The Argentine suegra is the sweetest of paradoxes: an all-cooking, all-laundering, all-kissing-and-hugging machine, who also sort of hates you and believes you could never be good enough for her baby. Who’s 37, by the way. And only got his own place last year. Two doors down from her place.
Why else would he be putting together such an elaborate choreography of porn moves? I mean, sure, you’re an open-minded girl, but this guy makes porn look sensitive and realistic. Also, there’s a fine line between French kissing and feeling like you’re being enthusiastically greeted by a German shepherd. Actually, it’s not even that fine.
Your novio follically resembles a hybrid between Cindy Crawford and mid-80s-era Bon Jovi. He has a monobrow to put the Gallagher brothers to shame. When he takes his shirt off on the beach, small children run away, screaming.
And the hair dryer. If he touches the crimping irons, you’re out of there.
We aren’t even talking about fútbol — that’s a whole different animal. Whenever a major tournament comes around, you lose all control of the remote because he feels an urgent, passionate need to support his country, whether it’s volleyball, field hockey, tennis, or any other sport you previously considered the domain of nice old tea-sipping ladies.
Sometimes it seems every Argentine man you take home (and come on, you’ve taken home a few) has unorthodox snooker ideas, in that rather than potting the pink, he goes for the brown. Even when you’ve strictly no-noed any unexpected items in the bagging area, he’s still trying to get his fingers up there at every opportunity. Is something hidden up there? Is there something he knows that you don’t?
At drunken parties, he relates to male friends by linking arms and jumping up, grunting. When seated at a pavement café with like-minded peers, the passing of women is greeted with the kind of noise used in other countries for shooing away pets.
He dismisses much subtitled popular culture as “mierda yanqui,” regardless of its origin. He eschews exotic foods, like fish. He considers yoga gay but is even then reluctant to use such a foreign word and pronounces it “guy.”
As long as he keeps calling you “flaca,” you’re not complaining.
“Baby,” he says, “but dees ees yast a leest of lazy stereotypes wreetten by a lazy gringo.” He may have a point.