To keep up with the “Newly-wed Diary” part, I will tell you that my husband is still assimilating the idea that he will get a present for next Father’s Day. He rubs my belly every once in a while, absentmindedly, tries to be funny, saying things like “I can’t believe I inseminated you”, or “hey, isn’t your period due yet?”. On the other hand, he is focused more than ever on finishing school as fast as he can. With a little bit of luck he will be finished by the time of our baby 2nd birthday. I love him so much, and I am so happy that I will produce new life with him.

I called everyone I could think of to tell them about my pregnancy. Everybody wants to come to Texas to see me! I keep joking and saying that if they come they’ll get the chance to make a wish and rub my belly!

I looked online and my baby is now a bunch of cells that are reproducing really fast and implantating on my uterus walls. To do that the cells need to suck all the energy and nutrients they can from me. To help with the process and to avoid passing out, I have to take these nasty prenatal vitamins loaded with iron, B vitamins, and as much folic acid as possible. I decided to grind the pills and swallow them mixed with a tablespoon of honey to ease the taste. They do help, as I don’t feel as tired or nauseated as I should. When I laugh too hard, or sneeze, or cough, I feel something small being pulled below my belly. My breasts are definitely bigger and tender. And hellooo nausea!

Some advice I have received to fight the Morning Sickness:

1 – Eat crackers ALL THE TIME to avoid having an empty stomach. It appears that the causes of nausea are related to the same hormones that are loosening my uterus to hold the baby. Those hormones are so concentrated that they are also loosening the connecting passage of my stomach-intestines-esophagus. The result is more acid than usual.

2 – Sleep well and take the vitamins. The strongest my immunological system is, the better it will be ready to fight nausea.

3 – Drink ginger in any preparation (tea, soda, etc.). Ginger is a natural remedy for nausea.

4 – Eat in small amounts several times a day instead of having three or two big meals.

Do you know any other remedies? Do share them with me!

I apologize that it has taken me so long to write. I came back from New York and got caught up on a frenzy of home cleaning and cooking, grocery shopping, laundry, back-to-work duties, missed husband cuddles, family up-to-dates…I could go on and on, but I finally managed today to steal some time to let you know how things are.

I started school again, and I took two classes. I earned a scholarship and a grant that I will not have to pay back. I am taking these two classes (English and American History) extremely seriously; so much that I am reading even those chapters of the History book that I am not even supposed to be reading. All right: I did so at the beginning when things were smooth and refreshing; now I have to really cut back on the time I spend writing and hit the books harder if I want to pass with A’s.

I also have some great news: I won the first place in the non-professional poetry category of the “Sabor Hispano” contest last week. The theme was “El Ritmo y Pasión de la Vida” or “the rhythm and passion of life”. My poem was in Spanish, but I am working on the English translation for your enjoyment.

My husband went to the award ceremony (yes, there was an Award Ceremony!) and he looked really proud of me and said I looked like a movie star. The judges had me read my poem on the microphone. As I read it out loud, I could see the flashes of the cameras shooting at me. Then the clapping came from a small crowd, which to me looked like a stadium filled with cheering and joy. I did felt like a movie star. Moreover, I felt like I was moving a step further to my dreams: to become a writer.

It’s so funny. A little more than a year ago I was single, had no job, no driver’s license, no friends, no real purpose in life than live each day as it came. Today I am married, I am back to school (just for fun) with a scholarship, I went to New York (just for fun!), I have a stable job, some savings, no debts, I write for this website, and I just won first place on a poetry contest.

I talked with my friend Darrell about it and his reply was that next year I will probably be President. Who knows?

Look inside of you and find your passion. Feel it. Make it your own. Develop it.

If I have learned something in the past year is that making dreams come true is possible.

And if I can do it, so can you.

Wait, no, it was in 2006, when I went to Denver.

Pardon me, I did went to the Dominican Republic in December, but it was plainly more a business trip concocted with running all over, never resting, never actually having fun for more than a couple of hours at a time, jet lag, family crusading, and always worrying about the future.

