• I’m a huge fan of TV series, I admit it. Since MacGyver and The Knight Rider in my childhood, Beverly Hills 90210 and Baywatch throughout my adolescence, Ally McBeal and Sex in the City in my early twenties, several TV series were a great part of my lazy afternoons and evenings. But apart from Fawlty Towers and Seinfeld, which were created by the best comedians of TV history, I never envied any screenwriter. Until I started watching Modern Family...

    No wonder it’s one of the most awarded comedy series in recent years, including 5 Writers Guild of America. The show is so good that makes you want to watch certain episodes over and over again (which I do, by the way). The characters, the dialogues, the casting... everything is spot on. But for me, the secret of its success is the fact that it portraits situations, discussions and family rituals everyone has been through. Some dialogues are so real that sometimes I wonder if my living room is bugged.

    I just watched season 5 and I’m already counting the days to watch season 6. I guess I’ll have to watch old episodes until September 24.



  • From the day a child is born until... well, until the end of our days, we mothers have several periods of sleep deprivation. Initially we have the feeding every three-hour period, then it's the colic period, later the teething period, then the several children diseases that keep parents up all night periods and finally the "I won't sleep at home tonight" periods. Basically, sleep deprivation comes with the job.

    There are people who may try to fool you saying that it's only a phase or try to convince you that their children have always slept the whole night through. They're lying. Seriously don't believe them. The honest truth is that a woman will never have a real good night sleep after becoming a mother. And that's probably why there aren't many women who can conciliate the hardest job in the World (Motherhood) with a high position such as being President: chronic sleep deprivation leads to extreme fatigue, which then causes lack of discernment.

    I've heard that women become slower after giving birth. Some say it's the hormones, some say it's pregnancy, some say it's nature. But it's not: it's tiredness. Check out the list of things I found myself doing after my son was born:

    - Leaving the house in sleepers

    - Putting the kid shoes backwards

    - Quickly making a soup for baby's dinner totally forgetting I had done one pan of soup the day before

    - Using shampoo instead of body milk on baby

    - Forgetting what I was about to say, being unable to name a particular object or switch people's names - specially at the end of the day

    - Painting fingernails with "Stop Biting "product instead of nail polish and only realizing that after washing hands for the 20th time.

    - Returning home at least once every morning because I forgot something.

    I used to have a great memory, always knew where things were and rarely forgot stuff around. Nowadays I don't trust myself: I avoid holding important documents (like the passports when traveling) and I always check if I left the kid in the car. Seriously. It's tiredness. And I bet every mother has a similar story.

  • This is new ad campaign for Sony 4k TV.

    8 million petals thrown into a volcano in Costa Rica, two weeks of footage, an amazing result.

    Ad agency: McCann
    Photographer: Nick Meek


    The advert:






  • In 2005, Dino Casimiro took this picture, believing it could be one of the biggest waves in the world. Here, in the small village of Nazaré, just 100km from Lisbon, could be the next destiny for big wave lovers. Hawaiian surfer Garrett McNamara was the only big wave rider contacted by Nazaré who accepted the invitation to come and see for himself the North Canyon phenomenon. He arrived in 2010, starting a project that today is known all over the world: the ZON North Canyon project.

    The project has resulted in three documentaries (one for each year Garrett exceeded Nazaré's waves),  which capture magnificent moments not only for those who like surf, but for everyone who likes a good story of men defying nature. Besides, it allowed Garrett to set a new Guinness World Record for the biggest wave ever surfed.

    This month the project launched a brand new website where the story is told with beautiful images and footage.  I had the honour of writing the copy. A tough job because each picture shown on this website truly is worth a thousand words. Anyway, I hope you like the website and enjoy the ride.







  • From time to time, a new fashion icon is born. Not the "it girls" who fashionistas and designers love, but those women who are always stunning no matter the occasion.

    It's not easy to rise to this status, specially in times when all bloggers and magazines are eager to banter the same celebrity they idolized the previous week. During the award season, that goes from the Gotham Awards to the Oscars, all eyes are set on the red carpet waiting for the next fashion disaster. But to Lupita Nyong'o, it seems easy enough.

