Sunday, February 26, 2012

A dose of badly executed and drivel-y CPR

At your own peril:

It'll be a long and wine-y road back to blogging. You'll see.

Now that I have delegated the pungent mommyness - shit, spit and all that gore - from this blog to my other place of neglect and randomness (not a euphemism for what you're thinking, I swear), my new (and as of yet very bare and simplified, cough cough, hrmph, stupid Blogger keeps fucking changing on me all the time, at least once a year, grumble, what's with the 'need for growth?', whine) blog about bringing up a cool little person who just happens to have Down Syndrome and how the world should feel about that, and especially what they should and should not be saying to me about it - 21+21+21=? - I can comfortably fall back into my expatriate rut on this here blog. This blog that's perhaps gasping for air, but might still have a faint pulse.

I might just be able to resuscitate it. Maybe. I'm fairly certain a little miracle could be made to take place by mixing up some Viking taking care of the Babe, coffee from my new and fucking amazing roguishly grey George Clooney Nespresso machine (eat your heart out Starbucks, you no longer have claim to my immortal soul and/or firstborn male heir, whichever should materialize first), chilaquiles rojos, champagne followed by red wine and their after-effects, and a dash of subpar photography.


By joyously (or only slightly hung over from last night's dinner with friends) bringing you the latest 'News from the cracks of the expat bubble', the most recent 'You know you've been living in the land of true tequila for too long when..', or as I like to think of it, 'Come on touristy people, stop wearing shorts during the Mexican winter, it's fucking freezing here':

The first installment.

You know you've been blinded by the Pozole when:

:: You meet another Finn and you do the little kiss-on-the-cheek hello, and only realize several minutes later that you actually kissed (as opposed to waving at them from across the room as is the norm) someone else who's Finnish and then wonder exactly how many million Finnish corpses just groaned and turned in their eternal resting places underneath all that snow. Because you could almost hear the creaking of the repositioning bones. And all of that undigested coffee sloshing around the coffins.

:: You immediately think the world has come to an end when, on a regular weekday, instead of gazing up at the brownish layer of pollution in the horizon, you actually see the volcanoes, Izta and Popo. Scary stuff. What? A virus killed everyone? I'm no Legend, people.

:: You instantly decode ahorita - in a little while - as really signifying 'Lady, we might connect the internet/ install the washing machine/ open the gate/ bring you the coffee when it suits us and really only when it suits us, and even then we might just forget about you entirely and never ever show up, or just pretend like we already did what you asked us to and you just didn't realize it'. And you frequently tell people you're on your way and will be over ahorita when you're actually still simultaneously drying your hair, feeding the baby, and applying mascara.

:: You really do feel that there is no such thing as 'too much chili'. Para mi camarones a la diabla, porfa.

:: You sleep peacefully through any earthquakes that measure less than 6.5 on the Richter scale.

:: You consider time spent sitting in traffic as time to do your taxes, read a good book, shave (beard, legs, armpits, take your pick), moisturize, shop at intersections for all of your various cleaning needs and/or for unhealthy snacks, floss, get through most of the levels of Angry Birds in one single sitting on your phone,  and as time to either teach your bladder who's the boss or practice the elusive art of peeing in and empty Starbucks cup.

:: You bring your infant daughter to Europe only on her Mexican passport, and then upon your return home all of you automatically choose the line in immigration designated for Mexican nationals. Because one of you has a the right passport. So, it's kind of right, right?

:: You decode traffic as an excuse for being late as meaning anything from 'I got some this morning and couldn't just pass it up, whattaya a moron?' to 'I had too much to drink the night before and consequently forgot to set the alarm explaining why I have mascara and lipstick all over my face and am showing up at a meeting I'm not supposed to be attending', and understand that just saying 'traffic' saves everyone hours of explanations, because, and you very well know this, showing up on time is simply not done. Ever.

:: If you're a woman, you wear high heels even if the pavements then try to continuously take your life with their suddenly appearing holes, the size of a small vehicle, and crevices, which in reality should be called ravines. If you're a man you never ever wear shorts in the city. Sure, some snazzy running shoes and jogging pants to go out to a leisurely family lunch on a Sunday, but never shorts. Shorts make tiny little fairies (also known as Smurfs now, thanks to Hollywood) weep.

:: And most of all, if you could never imagine leaving the largest city on earth. Because it's home. For better and for worse.

Nope. They don't all wear glittery sombreros and shoot in the air during revolutions. Some of them wear panama-hats and sit in boats during the weekends.

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