trouble. My mom will probably think I asked you to buy it for me."

After assuaging her fears, we walked out of the store with the new ticket to tween social networking. Britney knows her mother's faith in her well. "Britney Amber!" she middle-name admonished, discovering her daughters new toy. We felt a bit guilty for not asking Mom -- perhaps parents would prefer to consent to a web cam first -- but what are aunts and uncles for if not to buy love? Now the new family joke is to take Eugenio to the store with you, casually mentioning you're saving your money while looking longingly at the object of your desire. I think I got my idea about a web cam being the one-thing-I-really-want from this situation, anyway. When I was little, I wanted a Power Wheel so badly; I fantasized driving it out of the drive way, top down, hair blowing in the wind, sporting my new shades. It proved a melodramatic story of unrequited love, as material desires often are. Then, many many years later my mom straight up bought Britney, her only grandkid at the time, a Power Wheel for Christmas and she DIDN'T EVEN ASK FOR IT. It's like my niece is the cool kid I never was nor ever will be, though I'll try. Oh, you have a web cam? Me too. NBD. But I digress...

Really, I'm almost giddy like a child about my surprise gifts from Neno. He's the sweetest. I do like a surprise. I always feel sentimental around this time of year remembering my mom and how she always made Christmas magical for her seven kids. I wrote an essay about it; I may post later.

other people's concerns

The saddest part of not going home for Christmas

is not being able to see my niece and nephews, like this guy:

My niece took this photo. I love his outfit and especially his pose. Clearly he takes modeling advice from Neno. 

my choice

You know how when you spend so much time with someone, you pick up their mannerisms and vice versa? I always yell, "My body, my choice!" whenever Eugenio tells me to do or stop doing something, like biting my nails or picking scabs.

Yesterday I told Eugenio I was planning on buying filing cabinets to replace the eye-sore of a desk in our room. He swears he needs that desk, but all he uses it for is shoving important documents in drawers and keeping unimportant documents strewn on top. He doesn't use it for reading, writing, studying, or anything one would need an actual desk for. He uses our kitchen table for those tasks. A filing cabinet is more in line with what we need. But Eugenio has a serious, inexplicable attachment to this big, ugly desk taking up half of our bedroom, so when I made this statement about replacing it, his face grew red, his voice exasperated as he shouted, "My desk, my choice!" hitting the table with his fist.

An essay on Neo-Eugenio

Neno is coming back today. We're going to watch Little Women. Before he left he mentioned that Little Women was set to arrrive on Saturday. It was a passive aggresive hint that I watch it while he's away. Because I like to win in that category, I saved it for his return. Among other really important matters, writing this essay is what I did with my time instead. 

I like the idea of naming children, but I punctuate that thought with my belief that we’re all more or less the same. We might as well all be Dick and Janes -- or Joses and Marias. Naming a kid after a piece of fruit or a vibrant color is not the antidote to an average life. My husband is Mexican and comes from a line of people who share his name. Given colliding DNA, our Mexican-German-Norwegian-English-Etcetera-Etcetera spawn get to start the name slate anew. I harbor some guilt for being the iconoclast stirring the pot of familial tradition, but I’d like to use my shot at creative freedom, lend an air of individuality, and not fall back on naming my unborn son Jose Eugenio after my husband and his father, grandfather, great grandfather, and so on.

There’s also the point that I haven’t successfully mastered the pronunciation. On the night of my first date with Eugenio, my roommate at the time and I called every native Spanish speaker we knew frantically asking, “How do you say this name?” Considering we had been corresponding via email and phone for a few weeks, I thought it past the point of acceptable to ask my date, “Now, what’s your name again?”

Obviously things worked out well for us or I wouldn’t be writing about naming our children, but that doesn’t ease the difficulty on my American tongue of pronouncing the E-U in Eugenio. It’s not like the E-U in Eugene or eugenics or Europe. It’s more dramatic, with each sound pronounced but in one syllable. I can say it slowly but it sounds clunky and takes too much time. The native speaker says it fast and fluidly, making the E-U an effortless syllable. I typically avoid butchering his name. When we first started dating I called him “Hey you” to his face, Rico Suave in my head, and Latin Lover in my blog. Now that my guards down and we’re married, he’s my papi chulo, though he unsuccessfully petitions for El Papa Rey. On the rare occasion that I do say his name out loud, it comes out of my mouth as such: Oh-hen-nyo or sometimes Yew-hen-nyo, which sounds correct enough, but alas, is not precise. It’s like how a French coworker calls me Ahna, though my name is Hanna. She pronounces it beautifully and as well as her native tongue allows, but it’s not the way my mother intended. At any rate, this point is moot, as my lack of skill was not considered, but was rather an afterthought in our decision to open the flood gates on baby names. Besides, Eugenio is technically my husband’s middle name, and we have, after all, agreed to make Eugenio our sons middle name as well, but unlike his future father, this unborn baby will go by his first, tradition breaking name. Entiende?

This has presented an entirely new issue as my husband dreams up boy names. Girl names have proven easier to come by and agree upon, a point not lost on me, but I pick my battles carefully. I could be angry that my husband doesn’t put equal thought into choosing girl names, or that he assumes too much about the nature of our unborn female or male child. Nonetheless, if we ever have a girl, we have a list of names to choose from. If we ever have a boy, we have a list of names to argue over. Eugenio’s only criteria for boy names are: is it from a comic book or science fiction film and does it “sound cool.”

He’ll be sitting on the couch playing a video game and as I walk over to turn the volume down, he’ll pause, apropos of nothing, and say, “What about Magnus?” He takes his hand and brushes it across the air as he repeats, “Magnus.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not? It’s cool,” is his rebuttal. This is always his rebuttal.

I inform him that I am not naming my kid after a condom.

“No, that’s Magnum. This is Magnus.”

Magnus means large, but it also means great. That’s a lot of pressure and awfully arrogant. I am not a very tall person and my husband must, though he’ll disagree on this, look up to meet my eyes when I’m wearing my flats. Unless genes from my father take over in full force, our child will be on the average, if not small side. Naming him Magnus will only serve as childhood bully fodder. Can you imagine – a dwarf named Magnus? A completely average boy named Magnus? It’s ridiculous. I explain this much. Eugenio disagrees and holds on to his only point as if it were valid: It’s so cool.

Episodes like this happen frequently. We have only agreed on one name: Neo. I suggested it because it goes well with our last name and suits my penchant for the letter N. Plus it matches the theme of nicknames my niece and nephews have created for us. I’m Nana and Eugenio is Neno. As a family we could be Neno, Nana, and Neo Najera. Eugenio took to it with enthusiasm. It wasn’t until recently that I realized his gusto stemmed from Neo being the name of a character in The Matrix, which I’ve never seen, and had nothing to do with any inherent cuteness. My love for the name waned.