    The young actress who catched everyone's attention last fall, by the time "12 years a slave" was pointed as one of the Oscars favourites, gives a style lesson in every public appearance she makes. From October till last night, she managed to present herself faultless in every red carpet. Such that she quickly became the star of several fashion editorials (Vogue included) and was chosen to be Miu Miu's new face. And though it is known that every celebrity has a personal stylist, the truth is when it comes to style, whether you have it or you don't. In Lupita's case, style pours beyond the dresses she wears and even with the help from Michaela Erlanger, it's hard to find one occasion when she wasn't simply beautiful.

    With the sweetest smile and chocolate skin, natural talent and sense of style, I believe Lupita is going to become an icon for the next generations. Last night's Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress was just the beginning of an amazing career.








  • It's Valentine's Day. The day lovers give flowers, chocolates and tender words. The day couples go out on a special date or simply say all they forget to say on all the other days. The day women expect to be pampered by their men.

    However, for many women this is just another day of violence. Another day of beating, rape, genital mutilation, discrimination, slavery, and humiliation. And I'm not talking about poor women of underdeveloped countries, where tradition means more than humanity. I'm talking about women of every country, every culture, and every social condition.

    Statistics show that 1 out of 3 women will be raped or beaten during her lifetime. Let it put it this way:
    a) if you're a man and you have a mother, a wife and a daughter, it means that one of them will be raped or beaten
    b) if you're a woman and you have a mother and a sister, it means one of you will be raped or beaten.

    That's one billion women. Hard to imagine, uh? That's why ONE BILLION RISING FOR JUSTICE campaign was born. A call to women, men, and youth around the world to gather safely on 14 February 2014 outside places where they are entitled to justice – court houses, police stations, government offices, school administration buildings, work places, sites of environmental injustice, military courts, embassies, places of worship, homes, or simply public gathering places where women deserve to feel safe but too often do not.

    The campaign is a recognition that we cannot end violence against women without looking at the intersection of poverty, racism, war, the plunder of the environment, capitalism, imperialism, and patriarchy. Impunity lives at the heart of these interlocking forces.

    Precisely today, Valentine's Day, we should all join a nearby event and claim for justice. But if you can't find an event near you there are other ways you can help the movement. By taking legal action and making the truth visible. By calling for an end of all forms of inequality, discrimination and patriarchy. By shaming perpetrators. By sharing your story or your vision of justice on all social networks. Above all, by treating all women, regardless of her age, religion or social condition, with dignity and respect.

    We can't remain silent. We can't stop fighting. Rise. Release. Dance!



  • This is a love story and a catharsis by artist and designer Sebastian Errazuriz. His way of letting go and simultaneously immortalizing the 12 love ghosts from the past.

    But instead of portraying his lovers he decided to transform them in shoes. The exhibition, held at Melissa pop-up store in Miami, ended last January, but you can enjoy it virtually in the blog 12 shoes for 12 lovers. The shoes are marvelous, but the stories around each one of them are also great. I learned that Sebastian was surprised by the police while having sex in his car with GI Jane, a colonel's daughter! And also that "The Virgin Anna" turned into a nun after losing her virginity with him.

    In several interviews, Sebastian confessed that most of these women were flattered, and some didn't realize they had such an impact in his life. Well, most of them but probably not "Ice Queen Sophie" or "Gold Digger Alison"...






    Make sure you check the artist website for more great work.
  • ...in 5 very hard steps!

    Since my first novel, Thirty Something, reached Amazon Top 100, lots of people have been asking how I did it. From journalists to aspiring writers, everyone wants to know my secret. Well, that's what I'm going to reveal in this post. That and a universal truth: there's no such thing as overnight success.

    Step 1: write a book
    Yes, you have to write a book, and that takes a long, long time. And after all the months or even years that took you to write your book, you must read over and over again, edit, rewrite, and be humble enough to accept the critics from beta readers. All this before you even consider sending the manuscript to a real editor or agent. If you're thinking about self-publishing, you should hire a professional editor to proof read your book and ensure that it meets minimum quality standards.
    (In my case, I also had to pay for the translation, as the book was originally written in Portuguese) 

