You know how they tell you that being a mom is awesome? Well, to tell you the truth... Hell, yeah, it is! I even quit my job last year, so I could do it full-time. Plus, it's a great excuse to be partially insane all the time and still be socially accepted. Sort of. Or at least with the remaining social connections that didn't actually die right after delivery.
Baby Chequito, or Checo (nickname for the name Sergio, after his dad), turned one last month and it's been a blast being home with him all day long.
For example, when it's time for a diaper change, he loves helping you out by getting all those wipes out and eating them, incessantly screaming and moving around so it's a lot more fun and entertaining to get that diaper on, then kicking and knocking shit down and hitting your bare feet, you know, to remind you that you should wear industrial boots. So considerate.
It gets better. When it's meal time, spoons are for babies, so this 1-year-old non-baby will throw that spoon right back at you and hit you on your face and laugh. Under his high chair he'll start throwing all that sticky, gooey food on the floor around him, to let you know that the food fight is about to begin. It's awesome.
Oh, and sleepy time is the best! Pretend to be playing with him while rocking that 21-pound baby on your tiny arms for what seems a lifetime while he's screaming his lungs out. Or taking him out for a half-hour drive going absolutely nowhere. Aw, geez. Those 4 am super-fun drives in my pajamas in the middle of a cold, cruel night. Good times.
Nah, seriously. It's all true, but he is the cutest baby alive. And he knows it.
Twenty-one pounds, big head, chubby arms and legs, gorgeous dark-brown eyes, beautiful mole on his tummy, 6 teeth on the most adorable smile. Greatest sense of humor. Morning person, always wakes up with a smile. Dog person, he loves bossing our basset hounds around. Loves taking showers. Eats and poops like he ate and pooped for a living. Loves to take walks and strolls and drives. Plays with all kinds of toys, but prefers instruments, books and his Woody doll. Melts your heart with a look. Breaks your heart with a tear. Does a great impression of my mom clearing her throat. Giggles like a maniac. Screams like a maniac. Eats all kinds of crap off the floor. Hardly ever cries. Loves TV and iPhones. Loves peek-a-boo and pretending to be a scary dinosaur. Claps when someone sings him Mamma Mia, the frog song or La Cucaracha. Huge flirt. Gets along with everyone. Laughs profusely. Doesn't understand the point of pacifiers. Crawls like he's on fire. Smiles at you for no reason at all. Gives the most warm hugs in the world.
This kid, this family, is the best thing that's ever happened to me. I love them both with my whole heart. And yes, I can't wait to have another one.
Baby Chequito, or Checo (nickname for the name Sergio, after his dad), turned one last month and it's been a blast being home with him all day long.
For example, when it's time for a diaper change, he loves helping you out by getting all those wipes out and eating them, incessantly screaming and moving around so it's a lot more fun and entertaining to get that diaper on, then kicking and knocking shit down and hitting your bare feet, you know, to remind you that you should wear industrial boots. So considerate.
It gets better. When it's meal time, spoons are for babies, so this 1-year-old non-baby will throw that spoon right back at you and hit you on your face and laugh. Under his high chair he'll start throwing all that sticky, gooey food on the floor around him, to let you know that the food fight is about to begin. It's awesome.
Oh, and sleepy time is the best! Pretend to be playing with him while rocking that 21-pound baby on your tiny arms for what seems a lifetime while he's screaming his lungs out. Or taking him out for a half-hour drive going absolutely nowhere. Aw, geez. Those 4 am super-fun drives in my pajamas in the middle of a cold, cruel night. Good times.
Nah, seriously. It's all true, but he is the cutest baby alive. And he knows it.
Twenty-one pounds, big head, chubby arms and legs, gorgeous dark-brown eyes, beautiful mole on his tummy, 6 teeth on the most adorable smile. Greatest sense of humor. Morning person, always wakes up with a smile. Dog person, he loves bossing our basset hounds around. Loves taking showers. Eats and poops like he ate and pooped for a living. Loves to take walks and strolls and drives. Plays with all kinds of toys, but prefers instruments, books and his Woody doll. Melts your heart with a look. Breaks your heart with a tear. Does a great impression of my mom clearing her throat. Giggles like a maniac. Screams like a maniac. Eats all kinds of crap off the floor. Hardly ever cries. Loves TV and iPhones. Loves peek-a-boo and pretending to be a scary dinosaur. Claps when someone sings him Mamma Mia, the frog song or La Cucaracha. Huge flirt. Gets along with everyone. Laughs profusely. Doesn't understand the point of pacifiers. Crawls like he's on fire. Smiles at you for no reason at all. Gives the most warm hugs in the world.
This kid, this family, is the best thing that's ever happened to me. I love them both with my whole heart. And yes, I can't wait to have another one.
Baby & me.
I love books. What's not to love about them? Maybe their price tags, but that's about it.
I'm proud to say I read much more now that I'm married than I did before (when I actually had time to read and didn't as much because there was a bar full of friends waiting for me around the corner). So, yes, I did come a little... late to reading. I actually was one of the first in my kindergarten class to learn to read, both in spanish and english. But I think I used my superpower to read the subtitles to all Disney movies and learning them by heart. Did help with my spelling, though. I was –and still am– a true, spelling champion. And I still have my ribbons to prove it.
Now I'm probably seven or eight years late on my reading bucket list –which I actually only wrote about a year ago–, so I've got a lot to catch up on. And yes, I have a load of unfinished and half-read books waiting for me at home, making me feel bad every time I get a look at that Good Reads very embarrassingly long "currently reading" list. Still, I must insist on my weekly dosage of bookstore-wandering, because hey, you never know what you might find. Last week, I found myself with an old friend buying some Ken Kesey, Aldous Huxley and Frankl (in those three pretty versions). To my defense, it is very rare to find a local university bookstore actually selling this kind of literature. In english! So, I couldn't resist. Also, ever since our baby was born, I've gone ape-wild for buying children's books.
It is a tendency, I might add, to find myself lost in Barnes & Noble and have absolutely no idea what book I'm looking for, but do know with absolute certainty that I will come out of that store with a few many.
I judge books by their cover– literally. It's a figure of speech and they tell you never to do it, but in the real world, that's exactly how I purchase my books. Not by the title or blurb, if it's fiction or non-fiction, not by the famous author or the best-seller reviews. What does it mean, anyway, if a book is a best-seller? A book may sell, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's good. There are a lot of stupid people out there who buy stupid books. Although, I profoundly respect The New York Times best-seller list to my very core.
The blurb always reveals a bit too much, so I tend to read them only when the cover itself doesn't share anything at all about what's inside. Titles can be very bad, or clichéd, but the content may still be good. I try to read all types of books. And although I do have a notorious preference for fiction, whether it's romance, fantasy or mystery, I gotta have me some non-fiction too, specially if it's around the area of cooking, crafting, art, music or some good ol' Tina Fey humor.
Maybe it's the frustrated graphic designer in me, but the cover design is everything to me. While sliding my fingers across the many options on many bookcases, my eyes look for interesting colors and fonts. Once I find one with a nice composition, I examine the details and layout, specially the cover art. Whether it's a very good photograph, a well-tailored illustration, or a deep, emotional painting, a good cover should always communicate the tone of the book and I always look for one that speaks to me. Also, there's something wonderful about holding a book in your hands, feeling the weight of it. I look for quality printing too, a nice font and size, and sometimes even a good smell. I may not even know what the book is about, but I'll buy it if I like the cover.
I have the very common and very bad habit of watching the movie before I read the book. Not every time, but it is a recurring habit. What's so wrong about it anyway? I actually like reading Harry Potter with Daniel Radcliffe's face, even though I completely alter his acting and voice. And he's a lot taller in my head. I loved reading Forrest Gump with my good friend Tom Hanks, and everybody loved heroic Octavia Spencer in The Help. Yes, it sort of kills your imagination a bit, but somehow it also makes it a lot easier for me to relate to the story. Although I never buy the movie poster edition of the book, I don't like them. They feel... unauthentic. A little contradictory maybe, but that's the way it's always been for me.
A soon-to-be checked off chore on my to-do list is marking all of our books with our own signature Ex Libris stamp. I tend to document everything with dates, such as diary entries, photograph albums and scrapbooks, empty wine bottles and corks, letters and postcards, etcetera. So, it's pretty obvious I do the same when I buy a new book; I always write the date and place on the right-hand corner on the first page. Most of them I've bought at Barnes & Noble, local bookstores or the International Book Fair held every october. But some of our books were very special gifts, or have engravings, or are signed by their authors, or are first editions. And some of them were purchased in special bookstores, like some NY books we bought at Strand Bookstore this past summer, or the french ones we bought at Shakespeare & Co. two years ago in Paris when we were on our honeymoon.
If I had a little talent and wasn't so easily distracted, I would've probably been a writer. But being a reader is right up there too.
I'm proud to say I read much more now that I'm married than I did before (when I actually had time to read and didn't as much because there was a bar full of friends waiting for me around the corner). So, yes, I did come a little... late to reading. I actually was one of the first in my kindergarten class to learn to read, both in spanish and english. But I think I used my superpower to read the subtitles to all Disney movies and learning them by heart. Did help with my spelling, though. I was –and still am– a true, spelling champion. And I still have my ribbons to prove it.
