The Mojito Conversation

Husband and I have been here for almost three years and it never ceases to astound us just how much we do here in one week's time. 

Yesterday, after work and spending hours at the school playground we made a fast decision to find ourselves seated in front of Cuba's best invention: the mojito. While Husband's was a traditional mojito mine had a classic Dominican twist: chinola (passion fruit). 

that's our car behind me

We sat at an outside table of Roust, a new restaurant in our old 'hood, with Rafaella and left the car running near us with an unobstructed view of sleepybird, Santiago (He had fallen asleep on the 3-minute car ride to Roust.) As we settled into our seats, our drinks, and the perfect "winter" climate we also settled into our conversation:

"Think about how much we've done this week," I reminisce. 

The Band

Husband recapped, "We've logged in at least 10 hours at the playground, went to Story Time at the library with the kids, ate at that delicious bbq rib place with our friends, played volleyball, had band practice, attended a Spanish class, watched a great soccer game, and are now sitting here with afternoon mojitos."  

"And this has been a slow week..." I reminded adding drama by elongating sloooow. "And we still have the Davis Cup Tennis Tournament on Saturday and Superbowl Sunday." 

Story Time at the library

"And you have book club tonight,"

"Because you're not going to basketball." 

 "We do more here in a week than we ever did in a whole month in New Jersey." 

He was right. The life we lived in New Jersey bogged down with work and chores and grocery shopping and to-do lists. Any free time during the week was spent happily cozying up to reruns of Law & Order. Saturday was the only day we enjoyed true leisure time and that was also stuffed full of trips to Target and Christening invitations. And as every teacher knows, God gave us Sundays for lesson planning and grading papers.

But life here isn't like that. A typical day here includes almost as much time playing at the park as working at school. We sit down and eat dinner together and sit at the table long after our meal to talk. Just talk. Husband and I are good at talking.

     

 And then there are the stolen gems, the invaluable things that aren't necessarily typical, that aren't "planned" but that always seem to sprout up: the trips to the colmado* (see below for explanation) with at least a dozen people, Friday at the bluffs, the impromptu dinner at ribs (I don't know the name of the ribs place. we just call it ribs. An outdoor tented area, plastic table and chairs kind of joint that cooks up ribs something special. For the amount of dive this place gives off visually you've never had ribs this good. So good I've mentioned it twice in this post.)

I look over at Rafa who has picked up another of my traits and she's dancing at the table as she eats her onion ring and drinks her chinola juice. When I dance along, throwing her a Jersey fist pump, she flings her head back in laughter. The waiter comes to take our plates and she looks at him and says, "Cuidado (careful)," - her newest understanding of a word and its concept. Santiago has also since woken up and is now sitting on Husband's lap eating his mango. (We live in a place where our kids eat mangoes that they've picked up from the playground and where coconuts spot the grass like polka dots on the shirt that I'm wearing.) 

I sit there across from Husband taking in the Caribbean air that flows generously in January reminding me that this season is the reason that people live here. This temperature is divine. 

Is this why we do so much more? Is it the sun? Is it the lifestyle? Is it the culture?

I can't answer that. 

Oh... no, not because I don't know the answer but because it's time to get to the colmado*. 

Colmado Fridays. Colmado o'clock. 

It's 5:00 somewhere, right Jimmy?

*colmado - the Dominican institution where friends gather to play dominoes, talk yell talk loudly, and drink Presidentes so cold - due to the special refrigerators set at sub zero temperatures - that even on the hottest days one sip is enough to cool you down. (synonyms might include bodega, cornerstore) 

Tunesday Tuesday: Pump Up the (car) Jam - A Look Back to Blaming Springsteen

Week 9: Pump Up the (car) Jam

Can't stick around for this week's party?? 

Next week's theme will be...

 Your Favorite Oldie

And now...

I love driving and I love music so it should go without saying that driving while listening to music goes together for me like peanut butter and jelly or smoking cigarettes and binge drinking for others. Maybe it's because both driving and music are so liberating but there is something about the combination of both that is unrivaled.

