SON MIS LOCURAS

At the risk of too many successive Glee-related items, I link to this.  Since my life doesn’t provide enough opportunities to sing or dance, I live vicariously.

I’ve got guacamole fixings, limes, and enough mango con chamoy to make the lady at the register raise both eyebrows. The weekend can begin now.

My mother no longer uses the word “tall.” These days she just says los altos are “super-sized.”

We need to talk about limits on tv.

11-year-old boy: I can navigate, I have Google Maps on my phone.
Vero: I’ve got the iPad, we’re good.
11-year-old boy: I think I’ve been outed.
Us: [Silence]
Me: I think you mean “outdone,” not “outed.”

Every now and then my mom gets it into her head that a “look nuevo” is necessary.  I’m feeling about the same and so, the blog goes with a new look.

“Really, I’m ok. The welts are from acupressure, no one is beating me.”

“Hey, you know that pill I told you about for your dropped foot? Well, I got the name wrong, it’s Lyrica, not Levitra. No se te vaya levantar otra cosa.”

“If what you ate during pregnancy determined what your kid looked like, mine would be a ramen noodle.”

My favorite part of the spring religious season is listening to people recount the stops on their path toward peace with the idea of faith.

Today’s story:

“I remember my mom used to take us to confession as kids, but we were kids, we didn’t have anything to confess. So, after ‘confession’ we’d compare notes on how many prayers we’d gotten and then go shove our fingers into all the candles, just so we’d have something to talk to the priest about in next week’s session.”

Some birds are trying to move in on my outdoor speakers. We’ve had an ongoing battle that mostly involves me interrupting the nest building before it’s done. Today, I didn’t have time for that, so I left the Classic Rock playlist going (come on Queen).
We’ll see what’s there when I get back.

Upon my return, four hours later, Tina Turner was on and no birds (or nests) were to be found.  I’ve found the answer.  Sorry, Mr. Neighbor.

I am lucky to be healthy. At most, I’ll get a cold every couple of years. Because of this, I don’t generally visit doctors. And, that makes my mom mad. She doesn’t like that I find time for everything except for her and the doctor. With those words she can guilt me into spending time with her, but hasn’t quite been successful in getting me to the doctor, until this week.
I finally decided I should go. I happily told my mom—and she promptly accused me of being on death’s doorstep and trying to shield her from bad news. This precipitated a fight. I did exactly what she wanted and got in trouble for it.
Nunca gano.

Today’s was my sighting of the military-themed quinceanera. The seven-year-old chambelan carrying a giant sword (albeit unable to put it in its sheath) was something else.

The stretch Hummer and pictures at the park were more typical sights.

Lalo Alcaraz at a fundraiser for the Los Angeles Center for Law and Justice, February 27, 2011.

Details to come.

Mom: When I was little, we were so poor that one Christmas I went to all the neighbors and asked for gifts. They gave me a piece of candy, a handful of nuts, and an orange.
Me: You went trick or treating?

Checkout stand at my local grocery store. I think the corkscrew’s placement between the condoms and stamina pills and the pregnancy test is a joke. It has to be a joke. Right?

They’re always sketchy, but considering this one has a chain on the back doors, I’d say it’s especially scary.

My mom spends six months packing for a seven day trip.

“I’m an XL. That’s my age in Roman numerals, not my shirt size.”

Mom: Look! How cute. A little girl and her mother having lunch together.
Me: What do you think we’re doing? We’re just 30 years older.

Sometimes I’m naïve about elections and the lengths to which people will go to win them. I was reminded of this again yesterday when a friend noted that when she went to her polling place in NYC, she was handed a ballot with the selections already half filled in.