the roundup: 003
or how to live two years in the span of two months
I’ve been struggling to find enough time to stay seated and publish longer format pieces for this newsletter. Writing longer articles, at least via my process, takes an incredible amount of time. My friend Carissa suggested I write in bits and pieces and go back to things later. I think that that sounds insane. Regardless, I am dedicated to writing and still want to try and publish once a week no matter how much shame chants “you’re a joke, you’re a liar, you’re not a real writer!”
Thus my continued affinity for a monthly-ish roundup where I brain dump, share albums on repeat, life learnings or current struggles, rotisserie chicken, etcetera etcetera. So without further ado:
Notes from April
Ten days in southern California does the body good. I went to visit my oldest friend, to be an extra brain and set of hands, and to get to know her 5 month old daughter. You forget about the California light, until you’re back in it, what light is supposed to do. You forget about the birds. The produce. The nature. I stood in the garden most mornings among the baby tomatoes and the baby human and tried to get in with the pollinators and make up for lost time.
Loren is an exquisite cook. She does most things exquisitely, which I have had many years to come to terms with. In grade school I once opened her science notebook and saw her handwriting so organized, so unsettlingly beautiful that I realized I would never achieve that level of consistency and beauty. I’m good at other things! Now I just admire and reap the benefits of that beauty. She handmade ravioli. Pizzas from scratch cooked in the backyard. Baked gluten-free Oreos that tasted even better than the real thing. I’d find her mid-afternoon in the kitchen, breast pump on, sous-viding carrots. Or, at 7 am, one hand on Penelope's bottle, one hand flipping local sourdough tortillas for our breakfast tacos. The whole operation running like a kitchen (and a person) that knows itself well. 20 feet away in her goldsmith studio, she can be found torch in hand, soldering ancient archaeological pieces while bidding on exotic gemstones she’s been eyeing for weeks. A Mars-ruled woman in full. Not to mention the 3am wake-ups, the endless piles of laundry, the daily maintenance of being a new mother and a person outside of all of this. Spending this much time around another Aries did something to my expectations — of other people, of myself. Mars-ruled people easily show the distance between wanting something and the part of actually doing it. If you wanted to, you would. I’ve been marinating on that ever since landing back in Mexico.
Lest I forget to mention: the glory of soft serve. In Mexico there is no cultural infrastructure for this particular comfort. It’s better that way, you shouldn’t be able to find everything you’re used to everywhere you go. But the heatwave here has had me waxing poetic for this particular dairy delight since March. I don’t miss America, I didn’t like it there for most of my life, but it’s always the little things in life that get you, like the perfect nostalgia of rainbow sprinkles or a surprise golden hour shadow dance from peonies on the counter.
In other Breaking News, I snagged an appointment at the Oceanside DMV and now have a valid driver’s license. The lobby looked chillingly like an ER waiting room: visual human chaos. A hunched over octogenarian with a mystery liquid leaking out of his eye, unable to digitally check in for his renewal (should you be driving??) My only saving grace was going outside to sweat out the 48 minutes wait (in spite of having an appointment) and making friends with a Mexican abuela playing with her grandchildren outside. Though disappointed that I wasn’t married with kids, she said I seemed like I had a lot of love and reminded me God had my back. Which brings me to another point, while inside I spied a teenage boy wearing an “I <3 JESUS” t-shirt, unironically. I doubt Milton Glaser, a Jewish kid from the Bronx, envisioned this particular use of his design — but less than two weeks in the USA, I was getting a crash course in its newfound (refound?) Christian cultural climate. And that’s in California!
On a different day around lunch time I was in the garage on the treadmill when a car descended down Loren’s private drive. Out popped two white men with tightly cut hair and short sleeve salmon blouses. Easter was approaching and they said there would be a celebration and me and my family should come by. I said, with much restraint as my friend is a much gentler person than I, that this was private property and thank you but please do not come back. Something primal in me activated, my blood was boiling but I was eerily calm— maybe knowing there was a 5 month old just a few feet away, maybe it was the fact that there were two of them and one of me… Anyway, if it had been on my own property who knows what kind of NRA adjacent threats I would have rattled off.
