“Thirty Dogs in Thirty Days” or “Why My Lipstick Smells Like Kibble”

This is my version of heaven. These dogs -- Hotai and 
Clementine -- live at the vet clinic where I volunteer. 
I walk them almost every day.
 

Anyone who knows me knows I have a soft spot in my heart for dogs.

Nothing makes me happier than to be surrounded by dogs. Big dogs, small dogs, puppies, old dogs, hairy dogs, fat dogs, drooly dogs -- I love them all. But mutts are my favorites. I prefer a scrungy-looking mixed-breed mutt with mismatched ears, a bald spot, and a crook in its tail over a fancy pedigreed dog that’s never played in the mud. But that’s just me. What can I say? “I like big mutts and I cannot lie... You other brothers can’t deny...” (Sing it! You know the words!)

There are stray dogs everywhere in Guatemala. EVERYWHERE. So if you are a tenderhearted dog lover like me, it breaks your heart to see them and feel like you can't do anything.

Workin' it on the street. 

But wait! There is at least one tiny thing I can do: I can feed ‘em! 

This is the dog food that I buy.
According to the bag, it
includes the flavors of meat,
cereal and milk. Since I've
never tried it myself, I'll
have to take their word for it.
YUMMM.

And feed them I do.

You know how people give something up for Lent? Well, I’m not Catholic or I don’t think I’m Catholic but I think I was baptized Catholic but it sorta ended there and I really don’t know much about the whole thing even though I’m living in Ground Zero of Catholicism (well, second only to the Vatican, I guess). Aaaanyway, so rather than giving up something for Lent, I've heard you can take on a daily ritual (like sit-ups or something) to better yourself. I decided to do a “Feed Thirty Dogs in Thirty Days” goal. I’m not ashamed to say that I have no idea how Lent lasts, but I thought it would be a nice thing to do. (OH! Wait -- according to Google, in 2013 it’ll last for 46 days – sooo, crap. I guess I need to change this to “Forty-Six Dogs in Forty-Six Days.”) Well, it looks like I need to buy more dog food.

She was in the park almost every day.
I rescued her and named her Cookie.
Sooo, if anyone wants to adopt her....

So now I don’t leave home without a baggie of dog food in my purse. You have no idea how much it sucks to come across a starving dog and have nothing to feed it. One evening I was walking home from the grocery store when I came across two young, hungry dogs. I opened my grocery bag and fed them several pieces of the sandwich bread I had just bought. So, now I carry dog food everywhere I go. And yes, this makes everything in my purse (lipstick, phone, keys) take on the meaty and oh-so-satisfying aroma of kibble, but it’s worth walking around town smelling like I just put in a double-shift at The Kibble Mine.

Even Brad Pitt enjoys the scent of CHISPITA. (But from the looks of this picture,
it seems he's trying to cover his nose. Or, like he just threw up a little.) 

“Hey, Jen... What’s that unusual fragrance you’re wearing?”
 “Oh, you must be referring to my new perfume – Chispita.”

 “Interesting... Is this why are all of the dogs following you like you're the Pied Piper?”

 Yyyyyep.

Ahhh, but I digress...

I've learned not to just dump the entire baggie on the ground when I come upon a hungry dog. Believe it or not, some of them will not eat it. I don’t know if it’s because they've never encountered kibble before, or if they’re holding out for something better. There have been times I've offered up the baggie of food only to have the dog raise an eyebrow, look at me skeptically and say, “Oh, come now! You expect me to eat this crap? Doncha have any raw chicken in that purse of yours?”

(Don't look at this one, Mom!)
This poor guy was so sweet and so very hungry.  

So now I do the Kibble Test. I toss a few bites to the dog to see if they’ll eat it. Some are very wary of eating while I’m watching and will slink away – as if I’ll take the food from them – so I put the food down and take a few steps back. If they eat it, I leave more food for them to eat when they’re feeling brave. Other dogs will eat the food right out of my hand. That’s right, I am ________ (Crazy? Stupid? Trusting? Foolish? Naive? Insert the word of your choice) enough to let a stray dog eat right out of my hand. I've never been bitten. These dogs are not mean, they're just hungry. Most of them have never had a human being pet them in their entire life. (Oh yeah, and if they’ll let me, I pet them, too.) _______??!?! (Go ahead and insert another word of your choice here.) 

