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The Spanish equivalent of Madonna is also pickled in hair dye and cigarettes

29 Jun

July 28, 2011

On one of my last nights in Mexico, my friends and I went out with our gay Mexican doctor teacher and his boyfriend to a 30-and-up bar to see a band cover all the hits of a Latina 80s pop superstar, Yuri.
The  ambiance of the bar was sophisticated, but laid back. I think it’s a little unfair that hangouts for 20-year-olds aren’t that classy. And don’t have 80s cover bands.
There were huge leather couches around little coffee tables and polished marble floors, and my friends, Jorge Uno, myself,and Jorge’s 22-year-old boyfriend, were the youngest people in there by a good 15 years.
Three ladies, friends of Jorge (and at least 40), sat near us. After introducing us all to each other, Jorge turns to me and points to one of his friends, exclaiming “Don’t her boobies look nice? She went all the way to Victoria’s Secret in New York to get that bra.”
I learned two valuable lessons from that exchange, the first: there are no Victoria’s Secrets in Mexico (although I did see a store that flagrantly abused international copyright laws and used all the VS logos and pictures of their models).
The second: I asked if there was a word for “push-up bra” in Spanish, and learned that, like “nerd,” it’s a direct translation from English to Spanish. (For the curious, “OK,” and “Lady Gaga” are also direct translations).
Before the Yuri cover band went on, the DJ was spinning 80s favorites and projecting the videos that went with them. Think Pat Benetar, David Bowie, jorts, big hair, and other 80s music video staples, except with the lyrics all in Spanish.
When I wasn’t too distracted by the videos, I chatted with Jose, Jorge’s boyfriend, about dancing and his most recent role in a production put on by his acting school. My friend and I had gone to see the performance earlier in the week- it was essentially a Shakespeare comedy, except all in Spanish. I felt like what those four-year-olds with cultured parents must feel like when they are made to watch “Taming of the Shrew” as toddlers. “WTF mom? I just want to see some cars or princesses.”
Jose was great in the play, but we left after about 30 minutes, because as entertaining as it is to understand absolutely nothing that’s going on, sometimes its more fun to just watch American T.V. shows in bed.
Jose told us his character in the play, “Fortuna,” was a diva (and, you guessed it, in drag), and so he had to bedazzle his 5-inch stilettos with aquamarine glitter himself to fit the role. I think he is a method actor.
When the Yuri band went on, it was pretty much exactly what I expected. Slightly-synthesized sounding with a persistent drum beat, the music videos for each song perfectly aligned with the cover band.
At one point, the band did Yuri’s version of a high-energy remix of a classic salsa song, and Jose pulled me out onto the dance floor. Or rather, the short strip of open floor in between the door and the rest of the tables.
With his dramatic acting school lead, we did a slightly erratic combination of salsa, merengue, samba, and freestyle booty-shaking.
After we sat back down, Jorge asked me if I was part Cuban, but then revised his statement with “You need bigger boobs and a bigger butt to be Cuban.”
It was the nicest thing I’d heard all week.
The band continued with some of Yuri’s more soulful tunes that everyone in the club (except us American girls) knew by heart and crooned with the same amount of passion that most Americans reserve only for karaoke versions of “Don’t Stop Believing” and “Party in the U.S.A.”
After the band played Yuri’s version of “Karma Chameleon,” we decided it was time to call it quits. It was hard saying “Good-Bye” to Jorge and Jose. Jorge Uno was easily one of the most unexpected, but most entertaining, parts of my trip to Mexico, and bidding him “Adios,” meant leaving his renditions of ABBA and Susan Boyle, infinite knowledge of contraceptive devices, and obsession with pygmies.
But, as Yuri once sang “Pero No Te Olvido”: But I don’t forget you.

