Disappearing in Colombia, New York, and Other Places

I’ve been away for a bit. For a moment there, I started my master’s at a particular university in the city in January. After graduating in 2007, a year ahead of my class, living in Spain with my then-Spanish lover in Madrid for about a year, coming back to NYC and then going on our verbally-exploited Eurotrip with Elie (there’s not one time we get together and not talk about it or meet someone new and not tell them), waiting for my then-Spanish lover in Paris, although I know he wasn’t going to come, but I still waited because I believe in fairy tales, I came back to New York to face –no, hide –from my existential crisis. I was getting old, I thought. Now that I’m 23 I realize that one can only get older and 22 now seems young. So I started the master’s with money I didn’t have but somehow I always do it. I juggled –and gosh, I certainly do not know how to juggle –three classes, taught at the university three times a week, worked at a certain big magazine in the city another two times, plus, plus, plus. In the meantime, I booked a plane ticket to Bogotá, Colombia for spring break –yes, my mother asked “Why Colombia?” – after getting mad at Elie for deciding against coming with me to Guatemala, then I bought yet another plane ticket to Madrid. Yes, it’s going there. I went to Bogotá, met some people, hung out, had fun, met with a friend from the master’s at her family’s finca, went horseback riding and kind of learned about corn mixed with scramble eggs from the maid, met up with my then-Spanish lover who is my now-Spanish lover, had a blast and came back to New York. Here I was hated by one of my professors, loved by others, I sewed a book medieval-style that I am still baffled by, finished teaching at the university, went to my office at the magazine one day only to find out it had just closed down, where I got a bottle of Vodka and another of champagne –which I gave to my mother because I do not want to be an alcoholic. I’m jobless. I guess all there’s left to do is go away while I’m on vacation. Central America will never know what hit it.

New York City Girl is Unstoppable

This is my year. I know it. For one, there are these really famous twins –I didn’t know they were famous, but they are –who are “psychics” and they said this will be the year of Capricorns. Then I turned to El diaro, the most famous Spanish newspaper in New York (although I hear no one actually buys it or reads it, for that matter) and it said it’s Capricorns’ financial year. And finally, it’s the Year of the Ox, according to the Chinese calendar. And I was born on the Year of the Ox! Of course I started taking Mandarin lessons.

But there are other reasons to think that it’s my year:
I have a new president, who is so smart, and so sweet. And, as an added bonus, he’s also half black.
I got diamonds from Tiffany for Christmas.
My year started off with a love letter.
And I’m only in my 20s.

My friend Carol says that it’s all about how you spend the first 12 days of the year that matters. Well, it’s the 18th. I’ve partied half of the time, and planned parties the other half. Sounds like an awesome year!

Here are my resolutions:
Be more of a two year old –no past, live the present, and, uh, yeah, what’s the future?
Travel, travel, travel
Read 100 more books
Learn Chinese
Remain oh-so-me
Build my empire

As I sipped away a Jack Collins at Bookmarks, the rooftop at the Library Hotel, I couldn’t help being happy with the fact that I had just turned 23. I received my wishes from others. Make first million, publish the novel, take over the world (I overlooked the “good health” one because I have that down packed!)

All I remember is turning 18 and thinking, “Where is my life going?” Now, I think, “I’ll go wherever it takes me.” Cheers to that…

Jamaica is oh, so freaky...

Mami’s birthday was approaching, and all I wanted to do was go to Jamaica and dance some reggae to Bob Marley, baby! I booked tickets, for six of us, and Sister #3 booked a resort that promised to be unforgettable.

Never was a promise so nicely fulfilled.

Later on, when we heard that the resort was notorious for naked people, boobs, and public sex, “Cancel” was the only response we all had for my sister. Last time I saw naked people it was in a thermal bath in Budapest, where the only naked ones were oh, soooo old (except Elie and me; we had to set an example for the other young, more reserved ones) and they had enough fat hanging down to (no, I really shouldn’t go there…)

What would mami say? She would be so upset.

“I don’t understand why we don’t all just get naked,” was my mother’s response, as she applied some makeup one morning and displayed her perfectly huge and fabulous teeth. Turns out mami is a lot more liberal than the rest of us twenty-something-year-olds.

“Watch, we probably won’t see anyone naked, and will be dying to see someone, anyone.” That was Sister #3.

But there were plenty of naked people in Jamaica. There was the naked old man I couldn’t stop laughing at, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he made his point by showing up half naked at the Italian restaurant where we were celebrating mami’s birthday, and sitting right across from us. (Have I mentioned what a lucky girl New York City Girl really is? Everyone follows her). And there was the lady who was so fat her skirt ripped right up her derriere. Talk about class.

