A quarter to eight


If you look at a clock you seldom ever pay much attention to the minute lines in between one and two. Nobody never really bothers to count the lines to make sure they know the exact time. It’s all an estimate. Whether or not your life has been good or bad is an estimate. If you take the time to look back you’ll soon realize that even if it hasn’t been la vie en rose[1] , it was at least entertaining.  Humor me while I recount some of the most seemingly frivolous parts of my life.

When I was four my father brought home our first computer. I was more than ready to learn its uses and functions. Unfortunately my father thought that I was too small to learn and decided to teach my nine year old brother instead. My questions went unanswered and I was blandly ignored various times. What was a girl to do? The answer was simple. My father was teaching my brother how to use it. In my mind if I just pulled a chair up and stayed quiet, I’d learn something without being “in the way.” This I did religiously. For every lesson my brother had I was right there. My presence went unknown while the men in the house played with the machine. Time went on and my brother was an “expert” on the internet. He decided to be nice and called me to play with it for a while. I remember vividly how he sat me down while he typed http://www.disney.com. Before my poor brother could tell me which button on the mouse to click, I was already with it in my hand and choosing a game by myself. I clicked and closed and switched back forth windows, all while my brother looked in sheer surprise/mind fuck. I remember his face: rejection was worth it.

When I was six I didn’t have a lot of friends because I wasn’t in school yet. My mother thought I deserved a childhood before throwing me into school, so pre-school for her was unnecessary. There was this one little girl who lived next door; she was so different from me. She had straight hair and white skin. I looked at my family (mother, brother, and father). They were all light skinned. I wondered why I was so dark. I thought my eyes were broken. I asked my mother if my eyes were broken, if I was really white and just couldn’t see it. She said “yes.” One day I was on the swings. I looked at my white dress and then my tan arms. What color was the freaking dress then? Something wasn’t right, I knew it. Why was I so different? Why couldn’t I be more like my friend? Then she walked up to me, I saw her bowl haircut knowing I could never have my hair like hers. I saw her pink cheeks knowing mines could never turn that hue. Then I remembered my eyes were broken.

When I was nine I was in the honor roll class of third grade. I guess my second grade teacher thought I was really smart (I was a master in computer skills by now). In this class I let myself loose. I talked to more class mates and never had a problem speaking in front of my peers. On the contrary, I loved it. With all that I don’t think my teacher appreciated my upfront attitude. She thought I was loud and talkative therefore not very productive. No amount of good grades proved her otherwise. Jesus, a classmate of ours, was different from me. In the sense that  he was lazy, had bad grades, and never participated. Despite all of that, he had the affection of our teacher. They were both Cuban immigrants (balseros)[2]. Jesus could do no wrong because she backed up all his flaws and follies. I don’t want to think she disliked me for being Dominican, despite making reference to my culture and nature. Maybe I wasn’t a good student. Jesus, bad English and all made it to the 4th grade honor roll class, I didn’t.

When I was fourteen I was staying at my aunt’s house in Dominican Republic because my own neighborhood was too boring and lonely for a newcomer. My parents would go visit me once a day which was fine by me because I felt an immense liberty. I would come and go as I pleased, with whom ever I pleased. My aunt (great-aunt to be exact) treated me like a princess. I genuinely love her with all my heart. She hadn’t seen me since I was two-weeks old so ignorance of my birthday went fine by me. I told everyone who walked in the door it was my birthday with this burst of joy. I was heading inside the house when my father had mistaken me for his niece and shouted “Sobrina”[3]. Its ok, he needed new glasses. After correcting him I stood there waiting for his own little burst of joy over my birthday. Five-minutes of silence didn’t refresh his memory. I guess liberty comes with its perks.