Eugenio is an Oncologist. He spends his day treating cancer patients. When I hear him on the phone with colleagues, typically the only words my lay person ears understand are the pronouns – he, she, it. He submits serious articles to medical journals, whereas I write in my blog. I mention this to not only highlight the breadth of my husband’s character but also to lessen the blow of what I’m about to say. Although my husband is no doubt smarter than most native English speakers, he, like many native speakers, sometimes proves to not have the firmest grip on the English language.

Another day after pausing his video game, putting down the controller, he says – I would say he says this apropos of nothing, but I have come to realize his inspiration is usually right in front of him – “What about Bane?” Again, he sweeps his hand and repeats “Bane,” as if it helps me to imagine it hanging in the air.

“Excuse me? Bane? As in B-A-N-E?”

“Yes, Bane.”

“Are you aware of what that means? As in: the bane of my existence.”

“It’s from Batman. It sounds cool.”

There’s probably a reason this character is named Bane, but we don’t discuss it. Later that day, on our way to the movie theatre, we find ourselves on the topic of Bane again. He’s not letting this one go without a fight. How can I be clearer?

“Ok, sure. We’ll name our kid Bane. And for the second we’ll just go with Mistake or maybe even Shit-Head.”

So you see, naming this hypothetical unborn child is becoming the bane of my existence. It’s not until many days after our conversation that I learn from an internet search that the comic book character Bane is an escaped convict and former drug addict of sorts who breaks Batman’s spinal cord. He belongs to a team deemed “Suicide Squad.” This villain is whom my cancer curing husband wants to name our kid after? What the hell is he thinking? He’s flipping the name game on its head, unintentionally making a statement I respect but can’t endorse. Right then I realized the importance of researching any name my husband suggests or willingly agrees to – which I mentioned, is one. I read up on The Matrix.

Neo is an anagram of one, which in the movie more specifically alludes to The One who will eventually bring peace to the world. Perhaps cumbersome to live up to, I prefer to look at it this way: Neo, anagram of one, is The One name we agree upon. And: Neo Eugenio – the new Eugenio, as opposed to the old Eugenio when everyone went by the same name.

Neno and our nephew Logan representin' their comics

Just so you know, I’m not pregnant, simply prepared to name a hypothetical son who might end up hating and changing his name eventually, anyway. I don’t even know if I really want kids.

enthusiatic kate

My friend Kate finished her last law school final of the semester last night. Today she sent me these text messages:

Kate: I'm in major craft mode and I'm sooooo excited!!!

Me: Lol. You sound excited. I think that's your true calling.

Kate: I think it is too!!! I'm making a wreath!!! And 3 Christmas trees! I'll send pics!! : ))

Kate: I'm in looovee with this!! I just want to craft all my life!! Lol

If I didn't know any better, I'd think she's a housewife with a prescription drug problem. But I know better. This is called perspective -- letting the law school student out of the bag, if you will.

Day 2 of no human contact.

I feel like Thoreau...but with the internet, treadmills, and TV. Other than those three things, totally Thoreau.

I'm working on a scarf. I'm really proud of this piece because it's my first that doesn't look like a complete failure thus far.

Later I'll go running then check out some YouTube videos before I spend an obscene amount of time getting ready for the day. My new hobby is learning how to apply makeup from 15 year olds. You never know who you'll meet locked up in your own apartment.

Yesterday I did talk to someone in the flesh. It was the man walking ferociously on the treadmill next to me. Whenever I see someone putting effort into walking that fast, I want to suggest, you can probably handle jogging now. But that's not what we talked about. He mentioned something about how I went outside to take a phone call (because I'm so popular). You get going and then your motivation is ruined by the interruption, eh? Really I had all day to waste, so I didn't need any motivation but I just laughed like what he said was so true and funny and then said something cheesy like, "Yeah, but I'm going to push through." What a loser.

dear stranger on the internet, we should be friends

Mi papi chulo is in San Diego until Tuesday. This is really traumatic for me because I live in a city where I have no friends. So I've just spent about 3 hours reading strangers' blogs. These are my friends. Like sometimes I fantasize about hanging out with them, but the problem is that they don't even know how tight we are. I mean, they don't know I exist. #sad.

reflections on marriage

Eugenio and I are two months from our year anniversary. Despite my desire that we argue more, we're still going strong. Yay us. In commemoration of our being legally bound together until we're not, imma post reflections whenever they strike my fancy.

I just cleaned the bathroom so this one looms over my mind:

1. All of those dark, curly bodily hairs littering the porcelain eventually fade into the background.

2. Regular housekeeping is advised.

fashion face off

I'm no fashionista but my husband is un poco loco. This hombre who wears a gold chain and shirts that are borderline Ed Hardy says he dresses better than me.

Me: I can't believe you think that!

Husband: It's not that I think that; it's that it's a fact.

Me: Whatever! You're like Bruno. You're hilarious and confident but not self aware.

I'm either pointing out his delusion or my really, really poor fashion sense.

EDIT: If this sounds mean, note that I unabashedly wear grandma underwear from Walmart and happen to love Eugenio's necklace. I have literally (literally literally not Rachel Zoe literally) never seen him not wearing it. And Ed Hardy is pushing it. They're just shirts with questionable designs. I don't like to be mean. It messes with my self perception of being inherently an asshole but externally charming.

On Britney Spears

"She's my inspiration! She was in a mental ward, lost custody of her kids and let her body go. If she can get through all of that, I surely can pay off my student loans." - Elle

team lydia, what

I read Pride and Prejudice for the first time ever this week. My first Jane Austen book, actually. I'm not sure if that's surprising, but I feel like it might be considering how people wax poetic about her books. Or maybe that was a 90s thing? I'm what marketers (I know this because, for lack of direction, I majored in marketing) would refer to as a laggard, a loser who misses the boat most the time. I mean, I just joined twitter and all I want for Christmas is a web cam.

Back to the point. I read Pride and Prejudice and I liked it in the way that I like anything old timey with horses and carriages, but I had trouble following the story line with my post 19th amendment frame of mind. When the whole family was fretting over the whore of a sister Lydia for disgracing them by going off with that opportunistic asshole Wickham, whom they all hate, I thought her father and uncle were going after her to save her from marrying him. Like, I thought they loved her so much that, even though she's a twit, they wouldn't want her to marry that prick. When I realized they were running around the country to force him to marry her, I was like huh? Say what? I then turned to Spark Notes to remind me that back in the day it was unwholesome to hit it and quit it. Actually, it was unwholesome to just hit it period. So, the stupid whore Lydia was shaming the whole family by going off to elope, i.e. shacking up in hotel rooms along the way, with this dude that had no intention of marrying her anyway. He knew how to spot 'em. This character Wickham has stood the test of time. Lydia was stupid for thinking this guy really loved her, so I'll give Jane Austen that. But people fall in love super quick in this book/era anyway, so it's hard to blame Lydia for being so blind. Two people would be sitting in the parlor together barely making eye contact and the next day BAM! Engaged. As planned by the author, I didn't care for Lydia much at any rate because she was inane, but I didn't take kindly to everyone getting their knickers in a bunch over her harmless flirtation. Alas, Lydia was born in the wrong era. She would be living it up here and now. Her facebook page would display countless pictures of her all up in the club, flaunting bleached hair with boys pressed to her cheek, alcohol glasses in the air, in all her sorority face glory. Get it girl. Hopefully at one point she'd grow up and not be so vacuous.