    Step 2: self-publish
    With the help of platforms such as Amazon KDP, Lulu or Smashwords, self-publishing's never been easier. All process is simple and free, and there are always guides to help you format your document and help you through all the steps required. These platforms also offer a list of services or freelancers that can help you with the pagination, book cover and even promotion. Never neglect the cover of your book and don't try to do it by yourself just because you know a few things about Photoshop. People do judge a book by its cover. 
    (If you need a good illustrator I recommend the talented Sofia Silva, with whom I work for six years - and no, she's not a relative although we share the same name. Silva is one of the most common names in Portugal) 

    Step 3: beg for reviews
    This step is crucial, whether your book is self-publish or not. Online shopping is seldom lonely, and there's no bookseller to help you with you decision. So lots of readers rely on book reviews and ratings before purchasing a book. Since I published the Portuguese version a year before the English one, I started by asking all my friends who read the book to write an honest review. Then I asked all readers who contacted me to do the same, and finally I started contacting Amazon Top reviewers and bloggers in my genre. That's basically what traditional publishers do with book critics: sending a free copy in exchange for an honest review. But beware that some reviewers will be brutally honest and post 2 star reviews. I think that's great (although it can make you really sad when you first read it) because it proves that all reviews are real and not paid by the author or posted by fake profiles. A book with only 5 star ratings is very suspicious.

    Step 4: promote, promote, promote
    After publishing your work and after having dozens of real reviews, you must keep on promoting your book. Promoting a book online is a serious business and almost a full-time job. It's something me and my agent (who is also my husband) have been constantly working since the day the book was launched. There are thousands of books being published every day, and it's harder and harder to get attention. You must try traditional online media, such as banners, Google ads or Goodreads ads, but also be quite active in all social networks. Create a blog, a Facebook page, a Twitter account, an author profile at Amazon and Goodreads and Librarything. You should also try different prices, giveaways and bargain days for your book, because, at this point, you need readers. It's not about the money: few writers make money with their first few books. It's about engaging people so that they became fans and one day faithful readers.

    Step 5: repeat
    After all the effort to publish and promote you first book, you must keep on writing. Write another book and repeat all the steps. Having more titles gives you credibility and enhances your chances to appear in search engines results and recommendations. Also, when someone really likes a book, tends to buy the next books from the same author.

    That's it. That's how I did it. Not overnight, not by luck, but with lots of hard work and late hours. Hours that my husband and me "stole" from our son, our friends, our weekends, and our holidays. Yes, my book is good, and I write quite well, but as many said before, talent doesn’t take you anywhere if you don't work hard.


  • Every little kid looks up to someone. In the early years, usually it's someone within the family: first the parents, then the older siblings, cousins or parents friends. But as years go by, children start having other interests, and they shift towards people they don't know personally, such as the cool neighbour who rides an awesome motorcycle, the popular girl in school and above all the celebrity of the year.

    It's inevitable. Celebrities are all over the Media. They are beautiful, cheerful and usually come with lots of cool accessories, like convertible cars, bling bling jewellery and crazy hairstyles. Whether they're athletes, leading actors of the little ones favourite TV shows or pop singers, its no use to fight it: kids want to be like their beloved celebrity.

    So, suddenly we have strangers being role models to our kids. And, as we all know, not every celebrity is a good one. At first, they seek fame at whatever cost and are the first ones to say how happy they are with all the attention they're having and how grateful they are to all their fans, even the younger ones. But as pressure and fame rise, as their private lives are probed, some of them just lose their minds and start doing everything they shouldn't do in public: smoking, drinking, using drugs, releasing sex tapes or showing the finger to the cameras. All the glamour and glitter fades and we are stuck with just another spoiled and messed up human being, that couldn't care less for the fans.

    What can a parent do? Well, on one hand, we can hope we've done a good job showing our kids what's acceptable and what's not and wait for them to see for themselves that their favourite person isn't always that cool after all. On the other hand, we should, from an early stage, teach our children that celebrities are not super heroes. They can be extremely talented in some field, but they're also human like the rest of us. They have fears, they have bad days, and sometimes they make wrong decisions. Most of all, when doing this, we shouldn't be judgemental. Kids, especially Tweens and teens, don't react well to prohibitions. For instance, we shouldn't forbid our daughters to listen to Miley Cyrus songs just because her video clips are almost explicit, but we should let them know that girls don't need to show their body like that to get attention and be desirable. Something that, perhaps, Miley's parents forgot to do.





