"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! 

Why Does It Cost So Much to Fly to Kansas City (This Isn't About That)?

I don't mind airports because there's a chance I'll see a celebrity, and I get really excited when I see loved ones reunited. In the past couple of years, that excitement has come with a tinge of jealously because my "greatly disappointing lifestyle" doesn't permit me to see my family nearly as often as I'd like.

So, when I boarded the first of three flights that would take me from Barcelona to Kansas City, I knew I was in for a long 20 hours, but it'd all be worth it when I ran into my family's white and freckly arms.

Actually, the trouble began at the gate before I boarded because the blog gods follow me around to be sure nothing I do goes according to plan. My name was called immediately after I opened my book, and the nicest lady on Earth informed me that I was one of the luckiest lucksters to be chosen for a more thorough and "completely random" security check. I was escorted to a small room and sat down next to professional BMX rider Daniel Dhers! I couldn't believe my luck even though I'd just found out I was a luckster! Daniel Eff'n Dhers! How jealous are you right now?

I had no idea who he was either.

I guess I passed because they put me on the plane without my cell phone. Good luck with that shitty hunk of plastic, guys. I'm not a mula de drogas. I just look like one.

I opened my book just as they announced that something was wrong with the door, and we had to go back to the gate. I had one hour and a half to get through customs and no checked baggage. Daniel and I, I thought, would be fine.

Nine hours later, I was sprinting barefoot through the airport in Newark only to find my flight to Chicago was cancelled. No one seemed bothered by this except me. Why was no one bothered!?

I felt like Kerry at the special services desk would have a much easier time typing if her nails weren't made from reclaimed Liberace capes, but before I got up the nerve to tell her that, she found a flight that redirected me through Minneapolis. I shuttled to another terminal, and just as I opened my book something caught my peripheral. A damn pigeon was slithering its turd body out from under my seat. Sick.

We boarded, and I was in seat 1A (the only seat in the entire row) which meant the young gay flight attendant and I became quick besties. I rescued my book before he stowed it in a bin far, far away and opened it as the captain made the mechanical failure announcement. Bestie got my bag for me even though I was a little pissy as we deboarded the plane.

An eternity later, I sat down in the same 1A seat but on a different plane. A piece of ice fell on the cover of my book from the air vent above me, and I asked bestie if he had any blankets. I swear I don't know how he puts up with me.

I'd missed my flight to Kansas City by a long shot and was told to find Linda. Linda and I found each other but for different reasons.

"Hi. Are you Linda? I was told you could help me."
"I'm looking for a lost unaccompanied minor."
"I'm 28."

Linda brought me to a counter and informed me that there were no more flights to anywhere in the universe that night. I told her that I was pretty disappointed because I hadn't seen my family in over a year. That did it goddamnit. Never underestimate the frantic but productive compassion of a Midwestern divorcee and mother of two. I asked her if she thought the lost minor was okay, and she waved it away because she was pretty sure someone else had probably found him most likely.

After reenacting the entire plot of Taken and telling me about a girl from Belarus she'd helped earlier that was on her way to a sex trafficking ring, Linda hooked me up with an early morning flight, hotel room and $21 in meal vouchers. She wanted me to use them at the TGI Fridays at the hotel, so I could finally have myself an American meal. I promised her I would.

I contacted my family through the miracle of Facebook just as they were walking out the door to come pick me up then went to the hotel counter to check in.

"Uh-oh. This one's on the airline, isn't it?"
"Yep. I haven't seen my family in forever, but what's one more night, right?"
"Oh! You came back home for the 4th!"
"No. Can I use these at the IHOP, too, or just TGI Fridays?"
"Oh man. We keep telling them not to tell people they can use those here."
"Where can I use them?"
"Only at the airport. Sorry, hon."

Goddamnit, Linda!

I ate there anyway because I was starving but couldn't understand why the waitress was being so nice to me. She called me every name in the book: sweetie, honey, hon, babe, girly. It finally dawned on me that I was going to have to tip her! Yuck. It was okay, though, because the free water with free refills, giant portions and watching the Royals lose by a million points felt like America.

I cranked the air up and spread out in a star shape on the gigantic bed. The wake up call thing gave me a lot of anxiety, so I set the alarm, too. I was terrified that at 5 a.m. I was going to answer the phone in my sleep stupor with, "Babe! I swear to god if you don't stop touching my butt, I'm going to shove your butt up your butt!" Luckily, it was a recording.

