Sometimes I feel I'm blind.

Entré a trabajar y de repente habían pasado dos meses.

Encontré una cajetilla de Malboro Light en mi casa. Estoy segura de que yo la compré, pero no recuerdo cuándo se me ocurrió que yo necesitaba una cajetilla de cigarros, y debió ser un momento muy particular porque nunca compro.

Dejando eso a un lado, ayer encontré, en las escaleras, unos pedazos de papel de baño ensangrentados. Los examiné. Me examiné. Yo no tenía ninguna cortada, y no era el mismo tipo de papel de baño que yo tengo en mi casa. Más aún, nadie ha visitado mi casa últimamente. La conclusión lógica sería que el gato se los trajo de la calle, pero no tenían arañaduras de gato y mis escalofríos me han obligado a mantener cerradas las ventanas.

Cuando toco sus hombros morenos, sin querer (queriendo), al ajustarle la etiqueta del brassier, cumpliendo cabalmente mi obligación de amiga cuando una etiqueta de brassier quiere ver cómo es el mundo, me doy cuenta de una química vertiginosa, hasta entonces entumecida por los años. Ella está borracha, y me invita a quedarme a dormir. Más tarde, el imbécil que tiene como amante se pone panza arriba para que lo soben, igualito que mi gato. Cuando despierto, son las once de la mañana y estoy en mi casa. Eso mismo fue lo último que dije en mi sueño, justo antes de despertar.

OKStupid

I often ask myself if OKCupid has for ever desecrated my outlook on interpersonal relationships, or if I've always been so pessimistic anyway that this site merely enhanced some of my views.

'I wonder what his OKCupid profile would be like?' I asked myself, while embracing a real-life friend. 'He'd be a INFJ, and we'd about 15% enemies, I wonder how he'd score on the Slut Test, he'd surely post a picture where he looks much hotter than he actually is' etc.

It didn't seem like it right away, but now I think it's one of the most absurd feelings I've ever had. I apparently forgot that the OKCupid site was designed to allow for people to meet each other in person. It is not meant, or shouldn't be meant, or shouldn't be used, so that people that already know each other in real-life can figure out if they're good for each other. OKCupid seems so much easier than real-life, that I feel now I'm too lazy to do all the dirty work. I no longer feel like getting to know poeple without the aid of technology.

Biography of the Cyst in my left ovary

Or the Saga of the Gynaecologists from Hell (true story, different names)

I. The Wonder Years

Saint Teresa of the Nimble Checkup
I was really nervous about going to a gynaecologist for the first time in my life, so I asked my boyfriend to come with me.
'Who recommended me?' asked she.
'I found you on the Yellow Pages,' I answered.
'Do you smoke?'
'Socially.'
'Do you drink?'
'Socially.'
'When did you lose your virginity?'
'Um...'
'Two months ago,' interrupted he.
'What contraceptive method have you been using?'
'Rythm.'
'How often do you have sex?'
'Well, I only abstain from sex during my fertile days.'
'Fine. This is the pill you'll be on. Don't forget to read all the instructions. Good day.'
That was easy, I thought. Thak God she didn't put me on the stirrups. Later a neurologist told me that gynecologists don't know what they're doing when they prescribe the pill. They're supposed to do a blood analysis to see if your organism can take the pill. It can make migraines worse and it can even give you a stroke.

II. The Middle Ages
'Darling, it hurts when you're inside me.'
'What do you mean it hurts?'
'It hurts. I think it's my left ovary.'
'It's supposed to feel good, not hurt. Are you sure you're aroused enough?'
'I'm sure.'
'You'd better see a gynaecologist. Well, I'm off to Europe. Bye.'
We broke up prior to his departure, but I was still worried about that pain. It had been two years since I went to Saint Teresa of the Nimble Checkup, so I had to look for another gynaecologist all over again.

Chief Commander Fang Li Niu
In the waiting room to see Dr. Fang Li Niu, I was asked to fill out a form. It looked something like this:

Name: ________________ Age: ___ Address: _____________________________________

Religion: ___________ Name and occupation of your husband: ___________________

etc.

I should have judged the doctor for this completely anti-professional form, as well as for the amount of cheap, tacky souvenirs she had from Vegas, Disneyworld, South Padre Island, and other such touristy places. But I guess I was young, and I knew no better.