  • Here it is: the year-end review time. The day almost everyone has the urge to go through all major personal events of the year (and even the minor ones). There always is a piece of regret, a bit of self-pity and a certain dose of pride for any achievements.

    There are weddings, births and promotions. There are divorces, mourning and unemployment. All of this happening at the same time, to the same person or family. And then there is also the classic year-end media review that only makes us feel more insignificant before all the outstanding events the world witnessed. What did I do for mankind? How can I complain before the news about Syria? How can I brag before the great achievements of people like Mandela?

    But I can! We all can because we are human. Because we may be lucky enough to live far away from a war zone, but we still carry our own small tragedies. Our achievements may not change the whole world, but they can change someone's world. And mainly because few of us will write our names in History, but we all are part of it, with our little exciting lives, our little inspiring routines and our greatly mundane desires.We shouldn’t feel less worthy just because our good deed of the year was helping an old lady cross the street. Tomorrow we can start over. Or the day after tomorrow. Actually at any point in our life.

    Álvaro de Campos wrote that « the world is for the ones that are born to conquer it and not for the ones that dream they can conquer it, even if they are right.» But what's left if we don't dream?

    Let's then dream 2014 as we please. A year when we can be heroes to someone, geniuses in any activity (even if it's crossword solving!), or when we can just be ourselves, with all our flaws. Some will dream of peace in the world, long health and the cure to cancer. Some will dream of a new car, a lover or a Chanel bag. It doesn't matter how big or how frivolous the dream is for as long as we can choose our own dreams, we will be free. Even in the darkest days. Even in this petty country.

    ©Steve Simpson

  • This isn’t a night like any other. If only because it’s full of hope and promise that it’s going to be special. It’s a time for forgiving, loving, forgetting differences. And yet every year, decade after decade, I see the same anguish, the same lies, the same stories. I see children repeating the errors of their parents. I see grandchildren laughing at the same pranks that made their grandparents laugh. Only the time changes, and for me it doesn’t pass so quickly.

    Seven in the evening.

    The air is beginning to smell of sweet fritters and firewood.

    The blonde girl wipes her tears and retouches her makeup in the car’s rear-view mirror as the young man takes some bags from the boot. Without a word he waits for her to decide to get out, take the baby that’s asleep in the back seat and follow him to door number seven. I haven’t seen her looking so sad since that time when she used to wear her hair in braids, her knees skinned under her dress and a dog, forever immobile, lying in her arms.

    At the window of 4E, a woman peeps anxiously between the curtains. He won’t be here for hours, she knows. But she can’t help gazing out at the street that’s dark now, in anxious expectation of the headlights of the blue Ford.

    At number nine on the second floor, the man is still on the sofa. He’s lost count of the number of beers his wife has brought him every time he’s shouted for one. The kitchen is full of fumes as the extractor fan’s been broken for three years. And she still has the rabanadas* to make.

    On the fifth floor is the happy family. Their tree is the prettiest, their children the best-behaved, their presents the most expensive. The smiles multiply as the rest of the family arrives in groups. Four generations.

    And now a car stops down below, but it isn’t the blue Ford. Two men say goodbye with a kiss on the lips. One, the driver, sets off. The other, the passenger, takes a deep breath and hides his wedding ring in his jacket pocket as he makes for his parents’ house in the building next door.

    Nine in the evening.

    A drizzling rain is falling that everyone wishes was snow; except for me, as it would burn my leaves. Snow would be more romantic, it’s true.

    The blonde girl is smiling again. The young man too, although the rage still simmers in his eyes. The baby is passed around, infecting everyone with its innocence as if to prove to all those who opposed its existence how magic a tiny being can be. The incarnation of hope. Every possibility still open.

    At the window of 4E, the woman looks out one last time before going to sit alone at the table. She could have gone back to her hometown. It’s always at times like this you regret not having gone back. But then again, what would she have to say to them all? How was she supposed to show an interest in their provincial lives, always the same stories, always the questions wrapped up in reproachful tones?

    The man on the second floor keeps drinking, though now he’s finally left the sofa. The children pretend they don’t care. They have to smile for their mother’s sake, she’s had so much to do. She even made the rabanadas, which are always left over, because no one likes fries.

