ME: Hello.
And these are my new shoes:
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Weather the weather
I moved To Chicago from Miami about three years ago.
My first winter, I bleated and moaned about how awful the weather was, and how ridiculous it is that people live here all year.
More power to them.
I was scared stiff.
I had never heard of long johns, or wool socks, or that 90% of your body's heat escapes through your head, or anything that little winter kids learn from their parents.
I knew nothing.
I bought a giant black down coat that went to the floor, covering even my ankles, and proceeded to wear jeans and a t-shirt underneath. NO layers.
They don't teach you about layers in Miami.
So the first winter passed and I learned a bit about layering and coats. I had horrible stomach problems all winter (pain, mostly). I couldn't sleep, I ate too much, I didn't want to see any people. I wandered about listlessly.
I hated life.
When spring came, I exploded in happiness. I ran through the flowers, I pranced like a reindeer.
This happened every year.
So, in my fourth winter I visited a shrink. Okay fine, therapist. I told her about my dire situation: every winter I feel like death on wheels, every summer I feel like life on wheels. Any advice, Doctor?
She diagnosed me with Seasonal Depression.
Awesome.
Also, she charged me 150 bucks.
But, she did help by suggesting I buy a winter happy light. If you've never heard of one of these, or seen one, they're spectacular. They are industrial-looking, pretty huge. They make a buzzing sound, and when you turn them on, it's like you're sitting on South Beach under the noon-day sun.
Needless to say, I can't use it while my roommate is sleeping. It blares light to the entire room, not to mention, the entire neighborhood.
Believe it or not, the winter light has actually helped my depression. I was a moody person in Miami, but never depressed. Winters though, brought me into a seclusion so deep I was ready to crawl under a very large rock, and pray to die. The cold, the isolation, the lack of sun (mostly) made my serotonin levels plummet, and my unhappiness RISE.
I'm not like an emo kid or anything, but it was very bad.
Now, though, things are looking up and up!
YAY! seasonal happy light!
My first winter, I bleated and moaned about how awful the weather was, and how ridiculous it is that people live here all year.
More power to them.
I was scared stiff.
I had never heard of long johns, or wool socks, or that 90% of your body's heat escapes through your head, or anything that little winter kids learn from their parents.
I knew nothing.
I bought a giant black down coat that went to the floor, covering even my ankles, and proceeded to wear jeans and a t-shirt underneath. NO layers.
They don't teach you about layers in Miami.
So the first winter passed and I learned a bit about layering and coats. I had horrible stomach problems all winter (pain, mostly). I couldn't sleep, I ate too much, I didn't want to see any people. I wandered about listlessly.
I hated life.
When spring came, I exploded in happiness. I ran through the flowers, I pranced like a reindeer.
This happened every year.
So, in my fourth winter I visited a shrink. Okay fine, therapist. I told her about my dire situation: every winter I feel like death on wheels, every summer I feel like life on wheels. Any advice, Doctor?
She diagnosed me with Seasonal Depression.
Awesome.
Also, she charged me 150 bucks.
But, she did help by suggesting I buy a winter happy light. If you've never heard of one of these, or seen one, they're spectacular. They are industrial-looking, pretty huge. They make a buzzing sound, and when you turn them on, it's like you're sitting on South Beach under the noon-day sun.
Needless to say, I can't use it while my roommate is sleeping. It blares light to the entire room, not to mention, the entire neighborhood.
Believe it or not, the winter light has actually helped my depression. I was a moody person in Miami, but never depressed. Winters though, brought me into a seclusion so deep I was ready to crawl under a very large rock, and pray to die. The cold, the isolation, the lack of sun (mostly) made my serotonin levels plummet, and my unhappiness RISE.
I'm not like an emo kid or anything, but it was very bad.
Now, though, things are looking up and up!
YAY! seasonal happy light!
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Excuses For Not Cooking? None.
This is my accidentally deleted post, which I found! :)
It all started with strep throat.
Which, my boyfriend contracted.
So, I decided to make him a soup.
