A Very Merry Christmas Break Up Story

The day you realize that you can relate to Miley Cyrus* desperately riding a swinging ball without a layer of underwear to protect your privates is the same day that you need to stop it right now.

Instead, I'm going to give Adele a call and ask if I can live with her. OMGeejus how fun would that be!? Her baby and guy could go be someplace else, and Dels and I would eat chocolate peanut butter balls next to the wine fountain in black muumuus, knee socks and Crocs.

When we're tired of that (if ever), we'll lock ourselves in a stable in the English countryside. She'll smoke fags, and I'll pretend to smoke fags until my album is complete. It's called 27. 

These are the songs:

1. Rolling in Dog Poop
2. I'm 35 Ana Haf (The World's Oldest Child)
3. Your Selfies Are Extremely Stupid
4. Captain A-hole Moby Dick
5. Set Fire to Everything I Can't Sell
6. No, You Can't Have Your Stuffs (I'm Selling Your Stuffs)
7. Don't Add 'S' to Stuff Because It's Already Plural I Told You That
8. Where Are My Shits to Give!? I Can't Find My Shits to Give!
9. You're Not Really a Model (Snap)
10. Namaste
11. Someone Like You Is Bad

After I get rich and build my house next to Adele's with a telescope room, Roman bath and spiral slide, I'm going to donate a huge amount of money to organizations that empower girls and women (and therefore insecure men) by activating the part of us that doesn't put up with bullshit.

But do people still wear these? 

*I've acknowledged her in this blog three times now, and that really bothers me...but I'm not going to stop.

An Ode to Fabian, My Greatest Failure

"Fuck me, I'm famous."

That's how 11 year-old Fabian usually greets me, and I usually answer, "No, thank you," because I want my students to learn polite English. His real name isn't Fabian, but he's fabulous, so that's what I call him. He also goes by Fabio, Cody Taylor (his preferred moniker) and Gravy Brown. Sometimes he calls me Lola Pink which is a nice reprieve from *Stefani Germanotta.

We've been meeting every Wednesday for a year, yet I've taught him nothing. He's really proud of this, and I don't care anymore. Therefore, we spend most of our time role playing celebrity interviews, acting as fashion police (I'm usually the offending perp) and arguing about pop stars. Before you judge me too harshly, I've got to tell you that this is the kid who made me **change all the aliens in his workbook to Adeles so that he could more accurately describe and relate to them.

One time I spelled the word limousine for him because it comes up a lot in our conversations. He spelled it limousini, and I said, "No, the English 'e'. What you wrote is Italian." For the next 40 minutes, we tried our damnedest to out-Pacino each other. To this day, if I start to get frustrated with him, he whispers, "Limousini," and we both get the giggle fits until we stop functioning.

Like all fabulous people, he isn't without his flaws. He measures people's worth by their material possessions, so my ancient phone cube is a real struggle for him. Sometimes he makes me hide it from his view, sometimes he demands to play the one game on it because if I don't who will? and sometimes he calls the man I'd just told the night before that I don't want to see him anymore. After I karate chopped the phone from his hand and explained his faux pax through my spittle, his pre-pubescent voice shrieked, "Helllloooooo!? I am the boyfriend of Emma! We are never, ever, ever getting back together!" Good save, Fabian.

We've only really had one fight. My dogs were killing me because I'd just gotten them tattooed, as you do, and had been walking all day. I'd slipped off my sandals to let them breath, and he just couldn't abide my hippie (his word) ways. He demanded that I put them back on, but I refused.

"Put your shoes or I going to tell my mother that you try poison me!"
"Are you blackmailing me!?" I retorted.
Fabian, "Yes!"
"You don't even know what that means!" I said.
"...now, I do," he responded with the international sign for bitch slap.

I guess I have taught him something.

These are the three most beautiful women in the world (in order) according to Fabian. 

I'm not as offended as I should be. P.S. I love him. 

* I once made the mistake of telling him that Lady Gaga is two days older than me.
**I actually drew bouffants and black dresses on all of them. We were both very satisfied.

Catching Fire

I can't possibly be alone when I secretly wish that something pretty cool and *definitely dangerous will happen to me just so I'll have a good story to tell. Can I get a witness?

