Tag Archives: wuelita

♫♪ Hoppy Bearthday Dear Wuelita, Hoppy Bearthday To Joooo ♫♪

7 Jun

A new thrift store opened up last week and Wuelita is dying  to go.  I know she wants me to take her, but whenever she brings it up, I quickly change the subject. 

Wuelita loves thrift stores.  She sometimes finds really cute stuff.  In fact, one of my favorite summer clutches is a Wuelita find.  But, if I didn’t re-donate 97% of what she buys me at thrift stores, they would go out of business.  Just this weekend she gifted me a pair of white sweatpants, a black sweatshirt with “Cape Cod” stitched with silver thread, and a blue baseball cap and insisted I try it all on for her.  It was 90 degrees outside.  But, that’s not why I don’t want to take her to the new thrift store.

Our last outing to the local Goodwill started off completely normal.  I grabbed a cart and followed Wuelita around as she searched every.single.rack., and when she wandered off to the shoes, I quickly rummaged through her cart to make sure everything was…appropriate.  

*SIDE NOTE:  Wuelita once bought a t-shirt featuring an iron-on Burt Reynolds on the front (she thinks he’s sooo handsome).  Turns out, “Burt” was really just some random 70s porn star with a really thick mustache.  The back of the shirt read “Free mustache rides”.  Needless to say, I now own that kick-ass shirt.

We were in the car pulling out of the thrift store parking lot when I dropped my phone.  When I leaned over to pick it up, I noticed Wuelita had on what appeared to be a brand new pair of Nike walking shoes. 

Me:  Wuelita, are those new shoes?

Wuelita:  Watch dee road, Sweedy.

Me:  Did you just buy those?

Wuelita:  Do joo like?

Me:  Yeah.  They look brand new.

Wuelita:  I know!  Eets a goo deel.

Me:  Wait, I didn’t see those in your cart.

Wuelita:  *stares out the window*

Me:  Didn’t you have tie dyed flip-flops on? 

Wuelita:  Joo hungry, Sweedy?  Joo wanna ham-bear-gair? 

Me:  WUELITA!!  Did you steal those?!

Wuelita:  NOO!  I jus leeb my ole shoes dair and I poot dees shoes on.  Any whey, eets dee same.

Me:  Ummm, I don’t think–

Wuelita:  Eeets no goo to bee nosey!  Joo hungry or no?!

This is my grandmother, and I love her.

Happy Birthday, Wuelita.


Someone Else’s Junk Is Pretty Much Still Junk

16 May

Old people love other people’s things.  Wuelita‘s building has plastic bins in the lobby where people can bring their thrift store donations.  The local thrift store is supposed to then send someone over to collect the donations once a week.  I’m pretty sure that they’ve never had to come.  As soon as someone brings something down, someone else is right there picking it up and hauling it back to their own apartment. 

Wuelita and I were watching her favorite novela at her apartment the other day when I suggested we go out to get something to eat.  Before we left she  shuffled over to the television, followed the cord to the outlet on the wall and gently unplugged it.  I knew right then that the television must have been one of her “finds” at the thrift store donation bins.  I gave her a hard time about it: 

Me:  Let me guess.  You found that TV downstairs?

Wuelita:  Jes!  Can joo be leeb it?!  It’s bran new. Dee only ting wrong is dat it don turn off.

Me:  Umm, you have to unplug it to turn it off and there’s no remote.  Can you even adjust the volume?  Also, how did you get that thing up here?

Wuelita: (laughs).  My fren Esteve/Kiley.

Me:  Steve and Kiley?  Who are they? 

Wuelita:   No “day”.  Eets Esteve/Kiley.  Juan pear-son.

Me:  What kind of name is Steve/Kiley?  Is his first name Steve and last name Kiley? 

Wuelita:  Nooooo.  Es sometimes Esteve and sometimes Kiley.  Any whey, let’s go.  I’m es starving.

As we are walked down the hallway to the elevator I noticed a rather large woman in a house coat and slippers struggling to carry a laundry basket. 

Me:  Let me help you with that.

Old Lady:  (deep Barry White voice)  Why thank you dear.  I’m right down the hall by your grandmother.  (Waves to Wuelita).

You must be Esteve/Kiley

 Wuelita:  Hi !  Joo look beddy preedy too-day.  Do joo like dee lipsteek I buy for joo?

Old Lady:  (very, very excited deep Barry White voice) Oh yes!  Thank you so much, dear.

