Destinos

Hello, my name is Olivia and I am addicted to a Spanish soap opera called Destinos.

I don't think I can fully express the magic that is this telenovela. The clothes are outrageous, the hair is gigantic, the plot is forced: everything a soap opera should be. This show is more '80s than M.C. Hammer pants. It's fantastic.

The plot goes like this:
Upon falling gravely ill, elderly Don Fernando Castillo Saavedra receives a letter from a woman in Sevilla, Spain telling him that his former wife did not die in the Spanish Civil War as he had thought. The Castillo family hires Raquel Rodriguez, a lawyer in Los Angeles, to find Don Fernando's wife Rosario and her child. The investigation takes Raquel from Don Fernando's home in Mexico to Spain, Argentina, Puerto Rico, and back to Mexico. Along the way she learns the following: 1) Rosario and her second husband have both died; 2) Rosario had two sons, one of which is a doctor named Arturo who lives in Buenos Aires; 3) Rosario's other son, Angel, broke ties with his family and Arturo knows nothing of his whereabouts; 4) Angel is actually dead but has two children, Angela and Roberto. Angela lives in San Juan, Puerto Rico and Roberto is in college in Mexico City. 

Raquel and Arturo being
extremely awkward. And
don't even get me started
on that outfit, Raquel.

Raquel and Arturo are kind of an item but Raquel is being very angsty about a long-term relationship. The Castillo family is facing bankruptcy. Don Fernando has taken a turn for the worst and is being flown from Mexico City to see a specialist in Guadalajara.

Riveting, right?

If that doesn't just ensnare your attention, allow me to recount for you some of my favorite moments in recent episodes:

1. Raquel's parents have an unexpected visit from her ex-boyfriend Luis, and they decide it would be a brilliant idea to send him to Mexico to meet up with Raquel who is there to see the Castillo family with Arturo. As I'm watching this disaster unfold in front of me, I can't help but shout, "That is a horrible idea!" and "Go back to Nueva York, Luis!"

2. Angela goes to the hospital to visit Roberto who was trapped in a mine during an archaeological excavation. I absolutely understand her desire to sit with her unresponsive brother while he recovers; what I don't understand is why her first inclination once she's there is to balance her checkbook. In the dark.

Raquel Rodriguez, sporting her
trademark patterned blouse.

3. It makes me so very happy when, at the end of each episode, Raquel begins her recap with the phrase, "Well, here I am." Was it touch-and-go there for a while?

4. This show's idea of a cliffhanger is the following:

At the end of one episode: "Will Raquel be enchanted by the framed photograph given to her by Arturo?"
At the start of the next episode: "Yes. She is indeed enchanted."

At the end of one episode: "What has Pedro Castillo said in the mysterious message he left for Raquel at her hotel?"
At the start of the next episode: "You left your wallet at my house last night."

At the end of one episode: "Where is Gloria?"
At the start of the next episode: "In the kitchen, Carlos, making you a sandwich. Relax."

(Oh, the suspense!)

5. Raquel and Arturo just met up for a drink at their hotel, and what did Raquel order? An apple juice. Seriously? Apple juice? You're really going to discuss your romantic future by candlelight with an attractive Argentinian doctor over a cup of apple juice? For shame, Raquel Rodriguez. And, to top it all off, she didn't even drink it. That's just rude.

I'm telling you, this show is magnificent.

So That Happened

Evidently I don't know how to be a person. See for yourself:

1. I was cleaning the house the other morning while reminding my cat, as I do 700 times every hour, that she is the best little calico stringbean on the planet. So intent was I on conveying my love that I absentmindedly vacuumed over the cord to the blinds in the living room window. I cursed, assured my cat that the expletive was not directed at her, and yanked the cord angrily from the maw of the vacuum. When I turned it back on it refused to work. It practically crossed its arms in defiance. "Okay, Taff," I said, clapping my hands and rubbing them together like we were about to formulate an attack plan as the crime-fighting duo I'd always hoped we'd be. "Let's get a screwdriver and open this sucker up!" And I--we--did just that. The vacuum belt had come loose so I looped it back into place, replaced the plastic cover, and turned it on. Success! "Taff!" I shouted. "Did you see that? Your mama's a genius!" And then I promptly vacuumed over my foot.

2. The picture on the box of Trader Joe's cinnamon vanilla tea is a lemur tangled in a strand of Christmas lights. I can't tell you how happy this makes me.

3. I have developed a somewhat persistent eye twitch that has been plaguing me for the past five days. I'd finally had enough this evening and sat down at the computer to find a cure. Of the handfuls of remedies that presented themselves, two in particular seemed keen on being found:

1) Stop drinking coffee.

2) See a psychotherapist. 

These suggestions would be extremely helpful if it weren't for two things:

1) I don't drink coffee, and

2) No

4. I returned home from the library yesterday only to discover, five minutes later, that I'd checked out a book I already owned.

5. There's a possibility--slight, of course--that last week, while cleaning his bowl, I may or may not have accidentally dropped Guildenstern into the dishwasher. He seems fine, if you ignore the fact that his complexion is undeniably pale and his left eye is now gigantic. I submit this as proof that I shouldn't be allowed to raise anything with a lifespan that (normally) exceeds that of a fly.

Goodbye

I dedicate this week's poem to my dear neighbor Ann who passed away this morning. She was light and goodness--more family than a neighbor. She taught me how to ride her horses, how to feed them carrots with my hand held out flat. She gave me my two lambs and didn't judge me when I named the first one Dood. When my family would go away on vacation she fed my cat, coming in the morning with her coffee and keeping Taffy company in the cold house. She painted a cat in a pumpkin costume on my very first trick-or-treat bag. She made everyone in my family an ornament--hand-painted or beaded--every year for Christmas. She and her husband spent a handful of Thanksgivings at our house. Whenever I locked myself out of my house, I had only to walk next door, ring the bell, and shake my head while making the motion of a door knob turning for her to open her hall cabinet and pull out our spare key. Just last week, when I told her I'd gotten a job, she said she couldn't be prouder. That was the last thing she ever said to me.