Cha-ching. Here's what happened:

Halloween may as well be called Go Big or Go Home. I chose to go big as Joaquin Phoenix when we all thought he'd lost his damn mind, and though I'll be the first to admit that's a bit dated, I'll also be the first to admit that I just wanted to wear that rad beard I'd bought for a wig party again because it made me feel good.

Looking crazy always requires a lot of hairspray and backcombing (foreshadowing). Tease, spray, tease, spray, tease, spray...If you know exactly what I'm talking about, congratulations you're a crazy person.

I killed it, and did nothing but kill it some more at the candlelit party. In fact, all of us were killing it because my friends are awesome, but eventually, we decided to go be awesome someplace else. I was trying to help herd people out the door when I got my bright, shining moment.

I had no idea what had happened until it was done. In fact, the only thing I remember from what couldn't have taken more than 3 seconds was Poppy (aptly dressed as a super hero called Swift Cunt and now sole heir to my estate) throwing herself at me and frantically beating me about the head. Apparently, my hair had caught fire and lit up like a giant torch.

Next thing I knew I was on the street combing out pieces of ash and bits of hair with my fingers laughing (hopefully not manically) in disbelief but also with it enough to realize I'd struck blog gold. People fussed a bit and hairdressers were praised, but I was clearly okay and the party wasn't going to slay itself, so we continued on and had a **great night despite the fact that I smelled like death on a rotisserie.

Everyone has since given me their personal account of what went down. The common threads are: it happened very quickly, and it was horrifying.

I've also learned that others jumped in to help as well (thank you, thank you a million times) and that ultimately, I was the luckiest person in the room because not only do I not have to have skin grafts, I don't even have to get a haircut (we decided over pizza the next night that you can barely even tell), and I'm not among those who now have an image of their friend's head on fire burned into their brains forever.

I've never felt so close to Michael, and I hope I never will again.

This is Swift Cunt AKA Poppy and me not long before the incident. Fun fact: She's wearing my underwear. 

You know how in books or movies when one saves another's life, the saved is forever indebted until he/she can return the favor? That's a real thing because it's exactly how I feel. Poppy, I can't thank you enough for not hesitating for one second to put your bare hands into flames to save my neck. I hope something really bad happens to you soon so that I can save you, and you can see how grateful I really am. You're a damn good pal.



*But always in these scenarios I'll somehow know that I'll emerge completely unscathed. That bit's important.
**Except for the lion I met on the street who said, "Whoa, man! I can smell your beard from here."

Happy Halloween, Witches!

Once upon a time, I lived with a witch. You're *all like, "Girl, who hasn't?" But I don't mean witch like bitch. I mean witch like bruja.

Ty saw it almost immediately. He'd come with me to view the apartment "for protection" which is hilarious if you know him. I don't know if it was the big-breasted, axe-wielding centaur tattoo on her arm, the painting of her dressed in lingerie dangling a wolf's head, the skeleton soap dish in the bathroom or the fact that she looked exactly like a witch that tipped him off, but I thought she was fabulous.

Shortly after I moved in, she invited me to picnic with her in the park. She had been mistaken when she'd told me that she was a great cook, but that might just have been the taste of the poison. As I was choking down whatever she'd made because it was free and I didn't want to be rude (in that order), I bit into something sharp. I yanked her ragged, purple fingernail from my molar and studied it for a while because I was trying to make it be something else. I, however, am not a witch, so it didn't work.

My second clue was that she always kept her bedroom door locked from the outside and would compulsively check it before leaving the apartment. Normally, I couldn't care less what goes on in my housemates' rooms so long as they're not doing it in mine, but her secretiveness once drove me to the point of contemplating the three foot jump between our balconies. It wasn't the fear of falling to my death that stopped me but the thought that I might somehow get stuck over there, and she'd find me and do experiments on my body. I'm no fool.

Then there was the first time I put my sheets on the bed. I noticed a strange stain on the old set that belonged to I don't even want to know. But I put that straight out of my head because I don't like to judge, and I'm the twenty-seven year old who's still sleeping on used mattresses. A few weeks later, we had a rain that lasted through the night. When I woke, I was...damp. I thought the ceiling had a leak, but the rank, dirty water was coming from inside the mattress. Oh. My. God. My friend Kiki and I hauled it out to the street that evening, and as we were examining our yellow-stained arms, she said something like, "Maybe someone died and was rotting on there." Oh. My. God.