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It’s never too early to prevent osteoporosis

29 Jun

July 17, 2011

Supposedly one out of every 10 Americans is lactose intolerant.
I can safely say that I am one of those lucky nine who is decidedly very lactose tolerant.
Since I love dairy so much, the dairy situation in Mexico was something I paid close attention to.
Now, when most people think of Mexican food, they think of goopy cheese sauce and quesadillas.
I’m sorry to disappoint, but this post is not about cheese.
Instead, it is about the wonderful world of milk, eggs, ice cream, and my new favorite semi-dairy products, trolebuses.
In the Mexican supermarkets, there is an entire aisle dedicated to milk. None of this business of pushing the milk to a little case along the back wall, milk gets its own AISLE majestically placed in the center of the store.
That’s right. The center. As in, not in the refrigerator section.
When I realized that milk was purchased non-refrigerated, I was a little freaked out. What do they do to milk so that it DOESN’T have to be refrigerated until after you open it? The yuppy white-girl part of me kicked in. The part that is overly concerned about BPA and toxins in corn-fed beef (a fear fueled by sensational documentaries and a father who recently replaced the cookware I’ve been eating off of for almost 20 years because it might be leaching a chemical that causes Alzheimer’s. Too late now. What was I talking about?)
Once I got over my fear of growing a third-nipple on my earlobe from drinking the milk, I found that I actually preferred the way it tasted. It’s richer and creamier tasting than the milk in the U.S., even skim.
I fell asleep every night not counting sheep, but counting down the hours until I could wake up and eat my bowl of cereal with the delicious milk.
(On a side note though, apparently Mexicans think it’s really weird that we eat milk and cookies together, and don’t understand why Santa needs milk AND cookies. Does he have to be that greedy?)
Milk is not the only thing that isn’t refrigerated before use. My host family didn’t refrigerate their eggs either. They stored them in this egg cage-carousel thing that sat on the kitchen counter. I was mystified. Did putting the eggs behind bars keep the un-conditioned air out enough to keep the eggs from spoiling? I never figured out the reason for the egg cage-carousel, but I also never got sick from spoiled eggs, so I can only assume that the people in Mexico know something about preventing salmonella that we haven’t figured out yet.
Luckily, people in Mexico DO use the refrigerator (or freezer rather) for ice cream.
It’s rare that I encounter an ice cream I don’t like-the last time was at Baskin Robbins- “cinnamon stripe” is the worst flavor in the world. Red hots and ice cream don’t go together EVER.
Mexican ice cream makers don’t try and put nasty candies in their ice creams. They keep them simple, fresh, and presumably use the better-tasting milk. You can get the basics, chocolate and vanilla (which is bright yellow), or be a little adventurous with tropical fruit flavors, like guanabana or dragon fruit.
But the best part about Mexican ice cream parlors was that they also sold trolebuses, a frozen treat that is pretty much shaved ice, fresh fruit, sugar, and milk blended together and frozen. Troles are a more refreshing, less rich version of ice cream that take longer to eat because they’re frozen solid. Well, some of them are.
I had one trole that was more like a frappucino. I went to this little ice cream joint/soda fountain that bordered this adorable park about a mile from where I lived.
The sign outside advertised ice cream, malts, and troles.
I went in, and inquired, in Spanish, if they had coconut troles.
The 16-year-old that was working looked at me like I was crazy. 
Was I speaking a different language? I didn’t think so. I tried, Yoda-style, to rephrase my question. Subject. Verb.
“Troles…de coco? Tienes?”
Still nothing. I was mystified. The sign outside said there were troles within.
“Trolebuses?”
He gave me the same look that I think I gave half of the people in Mexico when they asked me a basic question.
I decided to try one more time.
Like magic, he suddenly understood and started laughing. Not at himself. Not with me. AT me.
I just smiled politely and handed him 18 pesos, feeling uncomfortable. The boy made my trole while I watched, fascinated. He shaved a ton of ice from this industrial, meat-grinder-type machine, and mixed it with some sketchy white liquid in a blender.
He laughed at me as he handed me my trole, and I tried to leave with as much dignity as I could. I forgot all of my indignation when I tasted the trole. It was perfectly creamy, with just the right amount of coconut. Not fake coconut, the real deal.  I thought it might have coconut milk in it along with regular milk.
A little too late, I thought about the fact that the ice probably wasn’t made with purified water. But hey, if my stomach can handle lactose better than 10% of Americans, I figured it could stand up to a little un-purified (and probably BPA-free) water.

