Forty is the new Thirty

On the eve of my 40th birthday I made myself a T-shirt with sequined iron-ons. (I didn't think I could pull off the collegiate letters appliques, so I am very uncharacteristically chi chi Mami in my sequins. Pero whatever.)

The people who buy our Spanish children's T-shirts should be very happy I don't personally screen print each one. Check out my droopy "T''...

Ah well.

Feliz Cumpleaños to me.

No un Perez cualquiera. Un Perez Hilton.

At the age of 4, I got lost on Miami Beach. The adults went off to swim with the older kids and left me behind with my grandfather. The minute he fell asleep in a chair under a tree, I took off in search of the party. What my family did not yet know was that I already was blind as a bat. So, I got lost. I am not sure how long, but long enough for the cops to start a search.

My Tia and grandmother found me. I was calm as I recall, but that changed when my grandmother swung me around and swatted my bottom. Then she hugged me.

I imagine on many days that Mario Lavandeira's familia wants to swat him. And hug him. All at the same time.

If you don't know who he is, he's a Cubanito from Mi-yami who makes about a million bucks a year writing the nasty about celebrities. He calls himself Perez Hilton.

Read about him today's New York Times.

I read him daily. I confess.

Way to go, macho. And be grateful my abuela can't get at you.

Freed from the camera phone. Finally.

I have at last learned to download images from my camera phone. Here are few that should not have been stuck so long...I might just get dangerous now.

Miami, January '07

Our town, just "down the road apiece" Spring '07

Our town. Spring yellow and blue.

Milk for Mami

We checked a book out of the library about a little pig who searches the farm for a great birthday gift for his mom. He tries for hay and seeds and dirt and milk. Each time a bug, animal or farmer's wife stops him ala "those are my seeds'' said the chicken and "that's dirt for my garden" said the farmer's wife.

Because the little pig is polite, he moves on without a fight. The others then share with him and he brings home a bounty for mama pig.

We've been talking about birthdays here a lot. Today is Maria's dad's birthday and next week is mine.

"Mami, I know what I'll get you for your birthday. Some milk! Just like the little pig and his mom.''

Very sweet was the moment. Just hope the husband hasn't read the little pig book.

A break from mopping ... for sex

Today, I am sparing you a ridiculously long post about how much I love my new mop. Breathe a sigh of relief too because I also am sparing you cultural pontification and perhaps some lame jokes about The Cuban Mop. You know that wooden T one with the ancient rag, or estropajo, slung over it.

To mop: Baldear.

My grandmother would grab that scary stick with great authority. She wielded it like a soldier would a sword. The terrazzo gleamed.

Ah cubanitos, can you smell the pinaroma?

Anyway, as I said, sparing you more.

Instead, I offer this sweet treat: sex and the beach.

If you haven't already spotted it in the links section, make some time in a comfy chair, maybe with a fruity drink, and prepare to have a naughty good time.

Please be sure to listen to "Manola's" Spanglish lessons. (Not PG) I first listened early in the morning when my family was asleep and thought I would rouse them from slumber by laughing so hard.

My particular favorite: a lesson on the Cuban "tiki tiki."

So much tiki tiki.

So, go now.

Me, back to Mopping Monday.

The Call of the Water

It used to be that my husband and I sat down with maps and looked for places we could move.
But, there were rules, some his, some mine:

Nothing West of the Mississippi.
Nothing North of the Mason-Dixon Line.
Nothing too Midwest.
Along the Southeastern coast: Nothing to bland.
In Florida: Not in Miami and nothing inland. (And, if in Miami by miracle, my husband told my mother the house would have such a high wall she'd have to learn to pole vault. True story.)

But, those exercises always brought us right back to where we were living: In Nashville, a city with just enough hip and just enough red of neck to make it interesting. Low cost of living, plenty of open spaces and in the last decade, lots of Mexicans and panaderias. Hurrah.

We lived in the hood for eight years in a beautiful house built in 1918. It had 11-foot ceilings and porch columns that were the envy of many a historical house maven. We were only the third owners and we loved that house as if it were our child. I still pine for it as one does the tenderness of first love or jeans that used to fit.

We moved to the Boonies three years after our house and neighborhood got hit by a massive tornado. Our beautiful old trees were splattered and splintered. The event did lead to a regrowth in the hood and it is increasingly gentrified. But, while more hipsters with tats and baby slings moved in, we kept missing our shady porch and without the trees the blight seemed to blare.

One spring day I drove what seemed like too many miles to interview a woman in a part of the mid-state I had seen only once: A pathetic mess of a country slum with no running water and so, no toilets. Yes, this was in the 1990s in Tennessee.

But, on this particular day, the interview was conducted in a lovely part of the county, on a back deck, overlooking a creek that ran through the wooded, bird-filled property. We walked down to the creek. It bubbled and soothed. I kept thinking: "People live like this?''

