Today a coworker asked me how I met Mr. Guycita. As I recounted the story, I realized that I've been married long enough to have it down to a formula, rarely departing from the predetermined script. In fact, I kind of felt like one of those little old ladies in When Harry Met Sally, the one that does all the talking while her husband just smiles and nods beside her. Picture Mr. G and me in our own "how we met" vignette:
When I was in college, I became friends with a boy named Andrew. About a year after we graduated, my roommate and I asked him and his roommate to go horseback-riding. We had never ridden horses before and were very much looking forward to sharing an adventure with the boys. But when the big day arrived, my roommate and I were a little disappointed: Andrew decided to bring along a couple of his high-school friends. Our little "double date" was suddenly quite overcrowded!
But it turned out that one of the friends Andrew brought was Mr. G. Although he didn't make much of an impression on me that day, I did notice that he made a lot of jokes when we were on the trail. He seemed nice enough, so when Andrew later surprised me by asking for permission to give Mr. G my e-mail address, I had no reason to refuse.
I still have the first e-mail Mr. G sent to me. It was way better than a phone call. I really liked what he had to say, and I could tell that he was a great guy, funny and honest and genuinely interested in my background. After just a few days, Mr. G asked me out, and I told him I'd let him know my answer after I got back from a weeklong visit to Peru. (I guess I was playing hard to get?) But he says he already knew that I'd agree to see him, and of course he was right. The rest is history: We were engaged three months later, and we were married just over a year after our first date.
I love Christmas. I love the lights, I love the food, and I love spending time with family. I love hearing the Christmas story, and I love singing Christmas hymns. I love thinking of the perfect gift for someone I care about, I love wrapping that gift with perfectionist care, and, yes, I love opening presents with my name on them! I love almost every Christmas tradition. But this year I'm doing one thing differently: I will not be sending out Christmas cards.
I wrestle with this decision every year. And every year I persuade myself to send out "just a few" cards, which always ends up being more like, oh, 80. I try to make each card personal, but the process of coming up with an original thought for each one is, frankly, nothing short of arduous. Nevertheless, every December (until now), I push through, rationalizing that at least that thought is in my own (cramping) hand, and not in Times New Roman. Invariably, by the time I drop the gobs of envelopes into the mailbox, my Christmas cheer has worn thin and I just feel bad that my good wishes have ended up becoming a chore.
Even so, I still feel a little guilty about my Christmas card strike, because I truly enjoy receiving stacks of seasonal snail-mail greetings from friends and family. In fact, this year's first card arrived just after Thanksgiving; it was a photo of Mr. Guycita's best man, his beautiful wife, and their two gorgeous little girls. This type of card is my favorite—I think it's so much fun to see everyone's family grow (and grow up)! Of course, I like traditional cards, too, and I eagerly look forward to reading the chatty Christmas newsletters that are sometimes tucked inside.
But ... we don't have any kids. And we don't really have any news. So this year, consider this our Christmas card to you:
... in the Target toy department:
Little girl: Mommy, I love this! Can I get it?
Older mom: No, you cannot. And do you know why you can't have that?
Little girl: Because you don't care what I think?
Older mom: Right. And why don't I care what you think?
Little girl: Because ... (long pause) ... this is a dic-tay-ship?
Older mom: That's right. This is a dictatorship.
As soon as they turned into the next aisle, Mr. Guycita and I burst out laughing. We got the distinct impression that this was not the first time the mom had to lay down the law on begging!
Mr. Guycita and I usually celebrate Thanksgiving with his parents and grandma, who live nearby. This year his mom must have expected us to arrive at her house especially ravenous: She roasted two turkey breasts to feed our party of five! Despite a few half-hearted efforts to eat extra turkey at the Thanksgiving table (gotta leave room for dessert!), we were not able to consume even half of that amount. So Mr. Guycita and I ended up bringing home an entire turkey breast.