However, my problem is OVER CREATIVITY. I started thinking: (I am not kidding) I AM GOING TO MAKE THE BEST SOUP THIS MAN HAS EVER TASTED! IT'S GOING TO BLOW HIS MIND. HE WILL NEVER WANT ANOTHER SOUP AGAIN.
But, in order to understand this, you have to understand where this boy comes from. The Stunkels, and of course, my Stunkel is the epitome of a Stunkel (that's his last name, not a disease), all cook EVERYTHING from scratch. I feel inadequate next to these people. They make pie from scratch, stuffing from scratch, cake from scratch. Hell, they probably make the dust in their houses from scratch.
I learned this in a rather humbling adventure to his house for Thanksgiving this year, where the pecan pie was from scratch, and also the green beans (which weren't frozen), and the cranberry sauce (which was boiled slowly for 7 hours), and the BREAD.
Yes. I said, BREAD.
Who makes bread from scratch in 2009? COME ON. SERIOUSLY?
It's the NEW MILLENIUM.
Just BUY your BREAD.
This is the opposite of MY family. I come from a typical Cuban family. My grandparents came from Cuba in the 1950's and (like many immigrant families) wanted to give their kids a better life. This translated to: "We won't make our little girls suffer like we did= no cooking". My mother, bless her soul, NEVER COOKED A DAY IN HER LIFE. Her mother, however, cooked everyday, toiling away at the stove, being a "good Cuban grandma" and making everything from scratch, similar to the Stunkels. But, she didn't pass it on.
So, fast forward. My mother marries my dad. They never cook. So they divorce. (Okay, that's not the reason, but whatever).
My mother marries my stepfather, and we move 3 miles from my Grandma's house.
Guess what happens for the next 15 years? (My brothers and sisters can vouch for this). My mother picks up a tupperware filled with food for the entire family every day from my grandmother. When we get home, she heats up the food in the microwave, and the whole family eats.
Hence, she never actually COOKS.
Hence, I never learn to cook.
So, my boyfriend gets strep throat in 2009. Because he's a Stunkel, I think, I am going to WOW this man with my SOUP. He is going to chug it like beer on halloween!
But, of course, I don't know how to cook.
So, I go to Jewel and I get this brilliant idea. I'm not kidding, the little light bulb which hovers over my head turns on, and suddenly, I am a genius!
I walk over to the canned food aisle, and purposefully stare at all of the cans:
I AM GOING TO MIX CANS TOGETHER, I think rather epically, AND I WILL MAKE THE BEST SOUP AND IT WON'T EVEN BE FROM SCRATCH! BWHAHAHAHAHAHA!
This is where things start to go downhill.
I buy Mexican Chipotle soup with Beans, and Italian Herbs and Chicken. I completely believe wholeheartedly, as I run through the aisles of Jewel, crazed, eyes opened wildly, that I will mix these two soups together and get the best soup that Stunkel has ever tasted, or even imagined in his wildest little Stunkel dreams.
Then, I think. Maybe this soup needs something more. Something, like- a meat.
I walk over to the meat aisle, and stand, staring purposefully (I am on a mission) at the sausage which is neatly wrapped in those crinkly styrofoam boxes. This, I think, THIS will make my meal complete!!!
But, you know, sausage is expensive.
So I buy Vienna sausages instead.
Yea, that's what I said.
At this point, any sane person would have turned around, ran screaing out of the jewel, dumped the bag in the makeup aisle,a nd gone immediately to an exorcist for proper procedure.
BUT I WAS CRAZED.
Instead, I hustle over to the red peppers, green peppers, and onions. Thinking all the while that my soup will be the best thing this boy ever tasted, and he is going to CRY with happiness, just at the thought and sight, and especially, TASTE OF IT.
YES!
So I get to his house (He is lying on the couch, curled with head and everything, under a blanket, sniffling and moaning, and completely delirious). I begin my work. Straight away. Mixing, and stirring, cutting and adding spices.
Immediately, I notice, something is wrong.