I went home and told my husband I had found our new hometown. And so, we moved.

But, much as I love where we are, here is the problem with Tennessee: It has no ocean.

There are days every cell in my body says: "Date un chapuson!'' Dunk, dunk, dunk. I feel like one of those wooden water-seeking things, pointing itself toward water anywhere. And, not toward a pool, but toward water that moves and breathes of life...as long as there are no sharks.

Tennessee summers are oppressive and it's during these hot months that I miss Florida and the beaches most. So, it has been my annual mission to find the best damned swimming holes within a 45-mile radius. I have plunked my bottom into rivers and creeks and lakes that would freak the mani-pedi right off of most girls from South Florida. Snakes! Crawfish! Gooey moss!

But, desperate times, my friends.

Let me show you exactly where you can find me in the coming weeks. It's a nearby park with the most perfect of bubbling creeks running through it. Lots of shady trees and a best of all, a clean bathroom nearby. (Not that Maria hasn't done her business in the shallow puddles.)

And, the natives are great entertainment.

I do love Tennessee.

Ah &^%$! 3

It is 6:00 p.m. in the Central Time Zone.

My daughter is asleep.

She got no books, no cuentos, no long snuggles. Consequences for un dia de madre.

“They’’ told me 3 was a bear. You know, those mothers who raise their brow, smile sweetly and warn you of kid craziness years in advance. Yeah well, sisters, a lot of good the warnings have done me. I’m still getting zinged.

We have been having eruptions of the sort I only see when I have PMS and am in dangerous need of meals consisting solely of pretzels and chocolate. I tell my husband Maria and I already cycle together.

I even took the child in today to see if she had an undiagnosed ear infection. Can I admit I was shocked and disappointed when the doctor pronounced them perfect? I wanted to say: “Perfect? Then why the hell doesn’t she listen?’’ But, I just smiled, said thank you and drove home wondering “now what the hell? Truly, what.the.hell!?’’

It took less than an hour after we got home for her to piss her father off, which is not an easy thing to do. Me? I’m easy. This Latina lights up quicker than a stoner at Bonnaroo. But the gringo, he has patience. However, he’s the one who took her upstairs, changed her and told her he loved her, but sorry, te jodiste tonight, m’ija.

I expected rants and ravings. I expected toys and books to fall on our heads, but she fell asleep within minutes. Tired does equal cranky.

Tomorrow is, of course, another day and the wonderful thing about little children is that they hold no grudge. In the morning, we start clean, with lots of stinky breath hugs and warm snuggles. Amen.

My best friend reminds me that every mess-up is a learning opportunity. Indeed, it only took one time of sending the kid to school in her pajamas to get her to stop stalling in the mornings.

Others tell me what she really needs is a good chancletaso, a swift nalgada.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

As you may, or may not, already know we’re not honoring that tradition here…but le me tell ju, it’s not like I haven’t thought of it. Fantasized even.

So, if “they’’ warn me about 4 (still four months away) any time soon, I am going to cry.

Or worse, give “them’’ a fat chancletaso.

Conversations I often have with my parents...

Papi: "Oye, tu sabes que (insert Miami Cuban's name here) se va a mudar cerca de ti. A Nor Carolina.''
Me: "Papi, North Carolina is not close to me. Not really.''
Papi: "Bueno, close enough. Hay guajiros.''

***
Papi: "Oye, (insert Miami Cuban's name here) se quiere ir de Miami. Yo le dije que se vaya para Tennessee.''
My Mom: "Your father tells everyone in Miami to move to Tennessee.''
Me: "Thanks. I think.''

Muddled Mojito

photo from here

When one visits the cigar factories in Havana, the tour guides tell you the Cuban cigar tastes so sweet because it has been rolled on the fine legs of hot Cubanas.

That might be true, for even I -- non-participant in the cigar-smoking girl trend of the '90s -- loved sitting on the Malecon smoking a cigarillo. (And hey, Exilio, don't get up in my stuff. Each trip to Cuba was a working one. A little work. A little placer. Every moment courtesy of a journalist visa.)

But, I am here to tell you that the new Bacardi Silver Mojito could not have been touched by any Cuban DNA. No Cuban rubbed it on her leg or even dipped a fine finger into the vat.

Don't chuck your muddler.

Enough said.

Sweetness in a Tocororo tee

A little girl Maria has known since they were both just weeks old served as a model for our Summer newsletter. They're a month apart, almost to the day, and they love one another mucho, mucho, mucho.

She humored me while I pointed the camera at her. Probably because she's used to her Shutterbug mother.

And then she let me know when it was time to put on the lens cap.

Who says Southern girls are not direct?

If you want to see the Los Pollitos' summer offerings, (which are not on the Web site) it's not too late to get the newsletter. Sign up here.

Now I know why adults buy kiddie music

On the car radio, disco: "I want to do it with you, I want to do it with you...''

