The Fútbol clip of the week

I've decided that every week I will show 'The fútbol Clip of the Week', hopefully highlighing the week's best play. However, I haven't been watching many games lately and of what I did see on the internet, like Tevez' goal vs. Sporting, I wasn't much impressed. England is making him soft.

This week I am going back to my maternal roots and showing you a clip of my familiar team (although this is disputed by claims that we are actually of San Lorenzo). The noble River Plate. Nicknamed Los Millonarios. Here we see a stupendous goal against Estudiantes, finished by Falcao.

Look Mom, I swallow

I know many of you who have been wondering what ever happened with that mysterious ailment that had been plaguing my body and slowly killing my spirit for the past year. Well I’m pleased to say that as of today we are one step closer to solving the mystery. Thanks to the wizardry of modern medicine, trial and error has once again proven that my swallowing problem is not a condition of the throat.

In case you need a reminder, over a year ago I had what I thought was anaphylactic shock triggered by a piece of breaded shrimp that I ate while sitting in the back of a BMW convertible speeding down some Long Island highway. Firstly, if you know me, you know that not only am I the world’s worst driver, I also am the world’s worst passenger. Even if I were being driven in a children’s parade, I would still have the overwhelming fear of having my legs smashed to bits in a terrible accident. So my uneasiness about being in an careening automobile coupled by the fact that I was being suffocated by my own body while my hair was painfully whipping my face, then multiplied by the fact that I was in Long Island, made this event horrible on multiple levels.

After that terrible day I confidently assumed that I had an allergic reaction to shellfish. However, the following months would prove that there was something amiss. And eventually all types of food would make my throat clam-up. A visit to two separate allergists proved that I have no allergies whatsoever. This news was quite disheartening. And I was angry that I had wasted so much energy carrying around a bulky epi-pen in my purse for half a year. I was told it was anxiety. Of course, I thought, one would have anxiety when their body decides to strangle itself.

"Less stress would be the cure", they said. "But if I’m anything its not stressed", I argued. To which they answered, "Well, if it makes you feel bad, don’t eat it". And that’s when I realized with certainty that doctors know fuck-all about health. Yet despite my dubious and perverse feelings on modern medicine (thanks in part to my acupuncturist), I’m not opposed to seeing more specialists.

Which brings me to my latest attempt at understanding my bodies rebellious nature to food. Over the last couple of months I’ve been choking on more mundane foods like bread, so I decided to have another go at conventional medicine. This time I went to see an othorhinolaryngologist, less respectively called an Ear, Nose and Throat doctor. Now, I actually like going to doctors. Mostly because other than this small swallowing issue I’m in great health, and I love having people confirm this. I also love to tout that I have abnormally low blood pressure and the resting heart rate of a dead person (I also have thin wrists and ankles).

Well, 45 minutes in the examination room and after already having been visited by the nurse, who much like a stripper, leaves you feeling unsatisfied, the doctor comes in and starts the second round of questioning. Although I know that doctors don’t need much information to make an assessment, I like to inundate them with anecdotes related to the problem. Like the bard, I tell my story with enthusiasm, allowing the doctor to relive my horrors and relish my heroism. I use this time as a kind therapy. And frankly, after having been made to wait in the exam room with nothing more a bunch of pamphlets on sleep apnea to leaf through, I feel I’m owed that much.

And then the doctor does what she was trained to do. She takes a device and sticks it in my nostril and gently pushes it down into my throat, mentioning ever so casually that it may be "slightly uncomfortable". Now I’m no stranger to having things crammed down my throat, so in the least, this silly device was nothing more than mere a tickle. This doctor also happened to be well trained in the art of suspense. So while she’s servicing my throat, she utters not a peep. Not an "aha!" or "hmm…that’s weird". Nothing. After she pulls the device out of my head and waits a few moments to further build suspense, she assesses that I have some kind of irritation. "Really? Tell me more" I say. "Well," she continues, "you seem to have some kind of irritation caused by reflux. But you don’t actually have reflux. The reflux may be caused by something else. You will need to see a gastroenterologist". Apparently, and here’s where it gets good, I may have an allergy in my throat.

And that my friends is the beauty of modern medicine. Of course she prescribed me some reflux medication which I obviously turned down, since, as she had just stated, I don’t have reflux. But I did take her recommendation on the stomach doctor, because unlike Scooby Doo, I don’t think one can solve a case by running away from fear and eating scooby snacks. Nay, like Sherlock Holmes, one must solve the mystery with the aid of an intellectually limited yet resourceful doctor, who despite being analytically inferior is brave and efficient.

Damn that feeble heart!

After my last three entries, I realize that I haven't exactly taken on any hard-hitting topics as I had originally advertised. I scoured the interweb this morning trying to find some news worth mentioning, but because Dick Cheney survived yet another heart problem, I lost interest.


We'll get you next time Cheney...

Come and knock on my door...

The only thing that brings me more joy than deciphering a Thomas Pynchon novel is deciphering Lauren Conrad's wordless expressions. That's to say, despite being a sophisticated intellectual, I love TV. More specifically, I love reality TV. And when people refer to reality TV as "mindless garbage" a little piece of me dies.

