If you can't fight the urge to clap on a plane that has just landed!
If your boyfriend plucks, waxes or in any other way grooms his eyebrows even more than you do, then you are most likely a Latina...dating a Latino!
If even though you're fluent in English, you still refer to going grocery shopping as a compra.
If you have ever committed the cardinal sin and fashion faux pas of wearing socks with sandals!
If something immensely sad or something immensely adorable both elicit the exact same response of "Hay Bendito!".
If your grandmother's chancletas seemed to have some mystical boomerang powers, you know, she threw it at you and somehow it was magically back in her hand before you could even look up from your hiding place, then you are definitely Latina!
If Vick's VaporRub was pronounced Bibaporú and used by everyone in your family to cure anything from burns to acne to La Gripa to infertility.
If you have ever sat down on a couch and then immediately fallen off because of the slippery smooth surface created by the plastic covering the entire living room set...Latina all the way baby!
If you grew up with a mother and/or grandmother who made you eat a ton of their food to prove how much you loved them, and then called you gordita five minutes later while pinching your chichos!
If you are completely fed up with being called, fiery, spicy, caliente or any other adjective that could also describe a chili pepper, you are absolutely, positively, undeniably Latina.
The land of Moscow -- the land that is my native,
Where in the dawn of my best years,
I spared the hours of carelessness, attractive,
Free of unhappiness and fears.
And you had seen the foes of my great nation,
And you were burned and covered with blood!
And I did not give up my life in immolation,
My wrathful spirit just was wild!...
Where is the Moscow of hundred golden domes,
The dear beauty of the native land?
Where yore was the real peer to Rome,
The ruins, miserable, lied.
Oh, how, Moscow, for us, your sight, is awful!
The buildings of landlords and kings are fully swept,
All perished in a flame. The towers are mournful,
The villas of the rich are felled.
And where the luxury was thriving,
In shady parks and gardens, in the past,
Where myrtle was fragrant, limes were shining,
There now are just coals, ash, and dust.
At charming summer nights, when silent darkness roves,
The noisy gaiety would not appear there,
The lights are vanished over lakes and groves,
All dead and silent. All unfair.
Be calm, o, Russia's banner's holder,
Look at the stranger's quickly coming end,
On their proud necks and void of labor shoulders,
The Lord's vindictive arm is laid.
Behold: they promptly run, without look at road,
In Russian snows their blood like river's flood,
They run in dark of night, felled by famine and cold,
And swords of Russians, from behind.