- Thread starter Meemselle
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LADIES ONLY! And Now A Few Words From Meemselle....because one word is never enough
Jajaja. I have a game plan: there is a Thanksgiving-appropriate post, complete with link to Arlo Guthrie's song. And then the series detailing atrocities to mi cuerpo---which this crowd loves the best.
XOXO
Yes! Spectator pumps. I haven't worn them in years, but now I think I'll have to buy a new pair.
http://http://amidprivilege.com/2012/04/subtle-pleasure-twotone-shoe/
I love your posts. Please don't disappear into the "residents only" threads. I'm hoping to come down in the New Year and will definitely visit you. I'll bring the Dominican passport I received when I was 2 years old. I'm curious if that and my DR birth certificate mean I can stay as long as I wish without extraordinary measures.
Great writing--I feel I am back in Sosua in the 1990s, and last 15 years. If you want to understand Sosua's global reputation (in the late 1980s, people called it So-sewer), you need to think beyond the female prostitute. Young boys and men could make a good living off women and men who flocked to Sosua for sex. Bisexuality was profitable. The only good jobs for Dominicans in Sosua went to waiters. Later, gay couples could safely vacation in Sosua. They still do, I believe. After years of Sankies breaking North American hearts, romantically inclined women are finding other kinder pastures.
With regard to Sosua, this book is an excellent read. Not detailed in any sexual way, though. It deals with the culture of the Dominicanas and their European novios.
http://www.amazon.com/Whats-Love-Got-Transnational-Dominican/dp/0822332973
http://www.amazon.com/Whats-Love-Got-Transnational-Dominican/dp/0822332973
Why regularization and not just go for residency?
Back to the earlier posts about becoming regularized. Since you were returning back to the US anyway, why did you not just apply for residency instead of regularization. The main things regularization does is get you two years to become a legal resident without having to go home to start the process. If you don't meet the requirements for residency, then you just bought yourself two years of being legal and that is about it.
The "regularization" process was set up to allow Haitians to stay for two years and deport them after that.
Back to the earlier posts about becoming regularized. Since you were returning back to the US anyway, why did you not just apply for residency instead of regularization. The main things regularization does is get you two years to become a legal resident without having to go home to start the process. If you don't meet the requirements for residency, then you just bought yourself two years of being legal and that is about it.
The "regularization" process was set up to allow Haitians to stay for two years and deport them after that.
First of all,none of your business. Secondly, I didn't have all the documents in one place. That's what happens when you sell two houses and your stuff gets put into storage by your raging soon-to-be-ex-spouse. And finally, none of your business.
I was going to recommend it at the end of my post, but I was waiting for permission from the author (who is a friend) and she's on research leave. She was in the DR over the summer doing 10-year follow up on the project.
LOL...It's none of your business Wind!
Then why bother posting your whereabouts to your closest 5000 "pals" on dr1?
Ok
The bolds and colors are not mine. Let's make that clear.
My "whereabouts" were part of a more amorphous discussion, and you honed in on one single part.
I don't think that I gave away TMI in my post. It was a general discussion that could have been about anybody in this country dealing in whatever way works/worked for them at the time.
I am sorry if my reply made you flame---with all sorts of colors and bold graphics. Geez.
Is it about you or is it about me? Or is it about regularizacion vs residencia? Let's get that figured out.
I feel attacked.
The bolds and colors are not mine. Let's make that clear.
My "whereabouts" were part of a more amorphous discussion, and you honed in on one single part.
I don't think that I gave away TMI in my post. It was a general discussion that could have been about anybody in this country dealing in whatever way works/worked for them at the time.
I am sorry if my reply made you flame---with all sorts of colors and bold graphics. Geez.
Is it about you or is it about me? Or is it about regularizacion vs residencia? Let's get that figured out.
I feel attacked.
Not sure why you felt you were attacked. I thought it was a simple question which I also wondered about. But then maybe you have history with Windy which could account for your OTT response.
Keep up the blogging, enjoy it very much.
