What I Thought and What I Said

I worked at Starbucks for three and one-fourth days, and I can never undo that.

What I can do, however, is force my family to refer to Starbucks as "Insurance," so as not to mutter its name any more than we have to. Although, if you're like my husband, you won't remember that and have no idea what I'm talking about. 

What's worse is that I'd been actively avoiding Insurance for over a decade because my white hipster privilege allows me to go to my local coffee shop and work in a locally owned gourmet cheese store without realizing that people sometimes need real life.

The call for an interview came right after we decided that we were going to rent an RV with pretend money and travel around the country eating air until Jaime's work permission from the Department of Immigration went through; we just weren't finding jobs that inspired us and included a Googleesque work environment with full benefits and three months vacation.

I kid you not, my eyes welled up, as I agreed to an interview because we need health insurance no matter how much my socialist Spanish husband doesn't understand it and watched our dreams of bathing in rest stop sinks roll behind me like a giant hub cap.

But I feel like this story will be less painful for both of us if I present this in 

WHAT I THOUGHT vs. WHAT I SAID

form. So here goes...

The manager asked for an interview. 
What I thought: Oh my god. I have a master's degree. Why the hell do you think I want this job even though I applied for it!?
What I said: Yes, absolutely that works for me.

The manager asked why I think I would make a great Insurance employee.
What I thought: I wouldn't. I am your worst nightmare. You will regret this.
What I said: I'm great with people, and I would represent Insurance proudly.

The manager called to offer me the job.
What I thought: You're freaking joking. You couldn't see through that? This is the worst day of my life.
What I said: Oh my gosh! Thank you so much. I'm excited to start. 

A customer orders two white chocolate mochas whole milk with two extra pumps of syrup and FIVE packets of sugar stirred into the drink.  
What I thought: Oh, I get it. You want to die. You want to kill yourself, and I am going to help you do it. I watched a documentary, so I know about this.
What I said: Okay! Can I get your name? Your total is a bajillion dollars.

A drive-through customer orders a eioehtetnvrnglakrhaiohgirgrnlgakraghrkahgroiaetaigaigbiarhgklarglargh.
What I thought: I can't do this. I can't do this any more. I hate everything. I'm working a drive-though, and the worst part about it is that it's too hard. At least I'm not wearing a visor.
What I said: I'm sorry. Could you repeat that? It's my first day, and I'm having a hard time locating the buttons.

The drive through customers get angry with me because I ask them to repeat their order.
What I thought: I will come through this window. I will come through this window so fast. I will spit my hang nail into your drink. I will fling this boiling hot fake coffee on your face.
What I said: I'm so sorry about your wait. Enjoy it!

My manager says, "Don't say frap. Frap is the Insurance 'F' word. Don't say it," after I repeated a customer's "frap" order.
What I thought: You wanna know what my F word is? It's fuckstarbucks; that's what it is.
What I said: Really? Okay.

An incredibly rare customer orders a black coffee.
What I thought: Slow clap.
What I said: That's what I drink. 

A man lectures my co-worker on the evils of corporations, and tells her that Insurance doesn't pay her enough to put her above the poverty line. She makes fun of him.
What I thought: He's right. I'm leaving with this guy, and we're burning this place to the ground.
What I said: Nothing because she wasn't talking to me.

A group of teenage girls order the most ridiculous, diabetes inducing, prissified drinks possible, and I stumble through finding all their custom shit on the stupid screen.
What I thought: This is not coffee! You are NOT drinking coffee, but you are pretending to drink coffee, and that makes you horrible.
What I said: What's your name? That will be a bajillion dollars. 

I could go on and on, but I think you get the gist.

Have you ever felt too good for something, as you're realizing you're not capable of doing it? Guys, working at Insurance is hard. I have been the only adult in a room with 22 kindergartners in paint smocks, and that does not even begin to come close to the stress level I felt taking orders for caramel drizzle on white noise from a never ending line of cars.

I was shown how to make macchiatos, lattes, cappuccinos and cinnamon something somethings. I was shown twice. Can I make any of those things? No.

It made me feel awful. I felt fake, stupid and defeated. And how could I have abandoned my principles so easily? I mean, would I set foot in Hobby Lobby? God's name in vain no.  

But I also felt in awe of the women (only women worked there even though the regular men call them "his girls") who not only can make those complicated glorified cups of liquid death but genuinely smile while doing so. They're not stupid and fake. They're really good at the job that they enjoy.