Seriously... How can anyone pass a dog like this and
not feed it? I think I gave him the entire bag of food. 

Occasionally, I’ll come upon a sleeping dog. Well you know what they say about letting sleeping dogs lie... And even though I don’t like it when dogs lie to me, I leave them alone. (Ba-dum-bum.) In those cases, like a sneaky Kibble Ninja, I leave the food next to their noses. Just a little something to greet them when they awaken. Every now and then the flavorful aroma will wake them up – first their nose twitches, then their ears perk up, and lastly, they open their eyes and – BEHOLD! – a pile of kibble awaits! Oh happy day!

Strangely enough, there have been a few times when I've walked around town and not seen a stray dog. Not even one. And other days I will feed three or four, so I guess it all evens out somehow. 

And there you have it. The reason why everything in my purse smells like dog food. If I could carry a 50-pound bag with me everywhere I go that would be even better – but the locals already look at me like I’m a freak show for feeding the dogs as it is. There have been TOO MANY occasions to count when I've been feeding someone (oh, and did I mention that I talk to the dogs as I feed them? Yeah, there is just no limit to my insanity) and looked up to see an ENTIRE family of Guatemalans staring at me in disbelief. I just shrug my shoulders, smile, and say, “Me gusta perros,” and get back to work. One dog at a time... 

Until we meet again, stay thirsty (and hungry for CHISPITA!) my friends. Nom-nom-nom...

A hungry mama dog... sitting under a truck. 

Notice the tail tucked between the legs... As if she
needed to be afraid of me? 

Action shot! 

She ate the food so fast, by the time I got my camera out, she was looking at me like,
"Sooo, what else ya got? More, please!" 

Another hungry mama. Someone once said, "The only thing worse than being
a street dog in Guatemala is being a FEMALE street dog in Guatemala."
All they do is pop out litter after litter of puppies. *sigh*

It's hard to tell from this picture, but this lovely girl was so scared,
she kept her back legs planted and leeeeeaned into the food. 

Notice the little lick marks on the concrete? I think this dog was part ant eater --
she used her tongue to pick up the pieces of food. 

This guy was very nervous. He ate the kibble...until a parade came marching by
and scared him off. 

A handsome, shaggy diner at Jen's Bar and Grill. (Minus the "bar.") 

This was a very friendly boy with a terrible case of mange across his face.
He wagged his tail the entire time he was eating.  

I fed this skinnnnnnnnny little dog at a school. After I put the food down,
I looked up to see about 20 kids staring at me like I was from Mars. 

I wanted so badly to feed this dog! He kept scratching his back on the grass...
I must've stood there for ten minutes waiting for him to stop. I even climbed
over the little metal fence to give him food. He sniffed at it, then
went back to scratching his back. Oh well! I tried. 

I love this picture! Look at those eyes! They scream "FEEEEED MEEE!"
I was eating street food at the time and gave him the skin off my chicken leg.
After getting meat, he had noooo interest in eating the kibble I offered him. 

A skinny skinny skinny mama in the market. 

I like to think he's looking up and saying, "Hey! Thanks for the kibble!" 

Feeding two at a time. I'm sure the gal in the blue skirt was giving me weird looks.
(I'm used to it. I'm made of Teflon -- their stares just slide off of me.) 

I remember this night was cold, but I don't remember it being this blurry...

This is one of the extremely cautious dogs who wouldn't eat until I was halfway down the street. 

After being fed, it's time for a drink! Not only are the fountains in Parque Central nice to look at,
they also provide water for all of the street dogs in town. 

Anyone need a vacuum cleaner? This dog found every tiny piece
of kibble I tossed his way. 

A bow. Wow wow.

For Girls Only! (Really!)

First, let me say that this post is for GIRLS ONLY. 

OMG! This edition featured a-ha!
I looove them! I didn't know where Norway
was before they, like, came along. I'm pretty sure
 I, like, bought this magazine and, like, hung it
on my bedroom wall. And, like, in my locker.
Squeeee!

And this post has nothing to do with living in Guatemala and everything to do with being a GIRRRL. Like Teen Beat magazine, Spanxx and Duran Duran, men just won’t get it. Nor, will they want to.

That being said -- men, consider yourselves warned. Read on, if you dare.

