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Do go to the pubs near the university. If you would like to meet some trendies in Costa Rica, you should totally go to bars near the university there. You will see many fashionable ladies in those bars on Friday night and Saturday night. They are young, intelligent and fun. Do have fun with ticas. Yes, that’s right. Costa Rican ladies know how to have fun – they are playful, sexy, flirtatious and fun. A Costa Rican woman’s killer smile can make your heart melt immediately. Your trip to Costa Rica becomes better because of the fun you have with ticas.
Before you leave for Costa Rica, you may want to read this article first so that your experiences in Costa Rica will be more enjoyable.
Don’t go to massage parlours in Costa Rica and expect to have a massage. In fact, massage parlours in Costa Rica are brothels. You only go to a massage parlour if you want to pay for sex. Otherwise, totally avoid that. Don’t assume girls like you simply because they are flirting with you. In Costa Rica, women are used to flirting, laughing and having fun . Therefore, the fact that they are laughing at your jokes and being flirtatious doesn’t mean they are romantically interested in you. It’s just what they do on a daily basis (like a habit). Yet in Western countries like the United Kingdom or the United States, women don’t flirt that often, but you will be surrounded by playful energy in Costa Rica. Don’t show off your Western status. In Costa Rica, people have seen enough Westerners every single day, so being Western isn’t really a big deal in Costa Rica . Therefore, you shouldn’t tell every woman you meet that you are from a Western developed country to demonstrate your high value. Also, speaking English doesn’t make you look better either, because realistically, nobody cares. People in Costa Rica may even expect you to speak Spanish with them. Don’t assume Costa Rica girls are all easy. Although ladies in Costa Rica are good at flirting and many of them are professional and semi-professional prostitutes, it doesn’t mean they are all easy. In fact, you can find good women in every country, as long as you look for them! There are many beautiful, well-educated and intelligent women in Costa Rica , too. Don’t assume a developing country only has traditional people. It’s normal for us to associate a developing country with people who obey traditional rules . But this is actually a generalisation. As a matter of fact, Costa Rica is very liberal and people in Costa Rica are very open-minded and Westernised. Hence, Costa Rica beauties are probably even more open-minded and adventurous than you! Don’t assume all women you meet in Costa Rica are ticas. In fact, many women in Costa Rica are foreigners – they are tourists, real estate agents, etc. So you will actually meet women from other countries in Costa Rica easily. I have friends who even dated Asian girls in Costa Rica.
The Sex Trade, Part III: Where They Love Americans…For a Living.
Costa Rica is fast becoming a top sex-tourism destination where prostitution is not only legal, it’s embraced.
There’s an expat in a bar called the Blue Marlin, which is on the ground floor of a pink hotel in downtown San José, Costa Rica. He used to be a detective, did a bit of vice, enough to know how the world works, how people think. It’s late, and he’s drinking gin.
“These girls,“ he says, waving his glass at the chicas . The place is packed with chicas . “They average out at, what? An eight and a half ? Nine?“
He’s partial to Latin women. Make it seven.
“Okay, seven. But, c’mon, a lot of them are beautiful.“
Conceded, assuming your taste runs to python-tight clothing. And, you know, prostitutes.
“Now look at the guys.“ Another sweep with the glass. Almost every man in the place is a gringo. “Guys like them, to get a girl like one of these in the States, they’ve gotta have three things. They’ve gotta have a good job. They’ve gotta have a lot of money. And they’ve gotta be a nice guy.“
The expat takes a drink, studies the gringos again. “All these guys,“ he says, “they’ve probably got one of those things. They might even have two of those things. But I guarantee you, none of them have all three.“
When you’re not drunk and the place is almost empty, this is what it looks like: There are tables just inside the door to the right, three rows of them between the windows fronting the street and the wooden rail that keeps people from tumbling off the raised platform that holds the main bar, which is huge, two peninsulas poking out in the shape of an upside-down U. There are TVs bolted to the walls and tuned to sports channels, because this is ostensibly a sports bar, and there are fish—stuffed fish, carved fish, and sculpted fish—mounted above the liquor shelves and dangling from the ceiling, because the “World Famous“ Blue Marlin is also ostensibly a fisherman’s bar, even though it’s hours away from any place where you might actually catch a fish. Also, it’s a gringo joint: There’s a crinkled American flag, like the ones newspapers printed after September 11, taped to one wall, and dozens of shoulder patches, left behind by American cops and firemen, tacked up behind the bar—San Francisco, Chicago, Detroit, New York City, Boynton Beach, Waynesboro, a hundred other little towns you’ve never heard of. Eleven o’clock on a Monday morning during the Costa Rican rainy season and it’s all white boys at the bar, eight of them, except for one wobbly local named Fernando that the security guys keep trying to pour out the door.
