Brazilian Torture by Beth Martins

This is a guest blog by my friend Beth as written by her.

Heaven knows that I am one of the least qualified people to make political commentary.   However, of one thing I am quite sure is that if a woman had been solely in charge of writing the United Nations Convention Against Torture, there would not have been any need for debating over the use of controversial torture techniques.  We women would simply go with the old standbys that we have been putting ourselves through for years – leg waxing, depilatories, laser treatments, Botox, threading, etc.  The amount of beautifying torments we ladies put ourselves through is endless, and now that I am living in Brazil, I have another one to add to the list – the manicure.  Surprised?  I bet, but let me explain...

It all starts out like you would expect.  You walk in, choose your nail color and a good gossip magazine, and take a seat in a very comfy chair.  That is where the similarities end.  The first sign that things are going to be different with this manicure is that the manicurist starts removing your polish with pure acetone.  Yes, the same stuff we all gave up using in the early 1980s because of the scary side effects we were warned about with inhalation and absorption and many other things that I cannot remember.  Not to mention the fact that it stings like the devil.  Anyway, that truly becomes the least of your worries, once she starts with the cuticles.  (By the way, there does seem to be a national obsession with cuticle removal.  My son even came home from school the other day telling me that I needed to trim his.  But I digress...)

This is the part they pay extra close attention to here in Brazil.  The manicurist proceeds to take a razor-sharp set of cuticle trimmers and begins to painstakingly trim away those excess pieces of dead flesh that plague your nails after going for two whole weeks with no  professional attention.  She will not move on to the next finger until the one she is currently working on has had every last trace of skin removed.  Your poor finger is pink to the point of bleeding and looks smoother than a newborn’s butt by the time she is done with it.  And the nail bed has been dug in so deeply that you have a sneaking suspicion the manicurist might be digging for gold rather than trimming out dead skin.  And if you start to pull your hand away in an act of self-preservation, she just gives you a snide grin and tells you how tense you are and that you really must loosen up and relax. 

Relax – OK – did I mention that this is simultaneously going on with your toes?  The only good thing is that the pain from your hands is sporadically diverted by the pain from your feet.  They double team you so you are unable to react quickly with defensive maneuvers.  Obviously, they have thoroughly studied manicure torture techniques.  And when you start to bleed (notice I say “when”, and not “if”), they pull out a small jar of powder that instantly stops the blood so that they can continue on with their dead-skin vendetta.  Last time I went, the manicurist actually struck blood three times, and instead of apologizing profusely, as I would expect, she just looked at me and said, “Wow. You’re very sensitive, aren’t you?”  Right. 

When she finally finishes with the sharp metal cuticle clippers, it is finally time for some nice, soothing lotion.  Finally you can enjoy this manicure, right?  Wrong.  Out comes the acetone again, which removes the lotion from your nails and your throbbing (but incredibly smooth) cuticles to prepare for the polish. 

The polishing stage is also quite different from what I am accustomed.  Brazilians like to slather the nail polish all over the place – even getting some on the nails once in a while.  Then comes what I like to consider “Stage 2” of the Brazilian manicure torture.  The manicurist then produces a sharp, pointy little stick – made out of wood if you are lucky; metal if she is particularly sadistic.  And what is this stick for?  It’s to jam down into your freshly trimmed and very tender nail beds and dig out the nail polish that they have slapped on everywhere.  I am almost sure that the goal is to see if they can actually get the nail color to enter into your blood stream.  This continues on for two coats of color and a coat of clear.  Yes, they jam the stick on every nail, after every coat – three vicious times per nail.  At this point sweat beads are forming on your forehead as you try and prepare yourself for any impending agony-filled procedures.

As a final rite of passage, the last stage of the manicure consists of the manicurist taking that same stick and covering it with cotton, and – oh, yes – more acetone, in order to get off all the polish she has carelessly strewn across your nails and nail beds.  This is a touchy time.  Better not to breathe or make any sudden movements, because if she accidentally touches the freshly polished nail with the stick, out comes the acetone and it is back to Stage 2 for you. 

After my first Brazilian manicure, I walked out of the salon feeling like I had entered some parallel universe, swearing that if I could only get out of there with all of my appendages that I would never be back.  My hands and feet throbbed for the first two days after the “treatment” and every time I went to wash my hands in hot water my nail beds would swell up and turn beet red.  Unfortunately, in this case, as in the case of all the feminine torture treatments and, for that matter, international politics, the end justifies the means.  At the end of the day, Brazilians do the longest lasting and best manicures I’ve ever had done.  I’m a convert.