The smell is just a little off. Maybe Italian herbs and Chicken and Mexican Beans Soup don't really go together.
It smells like vomit. I mean, real vomit. I could try to make this sound better by using adjectives. But if you just picture your last stint with vomit, and then multiply it by ten, this is what it smells like.
Stunkel lays innocently on the couch.
Crap, I think, I have to fix it! I have to salvage the last bit of dignity left in the stake driving further and further into my cooking reputation. This is NOT GOOD.
I add chili powder.
Then, I pour some of the soup into a bowl. The sausages float pathetically in the mix like life savers, blowing their little whistles for rescue. HELP US, CABRERA, they CRY, WE NEED YOU.
And I am at a loss.
I walk over to Stunkel on the couch, and try to make good noises, "mmm... look how good this looks, mmmm..."
And he moans begrudgingly, sits up, and rubs his eyes.
I push the soup close to his nose. (Thank God he's too sick to smell).
He looks down at the soup.
"What is this?" he says, nose red, eyes tearing up.
"It's my soup!" I answer
"That's not soup," he says, "my parents made some lentil soup from scratch. It's in the freezer. We'll add that."
He pulls the blanket over his head, and crumples back down into the couch.
GARBAGE.
So, I relay this story to my co workers until they are blue in the face, and they laugh so hard I almost take it personally. They buy me a cookbook for Christmas, which they hand me this morning, and it is packed ever-so-cutely, with a post-it note that says "Soups section: page 328".
And a merry christmas too you too.
It all started with strep throat.
Which, my boyfriend contracted.
So, I decided to make him a soup.
However, my problem is OVER CREATIVITY. I started thinking: (I am not kidding) I AM GOING TO MAKE THE BEST SOUP THIS MAN HAS EVER TASTED! IT'S GOING TO BLOW HIS MIND. HE WILL NEVER WANT ANOTHER SOUP AGAIN.
But, in order to understand this, you have to understand where this boy comes from. The Stunkels, and of course, my Stunkel is the epitome of a Stunkel (that's his last name, not a disease), all cook EVERYTHING from scratch. I feel inadequate next to these people. They make pie from scratch, stuffing from scratch, cake from scratch. Hell, they probably make the dust in their houses from scratch.
I learned this in a rather humbling adventure to his house for Thanksgiving this year, where the pecan pie was from scratch, and also the green beans (which weren't frozen), and the cranberry sauce (which was boiled slowly for 7 hours), and the BREAD.
Yes. I said, BREAD.
Who makes bread from scratch in 2009? COME ON. SERIOUSLY?
It's the NEW MILLENIUM.
Just BUY your BREAD.
This is the opposite of MY family. I come from a typical Cuban family. My grandparents came from Cuba in the 1950's and (like many immigrant families) wanted to give their kids a better life. This translated to: "We won't make our little girls suffer like we did= no cooking". My mother, bless her soul, NEVER COOKED A DAY IN HER LIFE. Her mother, however, cooked everyday, toiling away at the stove, being a "good Cuban grandma" and making everything from scratch, similar to the Stunkels. But, she didn't pass it on.
So, fast forward. My mother marries my dad. They never cook. So they divorce. (Okay, that's not the reason, but whatever).
My mother marries my stepfather, and we move 3 miles from my Grandma's house.
Guess what happens for the next 15 years? (My brothers and sisters can vouch for this). My mother picks up a tupperware filled with food for the entire family every day from my grandmother. When we get home, she heats up the food in the microwave, and the whole family eats.
Hence, she never actually COOKS.
Hence, I never learn to cook.
So, my boyfriend gets strep throat in 2009. Because he's a Stunkel, I think, I am going to WOW this man with my SOUP. He is going to chug it like beer on halloween!
But, of course, I don't know how to cook.
So, I go to Jewel and I get this brilliant idea. I'm not kidding, the little light bulb which hovers over my head turns on, and suddenly, I am a genius!
I walk over to the canned food aisle, and purposefully stare at all of the cans:
I AM GOING TO MIX CANS TOGETHER, I think rather epically, AND I WILL MAKE THE BEST SOUP AND IT WON'T EVEN BE FROM SCRATCH! BWHAHAHAHAHAHA!