I’m going to yes myself to death

29 Jun

July 5, 2011

You could say I’m agreeable person. But not just in the sense that (usually) I’m easy to get along with.
I literally agree to EVERYTHING here in Mexico, which has had some mixed results.
See, when I don’t understand exactly what someone is asking/trying to tell me, the easiest course of action is just to smile, nod, put on my “I completely understand every word you’re saying to me”-face, and say “Si” repeatedly.
This strategy has resulted in many outcomes, including having my eyebrows dyed, being followed to the movies by Jaguar Jesus the Pasta Salesman, and eating some tasty marshmallows (maybe?) and hot fudge on fro-yo.
As you may or may not already know, I have (more or less) successfully navigated a few beauty salons here. I managed to get my hair cut short WITHOUT looking like Justin Bieber, and even though I accidentally agreed to having my hair dyed a little more red than I wanted, at least I didn’t accidentally agree to platinum blonde.
However, when the stylist was dyeing my hair, she asked me if I wanted something done, and all I caught was “the little hairs.”
Well, since my hair is short, of course all of it is “little hair,” so I smiled, nodded, and said “Si” a few times.
The next thing I knew, she was painting dye on my eyebrow.  At this point, it was a little too late to walk out of there. What was I supposed to do? Leave with mismatched eyebrows?
Let me just tell you that, as a white American girl, I already stick out like George Bush at an AME service. I couldn’t POSSIBLY attract more attention to myself by leaving with mismatched eyebrows, although honestly, I probably looked weirder walking out of there with random streaks of dye on my face than if I had just abandoned ship halfway through.
Since my American friends and I usually travel a pack, I think we attract a pretty good deal of attention, but usually people are a little intimidated (or uninterested) in approaching us.
Not so in the case of Jaguar Jesus. We were waiting at a bus stop to go to the movies, when a friendly little dude who was waiting at the same stop walked up to us and asked where we were going. We told him, and he pointed to a bus stop around the corner and said we needed to take that one. The bus stop was literally 50 feet away- we didn’t need a personal escort, but he took it upon himself to make sure we got to the stop safely.
We chatted a little bit, but it was completely one sided. I had literally no idea what he was talking about. I kept catching the word for China, but he didn’t look Chinese at all. I like to think that my Spanish has progressed enough to at least have a basic conversation with someone on the street, but not this time.
He was wearing a polo embroidered with a logo that said “something- something- PASTA,” so I asked him where he worked (as if I would understand his response).
From what I could gather, he worked at some sort of company that provides pasta to different places (presumably restaurants), and he was the delivery boy. He pointed to his elbow, I guess to signify elbow pasta.
The bus finally came, and my friends and I moved to get on it. He said something to me, and of course I smiled, nodded, and said “Si” a few times.
Suddenly, he was on the bus with us, sitting next to me. He asked me my name, and told me his. I couldn’t understand what he was saying.
So, he pulled out his I.D. and showed me. It said “Balam Jesus.”
Balam is the Mayan word for jaguar, and Jesus, is well, Jesus.
I was sitting on the bus with Jaguar Jesus, who was chatting my ear off in a language that I can only assume was Spanish (but maybe it was Chinese, since he kept talking about China…)
We arrived at the mall with the movie theater, and (I guess) since I hadn’t demonstrated any ability to understand anything so far, Jaguar Jesus took it upon himself to walk us to the theater (in case I should get lost going somewhere I actually HAVE been before).
While he was walking with us all I could think was “How do I get rid of him? If he asks to see a movie with us, I probably will accidentally say yes!”
Luckily, at the door to the mall, he let us go, bidding us farewell (I think) and trotting off to wherever he was going, be it to sell pasta or work his moonlight shift of accompanying American students to the movies.
The most success I’ve had with my “Yes” strategy is when I’m eating, in a restaurant or in my house. I’ll agree to eat just about anything, and usually it lands me delicious condiments (there’s this stuff here called media crema that is like sour cream, but not sour!) or an extra scoop of ice cream (the vanilla here is bright yellow, because vanilla beans are yellow…?).
“They” always say that you should say “YES” to life, embrace it with open arms, seize the day, blah blah blah, but in reality, all that will get you is weird colored eyebrows, a persistent companion, and, if you’re lucky, tortillas on the side.

Do bus drivers take bathroom breaks?

