If You Have Ever Had Dinner At My Place, You Owe Me

I’ll start by saying you should all be glad and thankful I have few filters and no sense of shame whatsoever, otherwise entertainment at my expense would be nonexistent.

People like me shouldn’t be allowed to own appliances. There’s a reason why I’ve gone through three blenders, two vacuums and one washer people.

I lived in Mexico until I was 26 years old, and in all that time I never owned or operated a dishwasher. Fast forward to present day. You know, Canada, first world country and all that shit.

We have a dish washer. And it makes me very happy.

I don’t particularly enjoy doing the dishes (and blame my mom for it *cough*), so it was a joyous time when I discovered my house came with this amazing contraption in which I could shove a day’s messes and be done with it. Fun times.

Never mind that my dishwasher dates from the paleolithic era and requires more energy than a small particle accelerator, it is still my baby. I may or may not sing lullabies to it at night. Whatever.

So before I continue with my story, let me remind you I had never owned or operated a dishwasher in my life, ok? So direct all your scoffs and judgement to someone who actually deserves it, ok?

Ok.

Today I noticed what appeared to be a bit of scummy residue underneath the trap. Gee, I wonder if there’s a way to open that thing, I pondered. As in… I had never. ever. in four years. opened the trap to clean it out. Ever. Ever.

Husband came and helped snap it open, and holy fuck. People, it was horrible. HORRIBLE. There was fuzz and crap and wet leftover foods and gray sand and smells and and… I can’t… even…

In what is quickly becoming a trademark exclamation around here I was all gasping and covering my mouth in horror and going I can’t, I can’t… can’t what? Can’t at this moment find the appropriate words to describe assertively the degree of revolt and disgust I feel towards what I am witnessing, that’s what.

Dude, we’ve been eating from plates washed in that shit for FOUR DAMN YEARS.

And this is why if you have ever had a meal at my house you totally owe me. I did strengthen the shit out of your immune system, you know.

Nothing Is Sacred

See, I hate it when this happens: so much time has gone by since the last time I wrote here, and so many things have happened, and there’s so much I want to say all at the same time, that then I go all fuck it I’m not writing shit. True story.

But today I couldn’t let the chance pass to tell you what just went down.

I pulled out our Christmas stuff –which we didn’t put up at all this year because we spent it in Newfoundland with my in-laws– to put away some ornaments my mother-in-law gave me.

So I’m here thinking I might as well switch it all to a better container since we’re organizing the basement (it’s taken us four years. Four.) and I’m happy and proud thinking how I’m the tidiest bitch ever.

And then, right there below a bunch of stalkings and Santa hats, was a tiny but unmistakable mice nest.

A fucking. mice. nest.

It was all little balls of wall insulation clumped together into a bundle and full of mouse shit. Right there on top of the felted coasters my aunt Tere made and sent me from Mexico last year.

I lost my shit. The only reason I didn’t scream is because going into full hysterics in front of Stephen may lead him to think it’s a justifiable reason to at least shake me violently like they do to screaming women on TV. Not taking that chance, nuh huh.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Stephen. Stephen! There’s a FUCKING. MOUSE. NEST. in here. I can’t. I can’t.” [trying not to hyperventilate]

“And oh look, there’s some baby mice there…”

“WHAT?! YOU’RE FUCKING KIDDING. TELL ME YOU’RE FUCKING KIDDING.”

“Yes. Heh.” [smiles]

So guess who no longer has cute handmade felted coasters.

Assholes.

Random Things I Have Learned Lately That Now You, Of Course, Must Know

Happiness is finding a bra that fits ever expanding pregnant bosom. No more awkward half-choked armpit boob.

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Never google armpit boob image with safe search off.

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Horror is sneezing and not knowing where the fuck the snot landed.

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I was able to yell WHITE PEOPLE PROBLEM in a legitimate, non-racist manner. This picture is Stephen post-beach trip, with his shoulders badly sunburned and itchy as hell… so much so that all hair had to be kept off from tickling his skin and sending him down a spiral of wanting to claw it off. I can’t even imagine what that must feel like. See? White people problem. Literally.

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I know I found my partner for life when he doesn’t give two shits about being photographed in his most vulnerable and published for the internets to see.

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At the same time, I worry about my choice for life partner when someone mentions how their wife birthed their baby before any help had arrived and he had to coach her through the birth, and said partner of mine goes “‘Go Caro, go Caro!’ That’s all the coaching I know…”

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I’ve redefined the word ‘empowerment’: discovering that while Soca dancing you can still whine it all the way down without falling over like a drunken sailor even at 7 months pregnant. I’m adding that to my resume.

