We're all rootin' for 'em

photo here

The dress was gorgeous - timeless. Elegant. Classy.
The veil to-die-for.
Loved the uniform tribute to lost comrades.
Loved Pippa's dress.
Loved the kisses - and the giggles.
Loved the millions cheering them on.

And Wills? If you ever cheat on her, I'll kill you.

In which I cross over

So, I've crossed it. The line. I officially have more posts on Pensievity than I do on The Misplaced Americans.

I've been watching the number creep up for some time. Thinking, "gee, when Pensievity passes The Misplaced Americans, I'll have to do some big superubercool post."

And ... I got nothin'.

Which really beautifully defines how I feel about the whole thing.

I've been brooding about doing a list of my 'best posts' for some time. But every time I look through my history, all my favorite ones are from Brazil.

Reading through my other blog, I laugh out loud quite frequently. I marvel at my cleverness. And I think - what happened to me? I think I left most of my wit and humor - and all of my cleverness - back home in Cabreuva.

(I was definitely skinnier too.)

I loved Brazil. It defined who I am. I still think about it all the time - and talk about it way more than is probably healthy. And - let's be frank - I still link to it on my sidebar. Is it time to take it down?

We spent five years down there. The majority of our marriage. (It'll be nine years this May.) The majority of our parenting was spent down there too. (It'll be seven years in June.) We met people and had experiences there that changed us forever.

So - when do you cross the line from wist - to whine? 

I have absolutely no contrition over moving here. I love Arizona. I have no regrets. It was the right thing to do. We are where we're supposed to be.

But - it's still shocking to me that we've been here almost two years, and we are now, according to blogland,




moving on.

An explanation

Christmas has a deadline this year. Everything has to be in readiness by this Wednesday.

You see, the NBC and I are going on a date.

To Brazil.

For this beautiful young lady's wedding: 

I was her Young Women leader. And I made a promise to her (and three other Laurels - who I was particularly close to) that I would do everything possible to make it to their weddings.

I'm keeping my promise.

Even though it makes me very busy and Bloggy-neglectful of late.

I will be back soon. And hopefully tan. And full of Brazilian cake. Toodles!

In which I make up a silly word for a deep, psychological characteristic

People are different.

I know. Shocker.

But let's rewind a little bit. Whrrrrrrrrrrr! *Play*

So I'm in Brazil. Visiting friends. Having the time of my life, if you remember. But for every high there is a low, for every up there is a down - I'm pretty sure The Sword in the Stone has a song about that.

See, for some of those friends, a few days wasn't enough. For some of those friends, a few hours of (what should have been) laughter and conversation was 95% complaining that I don't keep in touch well enough.

This, in a word, BIT.

This plunged me into at least fifteen minutes of complaining to My Man - until we came to that SHOCKING conclusion: people are different.

I have a very good friend, whom we'll call Jane, because that's not really her name. We've been friends a long, long time. Good friends. Best friends. In high school, Jane befriended another girl, Betsy, to whom she became quite close. I liked Betsy. I had no jealousy issues. I was glad to include another body in my circle.

But in college, Jane "dropped the acquaintance," as Jane Austen would say.

Betsy called. Left messages. Wrote emails. Sent letters. Yet Jane disdained not to reply.

I got mad at Jane. "Write her back!" I urged. "Call her back! She's your friend!" But Jane, in so many words, made it clear that it was not a friendship 'worth keeping up.' Jane only had so much room in her emotional friend box, and it could not include Betsy at the moment.

I've thought a lot about that Friend Box.

Everyone is different.

For some, picking up the phone and calling once a year is plenty enough to keep up the status of "best friends." For others, once a month is better. Some women are more every-day-ers, who need constant physical companionship to deserve the word Friend.

And I don't think any one of them is Right, where the others are Wrong. Just different.

I've come to the conclusion that a Brazilian Friend Box is quite large. They have huge emotional capacities, ready and willing to embrace everyone as a long-lost soul friend - and work hard to keep them that way. They write weekly - sometimes daily - messages. Emails. Phone calls. And it's still not enough. My friend Jane, on the other hand, has a relatively small Friend Box. Select are the few who gain admission. And she's content with a once-a-year phone call to stay a part of that exclusive club.

I think I fall somewhere in the middle.

I'm totally okay with months of silence from some of my best friends - among them, my college roommates. They rarely remember my birthday. I never remember theirs (although I could TELL you what they are ....)

And that's totally cool.