Now I'm probably seven or eight years late on my reading bucket list –which I actually only wrote about a year ago–, so I've got a lot to catch up on. And yes, I have a load of unfinished and half-read books waiting for me at home, making me feel bad every time I get a look at that Good Reads very embarrassingly long "currently reading" list. Still, I must insist on my weekly dosage of bookstore-wandering, because hey, you never know what you might find. Last week, I found myself with an old friend buying some Ken Kesey, Aldous Huxley and Frankl (in those three pretty versions). To my defense, it is very rare to find a local university bookstore actually selling this kind of literature. In english! So, I couldn't resist. Also, ever since our baby was born, I've gone ape-wild for buying children's books.
It is a tendency, I might add, to find myself lost in Barnes & Noble and have absolutely no idea what book I'm looking for, but do know with absolute certainty that I will come out of that store with a few many.
I judge books by their cover– literally. It's a figure of speech and they tell you never to do it, but in the real world, that's exactly how I purchase my books. Not by the title or blurb, if it's fiction or non-fiction, not by the famous author or the best-seller reviews. What does it mean, anyway, if a book is a best-seller? A book may sell, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's good. There are a lot of stupid people out there who buy stupid books. Although, I profoundly respect The New York Times best-seller list to my very core.
The blurb always reveals a bit too much, so I tend to read them only when the cover itself doesn't share anything at all about what's inside. Titles can be very bad, or clichéd, but the content may still be good. I try to read all types of books. And although I do have a notorious preference for fiction, whether it's romance, fantasy or mystery, I gotta have me some non-fiction too, specially if it's around the area of cooking, crafting, art, music or some good ol' Tina Fey humor.
Maybe it's the frustrated graphic designer in me, but the cover design is everything to me. While sliding my fingers across the many options on many bookcases, my eyes look for interesting colors and fonts. Once I find one with a nice composition, I examine the details and layout, specially the cover art. Whether it's a very good photograph, a well-tailored illustration, or a deep, emotional painting, a good cover should always communicate the tone of the book and I always look for one that speaks to me. Also, there's something wonderful about holding a book in your hands, feeling the weight of it. I look for quality printing too, a nice font and size, and sometimes even a good smell. I may not even know what the book is about, but I'll buy it if I like the cover.
I have the very common and very bad habit of watching the movie before I read the book. Not every time, but it is a recurring habit. What's so wrong about it anyway? I actually like reading Harry Potter with Daniel Radcliffe's face, even though I completely alter his acting and voice. And he's a lot taller in my head. I loved reading Forrest Gump with my good friend Tom Hanks, and everybody loved heroic Octavia Spencer in The Help. Yes, it sort of kills your imagination a bit, but somehow it also makes it a lot easier for me to relate to the story. Although I never buy the movie poster edition of the book, I don't like them. They feel... unauthentic. A little contradictory maybe, but that's the way it's always been for me.
A soon-to-be checked off chore on my to-do list is marking all of our books with our own signature Ex Libris stamp. I tend to document everything with dates, such as diary entries, photograph albums and scrapbooks, empty wine bottles and corks, letters and postcards, etcetera. So, it's pretty obvious I do the same when I buy a new book; I always write the date and place on the right-hand corner on the first page. Most of them I've bought at Barnes & Noble, local bookstores or the International Book Fair held every october. But some of our books were very special gifts, or have engravings, or are signed by their authors, or are first editions. And some of them were purchased in special bookstores, like some NY books we bought at Strand Bookstore this past summer, or the french ones we bought at Shakespeare & Co. two years ago in Paris when we were on our honeymoon.
If I had a little talent and wasn't so easily distracted, I would've probably been a writer. But being a reader is right up there too.
Our lovely bookcase.
[And I have a T-shirt that says so to prove it].
Yes. Like all pregnant women, I've also struck a recent passion for crafting. It's been in my blood since puberty, but now that I'm married and independent and growing a human being in my uterus, it's easier and much more convenient for me to finally start building my very own –wait for it– craft studio! I'm so excited! I designed the layout myself and my handy craftsman of a husband built the whole thing.
My preferences in the crafting area lean mainly towards the following: scrapbooking, journaling, painting, postcard/letter-writing, embroidery and, this just in: knitting. About a month ago, I finally got rid of my knitting phobia and asked my mom to teach me. I'm doing pretty good for my first project: baby's first hand-knitted blanket. It's actually quite relaxing, once you get the hang of it. Once I master this, I also intend to try real sewing, crocheting and the ever scary and beautiful art of quilting.
Baby's due around January 11th, so I'll be getting that long-desired maternity leave the first of december. Perfect season and weather for crafting, right? (Yes, we will bring in a couple of extra heaters this time so we don't freeze to death like last year). Besides, around that time, our house will be full of cute, adorable basset hound puppies! Janis [Joplin] is due by the end of november, so I'll be spending a lot of time at home, crafting, cooking, reading, drinking capuccinos, playing my beautiful instruments, hugging puppies and, of course, blogging all about it. Can't wait!
I could –and will– really use the time off to relax and do stuff for myself. Yes, a little selfish maybe, but hey, by next year I'll be using all my free time taking care of our adorable child, so no judging on how I use my time this last trimester.
It is true. I am no Martha Stewart (although I have a bunch of Martha Stewart crafting tools, books and her beautiful App on mi iPad). But, as well you know, I'm a kindergarten teacher after all. You can't do it for four years straight and not get super creative and crafty. You'd be amazed by what us teachers can do with so little recycled material at our disposal. We are educators as we are artists, 24/7.
Anyway, it's craft studio building day! It's actually almost done, few minor details to go. Promise to upload gloating picture of joy when it's finished.
P.S. Hubby just finished putting up lovely new white mailbox out front! Finally. Our postman will no longer throw my beautiful postcards, letters and bills through the gate for them to end up as dog chow or wander off on the street. Will obviously decorate it and write "La Casa de la Puerta Azul" on it. [Trans: The House with the Blue Door].
Yes. Like all pregnant women, I've also struck a recent passion for crafting. It's been in my blood since puberty, but now that I'm married and independent and growing a human being in my uterus, it's easier and much more convenient for me to finally start building my very own –wait for it– craft studio! I'm so excited! I designed the layout myself and my handy craftsman of a husband built the whole thing.
My preferences in the crafting area lean mainly towards the following: scrapbooking, journaling, painting, postcard/letter-writing, embroidery and, this just in: knitting. About a month ago, I finally got rid of my knitting phobia and asked my mom to teach me. I'm doing pretty good for my first project: baby's first hand-knitted blanket. It's actually quite relaxing, once you get the hang of it. Once I master this, I also intend to try real sewing, crocheting and the ever scary and beautiful art of quilting.
Baby's due around January 11th, so I'll be getting that long-desired maternity leave the first of december. Perfect season and weather for crafting, right? (Yes, we will bring in a couple of extra heaters this time so we don't freeze to death like last year). Besides, around that time, our house will be full of cute, adorable basset hound puppies! Janis [Joplin] is due by the end of november, so I'll be spending a lot of time at home, crafting, cooking, reading, drinking capuccinos, playing my beautiful instruments, hugging puppies and, of course, blogging all about it. Can't wait!
I could –and will– really use the time off to relax and do stuff for myself. Yes, a little selfish maybe, but hey, by next year I'll be using all my free time taking care of our adorable child, so no judging on how I use my time this last trimester.
It is true. I am no Martha Stewart (although I have a bunch of Martha Stewart crafting tools, books and her beautiful App on mi iPad). But, as well you know, I'm a kindergarten teacher after all. You can't do it for four years straight and not get super creative and crafty. You'd be amazed by what us teachers can do with so little recycled material at our disposal. We are educators as we are artists, 24/7.
Anyway, it's craft studio building day! It's actually almost done, few minor details to go. Promise to upload gloating picture of joy when it's finished.
P.S. Hubby just finished putting up lovely new white mailbox out front! Finally. Our postman will no longer throw my beautiful postcards, letters and bills through the gate for them to end up as dog chow or wander off on the street. Will obviously decorate it and write "La Casa de la Puerta Azul" on it. [Trans: The House with the Blue Door].
Our lovely new mailbox.
Oh, my God. I totally forgot I have a blog... again. (I always start my entries like this, don't I? Must stop doing it).
Sound of husband doing the dishes in the kitchen. The most adorable sound in the world. Also a background noise of little Janis howling in the backyard (my adorable 1-year old pregnant basset hound). Jimi (Hendrix), her own brother, knocked her up before puberty. Sheesh. The interesting part is that she's one-month pregnant and she's gonna be a mom before I am! I've been pregnant for six months! Gaaawd.
I'm kidding. It's been awf-- wonderful. Awfully wonderful. I haven't precisely enjoyed every second of it, no. I've had my bad days, my crankiness, scary hormones and mood swings, extreme fatigue, I've never hated house chores more than now and I really do not enjoy having to pee every 5 minutes. Still, it's the happiest time I've had in my entire life. Both baby and parents are as healthy as can be. We're at our 28th week and feeling those baby kicks every day now. Doesn't exactly help me sleep through the night, but still, adorable as hell. He even kicked Sergio on the face one time.
