Hands

I used to look at Mama Fina's hands
so soft and rice-paper-like
she would scratch my head for hours or minutes

they made bread, beds, tortillas, hair fixed neatly in braids

I look at Mio's hands that have washed diapers, plucked piojos, picked corn, plucked thorns, and graded papers

so soft from years of jergens

Mama's hands are always moving
She is drawing, her fingers given a break from slicing and washing
and loving the freedom of sienna and thalo blue and smudge

My hands look old somehow
clenched fists
pointed fingers
outstretched fingers
wringing of hands

Do I carry them all in my hands?

Nails

When in the hell did I decide that fake nails could make a re-appearance in my life? Was I on illegal substances? Now I find myself having to get more stuff done...in addition to maintaining the toes and eyebrows...and it's insane. Instead of bitten-down, ragged nails, I have perfectly semi-round/semi-square-pink-and-white-nails that look like crap after 2 weeks. Not to mention that I feel like Samantha Baker's (16 Candles, look it up) more exotic grandmother trying to open a box of freakin' donuts, while the nice grandma is trying to cook eggs. Oh, well, I must chalk it up to vanity...sheer vanity. Excuse me whilst I pluck this stray eyebrow...

Swine flu...begone!

My baby girl is sick. She is so not a faker when it comes to illness. In fact, she bucked up and lit the candles for church service today, even though she felt like crap. How many of us grown-ups would do that? She has H1N1, and is amazed (in true Kira fashion) that her illness actually came from piggies (poor, poor piggies). Please pray for her wellness--she's really sick, and give her birthday blessings (it's tomorrow...happy birfday).

POTE

The sequel to World Without End. It's even better. So far.

I feel such a void in my life after the Twilight series, that I have become obsessed. To say that 14th century England was messed up is a gross understatement.

Read...process...do share...

Read it. It's one of the best books I've read in a while, and my big brother recommended it to me...which is shocking because I never read what he tells me to (he's not the boss of me).

I dreamed about it, obsessed over it, and researched portions of it...if you like historical fiction circa 12 B.C., then you'd love this book.

What the hell is wrong with America?

Don't get me wrong...I love me some political controversy, but weapons where our President is speaking...puh-leeze.

My pobre abuelo is rolling over in his grave...my hero...the man who was a Navy Seabee (We Build, We Fight), shooshed everyone when the National Anthem was playing, loved Paul Harvey, had an American flag sticker on the back of his Dodge truck before it was "cool," and truly believed that a POTUS should not be f'd with by Americans (regardless of political affiliation, BTW)...he's spinning.

Por favor, people...Yes, health care is, and should be, a touchy, personal subject, but when in the hell did it become alright to threaten via weapons in the face of our leader? Ugh.

America, collectively, must settle down and focus. What the hell are we trying to achieve?? We set the example for the rest of the world.

Is there anything wrong with debate or disagreement...n'ombre...! However, there are so many false rumors and bad information flying around, that it is easy to be swayed in ways that are not true. Be informed, people! And be mindful of where you get your info...

My grandpa was an amazing man loved by so many, many people; (not the least of which was me, his only grandchild). I often think what he would say in this miasma of crap that has become American politics...I believe he would respond, "Cría cuervos y te sacarán los ojos."

Con todo mi corazon...

LECS

Raspa, anyone?

I know I state the obvious when I proclaim that it's hot--hace calor...Texas in August feels like walking under a broiler that melts your makeup and, possibly, your plastic chanclas.

I recently visited my hometown of San Antonio and made plans to visit a dear, dear friend that I have not had the pleasure of seeing in muchos anos--the raspa guy. Oh, I know many imitate, but few can replicate the true splendor of a super-sweet, quickly-melting raspa, preferably strawberry. My perfect raspa? As much sugary juice as it can hold without melting into cold water.

There he sits, patiently waiting for his customers, knowing the heat and thirst will eventually win, and, in my case, the nostalgia will dominate whatever part of the brain makes decisions about what to put in my belly. If you hail from South Texas, then you know what I'm talking about.

What's better--the nectar-like syrup that comes in many tempting flavors (except coconut--yuk!) or the crumbly ice that seems to melt as soon as it hits the paper cone? Or is it drinking the leftover juice that resides at the bottom of said soggy paper cone?

Unfortunately, my friend and I shared only fleeting glances of each other as my husband and company in tow had other plans--namely to rush down a flight of stairs at the River Walk to get to our 7 p.m. dinner reservation (we spent too much time in the hotel cantina). But I know he will wait for me, expectantly, politely, like he always has, ready to make me my perfect raspa, and maybe, just maybe, he has a nearby friend selling roasted helotes con mantequilla, chile, y limon. A girl can dream, can't she?