But have you heard of a Velvet Joseph Smith? The story I am about to tell is one of the best parts of our honeymoon... in my opinion.
We took a cruise down to San Diego, Catalina Island, and Ensenada, Mexico. San Diego and Catalina were pretty uneventful. We ate some tortillas in Old Town, walked along the harbor in Catalina, and pretty much did normal things. Ensenada was the last stop on the cruise, and one I was especially looking forward to because I wanted to buy some cheap Mexican crap. Once we got into port, there were a few options. We could just stay in the downtown area and explore for ourselves, we could take a guided tour through Ensenada and watch a Folklorico show, or we could take a bus outside of the city to see La Bufadora. We'd heard from friends who'd been there that it wasn't worth it, but when the guy on the bus said "the shopping is better and cheaper" bells went off in my head and I started dreaming about the cheap Mexican crap I was going to buy. I was sold.
We got on the bus and our tour guide, Lili, started off by speaking to us in the espanol. I was all excited because I could understand her, but the other peeps on the bus couldn't so she switched to English. We drove through the city and out to the country to where the blow hole (la bufadora) was. Ensenada isn't very pretty. For the most part, it looked like a mix of the Mojave Desert, East LA, and the beach. There was also this smoggy/foggy mess in the air and it was so humid that I felt like I had wet my pants the entire time we were there. There just seemed to be a lot of dirt floating around in the air. We got to the La Bufadora after about a 30 minute drive through the city past a Home Depot, a Walmart, a Costco, a Mc Donalds, and an Applebee's. No kidding. Above the entrances to Walmart was written "Siempre." I'm glad that "always" translated so well. One thing I'm wondering - do they call it "el Walmart," "la Walmart," or just "Walmart?" I should have asked.
Once we got to La bufadora, our tourguide walked us down through the open market and gave us some pointers for bargaining and ways to make sure we don't get sold fake silver. She also gave us some stickers that would allow us to pee for free in one of the restaurants. I'm so glad that I live in America, where at least I pee for free. Anyway, we ended up down by the actual blow hole, which Lili called a geyser, which is neither a blow hole nor a geyser, and we were told to meet back at the bus in about an hour. There was some guy dressed up in some native attire, beating a drum and dancing and he almost attacked Rob when he tried to take his picture without paying. Obviously, this guy has never heard of zoom lenses and didn't think that people would just walk 15 feet away and get his picture. I'm not sure if Rob got one or not.
Down at La Bufadora, we waited for this amazing natural phenomenon to knock our socks off. It was lame. There's a crevice on the cliffs, and when the waves rush in to the small space, it pushes water up at a very high rate of pressure and sprays all over the place. Our tour guide said that when it happens you will get very wet if you don't run away. Hardly. And it smelled like pee. I'm assuming that because you have to pay to use the bathroom everywhere else that tourists and locals alike use the la bufadora as the el bano. After getting some pictures, we walked back up the street to the open air market. We both had to usar el bano at this point, so we went into the restaurant where we had complimentary peeing priveleges. At least it was clean.
We did the whole bargaining thing, which is just crazy, and got some cool stuff. I didn't get the awesome turquoise necklace that i wanted, but that's a whole 'nother story and I don't have the energy to tell it. It makes me frown. Rob really wanted to get a hammock, so we checked several different places. The last one we went into was where Rob decided to get it. The thing with the shop owners there is that they just don't know how to let you alone. They follow you around there store and try to sell you everthing. This one guy was particularly aggressive. I was staying out of range because I just wasn't in the mood to deal with this guy, but I was close enough that I could hear everything he said to Rob. He was grabbing a hammock down from the ceiling, when he lost his balance and kicked over a ceramic donkey statue that was on the ground. "Ay dios mio, my donkey!" The donkey's hind legs broke off. He was really upset about it. And then, when Rob was closing the deal with him, this conversation took place:
Mexican guy: Are you a Mormon?
Rob: Yeah
Mexican guy: You know how I can tell? I see it in your eyes.
Rob: Um, OK.
Mexican guy: You see those pictures up there? (points to a row of velvet paintings on the wall) I have one of Joseph Smith in the back. You want one?
Rob: No thanks.
I'm standing about 1o feet away and dying inside because I want to see this velvet Joseph Smith so badly. But I didn't want to get something else started, so we just left.