Eventually I discovered that she wasn't really a witch but a massive hoarder. Someone had stolen her purse, and my dainty German flat mate had to help her break in her door. He described the sight to me later over several glasses of wine, as we both had had it. Apparently, the room was nearly the size of the rest of our apartment and stuffed floor to ceiling with mildewed boxes, heaping piles of clothing and broken furniture. A narrow path led to a double mattress on the floor that was completely covered except for one human-sized corner.

I now live in a comfortable apartment with an amazing view over the city. It's not filled with crap, and my roommates really are fabulous. One of our friends described them as a sexier Winnie and Sarah from Hocus Pocus.

Hoarding is the only thing scarier than witches.
"A muck! A muck! A muck! A muck!" 

*I know this doesn't include my family, ex-boyfriend and all former/current roommates.

Uh, True Colors are Not Always Beautiful Like a Rainbow, Cyndi.

We are a judgmental bunch of hypocrites, and I hope we never change. Of course most of my favorite people aren't that judgy, and I really have to focus my energy away from growing as a person to catch them in an act of hypocrisy just so I can finally rub their faces in it. Unfortunately, I am not one of my favorite people. To use that tired, old expression from I believe the New Testament (don't quote me on that), "If you don't have anything nice to say, come sit next to me."

We're really good (horrible) at judging others but really, truly horrible (inept) at judging ourselves. We're constantly over or underestimating ourselves, and I believe it's impossible for us to be so self aware that we can predict exactly what we will say, how we will feel and what we will do when confronted with something unexpected.

Please don't worry. I'm not Aesop, and I'm not about to drop a fable. This is just a story about how I misjudged and completely *overestimated myself by judging someone else even though I was kind of right.

Ever since I suspected that my baby sister was braver than me, it's been very important to me to be seen as a courageous person**. I can't stand it when people accuse me of being intelligent or "not as bitchy as you look" or remarkably beautiful. I only really respond to, "I think you're brave."

I'd just splurged on an iPod shuffle because I was tired of being present while walking through the city and wanted to increase my chances of getting hit by a bus or robbed (because I'm brave). I was bee bopping along when I felt her running at me from 7 o'clock. I turned just as she started to kick my knees and shins while yelling something about something. I fended off the point of attack then raised my eyes to hers ready to get it on like a video game.

I'd seen her several colon twisting times before but never from that close, so instead of fightin' words, the only thing that came out of my mouth was a loud and terribly embarrassing scream-grunt that lasted for half a block of my block and a half sprint (probably at a record-breaking pace).

The woman has no nose. It's really unsettling because you can actually see into her head through the gaping hole in the middle of her face, and you're never prepared for it. This is how I felt in rapid fire order: shock/awe, terror, heightened terror, panic attack, super human speed, paranoia, asthma attack, relief, shame, extreme guilt, relief again.

Let's break down the last 4:
relief- She hadn't followed me.
shame- I'd always pictured myself as a fighter, but I was disappointed to learn that I'm a flighter. Judge it.
extreme guilt- I actually screamed in a human being's face because of what her face looks like, and I would judge you for not judging me for that.
relief again- Now I can be afraid of her because she once assaulted me and not because she can only leave the house one day a year without people going into hysterics. Judge me again.

Had you warned me that this was going to happen, I would've laughed and said you're not serious before I said, "Oh, you're serious. Okay. I would take her by the shoulders and say, 'Hey lady, you obviously don't have a nose and not having a nose must suck (something that maybe you can't do?) so hard, but you don't want to do this. I need my legs like you need a nose. I'll buy you a coffee, and we can talk about how you feel about not having a nose. I'm sorry I judged you before. Noses. Nose.'" But that's just the kind of person I wish I was and not who I actually am.

Maybe I'll do that next time?

Who needs parents when you could just read (I preferred to watch) this?

*I'm exceptional at overestimating myself.
**Pixar made a film inspired by me in 2012.

