We kind of won the World Cup

Well, not exactly.

But let me explain: about two weeks ago (yes, I haven't been writing lately) we played our arch-enemy, Collingwood.

Apparently, this is the only team we ever play, for some reason. But out of all the times we've been scheduled to play them, they beat us once, we beat them (unofficially) once, and the third and fourth game against them were canceled.

So, when the third game was rescheduled, we were called to battle!! We gathered our best players and came out determined to show Collingwood who has the castle in this town!

It was a very hard game. And since we had so many players, I started on bench (obviously--I can never manage a full game nowadays).

My idea of working out.

They kept attacking and attempting to score throughout the whole game. But, luckily for us, our best players showed up that day!! We got the best defensive line in the county and the most badass goal keeper--she's basically the Hope Solo of Durham.

Also see: Badass National Hero who kicks ass adorably.

We were able to hold our ground for the first half--even with the ref being an absolute joke! Every time someone fell, he would call a foul, even if the person fell on her own. SERIOUSLY. THAT BAD. I had to go to confession afterwards--- pirate mouthiness unleashed.

I came in at the end of the first half and I played all of the second half. I like to think I did very well, even though I didn't get nearly close to scoring. But hey! At least my knee didn't pop and I got a couple nice passes!

This DIDN'T happen.

So they were not scoring. And we were not scoring. And last thing you know--game is over. And I'm thinking, "Oh Lord, thank you for not letting us lose."

Then the ref says, "ok, ladies! GET YOUR PLAYERS FOR THE PENALTY KICKS!"

It was 2003 all over again. You don't understand--I was the star of my football team in high school. I could score from any freaking angle... except from the PK spot. I missed most of the penalty kicks I shot that season. I was traumatized for life. So yeah, I was about to cry.

Suddenly, this was the world cup final to me. And I was soooooooooooo not going to shoot a PK.

It ended up being all of our defenders and goalie shooting the penalties. And, remember we got Hope Solo.

She stopped three penalty kicks. THREE. FREAKING BRILLIANT. But when her turn came to shoot one herself, this happened:

It's ok, though!! She stopped three shots, which meant we only had to score three goals ourselves. And we did. Three defenders= three beautifully executed pks.

And one that last one went into the net, this was me:

Even though I didn't do anything.

And we did this:

make animated gifs like this at MakeAGif

make animated gifs like this at MakeAGif

IT WAS SO GLORIOUS! SERIOUSLY, ONE OF THE BEST MOMENTS OF MY LIFE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! God knows that was one of the dreams of my life.

Semi-finals in a week!!!!

MIA, YOU WILL ALWAYS BE MY HERO> 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eebq0UYzeWs

Sigh.

Last week was a very busy week for this blog. I was feeling creative and jolly and what not, and I hope you enjoyed those posts.

But I'm afraid to tell you something quite bad did happen last week after all those fun posts. My grandfather passed away last Wednesday.

The first thing I was asked by someone was 'were you close to him?"

I didn't even attempt to answer such complicated (and loaded) question.

My grandfather had dementia... or I guess you can call it Alzheimer's. I choose not to, because his illness was triggered, in a way, the moment my grandmother passed away, in 2008. From being perfectly fine, he started deteriorating rapidly once she was gone. I think it was too much for him--the love of his life, over 50 years together, gone after a terribly brutal battle with cancer. He kind of just checked out, mentally.

So the man that was my grandfather quickly vanished into a shadow of memories. I can't say that I was close to him because he didn't know me anymore.

Moreover, family relationships are very different when you are an immigrant. I hadn't been around my grandpa for years, except for a couple times a year. A thousand miles separated us. I couldn't even come to my grandmother's funeral in 2008. So the last time I saw my grandpa was in 2012, when I went to visit him at a "retirement" home (Retirement? From what? I find the name so absurd).

He was laying in a tiny bed in a room where there were other men laying in tiny beds. There was an old man sitting in a chair calmly but yelling the whole time. The room was stuffy and smelly, and my grandpa was covered with a coarse blanket.

I will never forget the moment I saw him. His body had shrunk from the strong man he always was, the man who would dress up as Santa Claus in Christmas, to a tiny and fragile frame. It seemed like I could hold him in my arms like a small child. His limbs were withered and his eyes enlarged by famine.

