You Are What You Eat

If there is one cliche that is completely overused, it has to be, "You are what you eat." And, if it's true, well then, my friends, I am a gordita. Not just any gordita. I am mole dulce, frijoles con queso, rajas con queso, and winnie. For my American friends, let me explain what that is. Let's start with my favorite. Mole dulce is a mildly spicy, sweet sauce that is dark brown in color and has about a million ingredients in it, mostly known for its chocolate content. That's right. Chocolate. Not Hershey's chocolate per se, but chocolate none the less. And, to make it even more intriguing, it is always served over chicken. I do not know what I was doing with my life before mole dulce stepped into it. I can't believe I didn't invent it myself. I mean, let's be honest. If you cut me, I'd bleed chocolate. Well, chocolate and gravy. Gravy is to a Hillbilly, what salsa is to a Mexican. But, that is another blog.
Although I could talk about chocolate forever and a day, I realize I may need to move on before someone starts thinking I'm a chocolate addict or something. So, let me define what a gordita is. It is a small, flat disk, made from flour or corn (basically a thicker tortilla), that is split open so that it can be filled. It is usually around 4 inches or so in diameter, stuffed with refried beans, and then a filling of your choice. Those fillings vary from region to region, and depends on where you order your gordita. The place that we frequent here in Juarez has a wide range to choose from. Beans with cheese, mole dulce, pork skins in spicy green salsa (chicharron en salsa verde), or spicy red salsa, pork in red salsa (asado de puerco), hot dogs in a red salsa that isn't the least bit spicy (winnie), poblano peppers and onions with cheese (rajas con queso), thin, diced steak with tomato, onion, and spicy peppers (pulpa), among others. Those just happen to be our favorites.
The term "gordita" actually translates as "chubby." You can stop snickering now. I know I'm chubby. But what is funny about this word, is that it is interchangeable. My husband, two weeks before we were married, when we were with some of our Mexican-American friends, called me gordita. I was told by one of those female "friends" of ours at that time that the word means fat, and she clearly stated that he was calling me fat. She was Hispanic, and spoke perfect Spanish, so of course I trusted what she was telling me. I was mortified. I left him there at their house, I was so upset about it. Not because I wasn't fat, but because my future husband had the audacity to point it out to me so point blank. I did end up coming back to pick him up, but not until I drove around for a while trying to rationalize the situation. He tried explaining to me in his broken English that it was a term of endearment, not an insult. It wasn't until some research, and arguing, and asking other Mexican people we knew, that I came to find out that he wasn't pointing out or criticizing my body size, necessarily, he was appreciating my body. He was embracing my body type, shape, size, and actually enjoying that it belonged to him. "Mi gordita" is a term of affection, when used in the context he was using it in. I, unfortunately, failed to see that our female "friend" was just jealous, because, as it turns out, she actually wanted to be much more than just friends with my future husband. I didn't see that one coming, because I am not a jealous type person myself. I just assumed she would have been happy for us. Nope. I chalk that one up to Life Lesson number 4,337.
So, in conclusion, I guess I am what I eat. I am a gordita. But, I have made peace with that. At least, I am Ruben's gordita.

Don't drink the water....no, really....do NOT drink it!

    It has been a long week. A long, torturous, dehydrating, week. A week spent in the bathroom more than any one human should ever have to. Even this human, who just so happens to have chronic inflammatory bowel disease. After all, the bathroom and I are good friends already. I refer to said bathroom as "my office". I accomplish more in that single bathroom than I accomplish in any other space in or out of my home. Too much information, perhaps, but honest. I am not one to sugarcoat things. Crap happens. And, sometimes, crap happens to the point that you are convinced that death is surely imminent. 