I used to know everything about them. I was intimately acquainted with every item of clothing they owned - where they got it, and how much they paid. I knew when they ran out of cheese. I knew the daily ups and downs of their emotions, and what kind of tampons they used.

Now, I don't know those things. I have no clue what's in their closets - or their refrigerators - or their bathroom cabinets. But I know THEM. I know the foundational soul-building part of them that makes them my friends. And luckily, our Friend Boxes are relatively the same size. It makes things so much easier.

We don't see each other often. When we meet, there's that initial coolness and the "what've you been up tos?" and then everything is fine. We're back at Apartment 80, discussing the deepest darkest parts of US with music blaring in the background, and trying on each other's makeup. (Heidi always had the best. )

They are in My Box. But so are the Brazilians. It's just that Brazilians need more frequent proofs of their membership.

And that's okay.

Because people are different - and so are their Friend Boxes.

In which I brag a lot, but make up for it by posting an incredibly bad picture of me

So as previously mentioned, we went to Brazil last week. Just My Man and me. MomLady flew in to watch the kids. (Did I mention I love this aspect of living in the States?!) My Man had some meetings in that beloved country o' ours for his side business; as his personal assistant, I went along. I'm such a devoted employee.

We had limeades.
We had cake.
We actually didn't have churrasco, which is funny.

Mostly, we hung out with people like these:

Every day My Man would drop me off at some unsuspecting person's house, and I would give them a heart attack. Then we would laugh and cry and laugh some more. Then we became Alvin and the Chipmunks (talking as fast as we could) for hours - usually followed by more laughing and crying. Then I'd walk to someone else's house, and repeat the process.

Heart attack. Laugh. Cry. Talkreallyfast. Laugh. Cry. Repeat.

Basically, I had the time of my life.

Can a person actually DIE of joy?

To make things extra-uber-special, My Man and I even got to escape to the beach for a day, where we got really burned and read The Lightening Thief, which we loved. We also had deep philosophical discussions - the kind that you don't want to sleep for fear of missing something. The kind that reminds you that life is perfect because you married the perfect person. The kind that just makes everything that is less-than-happy, disappear.

It was a really good week.

And now, to make you feel slightly better about my Defying the Boundaries of Ecstasy, here's a picture that brings me back to earth:

Let's have a close-up, shaaaaaaaaaaaall we?

Wow. I really hope that's just bad lighting, even badder luck, or the fact that I just got off an international flight. Because I'M ONLY HALFWAY THROUGH THIS GIG.

I might need another trip to Brazil ....

Empty boxes and full hearts

We finally unpacked the last box.

I know, I know. It's been four months. This box has been sitting in our closet for the majority of them. But -really! - we were unable to put it away until now. It held piano music.

Yesterday we arranged and rearranged - and sat on our haunches and arranged theoretically - the living room until it was JUST PERFECT. Our (new-to-us) piano is where it was always meant to be, and it has its own handy dandy Piano Music Holder Thingy.

I sat on the freshly-washed carpet (we were ambitious yesterday) and s p r e a d. Piles of music surrounded me. There was a pile for country, a pile for Broadway, a pile for guitar, a pile for classic. And more. Many of the sheets were unbound, and Canon in D was all mixed up with Fur Elise and Blues Boogie and Sonatina in G and You'll Be in My Heart.

It took a while, but everything is nicely organized and beckoning to be played.

This morning, by some miracle, things were running smoothly. My Man and I were ready, the church bags packed and the kids playing quietly. It was still two hours til church and I'd already read the lesson.

My feet steered themselves toward the living room. I opened the piano lid, feeling the ivories beneath my fingers - smooth and promising. The Church-y Music Drawer yielded a song I hadn't played in a long time - a song laden with memories and emotion. "Firmes em Ti," or "Steadfast in You."

(Open up another tab and listen to it here while you finish reading. Please? Pretty please? And just so you know, I don't know the people in the video. Sorry.)

Images of my precious youth flooded my mind. I saw sweet Dayse - so quiet, so sweet. Always willing to take on an extra service project and ease my burdens. I saw Patricia. Smiling, of course. Cracking crazy comments and making sure no one is left out. I saw Alexia. Probably with reggae on her earphones, but with her testimony always on her tongue. My Jessica. So insecure. Spilling her heart out to me, wetting my shoulder as I wet hers.

They - along with an army of girls and boys from all over the Jundiai area - sang that song in a regional fireside over a year ago. I got to play the piano for them. For months we rehearsed. There was plenty of goofing off - plenty of exasperated leaders and threats and stern looks and telling-offs. I doubted whether it would really happen.