I've enjoyed sharing every part of it with Sergio. Every wonderful and scary thought, weird dream and funny idea I've had since I found out I was pregnant. I started writing a sort of pregnancy journal on a composition book. I wanted to buy one online and even looked for options at Barnes & Noble and I was close to buying The Belly Book, but I didn't want to fill out someone else's questions with my answers. I wanted a real journal about my first pregnancy experience. So I made one myself.
I'm filling it with all kinds of things: cravings, bodily functions, dreams, ultrasounds, pictures of my belly, vitamins I'm taking and how my husband and I have been living the experience of baby-proofing our lovely home.
Yup, still living at the same hobbit house with the blue door. I just love it here and I don't plan on moving anytime soon. Finally getting rid of all the boxes we stored in that extra room we had so we can get Behr's mint majesty and paint the baby room. Crib's already been delivered, baby blankets, car seat, stroller and many other baby stuff they make us buy. And there's much more of that still on the way. Promise to share baby room pic next time, when it's finished (if it ever is).
By the way, IT'S A BOY! Yes, I admit it, it's completely true: We both wanted our first-born to be a boy. Not because we don't want a girl, we want a princess just as much. We just wanted the first one to be our little hero who'll take care of his younger siblings, however many there may be in the future. We would love four kids. It's always been our number ever since we started dating. But, I guess we'll start off with the two and see where it goes from there.
Wow... It really amazes me how much this baby will be truly loved, spoiled, played with, adored. He's the first of a new generation, like I said, on both my parents' and in-laws' sides. He's still a-cookin' and already has got a lot of fans waiting to meet him, hungry uncles and aunts and starving grandparents. Needless to say, his parents are completely in love with every fiber of his being and his mom can't wait another minute to hold him.
Baby name can't be revealed just yet, but we've got some ideas... Since it's not yet carved on stone, please share possible awesome names for awesome baby boy below!
Sound of husband doing the dishes in the kitchen. The most adorable sound in the world. Also a background noise of little Janis howling in the backyard (my adorable 1-year old pregnant basset hound). Jimi (Hendrix), her own brother, knocked her up before puberty. Sheesh. The interesting part is that she's one-month pregnant and she's gonna be a mom before I am! I've been pregnant for six months! Gaaawd.
I'm kidding. It's been awf-- wonderful. Awfully wonderful. I haven't precisely enjoyed every second of it, no. I've had my bad days, my crankiness, scary hormones and mood swings, extreme fatigue, I've never hated house chores more than now and I really do not enjoy having to pee every 5 minutes. Still, it's the happiest time I've had in my entire life. Both baby and parents are as healthy as can be. We're at our 28th week and feeling those baby kicks every day now. Doesn't exactly help me sleep through the night, but still, adorable as hell. He even kicked Sergio on the face one time.
I've enjoyed sharing every part of it with Sergio. Every wonderful and scary thought, weird dream and funny idea I've had since I found out I was pregnant. I started writing a sort of pregnancy journal on a composition book. I wanted to buy one online and even looked for options at Barnes & Noble and I was close to buying The Belly Book, but I didn't want to fill out someone else's questions with my answers. I wanted a real journal about my first pregnancy experience. So I made one myself.
I'm filling it with all kinds of things: cravings, bodily functions, dreams, ultrasounds, pictures of my belly, vitamins I'm taking and how my husband and I have been living the experience of baby-proofing our lovely home.
Yup, still living at the same hobbit house with the blue door. I just love it here and I don't plan on moving anytime soon. Finally getting rid of all the boxes we stored in that extra room we had so we can get Behr's mint majesty and paint the baby room. Crib's already been delivered, baby blankets, car seat, stroller and many other baby stuff they make us buy. And there's much more of that still on the way. Promise to share baby room pic next time, when it's finished (if it ever is).
By the way, IT'S A BOY! Yes, I admit it, it's completely true: We both wanted our first-born to be a boy. Not because we don't want a girl, we want a princess just as much. We just wanted the first one to be our little hero who'll take care of his younger siblings, however many there may be in the future. We would love four kids. It's always been our number ever since we started dating. But, I guess we'll start off with the two and see where it goes from there.
Wow... It really amazes me how much this baby will be truly loved, spoiled, played with, adored. He's the first of a new generation, like I said, on both my parents' and in-laws' sides. He's still a-cookin' and already has got a lot of fans waiting to meet him, hungry uncles and aunts and starving grandparents. Needless to say, his parents are completely in love with every fiber of his being and his mom can't wait another minute to hold him.
Baby name can't be revealed just yet, but we've got some ideas... Since it's not yet carved on stone, please share possible awesome names for awesome baby boy below!
Listening to baby life inside enormous six-month belly.
Etiquetas:
baby,
baby boy,
baby hormones,
baby kicks,
baby room,
Barnes & Noble,
basset hound,
Behr,
dad,
hobbit house,
mint majesty,
mom,
pregnancy,
pregnancy journal,
pregnant,
The Belly Book,
ultrasounds
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It seems to be that everytime I come back to write something on my blog, I'm either getting engaged, getting married or getting pregnant... Wait, what? Yes! I'm preggers! I have a bun in the oven! I'm expecting a baby! I'm gonna be a momma! Holy Christ almighty. Since I got that positive pee stick [insert goofy dance here], I've been happy as a hippo and scared shitless at the same time.
We actually said we were gonna wait a few years, but one night I woke my husband up and told him I didn't wanna wait anymore. He jumped on me and did his thang. We had so much fun in the whole baby-making process. Took us a few months to get it, which made it even more fun. Tried all kinds of different things, did a lot of excercise and healthy eating and even lost a few pounds. It was good for us!
Now, of course, I'm not excercising as much and I've been having all kinds of food cravings. But, hey, at least I'm not drinking anymore even though it seems that everytime I turn around everyone's cracking open a Bud Light behind my back. I don't even miss beer that much, I miss my wine. I miss my morning coffee. I know it's not really all that bad for you, but I'd rather not risk anything. I'm not even dying my hair, which means I'm something between a readhead and a brunette right now. I don't jog anymore. I'm not even enjoying my social ciggie I like to have once in a while. Completely altered lifestyle.
I've been reading What To Expect When You're Expecting, as all first-time mothers should. I'm only starting off my second trimester and already have had almost every symptom in the book. The most common one is neverending peeing and fatigue. Gawd. I can't even get myself outta bed to pee sometimes. Thank my lucky stars that teachers get a lot of vacation time. I'm sleeping and resting and napping like there is no tomorrow. Even in the toilet, I find myself snoozing.
Thankfully, I married my husband, the sweetest, most patient man you could ever meet. My baby hormones get crazy around him when I see him doing the dishes. My knight in shining armor! I totally, utterly and completely hate doing the dishes. I HATE IT. And he does that and many other things around the house without any complaint. He's been my angel these first three months and I love him for it. Let's just hope he doesn't crack one of these days with my mood swings.
Maybe we'll find out if it's a boy or a girl this week! We're already looking into baby names, ordering all kinds of baby stuff and cute useless crap on Amazon to spoil our little brat, painting the baby room, brainstorming on ideas for the play room... We are incredibly excited about this! As are our parents, for it's both my parents' and in-laws' first grandchild. He/she shall be spoiled indeed.
Of course we have absolutely no idea what to expect. And, no disrespect for this book, but nobody can really know what to expect until you're there, in the delivery room, holding your gushy purple baby in your hands for the first time. And even then, I fear both of us will be scared to do anything around him/her. Will we drop him on his head? Will we feed him too much that he'll explode? Will he/she stop crying when we try to soothe him? Infinite questions with inifinite possible answers, and I guess we just have to pick it up along the way and hope for the best.
One thing I'm sure of is that we're definetely gonna be an awesome family. 'Cause me and my hubby are an awesome team and our genetics are so awesome that I know we'll have an awesome baby to go along with all our awesomeness.
More on scary hormones later.
We actually said we were gonna wait a few years, but one night I woke my husband up and told him I didn't wanna wait anymore. He jumped on me and did his thang. We had so much fun in the whole baby-making process. Took us a few months to get it, which made it even more fun. Tried all kinds of different things, did a lot of excercise and healthy eating and even lost a few pounds. It was good for us!
Now, of course, I'm not excercising as much and I've been having all kinds of food cravings. But, hey, at least I'm not drinking anymore even though it seems that everytime I turn around everyone's cracking open a Bud Light behind my back. I don't even miss beer that much, I miss my wine. I miss my morning coffee. I know it's not really all that bad for you, but I'd rather not risk anything. I'm not even dying my hair, which means I'm something between a readhead and a brunette right now. I don't jog anymore. I'm not even enjoying my social ciggie I like to have once in a while. Completely altered lifestyle.
I've been reading What To Expect When You're Expecting, as all first-time mothers should. I'm only starting off my second trimester and already have had almost every symptom in the book. The most common one is neverending peeing and fatigue. Gawd. I can't even get myself outta bed to pee sometimes. Thank my lucky stars that teachers get a lot of vacation time. I'm sleeping and resting and napping like there is no tomorrow. Even in the toilet, I find myself snoozing.
