The Catalyst

I think I was about six years old when my grandma was visiting my family in Buenos Aires. My mom had started working by that time, and there was no nanny to cook for me, so she decided to take on the task.

In Argentina we have these potato balls that are breaded and deep-fried that we call "Bombas de Papa." The literal translation of the name is: Potato bombs. They are a favorite of mine, and as such my grandma decided to make them for me; except she had a little trick up her sleeve.

When I first sat down and was served, the bombas de papa looked ordinary. They were browned, but not too browned. They were crunchy to the fork, but not too crunchy. The center had melted cheese which was something my grandma used to always do for me- what tastes better than deep fried potatoes? deep-fried cheese. So without any hesitation I put a piece in my mouth. Well, what came next was an automatic reflex that I still succumb to even today. I gagged. Something was fishy about these bombas de papa.

I told my grandma that there was something wrong with them. I told her that they tasted strangely. She didn't believe me. She even tried one herself and said that they tasted like any other bomba de papa she's had, and she's made. Still, with a little more persistence she finally let me in on a little secret. The verdulero (produce guy) had sold her some potatoes that were about to expire to save some money. She was retired after all. So, if I wanted to, she would make me something else, but she didn't want to waste the potatoes. I refused to eat them, and I equally refused for her to have to cook something else. After all Bombas de papa were already too much work.

Later on that afternoon my mom and my Grandma got into an argument. That is when I learned a little secret that my grandma had kept from me. She had used a special ingredient. She had used fish.

Ever since then I've refused to eat, drink, or smell anything that even tastes, or smells remotely fishy. I guess that's the catalyst that made me gay. :-)

It takes a writer...

This is by far the best explanation of how I am. It is written by author Anne Lamott, in her book Bird by Bird.

"quieting these voices is at least half the battle I fight daily. But this is better than it used to be. It used to be 87 percent. Left to its own devices, my mind spends much of its time having conversations with people who aren't there. I walk along defending myself to people, or exchanging repartee with them, or rationalizing my behavior, or seducing them with gossip, or pretending I'm on their TV talk show or whatever. I speed or run an aging yellow light or don't come to a full stop, and one nanosecond later am explaining to imaginary cops exactly why I had to do what I did, or insisting that I did not in fact do it."

Working on a new blog. Until then, cheers.

On Seaweed and Life

My grandpa died when I was five years old. I know this not because I can recall the year that he passed, but because he died two weeks after my birthday. We were all at his house in Entre Rios, Argentina when it happened. I can still remember the spongy sensation and the smell of lemon, sugar and butter in my mouth from my birthday cake. A cake that he insisted on making sure my family purchase for me. I can't quite remember who showed up for my party other than my cousins, but I can tell you that the glasses were to the right of the cake. I can tell you that there were potatoe chips, palitos, and other party mix in front of the glasses. And I can tell you that to the right of these there was a bottle of coca-cola.

I can still remember softness of my aunt's curls when she hugged me after she told me the news. I can sense the comfort, the security that receiving this news from his chair had on me. I can feel the warmth that her body sought to share with me.

I still cry when I remember this. He's passing was my first heartbreak.

Maybe it was fate, maybe it was destiny, maybe it was a necessary step in some master plan that some old bearded guy that lives in one of the many clouds in the sky had planned out, but the previous summer (January) my whole family, including my grandparents, decided to go to the beach with my parents, uncles, aunts and cousins. This would be his last summer.

My grandpa was sort of the goofball that I somewhat resemble now. He was one of the most loyal people you'd ever meet. He was a union member. He helped anyone that needed a hand, and sometimes at his own sacrifice. He not only saw the world as it should be, but he sought to do something to change it.

He saw the good in people.

During one of those days in our last vacation my grandpa and I were in the ocean playing. The tide had changed that day, and there were tons of seaweed all over the waves and the rocks. I detest seaweed. It has always made my skin crawl. To this day I still can't even smell sushi because of the smell of seaweed. Still, my grandpa insisted on me playing with him, and because he knew how much I disliked seaweed he cut me a deal. He knew how uncomfortable I was with seaweed, so in order to placate the effect of the seaweed he offered to stand in front of me facing the beach with his back to the sea. This way he created a sort of human border with his legs- a wall that protected me from the seaweed.

