We've moved!

It's not yet completely and utterly ready, but it's already presentable for it's incredibly underwhelming debut!

Change your pointers, rss feed readers and bookmarks, my honies! It's time for the real deal, the true domain!

Without further ado (because THAT was a lotta ado about not that much), I present to you:

GirlAnachronicles.net

I have to thank Eze (a LOT, I mean, this is on the level for a full body massage with dodo feathers!) for his incredibly tireless toil with the fucking domain and wordpress and all things technological which I refuse to acknowledge they even exist! Without you, my love, it would't have been even remotely plausible! Thank you!

So, guys? See you there? :-)

I *think* I may have a type...

Stephen Colbert (newsman extraordinaire!) - He's SO dreamy!















Jorge E. Abello (of "Betty la Fea" fame by playing a gloriously funny boss)















Steve Carell (I truly doubt he was a virgin at 40, but I digress...)



















Robert Downey Jr. (the edgiest of the bunch, but I love raw edges >-) )

... and from the other side of the ocean:



















David Tennant (he would "boyishly-charm" my panties off any day!)



















... and Daniel Radcliffe (Harry Potter my ass! This kid ain't no boy no more! Hooo!)


All of 'em dark and sparkling with talent :-)

(secret: none of them hold a candle to my lovely Eze, tho :P)

Ballet Pointe Shoes: An Obsession

pink freed ballet shoes, originally uploaded by Laura Walker.

I was born to a life-long ballerina: this guaranteed that I'd be enrolled into the ballet-frenzy early on in my life. I still remember my first ballet lessons. I must have been around 5 years old, and I had a black leotard with tiny white dots, and a simple ruffle around the hips. After I while, I adopted the pink leotard with pink, gauzy, tie-around skirt uniform.

However, I was always fascinated by the grandiosely stiff tutus adult ballerinas wore, and even more than that, I was enthralled by the pointe shoes. I dreamt of going pointe. I used to swipe mom's old pointe shoes from their storage place to put them on and play adult ballerina in my room, away from judging eyes, nearer to my bed in case I should fall.

I never went pointe. My mom, who used to take me to my ballet and jazz classes and spend the whole day taking her own dance lessons in an adjacent studio, broke her ankle and had to swear off dancing. It followed that I would have to quit my lessons too ....

Years later, when I turned 19, I enrolled in jazz classes in the ballet studio my stepmom used to work for. It didn't take long for me to realize that, whatever illusions I had taken with me as a child that I could move gracefully, I couldn't dance worth a dime. I quit a few months thereafter.

Later on I worked up the courage to ask my mom: "Mom... did I dance well when I was a kid?".
She laughed a bit and said: "Hell, no! You had two left feet!".

Hindsght is 20/20. Unless it comes to how happy and talented you were ... 

OMG We're Gonna DIE!

I'm really hoping that laptop is running on Linux.
Read the brief but informative Dark Roasted Blend feature on the Large Hadron Collider...

When it Rains ...

Some people say "Count your blessings". They say it so much and so often, that it has been immortalized into posters, greeting cards and Power Point slideshows. It's a saccharine, idiotic, Christian-Precious-Moments saying. Or maybe I feel about it so because I immediately associate it with an idiotic Precious Moments poster that was taped on the principal's office wall in my Catholic school.

Now, "count your miseries" is something you don't hear much at all. It sounds like an emo thing to say, it may indeed brush along the lines of something Tim Burton would make an animated movie about ... but I think it might also help put things in perspective.



- A few weeks ago a friend finally broke up with his long-time girlfriend, after long months of toiling and pushing towards a fruitful relationship. It failed, and he's now cycling between depression and mania.

- A week ago, Eze's grandfather died. It was sort-of-unexpected: he apparently hit his head, and his cranium filled with blood. He died of associated respiratory complications (as he had signed a form asking NOT to be put in a respirator).

- Things at the office are NOT looking up:
-- Work-wise, it's chaos. Deadlines are being forced upon the staff, and the best word to describe the general reaction is "mutiny".
-- The boss's ex-wife (and mom to one of my close friends)was found to have a brain tumor. It's suspected to be malignant (a grade 2 glioma, to be exact). My friend relocated to Texas to take care of her mom and keep her company, which is totally understandable and fair and right... but it has created a palpable "hole" in this office.

- My grandfather died last night. Bone cancer. Spent the last year or so wanting to die. Last night he got his wish. Most of us are thankful, since it means the end of his plight, but we're all joined in this bitter grief. His relief is ours to a certain extent, but we will still miss him. Besides, what really breaks my heart is the fact that I never got to see him again after 1995, and my father didn't get to say "Goodbye".

- Yesterday I had a bilateral breast MRI done. The doctor found a tumor, something of a change since last time I was checked (2 years ago). I'm petrified by fear (I'm a high risk patient for breast cancer).

- Two of our closest friends are going through more or less the same fucked up romantic situation. Girl leads on. Guy falls hard. Girl turns out to be dating someone else. It's harsh, and having it happen in stereo is baffling.

- I went swimming: 50 meters. Nothing huge, just to check on my condition to see if I can use the Natatorium facilities. I pass, but barely: my lungs almost give out of the effort, and I realize that 8 years of smoking have taken a BIG toll. I quit smoking. I'm trying really hard to stay "quit", but all other aforementioned miseries are making it hard to stick to my guns.

One blessing though: The urge to cry is far stronger than the urge to smoke. Isn't life grand!

"Mi palabra favorita es..."

Ni puta idea de cuál es mi palabra favorita. Esa es mi primera asignación 'seria' en mi primera clase en casi diez años desde que me gradué de universidad (y digo "mi primera asignación seria", pq si les digo cuál es realmente la primera asignación, se me estotean de la risa). Esa es una quinta parte de lo que será mi 'portafolio de redacción'.

Cuál es mi palabra favorita y por qué.

Creo que le jugaré esta, creo que la dejo pasar ... pero también creo que es hora de ir buscando opciones para ingresar a la escuela graduada. Se me había olvidado lo mucho que el currículo universitario tiene que compensar por las lagunas de aprendizaje que deja el fabuloso Departamento de Educación puertorriqueño.