Thankfully, I married my husband, the sweetest, most patient man you could ever meet. My baby hormones get crazy around him when I see him doing the dishes. My knight in shining armor! I totally, utterly and completely hate doing the dishes. I HATE IT. And he does that and many other things around the house without any complaint. He's been my angel these first three months and I love him for it. Let's just hope he doesn't crack one of these days with my mood swings.
Maybe we'll find out if it's a boy or a girl this week! We're already looking into baby names, ordering all kinds of baby stuff and cute useless crap on Amazon to spoil our little brat, painting the baby room, brainstorming on ideas for the play room... We are incredibly excited about this! As are our parents, for it's both my parents' and in-laws' first grandchild. He/she shall be spoiled indeed.
Of course we have absolutely no idea what to expect. And, no disrespect for this book, but nobody can really know what to expect until you're there, in the delivery room, holding your gushy purple baby in your hands for the first time. And even then, I fear both of us will be scared to do anything around him/her. Will we drop him on his head? Will we feed him too much that he'll explode? Will he/she stop crying when we try to soothe him? Infinite questions with inifinite possible answers, and I guess we just have to pick it up along the way and hope for the best.
One thing I'm sure of is that we're definetely gonna be an awesome family. 'Cause me and my hubby are an awesome team and our genetics are so awesome that I know we'll have an awesome baby to go along with all our awesomeness.
More on scary hormones later.
Beautiful baby at 12th week.
Honeymoons are but just once in our lives and everyone picks to go somewhere different, according to their personalities, the weather or their budget. Some pick an exotic beach, some go to theme parks, others would like to visit old villages, while the rest of them prefer golden cities like Prague.
Well, we kind of went with all of it in a single country: La France. I would travel across this beautiful country for 23 glorious days with my drop-dead gorgeous husband. Oh, yeah.
But before we got there, we started out a two-day journey through London, before we headed on to Paris. Naturally, we only did two things there: Wicked and Les Misérables. Both made me cry of sadness and full content. Now, I can officially say I've seen six musicals in my life. (And by six, I mean I only count them if they're either Broadway or West End).
Oh! Quite magically as well, apart from going to the London Eye, Big Ben and an aquarium (all this underneath the cruel, cold London rain), we found ourselves walking unintentionally in front of a Jamie Olliver's Diner! Had to stop everything and have the loveliest english meal there. (Note: After buying Jamie's entire encyclopedia, I actually cooked back home the same meatball pasta I had in London. It was superb!). And yes, the rest of the food we ate there was pure crap. Also, London hotels have shitty two-inch showers. Hated that.
Then, off to Paris! Got upgraded to a deluxe bedroom with a view of the Eiffel Tower (or at least the tip of it), because they got our reservation wrong. (Must remember to go back to Hotel Gavarni and stupid concierge with the amazing upgrades). We covered the entire area, not in a touristy way, but in a let's-find-the-métro-and-see-where-it-takes-us kind of way.
Ate at all kinds of french food at all kinds of cafés, visited museums we didn't even know existed, had a soireé in Dans Le Noir (pitch black restaurant with surprise menu and blind waiters), visited the Opera House, rented bikes and wheeled around the Champs Elysées, had picnics, went to Shakespeare & Co. Bookstore and bought a whole lot of pretty books to take home, went to Notre Dame Cathedral about a thousand times, went to the Louvre and had crêpes everywhere! (the best ones are from Café Orsay, behind the museum with the same name).
I even fulfilled my self-promise to get a Parisian haircut everytime I visit the city. Yay!
We also set out to find and actually found the cute little cafe Les Deux Moulins from one of my favorite films (Amélie) and had huge hearty breakfast there. I obviously took a photo with my Frida Canon (that's what I call my camera), of every meal we had in the entire trip. We basically ate the entire city and we're proud of it.
After that, it gets even better. We rented a pétit Hot Wheels car and drove all the way to La Dordogne, which if anyone knows anything about it, Périgord Noir is the way to go. We lived and died there. We stayed at this beautiful little village called St. Cyprien, surrounded by more beautiful villages, countrysides, castles, rivers, wine-tasting vineyards and sunflower fields.
We even canoed our way through a beautiful french river! Well, he rowed his ass off and I... documented and smiled.
Fell in love with a little restaurant/wine shop called "La Pétite Tonelle", where we had the best foie gras, fish soup, duck confit and goose salad any mexican could ever imagine. Also, wine tasting around a village made us find, taste and take back home a bottle of the best, local, sweet, white wine we ever had: Monbazillac. We were quite tempted on buying a million-euro hobbit house in a hilltop, but bought a few art posters instead.
Honeymoon does not end here. Took our crappy car all the way south and got to Marseille after a 6-hour drive. This is a city full of a young, sleepless vibe and people partying all night long. Obviously had gorgeous seafood and walked around and put our feet in the coldest Mediterranean beach water while drinking tasty mango frappés. We brought our swimsuits all the way to France for that. We also took a ride on a ferris wheel overlooking the sea and I confess we ate at McDonald's there. I know, the shame!
Took a train back to Paris and then a bus to Mont St. Michel for the day. Of course, bought a ton of cookbooks written in french to test myself in the kitchen and visited the old monastery/castle/museum at the top of the hill. I actually took a nap there. Ate famous omelette and hated it, but loved the pasta. Such incredible history and amazing views of the sea. I couldn't stop imagining I was walking through a French version of Minas Tirith the whole time. (Geek!).
Back in Paris, we had to go to Disneyland of course, mostly because weird husband had never gone before, not even in the U.S. It was piled up with people from all over the world (mainly japanese), and the weather couldn't be more perfect. Got on every ride we could and visited both parks. We had fish and chips and watched the firework show proyected on La Belle au Bois Dormant's castle and felt enchanted by it. We took home our only souvenir from there: Sheriff Woody, who now protects our home and our two adorable puppy basset hounds.
We finished off with a gorgeous dinner at the Eiffel Tower Restaurant with a view to the Trocadéro. I even packed a special polka-dot dress, high-heeled shoes and the pearls my hubby gave me the day before our wedding... just for this occasion. (I actually broke my heels running our asses there for being so late for our dinner reservation, as we were late for all flights, train stations, bus tours, car rentals, musical shows, canoe rides and taxi drives in the entire trip).
It was the best dinner I've had in my entire life. I'll never forget a single taste of that five-course, exquisite meal. I fell in love with my Sergio all over again during that dinner. We left our table and stayed on Eiffel's second floor for a few minutes wating for those sparkling lights at 10:55 pm (while illegally hiding and drinking a bottle of white wine).
Just before it was time to take the train back to the airport and back to reality, we spent an hour lying on the grass, wondering at the Eiffel Tower and saying farewell to our golden city and flying back to Mexico... first-class, of course.
À bientôt, everyone!
Well, we kind of went with all of it in a single country: La France. I would travel across this beautiful country for 23 glorious days with my drop-dead gorgeous husband. Oh, yeah.
But before we got there, we started out a two-day journey through London, before we headed on to Paris. Naturally, we only did two things there: Wicked and Les Misérables. Both made me cry of sadness and full content. Now, I can officially say I've seen six musicals in my life. (And by six, I mean I only count them if they're either Broadway or West End).
Oh! Quite magically as well, apart from going to the London Eye, Big Ben and an aquarium (all this underneath the cruel, cold London rain), we found ourselves walking unintentionally in front of a Jamie Olliver's Diner! Had to stop everything and have the loveliest english meal there. (Note: After buying Jamie's entire encyclopedia, I actually cooked back home the same meatball pasta I had in London. It was superb!). And yes, the rest of the food we ate there was pure crap. Also, London hotels have shitty two-inch showers. Hated that.
Gorgeous dinner at Jamie Olliver's, London.
Then, off to Paris! Got upgraded to a deluxe bedroom with a view of the Eiffel Tower (or at least the tip of it), because they got our reservation wrong. (Must remember to go back to Hotel Gavarni and stupid concierge with the amazing upgrades). We covered the entire area, not in a touristy way, but in a let's-find-the-métro-and-see-where-it-takes-us kind of way.
Ate at all kinds of french food at all kinds of cafés, visited museums we didn't even know existed, had a soireé in Dans Le Noir (pitch black restaurant with surprise menu and blind waiters), visited the Opera House, rented bikes and wheeled around the Champs Elysées, had picnics, went to Shakespeare & Co. Bookstore and bought a whole lot of pretty books to take home, went to Notre Dame Cathedral about a thousand times, went to the Louvre and had crêpes everywhere! (the best ones are from Café Orsay, behind the museum with the same name).
I even fulfilled my self-promise to get a Parisian haircut everytime I visit the city. Yay!
We also set out to find and actually found the cute little cafe Les Deux Moulins from one of my favorite films (Amélie) and had huge hearty breakfast there. I obviously took a photo with my Frida Canon (that's what I call my camera), of every meal we had in the entire trip. We basically ate the entire city and we're proud of it.
Eating lovely pasta in Paris.