This is where things start to go downhill.
I buy Mexican Chipotle soup with Beans, and Italian Herbs and Chicken. I completely believe wholeheartedly, as I run through the aisles of Jewel, crazed, eyes opened wildly, that I will mix these two soups together and get the best soup that Stunkel has ever tasted, or even imagined in his wildest little Stunkel dreams.
Then, I think. Maybe this soup needs something more. Something, like- a meat.
I walk over to the meat aisle, and stand, staring purposefully (I am on a mission) at the sausage which is neatly wrapped in those crinkly styrofoam boxes. This, I think, THIS will make my meal complete!!!
But, you know, sausage is expensive.
So I buy Vienna sausages instead.
Yea, that's what I said.
At this point, any sane person would have turned around, ran screaing out of the jewel, dumped the bag in the makeup aisle,a nd gone immediately to an exorcist for proper procedure.
BUT I WAS CRAZED.
Instead, I hustle over to the red peppers, green peppers, and onions. Thinking all the while that my soup will be the best thing this boy ever tasted, and he is going to CRY with happiness, just at the thought and sight, and especially, TASTE OF IT.
YES!
So I get to his house (He is lying on the couch, curled with head and everything, under a blanket, sniffling and moaning, and completely delirious). I begin my work. Straight away. Mixing, and stirring, cutting and adding spices.
Immediately, I notice, something is wrong.
The smell is just a little off. Maybe Italian herbs and Chicken and Mexican Beans Soup don't really go together.
It smells like vomit. I mean, real vomit. I could try to make this sound better by using adjectives. But if you just picture your last stint with vomit, and then multiply it by ten, this is what it smells like.
Stunkel lays innocently on the couch.
Crap, I think, I have to fix it! I have to salvage the last bit of dignity left in the stake driving further and further into my cooking reputation. This is NOT GOOD.
I add chili powder.
Then, I pour some of the soup into a bowl. The sausages float pathetically in the mix like life savers, blowing their little whistles for rescue. HELP US, CABRERA, they CRY, WE NEED YOU.
And I am at a loss.
I walk over to Stunkel on the couch, and try to make good noises, "mmm... look how good this looks, mmmm..."
And he moans begrudgingly, sits up, and rubs his eyes.
I push the soup close to his nose. (Thank God he's too sick to smell).
He looks down at the soup.
"What is this?" he says, nose red, eyes tearing up.
"It's my soup!" I answer
"That's not soup," he says, "my parents made some lentil soup from scratch. It's in the freezer. We'll add that."
He pulls the blanket over his head, and crumples back down into the couch.
GARBAGE.
So, I relay this story to my co workers until they are blue in the face, and they laugh so hard I almost take it personally. They buy me a cookbook for Christmas, which they hand me this morning, and it is packed ever-so-cutely, with a post-it note that says "Soups section: page 328".
And a merry christmas too you too.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Near-Sighted
I've always been a little near sighted.
I just got my new contacts in the mail. I've been waiting for them for a week, braving the weather in glasses (which let me tell you, is no easy task). Here, when it's 5 degrees and you have METAL ON YOUR FACE, and they are freezing onto your nose, reminding you just how much you wish you would have stayed in bed that morning, you hope every time you go to your mailbox that your contacts have arrived. At least when tears freeze, you can chip them off your face.
Serves me right for waiting until the week before Christmas to order them.
Yesterday, my boyfriend came over and just seemed kind of down. He seems pretty down a lot lately, which is making me wonder if he has SAD, or if he's just sad. Either way. I told him to sit under the happy light but when that didn't work, I said a couple of things that I think God is teaching me, and then maybe some things I think God is teaching him. But his lip just got longer and longer. Finally, I hugged him. But I don't think that helped either.
I wonder if I really am near-sighted. I mean, you know, in life.
That just makes me feel very Carrie Bradshaw.
