Miguelina

Rockstar

We're back from our Christmas vacation in Miami - as evidenced by the many pictures of pink flamingos and festive decorations on this post.

(These work better when it's cold outside - in Florida, the candy just sliiiides down.)

It doesn't matter how many times I've driven on the Rickenbacker, I always do a little gasp on the approach to Miami Beach and fall in love with my hometown when we're headed back home all salty and toasted amidst the palm trees swaying in the warm December breeze:

My mom's Christmas tree:

I can guarantee that I will NEVER have a snowman on my tree - because I have a foot of snow outside my door AT THIS VERY MINUTE and you can't pay me to make one. I guess you always want what you can't have!

Of course, there was more to our vacation than Nochebuena and the beach. I also got to hang out with fellow latin superstar Diego Marquéz:

This being Miami, Diego was salsa dancing with his handler as I brought the kids over. My son wanted nothing to do with this culturally accurate Diego. I think he prefers the Nick Jr. version.

All in all, a wholesome family vacation.

And then there was Rock Band.

My brother and SIL are known for their Rock Band parties. They’ve told us about how they and their friends dress up in their best rock star finery and all about the “Battle of the Bands” competitions they wage. Competitions over a VIDEO GAME. That’s, like, a step beneath a Star Trek convention, except that there’s beer involved.

We not-so-secretly laughed at their geekiness. I mean - a video game party? COME ON.

But then they invited us over to see what all the excitement was about. We picked up some Miller Beer (not Miller Genuine Draft, mind you - we picked up “the champagne of beers” otherwise known as “the cheap stuff“) and showed up at their house. What we found was my brother tapping away at a plastic drum set-looking thing, a plastic guitar at his feet and a mike on the couch.

He was, in his words, ”warming up.“ HA HA HA.

We shyly watched him and them more people arrived. And they brought strobe lights, and a bass guitar, a mic stand, and a smoke machine that was synchronized to the music. Let me repeat that - the strobe lights AND the smoke machine machine were synchronized to the music. And the music was loud. And my brother’s TV is like 100 inches big. And I drank some Miller beer. And some orange juice. Spiked with Malibu.

I think don’t need to tell you what happened next:

(That's me in the scarf. You know, the one taking the lyrics to "American Woman" a little bit too seriously.)

(But, guess who got a 96% score? THAT'S RIGHT.)

Rock on, man.

Let me just tell you this: If you are Of A Certain Age you will find yourself wailing ”Living on a Prayer“ and ”You Oughta Know“ and the Rock Star software will tell you that you are awesome, so you will want to sing ”Creep“ and ”Buddy Holly“ and OMG THEY HAVE JOURNEY AND JIMMY BUFFET! and you will have to be forcibly removed from the microphone.

Ahem.

Which is fine, because then you will play the guitar on Bon Jovi’s ”Dead or Alive“ and you will believe that you’re Ricky Sambora. And you will declare to the world that you ARE A ROCKSTAR.

Some things just don't translate very well...

Most of you know that our family is an international bunch. My husband's from a German-speaking country - that means we have easy access to some of the best chocolate in the world, and it also means that we have quite the collection of German-language kid's books.

Chocolate? Always good.

German children's books? Well...it depends.

Maybe Americans are raising a generation of wimps, I don't know, but I'm pretty sure that I can pick up pretty much any American children's book and it'll be as bland as vanilla and full of positive lessons and happy endings. I don't mind. That is not the case with the books we get in Europe. To be fair, I don't speak German so I don't know if I'm taking the pictures out of context, but some things are just obvious.

For instance, take this book:

At first glance it looks like one of those busy illustrated books that toddlers love. I love them too, because they keep the kids busy - they love finding things in the illustrations and I can easily tell my kids what the things in the picture are. I do it in Spanish, because we like to keep the kids confused.

Anyways, my innocent three year old pointed at the picture of the group of kids in the school yard.

What are those kids doing?

I'm a little bit blind, so I just told him that the kids were playing. You know, like he does at preschool.

Then I took a closer look at the illustration, and I realized that maybe? Telling him that was probably not the best idea.

This illustration is the thing that school phobias and night terrors are made of.

Why are the little kids beating each other up?

Why is the "doggie" so angry?

Why is that lady just watching?

WHY?

I don't like those German story books. You should see the old-fashioned ones.

Voting: A cautionary tale

I need to tell you something.

That whole George W. Bush thing?

It's kind of my fault.

Well, it’s not ALL my fault, but still. It kind of is. At least it feels that way.

You see, that fateful summer of 2000 I was so busy preparing for graduate school that I forgot to vote. No, really - I had to find an apartment and a roommate, but  mostly I had to wrap my mind around the fact that I was leaving everything and everyone I knew behind to move to Virginia. You’d think I was moving to another planet. But that’s the reason that that year’s election simply wasn’t a priority. I didn’t even realize that I had forgotten to apply for an absentee ballot until I was immersed in my new life and it was too late.