After that, it gets even better. We rented a pétit Hot Wheels car and drove all the way to La Dordogne, which if anyone knows anything about it, Périgord Noir is the way to go. We lived and died there. We stayed at this beautiful little village called St. Cyprien, surrounded by more beautiful villages, countrysides, castles, rivers, wine-tasting vineyards and sunflower fields.
We even canoed our way through a beautiful french river! Well, he rowed his ass off and I... documented and smiled.
Fell in love with a little restaurant/wine shop called "La Pétite Tonelle", where we had the best foie gras, fish soup, duck confit and goose salad any mexican could ever imagine. Also, wine tasting around a village made us find, taste and take back home a bottle of the best, local, sweet, white wine we ever had: Monbazillac. We were quite tempted on buying a million-euro hobbit house in a hilltop, but bought a few art posters instead.
Wine-tasting in St. Cyprien.
Most romantic ferris wheel ride with oceanview, Marseille.
Took a train back to Paris and then a bus to Mont St. Michel for the day. Of course, bought a ton of cookbooks written in french to test myself in the kitchen and visited the old monastery/castle/museum at the top of the hill. I actually took a nap there. Ate famous omelette and hated it, but loved the pasta. Such incredible history and amazing views of the sea. I couldn't stop imagining I was walking through a French version of Minas Tirith the whole time. (Geek!).
Getting lost in St. Michel.
Back in Paris, we had to go to Disneyland of course, mostly because weird husband had never gone before, not even in the U.S. It was piled up with people from all over the world (mainly japanese), and the weather couldn't be more perfect. Got on every ride we could and visited both parks. We had fish and chips and watched the firework show proyected on La Belle au Bois Dormant's castle and felt enchanted by it. We took home our only souvenir from there: Sheriff Woody, who now protects our home and our two adorable puppy basset hounds.
The rockin' roller coaster ft. Aerosmith, Disneyland Paris.
We finished off with a gorgeous dinner at the Eiffel Tower Restaurant with a view to the Trocadéro. I even packed a special polka-dot dress, high-heeled shoes and the pearls my hubby gave me the day before our wedding... just for this occasion. (I actually broke my heels running our asses there for being so late for our dinner reservation, as we were late for all flights, train stations, bus tours, car rentals, musical shows, canoe rides and taxi drives in the entire trip).
It was the best dinner I've had in my entire life. I'll never forget a single taste of that five-course, exquisite meal. I fell in love with my Sergio all over again during that dinner. We left our table and stayed on Eiffel's second floor for a few minutes wating for those sparkling lights at 10:55 pm (while illegally hiding and drinking a bottle of white wine).
Drinking white wine, waiting for shiny Eiffel Tower lights to turn on.
Just before it was time to take the train back to the airport and back to reality, we spent an hour lying on the grass, wondering at the Eiffel Tower and saying farewell to our golden city and flying back to Mexico... first-class, of course.
À bientôt, everyone!
Etiquetas:
crêpes,
Disneyland,
Dordogne,
Eiffel Tower,
foie gras,
french food,
honeymoon,
Jamie Olliver,
Louvre,
Marseille,
musicals,
Paris,
St. Michel,
wine
2
comentarios
|
So, I'm back and I'm married now. I turned 26 recently and it suddenly hit me that everything depends on me now, on us. We're alone in the world, we have to make our own damn money, support ourselves, wash our own clothes and pay our bills. We're all grown-up and I'm so proud of us. And our house is just a lovely, little hobbit house in the making.
We actually put up our Christmas tree last weekend. I don't care if everyone thinks it's early to do so. We wanted to feel Christmasy and warm up our li'l House with the Blue Door, like I like to call it. It's just the loveliest tree in the world, with a kind of turquoise and gold palette.
A cold front has finally struck our town and I find it quite hard to get outta bed in the morning for the following reasons: 1) there's no food in the refrigerator, 2) I work at a kindergarten ('nuff said), 3) my husband is traveling a lot lately, 4) it's too friggin' cold outside my blankets, and 5) there's no food in the refrigerator.
The only thing that's keeping me going this week is the fact that there's no school next monday and my hubby and I just decided we're taking the weekend off our lives and going to Parras, a nice wine-tasting village 3 hours from here. Haven't traveled at all since our honeymoon (except to McAllen, which doesn't count), so this will do just perfectly.
I'll post about wedding and wonderful honeymoon later on.
We actually put up our Christmas tree last weekend. I don't care if everyone thinks it's early to do so. We wanted to feel Christmasy and warm up our li'l House with the Blue Door, like I like to call it. It's just the loveliest tree in the world, with a kind of turquoise and gold palette.
A cold front has finally struck our town and I find it quite hard to get outta bed in the morning for the following reasons: 1) there's no food in the refrigerator, 2) I work at a kindergarten ('nuff said), 3) my husband is traveling a lot lately, 4) it's too friggin' cold outside my blankets, and 5) there's no food in the refrigerator.
The only thing that's keeping me going this week is the fact that there's no school next monday and my hubby and I just decided we're taking the weekend off our lives and going to Parras, a nice wine-tasting village 3 hours from here. Haven't traveled at all since our honeymoon (except to McAllen, which doesn't count), so this will do just perfectly.
I'll post about wedding and wonderful honeymoon later on.
Writing on my blog everyday might be a challenge, but I'll try to keep up. Wasn't exaclty a new year's resolution, but I believe I wrote something about writing more. Or was it reading more? Can't remember. I have this personal tradition to write my resolutions and seal them in an envelope, which I can't/won't read 'til next year starts. That way, I can totally forget about them and be disappointed in myself every year. Yay.
Did I tell you I'm a kindergarten teacher, by the way? Yup. Two years now. Second grade. My kids are both awesome and psychotic. One of them jumped on me today like a gorilla and probably broke my cervix. Or cervical. One of those.
I'm still an amateur. I just need one of 'em to look at me with that doe-eyed face of theirs to fall into their evil plots to eat my cookies and creamy strawberries I bring for lunch. That or let them paint my face with permanent markers. Yes, it's a true story. No, I didn't know they were indelible. They were Sharpies!
The most wonderful thing about being a kindergarten teacher is that I end up every night taking a nice warm bath to get rid of all the glue, boogers and all kinds of shit they get in my hair. Also, I get the flu every other day, but at least –for the time being– my classroom is lice-free. *sigh* I love my job. Plus, it's great practice for when I'm a mom. Won't let them take control of me with their cuteness by then. Gosh. When that day comes, I'm gonna be so well-trained I will get my own kids to do their yoga while I change their diapers in 30 seconds. While stoned.
Is four really that big a number? I come from a family of six and I'm used to the noise and the beatings. Certainly worked for us. Every person I drop my apparently big number to, goes into shock. Then again, they're always either workaholic deep-pockets or dumb trophy-wives-in-the-making who couldn't possible function without a maid, cook, nanny and limousine driver. You know, boring people.
I'm just realizing (yes, on the second post I write in who knows how long) that I'm being really agressive now that I've come back to my blog. Maybe it's my alter ego letting itself go after being extra nice at work to my kids, boss and deeply obsessive mothers, so I come home and sweat it all off on you. But in real life, I'm really very sweet. I kiss my mom in the morning, I hug my 5-year-old rug rats until I suck the very life out of them, and I go to church when people die. I'm a goddamn princess!
I even dressed up as one at work this past Halloween (well, not really Halloween, but this "Carnival" crappy name they came up with because we mexicans don't celebrate the awesomeness of witches, ghosts and zombies who should be rulers of the world). I dressed up as Princess Merida, from Brave, and a very improvised one with stuff I had laying around in my three closets (seriously, there's three of them). Of course I was defeated by all the pretty girls who were wearing the exact same costume. Damn them.
Some of them even came up to me –with their big fake wigs and starry eyes, I might add– and said with their squeaky voices: "Are you the real Princess Merida?" (this belief coming from my provisional redheadness). Omigah, so cute! I felt a clear warmth take hold of my heart as they fulfilled my long-lost wish to be finallyrecognized discovered as a real live princess. "No", I replied, "I'm actually Madame Medusa, only I grew my hair out." They laughed and ran off, totally not getting the reference.
...And for my young readers who were born in the nineties and didn't get it either, The Rescuers is an awesome 1977 Walt Disney Animated Classic in which Madame Medusa is an evil red-headed (hint!) pawn shop owner who kidnaps young 4-year-old orphan girl named Penny. If only the music or gym teacher (only two male teachers in the area) had played the idiotic Mr. Snoops, I would've scared the living crap out of those girls. I know they used to freak me out when I was their age.
Ugh. Once again interrupted the exact same way I was yesterday by jumpy boyfriend at my door. (Just kiddin', hon, I love you). Don't hate him as much when he adorably brought back the shirt I bought last sunday in a flea market, El Corredor del Arte, off a man who hand-paints Lautrec on his T-shirts. Had to buy one.
Anywho, wedding planner mode. See you soon.
Did I tell you I'm a kindergarten teacher, by the way? Yup. Two years now. Second grade. My kids are both awesome and psychotic. One of them jumped on me today like a gorilla and probably broke my cervix. Or cervical. One of those.