Tengo que agradecer a mi padre por haberme jeringado tanto con el idioma, la corrección en el habla y la expresión escrita, etcétera etcétera etcétera ("No se dice 'cajjo', se dice 'caRRRRRRRo'.") ¡Gracias, papá!

Les aviso cuando termine de dividir estas palabras en sílabas, ¿okei?

Érase una vez ...

Érase una vez tres hermanas hermosas:
La mayor bruñida de estaño catalán, con la inocencia de una dulce amapola.
La del medio nació cubierta de un velo seductor andaluz, y sus ojos y boca brillaban con carcajadas que brotaban de lo más profundo de la tierra.
La menor era una visión de alba pureza, como hecha de fina y delicada filigrana de porcelana y hebras de carbón.

Al crecer las hermanas, sus semblantes fueron cambiando:
La amapola de la mayor se rizó en una dura bola marchita, ajada y descascarada por los vendavales de la vida cotidiana.
La seducción telúrica de la mediana se fue desgastando sobre una roca de resentimientos, dejando atrás una tosca semilla de amargura.
Mientras la pureza de la menor fue ganando tornasoles y máculas de hoja dorada y ceniza papal.

Poco a poco el tiempo fue desgranando a las hermanas ...
Hasta que al final de sus vidas sólo quedó:
La ñoñería de la primera
La majadería de la segunda
Y la pretensión de la tercera ...

The NYC Expirience: Summer Edition

Those two weeks come and gone, I'm back in the office, and already missing my vacations... or the vacations from my vacations (vacations squared).

First of all, for those of you who like looking at pictures of other people having fun, or mediocre points of view of a city that has been photographed since the first brick was laid, then go here.

I refuse, however, to give a blow-by-blow recount of the whole trip, mainly because it would make this post too long, and besides, I forget details easily... it would be frustrating.

So, without further ado:

Things I Loved

1)

Visiting Chickpea, now known as Tahini. Different name, same awesome menu. However, the unconditional awe died a bit when we found a much better place at half the price very near the Clark Street Station in Brooklyn. However: finally getting a whole Shawafel in my tummy? Priceless!



2)

Finally seeing the Alice in Wonderland sculpture (also known as the Margarita Delacorte memorial). It was everything I thought it would be, and more. If you delve into the Flickr set I linked at the top, you'll see I was very thorough in documenting all details possible, including a tiny snail right under the biggest mushroom, and a squirrel peeking out of the base of the Cheshire Cat's tree. It was big enough even for ME to climb into Alice's lap, and that was more than enough for me.

3)
Running by accident into the Hans Christian Andersen sculpture, featuring a lovely, charming, adorable rendition of the Ugly Duckling. It was totally unexpected and heartwarming.








4)
Di Fara's. Suffice it to say it has ruined all other pizzas for me. If you're looking for flashy, quick, blow-you-out-of-the-water experience, go elsewhere. This place was slow and not mind-blowingly friendly. It's a hole in the wall with more than a few kinks that need ironing out, from the layout of the tables to the state of the acoustic ceiling.

However, if you're looking for a sublime experience comparable to finally finding the truth about how death works, then this is the place for you. As soon as you cross the door, the first thing that hits you is the respectful silence. It's like walking into hallowed grounds, and indeed! Watching Dominic De Marco go about his business making pizza pies was like a religious experience - that is to say: I'm not conventionally religious, I also find the same kind of satisfaction from watching a beautiful sunset. Well, these were beautiful, delicious, delectable pizza pies. The best I've had. And the only thing that it provokes in me now is bittersweet tears: thankful that I had the opportunity of tasting such delicious pizza; dismayed that it will probably be a long long while until I taste it again (let's hope Mr. De Marco will last on this earth a great deal longer).

5)
Sharing more than a few interesting experiences with Eze. Tears were shed, laughs were had. The whole trip was intense in any and all ways imaginable. However, the days shared with Eze, just the two of us by ourselves, were the best. I came to realize that, even through the bitter arguments, we are more like each other than what I would have first thought. We behave differently, but the things that attract us are pretty much the same.



Case to prove the point?




6)
Union Square. We spent more than a few nights dallying around this area, from there to Saint Mark's Place and back. We felt incredibly at ease spending our dead hours just sitting on a bench (or on the plaza steps) just looking at the people go by.






7)
The Metropolitan Museum of Art! I just wish I had a whole week to stay and peer at every single piece closely. To read all the information tags and the stories behind the expositions. There were SO MANY rooms I never got to visit ... this is a definite re-visit candidate, by all means. If only to sit in the Renaissance sculpture room (so pure and white when doused in sunlight ... so full of history!) Go to my Flickr set if you want to see a bit more of what I believed to be worth the furtive snapshot - cameras were allowed, however, I felt a bit like an outlaw. Taking pictures were my way of swiping my favorite pieces into my pockets and taking them home. (Don't miss the tiny heads and bulls "collections"!)


8)
Trying new types of cuisine. I had Thai food for the first time in my life, as well as my first cup of Turkish coffee ever. I cannot say these were the best culinary experiences in my life, but at least I can say I tried it at least once. (In my opinion? Turkish coffee is extremely thick ... too thick to enjoy)




9)
The smell of real roses. I had NO idea wild roses could smell so good. A whiff of one of these finally brought the comprehension that had eluded me all my life: I finally understood the passion for the smell of a rose. I finally understood why people obsess over these flowers. And I realized that it's of fools to pretend that a reaped rose will smell the same as one that's safe and sound still tied to the ground. We will never really capture the smell of a rose without sacrificing the sweetness of its aroma by its own death.






10)
The John Lennon Memorial. A beautiful homage, forever kept alive by The People.












11)
I finally saw a trilobite fossil! Forever haunted by the image of these animals, seeing them in other creatures, like the horseshoe crab and the Ohmu... and when I came to see what they were actually (sort of) like: they were freaking SMALL! Hahahah! Mini-Ohmus... cute! This was in the Natural History Museum, and the whole trek through the museum was fascinating and educational. As with the Metropolitan Museum of Art, this museum would require a few entire days to see and fully enjoy it.

12) Other places I tried and/or loved:
- Max Brenner - It's ALL about the chocolate. You step through the door and the chocolate aroma ATTACKS you! Lovely place!