The day arrived. The projector was broken. One of our soloists didn't show. Someone forgot the sheet music for one of the songs. Two of the wards were an hour late and I was holding back laughter and "I told you sos."

And we began. The opening prayer invited the Spirit and asked the participants to be open to His word. The light from those amazing young men and women filled the room. The audience was silent as they poured their whole souls into the music. The notes and our hearts swelled. When they sang the final chorus:

(in English)
Steadfast in you
Steady and true
Abounding in the good works
That you sent us here to do
Like a million stars
Lighting up the night
We are your youth
Ever strong
Ever true
Ever steadfast in you

(Complete English lyrics here.)

Tears rained down - because these teenagers really meant it. They lived those words. They exemplified what being a Latter-day Saint is all about, and their music penetrated us with the truth and naked honesty in their voices.

As I played their song this morning, I heard those voices all over again. They sang in my ear, accompanying me, whispering words of encouragement and hope: We love you, Becky. We love you and we miss you. Thank you for being our leader and a part of our lives. You really did help us.

I miss them. I miss them so badly.

I am so grateful for the chance I had to know them. I am so grateful that they let me into their lives. I am so grateful for the challenges and trials they presented - how they pushed me to become a better leader. I will never forget their faces - imprinted on my heart with undeniable power.

They changed me. And I'm so glad they did. That steadfast, mighty army that I got to captain for a very little while.

I miss them. I miss them so badly.

In which I suffer for apparently no reason at all

So we've now been in this 'ere country for going on four months. Crazy.

I'm amazed at the very hard concept of reverse culture shock. We read about it. We were warned. But DUDE. It's real.

One of my biggest problems is the fact that I start every other sentence with "when we lived in Brazil ...," and the fact is - no one cares. Not really. They act politely interested, but in truth they're thinking about their dinner or their kids or some TV show or the fact that I have a huge zit right below my nose. And that's hard for me. I've had this overwhelming experience that has shaped the very person that I am, and I can't talk about it.

A much smaller aspect of culture shock is some moral quandaries that I've been experiencing.

Quan-da-ry: –noun, plural -ries. a state of perplexity or uncertainty, esp. as to what to do; dilemma.

Somehow I feel GUILTY for living here.

Does that make sense?

We have a dishwasher. And air conditioning. And a very active church right down the road. Our kids go to amazing schools and we can eat Mexican food whenever we want. Everything is so EASY here, and I can't help but think about the millions of people (some of which are my dear, dear friends) who have it pretty darn hard.

I've blogged before about being accidentally crunchy. I was somewhat interested as to whether or not I would continue to be, once we moved back. The answer is: yesno.

I no longer make my own cheerios. (Tchahright.) But I do continue to use Tupperware instead of baggies and cloths instead of paper towels. It's ingrained.

The quan-da-ry comes into play in the grocery store.

I wander up and down the aisles, salivating over CONVENIENCE: frozen dinners, cake mixes, Rice-a-roni, instant au gratin potatoes and Hamburger Helper. But I somehow can't bring myself to buy them.

I imagine my Brazilian friends standing behind my shoulder, looking at me with understanding eyes, but somehow sad.

Am I selling out?

I'm already anticipating the comments: "Gimme a break, Bex, buy the stupid instant rice and canned beans and call it a day. Who. Freakin. Cares." And you know what, you're right. And I have, to some degree. We have frozen chicken nuggets in our freezer and I did buy ready-made spaghetti sauce. But I just ... can't ... bring ... myself ... to go the whole shebang.

Don't know why. Maybe I'm being a martyr. Maybe I'm crunchier than I thought. Or maybe I'm just weird.

Any bets on how long I last?

My name is not Julia. Or Julie.

I once exploded my stove.


We'd been in Brazil for a whopping one day. We were hungry. I was feeling adventurous and fearless and very BRAZILIAN, so I decided to make ... spaghetti. (Quick. Easy. And like four ingredients.)

I had the radio on, didn't understand a word of it, and was singin' it scat style OOOOOO BEE BAAA BOOO DAAAAAAA! Baby Little Prince on the floor next to me, My Man on the phone with family, assuring them that we did, indeed, arrive alive.

Then I moved a pot. And


Turns out my lovely Brazilian stove was not, in fact, a chic-y glass top stove like my mommy has.