    The happy family is all smiles as it shares a sumptuous meal. The father of the children is busy sending text messages under the table. His wife pretends not to understand. It’s Christmas. We’re supposed to smile. The envious sister-in-law can’t take her eyes off her brother’s wife, who’s always so well dressed, so well turned out, while she doesn’t even have money for a manicure. The matriarch of the family looks wide-eyed at her husband every time he refills his glass. ‘You shouldn’t drink so much. Who’s going to drive us to church?’ The adolescents are playing games with each other on their mobile phones. Grandmother pretends to be deaf and makes the most of the occasion by seeing only the good side of things: the family all together, perhaps for the last time, who knows. She also makes the most of the occasion by hiding a few more dried figs in the pocket of her cardigan, to enjoy when no one’s looking.

    The man in the house next door keeps on mouthing off about his fantastic travels and confecting stories about his Parisian girlfriend that things are getting serious with. Maybe next year, if all goes well, he’ll persuade her to come to Portugal. His mother’s eyes shine with joy. How she’d like to have a grandchild.

    Midnight.

    The magic hour.

    The blonde girl pretends to like the present the young man has given her. She doesn’t want to go to bed in a bad mood yet again. He’s a good boy, deep down. Really, he is.
    The woman in 4E is dozing on the sofa as the candles melt down in their holders.
    The man on the second floor has staggered off to bed, without waiting for the opening of the presents. His wife fights back her tears. It isn’t all bad. She has her children and her grandchildren. She has to keep going, for their sake. Tomorrow’s a bridge we’ll cross when we come to it.

    Most of the happy family has gone to midnight mass. All except the adolescents, who have stayed behind to look after their younger cousins. They smoke joints at the window as the children jump on the sofa, cranked up on sugar.

    The man in the building next door hands out expensive presents he’s brought from his exotic travels. But all his mother wants is a grandchild. Don’t say she’ll die without having a grandchild.

    Dawn.

    A mist falls.

    The blonde girl tells the young man sorry as soon as they get in the car. Let’s start again. Let’s have another baby. A baby makes everything right with its sweetness. Everything will be different, I promise.

    The blue Ford finally arrives. The woman at the window squirms with excitement. She knows she doesn’t have much time. He told his wife he was just going out for a little air, to get over his supper. But that one hour is enough for her. The hour she pretends they’re a couple. The hour she pretends she has a family. He’s brought her another piece of jewellery, when all she wanted was a little more love. But that’s all right. One hour’s enough to dream.

    At number 9 on the second floor, the woman is cleaning the house in silence. She can’t wake up her husband, for she knows what will happen to her. She cleans the house as if she were cleansing her life of its sorrows. These sorrows are many, encrusted like the grease in the extractor fan that hasn’t worked for three years. She swallows back her tears and her visions of what might have been. As long as you have your health all the rest you can endure.

    The happy family disbands. Tomorrow the cynicism will continue. Now each couple sets off for home, bad-mouthing the others all the way. Except for the teens, who are sleeping sounder than the children. Little angels.

    The man in the building next door calls a taxi. He’s looking forward to getting home and laughing with his partner over the lies they had to tell their respective families. They laugh to conceal their chagrin at not being able to spend that night together. Maybe next year it will be different. Maybe next year they’ll have the courage.

    One by one the lights go out and the noise of the car engines fades. Another Christmas Eve has come and gone. There were no miracles to bring instant happiness or solutions to all the problems no one wanted to talk about. In a few hours' time, everything will be as it was before. As it always is.

    I wait for the first rays of sun to warm my branches. It doesn’t look like it’s going to rain, now.
























    *rabanadas is a typical Potuguese Christmas dessert, similar to French Toast
  • Just when I thought I would waive all luxury products and be happy with a simpler life, Cartier reminds me how frivolous I am. Oh well, what can I do? This Juste un Clou Collection is so me! Do you hear me Santa?







  • I recently found a really inspiring project. It's called Maria Riding Company, was officially born in 2012, and it's nothing more than restoring motorcycles. Well, actually it is more. It's a total transformation of a classic motorcycle into something completely new, truly original, but with a vintage twist. In other words, a work of art.