- Così - Their specialty is sandwiches, but they also make "hearth-baked dinners" which actually means: a bunch of pieces of chicken and ham and bacon topped with a fuckload of cheese and put through the broiler. DELICIOUS!

- Bamn! - This is what I imagine true pop-Japanese cuisine to be like nowadays. Everything is bought through dispensing machines. How alien! But they surprised me with two over-the-counter offerings: green tea ice cream (I prefer the twist vanilla-green tea ice cream, it's softer to the palate), and snow cones (I had a cherry-flavored one, which is a slight departure from the traditional raspberry flavor we favor so much here)

- The AMC IMAX Theater - Totally new experience! We watched The Dark Knight there, which has a few IMAX scenes in it. Totally worth the over-price, but I just wish we had been able to see it with the usual movie theater gang.

- Ricky's - Take a beauty supply hole-in-the-wall, put it on steroids, keep the prices down ... what do you get? HEAVEN!

- Anthropologie - Incredibly expensive, but so uniquely cute! Thankfully, I'm not rich, otherwise I'd blow my savings account on this brand.

- Fanelli's Cafe - We went in without expectations. We got good beer and food at adequate prices. The surprise? Looking up and seeing "Saloon Certificates" that dated up to 1873!!!

- FuerzaBruta - Just ... watch the video... and be aware that whatever you see in there is not even an infinitesimal piece of the things you experience in those 50 minutes you spend in that room surrounded by insane performers.

In New York - Summer Heat Sucks

Damn it's hot in here! I'm getting constant headaches, and while I still ADORE this place, the headaches are sorta ruining it for me. I'm hoping my body will get used to it. The heat is dry and I'm thirsty all the time. Lots of family quarrels, of course, we're like a TON of people in the same house. The drama, the drama!

But we already re-visited Saigon Grill (a Vietnamese cuisine franchise) and realized the place is REALLY awesome. Nicely priced, GREAT food, all in all a very good experience. I visited the CO Bigelow apothecary at 6th Avenue, and while I did find the tinted mint lip gloss I wanted, the rest of the merchandise was cruelly expensive. But I found a beauty supply somewhere down the same street and was able to get some soap, shampoo, conditioner, and a beautiful blue Orly nail color.

We went to Time Square last night, and it was WAY more crowded than the last time we went. Still felt bombarded by the excess of lit advertising. Went into the Sephora store there, and was overwhelmed by the variety of items and the crowd in there.

I'll keep posting while I'm able. Today, we will be enjoying a family day in the house (my father-in -law's sister's house).

Ah ... and the Doctor Martens boots? Nice for walking... SHORT distances. I'm nursing blisters right now as we speak. :-) Yayyyy ...

Raíces

No hace mucho le comentaba a mi papá una observación que hizo Ezequiel acerca de mi comportamiento durante nuestra última visita a New York City. Ezequiel se fijó que a mí no me da la nostalgia por el terruño patrio que a él sí. Del mismo modo que él sufre del patriotismo disparado por la separación, le ocurre igual a mi hermano, a familiares y amistades ... según me cuentan, es encontrarse de pronto rodeado por todo aquello que es grandioso, exaltado, fabuloso, las maravillas del mundo civilizado ... y sin embargo encontrarse con que están extrañando las brisas tropicales y el chirrido del coquí en el patio.

Y pensándolo bien, Eze tiene razón: a mí no me da eso. Como él lo dijo en ese momento, a mí me sueltan en las calles de New York City y yo sigo caminando sin mirar hacia atrás, sin brindarle un segundo pensamiento a Puerto Rico (y sus garitas y sus palmas y sus güiritos flotando en el aire al lado de los reyes magos tallados en madera... sí, estoy segura que en esas mierdas es en lo que piensa la gente cuando empiezan a extrañar a Puerto Rico ... jamás se les ocurre extrañar el tapón tan jodido de la Milla de Oro un lunes en la tarde, o en lo difícil que es conseguir un fucking estacionamiento en Plaza las Américas en los fines de semana).

Esta mañana se me ocurrió preguntarme por qué no me salía del corazón extrañar a Puerto Rico a la distancia. ¡A no equivocar esto con odio! A mi Puerto Rico me parece hermoso en su caos y desorden: no sólo tiene un ecosistema fascinantemente variado, sino que la misma civilización, en su violencia y cafrería, en lo pintoresco de sus personajes, es una obra maestra de la evolución y de-evolución.

Pero si me voy de viaje, si levanto el vuelo ... no lo extraño. Extraño a mi familia y a mis amistades, seguro! Pero a Puerto Rico como entorno no.

Así venía hoy de camino al trabajo, pensándolo ... y de pronto sonó "Estadio Azteca" de Andrés Calamaro, y se me aguaron los ojos - taco instantáneo en la garganta. Y me dí cuenta en ese momento que, jodido como suene, el patriotismo del que sufro es heredado. Las ansias por un terruño patrio no son por mi propia patria sino por la de mi papá. Imposible como suene, pero mi lealtad está atada a un país que ni siquiera conozco bien.

La añoranza que mis compatriotas sienten cuando oyen los acordes de un cuatro se despierta en mí cuando oigo "El Cóndor Pasa". Mis compañeros boricuas ven las playas como la primera señal de Casa, yo sueño todavía con visitar nuevamente los montes y valles que marcaron el compás de una de mis navidades hace más de diez años.

Es cuestión de percepciones heredadas, creo yo.

O tal vez, a diferencia de muchísima gente, mis raíces no se agarran del tronco del árbol del cual nací, sino del terreno al cual le he dedicado mi corazón.

Hey, kiddo!

Last night I dreamt up my daughter again (it's the second time ... maybe third ... in this lifetime).

The first time it was a pregnancy, I remember it was as vivid as morning sickness itself.

The second time the girl was 7 or 8, and gazed at me calmly, like waiting. She had black straight hair, and a nose shape that later on I came to understand whose it was.

This third time, the kid was just a baby, maybe one year old. Same nose, same eyes, brown, downy hair. Gestures that echo those of the owner of the original nose shape. And a round, elfish face.

It's an odd day, an odd time, to be attacked by motherhood blues. It will go away.

