maria

hand

sometimes

Life, like stripped wires. You work around them, you avoid touching them, not knowing if they are live or not. Most of the times, you manage to avoid them, but the true test to your skills is what you do when you can't.

interview

You might have noticed that I have not mentioned any job searching process at all. In ages. This is mostly because Will and I had talked about and agreed that the only job that would do, would be a job where I had the same holidays as he does, and this pretty much implied the necessity of working at a school. Considering the task pretty much impossible, we were doing what one would call passive searching and others would call NOT searching at all.

And then there are moments like this. You meet one person who knows another person and suddenly your resume is asked for and so you send it over, not really expecting anyone to take you seriously because... well, I hardly ever take myself seriously, so why would I expect others to do so?

And so but they called. And I have an interview. We have already talked about the good points - before I actually got an interview - so time has been spent talking about why I shouldn't. We are probably just freaking out for absolutely no reason because I cannot understand why anyone would want to entrust me with a class of kids. I mean, really.

The worries are about scheduling, about their summer holidays, about their schedules, about the fact that we would either need another car or Will would have to be subjected to his friend's company since very early in the morning, about loads of things, but.

Deep down I am just worried that they will a). not like me or b). like me and then be disappointed by poor performance. I've yet to find whatever the hell it is that I both like and am good at. This is not uncommon. I think that happens to loads of people - or at least, to loads of people I know.

This is not to say that I am not good at anything. I am good at loads of things, it's just no one will pay me for doing them, there is not a job description that fits.

But I want to be good at something. And get paid for it. If I were able to do it from home, it would be ideal, but that's the problem precisely. Nothing fits. Not perfectly, anyway.

So I don't know. Wish me luck? Don't wish me luck? We'll just have to find out what I mean by "luck".

respect

We're driving home from the bookstore/sunglasses/watchstrap/supermarket thingie. It's been a good day but we both just want to get home and die, in that order. It's always a dramatic change for me, driving in the US for a day to come home to Mexico, from the straight-forwardness of the freeway - which is exhausting in a surrepticious way - to the maze of streets in Tijuana, I feel safer in Tijuana. There's something about driving on the freeway that doesn't let you know just how tired you are, whereas when you're driving in Mexico, things are a bit slower, you need to give driving more thought. Also, I'm very aware that there are rules I have to follow while driving and I never want to have to deal with police in the US. The thing with Mexico is that it's my country, I know how people's minds work, I know where things are going and where they could go. I'm not afraid. When we're out of the country, there's always this thing in the back of my mind, "this is not your country."

I don't think I was that fully aware of it until someone left me a message on my car, a few years back, explaining that yes, I am a foreigner, and my car is foreign, and they've never seen me but they already don't like me. Everyone I meet is a potential xenophobe now. It's not a nice way to live, but it keeps me out of trouble.

I don't have that feeling in Mexico and - even though things don't always go perfectly - maybe I should. I know a lot of my compatriots feel differently about Mexico, and there is this innate fear that goes with them everywhere, and... maybe I should. But Mexico fills me with hope in a way that nothing else can, and I just cannot bring myself to feel that way about it.

And so but we're driving home. 6 blocks away from the house, a truck with blinding lights on its roof sort of lurches out of a side street in a way that makes me think that it might not stop at the stop sign. But it does, and so I go on. It's a police truck, and I know it's a police truck. I know it's a police truck because it's got the whole christmas tree thing going. The lights on the roof are these high-intensity flashing, blinding job that makes it perfectly clear that this is a fucking police truck and it's open for business. There's no fear in my heart or in my mind because I know that the policemen in Tijuana have many things to fear and don't really bother with suburban housewives.

And because I am not being completely paranoid about this truck behind me, I drive normally. In my mind, if I start driving more carefully because a policeman is close to me, it just tells them that I have something to hide, which I don't. I also find it insulting to myself, as if I would not survive scrutiny. Plus I think it's tacky. I'll try to explain why: If you drive like a complete idiot all the time except when a policeman is around, that means you are making the choice to drive like an idiot the rest of the time. Like driving sensibly is too hard for you. Like the rest of the people in the world are not worth the respect of driving sensibly around them. You are a lout.

It's all about class for me, really.

I reach a stop sign and do a California stop. For those of you unfamiliar with the term "California stop", it's slowing down to a point where you can see that you won't have to make a full stop in order to be careful enough - and no, it does not mean you roll right through the stop sign. It's usually just done in right hand turns, which makes sense because we drive in the right side of the street -. It's not the most legal move you can do, but for the reasons I have mentioned above, I am not driving any different than I would because there is a police truck behind me. And so the truck issues a warning beep to have me pull over. I do. It's a policewoman and she's alone.