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I have no idea why I said Oak Ridge Boys. I’m pretty sure they’re not sexy. Unless you’re name is Mildred and you’re, like, 80. Sometimes I type things before I even know what I’m saying. I’m not normal, you guys. At all.
So to all my new people, you’ve obviously got some issues if you’re into this kinda thing, but people with issues are my kinda people. And just an FYI: If you subscribed to my blog through Feedburner, it sometimes sucks balls. It will send you a confirmation email and if you don’t get it, check your bulk mail or spam or whatever you have. You have to click on a link in that before you start getting my stuff in your inbox. If nothing works, email me and we’ll figure it out. Or just consider it a sign from The Universe that you should stay away from me. Whatever.
And since I’ve suddenly got the attention of so many awesome people, I’d like to tell you all to read my friend Laura’s blog, Fetch My Flying Monkeys. She is hilarious and I kinda want to marry her just a little bit. As soon as it’s legal here. So go check her out. I’m totally paying it forward like that kid who saw dead people in that one movie did in that other movie with the guy who was Keyser Soze and the chick who was the girl who Tom Hanks was supposed to marry in Castaway before he went and got all castawayed and fell in love with a ball and she married some other guy and broke his heart.
That’s hows I roll.
Somehow This Post Turned Into Lots of Talk About Poop. I Wish I Could Say I Was Sorry.
My uterus hurts. And for those of you (like Cathy and Lisa) who think that I seem to have PMS a lot, you’re right. I do. In case you didn’t pay attention the first one million times I said it, my body is a f@cktastrophe of epic proportion. It should not surprise you at at all to learn that I am not normal. Not even close. Unlike most of you “normal” people, I DO have PMS a lot. Every 2 1/2-3 weeks. And that fact should make you all realize what an amazing man my Hub really is. Also during PMS, I gain approximately 10 pounds. Yes. Every 2 1/2-3 weeks. Then when the red dragon comes a callin’, POOF! The 10 pounds is gone. Oh, and then T.R.D. only hangs around for one day. So that kinda makes up for the rest of the mayhem.
And some of you (or all of you) might think that this is TMI, but in my world there’s really no such thing.
For example, my Facebook status yesterday was “Dear Uterus, You and your Menstrual cramps suck ass. I would totally wanna come back as a dude in my next life if only it wasn’t for those damn balls. Periods are hell, but walking around with those things dangling between my legs sounds worse. If Evolution can make fish walk the land, can’t it do something about Aunt Flo and nut sacks?”
For those of you who have yet to friend me on Facebook: You are really missing out. Which is probably a good thing.
And last week my friend and I had a lengthy phone conversation about nose picking. Pros and cons. Various techniques. Possible injuries that could occur. Etc…
And yesterday, at The Boy’s soccer tournament, the ref kept calling Handballs, and I wondered aloud, “I wonder how that works if the kid has no hands. If he touches the ball with his stumps, does the ref still call Handball? Is there a call for Stumpball? Or can that kid smack the ball around with his stumps all he wants?” And someone said something along the lines of “I can’t believe she said that” or something.
And about 99% of conversations between me and my friend Stephanie are about pooping. And bloating. And vaginas. But mostly pooping.
And just today, me and someone who is definitely not my little sister, had an in-depth conversation about how one could possibly survive for 3 full days on a houseboat with a bunch of other people and not poop, due to not only the close quarters and embarrassment factor, but also the fact that the toilet is prone to clog. My suggestions included, but were not limited to: Putting on a Depends just for poops, then tucking it into the bottom of a trashcan. Getting a colon cleanse a day before the trip then eating very lightly while on the boat. Taking a Folgers can in your suitcase to poop in. Training yourself to poop those little nugget poops, then every time you go in the bathroom to pee, you just drop an inconspicuous nugget, and by days end, you’re good to go.
I am pretty much a poop genius.
I really don’t find any subject off limits. Much to The Hub’s dismay.
The man really does put up with a lot.
But so do I. (See graph post from last week for proof)
Wow. This blog really went astray. I can’t even remember what I sat down to write about in the first place. But this was not it.
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Category Archives: dating.
Last night: A bachelorette party and adventures with men.
My brother drops me off at the apartment of the cousin of bride-to-be at 2:30 pm on the dot. It is on Armitage, not far from where I used to live in Logan Square. I like being back in the neighborhood. The feeling of familiarity is nice. The building is nice, too. It’s the kind with a buzzer and intercom and elevator, which is unusual for the area.