It was, instead, more or less like this:


See that lid? The glass lid that I was supposed to lift UP? And instead, like some American idiot, cooked right on top of it?

Yeah. That's me.

The pot moved, a sonic boom that broke the sound barrier, and glass, glass raining down all over the kitchen.

Luckily I said my prayers that morning, and neither I nor LP were hurt.

(And I believe we went out to eat that night.)

Truth is, I learned a few things in Brazil. Things like the LESS water pressure you use in the shower, the HOTTER the water. Or Every Price is Negotiable. Or bundle up your kid no matter how freakin' hot it is outside, or the Grandma Police will be on your tail.

I also learned how to make beans.

Do you know how to make beans?

Since the days of the Great Depression in the United States, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has encouraged its members to be self-reliant through building up a year's supply of stored and preserved food and other necessities. We hear it every six months in General Conference, and intermittently throughout the year. Food storage! Food storage! Store food! Does everyone have their year supply? Free bird!

There's all kinds of information on the internet, including a Food Storage Calculator, telling you exactly how much peanut butter YOUR FAMILY would eat in a year. (Although they're woefully ignorant of chocolate chips.)

According to this handy-dandy device, my family of five (I didn't even include baby #4) needs to store ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY POUNDS OF BEANS.

Again - do you know how to cook beans?

It drives me crazy when I hear women say, "Oh, well, if I'm hungry enough, I'll figure it out." NOT. It took me a solid year to cook beans good enough to eat. I burned more than a few pans. (And at least one stove.)

So now I'm going to teach you. BEANS.

First things first. Pick through them. Pull out all the cracked, shriveled, peeling, and generally icky ones. Then cover in water and let soak. (The longer you soak them, the faster they'll cook. Plus it extracts all the "gases" that make beans so famously musical. I usually soak mine an hour or so, because I'm not very good at thinking ahead.)

Alright. Now drain the beans, and refill the pot.

IMPORTANT!!! GO OUT RIGHT NOW AND BUY A PRESSURE COOKER!!!
They run $35 to approximately a million dollars. I bought a super cheap one, and it has served me well for many a year now. Go cheap.

If you DON'T buy a pressure cooker, then expect to cook your beans for about a week before they're ready to eat. Seriously.

Alright. So put your presoaked beans in the pot and FILL with water. You want at least one middle-finger length of water ABOVE the beans. This is crucial.

Now let the cooker cook. DO NOT ADD SALT OR SEASONING YET. IT WILL MAKE YOUR BEANS TOUGH.

(No one likes tough beans.)

It'll take a few minutes for the pressure cooker to get hot and the top to start spinning. Let it spin for 30-45 minutes, and then do whatever you have to do to release the pressure. (Every pot is different.)

Keep it on the burner, but don't put the lid back on. Just let it keep boiling without any pressure. (Add more water if you need to.)

In a separate skillet, saute some onion, fresh garlic, and chopped bacon and/or kielbasa in oil. Amounts completely depend on taste. I LOOOOOVE me some garlic, so I really go to town. Add oregano, cumin and cilantro. (This is what I do - you can season it however you darn well want to.) Once the onion is soft, add it to the beans, as well as about a tablespoon of salt and a bay leaf. (Again - this depends on taste. I like it rather salty. I also cook a lot at one time, then freeze in small quantities.)

Let it continue boiling, stirring occasionally, for another 30-45 minutes. The longer you cook it, the thicker the beans, and the stronger the taste. I like me some thick-ish beans. Everyone's different.

Feel free to taste it every now and then and add more of anything. (Salt! Always more salt ....)

Serve with rice, and you got yourself a complete protein for pennies.

Just make sure you lift up the lid before you get started ....

In which I lay the blame on the doors

Drugs. Equal. Awesome.

I sucked down every home-grown remedy for pregnancy "morning" sickness since Eve got advice from her mother-in-law (think about it), but nothing works like good ole manmade synthesized DRUGS.

Zofran, I worship you.

Now that I finally feel like ME again, I'm getting to all the things that I didn't do during the weeks I didn't feel like me.

(My husband worships Zofran too.)

I picked up the first floor, scoured the bathroom and mopped the hallway this morning - all before 8:00AM. And then I exercised. (I know!) Spent a few hours playing catch-up in Mommy Time. Pretty sure my kids have missed me. Mommy? Playing with us again? Something changed ... she must be cutting our college savings again and feeling guilty ....

And now naptime has arrived and it's time for me to move on to another Project.