The Biotribe Hostel

You know that feeling when you wake up in an unfamiliar place and Nancy Kerrigan is screaming, "Whyeeee!?" in your head repeatedly? Personally, I have no idea what that's like, but I can imagine what you must go through. No, the closest I've come is knowing exactly where I'm about to wake up, but Nancy's still there.

One of those times was in Lisbon...with hippies.

I still don't know where we went wrong. The plan was perfect. Kirsten (expired license), Azza (license not valid in Spain) and I (more with a theoretical knowledge of how a manual car goes and less of an actual making the car go knowledge) decided to drive across two countries twice in five days and four nights. This wasn't amateur hour*, so we decided to drive straight through the first night.

From the outside, the hostel looked inviting to three weary travelers. We couldn't wait to trudge in and throw our bodies onto whatever ten euros a night buys you in Portugal. The tribe, however, had other plans for us. The first tribeswoman we encountered smiled widely, checked us in, told us our beds wouldn't be ready for another six hours then went through the checklist of things we weren't allowed to do. She was one of the saltiest, earthiest people I've ever met except for the intense amount of dental work going on in her mouth that hypnotized me every time she smiled (often) and said something mean (more often). The one thing we were allowed to do was sleep in the garden.

The garden was beautiful, but we had no shits to give about that. Azza passed out in the hammock, Kirsten draped herself over an old armchair and I started in the tire swing but ended up on some wood pallets infested with ants. We explored the city after our quick nap then returned when our beds were supposed to be ready. They weren't.

João was the chief of what he called the Biotribe**. He was also the chief of not getting our beds ready, just okay looking dreadlocks and assholes. Braceface had explained earlier that we would be locked out of the hostel if we didn't return before midnight which was clearly a stupid Cinderella rule that had João written all over it. However, she gave us a wink and said she'd leave the back door unlocked if we gave her a heads up. Unfortunately, we couldn't find Braceface before we went out for the evening, so we left our fate in the hands of the chief who was clearly lying when he said he'd keep the door open.

We crept back through the garden at 12:30 nervous that we would startle the dog that we were told would definitely bite us. We were rabies free when we got to the locked back door. Thankfully, a tribesman was still up watching TV.

In Biotribe, the words private room translate to one room with several twin mattresses on the floor separated by bed sheets. Each "room" has a homemade (very dangerous) lamp*** and fruit crate that is color coordinated with a bigger fruit crate nailed to the wall and called your "closet." A bottle of shampoo is too heavy to go in your "closet", but you can definitely put some socks in there.

The next morning, Nancy woke me up from what I have to admit was a deep and comfortable sleep. Azza and I found some tarot cards in the Bioethics Holistic Meditation Quinoa Namaste Room and brazenly started playing with them while we waited for Kirsten. Braceface heard the commotion we definitely weren't making and came upstairs. She flashed a metallic smile and said something like, "This is not a playroom for children. You are not allowed to touch those. If you would like to learn about them, you can ask Tribeswoman Other Lady." We'd spent a day and a half trying to avoid learning anything from these people, so we declined and checked out.

 

I'm just kidding! Tonya Harding is the chief of assholes.

 

*Yes, it was. Kirsten was talking nonsense and holding her blinks for a scary long time. I could only do highway driving because I'm a dainty, kept princess who possesses no useful skills and contributes nothing to society and Azza was pukey.
**The Biotribe practices bioethics and other uninteresting things. I have no idea what that means despite several attempts by the tribes people to educate me. Kirsten thinks it's just a rehab. I agree.
***Kirsten was like, "Emma! Come check out my awesome blender lamp!" Her lamp was definitely the coolest.

One Time, I Was Giovanni Ribisied

I was talking to a friend the other day, and she told me that she used to write poetry. She wrote dark stuff. Tortured stuff. She was a stand up comedian. I asked why she no longer did it, and she replied, "I live in Barcelona now. What am I supposed to say? The weather is good, and my friends are nice?" She had an excellent point.

I can't write anything serious because I don't have a serious life, and the only way I could produce something convincingly wounded is if I were actually wounded. Wish Granted!

