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! ;-)

Happy New Year!

Differently from recent past years, I've had to work a full day today (12/31) and I will have to work tomorrow as well. It hasn't been a pleasant thing to agree to, but as these days came closer (as late as at the end of last week), I've tried to give it a twist for the better, at least as far as my mood goes.

So as it is, the passing of one year into the other will not be much more special than the passing of one day to the next. But all is well, I have a few heartening plans for 2008, and that gives me something to look forward to.

In 2008 I will be turning 30 (March 8th), my relationship with Eze will be turning 4, my sister Chichi will be turning 21, my brother Kiwi will be 26 (over the 20s peak, huh!).

In 2008 I intend to turn a new leaf in my life (more on that as it develops), and I'd like to also start turning my home into truly mine (my nesting instinct manifests through color, just as Eze's manifests through space management).

In 2008 I hope to be able to travel (there is at least one concrete plan in the horizon), and most of all, I will keep working on my own psyche, so I can finally realize how free I really am. I need to know that, my sanity depends on it.

I hope 2008 brings more blue and sunny afternoons, more sunsets at home, more breezy feelings.

I have no resolutions for 2008 ... it's more like I have resolutions for the rest of my life.

So, as I'm writing this, my pup Caprica is sitting on my lap, being all restless, trying to input some of HER stuff through the track pad. I think I'll just log off now and bid you guys a happy new year celebration.
Thanks for reading! :D

El Perfume

No sé cómo es que uno se olvida de los olores con el tiempo y sin embargo eventualmente el elemento más aleatorio lo resucita como si estuviese pasando de nuevo. Hace muchos años, cuando todavía mi papá era completamente infeliz y tenía dinero, él usaba perfumes como si fueran calzoncillos: no sólo los cambiaba con frecuencia, sino que los usaba el día entero, y al final ya apestaba.

Aparentemente, la fricción continua del shampoo de miel de abeja (fricción absolutamente necesaria, porque bañar a una cachorrita de 3 meses de edad y 15 libras de peso no es tarea fácil si ella así se lo propone), al cabo de un rato termina oliendo a Drakkar Noir ... o alguna otra de esas pestilencias que usaba mi papá. También es increíble cómo uno le puede tomar cariño a un olor que en cualquier otro caso terminaría provocando una migraña.

Al oler eso, la memoria viajó a una parte que hacía tiempo no visitaba. Era una época problemática, de consternación y confusión. Todos esos años en los que mi papá no fue feliz y en los que no sintió la necesidad de ocultarlo sirvieron para conocer un lado de él que prefiero no repetir. Era algo gris, opaco, oculto, oscuro. Los regaños provocaban más terror del que pueda tenerle uno a mi papá en estos días, y los momentos felices frecuentemente tenían la sensación de un chocolate hueco.

Mis hermanos y yo creo que nos acostumbramos a ese tormento interno de nuestro papá, creo que por eso nos rebelamos tan asquerosamente cuando al fin conoció a alguien que lo hizo sonreír desde adentro nuevamente. En ese momento, mi papá dejó de usar perfumes. Creo que finalmente ya no le hacía falta la máscara.

Realization

Realization sometimes dawns in multiple steps and phases. Most of times the first phase is already 'too late'. For example, realizing two weeks before graduating with a BA in Commerce/Computer Systems is 'a bit too late' ... or so you think, until you start committing to a house, a car, a way of life that only a professional career will pay for. THEN it's too late, for real.

A few false starts later, feeble attempts to bleed my anxieties, looking for ways to feel less like part of the corporate flock ... it proves that yes, you were late in realizing, and the longer you wait, the more difficult it will be to effectively remove yourself from the huge March of the Android Sheep. All the what if's have piled up in your brain to form a burning scar that throbs each time you fail at excelling at something you don't even care about.

So, it's about time I did something. It might not be the easiest way "out", but it will be a relief not to stay put just because it feels like a societal mandate to keep the one career you chose when you were merely 18 and thinking with your twat.

Writing has been in my blood since birth, I suppose. Nothing else explains that as soon as I learned to put my ABCs on paper, I immediately proceeded to compose poetry and draw accompanying illustrations. Nothing else explains that I've been keeping journals since my hormones started creating havoc on my psyche. Nothing else explains that the only activity that feels like second-nature to me is putting words to the music my soul sings. I may not be an excellent writer, and to some (I know), I lack whatever talent would deem me brilliant to their eyes. Little do they know that it's not so much about wooing them into helpless admiration, it's much much more about relieving myself, doing what my innermost being craves time and again. I cannot help it: I write, therefore I am. Can't be one without the other.

So for the first time in my life I'm seriously contemplating following what my instinct has been since I've been a wee child. I won't give more details than that, I tend to be superstitious "just in case", so I don't tell so as not to jinx it. But it will take time. In the end, I hope I have something to show for it. For the while being, I don't plan to stop writing here, it's all that's keeping me sane, away from high ledges and nefarious pills. In the way there, you might figure out what it is. As always, my problems and my blisses bleed into my words.

Want!

These past few days have been a bit of a Self Crisis. If I were turning 45 in the next March 8th, I'd say I was having a bit of a mid-life crisis. What I refuse to admit, though, is that I'm having a Turning 30 Crisis, 'cuz that is just plain stupid, and I will have none of that in this house (my body is a temple!).

I've been feeling the strongest of urges: to go out drinking, to get a tattoo, to cut my hair, to dye it blue-black (again), to get my nails done, to do a total overhaul of what "Diana" has come to mean in the past few years. I had never felt so strongly about these things, and I'm a bit scared of going near any shopping mall, in fear that I might get drawn into it and shop myself a new self-image, leaving my credit card maxed out and my economy whimpering on a thin line.


