I’ll stop before I turn into a stereotype…;)

This past friday, after a 4 year wait, George and I finally got the chance to prove to Immigration that we are indeed married fo’ real.  Out-of-town guests quickly assembled, an out-of-town trip was taken, and an out-of-town party was had. Now we’re back to in-house, looking at out-of-town pictures and trying to figure out how we’re going to pay The Best Lawyer Ever (because the title matches the pricetag).

You may or may not know this, but George and I live in a gentrified ghetto. The area’s last hurrah probably passed around the time of the Truman administration, and now it’s mostly illegal Polish and Colombian immigrants. And us. The area is pretty cheap, and relatively safe. So we tolerate.

Another thing you may or may not know, I’m not a girlie girl. I can work power tools, assemble Ikea furniture, paint, spackle, change the oil and brakes on my car, fix a flat tire, and go to the movies by myself. The second I see a big bug in my house, however, I scream bloody murder. It’s not fear, per se, just a debilitating disgust. I also can’t kill anything.

A few months ago a roach attacked me in the bathroom. George will say I am exaggerating, but I swear to you, the fucker chased me out. We called the super, who said she’ll have an exterminator come by. I politely declined-I’m quite leery of the chemicals they use. So we got some roach motels which seemed to curb the problem. The “water bugs” moved on to someone else’s bathroom.

We were pest-free for a few months, until one late sunday night. We were watching a movie when I thought I heard some chirping coming from under the floor (we’re on the ground floor, hardwood floor, no basement). Naturally, I was freaked, but George again cited my paranoia, and said it must have been from the movie. Lo and behold, another movie was abruptly interrupted several days later, when a cute little mouse casually sashayed from one end of the living room to the other. My paranoia was quickly forgotten when George found his buddy in the trash a few hours later. Noises were heard in the middle of the night, and mouse poop would magically appear in random spots all over the kitchen every morning. Gross, right? I got tired of bleaching the counter every day. One night I got up to get a glass of water, and found a little bastard on a cookie sheet on top of the oven, apparently enjoying the view-or scouting for leftovers. He ran and hid somewhere. I think I woke up the neighbors with my girlie shrieks. George named him Misho and set up “detection devices” to warn us of any approaching critters. I took a trip to Home Depot to look for traps that don’t kill.

We brainstormed, and decided to borrow a cat from someone to psych the mice out. We needed an indoor kitty that was relatively active, and none of the cats available seemed a good fit. So a few weeks passed while we tried to figure something out.

I was late for work one morning, and was in somewhat of a frantic rush. I had to stop by my sister’s house before work, as well, so I was focused. As I was getting into the car, I thought I heard something meowing, but figured it was just my tired imagination, or child (the parking is next to a daycare). Imagine my surprise when, half an hour and 30 miles on the Turnpike later, after I cut the engine in my sister’s driveway, I heard the same meowing coming from somewhere in the car. I lost it. Really. I ran into the house half in tears, my sister trying to decode what I was trying to tell her.

She came out with me and after careful examination determined it was coming from under the hood. We decided that she would be the one to open it because she’d recently had a tetanus shot. I had no idea what it was, or if it was alive or not. I sat on the side, my butt cheeks clenched in anticipation. My sister opened the hood, and inside, on top of the suspension, behind the battery, was a tiny orange kitten. Before either of us could figure out whether it was ok or not, the thing sprang up, crawled up the windshield, jumped off the car, and ran into the neighbors’ bushy back yard.

After bribing the tiny thing with chicken sausage and chasing him across three back yards, we caught it. It was so small, it fit in my palm. He had motor oil all over him, he was missing fur in some spots, he was filthy and shell shocked.  He seemed okay, ate a whole chicken sausage, and went to sleep on my sister’s couch on the porch.

I called George and tried to tell him what had happened, but I was so excited I cut the call by accident. After a short conversation a little later I decided to take him home. We weren’t sure if we were going to keep him, but after the first night figured it was just what we’ve been looking for. Two months later, and no mice, no bugs. His name is either Darwin, Malinski, Otto, Artie, or Rufus, depending on what day it is. Usually though, he’s just Kitty. He’s getting bigger by the day, loves to play in the middle of the night, and has the softest fur ever.

And that is how two dog people ended up with a cat.