29 Jun

June 25, 2011

The answer is yes. Mexican bus drivers take bathroom breaks. And they take lunch breaks. And water breaks.
All while there are passengers still on the bus.
Mexican bus drivers are very capricious people you see. If nature calls, or they see an appetizing street food stand vending a dubious (but delicious) meat/cheese/bean combo, they will grab a handful of the pesos that the passengers paid and hop off to grab a little snack.
The bus drivers are equally capricious about when and where they will (or won’t) stop. Although there are ‘designated’ bus stops in the streets of Merida, as far as I can tell, they mean absolutely nothing.
Instead, people just stand on the curb and flag down the bus, using it like a giant, hot, smelly taxi service.
I have seen a bus driver stop for two different people who are literally 50 feet away from each other, and have been waiting at a REAL bus stop and had the bus driver just blow on past me.
Getting off the bus is just as risky as getting on. When you’re ready to get off, you just stand up and, if you’re lucky, the bus driver will pull over and you can jump off. Actually, you have to tuck-and-roll, because as soon as one foot hits the pavement, the bus is already in motion.
I saw a lady fall off the bus one time, I think because the bus driver started going before she could get all the way off.
My friends and family were worried about me going to Mexico this summer, and I assured them that the Yucatan is probably safer than most of the U.S.
That was before I encountered the public transportation system here.
I don’t think that the buses have to follow the same traffic suggestions as everyone else here. They barrel down the middle of the streets, and start honking at any poor car that is trying to drive on its designated side of the street.
I think the bus drivers have that gene defect where they can’t differentiate between green and red, because red lights apparently mean “Go, and go fast.”
As easy as it is to hate on the bus drivers, they do work hard, day in and day out, driving the same loops around the city stuck in the same bus.
To counteract this monotony, a lot of the bus drivers have decorated the insides of their vehicles. I’ve seen a lot of different decorations, and think there are a few common categories of bus drivers:
The Hail-Mary Bus Driver: His bus is literally a shrine to the Virgin Mary. You have a little serene, Caucasian statuette mounted near the ceiling in the front, with a rosary hanging from her supplicating hands, and a few crucifix stickers posted on the walls. My theory: This bus driver has taken at least one life because of his driving and is in a constant state of atonement. (The subset of this category is The Praise-Jesus Bus Driver. I saw one of the most realistic Jesus statues of my life in his bus.)
The American Stereotypes Bus Driver: Since most Americans enjoy Playboy and the Simpsons, this bus driver is demonstrating his advanced knowledge of American culture with decor that reflects these American icons, like Playboy Bunny and Bart Simpson stickers.
The “I Just Want to Party” Bus Driver: Because, well, who DOESN’T want to ride around in a discoteca at 2 in the afternoon? This bus driver is an amateur electrician, and has mounted a border of glowing neon lights around the interior windshield. He hasn’t figured out how to mount the strobe yet. Unfortunately, his sound system isn’t advanced enough to keep up with his lighting- his only option is to play the slightly mournful Mexican banda music instead of the thumping bass that I’m sure he would prefer.

I have been in Merida for a month, and I think that a solid week has been spent riding the bus. If you have a car, please don’t take that fact for granted. And hopefully I’ve given you some inspiration for some very groovy decor for it.