(Seriously guys, this is your last warning! Spare yourselves! Go away! Close this window and surf the web for techie stuff or motor oil or porn or whatever manly men look at online. Because if you’re like some men I know who break out in a cold sweat when the word tampon is mentioned, you will want to stop reading NOW.)

...Waiting for the men to leave... Tapping my foot impatiently... Are the men gone yet? Ok, good. Let's carry on, shall we?

Every 28 days I tell myself, “This is just too funny not to share.” So, here I am, sharing away.

I guess Playtex figured calling them
"Playtex Sport" was more effective than
calling them "Playtex Lounge Around
and Eat Chocolate All Damn Day" 

Basically I’d like to know: When did tampons become fortune cookies? Yep, you heard me. I want to know when tampons started giving us gals advice on how to live our lives.

Let me do some ‘splaining... Last year, I bought a box of Playtex Sport tampons. They come in a hot pink box and have silhouettes of women dancing and jogging and playing tennis and ALL of those fun and frisky things we ladies do when we’re on our periods. (And golly, if you're like me, sometimes you find yourself dancing and jogging while you play tennis. Mm-hmm.) The box is fun and cheerful and just looks like something you’d want to see waving at you from under your bathroom sink. 

But really – I think it’s time for truth in advertising. Why not have a box showing what it’s really like when Auntie Flo comes a-calling? Like, a silhouette of a woman growling and killing off a tube of cookie dough. Or, maybe a silhouette of a gal curled up on the sofa with a heating pad. Or – better yet – a woman chasing a man around with a knife after he said something stupid to her like, “Oh, come on! Cramps can’t be that bad!”

God bless the person who figured out how to package
and sell cookie dough like this... You are my hero.

Ah, but I digress...

I'm not sure when I first noticed, but WOW. Really, WOWWW. I guess it was when I was holding the wrapped tampon in my hand, trying to figure out which end was “up” and what end to tear open, when I first saw the WRITING ON THE WRAPPER. Yes, there were words on the wrapper. And not just “You are holding a Playtex Sport Tampon.” Nosirree. It was a secret message sent to me directly from the Tampon Gods. It said, “Go for the standing ovation.” Really? I should go for the standing ovation? Hell yeah! So, from that moment, I decided I was going to go for the standing ovation that day. Because my tampon told me so.

YEAH! Go get 'em, tiger! Conquer the world! RRROWL!

After that, every time I pulled a tampon out of the box I felt like I was going on a new and exciting adventure. I never knew what little message it was going to tell me, like “Game on!” or “Practice makes perfect,” or “Live Fearlessly!” Live fearlessly? Ok, next time I encounter a Nightmare Bug, I'll lasso that sucker, teach it to ride on my shoulder and name it Norman. And I will do it all without an ounce of fear. Because my tampon told me so.

I have to admit, the messages were sort of hard to read – yellow ink on a light green wrapper – but for those of you who are farsighted or damn near blind, it would be worth buying a new pair of glasses or getting an eye transplant just to read these inspirational comments.

I remember being so excited about my magical inspirational tampons that I tried to give my dear friend Marnie one of my tampons to prove I wasn’t making it up. “Look!” I said. “It says ‘Strive to be your best!’” Unfortunately, we were having this conversation during lunch... At the Cheesecake Factory. (Sometimes I forget I’m in public... And okaaay, fiiiiiiine. I guess handing a tampon to someone over the table at a nice restaurant is considered a Romper Room No-No. Yada-yada-yada...) Marnie, being the level-headed and sweet person that she is, glanced at the tampon to appease me, then looked around and discreetly handed it back, as if we were exchanging illegal drugs right there in front of the lunchtime crowd. (How funny would it have been if the waiter walked up just then and caught us? Oooh, the laughs we would have had!)  

I sorta wish Playtex would print things like, “Don’t even think about wearing those white pants,” or “You are only supposed to take two Midol at a time,” or “Don’t kill your boyfriend/husband because murder is illegal” which, let’s face it, are what we really need to hear when Auntie Flo is in town.

If only Joan of Arc had Playtex Sport
tampons cheering her on, things might
have ended so much differently for her. 