I'm sure most of you have experienced the unadulterated horror (pronounced whore) that is streptococcal pharyngitis (pronounced like the worst expletive you can think of right now). What you may not understand, however, is that it's much more serious and painful when I get it. It's also difficult to speak, so I have to tell everyone about it. Some suggested that I post something and take advantage of all this new free time I have to writhe around in bed. The thought of using my brain at a time like this is absurd enough. The thought of typing something other than Death. Shhhhhweet Death. Someone please come into my room and kill me. I don't care if it's dirty as long as it's fast. Si us plau? Si us? Si? just isn't possible. At least, that's what I thought.

It didn't come in soft. It came in hard and brassy. I *ran to the terrace, thinking, "Yay! Oh boy! Oh gee! It's a parade! A parade is coming! Everyone come see!" A shockingly large number of my vecinos and I dangled half our bodies over the rails frantically trying to catch sight of at least 50 musically talented but sexually confused individuals willing to wear matching uniforms, plumed hats and dingle ball boots while stepping in time. Eventually we all figured out that the music was coming from an individual's window. Somebody was **Giovanni Ribisiing us with marching band music! It even had an applause track after every song and was turned up way past 11.

I am so pissed that I'm sick AND didn't get to see a parade, so I'm going to channel that pain into prose for the first time:

I place the blame on you, Man.
Man whose name and face I do not know but do know that they are not the name and face of Giovanni Ribisi.
I wish I could play a giant trumpet, Man.
A giant trumpet with a giant spit valve.
I would empty my poisonous, acidic, hot lava spit right into your apartment, Man.
If I could, I would.
If I could, I would.
You are clearly not a woman, Man.

This is how marching bands make me feel. Better.




*slid off my bed and shuffled out to the terrace saying, "Ow, ow, ow..."
**see The Other Sister like you haven't already. Yeah right.

Green Gardens

I decided to have a quiet Saturday night in which is rare because I do that all the time. En serio. I am the most boring wayfarer ever. I think it's genetic because my sister and I like to compete at being losers. "Mom taught us to never get involved with anything," Ellie has said followed by us affirming and amening with our heads, hips and hands like we are in the pew next to Oprah and Gail. We both like but dread having late night weekend plans with other young adults because it's hard for us to put in the effort it takes although we know that we need to maintain an acceptable level of street credentials, or people will stop inviting us places.

That attitude doesn't translate well here where the serious people don't eat before 9, go out before 2 and come home until 6 or 7. What in the Sam Hill!? Who has the moxie for that malarkey!? I try my best to keep up, but I've never been keen on doing something I really don't want to do or faking enjoyment unless I'm getting paid. I realize that sounds like I'm a prostitute, but I'm keeping that bit in because I mean it.

Another important piece of this two piece puzzle is that I don't understand *spending money on booze (red wine doesn't count because it's the sweet blood of angels). I feel like waving my hand at the bartender or waiter and saying, "No, no. You see, I need this to stay fun and smiling and dancing and so I don't fall asleep in the corner now but fall asleep in the corner later. I can promise you that I don't want to drink it and will not enjoy it, and therefore, it should be free. Capisce?" They never, ever capisce me.

I can't lay on the sofa with my sister or mother during the prime of my life because they're too far away, so I have to do it with my computer. Last night, I got home after meeting a friend for tea just as the marrow of life suckers were waking up to go out. I took a shower, changed into my ankle length embroidered nightie that I kid you not used to belong to my grandmother and settled in to watch my **story. I was beyond happy until I realized our internet wasn't working. The. Internet. Was. Not. Working. I staved off the panic long enough to see what films I had actually saved to my computer to watch. I only had one...the 1975 documentary Grey Gardens.

I think I'll go out more this year.




Epilogue: I'm going to ask that you not point out that this post is an obvious contradiction to my last post.

*No you may not buy me a drink! I work just as hard as you do to support my own damn self, and in fact, I will buy your drink because I believe in sex equality and proving points to the point that they actually hurt me like when I spend way too much money on not only my stupid, calorie fat alcohol drink but yours as well.
**Orange is the New Black. I know! I can't talk about it, but I can talk about it all day. My favorites are Crazy Eyes and Lorna and everyone else. I have the song memorized. 