Jorge Uno y Jorge Dos

29 Jun

June 17, 2011

My name lends itself well to nicknames. George. Georgie. Georgina. When I was in high school, my sister and her friends called me by what they decided was my Spanish name: Jorgina. Sometimes they would shorten it to just Jorge.
Even though the name is pretty common here in Mexico, Jorge still holds special significance for me, more so now since one of my teachers AND my tutor are named Jorge. Everything about my trip is making a lasting impression, don’t get me wrong, but the Jorge’s are in a category of their own.
Jorge Uno, as I call him, is an almost-30-year-old gay Mexican doctor who teaches Spanish Medical Terminology to our class of three girls.
He comes in every day, a healthy 30 minutes late, with a Pepsi Kick, some over-processed bread product, and his cell phone that looks exactly like a Flip Cam. He has a little paunchy belly, black beard and mustache, slicked back hair, and wears black pinstriped pants as often as he is late to class.
Hands down, the best part about Jorge Uno is his voice when he speaks English, which unfortunately I can’t recreate here. It reminds me of Speedy Gonzalez- high pitched, a little squeaky and accenting odd syllables. Luckily for me, I can imitate it pretty well, because he speaks in English all the time. Ask him a question in Spanish, and he will answer in English.
“Jorge, que vamos a hacer hoy?” we asked him one Friday when we went to his clinic for a “practicum.
“Well, gurrrrlzzz. Today we are going to be making the practice with my PASH-ENS that have the feet of diabetes.”
(A quick side note about diabetic feet: I imagine that diabetes is treated often enough in the U.S. that people don’t develop diabetic feet- whatever language you speak, its pretty nasty. Jorge proudly showed us pictures of him amputating the toes of his diabetic-footed patients.
It looked like they had frostbite, except that is physically impossible here in Mexico. I won’t go into the graphic details of the pictures, except to say that you could see bones. And tendons. And gooey stuff.)
It was in fact, in that same day, when he was showing us pictures of the amputation, that he told us about his sexuality. He was showing us pictures on his computer, when suddenly a shot came up of a Latino guy wearing a colonial-era dress, blonde wig, and enough make-up to give Dolly Parton a run for her money.
“That. That is my boy-friend.” Jorge announced nonchalantly. “He is an actor.”
Of course he is. Of course Jorge is dating an “actor.” Jorge later revealed that his boyfriend, Jose, runs the dance studio located on the second-floor of the clinic, goes to school for acting, and is 23.
Jorge and Jose want to adopt children and get married, but can’t because, according to Jorge “The depu-taties have sheeet in their brains and are making the rules that say we cannot adopt the children. But you do not need a pen-is and vah-heen to raise a child. You just need the love and the ability.”
This was followed by a 30-minute rant about gay rights in Mexico, which segued into a rant about the steps that people need to take to have the “safety sex,” as he calls it.
Even though it took every ounce of strength I had to not laugh out loud throughout this ENTIRE conversation, I couldn’t help but being impressed with Jorge. He is a progressive-thinking man and is working his butt off to make other people’s lives better.
His clinic is in a slightly rough neighborhood, and offers discounted, free, or government-subsidized services to poor people, especially in the surrounding Mayan pueblos. Jorge runs a community service volunteer program at the medical school in Merida, providing free clinics for disadvantaged people every Saturday morning.
He also has a passion for promoting safe sex, like I mentioned earlier. He showed us a box of (no joke) 5,000 condoms that he picked up (for free) at the Ministry of Health that he’s going to give out “to save the boys and girls.” Jorge is almost evangelical about promoting “safety sex.” He told us that he gives them to as many people as he can: at conferences, meetings, classes, as prizes. I am envisioning Jorge hosting a foam party, except instead of showering the party-goers in bubbles, he would make it rain condoms.
However, Jorge said that those free condoms only taste like lubricant, not the flavored ones that he recommended we buy for our boyfriends when we asked him what a good gift for our men would be.
“No Jorge, we want something you can ONLY get in Merida, Mexico.”
“Chile-jabanero flavored condons of course.” Was his matter-of-fact reply.
He considered our question a little more seriously.
“You have boyfriend in the States? Why you not have Mayan pygmy boyfriends? You do not like the pygmies? What about African pygmies? Or any pygmies at all?”
I’m not really sure what Jorge’s fixation with pygmies is, but he talks about them all the time. When he was driving us to a bus stop after our practicum, he pointed out everyone walking on the street.
“Look. There is police-pygmy. And pygmy on motorcycle. And pygmy lady sitting down.”
I thought I was going to asphyxiate I was laughing so hard. Or I thought I would “matar de risa” as my tutor Jorge Dos taught me.
Jorge Dos is not as flamboyant a character as his predecessor, but I think, besides maybe my host mom, he will be the person that I have spoken the most consistent Spanish with by the time I go home.
Every day for two hours, my friend and I sit in a little study room and hang out with Jorge Dos. At first glance, he’s pretty normal and unassuming. Average height (for a Mexican), dark hair, jeans, and t-shirt.
Even though he’s studying history, I think he has more patience than whoever invented claymation stop-action cinematography. Which I have a feeling he is a fan of.
See, Jorge Dos is, as we say in the English AND Spanish-speaking countries, a nerd.
A patient nerd. A nerd with enough patience to sit in a room for two hours every day and listen to grown, intelligent, college-educated girls struggle through basic conversations with more stuttering than Porky Pig.
As much as I know he is dying to laugh at us as much as we laugh at Jorge Uno, somehow he holds it in.
I like to think we have pretty good conversations, even if they are a little one-sided sometimes. Some highlights: We spend a lot of time talking about holidays. We talked about our Halloween costumes, which is when Jorge Dos revealed that he wanted to buy a Legolas costume the time he visited Miami, but the box was too big to get on the plane (he also revealed that day that he has a Lord of the Rings action-figure set).
When it came time to describe Christmas traditions, it took a solid 10 minutes to describe glitter to him.
“You know. Bright. Shiny. Sparkly. Powder. Lady Gaga bathes in it…”
He figured it out eventually, and was the most amused I’ve ever seen him when I told him that some people mix glitter and oatmeal and put it in their front yards to signal to Santa’s reindeer.
“So you create a landing strip for the reindeer.”
Sure, Jorge. Even though he hadn’t seen “It’s a Wonderful Life,” Jorge had seen a lot of other American movies.
He is actually a movie buff- apparently he has a VIP card to the movie theater and can buy his tickets to the new Harry Potter movie before everyone else.
He also references “The Hangover” movies a lot. He told us he has to plan his friend’s Bachelor Party, and, though inspired by the antics in the film, wanted a more “tranquilo” time in Cancun for the “despidida de soltero” party (goodbye to singleness).
Jorge is always giving us nifty little cultural nuggets like that. Like the fact that he drives everywhere because, according to him, if you walk in the street here, people will think you are crazy or poor.
I walk everywhere that I can, so who knows what the population here thinks of me.
Jorge Dos understands most of our questions in English, so my new goal is to get him to actually SPEAK in English. Maybe it will be as awesome as when Jorge Uno does…
I can just imagine him, like Jorge Uno “Ok guuuurlzzz, be happy, enjoy your lives, and find a nice pygmy.”