    But since riding is something you can do off the road, Maria Riding Company also offers the most beautiful surfboards in the world (at least to me). I fact, they are so beautiful that I'm seriously thinking about quitting body boarding and learn how to surf, just to have one of those boards. Then they also make incredibly gorgeous accessories, backpacks and t-shirts. Looking at Maria's pieces makes us dream about a Summer road trip on the East Coast. Or better yet: on the Costa Alentejana.


    It's worth browsing through their website, so aspirational, and dream about that road trip while thinking about the true meaning of the brand's claim:

    Extraordinary Rides for Unconventional People.






  • Before I had a child, the only thing that got me out of bed before eleven on a Sunday morning was a flight to catch. And then in winter, it was worse. It was an achievement to get up for breakfast, and even if I did I’d go back to bed till lunchtime. All that ends when you have a child of course. I’m lucky if my son sleeps till nine, and by eleven, it’s not unusual for us to be returning home after a walk around the block or a quick trip to the supermarket.

    During these walks, I’ve discovered that there are actually lots of people who get up early on Sundays. To do sports, go fishing, walk the dogs, see sights, whatever. So far, so good. But what I didn't know, and only just found out, is that Sundays are a kind of parallel universe. Populated by families with small children.

    It all began when a good friend of mine invited me to a concert for babies. On a Sunday. Ten in the morning. Outside the city. When the alarm went off just after eight that morning, I went into a state of shock. My body actually hurt, and I could hardly manage to speak. Quick shower, quick breakfast, baby fixed in baby-carrier, quickly. When we got there, I was expecting all the other parents to meet me with that knowing look of solidarity that said ‘There you go again making a little sacrifice for your baby.’ But to my enormous surprise the hall was full of happy, smartly dressed families and the only looks I got said ‘You could at least have combed your hair.’ More surprising still, there were parents here who were doing this for the third or fourth time. Now, I even found the concert fun as an experience (and I’d like to take this chance to thank my friend for the invite), and I can understand why a lot of people would want to go back, but why not at three in the afternoon? Why not at midday?

    The reason is simple. It’s that parallel universe, populated by families that go out on Sunday mornings, of their own free will, and need something to keep them occupied. In this universe, concerts and plays begin at ten and birthday parties at ten thirty (!!!), and they’re full of entire families well turned out, wide awake, not a hair out of place, made-up and dressed up, at that time of the morning.

    In the regular world, Sunday mornings are for resting, for nursing a hangover, for making the most of the only day in the week when the alarm clock doesn't go off. Even when there are early-waking babies around, it’s the one day we can be more relaxed about everything we do, when we can really enjoy our breakfast and play around in the living room without always looking at the time. In the parallel universe of families with small children, everyone’s had a bath by eight o’clock; everyone’s out of the house by nine and all the various events are underway by ten.

    Now I’ve found out this parallel universe exists, all I want to do is stay in mine. In my family, Sunday mornings are for wearing pyjamas until noon.


  • It's not a secret that my favorite brand is Dior. It's also no secret that one of my favorite contemporary artists is Joana Vasconcelos. But having the opportunity to see these two names together is simply fascinating (at least to me!).

    Joana was one of the fifteen women artists invited by Dior to find inspiration for their contemporary creations in Miss Dior, the fragrance. And the result couldn't be more exciting. Congratulations Joana for another outstanding piece of art.

    Bottle sketch
    The artists

    Making of Joana's Piece

    Making of Joana's Piece

    Making of Joana's Piece

    Making of Joana's Piece

    the final result


    Miss Dior Exhibition
    November 13-25, 2013
    Grand Palais - Paris
    Free exhibition open to the public

  • Today is a historical day for me as I reached the Amazon Top 100 on Women's Fiction and the 630 position on the overall Amazon sales rank! It's something no other Portuguese author has ever accomplished, not even the Nobel Prize José Saramago and other great authors I look up to.

    I want to thank all my readers and all those who spent their time and money buying my book. I really hope you find my book worth it.


    The book that reached the Top 100




  • My dear Ronaldo,

    (I'm sorry for writing in such a familiar way when I don't know you personally, but I am so fond of you that I can't write Dear Sir or something formal like that.)