Do It, Don't Do It or Run Away?

Because I was born in a certain time, place and class into an obnoxious nearly perfect family and own a healthy get-you-there body with a really incredibly okay brain, I don't have any actual problems. This is unacceptable, so I have to invent them.

One of my biggest fictitious problems is never knowing when to *participate. This doesn't apply to swimming. I always swim no matter what even if it makes for an entire evening sitting in wet denim and looking like Carrot Top without the roids and face poison. This fake problem is the hardest to bear when I'm in a new cultural situation. I want to get in there so badly but don't want to come off as insensitive, overzealous, a wet blanket or idiotic. It's like so hard.

This works in tandem with my other bogus problem which is that no one around me is actually involved in his/her own life but instead is tracking my every movement through his/her peripherals just waiting for it. I think most of us have this problem, but I prefer that you keep it to yourself because I'd rather be alone in this.

I lost sight of my point, but my point is that I obviously experience this a lot more here than I did at home. It's not just Catalan culture (which I just can't seem to really get) but many others as well because Barcelona is a wonderfully and wildly diverse city. You can't help but be exposed to fascinating and foreign things here unless you're really bad at living.

When faced with something unfamiliar, you usually have three choices: do it, don't do it, run away. I don't recommend the third option unless there is a danger element, and everyone is already looking at you through their peripherals, but you're still left with two. I think maybe you should mostly **do it. I give this unsolicited advice because I know that when I'm finished harshly judging everyone in the room, it's most often the wet blanket TCFSHB (that's Too Cool For School Human Being if you're not up with it) in the corner I remember less fondly than the overzealous idiot even though they might both be going home with regrets.

I just tend to get over the doing it regrets a lot faster than the not doing it regrets (though I rarely regret running away because of the danger and all).




*Examples: waving your arms from side to side at concerts (always questionable), clapping to flamenco music (the answer is don't unless you're licensed), giving a standing ovation when one is not deserved (I normally can't, but I also hope the performers don't notice that I'm the only one sitting unless they are children because that's a very important lesson to learn). Non-example: swimming.

**This does not apply if you are clearly not invited to do it! We all know that guy, and we eventually stop inviting him to do anything ever.

As American as Steaming Pile of Guilt Pie

I am a true American. I have no attachment to the old country, and I once signed a lease with a Native American. There are probably other, more actual reasons I am an American, but I can't think of any right now.

I try to keep a tight lid on my blatant Americaness while here, but I'm usually caught when someone asks me where I'm from or when I speak or when I just stand there. It's not that I'm embarrassed by it because I can't help it, but I always feel the need to seem a little apologetic or at least have the decency to lower my voice when admitting my nationality because of my guilt.

For example, here are some things I take full responsibility for in Barcelona that I never would have in the States:

1. McDonald's
2. Coca-Cola
3. the death penalty
4. fat kids
5. Taylor Swift
6. *Miley Cyrus
7. **Justin Bieber
8. Burger King
9. guns
10. t-shirts with English words that don't make sense
11. George W. Bush
12. buying in bulk
13. marriage inequality
14. all the problems anywhere ever
15. Santa Claus

Can you imagine carrying the weight of all that on your shoulders!? What if I shrug (I didn't read it either)!? Therefore, I never know what kind of reaction I'm going to get from people when they learn I'm not Irish (vicious stereotyping) or Australian (Niki Kid and I just got them things I guess), but these are the two most extreme thus far:

The best incident occurred the day ***President Obama was elected for a second term. My fellow American Ty and I were going out to celebrate but took a detour into a fabulous shoe store because we couldn't just not! The man who owned the shop asked where we were from, gave his congratulations then half-heartedly back peddled just in case we were "those" Americans. I have never unbuttoned my Gap jeans jacket (made in United Arab Emirates) so quickly in my life to reveal my American Apparel Obama (made in the U.S.A.) shirt. I kid you not, we all squealed then raised the roof before he ran out to buy some wine so that he could toast with us.

The worst incident happened some other time and went like this: Stupid Idiot, "Where are you from?" Me, "The United States." S.I. (mocking my voice), "I'm from America!" followed by, "You're not from America! You're from the United States. Get a map and learn some geography. You stupid fucking Americans are all the same. You think you rule the world? You don't! Go learn some Chinese." I can't repeat what I said next, but I can tell you that I said it in Chinese.