To be honest, I didn’t think it was that big a deal. I’d voted for Clinton in 1996 - so what? Tons of people did. What difference was my one little vote going to make?

As much as I disliked George W. Bush, I wasn’t worried that he would win. I was pretty sure people wouldn’t vote him into office. Surely people would vote for the qualified candidate and not for the one they’d like to share a beer with?

Right?

I was so naive.

I’ll admit that I was a little surprised when I left the election night party and things weren’t settled yet. But I had an 8:00 AM class and needed to go to bed. I remember being more worried about the financial model I’d been working on all day than about the election itself.

When my radio alarm went off at 7:00 AM a voice informed that we still didn’t have a president - the election was too close to call, and the difference was 183 votes (at the time). In FLORIDA.

Did I mention that I had forgotten to apply for an absentee ballot in Miami?

(I felt very, very bad.)

Like the rest of the country, I became obsessed with the election. But unlike the rest of you, who eventually found the whole “hanging chad” issue ridiculously hilarious - it hit me to my core.

I felt so very stupid every time I saw a picture like this:

You might remember those pictures. They were everywhere.

I felt stupid a lot.

I felt sick to my stomach whenever people would discuss the Florida votes. Whether they said that it came down to 1,000 or just 40 votes in a county it was clear that every vote was precious - so precious that it was counted and recounted endlessly. But I was an experienced Florida voter and I never left any hanging chads - I knew that if only I had voted, Gore would have had one more vote that counted.

So whenever Leno or Letterman made fun of Florida voters they twisted that knife I’d stuck in my gut by choosing not to vote that year. Because those weary poll workers? Weren’t counting and recounting my vote. And it was all my fault.

People talk about Catholic guilt, but it’s nothing compared to the guilt I felt that November.

I wouldn't want you to feel like this. Don't be stupid - go out and vote.

They got caught red-handed

I’m in Chicago again, and being here just two days before the election just feels special. It also reminded me of a text message exchange my brother and I had last time I was here, so I thought I’d share it with you. It's all true. I have photographic evidence:

TEXT FROM MY BROTHER: We got on stage!

ME: ???

MY BROTHER: The people you see on tv when he speaks ... That’s me!

ME:  Where are you?

MY BROTHER: The rally!

ME: An Obama thing?

MY BROTHER: Yes!

So of course I called him that very minute. He picked up the phone and it was so loud I could barely hear him over the blaring music (Kanye West, in case you were wondering) and the people chanting in the background.

“LISTEN WE’RE ONSTAGE NOW! CAN’T TALK BYE!”

He finally called when the rally was over and told me the whole story - how he and some friends from work took the afternoon off work and went to the Obama rally at Bayfront park, and how this lady with a clipboard approached one of his friends and asked if they wanted to be on stage. They said yes, never believing this woman was legit, and before they knew it they were in front of a roaring crowd of enfranchised voters.

It was, in his words, “awesome” and “exciting.” Sure, he was *this* close the the man who might become the next president of the United States of America - but personally I think he just liked the sound of thousands people cheering right in front of him. Did he think they were cheering for him instead of Obama? I know that the thought would cross my mind. How often do you get the chance to feel like Evita?

...Descamisados!

But instead of being all excited for him all I said was, “that’s nice, but now your hooky-playing mug is going to be all over the evening news. Aren’t you worried your boss will find out where you REALLY where?”

He blew off my "concerns" because he knew that deep down I was seething with jealousy because he got to be on the same stage as Obama while I was on a business trip to Chicago. NO FAIR.

But I was vindicated the next morning when he forwarded me this email from one of his co-workers:

From: (Supervisor)

To: (My brother’s co-worker)

Subject: Where were you yesterday evening? I thought I saw you...

He inherited the smart alec genes.

Him: (Pushing uneaten lunch away.) All done!

Me: No you're not.

Him: Why? Why? Whyyyyy?

Me: Because you haven't even touched the meat on your plate.

Him: Pats the meat with his fingers.

Me: Done! Can I watch Max and Ruby now?

Have you seen this?

Truly, there are no words:

Staying in is in. I've never been hipper.

I was happily flipping through Vogue's September issue, what I like to call the Superbowl of fashion because it weighs about 60 lbs and 80% of it is ads - glorious, outrageous, beautiful fashion ads, when I came across an article about how So Very Chic it is to take it slow and cut down on social engagements. Instead of getting all dressed up to go to a fabulous party, the hip people are putting on their yoga pants to sit on the couch and watch TV or otherwise not be social.

I've never felt more in - or less guilty for being addicted to both Gossip Girl and Mad Men.

I have to take a moment here to acknowledge that my bashing Vogue seems to be turning into a monthly feature here (well, almost) - but I can't help it! I both love and loathe that magazine and will never let my subscription run out - having it arrive in my mailbox ever month, along with Vanity Fair and Martha Stewart Living (I wish I was kidding) makes me unnaturally happy - plus it's all research for work, right? At least that's what I tell my husband, and our accountant agrees with me.

