Thanksgiving

This year we are once again having an Orphan’s Thanksgiving for our friends. It may seem odd to most considering my family lives 45 minutes away and Nick’s family are almost all within 30 minutes to an hour away.

See here’s the deal, my parents are often away around this time of year. They don’t like winter much so every other year they either sail south or go to Uruguay and Brazil for a month or more. They were here last year and I cooked for everyone but a couple of friends joined that gathering too. I guess it’s become habit after being lonely immigrants for so long to incorporate close friends into family gatherings… or maybe it’s just a Latin American thing or our family thing because in Brazil and Uruguay there are always close friends at “family” gatherings.

Nick’s family? Well…. they tend to do their own thing. Sometimes we join them and sometime we don’t. I have nothing against my in-laws, they’re perfectly nice but they’re not quite what I’m used to. They’re reserved and quiet and (though it may not be the case) it doesn’t feel like they’re as warm and welcoming and outgoing as a lot of families I know.

Wait that’s not quite right. It’s just that I feel the need to be very reserved and polite around them and I’m… well… not. I talk without thinking, like, 85% of the time. This isn’t a problem around most other families I know.

And this isn’t a cultural thing either, many of my friends growing up had parents who used to bust my hypothetical balls (my best friend’s dad used to call me “the illegal” and then “greencard” for years) and who would give me a big hug everytime they saw me. I’m not exaggerating in the least when I say my parents are actually really cool and fun. They drink, they randomly pull out guitars and start singing at the drop of a hat, they joke around and are generally people pleasers.

And, not to brag or anything but… our thanksgiving food is really f*ckin’ good. I’ve grown to be a pretty good cook in the last 5 years and the holidays are the time I get to show off my skillz. I’m actually going easy and instead of making complicated recipes this time around. I figured simple and delicious is best (Can you tell I’ve been watching a lot of Jacques Pepin on Weta?)

This year we’re having: a turkey (duh), sausage apple mushroom cornbread stuffing/dressing (love stuffing, don’t love it IN the turkey), gravy made with the drippings (none of the pre-made sh*t), green beans with bacon and slivered almonds, creamy garlic mashed potatoes (I usually make the taters but this year I’m delegating to my dear friend Helen Skor), and roasted brussels sprouts with balsamic (recipe courtesy of Ms. Lemmonex and I tried it the other day and I usually HATE brussels sprouts but these are damn good). And I’m making home-made pumpkin and pecan pie.

We’re also drinking great wines and there will be no discomfort or awkward and polite conversation. We’ll save that for Christmas.

Not Much

I’ve been a baaad baaad blogger but really, my life has been just ridiculously uninteresting lately. I mean, sure interesting things HAVE happened but with the exception of the occasional random observation on the world, things have just been normal.

I know, don’t you just hate normal?

It’s like, when you haven’t seen a friend in a few weeks or a couple of months and they ask:

So how have you been?

And you respond:

Great, same ol’ really, work, life.

I mean technically you could go into the little mundane details but that would just take too long.

I could tell you that work’s been busy and that I was sick for a couple of days and that I’ve been going out with my friends and all that but you dont’ really care. It’s ok, I know you don’t. I don’t either.

So, the whole point of this rant is that. Sorry about the absence. It’s not you, it’s me.

Halloween Costume Malfunction, Or How I Ended Up Rubbing my Face Off

A couple of weeks ago Nick and I were driving to the party store to get the necessary wigs for our costumes, which for money-saving and expediency purposes was going to be Vincent and Mia from Pulp Fiction, when Nick turns and says to me “I don’t want to be Vincent, it’s fat John Travolta and people will keep asking us to do the stupid dance all night”  Being the good wife that I am (and trying to avoid a fight and an unhappy night), I say “Well why don’t we find another costume?”

We proceeded to list everything we could think of including a rather amusing zombie streak that went from dead celebrities (Summer of Death-style) to Zombie Dirty Dancing to Zombie Twilight (which, in my opinion would’ve been really funny but how do you really distinguish between a zombie and a vampire?) and went to three different costume stores and somehow ended up with Batman and (girl) Robin. Don’t ask.

Twenty minutes later, after my very unsatisfactory Wendy’s nuggets (with NO BBQ SAUCE!!!!) were consumed I rushed upstairs to try on my costume only to realize the m*ther f*ckers who designed the costume LIED about sizing (it’s like Bridesmaid dresses, always get a bigger size) and I ended up looking like a sausage wrapped in yellow and red spandex. Not the look I was going for.