But mostly what happens is that I get a little shifty, check for the nearest exit, tell the truth and the people couldn't care less, or they just ask me about guns.

 

*She's higher on the list now.
**I heard he's Canadian, but I think we have to claim him because of the NATO.
***I can't speak about what my life would be like if Mitt and Paul had won. They'd have to invent a tenth circle of hell for that.

The Cookies Are Just a Metaphor

When I find myself in a pickle here, I try to handle it with grace, elegance and poise which are all different words that have the same meaning. Here's the thing, though. If the pickle is one those giant ones you'd find at a concession stand at sports games that the teenagers fish out with their bare hands, I handle el problema like a champ. However, if it's a mini gherkin situation, my panties get waded really tightly really quickly.

I was talking to Margaret (read previous post) the other day, and she said, "Sorry about the delayed response. I made some muffins. I think it went well." I was proud of her because baking muffins is an example of something that I find ludicrous, but I was also a bit jealous and resentful. I can't just wake up, decide I want muffins and make them. *Baked goods, as we know them in the States, don't exist here...I know...it's really hard for me.

Ask for chocolate cake, and you'll get an extremely dry dirt triangle. Cupcakes and muffins are similarly disappointing. Cookies don't exist here. They call these hard, blechy things galletas, but they're imposters. They ARE NOT galletas!

Correct me if you've heard something, but I don't think I'm up for any American patriot awards. Therefore, when I crave something from home, I try to scratch the itch because it doesn't happen that often, and today, I just wanted a damn chocolate chip cookie. I felt almost warm and fuzzy before the dread set in.

Because I can't just go buy one, I googled a recipe (yes, I know you have yours memorized).

1 cup butter, softened- I'll figure out how to do that not in a microwave. NBD.
1 cup white sugar- Our sugar is mixed with coffee grounds. That actually sounds more appealing.
1 cup brown sugar- Aaaannnnnd, here we go. It may as well say moon rocks.
2 eggs- They're unrefrigerated here which is a little off-putting, but everyone seems fine.   
2 teaspoons vanilla extract- Liquid gold and as difficult to find as Robin Thicke's appeal.
3 cups all-purpose flour- I have some because I made play dough with some students 3 months ago!
1 teaspoon baking soda- Would not happen if I searched for a thousand years.
2 teaspoons hot water- Is this real? Okay.
1/2 teaspoon salt- No, I will never measure salt.
2 cups semisweet chocolate chips- I was hoping these weren't an ingredient because I know I can't get them.
1 cup chopped walnuts- Duh and also, adults who don't like nuts are not adults.

I went to the store, something I don't like to do, and came back with individual packets of brown sugar for coffee, eggs, vanilla FLAVOR that cost 4 Euros, no baking soda because obviously and a chocolate bar with walnuts in it. Also, I found a woman's wallet there. I think they thought I stole it because everybody steals everybody's wallet here, so I just yelled, "No es mio!" and threw it at the cashier.

I converted the measurements using the only measurement tool I have which is a plastic cup I got at an outdoor house music party in the daytime called Piknik Electronik, so I knew it was **accurate.

While I was in the midst of opening 24 single serving brown sugars and worrying about what impact that would have on the environment, I stopped, slowly walked to the refrigerator and confirmed what I already knew. I was out of milk.

Mini gherkin situation.




*Bread is not included. The bread here is awesome.

**I thought it looked like too much. I went back and checked the recipe. It was for 4 dozen.

Cooking for Uno (this post isn't really about that)

Even though I'm pretty old, I never really had to cook regularly until I moved to Barcelona. My *parents did it when I was a kid so we wouldn't die and to give us a sense of consistency, security and togetherness (I assume). Margaret, my college/grad school roommate/**bfff was a control freak in the kitchen, and who was I to take that from her? And Danon, my ex-boyfriend/bfff, was always barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen where he belonged.

All of those people are AMAZING cooks. I'm not, but that's okay because I don't like to do it, but on the other hand, it's not okay because I have to eat so I don't die and to give myself a sense of consistency, security and togetherness.