Let's diffuse. Here you go. Happy Thanksgiving to all the Americans, and apologies to all who hate us. I understand. I really do.
But this is a real sort of "Saturday Evening Post"/Norman Rockwell thing. I promise I will return with pieces about my two broken legs. Because I know my audience. BESOS!
But this is a real sort of "Saturday Evening Post"/Norman Rockwell thing. I promise I will return with pieces about my two broken legs. Because I know my audience. BESOS!
Just Another Thursday…Or Is It?
Posted on November 28, 2014
by meemselle
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m57gzA2JCcM"]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m57gzA2JCcM[/URL]
I’ve said it before: one of the slightly disconcerting things about being an American living life outside of the US is what the French call d?paysement. It literally translates as “scenario,” but it really means more like “displacement,” or the sense of being a person always slightly out of place.
Today is Thanksgiving in the US, and it’s just another Thursday here in Sos?a.
My memories of Thanksgiving are so fond. Most of them are of the wonderful dinners at 291 Main, with various aunts, uncles, and cousins. My mother, Regina L.,OBM, getting up at 5 a.m. to get the turkey in the oven so it would be ready for dinner at 1:00 p.m. She was a wonderful housekeeper, and she set a beautiful table, trotting out her beautiful wedding china, with dark green damask tablecloths, and the sterling silver that the sisters and I would have howled about having to spend hours polishing the night before. All 6 of us singeing our fingers on Wednesday night peeling what seemed like mountains of red-hot chestnuts for the stuffing. Getting roused from (face it: hungover) sleep to polish the wonderful emerald crystal goblets so that we could run our greasy and dampened fingers over the rims to make them sing. The year that Ann was convinced that she liked mince pie, because she misunderstood it as “mint.”
The same stories were told every year: the year that Aunt Dutch put a green dishtowel over her turkey while it was still in the oven and turned it green, and Grandpa Nelson’s immortal story—told in the heaviest of New Hampshire accents–of the little boy who told the parson that he didn’t need a napkin because he didn’t slobber.
And the historical milestones that are part of every family’s palimpsest: the year that glamorous Aunt Sally came and introduced me to my first taste of champagne. Pink. (For the record: it was not my last taste of champagne.) The year that the dog and the cat had a fight in the lap of my mother’s eldest sister, the formidable Aunt Dolores. The year when there was so much snow that it took Aunt Dutch, Uncle Red, and Cousin Steve an hour to make it from Summer Street to Main Street in North Brookfield.
My favorite and one of the best memories of the North Brookfield Thanksgivings was seeing my beloved Uncle Red, who was a huge man, a farmer, drinking post-prandial coffee from my mother’s diminutive Art Deco yellow & white espresso cups. The cup looked like a thimble in his hand.
More recent Thanksgiving memories are of the wonderful times at the house in Rangeley, with sisters and cousins and nephews galore: the year of the turducken. That poem exists somewhere. I believe that was the year that there was a major snowstorm in Rangeley, and we lost power, and had no idea how the dishes from dinner for 12 were going to get done before we had to leave the house. Or if we would be able to leave the house. I remember staying up by oil lamp, playing Monopoly with James and Michelle and Joseph, drinking Goldschl?ger while we waited for the lights to come back on and for the driveway to be plowed.
I had a dream about the house in Rangeley just the other night. In my dream, I was so happy to be there, but I couldn’t figure out why it had been painted in Caribbean colors ….but that’s what dreams and memories do. They meld. They overlap. They become a part, not only of our conscious, but our unconscious, and they imprint us, and become a part of who we are, so that we are not just who we are right now. We are amalgams of our past and our present, and this is what enables us—I guess—to make our futures. To me, that is one of the miracles of human intelligence, to have brains that work that way.
As usual in late November here on the North Coast of La Republica Dominicana, it was a typical day of abundant sunshine, generous breezes, and a temperature of 83 degrees. I had hoped to be able to acquire a kosher turkey, but turkey and Thanksgiving – as a general concept – are not in the lexicon of my source for kosher meat, Chabad in Santo Domingo.