Anyhoo. This isn't really a book review (clearly), and it wasn't supposed to be an in defense of Lydia post, though I'll go on record to say that I liked Pride and Prejudice despite the understandable, sign of the times, bourgeois morality. It was all early nineteenth century charming with dialogue and vocabulary that sent me googling, and with overriding themes that I could get behind. Speaking of morality, dialogue, and themes, it sure beats the hell out of that Twilight shit. (I probably just offended some people with that statement and I'm sorry. I'm sorry you have such bad taste.) What I'd like to point out though, which took me this many sentences to get to, is that I concurrently read Chelsea Handler's My Horizontal Life, in which she hilariously details her one night stands. So, class -- I dunno, I just got a vision of me reading this in front of a classroom -- what I'd like to say is this: the shameful whore of yesteryear can be today's smart and funny profiting heroine if she plays her cards right. Team Lydia represent.

honk if you love jesus

I've always wanted to honk at someone all like pinche cabron! But I don't do that because I think honking is rude, and everyone in Orlando honks at the slightest annoyance because people here are assholes, if I may so generalize. My favorite is when people with crosses and/or crucifixes dangling from their rear view mirror get road rage horn without a 'Honk if you love Jesus' bumper sticker in sight. WWJD, MF.

ANYHOO! Today I got to cross honking off my bucket list. It was my husband I was following who was sitting at a green light in the car in front of me like an idiot, but honking in public still made me feel like a boss lady. Really I could have sat at that green light all damn day because we were just going to Micky D's before taking his car to an auto repair shop, but I saw the opportunity and took it.

I know what you're thinking about this post. #keepittoyourselfnexttime

EDIT: After I pressed publish, a christian rehab center was the advertisement google suggested for this post.

what a pile of shit!

Sometimes when I hear myself say something or refrain from saying something in a social situation -- in an interview, to a coworker, to a stranger that insists on making small talk -- which betrays how I really feel, I hear my inner child, who happens to sound exactly like Elizabeth from Drop Dead Fred, say "what a pile of shit!" Then I smile, concealing my laughter, leaving the recipient of my social graces to assume that I'm so contented with the discussion at hand, rather than the one in my head.

watch what happens

Because I'm banking on my plan of being the breakout star of Bravo's Real Apartment Wives of Orlando, Neno and I decided that at around season two -- or three, depending on how I'm feeling after the exhaustion that will be marketing my poor bitch cocktail and diet book -- I will start a granny panty lingerie line. I won't be doing the designing, as you know that's best left up to the experts, but I will look into the camera and confess, "it's always been a dream of mine since I was a little girl to design large underpants." Then the camera will show me sitting at the head of an oblong table in a gaudy, gold accented room, heading a meeting with the team of suits that will eventually make this pipe dream a reality. And because I have such a big heart, I will donate part of the proceeds to a charity I've never heard of that supposedly empowers young girls to work hard to achieve their dreams -- something I truly relate to.

Bravo is going to open so many doors for me.

bitch is back

Disclaimer: TMI

I'm back in Orlando after our two month stay in Houston for Neno's work. Evidently, I also took a vacation from blogging. I was bored and depressed, what can I say. Nonetheless, we had a refreshing two months in Houston. It was nice. I saw friends. I saw family. I studied Spanish. I watched terrible novelas. I fell into escapists bliss reading a shit ton of books, making new friends and then losing them on the last page, exacerbating my melancholy. Now, in the vein of reflection, and because I still have no friends, I'm ready to start this blog of nonsense again.

I've come to appreciate a few things after living in a hotel room for two months. I'm sitting at our 1970s table taking a break from slow cooking our dinner -- placing items in a crock pot is so hard -- while planning homemade pumpkin muffins for dessert. I'm even wearing a fucking apron. Along with an ever escaping future, I have an increased appreciation for my kitchen and the relative enormity of our one bedroom apartment. Our bed is still impossibly small, though. One thing I will miss about living in the hotel is that king sized bed with the scratchy 80s era comforter. There, when Neno passed gas it would simply skim the sheets and evaporate into the air. I would scooch to the farthest end relatively unscathed. Relatively is a key word. Here, as I'm quickly reminded, there's no escaping it. He farts on me, that's how small our bed is. I can even feel the digestion process rumbling in his stomach.

Luckily for me, I share Neno's 10 year old maturity level, which sums up our relationship quite well. I knew our relationship was something special when he spent the night in my bed for the first time. We were officially a couple but hadn't slept together literally or figuratively yet. I lived in Austin, so Neno was constantly driving hours to see me, without getting lucky. That we were together but celibate for so long is either a testament to how much Neno adores me or how much he enjoys over the pants action. Ten minutes into cozying into my bed for the first sleepover, Neno fell fast asleep and let one rip. My face turned so hot and red as I tried not to laugh out loud. I thought, Well he just feels right at home, doesn't he. And in that moment my feelings for him grew quicker than Kim Kardashians marriage. So suffice to say, our love started with a fart and such frivolity is an overiding theme in our quirky relationship.

Neno has since made it into my pants and I still find his farting hilarious. I mentioned this during our hotel stay as Neno returned to bed from a midnight trip to the bathroom. The sound of flatulence from someone standing bare butt while peeing is particularly amusing to me. Thought to be asleep, I starting giggling like the child that I am.

"What's so funny? Are you laughing because I farted?"

"Yes. It's always funny when someone farts."

Then after a thirty second pause, as the stench drifted towards my nose and I began to scrunch my face in disgust, Neno added, "Until you smell it." Touche. It's always funny when someone farts, until you smell it. An aha moment.

This was supposed to be a reflection post about our trip but somehow got hijacked by immaturity, I just can't help myself. Anyway, I left Houston with about 30 more mosquito bites than I showed up with. Houston is the Bayou City. But as the universe would have it, I found a million and five ants, spiders, and another bug I'm too afraid to identify when I opened my car door this morning for the first time in over two months. It was terrifying. I texted Neno for support. He said something along the lines of "Happy Halloween." I managed to murder them all, but I'm afraid to drive my car for fear of retribution. I also saw The Thing recently, so I'm extra wary of ugly unidentifiable creatures.