George had to go into Manhattan yesterday afternoon, and I figured I’d tag along- I was kinda bored and the weather was nearly perfect. As we’re waiting for the light on the corner of 5th and 23rd, a really loud group of people with camcorders and on bikes stops on red. And in the middle of the group-Al Sharpton himself, in a black suit and tie, on a bike, screaming “This is the real New York!!!”, like only he can, along with the rest of the group. By the time I realized what was going on and managed to get my phone out of my pocket, the light turned green, he made a left, everyone else followed, cutting off oncoming traffic, and went down 5th, still screaming. I have no idea what they were protesting.

Damn. I wanted a picture. Then again, the footage is probably on YouTube by now.

Just what the world needs-an explanation for white people’s behavior. I’ve been occupying myself for days, and figured I’d share:

http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.wordpress.com/

Jorge does not find it funny, but I looooove it. New Balance shoes, dinner parties, gay friends, kitchen gadgets, Billy Joel-those are some of mine things. Yours?

” suppose I never ever saw you
suppose you never ever called
suppose I kept on singing love songs
just to break my own fall

just to break my fall…”

Regina Spektor

So, she’s one of my new favorites. Her voice is so deceptive, sounding as if you can sing that way, too. Sadly, that is not the case-with my voice, at least. Maybe next semester I can register for some voice lessons, too.

As for me, and what I’ve been up to-just trying to figure out how to cushion the blow. It’s higher than it looked from down there. Fuck.

George got me an ice-cream maker for Christmas-a completely self-serving gift, obviously. You see, he knows I love to frolic in the kitchen, and he totally took advantage of that fact. Anyhoo, I love the gizmo. To christen it, I made Nutella gelato, which came out phenomenal. Jorge was sleeping when I was done, so I left it in the freezer and went out (it was a saturday night). A few hours later I get at text:

G: It’s ungodly to eat this ice cream

Me: Y?

G:I’m not sure we are allowed this kind of pleasure

Me: That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me!!!!

Months have passed, and we’ve been experimenting with flavors, textures, and methods since. Grapefruit Champagne Sorbet, Chocolate Covered Strawberry Frozen Yogurt, Strawberry Mint Sorbet, Mango Ice Cream…. you just put stuff in, and the most amazing frozen, creamy goodness comes out. We’re both hooked. I still have the above conversation stored in my phone, though it’s been months since the last spoonful of Nutella Gelato. He’s been asking for it, of course, but I haven’t made it. I’m totally using it as a bargaining chip-I know a time will come. Ah, I’d make an awful mother…

I’ve never been a big fan of Hillary’s, and the sentiment that I should vote for her because she’s a woman does not sit well with me. I don’t like what she stands for, and I wouldn’t vote for her if she were a man. One of my friends called me anti-feminist after I tried explaining that to him. I told him to go fuck himself.

Barack was my big hope, but he totally lost my heart after this. Are they 12? My god, they sound like rebellious teenagers fighting with their parents. That alone should disqualify them both.

So, god forgive me, I’m voting Republican next week. Check him out. It’s well worth it. Promise.

You can’t help who you love. You can’t help who you don’t love, either. Regardless of how long they’ve been there for you, in what capacity, or how much they’ve given. Giving back just never seemed right. I’ve known about it for awhile, though the info was unsolicitously obtained  through a third party who was unwilling or unable to keep their mouth shut. Alcohol was, of course, involved. Though not in any excusable quantities. Classic Sofia response ensued-lack of aforementioned control can break your heart. I like to inflict myself on others.

Perhaps I’m too far gone to realize when someone’s not acting like an asshole. Or maybe I just need to grow up.

So many conversations this weekend. I found out a lot about one person, and nothing about another one. What a shame.

I went to see a Guns’N'Roses cover band last weekend. They were really good. So was the company. Actually, I haven’t sat still for the past two weeks. I really do have the life right now.  

This month has been one giant, never-ending blast from the past. Long-lost contacts, some-relevant, some-not so much, others-not at all. All relevant now. Poetic justice. It’s strange, how unaware one can be of what really makes you who you are. How someone can become important to you just because they came at that particular time. Or vice versa (no pun intended, Tony, but it works well, no?).

And it’s not even over yet. I have to go to a wedding on friday, where I am to see tons of people I should have graduated college with. I’m looking forward to it. And after that-holiday party with an old coworker. But that, alas, is next month….