Two lap dances, a striptease, a massage by a cute Jamaican masseur and hundreds of naked people later, my mother still couldn’t get over her amusement. “This is so great! I want to live in Jamaica!” she kept saying.

But I had already stopped laughing. By the time two old ladies with boob jobs got to the stripper’s pole I was thinking that maybe it wasn’t so funny anymore. I was tired of saggy butts, plastic surgery, and freaks.

Had I suddenly turned into a boring human being or was I just born like that?


We said goodbye to all the freaks in Jamaica and said hello to all the freaks in New York. The Halloween Parade was on, and everyone was loose! I saw the lion, the bee, the men with wigs, the men with underwear, the men with makeup, the nurse, the firemen, the bum…I saw them all! I admired the geishas parading down Sixth Ave. I walked down on West 4th, till Jones Street, where I stood, in the same 70s dress that I wore to Bowlmor Lane last year for my fabulous Sister #1’s company party. I was the least freakish off all. I sat on a bench in front of a spot that promised organic food, debated whether I was hungry enough, and settled for people-watching. Elie, otherwise known as Epileptique, (http://epileptique.blogspot.com/), appeared.

“I just found out I hate crowds!” she blurted out. Secretly, I knew she would, but I made her come anyway.

Selina (http://selinaisabella.blogspot.com/) had disappeared for the day. Hirohito, Elie’s brother (for the year) from Japan, who happened to be dressed as a samurai, got lost somewhere too. “Oh, he’ll find his way home somehow,” Elie pointed out. “Let’s find food.”

Up 7th, towards Chelsea, more freakish people.

Is this who we are? Are we just people waiting for the moment to show our real selves? Are we all just freaks?

After settling down at a Bohemian spot on 9th Ave., a cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream later, I confessed, “I might be boring.”

She looked at me funny. Later on, after she told me about her super rich, super fat new boyfriend –another freak, it seems –and I made a comment I can’t even recall anymore, she said, “You, my friend, are crazy.”

Just what a friend needs to hear.

Introducing New York City Girl
Oh, yeah…and those two other girls who I hope don’t read this…
and the baby…
and Zena, the barking warrior dog that wants to eat the baby…


There should be a super hero called New York City Girl. She would be a do-it-all girl. Travel, work, volunteer, would love nature, act a little crazy sometimes (just a little though), often hyper, happy-go-lucky, shop, dance, seem obsessed with shoes, and handbags, and clothes, and anything she could get her hands on, wouldn’t know totally impractical things like how to drive a car (we have subways in New York), to unclog a toilet, or to make her bed, but she’d know other really practical ones like E = mc2, or Newton’s Three Laws or how the all three World Wars got started (kidding!), and bake chocolate chip cookies to get what she wants.

Above all, she would be totally fabulous and those lucky enough to be around her would hail to the goddess…At least in her daydreams.

Well, that sounds a lot like me, actually.

So I told my girlfriends that we should start blogging. The three of us are Fab3 –Irma, Eleanor and Selina. We’ve been friends since high school and fabulous since…Well, since birth…And, I mean, friends, good friends, BFFs. Actually, one summer at Elie’s grandparents’ house at Lake George, we even told people we were sisters and I think some believed us (once you see pictures you will understand why those people who believed us couldn’t have been New Yorkers because they were a little dumb). We are the Fab3, but without me they are just two, if you know what I mean.

About us:
We are Fabulous, Fabulous, and Fabulous. Fab3. Enough said.

Our hobbies:
To be fabulous.


Now that we’ve settled that…Recently, Eleanor, Selina and I acquired a mascot. Her name is Carmen (like the opera), or at least that’s what Elie and I call her. She is actually Selina’s daughter, but she looks like she’s my child.

We also have a wannabe mascot. Her name is Zena, Elie’s dog. She wasn’t very happy when we brought Carmen over to Elie’s apartment. She went particularly insane when Elie’s dad, her greatest patron, started cooing at Carmen. Maybe we can make it up to Zena by giving her a blog or something. She’s a little dumb, but not very…In fact, once she got really upset because people weren’t paying attention to her, so she started peeing in the corners of the house. Great tactic. But Elie can tell you more. She thinks Zena is smarter than a baby. I wonder if she would say that to Carmen’s face, and how Carmen would respond…She’s quite put together and well-rounded…Well, for a baby, that is.

That’s enough writing for a day…

WARNING: I am a writer, but don’t expect my blog to give you any real insights on life, love or cooking. It is not intended to be a life-changing experience. I just want a place to rant about my fabulousness (and, possibly, other people’s lack of it). I do not expect you to like me. I do not expect you to admire me. I am too fabulous to be liked or admired, and to care, as well. I don’t know what the other Fabs are planning. I think Selina wants to talk about breastfeeding and Elie wants to talk about why people with seizures can’t go skydiving or something.