I admit that I have been worried for the first 48 hours of my trip, worried if I’ll make it back alive and be with my beloved husband (who was in Austin, by the way, with the people at work too, hows that for an irony!), how will my family take it, if I’ll get my passport back on time, if I’ll have enough money to spend, if my plants will die before I get back…

Going to Washington, D.C. and seeing stuff one only sees in the movies, books or news — Like the White House, the Washington monument, the Lincoln monument, the Arlington Cemetery, JFK & Jackie O tombs, old, old buildings, and a million other things I will post here in pictures soon, makes me realize once again… There is only one life… and you have to live it at it’s maximun exempt as much as you can.

My great friend, Jenny, is one of the most realistic people I’ve met. Meaning she always gives her honest opinion to me about everything.

Then she says I’m a control freak, and I think she’s right.

I also think it is Ok being paranoid and a bit of a control freak… when that helps organize your trip, find the right train or bus, keep documents and money with you, have a good water supply near you to avoid dehydration, and a mini first aid kit near you in case of emergencies. However, it is also good to let go and have your eyes, your mind and your soul fill up with the things that you don’t see every day.

People, people, people! Black, White, chinese, hindi, dominican, salvadorian, spanish, mexican, women, men, old, young, punks, emos, hippies, drag queens, cristians, jews, musulmans, buddists, non believers, poor, rich, middle class… it is a little bit of everything in this cluster of streets, trains, buildings, cars and more cars that is New York.

My sight is not wide enough to absorb all the grandeur of my surroundings.

I stop for a second and I fix my eyes in the Empire State Building, which tonight has red, blue, and white lights adorning it. The Moon is in the background.

I exhale and think no more of money, war, diseases, hate, sadness, school, tests, work, sleep, Olympics, food…

I just stare into the lights of the night and realize that… it’s all worth it.

To Be Continued..

Plane # 1 was on time; I met a lady from Dublin who talked me into how she came to the USA to work for a year and ended up marrying her husband who was from Austin. Now they live 6 months of the year in each country and their daughters are going to college in Dallas and Lubbock.

This has been going for more than twenty years now and it actually gave me some good prospects : ).

Plane # 2 was delayed and I noticed how the war for the top benches to put the carry-on baggage is never ending. I was lucky to jump out of the plane anyway as soon as we landed and run to get plane # 3. Those seats were making my but literally square by the time they finally announced we were preparing to land in New Jersey!

The New York – Manhattan line was really a sight I’ve never seen before and suddenly all the anxiety and preparing for this journey was worth it, if not gone completely. All I can say is I am happy I get to do this now… because for what I hear around, unless one is carelessly rich and duty-free one doesn’t really get the chance to hop on a plane for a week of fun… and since Fall is almost here, I better squeeze the fun as much as I can!

My friend Jenny, Master of Relaxing under the most stressful situations and whom I haven’t seen in years, picked me up and we drove for a million tangled streets filled with the cutest scrunched houses and… scrunched cars. Apparently it is a miracle if you find a free parking spot on the wee hours here.

But not only did we; she took me to a Dominican little restaurant and I had the best meal in months: dominican-style fried chicken, tostones, white rice, mofongo, and a beautiful piece of arepa that I am saving for today’s breakfast.

I forgot, I also had a country club merengue soda, bottled in New Jersey. It was delightful.

Then we took some pictures with the Manhattan skyline as a background. I can’t wait to develop them!

We arrived to her house, I unpacked and tried to sleep…

Today: Dominican Embassy to Renew Passport, New York, NY.

Tomorrow and Saturday: Washington, D.C.

To Be Continued…

There’s a reason that Cupid’s commemoration comes so soon after the Super Bowl. It’s an obvious test of the depth of men’s romantic tendencies, and, sadly, it’s a test they fail more often than a Cosmo relationship quiz.

My husband, God love him, is no exception. He will not become aware that it’s time to pay homage to the holiday of the heart until he begins slipping on newspapers that I place in front of the shower. As he steps out, dripping wet and then quickly ends up face down on the floor, staring at a full-page ad that mentions Valentine’s Day in a font large enough to be seen by the astronauts on the space station, a light will begin to dawn.

It has taken a mere 20 years of this type of subtle training for my beloved to become adept at interpreting signals from his sweetheart. This year, I can expect a heart-warming present designed to compensate for past transgressions — something like a useless kitchen item that we already have or an exquisitely wrapped collection of hotel toiletries. I haven’t, however, always been so fortunate.