When I was nineteen I had grown close to one of my brother’s friends. My brother was no longer living in the same city as me so I was more at liberty to talk to his friends. Ever since I saw this boy I had a crush on him. The first thing I heard in DR was his voice through my bedroom window: he lived next to my grandmother’s house. This infatuation was never responded and over the years he became this unreachable person, almost like a celebrity to me. Each time he’d pass by I’d die a little bit inside. He would go over my house every day and every day I would sit nearby just to hear him laugh. Years had gone by and I had grown up and out. This he noticed. So we started talking, then dating. I realized I didn’t really like him. He was sweet and caring but not my type. The only thing I liked about him is that I wanted him for so long and finally had him. Without any pursuit or making so much as a peep he fell into my lap. He entered my life nonchalantly and out he went the same way. The heavens are truly overrated.

When I was twenty-one I read a book called “The Culture of Make Believe.” Our teacher warned us that the book would make us angry, sad, curious and all sorts of good stuff. In essence it was a hard to swallow book, at least according to him. Since we were encouraged to write our reaction to each chapter in our notebook, I, good student and all, complied. Something funny would happen when I would reach the next chapter: The author would somehow plagiarize my ideas.  This was strange in more than one way. Was I copying him? Were we a like? My goodness did this mean if I opened my mouth my ideas would be received as angry, sad, curious and all sorts of good stuff. So I made it my business to use the weekend to think and share my ideas with people. I’d rather be hard to swallow than easy to forget.

This morning at 7:45 am I missed my bus. I had an 8 am class and it would be at least 40 more minutes for the next bus to pass. Instead of walking around in circles wondering where to take another route, I walked inside of a McDonalds. I had never bought coffee there before but this morning I wanted one. I noticed before opening the door that the guy there was upset (maybe he isn’t a morning person). I smiled at him and ordered my coffee. I told him to make it how he likes his coffee. He smiled back. I left McDonalds the same way I walked in, with a smile on my face. I walked ten blocks until I reached the nearest bus stop. I walked those ten blocks like if it was Mr.Roger’s neighborhood. I didn’t rush one step; I never once looked at my clock. I kept saying to myself “I’ll get there when I get there.” At a quarter to eight this morning I decided that if the world was going to have such a fun time playing practical jokes on me I was going to start laughing with it. At a quarter to eight this morning I realized how amusing my life has been.


[1] La vie en rose is a popular French chanson that translates directly to “Life in pink.”

[2] Balsero is a Cuban immigrant who arrived by a small boat.

[3] Sobrina is niece in Spanish.

An open letter to my neighbors

I don’t know any of your names because I’ve never taken the time to actually ask. I find it more interesting to just give you nick names based on your appearance/quirks. I do ,however, feel the urge to address some of you whether or not you will ever read this.

I want to start off with the dude that looks like my boyfriend:
You sir live in my same floor two doors down. Will it freaking kill you to be polite? I really never appreciated that you closed the elevator door while me and my folks where overloaded with grocery bags. Another thing, what the hell happened to your dog eh? Seems suspicious enough, one day he’s there and then WOOF! Gone!

My next concern goes to the guy who listens to country music down stairs:
I don’t know exactly where you live but I would love to get a glimpse of you. You don’t annoy me , you just fascinate me. In a predominantly Latin complex/city you really enjoy your country music. Every time I hear it on I rush to the balcony but alas you have already left. Who are you country dude?

To my Indian neighbor:
You sir live on my same floor but so many doors down that our balconies are actually facing each other. I don’t really have a beef with you either but I don’t know if within you I see a glimpse of my own curiosity. I understand that the green pimped out camero was an odd site to see. But was it really necessary for you to go downstairs, look both ways making sure no one saw you , and inspect every inch of the green pimp urban car? And what about that time I went to the complex pools and you popped out of nowhere and started to inspect every motorcycle that was there? Are you some sort of vehicle inspector? It’s funny but weird at the same time. Funny because you try to make sure nobody’s watching you but I’m always watching you. So I’m watching you watch out for other people to make sure nobody knows you’re watching other peoples car. Mind boggling, please stop, my brain hurts.

To my nice neighbor to the left:
You ma’am are an alcoholic. It’s not any of my business but I’m worried that when you step outside for your 27,241,231 cigarette you might fall to your doom and not even realize it.

And there you have it.

Love thy neighbor? Does indifference count?