(I'm Going Down back here.) When I got my license in 1998, my grandparents sent me their 1986 Nissan Maxima in burgundy red. They lived in Miami Beach and the sun and salt had given her a worn look by rusting the hood of the wine-colored sedan but that was no matter to me. To me, it just gave her character. More character, I thought, than the popular Mitsubishi Eclipse in dark green that everyone was driving around that year. To me, there was no comparison. But I digress. The point is, to me she was a beautiful specimen because she meant freedom.

I wasn't the kind of kid who wanted that much freedom, persay. I wasn't trying to move out of my house the moment I turned 18. In fact, I wouldn't leave - except for college - until I was 29. And even then it was a bit of a struggle. No, the kind of freedom I was looking for had boundaries. The kind of freedom I was looking for looked like me in a car with the windows down and the sunroof open and music. Loud music. Music playing so loud I couldn't hear myself singing it. Well, it kind of looked like this:

Because of this, it would be dishonest to say that "this one" is my car jam. There. are. too. many. I could try and list some for you but the list would too soon get out of hand. It would get away from me like a slippery,wet fish on the edge of a boiling pot.

So instead what I will give you is this story. My first blog post. Ever. (I told you... I'm Going Down back.) The pinnacle of jamming out in my car. Is it the drums that start off the song? Or the Jersey Boardwalk musicality that Bruce is soooo good at pulling off? Or the simple and repetitive words that make you want to scream and drive? Truly, I couldn't answer you. All I know is that this song, a car, and windows rolled down... whew, explosive.

Legra's Law - * 1 * - I Blame Springsteen. 

"I don't think it's coincidence that it's a Bruce Springsteen song," said this Jersey girl. "I think like most stories it's full circle. We always go back to the beginning. We always come home."  

 

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Dissection of an 80's Party

Listening to Don't You Forget About Me by The Wind + The Wave

The dark.

An unsuspecting victim.

A gang of people yelling.

A surprised face.

Faces laughing and cheering.

A husband validated. 

The surprise over.
A husband relieved...

This is the dissection of an 80's Party

I'm the kind of person that loves surprises. I'm also the kind of person that makes it very difficult to pull off a surprise so if you could pull off a double surprise - all the power to you.

When I climbed the steps to the rooftop, I knew there were people up there. I thought the 5 or 6 people we were going out with that night were waiting to toast my birthday and then we'd be on our way. I wasn't, however, expecting a PARTY of people. And then I began to take it in. I looked around to see faces of people that had regrettably told me they couldn't make it out that night. Faces of people that texted me convincing stories of previous engagements they had made that would bar them from coming out to celebrate my birthday. And then I stopped looking at their faces and noticed their outfits. What were they wearing? Three guys were wearing full on mullet wigs. One friend grew a mustache and donned intense silver aviators and a ripped sleeved GATORS shirt. A sea of neon exploded in my eyes like fireworks in a night sky. Side ponytails? Who wears side ponytails anymore? I haven't seen a side ponytail and scrunchies since... and just when I began to understand that this was no ordinary surprise party, DJ AmazingLee started the music; the familiar boppy entrance of Cyndi Lauper's original girls' night out anthem song, "Girls Just Want to Have Fun." And then I understood.

This was an 80s surprise party. 

I can only imagine how excited Husband was to get me to that rooftop, to get me to my surprise so that he didn't have to hold on to it anymore. He is a self-described surprise squasher. I can't think of how many times he's started a sentence with, "I wanted this to be a surprise but..." Great, babe. Surprise blown. And, I am, as I said before (-- understatement ahead -->) not easy to plan surprises for. I ask too many questions and organize every last detail and catch every double story.

In fact, I had already planned a wine night and a joint birthday party for this year's festivities. Poor Husband had to recruit help from 98% of our friends to lie, cover, and turn down plans in order to keep this surprise thing going. And they did. They even double-checked each other's cover stories before returning texts to me just to make sure they weren't blowing the surprise. 

Our friend, Beckett, who I was planning a birthday WITH, told me who was going to Miami - MIAMI! - so he wouldn 't be around until after the weekend. When I saw him around and asked why he was going to Miami he -without skipping a beat - said he had a dentist appointment.