Shaking hands with Don Shelby is not appropiate behavior in public.... I'm just sayin

Brazil is a very open culture. There are boobs and butts shown on TV. The ads in magazines and billboards are eye-catching to say the least. There are Playboys, and worse, sold at the checkout counters in the grocery stores. And as I have said in the past, the bathing suits here are small. This is normal. I am okay with most of it. My boys are probably okay with all of it. It is good in a way though. Brazilians are very comfortable with their bodies, no matter the shape or size, and they are comfortable with expressing themselves. I am still learning.

The daily life of a Brazilian is very, lets say interpersonal. The average Brazilian probably gives and receives over 100 kisses in a day. Not to mention the hugs and simple touches. This is okay with me, up to a point. Since I have been married into the Latin culture for some time, bussing cheeks is normal. But, I am still a puritanical, "my personal space" American in some respects. I have a problem with being crowded in line at the store. I have issues when I am trying to find things in Wal-Mart and another person is almost on top of me trying to get something off the shelf. Just because they are 2 feet away does not mean anything. They are still too close. And I still have a hard time when I first meet someone to give them a kiss on the cheek. Handshakes are fine for me. But a kiss is more personal. Now if I met them before no problem. Apparently, I gave a kiss on the cheek to an Exec at my husband's company who I thought I met before, but I didn't and I freaked him out. My husband got a good laugh at that one. My youngest son is learning about kissing. The girls at school call him cute, pinch his cheeks, and give him a kiss. He is enjoying this attention. Who wouldn't right? Well he is 9, so I think I need to reintroduce him to the definition of personal space.

I also have issues with public displays of affection. Holding hands, no problem, light kisses no problem. But extreme PDA is still a little much for me. For example, today I went to Starbucks for a very delicious Chocolate Cappuccino. I happen to glance up into the balcony of the store when I see two, I hope, teenagers making out. Not kissing. No this was the backseat of a Pontiac kissing session. And this is not the first place I have seen this. We have been standing in line at the movie theater candy stand and old people, like in their 50s, were playing tonsil tennis. We have been in restaurants, in bars, in the park. You name it. I am guessing it is a culture thing? In the States you would probably be charged with exhibitionism or lewd and lascivious behavior. I am glad my boys were not with me today. All I need is for them to get ideas, or tips, and take them back to the States with us.

Maybe I should keep this. Then when they are dating age, or younger in the case of my youngest, print it out and give it to the parents of the girls in their classes. That would ensure they do not date till college right?

I Want Candy!

With a title like that you have to sing the song! That is exactly what I did today when I found a treasure trove. My friend wanted to check out a tiny supermarket around the corner from our apartments. So I tagged along. And boy, I am glad I did!

In a country that loves salt on everything, you cannot get pretzels. No I am serious! The only bags we have found so far are snack size that we can get a Wal-Mart. But today? I found Snyder's Pretzel Sticks! And Mini Pretzels! And coated ones like an inside out Combo! YUMMO! You are probably thinking pretzels? So what? Ha-ha, it is a so what! I do not eat chips and my junk food is pretzels. Now you are probably thinking, you don't eat chips? What's the matter with you? Well plenty, but I don't have enough room to list them here. However, I can down a one pound bag of Rold Gold in no time flat. The best is if you dip the pretzel in red Kool-Aid, but I don't have that either. But now, at least, I have pretzels. And you can't have any! They're mine, all mine! So mitts off!

The second favorite thing in this country is sugar. Can you understand why I like living here? The chocolate is very delicious. But every once in a while you want a good, down home, American candy bar. Well you can buy a few here, Snickers, Twix, M&Ms. But if you want a bar it will cost ya. Try $3.50 US dollars for a bag of M&Ms. Now you are probably thinking, What? Are you crazy? You don't buy any do you? Well, usually no. If I am in need of a chocolate fix I actually by a $6.00 big brick bar of Hershey's Extra Creamy Milk Chocolate, but that is only when a girl really NEEDS her chocolate.

But today, at this little tiny grocery store around the corner from my apartment, I found Reese Cups and Reese Sticks and Skittles. Can I tell you how my eyes bugged out when I saw them? Reese Cups? You stuck your chocolate in my peanut butter! NO, you stuck your peanut butter in my chocolate! Yes, I'm in heaven. I'm in heaven. (Yes you can sing that song too). It has been so long since I had a Reese Cup. I savored them. No I did not buy any for my boys. And no I am not mean. I got them the Skittles and the Reese Sticks. I unwrapped one cup and ate the chocolate around the edges and then let the circle that was left melt in my mouth. Yes, this is how I eat all Reese Cups. You should try it. I highly recommend it. We were heading out to the car while I was eating the second one when the bag boy asked if I wanted to put my meager bags in the cart too (pretzels and candy do not take up a lot of room). But they were around my arm and I would have had to eat my chocolate faster if I was to do that. I let the boy know this and he laughed. I truly do not think he comprehends the bliss one feels when savoring their chocolate. So for a tip I gave him a snack sized Twix bar. He seemed happy with that.