From the back seat:
"Mami, what is this song about?''
Me: "Dancing. She wants to dance.''

In my head: Ohjesusohjesus. Crap. No more Disco station. At least it wasn't "Boom boom boom, let's go back to my room."

Day 2:
On the car radio, salsa: "Abusadora. Que hiciste. Abusadora....''

From the backseat:
"Mami, what does that mean?''
In my head: Ohjesusohjesus. How do I translate abuser? Abusive? Heart-breaker? Bad girl? Can't.
Again: "Mami, what is he saying?''
Me: "He's asking her what she did. Que hiciste?''
From the backseat: "What did she do?''
Me: "I don't know. That's why he is asking her.''
From the backseat: "Mami, you know!''

My satellite radio has what 150 stations?
Mine: Now permanently stuck on the kiddie channel.
It is not a good day when it starts with John Lithgow singing A- You're Adorable.

And now, a word from our sponsor

Over here in the Hen House, we're putting together our summer newsletter. In it, we'll announce the sale of women's tees, children's hats and bibs, and children's white tees and tanks in our most popular designs (like Candela and Gordito) and three new ones: Coco, Merenguito and Tocororo. (The Tocororo, by the way, is the Cuban national bird.) Everything is $20 and under.

If you're interested in these newly hatched additions, sign up for our newsletter here. These items likely will not be put up on the website until late summer.

And, who's the model with the chicken neck? It's un secretico.

Cuarentona, or More magazine's latest subscriber

Forty is upon me. In one month.
De madre.
Small, not large, sigh.

Seriously I am not in a tizzy over it, but it has run through my head for nearly a year that it is really not possible that I am nearly 40. It snuck up on me. In my mind, I am 21 and wearing frosted orange lipstick. It’s 1988. My hair is lacquered.

I remember my mother turning 40 and thinking she was so ridiculously old. Never mind that her 40^th involved a jolly time with a male stripper and penis-shaped chocolates. I’ve seen those pictures recently and she was beautiful, young and glowing.

Some days, I too feel beautiful, young and glowing. Some days.

My husband asked me many months ago to consider how I would like to celebrate. Initially, it was a no-brainer: We’d roast a pig. But, do I really want to spend my 40^th roasting a pig and cooking for 75 people in the middle of a blistering Tennessee summer. The quick answer: No.

Second thought is to invite a small group of friends for a “pickin’ party.” That means they bring their instruments, we provide the booze. We have a patio, a fire pit and an auction-bought 5-foot-long urinal from Tootsie’s that cools beer quite nicely and the friends are talented, undiscovered famous people. But, do I want to spend the night worrying about toddlers in the fire pit?

Third: Rent a Taco truck, park it in the driveway. Call the woman who calls herself “Rent-A-Rita’’ to keep the margaritas flowing. Hire a local, kick-ass cumbia band I recently heard. But, I am thinking, eh, too expensive.

Fourth thought is to take that freebie Southwest ticket and get the hell out of town by.my.self. Sola. San Antonio, Chicago, San Francisco. Anywhere. A couple of nights in a hotel with room service and no one refusing to get into her carseat.

I’m leaning toward numero cuatro.

So, as the planning stalls, here’s what I know for sure. I am writing a list about myself. I’ve decided it is not only an exercise in self-reflection, but a gift to my daughter. She might one day want to know that her mother prefers shoes with exposed stitching, is happiest swinging on the porch and been on exactly one diet in 39 years.

In the moments I struggle not to lose my caca, I often think about my grandmothers, who had many more children and much fewer options. I know the superficial facts about them: How many children they raised (and lost), the fact they both were short, soft and round, that one raised rabbits and ate them, that one changed the bed sheets daily.

But, who where they as women, as people? Did they like blue, did they sleep soundly, did they like their legs? Where they happy in the core?

I guess I want my daughter to really know me, to know my heart as well as the mundane and easily overlooked quirks and preferences we each have. Of course, there are darknesses I likely never will share with her (or with anyone to whom I am not paying $125 an hour), but the record will be here for her if she cares. If she doesn’t, then that’s OK too. The exercise is for me, a milestone to mark. It’s my road, beautiful and crooked as it has been.

Here’s a peak at my list, maybe it will also allow you a moment to think about the small things that make you one big you:

- Perfume: Orientals. Florals make me smell like a funeral.
- Perm-free since 1987; dye-free since 1991.
- If pantyhose rip, I say they “broke.’’ It’s a literal Spanish translation I cannot shake.
- I didn’t learn to cook until the third year of marriage.
- At 26: The ob/gyn gave me smelling salts after I noticed the dilation in labor chart on the wall.
- If you looked through the house right now, you’d find lipstick, new and old, on the kitchen counter, in two bathroom drawers, in the bathroom cabinet, inside my purse, inside several old purses, in an old diaper bag, in the swim bag, on my desk, and on my dresser. At least.