It's Not Me, It's You

This writing sits over my desk:

Love is not love,

which alters when in alteration finds,

or bends with the remover to remove.

Oh no,

it is an ever fixed mark

which looks on tempest 

and not shaken.

William Shakespeare

This poem is about choice...about willingness to continuously dedicate part of your life to loving another. Sometimes loving that other is not so easy. 

That is why reading this, I understand that love, like joy is something totally based on will; your will matched with another's to make it work.

I love imagining Shakespeare, with his big beard, middle aged, with wife and kids running around...writing this in his mind. His motive? To remind himself that everything is going to be alright.

Welcome...to Fantasy Illness

My children, DayDiesel and Captain Nos are lovely, adorable children who smile and laugh most of the day away like giggly little nymphs.

The one caveat to having adorably sweet children that want to hug and kiss on you all day long is that they tend to transfer disease very easily.

Diesel is what I like to refer to as "The Host Child" as he tends to be the host of most illness that get transfered to me, my husband Al and my dear cousin Mimi.

Mimi just loves to bitch about the kid whenever she sees him sneeze. Otherwise a very, very loving auntie, she has come to fear my 4 1/2 year old nugget. 

"There's the host child," she says if he rubs his nose.

Rightfully so, Mimi. I am now officially terrified of my host children too after my most recent bout with a little virus called Influenza. 

Dave, our host child, came home from Pre-K to transfer the disease....to his sister, the dogs, myself and now, my dear husband (who truly believes he WON'T get sick merely out of will power and an overdose of vitamin C).

I was in bed late last night, shivering, aching and hallucinating.

In the hallucination, I was on a catamaran, flying over a beautiful island. A precious girl named No was waiting for us in a white tuxedo and bow tie. All of a sudden she starts to yell "The pwane! The pwane! (she can't pronounce L's very well especially with her matching white Binky in her mouth)." And then there he is, my adorable Day in a matching miniature tuxedo, waving me down to his island where I contract the flu. 

I have to say, his host child status was very useful one time when he gave me a bacteria he contracted in South America. I lost 10 lbs! Now if only I could find a way to bottle this bacteria and sell it to Hollywood starlets. I think they can handle pooing and vomiting simultaneously for quick, effortless weight loss.

Namaste Lamby

I just did a headstand for five minutes and boy do I feel good.

Here's what I was thinking about while I was upside down, in a yogic pose that is tremendously beneficial:

Lamb Chop is the shit! I mean really, this little stuffed lamb with a perpetual fist in its' ass is quite wise. I was in a tantric state of bliss....really helped me get there.

It's Marco Motherfuckers!

I was raised in Peru for about 3 years of my life. 

Our cartoons were all Japanimation because of the large amount of Japanese immigrants that came over after the World Wars.

This was our version of Dora the Explorer:

This cartoon was about a little boy who lives in poverty with his mom doing odd jobs to make ends meet. One day, they get work on a ship. He falls asleep on the ship and his mom gets left behind in a port in Italy and he gets sent to another country. 

Marco's adventures involve:

1. Crying all over Japan.

2. Befriending a monkey, squirrel type creature that also gets lost from time to time.

3. Begging for food.

4. Protecting his asshole.

5. Bathing in puddles.

The intro still makes me want to hug my mom really tight.

I left Peru when I was three and a half. Never did get to see how Marco ended but somewhere in my little kid heart, he is still scared, hungry, looking for his Mama and protecting his asshole.

Here is why I decided to share...my kids LOVE Strawberry Shortcake. Did you know they got rid of the Peculiar Purple Pie Man in the new version? They got rid of the one villain that wasn't really that scary...like Gargamel would kick his pie ass! 

Are my kids going to be softer than me? I am all soft and smooshy in the middle. Should I drop a little Marco knowledge on them? And most importantly: IS ANYBODY READING THIS?

I Saw Dead Person

I am a bit disturbed today as I got back from a long trip late last night and saw a dead body in the airport right in front of the tram. There was a little yellow fence around the body that said D.O.A. and people crying.