"You know there are dentists on this island?" I told him.
Wherein he responded - again without skipping a beat - "Have you heard all of the horror stories about dentists here?"
I hadn't but he was so convincing that I didn't question it... and agreed.

Laughlin as his alter ego "Tommy"

Our other friend, Laughlin, had planned a "fake" party for next weekend so that between Beckett's dentist visit and this "fake" party, I would have to hold off all plans until the end of JENuary. And the jig was almost up when I sent Laughlin a text message from Husband's phone. I wasn't trying to catch him in something I was just trying to get details so I could plan my own party. Since Husband was driving he gave me his phone to text Laughlin and pretending to be Husband I texted Laughlin about the date for this "fake" party. Upon receiving the message, Laughlin nervously wondered why my husband was sending him a text message about a party he knew was fake so he showed the message to his wife, Sara, to ask her opinion of what to write back. Luckily, Husband had by that point snatched back his phone. 

Since the party was an 80's theme, Husband thought about how he would get clothes there for me. His answer came from our pregnant friend, Tammy, who suggested asking the other girls to bring stuff. "They'll love it," she told him. She was right.

Between Julia, Sara, Katherine, and both Amandas, I had 16 outfit choices: a black lace skirt, hot pants, a NKOTB t-shirt, leggings, arm gloves and neon earrings galore. Julia bought a hair crimper especially for the party. (I'm convinced that she would have been one of the the only people I know to make the 80's look cute. See her on left.) They did my neon makeup, crimped and side ponytailed my hair as high as hairspray would let it- the higher, the better.

With DJ AmazingLee spinning 80's music like a master, we danced, partied, and 80's-ed the night away. My only regret is that we didn't have the whole night on video.

Husband and I performed an impromptu killer lyrical routine to Cyndi Lauper's Time After Time so inspired and so flawless that friends thought we had been perfecting it for years. A dance battle ensued between the ladies when MJ's Beat It came on. It was dancing genius at its best. A quieter friend of ours sang Total Eclipse of the Heart like he had been waiting his whole life to sing it. To the tune of Asia's song, Africa, I sang a love song to our friend's mustache that was grown for the occasion. I couldn't have asked for more.

I repeat:

I COULDN'T HAVE ASKED FOR MORE.

I was celebrated by friends who were honestly thrilled to celebrate with me: friends who ran around buying gear to dress me up in, friends who grew mustaches for a party, friends who set up nannies and babysitters to watch their children, friends who wore mullet wigs and crimped their hair, friends who danced the entire night away under the stars on my favorite rooftop, friends who definitely felt it the next morning. But that was no matter because that night they partied like rockstars (of the 80's).

 A week later we're still talking about this party. An "epic" bash. My best birthday: the time I woke up with hot pink eyeshadow on my forehead and that neon yellow scrunchie still in my hair.

May you all have at least one party like this in your life.

Thank you friends 

 -not just for helping me celebrate but for surprising me with the best party this 

80's girl at heart could have ever asked for.

The Late Night Crew

Tunesday Tuesday: And the Jukebox Plays... The Evolution of a Wedding Song

Week 8: Our Song

Can't stick around for this week's party?? 

Next week's theme will be...

 Your Car Jam

And now...

Wedding song. This should be a simple week, right? A simple write up. I shouldn't even really have to write about it, right?

Welcome to my life. I don't do simple. 

* * *

SKIP AHEAD TO:

It was so simple... the whole time. 

FOR THE ABRIDGED VERSION

* * * 

Simple. 

Husband (Then Boyfriend) and I fell in love almost immediately. That kind of love where you couldn't get enough of each other. We wanted to be together all the time and in fact, where. Not only were we together every chance we got outside of work but we worked together so we got a goooood, BIG dose of each other. He was everything. 

Michael Bublé was an artist I had loved for years and when I introduced Then Boyfriend to his musical style he was won over also. I remember the morning I heard his latest hit, "Everything." I was getting ready for work, where I would see Then Boyfriend, but the song wouldn't let me wait. The song gave me flutters just thinking about him and so before school that day, I rushed to his house just so I could see him before we got to work. A month or so later, we went to a Bublé concert in Manhattan - a legendary date night for us - and when he played "Everything" we danced in the aisle like two fools in love. 