    Like any public figure you know how fame attracts love and hate. Fame, wealth, success and talent. And when someone has these four elements combined, like you do, it's hard not to be constantly on the spotlight for all that hate and envy. But in your case, I believe that for every bit of hate, whether it comes from the high instances of Football or the lowest street bar, you receive the double in love. Yes, love. For like me, there are millions of other people who love and admire you and who know that you are an incredible man and athlete. And I know that fortunately you are aware of that too.

    I'm extremely proud of watching you play, no matter the colour of your jersey (although I regret it's not the Benfica one), not only because you're Portuguese like me but mainly because I am aware of the long and winding road you walked until you arrived where you stand today. The invidious like to talk about your haircut, your cars, your girlfriends, but they don't talk about the years you spent apart from your family, nor the days you stood on the training field while the others went home, running and practicing to become the extraordinary player you are. They talk about your fancy holidays or the parties you attend but they don't talk about the hospitals you visit, the kids you greet or the autographs you give to everyone, even when you're in a tight schedule and wish to go home quickly. They talk about your sisters' outfits or your mother's hairdo, but they don't talk about the love and security they give you, which undoubtedly gave you strength in the hard times and kept you on track, unlike other athletes who become blind by fame and money.

    Speaking of money, it is rightfully yours, literally earned with your sweat and tears, with your supernatural talent and I'm glad you can provide a fantastic life to the ones you love. Money never misled you, never took the joy away from your game and never stopped you from surpassing your limits. And it's been a pleasure to watch you surpassing your limits every time you play for the last ten years.

    I wasn't born in Pelé's golden days, I never watched "my" Eusébio play and I was just a little Barbie girl when Maradona and other great talent of the eighties were spreading their magic. The first time I paid attention to soccer was when I watched a documentary on Van Basten and I only became hooked to the game and I set foot on Estádio da Luz for the first time. I saw all great Portuguese (and foreign) players live several times, from the maestro Rui Costa to Luís Figo. But I've never seen a player like you. You have an element that only the greatest have. The element that makes us stay glued to the pitch, that makes us yell, that fills our hearts. The element of the legendary.

    To me, no matter what anyone says, you are the best in the world. The greatest ever! If only you wore the Benfica jersey...


    Love,

    Filipa







  • Over the years, I've been realizing that there are several patterns in Mom behaviour, which can be easily grouped in eight different stereotypes. Some are more uptight, some more easy-going, and others are explosive mixtures such as "The Lame and Hypochondriac Mom" or "The Hippie and Moony Mom". But the most important thing is that they are all Moms, which means they are superior human beings who can give life and unconditional love. Each one in her own peculiar way.

    Cool Mom - This is the type of Mom we all become one day: if not before, when we have our third child. It's a kind of rebel Mom, who reads the books only to make sure that she won't be doing anything they tell her to do. She's never seen a sterilizer, and if the pacifier falls on the floor, she simply rubs it against her shirt and moves on. Her motto is: our mothers didn't have sterilizers and we all survived. She doesn't like breastfeeding; she leaves her kids with anyone whom volunteers to babysit, and she doesn't care if someone touches her baby before washing the hands. It's the type of Mom who smiles while her children eat sand at the beach or that never takes the kid to the hospital unless there's lots of blood.
    When her kids grow up, this Mom lets them do all kind of dangerous things such as climbing trees, playing alone outside, riding the subway or choosing their own activities. Some people see Cool Mom as totally irresponsible; others see her as a role model.

    Fashion Mom - Fashion Mom dreams about being Victoria Beckham or Angelina Jolie, whose public appearances are Vogue cover worthy and whose outfit choices become instant trends (for both Moms and children). It's the kind of Mom who doesn't leave a single detail to chance: from the bottle to the stroller, everything must be branded or design by a trendy designer whose name we can't pronounce; the birth announcement cards make Stefan Sagmeister blush; the photos she shares (on Instagram, obviously!) are professionally edited; and the nursery must be decorated by an interior designer, when not by herself since she usually works in the fashion/design/architecture industry.
    Any mother who believes she looks nice in a particular day will immediately feel underdressed when compared to a Fashion Mom. So you should avoid being around one when your self-esteem is low.