I'm still an amateur. I just need one of 'em to look at me with that doe-eyed face of theirs to fall into their evil plots to eat my cookies and creamy strawberries I bring for lunch. That or let them paint my face with permanent markers. Yes, it's a true story. No, I didn't know they were indelible. They were Sharpies!
The most wonderful thing about being a kindergarten teacher is that I end up every night taking a nice warm bath to get rid of all the glue, boogers and all kinds of shit they get in my hair. Also, I get the flu every other day, but at least –for the time being– my classroom is lice-free. *sigh* I love my job. Plus, it's great practice for when I'm a mom. Won't let them take control of me with their cuteness by then. Gosh. When that day comes, I'm gonna be so well-trained I will get my own kids to do their yoga while I change their diapers in 30 seconds. While stoned.
Is four really that big a number? I come from a family of six and I'm used to the noise and the beatings. Certainly worked for us. Every person I drop my apparently big number to, goes into shock. Then again, they're always either workaholic deep-pockets or dumb trophy-wives-in-the-making who couldn't possible function without a maid, cook, nanny and limousine driver. You know, boring people.
I'm just realizing (yes, on the second post I write in who knows how long) that I'm being really agressive now that I've come back to my blog. Maybe it's my alter ego letting itself go after being extra nice at work to my kids, boss and deeply obsessive mothers, so I come home and sweat it all off on you. But in real life, I'm really very sweet. I kiss my mom in the morning, I hug my 5-year-old rug rats until I suck the very life out of them, and I go to church when people die. I'm a goddamn princess!
I even dressed up as one at work this past Halloween (well, not really Halloween, but this "Carnival" crappy name they came up with because we mexicans don't celebrate the awesomeness of witches, ghosts and zombies who should be rulers of the world). I dressed up as Princess Merida, from Brave, and a very improvised one with stuff I had laying around in my three closets (seriously, there's three of them). Of course I was defeated by all the pretty girls who were wearing the exact same costume. Damn them.
Some of them even came up to me –with their big fake wigs and starry eyes, I might add– and said with their squeaky voices: "Are you the real Princess Merida?" (this belief coming from my provisional redheadness). Omigah, so cute! I felt a clear warmth take hold of my heart as they fulfilled my long-lost wish to be finally
...And for my young readers who were born in the nineties and didn't get it either, The Rescuers is an awesome 1977 Walt Disney Animated Classic in which Madame Medusa is an evil red-headed (hint!) pawn shop owner who kidnaps young 4-year-old orphan girl named Penny. If only the music or gym teacher (only two male teachers in the area) had played the idiotic Mr. Snoops, I would've scared the living crap out of those girls. I know they used to freak me out when I was their age.
Ugh. Once again interrupted the exact same way I was yesterday by jumpy boyfriend at my door. (Just kiddin', hon, I love you). Don't hate him as much when he adorably brought back the shirt I bought last sunday in a flea market, El Corredor del Arte, off a man who hand-paints Lautrec on his T-shirts. Had to buy one.
Anywho, wedding planner mode. See you soon.
Lovely Madame Medusa and "Penny girl".
Etiquetas:
Brave,
Halloween,
kindergarten teacher,
Madame Medusa,
mom,
princess,
The Rescuers
6
comentarios
|
Hello again. So, this blog I abandoned for some time, I didn't really start it out just to be interesting (I know that I am without trying). I guess all I wanted was to test myself in the art of the written word and came out sucking at it a bit.
(My apologies if I have a tendency to change languages at times, but my mind works in three different ones, and some days I communicate myself better in one or another. Bare with me.)
I was tempted to create a whole new blog to try a new way of writing, but I was instantly hit with melancholy and couldn't get myself to do it. It's true that some years ago I may have published stupid things here (and they're still here), but it's a part of me and one should never be ashamed of their past, even if you've got terrible taste in men, adore girly-like bands like Coldplay and may or may not have shared weird, erotic dreams about ninjas.
Far off my point.
I'm getting married! *ahem* We're getting married. (Must remember to go plural every time.)
I scattered the news to the four winds of the world on September 14th, but hadn't written that down here, so I had to come and tell my faithful 17 followers (15 really, 'cause two of the accounts belong to my dear big sister and I can't really count her as a fan, though she means well and I love her) that I'm getting hitched this summer! Sergio, the lucky dude, proposed quite like Ryan O'Neal in Arthur Hiller's Love Story (except the 25-year old girl doesn't die, I hope), and made me say yes. Bastard.
In the first two weeks or so, after breaking the news and causing a lot of jaw-dropping, we were caught in the what-should-our-wedding-theme-be query (other than awesome, of course) and after long hours of brainstorming and cheetos, we were there. Oui, it shall be a glamourous vintage french-style wedding.
As it was expected, my father's pants dropped instantly when I revealed the idea. I do believe his french je ne sais quoi rubbed off on me much more than it did on my sisters. We've been talking about placing it at the turn of the 20th century, when Toulouse Lautrec and Henri Matisse were the soul of Paris' Art Nouveau movement, and La Belle Époque decorated and gave life to the streets of la ville-lumière with posters and paintings of beautiful Can-can dancers (if you are not familiar with any of this, that's what the links are for, you ill-educated beings).
Ideas for decorating and coloring the wedding have been pouring out of all three of us (the groom, myself and my maid of honor). From the lovely Gothic-style church we've already booked, the only 1912 parisian-designed Gran Hotel Ancira we've picked for the soirée, to the Art Nouveau posters, the antique artsy centerpieces, the vintage postcard-like wedding invitations, and the somewhat themed wedding dress I can't say anything about here. Yet.
So fun!
Anyway, more on fabulous wedding later. Must pay attention to weary fiancée after three days of work travel. I promise to return soon this time.
(My apologies if I have a tendency to change languages at times, but my mind works in three different ones, and some days I communicate myself better in one or another. Bare with me.)
I was tempted to create a whole new blog to try a new way of writing, but I was instantly hit with melancholy and couldn't get myself to do it. It's true that some years ago I may have published stupid things here (and they're still here), but it's a part of me and one should never be ashamed of their past, even if you've got terrible taste in men, adore girly-like bands like Coldplay and may or may not have shared weird, erotic dreams about ninjas.
Far off my point.
I'm getting married! *ahem* We're getting married. (Must remember to go plural every time.)
I scattered the news to the four winds of the world on September 14th, but hadn't written that down here, so I had to come and tell my faithful 17 followers (15 really, 'cause two of the accounts belong to my dear big sister and I can't really count her as a fan, though she means well and I love her) that I'm getting hitched this summer! Sergio, the lucky dude, proposed quite like Ryan O'Neal in Arthur Hiller's Love Story (except the 25-year old girl doesn't die, I hope), and made me say yes. Bastard.
In the first two weeks or so, after breaking the news and causing a lot of jaw-dropping, we were caught in the what-should-our-wedding-theme-be query (other than awesome, of course) and after long hours of brainstorming and cheetos, we were there. Oui, it shall be a glamourous vintage french-style wedding.
As it was expected, my father's pants dropped instantly when I revealed the idea. I do believe his french je ne sais quoi rubbed off on me much more than it did on my sisters. We've been talking about placing it at the turn of the 20th century, when Toulouse Lautrec and Henri Matisse were the soul of Paris' Art Nouveau movement, and La Belle Époque decorated and gave life to the streets of la ville-lumière with posters and paintings of beautiful Can-can dancers (if you are not familiar with any of this, that's what the links are for, you ill-educated beings).
Ideas for decorating and coloring the wedding have been pouring out of all three of us (the groom, myself and my maid of honor). From the lovely Gothic-style church we've already booked, the only 1912 parisian-designed Gran Hotel Ancira we've picked for the soirée, to the Art Nouveau posters, the antique artsy centerpieces, the vintage postcard-like wedding invitations, and the somewhat themed wedding dress I can't say anything about here. Yet.
So fun!
Anyway, more on fabulous wedding later. Must pay attention to weary fiancée after three days of work travel. I promise to return soon this time.
Etiquetas:
Art Nouveau,
Can-can,
french,
hitched,
La Belle Époque,
Lautrec,
married,
Matisse,
Paris,
wedding
3
comentarios
|
Lleno de telarañas, pero aquí sigue mi pobre blog parado después de... Wow, casi 6 años.
Tengo tanto que contar, pero en estas tonterías tan públicas siempre es mejor ser discreta, al menos hasta el momento más óptimo. Bueno, quizá puedo contar un par de cositas antes de ir a dormir para desempolvar aunque sea.
Tengo sueño.
No puedo dejar de pensar que ya soy Maestra Titular en el Colegio. Tantas ideas me remolinean en la cabeza por las noches, que a veces no duermo. Me emociona tanto. Es segundo de kinder, así que mis niños tendrán entre 4 y 5 años. Una edad tan hermosísima y yo con tantos planes de cómo haré las cosas.
Menos de un mes para entrar a la Facultad de Música. Mi tan anhelado y esperado sueño de estudiar música profesionalmente, que tantas veces demoré y postergué.
Todo por fin está tomando lugar, tomando rumbo.
Quiero pensar que pronto podré deslindarme de las últimas dudas, las últimas preguntas que me he estado haciendo sobre "el resto de mi vida" y esos temas tan enormes que no se pueden tomar a la ligera. Algunos días se me olvida y otros días me duele tanto. Me coquetean ideas y algunas otras las trato de ignorar. A veces me pregunto y a veces no me importa...