Unfortunately, Ebay exists, and I've already succumbed to the purchase of 2 pairs of spiral taper plugs (earrings, for those not familiar with bod-mod lingo): one pair black, the other red. And I'm on the lookout for Hermes sandals, which are not that easy to find (good quality, i mean. The rip-offs abound and will give you a blister you will not soon forget). What else lies in store for this phase of compulsive buying and tendency to make myself over? I dunno. I bought a henna conditioner treatment yesterday, but that is just a lame pacifier for the forces that usually cause my transformations. It's like stopping a hurricane with a butterfly net.

*sigh* The itch for ink has just begun. Whip out your tattoo guns, boys. It's just a matter of time before I enter a door asking for mayhem on my skin.

In Pain

I'm feeling like shit (emotionally), my back hurts (for real) and the day didn't get off to a good start since yesterday.

Thankfully, I decided to take my car for repair work on the A/C later in the month, 'cuz my plans would have been shot to hell anyways. Both options I had for a lift (Mom & Eze) had to leave their cars (Eze's car won't turn on, and Mom noticed her car making a weird noise).

The day looks bleak, gray .... just like the future. Bleak. Gray.
I need a shot of adrenaline, maybe some alcohol, maybe a good talk. I dunno. Or maybe I just need to shut up and go back into myself like I've been expected to, like I've tried doing all this time.

Playlists - Intro and Part 1 of 9: A Cry From the Inside

Since the era of the mix-tape I’ve always been fascinated by playlists. I love making them, and I believe some insight can be gained to the way a person’s mind works by looking at his or her playlists. Since the invention of social websites and rings, I’ve encountered a few invitations to make up “The Soundtrack of Your Life” by determining which song fits this or that special event in your life. Later on, the web itself has spawned more than a few music-profile websites (see: Last.FM, Pandora Radio, eMusic) in which you make your own playlists by listening to the music you love, and in the process discover new things to like.

My listening habits have obviously changed from the time I taped songs off the radio (in an attempt to save a few bucks, ‘cuz it’s not easy for a 12-year-old to come by $15 to buy a cassette just for the one song she likes). In the process, my playlists have become more varied, motley if you will, and yet, I always come back to the basics, to the songs that were the soundtrack to my puberty, to my childhood even.

I want to share the playlists that have recently taken residence in my iPod (yeah, that creaking antiquity of an iPod Photo which no one has anymore). You might find some things as embarrassingly commonplace as a Thalía hit (because, come on, admit it! There was at least one time in your life in which you danced to Menudo in diaper-clad bliss. Or perhaps there was at least one marquesina party in which you enjoyed Richard Marx more than you’d care to admit….). Likewise there are things so obscure that they never left the household (like the enjoyable song blueprints my brother used to cook up with Fruity Loops).

My intention, however, is not to bedazzle anyone with my hipness or my musical knowledge. I know I possess neither of those things. But I do have an immense desire to finally share some of my feelings about the music I love without limiting myself to rigid formats, without having to wait for the inspiration to review the latest album by Björk (which I loved, by the way, but I rarely ever know how to express my reactions logically enough to call it a review).

So, without further ado, I introduce my Playlist series, in which I shall post almost every day one of my 9 playlists, including a heartfelt description and explanation of why I decided to put all that music together under one (very unapt) title.


A Cry From the Inside

This was actually one of the most whimsical playlists to make. It includes songs and pieces which to my ears sound as if they were truly heartfelt. It could be the quiver of a violin line, or the sound of a broken heart through a skillful voice, what places these pieces together is that they earnestly pluck the heartstrings.

Unfairly enough, this is the only playlist to feature Antony and the Johnsons. Such a beautiful voice should be given more chances to be heard. However, as with other artists and albums, I haven’t fully gotten to the groove of Mr. Johnson just yet.


"Why won't you listen to me more, you bitch!?"

Artists prominently featured in this playlist are:


Deftones – Chino Moreno’s voice, though not exactly artful in the classical sense, has always managed to give me the shivers. So it has come to be that the music by his band is not only one of my favorites, but it also brings not-so-distant memories flooding back, feelings of misplaced hopefulness included.



Superaquello – This band, contrary to Antony, is repeated over and over throughout most playlists. It’s my favorite local band, and with good reason too. Eduardo and Patricia (the lead singers) can swing your mood around into “Play Time”, just as well as they can reach into your throat to squeeze those tears out. If you add to that mix the incredible talent of their fellow bandmates (Francis, Jorge and Pablo), you get an all around Cry-and-Dance Machine.


The Cranberries – My high school sweetheart introduced me to this band back in 1994. The Cranberries made up a huge chunk of the soundtrack to those memorable years. The transition into college included a compulsive obsession to look like Dolores O’Riordan, and songs like “Empty” and “Disappointed” accompanied resentful tears when I started a custom of fighting with Dad. Even later on, the album Bury the Hatchet was the background music to one of the most scarring moments in my life. Dolores’s voice is a fixed feature in my life.

Other artists worth mentioning in this playlist are Damien Rice, whose heartbreak anthem, “Cheers Darlin”, I adopted off the one that now sleeps by my side; Marianne Faithfull, with the crooner “Who Will Take My Dreams Away”, which was shared between two excellent movies I loved: The City of Lost Children and La Fille Sur Le Pont; Múm, which you will notice is a recurrent artist among my playlists; and likewise, Tori Amos.




Download A Cry From the Inside.doc

Until you came into my life (finally!)

I got a call last Friday night, 2 puppies found near a school, abandoned, motherless, hungry, and impossibly tiny. My friend knew I was looking to adopt soon, so she thought I might be interested, and I was, but more than that, I was skeptical. Abandoned street puppies tend to have more than a few diseases, without mentioning skin and stomach parasites. More trouble than I thought I was willing to bargain for.

So I set out for Caguas on a Saturday afternoon to see what the puppy was like (the little boy was taken right away, only the female was left). I was expecting the worst, and I had my mind almost totally set on limiting myself to help take the puppy somewhere where she'd be well taken care of.