I looked at him, and he looked at me, and there was a fraction of a second in which his eyes lighted up in recognition, as my dad whispered to him who I was. Then the light was extinguished and my grandfather continued talking (barely audible) about his life 50, 40, 30 years ago.

So it's hard to say "yes, I was close to him." Yet I refuse to say "No, I was not close to him." Because he loved me. Despite the distance and his eccentricity and my awkwardness. And I think I take after him quite a lot: he spoke passionately, he had outrageous ideas, he enjoyed good food, and he loved the Lord.

I went through the attic of my memory to search for the mementos of our relationship:

He called me chula every time he saw me. That's a very Mexican way of saying "pretty girl."
He would fist-pump when my grandma cooked something really good.
He loved to eat bolillos.
After he had his heart attack, he got really healthy and would make yucky healthy smoothies with cactus and stuff.
He once told his grandchildren "Waste water! Don't listen to those crazies who say we need to conserve water. We have PLENTY OF WATER. WASTE IT!"
He was "Poncho Claus" for Christmas.
He used talk about his great-granduncle, Pascual Orozco, a hero of the Revolution.
He hated Pancho Villa.
He evangelized hundreds of people throughout his life and God did work through him.

He had this beautiful ritual with grandma every day in which they would lay hands on each other, bless each other, and make the sign of the cross in each other's forehead. Every. single. day. And the blessing they pronounced, well, I don't remember it verbatim, but it went something like this:

"My dear wife/husband,
I love you, I forgive you, and I bless you,
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

Abuelito, thank you for being a part of my life. You did leave your mark. I love you and I know that now you are yourself again, made whole, with your memories and your wit and your passion, but now in heaven, contemplating the Lord face to face. And now you are with her again, for the rest of eternity.

SO I MET A GUY (?)

Ah yes, the post you have been waiting for! Don't lie--you know it's true, mom.

Alas, if you know anything about me, it is that my life is just not normal, and therefore the words "I met a guy" are not necessarily encouraging, but just an introduction to a tragically hilarious story. This is true, I'm afraid.

The truth is, there has been a guy--a crush, if you wish. Do I talk to him? Well, of course not--what kind of question is that? This is a guy with whom I had one conversation once. Five minutes and he walked away with my heart (yeah, I went there. They call me Lady Corniness). I was struck by his friendly personality, his charm, and just a light about him that seemed like kindness. Mom says he's not handsome but, to me, he's beautiful. He's also American (yes, I realize you were hoping for a Mr. Darcy but you know what--like my friend Elena said: "why would anyone want to marry Mr. Darcy? He is cripplingly shy." He's also super handsome (and stuck-up). Plus, American is a lot more convenient than bringing a British guy back to Texas who won't be able to work or do anything but sit around the house or work in my dad's lawn-mowing business).

I won't go anymore into deets, but you get the picture: silent, unrequited love fo' life. Happy Valentine's Day, ya'll!

Speaking of cripplingly shy: My name is Cristina and I am mentally challenged to talk to a guy I like.

Case and point: the other day I went to the supermarket with my flatmates. As I was browsing the cheese section, I noticed two people from the corner of my eye--a man and a woman. Guess who the man was? YUP. But that's not all. Remember we had just arrived at the store five minutes before. I only had one product in my shopping cart at this point--the centerpiece of my shame. Let me give you a hint: this product made a special appearance on my flight back to Durham after Christmas.

Yes, you guessed it. So as I realized who it was that was looking down at my lovely pack of maxipads, I entered panic mode.

I kept my head down and RAN, RAN FOR MY DEAR LIFE. Then I went through a thousand six hundred and eighty-three aisles and grabbed as much stuff as I needed to cover that which is an atrocity Always™.

Then I resumed my orderly shopping and eventually ran into these people again, but now it was game-on because I had nothing to be ashamed of (except my ridiculous hat that I was still wearing... inside the store).

"Oh, hi!"
"Hey! How are you?"
"Fine, how are you?"
"Ok. Do you live around here?"
"Oh no, I have a flatmate with a car, so when he comes to the store, we all come with him."
"Oh... that's terrible..."
"No, he doesn't mind..."

After a few seconds of awkward silence, he resumed his shopping.