I loved her with all my heart, and in the twenty years I've known her I don't think I told her that once. A poem dedication hardly makes up for that--I don't know if she even liked poetry--but I've come to learn that every once in a while you need to steal someone else's words when you don't have your own, no matter what form they take. Sometimes that's okay.

So thank you, Ann, for making my life so safe and happy. I love you.  

Those Days 
Mary Oliver

When I think of her I think of the long summer days
   she lay in the sun, how she loved the sun, how we
      spread our blanket, and friends came, and

the dogs played, and then I would get restless and
   get up and go off to the woods
      and the fields, and the afternoon would

soften gradually and finally I would come
   home, through the long shadows, and into the house
      where she would be

my glorious welcoming, tan and hungry and ready to tell
   the hurtless gossips of the day and how I
      listened leisurely while I put

around the room flowers in jars of water--
   daisies, butter-and-eggs, and everlasting--
      until like our lives they trembled and shimmered
         everywhere.

A Modest Suggestion

Dear Snoqualmie Gourmet,

I was enjoying a bowl of your French Vanilla Frozen Custard last night and decided that I was bored enough to read the little blurb on the side of the container. To refresh your memory, here's what it said: "Our tier one vanilla beans are grown in Madagascar from hand pollinated tropical orchids raised in the rainforest by third generation farmers." Etcetera, etcetera.

I couldn't find a big enough
picture of the French Vanilla
Custard container, but since
you made it, you know what
it looks like.

That's a good start, but can you be a bit more specific? Call me crazy, but I would be so much more impressed if, say, the tropical orchids had been bullied in school and had persevered to become the best pollen producers southeast of Africa. Also if those third generation farmers were all missing major extremities due to various flesh-eating diseases and/or freak accidents, or had overcome obstacles such as crossing the US/Mexico border in the middle of the night or finishing three servings of mac and cheese from Old Country Buffet.

May I offer several unsolicited suggestions? Why not change your blurb to read, "Our tier 1.7 vanilla beans are grown in a soil depth of 6 centimeters, hand pollinated by a guy named Bob who, after having been proven to be not the father on The Maury Povich Show, relocated the rainforest of Madagascar to teach illiterate orphaned jungle children how to paint with their feet"? Or how about, "You won't find a more delectable, luxurious custard than ours, which is made from a rare species of self-harvesting vanilla beans who won the lottery but squandered their millions in a series of poorly researched investment decisions"? I don't know about you, but if my vanilla beans weren't harvested by a former Yugoslavian luge team I don't care to partake of any vanilla beans at all.

No complaints, though, about the Caramel Ginger Snap Gelato. That stuff is top-notch.

Sincerely,
Olivia

P.S. The day after I composed this letter was movie day at work. Guess what movie we watched. Madagascar. I had a brief chuckle to myself before realizing that all the kids had turned their attention from watching singing lemurs in headdresses to watching me. (In case you're curious, Snoqualmie Gourmet, that's the ultimate indication that you've got absolutely nothing going for you.) May you never experience such humiliation.

P.P.S. Can someone in your company please explain to me why a Google image search for Snoqualmie Gourmet French Vanilla Custard yields results that include the Melbourne, Australia tourism logo and a plate of cooked asparagus?

So That Happened

I was scanning the Spanish section of the library the other day and stumbled upon a small yellowing paperback copy of Cuentos de Grimm. Perfect, I thought. A book of children's fairytales couldn't be all that impossible to read.  Oh, but it could. In four pages of Blancanieve y Encarnadarosa, a tale about two sisters who encounter a dwarf in the woods who does not like to have his beard cut*, I had to look up three and a half notebook pages' worth of vocab words. And unfortunately, we're talking college-ruled. I won't shame myself further by giving you a number, but I think you're all bright enough to know that that's practically more words than are in the story.

*Some other things happened in this tale that I did not include in my synopsis for the sake of brevity. Many other things happened that I did not include because I have no earthly idea what they were.

Last weekend I babysat my brother's best friend's son--a five-year-old who insisted on carving his pumpkin with a can opener. That went about as well as you might imagine.

Desmodus Vena, my brother's winery, had its annual grape crush last weekend. While cooking enchiladas with my mom, I stepped away from the kitchen for a moment to grab something from my room. I walked in to find my light on and a four-year-old staring at my fishbowl. Of the things you expect to see when you enter your own bedroom, that's generally not high up on the list.

Here are some conversations I had with small children this past week:

Kid: How old are you?
Me: Twenty-three.
Kid: That's old. Are you married?
Me: No I am not. Should I be?
Kid: Duh.

Kid: Are you new here?
Me: Yes.
Kid: I mean to the United States.
Me: Seriously? I don't look like I was born here?
Kid: No.
Me: Where do I look like I was born?
Kid: Russia.

Kids: Can we make an announcement?
Me: Yes.
Kids: Everyone, we have drawings over here that we're selling for free.

I wrote the following in my journal on October 26th: "Michael has spent the evening melting wax in a mug of hot water to make 'sexy devil teeth' for his Halloween costume. My mom has carved four pumpkins in the span of a single episode of Criminal Minds. My dad watched his bagel cook the entire time it was in the toaster oven. And me, I wasted a half-hour of my life voting for MLS Goal of the Year...so I've got that going for me." If I ever ask you to explain to me why I'm alone, I think that last sentence should just about cover it.

I submit this photograph as irrefutable proof that my cat is officially the cutest thing in the entire world.