I wish I could say that I fell in love as soon as I set my eyes on her, but that was not the case. The creature was too small, too young, she still smelled strongly of mother milk and that was not a good sign. I was convinced this puppy was going to need bottle feedings every few hours and a lot of attention: things I cannot give because I have a full time job. The skin on her tail was heavily scabbed, and her fur was dull and dirty. All in all, she wasn't in so much a bad state as I expected, but she was far from top shape.

I set out for Humacao right away: I had heard of this place called El Faro de los Animales, a no-kill care center for abandoned animals. I had never gone there before, so all I knew was that it was in Humacao, and the approximate area it could be found.

To sum it up: I spent 2 hours driving, and I never found the place, much less a single local soul that new what I was talking about. I stopped at a few gas stations and supermarkets on the way, no one knew anything. I'm not very surprised.

Thing is, during those two hours, the puppy was such a great sport! She slept all the time I spent driving, and it was only whenever I stopped that she opened her eyes and lifted her head (as if saying "Are we there yet?"). The one time in which, as I started to step out of the car to go into yet another gas station, she energetically expressed her impatience with a series of barks and whines (all the while keeping to her small box and looking at me like "Heyyy! What's with the delay?! I'm hungry!") ... well, that's when my heart got hooked. After that, I didn't look for the place so hard anymore and started devising a plan to be able to care for her (at least for a little while).

So I took her to my mom's for a pit stop, left her there so I could go buy a few bare necessities for her care (including tick & flea shampoo, a small comb, puppy formula, etc), but we left her with a tiny plate with some mashed moist dog food. When I gt back, I was suprised to see she had eaten it all up. No bottle feedings for this lady!

Meet Caprica. She's still in her baby phase, just learning how to move and walk. Stubbornly silent, except for the occasional bout of barks sparked by things we haven't figured out yet (she has only barked once at home, I guess she got excited over the soundtrack to Battlestar Galactica too!). Misses the paper half of the time, but I'm confident she will get better at it, she's still just a baby, no bladder control yet. Her first visit to the vet revealed she's got intestinal parasites (normal in most puppies) and sarcoptic mange (not so normal, contagious even to humans, and potentially fatal if not treated). She spends most of the days in our tiny bathroom, but we let her out while we're in the house. We will eventually move her to the kitchen and laundry, as soon as I am sure she won't fit under the fridge or behind the washing machine.

She loves playing as most puppies do, and it is sometimes intimidating to know that I am somewhat expected to substitute a bouncy, energetic peer as her playmate. But Eze has been a gigantic help, and it's not so overwhelming with him around. He's fallen into the daddy role so well and so fast, it is scary (in a charming way, of course!). And I found myself for the first time foregoing my own meals and necessities in favor of helping out a tiny helpless creature. Unexpected from myself... and I feel changed. I guess that's a pale version of what mothers go through when they give birth.

I'll stick to dogs, though. Caprica will be more than a handful in a few weeks. ^_^ I'm looking forward to that!
(... I finally got the puppy from my heart! I'm SO happy!)

In Absentia

Eze's been away for 4 days now. It's not much, but it feels like eternity. You know it feels like eternity when you start getting used to being by your own in the evenings and mornings. But you're not so used that you forget that there is someone who usually comforts you when you wake up in the middle of a stormy night, ridden with nightmares about shape-shifting trees that murder people. It's the void in the pillow next to you that hurts the most... but you've gone numb.

Nonetheless, I've kept myself mostly busy:

On Saturday I went shopping with my mother: one of the most productive shopping sessions I've had in my life (and I hate shopping). In the evening, I tended to the usual in Frecuencias Alternas.

On Sunday I received a visit by Alysha and Tattiana. We cooked ground meat for taquitos and I made a batch of polvorones. In the meanwhile we watched Andres López's Pelota de Letras (a Colombian comedian and his 3-hours-long stand-up routine, very funny, but exhausting!).

Monday and Tuesday have obviously been work-days, but I've managed to spend the evenings in something other than moping. I've already finished watching season 3 of Doctor Who (which was not as tragic as the ending of season 2, but just as enjoyable). I've also come across a few interesting contacts, namely Rasputina's manager (I contacted him regarding a rumored recital to be held here in Puerto Rico in November, and as he confirmed so kindly, I took the liberty of asking about the possibility of interviewing them over the phone for Frecuencias Alternas - he hasn't answered yet, but the exchange was interesting enough for me).


I also found out about a private animal shelter (No-Kill) in Humacao: El Faro de los Animales. They're a non-profit organization (with no funding by the government) that's dedicated to the care of homeless animals and the search of loving homes for them. They have a series of different programs to allow the public to participate and help as much as they can with this mission. I'm seriously considering spending at least 2 days a month in this place and help out with my time (every other saturday or some similar arrangement).

Oh ... yeah, and the reason for this last discovery: I'm looking for puppy. :-) I finally feel ready to adopt a little bundle of canine love. Let's see how soon it turns out to be.

A Hole in My Forehead

If I hear screams outside - and not your run-of-the-mill play-like scream, I'm talking about bloodcurdling, hair-rising screams - I'm the kind of person that will peek through the door's eye-piece or look out the window. Unless it's gunshots we're talking about, in which case I'll move to the innermost part of the apartment in a hurry (and it has happened more than once already). Same goes for numerous and insistent siren wails. Part of me does it because I want to be in the know (be it for the reason that it may: I like being a well-informed citizen ... or I'm just turning into an old, gossipy fart!). The "bigger" part of me does it because it gets a thrill - an adrenaline surge - out of other people's emergencies and crises. Same goes for when a hurricane is announced. The tornado-chaser in me wakes up and smiles a little bit.

Until now this part of me has had no bearing in my fortune. My curiosity has not gotten the best of me, not to the point in which any onlooker could be tempted to start talking about dead cats and such. But last night, in my dreams, it did.

I dreamt some regular Joe broke into my apartment with me in it. I tried to force him back outside, only to run into the grim figure of a dead neighbor. I had seen too much and the guys with the guns knew it. I knelt and I looked for the longest time into a brushed steel barrel (sort of flat-ish) and then it was over.