I forgot how much America loves its CPGs and good branding. Trips to Lazy Acres and small markets alike took me on a tour of hyper local offerings and visually pleasing packaging. I miss that, although if I were in Paris I’d likely scoff and find it ridiculous. But in Mexico, still being in North America, I allow these tiny capitalist extravagances. Like this spicy mezcal margarita by Golden Rule. They make other cocktails but can only vouch for the margarita and the Tequila Paloma first hand. Later I came across what I think is now my favorite consumer packaged good of all time: Duck Feet Brewing’s 2 am Tacos, Mexican lager style beer. I don’t even really mess with beer like that but I can you imagine how happy I’dd be opening my fridge and seeing that little duck???? My heart. Lastly, this peach jalapeño salsa out of Pear Blossom Farms in Palisade, CO also known as the "Peach Capital" renowned for its unique microclimate producing some of the sweetest peaches in North America. Somebody remind me to order a case to take home with me next time.
A few other dispatches from California: my body, for one, was thrilled. Something needs to be written about how good your body feels at sea level, plus the salt air, and the sunshine. Loren really meant it when she said everything grows in Vista, even my nails are evidence (DM for nail pics I don’t just put those out for free on the inter webs). Then there was irreplaceable convenience of the Peloton Tread, which I am now quietly grieving the loss of. Especially during March Madness, when I’d turn on the game and pretend I’m sprinting alongside Rori Harmon going for a steal. Or a Bad Bunny run for 45 minute perreo and motivational chats alongside my girl Camila. I’m aware of the logistical, technical, and financial circus that would be required to bring it to the Mexican market — I’m an importer, I’ve done the mental math. And Peloton is still suffering from that lawsuit. But a girl can dream.
Living with a five-month-old recalibrates everything. Not in a nightmare kind of way (at least not after the first two months and not as an outsider) but rather in the quieter, more clarifying way of: you now have approximately two hours while this baby is down for its afternoon nap. What do you do with them? How can I be a good partner? I was much more intentional about my writing, my workouts, my snacking! It almost made me miss having a 9-5. You also get very good at using one hand for most things.
Perks of afternoon nap duty It was my birthday, my brother was in town, and I was on my period. High highs and lower lows but grateful for another year and, most importantly, a newfound favorite and secret sushi spot I will be gatekeeping. I’ll address the complex dynamics of sibling love and the sanctity of birthdays in another post, but tldr next year I’m just going to the beach, by myself.
Notes from May
I landed back in Mexico and straight into the deep end: six events in three weeks. A marathon in sprint drag is what it felt like. The difference this time was that I actually cared about what I was producing. A sapphic dinner with new chef friends who’d come down from LA. A second annual Smash burger and wine event that our community loves. A German wine workshop. An oyster farm-to-table lunch that based on the empty shells and the questions people were still asking on their way out, got sustainable seafood on people’s radar. Friday night pop-ups that spilled out onto the sidewalks and ran so long because nobody wanted to leave. All the while, receiving friends in town, absorbing into the free flowing chaos. Which meant showing up to other people’s events too, on tired feet and iffy vocal cords. Apparently I actually believe in the community I’m always talking about building!
I’ve been thinking about New York a lot lately. Not in a “lease ending, life uprooting” kind of way, I don’t want to live in New York, but in a consistent enough way where I felt the need to write it down. I blame the New Yorkers. Friends coming through town with that particular energy missing here: direct, strong characters, allergic to public niceties. It lit something up in me that I didn’t realize had gone dim. There’s a specific kind of person whose company makes you feel more like yourself, and most of them happen to live there. What am I actually missing? The sarcasm, sure. Mexico’s baseline culture register is one I find deeply kind, coming from a place where indirectness is a social art form. But I miss the bite. I miss the ease of cultural offerings. I miss Theater! In the past few months I’ve longingly googled dates for Girl Interrupted, Titanique, Oh Mary!, that show where Mariska is high-fiving everyone, and anything my friend Larry Owens is in. I miss dance classes — cabaret, heels, anything described as “sexy” on the website and actually mean it. I miss the feeling of being in my body in the way that it likes. And last but very not least, I miss a working public transit system. Buses that don’t take the same amount of time as walking.The subway. The Paris Metro. These democratizing, chaotic bastions of freedom that let you go anywhere without asking anyone for anything — no traffic, no app surge pricing, no depending on anyone’s schedule but your own.