Another overriding theme in my life is this: The grass is always greener until you get to the other side. I was so happy to be free from an uninspiring, underpaid job for two months, until I got bored and had no money. I guest blogged to make a teeny bit of money. I turned to prostitution for the rest. I was desperate for alcohol, my husband for sex, so we exchanged. Secret to a healthy marriage, I'm sure. You'll be reading that in a list featured on Yahoo one day. You're welcome for the insider information.

That's about all I can muster today. Basically, the vacation was good, I didn't go through any life altering emotional, psychological changes, married life continues to delight my penchant for "playing house," and now it's back to reality. 'Back to reality' is such a stupid, nonsense phrase. But I'll keep that line there and get on with my life because I'm feeling lazy...

toilet paper

My husband is walking home from work at the hospital. I texted him to get toilet paper at the hotel front desk on his way up. I've been waiting for him to come to do this all day. I can't bear to admit that I've -- we've -- used all of our weekly roll already...again.

I never realized we take more potty breaks than the average hotel guest, but it's seems as if that's the case. Must learn to cut back.

Summer Days

Wait. I wrote this post way back in August and never posted it. In the vein of reliving the pleasant past, while also being thankful that it's no longer August in Orlando -- which can only be described with profanity -- I'm posting it now:

This weekend my best friend took a break from her hectic, summer off from law school social life to visit me in Orlando. Within an hour it was clear that I was the hostess with the mostest. Notice that that phrase is as equally ambiguous as it is nonsensical.

The fastest way to make a guest feel at home -- don't offer her parched soul a drink, wait for her to meagerly ask out of sheer dehydration, then leave the room to 'slip into something more comfortable' which will ultimately make said guest uncomfortably avert her eyes in nervous darts. I assumed, having met in third grade and having lived together in the past, that we were on the comfortable level where I could walk around nearly naked, which apparently is something one should never assume. Duly noted. (NTS: Possible chapter in Awkward Girl's Guide to Life). Sorry, Katy!

We got past those hiccups, had a few laughs over gummy bears and cheap wine in plastic cups (keeping it klassy with a capital K), and then went on to have a sweet two day reunion filled with lackadaisical lunches, movies, laughs at Neno's expense, and a dreaded trip to Disneyworld, which was as hot, miserable, and expensive as I thought it'd be. I may be a curmudgeon about this, but I am also right. Even the kids looked overwhelmingly unenthused, all red faced and whiny, with sweat drenched hair, bodies hanging uncomfortably out of strollers. I overheard one little girl say, "Don't touch me. It's too hot." As Katy said, "Disneyworld is a testament to how much parents love their kids." Unfortunately, I presume kids don't enjoy Disneyworld in the Orlando summer heat any more than their parents do.

My unimportant, unsolicited advice to the the world is this: Don't go to Disneyworld in August. Even if you do have a penchant for brainwashing children, lame rides, overpriced junk food, and a clusterfuck of sweaty tourists, it's too damn hot to enjoy any of the above. That said, I had a good time. Yay memories. And that said, I would cherish those memories all the same if we had visited a truck stop bathroom. Additional unsolicited advice: Do visit your friends who live far away. It was a much needed refresher to catch up with Roomie in our nonstop talkathon, which we'll have the opportunity to continue as Neno and I will be living in Houston for two months, September through November. I'm pretty excited about that.

My favorite of all of Katy's wise Facebook status updates from our weekend:

Apparently, when Mickey asks, "What's your dream?" The correct response is not, "To be a lawyer!" it's, "To be a princess!" lol! They should make a movie about a princess that grows up to be a partner at a law firm, or a Supreme Court Justice! She can find a prince charming along the way too ; )

Socially Awkward Girl's Guide to Life: an introduction

As my mother would have you know, I came out of the womb awkward. You were such a strange looking thing. Growing up, my strangeness was generally embraced and I reveled in my talent of making my parents laugh with my incessant chatter. But then I started pre-school, where my "teacher" (I'm pretty sure it was just some old lady with a house) didn't appreciate my imagination and neither did the idiotic 4 year olds. We started off every afternoon in a circle for story time, going around telling stories about our morning. If you've ever listened to a 4 year old try to follow a train of thought, you know what an unintelligible snooze-fest story time was. I tried to spice things up. My ingenuity was met with trouble, as the teacher eventually spoke to my mother IN FRONT OF MY CHUBBY INNOCENT FACE to say that I straight up made shit up during story time. In her sketchy preschool teacher eyes, it was time for an intervention. I was a little liar. I didn't have the vocabulary at the time to stand up for myself, but what I was thinking was: Bitch, you never specified that it was NONFICTION story time. Don't get it twisted.

On the drive home in our embarrassingly large grey van (as if being awkward and unpopular wasn't enough), my mom merely said, before turning the tape up, "Hanna, quit lying through your teeth," a phrase my 4 year old self had yet to hear, but was sure to repeat again and again while solidifying my status as the weird girl while I sat in the corner playing alone during subsequent play times at that hellhole called preschool. From that day on, I kept it real during story time, delighting my fellow four year olds with lame visions of me waking up, combing my bowl haircut, eating Crispy Rice (not even Rice Krispies!), and finding my hypoglycemic sister, yet again, eating fists full of sugar under the bed.

By the time I got to kindergarten, I felt ashamed of my doughy self enough times that I retreated inward and never said anything out loud in public again. I amused myself in my head, occasionally accidentally talking to myself out loud while walking alone in the playground as the other morons, I mean girls, pretended to be cheerleaders. My teacher had a conference with my mom and asked, "Does she talk at home? She never speaks in class." To which my mother roared with laughter as "Hanna, do you ever shut up?" was a common phrase in the household. I juggled two personas -- the painfully shy, socially awkward child at school and the strange, hyper loudmouth at home. This went on for years.

As a living, wheezing socially awkward success story, I have several books worth of solid, unsolicited advice to offer fellow spazzes. But Hanna, you have no friends.... And you write in a blog, you might say, to which I respond (in my head) through red cheeks, belieing my so called yet ephemeral success : Eff you, my husband is a hot doctor. I'm starting to write (again, in my head) The Socially Awkward Girl's Guide to Life, with topics ranging from Talking to Peers (Step One: Don't Say Peers) to Surviving Girl Scout Camp When You Look Like a Boy to Losing Your Virginity Before 30.

no shame

After a long holiday weekend, returning to work to watch old men starring at You Tube videos of Selena Gomez while helping others who refer to me as sweetie or mama post self portraits taken with phones in the public bathroom -- stalls, green tile, and all -- onto Plentyoffish.com is particularly cumbersome. *omgididntgotocollegeforthis*

Last night, before dozing off to sleep, Neno asked how much money I make a year. You married me for my money! We calculated that I make less than $15,000 per year. Way to ruin my night, babe. (However, let it be duly noted that I'm ever so grateful to have a job and a home. I may come off as a Complaining Cathy, but I appreciate what I gots).