As one of the millions of Americans who currently have a ton of old turkey taking up valuable refrigerator space, I am glad that ideas for how to repurpose Thanksgiving leftovers abound. Tonight I prepared a recipe that Mr. Guycita requests every year after Thanksgiving—it's fast and easy and very tasty:
TURKEY CUPS
Ingredients:
1 can refrigerated biscuits
1 package McCormick turkey gravy mix
1 cup milk
1 tablespoon butter
½ cup frozen peas, thawed (or leftover peas)
½ cup pimientos or diced red bell pepper, cooked
1 cup cubed cooked turkey (or chicken)
¼ teaspoon McCormick thyme leaves
Directions:
- Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Open can of biscuits and press one biscuit onto bottom and sides of 12 muffin cups. Chill until ready to fill.
- Blend gravy mix and milk; set aside.
- Melt butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Stir in peas, bell pepper, turkey, and thyme. Heat through.
- Pour gravy over turkey mixture. Cook, stirring constantly, until gravy comes to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, stirring constantly, 1 minute or until thickened.
- Spoon turkey mixture into prepared biscuit cups. Bake 15 minutes.
A friend told me about American Chica earlier this year, just before I went to see my abuelita. Intrigued by the fact that the author, like me, had an American mother and Peruvian father, I put it on my birthday wish list. I should have known that my hermanito, the only other mitad mitad on the list of people who buy me presents, would be the one to give me this particular book.
Last week, I finally had the opportunity to to lose myself in it. Not surprisingly, I found myself fascinated by the author's observations of the differences between U.S. and Peruvian cultures. Of course, my experiences did not always coincide with hers, but when I came upon this passage, I recognized myself instantly:
There is a trait I recognize now in the child I was then, an obsession bordering on fever. Perhaps that inquisitiveness is common to children of mixed parents. You till, you dig, you paw, searching for bits, scrabbling at roots, eager to learn to which tribe you belong. Are you more like one or more like the other? Are you one way when you're in one country, but another when you're not? You dangle from that precipice, wondering where to drop.
It is exhausting work, that transit between worlds, that two-way vertigo.
I couldn't have said it better myself. Nor could I have picked a more fitting place to read it: suspended high in the air, en route from Houston to Lima.
They're burying my abuelita today. I won't be there, but fortunately my dad was able to fly out soon after we got the news on Thursday. Although in Peru it's customary to bury a person the day after she passes away, the family chose to delay my abuelita's funeral long enough for my dad, her firstborn, to arrive. I am glad he will be there.
It will be strange to visit Peru next week with my abuelita gone. The family revolved around her. And despite the fact that thousands of miles separated us from her, she was a strong presence even in my nuclear family. I am certain that her steadfast Christian example shaped the way my dad treats my mom, as well as the way my parents raised me and my brother. Every single time I talked with my abuelita, she told me how much she loved me and that she was praying for me.
She and my abuelito, both of whom devoted their lives to the ministry, made a lot of sacrifices to provide for their family of nine. My dad remembers how his mother's hands used to bleed from doing housework. And she was always trying to find a way to make things last a little longer. When she could still see, she would tear plastic bags into strips and then crochet them into rugs. I didn't appreciate the beauty of these recycled treasures until I was older, so I got rid of most of them years ago. But I still have a lovely purse that she crocheted for me out of clear plastic bags, and I cherish it.
My abuelita was the family historian. She loved to talk and, if you let her, she could go on for hours, usually telling stories about about people long dead. She had such a soft voice that I sometimes could not even hear what she was saying, but she did not seem to mind. She just wanted to reminisce. I was the first grandchild and I was born on my dad's birthday, so September 3rd was like a national holiday for my abuelita. She would send us beautiful birthday cards decorated with traditional Peruvian scenes, and inside she would write: "¡Viva el 3 de setiembre!" For a long time, she would even kill two turkeys on our birthday, and the family in Peru would feast in our honor.
My abuelita could also be quite cheeky. In Peru, we would say that she had a chispa, a spark. She retained it even when she was so sick that she could barely speak. In fact, when we thought she was near death in May, I mentioned to her that I was growing my hair to donate it, and she immediately said, "Te regalo mis trenzas" ("I will my braids to you"). We all just had to laugh through our tears. I am sure that next week I will hear many more stories about all the funny things my abuelita did and said during her long and blessed life.
Everyone who knew my abuelita will miss her terribly. But even as I mourn, I am reminded that this is also a time to rejoice. Her pain and suffering are over, and she is finally home. ¡Gloria a Dios!