NYC [Planning] Wish/Playlist

So, well ... it's only 10 days away now, and Eze & I (plus a few other interested and involved parties) have been mulling over what our plans are for our vacations at NYC. First and foremost, of course, there's the family. Seeing otherwise would be ungrateful, to say the least, since it was my father-in-law that paid for the plane tickets, and it is his sister who will shack us in during our 13-day stay.

But apart from that, we have plans, and hopes, and wishes. So many that I had to write it all down on a list - excitement often impairs clarity of thought, although I'm aware that we will probably not get to do everything we want to do, nor see all we want to see. But a list will help, when at a loss for clear plans... so this is it (in no particular order, although, bear in mind: first things that come to mind are usually either the most important or the most urgent).

- I want to finally see the Alice in Wonderland sculpture by George Delacorte, in Central Park


The first time I saw a photograph of this sculpture I was 6, and in total awe of its bigger-than-life quality. At least it seemed bigger than life to little ol' me, considering that the picture included a throng of little kids clambering over the statue, and that they were dwarfed by Alice's figure. Since then, I've longed to do the same. Maybe this time around, I'll finally be able to sit atop a mushroom. :D

- I want to go back to Chickpea and have the shawafel I didn't get back then.


Goddamned be me and my synaptic tantrums.

- On that same line of thought, I want to go to Ray's Pizza again. That pizza is worth a revisit. And maybe have a pizza bagel as well.

- Celebrate our anniversary. July 23rd ... what a day ... four years now, of which 3 have been spent living together. Beautifully. :-) And to celebrate it in style:

Di Fara in Brooklyn ...


Magnolia Bakery (there are two locations, it's a tossup where we'll end up!)

and

Martha Wainwright at the Highline Ballroom


- We have plans to visit a friend at Pelham Bay, and also visit Battery Park ... maybe catch view of the Statue of Liberty from afar (no, I'm not interested in seeing her up close ... now bring me to DaVinci's David, and I'll volunteer to lick it!)

- The museum rounds: the Guggenheim, the MoMA, the Metropolitan, etc ... it would take days, and I'm not getting my hopes up on getting to see them all.

- I wanna visit Chinatown and Little Italy, and this one street they talked to me about that is lined with bead stores.

- And more stores: Sephora, CO Bigelow ... and heh heh! maybe I'll give in to that whimsical invitation to Macy's, so my dear friend can laugh at my gawking face while I take in 7 stories' worth of capitalism.


So for those Facebook friends that have been wondering "what the heck is that countdown about": T-10 ... and counting! :D

I've been airlocked, now what?

OnePlusYou Quizzes and Widgets

:-( The outlook is horrifyingly grim:

Congrats! You could survive for 1 minute 17 seconds !

In the first 30 seconds any fluid on the surface of your body would begin to boil due to lack of ambient pressure, this includes the saliva on your tongue and the moisture in your eyes. Your eardrums would most likely burst due to the pressure in your body trying to equalize with the vacuum outside. Unlike what some science fiction films have suggested, your body would not explode.

After the first 15 seconds you would lose consciousness. If you held your breath you could potentially stay alive longer but you risk pulmonary trauma. If you didn't hold your breath you'd pass out sooner, but your lungs might have a better chance of avoiding permanent damage.

The pressure in your veins would rise until your heart no longer had the capacity to pump blood, at which point you'd die.

Revisiting: Boots

I haven't created a new look at ShopStyle.com for a long time now (it's an incredibly fun timewaster, though, but I don't have all that much leisure time anymore). However, I've lately found myself revisiting this style more frequently:



It's all in the boots, people. I first became enamored of Doc Martens-style boots at the age of 15. I was in public school, and rules on footwear were much more lax than they've become in later years. I bought my first 10-eye-Doc Martens-imitation pair at a Payless Shoe Store and wore them daily: to school, to hang outs ... I have to confess that I even lost my virginity with those boots on my feet. They lasted more than enough, considering the wear and strain on them, and they were cast into the dark oblivion of my closet as soon as the sole went unglued. Later on, moths did their final work on them and they were rendered irreparable.

Later on I fell in love with another pair, this time off a Delias catalog. They were 14-eye with a raised toe, slightly glossier than what I was used to. They were incredibly uncomfortable at first, but I broke them in, and after that they were a total hit in my life. I loved those boots until their fiery demise five years ago.

I haven't owned a pair of proper boots since then. I guess I thought I had outgrown the boot-wearing phase, but this sudden obsession has proved me wrong. I bought a pair of knee-high boots the other day at Hot Topic:


They look incredibly cool, but I realized today they're not that awesome for walking long distances or for extended periods of time. Part of the boot-craving is to have a good pair of shoes to massacre on my upcoming trip to NYC. These boots do not fit the bill for such a purpose.:-(

So I'm back to square one on my quest for some nice, comfy Doc Martens boots. Maybe I should cut the crap and invest on the real deal. I think I'm ready to commit to boots again.

Adulthood Dementia

Since I turned 30, I've felt a certain amount of mania creep into my actions and intentions. I don't know if it was always so, and that I just became increasingly aware of my own nature, to this particular point in actuality in which I am sure I'm on the same league as hippies and hysterical moms. Or maybe things did change as I got to that figurative milestone of The 30s.

But as the mania set in, so did a ridiculous sense of prudence and shame, to the point that I check and double-check the things I write, the facts I disclose. And, yes, I have one particular friend to thank for that level of awareness(yes, you! You know who you are, you lurking scoundrel! I love you, though!), but I can't really let the blame rest solely on others. I guess that the more things I get to write, the less I want to put "on the page". The more complex I become as a person, the less I want to show about me.

A nitpicking of the public image, I guess. And it feels weird, because that's not the way it used to be. At the same time, however, the less I publicize, the more free I feel. Isn't that funny?

I guess that this strange sort of "writer's block" will come to a close as soon as I get my first assignment to write something for a class. I have a feeling that my writings will change, and the absence of the word will give way to a forest of twisted facts entwined with thick tendrils of fantasy and fiction.

OMG!!!1! I could cry!

... and a thousand voices cried with joy, and relief from a wait so long, lifetimes could be accounted for it.

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

Last two weeks have been intensely interesting, to say the least.