So, being nothing if not resourceful, I turned my attention to a more recent Thanksgiving, the one 5 years ago when Beloved Son and I traveled to the Eternal City, Rome. Knowing we were not likely to find turkey, and–being the International Persons in Pursuit of Local Custom that we are—did not wish to, we found a lovely trattoria in Trastevere and had ourselves an absolutely fantastic meal. I had cacio e pepe.
So for me, now and forever, cacio e pepe is Thanksgiving day food.
Thanksgiving, in its truest sense, is about taking stock and giving thanks. Not for nothing was it Abraham Lincoln in 1861 who first made it a national day of giving thanks. He knew something about being thankful for the gifts and opportunities that life in the USSA made possible. Rock on, Abe.
Even in the years when life has not been kind, or generous, or particularly pleasant (not that I’m talking about myself here, but this is my damn blog), we as Americans are so fortunate, so blessed, and so – just lucky. It’s a day to think and remember. To remember the happy (or not so happy) days of childhood. To remember that we are—or were—or will be–loved. To remember lean years and fat years, years of plenty and years of less. Years of loss and years of new babies. But chiefly, to remind ourselves that life in the First World is a place and time of endless possibility.
If anything, my Thanksgivings in the 2.5 World make me more thankful than I might be if I were to be “at home” in the First World. There are daily, in-your-face reminders of hunger, and poverty, and suffering here. I miss my family terribly, and it would be wonderful to be with you.
But today, it was a blessing to speak with you on the telephone, and to hear about your turkeys, and your snow, and your tabletop symphonies with the emerald crystal goblets. I cannot help but to be thankful when I think about how incredibly fortunate I am to have a family and to have memories of such wonderful times together.
And today, I am happy with my telephone, my memories, and my cacio e pepe.
But update for this year: I get to go visit Beloved Son, who is in his internship semester at Emerson College LA. (I am also an Emerson Alumna. He is a LEGACY!) We will be in Escondildo with my Irish friend Mari, who I met in Sosua 30 years ago....the world really is a small place, if you let it be.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Posted on November 28, 2014
by meemselle
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m57gzA2JCcM"]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m57gzA2JCcM[/URL]
I’ve said it before: one of the slightly disconcerting things about being an American living life outside of the US is what the French call d?paysement. It literally translates as “scenario,” but it really means more like “displacement,” or the sense of being a person always slightly out of place.
Today is Thanksgiving in the US, and it’s just another Thursday here in Sos?a.
My memories of Thanksgiving are so fond. Most of them are of the wonderful dinners at 291 Main, with various aunts, uncles, and cousins. My mother, Regina L.,OBM, getting up at 5 a.m. to get the turkey in the oven so it would be ready for dinner at 1:00 p.m. She was a wonderful housekeeper, and she set a beautiful table, trotting out her beautiful wedding china, with dark green damask tablecloths, and the sterling silver that the sisters and I would have howled about having to spend hours polishing the night before. All 6 of us singeing our fingers on Wednesday night peeling what seemed like mountains of red-hot chestnuts for the stuffing. Getting roused from (face it: hungover) sleep to polish the wonderful emerald crystal goblets so that we could run our greasy and dampened fingers over the rims to make them sing. The year that Ann was convinced that she liked mince pie, because she misunderstood it as “mint.”
The same stories were told every year: the year that Aunt Dutch put a green dishtowel over her turkey while it was still in the oven and turned it green, and Grandpa Nelson’s immortal story—told in the heaviest of New Hampshire accents–of the little boy who told the parson that he didn’t need a napkin because he didn’t slobber.
And the historical milestones that are part of every family’s palimpsest: the year that glamorous Aunt Sally came and introduced me to my first taste of champagne. Pink. (For the record: it was not my last taste of champagne.) The year that the dog and the cat had a fight in the lap of my mother’s eldest sister, the formidable Aunt Dolores. The year when there was so much snow that it took Aunt Dutch, Uncle Red, and Cousin Steve an hour to make it from Summer Street to Main Street in North Brookfield.