Next thing I know I'm looking at a mirror in a bathroom (not the mirror in my bathroom, but then again, dreams are fickle when it comes to spaces and appearances). What's wrong with all of this is: I'm alive but I have a gunshot wound in my forehead and there's blood streaming down my face and across my chest. Dry, caked blood. I'm supposed to be dead, but all I have to prove for it is a zit-sized hole ... a zit-size smoking, gaping hole. Not supposed to be there, was it?

Then again, when some people started visiting my home, I realized most of them were seeing something completely different to what I saw in the mirror. Something completely different from what I look like (I'm under the impression, perhaps out of a glimpse I got during the dream, that I was a girl with long, light-brown, wavy hair). I had reincarnated almost immediately, I realized, out of concern for what would happen to Eze.

I woke up with a start. It was scary enough to see me dead in a mirror. Dead-but-alive. Holding on to dear life, even if it meant invading someone else's body, out of concern for Eze. Thing is, I think I'm not afraid to die so much as I am afraid of missing out on the lives of my loved ones.

Little Notes #5: Obsessive Compulsions, a Sci-Fi crush (again), E-mail Forwards and Changes Afoot

Can one have a musical OCD? Or maybe like a piece so much you could listen to it all day long in a 24-hour-long loop? A month or two ago, Eze introduced me to a long-standing British sci-fi series called Dr. Who. I didn't realize I had become hooked in 2-ep's time until I heard the theme again yesterday, and my veins started to itch! Hahahaha!!!



It's a fucking catchy tune!

Which brings me to my latest crush ... goddamned British charm!

Cristopher Eccleston, the ninth Doctor Who in the series, coincidentally the only season I've watched so far. And oh man, is he charming! **drool**

Okay! Rant over, next!


Dad sent me another of his usual forwards (sometimes the prove to be sappy, sometimes - however - it's worth it. This one started sappy, but I realized it talks to us, to women all around, openly and frankly. I'll share it here. Maybe it will help brighten someone else's day too. :-) (btw: sorry if you're an unlikely English-only speaker)

De un hombre... ¡a una buena amiga suya!
A todas mis amigas ...... ¿Han escuchado a alguna mujer preocuparse por haber subido unos kilos demás? En realidad.... a nosotros los hombres,no nos importa cuanto pesan.

1) Es fascinante TOCAR, ABRAZAR Y ACARICIAR el cuerpo de una mujer. PESARLA, no nos produce ningún efecto.

2) No tenemos la menor idea de lo que es una talla. Nuestra evaluación es VISUAL. Es decir, si tiene forma de guitarra, está buena. No nos importa cuanto mide en centímetros. Es una cuestión de proporción, no de medida.

3) El prototipo IDEAL del cuerpo de una mujer, ... son las modelos de almanaques de gomería. Curvilíneas, pulposas, femeninas... esa clase de cuerpo que de un solo golpe de vista uno identifica sin duda alguna y en una fracción de segundo: MUJER. Las flaquitas que desfilan en las pasarelas, siguen la tendencia diseñada por modistos, que dicho sea de paso, son TODOS GAYS, y odian a las mujeres y compiten con ellas. Sus modas, son lisa y llanamente, agresiones al cuerpo que odian.

4) No hay belleza más irresistible en la mujer que la FEMINIDAD Y LA DULZURA. La elegancia y el buen trato.

5) El maquillaje se inventó para que las mujeres lo usen. Úsenlo. PARA ANDAR CON LA CARA LAVADA ESTAMOS NOSOTROS.

6) Es una ley de la naturaleza que todo aquel que se casa con una modelo flacucha, anoréxica, bulímica y nerviosa al poco tiempo esta aburrido de ella

7) Entendámoslo de una vez: traten de gustarle A SU PAREJA, no a lo que opinan sus amigas, nunca van a tener una referencia objetiva de cuan lindas son, de mujer a mujer. Ninguna mujer va reconocer JAMAS delante de un tipo que otra mujer está linda.

8) Las jovencitas son lindas...pero las de 35 para arriba, SON LA EXPRESION PLENA DE LA BELLEZA FEMENINA.

9) El cuerpo CAMBIA. Crece. No pueden pensar sin estar sicóticas, que les puede entrar el mismo vestido que cuando tenían 18 años. Además, a una mujer de 35, 45 o 55 que le entre la ropa de cuando tenía 18, o tiene problemas de desarrollo, o se está auto-destruyendo.

10) Nos gustan las mujeres que saben manejar su vida con equilibrio y saben manejar su natural tendencia a la culpa. O sea: la que cuando hay que comer, come con ganas (la dieta, vendrá en septiembre, no antes); cuando hay que hacer dieta, hace dieta con ganas (no se sabotea ni sufre); cuando hay que comprar algo que le gusta, lo compra (no piensa en que le está quitando algo a sus hijos, sino que sabe que ella lo vale y por eso lo adquiere) cuando hay que ahorrar, ahorra (y no sufre pensando en lo que se priva, porque lo hace por algo).

11) Algunas líneas en la cara, algunos puntos de sutura en el vientre, algunas marcas de estrías, NO LES QUITAN SU BELLEZA. Son heridas de guerra ,testimonios de que han hecho algo con sus vidas, no han estado años en formol ni en un spa. Han VIVIDO. El cuerpo de la mujer es la prueba de que Dios existe. Es el sagrado recinto donde nos gestaron a todos los hombres, donde nos alimentaron, nos acunaron y que nosotros sin querer, arruinamos llenándolas de estrías, de cesáreas y demás cosas que tuvieron que ocurrir para que estemos vivos. Cuídenlo.

Cuídense. Quiéranse. La belleza es todo eso. Todo junto. Si la vida te da limones... ..entonces... HAZ LIMONADA!!!!! seamos felices.



And, to end this blog note in a dramatic fashion: today, I quit. :-)

Ta-ta!