I dropped the basket off at “Kiley’s” door and ran walked back to the elevator where Wuelita was waiting.   I could hear her giggling as I turned the corner. 

Me:  That must have been Kiley?

Wuelita:  (devilishly laughing) 

Me:  You could have warned me. 

Wuelita:  Why?  Den eets not phone-y. 

Me:  Yeah, well, I was going to take you to Goodwill after lunch to look around.  Now, forget it. 

Wuelita:  (Bent over her cane, tears streaming down her face, victoriously laughing)

Touché, Wuelita.  Touché.

Pick Up the Needle, Press Pause, or Turn the Radio Off

25 Apr
 There is a huge double standard in Hispanic culture.  While my male cousins were allowed, and even encouraged, to go out and sow their wild oats, we girls were told horror stories of a young girl who got pregnant by writing a boy’s name on her notebook.  Wuelita would often warn us girls of the dangers of sex:

 Jo nooo, jo can half a baby if joo look at a pee pee.  Neber look at a pee pee.  If joo see juan, joo run away.

My dad (Papi) had three girls- his penance for his wild oats sowing days.  Papi’s biggest fear was that some day some hormone charged, sex on the brain, gets a boner when the wind blows, Latin Lothario was going to swoop in and devirginize one of his daughters. 

Papi, you have nothing to worry about with this guy. I promise.

When I was a Freshman in high school, after one particularly emotional cryfest of an argument with Papi about why he wasn’t allowing me to go to prom with a Senior, Papi decided it was time for us girls to understand where he was coming from.  Apparently, the sex talks given by Mami and Wuelita weren’t stern enough.  So, he sat my sisters and I down at the kitchen table for his own “talk”.

My sisters and I could tell what was coming, and we immediately started giggling.  This was going to be very painful…for Papi.  We were excited.

We pinched each other under the table to stifle our laughs as Papi paced back and forth, back and forth.  He went to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and slammed it.  More pacing.  More giggles.  One more beer.  He was ready:

Girls, it doesn’t matter what boys say.  They just want one thing.  They want to get in your pants.

*Pinch, pinch, pinch*

A boy will tell you you’re beautiful, but what he’s really thinking is that he wants to see you naked.  If he tells you he loves you, it means he’s getting impatient.

*Hysterical giggle fit lasts long enough for Papi have another beer.*


Boys are always thinking about sex.  That’s all they want and they’ll say and do anything to get it.  They are liars and cheaters.

By my count, Papi was well on his way to finishing a six-pack.  His eyes were glassy, and he was talking more freely.

Basically, girls, what it comes down to is that I want you to be smarter than those boys.  I don’t want any boys to think of you as just……..p!$$y holes.

He said p!$$y holes.

What followed was a laughing fit so loud, so consuming, so out of control that the only thing I heard in the several minutes that followed was the sound of the screen door slamming shut.  It took us half an hour to realize Papi had left the room.  We had stomach cramps from laughing so hard.  Our faces hurt from the laughter.  Our poor dad.  He didn’t stand a chance. 

When I recounted this tale to my husband years later his only response was a knowing, “Your dad spoke the truth.” 


Papi- 1/Devirginizing Sex-Crazed P-hole Lovers- 3 (Sorry, Dad)

The Power of Voodoo. Who Do? You Do.

7 Apr

My grandpa used to practice SanteriaI don’t believe in it, but it is a part of my culture I find interesting and unique. 

Grandpa’s “voodoo” room was very mysterious.  It had a makeshift alter lit by candles, bowls full of fruit, statues, and caramel squares I would covet from afar because, even though I didn’t believe in his practices, there was no way I was stepping foot in that room.

I don't believe in voodoo, but I'm not going to say anything a-hole-ish.

As we got older, my sisters, cousins and I would make fun of the voodoo room.  We would crack jokes about how grandpa was probably just watching wrestling or picking his lottery numbers in there in an attempt to get some peace and quiet.  As we got older, we would mock the voodoo chants we heard, and pretend to become enchanted.  These particular jokes were usually followed by nervous laughter and uncomfortable moments of silence as we silently made peace with the voodoo spirits,  “I didn’t mean it.”  or “I didn’t steal the caramel.” or “Even though I don’t believe in voodoo, it would be cool if you just ignored my a-holeness this time.  Thanks.”

When I was 17  my cousin pushed me into the room and shut the door on me.  For those few seconds my eyes darted from the altar to the fruit offerings to the candles to the caramels to the statues to the half-smoked cigars to the lottery tickets to my grandpa’s sandals to the door knob.  I was so freaked out that the room started to spin, and I got a little dizzy. Luckily, Wuelita saved me.  I don’t believe in voodoo, but that experience was very traumatic.

