Wow… this is pretty accurate!
You Are An ISFJ
You have a strong need to belong, and you are very loyal.
A good listener, you excel at helping others in practical ways.
In your spare time, you enjoy engaging your senses through art, cooking, and music.
You find it easy to be devoted to one person, who you do special things for.
In love, you express your emotions through actions.
Taking care of someone is how you love them. And you do it well!
At work, you do well in a structured environment. You complete tasks well and on time.
You would make a good interior designer, chef, or child psychologist.
How you see yourself: Competent, dependable, and detail oriented
When other people don’t get you, they see you as: Boring, dominant, and stuck in a rut
How was your night? Okay? Not too exciting??
Well, my night was AWESOME!!! Because Fanless and I went to the Honda Civic Tour, and saw Motion City Soundtrack (!!), Panic at the Disco, The Hush Sound and Phantom Planet at the Fillmore in Miami Beach. Great, great show! All the bands were fantastic. The only ones I couldn’t get that into were The Hush Sound. They were a little too mellow (in a live show setting) for my taste. But we did see them eating at Pizza Rustica after the show and they are just adorable up close and personal.
I wanted to share a video of my current favorite Motion City Soundtrack song ("I Fell In Love Without You"), but I couldn’t find one. So instead I give you my second favorite – "This Is For Real." (In other news, MCS singer, Justin Pierre, reminds me of a cross between my friend,Ferny, and "Kumar" from the "Harold and Kumar" movies. Just sayin’.)
Once upon a time, on a lush, tropical island in the Caribbean, there was a boy… Well, actually, he was already considered a man. He was tall and thin, with curly, dark-blonde hair and bright, baby blue eyes, which he usually kept hidden behind dark sunglasses.
One day, the boy was sitting at the kitchen window in his Tia’s house, waiting for her to make un cafécito. He glanced out the window and saw a girl walking by. She was cute and curvy, with black hair, ivory skin and hazel eyes.
The boy turned to his cousin and asked,“Quien es esa muchacha?” (“Who is that girl?”)
His cousin replied, “La prima de mi esposa.” (“My wife’s cousin.”) [The girl was visiting her Tia and Tio that lived next door.]
The boy answered “Quiero que me la presentes.” (“I want you to introduce me to her.”)
“Porque?” (“Why?”), asked his cousin.
“Porque ella va a hacer mi esposa y la madre de mis hijos,” the boy declared with all the confidence in the world. (“Because she is going to be my wife and the mother of my children.”)
Six months later, at the tender ages of 22 (him) and 17 (her), they became husband and wife.
Together they fled the oppressive political regime of that island and made their way to a different country, where they didn’t know the language or the customs, for the betterment of their family. They raised two children, always straddling two very different cultures, and built a simple life filled with love, values and unity. They watched their only grand-daughter blossom into a beautiful, strong-headed woman. They worked hard every day to keep their family happy and healthy, and were able to retire so they could enjoy their “golden years” together.
Fifty-six years later, they are still going strong.
FELICIDADES, MAMI Y PAPI!
Happy *56th Anniversary!
4/23/08: I just talked to my mom and asked her about this story. She remembered that the first time she met my dad he was wearing a long-sleeved, brown linen shirt with a small leaf pattern on it. She said that when she first saw him, with his wavy blonde hair and blue eyes, she went weak in the knees. Dude, how cute is that??
(Watch me piss off a bunch of blog visitors in one post.)
So there’s all this big controversy about the presidential candidates being elitists, right? At least that’s what MSNBC tells me. And apparently some folks are all offended and in a tizzy over it. They think the presidential candidates should be "regular" folk.
Umm, yeah – not so much.
People, we’re not talking about the parts manager at your local Honda service shop, or the owner of the corner dry cleaning store in your ‘hood. We’re talking about the PRESIDENT of the United States of America. I can’t speak for everyone, but I WANT my president to be an elitist. I want him (or her) to be superior to me and everyone I know personally, in every conceivable way. I want him (or her) to be an Ivy League-educated, six-figure-income-making, could-kick-your-ass-on-"Jeopardy"-smarty-pants-being, mo’ fo’. I do not want Bubba with the NASCAR souvenir pennants, drinking his Coors Light out of the can, while revving the El Camino in the driveway, running this country. No offense to Bubba. I’m sure he’s probably a dope as hell guy and I would totally hang with him on a Sunday, grilling burgers and talking football. BUT, I’m just sayin’.
Okay, I’m done.
P.S. "Juno" is out on DVD today! Yay!
Yesterday I met up with the Scrappy Girls at Scrap-n-Elegance (located at historic Cauley Square in the Goulds area of Miami) to make cards. Well, we were supposed to make Mother’s Day cards BUT, that didn’t exactly happen. Instead we talked a lot, ate some delicious food from the Village Chalet next to the scrap shop, talked some more, laughed a lot, went back to the Village Chalet for dessert, then went home.
I was on a scrapping roll last night. I made three 12×12 layouts using (mostly) the "B Sharp" kit from Sweet Twee Labs (and a few other miscellaneous items.
I also made a cute card but I can’t post it because the receiver hasn’t seen it yet.
Umm… I guess that’s it for now. Peace out, yo!