Edfinancial would like me to jump through hoops to prove I can't afford my monthly loan payment. Sending my pay stubs and a letter from HR noting that I don't get paid shit -- her words, not mine -- wasn't enough. When I send them my pay stubs again with my tax info from last year (which was even worse) imma add an invitation to Take-Your-College-Loan-Officer-To-Work-Day. Like for realsies. I have a lot of unused creativity waiting for a craft project.

Skinny Coronarita

Forgive me if I slur my words. I'm on the verge of being plastered thanks to Bethenny Frankel. Lemme es-plain.

Pictures of something Texans refer to as a "Dosarita" have been popping up all over my Facebook news feed for months, as all of my alcoholic friends and family members back in San Antonio like to document the beginning of their nights -- for future reference, I suppose.

Because I live in Orlando (lame), I can't find a Dosarita (big ass margarita with a Dos Equis bottle inside) anywhere. There aren't many good Mexican restaurants here. Actually, there aren't many good Anythings here. Unless your name is Disney or Universal Studios or Major Tourist Attraction, the city of Orlando doesn't give a shit about you.

Anyhoo, I've taken matters into my own hands. I need this Dosarita in my life. And I don't even like margaritas....or beer. But something told me, the two together are alcohol bliss.

A few months ago, while I was in the liquor store for my weekly perusing, I asked the Pakistani owner if he had any Skinnygirl Margarita. He said, "Yes, yes!" as he enthusiastically walked me over to the Jose Cuervo margarita mix. Yeah, that's not it. Haven't you seen The Real Housewives on Bravo? I replied, and then went into a drawn out explanation of The Real Housewives of New York and Bethenny Getting Married and how I don't really like margaritas, "like at all, but I'm curious and want to support a home girl...without drinking too many calories."

Then two weeks ago, on my weekly liquor store perusing, I screamed, "He got it!" spotting the row of red capped Skinnygirl Margarita bottles. I couldn't buy any, though, because I was sure I was pregnant. I was just torturing myself in the liquor store. But this weekend, knowingly without child, I bought two bottles.

I'm delighted to report that I actually enjoy the Skinnygirl Margarita, although I generally hate tequila. My first and last time drinking tequila was out of a teacup (keepin' it classy) for a friend's pre-party 21st birthday party. The next day I laid in bed, occasionally running to the bathroom to vomit, next to my mother who was also miserably sick....from cancer. My dad took care of us. Isn't that cute?

Even better, I created my own knock-off Dosarita. It's Skinnygirl Margarita with Corona Light mixed in. I call it The Skinny Coronarita. Imma bottle it....post Real Apartment Wives of Orlando fame and after the success of my Poorbitch Cocktail, of course.




PS: Happy 4th of July. John Adams would be rul proud of me.

EDIT, a year later: If you came here to find out how many calories you drank last night and ended up reading that bullshit up there, my sincerest apologies. If you're still anxious to know how many tequila, sugar and beer calories you need to burn at the gym, I'll tell you here.

AF

Email to Neno dated 6/14:
Calabaza! I took another pee test this morning. The result was not pregnant. (I just thought of something funny: a pregnancy test with your results read by Borat. You are *not* pregnant. Very nice!)

I hate errbody this morning. I'm in too much pain --such that the idea of being stabbed repeatedly in the uterus sounds refreshing -- it's too hot, and work is too busy.

Yesterday marked the end of an era in my life, a time when I was sober for four solid weeks for fear of being knocked up (as in the condition, not the possibility). I was getting really into that whole I'm-gonna-be-a-mom-time-to-get-all-self-righteous thing. Growing up, on my birthday or whenever my mom wanted a back rub, she'd say "Did I ever mention how painful it was to give birth to you?" To which I'd respond I didn't ask to be born. As I was eating for two these past four weeks, looking longingly at my husbands longneck (and I don't even like beer), I thought of the ways I was going to guilt this child of mine. Did I ever mention how long I went without a drinky drink for you?

Lo and behold, the universe plotted against my selfishness and sent that bitch aunt flo upon me instead. To be real, it was a long, restless few weeks of not knowing what was happening underneath but I actually believed I must be pregnant. I'm at a point in my life that if I get knocked up it wouldn't be so terrible, so it was an exciting thought, despite the sobriety and prospect of cankles. Thankfully I'm past the days of frantic google searches done on behalf of friends (I've always been a prude living vicariously through the misadventures of my friends) eliciting gems like "Help! Plan B failed and now I need a Plan C!"

Neno is a lucky man

I walk through the front door, delirious from a long day working in front of glowing computer screens. I'm greeted with a kiss by my husband, decked out in his jammies, sitting at the kitchen table reading medical study guides -- which is surprising, because usually he's playing call of duty when I get home. I'm giddy and hyper, because that's what happens when I see my husband when I'm tired. I go to the bedroom to change and notice the bed is made. "Calabaza! You made the bed! Thank you! I love my Calabaza!" I shout in the childlike voice I save for my closest friends.

I wasn't looking forward to straightening up my morning tornado of reject clothes or making the bed. (I have to make the bed before getting into it to sleep again). To show gratitude, I bend over, lift my skirt, and moon Neno, displaying my pink, zebra print underwear. "Calabaza look!"

Unfazed, he briefly looks up from his book offers a pity chuckle and says, "I like that underwear."

Pointing to my hanes-her-way on the table (isn't that where you keep your underwear?), he suggests "You should only wear those for working out. Lately you've been wearing them every day. The underwear you're wearing now are better."

The underwear I'm wearing now are the cotton victoria secret variety. It's tighter, but still comfortable, than my beloved hanes briefs (hanes should pay me, or do I wear fruit-of-the-loom? I don't know, something like that, you know what I mean). I recently went to Walmart to stock up on my XXL granny panties and bought new briefs while I was at it. When I pack to go on a trip, my underwear takes up most of the space. I have different underwear for sleeping, running, and daily life.

"What, you don't like the hanes? You think I look bad in them?" I ask laughing, plotting to wear them every day.

"Yes, those are flaggy." He means saggy, but isn't that the cutest thing -- flaggy. "I prefer the Victoria Secret underwear you bought. It's tighter."

Did I mention I'm tired? So this conversation is so funny to me. I laugh throwing my head back. "But the granny panties always turn you on, right?"

He mumbles something like, "yeah only for sleeping."

I'm humored and perplexed, I always thought he was as much a fan as I of the belly high, 'flaggy' look. Does anyone have a picture of me in my granny panties to post? If not, I'll snap a new one when I get home. It's about time the internet sees me in all my glory.

educated citizenry

Although I joke and bitch a lot about paying my monstrous college loan debt while being utterly underemployed, I love and agree with this article from NPR about a book expressing that college education is more valuable in more ways than just the potential income that one might make in the end. College shouldn't be dismissed altogether, even though one could end up like me -- scraping by on a crap hourly wage that goes mostly towards paying $500 in loans each month.

http://www.npr.org/2011/06/11/137093258/professor-value-of-college-extends-beyond-paycheck?ps=cprs

I may be a lowly worker, but I know how to get along with anyone while hating everyone. Plus I can charmingly bullshit my way through anything (I went to a good business school). And nothing feels better than knowing that I'm more educated and cultured than...I don't know who, someone rich and embarrassing -- like Snooki.

