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Voting in Miami: Pastelitos con Votos

7 Nov

Pastelitos: Pastelitos are a common cuban pastry which can be savory or sweet. They are made with puff pastry and stuffed with meat (savory!), or guava with cheese and sometimes coconut (mi favorito!)

Voting in Miami is very tricky.  The lines are very long (I waited for 2 hours, hubby for 4!) and it can get very hot very quickly -I’m not talking about the weather, either.

If you know a Cuban, you probably know their politics.  It’s Red Republican, 100% and at high volume, but then again everything here is at an elevated decibel level.  So you learn not to take it personally.

But sometimes people can really surprise you.  In my voting precinct, it is VERY crowded and VERY Republican, yet somehow yesterday – I was not subjected to the angry tirades I’d experienced in the past.

I showed up at the polling location at 6 am, and I was the 50th person in line.  Not too bad, I thought.  I’ll be out of here by 7:30, the latest.   It was still dark out, but I was able to find a parking spot.  I had a book, a cup of coffee, and my trusty iPhone to keep me company.

Around 6:30, a gentleman in a black t-shirt began to walk down the line (which was now probably up to 100 people) and began passing out a tray of pastelitos.

“Pastelitos, gratis!” he exlaimed.  (“Free pastelitos!”)  He was smiling at each person, encouraging them to take a pastelito from his plate.  Everyone in line was laughing and smiling at each other – we were just so pleased to see someone be generous for no reason.  He wasn’t from a political party, he just wanted to do something nice for all the earlybirds who came out to make sure their vote was counted.

This encounter warmed our spirits so much, and through our sugar-infused giggles, I had a wonderful two hour conversation with two people in line behind me.  We discussed our families, where we were from (Ecuador for him, Nicaragua for her) and where we wanted to live eventually.  We were careful not to discuss politics and kept our conversation on firm middle ground.

I could gather which way each was leaning (him for Obama, she was for Romney), but for the most part I just really enjoyed their company and was heartened to spend the morning chatting with two American Citizens who had a real interest in their country.  And they were warm, friendly and respectful – I haven’t encountered that in a very long time.  It was a pleasure.

Senor Pastelitos did a good deed that morning, he reminded all of us that we can agree on something:   pastelitos are delicious and being an American is pretty great.

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An Open Letter to Boardwalk Empire

17 Sep

Dear Boardwalk Empire,

I would like to take this moment to tell you how very much I’ve missed you.  Honestly, time passes so slowly without you and then, last night, it felt as if the world spun a little faster while I was watching you.  That could also be due to the fact that I was holding onto to the seat cushions for dear life as this season started ramping up.  You did not waste anytime with the cruel, meaningless violence, and I appreciate that.

You see, I’ve fallen so in love with your characters that I sometimes forget they are all murdering psychopaths.  So thanks for reminding me.

I also appreciated how quietly you reveal the complete derangement of Jimmy’s Mom, Jillian.  That woman is a sick twisted bitch, and I just really hope Richard kidnaps that little boy and takes him someplace safe and far far away.  But see, Richard’s a gangster, too. But at least we know he wont molest the little guy.  Man, that Jillian is awful.

And our good all Nucky, I love how he is on the upswing.  He’s got his wife, his pretty mistress, a gorgeous house and he’s setting things up for the easy gangster life.  But we all know that won’t last.

Because holy shit, Bobby Cannavale’s Gyp Rosetti is terrifying me!  The kind of unstable rage, barely concealed that you never know when he’s going to erupt and beat you senseless with a crowbar and steal your dog.

In closing, I’d just like to say that I am so happy to you back in my life, creeping me out, pissing me off (Damn you Jillian!), and reminding us what natural breasts looked like.

I’ll see you next Sunday.

 

P.S.  And please let Van Alden get all gangster on us.  Michael Shannon is devastating in his quiet suffering, and he really needs to work out some ragey issues.

Open Letter to Facebook

11 Sep

I couldnt take it anymore, I’d had it.  So I quit Facebook.  A couple of my friends were horrified, some thought I’d “defriended” them and are now offended, and some people could give a crap.  Three weeks after I kicked my FB to the curb, I feel better for having done it.  You see, Facebook had just served to seriously annoy me several times a day and I just couldn’t see why I would want to keep allowing myself to get annoyed. I’d log in, sigh loudly and curse at several people under my breath and then log off.  Rinse, repeat.  So I said, eff it!  I turned that shiz off.

Here is my Dear John Letter to Facebook, Why I Am Quitting You Facebook.  Kindly suck it.

Dear Facebook, 

These are the reasons that I quit you:

 1)    “The Friends Factor:”  While it is pretty awesome to be able to keep track of friends who have since moved away and out of state, it is also NOT AWESOME to see that they are in town visiting other friends.  Which is why the word “friend” as it relates to Facebook just bugs me.  Can we have categories, like “acquaintance?”  Or, “person I will ignore as I pretend to be taking a call on my cell phone when I see them at the mall?”

If you are my friend, you will have my phone number and I will have yours.  And we’ll be able to call each other up and chat and it will be all good. “Liking” a photo of my dog, or “poking” me does not mean we’re friends.  My friends exist in real time, not the ether of the internet.  So, if you are my friend and you are in town and don’t visit me, at least call me to tell me.  Or don’t post about it, cuz that makes me haz a sad.

2)    “The Family Factor:”  Once your Mom figures out you have a Facebook account, forget it.  Every photo of my dog she “likes” and comments on the minute it’s uploaded.  I can’t post anything without her commenting all over it. 

Once your Mom has a Facebook account, all is lost.  Move on.

