Since arriving in Guadalajara, I have been told, by several admirers, that I am “tipo Anyyyyelina Yoly,” which, translated by Chelsea Handler, means Category 5 whore.
When I hear men (uncles), with dry, twinkling eyes, compare me to Anyyyyelina, I don’t hear, “You are beautiful.”
I hear, “Illustrated brunette, you seem adventurous. Would you care for some seed?”
Tipo Anyyyyelina Yoly is, after all, only a stretch mark away from…
What can I do to make these poor Mexican’ts understand that I’m happy being a womb raider?
What can I do to get them to stop wooing me with potable water?
One thing I can do is put on my gay uniform.
However, even this is slightly ineffective considering that Mary! is a graggot (gringo faggot) expression.
Between my grandmother’s prolonged death, the effects of my uncle’s prostate cancer treatment on his stool, my other uncle whining that whenever a woman leaves him, she takes another washing machine, my grandfather’s ghost’s need for constant attention, and all the Anyyyyelinaing, Dad and I felt overwhelmed. We excused ourselves from the family drama and went for a father-daughter walk.
In my uniform, I scuttled alongside my maker, to the corner.
We climbed aboard the church/bus.
I fretted. Didn’t Frida Kahlo lose her virginity to a Mexican bus?
Luckily, my maidenhead remained intact and deboarded in el Centro Historico (for those ignorant of cognates, the Historical Center).
Now, here at Lesbrain, our complaint department has been flooded with mongolingual whiners bitching that I SPEAK ENGRISH! In the interest of pacifying these unenlightened, I will, heretofore, translate everything I write in Spanish and begin with a retroactive explanation of lotería, since yesterday’s post was dedicated to a new variation of the game.
Lotería is a life form, a game of chance. It’s bingo for beaners. One does, actually, play lotería with beans.
This is an old timey lotería set that I found in El Mercado de San Juan de Dios, the Market of Saint John of God, the largest indoor market in Latin America, which we power walked to from the church/bus stop.
Players play lotería by picking tablas, or boards, and listening as a cantor, not Jewish, plucks a randomly selected card from a corresponding deck and reads its name. Some cantors choose to tell a riddle in lieu of the image’s name, and in this case, players must be intimate enough with the deck, or witty enough, to deduce the picture to which picture—the lady? the boot? the drunk?—the verbal clue corresponds.
Whoever covers their entire board with beans first wins.
It is best to use dry beans.
Unlike swingers, (they are notorious homophobes), lotería is flexible. The game can be adapted to any theme. Here are some variations I encountered at the toy stalls of San Juan de Dios.
Bachelorette Party Lotería
Remedial Math Lotería
Mexican Geography Lotería
The variation I proposed yesterday, Lotería Lesbolas, derives its name from a neologism: les, which is French for lez, plus bolas, Spanish for balls.
An interesting aside, the phrase hacerse bolas, literally, “to make oneself balls,” is a Mexican figure of speech meaning “to confuse oneself.”
Marching the cobblestones of el Centro in my Nikes, I encountered many Mexican moments which I am adding to yesterday’s batch of sixteen Lotería Lesbolas cards. Please, grab a sharp pair of scissors and do it to these fresh offerings.
SCISSOR ME! COLLECT ALL 16!
Más (more) to come.