So, the only thing I learned while there is that I'm absolutely not too good to work at Insurance. 

If you go to "Insurance", and that's okay if you do even though you'll never catch me dead in another one, please tip them well. That job suuuuuuucks, and they probably hate you.

I usually can't with this, but this is exactly it.

How Sting Ruined My Wedding

I didn't want to get married. Jaime didn't want to get married, either. And it's not that we didn't want to marry each other, we just didn't want to marry anyone. We're alternative like that.

But even though marriage is a separate thing from love, to continue loving each other in the same place (which we both did want), we had to prove it to government bureaucracy workers whom we do not know and be married.

So, here's the story of two people who whined their way into a happy marriage despite themselves.

Some people have asked how he proposed. Good one guys.

I technically proposed to Jaime in the parking lot of Wal-Mart when we were visiting my family in July. We were arguing about my creative visa status in Spain and the danger that put our relationship into. At one point, I yelled, "Well, let's just get freaking married then!" And he said, "Okay."

Then, we ordered our get married stuff, drove through and picked it up at the window. It was that easy! I'm kidding!

After months of dealing with the fresh hell called immigration, we finally got to ask our families how soon they could get to New York.

Why did we get married in New York?

1. It is much easier and cheaper for his parents and brother to get to NYC than St. Joseph, MO.

2. Missouri is not rainbow colored yet, and I have a big fucking problem with that.

3. I love that city so much, and when my boyfriend posted "Full lap run at Central Park. 2 raccoons (first time I've ever seen them), fireflies, drum and bass without the bass with a bagpipe, super parents running and carrying their kids in a pram, cool people on their pimped bikes listening to rap, beautiful people, hip hop dancers, and yes, the rest of the views to Manhattan and the park. Want it to be my new casa," on Facebook, I knew that I wanted to make him my husband there because he doesn't usually write that kind of sap.

4. I didn't want to plan anything, and Jaime literally didn't know what a wedding was...conveniently.

Why did we only ask immediate family?

1. Our irresponsible lifestyles mean that our family and friends are littered all over the world, and if we couldn't have all of our most importants there, we would only have our very most importants.

2. We can't afford to feed that many people.

So, on 1.23, a date that is cool in the United States and significantly less cool (23.1) in Europe, I woke up thinking, "Shit. This is supposed to be the best day of my life, but there's no way it will be." It was also on this date that my mother, sister, best friend and I figured out that we can't do hair...or makeup. We did the best we could and four hours after everyone else was ready, I put on a green dress before my mom helped me into the most bridey thing I could muster, a lovely, perfect tulle skirt she had made for me.

Our entourage burst out of the hotel clipping along while taking photos because our goal was to piss off every native New Yorker we passed, as we tried to beat the lunchtime rush at the marriage bureau.

I love the marriage bureau because everyone there is either picking up their marriage license or attending a wedding. You take your number, sit on one of the green sofas along the long hall and wait with the stockbrokers, the coke heads, the pregnants, the Asians, the young ones, the old ones, the weirdos and the perfectly normals who all found someone stupid enough to marry them.

Our number, C719, was quickly called, and I made sure that my new last name wasn't "NO CHANGE" on our marriage certificate because I had to specify earlier that my name wouldn't be changing. We signed and asked my sister and his mother to sign as witnesses. My sister knew this would be her job and had been referring to herself as "witness-of-honour" I assume in opposition to my robbing her of her birth rite.

Before we could sit down again, we were called to the Ugly Room (thankfully we weren't in the Uglier Room) for our fifteen minutes of fame, which was really only about two minutes.

We were married by an Angel...

whose last name was Lopez, as the people we love and who love us the most stood in spots too awkward for a decent picture. 

Everyone was starving, so we stopped at a pizzeria that hand to Jesus had the best pizza in the world on the border between Chinatown and Little Italy before taking the subway to Central Park.

It was freezing cold, but I was not about to let my ten-year-old coat ruin my wedding photographs. Everyone else figured their bulky coats were good enough, so thanks for that, guys. We didn't stay long because we cared more about actual warmth than the warmth of memories, however, my mom insisted we stop by Strawberry Fields before going back to the hotel, and I'm so glad we did. 