Here's where it gets complicated. 

Dancing to our song

Around this time, Then Boyfriend's Brother was getting married and they hadn't yet picked their wedding song. While in the car one day, we listened to a CD I had burned - because I love mix tapes - and "our" song played. A week later, Then Boyfriend's Brother asked Then Boyfriend the name of "that song" we listened to not knowing it was "our song." I knew where this was going. 

I told Then Boyfriend, "Just say it's 'our' song." But I knew he wouldn't, he couldn't. Thinking back, I guess how could he? We had been dating for only a few months and how would he tell his brother, "You can't have our wedding song." We didn't even know where this was going yet, let alone if we were going to get married. So, hard as it was... we gave up our song. 

* * *

When it was time for us to get married, I struggled over what would be our song. We didn't have a song that was a natural choice anymore so I narrowed down a list of beautiful songs. Coldplay's "Yellow" was on the list but we decided to save that song for the one I walked down the aisle to. We were right about that one. It was the perfect choice. Another song I had on the list was "God Bless the Broken Road." I loved it's idea of how the road is never perfect but it leads you in the exact direction you need to go. At least my road did. But it wasn't our song. I discovered "This Will Be Our Year" by The Zombies. It seemed like a good fit considering that our year in 2011 was full of surprises and excitement but it just wasn't us. We weren't that hip.

Still complicated.

When we heard, "Nothing Can Change This Love," by Otis Redding it slipped in smooth like a good glass of Brandy. It was beautiful and old and soulful. That was more us. The decision was made.

On the floor that Husband built

I still hear that song and it melts my heart so I don't want to downplay our wedding song. It was the perfect song choice for that moment on the dance floor that Husband built with his own two hands and the tiles that pregnant Best Friend and I would peel and stomp, under the stars of Lake Owassa and the café lights that we strung ourselves. The song was a great choice but in there lay the problem. It was a song we chose and not a song that chose us. It has never quite sat totally right.

It was so simple... the whole time. 

The other night as I was driving home from one of my birthday celebrations in JENuary, I played a CD I had burned - full circle. #12 on my mix tape began to play. Its simple guitar strings and marimba notes are musical perfection together, the most perfect introduction to a song. Then enters the voice. Strong and gritty, like gravel, singing delicate words that could break if sung any louder. Words so velvety that you could hibernate under them, unclouded by grand admissions of movie love that are exaggerated by thundering music. It's tender and quiet and in its quiet is its power: Love is in the small spaces. In the Saturday nights. In the small requests - "Leave me some room at your table, slip into your heart if I might and stay just as long as I'm able. Baby, save me a Saturday night." It's the most romantic song I've ever heard because it's delicately simple. I just want to be with you.

I was steering but the car drove me home. 

I was deep in thought. How did I ever find this man that I had looked so long for? 

Scared that if this didn't work out I would have to work with this man, I cancelled a few dates until, finally, one Saturday night, I went. And my life changed. From that Saturday night, we were connected, entwined, inseverable, and tied up. It wasn't messy. It was... simple. There was no him or me - those people were traded in for just us. After only a few weeks together we took a road trip together to Tennessee (Nashville & Memphis). We woke up before dawn for the road ahead and in an ironic twist, he introduced me to Neil Diamond's album, 12 Songs. It was the first of many CDs that would accompany our journey that trip but the only one I remember. Holding his hand and looking at the dark road in front of us, I never felt so at ease with someone, so grateful to have all my troubles behind me. This was the trip we fell in love. This was the trip Husband first told me he loved me. 

So how did we miss this? 

This was so simple. This was always it. 

This was always our song.

When I got home that night, I opened my computer, and found "Save Me a Saturday Night" by Neil Diamond. Husband had long since fallen asleep. I crept into our room and under the covers and pressed play. He woke up - a bit startled - but settled in quickly as he heard the familiar notes, like a lullaby.

"This should have been our wedding song," I said.
He whispered still half asleep, "You're right,"  like he had never quite been convinced about our wedding song either. "It should have been."

And so it is.

