Wax On, Wife? Off

I quoted a line from The Karate Kid (1984). Katie looked at me blankly.

- You have seen the Karate Kid, haven't you? 

- I know of the Karate Kid... that's the one with Jackie Chan in it.

Unbelievable. She doesn't even understand the title of this entry.  

The Maia and the Mess

I'm biased, but Maia truly is becoming very cute.

Leah is still a frikkin' mess.

Churches, Mean Witches and Knives.

I took their point.

I got a knife pulled on me yesterday.

No, wait, it gets better. Ask me where and when?

No, I wasn't walking back from a bar, taking a drunkenly judged short cut through a darkened alley in La Boca.

No, it wasn't even dark.

I was in church.

And it was a Saturday morning, around 1230am

Full story below. 


We'd taken the girls to the park for the morning - a lovely neighborhood park in a tree lined plaza, a great café on the near corner, a family friendly place if ever there was one.

After the slides and swings, we went for a coffee at the café. Leah, being 2, got bored and wandered off. I followed.


Wow, she said, looking at the church, a castle! Let's go find the princess! And off she went.

I left Katie drinking her coffee. By the time she would finish it, the following would have happened.

Running through the church door, Leah was met by a silence and space that she found, and I quote, Awesome. Now, where's the princess?


It is quite a grand Catholic church, and has that typically quiet, calm atmopshere that to some represents a soulful contentment but to me reminds me of school; itchy kilts, obligation, Sunday mornings.

The aisles and rows were empty, save for one moustachioed older man who seemed to be leaving, or at least was walking back down the central aisle, assumingly having said his prayers.

Leah took a seat towards the back, left, whispering, Wow, Daddy from time to time, and searching the rafter for either a princess or a mean witch. I stood in the aisle.

The man approached me, and speaking a bit louder than seemed appropriate, asked me if I knew the name of this barrio. It struck me as a fairly strange question, but I replied, Martinez. He said, No,  something I didn't catch, and then asked me if I had any work for him. Weirder still, I just said, Perdón, no.

Said the mean man, in Spanish. 

I thought he might be mad, but he was a little more articulate and better dressed than you might expect. He asked me for some money, and I said, No sorry, I haven't got anything. He mimicked what I said, sarcasticlly, with a more than touch of venom. No tenés nada, eh? La puta madre... No tenés nada... and walked towards the door.

Strong language in church for a guy who's just been praying, I thought. I thought he'd left, so didn't think much more about it, and went and sat with Leah, who was still in awe. I was worried she'd see and be disturbed by the depiction of Christ on the cross, hanging and bleeding above the altar, so tried ot distract her y looking for the Princess.  

A minute or so later I saw our guy at the front of the church again. He appeared to be 'circling', walking down the right side, across the front, back up the left. I was now convinced he was nuts, and had been doing this long before we'd got there, but also was starting to think that Leah and I should leave.

As he circled back left, towards us, I could hear a string of expletives pouring from his mouth. It was clearly directed at us. The gist of it was los jodido gringos, yo no puedo comer en mi propio país, y acá están los gringos... la puta madre, hijo de puta, no puedo trabajar en mi país y... You'll know lines well, but usually from they spout forth from a white van: These f**king foreigners, I can't eat in my own country and here we have some gringoes... (insert some bad words) I can't work in my country...

I stood up, he was standing in, or blocking the door. He wasn't overly aggressive physically, but there was a fair anger in his words. The setting, the silent church, was just surreal. All the while I was thinking British: Really, my good man, I understand your point, but would you please stop swearing in church. 

He reached in to his jacket, torrent of expletives continuing all the while, and pulled out a decent sized rusty trust old blade. More to show me he had it than as a real threat, I thought. Then again, unless you're  Mick Dundee, a knife is a knife. He was saying, on a loop: Yo soy Argentina. No son Argentina, yo soy Argentino... 

I said, more or less: Hablamos afuera, por favor, está es mi hija. Ella no tiene que escuchar... Let's talk outside, my daughter doesn't need to hear... and, as I didn't have a stab-proof jacket, I picked up Leah, keeping her scary-side, and considered my options.

I didn't actually want to talk to him. I didn't think that by pointing out that we weren't exactly in the same job market now were we? would help. Well, it might help me get punctured.

But I found myself in a bizarre theological dilemma. Option one: stay. If I stayed in church, I would be safe under the protection of the Lord. However, as I am not a believer, does that protection still count? Is the Lord like the AA - if you're in the car, you've covered, and they'll pick you up?

And I still thought that stabby man a Catholic, even if not a very good one. He was swearing in church, and surely aggressive in front of a 2 year old is poor form in any code. But still, they look after ecah other don't they, the Catholics? Who would the PopeGod protect?