- I considered myself unemployed, my head about to burst with the effort of pushing through the last two weeks (those drasted two weeks' notice good employees always give).

- Then suddenly I'm not so unemployed anymore. All my worrying about whether I'd be able to study, if I'd be able to hold my job in spite of the fact that I'll be going on an already-paid-for vacation to NYC in July ... worrying simply because I quit without a safety net, and I was plummeting speedily towards the Sea of the Idle and the Impoverished. But then a great friend trusted me so much and had so much faith in what I can do, that she twisted things around the way I thought they couldn't be twisted.

I'm a happy (and very peaceful) camper now.

Other things are happening, though, and my life apparently refuses to be without a bit of drama and uncertainty. It's as if I am a magnet for trouble and ... well, let me not gripe too much about it. Drama and uncertainty is what makes your blood pump quicker. :-) I need all the livelihood I can get.

Little Notes #8: Next Few Weeks and What it Means

#1, next Monday is going to be, in some measure, surreal. Going back to 1995, the expectations, the nervousness.


#2, next two weeks, on the other hand, are going to be more real than I would like to deal with. Most people will not understand my reasons for the decision I've made. Some will come as far as to be annoyed. I even expect the random colleague to come across and demand answers and explanations, and I'm afraid I won't have a generally satisfactory answer.




#3, Mother's Day is drawing near, as well as my sister's birthday, all of it during a moment in life in which money is going to be a precious commodity. I think the best I will be able to do will be to offer them homemade food. My sister has been clamoring for some cheesy potatoes (potatoes au gratin, if you wanna get more gourmand in the description), and my mom has asked in more than one occasion for my pasta carbonara. I think I will oblige (and will probably throw in some homemade dessert for good measure). It's the best I can do.

Molting: Breaking the Shell

It's just begun, the process of shedding. In the coming days I'll break it out properly, but this is the exact moment I was waiting for for the last 10 years, and it's become much more complicated than I thought. Victories swish around the same glass as failures. The sweet and sour bubbles of reality fill my nose. I guess I'll have to drink first, to breathe the fresh air later.

This is the beginning of molting.

Self-Reminder

I just need to remind myself that "today" is not my life. That hours are just a fraction of a day, and that not all hours can be as pleasant as I wish they were.

I need to keep in mind that the clothes I wear to work and what I do for a living do not define me as a person. I am not my career, and this too shall pass.


I need to keep my inner peace in check today, because the lack of information and details in the orders given to me is not my fault. I can and will do the best I can do given the circumstances.

And as soon as I get home, I'll be able to sleep.

Tomorrow will be a better day.

Confession is Good for the Soul

I confess I've been spending increasingly excessive (and unnecessary) amounts of time in certain forum I will not name. It's usually not a problem, until a week ago. Someone I personally know opened a thread about plus-sized model Chloe Marshall, who was up for the title of Miss England.

I didn't post anything in this blog about this particular topic because:
1) I didn't have the time
2) I didn't know what to say
3) I believe that a single size 16 model won't make a true change in the beauty and health industry
4) It's a beauty pageant, for gossakes! And given point #3, it's such a biased event, with such a narrow spectrum of what beauty is, that I find all of it incredibly boring.

However, the girl that posted the thread thrives on pageants, celebrity gossip and your general menagerie of "girly" topics (makeup, diets, clothes). I decided to dive in when some other girls started talking about Miss Marshall's health.

The only facts stated in press releases are Miss Marshall's height and weight. This is, in my opinion, not enough data to go on to make a solid statement about the girl's health. However, I found out last week that there are more fans of the BMI index than believers in "God". And it seems a bit funny to me, considering that the BMI index was originally created by a Belgian mathematician for statistical purposes. It was not meant to be the end-all/be-all of health, much less was it meant to be the founding stone for physicians and health-care professionals to diagnose their patients' health.

Most people I know, however, swear by this scale. They don't believe that someone size 16 could be a healthy person. Miss Marshall said in her interviews that she eats sensibly and exercises regularly. I, for one, believe her, because I've seen girls the same size, young girls, beautiful girls, girls that eat normal amounts of healthy food (vegetables, fruit ... not junk food) and exercise normally as well. They are not naturally thin, and I really hope that these girls will understand that being a healthy size 12, for them, will always be more beautiful than a forced and emaciated size 5.

So, back to the forum thread, I immediately started voicing the opposing point of view, always the dissonance in the crowd. Obviously, most girls started voicing their own opinions, most of them based on the BMI index philosophy, most of them awash with fashion-industry culture and thought. But there was one, sister to the girl that started the thread, that right away pointed spears at me as an individual. Not so much my opinions, but the reason for them. Her specific words, and I quote, were: "Girl, instead of a stick on your shoulder, you have a sequoia tree."

Of course, she kept on at it, and the barrage didn't stop when I clarified that this was more of a cause than a personal issue. She made sure to always state that my points of view were an exclusive product of my body and image issues.

Well ... I wish I had had this blog post that day. Later on that day a friend of mine read the thread and insisted that I did have to lower my weight, of course, for health issues.

And this is the thing: they're both right. My friend is completely right and I know where he is coming from: concern, worry, affection. I appreciate it, the same way I appreciated every single comment I received the last time I touched the subject. Most of you who read this blog mean well, and I thank you for your attention and friendship.

But the girl at the forum, my ex-roommate's sister to be more precise ... well, she may be right. That afternoon, after all was written and read, I had to sit down and come to terms with the fact that I have as much a body and image issue as I did when I was an anorexic 16-year-old. But I do not appreciate her intentions. The way she expressed herself about the things I said helped me realize that she was more bent on hurting me or making me feel bad about being fat (and she probably thinks I am in denial about it too) than she could have intended for her words to be enlightening or helpful.

Whatever her reasons for being such a bitch (which she was, no se puede tapar el cielo con la mano), I suspect it has less to do with difference of opinion and more to do with things that went down a year ago. And that, to me, seems petty, shallow and rude.

However, I gotta thank her. That afternoon I cried a bit, because coming to terms with issues that have been standing there for 14 years is not easy. What my friend said made me realize that I do have to do something. But what that bitch said gave me the strength to actually START doing it.

So, thank you, bitch, whether you read this or not. You did me MUCH LESS harm than you probably intended. :) Isn't it ironic?