Then I cried.

A lot.

I also whined about how fat I am.

We tried driving back to the store to find another size (and to replace the one I had since there were missing parts) with no luck… well with the size anyways, we were able to get the missing mask and gloves at least. 

At this point, Nick and I had been going over the issue a lot, so I went to my friend Helen’s place for a BBQ and he stayed home to watch football.

When I got home, I figured I might as well make the best out of the situation. After trying on the costume yet again and thinking on how we could make it work, Nick and I decided to scrap the costume this year and save it for next year when we’ll actually have time to get missing parts and not be worrying about finding things like pants and tights at the last minute (and maybe by next year I’ll have lost a few pounds).

So Zombies it was. I spent the rest of the night trying on make up and seeing what would work, I even put fake blood on the corner of my lip with some bright red lip gloss. I was really proud of myself… I looked really dead and creepy.

Then I started taking off the make up. 

And most of it came off, except the super-long-lasting lip gloss I’d used as a fake blood. I scrubbed a little more, and scrubbed some more. The area go a bit red by this point, but the lip-gloss stain had come off.  Then I washed my face, and rubbed it with a towel some more. Then I put lotion on my face which stung my the lip chin area a bit but I didn’t worry too much. About half an hour later, with my face still stinging, I look in the mirror. I had an inch and a half long red blotch going from the corner of my lip to my chin, exactly where the “blood” had been. I had not only gotten the lip-gloss stain out, I had literally rubbed off my skin to do it.

And yes, I had to go to work all last week (except Thursday and Friday, but I was genuinelly sick with the flu those days). One of my coworkers actually asked what was wrong with my face, to which I replied “I had a Halloween costume incident” to which he replied “Forget I asked”. Another coworker asked if I’d had a “waxing incident” really? I’m blond (ish)! I barely have arm hair and she thinks I wax my chin?!

Anyways, it’s mostly gone now. I just look like I had a particularly large zit that’s taking a while to heal. And thankfully, being a zombie and all, my wound didn’t really distract from the costume.

Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

I am a woman who finds herself moderately attractive, but who also appreciates a good compliment on occasion. Shit, I’d even go so far as to call myself pretty. Nothing unusual there except maybe that I can look at myself in the mirror and (most of the time) see positives as opposed to negatives. Like most women though, I’m hypercritical of every flaw because apparently that’s what we’re supposed to do.

In this beauty obsessed culture we live in, no one and I mean no one, can ever compare to the standards we are setting. This isn’t just in magazines, it’s everywhere. Just walking into a CVS and you’ll see giant pictures of Rihanna or whomever photoshopped until her skin looks unnaturally perfect promoting the newest mascara from Cover Girl. Even in corporate promotional advertising, everyone looks perfect. And perfection is, for the vast majority of us, impossible.

But we still try.

Every day, I wake up, take a shower and wash my hair with some fortifying lavender shampoo I probably paid too much for. I put several lotions on my skin to prevent aging and sun damage and then proceed the routine of putting on make up and getting dressed and putting on the right clothes and the right shoes and does this bag go with this outfit? It’s exhausting, but after so many years I’m used to it. When I’m going out at night this 20 minute process can drag on for an hour and a half depending on my mood.

On a typical night before bed I will look at myself in the mirror and see the dark circles under my eyes, that pimple that’s half healed on my cheek and that other one that’s growing on my chin, I’ll see puffy eyes that aren’t defined by a swipe of liner. I will focus on every imperfection because I’ve been conditioned into believing that I’m not beautiful enough.

Last night, while laying in bed reading, my husband comes in to give me a kiss good night. I’m make up free, and my skin is rather shiny from the lotion I put on at night, I’m laying down and smushed up against the pillow so from the angle he’s looking at me I probably have multiple chins. He gives me one last kiss and says “You’re so beautiful.” This lovely gesture, almost goes by unnoticed because at that moment, in my un-made up, shiny, double chin-ed, state I don’t believe him.

When I tell Nick this, and follow by saying something stupidly girly and snippy like “Why don’t you ever tell me I’m beautiful when I take time to get ready, why do say that when I’m laying in bed looking like this and about to fall asleep?”

And Nick, god bless him, says “I always think you’re beautiful, no matter whether you have make-up on or not. Most of the time I can’t even tell the difference! To me, you look just as beautiful now as you did there” pointing to a picture of our wedding day hanging on the wall.

