.bloggus interruptus.

Wait – does it sound at all like I know anything about Latin? I don’t. Surely the fact that my darling friend La Doctora – and her two sisters (it was a total family domination over dead languages up in Connecticut) – all won the Latin prize in high school counts for something, right? But don’t cry for me Argentina: I won the history prize. True, I tripped going up the podium to collect my prize and my hair was colored a shade of red I like to call Ronald McDonald red, but I was a freaking winner too, damn it

Anyhoodle, this past week my government job* had me on the road to Madrid, which sounds exciting and all until you realize that on these types of trips I work from 8am to midnight with barely enough time to sneak in jet-lag combating power naps during the day. Meetings, meetings, meetings all day – meetings in 4-inch heels, because even though they hurt my feet and appear to be wholly unnecessary to conduct human rights business in Spain, they make me feel like a professional rather than a moppy-headed imposter. It's the Dominican in me. Meetings over two-hour lunches, meetings over three hour dinners, conference calls with the office back home and partners in other cities, countries, continents, disturbed sleep patterns, and barely enough time to:

• viciously lust after beautiful Spanish fashions;

• ponder the popularity of the lady-mullet amongst the Madrileñas;

• convince myself croquetas de jamon are a perfectly healthy way to start every meal;

• remember how much I hate the full-fat and/or long-life milk everyone puts in the coffee;

• feel guilty about missing my training runs (jet-lag makes my body hurt and feel like it weights a ton and produces instantaneous shin splints, okay?);

• remark on the forgotten sensation of sitting in an indoor restaurant or bar where smoking is still allowed; or

• furiously finish my book club’s monthly selection (The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo – I recommend it, even though I’m still slightly traumatize

Above all, I didn’t  have time to write. But, si Dios quiere, regular posting will resume  as of now.

Well, not right now-right now, since at the time I am writing this I am heading dome on a jittery plane over the Atlantic, reminded once again that turbulence is the work of the devil and that I hate to fly. At least I’m up in Business/First class – awwwww yeah beeches! Complimentary upgrades from my travel agent, that’s what I’m talking about! – but you know what?

I’m not being treated right. It’s like the stewardesses think I’m an impostor, even though I’ve racked up well over 300,000 frequent flier miles on Delta.

True, I am wearing a long black t-shirt embroidered with a white sequined owl. And yes, My hair does look make me look like an electrocuted lion. And, okay, I did get on the plane with about 6 different trashy British celebrity magazines.

But damn, Gina! Read the boarding pass:  seat 2A. One-two-aye. That means I’m at the front of the plane. That means I’m one of the fancy people, if only through a mixture of an incredible stroke of luck and relentless kiss-assery to my corporate travel agent. So, you know, when you offer me – nay promise me! – warm nuts (heh – warm nuts), how’s about you deliver on the promise, huh? How’s about you don’t conveniently forget about me and give everyone else but me some warm nuts? And how’s about you clear my table first, and not last?

Also, ew. I think the old man sitting in front of me just farted in my general direction. People who fart in other people’s general directions should be barred from the fancy seats. 

See you soon.

*Again, by "government job," I don't mean an actual job with the government - just my real life job, he one that pays into my social security benefits and keeps me in bubble gum, comic books, baseballs cards and $30 tubes of mascara.

© Chommo, 2009.




*Again, not an actual job with the government, just my day job – the one that keeps me in bubblegum, baseball cards, and expensive mascara, not to mention Uncle Sam’s good graces.