One year, just after our second child was born, I received a bottle of stretch mark-treating cocoa butter clearly purchased last minute at the nearest 24-hour drugstore. This was accompanied by a box of Christmas candy with a 75-percent-off sticker and a card (sans envelope) featuring two kissing chimps. In an attempt to personalize the card, my man had tenderly tried his hand at poetry. Under his name, he’d written:

Roses are red
Violets are blue
You want my body
I know you do.

I’ve also received my share of ego-shattering lingerie, little bits of fluff that would barely fit the anorexic hips of a Victoria’s Secret model. But the worst was a pair of silk pajamas – size XL — that my husband brought back from a business trip to China. Designed for the smaller Asian woman, these pernicious PJs wouldn’t go past my knees. I can tell you, nothing gets a wife in the mood for love more than struggling to fit into anything marked XL. I’m still in therapy over that.

My spouse has also tried to be sweet with scent. One year, he gave me two sample-size bottles of the same perfume worn by his mother for the past five decades. Big, big mistake.

Another time, in a bid to impress me with his thoughtfulness, he procured a cylinder head from a World War II-era airplane (if you don’t know what this looks like, consider yourself lucky) and created a lovely lamp that added a certain je ne sais quoi to our living room décor. It took me weeks to arrange an accident that sent this romantic piece of wreckage back to the junkyard.

I’m hoping that by our 30th or possibly 40th anniversary, my mate will have progressed to the point where he’ll fill a vase with a single rose and a diamond necklace, or maybe the keys to a new Jaguar. In the meantime, I’ll try not to lose heart.

© Jackie Papandrew 2008

Jackie’s hilarious new book — Airing My Dirty Laundry — will soon be available. Please visit www.jackiepapandrew.com to read more.

Anybody who watches three games of football in a row should be declared brain dead. — Erma Bombeck

By some strange twist of fate, I’ve brought forth a football fanatic. My son is one of those addled individuals whose very DNA, I’m convinced, has a pigskin membrane. Unfortunately for him, he has a mother who wouldn’t know a touchdown from a hoedown. For the life of me, I can’t understand the appeal of the game – a chaotic mix of men pushing, shoving and bellowing, slobber and obscenities flying. And that’s just the fans.

But my boy has been hooked from an early age, spending countless hours watching, playing and dreaming about football. He’s consumed whole forests of paper drawing intricate plays marked with Xs and Os. And I’ve grown tearful remembering other Xs and Os my sweet child long ago scribbled on construction-paper cards, right under the words “I Love You, Mommy.”

I’ve tried, occasionally, to fight back. Once, I suggested he end a six-hour football fest and read a book. But my son has the same regard for reading that I have for cellulite, and his withering response cut me to the quick.

“Print is dead, Mom. Nobody reads anymore.”

“There is no way,” I wailed, “no way you came from my loins!”

He gave me a blank look. “What’s a loin?”

By the time he reached adolescence, his fixation had reached a fever pitch, and when he made the high school team, his ecstasy knew no bounds. He even figured out how to combine his pigskin passion with the only other thing that currently captures his interest. The kid who can barely find time to do his homework or hold a meaningful conversation with his mother nobly volunteered to coach his school’s powder puff football team, a fact that seemed to fill his father with pride.

“It is a great way to meet girls,” said my husband, his chest expanding. I just shook my head.

Realizing it was a losing battle, I decided, reluctantly, to embrace the madness. I boned up on gridiron lingo and proudly spread the word to all my pals about my boy’s performance on the team. Sadly, my football-averse friends failed to point out that I’d gotten his position slightly wrong. I found that out when I went to pick him up after a powder puff practice. Approaching a pack of puffs on the sidelines, I smiled warmly.

“My son is your coach,” I said. “He’s a loose end, you know, on the school’s team.”

For some reason, the group of girls began to giggle. Baffled, I later informed my son that some of his puffs were not the sharpest knives in the drawer. “They were laughing at me for no reason.”

His face acquired a look of dread. “Mom,” he said slowly, between gritted teeth, “what did you say to them?”