Then I hung my head in shame at my stupid insecurity and got a little teary eyed. Despite all of that, it’s still hard for me to really believe that, even in his loving eyes, I could be beautiful without all that “work”. I know a lot of it is advertisers targeting our deepest insecurities and making massive amounts of money from them but I still feel like it’s something we should be able to control. I hate that even though I’m a relatively confident person with a decent amount of self esteem I still get sucked into to I’m not good enough vortex. I hate that no matter what I tell myself I will still look at that photoshopped to death picture of a model and wish my thighs were a little thinner, my hair was a little shinier and my face was a little more flawless.

Little Lies

It has recently come to my attention that I have a tendency to lie, or more accurately, make up stories when I’m around strangers. I NEVER lie to friends or people who I have any intention of seeing ever again, nor are the embellishments significant. My stories and lies just make explanation a little easier.

See, I’m chatty (as if you didn’t know) and I talk to pretty much anyone. I don’t care who you are I’ll probably talk to you AND very likely you’ll talk to me and tell me your entire life story. I’m actually rather fascinated by people and their life stories so I don’t mind, but my life? For the sake of the situation, I have to stretch the truth a bit. 

One of my most common lie, or misconception, was my marital status. As far as plane seat neighbors are concerned Nick and I were married way before we actually got married. This avoids the inevitable questions, and if it’s a guy, he’s less likely to hit on me. Lies like that are perfectly understandable. Do you really think when I’m wandering around the Middle East I’m NOT going to tell random strangers that I am a married woman despite the fact that Nick and I weren’t even engaged when I went to the Middle East? No, of course not.

Travelling lends itself to truth stretching very well. I tell the most outrageous lies when I’m abroad and alone. The best way to lie, I’ve found, is to not actually lie but just bullshit a bit. Often, I’ll lie about being from Brazil because if I tell people I’m from Brazil they’ll immediately start either 1) talking about soccer and my eyes will glaze over or 2) imagine half naked women wearing nothing but feathers and pasties. More often than not I’m Uruguayan, which technically I am…though not by citizenship and I never actually lived in Uruguay. But hypothetically I COULD get my Uruguayan citizenship.

Then there are the other lies. The lie for no reason. The other day I went to a spa to get a facial for the first time ever (And yes, every time I said I was about to get a facial I thought of the other connotation and Nick would make the “I’m the only one who should be giving you facials” joke).  Other than getting my hair done, I don’t tend to pamper myself very often so this was a bit of an indulgence.  A 50% off indulgence, but indulgence nonetheless. So I walk in and start talking to the lady and right off the bat I say:

“Oh yes this is my first time getting a facial! It was a gift from a friend, my husband and I helped her move.”

Complete and total lie. I have no idea WHY I lied, but I just did. Maybe it was a modesty thing? Who knows? I mean, I could’ve lied about the fact that I pick my face all the time or the products I use but I didn’t.

No wait, I did lie about the products I use. I didn’t want a lecture on how I shouldn’t use a toner with alcohol in it (despite the fact that it cleans my skin better) so I told her I used some Clinique one I’d gotten as a gift with purchase years ago. But that lie was totally understandable, it’s like lying about how much I really smoke because I don’t want someone to lecture me about it.

Is it wrong to lie so much? To total strangers anyways? I don’t think so. They’ll never know and I’ll never see them again. In many ways I think the lies lend me an air of greater confidence than I actually have… or maybe I’m just lying to myself.

Off the Deep End

I’ve been going a little nuts lately. More than usual that is. I’ve been wanting to be alone a lot and little things have been bugging me. Sunday night, out of nowhere I started crying about things that I got over long ago and about things that I never properly grieved over. I’ve been over-analyzing everything, even silly things that don’t even need to be over-analyzed like how I talked way too much while out with friends on Sunday night… but don’t I always?

The last post I wrote was very difficult to write and to post, I don’t like showing such a personal side of myself to the internets. Even if I did keep it a lot lighter and on the surface than it really was.

I’ve been feeling judged lately, but I know the people who matter aren’t judging me. I feel like I should be doing more, working out more, organizing my life more, saving more money, going out more, calling my friends more… It’s not like I haven’t been doing all these things, but that I haven’t been doing it enough.