I had this boyfriend who used to say that all Mexican policewomen had to have a carreer in wrestling before they became policewomen. I almost believed him.

She asks me if I'm in a hurry. I say "Not really... Yes... Um, no." - Did I want to get home sooner rather than later? Yes. Do I need the toilet at this moment? No. So many things go into the analysis of "am I in a hurry?", I'd never make it through "Moment of Truth" - She asks if I know there is a stop sign there. I say, Yes, I made the stop, there was no one coming.

All this is happening while I am pulled over and she has aligned the windows. She hasn't even bothered putting the truck in Park. Presumably because I might flee at any moment.

She says I am supposed to make a full stop. Like anyone fucking makes a full stop. But I get what she's saying, so I just agree. She asks where we're going. Because of the tone she's using - and this is where being a native mexican talking to a native mexican comes in handy - I use "My husband and I" as opposed to just "we". She asks who my husband is. I ask the man in question - Will, obviously - to say hello to the woman. He waves. She lets us go. I drive off. Again, driving normally. She turns off at a corner. Another, COMPLETELY DIFFERENT TRUCK, with stuff on the top of it, but TURNED OFF, joins us, coming out of the same street where she turned off.

And because I am completely stupid I am TOTALLY FOOLED by this clever stratagem - I'm not kidding, I thought it was the end of the incident and that was why she had turned her rooflights off -. And so I do what I would do when NOT followed by a police truck, which makes no difference in my driving, as I had mentioned. We turn, and turn again, and do the u-turn and park that we do every night. At which point she double parks again, next to me - I get out of the truck at this point, as we are home -, and with the truck idling, she asks if this is home. Where do I live? I point to the first floor of the flats across the street. And I explain that I park where I do because I need to be able to see the truck from the window. Because there have been all these break-ins. I introduce myself and hold out my hand. She doesn't give me her name.

I ask her name. She doesn't give it. She explains. She thought I was driving too fast "Is that right?" She thought I was lying about my intentions - this while Will is taking bags from Target out of the back of the truck -. She thought because my husband is a foreigner that I might be doing something illegal. I ask her name. She explains that she is new in the area and she is familiarising herself with the ins and outs of it. I say that now she knows about it, and she knows about the break-ins. I ask her name again. She tells me if I ever need anything, I can just call the police station.

I ask her name again. She gives it to me. She drives off. I realise at that moment that the reason she didn't want to give me her name - which I have instantly forgotten, as I do -, was because she realised - what with the target bags -, that we were normal people just going about their lives, and this is the kind of thing for which policemen (women) get in trouble.

you may wonder

You may wonder where I've been. Well, I've been here, just, I have been reading other people and other stuff. Like about itching (did you know that only 20% of the nerve fibres getting to the brain's visual cortex come from the retina? the rest come from sections that govern the memory and such. So we see with our memory, mostly, which is lovely); 11 best foods you're not eating; and the reasons why if you're going to exfoliate at all, you should do it with St. Ives apricot, instead of that Dove thingie.

I'm trying to sleep laying on my back side. Which is proving exhausting. I sleep, but not as restfully. There are simple reasons for me to want to do so, and they have to do with a)pillows touching my nose - which you already know I don't like and 2. my face getting a particular wrinkle. I can see my future and I like it better when I sleep facing up.

This week was exhausting. I felt like it should have been Thursday by Tuesday, but fortunately it's the last week before the holidays. Tonight we are having dinner with friends, and I've been looking forward to that. I've been slacking off on some of the details for the opening of the estate, but no more, I tell you. I am picking up the phone now.

Right after I go get another coke.

fun, fun, fun

The play was fantastic. I cannot tell you how proud I am of the work Will did, it was wonderful. The party was so busy there was little interaction with our hostesses, and we survived Will's crash down, after all the stress. And I do want to go into more detail, but I have a graduation to go to.  I will tell you that everyone was very nice, and someone asked to hug Will "while Maria isn't looking!". Thoughts?

still

My grandmother has driven a Nissan car for as long as I can remember. OK, well, no, not for as long as I can remember, but for very long. And she was the kind of person who would never ever get out of her car if she could avoid it. Say that she had to go to the store, she'd take me with her and then drop me off at the entrance, so she could drive around, find a parking spot she liked - in the shade of some tree, most likely - and wait for me there. If she had to drop something off at my mother's home, she'd call ahead, drive to my mother's and then honk the horn. We'd come out to get whatever it was she was dropping off. Quickly. If you didn't come out within what she thought was a reasonable time - 1.3 seconds - she'd honk the horn again. And again. And again. But she would not ever get out and ring the doorbell. Because she'd called ahead, you see? So she wouldn't have to.