Meme (#001) - Ocho cosas

Bueno, esto me parece que ya lo había hecho antes (o cosas similares). Pero nunca está de más auto-evaluarse periódicamente. (Sí, porque para eso son estas cosas)

1. Cada jugador(a) comienza con un listado de 8 cosas sobre sí mismo.
2. Tienen que escribir en su blog esas ocho cosas, junto con las reglas del juego.
3. Tienen que seleccionar a 8 personas más para invitar a jugar y anotar sus blogs/nombres.
4. No olvides dejarles un comentario en sus blogs respectivos de que han sido invitadas a participar.


8 Cosas Sobre Mí Misma (o algo...)

1) Prefiero pasar frío que pasar calor. El frío se resuelve añadiendo ropa. El calor no hay modo de quitarlo sin desvestirse y meterse en una ducha fría.

2) Aprendí a nadar a los 20 años de edad en la universidad. Desde chiquita le había tenido terror al agua. Pasé muchas vergüenzas por eso mismo, especialmente en escuela superior y luego en la universidad. Creo que lo que me puso a considerar cambiar ese detalle fue un paseo con unos amigos de la universidad: fuimos al Yunque, a una charca que hay allí, y mientras todos estaban tripeando en el centro de la charca, yo estaba parada en una esquinita mirándolos de lejos.

3) Hay comidas que me han comenzado a gustar "después de vieja" (y que no pasaba de chiquita): el queso roquefort (o blue cheese), las setas y los pimientos rojos. Estos últimos me empezaron a gustar hace apenas 2 años. De aquí a 20 años más, probablemente mi dieta haya cambiado considerablemente.

4) Me da pereza usar lipstick, pero tengo una obsesión enfermiza con los lip gloss y los plumpers, al punto de que aun no consigo el "lip gloss perfecto".

5) Mi primer beso fue con uno de los hombres más encantadores que he conocido en mi vida, antes de que fuera un hombre hecho y derecho siquiera. Fue detrás de la cancha del colegio, temprano en la mañana, y me dejó las rodillas temblando. Lo besé nuevamente unos 13 ó 14 años más tarde y me causó lo mismo. El único beso que me ha dejado exactamente igual fue mi primer beso con mi pareja actual (y no, no lo estoy diciendo porque él lee esto).

6) Las películas de fantasía épica bien hechas, como la serie de Lord of the Rings o The Chronicles of Narnia, me hacen llorar de la emoción. También me ponen a llorar los documentales de animales y los muñequitos.






7) Mi primer sorbo de whiskey fue a los 3 ó 4 años de edad. Más o menos a esa misma edad mi papá comenzó a darme los desayunos con un vaso grande de café instantáneo con leche fría y mucha azúcar. Afortunadamente yo era una niña tranquila, porque si no, con ese combo hubiese sido inmanejable.





8) Me gusta el sabor de la sangre. Lo sé, suena gótico, suena a basura escrita por un niño emo falto de atención. Pero me gusta, especialmente cdo me corto el labio por falta de humectación, como ahora mismo. Si no me cuido bien, soy capaz de dejarme el labio en carne viva por la manía que tengo con pelarme los labios.

Bueno, ahora les toca a ustedes!

Ezequiel
Mika
Julio
Pepe
Kiwi
Chichi
Tattiana
Ricky (ahi está tu excusa para escribir algo)

Preview: Home Sweet Home

I haven't taken any pictures, I haven't even found my makeup among all those boxes. Our living room possesses a unique topography comprised of boxes of different shapes and sizes. Our soon-to-be "guest room" requires a navigational chart, and the bed that's supposed to be in that room is actually giving the "computer room" a "derelicte" feel (propped up against the wall).

I've taken to waking up to the sound of my cell phone's alarm clock (since my proper alarm clock is buried somewhere in a box), and these past few days have been the least vain in my girlie existence: no barrettes, no pins, no headbands (my hair accessories box is ... in a box).

Most of our clothes are in a dirty pile in the laundry, waiting for the first free moment I might get to wash them. As it has been, moving is quite an uncomfortable affair.

But I'm happy, comfy, more contented than I've been in a long, long while. Relieved. We've been exhausted to the point of tears, but we've been able to smile through the pain and bear it, 'cuz it's for us. Yesterday I paid the most I've ever paid for groceries and start-up items (like spatulas, coasters, glasses and ice cream scoops, etc). I remember a time when putting down my signature for a quantity such would have driven me mad in despair. Yesterday I realized that commitment does not include despair. There is a second glance, maybe even a joke or two about how we're gonna have to sell our asses after paying for this first grocery list. But the familiar anxiety over "how my bank account is gonna look after this" was finally gone.

Because it's for us ...

I'm finally home.

Pictures later (because the camera is also in a box).






BTW: I've got to thank a few people that helped, or meant to help (the intention was clearly there) in the whole process:

- Eze's parents, without whose infinite help this wouldn't have been possible for a long while.
- My mom, who pleasantly surprised me by getting deeply involved in the moving process (I guess it has more to do with the fact that this time around, it is MY home).
- My brother and sister, and Eze's brother: these three were the greatest last Saturday, sweating it out to the max, to the point of sickness too. My hat's off to you guys.
- Abdelouakil Sebanna (a good friend to the family), for the laughs, the lift of spirits, the organizational skills and a vehicle to transport the huge items.
- My Dad and Martha (his wife), because even if they were not physically here, they have been praying for this for a long while. I'm sure their prayers helped in the odd way prayers usually do.
- Pepe & Jerry (hahahahahaha!!! Ben & Jerry's no more!... sorry, sorry ....) Thanks to these two guys for immediately breaking our "Welcome Home" cherry, and bringing awesome company and acid-reflux-inducing pizza (which was yummy, btw, and I mean it in a non-sarcastic way)
- José "Banano", because I know he meant to help, that's just the way he is: sweet and caring, but trying for people not to notice.

Summer: To Job or Not to Job?