And more than anything I can’t sleep. I’ve been blaming Nick’s snoring, but we’ve been together for 5 years – I’m used to that. I think it’s me. I fall asleep and have vivid disturbing dreams, I wake up often in the middle of the night and I can’t quiet my mind. I’m not stressed… so why can’t I relax? What I wouldn’t give for a 10-12 hour long undisturbed night of sleep.

What Could Have Been

Yesterday would’ve been my sister’s 26th birthday. I rarely think of the day she died, in fact I’m not sure I remember the exact date. I know it was in August of 1997, around the time Princess Diana died, but I don’t know the day. My little sister drowned when she was two years old and remained in a coma-like state for the next 12 years. In many ways she died in 1985.

For the entire time that I’ve been blogging I’ve specifically not mentioned my little sister. There’s many reasons for this, first I’ve always found it too personal and second, you wouldn’t understand. I know, that’s harsh and I’m judging you guys but I know this because every time I tell anyone this they say “I’m so sorry” like it happened yesterday. I was so young when she drowned and I have so few memories of her when she was healthy that my loss has never been about what she was like, but what she could have been. I lived with this for 12 years, taking care of my sister, and seeing her on a daily basis and knowing (or hoping) that there was nothing there was something I almost got used to. Children are remarkably resilient. 

When she died, I cried for my parents’ loss, I cried for our nanny’s loss, I cried for my older sister’s loss, but I didn’t cry for mine. I cried for what could have been. Every year on her birthday, I think of how old she would’ve been and I imagine what our lives would have been like if she hadn’t fallen into that pool, if the pool had been covered as it usually was, if the gardener hadn’t stepped away for those short 10 minutes.

My little sister looked more like my father, she had his curly hair and his Italian nose. I think she would’ve been more patient than any of us, I think she would’ve been more sheltered, she was the baby after all. She was a little smart ass too. She used to pull my hair and the cry and say I had pulled hers.

They say things happen for a reason, and if I could turn back the clock I can see how different our lives would have been. I think we may have never moved to the United States, and I’d probably be a royal pain in the ass (much more than I currently am). I also think we would not have been as close as we are. I only wish it hadn’t come with such a heavy price, but my little sister’s accident brought us closer, it made us stronger. I like to think that she would be proud of what we’ve become. I like to think that she would be proud of what I’ve become.

Why Magazines Need to Step it Up

I came home yesterday, as usual, to a pile of the day’s mail on the dining room table. In a stack with bank statements, a bill for the Washington Post, and coupons was a magazine called “The Nest” addressed to me. I shuddered in disgust and went upstairs to change before making dinner.

Nick and I have a running game where we look at catalogues or magazines and make fun of it. Our favorite is the Venus catalogue, I don’t know why I get it I’ve never ordered anything from them, but they keep sending it and Nick and I keep laughing hysterically at the cougar clothing, shoulder cut outs, bedazzled jeans, and high waisted swimwear. So when I picked up “The Nest” sent to me by the same psychopaths who run The Knot, I was expecting to make fun of the uber-suburbian, stepford-wife-ish, yuppie couples.

I’m a big magazine girl. There’s nothing I love more than sitting with a trashy magazine for an hour or so. However, in the past year or two magazines have gotten more and more out of touch with reality. Elle’s September issue was claiming high waisted leather shorts (for a low price of $1500!) were the next big thing. Even Glamour of Marie Claire will claim to do “affordable finds” articles which include a cotton blouse for just $120! I’ve recently started reading Lucky because they’ll put two pages of different style and price ranges of say… riding boots. Yes, there’s a pair of Louboutin suede boots for $2, 000 but there’s also a really similar style from Bakers for $120! And this is a regular feature. That’s what I’m looking for in a magazine! However, Lucky is only about style and clothes.

So I started reading the Nest. As much as the idea of a magazine aimed at newlyweds makes me throw up in my mouth a little, the damned thing had really good ideas that would fit in just as well — maybe better – in a magazine like Marie Claire or Glamour.Yes, there were yuppie couple stories like “Crazy Shit my Mother in Law Said!”or “Look at these douchetastic Halloween couple costumes!”  (paraphrased of course) but in between all of that were stories that applied to both the coupled and single. There was advice on how to set a nice table when you’re having a dinner party, some good Rioja (Spanish wine) recommendations, home design advice, DIY tips for framing and such, things to watch out for when buying a house, and all kinds of really useful stuff….and stuff that was actually affordable!  If I’m a 22-year-old fresh out of college grad, I’d LOVE to find advice on how to decorate my living space in a magazine as opposed to having to search through thousands of design blogs aimed at people who are disgustingly rich.