My favorite and one of the best memories of the North Brookfield Thanksgivings was seeing my beloved Uncle Red, who was a huge man, a farmer, drinking post-prandial coffee from my mother’s diminutive Art Deco yellow & white espresso cups. The cup looked like a thimble in his hand.
More recent Thanksgiving memories are of the wonderful times at the house in Rangeley, with sisters and cousins and nephews galore: the year of the turducken. That poem exists somewhere. I believe that was the year that there was a major snowstorm in Rangeley, and we lost power, and had no idea how the dishes from dinner for 12 were going to get done before we had to leave the house. Or if we would be able to leave the house. I remember staying up by oil lamp, playing Monopoly with James and Michelle and Joseph, drinking Goldschl?ger while we waited for the lights to come back on and for the driveway to be plowed.
I had a dream about the house in Rangeley just the other night. In my dream, I was so happy to be there, but I couldn’t figure out why it had been painted in Caribbean colors ….but that’s what dreams and memories do. They meld. They overlap. They become a part, not only of our conscious, but our unconscious, and they imprint us, and become a part of who we are, so that we are not just who we are right now. We are amalgams of our past and our present, and this is what enables us—I guess—to make our futures. To me, that is one of the miracles of human intelligence, to have brains that work that way.
As usual in late November here on the North Coast of La Republica Dominicana, it was a typical day of abundant sunshine, generous breezes, and a temperature of 83 degrees. I had hoped to be able to acquire a kosher turkey, but turkey and Thanksgiving – as a general concept – are not in the lexicon of my source for kosher meat, Chabad in Santo Domingo.
So, being nothing if not resourceful, I turned my attention to a more recent Thanksgiving, the one 5 years ago when Beloved Son and I traveled to the Eternal City, Rome. Knowing we were not likely to find turkey, and–being the International Persons in Pursuit of Local Custom that we are—did not wish to, we found a lovely trattoria in Trastevere and had ourselves an absolutely fantastic meal. I had cacio e pepe.
So for me, now and forever, cacio e pepe is Thanksgiving day food.
Thanksgiving, in its truest sense, is about taking stock and giving thanks. Not for nothing was it Abraham Lincoln in 1861 who first made it a national day of giving thanks. He knew something about being thankful for the gifts and opportunities that life in the USSA made possible. Rock on, Abe.
Even in the years when life has not been kind, or generous, or particularly pleasant (not that I’m talking about myself here, but this is my damn blog), we as Americans are so fortunate, so blessed, and so – just lucky. It’s a day to think and remember. To remember the happy (or not so happy) days of childhood. To remember that we are—or were—or will be–loved. To remember lean years and fat years, years of plenty and years of less. Years of loss and years of new babies. But chiefly, to remind ourselves that life in the First World is a place and time of endless possibility.
If anything, my Thanksgivings in the 2.5 World make me more thankful than I might be if I were to be “at home” in the First World. There are daily, in-your-face reminders of hunger, and poverty, and suffering here. I miss my family terribly, and it would be wonderful to be with you.
But today, it was a blessing to speak with you on the telephone, and to hear about your turkeys, and your snow, and your tabletop symphonies with the emerald crystal goblets. I cannot help but to be thankful when I think about how incredibly fortunate I am to have a family and to have memories of such wonderful times together.
And today, I am happy with my telephone, my memories, and my cacio e pepe.
But update for this year: I get to go visit Beloved Son, who is in his internship semester at Emerson College LA. (I am also an Emerson Alumna. He is a LEGACY!) We will be in Escondildo with my Irish friend Mari, who I met in Sosua 30 years ago....the world really is a small place, if you let it be.
Happy Thanksgiving.
but i have stopped with u.s. holidaze....sometimes i do a party...spend like a holiday...all week... be foolish buy things...chocolates, want to eat things(meat) i dont eat regulary....etc have my own special good time...forget the turkey ,thanks dinner...have a special week...double up your daily spending////go somewhere.....do something you wouldnt normally do...
But with roasted chestnuts and braised celery. You're from NJ so maybe you have different cultural customs, being from the south and all.....