We are officially in The Spring Swing: NBA playoffs, Roland Garros, NHL, and yes, saving the best for last, College Softball. All of it at once, which is wonderful, and which coincides perfectly with the nicest weather of the year. Could somebody open an outdoor training facility turned bar turned projector venue? Speaking of sports, my pickleball progress report, because I know you’re curious. I’m not going to be so bold as to compare myself to Sabalenka after she changed her serve, but a big shift of sorts has taken place at the baseline of Pickleball Polanco courts. For every basket of balls, I miss maybe 2-3 serves. This was a seemingly overnight change and the only things really done differently are making sure I follow through and a new motion at the beginning instead of standing rigidly and holding the ball out pre toss. Last week my coach Pepe wanted to do a deep dive on Drake’s new albums. Pepe is a 65 year old Mexican ex-tennis pro. I love Pepe.
I’ve never really been Cannes obsessed, but have been missing France and feeling connected to a larger global movement and creating more than ever, so watched a few panels and interviews with directors. Mainly immersing myself in the films coming out this fall and prepping my list for September (if you think i’m leaving France before watching both Dix pour cent and Garance in theaters you’re insane. But perhaps what is off-screen has intrigued me even more. Canal+, France’s most powerful film financier, is in hot water over its billionaire shareholder Vincent Bolloré (think: an extra Catholic French Rubert Murdoch, nationalist, xenophobic rhetoric.) Over the last decade he’s systematically bought French media outlet by outlet, news channels, radio stations, newspapers while firing existing staff, installing his people, and pulling everything sharply to the right. Canal+ has mostly been spared this treatment — until last year, when it bought a 34% stake in UGC, France’s biggest cinema chain, with an option to take full control by 2028. Suddenly Bolloré’s ecosystem doesn’t just touch who finances your film. It now touches who distributes it and which screens it plays on. This is wild and scary as France is the second largest film industry in the world and Canal+ is the single biggest funder of French film production. The French right keeps insisting there's no ideological project. Ok yeah, and Goebbels was just really passionate about independent film distribution.
Shifting from the Palme d’Or to Watch What Happens Live: I’m finally caught up on Summer House. I’d been out of the Bravoverse for a while for lack of a VPN and a Peacock subscription. Over the course of two years I steadily chipped away at six seasons: Carl’s sobriety arc, Lindsay having a baby, Paige finally leaving Craig’s southern ass. This season did not disappoint. But I want to make an observation I haven’t seen anyone on the internet make, and I’ve been sitting on it. In earlier seasons, pre weight loss, pre nose job, Amanda was mouthy. Gesticulating at the dinner table, calling things out and putting people in their places. And then, gradually, she didn’t. What replaced it was a woman who has gotten progressively smaller, quieter, and more accommodating in direct proportion to how much more conventionally acceptable she has become. There should be a study on Amanda Batula, the patriarchy, her betrayal of Ciara, and the specific arithmetic of how much of yourself you trade away to be chosen and to stay chosen. How likability and self-erasure have become synonymous.
Did you know the word “decide” doesn’t mean to choose? Taking its roots from the Latin verb decīdere, it actually means to carries the literal meaning “to cut off”. In the context of choice, I find this very helpful. What do you want to get rid of?
Not not related to decisions: amidst spring cleaning and a total closet revamp, I often think about this girl on TikTok who suggested a leveling up of the Kondo’s “does this spark joy” philosophy, asking “if this were covered in shit would I go through the steps necessary to save it?”. Really works.
