Sunday Blues

I left the house for the first time that cloudy day in the evening. Just to walk. Just to move and get unstuck from the same place. I crossed the abandoned construction site, sneakers crunching on dried mud, my eyes thirsty for any view of the river ahead. The sky was dense with the power of mood-changing muscle. What is it about Sunday nights that always gets me? Those Sunday Blues. 

The Meat Of The Matter

I had agreed to transport half a cow to the butcher, so the meat could be used to make five pots of stew for the celebration today. Fortunately, we left the head and the bucket full of intestines behind.

 

The hulking, wobbling masses got loaded into the back of the pickup truck. I was mesmerized by the kilograms of flesh that were now starting to attract flies. At the butcher shop, my attention honed in on the heel of the butcher’s hand guiding the impossibly thick bones across the singing blade of the band saw, set into a granite counter.

 

“If you eat this meat,” V. said, stabbing the cow leg with her knife, “it doesn’t mean you have to vote for him. The politicians do this every year for everyone, for Indigenous People’s Day, but the meat isn’t political.”

 

In Argentina, voting is compulsory. This may seem like a good idea: what a great way to get everyone involved in democracy! What it actually means, though, is that politicians come to many poor communities to buy votes, by promising new health centers, new social assistance programs, new schools. And sometimes they actually build the health centers, or the schools. But here’s the catch: the pristine-from-the-outside buildings topped with “another job accomplished in Namqom” banners often remain untouched, unopened, and unused, until the next election rolls around. 

Second Marriage

One day, my everyday-after-school, lived-across-the-street playmate and I decided to stage an elopement. After (very) briefly discussing some wedding details, we agreed to meet under the cherry tree in my front yard in ten minutes.

When the big moment arrived, we faced each other under the flowering branches. I proclaimed us husband and wife, kissed this French neighbor of mine on the cheek, and broke apart a Kit Kat to share at our (very intimate) reception.

By the time we turned eight he had already moved to California, never to be seen again. 

First Marriage

My first husband was a black Great Dane named Alex. The ceremony took place on the porch of my grandmother’s house, with my sister wearing a gypsy skirt and pretending to be a mother appalled by her daughter’s choice to marry a dog. I wore my aunt’s communion dress; he went nude. Once everything was official and my “mother” had gotten over the shock, instead of carrying me over the threshold, Alex let me ride on his back across the yard. 

 

Easter Exuberance

This Easter, instead of going to the usual egg blessing at the Polish church, I attended my first mass in Spanish. I sat alone on the thin wooden pew watching, as a group of little girls in bright pastel dresses entered with two nuns. The old women, both wearing saggy white tube socks, beige cardigans, and round glasses, organized the combed and sashed nenas into a few rows. I tried not to laugh as I watched the littlest one, in a large-shouldered sea foam green dress, pat the nearest nun’s backside to get her attention.

Towards the end of the mass, we all clapped for the volunteers who had helped out at church during the week between Sundays Palm and Easter. Then the priest told us to give another round of applause, this time for The Resurrected Christ. I have never clapped for Jesus before in my life. 

Leibster Blog Award Questionnaire

With this post I venture into the blogosphere, in terms of participation and connections rather than content. Thank you for indulging me. And thank you to Extreme Mom for including me on her list of nominees for a Liebster Blog Award. This “award” is for bloggers with less than 200 followers who will keep the ball rolling by selecting further nominees. “Receiving” the award also entails answering a few questions posted by the nominee-er, which for me were the following:

1.    If you had to be an Old Maid card, which one would it be? (Make something up, like…  Valerie Vodka or Shopaholic Shannon)

I’ve never played Old Maid! But maybe my blog name would do it, Mucho Monisia. At least the alliteration’s there. 

2.    What’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever done? Just ONE please.

Fallen for a trick in The Onion’s Atlas of the World—on the page about Poland, the first instruction is to turn the book around 360 degrees…

3.    If you could live anywhere on earth, where would it be?

A city on the coast with mountains in the background.

4.    What was your favorite childhood toy?

A giant, blue, bouncing ball with handles that I hopped around on more than I walked during the year I was 7.  Something like this.

5.    Are you a dog or cat person?

I spent my senior externship in high school cleaning out cat cages at the SPCA. So, I’m a dog person.

6.    If you could spend the day with any celebrity, who would it be? Why?

The Weasley twins. I know that’s technically two, but since they are identical, they were once one. I’ve always said I would love to be their friend. 

7.    What three words best describe your blog?

Vignette, thoughtsicle, and memories.

8.    Name something currently on your ‘bucket list’

I call it my Life To Do List. One thing I need to do, apparently, is knit a pair of socks.

9.    Who’s your favorite author?

Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

10.   Describe your strangest dream.

By choosing to interpret dream as “a cherished aspiration” rather than “a series of thoughts, images, and sensations occurring in a person’s mind during sleep”, I can answer: to cross-breed fruits until I can eat apple-sized raspberries.

11.    An interesting fact about you…

I have trouble distinguishing mimosas from samosas.

My three nominees are: my lifelong best friend, Meghan; my former classmate, another Meghan; and the leader of a medical brigade I went on in 2010, Tommy.

My three questions for them, should they choose to accept the nomination and pay it forward, are:

1.    If you had to eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be (disregarding the need for nutrition)?

2.    If you weren’t scared, what would you do, right now?

3.    Vanilla or chocolate?

Left To Figure It Out

I claim that I only started experimenting with cooking and baking in my (falling-apart)ment during my sophomore year of college, but really I was already doing it when I climbed up onto the counters in the kitchen at age 5. I dumped the entire contents of a can of peaches into a bowl of Rice Krispies, and flavored the whole thing with a generous dash of almond extract from the tiny glass tubes my grandma kept in a plastic container.

Obviously the “dish” was disgusting, but I’m glad I was either left unsupervised for the amount of time it took to put together this concoction, or deliberately allowed to figure out what doesn’t work, on my own.

Strong Women

A group of women from the same church group load firewood for cooking onto the truck

A group of women from the same church group load firewood for cooking onto the truck

One of the many hats I wear at my job is “Girl With The Truck.” For some in the barrio, knowing me is important because the truck is seen as a commodity. I often take women to cut reeds for their basket-making, and field many requests to go to nearby cities or not-so-nearby other provinces. I’ve transported furniture and palm trunks and bicycles and baby carriages and wobbly cakes across the highway that cuts through the neighborhood. I brought a sweaty groom from his house to an expectant church crowd. 

This day, I took a group of friends and aunts to the monte so they could collect firewood for their families. Many have gas stoves, but use wood when the fuel runs out and they can’t afford to buy a tank refill. I abandon my wimpy attempts to help load the wood and instead stare in awe of the strength they expend to provide for their families.