Uneven Score

I don't usually do this (post quiz results), but this is so wrong! And worse yet is the fact that I'm proud! I could take on a whole kindergarten classroom! Yay!

18

The Man Who Made Me Believe Again

It's been nearly a year since we visited San Diego to attend the yearly Comic Con. Right after our return, I diligently posted and discussed my experiences there, specifically in San Diego in general, as well as in the San Diego Zoo. But I never said anything about our experience in the Comic Con itself, the main reason of our visit to SD. I think that it has taken a long while for the experience to sink in and get digested: it was so rich, so vast, so powerful... we spent 5 days dawdling around in a convention center, and it's amazing to believe that those 5 days changed our lives a little bit.

However, I'm gonna have to postpone the review of the whole deal in favor of the highlight of the visit, which deserves its own blog entry.

Mr. Peter S. Beagle
The man who made me believe again



This happened on the fourth day of our visit, as we were walking around the show floor looking at the different booths and just gawking and being amazed by the variety of it all. But something caught my eye then, an echo of my roots; more than an echo, a stark beacon. If you look closely at the photograph above, you will see what I saw: two big posters at each side of the booth, one of Lady Amalthea, one of The Last Unicorn.

The Last Unicorn is a story that has been in my conscious since I saw it when I was a small child, so this wasn't an "Ohmygawd, so LONG since I saw this last, I had forgotten!" kind of moment. I just wasn't expecting it there, among all the Supermans and sci-fi characters. It caught me by surprise so much that it brought tears to my eyes, and the guy at the booth caught me at that, crying a bit, with a wide smile of amazement on my face. So he seizes the moment to start driving his sale (they were selling DVD copies, as well as books by the author), but then he twisted it around a bit and starts telling me about a legal situation the author has been going through, regarding unpaid work, including being cheated out of payment for his collaboration in the making of the The Last Unicorn movie (you can read a bit more about it here).

And then, the moment of brain-shock, he tells me that the man who wrote this wonderful story was right there. Just then and there, I started bawling my heart out ... and let me explain:

Little Diana was brought up surrounded by fantastical figures, either inherited from her aunt's toy collection or things that popped up in the toy and entertainment market. Her world included gods from the Greek and Roman mythology, unicorns, mermaids, pegasus, horses, mammoths, faeries, spirits and the occasional princess from a fairy tale. These characters had sprung up from books, drawings and movies. And one of the movies that introduced her to the unicorns was The Last Unicorn.

The unicorn, as a figure, would accompany Little Diana for years to come, until adolescence would render the unicorn incompatible with her interests and beliefs. However, in the time she allowed it so, she surrounded herself with unicorn plush toys, rubber figurines (Hasbro's My Little Pony had a lot to do with that as well), drawings, posters, notebooks, books, movies ... all things unicorn came hand in hand with as much as she could find about mermaids (which was much less, since this was before Disney bastardized Hans Christian Andersen's "The Little Mermaid" and provoked the deluge of mermaid merchandise afterwards).

Little by little, all unicorn things were shed, and only a distant memory remained of the legendary horned beast. The steadfast belief that unicorns existed gave way to a good-natured indifference ... until she met with the one who made her believe first.

Mr. Peter S. Beagle, author to The Last Unicorn, creator of the world that in its turn helped me create mine, came over to me and hugged me, and talked to me, and embraced me in his words. During the time of our conversation, I was enveloped in a warm cocoon of stories, lullabied by a soft, flowing voice that spoke of the roots of my world, of the nutrients that gave life to that humongous tree that was the fantasy I knew. He reached into my heart and blew life back into that dormant seed that was Little Diana and her steadfast beliefs.

At that moment I felt more alive and more eternal than I had felt in decades. I still choke up when I remember how it felt to be before the man that helped shape what I've become. No other worlds existed at that moment, only him, and me curled up around the fluid stream of flowers, magic and music his words made.

I purchased a different book from the one I already knew by heart: The Unicorn Sonata. It sat in my nightstand's shelf for a few months, but as soon as I read it, it became water to the seed Mr. Beagle had brought back to life. As soon as I finished it and closed its covers, I realized: once again I believed in unicorns with all of my heart.

The Nose Experience

At the beginning of this week, at some point while I drove, I had the distinct feeling of being back in 1999. How does that happen? Was it the smell? I've been aware for about ten or eleven years now that one of my favorite senses is the sense of smell. Contrary to taste, it hasn't been as deeply crippled by my smoking vice. My eyesight is not the best either (I have a mild case of progressive myopia and astigmatism, a trademark for computer professionals). I think I might have also lost some of my hearing at one point or another, since I can remember having problems with it as far as 11 years ago. And hell, I can't go around touching everything I please! Haha! So ... smell!


Smell is what drives me around my world: with a whiff of fragrance I've been able to recognize someone faster than by a look to their face. I get hungrier by the smell of BBQ'ed steak than by the sight of a juicy meat cut. The fragrance of apple/cinnamon incenses and candles has been irrevocably associated with my stepmother. Same applies for the smell of perfumes like Shalimar, Ciara and Anais Anais (each one represents an era in my mother's life). Some smells have haunted me for years as well, like for example the aroma one of my friends exuded, which I was never able to identify as any cologne, soap or perfume I knew. Others, I will never forget, like the smell of puppy breath.

I can better determine how dirty my house is by the smell that welcomes me in the afternoon. The tiles can look clean as whistles, but if I can smell mop water, I know it's time to clean up a bit.

It's safe to say then that each era in my life has a set of smells inherent to it. Perfumes on the trend are primary examples of how this works, and then there are also the smells of friends and places (years 1995 - 1997 had a high incidence of fun fair smells - musty oil, vomit and cotton candy).

But what happened to me earlier this week, I'm sure it wasn't a smell. Smells are just the perceptible face of the deal. When I felt like I was back in 1999, it wasn't the smell of business office lobby that triggered it. It must have been the feeling of impending doom, of sunlight bouncing off mirrored windows from offices in buildings towering overhead. It must have been the realization (and in a way, coming to terms with) that I am what I feared I'd become. Thankfully, that same morning I decided to take control of what I could to change what I didn't like in my life. I'll start with the small things ... like the smell of my car.