 

    You see, upon careful reflection of my recent intestinal bacterial infection, (hindsight is 20/20, you know),  I think I may have possibly pinpointed the precise moment that I potentially infected myself with this bacteria (AKA: Mr. Evil Stomach Bacteria, as I so affectionately refer to it as). And, to admit this to anyone is difficult for me because it exemplifies my foolishness, my willingness to put my trust into something that should never, ever, ever, EVER be trusted: Mexico's water. You see, last Friday morning, I went to a lovely restaurant here in Juarez, called 'El Comal', that is nestled inside this charming hotel, the 'Maria Bonita'. And, although I ate extremely healthy, and chose my foods carefully to avoid too much sugar, fat, etc., I did not give a passing thought to the ice that floated in my glass of water. I left feeling very chummy with myself and my food choices. Friday passed relatively uneventful, as far as the state of my health went. I have been in the middle of a flare-up with my CIBD, but seemed to feel OK that day. Then, on Saturday, my stomach was upset. So not unusual for me. Fatigue set in. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. That night, we stopped to eat at Subway, before taking our kids to the "feria" (in English, that is a fair, or carnival), and I ordered a Chicken Bacon Ranch sub with a ton of veggies, and a fountain drink to boot. With ice. From the fountain machine. Which probably came from an ice maker in the back. Which probably makes ice from the tap water. The unfiltered, non-purified tap water. That is where I attempted aquatic suicide. Not by trying to drown myself, but by merely drinking the (most likely tainted) ice cubes.

     I have drank things in Juarez with ice cubes in it through the years, and have been alright. That is where I was fooled. I was fooled into thinking that all the hoopla about "don't drink the water" was somewhat mythical, or at least urban legend. I thought wrong. You see, if you have a chronic intestinal disease, and your immune system is already compromised by that, drinking the water in Mexico is like gambling. You might win 5 out of 6 times, but eventually you will lose. And, I, my friends am a loser. I know I can't PROVE it was the water, but I can't prove it wasn't either. Two doctors visits, one week, and five hundred pesos later, I am starting to feel human again. Not completely human, but a little. I praise Jesus for that, because there were a few times that I thought I would surely die. I cried, I prayed, I pooped. Not necessarily in that order, but you get the idea.

    So, after hours upon countless hours of important "meetings" in my "office" (that's what I refer to my bathroom as, in case you weren't paying attention), I decided to spruce it up a little. I bought a couple new pictures from Family Dollar to hang up and a new coordinating bath rug. I'm on a budget, and have no shame in admitting I shop at FD...I love FD! I would shop there even if I wasn't on a budget. I feel I have earned those bathroom improvements. I just hate that it took a near death experience to convince me that I am worth it. OK, so maybe that last statement seems a little dramatic, but I don't think so.

    

You don't know me. Yet.

      Helloooo!!! Anyone out there? This is my first ever attempt at blogging. I feel slightly lost. Only because I am technologically ignorant at times, and secretly wonder if when I am done blogging (as the kids call it these days. I just call it typing.) if I will click on all the correct things to actually publish it in the right place. Well, I guess we will just see about that, now won't we?

       Now, about me. Here is what one needs to know about me. I am 34,white, married to a Mexican (gasp), have 2 beautiful, articulate, intelligent, kind-hearted children with that Mexican (double gasp), and we live HAPPILY, yes, HAPPILY, in Cuidad Juarez, Mexico (triple gasp). We have lived here in Juarez for over 5 years now. My husband was deported in May of 2005; permanently deported. At first, it was traumatic, dramatic, problematic, and every other -matic you can think of. Now, it is automatic. We don't even give it a second thought most days. It is what it is. That, as you will soon learn about me, is my life's motto. It is what it is. It deserved repeating.

        I have a million things I could blog about. Deportation, immigration, bi-racial relationships, living in Mexico, raising children with morals, raising bi-racial children, Christianity, or some of my illnesses may be blog-worthy. Psoriasis, psoriatic arthritis, chronic inflammatory bowel disease (that one is a killer), migraines, allergies, blah, blah, blah. Oh! Or I could blog about my weight loss journey (aka: I am fat). The truth is, I will be blogging about any and all of these things, at any given time, depending on my day or current state of mind. I will mention Jesus repeatedly in my blogs sometimes, because, that is Who I live my life for. Or, at least, Who I desire to live for. These days, it seems I am living for my husband and my children. Anyhoo, if Jesus offends you, then you don't have to read my blog. It is, after all, my blog. You can write about what you want, and I can write about what I want. That is the beauty of blogging (typing). Freedom of expression. Praise Jesus! Just thought I would throw one praise in there to get you used to it!

        I am excited to learn more about some of you out there. I look forward to reading your blogs, and sharing mine with you! Happy Blogging! (typing)