My Papi Needs a Little Miami

by Patti

There's no denying it: In his former life, M swung from the vines in a jungle in the Amazon. I have mentioned before how tropical that man is; how much he hates the cold and needs, but NEEDS, to feel the sun on his skin. And not just any sun, no; it has to be that fierce, tropical sun that calls for linen Cabana Boy shirts and a little salsa and merengue in the background. So, naturally, we live in Chicago, where your nose hairs freeze into tiny crystals of ice every time you dare take a breath for 6 months of out every year, and the only background music is "FUCK, it's FREEZING out der, youz guyz!"

This means that M? Is a Winter Monster. The minute October hits, he starts getting "irritated". By December and its wistful 4:00 pm darkness, he is full-on psychotic. By February, he is catatonic with misery, robotically shoveling snow and then returning to the comfort of the couch to wait for the sun... someday. Around late May, although there is still a chill in the air, he starts to shed the Winter Monster and the life begins to return to his eyes. The motorcycle might even get dusted off for a few afternoon spins around the city, and suddenly, the lake is sparkling and there are thousands of "released-from-prison" joggers along the bike path, and the scowl on his face might even be replaced from time-to-time with a genuine smile.

But here's the thing: I am the one who has to live with this Winter Monster. M is so unbearably miserable the whole winter long, I am tempted to grab the shovel out of his hands and conk him over the head to put him out of his misery. Alright, let's be honest: I am tempted to conk him over the head and put MYSELF out of MY misery.

Sadly, I know the cure: My papi? Needs a little Miami. "What do you mean, 'sadly'?" you may be asking. "What is wrong with Miami?" Well, technically, there's nothing wrong with Miami. It has beaches and good food and it's always warm,and I like visiting there.  But M, being the surpreme latino that he is, thinks Miami is the perfect alternative to Argentina and doesn't want to just visit there; he wants to LIVE there. "We're still in the U.S.! They speak Spanish!" he tries to convince me. But Miami has pink houses and flying bugs the sizes of Volkswagens and hurricanes and, well, it's Florida. I'm sorry, but there is no reason to go to Florida other than to die. Plus! A humid Christmas? No more turtlenecks? No more buttery leather boots? I cannot live in flip flops alone. I need cute patterned tights and skinny vanilla lattes and the smell of autumn. Real autumn, not the manufactured kind.

At the same time, I need M to not be miserable. So I guess when the sun disappears and the snow starts to fly, my papi's gonna have to get himself a little Miami. And then he better come home and get himself a little mami.