The Hills, for instance, is to the 21st century what Three's Company was to the 20th century. An incredibly entertaining, often creepy display of sexually ambiguous cavorting, incestuous enterprises, and emotional abuse, all set in a place where there are palm trees and roller skaters. And now that I think of it, most reality TV is set in sunny locations with palm trees. Which i suppose makes sense, since as we all know, you can't see titties beneath a parka.

I also love The Real Housewives of the Orange County. Do I care where Orange County is? No. Does Lauri's face reflect the look of someone who's been sitting in a pair of piss-stained trousers? Yes. And why do these women's mouths remind me of vaginae? Its a subconscious archetype. Like Santa Claus, this show is beyond ridiculous and thus can be classified as magical.

Don't get me wrong though, I'm not completely indiscriminate. I tried Keeping Up with the Kardashians, and well, fell behind. But when Kim Kardashian feigned modesty, worried about taking her clothes off for Playboy, it was just too much for me. This from a girl that gives blow-jobs on tape for profit. Haven't the Armenians suffered enough?

Reality TV aside, scripted TV (now don't get confused) is equally entertaining. For instance, I still watch The Nanny despite having exhausted every episode. And thankfully its awkward morning time slot of 8am does not affect my commute. And then there's the food channel. This channel has the best of the worst. Rachel Ray, who needs to stop tucking in her shirt, and Giada De Laurentis, whose head is ginormous (yes, bigger than mine), both have multiple shows that are simultaneously annoying and engaging. And then there are the shows where people go ghost hunting. I also love these. Why? Because like a dog that stops to lick it's balls in the middle of the street, there are just some things that are so good they defy reason.

Viva Mexico Cabrones!

A breakdown of the demographic of those that make catcalls to me on the street shows that 5% are working class, 15% are African Americans, 20% are homeless, 10% are drunk by midday and an astounding 50% are Mexicans. What does this show besides the fact that I can do simple mathematics? Mexicans make up my #1 fan base.

I am not bothered by the catcall (as frequent as they may be). In fact, most, if not ALL of my self-esteem is confirmed when I hear a stranger tell me that I'm looking good. I even give props to the more creative spectator. For instance, a while back as I walked by a lunching construction worker I heard him say, "Look at those ham-hocks". And while It is ordinary to hear commentary on the girth of my thighs, I thought the reference to a savory and delicious holiday dish merited a fair amount of kudos.

On that note, I will say, perhaps inexplicably, I hold the Mexican catcaller dear to my heart. Maybe its their bold attempt to engage me in conversation with a kind greeting like, "Have a good day"? Or the way they've adopted the "Ga Blesh You" of their brethren? But the Mexican catcall is different. Gentler. Respectful. And while I hardly ever respond to most catcalls, the Mexican earns my nod of approval. And in the end, I'd like to think that with our mutual exchange, the world is better place.

I've tried to wrap my head around what Mexicans can find so attractive about me. After all, let's face it people/person, I'm not a conventional beauty. And perhaps therein lies the secret. Briefly, I have a giant head (so I've been told). And my facial features gravitate around my bulbous nose as if attracted by a powerful magnet. So I can say with certainty that my good looks are not intimidating. I'm also fairly squat, measuring a modest 5'2 and strong like a bull. But i think the clincher (pun intended), is that I have a squoval ass, and that my friend(s), is like honey to the bee.

Now I know one can't simply lump ALL Mexicans in the same pool and claim to be their goddess. But if this blog is about anything, its about sweeping generalizations (see description), so yes I can. That said, I'm not so uncouth. Obviously, there are differences between the Mexican from Puebla and the one from Mexico City, and those differences are important in ways that I can't really understand. Mostly because I'm American and the class/race systems of other countries eludes me. But in the end it doesn't matter. I don't care from which part of Mexico you hail, or if you are dark-skinned or illegal. Just, por favor, don't stop worshipping me!

It's not you, it's the tryptophan

Generally against my better judgement, I'm always ready to jump on the bandwagon. So its no surprise that after years of hearing about these things called "blogs" I have decided to join the fray. After all, who could be better suited to make commentary on newsie social issues (i.e anything that strikes my fancy), than someone who has not one, but two masters degrees. And really, what better time to get started on such an endeavor than after a weekend of binge eating, shameless consumerism and high school reunions? If the great masters of art and literature have shown us anything, it's that inspiration springs forth from commercialism and the kind of self-loathing that can only come from an evening of tryptophan-induced awkward mingling.

Yes, I liken myself to Rembrandt and Balzac. Yes, the word "mingling" sounds like a sexual maneuver that involves bamboo shoots. No, I did not attend my high school reunion (or was invited for that matter). However, if I did, believe me, I would be filled with the kind of self-loathing rivaled only by Mary Cheney. Although, I will maintain the assumption that not having a drug problem or eating disorder puts me ahead of most of my old peers both in intelligence and general emotional stability. So actually, when I say self-loathing, I really mean unbridled hubris.

That said, like a good upscale hooker, I don't want to give away too much too soon. Lest I satiate your hunger and loose my audience. But since I'm only proverbially fellating, I'll say, dear reader, not only have you the greatest intellect I've ever seen but i can do wonders with puns and have an extensive vocabulary. And by extensive I mean limited to the 1000 words I had to learn for my GRE.

Stay tuned for my next post as we explore why Mexicans make up my #1 fan base...