Caffeine Low

I'm on a Just Say No Self-Inflicted Caffeine Probation, so I skipped my Diet Coke today. My head was throbbing and I wanted drugs. I started asking around. I mimed looking through purses and my eyebrows were knit together. I put one hand up to my forehead.

Me: Aspirin?
Her: No, thanks. I'm good.

(pause, then a discrete whisper)

Carly: Is she drunk?
Me: No, just stupid.
Carly: Huh?
Me: Stupid.
Carly: Oh. Wow.

Mad Cow Ramblings

We were at Cory's house tonight, enjoying the last touches of summer: babies, barbeque, and [b]eachother's company, when I announced that I was feeling queasy. He had undercooked the burgers and they were juicing. Siiiick. Suddenly, Rin was all, "You do that all the time," and I was all, "Nuh-uh. Wait. Yeah, I guess I do. But I feel sick a lot," and Cory was all, "It's probably dipepsioxycontinateulcer, and it's exacerbated by caffeine intake." Sure. Kill me with your uncooked meat, and then redeem yourself by saving my intestines from future dypepsiaxic disorder.
I retreated from my Diet Coke as he and Heidi and everyone there diagnosed me with hyperulcernucleicacid inflammation of the nauseous or something. So I said I'd go a few days without caffeine, just
1. because I can. I'm no bitch of caffeine's. Caffeine doesn't own me. And,
2. because I do feel sick to my stomach--even when it's not a Big Day.* And,
3. because I haven't ever actually vomited from it, but what if I did? What if I was the one caffeine chose to make an example of and then I died of dipepsidACiosityness?!!

*Editor's note: I've never done that before** This is my first self-referencing with link EVER.
**Editor's note: Not that I can remember, anyway

School Spirit: Decades Day

I carefully extrapolated the following exchange and have determined that half our students are learning something:

Tomorrow I'm dressing up as a puritan, I'm so pumped.
A what?
I'm so pumped!
A what?
A puritan. Pure-ih-tan?

Next lesson: Defining Words or, How About I Say It More Slowly?

Six Year Old Smile

Matt and Aquaducts
Originally uploaded by Sriracha.

Matt is so...excited...Friday...
Poof.
Two other items:
1. Time travel, as I mentioned yesterday would be mentioned later: voila. I'm reading The Time Traveler's Wife for book club and I'm telling you I am too into this book. I thought I saw the character out for a run the other day. Help. Fictitious characters are coming to life for me.
2. I forgot two because I was thinking about the time traveling book.

Solstice Song

Yesterday was the last day of summer. To celebrate (I like to do all of my celebrating belatedly), I went to see my friend, John Richards. He makes great summer music.
[time warp*]
A few years ago, I was way into John Mayer: rocking out in my college dorm, stalking him at the Quest, etc, etc. He has this song, "Comfortable". So relatable. I mean, I wear gray sweatpants, no make-up, so per-fect...our love was...comf'terbehhhl and so brokehhhn innn.
Ahem.
So as I'm loving this song and making up stories about our future together, I discover that it's not about me. It's not about anyone. I am wounded and ANGRY. A love song for no one in particular? That is careless misuse of melty sweet lyrics.
[time warp again]
I didn't want to risk disappointment again. I told Richards I had to know if Checkout Girl was about a real girl. And it is. Swoon. A girl he liked from afar, and years later from up close. Listen.

*More about time traveling later

Lost in Translation (and more bad stuff happening to animals)

Stafford is in Japan this year, blogging the hmmms he sees. This post inspired me.
I had a glorious few examples from my recent jaunt to Europa.
1. A t-shirt with the words "I'm Rockstar!"
2. A survey (click on the picture below because there are such mistakes that you wouldn't believe me if I typed them out for you).

3. The conversation with the Pasternaks (our host family in Wolfratzhausen):
Manfred P: We have much to do with ourself because we have become retired. We keep the gardening, and the rabbits.
Betty: Oh! Are they pets?
Manfred P: (confused look)
Betty: Do you eat them?
Me: (laughing) Betty! God! No, they don't eat them.
Manfred P: (still confused)
Betty: Are they food?
Manfred P: Oh! Yes.
Me: (horrified)

On the Further Mistreatment of Animals

I poke
Originally uploaded by Sriracha.

This picture is from our trip to Munich (pronounced: Moonch-Moonchies), Land of the Lion. It's in Bavaria and the crest blahblahblah...There are about 8000 lions in the city and they are all painted to reflect blahblahblah... This one was far too decorative and I felt it warranted a poke in the glassy eyeball.