Oh, how I wish we had seen the velvet Joseph Smith. I may have bought it... especially if he had one of Brigham Young, too. Maybe I can find one on eBay.
On the way back to the bus, a guy gave me a free sample of a churro and it was delicioso. I wanted to get one, but I didn't feel like $3.00 was a reasonable price for a churro... especially since the most expensive place on the planet, Disneyland, sells them for $3.50. I'm willing to wait a few months and spend $.50 more for peace of mind and solid bowels.
We also got assailed by people trying to sell us prescription drugs. There was a "farmacia" about every 25 feet throughout the open market, and they run out to you in the street and hand you a flyer listing all of the drugs they offer. Viagra was always in the biggest print and listed at the top. Rob no necesita viagra, so we kept on walking. I did stop into one of the pharmacies in downtown Ensenada because I saw that they had large quantities of heartburn medicine for super cheap. Rob wouldn't let me buy it because he thought it might be made from laundry detergent. Que lastima!
So, in the end, we walked away with some cheap mexican crap, dirt on our faces, and I'm pretty sure a virus of some sort. Best vacation ever!
Monday, September 29, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Ghetto Superstar
It's official. I live in the ghetto. There were 2 domestic violence disputes in 1 day. I wasn't around to witness the first one, although I wish I had been because the couple was arguing about shampoo and conditioner and then the police showed up. I was there for the second one, but it wasn't very exciting because this couple was arguing in Espanol and I couldn't understand them. And the police didn't show up. I guess that's just how they roll on the West Side. Peace, I gotta bounce.
Monday, September 15, 2008
It's another hungry mouth to feed in the ghetto...
Thank you Elvis.
I was reading my friend Mal's blog today and she blogged about the lack of common sense and hygiene displayed by the members of her ward. I think my ward members are pretty hygenic. I've never smelled anything funny there, or seen puke in the hallway, so hygiene, or lack thereof in my ward, isn't the subject of which I want to write. I do, however, want to write about the lack of common sense and hygiene of my next door neighbors. They don't go to our ward, so I can talk about them.
Before I moved into Robert's condo, I never really noticed anything sitting outside our neighbors door except for their children's swim trunks drying on the rail. Not my style, but whatev. But after I moved in, I started noticing plastic grocery bags with something in them piling up on the front porch. And then one day, I saw dirty diapers, sans the bag, piled up on the porch. I asked Robert about it and he said that he has seen the door open a crack and a diaper being thrown out and then the door closing. Sometimes they leave these diapers sitting there for days. But the peak of laziness hadn't been reached until this morning when I saw a pile of diapers, with one of them opened and its contents spilling out onto the porch. It made me want to vomitar right there on the porch. I just put my head down and ran past it. When I came home for lunch, the pile o' diapers was gone, but the memory still lingered.
Willowbrook Condos are small, but not so small that a diaper sitting in the garbage for a night or so will create fumes toxic enough to kill the entire family. I Just don't understand why this family can't get themselves a Diaper Genie and empty it every so often. Or, why they can't walk the 25 feet to the dumpster to toss it. To me, throwing dirty diapers out on the porch is the epitome of white trash... or so I thought.
Last week, I was walking up to the condo from the mailbox and I was stopped by a woman sitting on the grassy knoll outside our living room window. She asked me what my name was, but not in a nice, friendly way. It was more like "Who are you?" I told her my name and she said that her name was Jennifer, too. I noticed she had a child in her lap, but I usually look people in the face while I'm talking to them, so I didn't notice that the 3 year old child in her lap was nursing. She had her entire breast exposed to the world, while she was feeding a 3 year old! On the grassy knoll outside my living room window! Not OK. Now, I don't want people to think that I'm opposed to breastfeeding, because I'm not, but I think that the girls should be covered at all times. And I also think there is a statute of limitations on the age of children to be breastfed. Gums, OK. Teeth, not OK. So, although I was shocked and appalled, I tried to keep my game face on and be a good, friendly neighbor, continuing the conversation. Somewhere between her asking me what my name was and which condo I lived in, the three year old decided that he had gotten his fill, got up, and ran over to play with some other kids. Did she tuck everything back in? Nope. Just let it all hang out. And then she began to put me through the 3rd degree about how she doesn't know my fiance personally, but she knows a girl he dated, and that she was so surprised to hear that he was getting married, and how she actually knew my name was Jennifer and where I lived because she was visiting someone else in the neighborhood that had our wedding announcement on their fridge. If I wasn't officially creeped out by the breastfeeding, the admission of stalking closed the deal.