It is the #1 track on our soundtrack, a soundtrack that evolves and morphs and becomes whatever we need it to be: Everything, Nothing. Or just a Saturday Night.

(I made my own video since I didn't like any of the version I found. Here's our wedding with my 6 month pregnant Rafaella belly.)

Nothing Can Change This Love - Otis Redding

 

join us next week...

Every Monday night at 9pm the link up will go live at The Patchwork Paisley, Drinking the Whole Bottle, Momma Candy, and MrsTeeLoveLifeLaughter. 

Host Follow Links:

                   Meg                       Jen                             Shauna               Tiffany

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What a Mama Knows

My Loves,

I know that I love you. I tell you this everyday in private. In quiet. When it's just us. I whisper I love you into your small, little ears when you are about to run off somewhere or before I lay you into your crib or when you are throwing your head back in unadulterated laughter. I tell you. But I don't say it enough in public. To the world. To anyone that will listen. So here is my public announcement that I do. That I love you to the moon and back and then back again and then to a different space of the galaxy and back again a million times. 

I know that I try hard everyday to be a good mom. That even though cooking without your help is much easier and way faster, cooking with me makes you happy. So I'm happy. That even though carrying you has thrown my back out of whack in 4 different places and that my back works like an aging 82-year-old I secretly like sleeping you in my arms so I could look at your dashingly handsome face and breath in your baby man smell while you dream.

I know that my love for you is so immense that even when you use my lipstick to paint my bedspread or use my stomach as a landing pad, or scream bloody murder for no reason at all that I love you. That there is nothing you can ever do that will ever change that. 

I know that my heart feels bad every time I can't give you what you want. I know it makes you sad. I'm sorry for that. But know that my heart is equally as sad because my feelings are bound to yours. I will never be able to give you everything you want. But I will try to give you everything I can.

I know that I secretly can't wait for you to crawl into bed with us so that I could snuggle your little bodies and hold you tight in my arms and nestle my face in your baby curls. And you will always be allowed in. 

I know that I want to fiercely protect you from every evil thing that you might encounter in life - that I won't be able to - but that I will try to. Don't get mad at me for being overbearing. That's what mama bears do to protect their cubs.

I know that your flirty smile works wonders. It fills up the room. It melts hearts. It evokes happiness. Your laugh does the same. It's contagious and perfect and warming. I wish I could keep it stored away in one of those old ballerina jewelry boxes so that I could wind it up and listen to it over and over again. 

You should know that you are what is beautiful in this world and seeing everything through your eyes makes it even more beautiful to me. 

I know that there is a moment in every day when I look at you and think how perfect you are: how strong, how smart, how sweet, how funny, how innocent, how lovely, how kind, how everything you are. 

And I only hope that one day you know these things too.

Mami vs. the Klingons

It was one of those mornings.

One of those mornings that I wish my name was something other than Mami.

Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamI. Mami. MamI. MAmi. MAMI. Mami. Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamI. Mami. MamI. MAmi. MAMI. Mami. Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamI. Mami. MamI. MAmi. MAMI. Mami. Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamI. Mami. MamI. MAmi. MAMI. 

How many different ways could one say Mami?

How many different places could you put the accent on Mami?

And don't think I didn't respond. Don't think I was ignoring my lovely little and that's why she kept calling my name:

Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamI. Mami. MamI. MAmi. MAMI. Mami. Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamI. Mami. MamI. MAmi. MAMI. Mami. Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamI. Mami. MamI. MAmi. MAMI. Mami. Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamI. Mami. MamI. MAmi. MAMI. Mami. Mami. Mami.

Bitch, please.
I responded.
I responded plenty:

What language did she want me to respond in? Klingon? I'll tell you what - I'ma learn Klingon just to say it in Klingon too next time. Matter of fact, after just looking it up, apparently "huh" in Klingon is "Nuqjatlh" which is perfect because I could use the most ridiculous word from the most ridiculous of languages in the most ridiculous of situations.

Her: Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamI.
Me: Nuqjatlh

It was one of those mornings when I swear, my lovely Klingons where put here on Earth as repayment for the heartache and grief that I "supposedly" caused my mother (although I have yet to see real proof that I was really all that difficult).