Then stormed in a large, rectangular woman with a Hitler haircut, yellow hair, horrible makeup and a deep, commanding voice. All I could think of was she was the Chief Commander Gynaecologist in the Army from Hell.

'Hello, I'm doctor Fang Li Niu. Who recommended me?' she asked.
'I found you on the Yellow Pages.'
'And where is your boyfriend?'
'Oh, he travels a lot.'
'OK. So, what's the reason of your visit?'
'Well, I'm here because it's been 2 years since I last went to a gynaecologist, and even then I didn't get a proper checkup.' Of course, I wasn't sure what a proper checkup involved, but it sure as hell wasn't complete with Teresa's questions about drinking and smoking.
'Uh huh. Isn't there anything in particular that's bothering you?'
'Well, I do get this pain when...'
'Right. Take off your clothes. Let's go to the stirrups.'
She gave me a cotton robe to wear and proceeded to stare into my vagina.
'This looks really bad. For starters, how come you're not completely shaved? Did you know hair is very, very unhygenic?'
'Umm... Well, I thought that was a matter of personal preference. I mean, hair is only natural, isn't it?'
'Not at all. Shaving is part of being modern. This is no longer the Middle Ages, you know.
Secondly, you have a very, very bad bleeding ulcer in your cervix.'
'I do?!' asked I, terribly worried.
'Yup. Let me show you.' She then inserted a pair of tweezers holding a wad of cotton, and took it out with a little stain of blood.
'See, this is from your ulcer. I'll have to freeze it with a special machine and this procedure will cost you 2 thousand pesos. Do you want it done or not?'
I thought it rather weird she should jump into talking about the price while I was still on the stirrups and wearing no pants, but I tried not to freak out, and simply stated I would certainly get a second opinion before getting the procedure done.
'Okay, you can put your clothes back on now. That'll be 400 pesos for the consulta. Let me know if you decide to get that bleeding ulcer treated, because remember, if left untreated, that ulcer can lead to cancer and death. Good day.'

Paquita Hernandez's good friend
So I freaked out and told all my friends I was going to die from an ulcer in my cervix. One of my friends told me I should talk to her mom, a 55 year-old retired gynaecologist that used to work for the Social Security system in Monterrey. I called her and she said an ulcer is a terrible condition and it's main cause is too much sex. She said I could go and see her very good friend gynaecologist, for a second opinion. 'Be sure to say I recommended her,' said my friend's mom. 'My name is Paquita Hernandez.'

'Who recommended me?' asked this overweight, rather unhealthy looking lady.
'Auntie Paquita Hernandez, she's my best friend's mom and has known me since I was five. She said you were a very good friend of hers and would take excellent care of me.'
'Oh, of course!' she said, in the nicest voice possible. 'Tell me, dear, what can I do for you today?'
'I recently went to Dr. Fang Li Niu for a checkup and because I had this strange pain in what I thought was my left ovary. Well, Dr. Fang said I had a very bad ulcer in my cervix.'
'An ulcer? Jesus, I keep telling that Fang to stop doing that. You know, I keep getting very worried patients who have been told they have a bleeding ulcer and need to get a procedure done. Of course, this is a very rare condition and most of them have perfectly healthy cervixes. Besides, getting this procedure when you don't need it will most probably lead to infertility. The thing is, Dr. Fang bought this very expensive machine to freeze ulcers and she needs to recover her investment. I'm telling you, if I find that your cervix is healthy I'm going to call that Fang up and tell her what she's doing is quite unethical.'
So she got me up on the stirrups.
'Yours is the healthiest cervix I've ever seen. Good day.'
'But she showed me a wad of cotton with blood on it!' I insisted.
'Oh, she probably just scraped your cervix to make it bleed. Good day.'
I was so baffled about this outrageous case of medical malpractice and the amount of things I should do to publicly denounce Dr. Fang, that I forgot to ask about the pain in my ovary.