Naturally, the moment it was over, I could think of ten billion things to say: did you go home for the holidays? How was the Polar Vortex? Would you marry me?

But instead, I sounded like a horrible person who uses other people to get rides to stores (which is not entirely untrue--sorry, KK)

So, Happy Valentine's day to me, Queen of Awkwardness, Duchess of Forever Aloneness. Oh, here's something encouraging:

Time Magazine came up with this app that tells you the age you should marry based on how many facebook friends you have that are married and the median age in which they married. According to this sucker, I'm already  two months behind. And here I was thinking that pain at the pit of my stomach was heartburn when all alone it was envy and loneliness.

But, in all seriousness, don't you worry about me. I am very happy in my singlehood. I embrace it fully knowing that it's what's meant to be for the time being. It works out perfectly right now, and I much rather be single that have to settle for someone who won't let me be myself and do things like this:

Besides, God has given me great friends.

AND, well, there's God himself--I love that guy. In the past few weeks the Lord has granted me the gift of feeling in love with Him. Don't get me wrong, I love Him. But the thing about love, as you know, is that it is a choice of the will and it doesn't always feel like butterflies in your stomach. Yet you still love the person and you still care for them and you still want to make them happy and you would not wish for a time in your life when you were without that person.

It's the same with God. I love him, and I would NEVER wish to go back to the time when I seemingly had it all (by the world's standards) but in reality my life was empty because I didn't have him.

You don't understand--when I lost EVERYTHING I thought I had and was left with nothing, He rescued me. He took my hand and He healed my heart, little by little. It was a painful and long process and most of the time I was angry and stubborn about it, but He worked with me nevertheless. And even after all He has done for me I still fight Him and still get mad at Him at times (yes, I am basically the worst person you will ever meet), but I love him--imperfectly and insufficiently, but I do. And sometimes it's rough because you don't feel the love pounding in your chest, but you know it's still there and you hang onto your faith (which is not based in transitory feelings).

But when the Lord gives you the grace to feel in love with him, when you want to write Him poetry and dedicate a love song to Him, the Lover of your heart, then it's a pretty special place to be in, spiritually and emotionally.

So I'm ok. I got the one and only Creator of the universe as my Valentine's date. He is the best and, in truth, is the love of my life. My hope is that one day you may feel that. If you haven't or if you think I am delusional and out of my mind--well, I am, in the best possible way. And I ask you to challenge that "non-existent divinity" to prove to you that He is what your soul has been searching for since you came into being.

The time I fell in love with British folk dancing

So I had been hesitant to try British folk dancing because I am an idiot. That's it, that the reason. But this week I finally gave into peer-pressure and I must say I am HOOKED! Basically, because it's like the dancing they do in every single Jane Austen film adaptation. Konrad says "that's not how people in Jane Austen's time would dance" but my answer to him is "That's not what Hollywood says."

BOOM! I got my own GIF now.

We did things like these (minus the dresses):

And my personal favorite: The Gypsy Meltdown.

That's right, we went there. Of course, I could not keep a straight face throughout, so I ended up being very much a Lydia Bennet, giggles and all. But it was awesome and I can't wait to do it again!! 

The day when I didn't meet Chicharito

Greetings and salutations!

It's been a while, huh? Well, let me tell you that I have been wanting to write very much but found myself surrounded by the dangerous enemy: homework. At last, I have been defeated by it, so there is no point on me trying to catch up because I never will--so why not do this and watch Sochi instead?

Anyway, I was really pumped about writing... yesterday. Today..eeh.. not so much.

But let me tell you: I went to Manchester on Sunday. And *drumroll*..... here's a list!

1. We paid around $15 for the bus ticket, which was a very good price, and about half as much as what the train cost. Well, here's the thing about the bus: it was not latina-hip friendly. I had to sit next to a guy who took his own seat and half of mine, so you can understand my sudden mood change from jolly-good to on-the-verge-of-killing. When half of your butt is sitting in thin air, you don't feel so great. And the bus was so stuffed... like a ground-beef enchilada. And it was hot in there, so of course I got SUPER SICK. Motion sickness puts me in a terrible mood, so in other words I was practically having an Amanda Bynes melt-down.

Fortunately for her (but unluckily for me) there are no GIFs of her actual meltdown. Just very scary photos.