We came up on the John Lennon memorial after it had been covered in flowers by what Jaime calls, as you know, beggars. It was beautiful, but having come from Barcelona, we were reluctant to trust anything that was "free," while one of the men thrust a yellow rose at me. I finally relented, and he didn't ask me for money. Instead, he asked if he could give us some marriage advice.

"Never, ever let anyone or anything come between the two of you because what you have is very special," is how I'm choosing to paraphrase his nonsense. It was one of those rare, urban, human connection moments I love so much, and no one took a picture of it. Damn it.

After changing our clothes, we all went to dinner in Times Square. As we sat around the table, Jaime and I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed and flabbergasted that our families were in the same place at the same time while I tried really hard not to think about how few times that would happen again. It was awesome.

Later, after we had been interrupted for the fourth time on the only night we would get to sleep in a room alone while away for our wedding, we agreed that it was somehow impossibly one if not the best day of our lives. That's neat.

But the point of this post is to explain how Sting ruined my wedding. Okay, so my mother is in love with Sting for obvious reasons. My sister's got it pretty bad, too, while I can bandwagon myself on the Sting train if the time is appropriate.

The closing night of his Broadway show The Last Ship was the 24th, the day after my wedding, so we absolutely had to go, right? Right. We're there, and the show is great, and he gives this heartfelt adieu at the end, and all I can think about is my mom meeting Sting because that would just be everything to her. We're still on the high of our great wedding day, so we are really channelling all the powers of The Police and Roxanne and that guy who plays the udu on Desert Rose as we wait outside the stage door. I'd even written to The Last Ship beforehand asking if there was any possibility of her meeting him...they hadn't said no, but they hadn't said yes...

He comes out. It's Sting. It's definitely him, and my tiny, little momma is being pushed roughly to the front by us, but then he makes a beeline for his car, breezing past us, really, really close to us and is driven away.

What the hell, Sting!? Screw you, man. 

My mom and sister have forgiven you, were never even that mad at you, but I never will, and I still am.

I can't wait for Sting to read this. 

The Long Flight to Home

My love for Jaime is second to my love for money, and I know this because I thought to myself, "Welp, this will be the end of our relationship," as I purchased the crazy cheap plane tickets that would return my sorry ass to North America in five flights. It only took us thirty-fucking-eight hours.

But my friend Melissa told me that Turkish Airlines has good food, so okay. On our ten hour flight from Istanbul to New York, our first meal included a fantastic glob of hummus with tomato purée. After eating, we finished the film Mandela: Long Walk to Freedom (impressed?), and I fell asleep.

Only an idiot or a person who hates wearing her glasses keeps her contacts in on a flight that length, and I am both of those people. When I woke up, my contacts were glued to my eyes, and I felt that foreboding ache in my head. Jaime asked if I wanted to play a video game on the screens attached to the seats in front of us, and I said, "No, screw you. I have a headache," as I handed him my control to choose the settings and my avatar. After I lost two rounds, I fucked up everyone's world around me and dragged down my 500 lb. carry on bag to look for the ibuprofen I'd packed. I dry swallowed it and immediately decided that I had to vomit.

I don't get migraines often, but when I do, I just have to puke them out. I can't really explain my thought process as I entered the toilet, but I can tell you that I was in terrible pain and used to gagging up just a little bit of bile in times like that. I managed to lock the door behind me and lean over the sink right before what I expected: a dainty bit of clear mucus the likes of which you dab at the corners of your mouth with a hanky afterwards...

...then, I spewed an ungodly amount of vomit not once but twice more into the piss poor excuse for a sink.

"FFFFUUUUUDDDGGGGEE." Only I didn't say fudge.

I began to frantically scoop puke with my cupped hands into the toilet. It looked just like the hummus and tomatoes I'd eaten earlier until the motion censored faucet diluted it with water that filled to the brim.

My shame and fear of telling a flight attendant or that someone was waiting outside the door kept me going far longer than I should have.

I finally washed my arms up to my elbows, folded the door back and explained what had happened to the nearest flight attendant in a language she may or may not have understood.

I padded back to my seat where Jaime, naturally, wanted to know what had taken me so long. When he was done laughing, he said, "Well, you can blog about it. Hey, smell my armpit. I promise it's strong."

In New York, Jaime sailed through customs, as not one but two men expected me to know the job of a customs agent better than they. I ate peanut butter there.