For anyone who is thinking, "My old tampon just isn't bringing me the satisfaction or inspiration I'm looking for," and in the market for a new box of tampons, I highly recommend these. Not only for their impressive tamponic performance, but also because you will giggle like a silly little schoolgirl every time you read the wrapper and pop open a new one. Your period will no longer be a pain you have to live through, but an inspirational adventure.

My very favorite tamponic comment to date is, “Go out. Have fun. Trust your tampon.”

Because let’s face it – if you can’t trust your tampon, who can you trust?

Until we meet again, stay thirsty, my girlfriends!

P.S. If you are a man and managed to read this entire post without saying “Ooooh, grooooss!” and/or breaking into hives, give yourself a pat on the back for being brave. I promise not to tell on you, so no one is going to come and take your Man Card away. :-)

Guatemala: A Culinary Melting Pot

I’ll admit it -- I’m a picky eater. In fact, I’m probably the pickiest person you’ll ever meet when it comes to food. As a child, during mealtimes my mother would set the timer and say, “If you’re not finished eating by the time this goes off, you’ll __(insert punishment here)__.”  

It didn’t work. Needless to say, I endured a lot of __(insert punishment here)__  just to avoid eating whatever was on my plate. I wasn't going to eat what I didn’t like. And there were a lot of things I didn’t like.

Tick-tick-tick-DING!

This is what I do to eggs when I have Sharpies nearby.

It’s a wonder I didn’t grow up with an eating disorder. (Does “Pain in the Ass Picky Eater” count as an eating disorder? Someone look it up in the DSM-IV book.) 

As an adult, I’m still picky. I don't like butter. I don't like sour cream. I don't like mushrooms. Or olives. Or liver. I don't like eggs, although I'll eat them here only because they are cheap and plentiful and I can draw on them first. 

I recall going to dinner with my dearest darling wonderful friend, Melissa, and ordering nachos. But, much like Sally from When Harry Met Sally, I wanted them my own way -- just chips and cheese. None of that nasty green guacamole (reminds me of The Exorcist), no sour cream (oooh, yucky), no tomatoes (too slimy), and definitely no jalapeños. When the waiter brought our food to the table, he announced what was in his hands, “Ok, who gets the regular nachos and who gets the boring nachos?”

These nachos are not for me.  More for you!

Boring nachos! Ohhh yeeeeah. Come to mama.

I respect those people who can go to a potluck lunch and try a little bit of everything. Mark my words, you will never hear me say, “Oooh! Someone made Eggplant Squash Succotash with Squid Nuggets and Peas! How interesting! I’ll take some of that!”

Basically, if I can't recognize it or name it, I'm not gonna eat it. Nope. No way. 

Eating mystery food is my version of hell.

Last week, I ran into my friend David and we went out to lunch. David is from Puerto Rico, a very talented jewelry/furniture/home designer and is wonderfully gay. He calls me “ChaCha.” It’s fun hanging out with him because if an attractive man catches our attention, I will ask, “Your team or mine?” I have to ask because I was born without the Gaydar gene. I only assume a man is gay if he comes up to me and introduces me to his partner. Or if he is on the tv show “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.” Or if he knows (and sings) a lot of show tunes. In high school one of my best friends, Robert, was gay and I had no clue. (In my defense, Robert didn't know he was gay, either, until he was in college and then it was all gay, all the time.) During high school Robert dated my friend Deborah, and I thought it was soooo cool of my mom to let Robert spend the night when I had slumber parties. She said she knew Robert was gay and nothing would happen if he spent the night. (And it’s true! Nothing ever happened! EVER!) My mom has a very accurate Gaydar. Heck, even my grandma knew Robert was gay! I was clueless.

Ahhh, but I digress...

Anyway, so David and I were trying to figure out where to eat and he said, “Oh, ChaCha! There’s this new Mediterranean place that is supposed to be excellent!” And a sort of grunting/gurgling sound escaped from my mouth – the sort of sound you’d make if you were playing poker and were working on a royal flush and you just picked up an ace from another suit and had to throw it out. Yeah, that kind of sound.

David looked at me and said, “What? You don’t like Mediterranean food?” And I ‘fessed up and said, “Ehhh, I've probably never tired it.” And then he said what people have been asking me my entire life:

“How do you know you don’t like it if you’ve never tried it?”