The first time my brother and I flew to Peru without our parents, I forgot to take my passport to the airport. It didn't even occur to me to grab it before leaving my house—which happened to be 1,200 miles away. Needless to say, we did not get to board our scheduled flight that day. I had to ask a friend to break into my house, find my passport, and overnight it to my parents' house so that we could catch the next day's flight to Peru. Humiliating—especially considering that I've been flying internationally my whole life.
Still, I had to laugh when my mom called this morning to tell me to put my passport in my purse right now, two days before she and I are scheduled to travel to Peru. I was way ahead of her, though, thanks in part to the wonderful travel checklists from JCPenney (of all places). My mom stumbled across them a few years ago, and Mr. Guycita and I have come to rely on them every time we travel. Using them is much faster than making up a new list for each trip (which is what I used to do). And now I'll never again forget to pack my passport ... or a toothbrush ... or deodorant ... or anything else important!
This morning, Mr. Guycita and I attended a baby dedication for my cousin's little girl. After the service, members of the extended family were invited to lunch at a delicious, country cookin' buffet in the middle of nowhere.
When Mr. Guycita got up to pay, my cousin's grandpa (whom I have often seen but never really talked to) spotted me and walked over to say hello. As he approached me, he held out his hand, and I politely took it.
To my surprise, he pulled me in close. "You know you're breaking the law, don't you?" he asked in a playfully conspiratorial tone.
I chuckled and replied, "No, what do you mean?"
He leaned in closer, looked me in the eye, and very slowly declared, "You are walking around looking better than any body has a right to!"
His eyes twinkled, and I couldn't believe what I was hearing! I laughed quite heartily and thanked him for what I considered a very nice piropo.
When I got home, I called my cousin and told her what her grandpa said to me. She apologized for his his friskiness, but I assured her that I was not offended. I haven't been hit on in a long time, so I'll take whatever I can get!
Last night I dreamed I cut my hair. I didn't put it in a ponytail first. I didn't measure it. I didn't even use a mirror. I just hacked it all off, gathered it into a bundle, and hoped it would be long enough to donate.
I have no idea why I was so impatient in this dream, for I've become rather fond of my long hair since my last update. I still wear a ponytail several times a week, but lately (as I've gotten used to a feeling I can only describe as wearing a scarf in the summertime) I actually prefer to leave it down.
Overall, having hair this long for the first time since the sixth grade has been a surprisingly pleasant experience: I'd forgotten how good it feels when it brushes against my bare arms, and I love it when Mr. Guycita runs his fingers through it (not that he does this often enough for my tastes!). So each time I try to estimate when my hair will be ready for the Big Cut, I am increasingly loath to give up the new inches of growth.
Don't get me wrong—I still plan on donating it. It just might take me a little longer to decide that I'm ready to part with it.
On Saturday, a friend and I attended the first annual Belly Dance Carnivale, which was held about an hour away from where I live. During the outdoor event, we saw performances representing a vast spectrum of belly dance styles, as local students and professionals danced to everything from traditional Middle Eastern music to punk and hip-hop. Not surprisingly, we also saw a lot of bellies.
Although most of the tummies on display were tight and toned (one dancer even had a six-pack!), a few midriffs fell short of what Americans consider to be "ideal." A couple of the fuller-figured dancers did what I would do and covered their jelly bellies with either a tank top or an illusion leotard. Others impressed me with their bravery by exposing their rolls and bearing their stretch marks like a badge of honor.
One thing, however, was constant: Every dancer, regardless of the shape of her belly or what she was wearing—or her age or level of experience, for that matter—looked beautiful and was a joy to watch. Why? Because she was confident and feminine. I realized that this is precisely one of the things I love about belly dancing: If you're a woman, you can belly dance—and the boost of self esteem that you gain from it will make you look and feel fantastic.
The highlight of the evening was a performance by Moria, a member of the Bellydance Superstars troupe. Her slow and mesmerizing dance showcased the unbelievable control she has over every muscle in her body, and the eye contact she maintained with the audience made the experience nothing short of intense. And, as you can see, her belly was quite lovely. Watching her perform was a huge thrill and an inspiration—and totally worth the four bucks it cost to get in!
