Canicu-LI-canicu-LA!
Could it be any hotter?

By Woncha Telmé Moore

Canicu-LI-canicu-LA! Could it be any hotter? Manitas y manitos, this summer bochorno is killing me -- too hot to dress for high tea. Wouldn't it be nice if some of this city's kaffe klatsches could be attended in bata y chancla?
And speaking of chanclas, (and this is worse in summer months) don't you just want to go up to one of those chancleras in the super mercado and tell them, "Pick up your feet!" Of course, they won't hear you because they are popping their chicle or threatening their baby fit-throwers with strangely articulated and bizarre threats of punishment. So much is implied in the sound of the fall of a chancla on a grocery store floor.
My comadre atrevida in the Escalade always pushes the envelope with the togs she gets away with wearing on a quick trip to the corner Gro. Her kids or the housekeeper get out for the gallon of milk and she is, well, basically dressed by cover of the SUV. If she's ever pulled over for not wearing her seat belt, which I think she does to tempt fate, it will be revealed that she is wearing little else. It will be an eyeful for the cops and for passersby.
This relationship between our new age comadre and her physician had lots of sentimental valium. We heard he lost patience with his patient.
My comadrita Chencha has gotten so hard of hearing that we in the Tuesday barajas and merienda group have had to resort to a little bit of shouting so that she can understand what we are talking about. Our enlightened friend who plays the market and makes a little money at it was describing stock spirals and the domino effect of bad news on the market. Chencha heard "abdominal effect" and started talking about gas and things we believed we would rather not discuss over merienda.
And speaking of gas, it seems that booty is in the eye of the beholder, and that's all I can say about this sudden wedding. He's a bit young, and really quite arrogant, to agree to this paquete without some kind of fiduciary incentives. When you see them together, however, skepticism takes a hike because they seem really happy.
The birthday cake looked like a stand of nopal after the chamuscadora hit it. It's not fun anymore, is it, being well past middle age? But the comadre is still getting those nips and pulls done on surreptitious little disappearances to another city not her own. Then she hides out until the cocos disappear.
They are tired. She is wired. This guest never knows how late it is and tends to shut down the party even when the hosts and hostesses have clearly wearied of the chit-chat and have cleared the table twice.
Why does she do this? Why can't she just go with the flow and not comment on every little deviance of human behavior? Who died and gave her the power to pass judgement and be so righteous?
The excuse of getting stuck in the mud may have passed spousal muster, but this buster got home late without any mud on the SUV or his boots.
He's a lion in the courtroom, but in the barroom this one's like a lost whelp. He really needs to get home but doesn't think he has a place there anymore. It's so sad when in your personal life you haven't figured out how to back down.
It all went so fast, she nearly had whiplash and other consequences far more serious. The surreal, unsustainable intensity of the perfect love-you/love-you-not firestorm proved to be quite destructive, something akin to machete blows to the heart. And in the end, the lesson was what it always is in love: If it's too good to be true, that is probably just the case. She vows never to undertake love's lost cause without resumé and background check, as well as scrutiny for vices, propensities for lies and overstatements, a list of all meds, and mental health.