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.