In memory of…


….my Giga Pet.
I don’t know exactly how he died or when he died. Hell, that thing had more lives than any cats I’ve ever heard of. Nonetheless I feel important to say good-bye to my digital pet from the 90’s.
I’m not particularly fond of animals. They smell, they’re loud,they bite. No wonder the elderly like them so much. But one day my father brought me one from KFC. At first I didn’t like it because it made this beeping sound and because he was pretty needed. I’d feed him and he’d crap on himself. I had to put him to bed ,call the docter, then he’d die and it would start all over again.


I eventually got sick of playing with him no matter how many KFC gave me ( I ended up having 3) and the school banning them had a little to do with it. For some reason I always liked my friends Giga pets better. So my dear purple Giga Pet fell into obscurity. I don’t know where he went . I doubt I threw him away because I have a problem throwing things away. So long my digital pet.


I wonder how many people had these things and actually remember them?

1,000 hits!


I’ve had this blog since July, 7,2008 and now I have reached my 1,000 visitor mark!

Thank you so much to everyone who takes the time to check my website out. To those who linked me , I really appreciate it. And double the thanks to those who take the time to comment on the entries. Thank you and I hope you keep enjoying my blog!

The adventures of Gigi


Ah, the weekend. Boring, boring weekend.We love them and can’t manage to do anything with them at the same time. Well, except errands. That’s exactly what I did on Sunday.
My first stop was Wal-mart.

Now take into consideration that I guess in Miami there aren’t many Wal-marts. At least not near by. This one is close to where I live the other one is really far. How far? I’m too lazy to count the miles, look it up on google. Because of the lack of stores ,wal-mart is always full. Ridiculously full. It’s like hurricane season and people stocking up on water. Only they’re taking everything off the shelves. I’ve never driven in New york but I’ve talked on the phone with people who are driving in New york and boy are they angry. Wal-mart shoppers, ’bout the same. You go with your cart trying to get past the other gazillion carts in the way but you try and be polite to the dad who’s dying to get home but who’s wife can’t decided whether to buy colgate or crest. You go on and then BAM! You crash, someone who popped out of nowhere. Wal-mart is stressful. Then there are the undecided people who just stand in front of the shelves , the same shelve you need to get something from but they’re in the way. Just staring at it ,like they’re expecting it to reveal some secret of life. I sometimes wait for them to say Open-sesame.With wal-mart out of the way there’s just one more stop I want to share.

Toys ‘r’ us.

It was the birthday of my sister in law’s little cousin. She wanted a doll. Not just any doll, Island Princess Barbie. So we go in , we find the Barbies and find the Island Princess Barbie. Quick right? Of course not. She wanted the one with the purple dress. There weren’t any. So we look at the Diamond Castle Barbie who looks EXACTLY the same but we of course we’re afraid to buy it. See, I remember when I was young and asked for something but never got exactly what I asked for, just something similar. I thought it was because my parents were old and didn’t understand the new stuff. When I said “let’s get her this one , it looks exactly the same” I remembered all that.Instead we got her a completely different doll. We go up to the cashier ,long line, but not the same crowd of nesty bargain buyers from wal-mart ( Thank god). So my sight wonders off and sees a tickle-me-elmo. I have a soft spot for any sesame street or muppets etc. I go and press his tummy. Now, I feel I must say I am a walking tickle-me-elmo. I’ll laugh BEFORE you start tickling. Still I pressed him. And yes I laughed, hard. A 21 year old in a Toy’s R’ Us laughing at a tickle-me-elmo. Laughing so hard I think tears fell out. I was so amused by it everyone else starting giggling too. The cashiers , the moms, there was even a lil kid who pressed him again just to keep me going ( my sister in law just ignored me fear of embarrassment, I understand).

I could of bought him and spend my days watching him laugh, but I had to buy shampoo and bobby pins , you know 21 year old stuff.

What I learned from shark week.


Yes it’s true I watch the Discovery channel.
Now with that cleared up ,for those of you who don’t engage in this kind of educational entertainment (I’m looking at you person watch re-runs of I love New York) it’s Shark week. Where every show on the Discovery Channel is dedicated to this “beast of the sea”.