2. Get this: we stopped to have a pee break at a gas station/convenience store type of place... FOR FORTY MINUTES. That gave you enough time to fill up your empty bladder and empty it! Why, WHY? It was absurd. I mean, Manchester is already far enough as it is.. and add 40 minutes to the trip--what's the point?

3. We were only in Manchester for 4 hours. That means we were in the bus longer than in the actual city. (Yeah yeah, you live you learn. Tell that to an angry tourist). So you know what this means? I get on BEAST MODE. Resolved to see as much as humanly possible (and glad I am wearing my walking boots), I get ready to start power walking and snapping pictures like a Japanese tourist in Cancun.

4. But pray tell, what is the first thing the men want to do when arriving to Manchester? Why, eat, of course! They went on a long ass trip to a restaurant, basically. My flat mates took 1.5 hours to eat at an Indian buffet place, then proceeded to head to Starbucks for a good 30 minutes). Luckily for me, I didn't wait around for them. I had packed my lunch (which I ate sitting out there... in the street, like a good hobo. By the way, my sandwich tasted like newspaper because I wrapped it in cheap napkins) and I just went for the Manchester tourist experience--alone.

5. Then I magically stumbled upon the National Football Museum and suddenly my life found its meaning again. It was magical. Take a look:

the First English team

Newcastle United represent!

Replica of the original (which I have seen in person, mind you)

That's what I call a fashion statement.

While I was here, the guys were still eating. So when I finished at the museum, they arrived. So that meant another hour of wandering around alone while they pretended to be interested in football history.

6. Then, these dudes decide to go shopping. To a store that we have in Durham. And by the time they met up with me, it was too late for us to go to Old Trafford, the Manchester United stadium (and basically the main reason why I came on this trip). You can imagine my reaction:

Alas, this only means that I have to return to Manchester some time. Next time, however, I will plan to get myself into a Man U game. To meet Chicharito. So he can fall in love with me.

My pick up line: Hi, I'm from your hometown! Pick me up at 7.

Well, here are some more pics:

My souvenir from the National Football Museum

7. I was not allowed by these jerks to stop at a souvenir store. Yet we stopped for a snack for one of them before going back to the bus. Then we finally got on the bus and I got to sit on the unbearably narrow window seat. It was so bad I even got mad at the kids-- and you know I'm great with kids, but so I must have been pretty irritated, because these kids were terribly annoying.

But hey, you know what? YOLO. I got to see all of the city centre. I walked around for 8 miles, so, good day overall. 

That one time someone hugged me

So the other day I was talking to a friend, and you know, complaining about the guys and the kitchen being dirty and stuff (nothing out of the ordinary) and this friend got up from the chair and came to hug me. I didn't think I was being particularly whinny but it didn't matter. My friend got up, came to me, and held me. And I kept talking like an idiot, on and on and on. And my friend wouldn't let me go.

And, I don't know, it was strange because it was so peaceful, so nice, so cozy. I didn't realize how much turmoil was in my soul that day until my friend was holding me and my heart gradually came into stillness, to silence. It was like lying on the green grass on a sunny day looking at the deep blue sky while feeling the cool autumn breeze. It was like being a child again and being held by mom in a timeless embrace.

The tears were welling up. I wasn't particularly sensitive that day--in fact, I was feeling fairly happy, having lunch with friends and all. But that hug... it was strange, I tell you.

Yes, it felt like my mom was here with me, holding me, rocking me, reassuring me that everything was going to be OK.

Even more--it was like having Mama Mary holding me, telling me "here, you are tired, but I am here, rest a bit."

EVEN MORE--it was like Jesus was telling me "I know you need this. Here I am, rest in me, put your heart in my heart, here I am. Always. Don't forget."

It made me remember how weary I have been feeling only to remind me that I am loved and that I am not alone. And God always chooses the right people to do this. So He chose this twenty-year-old, lovely person to help out this stubborn, tired, twenty-six-year-old heart.

I know this friend is probably reading this. Thank you for being an instrument of the Lord and for giving warmth and light to this poor sickly heart of mine. I will never forget this moment and I will never forget you. You are a blessing in my life.

To everyone else: I want you to know that you are loved, so infinitely much. And that if you ever see a person in need of love, you should do something about it. You never know how your actions may touch that person!

Love

-C