Well, because... It sounds like it could be slimy. Or gooey. Or squishy. Or made of unfamiliar ingredients. Or have meat in it that I can’t identify.

Let’s face it, I had no good reason for not liking Mediterranean food. And David’s peer pressure was killing me. *sigh* Ok. Fiiiiiiiiine. Let’s go to that Mediterranean place.

*siiiiiiigh*

Here's a picture of Zoola's cool interior.

The place was called Zoola and it’s actually a hostel. A really COOL hostel! And a really CLEAN hostel, for anyone who is in the market for a place to stay in Antigua. It had these giant pieces of fabric covering the roof and these low low low tables and big pillows and straw mats on the floor. In other words, no regular tables and chairs, so plop your bootie on the floor and get comfie! I felt like at any minute, a live camel would come walking by. It was awesome!

Zoola is run by a brother and sister from Israel who cater to Israeli students who want to travel abroad. They also have another location in Guatemala near Lake Atitlan but they wanted to branch out in Antigua. (I’m glad they did!)

David asked if I liked falafel and I was like, "Nooo…? Well. Maybe? I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I’ve never had it." Honestly, I had no clue what falafel was. All I knew was it had the word AWFUL in it. Then again, it also contains the word LAWFUL, which means my brother (who is a cop) would probably like it. Falafel sounded like something that would be covered in alfalfa and be made out of pygmy goat or alpaca or mashed-up grasshoppers or something. Regardless, David ordered the falafel for us. The waiter described it to me as “balls of meat with a dressing on top.” Needless to say, I was nervous. Balls of meat?! Dressing?! Oh, what food hell was this??? I started to sweat and began to plan what I’d be eating after my lunch with David was over.

Falafel! It's not awful! 

And when it arrived… I checked it out like a cautious dog circling a hissing cat. And then I took a bite... And... It was AWESOME! It was crunchy! I like crunchy things. It was flavorful! I like flavory things. It didn’t have too much dressing on top! I don’t like too much dressing. It had cucumbers! I like cucumbers. I’ve been craving it ever since. Score one for the picky eater! Woop-woop!

Interesting that my first falafel experience was in Guatemala with a man from Puerto Rico, served by people from Israel, while sitting on a straw mat. (No camels, however.) (But there was a very shy dog who lived at the hostel.) (She licked my nose when I met her.) 

It was a truly unique experience.

Mmmm... pizzaaaaaa...

On that note, I have to say my new favorite place to get pizza here is a tiny dive called “Gourmet Express” which sounds like a cheesy little fast food Chinese place, right? Nope. It’s run by a very opinionated German guy named Roland and his sweet Guatemalan wife, Ana Maria. And when I say it’s a “tiny dive” I really mean it – there are two tables in the whole place. I invited a few friends to meet for dinner one night – there were nine of us – and we took up the entire restaurant. Oooh, and now I’m craving pizza.

Nom-nom-nom.

So, if you're in Antigua and you want Mediterranean food, eat at the Israeli restaurant. If you want Italian food, go to the German guy’s place. Oh, and be sure to try Roland's German beer -- it's very strong and it'll make a man of you. JAWOHL! 

And until we meet again, stay thirsty (and hungry) my friends!

-Jennifer

Silence is golden... But I can't seem to shut up.

As a kid, I was taught that if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. But what if I don’t know what I’m saying? My Spanish is bad and I’ve never taken a lesson here (this could be the root of my problems) but I’m learning. In my own special way, I’m learning by picking things up on the streets. I am a stealthy Language Ninja – I sneak words from conversations when people don’t think I’m listening.

Unfortunately, ninjas are to be neither seen nor heard. Bummer.

Sooo, let’s just say that when I’m out and about and attempting to speak in Spanish, I tend to screw up. In words and in actions. And sometimes it’s a monumental mistake… Read and learn, my friends. Read and learn.

"I need a man..."

Some things are just too easy to screw up. For instance, I was talking to someone about being hungry and I honestly thought I was saying the right thing when I told her, "Tengo hombre." 

Needless to say, she laughed and said, "Oh, really?" 

That's when I knew I had screwed up. 

What I meant to say was "Tengo hambre." 

See how close they are? Rather than saying I was hungry, I said "I have a man." 

Hambre = Hunger    Hombre = Man

Sheesh, with words this similar, I am screwed. 