We made it to our eight hour overnight layover in Washington D.C. with the delusion that we would tuck it all in and sleep peacefully through the night under the grand Christmas tree at Reagan like we were presents. Nah uh.

We moved upstairs thinking it would be warmer, but the "beggars" as Jaime likes to call them had the same idea. We couldn't find an empty row of seats, so we strapped our bags together on the floor and took out the toiletry packs the flight attendant had kindly given us before she had to clean up my vomit.

Sometime in the night, I pulled on Jaime's snowpants that I miraculously found in his carry on and managed to sleep with ear plugs, sleep mask and my winter coat for two glorious hours. He wasn't so lucky, as he can't stand to wear a mask and plugs. I think his real problem was the floor waxer that kept driving dangerously close to our heads driven by loudly hablandoing Hispanic men he could understand under the lights and Christmas music that never dimmed and the beggar man who screamed when an employee spilled a drum of some sort of liquid near his things and our bodies.

At 4 a.m., feeling totally refreshed, I headed to the bathroom with my toothbrush and phone. My plan was to take a "woke up like this" selfie, but what looked back at me from the mirror was too horrible to even post on the never ending scroll of shit that is Facebook.

As I was washing up alone, a beggar lady stormed into the bathroom and screamed, "Bitches!" At first I thought she meant me, but I'm only one bitch, so it was okay.

We were the last two souls off the plane at Kansas City; I bounded up the thingy and out of the gate not able to wait another second to run into the arms of my mom and brother. But I had to because they weren't there.

So, we went to collect our bags. They weren't there either.

My cute, little momma finally burst through the doors really not late because we were early, and we had our first hug since I moved back from Barcelona. It was a really good one.

Jaime took a very shitty photo of the moment, but I forgive him because he was trying to keep track of the six bags we used to move our entire lives after he'd flown 7,641 miles over two days to spend the holidays with my family and the rest of his life with me (because he will most likely die first).

And how many times did we fight? Zero. I would call us awesome, but then I remember that we're unemployed and homeless. "Beggars" if you will.

Some highlights from the trip:

If you would like to help your own beggars, you can donate to:

http://nationalhomeless.org/donate/
https://www.justgive.org/donations/help-homeless.jsp
http://www.homelessshelterdirectory.org/cgi-bin/id/article.cgi?article=14
http://nchv.org/index.php/getinvolved/getinvolved/donate/

"Are you going to say that I'm good in bed?" Jaime

I don't like romance. I think it's cheesy and stupid, and I hate it, and I won't do it. I won't read the books written at a fourth grade reading level, and I won't watch the films that I know will make me want to pick my brain out through my nose with a crochet hook.

Cool if you do, though.

Therefore, I think it's hysterical that my real life is now a poorly written cringeworthy cliché of a rom com that sometimes makes me miss the comforting days of assuming that I would die in my room in the spinster wing of the home with my cats that I would never have because I hate cats.

Jaime, my partner, is many men and women's dream according to popular culture.

So, let's break my boyfriend down into each banal detail, and I'll try to convince you that it's somehow different for me because I'm just not like that, shall we?

1. Tall, Dark & Handsome

Few people would argue that Jaime isn't tall (6'3"), dark (he thinks he has got like some Moorish blood or something) or handsome (I'm not calling you a liar if you don't, but I'm saying that you're lying). In the past, I was all over tall, dark and ugly. If you don't look like you say mean things to your mom, were in a horrible nuclear plant accident and/or inspire copy cat murders, move along Jack. Jaime, on the other hand, is a universally perfect specimen. When I catch women checking him out, they avert their eyes in shame, but when I catch men checking him out, we duck face, wink and shoot each other with our finger guns. It's called respect.

2. The Meet Cute

Our meet cute was super cute. On New Year's Eve, I was getting ready to go out but took some time away from my actual friends to scroll through my newsfeed to see what my fake friends were up to. One of my fake friends, Jaime (we were Facebook friends before we'd ever met because the world is so effed up like that), posted a cool song, so I liked it because I'm cool, so he messaged me, and was like, "Are you in Barcelona tonight?" so obviously I was like, OMG, OMG, OMG, he's hot and gave him my phone number in case he wanted to meet up later or something, but then, I went to a predominately gay party, so I didn't find anyone to get over my recent tall, dark and ugly man with, so I sent him a text that said, "Do you want to have sex?", and he replied, "Yes." It's okay to cry.