But when my poor BF is asking for help, and all I can think about is how he must have the same problem that I do, because OF COURSE HE DOES, because I always know what problems people have, then I wonder if I am only seeing what's in front of me.
Maybe I don't know what he has at all. Maybe I can't see past the end of my own nose.
I hate that feeling. That feeling you get when you suddenly realize that you're not really listening to someone else's problem, but instead, you are just gathering up evidence in order to justify how everything really relates to YOUR life, and YOUR self, and YOUR thoughts.
YOUR LIFE.
Maybe that only happens to me.
But, I'm a little near-sighted.
P.s. I will post pics soon. This, I promised you.
I just got my new contacts in the mail. I've been waiting for them for a week, braving the weather in glasses (which let me tell you, is no easy task). Here, when it's 5 degrees and you have METAL ON YOUR FACE, and they are freezing onto your nose, reminding you just how much you wish you would have stayed in bed that morning, you hope every time you go to your mailbox that your contacts have arrived. At least when tears freeze, you can chip them off your face.
Serves me right for waiting until the week before Christmas to order them.
Yesterday, my boyfriend came over and just seemed kind of down. He seems pretty down a lot lately, which is making me wonder if he has SAD, or if he's just sad. Either way. I told him to sit under the happy light but when that didn't work, I said a couple of things that I think God is teaching me, and then maybe some things I think God is teaching him. But his lip just got longer and longer. Finally, I hugged him. But I don't think that helped either.
I wonder if I really am near-sighted. I mean, you know, in life.
That just makes me feel very Carrie Bradshaw.
But when my poor BF is asking for help, and all I can think about is how he must have the same problem that I do, because OF COURSE HE DOES, because I always know what problems people have, then I wonder if I am only seeing what's in front of me.
Maybe I don't know what he has at all. Maybe I can't see past the end of my own nose.
I hate that feeling. That feeling you get when you suddenly realize that you're not really listening to someone else's problem, but instead, you are just gathering up evidence in order to justify how everything really relates to YOUR life, and YOUR self, and YOUR thoughts.
YOUR LIFE.
Maybe that only happens to me.
But, I'm a little near-sighted.
P.s. I will post pics soon. This, I promised you.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Things Charged.
So I didn't clean up my room to take these for you guys, neither did I remove Skipper- the penguin. He was sleeping.
Vices. Vices. (and a dresser)
Every winter brings out my worst anxieties.
Last year, I stifled my anxiety in thoughts about marriage, and tried to find some comfort in thinking that my collapsing college world could all be solved if poor josh and I just tied the knot.
This year- although not so detrimental to my relationship with my boyfriend- I have practically broken the bank buying furniture.
So far:
a dresser
a nightstand
a mirror
a quilt
a used desk
Jeez.
(Pictures to come, but I am at the office).
It's all really cute, and harmless right? It's all just for the sake of home improvement.
Right?
Yesterday I listened to a sermon about addiction. Okay, it wasn't about addiction. It was about condemnation and how God isn't angry at his children because Jesus has already died to pay for our sins, so we don't have to keep hammering into our brains that we're bad and nothing can be done about it.
But, of course, all I heard is:
Luisa, stop buying furniture.
But I can't God! I thought, I JUST CAN'T! One more thing! Just one more! Please! Please! Please!
I still need:
Shelves
paint for the desk
knobs for the desk
a headboard
maybe a new bed
maybe some coat racks
maybe maybe maybe
AH!
When does it end?
At first, it was all in good fun, really. But now, I am feeling a little trapped in the rolling avalanche of STUFF that I continue to charge away on my credit card. And I am ashamed, let me tell you. Because I don't want to lose anyone (especially josh's) respect by telling people what I really am:
addicted.
UGH.
It's so much easier to think about furniture than about graduation, and that little gnawing pain inside myself that says: you're life is different than it used to be. You're stuck in an office, you're working 8-5, you're doing data entry, you're not actively involved in a community, you've become what you always hated, and you're stuck here, until God says move.
And would I dare pray for God to move me? No. I spent an entire fall praying that God would change my circumstances, and then learned, that sometimes, circumstances stay the same.