If I went outside, to the park, which I definitely believe in, I would be away from the (potential) protection of the Lord, but I would also be in a wide open space away from the stabby man.

Outside, I reasoned.

He stepped back, away from the door, which I interpreted as a good thing, and carefully walked backwards - like in a mime - not wanting to turn my back on him, to the doorway. I didn't fall over, which was a relief.  

He followed but outside he walked away to the left yet increased the volume of abuse. Cada dia más: gringos, chinos, paraguayos... This was now catching the attention of passersby, who were, naturally, bewildered by the sight of an immigrant father carrying his little daughter getting yelled at by a mad local as they were all leaving church.

Beautiful language in front of a 2 year old, I said, and then -  because I'm rubbish at swearing in Spanish - Ciao.

Which is almost polite.

He then had a dig at Leah, at which point, a bit like a footballer who suddenly gets brave when he's a safe distance from any real danger, I turned around and I found that I could say lots of bad words in Spanish, said all of them, and crossed the road back to the café.

Katie'd finished her coffee. We didn't find a Princess, Leah informed her. I pointed out that we had found a mean witch, which appeased her a bit.

The search for a more incluive park begins tomorrow.

Bonkers.

Leah: you're 26 months, not 26.

At 26 months, I worry about Leah's language. She speaks wrong. I worry that because she's far from immediate family, she doesn't really get how families work, namely that we're the parents and ultimate figures of control, and she is the subservient minor. 


She speaks to us exactly as we speak to her.  


It's a problem. To illustrate:


While Katie was in conversation, politely ignoring Leah's attempts to interrupt:
- "Mummy.. Mummy... (no response)... Katie... Ka-tie! ...  Hey, BABE!"


Sitting on my shoulders on the way back from the doctor, passing the video shop.
- "Hey, Dougs! Let's go get a movie!" 


"That's a not." This has become a catchphrase, as in:
- Parent: "Leah, would you like some fruit?" 
- Leah. "That's a not."


- "Come on, Leah, it's bed time." 
- "That's a not. (Lies down, starts kicking feet in the air) "I'm doing pi-la-tes."


Woke up at 2:15am to hear Leah, sounding ominously wide awake, shouting: 
- "Daddy... Daddy"
I wander through to her room 
- "Leah, do you know what time it is?"
- "Yeah... It's Party Time!"


It was so not party time. 

Mugs and BP

I am a bit nervous at the thought of walking in to work tomorrow.

I borrowed someone else's mug on Friday.

I say 'borrowed', but really I just used it without premission, and then got busted trying to sneak it back into the pack as the cleaning lady came along to take them away to the cleaning cupboard, and wash away, amongst other things,  my incriminating finger prints.

How bad can it be, you ask? How scary can a tired, caffeine deficient Home Economics teacher be? Let me tell you.

For starters, and you can have this for free, always fear a teacher: a teacher is a professional sponge, soaking up teenagers' insecurity at 30 projections an hour, a shining target for bullying, for around 20 classes a week.

So yes, you should fear that person. Never more than an eye blink away from doing a Peter Harvey. That's a whole lot of repressed anger.

The mug acts like the cap on the well. Once removed, it's not the simple act of replacing it, undetected. Remove that, and those years of sacrcastic comments ignored, graffiti scrawled insults, names shouted down a corridor, all those 'it wasn't me, Sir' and 'don't got a pen, do I?' and missing homeworks and worksheets dumped on the floor and feet on the desks and switch your phone off and why're you late again... out it all comes, spewing more vitrioil than a Tony Hayward press conference, spilling into the staff room.

OK, the difference is around $17 billion (ok, $1,600,999,996.50), but still, I've a right to be nervous. No one wants to be the cap the goes back on the well.

Tramites: Round 2

It's possible we're finally getting to grips with this place.

Two years ago, we took Leah to get her Argentine passport. A summary of the blow by blow account was on the blog here. An interesting comparison: here's Passport Tramites: Round 2.

2008 we left the house arrived at 10:59 and walked out at 13:32. Two and a half hours. There were about 10 people in the special 'Mothers and Babies Under 2' section. Comparative bliss, but no fun at all, and that was a 10 people process.

2010, we arrived at 11:17, and walked around the corner to find the 'Every Mother and Baby Under 2' room. I swear to God I have never seen so many little toddler and parent-like people in the same place, such a small place, in my life.

But we're learning. Watch.

11:17 Arrive to giant queue, snaking left and right like the Medusa. Also like the Medusa, this queue appears to have 3 heads, and upon removing one... two grow in their place.

11:21 Face to face, but avoiding ey contact, with Medusa-lady no1, we pass Stage 1. We receive our number: we are number 99.

11:26 Forms filled out, we move to Stage 2: handing in the forms to Medusa 2. Done!

11:38 We sit down, and start chatting to our sleepy looking neighbours.