Two weeks later I was with my boyfriend again, in Europe.
'It still hurts,' I said.
'Didn't you go to a gynaecologist to check that?'
'Yes, I went to two, but they didn't find anything conclusive.'
We forgot about the whole thing until one night, at about 4 am, I got the pang really badly. He dragged me to an emergency room, where they said they didn't have a gynaecologist for emergencies, so all they could do was a urine test. Turned out I had a bladder infection. I got some antibiotics and was told to come back later, during office hours, for a gynaecologist. When I went back, I was told I had to go to a private doctor otherwise the insurance wouldn't cover it. But I had no idea where to find a doctor if it wasn't the Yellow Pages, and I had had enough of that. So I decided to wait until I was back home in Monterrey, to see that nice friend of Paquita Hernandez. Meanwhile, my boyfriend would terrorize me:
'I'm sure you fucked the whole town and that pain you have is an STD.'
'I didn't fuck them, I swear it's not an STD!' I would plead, with teary eyes.

Back at home, I went straight to Paquita Hernandez's good friend, since I thought I had finally found a gynaecologist I could trust. She was even more overweight than before and had lost my medical record. Since I said this wasn't my first time to come and see her, she tried to pretend she remembered me, so she didn't ask who recommended her this time. Sadly, this only went to prove she would only provide semi-adequate care for people who were recommended by 'important' people. Her answers to my questions were brief and hurried. 'Thanks, that'll be 600 pesos, good day. Clarissa, send the next patient in, please.'
When I looked at the watch I realised this checkup had lasted less than 15 minutes.

Jack Hot Shot
So I asked one of my few non-virgin friends if she knew a good gynaecologist and she gave me the number of a private doctor in a fancy hospital, that charged expensive rates but was very professional and plus, he was very handsome. After 1 hour in the waiting room, I was finally called in. He wasn't that handsome, and used far too much cologne.
'Who recommended me?' he asked.
'Sally Pear' upon his puzzled look I added 'one of your patients?'
'Oh, sure. So tell me, what brings you here?'
'You see, I get this pain when I have sex.'
Stirrups it was. And vaginal ultrasound, too.
'Yes, you have several little cysts. This is usually normal and shouldn't cause any trouble. Come back when you get your period, I need you when you're bleeding most heavily, to see if the cysts dissolved of if they're still there.'
When I came back, it was another hour in the waiting room. The doctor will be a little late because he got held up in a surgery, said the receptionist. The doctor called me in and then he started this sort of baby talk.
'OK, darling, we're going to take off our little clothes and we're going to wear this little robe, okay? I'll be right with you.'
This right with me took another hour, of course, the nurse told me to get up on the stirrups so I would be ready when the doctor came back. I realised he had another room to be able to see two patients at the same time, taking advantage of 'down time' when one of them was in the bathroom taking off her clothes. The other patient must have had lots of things wrong with her, because he was ages in there. Fortunately I had a book with me. Unfortunately, I was up there on the strirrups bleeding heavily, and the air conditioning was on high.
'Baby dear, you're not angry at the doctor for being a teensy little-wittle bit late, are you? Of course you're not, now let's take a look at those naughty little cysts.' (note: this probably isn't believable in English, but in Spanish it might even sound normal even though it's humiliating)
I was ready to get the hell out of there. 'Looks like they're much smaller so no need to worry now, those ugly little cysts aren't going to get us.'
'Thank you doctor. Good day!' Said I, and stormed into the bathroom, not without drenching my sock in the puddle of blood I had produced on the floor, and leaving blood stains all over the bathroom.
'Don't forget that'll be 1200 pesos, miss!' he called after me.


III. The flourishing era
Mary Dead Eyes
After these terrifying experiences, I was not very motivated to go back to a gynaecologist again, even for routine pap smears and things like that, which I had now learned were the things I needed to get done each year. The ovary pain, I discovered, only occured with certain shapes of penises, so it was easy to avoid.

And so life went on normally.

Until, of course, it started hurting like hell all day, every day. This was two years after seeing Jack Hot Shot. I called up a clinic contracted by the private medical insurance my family bought, and asked for a gynaecologist. Surely, I thought, they don't work by recommendations there, and they have to give a good service to everyone. She was professional and nice, although avoided eye-contact. She told me I should get an ultrasound, and surely enough, there was a cyst the size of a plum in my left ovary.

She then told me I should go on the pill and come back in three months to see if it was any smaller.
'But what about the pain?' I insisted.
'Oh, you can take any pain killer you have at home.'
'For three months?!'
'Sure. Any other questions? No? Good day.'




[TO BE CONTINUED]

Tierra de guerra viva

La historia de Monterrey es extremadamente chistosa. No tiene nada de aburrido, por mucho que los maestros de primaria se hayan esforzado en hacérmelo creer.