I'm kidding (except I am proud I'm not Snooki). I actually came away from university feeling so small and stupid, as my horizons were expanded and sense of relativity awakened. Now I'm small, stupid, poor, and I know a lot of smart people who do amazing things, so I also have really low self esteem. But I would never vote for Sarah Palin...so that's a win for an "educated citizenry."

One day, driven by my low self worth but masked by my desire to help people, I'll acquire more education -- and more debts, of course -- and hopefully do something useful for my fellow man (whom I loathe). I have plans, but I don't tell people because I'm shy like that.

Edit: I just spell checked this post. College should offer spelling (as an elective course, maybe?)for those curious to learn how.

TGIMFF

I generally shouldn't admit this, but I'm at the part of my day where I avoid eye contact and pretend to be busy in hopes that the person walking towards me at the desk decides to figure-it-out instead.

Today I started off in an optimistic, isn't-life-grand kind of mood, then I got to work. I'm good at what I do and I enjoy helping people (idiots), but I have an alter ego in my head who screams obscenities all day.

When I say, "Hi, how can I help you?" with a customer service smile, my inner bitch says What now?

When I say, "I'm sorry I don't understand what you're asking me. What is it that I can help you with?" with a concerned furrowed brow to someone who has a long, drawn out, melodramatic explanation to a probably simple question, the voice inside screams, Bitch, I don't know your life! Just get to the point.

When I respond "No problemo!" with a smiley face to a supervisor who sends a passive aggressive email demanding something disguised as a request, complete with bitchy smiley face emoticons, the smart ass inside of me types I'll think about it.

When I kindly tell the man yapping on his cell phone, "Hi sir, please whisper or refrain from talking on the phone as it disturbs those around you," the bitch inside growls you're on my last fucking nerve right now, buddy.

It's really exhausting being nice with this bitch inside. I'm also rul (not real, but rul, when you spell a word and use it grammatically incorrectly, the intensity doubles) hungry, which is like fuel to the bitch fire. Tonight is date night, so Neno and I are going to our favorite Indian restaurant. I just have to hang on and act sweet for one more hour, then I'll knock this bitch out eating some spicy, vegetarian South Indian grub with my papi chulo. Grub? I hate when people say shit like that.

I had an eating disorder for 13 years and a popular therapy strategy that worked well for me -- besides chasing my heavy medication with alcohol -- was referring to the eating disorder as "Ed," and distinguishing myself from him. I didn't have a problem; it was that asshole Ed. I liked this blame game so well, I use it all the time --for example there's "The Bitch" that I spoke of earlier and "Vinny" who likes his wine. I don't have an eating disorder anymore, but I'm a little schizophrenic. Which is so much better.

mini vacation

Right now I'm at a beach. It's serene and quiet, cool and breezy. There seems to be an unspoken rule of silence; the only sounds to be heard are of waves and seagulls; unlittered scenery the only sight. No one is distracted by phones or music or food, nor conversations or work. Unpretentious and unoccupied, we all are just being, either relaxing on blankets in the sand or walking along the shore. It's the epitome of calm. I've been waiting for this moment for quite some time.

I'm not really blogging at the beach; that would defeat the moment. I'm really at work, where the rule of quite is never realized and the symptoms of neuroses abound(including my own). I was mentally escaping while I had a free moment.

Easter weekend rambling

Jesus is risen, Spring is in full swing, and Orlando is already hotter than hell. Despite the heat, I had a lovely, relaxing four day weekend. I got 10 hours of sleep on Thursday night, followed by a two hour Friday afternoon siesta. I love that word; it's fittingly like sleep party. I take my sleep parties seriously: I slip into my most comfortable pair of granny panties and an extra large tshirt, close the blinds as tightly as possible, and unmake the bed. I don't wake up until Eugenio frightens me, at which point I am always confused about who and where I am. I used to have serious insomnia, but now I can sleep like a teenager and I take full advantage whenever I can. On Saturday Neno and I went golfing. I don't golf. I drive the cart, read my book, and complain about the weather. Eugenio plays golfs and hydrates with beer -- his kind of sport. I played golf while drinking cerveza with Neno once. I don't care for beer, and I don't care for golf, but I'll enjoy either put together.

Easter slipped by like any other day, except I was off from work (thank you, Jesus). The jeaster bunny missed our apartment, but that's OK because I'm trying not to eat too many sweets. I have a sweet tooth, and like Jim Gaffigan says, my tooth owes my ass an explanation. Neno and I went to the 5pm mass with the other slackers. Good thing, because I'm sure the morning mass was packed; I hate crowds...especially with children high on sugar. I enjoy a more desolate, solemn celebration of Christ rising. When I was younger, the whole rising from the dead thing creeped me out, which is why,though confusing, I think the Easter bunny, pastels, and candy got lumped into the occasion. Truthfully, forever agnostic, I still find the death and resurrection gruesome and eerie -- if I had to decorate Easter I wouldn't choose pastels -- but I'm intrigued by the faithful and like the Lenten lessons of sacrifice, freedom, and forgiveness (forgive me for my honesty). I asked Eugenio if he wanted me to prepare him a basket for Easter, but he declined as he's hardcore and seriously embraces Easter. He and I are an interesting juxtaposition of comparable opposites. He can teach our hypothetical unborn children about Jesus, and I'll take the bunny and Santa -- bases covered.

Somewhat unrelated, but equally stream of consciousness, I just met a man in his 30s who was only recently released from prison. "I've been in prison since I was 16. This is all overwhelming." Wow, I bet. Talk about rebirth. He signed up for basic computer classes as a start. I pray he adjusts well.

aging

I'm getting old and I can feel it. My elbows are creaky, my muscles achy, and my fingers bony. I take "my pills" every morning. My breath is coffee laced. (When I was four or five I not so subtly told my mom I didn't want to kiss or hug her "because your breath stinks.") I say "pardon?" more often because I can't hear, though I'm extremely sensitive to loud music. I don't understand the appeal to the crap on television these days -- a la Jersey Shore. And I no longer believe elderly are being drama kings and queens when I hear them groan while bending over or standing up, as I now do the same -- unintentionally. If I had a garage, it would start to smell funny.

Lady, please. Your 26. I know, I know, but in all seriousness I can actually feel that my body has aged. I'm not whining, merely observing and slightly lamenting. I'd much rather be almost 30 than an insecure teenager, although back then I could do the splits every way without flinching in pain, and I could touch my nose to my knees while resting hands behind my ankles. In my youth I found yoga an easy excuse for exercise: what's so hard about bending your body? And I didn't appreciate the concept of "warming up" before running because I didn't need to. Now it takes me a solid 20 minutes of jogging before I feel like I can run harder without breaking a leg.