3. He's a Doctor

When he told me that he was working on his PhD, I felt bad for him assuming that he didn't know what that meant and that he probably thought it stood for physical dudeness. However, it's true. His beauty doesn't eat his brain like was once thought, but there's more...both of his parents as well as his brother are doctors. I learned this while he was away in Australia (we'll get to that) because he told me that if I ever got pregnant, his father could help me out because he's a gynaecologist, or I could go to his brother because he's a gynaecologist as well. It was a non sequitur. 

4. He's Foreign

My boyfriend is Spanish, but he speaks English with a perfect Irish accent. It's as strange and awesome as it sounds. When I first heard him speak Spanish, I freaked out and thought he was an imposter because even though I knew he was from Valencia, he is the least Spanishy Spaniard I've ever met. He doesn't tell people that he went to an English school when he was young and spent his summers with a family in Ireland because he doesn't know how to pick up on social clues. So, when I recognize the look of panic on a Spanish or native Enlgish speaker person's face after they compliment "Jay-me's" Castilian or Catalan, it's left to me to explain why he's better than everyone else.

5. He's Freakishly Strong

Some of you have asked if he's a member of the Avengers. He's not but thank you. We did just discover that he can open a wine bottle by pushing in the cork with his index finger, though.

The list of stupid stereotypical ideals continues:

• The day after we met, he went to Australia and South East Asia for three months to surf.
• He plays the ukulele and sings well. 
• He and his dog have matching sweaters. 
• He makes paella for our friends. 
• He's a Sensitive Sally.
• He played rugby.
• He wants to cuddle constantly (I hate cuddling).
• He paints or runs for two hours when he's emotional...

I feel guilty because I never needed any of that, but I know plenty of people who think they do. He's the stuff Stephen Meyers or Elle Jamison envision when they write about their sparkle vampires and their domestic abusers. I'll accept him as he is, though, because I love him, and I knew that the moment he let his limbs go limp and floppy as he bounded down the stairs of the cathedral overlooking Barcelona like a complete idiot.

Or it was when he told me that Cher's voice gave him goosebumps in a good way. I don't really remember. 

Shut your mouth.

 

Summer Travel Trilogy Part III: The Return of the King

On our first day in Warsaw, Jaime and I were walking hand in hand because we're the cutest. He started to stroke my hair, which I hate, but I allowed it because I wanted to have a tranquil vacation even if it freaking killed us. He'd moved to my shoulder before I remembered that he hasn't got three hands.

In my peripheral, I saw that the culprit's loving smile was four inches from my precious face. And when I say "loving", I mean that not even my own mother has looked at me so adoringly before. Jaime saw it, too, and we shared our hibbie jibbies telepathically as only the closest couples can. She moved on, so our hibbie jibbies were then shared out loud in the giggly way of tweens with super crushes. 

She must have heard us because she whipped back around and started speaking frantically in what I assume was Polish. Gross. I told her I didn't understand, so she switched to English, "Do not go to the cinema with that man!" I was offended that she thought I was low brow enough to see a movie on vacation. She continued, "He's a bad Italian!" Oh no she didn't! 

We quickly moved away because even though it was Jaime she hated, I knew that it was my rabbit she would boil. To our backs she yelled, "He will killlllll yooouuu!" 

That just about sums up how Polish people feel about Jaime. 

Our apartment was a short distance from Stalin's Penis which served as our beacon home. His architectural marvel was erected in sharp contrast to the butt ugly communism style of most of the city that had been completely leveled during the war. Hey thanks for everything Joe!

It was towards the Penis that we whined our way to the station at 4 a.m. to catch a train to Krakow. It's cool. We said. We'll sleep on the train. We said. I had no idea that a job with the aim of designing trains built for long distances that are absolute garbage to sleep on existed, but it does! Kudos to that shitty train designer (job title).  I did manage to sleep for a bit by putting my face between Jaime's legs, sloping my back across the 10 inch aisle with my butt in the air, knees bent in my seat and ankles crossed. The other five passengers sausaged into our cabin thought I was delightfully quirky I'm sure!