My first month here, I took a "certification course" to teach English. I hate ice breakers nearly as much as cooking, but apparently they're also something you have to do ad nauseam so you don't die. It was the one where you say your name then something you like to do. The next person has to say the names and activities of the previous reluctants before their own, and it builds from there until the last person is in tears, and everyone is just telling him/her all the answers.

My turn came around, and I guess my passion for things I hate is greater than my passion for things I love because I was the only Negative Nancy who said something I didn't like. "My name is Emma, and I hate to cook," I said followed by a dramatic 'ewwww get it away' hand gesture (we had to do a gesture to help others remember us better). It was obvious that most of the men who came after me were uncomfortable doing my gesture, so I spent the rest of the game obsessing over the fact that I didn't do something completely unrelated like a tight twirl with jazz hands or smacked my butt with my finger in my mouth so that we could root out all the homophobes because isn't that what breaking the ice is all about?



*Once, I was driving home but was running late, so I called my mom to inform her. She thought I was calling to tell her I wouldn't be there for dinner which was something both of my siblings had just done. Before I finished my thought, she strongly said (my mom doesn't yell), "I fucking hate cooking! I only do it because you're my family, and I love you!" I was really excited that my mom said fucking, but I was also happy to know that she didn't like it either. Then, I felt bad that she'd been doing it for me for so long, and I actually thought she was enjoying it.

**best fucking friend forever

How To Not Speak the Language of the Country You've Lived in for a Year

First, I'd have a whole province of pissed off people after me if I wasn't clear that Barcelona is in Catalunya and in Catalunya, the people speak catalan. I don't speak catalan, nor do I speak castellano or what we in the United States call Spanish because we're from the United States.

Here's why and how (if you're interested in not learning something) in order of most severe culprit to least:

1. I don't try very hard. This goes for most things I do because I'm decent at a lot of things, excel in nothing and quit the things I'm not naturally good at (e.g. learning new languages) almost immediately.

2. I speak English all day. I know that's not a good excuse, but I'm an English teacher, I live with two British women and a French guy (like I'm going to study French! Pffff!), and most people here switch to English after my 30 second long question/greeting in castellano that should only take 5 seconds because they have things to do goddammit.

3. Facebook

4. I think I'm speaking it when I'm not. There's a scene in Julie and Julia (terrible film...only watch the Meryl and Stanley Tucci bits) where Julia's French tutor says, "*En francais s'il vous plait," and Child says, "Oh! I thought I was speaking French!" That's how I feel every day.

5. I don't get drunk enough. I speak castellano almost fluently when I'm drunk. Ask anyone.

Of course it ebbs and flows. I really make headway if I'm trying to seduce someone who doesn't speak English or when I'm taking courses that are literally called "Almost Free Spanish Classes." It's not like riding a bike (I'm really good at riding a bike! It came naturally!). It's something you have to practice every day, and you sucking is not because Catalan people are mean to you. It's your own damn fault.

*I'm sorry I didn't do the things. I'll figure out how to do that because I assume accents will be very important in this blog but maybe not.

On Latin American Men

These are my thoughts on Latin American men now that I (and some friends) have had some experiences with them. My thoughts are all: no. For example, if one tries to start a conversation with you that is not work or emergency related, you need to say, "No," then walk away hurriedly. If you screw up and accidentally talk to one, you need to exit as soon as possible and say, "No, no, no!" if he asks you to move to a second location.

If you start to think about one. No! Then rewind and unstart thinking about him.

If he calls, texts, Facebooks or Skypes you. No! Then delete everything and block everything and wish that that thing in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind existed.

I'm not saying it's easy, but you'll thank me later no matter how hot he is because everything I say is true and nearly everything he says is not.

Disclaimers: I realize that this post is incredibly offensive to all Latin American men, and I would apologize to you individually were it not for my "No" rule which is, I'm afraid, completely nonnegotiable. I promise it's not personal. What I will say is: keep it spicy!

This post is also for gay men.

Also, many people think I mean Latin men. I know I live in Spain, but unfortunately a lot of men from Latin America do, too. That was not a typo. Latin men are okay...I guess.