I currently reside in a two-bedroom apartment in lovely, suburban (emphasis on the "urban") Kendall, Florida. (FYI: Miami is broken up into all these neighborhoods with different names; essentially, they all fit together like puzzle pieces to make up the all-encompassing "Miami.") While I think my apartment is cute, and I love having the second bedroom set up as a home office-slash-scraproom, I often long to have a real "home." A house of my very own. Nothing too crazy or extravagant. Just something comfortable and cozy and "homey." With walk-in closets. And a washer and dryer. What?? That’s not a lot to ask, I swear!
Because of this desire to nest in a… well… a NEST, I have been subscribing to shelter and "homestyle" magazines for years. I’ve amassed quite a collection of Domino, House Beautiful, Real Simple and Martha Stewart Living. I love to thumb through them and get all kinds of ideas and inspiration for decorating and organizing (notice I said "ideas and inspiration," because Lord knows there is no fundage for actual implementation) my dream home.
Sunday morning, and MKH and I were on a mission: visit landmark Miami restaurant, Rascal House, on its last day in business. Admittedly, it had not been our exact mission to visit ON the last day. In fact, we didn’t even know that Sunday was the last day until Tere confirmed it over dinner the previous night. Nor had we known that the Miami Herald had run a story about the historic restaurant’s closing. But boy did we know it that morning!
We arrived at 10:30AM and were welcomed with a line. A l-o-o-o-ng line that went right out the door. But we were determined to have their Corned Beef Hash one last time. Okay, well, one last time for him; first time for me. Yes, I admit, although I knew of the Rascal House my entire life, I had never visited prior to Sunday morning. Come on, I’m a Cuban girl, Miami-born and bred. We don’t drive to North Miami Beach to have lox and bagels, or corned beef and cabbage. We go to La Carreta or Versailles for café con leche and pastelitos, or croquetas and papas rellena. But I wanted to visit the Rascal House yesterday because I didn’t want it to be like what happened to my friend, Su, when she was 16.
Su had lived in New Jersey, across the bridge from New York, her entire life. She had never visited the Statue of Liberty because she figured she had the rest of her life to see it. In the summer before her junior year of high school, her parents announced they were moving to Miami in a few weeks. She never got to visit the Statue. I didn’t want Rascal House to become my Statue of Liberty (which I haven’t seen either, but that’s neither here nor there).
The stanchions at the restaurant’s entrance reminded me of the Space Mountain line at Disney world. There were separate lines for singles, parties of 2, 4 or more, etc. We decided to stand in the line for Counter Seating for two, as it was shorter. It was a good 20 minutes before we were able to sit down, and another ten to place our order. MKH joked that had the place been this busy all the time, they probably wouldn’t have needed to close.
Rascal House was established in 1954, and was perfectly situated between all the tiny, 24-hour beach motels along the north end of Collins Avenue. Unfortunately, the corporate greed and view-blocking high-rise condos that dominate the beach now, managed to drive away the restaurant’s colorful, storied clientele. The same clientele that had probably been going there for the past fifty or so years.
We were finally able to score two seats at the counter alongside an older Jewish couple. The woman reminded me of Magda in “There’s Something About Mary,” albeit more statuesque and not AS leathery. The gentleman, in all his Guayabera-ed salt and pepper glory, asked where we were from and when I said Miami, we entered into a brief conversation about his daughter, who had lived in Kendall at one time (holla!) and is now residing in Pinecrest (my former ‘hood). They were pure Long Island, the accent held strongly despite a retirement thus far spent in the sun and surf of Miami. They received their breakfast and I couldn’t help giggling at their exchange (they WERE right next to me, after all). It was a Neil Simon play come to life.
Her: “Oh my God (gawd), this is a lot of food.” (She had ordered the french toast.)
Him: “Have my egg.” (Places it on her plate.)
Her: “You don’t want your egg?”
Him: “No, I’m giving it to you.”
Her: “You should eat your egg.”
Him: “I don’t want you to be hungry; that’s why I’m giving you my egg.”
Then he turned to me, winked and flashed his 1,000-kilowatt Dentugrip smile. Ahh-dorable! (Have I ever mentioned that I love old people? I do. I love them. And country folk.)
When the waitress (these are not new-fangled, corporate food, Chili’s sizzling fajitas, servers. These were true-blue bonafide waitresses. Think Flo from Mel’s Diner, with less Aqua Net and more Coppertone) finally came to take our order we were disheartened to find out that they were out of Corned Beef Hash. Horrors! In a panic I ordered the same French Toast as Magda, and a side of breakfast potatoes. MKH ordered a stack of pancakes and a side of ham. Add to that two coffees and we were good to go. The service was painfully slow as they were short-staffed. They had begun laying people off a few weeks prior, in anticipation of the restaurant’s closing.
We sat and chatted and took it all in. The red vinyl booths and wood-paneled walls; the smell of the fresh baked rugalach and brewing coffee; the sight of the Golden Girls brigade coming in the door, all tightly curled coifs and over-the-top jewelry. It was pretty damn cool, if I do say so myself!
Our food came and I gasped at the size of my serving of french toast (as if I hadn’t already caught a glimpse of Magda’s). It was thick and sweet, still hot from the grill and melted in my mouth. The potatoes were crispy on the outside, soft on the inside. A sprinkle of salt made them perfect. I literally ate one triangle of my toast (huge, people; HUGE!), a spoonful of potatoes, and packed up the rest to go. Guess what MKH had for dinner??
We finished eating, paid for our food and exited the glass door. Yes, it was my one and only time at the Rascal House. Truthfully? I kind of wish I had discovered it sooner.
(NYTimes wrote about it, too: Check it out.)