The Hair Files: For those of you (everybody except for Liz, hi Liz!) who voted against me going brunette, this round goes to you haters. After 6 months and 6 hours in the salon chair, I’m back to passing for a natural blonde. And to think I was just getting used to the ring of darkness around my face. See below.
The outcome skews a tad white for my liking, but realistically speaking as my roots grow out and the toner fades, my natural warm undertones peak through and I really like the result. Plus, it extends the shelf life of my color an additional 3-4 months (9 years in blonde years) so it’s like getting to live out various blonde identities — or at least that’s what I tell myself. The pipe dream is of course getting back to this perfect lived in golden-blonde I rocked from early teenagedom till sophomore year of college. But back then I shared a colorist with the Bush sisters and had no real concept of money, so I’ve sort of relinquished all hope. The only other solution, jetting back and forth to Atlanta to see Roberto at Blonde in Buckhead, which I did for my first three years abroad, seemed a lot more sustainable and a lot less financially irresponsible when I was making bank off tech Zionists in San Francisco instead of peddling the gospel of natural wine in Mexico.
Lastly, this month, thanks to one of those improbable alignments that can only be attributed to luck, timing, or some benevolent cosmic bureaucracy, I had the opportunity to shadow documentary photographer Ana María Arévalo Gosen while she was in Mexico working on a project around femicidio. The focus of her reporting wason an organization creating shelter, workshops, and community for mothers whose daughters have been victims of femicide. Through Ana María’s work, I got to know a family in Chimalhuacán and was able to witness a small part of documentary practice in action.
One of those women we met was Lidia Florencio, the mother of Diana Velázquez Florencio, whose murder in 2017 became emblematic of the failures, delays, and negligence that too often characterize the pursuit of justice in cases of gender-based violence in Mexico. We spent time at Lidia’s home, listening to her story and documenting the visit. The intimacy of the encounter could easily overwhelm - not just in seeing a case, but rather a daughter remembered through photographs, stories, and the persistence of a mother who has spent years refusing to let her be forgotten.
Lidia welcomed us into her house. We sat at her table. We listened. Ana María photographed. Lidia spoke about Diana, about grief, about bureaucracy, about the sad and strange endurance required to spend years insisting that your daughter's life mattered. We drove to the site where authorities claimed Diana’s body had been found. Ana María stepped out of the car to photograph the landscape while I stayed behind with Lidia. The place felt desolate: dirt, debris, scattered trash. As we sat there, I asked her how she was feeling. She revealed that she knows this is not where Diana had been killed. She pointed to the trash filled plot of land to our 3 o’clock and described that Diana’s clothing had been found clean. If she had died there, she told us, the evidence would have looked different —dirt all over her clothes, leaves in her hair. Something. The site, in her view, was nothing more than where her daughter’s body had been carelessly abandoned.
As she spoke I how a mother’s observations may never appear in a police report, yet they contain a logic, an intimacy, and most of all an authority that can fundamentally alter how a story is understood. Sitting in that car, I found myself less interested in the photograph taken just outside the window than in the conversation unfolding beside me.
With photography and film long tempting me towards the visual, what compels me most is the human exchange that precedes them. The conversation or the question that you wonder if you should ask. Beyond the image, it was that conversation with Lidia that stayed with me. Not because it provided an answer, but because it revealed the humanity allowed to exist within a single question. It cemented for me that people are often the most important part of the story. I believe the most meaningful act of documentation is simply listening long enough for someone to tell it.
Lately, riddled with doubt around Mucha Lucha’s media launch, I've been thinking a lot about creativity. Less as it pertains to production and more to action. Maybe the planning and the framing and the pitching is less important than the showing up, paying attention, and following that thread of curiosity wherever and whenever it is calling. I just need to be making space for life as it exists currently to reveal itself.
Assorted!
Watching Zara Larsson pull fans on stage to perform Lush Life still does something to my neurochemistry that no licensed medical professional has been able to replicate. Related: I’ve been waking up to a rotation of Mamma Mia, Cabaret, and Grease. Listen, the Greeks had their rituals. I have Liza Minnelli at 7am and frankly my mental health metrics are trending upward so maybe you should give it a shot.