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It’s ok to attend parties and not drink whilst pregnant. It is also entirely ok to steal the mojitos’ alcohol-soaked mint leaves and lick the shit out of them.

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Stephen was fine coming with me for the baby shower gift registry at Babies R Us… until I asked which diaper bag he’d be more comfortable wearing. His face went all

And then he was all

But in the end he obliged and chose a diaper bag. A man purse. A murse. It’s a very manly one, I promise.

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Being pregnant opens your world to a lot of interesting information, like the fact that Raspberry Leaf tea works as a uterus toner. Every single time I hear uterus toner I imagine this:

That’s my motherfucking uterus right there. Toned as fuck.

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I don’t know how much more I can take of sitting in bed with my laptop, leaning forward and pressing all sorts of buttons, closing tabs and deleting shit with my belly. a;lkjdineuilkasdfn

Carta abierta al Sr. Alejandro Vega Gonzalez y al Sr. Alejandro Vega Cardenas

To my regular readers: Please bear with me, we’ll come back to normal programming tomorrow.

Junio 14 de 2012.

El dia de hoy ha circulado la fotografia de los Srs. Vega Gonzalez y Vega Cardenas posando en el Kalahari con su trofeo de caza: un leon africano.

Ustedes no me conocen a mi ni yo los conozco a ustedes. Sin embargo, se mas de ustedes de lo que se imaginan.

Se que para ustedes la caza es una diversion.

Se que probablemente durante la persecucion de este leon y la duracion de la caceria se sintieron inyectados de adrenalina, vivos; es posible que hasta sintieron un vinculo especial de padre e hijo.

Resulta obvio que dicha foto en la primer plana de la seccion Gustos y Pasiones de El Norte simboliza para ustedes una manera de comprobar su estatus– economico y social.

Pero hay una cosa mas que resulta dolorosamente obvia, que pienso a ustedes mismos se les escapo notar: Todo esto, el estatus, la diversion, la soberania… no es nada mas que una ilusion, una tapadera para disimular una triste realidad.

Podran negarlo tajantemente porque quien soy yo, una extraña, para venir a decirles lo que es real y lo que no. Podran encoger los hombros e intentar ignorar los gritos de sus propias acciones. Pero si, sus acciones hablan a voces– y no necesariamente de lo que ustedes esperaban.

Tan enganchados estan en la ilusion de lo que quieren proyectar que ni siquiera se dan cuenta de la historia que en verdad relatan.

Se les ha escapado un detalle grande, y es que una persona llena de verdadera vida en jubilo no pierde su tiempo creando sufrimiento para otros seres vivos.

Creen que se ven contentos y divertidos; yo los veo arrogantes.

En su ecuacion les falto calcular que quien es de corazon grande no se atreve por un segundo a sentirse superior a nadie ni a nada, porque entiende que en este mundo todos estamos unidos por algo mas grande que nosotros mismos.

Creen que se ven poderosos; yo los veo vacios.

En su afan de auto promocion se les olvido contemplar que quienes poseen verdaderamente las  cualidades que ustedes se afanan en presumir jamas se prestarian, en su verdadera grandeza, para acciones tan pateticas.

Porque la riqueza absoluta no se demuestra con viajes y trofeos de caza. Se vive dia a dia con la paz de saber que somos personas de bien y de compasion.

Porque el unico estatus y aprobacion que necesitamos en esta vida es el propio, el que viene de adentro para con nosotros mismos y que ningun trofeo nos puede otorgar. Al contrario, el amor total a quienes somos y lo que nos rodea es el trofeo mismo.

Porque la cultura no se demuestra creando desolacion y sufrimiento. Se demuestra cuando extendemos la mano a nuestros hermanos de todas las razas y especies porque, al final del dia, estamos en esto juntos.

A cualquiera que comprende que aquel de corazon rebozante de amor es incapaz de pasar su tiempo de oscio dedicandolo a crear sufrimiento le queda claro: Ni paz, ni compasion, ni amor, ni poderio quedaron plasmados en esta imagen. No. Lo unico que lograron exhibir es el vacio tan grande que los come desde adentro.

Me da lastima el leon. Pero mas lastima dan ustedes con sus inseguridades y pequeñeces tan obvias y plasmadas en primera plana del periodico.

Espero encuentren su paz. Pronto.

Atte. Carolina Belmares