One of those mornings where even sitting next to baby Klingon wasn't enough. If he wasn't climbing my face like a mountain and sticking his fingers into my mouth, nose, or eyeball sockets he wasn't happy. If I moved, even an inch he screamed -at way too high an octave - BloODy MurDeR! So I couldn't move even an inch. Not even an inch?! I can't move even this tiny space because I accidentally sat on a fork and the prongs are making 4 holes in my butt cheek? I can't even move off this bloody fork, really? So not even when you're playing "open the door, close the door" with your back turned to me can I move because your sense of Mami Movement is so acute that you whip your head around and look at me through owl eyes just to make sure that I haven't move, that I'm not even thinking about this move I've undoubtedly thought about making? ok. I'll stay right here, owl eyes. hoot. hoot.

It was one of those mornings when I actually tried to reason with a 2-year-old which I think makes me crazier than them, right? Because let's be honest, what sane (<-- lost that war a long time ago) intelligent person reasons with a 2-year-old? Rather what intelligent person reasons with a 2-year-old AND actually expects the hoped for outcome? Well, genius... a not very intelligent person at all.

Her: Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamI. Mami. MamI. MAmi. MAMI. Mami. Mami.
Me: I don't want to talk to you right now. (said very sincerely)
Her: MamI. MAmi. MAMI. Mami. Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamI. Mami. MamI.
Me: I'm not talking to you.

Seriously. I said that. I said it very calmly and very matter of factly as if I were talking to a reasonable, logical human being, which is even more ludicrous. 

I said, "I don't want to talk to you right now," to my 2-year-old as if she'd understand that. 

As if she'd look at me and empathetically and say, "I understand, crazy lady. You need some alone time right now. Some you time. Got it. I'll give you some space. Here, I'll even close the door."

Instead she swung her little doll arm up in the air and slapped me down my face. Oh yeah. Down my face. The slap where they graze your bottom eye lid, your nose, and your bottom lip. Yeah. That one. It's even more humbling than the slap across the face. 

About this time, it was one of those mornings when I thought about how if I poked my eye out with my eyeliner no one would fault me for going to the ER and I'd be forced to spend some of my day there and wouldn't that just be delightful? A well rested break. A few hours to lay down and have people wait on me and bring me food in between a nap in a bed all to myself. 

Mami. Mami. MAmi. MamI. Mami. MamI. MAmi. MAMI. Mami. Mami. Mami. MAMI. 

That pencil to the eye was looking p-A-retty good.

It was one of those mornings where when nap time rolled in, I took a moment to thank God - no literally I said, "Thank you, Almighty Heavenly Father for getting me - and the Klingons - to this hour... without harm." I carried Klingon #1 to her room:

"Mami."

Oh boy. Not again. I thought. "MmHmm." I answered cautiously.

"Mami. Música, I Love You," she says which is what she calls I Will, The Beatles song I lullaby her with which is as short as is it perfectly beautiful.

I begin:

Who knows how long I've loved you.
You know I love you still...

and I hear, "steeeel." I chuckle because she's repeating my word.

Will I wait a lonely lifetime...

"Weeeee I waaay lie tie." She's not repeating. She's singing along...

...in Klingon. But nevertheless, she's singing along with the song that I told myself 20 years ago would be the lullaby I sang to my kids - before I really had any idea what it meant to have kids - and now here is this beautiful Klingon singing back my lullaby? This same Klingon who was trying to stab me in the eye with an eyeliner pencil a half hour ago with the help of her Klingon brother is now singing back my lullaby with her head nestled in my neck? 

If you want me to, I will.

"Mami." She says again.

"Yes, Rafa."

"Música, I Love You."

"Yes, Rafa. Música, I Love You."

Damn it. Fine Klingons. You win. 

Who knows how long I've loved you

You know I love you still

Will I wait a lonely lifetime

If you want me to I will

For if I ever saw you

I didn't catch your name

but it never really mattered

I will always feel the same

Love you forever... and forever

Love you with all my heart

Love you whenever we're together

Love you when we're apart

And when at least I find you

Your song will fill the air

Sing it loud so I can hear you

Make it easy to be near you

For the things you do, endear you to me

Oh you know I will.

I will.