- What number are you guys, we chirp?
- 42. You guys? 
- Er... 99... Um, how long have you been here?
- About three hours. 
- What number is it now? 
- 35 I think. 


Doing the Maths, I made that about 5 hours waiting time.

Furthermore, the office closes at 16:00, and if you are not seen today, you have to come back another day.

What's more, if you are no.99, and no.98 is the last person to be seen that day, you are not no.1 the next day. You have to start the whole process all over again.

Approx five hours to kill in a stinking, overheated airless Medusa queue filled with crying babies, bored toddlers, irate parents and exhausted pensioners, with the chance that you might not even be seen that day?!?

But this is what we've learned. Solution.

11:59 Phone ever-willing-to-eat-and-talk friends Silvie and Henry, who live in nearby San Telmo. Arange to meet for lunch.

12:00 Arranged!

12:01 - 12:45 Idyllic wandering in the sun around San Telmo which has never looked more beautiful for spending an hour in the traumites office.

12:45 - 14:30 Lazy lunch. Bread, olive tapenade, steak, wine, good company, good cholestrol, waiter like Javier Bardem in No Country (yup, that's the one where he's the serial killer).

14:30 Jog back to office to check the progress. 83 is up. Perfect. Phone in order of coffee and go to pick up Katie and Maia.

15:17 Pay bill, head back to the office.

15:23 Walk in to hear no.95 Struggle to hide the smugness.

15:24 - 15:59 Queue with fascinating dude from Los Polvorines, the town of the school where I work. He's the first person I've met from the other side of the wall. Top guy.

16:01 Done and dusted, home in time for tea and medals.

Now THAT's what I call Tramites.

Oh. I should mention that in two years there are two obvious improvements to the system.
1. There was a bar of soap in the men's toilets (although still no running water in the sink)
2. There are now more computers.

Gay BA

Might not stop you behaving
like an asshole though. Pity. 

Gay is OK in BA and this is a good thing. Gay marriage is now legal in Argentina, a giant step for co-habiting same sex couples everywhere, but specifically in Rainbow Nation Argentina.

In spite of strong, consistent, vocal and numerous protests galvanised by the Catholic Church in capital the week before the vote, symbolised by banners proclaiming that the 'traditional family' should be protected, the senate passed the law, the first of its kind in Latin America. The symbol of the marches, by the way: baby girl pink baloon tied to baby blue boy balloon.

If there was a march against the reductive categorising of girls into baby pink and boys into baby blue, I'd be all over that.
- Whatdawewant? I'd shout.
- Gender equality, they'd reply, as manifested by girls who slay dragons with swords!
- When do we want it? I'd say.
- Now, they'd retort, so we can pop those ridiculously reductive baloons.

Not catchy, but I'd be there like a bear. Or a march to burn at the stake - well, at least hit with a stake - the author's of Preventing Homosexulity, which actually is not a hilarious spoof but a hideously well selling text for 'gender-disturbed' children, helping parents to know when and how they should intervene.  

Legalising the life choices of a minority group that affects no one outside of their own lives seems an entirely civilised and groovy thing to do. I don't, can't and won't listen or respect those who oppose gay marriage, or gay adoption. Sorry, but the counter arguments are... well... just too dumb to listen to.

Those who state that a 'child deserves a mother and a father' must thereby ban any form of marriage that could in any way damage the child. But, as Philip Larkin once put eloquently, every mum and dad messes up their child. That's what a parent is. If your parents did everything right, who would one complain about during one's adolescence? And what would you do with all those spare therapists, consellors, psychologists, psychoanalysts and landlords?

Exactly. Think it through. But seriously, the arguments against a same sex couple adopting are identical to those once raised against couples of different races adopting, and how out of touch and ridiculous do those arguments sound now?

Well, yes, as ridiculous as they did at the time.

They'll get bullied at school. No. You get bullied at school based on a projection of other's fears onto the target. Those fears (homosexulity, different cultures, ya mum) are only going to be reduced by being made more visible and backed up by the state's laws. So you get less bullying. Be a winner; not a sinner.

It doesn't happen in the animal kingdom. Yes it does, when animals have free choice over 'partners' and, really, are you frikkin' kidding me, are you shooting with that? At least give me a challenge.

The Holy Book. It is an abomination according to the Bible. Well, lots of things are adominable, some fair enough, like 'murder', some of them just bonkers, like 'planting two different crops in the same field' (Lev 19:19). Plus, it's ok according to lots of other books. And, on religion... the Catholic Church... sexuality... morality... do you really want to take the moral high ground there? Thought not.  

When gays get married in BA and it is not news, that'll be even more progressive, but for now, let us celebrate the following victory for LGBT, common sense, decency, human rights and the YMCA.

... oh, and if you really want to get angry, click this.