Where was I? Yes, the Slow Life movement is a trend I heartily endorse, because I'm so good at it. Slow Food and Slow everything will eventually be the American Way - you heard it here first. Now go take a nap. It's the latest thing.

Bullied for speaking Spanish

This is wrong on so many levels:

Let me make one thing clear: I have ZERO tolerance for bullies. It's entirely possible that the child in question is talking badly about other kids, and yes, it's possible that he's doing it in Spanish so that the victims don't understand.

That makes him both a bully and a coward (and let's face it, ALL bullies are ultimately cowards) and I believe that he must be disciplined. But is banning Spanish the way to do it?

Of course not. That's wrong and offensive. Spanish isn't the problem - I'm willing to bet that at this very moment there are kids at that very school texting nasty things about each other, passing mean notes and spreading rumors on the internet. Should the school also ban paper and cell phones because kids are saying things about other kids behind their backs?

OF COURSE NOT.

Paper and pens aren't  the problem. Language isn't the problem. BEHAVIOR is the problem.

What about the other kids at the school that aren't bullies but who have the skills to speak other languages? What then?

Do you agree with the English-only lawyer that said, "they don't have to be there"? EXCUSE ME - They don't "have" to be at school? Where should they be instead?

When will people stop picking on us? Maybe we'll have to wait until 2028. Until then, I'll continue to speak whatever language I damn well please, wherever I want to.

Super Zinnias

I bought a packet of zinnia seeds the other day. (I swear this isn't going to turn into a gardening blog.)

Let me explain why I bought seeds: My husband was out of town and I thought that planting them and watching them grow would be a fun educational activity for my three-year old. And I was desperate for something to do with the kid, so a $5.99 packet of seeds seemed like a great idea at the time. (The time being at the grocery store with two hungry kids and an entire afternoon to fill. All by myself. Did I mention that already? WOE IS ME.)

This may come as a shock to you, but the kid lost interest in planting the seeds after 3 minutes - coincidentally, the amount of time it took me to open the seed packet. He got bored with the seed-plant-flower life cycle and became fascinated with an earthworm. I wouldn't let him torture it with a twig, so he got angry and emptied the entire packet of seeds in one spot. And then we went inside the house because his screaming tantrum was scaring his little brother, and two screaming kids in the hot sun is No Fun At All.

What happened next? Nothing. I completely forgot about the flowers...until yesterday that is, when I noticed a bunch of seedlings growing in the general area where Sebastian had emptied the packet of seeds. I was honestly surprised that the seeds managed to thrive since I never watered or fed them or even bothered to cover them in dirt. Since those seeds survived such neglect, I figured the least I could do was thin them out. And that is how I spent a lovely Sunday morning: Carefully digging the seedlings out, prepping the earth, and replanting them in neat little rows. I then watered them and admired my handiwork for a bit.

It was a lot of work, but it was worth it. They looked so happy now that they could breathe!

My hands were already dirty, so I thought I might as well go back and tackle the scary corner of the yard that has become overgrown with weeds. (I should tell you, that's where the brown hairy spiders have made their home. Funny how that works.) However, I'd been such a gardening rockstar all morning that I wasn't going to let some furry insects stop me, no matter how scary and jumpy.

So I took a deep breath, got on my knees, and go to work.

It didn't take long for me to notice that the weeds looked...familiar - VERY familiar. I ripped one out of the ground and headed to my "zinnia" patch.

It was a perfect match.

I've either spent a perfectly fine Sunday morning lovingly and carefully thinning weeds or the spiders have been growing zinnias, and they're better at it than me. I'm pissed off either way.

Instant Karma

I've been on a happy streak lately (have you noticed?) and I'm determined to make it last as long as possible. (Listen, I know it can't last forever, but you can't blame a girl for trying.) So when a woman blatantly cut in front of me at the check out line at Trader Joe's I did everything in my power not to tap her on the shoulder and explain to her that her RUDE MANEUVER did not go unnoticed. Instead I laughed (more like cackled maniacally) and looked around for a shorter line.

(For the curious, she was in another line and then pretended that she was going in front of me to look at the Graham Crackers on the display in my check-out lane. She picked them up, started "reading" the label, put them back and then just stood there. HELLO? RUDE MANEUVER.)

I decided that I wasn't going anywhere, I was just going to stand really close to her and do my best to make her uncomfortable while holding on to my happiness (dammit!), when the store manager tapped me on the shoulder and opened a register just for me.

Ha!

To make things even sweeter, he rang up my groceries in record time so she was still in line as I was exiting the store. I waved goodbye (which she had to pretend not to see - after all I had been invisible but a few minutes before) and her cashier smiled and waved back in that earnest Trader Joe's way, further slowing her down.

BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

Karma, you're quite lovely sometimes. Thank you.