I never really thought of Willowbrook as the ghetto. There doesn't seem to be any violent crime, except for that one shooting a couple of years ago in Building 1 that happened during the day when no one was around. I haven't heard of any break-ins. I don't see bars on windows or gang bangers flashing signs, but I think I live in the ghetto. The HOA has rules that won't allow people to put a satellite dish on the roof, but there are no rules governing dirty diapers thrown onto the porch or public nudity. What gives?
I've decided that I'm going to appoint myself as the official Willowbrook "Ghetto Blaster," fighting tastelessness and promoting common decency. First order of business: buy a Diaper Genie and a Hooter Hider.
I was reading my friend Mal's blog today and she blogged about the lack of common sense and hygiene displayed by the members of her ward. I think my ward members are pretty hygenic. I've never smelled anything funny there, or seen puke in the hallway, so hygiene, or lack thereof in my ward, isn't the subject of which I want to write. I do, however, want to write about the lack of common sense and hygiene of my next door neighbors. They don't go to our ward, so I can talk about them.
Before I moved into Robert's condo, I never really noticed anything sitting outside our neighbors door except for their children's swim trunks drying on the rail. Not my style, but whatev. But after I moved in, I started noticing plastic grocery bags with something in them piling up on the front porch. And then one day, I saw dirty diapers, sans the bag, piled up on the porch. I asked Robert about it and he said that he has seen the door open a crack and a diaper being thrown out and then the door closing. Sometimes they leave these diapers sitting there for days. But the peak of laziness hadn't been reached until this morning when I saw a pile of diapers, with one of them opened and its contents spilling out onto the porch. It made me want to vomitar right there on the porch. I just put my head down and ran past it. When I came home for lunch, the pile o' diapers was gone, but the memory still lingered.
Willowbrook Condos are small, but not so small that a diaper sitting in the garbage for a night or so will create fumes toxic enough to kill the entire family. I Just don't understand why this family can't get themselves a Diaper Genie and empty it every so often. Or, why they can't walk the 25 feet to the dumpster to toss it. To me, throwing dirty diapers out on the porch is the epitome of white trash... or so I thought.
Last week, I was walking up to the condo from the mailbox and I was stopped by a woman sitting on the grassy knoll outside our living room window. She asked me what my name was, but not in a nice, friendly way. It was more like "Who are you?" I told her my name and she said that her name was Jennifer, too. I noticed she had a child in her lap, but I usually look people in the face while I'm talking to them, so I didn't notice that the 3 year old child in her lap was nursing. She had her entire breast exposed to the world, while she was feeding a 3 year old! On the grassy knoll outside my living room window! Not OK. Now, I don't want people to think that I'm opposed to breastfeeding, because I'm not, but I think that the girls should be covered at all times. And I also think there is a statute of limitations on the age of children to be breastfed. Gums, OK. Teeth, not OK. So, although I was shocked and appalled, I tried to keep my game face on and be a good, friendly neighbor, continuing the conversation. Somewhere between her asking me what my name was and which condo I lived in, the three year old decided that he had gotten his fill, got up, and ran over to play with some other kids. Did she tuck everything back in? Nope. Just let it all hang out. And then she began to put me through the 3rd degree about how she doesn't know my fiance personally, but she knows a girl he dated, and that she was so surprised to hear that he was getting married, and how she actually knew my name was Jennifer and where I lived because she was visiting someone else in the neighborhood that had our wedding announcement on their fridge. If I wasn't officially creeped out by the breastfeeding, the admission of stalking closed the deal.
I never really thought of Willowbrook as the ghetto. There doesn't seem to be any violent crime, except for that one shooting a couple of years ago in Building 1 that happened during the day when no one was around. I haven't heard of any break-ins. I don't see bars on windows or gang bangers flashing signs, but I think I live in the ghetto. The HOA has rules that won't allow people to put a satellite dish on the roof, but there are no rules governing dirty diapers thrown onto the porch or public nudity. What gives?
I've decided that I'm going to appoint myself as the official Willowbrook "Ghetto Blaster," fighting tastelessness and promoting common decency. First order of business: buy a Diaper Genie and a Hooter Hider.
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