Well I think it’s an understatement if I were to say I got fucking tired of watching sharks, ONLY SHARKS.And that was just two days into it. I mean even before that , they had Deadliest catch on 24/7. How much fishing can a person watch?! I wanted to see those ghost stories , I love that fake acting ,I trick myself into believe it’s all true. All in all I sat down when shark week started and here are some of the things I learned:

  1. The guy from dirty jobs has a nice body. I think I’ve developed a crush on him. I mean this a guy who does nasty jobs all day. You know he won’t mind looking inside the trash for the $20 bill you mistakenly threw away.

  2. There is no way in hell I will go into the the following waters:Bermuda Triangle ( not because of the sharks but have you heard the crazy shit that happens to people there ?!? ) South Africa, and somewhere in Florida that isn’t Miami ( I refuse to believe they filmed sharks in Miami)

  3. Camera men are brave people. What do they pay them to actually jump into the water and film sharks face to face? I wouldn’t do it unless I can live off that money when that shark takes my leg or arm.

  4. Sharks are afraid of dolphins. Flipper just became my new best friend.

  5. Back to my dirty jobs guy ( <3<3<3<3<3 ! ) dead sharks are smelly. Note to self: bring febreeze in case of any dead shark encounter.


  6. Ok, so I didn’t really learn A LOT per say but I do have a new found respect for the people who risk their lives in order to educate us dorks who are too afraid to check it out ourselves. That’s right! I said it ,I’m a chicken but I still have my limps intact! :-d

Girly feet: Cute. Yours, not so much

I for some reasons unknown to me like to take pictures of my feet and legs. I guess having the camera in my hand without anything to take a picture of I just take the picture and my feet and legs end up being the star of the show. With that said I logged on today on msn and my friend talks to me. He’s a guaky skinny guy who just screams NERD whenever approaching towards another human being. Only thing is that this nerd is narcissistic.

I’ll let that sink in.

A narcissistic nerd.

Well he is. He has pictures of himself pouting and posing. I bet you he has pictures of Bill Gates pasted on a cover of playgirl. But that’s another story.

My point , and I do have one , is that on his display picture he has a picture of his toes. I’m not going to post it because I don’t want to get in trouble with anyone over that (but if you have reasons to believe otherwise heck hit me up I’m willing to share!) .

Why?! I mean it’s not even girly toes… it’s long and kinda hairy and you know its a guys foot. The only way guys smell good is when we buy them perfumes. You’re borrowing our tweezers then our eyeliners , now you think parts of your body are as cute as ours. First of all, unless your eyebrows are starting to resemble a letter of the alphabet leave them the fuck alone.Second, guyliners? If this is your way of stepping out of the bathroom (closest thing i have to a closet) just get it over with ( I have trouble assimilating emo) .Now this monstrosity!? Next thing I know I’ll going to see high perspective myspace pictures of yourself. Guys go back to reading comic books . I rather have a guy body slam me then asking me if his eyeliner is even.

Pictures of his toes!!!

*note: no gigis were hurt in the making of this entry.

The chicken or the egg?

I have good reasons to title my latest entry with “the chicken or the egg?”, like the famous question “what came first , the chicken or the egg”. See lately before I go to bed I have a lot of weird thoughts. For instance , I have a habit of when laying in bed I rub my feet agaisnt each other or agaisnt my legs. Last night while I was doing that , I realized that the buttom of my feet felt a little rough against my smooth calf. Here’s the trick. I started to get confuse of whether I was feeling wih my foot or my leg. Since both are a part of me ,I wonder which I was feeling . My leg was feeling my foot or my foot was feeling my leg? Was I feeling something smooth or something rough? Then I started to think what if human contact was like that. Wouldn’t it be weird  amazing to feel the other person the same way you feel in your hand the glass of water. Or like me when I coudn’t understand that weird conection with my feet and legs. I wonder if I’m making any sense but even if I don’t here’s a lil tip, try to feel the other person. Not with your hands but try to feel what they feel , imagine what it’s like to touch your own skin. You might discover something.