Es cuestión de tiempo. Poco tiempo.
Quise jugar el otro día a escribir un cuentito. Obviamente era de una chica parisina y obviamente había un chico. Ella siempre llegaba tarde al trabajo y él llevaba casi 2 años viéndola pasar, esperando una excusa para poder hablarle. Siempre a la misma hora, siempre por la misma ruta hacia el metro de París. Entre inviernos y épocas de lluvia, sólo la veía pasar con sus diferentes ropas acorde a la temporada. Era tímido y le gustaba fumarse un cigarrillo mientras leía alguna aventura nueva.
De eso se trata más o menos. Igual y cuando lo termine bien, lo pongo por aquí... Total, nadie lee esto, así que no me dará mucha pena de cualquier forma.
Tengo tanto que contar, pero en estas tonterías tan públicas siempre es mejor ser discreta, al menos hasta el momento más óptimo. Bueno, quizá puedo contar un par de cositas antes de ir a dormir para desempolvar aunque sea.
Tengo sueño.
No puedo dejar de pensar que ya soy Maestra Titular en el Colegio. Tantas ideas me remolinean en la cabeza por las noches, que a veces no duermo. Me emociona tanto. Es segundo de kinder, así que mis niños tendrán entre 4 y 5 años. Una edad tan hermosísima y yo con tantos planes de cómo haré las cosas.
Menos de un mes para entrar a la Facultad de Música. Mi tan anhelado y esperado sueño de estudiar música profesionalmente, que tantas veces demoré y postergué.
Todo por fin está tomando lugar, tomando rumbo.
Quiero pensar que pronto podré deslindarme de las últimas dudas, las últimas preguntas que me he estado haciendo sobre "el resto de mi vida" y esos temas tan enormes que no se pueden tomar a la ligera. Algunos días se me olvida y otros días me duele tanto. Me coquetean ideas y algunas otras las trato de ignorar. A veces me pregunto y a veces no me importa...
Es cuestión de tiempo. Poco tiempo.
Quise jugar el otro día a escribir un cuentito. Obviamente era de una chica parisina y obviamente había un chico. Ella siempre llegaba tarde al trabajo y él llevaba casi 2 años viéndola pasar, esperando una excusa para poder hablarle. Siempre a la misma hora, siempre por la misma ruta hacia el metro de París. Entre inviernos y épocas de lluvia, sólo la veía pasar con sus diferentes ropas acorde a la temporada. Era tímido y le gustaba fumarse un cigarrillo mientras leía alguna aventura nueva.
De eso se trata más o menos. Igual y cuando lo termine bien, lo pongo por aquí... Total, nadie lee esto, así que no me dará mucha pena de cualquier forma.
Ojalá los humanos fuéramos estúpidos. Estúpidos en el sentido de no tener un almacén de memoria por ahí perdido en el encéfalo, no poder traer información a la conciencia mediante el recuerdo, no asociar emociones a objetos específicos o cosas por el estilo. Un mundo así sería fantástico, al menos vivir en él unos cuantos meses ahora me haría 'estúpidamente' feliz.
Como cuando no te aguantas la desesperación de jalarte la cascarita/costra rara que se te hace después de darte en la madre en las escaleras, pero vas y te la quitas. Duele hasta el hígado, pero por unos segundos nadamás. Lo que los estúpidos humanos no sabemos es que al hacer eso, lo único que lograste es 1) alentar el proceso de sanación, y 2) dejar una cicatriz permanente en tu piel. Coño. De haber sabido antes, hubiera aprendido a ser masoquista por más tiempo y aguantarme las ansias de la herida.
La cosa es que es la misma herida, para fines prácticos. La misma pinche herida que ya estoy harta de ver, de tocar, de ponerle pomada y esas cosas. ¡Córtame en otro lado, coño! Pero es que no, tiene que ser ahí, ¿en dónde más? Mi culpa por enseñarle dónde era, el (o los) punto débil. ¿A quién engaño? Toda yo soy un punto débil, haha.
La mente es lo que me mantiene circulando, supongo. Porque, por desgracia, resulta que no soy una mera humana estúpida. Para empezar, no se me olvida absolutamente nada que sea relevante. También tengo el súper-poder de predecir lo que viene y lo que me va a pasar antes de que me suceda, pero la pendejez en la corteza motora de seguir dándole hasta que algo me golpee muerta. Hey, humana al fin.
Y como tal, me perdono mis estupideces, aunque sean las mismas que repito desde la adolescencia. Acepto mis retrasos y mis defectos, y acepto que me defraude mi propio cerebro en el transcurso del tiempo. "El mal necesario de desprenderse", es lo que me he dicho todas las veces anteriores. Pero esta estúpida ya aprendió al fin que es el bien necesario de desprenderse.
Y ya.
Como cuando no te aguantas la desesperación de jalarte la cascarita/costra rara que se te hace después de darte en la madre en las escaleras, pero vas y te la quitas. Duele hasta el hígado, pero por unos segundos nadamás. Lo que los estúpidos humanos no sabemos es que al hacer eso, lo único que lograste es 1) alentar el proceso de sanación, y 2) dejar una cicatriz permanente en tu piel. Coño. De haber sabido antes, hubiera aprendido a ser masoquista por más tiempo y aguantarme las ansias de la herida.
La cosa es que es la misma herida, para fines prácticos. La misma pinche herida que ya estoy harta de ver, de tocar, de ponerle pomada y esas cosas. ¡Córtame en otro lado, coño! Pero es que no, tiene que ser ahí, ¿en dónde más? Mi culpa por enseñarle dónde era, el (o los) punto débil. ¿A quién engaño? Toda yo soy un punto débil, haha.
La mente es lo que me mantiene circulando, supongo. Porque, por desgracia, resulta que no soy una mera humana estúpida. Para empezar, no se me olvida absolutamente nada que sea relevante. También tengo el súper-poder de predecir lo que viene y lo que me va a pasar antes de que me suceda, pero la pendejez en la corteza motora de seguir dándole hasta que algo me golpee muerta. Hey, humana al fin.
Y como tal, me perdono mis estupideces, aunque sean las mismas que repito desde la adolescencia. Acepto mis retrasos y mis defectos, y acepto que me defraude mi propio cerebro en el transcurso del tiempo. "El mal necesario de desprenderse", es lo que me he dicho todas las veces anteriores. Pero esta estúpida ya aprendió al fin que es el bien necesario de desprenderse.
Y ya.
Funny how I decided to do this for good one day before Valentine's.
1.
Odio que no tengas recuerdos, al saberme yo tan incompleta si no los tuviera. Odio que no te haya quedado ni una pizca de lo que fue y yo me lo tengo que tragar todo. Eres indigerible, como la grasa que se te atora en las venas y a tu cuerpo no lo deja respirar.
2.
Quise hacerme como tú. A mi pobre libreta la tiré a la basura porque ya no me sirve de nada. Me sentí hasta valiente, aliviada, aunque todavía cargo el peso de ese crimen que nunca me había atrevido a pensar. Hojas y hojas de recuerdos que aún tengo, pero en mi mente tan borrosa y alterante de la realidad. A lo mejor me conviene recordar de una manera distorsionada, puede que duela menos.
3.
Y me deslindo a trozos.
Odio que no tengas recuerdos, al saberme yo tan incompleta si no los tuviera. Odio que no te haya quedado ni una pizca de lo que fue y yo me lo tengo que tragar todo. Eres indigerible, como la grasa que se te atora en las venas y a tu cuerpo no lo deja respirar.
2.
Quise hacerme como tú. A mi pobre libreta la tiré a la basura porque ya no me sirve de nada. Me sentí hasta valiente, aliviada, aunque todavía cargo el peso de ese crimen que nunca me había atrevido a pensar. Hojas y hojas de recuerdos que aún tengo, pero en mi mente tan borrosa y alterante de la realidad. A lo mejor me conviene recordar de una manera distorsionada, puede que duela menos.
3.
Y me deslindo a trozos.
Al llorar, abre la boca para gritar y no sale nada. No le entra aire tampoco, como si estuviera muerta por unos segundos. Huye lejos donde ya nadie le entiende, le hablan en dialectos demoniacos y taparse los oídos hace que le retumben más las voces en el cráneo. Huye de las garras de la desesperación y corre hacia lo gris, lo blanco y lo negro. Todo le duele, pica, quema. Es molesto estar así, pero es aguantadora y sólo se queja para sí. "Le dijimos que se detuviera a pensar", repetían. Ella no hace caso nunca. Camina lento en su vida rápida y nadie puede alterarle el ritmo, que nadie le apresure porque todo se le viene abajo.
Come y no le sabe a comida. Toma y el agua se convierte en vapor antes de nutrir. No logra revivirse porque nada a su alrededor le es familiar. Entre arenas movedizas, o caminos de espinas, o puras cosas de esas. El tiempo es incalculable; ya ni sabe cuánto ha pasado. ¿Qué más da? Está muy chiquita de todos modos... ¿o no? Al menos todo se ve igual.