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It is no wonder that Maryan takes pride in her family and its historical accomplishments. Although social inequities have limited the potential achievements of many, other Somali families also possess an equally rich family history and a highly developed sense of identity and pride. Somali families often see themselves as a sort of grande familleor even dynasty, like the Kennedy or Bush families in the United States. In Maryan’s case, such a view has some historical merit.
Maryan was born in one of the large stone houses in Hamarweyne, the historical heart of Mogadishu, then the capital of Italian Somaliland. The neighborhood was inhabited by the original city population, the Reer Hamar, with their own language and cultural habits, as well as a sprinkling of other Somalis, Indians, Arabs, and Italians. Initially, the house had been an upscale prison for Maryan’s paternal grandfather, the boqor of Baargaal, who, after his defeat by the Italians in about 1927, was exiled to Mogadishu. Maryan’s father was a small boy at the time. One day when he was near the coast having a horseback-riding lesson, an Italian ship showed up to take his father away. Although the ship’s captain had orders not to let anyone accompany the boqor, the little boy refused to let go of his father’s hand and was allowed on board. With only a warm shawl handed to him at the last minute by one of his uncles, the boy went into exile with his father. During the twilight years of Italian rule in Somalia in the 1950s, Maryan recalls, her father, encouraged by a local lawyer, petitioned for ownership of the house.
Maryan’s early memories of life in this big house are very happy, at least up to the premature death of her mother, Faduumo-Jawaahir, or Jawaahir for short, in 1952 when she was thirteen or fourteen years old. While her father was very private, her mother, whose grandfather had been sultan of Hoobyo, was very outgoing and social. Maryan’s mother not only tried hard to fit into the culture of Hamarweyne but also hosted friends and relatives from other neighborhoods and was friendly with Italian women, from whom she learned some Italian, needlework, and even some fashions new to Somalia, such as the brassiere. Jawaahir initially had trouble bringing her pregnancies to term. Since the Italian hospitals were closed to Somalis, an Italian nun and friend of her father found an Italian midwife, fondly called Haaja Faay by Somalis.The midwife’s guidance proved successful. Thus Maryan’s own safe birth came to pass, a product of cross-cultural collaboration between women.
The house consisted of two large apartments, each of five and seven rooms with an upstairs and downstairs. Apart from Maryan and her three siblings, it housed thirteen young boys, first cousins from northeast Somalia, who lived with them so that they could go to school. Female relatives also visited for extended periods, especially young wives who came to the city to check on long-absent husbands and often found in the tall house in Hamarweyne an opportunity to reconcile. Jawaahir loved to help other women. She also had many friends and relatives in the nearby neighborhood of Iskuraran. Since women were allowed out only under the veil of darkness, they would come on foot at night to visit in groups of as many as ten or fifteen. They ate fritters at Maryan’s house, filling the women’s quarters with lively talk and laughter.
But the most dramatic visits were those from her father’s seafaring brothers and cousins from Bari, that is to say, the northeast, who would stop off at Mogadishu on their way to and from Aden, Zanzibar, and other places.
They turned the house on its head with their informality and loud joviality and teasing, their gifts to the children and their mother, and their can-do attitude. They made themselves at home anywhere in the house and mixed easily with its permanent residents. Maryan remembers how they rose before most other people in the house and the neighborhood, and how, after praying at the local mosque, they used to read the Qur’an out loud. If their cargo were of use to the household, they would bring some of it home. These uncles from Bari knew how to tease their little city niece, whose looks and manners were so different from the girls of the countryside. There a girl initially had her head shaved except for a little tuft ( food). Once she became eight years old or so, she would let her hair grow out and plait it into small braids, whose length would be an easily recognizable indication of her age. However, Maryan had a full head of long hair, as was the custom among the Reer Hamar, earning her the nickname of tuurkuhalesh, “the long-haired girl.” Another aspect of her city ways was that she wore long dresses with petticoats of a different length.
If anyone failed to meet their expectations, the visiting uncles would compose mocking verses, so that Maryan would do her small errands for them as carefully as she could, just to avoid being immortalized in verse! However, at times she disappointed them: “Maryan, how many uncles do you have?” Maryan could think of only two relatives of her father living in their neighborhood. In reality, she had eight. “And how many aunts?” Maryan could think of only one, even though she had four. Indignation! “These Benadir folk are really not with it! Let’s take her to Bari!” About this time her parents began to teach her the names of other uncles and aunts who did not live in Mogadishu. Of course, little Maryan learned her parents’ northeastern dialect of Somali well. However, even today, she still has a special love for and is most fluent in the old city language (or so her children claim).