Quiero saber qué pasaba por la mente de Luis de Carvajal cuando decidió venir a la Nueva España y fundar en el Valle de la Extremadura una población de nombre Villa de San Luis Rey de Francia.

¿Quiso ser feliz en su propia demencia, convenciéndose a sí mismo de que no era un ex-comercializador de esclavos sino un santo y el mismísimo rey de Francia? ¿Que no estaba conquistando una árida tierra de indios nómadas* y violentos, sino que esta era su propia villa privada para pasar vacaciones? Porque hasta los santos y los reyes de Francia necesitan vacaciones, ¿no?

¿O tal vez creyó que entre más ostentoso el nombre, mejor nos iba a ir?

¿Y qué pedo con el padre Mier, (gran orador, poeta, defensor de los ideales de la Independencia de México, prófugo de la justicia internacional, evasor de la Santa Inquisición, gran enemigo de Iturbide, única momia en Santo Domingo enterrada de pie) cuando proclamó que era descendiente de Moctezuma? Y todo para que luego la casa donde nació se haya convertido en un Sanborns...

Nosotros no teníamos pirámides para abandonarlas y reconstruirlas cada 52 años. Pero ese síntoma de abandonar lo poco que se ha hecho para volver a empezar también se encuentra aquí.

Cada pueblo que se fundaba se abandonaba y se volvía a fundar con otro nombre. Se encontraban las ruinas y se volvía a construir sobre ellas, y empezaba el ciclo otra vez. Claro, la historia le ha podido echar la culpa a los chichimecas**, que jamás se pusieron amistosos con los españoles, y éstos tenían que salir huyendo de sus casas cada ocho años, cuando los indios se sublevaban. Esta siempre fue una tierra de guerra viva: por eso no se podía avanzar culturalmente, dicen los libros.

¿Pero qué hay del siglo XIX en adelante, después de que todas las tribus indígenas acabaron por extinguirse? Parecía que los neoleoneses ya estaban impuestos a hacer guerra y no avanzar culturalmente.

Apenas se independizó México junto con Nuevo León como estado mexicano, los neoleoneses decidieron que era mejor gastar su energía en constituir un país independiente. Los dominaron. Se independizaron otra vez. Y cuando al fin se apaciguaron, las poquísimas escuelas/intento de universidades que lograba establecer el clero, en donde se enseñaban leyes y filosofía, eran derrumbadas por un gobierno que alegaba que la educación debía ser laica, pero que no hacía mucho por proporcionarla. Así que volvían a empezar desde cero, y no hubo una universidad real sino hasta 1930 y tantos. Y apenas tenía como 30 años de haberse consolidado la educación superior, cuando los estudiantes agarraron modas comunistas tardías y se pusieron a protestar (con violencia, no faltaba más), destrozando cosas en vez de ponerse a estudiar.

Y esa tradición de derrumbar lo poco que se tiene y empezar otra vez continúa hasta nuestros días. Derrumbar el Cine Elizondo para construir la Macroplaza. Derrumbar el Centro Cultural Santa Lucía para construir un paseo que conecte la Macroplaza con Fundidora. Tirar recursos por la borda para dar la bienvenida a un Fórum de las culturas. Supongo que otra gente más instruida que yo puede citar miles de ejemplos similares.

¿Tal vez en una tierra de guerra viva es imposible permanecer apegados al pasado?





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*En realidad no eran nómadas, según explica Israel Cavazos Garza, el cronista Alonso de León, y el arqueólogo que nos guió por Boca de Potrerillos. Los "chichimecas" se movían en ciclos, y sus territorios con respecto a los de otras tribus estaban perfectamente delimitados. De hecho, en ellos no encuentro este patrón de abandonar-reconstruir. Abandonaban pero no había nada que reconstruir. Abandonaban sus piedras talladas, sus raspadores y morteros, sus hornos y todas las cosas que no podían cargar, para moverse a donde, según la estación del año, sabían que iban a encontrar comida, pero siempre volvían al lugar de origen y seguían haciendo uso de sus herramientas "abandonadas". No es que quiera ponerme estúpidamente nacionalista, pero creo que, en algunas cosas, ellos eran verdaderamente prácticos.
**No se llamaban chichimecas en realidad. Ese es un término genérico para designar a cientos de tribus distintos cuyos nombres originales en realidad no conocemos, pero que los españoles llamaron cosas locochonas como borrados, comepescados, pames, janambres, pasitas, cadimas, aguaceros, malincheños, guachichiles, tobosos, malnombres, etc.