In Krakow, we stayed at a very cool hostel with very cool people. It was awful. My partner hates me, so he made me eat our leftovers in the garden where we could socialize. I was wearing my nightgown and glasses chewing on cold pierogies not caring that two German girls were hitting on Jaime when a French kid mentioned that he had been kicked out of our room due to my booking. I told him he could sleep in my bed because I planned to share (take most of) my seven foot tall boyfriend's twin bunk. That's when one of the German girls said, "Oh! Do you two know each other?" Oh no she didn't!

Though we usually travel well together, the next day we did have an argument about who (him or me) has been the greater victim of society while waiting in line to see Oskar Schindler's enamel factory. If there's one thing I want you to remember about us assholes after we're gone, it's that.

Well, maybe that and don't you dare accuse Jaime of cutting in line when he isn't standing in line properly because he can't bear to be next to his very articulate, reasonable and level headed girlfriend. You will get a giant index finger in your face and a curt, "I'm with HER. THANK. YOU." Look out!

We'd made up by the time we were waiting in another line to see the dragon's lair of a castle with all the families in the world with small children. A grandmother, mother and young boy were in front of us wearing smart windbreakers we hadn't thought to bring. Suddenly, there was a splash, and the little blonde boy's hair was all purple. Likewise, the mom and grandma were doused with what looked like Grimace's barf.

I now know how to say, "What the fuck was that?" in several different languages.

We looked up and saw the fat butt of a pigeon looking back at us with one eye. Oh no she didn't!

I have never and hopefully never will again see a bird shit that gigantic. I can't even tell you! Why didn't we take a photo!? I have so many regrets! A little bit got on my toe!

Selflessly, I handed over my moist towelettes that I never, ever have but just happened to have. I felt like the mom should have been a little more grateful to me as she wiped the poop from her son's head (it had already stained his scalp and windbreaker). However, I was just happy to be a part of it while not actually being in it.

Which is kind of how I feel about Poland in general.

Hahahahahahaha! 

But can we have a serious second? 

If my reflexes were fast enough, I would punch every pigeon that got near me right in the face. Seriously.

Summer Travel Trilogy Part II: The Two Towers

In the hopes of not being a complete disappointment to my childhood self, I'm trying to go to some of the places that captured my interest and imagination so much so that they destroyed my chances of having a normal social life. I'm running behind.

After the royal wedding (I'm kidding! Italy is a republic), Kelly and I caught a bus to Pompeii. I know your own fourth grade self is totally gagging out right now, but the city today is a bit rough, and it's not the volcano's fault. We hopped off Train Number Smells Like Urine from Napoli and schlepped our bags past cheap vendor stalls, several restaurants that won a fake best Italian food in Italy award, and casino with casinoey looking prostitutes before settling into Guesthouse VesuView, which did indeed have a view of the volcano just like every other structure in town. 

After a delightful breakfast, Kel put on her giant sun hat with elastic chin strap, and I wrapped my head in the scarf I once used to tourniquet my friend's arm after he walked through my glass sliding door. Therefore, we looked ready for that shit, as we entered the ruins for free because it's free the first Sunday of every month, and we are some lucky jerks who don't plan well. 

But we were not ready for that shit. 

More than 15,000 were thought to have perished in the 79 AD eruption of what they thought was just a pretty mountain, and we were walking through their ash preserved city with audio guides and sensible shoes. After hours, of teetering over wobbly streets laughing at women in heels and traipsing in and out of their temples, market places, bath houses, theaters, stadiums and homes, we decided we were too thirsty, hot and hungry to explore every inch though we wanted to. We ate some pizza in a nearby restaurant that claimed its food was not just for tourists and were treated very badly by the waitress. It felt so good to be back in Europe.

A couple of days later, we tackled the almighty Vesuvius. Today, the volcano is one-third of its original size because it destroyed most of itself like a stupid idiot erupting nearly 40 times (last one in 1944). It's still active, which makes me even more of a badass. Our bus guide explained that because of the surrounding population of 4,000,000, Vesuvius is one of the most dangerous volcanoes in the world, and although they have an evacuation plan, they've never tried it. Good luck, guys.

At the foot, we loaded into gigantic Mercedes jeeps with shocks that made us feel like we were ridin' dirty.

The thing about adults is that we suck most of the time. The adults on that jeep were no exception because we tried to pretend that flying out of our seats while white knuckle gripping the headrest in front of us wasn't the greatest thing that has ever happened to us. The fiveish-year-old next to us in the very back row, however, was having none of that bullshit.