What to choose? Hang pictures? Paint? Do another bathroom? Attempt to conquer the storage room? (HA! Good one ...)

Nope. Priority is our CLOSET.

Now, the problem with the closet is that it has a DOOR. And it's HUGE. (The closet, not the door.) You can make a royal mess, close those lover-ly mirrors, and nobody has to know.

Over There, in Brazil, they don't have closets. They have these:

They're called "guarda-roupas" - essentially "place to put away clothes." They're very thin and narrow and don't really lend themselves to piles of "I don't look good in that today" or "I don't feel like putting away those clean clothes right now." Our clothes were pretty much always clean and organized because, well, they had to be. I couldn't run away from it.

Now, however, I have this big beautiful black hole that I can destroy and then promptly turn away from.

(I know I ended with a preposition. It's okay. Breathe. This is English, not Latin. Look it up.)

I'm fairly good at keeping visible rooms clean-ish. After all, we might have visitors and THEN WHAT WOULD THEY THINK?! Our family room/kitchen area RIGHT NOW:

(dang it I should have put away the flip-flops ...)

The nice, shiny sink - FlyLady would be so proud.

Our front sitting room:

And ... brace yourselves for BEHIND THE SCENES BECKY:


Ouch. Ooo. Eeeek.

And yet, I really only have to see this atrocity twice a day. In the morning and at night. Very briefly. It's not in-my-face-disgustingness-that-I-have-to-stare-at-all-day. So, really, it's not my FAULT that it looks decidedly tornado-y. It's the door's fault. I cannot be blamed.

And ... naptime's almost over. Dang it. Looks like it'll have to wait another day. No biggie. I'll just shut the door.

Some assembly required

OUR STUFF HAS ARRIVED.

*cue trumpets*

It only took three months. I'm not at all bitter.

Now that we have boxes stacked up to the ceiling, it is extremely evident that our much-anticipated Stuff is not sufficient to fill our house. Commence shopping. Commence budgeting. Commence stress.

We're all about IKEA, duh, because IKEA rocks my world. And DirectBuy. Of have you heard? It's a price club type deal; pay an (enormous) upfront fee, then you get factory prices - like pay $300 for a $1200 couch. Or $500 for $3000 cupboards. (Mostly I just get mad to find out the retail markups.) Anywho, it's a great deal if you have to buy a lot of stuff. Which we do.

(It also helps that my parents are members - we get the benefits without having to pay the fees. Score!)

Of course, buying Stuff at economy prices has its downsides. Namely, WE HAVE TO PUT IT ALL TOGETHER.

I complain about it, but at the same time I get a real sense of satisfaction in saying, "I DID THAT."

I, woman, hear me drill.

It reminds me of an incident that occurred years ago.

We were freshly arrived Americans in Podunkville, Brazil. Language limited. We'd just moved into a house from a (gagmesmellyyuckyihatedthatplace) apartment in Sao Paulo. I was putting together a bed when *clap clap clap,* I had visitors.

(Brazilians don't knock on the door; they clap. TRUE STORY.)

A couple stood there, grinning, kindly reminding me of their names, and inviting themselves inside. They indicated I should continue doing whatever I was doing, and they would help me. We bumbled through language barriers, laughing and being altogether ridiculous.

The three of us crowded into the guest bedroom, where there were sideboards and headboards and screws and railings all over the place. I picked up where I left off, trying to assemble a particularly hard piece. I might have struggled just a teensy bit.

At this, my new friends took the hardware from me, and, wagging their fingers, admonished,

"You're too high class to do this stuff. Leave it to us. We're poor. We're used to it."

Is it weird I was offended?

These people were mostly teasing themselves. They meant absolutely no harm. They went on to be some of my nearest and dearest friends. But I still remember, four years later, how disgruntled I was.

Excuse-a moi? You think I can't do this? You think I'm not used to this? You think I'm too hoity-toity to identify a Phillips screwdriver? Let me tell YOU, buster, I put together this whole freaking house. And I'm dang proud of it.

And it occurs to me that Americans value do-it-yourselfers. When I admire a quilt, I go crazy if it's hand made. I may compliment a painting, but if I find out you did it, I'm in conniptions. As soon as we lay a hand on it ourselves, it increases in worth.

Brazilians, on the other hand, display pride for the opposite reason. They point out when they've paid to have something done.

I'm not saying one is right and one is wrong. I'm not going to draw any profound philosophical conclusions. I'm just going to say that I ASSEMBLED THE DESK I'M SITTING AT RIGHT NOW.