I dreamt I was five months pregnant.

My belly was deliciously large, and I was happy.

I feel so proud of myself.

I just managed somehow to move a large piece of furniture all the way up the stairs--something I thought I would never be able to do without (male) help. It required long minutes of intense geometrical calculations and quite a bit of physical effort. I wonder if all that makes me intelligent or stupid though?

Meanwhile, it is also a night of great achievements for the cat. It just brought its first rat home. I shrieked as I thought I would never do when this happened. I felt just like that woman on Tom&Jerry: just about to climb on to a stool, grab a broom and lift my frock up in awe and disgust. Gladly, the cat got the message and took the rat to the balcony to finish off his business.

I guess all this means cleaning up a rat's corpse in the morning, with difficulty due to the sprain in my back. Isn't growing up a wonderful thing?

Love is just a four-letter word

I'm bored with thinking about emotions. You tell your life in terms of the books you've read; I would tell my life in terms of the lovers I've loved. They haven't been many, they haven't been few, but somehow they have all been important in my process of figuring out who I am: I am not this, I am not that, I am not the other, I am not something else either.

This is something I learned my biology class in fifth grade and that has been in the back of my mind ever since: in the scientific method, even if your hypothesis proves wrong, you are getting closer to the truth, because you've narrowed the possibilities down. Now you know what thigs are NOT.

But I still feel it has been a stupid journey, where no matter how far I travel I'm always back in square one. Because in a realm of infinite possibilities, elimination won't get you anywhere.

Sometimes I wish I could separate myself from myself. I feel like an expert on sadness, on how relationships go bad, on why families work the way they do. Now I want to balance this stupid wisdom off with factual knowledge, and get out of the domestic sphere. I wish I knew how to start.

Me encuentro decididamente enojada

No me apetece escribir la biografía de la familia Morten; todos ellos se pueden meter sus vidas por donde les quepa. Me desagradan enormemente las palabras "coadyuvar", "dependencia", "entrepierna", "insertar", y "transparencia". Me quiero ir de este estúpido país, y escribir mi hermosa

Biografía del quiste en mi ovario izquierdo
y cómo llegó a ostentar el tamaño de una ciruela

Quiero darle capa, corona y cetro a mi matriz, emperatriz de mis suspiros. Y que no me hablen una chingada de mi naturaleza femenina.

Pain in my ovary

Me duele mucho mi dolor. Es mi ovario izquierdo teniendo fiesta, o una solitaria perforándome el intestino, cómo saberlo si todos los ginecólogos que he tenido han sido de la muerte. Podría hacer una película de terror con todos ellos (cuáles dentistas sádicos ni qué ocho cuartos), o un profundo estudio sociológico sobre la relación médico-paciente en la conservadora sociedad de clase media en Monterrey. Tal vez escriba sobre eso en otro post. Es una historia gore pero muy interesante.

Por lo demás, el Manifest estuvo con madre. Nuestro set list?
-Caballo
-Be in my dreams
-Solitaria (cantada por mí, en honor al parásito que reside en mi interior)
-Canción puberta (iniciada unos segundos antes de que Mou terminara de hablar)
-Seres extraterrestres me transmiten verdades universales (guó-ou, guó-ou, guó-ou, OU!!)
-Tapia
-Mentira (la que grita Charli y hace que se me salga el corazón)

Vendimos discos, hicieron close-ups en pantalla gigante a mis aretes de calaca, nos preguntaron si nos mudaríamos al DF para hacer nuestra carrera musical, nos invitaron a armar tocadas con bandas chidas, alquilaron nuestras habitaciones por horas a parejas cachondas mientras nosotros hacíamos el soundcheck, y nuestros hijos fumaron mota como en todo buen road trip en la Scooby-camioneta. Regresé cansada, y con dolor de ovario-solitaria, pero feliz. Una guapa lesbiana me pidió un autógrafo para su novia. ¿Qué más puedo pedir en esta vida?

She's leaving home

Escribiré cuando vuelva del Manifest. Gracias por venir.