Now, this contradicts everything about the way I was raised. No one could come out if someone was honking the horn outside. If it was a friend of ours who needed to get a term paper from us that was due now and was in a terrible hurry, they'd still have to get out of their car, ring the doorbell, wait for one of us to come out. And we could not rush out because what are we? servants?

I love my mum.

In any case, we were all trained to distinguish my grandmother's car from every other car, because we were not the only house in the neighbourhood and other people's rules about that were very different from ours, so people would show up, randomly, somewhere in the area, and honk the horn to get someone's attention. God forbid it could be grandma and she felt we were ignoring her.

But, but, but... there was no need to know the sound of her car, because she called ahead! You will tell me. Yes. She did. Except, one thing I did not mention was that my grandmother drives very slowly. Very, very slowly. So by the time she arrived, it was three - sometimes four - hours later, and we had all forgotten about said phone call - if we had indeed been told about it at all -. So we had to know what the car sounded like. If we had lived anywhere else, it would have been as easy as looking out the window, but my mother had designed the outside wall so that it was good defence against terrorism, bears, boyfriends, neighbours, and the high tide. We could see nothing outside our own home, so we would have to run (yes, running is OK when you are going to get a new dish drainer from grandma, not that we need it, but grandma thinks we should have one) out to get whatever she was to give us, and no one wants to run out to find that it was the wrong grandma. So we knew how the car sounded.

I live more than a thousand miles from my grandmother now. And I can't help but look out the window whenever someone honks the horn in a Nissan the way my grandmother does.

HA!

I was, I am

I don't know why people start blogs. Sometimes I find it hard to believe that I am still writing this one. Mostly because I forget to write, but that's only part of it. When our blog lives imploded, I didn't want to write again. I did, mostly because Will and I talked about it and eventually I decided to keep it up. He likes it and sometimes I like the blog too.

Not always, though. I love the friendships I've started because of blogging, even the ones that I couldn't keep very long - I learn something from everyone, I think -, but I don't always love the blogging itself. It seems contrived or something. I understand why other people keep blogs - because I find them interesting, I suppose, and so I like that they keep them - but I don't often understand why I keep mine. Presumably to keep the link alive or something. I don't know.

But I keep it up. And so here I am, telling you that last week was the longest week. The kids stayed here from Tuesday on and in trying to keep every gear lubed up and everything flowing, I found myself feeling a bit nutty in the interest to keep everything organised. Does that make sense? It was all this should be here, and let me put this thing there, and do you have everything ready for tomorrow?

And now that they've gone back to their dad, I realise just how much I needed to sit down and just be. Oh, I miss them terribly, of course - and Danny took my earbuds! Even though I said I wanted them back, twice! -, but I am also a bit relieved. We don't have as much space as their dad has and it is really hard on everyone when they stay for long periods of time.

Of course, the summer is coming and then it will be different. Because we won't have to wake up earlier to get everyone ready and out the door in time to drop them off at school and get Will to work. We will just be. And I like the thought of that.

Of course, whether they will want to stay for long periods of time remains to be seen, what with their dad having more space, more money, more stuff.

Anyway, I know it's all a bit disconnected today, but at least there is something. Good times.

hope

There are things about Will that bemuse me. This apologising thing - yes, I understand, I do, in Mexico, we are taught to say please, excuse me, thank you, so on and so forth, it's a social lubricant, politeness, but apologising in your sleep is a whole other business - for starters. But I love all of them. I love him. I like that I know who he is, and that things may throw me, but they are looked at from a perspective of love, trust, and understanding.

And the hope. You know he is happy, you know he's creative, he can tell stories like no one else - except perhaps other members of his family, or that's what he says and I believe him -, and you know about the avocado pits. And the lemon seeds. And green stuff.

He's been trying to grow an avocado, he's been trying to grow a lemon tree. It hasn't quite worked out how he would want it to. But he continues trying. He has hope. I love him for that.

The kids have been here since Tuesday. No socks have been lost yet and all seems to be running smoothly. Of course, during this time, we've found out that Danny cannot dice a tomato to save her life - she's never had to - and that when the hem in her uniform goes, she tapes it - with masking tape, because apparently it lasts longer than most other kinds -. She was going to have the maid do it, but I've taught her how. She did half of it and gave up. Argh.

Oh, and this made me really sad today. If this is what's happening in America - the world? - then what can we expect in Mexico?