Not that I am hopeless. But, I am taking it out on my finances.
In two weeks, I have to pay my first college loan payment. And I am terrified. I have no control over this loan. It's huge, and a giant monster, and it has trapped me into being forced to have a desk job (which is really the nicest desk job you could ask for, but still a desk job). If I had no loan, I would have moved to Texas, or California, or maybe back to Florida (don't tell my mom).
But I have a loan, and so I have this job, and I have this job, and so I have these anxieties.
Get me outta here.
Yesterday, I saw a close friend (whom I'll call Jannette, even though I have no close friends named Jannette) exhibit her anxieties in a very real way. She was supposed to follow through with something, and it would have been a good thing, but at the last minute, her fears took over, and she didn't. That's so vague. But Jannette wouldn't want me telling you that instead of going out to meet new people, she made herself completely ill and stayed home.
She just sat there, stifled.
God, I don't want us stuck in the muck that is ourselves.
Do I judge Jannette? What are you kidding me? At least she sat at home on a couch that was free. I went into my room and sat in front of my PURCHASED dresser, and thought to myself: My God, we are all hiding in something.
Last year, I stifled my anxiety in thoughts about marriage, and tried to find some comfort in thinking that my collapsing college world could all be solved if poor josh and I just tied the knot.
This year- although not so detrimental to my relationship with my boyfriend- I have practically broken the bank buying furniture.
So far:
a dresser
a nightstand
a mirror
a quilt
a used desk
Jeez.
(Pictures to come, but I am at the office).
It's all really cute, and harmless right? It's all just for the sake of home improvement.
Right?
Yesterday I listened to a sermon about addiction. Okay, it wasn't about addiction. It was about condemnation and how God isn't angry at his children because Jesus has already died to pay for our sins, so we don't have to keep hammering into our brains that we're bad and nothing can be done about it.
But, of course, all I heard is:
Luisa, stop buying furniture.
But I can't God! I thought, I JUST CAN'T! One more thing! Just one more! Please! Please! Please!
I still need:
Shelves
paint for the desk
knobs for the desk
a headboard
maybe a new bed
maybe some coat racks
maybe maybe maybe
AH!
When does it end?
At first, it was all in good fun, really. But now, I am feeling a little trapped in the rolling avalanche of STUFF that I continue to charge away on my credit card. And I am ashamed, let me tell you. Because I don't want to lose anyone (especially josh's) respect by telling people what I really am:
addicted.
UGH.
It's so much easier to think about furniture than about graduation, and that little gnawing pain inside myself that says: you're life is different than it used to be. You're stuck in an office, you're working 8-5, you're doing data entry, you're not actively involved in a community, you've become what you always hated, and you're stuck here, until God says move.
And would I dare pray for God to move me? No. I spent an entire fall praying that God would change my circumstances, and then learned, that sometimes, circumstances stay the same.
Not that I am hopeless. But, I am taking it out on my finances.
In two weeks, I have to pay my first college loan payment. And I am terrified. I have no control over this loan. It's huge, and a giant monster, and it has trapped me into being forced to have a desk job (which is really the nicest desk job you could ask for, but still a desk job). If I had no loan, I would have moved to Texas, or California, or maybe back to Florida (don't tell my mom).
But I have a loan, and so I have this job, and I have this job, and so I have these anxieties.
Get me outta here.
Yesterday, I saw a close friend (whom I'll call Jannette, even though I have no close friends named Jannette) exhibit her anxieties in a very real way. She was supposed to follow through with something, and it would have been a good thing, but at the last minute, her fears took over, and she didn't. That's so vague. But Jannette wouldn't want me telling you that instead of going out to meet new people, she made herself completely ill and stayed home.
She just sat there, stifled.
God, I don't want us stuck in the muck that is ourselves.
Do I judge Jannette? What are you kidding me? At least she sat at home on a couch that was free. I went into my room and sat in front of my PURCHASED dresser, and thought to myself: My God, we are all hiding in something.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)