“Please, have a seat…”

When I was volunteering at the Puppy Palace thrift store, people donated all kinds of stuff to us. Some was lovely and definitely sellable, other stuff was absolute crap. Part of my job was to sift through the junk and find the diamonds in the rough. Shoes were a BIG hit at the store, especially if they came from the United States. I don’t know why, but telling a lady the shoes she was looking at were from an exotic faraway land called “The United States” made them more desirable. Yes ma'am, real live Americans wore those on U.S. soil and now you have the opportunity to literally walk in their shoes.

When people try on shoes, it is necessary to sit, right? Right. So we had a couple of chairs available for those who chose not to stand. Unfortunately, I was the one telling them to have a seat.

“Setenta! Por favor!” I would say and gesture to the chair.

And they would laugh.

And I would nod enthusiastically and smile my big friendly gringa smile while pointing at the chair like a model on “The Price is Right” and they would finally sit.

What I didn’t know was that I was telling them, “Seventy! Please!”

Setenta = Seventy    Sientate = Have a seat

So, perhaps they thought I was being friendly and telling them to take a load off by putting their seventy-pound bootie in the chair. *sigh*

Someone who heard this story told me to never learn Spanish because it was way more entertaining for her to hear stories of my screw-ups. So far, so good. It is my job to entertain the world.

“I’d like a breast…”

Yes, they even have good ol' Ronald McDonald in
the courtyard of the McDonald's here. 

Is it just me, or does it look like Ronald is checking out
that guy's butt? 

The McDonald’s here is unlike any other in the world. It’s built inside an oooold stone and brick house and there’s a fountain and a big outdoor courtyard with a view of the ruins of a colonial church and Agua Volcano. It has seating for 200 (maybe more?) and I like that there's no obnoxious sign with big yellow arches. 


They serve fried chicken as one of their daily specials. My friends Wendell & Eddie got me hooked on it and we will occasionally meet there for that healthy fried chicken. On our first trip there for McLunch, they told me to ask for a ‘pechuga’ which means I’d get a chicken breast, rather than a wimpy little leg or thigh. So I bellied on up to the counter and asked the nice young man for the Pollo McFrito and told him I wanted a pechuga. He looked at me confused and I wondered, “Did I say it right?” So I said it again and, without thinking, I put my hand on my boob. “Pechuuuugaaaa,” I said with all the sincerity in the world. And he nodded and walked away. There may have been tears in his eyes. I might have been his favorite customer of the day.

It took me about 3.1 seconds to realize I had just grabbed my McBoob in public and formed a McBond with the little McDude behind the counter that would last McForever.

Yikes! I guess it’s better than grabbing someone else’s boob to demonstrate ‘pechuga,’ but wow, what the hell is wrong with me? I usually only act like this in public if Mardi Gras beads are involved. (Kidding, Mom. Just kidding.)

“You're looking for...what???”

My sheets ended up being less ugly than I wanted. It was cold,
so toward the end of my search, I was going for something
that would be soft and warm. I came across these "kissy-kissy"
sheets made of t-shirt fabric. Ahhh. I'm kicking myself
for not getting a group photo so I could share the glory of all
of the fabulously ugly togas present that night. 

We had an “Ugly Toga Party” in January to go along with the theme of living in the Guatemalan version of Caesar’s Palace. Invitees were asked to make their togas from the ugliest sheets they could find at the pacas. (The pacas are like one giant garage sale with piles of clothes, shoes, household items, etc. underneath a roof patched together with corrugated metal and criss-crossed with electrical wires. A successful paca hunt will require digging into heaps of clothes and you never know what you’ll find. Items could include expensive vintage clothing, way cool concert t-shirts (rock on, Def Leppard), and sadly, many, many, many t-shirts from family reunions. Oh, and saddest of all is when you dig in and grab A PAIR OF DIRTY UNDERWEAR. Eeeeew! This is why it's always a good idea to carry hand sanitizer with you to the pacas.)

Ahhh, but I digress...