My friends always say that I'm a gambler. That sometimes when I date guys, and I really like them I just let them in and become very available. That my game is risky not because I lack the ability to edit my impulses, but because I lack the ability to protect myself. I have a feeling that this is more than with just dating. I don't have a lot of friends. This has been a conscious effort on my part. I've done so because of two reasons: First, I would do anything for any of my true friends. Second, this much love need not be diluted with the amount of friendships that I accumulate. There is only so much I can give.

Recently I fathomed a lesson that until now had been elusive to me. I learned the lesson that my grandpa sought to teach me that summer's day at the beach: a little wall never hurt anyone- in fact deconstructing it can be fun. Because, unlike that summer's day, now, there is no one else there to love you enough to stand in the way of seaweed and you.

Oscar Wilde once said: "Be youself; everyone else is already taken." This is exactly what I've been doing lately. I've stopped trying to pretend that I'm perfect, and I've started loving the uniqueness of the imperfections that make me who I am.

A few weeks ago I was put in a position that was uncomfortable for me. The sea of this ambiguous friendship became clouded with seaweed, and for the first time, instead of attempting to swim evasively trying to salvage some of it, I did for myself what my grandpa had done for me almost two decades earlier. I stood my ground. I built some boundaries and demanded them be respected.

For the first time I protected myself not because I was scared of being hurt, but because for the first time I felt that I was something worth protecting. For the first I saw in myself what my grandpa had seen twenty years before during our last summer together: the object of his love. I'm the object of my love, and because of this I've picked up a new habit. You might know about it because I advice people to follow my lead on my facebook status update from time to time.

I dance every morning while in the shower. I dance by myself with myself. I dance like I dance when I'm out- I dance like no one is watching. I dance this way not because no one is watching, but because those who matter are probably dancing with me already. Not because there is fear that this might be your last spring, your last winter, your last summer. But because there really is no other way to live than to enjoy every second-every millisecond of this life. Because you are good enough, significant enough, for the simplest reason that you are who you are and I am who I am, to enjoy this life. Because you are - I am- someone worth protecting.

No qualifiers.

In bullfighting the toro (bull) enters the ring from a specific entrance. Right outside of this entrance el matador (the bullfighter) waits for the bull. He is usually waiting by either kneeling or squatting behind a red flag/cape. As soon as the bull enters, the first thing the bull sees is the red cape, and the matador hiding behind it. Instantly a connection is made. Red cape equals matador; to get to him, he must go through the cape.

For the remainder of the show, and the bull's life, the bull keeps purposely searching for the matador behind this red cape. The matador's role is to always gracefully move and avoid being horned by the bull. He must calculate, and asses the distance of the horns, of the bull, from his own body. The closer the distance, the more exciting the show. This elegant dance continues regardless of the futile efforts of the bull to hurt him. The bull is never in control. He just goes through the motions and attempts to fulfill its only goal: to kill the matador.

This translates to more than just bullfighting. There are certain rules that you have to follow in order to achieve what you want to achieve. Like the bull, there is always a red cape that you have to strive for to get to the matador. This form of thinking isn't foreign to anyone that has done anything with their lives. For example, if you want to lose weight, you cut down your calories, and you work out. Easy. If you want to gain weight, do the opposite. Much easier.

Unfortunately for us, the rules are not always as clear cut as we'd like them to be. Usually, at least in terms of fulfilling our goals, the matador isn't always behind the red cape. Accepting this, realizing this, understanding this had been a challenge for me. A challenge that none other than my absent father addressed when I sat and shared a cup of coffee with him in Buenos Aires this past December.

Sitting across from me was this older looking guy to whom I had no affection. No love. It had been twelve years since I had seen him. After my parent's divorce he simply stopped fulfilling all of his responsibilities- financial and emotional. This had been, up until this cup of coffee, my biggest source of insecurity. He didn't do what he was supposed to do. I was the matador, and he was the bull, and he never strived to get me.