In Defense of Territory

We spent the better part of the afternoon setting traps and watching for chipmunks. They make this incredibly irritating noise, this gutteral chirp, and it maddens my father. It's the reason that he bought the trap.
He came out and showed me how to set it with a little peanut butter between two tortilla chips so it doesn't get the trap all gunky.
An hour later, there he was. Chip Munk.
We took Chip down the street to the park and dropped him off behind the hockey rink. The idea was to trick Chip into running directly into the abundant woods before him.
He veered right.
Right back toward our house.
"Not that way! Dammit."
Poppa turns to me: "Issat gonna make it into the blog?"
I nod.

Wanted: Enterprising Young People with Babies to Invest

Lord, have mercy. I'mabouttolosemymind. I've got a mouse that does not function properly. The rolling ball gets stuck. Here, I thought the problem was solved with a new mousepad. IT WAS NOT SOLVED.

For a little perspective, I did not trade any children for pogs. None of my own children, anyway.
I don't have my own children. I could borrow yours, right Anne? I mean, if you're not using him. And I'll get him back for you when pogs go out of style.
Which is never!
Mra ra ra. (I'm trying out a new laugh)

And since this post is a smorgasbord of crap, I'll give you my favorite me-ESL student exchange from today:

Me: You have to finish this worksheet.
Him: (sigh of exasperation)
Me: He's going for meanest teacher of the year award again.
Him: He never gets it!

Dum Dum Da--What? No!

I don't usually address comments directly in the following posts for a few reasons
1. I don't get many comments
2. Matt writes most of them
3. They don't usually inspire such fear in me
I especially don't respond to comments in my new posts when I have such a story to tell*
I have enough rumors with the neighborhood moms.
I am not getting married.
I would tell you. Wouldn't I tell you? Yes, I would.

*Jill got brained by a softball and Team Fun won the game. They were down by 10 in the...maybe the fourth inning...came back to win by two in a nailbiting seventh inning.
I was taking some action shots (right place, right time, wrong camera) to use for my (ahem) blog, and (I know that is so geeky, but I want to find something new and different every day and I can't just post about the Euro Mullet again, even if it is a big hit.) as I was lining up a shot, I saw out of the wee viewfinder, Jillian took a ball to the back of the head as she was running to third. And then she went down.
I planned to use the photos as evidence, but they are so completely fuzzed that I cannot put them up here. Perhaps I could Sharpie something for you.

Luke + Lorelei = True Love

Do you ever get so excited that you think you might throw up? I know what you're thinking and it's not after I've eaten a lot of food and feel fat and need to purge. (See yesterday's picture.) I'm talking about good old fashioned happyvomit. Like when you
1. hear from a long lost friend or you
2. make a joke over email and you laugh outloud AND harder than anyone else or
3. when your mom asks the ladies with the strange accents if they're from Russia and they get totally offended and then she asks if they're from up the street? And then she tells you not to blog that! "I feel bad! I didn't mean to be offensive! Anything I say will and might be used against me in a court of blog." Or
4. when it's the SEASON PREMIERE OF GILMORE GIRLS!
Oh, damn. Like my chest is tight with giggles and my throat is full of happy bile.
My coworker calls it Big Day Syndrome. When he was a little kid, he used to throw up before his family went to the fair because it was a favorite place.

Fatty Came Home

I bought a Rolodex. To keep me busy if I can't find another wheel to spin.
And to keep my contacts.
I don't have any contacts.
I have two chins.
And a home.
And some sleep to make up for the seven hour time difference.

Double Chin Originally uploaded by Sriracha.

I Bit My Lisp

This is a story about a girl who went away and decided it's ok to come home now.
It's been a little over a month. More than 30 days, anyway.
I've figured some shit out:
1. I love bags with ziplocking action.
2. I am always worried (about everything). Especially that I might have to pee on busrides.
3. I love waking up to natural light, I love morning, and would rather get up early than go out late and have fun.
4. I hate fun.
5. Matt and I fight about numbers 3 and 4.
6. I'll just have a sip of someone else's.
7. I learn some things the hard way.
For this, there is a example of the time we were packing to come home earlier today when suddenly I realize I'm out of clean underoos. Good planning. So I pop into a shop with a nice display and pick out a very happily cotton pair with screenprinted bows. Who doesn't like bows?
And then I see the price tag. I see it in plenty of time to say, "Could you please place those directly back on the hanger with the matching camisole that costs more than my plane ticket home? Because, you see, I am a very frugal young lady who does not require such niceties. I'll just turn some inside out."
But, and here's the rub, I don't know Spanish. Not even enough to say "I've changed my mind." I could have run out, but I was forced into that embarassing silence of cheapasses who want to say no, but don't.
And now, I will send Matt to return said item, knowing Spanish as he does, and being ashamed to go myself.
8. Some lessons are worth $35.
9. That doesn't mean you have to keep $35 panties.
10. Chocolate solves everything. See 2, 4-10.