3)    “The Gaming Factor:”  Seriously, does anyone work anymore?  I mean, everybody is playing some newfangled word game and nobody is working.  My phone keeps “dinging” because someone has won 500 points at Wordscrabblebogglebarf!   Everytime I hear the new “jobs report” my phone dings and reminds me that – Hey!  America is working, just not very hard.  (Which, now that I think about it, I need to figure out these notification settings on my iPhone?  I’m so confused . . . .)

4)    “The Sympathy Factor:”  If you are having a bad day, I’m sympathetic.  But cryptic status updates about, “The world is such a horrible place, my heart is breaking into a million pieces, can someone pass me a razor?” MUST be followed with a detailed explanation and had better not be due to the fact that you ran out of mayo for your sandwich.  Now, if it is regarding Amy Poehler and Will Arnett breaking up?  Hold me.

5)    “The Braggart Factor:”  Really?  It’s six am and you just ran eight miles?  Good for you.  Wait – you also lifted weights and rescued a puppy from a sewer drain?  Awesome.  Guess what?  I just took my morning dump, AND it was awesome.  Also – it really happened. Unlike your morning.  So shut up.  You’re annoying.  And probably lying.  I just know you ate a box of Cheez-its and are watching Kelly and Michael. Don’t lie to me.  I’m onto your charade. 

6)    “Time Wasting Factor:”  Now I can tweet more since I am no longer on Facebook.  I have traded one vice for another.  Don’t judge me, and if you do, make it under 140 characters.

An Open Letter to Glitzy the Pig (from Here Comes Honey Boo Boo)

5 Sep

I have escaped! If you want to book me for appearances, please call 1-800-BACON and ask for Margarita my publicist. I’M FAMOUS BITCHES!
As a recently freed political prisoner, I am currently working on my Memoir, Pig in A Blanket: Escape from the Griddle. In my free time I like to roll around on my back, poop wherever I please, and eat until I pass out. I also enjoy reading graphic novels, Manga and my favorite show is Downton Abby. (Although all my littermates call it “Downtown” Abby, I’ve stopped correcting them).

Dear Glitzy,

As you are probably now all snuggled up in a nice warm bed of mud and your belly is full from a heaping helping of pig slop, I think we can talk. Piggy to crazy blog lady, you feel me?

Now, when I saw your cute squealing piggy face on Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, I thought of two things. 1) NO FAIR! Where’s MY cute little teacup pig?! and 2) This CANNOT end well.

I know it must have been humiliating to have your piggy toenails painted. If you want to, you can trade horror stories with my Doberman. Her favorite color is pink, by the way. (Because I told her so! Now smile pretty for Mama, Cookie). And doubly humiliating that apparently they never thought to Google the appropriate way to hold a pig, so apparently they kept pinching your little pig nuggets every time they picked you up. Squeeeeeeal!

But I think the biggest issue for me, is that every time you were onscreen, it was like you were on a razor’s edge. Let’s be frank here for a minute, these are people that eat roadkill. Granted, venison is good meat, I am a fan, but these are people who DO NOT WASTE ANYTHING! (See June’s toilet paper cache). Meaning, it would have only been a matter of time before you were on that barbecue.

Listen, I’ve been married to an Argentine for five years now, and I know what that look means. I saw the look on June and Sugar Bear’s face, and they were calculating how many meals they’d get out of you. Maybe that was why you squealed so much?

I even asked my husband if we could rescue you, but he said no. “Do you know what the problem with having a pet pig is?” he asked. “No,” I replied.

“They’re delicious.” And then he smacked his lips and started preparing some chimichurri. You would have been no better off with me. Razor’s edge, my friend.

So I just wanted to say, congratulations on being a free pig. I hope the next home you land in gives you tons of love and affection and doesn’t squeeze your piggy nuggets. And they don’t eat you.

Farewell Glitzy, you sweet gay little piggy.

Funky Fresh

2 Sep

Living in Miami is a strange beautiful mix of culture and class.  For example, everyday I drive by Camilla’s house where people are lined up to get just the minimum to eat, while I cruise in my little truck to my secretary job in air conditioning.  Meanwhile, I get flipped the finger by the douche in the mercedes who is texting on his blackberry while he zooms to his job to sexually harass his secretary.  See how that works?  We’re all around each other at the same time, yet never really interacting. Except for that middle finger gesture.

On Friday we went out to a local watering hole that is located near a college that is very well known and very very expensive.  Hubs is outside with friends talking, when a homeless man rolls up on his bicycle.  Before he can even SAY a word, a student at this “elite” university stumbles out and very loudly swears at the homeless dude, “If he asks for change, tell him to call Obama.”

Now, I will leave out all the racial undertones of this interaction, (homeless man- black; rich kid – white), but I will say that the guy  never asked for a dime.  Rather, he heard the funky tones of the band that night, wandered in and right into the middle of our group.

There were several of us dancing to the funk band in the front of the bar, and all of a sudden this guy walks in, freezes.  Then he puts his hands in the air for a few seconds, before he hits the ground and just starts dancing.

I would say it was a combination of Michael Jackson and James Brown.  Let’s just say, the guy had some moves.

So apparently, this guy didn’t want our money – just our company.  And the room and freedom to get down with his funky self.   He was gregarious, cheerful and wished our friend a happy birthday.

So perhaps he wasn’t homeless, maybe he was just down on his luck – which is why his appearance was so bedraggled.  Perhaps he just wanted some company for the evening.

There is no real moral of the story here, I guess.  Except don’t be a jerk.  Sometimes that guy you think is homeless and is begging for money for crack, is just a fan of funk.

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Cookie Monster

31 Aug

Cookie Monster

Behold, the cuteness that is my giant baby dogter, Cookie. Or Cookie Monster, as we call her when she misbehaves. She’s destroyed couch cushions, eviscerated stuffed animals, and stolen our hearts. She’s my dogter!