I have never heard laughter flowing out of a child with such abandon. She made it okay for us to shriek every time our vaginas were thrown into our necks until tears flowed down our faces. The best part was that we knew we had to come down the same way!

We fared well walking to the top from the drop off point fantasizing about installing an escalator or taking turns pushing each other up in the maintenance crew's wheelbarrow and rewarded our volcano conquering selves with a shot of lemon cello before walking the half circle perimeter at the edge of its mouth. What a view! Our hostel had nothing on this.

Our next stop was Napoli. You never need to go to Napoli. If you asked me to draw a picture of Robbery City, I would draw Napoli.

The only redeeming bit was the National Archaeological Museum. An archaeology museum. In Italy. Yes, always. It's there that all the real treasures of Pompeii are kept. Frescoes, columns, housewares and mosaics that depict everyday life, myths and legends impeccably crafted and fantastically preserved. It was a real honor to be among those works.

My favorite room was the sex art room with all the penises, though.

That's a penis with wings, lion's tail and feet with dingle bells hanging from it if you couldn't tell, and there's plenty more where that came from.

But not in Poland, which is where I went next...

Summer Travel Trilogy Part I: The Fellowship of the Ring

Here's a conversation that really happened when Jaime and I were visiting my family. "Ayve ye baught ye plaighn teighkets frahm Nahples to Barcelownah yit?"
Me, "No."
PMG, "Ye neighed tah geht em."
Me, "I know. Then we need to buy our tickets to Morocco. Oh, yeah, we're driving. We need to check the ferry prices. When do you want to go visit Sarah and Gino in France?"
Frieda (my brother's girlfriend), "You guys sound fancy."

She was right. I'm fancy. We're fancy. My life is fancy.

The first fancy thing I did because I could was to go to an Italian wedding. I had absolutely no right to be there because I knew neither the bride nor the groom. I highly recommend never going to another wedding again unless this is true for you.

One of the first things the bride said to me was, "I have a feeling it's going to be like My Big Fat Greek Wedding." I really liked her, though I was offended that she would get my hopes up like that...but she was right...she was right like 90°.

One of the duties involved in my very important wedding role as Stranger to Everyone was to get dressed and pick up the groom by ten o'clock. Get him to the church on time, so the poor sucker can't escape a miserable life of servitude. Game over! Am I, right?

We were extremely late. The American bride's family was like, "Oh my word! We need to go! We're so late!" Hahahahahaha. Americans.

Wedding. Beautiful. Loads of Italian people.

RECEPTION

You and I both know that the only reason to go to a wedding is the reception, but we're wrong because the only reason to even get out of bed is to go to an Italian wedding reception.

After following the bride and groom around the village taking pictures that I somehow managed to always be in the front and center of (who wears a bright orange dress to a classy wedding!?), we drove to the Bellagio. I don't really know what the Bellagio is, but it seemed like that's what it was. We're talking giant clams, things hanging from other things, wedding party table in the middle of a pool and not having to fill your own glass.

The appetizers, for some reason, came first. I had never in my life lost a battle to food before that day, but it kicked my bitch ass. I lost track after the fourth plate placed in front of me because I was so scared. Fortunately, the prosecco numbed my fear, and I was able to work through the pain and embarrassment of eating an insane amount of food at a table full of gastroenterologists. The fat went straight to my boobs, thank goodness, so I lugged them up the stairs and inside for dinner.

Lobster is a thing that you tell yourself you're going to order because you deserve it but chicken out at the last minute because of the price, so you don't even know if you really like it because you've never actually had it even though you claim it's one of your favorites.

  Shit!

The lobster and I pushed through the wall together, which was very fortunate because on the other side of the wall was a lot more food. Like at least five plates more. Like so much more that I couldn't even dance right, and I just love to dance so much but less than eating, so it was alright.

It was later when I was lying in a suspended bird's nest with a lot of people I'd just met that I realized I wasn't drunk.

I think it took about three and a half bottles of wine and that shot of limoncello I was using to play Never Have I Ever that finally made me think that not funny things were funny. All that glorious food had made me a walking sack of Wonder Bread (or the generic equivalent).

Nineteen hours after we had started celebrating the sanctity of marriage, we pulled into the groom's parents' house yearning for the sweet release of sleeping in a free bed. Instead, his father poured me a drink, his mother offered me some cannoli and his sister asked if I wanted to go find an open bar.

I'm so fancy!