Disconnected - Disjointed

These past few months I've felt somewhat "out of it", disconnected from myself in a way, like a spectator watching the daily events this body goes through from a balcony seat far away.

Sometimes I even lose interest, it's a tragedy, really.

It's like my consciousness is waiting for the larvae to turn into a moth and break away from the cocoon these last 30 years have been.

Yeah, it's the issue of inconformity (always is), turned into a solid perception of my own self-worth. I'm trying to turn it around, to make myself believe that It will not always be like this, that someday I will not dread to wake up in the morning to go to work in something I absolutely detest.

But pessimism is a die hard trait, and more times than not, I have this sinking feeling that this is my lot in life, that I've been doomed by my own choices, that It will not work out the way I've been hoping.

So I carry on, I turn 30, it's no big deal. Age is not a big deal, specially because as of late, some things have given me hope for my future, and I've seen 30 as an opportunity for a rebirth, a renewal.

But pessimism, and the day-to-day reality (waking up, going to work, feeling out of sorts, going back home, sleeping) have made me forget hope and the reason for hope (reasons that also surround me day by day, and I sometimes take for granted, I apologize for that).

So what to do? Keep dragging my feet through the bad times just to see the good on the other side? Or try to leap over the puddle of muddy corporate waters, try to find footing on the other side?

30th

Well, my weekend has begun.

I'm finally turning all of 30 in two days, and I'm glad about it.

I'm glad because at the age of 30 I've finally decided the turns I want my life to take, and I have the ways of starting down that road (if things turn out differently from what I expect, no matter, because at least I'll know I truly tried this time around).

I'm glad because I didn't succumb to the whims and expectations of society, and the life I lead right now is pretty unconventional for most 30-year-olds (my group of friends not included, since life has recently surrounded me with like-minded people).

I'm glad because unlike some 30-year old women I know or see around me, my lifestyle is not shackled down by unhappy marriages or unwanted children. I'm glad because I've been able to flip the bird (and kept it up) at the standards society has set, including contentment with the chosen career. I know I chose wrong, and unlike most women my age, I'm not striving to grow and be of importance in my workplace.

I'm not a suit-clad career woman, bent on showing the world that I can do it as well or better than a man. I couldn't care less about feminism in the polyester rat race.

I'm glad because I've been able to fit in with all aforementioned stereotypes without losing my identity and my motivations. I don't read gossip magazines, and couldn't care less about Britney Spears or Maripily (don't ask, local paparazzi sensation, that's all I care to explain). I don't watch soap operas, and I don't drown my sorrows in aimless 5-hour television binges.

At 30 I'm stilll a geek, I still believe in unicorns, and a well-made anime movie can still bring me to tears.

The child is still alive and well inside me, and the 20-something idiot I once was is long dead. How I did that, I do not know. But it happened. I'm more in touch with 5-year-old Din Din (yay! finally my nickname out in the open! Hahahah!) than I am with 23-year-old idiotic Diana.

And I'm glad, because at 30, I know much more about who I am, and care much less about what the world wants me to be.

From The Heart

These past few weeks, eyes in general have been poised on the presidential candidate elections of the United States. This once, said process has proven to be incredibly intense, specially on the Democratic side (the side the whole world would prefer as victorious, given the horrid state of affairs thanks to Republican President George W. Bush). Up until now, both primary candidates for the Democratic Party (Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton) have been going at it neck-to-neck, one brushing by very closely to the other. Nothing definitive has been decided yet, not until the majority of delegates has voted in (last primaries will be held in June).


I'm not usually one to have my nose stuck in politics, but I suffer the consequences of a ridiculous, overlong war along with the rest of the world. And being an American citizen, I also suffer the consequences of a government led by an ass-head along with the rest of the American nation (like it or not, because I couldn't choose who to be born to). So, when it comes to an election which could have a strong impact on where we go from now on as a nation and as a people, I can't help but have some strong reactions, even if based on pure emotion rather than on an analytical process.

I don't know when it occurred to me first, but a while after the war was kick-started out of the rubble of the World Trade Center, I became convinced that what could start fixing this world (yeah, the world in general) is another revolution.

Yes, I know it can be seen as a moronically romantic notion, specially in this age of skepticism and irony. Nowadays, the definition of cool is "sarcastic" and not much more. The more heartless you are, the cooler you are, no matter where your lack of faith is coming from. I've participated on this practice of sizing people up by their quality of nonchalant. Being naive has become the worst sin of all, akin to having sucked off an entire police squad.

"Not caring" is the sport of the 21st century. Suddenly all important issues can be found in a copy of the Entertainment Weekly.

So, I am aware of my un-coolness when I say that, regardless of the fact that I know that 99.99% of politicians are corrupted by power or will soon be, seeing these commercials reinforce the notions I've had that what we need is to turn the world upside down.



Maybe what we need is a black president. Or who knows, maybe I'm wrong, maybe a woman would be the right choice. I'm just glad the opposition has candidates that, either way, do not conform to the established norm.

I just hope that the one that wins will show that he or she has the cojones to truly change things around...



... and not let American History keep on this nonsensical course of violence by inertia.

The Beautiful Fat Girl - A Fallacy

Even the Dove Campaign for Real Beauty chickens out before putting an obese woman at front and center

"Real women have curves", or so some say. Specially in this Caribbean piece of land, where we are told from a very early age that our heritage includes equal parts of Taínos (the indigenous people who occupied this island before the Spanish invasion), Spanish and African. Of course, that is pretty much a lie, since most taínos were finished off before the second or third generation after the invasion came to life, but I digress.

We are a mixed breed: we have African blood, as well as heritage from the Middle East and from Europe. Obviously, the mix of breeds results in the passage of dominant genes...

A huge, round ass is apparently the most widespread, lasting gift to us as a race.

Whether you're out at the supermarket, the mall, a disco, a church ... everywhere you will observe that most females are equipped with a considerable butt. The size of the rest of the body will depend mostly on age, and then metabolic heritage. But most women I've seen nearing their thirties have already lost their washboard abs and thighs of steel. A slim and lithe build seems to be reserved for girls 23 and under.