Today I stretched for the first time in weeks, which made me realize how inflexible I'm becoming and reminded me to stretch more often. I've decided, in self improvement efforts, I'm going to take up yoga. I always wanted to be a calm soul peacefully meditating while crossing my legs every which way, but the truth is that I found yoga all too boring because I was far too skittish. In past attempts, I spent the majority of class looking around the room at everyone else when I should have focused on breathing with my eyes closed. My breathing is involuntary; I don't need to focus. That said, now that I'm older, hopefully I can sit still, because I'm craving to start something new and beneficial...in my old age. ; D

Correction

One night after an embarrassing moment, Eugenio advised, "Keep that to yourself; don't blog about it." No worries, I mostly blog compromising information about you, not myself, though I appreciate the concern.

Let it be known that I have Neno's permission to talk about (some) of the things that take place behind our apartment door. I texted him one morning before clicking Publish, "Do you mind if I talk about your farting on my blog?" He responded, "Which one? From last night?" (I found that response hilarious).

But then he read my blog and took issue with the honeymoon post. "The stuff about the lingerie, yadi, yadi, yadi and saying '10 minutes later' was a bit TMI...And it was more than 1o minutes, more like 20." Duly noted.

Call of B/Duty

Was that a booty call?! I screamed, coming out of the restroom, realizing Eugenio was already back on the couch, clothed and playing Call of Duty. Not long before, I told him I was going to bed early, and he sweetly joined me....then returned to his game after he got what he came for. Did you just hit-it-and-quit-it?! I said laughing at his gall. "I'm sorry, bebita. No, I hit-it-and-married-it!" he replied giving me a guilty hug before adding, "Wham-bam-you-married-me-ma'am!"

I like giving Neno a hard time for playing Call of Duty, although I'm not actually bothered by his vice. Knowing and seeing on a daily basis how much of a dorky manchild my Rico Suave Latin Lover truly is, is more charming than bothersome. Check out my avatar. Do you like it? Plus I get to sleep in our teeny bed all alone for hours each night. I hate body heat.

Back in our early days, he brought me to his apartment to watch a movie on our third date. I was incredibly nervous about going to his apartment; I didn't want him to think he was going to get lucky. I'm actually shy and a prude, believe it or not. After watching Gran Torino followed by sitting in awkward silence, Neno asked if I wanted to watch the beginning of Transformers 1, since Transformers 2 was coming out soon and he wanted us to go see it. On a side note, I've seen a lot of bad movies these past two years in the name of love; I'm sure Neno says the same for himself. I had no desire to see Transformers anything. My roommate and I joked that the popularity of Transformers was like grown women flocking to watch a My Little Pony blockbuster. So naturally I said, "Sure! Sounds great!" Halfway through the movie (I kept wondering when "the beginning" was supposed to end), Neno turned to me and asked, "So Hanna, which transformer is your favorite?" Um, I don't have a favorite. Uh, which one is yours? "Optimus Prime!" he cheered making a fist...OK. And then we sat in more awkward silence.

I think we made out for the first time after that. He wooed me with his charming dorkiness.

I like to remind Neno of his smooth transformers line from time to time. We haven't progressed much.

humility

I strive for kindness at all times, but some days I'm in want. My job is an exercise in patience.

When my mind shouts something like, READ THE DIRECTIONS, DAMNIT, in retrospect I always hope my face didn't display my thoughts, even if I feel my rattling nerves are warranted. I hold firmly to the notion that adults should at least try for self sufficiency.

Sundays are busy -- lots of people, lots of questions, and lots of helping lots of people. Thus, today, twenty minutes into my shift, I stopped for a moment to ask for patience...or for the day to go by quickly.

Not long after my appeal for divine intervention, I helped an older gentleman fill out a food stamp account online. I must admit, my patience was wearing thin as I had to help him navigate through the seemingly simple, user-friendly website step by step, repeating and re-explaining things like "zip code," "security question," and "username." Not your 'name', but what you want to use as your log-in name when you use this website....OK fine, you can use your name but you need some numbers in there too. Thirty minutes and three failed attempts at creating a usable username and password later, we finally succeeded. I urged him to write down the website and his account information so that he wouldn't forget...then I thought better and wrote it down for him, explaining the process of getting to the website and logging in once more. He was a kind man, obviously trying to teach himself. I've seen him practice typing during his sessions in the past. He thanked me profusely for my time adding shyly, "I'm so dumb." That made my heart sink. I told him, "No, your not. You're fine. You're learning!" There's patience punched in my face.

my funny, flatulating husband

I unleashed a spell when I put the ring on his finger. Now that we're married, Eugenio is funny -- his comebacks are quick-witted and hilarious. I told him this revelation one morning.

"What do you mean? I've always been funny." No, usually your jokes fell flat. "But you always laughed." I was being nice, but now I laugh because you're actually funny. "No, through time you're sense of humor has become more sophisticated" he quipped back.

Other than his new found hilarity, not much has changed now that we are legally bound. I haven't changed my name and Eugenio still flatulates in his sleep. However, one night -- this is so sweet -- he almost got up to go to the restroom, then lied back down in defeat, pulling the covers tightly around his body. "I'm sorry. I was going to try to make it to the restroom, but it escaped," he said referring to the stench. That is love. He is so genuine and kind.

I love my funny, flatuating husband.

Luna de miel

This is how romantic the first night of marriage was for us: in the morning Eugenio announced with gusto, "Bebita, I was bombarding you with farts last night!" Yes he was....

With that, we packed up the hotel room, got on a plane to Orlando, and drove to Miami Beach the following day. The first night of our honeymoon was Valentine's Day. We made an early reservation, the only slot available, at Tantra, which I selected mostly because all the reviews described it as "erotic." I figured that would be a good start.

They totally played up the sexy, erotic vibe. The waitresses at Tantra were all hot and wore tight, short red dresses with heals. We were seated at a red couch in a room so dark that we needed flashlights to see the menus. I get it, everyone looks wonderful when your drunk and the lights are off. Nevermind what we ate -- yes, it was good and expensive. We drank a delicious, sweet bottle of champagne (Something Imperial Nectar -- I requested another bottle for my birthday) and washed it down with a bottle of red wine. I've never made it to the bottom of four glasses of anything alcoholic without puking, and this wasn't an exception.

Sauced and stuffed, we went back to our swanky hotel where I attempted to look sexy with my food baby. Eugenio navigated through the stringy lingerie, yadi yadi yada, and ten minutes later, with a tornado in my stomach, I was throwing up all that expensive wine and champagne. Eugenio politely closed the bathroom door behind me, got in bed, and continued to bombard me with farts throughout the night. What a cute couple we are.