I did not go shopping at the Mall of America like Linda had suggested as she was scheduling my 7 a.m. flight at 9 p.m. the night before and for the first and last time refused a continental breakfast because I had $21 dollars to spend at the airport.

I only managed to use two of them ($7 each), so I gave the last one to Lupita (I made up that name because I didn't ask her what her name was) who worked at the airport and looked like she could use a pick-me-up. I told her she had to use the full amount or she'd lose the difference, and as I walked away I turned to see she'd spent a total of $2.17 on a coffee.

Goddamit, Lupita!

The flight to Kansas City was almost entirely empty. I strewed my crap everywhere and started a crossword puzzle because I'd finished my book. Before I knew it and because I'm not very good at crossword puzzles, we started our descent. I looked out my window, and I kid you not, I began to cry! I cried like a big baby and really freaked the flight attendants out.

I tore out of the airplane and surprisingly wasn't tackled. The great thing about Kansas City "International" airport is that it's little, and you can see your loved ones the moment you come out of the thing. I ran into my mom's white and freckly arms and both of us noticed the chauffeur tearing up out of the corner of our own blurry eyes.

I guess he gets excited when he sees families reunited at airports, too.

One time I saw Al Sharpton at the airport, and I pointed right in his face
and said, "Dad! That's Al Sharpton!" And my dad said, "Yep." 

I Still Don't Have Any Problems; Someone Please Give Me Some Problems Because I Need Something to Write About

I thought I had a problem for a millisecond today.

During the millisecond, I turned into myself and said, "The world is full of problems, and you, myself, don't have nearly your fair share of them."

Oh my god you guys. I think I'm going to be as big as Dr. Maya Angelou.

Sleep tight, Maya Angelou. I loved you, and I liked your poems 

even though I didn't really read that many of them because I don't like poetry all that much.

British People Think They're Better Than Me And I Agree With Them

When I was a kid, the only thing I wanted more than British friends was Jewish friends (if you don't count Black friends). But this isn't about my Jewish or Black friends, this is about my British friends and how they speak. I even worked for a Jewish guy for ages which was a dream come true, but like I said, this is about my British friends.

One cool thing about my parents is that they really appreciate British humour, and they shoved that humour really far down our throats until we really appreciated it, too. I thought every British guy was like John Cleese or Eddie Izzard, and every woman was Dawn French, Jennifer Saunders or Queen Elizabeth II. 

However, now that I actually know a lot of British people, I can say that that is 100% accurate.  

My first real Brit was Kim whom I've lived with for over a year and a half. No one ever asked me to, but if I was to design my absolute perfect Brit, Kim would be her. Then ultra-British Eleanor moved in with us, and I lost the plot. Imagine it! Just imagine coming home to two flatmates who can't help but talk that way all the time.

I've got my other mates, of course, who greatly outnumber my American friends (thank god). They're always from a Somethingshire or Nottingham or a place with a university or a Somethingbury or other places that don't really exist. They pick at accents trying to tell where other Brits are from and cringe when someone's a chav. I still have no idea what the hell they're talking about, but truthfully, I can't be arsed nor bothered about it because I love all of them especially the chavvy ones.

This is my mate, Kelly's, actual voice. Her ACTUAL voice.

Aren't you just so chuffed by that!? Could it be more lush? Bloody hell.

When I started teaching, I had loads to learn because I teach British English. My first day, a kid asked me if I had a rubber, and I was like, "No, I don't have a rubber you eight-year-old pervert!" The little girl and I, through the ancient and beautiful art of charades, eventually figured out she was talking about an eraser. I didn't have one of those either.

I had to explain to my sixteen-year-old student who was about to go to the States to study that he'd better say math instead of maths if he didn't want to be crucified. He protested, but I was like, "Bu, bu, but. Shhhhhhhhhh."

I still get pissed and pissed confused, which really pisses me off especially when I'm pissed.

A car only has a boot when you haven't paid your parking tickets, football is not something I give shits about in any of its forms, and yes, I know it's wrong. I didn't name the damn sport. I'm not a fancy dress person! Why can't we just have costume parties on days that aren't Halloween like normal people!? Filling your tank with petrol at the garage makes you sound ridiculous and just say TV for Christ's sake!

That's what I want to say, but what I really do is change the way I speak because just like my father, I secretly think I am British. It drives my fellow American, Melissa, up the wall and rightfully so. I reckon that makes me the most annoying person on the planet. However, being obnoxious is the American way, and my British friends love me for it even though they claim we're all terrible and speak incorrectly. They're my favourite.

One time I asked Eleanor if British people wore black on July 4th,  

and she said "no" like she didn't even care!