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

Missing: Nothing.

An observation from Matt:
Wouldn't it be cool if you never had to worry about shady people?*
Yes. Yes it certainly would. I would love to not be suspicious of the sweet ticket-taking granny at the Jewish Museum (not full of Jews waiting to be observed), but everybody who could escape with my stuff is a threat.
I almost swiped an Acer from some guy today who was typing at a cafe because I was pretty sure it was mine.
BUT MY ACER IS AT HOME.
On the table.
Hi, Acer.
Mommy loves you.
Prague is nice and warm and the Jewish Museum was nice and warm, too.

*Note: He also woke up this morning with an idea of how to successfully smuggle cocaine.

From Praha

DearMom
We're in Prague now(the spacebaris terribly stickyandrefuses to perform its solefunction. Forgive me.). We had to makea mad dash fortheborderafter Matt threatened tokill Parisand everyonein thesurrounding areas.
Parishate morphed intoEuropehate and thepressure wastoo muchfor WEsternEuropeto handle. This migration hascostus upwards of 130 USD a night for accomodations and less than 1 USD per beer. A fair trade byanystandards.
It's pretty and cute and there's a Hermes on the corner of Parisstoyaka or someshit.
I learned the phrases "Good morning, Allen Smith" and the very helpful, "It's Ivan's birthday."
International peace will comeofthis cultural exchange.
Miss you, miss home. Hate Paris. Justkidding, Paris.
Mostly.
love,
Me.
P.S. THERE WAS AN ASIATIC TRADER RESTAURANT WITH SRIRACHA SAUCE. I ATE IT. IT WAS GOOD.

Paris, Sans Les Petits

It's not like I'm in a bar in Paris getting sauced because I miss the kids.
Who, me?
But if I did. I mean, if I were sad, it would be ok.
As things go, I'm doing pretty well. I saw the Moulin Rouge windmill today. I mean, this girl is going places.
Actually, it was sort of an anti-climax. That's true, but also a joke because the streets are FILLED with sex shops and peep shows and nasty.
Ew.
So I miss walking around with 10 kids in tow. And I can't believe that I have no more excuse to go shopping, except that I want to.
"Um, Matty? Could we just? I mean, Lauren REEEEEALLY wants to see these shoes....Lauren's not here? Yeah. Right. Well, she asked me to look at them for her."