Yes, today I bought candy bars and bags for US$3.50 each. And yes, I spent US$7.00 on a bag of pretzels. But today I am really happy. I think that out weighs the cost. Of course next week I will have to get on the bike and exercise it off, but I will cross that bridge then.

In the immortal words of Jimmy Buffett

As I sit here this morning eating breakfast, I cannot help but think of Jimmy Buffett. He has a song titled "The Last Mango in Paris." No I am not eating the last mango in my house. I am eating the last Cheerio in Sao Paulo.

My in-laws, bless them, brought four big boxes of Cheerios when they came to visit in March. Let me tell you. It is not easy carrying Cheerios in a suitcase. The boxes take up a lot of room and get dented during transport. Nothing happens to the Cheerios, though I would eat the ground powder anyway if that was all I had. And every ex-pat I know either has someone bring a box or two this way, or they bring it themselves. Why is this necessary? Well, Brazil is not a cereal market. If they eat breakfast, it is breads and things. Or if "someone" makes them breakfast, it is a fully cooked meal. Which is why many people here have muffin top or spare tire issues.

You should see the cereal aisle here. There are maybe 10 total kinds, 3 are corn flakes, 2 are frosted flakes, 2 are bran type flakes or twigs, and the rest vary for kids cereals - Froot Loops, a Cocoa Puff type, and a honey O that is NOT, and I repeat NOT a Cheerio. It is not a whole lot to choose from. So when I got the boxes, oh and they brought Lucky Charms for the boys, which were gone in a week let me tell you. I think they even licked the plastics bag inside to get all of the crumbs. Okay, so when I got my boxes I horded them. Can't have cereal everyday if I wanted them to last. Well except for the first day or two. I had cereal for breakfast and lunch. And each time a box emptied, I cringed. My bowls got smaller, I ate slower to savor the taste, I put less milk in it so I wouldn't eat them faster because they now would not get soggy as fast. You name it, I stretched it out. Then the other day, I forgot to get bread for my family. Yes, they are Latin. They love bread! I buy French rolls everyday; they butter them, then put them in a sandwich press to have pao de chapa (ironed toast). Yes it is good, but not for me. My toast has to have jam, which is not for them so I can buy whatever flavor I like. Back to the story. I forgot to buy bread. This was part of a deal with my husband. I cannot skimp or not buy bread and he cannot comment on how many shoes I buy. It is a good deal. Especially in a land of very nice leather goods. But one day, I forgot. Bad mommy - no shoes for you! So the boys found something else, and I offered Ricardo my Cheerios. Yes. I did. Now he has eaten some before, but out of all of the boxes, maybe 1/2 of one total box. It hurt me badly to have to offer them to him. There was not much left. And now. None.

It is a sad day in Sao Paulo. I think is should be a day of mourning. Maybe I will crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head and listen to Jimmy Buffett. I can replace his lyrics with "the last Cheerio in Sao Paulo." I don't think he will mind, especially if he likes cereal.

Going Coconuts...

Is not just the title of my favorite Donnie & Marie album while growing up. It was also a good movie, by the way. I highly recommend it.

My son recently has been called weird. This bothers us, and we have tried to reassure him that he is just fine. Yes, he is weird, but everybody is weird. We have told him this. Plus the coconut doesn't fall far from the tree, if you know what I mean. My other son asked, "Well if we are weird, is God weird?" Good question. My comment, "Well if we are made is God's image, then maybe He is." I think he appreciated that because it made him laugh. But my comment to my oldest was, "What fun is it to be normal? It is more interesting being weird. Plus, you come from a long line of weird people. There is no helping it." For example, I have an ancestor who died in Cuba. He was in the Spanish American War. No this does not make him weird. What makes him weird, the story goes (I got this from some distant relative), is that he died by falling out of a coconut tree. See? You are much more interesting if you are weird (and alive).

I think we were made to live in Brazil for a while. How do I come to that decision based on weirdness and coconuts?Well apparently, over the last 15 years the city has flooded more and more often, especially during the rainy season. It isn't raining any more than usual. The city has drainage. No. I have been told that what is causing the city to flood more often is coconuts. What? Yes. See, here you can get a coconut on practically any street corner. (My relatives are obviously not picking them since we cannot stay in a tree). They drill a hole in it, stick in a straw, and you drink from it. It is not expensive, and these coconut people are everywhere. But where do all the used coconuts go? Ah-ha! Yes, you got it. They go down the drain into the sewer system. Coconuts don't go anywhere, they don't degrade fast, no bugs eat the shells. So they sit there and block the water from draining faster. Plus there is now a hole in the coconut so it also fills with water. I don't think it floats then. And there you have it, a flooded city. How weird is that?!

See baby, you even live in a weird city. Is there another on this planet that can say it floods due to coconuts?