After receiving our coffees, he stirred his and began to say:
"There are many things that I want to say to you, as I'm sure there are even more that you want to say to me. But when shit hits the fan everyone gets dirty, regardless of who threw the feces to the fan or who turned the fan on. I think that we've lost enough time already. I think that we should put the past behind us and accept that life is."

He stopped to take a sip, and let what he had just said sink in.

"Life is. No qualifier. No comparison. Life is, and you try to make the best of it. And sometimes, when you look back, you realize that you've made mistakes."

This has been my philosophy lately. It has freed me from always being the bull, and sometimes thinking that I'm the matador. I've stopped trying to control everything, and stopped trying to allow others to control me. My only task is to live life as it is. Without if's and but's, simply fulfilling the only task I have been assigned: to live it; to live life as it is. To play my hand with the cards I got, and not with the cards that I wished I had. To live life with no comparisons, with no qualifiers. To live...

The Curse of the Vet

“We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” – Joan Didion.


When I was four or five years old I had a pet turtle named Manuelita. I loved this turtle. I fed her lettuce and carrots, and all those things that cartoons teach you that these animals eat. One day Manuelita got sick. She got so sick, in fact, that my mom had to take her to the vet. After a few days of her absence I asked my mom what was happening with Manuelita: “Well, she is really sick, so she is in Intensive Care, she’ll be back soon,” was my mom’s response. Satisfied with her answer and thinking that my mom would never lie to me I figured Manuelita would eventually return.

I think that I was seven when my dad bought me a hamster. I actually don’t remember his name, but for some reason I’m thinking it was Federico. I had a buddy from school who also had a hamster. We would meet up and talk about our hamsters after class. My hamster wasn’t very nice. He would bite me, and pee on me, and he would always get dirty in his cage. I didn’t understand him very much. My buddy told me that Fede acted this way because he was a male hamster, and that female hamsters, like the one he owned, were much nicer to humans. He told me that female hamsters were more likely to allow humans to pet them except when they had baby hamsters.

During one of Fede’s tantrums he got very dirty. Not knowing any better I grabbed Fede and gave him a bath. While I was giving him a bath he fell asleep. At first, I thought that it was incredibly adorable to have Fede, whom would normally be biting me, fall asleep in my hands, but after a few minutes of me trying to wake him up and he not waking up I started to freak out. I told my mom what was happening and she told me that she would take him to the vet. A few days went by and Fede still hadn’t returned from the vet so I asked my mom what was happening. She told me that he was very sick and that he would eventually return once he felt better. I figured that since she was my mom she knew better than I did, though I had my suspicions.

I’ve been talking to this guy since November. We’ve hang out a number of times, but most of our interaction has been through either text, and or AIM. I enjoy talking to him. He makes me laugh, and is mostly informed about things that interest me, which makes him that much more attractive. The problem one would say with this guy is that he is, and I’m fully aware to this fact, emotionally unavailable to me. I know this, not only because he told me so, but because I have this uncanny ability to only attract, and be attracted to, this sort of guys.

I’m okay with the fact that nothing will come out of this. In fact, I’m happy to be making a new friend. Yet when we talk, we still flirt, we still sometimes, though sporadically, sleep together.

Needless to say Manuelita was never released from the ICU, and Fede never woke up from his nap. But a part of me remains hopeful that, as my mother said, they would return. I’m okay with the fact that I’ll never see my pets again. But, I can’t help but remain a bit optimistic about the whole situation. There was never any finality to it. Perhaps this is the same reason why, even though it has nothing to do with who he is, I still talk to this dude, and the many other dudes with whom I was in the same situation. I can’t help but be an optimist about the given hopelessness of it all. I still have hope though all sings point to no. I still, and will probably always see some light in the darkness. I like that about me. I like the fact that though I’ve been disappointed a number of times I remain hopeful. I don’t lose myself in the disappointments. Rather I focus on the fact that eventually it will all work out. Manuelita will eventually get released. Fede will eventually wake up. Until then, I’ll just tell myself stories in order to live.