You would think then that given the increasing difficulty with which we face keeping a given weight and shape, we would be more empathic towards each other. Maybe I'm being too naive to expect women to be more enlightened as time passes, to start seeing beauty in things other than a perfectly formed butt and ribs that hint themselves out of a sinewy torso.

Some of us will never have the experience of fitting in with what the populace considers beautiful: an "ugly" face is rarely so as a general rule (someone will eventually find the most hideous of mugs strangely endearing), but a fat girl will never be considered pleasant to look at. If a girl is born fat and grows up fat, she will most likely live through the experience of being put through numberless diets by her own family, never being quite accepted for who she is, always being an "opportunity for improvement".

Eventually, those born fat will either start ignoring these forms of aggression (the "well-intended" advice to diet, the slanted looks, the whispers, the loud scorn by classmates - children can and WILL be cruel!) ... or in the worst of cases they will let the criticism eat away at their self worth. I have yet to meet a fat person who is completely happy with who she or he is. "There is always room for improvement".

There are other cases in which a girl is born slim, or grows up to be slim, and eventually age will do its job and fill her form out to a plump and round issue of itself. I don't mean to be an absolute judge of which pain is worse, but I can tell you it's incredibly mortifying to
a) not be recognized by old friends because you went way beyond recognizable with 50 additional pounds weighing on your belly and hips
b) being recognized by old friends, and said friends presuming off-the-bat that you are pregnant
c) look at pictures of barely 2 years ago and realizing you're not only growing old, you're growing fat.

In short: changing from "that hot mama" to "that fat mama" in 2 or 3 years' time is frustrating, and it gives a more somber perspective to aging.

However, one good thing I've noticed about my friends (most of which are fat) is that they usually will find loveliness in a person due mostly to what the person is like, rather than what the person looks like. We hate ourselves, we hate our bodies, but we can usually see beauty when it stands in front of us, even if it's living under 200 pounds of fat.


You type in "sexy girl" in google.com, and what do you get? A girl that is barely thicker than the snake she is holding.

Not so with thinner girls. I've surmised that somewhere along the line, something goes on in a thin girl's brain that clicks, and then suddenly they're on a class their own, they belong to a clique, and whatever stands outside this circle is not worth even looking at.

I've heard the most hurtful, insulting comments about fat people coming from a thin person's lips. I guess it's the same "fear of the different" that plays into action in racism and xenophobia.

And incredibly enough, we the "fatties" will give credit to what they say. We will let these comments corrode at our own confidence. I don't know why, I haven't yet figured it out, much less found out a solution to protect ourselves from it. But apparently, the bigger we are, the more vulnerable we become to comments coming from razor-thin assholes.

Saddest part is, these razor-thin assholes, given the way the corporate mechanism works, are the ones in charge, the ones making the decisions on marketing, advertising, purchasing, etc. These are the ones that will push for the airbrushed look on magazine covers, these are the ones that will create demand for thinner models and actresses, these are the ones creating a homogenized world of creatures more resembling the aliens from Close Encounters of the Third Kind, rather than a homo sapiens.

The tragedy of all of this? That the new generations are eating it up. Girls will want to emulate the next Kate Moss, and will begin checking themselves out in the mirror, making sure that the hip bone sticks out enough to be sexy. Boys will be fed pictures of airbrushed females, creating expectations that no regular girl will be able to fulfill (and let's not even talk about how males have been put under scrutiny lately, as well. That is a whole other chapter!). All around, a more strict guideline for beauty is being set up. And wherever we look and read, it's being perpetrated by males and females alike.

Long gone is the perception that men would prefer a "healthier" female over the stick-thin models showing up in street signs and corners in the 90s. I've been reading and hearing men, regular men, ogling at these stick-thin figures, more frequently as time passes. Suddenly, sexual desire is sparked by showing bones and slender thighs, not by the abundance of skin or shapely hips.


No matter that she's gorgeous, she will never be considered beautiful again until she loses those extra pounds...

We've been assimilated into the society of thin. A fat girl with a beautiful face will NEVER be "a beautiful girl". She will be "a beautiful fat girl", 'cuz you have to make it clear: she's beautiful but she's fat. Hence, she's not as beautiful as she could be (don't believe me? Even gorgeous girls will be put down in public if they're not picture perfect!).

So ... a girl both beautiful AND fat? Impossible. Not true in the eyes of society.



Writer's Note: This has been a rant brought to you by Diana Campo. You are welcome to express your opinions on the comment section, but be warned: I do not intend to give off the impression that I am in possession of the absolute truth about how things work and how people feel. This is just MY take on things, and I am very aware that my take on things will differ from a lot of other people's. Variety in opinion is most welcome. I look forward to your reactions! ;-)

Dump one in favor of the other

I'm all over the web, that is no news to me. However, it surprises me when I remember a long-forgotten profile or blog (surprising because I have a rusty memory). It surprises me even more when I go back and there it is!

I had no such luck with my first blog ... I can't even remember the blog host anymore, I only know it has long been extinct, the domain or site was sold to another host and they didn't make it easy, they just erased the users and re-instated the spaces per-request ... only problem was, I didn't remember my username and password by the time I turned back to look for it :-(

Just a few moments ago I remembered Fotolog, a site that hosts just that: fotologs. Instead of blogging, you upload a picture and you blog, if you wish. Simple concept, and I started out fine with it. I uploaded frequently at the beginning and started forgetting it some time after that. At the end, my posts were far in between. All in favor of Flickr, I suppose.



Still, my Fotolog has done me the favor of conserving some pictures that, when looked back upon, remind me of things and moments somehow forgotten. It's easier to revisit the past on a website than to dig into a hard drive full of unfiltered pictures.

Some highlights:


My last bachelorette pad before moving back in with family and eventually moving in with Eze.


My in-your-face nose-ring. Very short lived for a piercing. My other piercings (navel, tongue) survived my office jobs for years! And then I got fed up with snagging my navel with pant buttons or biting on my tongue barbell and breaking my teeth...


That fateful weekend (in collage). :-) Yeah, that one was FUN!


Reminders of my "pink phase" ... it has a lot to do with the previous picture.


A time when we didn't have a washing machine.



... and so on and so forth ... I don't know if I would have the energy and/or the time to go back to fotologging. But it seems like it could be worth it.

I'll think about it.