Natural Disaster OF HAIR

Have you ever...
been away from home for a really long time and then something bad happens, like, for example, a hurricane that wipes out an entiremajormanycities and you think to yourself, I should probably say something about it, but what to say, where to begin and so instead you post a picture of yourself and your new EuroMullet?

No? Really?
Well, the bang was too intense, people. It was long and I was disgruntled.
Lucia, the sweet Spanish speaking also cosmetology student, cut my hair in her grandma's kitchen.
This is the before:

Pre- EuroMullet
Originally uploaded by Sriracha

This is the after:

Rockin the EuroMullet
Originally uploaded by Sriracha.

Meo! (I am peeing!)

Coming to you Live from Lucia's Gramma's house, Bilbao, Spain, The World
Lucia is a friend of Matt's from his study abroad days here in Espana. We're visiting and staying at her grandma's house because her grandma is on holiday for a month traveling to Cordoba. Like all Spanish grandmas. Mine would be a jet setter, too, if she weren't afraid to fly.
We dined with Lucia and her father and stepmother (Juan and Timi) this evening. Lucia speaks some English; Juan and Timi, none at all.
Mostly the conversational pattern follows
1. Spanish
2. Spanish-English translation from Matt to me
3. English-English for Lucia
Repeat.

A snipet from tonight:
Lucia: She is a mess in the dick.
Me: Huh?
(many seconds pass)
Matt: A pain in the ass?
Lucia: Yes. A pain in the East.
There was much laughter that followed, and I was always the loudest. You'd think I'd be more sensitive to English Language Learners.

Another snipet from tonight:
L: We have one Spanish expression about the heat.
She says the phrase.
We hear: It is like the sweaty balls of your grandmother.
She meant: It is like your grandma's boiled eggs.
I wrote it all down when I stopped laughing and Lucia picked up the paper reading,
"Like the sweety balls of your grandmother."

Grounded

Ack! There's no IhateEurope.com
-Matt

Dear London,
This is an open letter to you and to Ryan Air and to your silly little Stansted Airport.
YOU RUINED PART OF MY DAY.
There we were: on our way to Spain.
Until you came along, deceiving us with your 40 minute before departure closing of check ins and oh, how I loathe you.
The sweet ladies of EasyJet assured us that we would have enough time because EasyJet closes their infinitely superior check in 30 minutes before. THAT IS 10 MINUTES MORE TIME FOR US TO GET TO YOU.
Instead, you take our money and you sit there. Not even running away. Sit there with your fancy neck scarves shaking your heads. Growl. I growl at you.
Ass.
Please note that in the future, I will not come to you with my travel needs. Not to city, not to the carrier, and certainly not to your undersized airport with quick underground service to London because you're so far away from the city center. C-E-N-T-E-R.
I hate you and your reverse spelling.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S. I didn't really mean it. I'm mad. I don't know what I'm saying.
P.P.S. Sob.

Should I be from Prague?

The girls here are cute. I know this, because most everybody in the city is a tourist. The locals are easy to spot. I also know this because Matt and I do fashion dos and don'ts to pass the time and everyone from here is a do.

I wake up each morning and look at my hair. Yeah, it's a little bit rock star. The bang is too long. That's a problem, but I do a little sweeping and I've got the unplanned-erratic look of Euro Traveler. And it suits me.
Hours later I catch a glimpse of someone who looks a little like me, but nothinglikeIlookedthismorningIswearit. I never would have left the hotel.
Like someone you'd see in a train station and assume they rode through the night and could use a place to sleep. Oh, honey.
That's what you'd say to me.

So we're off to Spain tomorrow and none of you have called or texted. No, that's cool. I mean, it would be nice, but no pressure. I understand. You're busy. Probably looking up Prague girls on the internet.

Heaven is a Thai Foot Massage

The next time you're in the Czech Republic, visit my friend Noi.
She has small hands and lotion. And she will take your feet and make them numb for one hour and 600 crowns (about 24 dollars).
At some point during the very enjoyable time, I remember wondering what she was saying to her friend at the next foot rub station. At another point, I remember wondering why I cared.
Why?
Why, when your lower half may as well be an alien life form trying to make contact with your torso?
At yet another point, I remember thinking, I cannot wait to write about getting a Thai Foot Massage in not Thailand. This is so ridiculous! I love ridiculous things! WAIT! Focus on the enjoyment! Stop thinking about your blog!
And your cell phone*! Stop thinking about that, too!

*As a sidenote, if anyone wants to send a text message to me IN PRAGUE (this number is only good until Saturday) : 011 420 608 184 896