As I was exiting the gas station's mini-market (one of the few breakfast havens I have adopted in the past few weeks), I crossed a young girl (probably college-aged) attired so: head covered in mini-braids held back in a loose, low ponytail, huge, shiny sunshades, light-colored shorts, non-fashion (that means "practical") tennis shoes with thick socks, and a baggy, green T-shirt with a cheap logo across the front that read "Entretenimiento de Verano" (Summer Entertainment) or some crap like that. It took me 2 seconds to realize this girl must work at a summer camp. What drove the idea home was the blow whistle slung around her neck. And then I remembered, I truly remembered my summer of 1997.

I was 19, in college, studying commerce, most likely still debating myself between a career in accounting and a career in information systems. I didn't have a steady job, never quite needed it since I always fully qualified for a federal scholarship, but summer was always the weak link in that way of life: no scholarship meant no funding, no fun, no plans, no nothing. Summer was "the time to get a job" by excellence. The previous summer (1996) I had had my brief stint in a "healthy junk food" joint, lasted two months, had a miserable time (specially at the later hours of the afternoon, when kids my age would come into the establishment all sun-kissed, trailing salt and sand with their worn flip-flops - that was the year I met the bottled tan firsthand... never again!).

So, in 1997 I was ready for a breath of fresher air, and I let myself be led by a friend to apply for a job at a summer camp. I had never had any experience doing anything remotely similar to this, with the exception of babysitting my sister, and even that always brought skin-creeping memories. But I didn't think it through: I handed over a filled application and got a call a few weeks later. We had to go through a screening process, which meant that we had to prove that we would be good camp counselors and leaders, that we would be able to keep control of a 20+ group of [rich, stuck up] kids. Incredibly enough, I (who have never considered myself to be a natural leader of any sort) got picked for the job, as well as my friend and many others. It was to be 4 camp leaders to a group. I got chosen as part of the leader team for a group of 30 5-year-old girls. Thirty Daddy jewels. Thirty princesses whose parents would keep an eagle eye on us at all moments possible.

It was an amazing experience, though as harrowing as it would seem. I realized that I had it in me to care for other people's children. The girls grew onto me, we got close like family. A whole month of spending more than 8 hours a day with a child will automatically turn you into a secondary parent. Tending to their every needs, having to take it easy when at least 15 of them decide to scream at the same time for something they want, curing boo-boo's, identifying lice .... even identifying what they cannot say, as it happened once with another group's 2-year-old boy: he was crying and the girl in charge was to the end of her rope, she didn't get it. The little boy could not express that the heat outside was smoldering to him. I held some icy water to his face and he immediately calmed down and went into a deep sleep. I gained a fan for the rest of the day!

That summer was one of the most active I ever had: I got a natural suntan by just playing in the sun with the children almost daily. I was starting to date a total idiot who was however highly social, so the outings were frequent, and sometimes even fun. I was fully immersed in social activities and pop culture. I became one of the clan. I think this was the summer that had me assimilated into the commerce student culture. I had begun the month's worth of work with the idea that the $700 I got as payment would be used to get my first tattoo. By month's end, I had dropped the idea. It would be 4 years later that I would get my first tattoo. By then, the sun-kissed, carefree, sociable Diana would be gone in favor of someone much closer to her own roots.

Summer is a time in which no one is quite content: unless you have copious amounts of money, you either stay at home and be bored to tears by the repetitive, mind-numbing TV programming, or you get a job that will keep you from having all the fun you intended to have with the money you earned. That's the way it is for most college kids, unless they signed on for summer classes, in which case the misery is doubled because you have no time to earn money nor do you have time to chill out, and it will be something you will have to do also as soon as summer is over, so it annuls summer altogether.

I envied the ones that went abroad, though. But that took money, regardless of whether it was for studying or pleasure.

As a working adult, however, summer takes other undertones. Summer ceases to exist as "the free time you get between semesters". It becomes "a time which I may get free as well as I may not", and what you get is one or two weeks in which you try to cram as much enjoyment as you can, leaving you so exhausted that you need a vacation from your vacations. It's even more absurd.

That summer in 1997 was the last one in which I held a college-type job. After that, summers became a blur. I never got as sun-kissed again, nor as sociable. Truth be told, I don't miss it, however much I hold that memory in my heart. But it helped me recognize when people are having the same miserable fun at summer camp.

Letting Out the Seams a Bit

Eze has been working nights and weekends during these past few weeks. It's his second jobs, @ Border's. He took it up so we could have extra income, specially since he still has a few credit debts to clear. I've tried to be understanding and supportive of him and this new situation, but unlike last time he held a second job, this time is a little rougher on me.

Why? Well...

[rant mode] For one, last time he held a job the hours weren't as long. It wasn't retail, so the latest he was out was at 10 o'clock at night. In the new job, that's the earliest he arrives home the days he has to work.

However, he was miserable back then. Most of the time he was assigned to work the booth at a famous, money-wrapped church building (the one with the dinosaur posted outside. Yes, that one). Now he works around some of the things he loves (books, movies, music? his LIFE!), and it's just like an extension of his Saturday hobby. He's happy there.

But I miss him...

Back when he worked at the dinosaur church there was also a buffer around the situation. At least during half of that time I received a long-ish visit from my dad and his wife. They kept me company, I didn't feel so lonely. I could go home and just chill with dad, it was fun! My mind was elsewhere (i.e. Dad's problems, which were bigger than mine), and my responsibilities were not that many.

Today my life is led to a different pace. Things at home are far from being the same they were back then. I don't leave the room anymore except to get some water. I quit the kitchen a few weeks ago. Communal areas have been abandoned for a while. "Estrangement" is this home's middle name. Dust has been gathering at the corners for a while, it's just waiting for us to leave.

So I have my breakfast, lunch and dinner out of the house. I've gotten incredibly fed up with fast food junk. You have no idea how cranky fast food will get you if it's the only component in your daily nutrition. I'm fucking missing salads. The summer heat is on the rise and it doesn't help either. I have taken Eze's advice and I've spent more time at Mom's. It make me feel less lonely, more at home. But it's not easy feeling at home when you've arrived all drenched in sweat in the 100-degree furnace you call a car... and you can't get a bath. (Well, I could, but I'd feel I was imposing. Water is not coming by cheap these days. Nothing is.)

