She’s a factory veteran.
She knows how to eat without a fork, just using tortillas.
She is good at finding stuff in the grocery store, whereas I can spend hours searching and still only find half the items on our grocery list.
She hates the color pink.
She has a sanguine son with blond hair and blue eyes. In the grocery store everyone mistakes her to be his babysitter.
She loves to read Spanish novels, but only in English.
She is physically stronger than most women, and ever since she was a teenager she has been able to visibly tense her biceps.
She likes 24 and Smallville.
She turned fly-stricken pot plants and dried flowers into beautiful kitchen decorations.
She is good at finding items at DI, sometimes things that look as good as new. When I see stuff for the first time around the house, thinking it must have cost at least $10 or $20, and ask her, “Where did this come from? How much did this cost?” she responds saying, “I bought that at DI for a dollar.”
She has black hair (she’s far from being a “dumb blonde”).
She likes my bacon-egg-cheese biscuits.
She is charitable toward homeless or unemployed relatives, like Blake and Eduardo.
Sometimes she buys me hamburgers from McDonald’s or Burger King and surprises me with them when she gets home from school.
She likes to make chocolate chip cookies.
She wants to lose weight but refuses to do it by starving herself, which is what many of “those weird American women” do to lose weight. Moreover, she refuses to ever abstain from eating chocolate; she thinks going without chocolate is the most absurd idea ever.
She thinks the tradition of “machismo” in Latin culture is preposterous. She thinks such men who practice it are pathetic wimps, and she speaks of them and treats them as such. I know she would never let me oppress her, or force her to cook every day or do 100% of the chores.
She was the first (by a long shot) to suggest that I go to law school, before I had any interest whatsoever in law.
She is already an accomplished massage therapist in my eyes, which makes me proud of her—and I’m not just saying this because of some personal benefit. (Keep in mind that she extremely seldom gives me a massage.)
She gave me a free massage certificate once so I could get an hour massage at her school, by another student of course.
Though I carry the responsibility of consuming all the yucky leftovers that she or the kids won’t eat, she otherwise lets me help myself to anything in the refrigerator. I can eat and drink anything in my own home (as long as I don’t hog it, of course) without being punished.
She lets me sit on the couch and watch a movie when I’m exhausted, even when I have many chores pending.
She knows how to wash clothing the old-fashioned way, on a stone grill.
She can wash dishes using a sandstone rock instead of a scrubber. When we lived with her parents I never was able to master that skill, though I tried.
She wears a one-piece pajama, which makes her look like a big bunny rabbit
She calls me “Phillip” to let me know when I’m in trouble.
She doesn’t enforce a no-movies-in-the-morning rule.
She lets me be a hero and save her from spiders.
She’s going with me and the kids to live in Florida.
She fearlessly insists on fixing my “medially-rotated” knee (I won’t let her yet).
She isn’t afraid of heights.
She’s fun to play with in the snow.
She uses tampons, with great enthusiasm, and doesn’t want her mom to know.
She takes pride in being able to drive a stick shift.
She is going to run her own business someday.
She has two credit cards.
She loves avocado and, like me, would eat it with everything if it weren’t so expensive.
Her favorite Spanish singer is Rocío Durcal.
She can make posoli just as good as her mom’s.
She hates being stared at, especially by Latinos.
It drives her crazy when people mistake her for being an illegal immigrant, she being a legal resident for over a decade, especially now that she is a citizen, and furthermore, a registered republican!
She makes the best shrimp cocktail in the world.
She makes incredibly spicy salsas.
She’s an avid blogger.
She likes pets.
She is extremely easily frightened, but likes to watch scary movies.
She knows a lot about Mexican witches and witch stories.
She’s exactly five feet tall. Every time people ask her how tall she is she says, “five feet”; then they pause and ask, “Five feet . . . ?” or “Five and . . .?” It’s hilarious!
She goes by “Madam” (just kidding!).
She is constantly misunderstood in fast food drive-throughs (bless her soul!).
Her favorite foods are smores and cheese cake. She can eat a whole plateful of smores (stacked on top of each other), and she uses more marshmallow and chocolate per gram cracker than I do.
She has integrated a few of my words (very few, actually) into her vocabulary, like “whippersnapper.” Hearing her use words that I taught her makes me feel special.
Spanish is her first language, and she speaks it fluently, but she can’t imitate a Spanish accent in her English, no matter how hard she tries.
She looks beautiful when she first wakes up in the morning with her hair all poofy. I love her hair when it’s poofy.
She loves piñatas and big birthday parties.
She’s feisty. After months of putting up with a neighbor’s friend’s knowingly taking our obviously-marked parking space in our Kentucky apartment complex, Edith parked behind them, blocking their car from getting out, which caused the very ashamed driver to have to knock on our door and ask us to move so they could get out of our parking space.
She uses the word “psoas” more than anyone you’ll ever meet.