Allá en una tierra lejana va y se desquita, de todos modos. Se desviste frente a todos, frente a uno, para ver si alguien logra entender las heridas. Parecen desvanecerse frente a ojos ajenos y sólo ella las ve entre los rincones. Ya no corre la sangre. Le pesan las caderas, las piernas y los senos. Que alguien la escuche, a ver si se deja.
Come y no le sabe a comida. Toma y el agua se convierte en vapor antes de nutrir. No logra revivirse porque nada a su alrededor le es familiar. Entre arenas movedizas, o caminos de espinas, o puras cosas de esas. El tiempo es incalculable; ya ni sabe cuánto ha pasado. ¿Qué más da? Está muy chiquita de todos modos... ¿o no? Al menos todo se ve igual.
Allá en una tierra lejana va y se desquita, de todos modos. Se desviste frente a todos, frente a uno, para ver si alguien logra entender las heridas. Parecen desvanecerse frente a ojos ajenos y sólo ella las ve entre los rincones. Ya no corre la sangre. Le pesan las caderas, las piernas y los senos. Que alguien la escuche, a ver si se deja.
Supongo que, por mera lógica, encuentro gran inspiración en grandes cosas. Tengo un gusto por mover montañas, a pesar de que a veces siento que no he movido ni un montonsito de arena. Continuamente critico mis propios logros y deslogros, sólo para darme cuenta que sigo estancada. Después, me pongo ojos de otro color y ¡al contrario! Todo corre en desmedida, no puedo controlar el tiempo y se me apresuran las cosas. Todo me es un vaivén de emociones, decisiones y complejidades de vida ahorita.
Esas grandes cosas realmente no son más que un montón de pequeñas cosas pegadas entre sí. Realmente lo que termino apreciando es la división de todo aquello, porque el producto en sí no es mi meta. Las experiencias son mis metas, los colores y texturas que delineo con las yemas, los lugares encantadores que me cantan algo diferente, la magia esa que no se puede copiar o repetir.
Busco que toda mi vida esté llena de eso. Puede ser de eso y más, pero con eso me bastaría. Tengo mucho a mi disposición y mucha pasión por darlo, para terminar teniendo más. Pretendo coleccionar todos esos papelillos, imágenes, letras y sonidos en el ser, para poder decir algún día qué fue de mí y a dónde fui a dar.
Me entran los miedos esos de madrugada aún, pero cada vez puedo conectar mejor las salidas de los laberintos y encontrarme con que ya no estoy tan lejos de todo eso. Casi que aunque no lo busque, viene corriendo a mí como una estampida. Ya es tan inevitable que me encanto de la emoción por su llegada.
Esas grandes cosas realmente no son más que un montón de pequeñas cosas pegadas entre sí. Realmente lo que termino apreciando es la división de todo aquello, porque el producto en sí no es mi meta. Las experiencias son mis metas, los colores y texturas que delineo con las yemas, los lugares encantadores que me cantan algo diferente, la magia esa que no se puede copiar o repetir.
Busco que toda mi vida esté llena de eso. Puede ser de eso y más, pero con eso me bastaría. Tengo mucho a mi disposición y mucha pasión por darlo, para terminar teniendo más. Pretendo coleccionar todos esos papelillos, imágenes, letras y sonidos en el ser, para poder decir algún día qué fue de mí y a dónde fui a dar.
Me entran los miedos esos de madrugada aún, pero cada vez puedo conectar mejor las salidas de los laberintos y encontrarme con que ya no estoy tan lejos de todo eso. Casi que aunque no lo busque, viene corriendo a mí como una estampida. Ya es tan inevitable que me encanto de la emoción por su llegada.
Tuve que hacer esa llamada. En mi mente sabía que no me serviría de nada y sólo iba a cerciorarme de lo que estaba pensando, de lo que ya había decidido sin ayuda de nadie. Es tan obvio, pero como siempre, prefiero darle el beneficio de la duda a la obviedad y darle oportunidad de comprobarse contraria. Naturalmente, fallé y me dijeron exactamente lo que ya sabía que iba a escuchar.
Todo esto es un mentado juego. En alguna edad, recuerdo que estas cosas hasta eran de mi agrado, los podía incluso ver como pasatiempos, me entretenía y me gustaba la incertidumbre del resultado. Estaba más chava y realmente no me importaba, esa es la verdad. Ya es 2011, casi 12 años después de cumplir los 12 años y que me pegara la pubertad. No quiero juegos.
Jugar también es arriesgar. Y ponerme a mí misma en la línea cuando ya sé cuan vulnerable estoy, es simplemente ridículo, ignorante o de plano infantil. La verdad es que lo veo y entiendo cómo los caminos sí se entrecruzan, pero parece que vuelven a separar más adelante... Tengo miedo, eso es todo.
Todo esto es un mentado juego. En alguna edad, recuerdo que estas cosas hasta eran de mi agrado, los podía incluso ver como pasatiempos, me entretenía y me gustaba la incertidumbre del resultado. Estaba más chava y realmente no me importaba, esa es la verdad. Ya es 2011, casi 12 años después de cumplir los 12 años y que me pegara la pubertad. No quiero juegos.
Jugar también es arriesgar. Y ponerme a mí misma en la línea cuando ya sé cuan vulnerable estoy, es simplemente ridículo, ignorante o de plano infantil. La verdad es que lo veo y entiendo cómo los caminos sí se entrecruzan, pero parece que vuelven a separar más adelante... Tengo miedo, eso es todo.
While napping earlier today, I dreamt the idiot people of the world didn't want to give up their closet space to save the world from total annhilation. By throwing out all of their unnecessary crap into the Pacific ocean, they could help stop (or at least slow down) the accelerated rising levels of sea water from the Atlantic. Don't ask why.
You see, the continents were literally drowning. Canada was "shipping off" to join the new earth crust that had been formed near Europe, where the rest of the continents were joined together to form a new version of Pangaea. Already the Americans had "bought" their ticket to safety and deserted their land with cowardice, with no interest of helping anyone but themselves. Shocking, huh?
Mexico and South America were doomed. Our only hope, which was my sole mission, was to dig a deeper Panama Canal so both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans would mesh together in order to stabilize themselves into the same sea level and stop the drowning.
So, there I was, trying to save the world with a shovel. And no one would help, of course.
*Note: This was a dream and I'm not a geologist, so no judging on the logic.
You see, the continents were literally drowning. Canada was "shipping off" to join the new earth crust that had been formed near Europe, where the rest of the continents were joined together to form a new version of Pangaea. Already the Americans had "bought" their ticket to safety and deserted their land with cowardice, with no interest of helping anyone but themselves. Shocking, huh?
Mexico and South America were doomed. Our only hope, which was my sole mission, was to dig a deeper Panama Canal so both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans would mesh together in order to stabilize themselves into the same sea level and stop the drowning.
So, there I was, trying to save the world with a shovel. And no one would help, of course.
*Note: This was a dream and I'm not a geologist, so no judging on the logic.
Entrada número 150.
A muy poco de cumplir cinco años de tener este blog.
Y estoy totalmente seca de ideas.
Qué cosas.
A muy poco de cumplir cinco años de tener este blog.
Y estoy totalmente seca de ideas.
Qué cosas.
Hablé de lo malo. Hablé de mis heridas, los viejos momentos, los recuerdos de represión. Algunos de los malos momentos sé que salieron a la luz, junto con la carga y las historietas del ayer. Mucho sobre el pasado, mucho sobre mi presente pensante del pasado. Fue poco en duración, pero mucho en contenido. Hablé sobre el deslindaje de esto y el otro, de los aquellos. Pude, pero no quise decir más... Está bien: Quise, pero no pude decir más. Los miedos, las entrañas, el apretujar de los párpados cuando llega a la conciencia la memoria de todo eso. Acerca de mi discapacidad de soltar lo que retengo. Sobre el apego-desapego de las cositas de la vida y también las cosotas. Qué cosas.
Me salvo, porque también hablé de lo bueno. Se pudo saber sobre lo que me gusta y lo que solía gustarme. Hablaba sobre las dichas y los deseos, la belleza de las cosas actuales y las antiguas. No sé cómo me perdí entre uno y otro tema, la conversación parecía infinita. Platiqué conmigo misma... Sí, en voz alta y todo. Bien, un tercero no me cayó nada mal, después de tanto encerrar los pensamientos. Pero, así, sentí como si fuera una charla (aunque limitada por mis neurosis) real. Y, curiosamente, eso es de lo que más necesito ahora. Lo real, palpable y evidente.
Me salvo, porque también hablé de lo bueno. Se pudo saber sobre lo que me gusta y lo que solía gustarme. Hablaba sobre las dichas y los deseos, la belleza de las cosas actuales y las antiguas. No sé cómo me perdí entre uno y otro tema, la conversación parecía infinita. Platiqué conmigo misma... Sí, en voz alta y todo. Bien, un tercero no me cayó nada mal, después de tanto encerrar los pensamientos. Pero, así, sentí como si fuera una charla (aunque limitada por mis neurosis) real. Y, curiosamente, eso es de lo que más necesito ahora. Lo real, palpable y evidente.