... And moving day is at hand, and until now, I've felt a little on the lonely side dealing with the idea (and with the boxes, and with the dust). Yesterday I got mad at a commercial institution (a convenience-pharmacy with a name starting with 'W' and ending with 'algreens') because on Sundays they cannot sell (by law) certain items, among which was included the one item I had been needing for the past few days to start dealing with boxes: packaging tape. When you get mad at an inanimate entity, something's really up with you. It's the same "something" that causes road rage and distasteful graffiti.

So weekends like this come and go without pain or glory, and then a week like this one starts (week #3? #4? of eating crap 24-7) and I start misfiring at my boss on the job. It's not his fault, it's purely mine, because god knows how the system fails here, it does! But that doesn't give me the right to talk back to a fellow worker.

So I need a vacation. I need to move and I need a vacation ... [/end of rant]

... and a salad.

Little Notes #3: Moving Days & Cruel Summers

Summer's here (to my brother's chagrin, he's convinced that summer is jinxed for him), and there are plans around, waiting for the right time, the right moment. There's, for example, a group trip in the plans (for which I will furnish more details later). Closer still is our moving day. The date has been set for June 16th. Thankfully we don't own all that much shit, and we're basically moving our room only, so it should be a pretty simple (or at least short) affair. There have also been talks of going to the beach, going kayaking, a few summer-y things to offset our shut-in natural habits (Eze's and mine). In short, summer promises to be interesting at least.


Moving Day is at Hand (Diana & Eze Edition)

There are a few things I've been meaning to do as soon as we move. It's not so much that I can't do them at our current living space, most of them I can, but I never felt comfortable doing them. Besides, living out of a darkened room (in which only the distant, indirect rays of sun alighted dimly through the half-closed window shades) is at best a glum way to lead a Sunday afternoon.

Things I mean to do as soon as we set new camp in our own apartment:

1) Retake Yoga - it's been more than a year since I last did yoga. I'm sorely missing it... literally. I can feel my bones misaligned (one of the main reasons why I love yoga so much: there are some positions in which my back cracks, and that feels SO good!)

2) Give myself a pedicure and a manicure - my limbs need some TLC. They're dry, cracked and flaky. A nice Sunday afternoon spent soaking hand and feet in soapy water is just what I need.

3) Spend a Saturday morning with a huge coffee mug and a piece of warm bread with margarine in front of my laptop surfing the net, in nothing but my underwear... in the dining room ^_^ windows open to the morning breeze! YAY!

4) Take my sewing machine to be fixed. We'll have space for it now. Maybe I'll finally learn some sewing basics through hands-on experience. If you run into me in a misshapen dress, you'll know it's under way.

I probably have many more plans in my subconscious to carry out as soon as I finally feel "at home" somewhere. And I'll probably blog about them too ... or not.



It's a Cruel Summer

It's been years since I last went to the beach. I don't mean the occasional, full-dressed visit in which you stand at the water's edge and just breathe the salty breeze in, and talk about how pretty the water looks; or you just munch on a greasy fritter while contemplating pork's immortality ("contemplando la inmortalidad del marrano" is one of my favorite pastimes). I'm talking about the all-out, bikini-clad, sunscreen-stinking, sand-in-your-underwear, insecure-in-your-cellulite kind of visit. I haven't bathed in seawater since I got together with Eze. July 24, 2004 was the last day I went (to Playa Ballena, with Jorge Juan, to be exact). I spent all day thinking about the first kiss Eze gave me (the night before, while nursing a bad case of "drunk Diana"). A smile was permanently pasted on my face for the rest of the day. Maybe I would have dedicated a few more minutes to the water and the sand and the sun, had I known "being with Eze" would mean "you will never step toe on the beach again, missy!". ^_^ (I'm just kidding! I like teasing him that way)

We have a friend who's keen into internal tourism. He likes to spend weekends visiting places most Puerto Ricans take for granted. And he's been inviting us for a long time to join him in his trips. He's been wanting to go rappelling, something which Eze and I could marginally do given that the ropes don't break under the stress of our weight. Another thing our friend has suggested is kayaking at the bioluminescent bay in Fajardo. That's a night trip, that's what Eze calls a "boring" trip (mainly 'cuz he can't swim)... that's what I call "an offer I can't refuse". This is one thing I hope to be doing sometime this summer.

The other thing our friend has been insisting on is a trip to the beach. This vexes me a bit: my body is nowhere near "beach-ready". And I know I'll hear my friend's voice protesting because basically that would be product of one of my complexes. But let's talk truth here: my thighs are host to a valley of cellulite. Cellulite has invaded and conquered my thighs. And as much as I can hide and conceal this fact in my everyday clothes, that would be a no-can-do in a swimsuit or bikini. Which would leave me with two options:

1) Terrorize women and small children (plus gross out all those whose eyes are not tolerant of alternate realities to those sold by beer commercials)

2) Dress up in the boricua bestial makeshift beach-going attire par excellence: lycra biker shorts and a huge t-shirt. Which would make me incredibly ridiculous and would probably set a few individuals my way to ask for "el caldero de arroz con pollo" (the cauldron with rice and chicken).

I think I'll opt for #1 if we ever get to go to the beach again. At least people will recoil in horror and get away from me (i.e. leave me alone), instead of the other way around. ^_^


Take-off in July

(More information later on) ;-)

Coming Full Circle is a Coin with Two Sides

June 2nd, 2003
The bad news: My home burned down. I was left pretty much homeless, peniless, with only the clothes on my back and a brand new car to pay for. My four dogs died in that fire, probably burned, most likely asphyxiated by the smoke. I was left desolate, depressed, feeling lonely, and mourning my dogs like a crazy woman.
But the good news was I was alive, I had survived, and my family was there to support me, if not financially, at least emotionally (which is the priceless side of things). I literally rose from the ashes, and come 4 years, I had arrived full circle.