So, out I ventured to the pacas. I was determined to find the ugliest damn sheets in the world. I found many places that wanted waaay too much for nasty old sheets (my skin color doesn’t always help when it comes to prices and I can only haggle for so long before I say screeeew it). On one occasion, my friend Linda went with me and we found some Dora the Explorer sheets. Linda thought it would be very funny for me to call myself “Whore-ah the Explorer” and walk around the party telling the guys, “Hi, I’m Whore-Ah… Why don’t you explore me?” Tee-hee-hee. This would have been especially funny due to the fact that most of the men at the party were gay. But the Dora sheets were for a tiny bed and I wanted something huge and truly UGLY. Like, holy-cow-my-eyes-are-bleeding ugly.

Ok, so there I was at a booth in the paca with LOTS of blankets and sheets. It was run by a lovely Guatemalan woman and her husband. Her daughter (probably about 14) was there to help out. I smiled at them, they smiled at me and I said, “Yo quiero una feo sobrina para mi cama.” In my mind I had asked them for an ugly blanket for my bed.

But I was wrong. Sooo very, very, very WRONG.

Their smiles faded. Their eyes got large. Things got uncomfortable.

I said it again, this time using hand gestures to show a blanket lying on a bed. “Una sobriiiina…”

Unfortunately, what I really said was, “I want an ugly niece for my bed.”

Uh-oh. I kept smiling, unaware of my boo-boo. They looked horrified.

Finally, the daughter -- realizing I was an idiot -- said, “Una…sabana?” which means BLANKET. I slapped my forehead and said, “DUH! Si! SI! Una sabana!”

Sabana = Blanket   Sobrina = Niece

Oh, we all had a good laugh and thank goodness they didn’t tackle me to the ground and call the cops for being pervy.

“Oh, that poor injured horse…”

On more than one occasion, I have seen someone who just got their hair cut. And being the Spanishly-disabled person that I am, I screwed that up, too.

A girl brushing the cabello on
her caballo.

Our landlady got four inches cut off her hair and it looked really cute. When I saw her afterwards I said, “Oh, Anabela! Tu corte tu caballo! Que bonita!”

I thought I was commenting on the cuteness of her new haircut. WRONG.

She smiled and laughed and said, “Cabello. Gracias!”

I gave her that look that dogs give when they hear a strange noise. And then once again I slapped my hand against my forehead. Duhhhh.

I had told her she cut her HORSE and it was pretty.

Cabello = Hair    Caballo = Horse

Now, you have to give me credit here for trying, but come on! Who decided those two words should sound so similar? Anyone could make that mistake, and unfortunately for me, I keep making it. According to my Spanish, there are a lot of cut horses in Guatemala.

“It’s Ladies Night!”

This image has nothing to do with
Ladies Night, and yet, it popped up
when I did a search for "ladies night
& margaritas." I was intrigued,
so I felt compelled to include him
in this section. I think he's
blessing my margarita. Or maybe his
arm is up to notify the waiter that he'd
like to place an order. 

So there’s this new restaurant in town and to lure people in, they have Ladies Night on Thursdays. All the margaritas you can suck down from 6pm-10pm. Count me in! I’m a lady! (Despite what the 'pechuga' incident may indicate.)

My friends Linda and Daniel joined me. Daniel grumbled about paying $7 for his drinks when mine and Linda’s would be free. I told him Ladies Night was our revenge for not being able to pee standing up. He agreed. (He had to – he was outnumbered.) We suggested that  Daniel dress in drag the following and see if he got free booze. So far, he has decided not to do so, but if he ever does, you can bet I’ll tell you all about it. And I’ll include pictures.

Anyway, when we arrived at the restaurant, I asked the host, “Hoy es de noche de la mujer, si?” He looked at me like most Spanish-speaking people do when I talk out loud and eventually figured out what I was trying to say. He smiled, grabbed a couple of menus and we followed him. Tra-la-la-la-laaaa! Bring on the drinkies!

As he was showing us to our table, Linda laughed and said, “You just asked if it was The Night of the Woman!” Well, that was at least close, right? Sure, it could be the name of a horror movie (or a really bad porno) but I got the idea across. We came to drink. And drink we did.

Ah well, I tried. And if nothing else, I am entertaining.

And freakishly adorable.

Until we meet again, stay thirsty my friends!

-Jennifer

OH! One other thing I’ve learned since being here is that “mala” is the feminine version of “bad.” So even the name of this blog is no longer what I thought!

GuateJenniMalaFer  =  GuateJenniBADfer! Ooooh noooo!  {:-O