It is a strange thing, this mortality business. One day you are alive and kicking, the next you are on a concrete floor in McCarran International, with strangers looking at you.

I chose not to look, as I felt the anxiety attack creeping up on me. My kids were obliviously steered towards interesting signs and sculptures...

I guess it is the best thing to do, avoid the obvious. Good times are fleeting, life is fleeting. Makes things like arguments and beefs with others seem unimportant. 

As my great Tio N~ito always says, "When you see a bull charging at you, by God! Get out of the way! Don't charge right at it!"

Juicy Stamp On My Ass

I had a fantastical idea today....is that a word? Fantastical? Well it should be! Kind of like the word smooger is a smooshy boogar. Look it up in the dictionary if you don't believe me.

Ok, back to the thought. 

You know those moms that wear the Juicy couture sweatpants with the word JUICY across their asses? Well, I think it would be a great idea to tattoo it to YOUR ACTUAL ASS!

Think about it, when you take your pants off for your lover, they will always be able to reference the message on your behind and know that, in fact, you do have a JUICY ass!

Brilliant!

I did this the other day on my own ass with a sharpie, but I messed it and accidentally wrote flatooshy.

Trains Collided? Yeah, I Did It

My mom. My mom. My mom.
Let me preface this next blog entry with: my mom is a wonderful person who endured 37 hours of labor in a Peruvian hospital, without epidural, so that I could be here.
Almost a week ago, I went on this crazy, amazing, Vegas-style extravaganza for a friend's birthday (shout out to Jo, one CRAZY bitch!). Pre game was at a pole dancing studio, where we all proceeded to learn the art of the floor slither, hair flings and several different types of pole spins. Ladies, it's harder than it looks, but so much fun.
After the stripping, we met at the Palms Hotel at a Suite for drinks and wardrobe change, then, off to Brand Steakhouse and Moon nightclub where a VIP table was waiting for us.
In the midst of this purely decadent and tremendous night, my cell phone rings.
Guess who? It's my mother.
"Carlita, where are you? You're not home...the phone rang and rang," she says.
"I know. We are celebrating a friend's birthday. We're on our way to dinner. Alex is with the kids."
"Hmmmm...." she says and fades into uncomfortable silence. A long silence. A very long ass silence.
"Bye mom."

This is my mother. Many of you may think that you have the market cornered on guilt-tripping, martyr moms. I assure, you, I win.

I don't party regularly, but the one time I do (and feel a bit guilty about it), she hunts me down and ravages me.

The next morning, at 7:15 AM, I awake to dreaded thoughts of humiliation and a pounding headache. Did I really dance on a platform for three hours straight? Yes. Legs hurt. Did I really try the hair whip? Yep, neck hurts horribly. Did I party like a rock star? Hells yes!

The guilt begins to flood me; my poor children, if they only knew their sweet virginal mother was dancing in a mini dress on a platform.

 Then the phone rings.
"Carlita, I have to have a serious talk with you...." and here commences about 45 minutes of complete and utter obliteration. She tore me up and down, left to right. 

"Your irresponsibility! You are the mother of two children! You have a husband at home waiting for you! You have behaved inappropriately." I am ready to cut my veins open with a kitchen knife. 
Not sensing this, she continues:
"You are so easily influenced. I mean, if your friends jumped off a bridge, would you? I remember that Pakistani friend that got you into voodoo. Remember that?"
"Mom, she was Japanese and she had a spiritual advisor. I never had a spiritual advisor."

If my mom hears something on the news that says there is bombing on the Gaza strip, months later she will call you up in a bad mood and proceed to tell you how bad of you it was to do that to the Palestinian children.
She just takes something and runs with it.
That being said, I think maybe she is just there to make sure I don't go off the deep end. I tend to, as my husband says, have my "Carla Rebellions."

Here's to you, Mami. I love you, afterall