June 2, 2007
The good news: Eze and I have just acquired our first owned home. This has been the definitive step in our relationship, making our commitment concrete as a house. This is one step in life my parents haven´t taken yet, one step toward security, our roots finally taking hold somewhere. Curiously enough, the day chosen to sign the contract is the 4th anniversary of my total loss. I arrived full circle. But full circle is a coin with two sides.
When I arrived home to pick my car up and go to my family to celebrate my brother´s birthday, the bad news were awaiting lying on the pedals of my car. Pucho had stealthily sneaked into my car last night as I arrived home. I didn´t notice. No one missed him. No one found out until I opened that car door at 4PM. The unvented heat in that car at midday must have been unsustainable. He died a heat death, he died an asphyxiated death. Just like my dogs 4 years ago. In the same car that had been the sole survivor property of that fire.

I don´t know how to pay homage to Pucho. I am well aware of the differences inside our household that stemmed from the habits around caring for him. I am well aware that after a while, at least for me, Pucho had become a nuisance more than a pet. But I never wished ill on him, much less death. And as irritated as I allowed myself to become by him at times, I could not speak ill of an animal that was just that: an animal, with needs and perks like any other.

And more than an animal, Pucho was a very affective pet. He had enough love to show around the whole neighborhood, and that is something that cannot be erased or obliterated by simple circumstantial situations. Pucho was not only cute because he was a beautiful kitty. He was cute because he was a devoted kitty. He will be remembered and mourned, much more so by his rightful owners than by me, but it doesn´t mean I don´t feel sorrowful too by his death. My deep condolences to his two equally devoted owners (you know who you are). I share the sting of the broken heart his departure leaves.

Coming full circle can be sweet, but it can be sour as well.

Men I Love - Part 1: Eddie Izzard

Just because I like to share the things I like and love, plus today I felt in the mood to get a dose of Izzard:


Hit the 3:00 minute mark to hear the funniest, best - and most resounding - line ever!

And I'm glad to say I finally got this part of his Dressed to Kill stand-up show:



As I was discussing with my brother the other day, he is definitely inspired by the Pythons, which pretty much explains why I love him so much ...

A Maria Von Trapp Moment

There's some things money can't buy
... such as:

Knowing how to comb your hair in your favorite updo.

"Pretty days" in which you look thinner/cuter/of clearer skin in all mirrors available.

Noticing how you have been able to answer calls from your loved ones without feeling miserable because your job has made you hate the phone.

Realizing you have few loved ones, but the ones you love, love you right back.

Puppy breath.

The weight of your sleeping dog on your lap, shoulder or stomach.

Getting good news over the phone on a day that was turning to shit.

An unexpected tunnel of wind on an otherwise sweltering hot day.

Looking to the blue sky and, not only remembering those good ol' days when you were a carefree kid, but also getting that carefree feeling back, if only for a few minutes.

A sudden kiss that turns out just right and sends you reeling.

Library-like silence in a crowded bookstore.

Fresh ground coffee after weeks of tasting only the machine-dispensed type.

Butterflies in your stomach on a Friday night. Even if you're going nowhere, the feeling is exhilarating.

Watching the crowded highway at night from the balcony in your very-far-away house... even better if you're waiting to be picked up to head that way too.

Friday afternoons and Sunday mornings.

... for everything else, there's credit cards, debit cards, cheques, credit lines, loans, and obviously actual money.

Mid-weekend Burp

I'm not feeling very hot right now (the allergies attack whenever they see I haven't been as dilligent as usual in taking my daily Ioratadine), I've had a pretty long day and another such one awaits me tomorrow.

Today was productive. I -
1) Bought the yearly marbete for my car (yeah, May's the painful month) @ approximately 9:30AM

2) Had breakfast @ the nearest McDonald's @ 10AM

3) Picked my sister up. That took the longest. Getting the kid to dress up to go out is like pushing an elephant up a staircase (which should be as difficult as pushing a cow down the same staircase, I guess)

4) Loaded my car's trunk with plastic bags full of old clothes and plush toys to be given away to the Salvation Army.

5) Drove to the Salvation Army I thought to be open, only to find it was closed. We took advantage of a discarded leather couch that was sitting in front to leave the two humongous plush animals that were dusting up (more!) my car inside. It was a bit sad, seeing the Sad Sam and big teddy bear sitting there, waiting for some lucky chance to be picked up, perhaps be taken to be loved anew all over again.

6) Went back to my house to pick up Luna's medical record, then went back to my Mom's to pick Luna up.

7) Took Luna to the Humane Society clinic for her yearly rabies shot and reinforcements. While I was there, I made the same mistake I always do: I went to the back room, where the animals that are up for adoption live. And I fell in love, like I always do, with every single one of them (of course with ones a bit more than with others). It's always a bit heartbreaking (since I can't have a dog of my own just yet), and always a bit encouraging (the world isn't running out of adorable dogs just yet).

8) Returned Luna to Mom's and headed back out to Caguas (not before watching an episode of Shear Genius, which was pretty entertaining, in the way of "reality TV talent shows").

9) Went to a place I know to wash my car (inside and out, it was in dire need!!! Plopped down $24 for the full treatment. Not sorry at all. At last I can see the color of my dashboard.

10) Met up with a friend of my sister's to help her out with the purchase of a set of makeup brushes. Turns out there was a really good set on sale @ Costco (and her cosmetology teacher recommended they get that one before next class). I have a Costco membership, so I gladly put in the name so she could get the benefit of the price. Got treated to Costco pizza afterwards (not bad at all!) and what was apparently an undercooked churro.

11) ... and then everyone headed off each way: my sister with her friend, me back to home, alone.

... feeling a bit lonely, a bit sad, a bit nervous. Hoping for a better week. Hoping for some much-needed changes soon.