Flash forward to a few days ago when I spotted two crows in a tree in my backyard.  There was some sort of crow fight going on because they were squawking back and forth at each other.  It was  amusing, until they started to brawl.  The squawking turned into high-pitched squeaks.  Feathers started to fly.  It got so intense that I got a little nervous, and put my dog in the house.  Then, complete silence.  It was then I witnessed a dead, limp, black crow fall from the tree.  It hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.  A rain of black feathers followed. Then, the other lifeless crow came crashing down!  *pees pants, just a little*

I’m not very superstitious, but two dead crows falling out of the sky into your backyard can’t be a good sign.  Also, I don’t believe in voodoo, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to need some homemade rum, a couple of candles, a pack of Marlboro Lights, some apples, a banana, a Barbie, two lottery tickets, and a Snickers to get rid of this bad joo-joo.

April Fools Day A-hole?

4 Apr

I really, really enjoy April Fool’s Day.  Growing up, my Wuelita (read about her here and here) would call me, and in her most serious sounding voice, would tell me that either someone had died:

Joo reemembair my fren, Mrs. Ruiz?  Well….she drown in dee bath eating a sanwish.


or she was in the hospital:

Sweedy?  Is joo Wuelita.  *cough, cough*  I no feel so goo. I am going to die.


 As you can see, she’s hilariously inappropriate.  I love it. 

I played a prank on my family a couple of years ago that I still get flack for. 

I set my alarm clock for 2:37 a.m on April Fools Day Eve.  It went off only once.  I got up, and started yelling that there was a fire in the house, and that I had called 911.  I ran into my Son’s room, turned on the light, threw a shirt at him and screamed at him to get the dog and get out.  Hubby shot out of bed, and ushered everyone outside into the cold dark morning.  So, there we were, standing outside (I’m the only one in a jacket) when I yelled “April Fools!” 

My son rolled his eyes and mumbled “What’s wrong with you?” as he dragged himself back up the stairs.  Hubby stood there staring at me trying to process what had happened.  He silently handed me the dog’s leash, shook his head, and went back bed, but not before giving our bedroom door a good slam.

I. Was. Dying.  I couldn’t help it.  I was Queen of April Fools Day.  It was the best prank ever.

All Hail the Mother F-in Queen

I got a call from my mom (Son had tattled)  a few hours later wherein she  proceeded to scold me.  Hubby didn’t talk to me all day.  All I got from him was a disapproving look and an occasional “What the hell is wrong with you?” look.  Although I giggled to myself all day whenever I thought about it, I had to admit that towards the end of the day I started to feel a little guilty.  I decided I needed to apologize.  I gathered my family in the living room and was just about to give my heartfelt (sort of) apology when the phone rang.  It was Wuelita.  I told her everything.  We died laughing.  She’s awesome. 

Some people say I took things a little too far.  But, to be honest,  every time I tell this story I laugh.  I try to be sorry, but I can’t.  What do you think?

Grandmother, What Big Eyes You….Is This A New Place?

2 Feb

I called my grandma Wuelita yesterday.  Here’s how it went:

Me:  Hi Wuelita.  How are you?

W:    I’m fiiine my sweedy  How are jo0?

Me:  I’m good.  There’s a blizzard coming and I was wondering if you needed anything.

W:     Noooo.  Gracias, my sweee har.  I no need no-ting.

Me:   Are you sure?  Do you have coffee?  Milk?  I’m going to the store anyway.

W:     No!  I no need no-ting.  Joo go home.  Don drrrrive.

Me:   Ok, if you’re sure you don’t need anything.  I tried calling you a couple of times this weekend, but you didn’t answer.  Did you go somewhere?

W:     Jes. I go to shursh, da store, and den I mooove.

Me:   What?!  You moved?

W:      Well, jes.  I mooove.  I get bedder aparmen don dee ‘all.

Me:  Wuelita, how did you get all of your stuff down the hall to your new apartment?  Why didn’t you call?!

W:    Well, I know joo bizzy with da schoool and dee wor, and I don wanna bodder jooo.  My frrrrend an hair sones ‘elp me.

Me:  I wish you would have called!  Well, at least you’re happy.  I can’t wait to see your new place.

W:    Oh, jes.  I like eet.   Joo comb see eet when joo brrrrring my co-fee an meelk.

I love her.