Been making a lot of smoothies because of this heatwave and recently learned that most every smoothie tastes better if you add a little bit of lime juice and a little bit of salt.
In a daily reality where I’m moving in and out of three different languages, it’s nice to have someone who speaks your soul one. While making dinner with my friend and fellow Jersey Girl Steph, we ended up discussing the nutritional balance of carbs and vegetables and our childhoods, which obviously led to a passion-filled discussion on Boston Market. The conversation quickly evolved into a full blown dissection of debt loading and one liners on capital structure failures bringing down the once-mighty rotisserie chicken empire. I enjoyed this scene and wanted to share.
What do an anesthesiologist, a governor and a Fedex driver have in common? If you guessed violence against women you’d be correct! Dr. Gerhardt Konig allegedly attempted to murder his wife during a hike after what prosecutors described as a planned attack. Justin Fairfax was accused by multiple women of sexual assault years before his death but no criminal charges resulted. In 2026, police say he shot and killed his wife before taking his own life during a contentious divorce. Former FedEx driver Tanner Horner kidnapped, sexually assaulted, and murdered 7-year-old Athena Strand after delivering a package to her home.
I’ve been almost as horrified at my recent reading hygiene as I have been with the news. Ever since returning home from California all I’ve wanted is to work, hit the ground running with projects, and or disassociate completely. Fun! Post this realization, some extreme measures have been implemented at the homestead and after conferring with both Pandora Sykes’s post on how she finds time to read and Melody Thomas’s reading list from last summer, as well as my current bookshelf, I decided to take control. No screens after 10pm. More books in Spanish. More Fiction. Here’s my reading list for the rest of 2026:
Deux Soeurs, David Foenkinos
A Visit from the Goon Squad, Jennifer Egan
The Decameron, Giovanni Boccaccio
Pretty Baby: A Memoir: Chris Belcher
Escritos, Sol Le Witt
Les fantômes du lac, Manon Gauthier-Faure
Valencia, Michelle Tea
Writing a Woman’s Life, Carolyn Gold Heilbrun
Come and Get It, Kiley Reid
Passion simple, Annie Ernaux
Love in the Big City, Sang Young Park
The Faraway Nearby, Rebecca Solnit
Desierto sonoro, Valerie Luiselli
Women, Chloe Caldwell
Lo que pasa es que te quiero, Gloria Fuertes
Lonely Crowds, Stephanie Wambugu
Gertrude Stein: An Afterlife, Francesca Wade
Parable of the Sower, Octavia Butler
La conjura de los necios, John Kennedy Toole
Post Traumatic, Chantal V. Johnson
The Dark Interval, Rainer Maria Wilke
Kin, Tayari Jones
A Director Prepares, Anne Bogart
Piglet, Lottie Hazel
Last Words from Montmartre, Qiu Miaojin
Whereabouts, Jhumpa Lahiri
Nothing Tastes as Good, Luke Dumas
Spawning Season, Joseph Osmundson
La hora de la estrella, Clarice Lispector
Start Where You Are, Pema Chodron
Actress of a Certain Age, Jeff Hiller
Ce Que Je Sais de Toi, Eric Chacour
Dining Out, Erik Piepenburg
Evenings and Weekends, Oisín McKenna
Butter, Asoko Yuzuki
Ensemble, c’est tout, Anna Galvada
Woodworking, Emily St James
Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, Alexandre Dumas
Galapagos, Kurt Vonnegut
The City We Became, N.K, Jemisin
Monstrilio, Gerardo Sámano Cordova
Three Guineas, Virginia Woolf
Saccharoses, Samir
Palo Alto, A History of California, Capitalism, and the World, Malcom Harris
The Brothers Karamazov, Dostoyevsky
If you see me scrolling on the phone or reading a book that isn’t on this list, feel free to hit either out of my hands as aggressively as you’d like. Logging off, more soon. xx nmp
impressed by your reading list , impressed that you just sit down and write all this in one sitting !!! you saying my idea sounds insane when it's literally using DRAFTS