The rest of the honeymoon was relaxing and fun -- we basically hung out on the beach and the hotel pool during the day and ate like kings at night. One morning Eugenio went running with me on the beach, which I loved. Running on the beach was a difficult workout with ridiculous/pleasant scenery and background noise(waves crashing and seagulls singing). I enjoy South Beach when no ones around, like in winter, and hope to go back with Eugenio someday soon.

four more days and three years ago

This is possibly my last post as a single lady. For people who know me or knew me, the fact that I am getting married is a funny change of plans. I did profess not long ago, and for quite some time, that I was probably not ever going to marry, and I was satisfied with that. I wasn't chasing any fairytale. I had no idea what my life had in store.

Last Friday marked the three year anniversary of my moms death. So much has changed since then, although I can hardly believe three years have gone by. I'm still incredibly sad, but I am not as grief stricken as I was the first two years, in which I can't remember a day going by that I didn't cry. My sister mentioned that she looses her breath for a moment when she realises mom is gone and she will never get to see her again. I have that same exact feeling. When the first anniversary rolled around and then the second, and even now too, I felt pain not only in her death but also in the passing time. The more time goes by, the more real her death is -- my clinging to the hope that I will awake from this terrible nightmare becomes more obviously delusional and implausible. It's also almost as if I'm allowing the time to go by and in doing so I'm leaving Mom behind. I know this isn't the truth, but it feels like it is. There's a folksy song I listen to when I feel like crying with the lyrics "Sometimes time is nothing more than pain in disguise..." which combats the saying, "time heals all wounds." For me, it's all the same.

The juxtaposition of my wedding euphoria and my grief is difficult to describe -- the word bittersweet isn't intense enough. My wedding is going to be an unforgettably happy day in my life, but dang I'll miss mom!

solo cinco mas dias

Woah. Five freaking more days. I just have to get through today and tomorrow at work and then we're off to San Antonio for our whirlwind wedding week. A co-worker who recently got married told me to "soak in every moment because it goes by so fast." Duly noted.

Last night Eugenio bought me man-approved lingerie for the first night of our honeymoon. I get a kick out of thinking about him in the store picking everything out. He told me, with an interesting choice of words, "You'll look awesome. Really, you topple those models." Yeah, with my thighs. I tried the lacy, pink delicates on partly to ensure that they fit and mostly to figure out the logistics. It took me about ten minutes to get the stockings attached to the string thingies hanging from the underwear and then figured, well this is going to make for an interesting night, thinking about E figuring out how to take them off. Sexy but complicated. I'll post a picture later. Forgive me if this is too much information. I'm just super excited about losing my virginity...




..... haha just kidding.

dress code

I feel small and humiliated right now. My boss asked me to see her in her office after lunch. That's never a good sign. The topic? The dress I wore last Monday was too short. She gave me a pedantic, condescending lecture. "Some dresses are pretty but shouldn't be worn to work."

K, thanks, got it. She pulled out the dress code but couldn't locate any portion that specified skirt length, not that it mattered. I would have appreciated and been able to handle the news last Monday when I was actually wearing the scandalous frock. I'm not someone who wears skimpy clothes for attention. I actually disagree that my dress was too short -- it was two inches from me knee and little old ladies compliment me on it all the time -- but I didn't argue. Plus I'm not wearing the dress today -- 8 days later -- to prove my point. I just turned bright red (an embarrassing feature I can't control), said "OK," and smiled. She then added that my sleeves need to be "at least 4 fingers in width," an unnecessary comment considering I never wear sleeveless dresses or shirts and always wear a cardigan. Anyway, I agree with the dress code and never intended to show up in a mini skirt.

Blah. I won't make a habit of this bitter blogging, but I just needed to blow of some steam.

Inappropriately dressed,
hanna

crap race report

The marathon is over and I've already reflected on my complaints, mistakes, misfortunes...and the positives too. In short, I ran, if what I did qualifies as "running," one of my worst races, but it was still a good experience, although I don't plan to run the Disney Marathon again. I run a bad race and shrug it off as 'not my thing'. Remind me of this when I start talking about Disney Marathon 2012....

Needless to say, I did not meet my goal time, my back up plan time, or even my 'F-it! I'm just going to enjoy this' time. My regretfully slow pace was partly due to a difficult course (a lot of concrete -- my least favorite!), slightly due to stomach issues (I'll exclude the details), and mostly due to my mentality. My already extreme race anxiety is exacerbated by crowds of people. This marathon was a sensory overload with thousands upon thousands of people, characters, lights, fireworks, entertainment, and the SELL SELL SELL mentality through and through. I felt overwhelmed and psyched myself out when it came time to simply run. Dating back to high school cross country, I have an odd tendency to run faster during practice than while racing, due to nerves. I perform better without the circus. I'm not sure how to get over my race anxiety, but it's something I recognize. The first step is admitting you a have a problem.

On a chipper note, the Disney Marathon is a fun experience, especially, I assume, if ran with friends. I wouldn't recommend this marathon to anyone looking for a great race time. Characters pose for pictures along the entire course. A lot of people were having a good time stopping for pictures at every mile. I didn't think to bring a camera, so I missed out on getting my picture taken with Cinderella, Mickey, The Beast, and all the other characters whom I didn't recognize. Another positive, I must say that the Disney employees and volunteers are the nicest, happiest, most enthusiastic race cheerleaders I have ever seen. I don't think I would have been able to feign their exuberance if I had to wake up at 3am to service thousands of stinky, obsessive compulsive maniacs.

Typical day after, I look silly walking down the stairs because my legs won't bend. I wouldn't use my free pass to Disney World today even if I didn't have to work. Yesterday I felt sorry for the kids whose parents brought them to a closed Disney World well before sunrise to watch adults run for hours in the cold. Those parents better be taking their kids to Disney World, for real, today -- payback.

Me and Eugenio after the race. He came to cheer me on!

can't-write-it

A regular patron (whom I adore) frequently (nearly every day) tells me, "You have the patience of a saint. You'd make a really good shrink." I'm not sure if he says that to everyone who works the center, but I'll accept it as a compliment. Although my employer probably prefers for me to state, "that is not a service we provide" more often than not when someone starts detailing his or her problems.

Because I prefer to keep my job, I have refrained from writing about the happenings at the library, but I must tell you, there are plenty of outlandish, can’t-write-this-stuff, blog-worthy scenarios taking place in my face every day. I don’t like to eavesdrop or involve myself in drama for the sake of gossip, but I can’t avoid it even if I tried. I usually tell Eugenio my stories-of-the-day when I get home and he agrees that a reality show in the library would make interesting television. Even a sitcom based on scenarios that happen in any urban downtown library would work. And I’d read a blog titled "overheard at the library" and frequent a "FML: library edition" website. Alas, I like my job and experiencing the real deal up close, so I won’t be spearheading any such projects. The people here inspire me, but I can't use it, so I'd like to throw the idea out there.