“I just said you’re a loose end on the team.”

He grabbed his head with both hands as if he expected it to explode and wanted to catch the pieces. “I’m a tight end,” he practically screamed. “Not a loose end!”

“Tight end, loose end,” I shrugged. “What’s the difference?”

He avoided me like the plague for several days after that. To redeem myself, I invited some of his friends over to watch a game on the obscenely enormous new television the men in my household had insisted was vital to our existence. I’ve noticed that when you combine 52-inch, high-def and TV in a sentence, it induces a Pavlovian response in males of any age. Sure enough, my son’s buddies began to salivate at these words and eagerly agreed to come.

I gained some yardage right off by offering snacks. Then, perhaps overconfident, I attempted to lose my rookie status by tossing out lingo I’d learned like blitz, field goal and third and long. But then I fumbled by mentioning how attractive I found the teams’ costumes. My boy’s mouth compressed into a scrimmage line of fury. “Mom,” he muttered, “stop it!”

Feeling unwelcome, I retreated to another part of the house, where my eye fell on several baskets full of clean clothes in need of folding. Taking advantage of the idle hands in my living room, I placed a basket in front of each boy. You’d think, by the looks of horror on their faces, that I was experiencing a Janet Jackson-style wardrobe malfunction right in front of them.

“You want us to fold during football?” one gasped as nacho cheese dribbled down his chin. My son was speechless, emitting only strange, inhuman noises that made me fear for his sanity.

“Never mind,” I sighed, retreating. That’s when I understood that football and I could never be allies; we’d have to remain wary competitors, sharing the love of our loose end. Then I went to fold my laundry.

© Jackie Papandrew

www.jackiepapandrew.com

The human psyche is a funny thing. Despite having inhaled enough calories during the holidays to keep Paris Hilton alive into the next millennium, when presented with limitless amounts of food on board ship, we fell to eating as if we were famine victims. We ate and we ate. And when we were bloated and seemingly unable to cram in one more bite, we ate some more. 

Naturally, we needed drinks to wash down all that “free” food. Fortunately, there were always smiling attendants nearby to bring us round after round of beverages that were definitely not free. Then we poured more money into the cruise line coffers by visiting the casino and the onboard shopping mall, and by that time, we’d worked up enough of an appetite to devour platefuls of food at the midnight buffet.

The next day, after a hearty breakfast, we stuffed our bodies into bathing suits and rolled on to the deck, where we sunned our globular flesh, careful not to fall overboard lest we be mistaken for well-fed sea lions. After a few hours, just when we were beginning to feel hunger pangs, the ship’s staff roused us for a hairy chest contest.

When you are cruising with thousands of your closest friends, you are bound to discover that quite a few of these friends are sporting furry chests, many of which are accompanied by bald heads and very round bellies. An astonishing number of these, er, hunks took the stage for the contest, every hair bristling with excitement.

That’s when the cruise director began to look for the “lucky” woman who would be required to select the best bushy chest. Luck was certainly not a lady to me that day. I never win anything – not the lottery, not a makeover, not even at bingo. But, sure enough, I “won” the right to judge the shaggy strivers before me. Each man was encouraged to strut his stuff, wriggling and jiggling his chest and various other body parts for my enjoyment. It was almost enough to ruin my appetite. But I managed to select a winner, and then my family and I headed back to the buffet.

That night, we donned formal wear, leaving the zippers open, and went to meet the captain, a dashing and slender man who gazed upon us the way I imagine Captain Ahab must have looked at his prey, the great white whale in Moby Dick. Then – surprise, surprise – we sat down to a sumptuous dinner and shortly thereafter, we had pictures taken to commemorate our nautical adventure. When we visited the ship’s portrait gallery to order reprints of a picture of my husband and I, the young man who waited on us referred more than once to the picture of “you and your son.” Each time, I corrected him, speaking between clenched teeth and glaring at my highly amused husband – who, I must point out, is six months OLDER than I am.

My spouse foolishly took to calling me “Mom” for the rest of the cruise. Now that we are home, he’s sleeping on the couch, not only because I’m mad at him but because, for some reason, I need a larger portion of the bed.

  © Jackie Papandrew 2008

www.jackiepapandrew.com