And I'm proud of it.

So pleased to make your acquaintance

Friend-making on the That Girl Front is making progress. We're moving out the front lines, conquering the desert frontier, bravely facing every skirmish with a smile. Battle tactics are subversive. The opposition - UNKNOWN FEMALE - is an impressive foe. Mysterious. Coy. Plotting. Strict follower of the Making Friends Handbook.

I somehow missed that book in middle school.

It's different in Brazil. Down There, you just ARE friends. There isn't any ice to break - any rules to follow. You state your name and - bam! - friends. No social faux pas, no silly mannerisms or facade to keep up. These people have no tact, and no secrets. Everyone is everyone's best friend by default.

I forget that it's not like that Here.

I got invited to the pool the other day (so! so! excited! okay, That Girl, calm down, play it cool, don't act as desperate as you are ....) with two other ladies. Collected, chic females with masters degrees in the Handbook. Plenty of light banter and polite conversation. I had trouble eating that night for all the times I bit my tongue. (No! don't gush too much about how grateful you are for the invite ... No! don't tell them how much your feet sweat here ... No! don't tell them your children's birth stories ....)

Frank. That's my new name.

(I think I came on a little strong.)

Truth is, there really is structure to this whole Friend thing. You can't be clingy. Weird. Open. Snooty. Dirty. Gross. Crude. Fake. Shallow. Scary. Shy.

image here

Maybe that's why blogging lends itself to friendships so easily. We have no walls. We are who we are; we read who we read.

And we just ARE friends.

What I miss about Brazil

My Man was transferred to Brazil in October 2004, and it was love at first sight. We left a part of us there when we moved to Arizona in June 2009.

I ache for ...

• JeaneGeorgiaGildaRenataGiseldaGenyFernanda...
• The young women
• Maracuja (passion fruit to you)
• Freakin' GOOD mangoes
• Freakin' GOOD pineapple
• Freakin' GOOD watermelon
• Fresh juice everywhere you go
• Green, green, green
• Gorgeous flowers and trees
• Padarias (bakeries) on every corner- hmmmm
• Pao de Frances (special 'French bread')
• The weather
• The macaws squawking outside my window
• Cutting in line when you're pregnant or if you have kids under two years old
• CAKE
• Salgadinhos - 'specially cheese balls with hot sauce
• Beaches
• Monsoons
• The hugs
• The touchie-feely-ness
• Smell of the streets at lunch hour
• Fresh tubs of garlic
• Cheap manicures - and the fact that everyone gets them (R$15 for both hands and feet - half that in dollars!)
• Cheap help - maids will "white glove" clean your house every day for $150 a month
• Feeling needed - being able to help lots of people
• Their humility
• Their economy - buying only what they need
• Their general optimism and happiness that they exude at every step
• Negotiating any and every price
• Shoe shops that fix your favorite shoes like new - for pennies
• Spa-like hairdressers for dirt cheap
• Construction workers who actually work - and fast
• Feeling special/different
• The BEEF - particularly picanha (and the price!)
• Being able to stop by a friend's house "just because" - everyone has an open door policy
• Everyone has cake at all times
• The cleanliness - every time I invited a Brazilian over (or even if I didn't) they left my house sparkly clean
• Their unconditional love
• How they keep up with everything - they know everything there is to know about the States. What do you know about Brazil?
• Rice and beans
• Farofa
• Pao de Queijo
• Awesome flip-flops
• Great hair treatments
• Best nail polish ever
• Service - Brazilians are always ready to serve, no matter what you need. Always.
• Femininity - Brazilian women revel in being women. Very girly-girl women (hair, makeup, jewelery, the whole gig - all the time)
• Kids are kings
• Everyone always exclaimed over my kids (blue-eyed blondes are a rarity)
• They think pregnant bellies are beautiful
• Honesty - they never "white-lie"
• They always make twice as much food as they need - in case someone drops by
• Deliveries - everything delivers, from McDonald's to the bookstore
• "Pizziola" pizza - oooo, and maragueirta too
• Service at the stores - there's always someone at your beck and call
• Churrascarias
• Sazon and Sabor Ami seasonings (essencial for rice and beans)
• They don't care if you don't shave your legs
• "Lembrancinhas" - Brazilians love to give gifts. Any reason will do
• Their proactivity and industry
• Trufas and brigadeiros
• Church activity - something's going on at the chapel almost every night; and everyone goes
• Everyone is naturally "green"
• Walking
• ..... and so much more