Meet Rosa, the Mexican Mayan Manicurist

29 Jun

June 11, 2011

Spanish lesson of the day: the word for “trite” or “cliche” is trillado.
As much as I hate to do this, I’m going to be una poca trillada and say this: every day legitimately is a great adventure, and even the things that might seem mundane or ordinary are…well, not.
Take getting my nails done the other day. Manicures are a pretty common occurrence for a subset of the female population, I’d venture to say, and I think the stereotype of the esthetician as a super chatty, gossipy little lady is, though perhaps trillado, very true.
My friend and I went to this little salon in between our classes. It was around 10:15, and the sign outside the door said the salon was open from 10-4 daily. It was attached to a house, so we knocked on the door of the salon and rang the doorbell, but no one answered.
We waited a few minutes, a bit confused, and knocked again. A very flustered, petite Latina opened the door, and started apologizing to us profusely in rapid Spanish, saying that we had just woken her up, and begging us to give her a minute.
She ran off and we sat down on the couches, flipping through magazines. She reappeared a minute later, looking slightly less disheveled, and we told her we wanted manis/pedis (since both was around 130 pesos- not even $15 USD).
I sat down and she started going to work on my nails, working carefully and thoroughly on each nail, all the while chatting away, asking the requisite q’s: names/hometowns/why we are in Merida, etc.
I’ve gotten so good at responding to those preguntas trilladas that I fool Spanish speakers into thinking that I can actually speak Spanish, and then when they ask me a question with substance, they learn that my speaking abilities are probably on par with a kindergardener in remedial coloring classes.
That’s what happened with Rosa Maria, the manicurist. Somehow, she started telling me about the rampant racism in Mexico against Mayans, and how it was a terrible problem for her family. Every sentence ended in a conspiratorial whisper, head nod, and short burst of high-pitched giggles.
“Your president? Who is he? Oh yes…” voice lowers, “He’s black isn’t he?” head nod, “Do you like him because he’s black?” cue the giggles.
The two hours I spent in the nail salon was probably the best real-life Spanish practice I’ve had in the entire 2 1/2 weeks I’ve been here. Rosa Maria didn’t slow down for us, or try and dumb too much down, like our host moms sometimes do.
She told us a morbid story about a drug dealer in Merida who slit his girlfriend’s throat for some reason (I think because she wouldn’t have sex with him, but I didn’t quite follow everything).
She asked us what bad words in English were, and told us about her 5 children and abusive ex-husband.
I imagine if I actually knew anybody in Merida, she would have a lot to say about them.
“Oh yes, So-and-So…do you know her?” lowers voice, “Apparently her mother’s aunt’s cousin’s fiance is leaving her,” head nod, “For another man!” cue the giggles.
I didn’t have time that day to get a pedicure…I can’t wait to pay Rosa Maria another visit and hear the latest news about the local delinquent youth, the dangers of not wearing sunscreen, and get her opinion on the best places here to buy high heels.