    Hypochondriac Mom - This Mom is every paediatrician's nightmare. She already was her obstetrician's nightmare: he changed his phone number three times in nine months. She's the kind of Mom who reads about some disease and immediately starts noticing all symptoms in her kid. (The worst part is that she is always looking for new medical information.) At the first sneeze she winds her baby in a wool blanket, she always dresses him in three layers of clothes, and she has temperature control in every room to assure that the house is perfectly acclimatized. Baby's visitors must take their shoes off before they enter the house, and if they have a stuffy nose, they'd better not show up at all. Her best allies are sterilizers, air purifiers and hand sanitizers. Her worst enemy: the nursery school. She lives in constant anxiety, and when her kids grow up and leave the house, she will call them every day to make sure they are warm enough and took their vitamins.




    Hippie Mom- The Zen Mom who stands up for natural birth (preferably in water) and breastfeeding until elementary school. Her babies use cloth diapers and second hand or organic clothes, and they usually sleep in their parent's bed until they're old enough to beg to have their own beds. She avoids vaccination, television and 21st century gadgets in general. She usually is a vegetarian and the first time her children will try a Happy Meal it's when they're old enough to go to the restaurant by themselves. Or if they're lucky to have a rebel teacher who's tired of watching them stare at other kids lunch while holding a Tofu salad, and lets them try normal food behind Hippie Mom's back.
    She carries her babies in wraps until they're three years old, takes them to baby yoga classes and always chooses outdoor activities that respect the Great Mother Nature. Her dream is living in a farm, as far away from western civilization as possible, where her kids can run absolutely free (and naked).



    Lame Mom - the term may sound a bit critic and it actually is because this is the most annoying type of Mom. It's the Mom who thinks she knows it all (although she gave birth less than a week ago) and doesn't understand why can there be other activity in life besides being a Mom. She's always giving parenting advices, even if you didn't ask for it, and she likes to show how her parenting methods and decisions are the best ones - how couldn't they be since she read EVERYTHING about it?
    Since she became a Mom her world changed: now only her children matter and that's the only subject of every conversation. Her workplace is just a place she goes to get an audience for her monologues on parenting; her husband is just a guy who carries her bags, pays her bills and stays by her side in the multiple child-related events she goes to; and her friends have to have kids because women with no kids are miserable and don't like conversations about labour, breastfeeding and pre-schools. By the way, pre-schools are a primary concern for a "Lame Mom" because she believes early-childhood education is as valuable as college education, and God forbids if Jane's kids go to a better pre-school than her kids.
    She belongs to every Mom group, knows about every Mom blog and experienced every family activity available, as long as it's mainstream and paediatrician approved. Needless to say that she is über competitive, she thinks her children are the best, and can't stand Hippie Moms, Cool Moms or anyone who dares to say that there are other exciting things in the world besides babies.


    Mimic Mom - This Mom is so insecure that she's always seeking for advice and approval. If someone mentions a safer car seat, she buys it; if someone tells her the best preschool is across the town, she transfers her kids right away; if Joe had an awesome birthday party, she begs for the caterer contacts. In other words: she never goes with her instinct and does whatever a Lame Mom (or her own Mom) says. She's always comparing her children to other children to make sure they are normal and brought up correctly, and she frequently cries at night while wondering if she's a good Mom. The answer is usually right in front of her, if only she knew that all kids need is love (and a smile).

    Moony Mom - This is a Mom who has her heart on the ground but her head in the clouds. She's the type who had a drink at a party because she forgot she was pregnant or packed the hospital bag when her water broke. She's also the kind of Mom who realizes she ran out of diapers at 2 am, burns supper, and forgets her children birthday. Despite all that, she is caring and playful and is always there for her kids. Unless she forgets to pick them up at school... That's why her children know that if they need something important, such as a homemade dress for the school play, they ought to ask their grandmother. This makes Moony Mom frustrated because she is usually a very artsy person.

    Momzilla - For all of you who aren't fond of Comics, this is the combination of the words Mom and Godzilla, the scary Japanese monster. It's the kind of Mom who's always stressing out, yelling with her kids and imposing strict rules. Like the monster she doesn't like human beings in general and children in particular, especially when they start answering back and having their own will. Usually a Momzilla is someone who got pregnant by accident or social pressure, and she can't wait for the day her kids leave to college so that she can have her life back. Sometimes she is able to be sweet and tender, but always in private. She's a strong supporter of boarding schools and summer camps.
    (Every mother has her Momzilla moment, sooner or later.)