careta, careta, sos una careta

Soy careta, lo confieso. Me doy aires. Pero como puede ser que haya salido careta, con todos esos genes de guetto e inmigrante italoespañol?

Tomo mate, le escribo a una chica que conocí mediante Craigslist, estilo romántico y medio pueblerino tipico del imperio. En 20 minutos tengo que estar lista para encontrarme con Hanna, mi amiga suiza en ciernes que se va en 4 meses. Me siento mejor.

Tengo que contar lo que hize el martes, no puedo ser tan careta.

MM y los baños de espuma

MM hates clutter. More than anything. Nothing makes him happier than seeing me parting with a pair of pants, or a thick stack of paper, or anything.

MM happiness ∝ volume of things been thrown away

When “a thing” starts being unused for a long period of time (a long period of time = month) uneasiness starts getting into him and his first step is the insidious erosion of my will.

I will THE THINGS to stay.

MM rules exclude art. We can have a nice picture hanging on the wall as long as we want. Thanks god.

-We really need this?- he says and points to the scale frowning as if the aforementioned object were somewhat offensive.
-Yes, we really need that scale. I need the scale. Once a month we have people coming or whatever, and I cook a cake o whatever and I need the fucking scale.

And by then my adrenaline level (or whatever bullshit start flowing in your blood stream when you are upset) is high, and that brings up other issues and we finish having the monthly argument. I have a little problem with my adrenaline producing device, once it gets started it's difficult to stop.

At the beginning, when I was madly in love with MM and he was as cool as a lettuce (bad combination if you ask me) I gave up all my clothes, all my book and parted with all my things. Except for a few ones that I could fit inside a backpack that was suppose to be light enough for climbing hills in Crete. So gone where the sexy underwear, the outrageous clothing for acid parties, the more formal dresses for weddings, the clothes to big but just in case, the clothes to small but it’s it amazing that I was that thin once.

Things are changing now. The roles have been switched. Now I am the cool one, like a lettuce. Not very exciting, but very good for negotiations.

And MM in love bought a huge bottle of foam bath. Lets pamper ourselves and forget Thoreau. 48 fl of, or a gallon of foam bath. Lets say that the bottle is as big as the laundry soap one. I’m not big on foam bathes. I get bored there inside the bath. And books have a tendency to fall there. So I wasn't using that bottle much.

Anyway, not long ago I came home and found MM taking a foam bath. (Lately I get the feeling that MM is a cylon. Where is my work alcoholic darling MM? What Thoreau would had said about that?) All right then. Things change.

Let’s say that I’m myself a controlling bitch. Detail oriented they say. Depends who is talking. So when I saw the foam soap bottle almost empty I was puzzled. For a second. And there was the light and I understood. MM is not a cylon. Matok sheli.

He had a foam bath with a gallon of foam bath.
So he can get ride of the huge bottle.
The no clutter instinct is stronger.

La voz de la experiencia

I can not divide the world between the ones that liked Borat and those who didn't. BUT.

Primo Levi

J love and hated her husband, on alternated days, sometimes even in the same instant. She hated his wisdom and his collection of shells; she loved the father of her children, and the man who was under the covers in the morning.
They reached a fragile accord on weekend outings.

Vamos mejorando

Y al final yo también termino usando el plural, ese plural tan curioso. Pero viene al caso. Hoy estaba cosiendo el ruedo (que palabra esa, el ruedo, supongo que está en vias de extinción) de mis pantalones de 450 pesos (how a pair of pants can be so expensive I wonder) y terminando mi cardigan verde y eso, y MM puso su laptop a un lado, así derepente, con la clara intensión de interceptarme en el camino y darme un beso.

-Please leave me alone, I´m working- (con una sonrisa, ojo, estamos en buenos terminos)

Y me acordé que en una de las interminables excel spreadsheets de mis quejas una era:
-You never come and kiss me just because-
.....................en fin-

Que mal olor ni mal olor, querida

Y apagá la telenovela un rato. Después del drama de ayer, Gym y media hora corriendo en el treadmill me llenaron de las endorfinas que son las únicas drogas a las que tengo acceso por el momento. Terminamos la noche a las 2 de la mañana con lullabies, cerveza , mix de pistachios, almendras y cranberries. My forgoten favorite. Y riendonos como dos locos
Ademas parece que termino my cardigan verde (un año tomó, si no mas)

Otra vez

Otra vez volvemos a lo mismo. Otra vez volvemos a revisar lo dicho, las intenciones, los hechos.
Hay algo que no entiendo y no me gusta, pero que no logro entender. Como esa historia en The wild palm del querido Faulkner, hay un mal olor.

The complainer

Me quejo. Cuando estoy en Buenos Aires: de las veredas, de la gente amargada, de los automovilistas, de los colectivos. Cuando estoy en Boston: de la gente idiota, de los gordos, de la falta de sentido del humor, de que a las 10 de la noche los únicos en la calle seamos los señores homeless y yo.
Me quejo.
Me quejo.
Me quejo.

My life as an Artic Monkey

There is no winter coat long enough, thick enough, warm enough......but this one is the best you can get when you make a mistake as terrible as coming to Boston in February.
Spent the weekend in Williamsburg. Not that bad, pero el frio. Fuimos a comer con amigos de Brooklyn, una sopa de zanahorias y ginger riquisima, la que reproduje para una cena con los amigos (amigos?) de MM.