So, the Nest, it surprised me. And girlie magazines, get your shit together.

House Hunting

Looking for a place to live is without a doubt one of the most pain in the ass things to do on earth, especially if you include moving in that category. I’ve moved… hold on lemme count… 12 times in my life. That number may or may not be accurate because I’m not sure if I should count college dorm rooms in that list. In any case, at the moment my dear husband and I, are looking at my lucky number 13.

Saturday morning we headed off to the Long and Foster near us to meet with a young Bruce Springsteen/Christian Troy looking dude to check out some properties. I should add that we are not looking to buy a house, we’re nowhere near being able to do that yet, but to rent a lovely 2 bedroom condo or townhouse with a patio. The most promising one was the first one we looked at, it was nice and really big and a great deal for the price but the basement was all dark wood paneling. And I, being a complete snob, despise wood paneling. If it’s painted over, I can deal but the dark/natural wood finish reminds me of grody frat-house basements. And that’s just ick.

The other places we looked at were set up almost exactly like the first but slightly cleaner and newer and therefore more expensive. Thing is, I couldn’t see us living in any of those places, regardless of price. I tend to rely on my gut instinct a lot, especially when it comes to where I’m going to live for the next year or more. When we first moved into the house we’re in now, I knew the minute I walked in that this was it. Something about the open kitchen and the hardwood floors just felt cozy and perfect. I haven’t regretted our choice in house for a minute.

So now, Nick and I are at a quandary. We can keep looking and try to find something in the next month or two, and subsequently be a little broke for the next couple of months, or we can be smart and patient and wait till after the holidays and after we can save up a little more.

We are, of course, going for option number two.

Sometimes, I really, really hate being a responsible adult.

Coming of Age Stories, or How St. Elmo’s Fire is Garden State

This weekend I needed a couple of hours to myself so I locked myself in the bedroom and watched a couple of movies.  I’ve recently been on a kick to watch movies I should have seen years ago and yesterday was no exception. Instead of watching Vertigo or An American in Paris, I chose to watch St. Elmo’s Fire. Before you judge, remember I’d just seen Seven Pounds before and I was looking for something fluffy and assumed it was just another John Hughes movie. I was wrong. I was so very, very wrong… and not only because, contrary to popular belief,  it’s NOT a John Hughes movie.

The best part of the movie, is the fact that it takes place in 1980’s Washington, DC. I had no idea, so when the opening credits began I first saw those Georgetown rowhouses I was all like “ ZOMG! It’s DC! And it’s not a movie about politics!”  AND the college scenes were all at the University of Maryland (my alma mater). Yay!

And then the movie started.

Judd Nelson (who I found so very hot in The Breakfast Club) plays a creepy politician, Emilio Estevez is a psycho stalker, Demi Moore is a coked out whore, Ally Sheedy has the WORST hair, Andrew McCarthy would’ve been better if he was actually gay and not just pathetic, the “fat girl” is NOT fat just wears a lot of layers, and Rob Lowe plays himself. I’m guessing this movie was supposed to be a coming of age story. We just got out of college and we’re starting a new life and these are our trials and tribulations. I get it, but man, this movie does NOT age well. The characters are one dimensional, the plot is non-existent, and for a movie about a group of friends you don’t ever get the feeling that this group of people likes each other very much.

After I finished the movie (I can’t believe I actually finished it but I was already invested and a sick part of me wanted to know how it ended) I gave the movie way more thought than it actually deserved and  I realized it’s a lot like Garden State.When I first saw Garden State I LOVED it. I actually saw it twice in the theatres and that’s VERY rare for me. I loved the idea of a story about being in your mid-twenties and trying to figure out where home is, and trying to figure yourself out and where you fit in this messed up world. Watching Garden State 5 years later killed it for me. All those romantic ideas that I’d loved just don’t really apply to me anymore, and Natalie Portman’s character is SUCH a Manic Pixie Dream Girl… she’s SO unrealistic.

St. Elmo’s fire could’ve had the same problem. If you graduated in 1985 and you and your friends were trying to figure out where you belonged in the post-college world, I’m assuming you might have really identified with this movie.

Six years out of college in 2009, I can say I did not and I cannot understand how this movie could have EVER been good. But that’s just my opinion.