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Kids Suck… but It’s Our Own Fault

7 Feb

ImageMy “man friend” (that’s what I call him because “boyfriend” is the most cliche and terrifying word to someone who is afraid of commitment… ever… FYI)  the other day was discussing having children … and once the smelling salts kicked in and I crawled off the floor and ingested a couple glasses of red wine… I got to thinking.

I started looking around at all the children and instead of scowling I tried to be unbiased. Key word tried. But honestly!! after paying attention to the coming generations… I’m not sure I want to live in this world much less bring in additional sufferers.

What in the hell are we doing to our children today?? When did this bullshit of everyone is equal and a winner come to fruition? I think NOT. Participation trophy’s and no child left behind and child services at every corner waiting to sweep your offspring to foster homes is completely out of control. In the words of Will McAvoy (if you haven’t watched HBO’s the Newsroom… you NEED to) America is NOT the greatest country in the world anymore and with great reason.

My parents hit me and you know what… I’m still alive! Ta DA! Sure it was unpleasant when it happened… But I don’t have any scars… not even emotional ones… those came from elsewhere. But you know what I do have? Respect for authority …and character. I would have hit me too. I was a nightmare from the ages of 3- 25. I still need to be hit most days. And you know what… I lost in team sports and my lack of ability to put one foot in front of the other left me to be the last person picked in dodge ball. I didn’t cry. I found something I was good at so I could feel proud of myself. I worked harder at things that I was mediocre at. I excelled in school because it set me apart from my peers. It gave me a niche. It made me work to feel a sense of accomplishment… What is that?!

This hand holding and coddling ridiculousness is creating a generation of pussies… yeah I said it PUSSIES…  who aren’t going to be able to take care of themselves, much less be contributing members of society. They are going to fill out a job application (if they can even think for themselves that far) work for two hours (if they can make it that long) and be waiting with their hand out for a golden trophy and a pat on the back.

YEAHHHH RIIIIGHHHTT.

This is not the world I want to be in much less bring someone else in it. I’ll hit my kid for saying ‘shit’ at the age of 3 cause they heard it on TV (or from me) and because they threw a temper tantrum in the supermarket cause I wouldn’t buy them a candy bar and a second Ipad … and then we’ll all be in jail.

No thank you.

I think I’d rather move to Mars. I hear it’s nice there.

The Sure Thing.

20 Dec

sure-thing-jbI was talking to an older widower the other day and she was trying to brainstorm how to meet someone and I suggested she go to a happy hour and she asked “but by myself?? I wish there was someone I could go with.” I suggested a woman in our office that was blonde, looked ten years younger, and could talk to a wall if it would engage her. She constantly smiled and I knew men would come over with the bait of the blonde chatty kathy, providing an opening for the brunette shy widower to make her mark with her humor and wits… This is called a sure thing.

My friend was not interested in going with this woman, but I don’t think she got the point of it.

Is it called taking advantage of people or simply just seeing an opportunity and taking it? If you know someone will help you out why wouldn’t you go for it immediately? It’s not selfish, it’s time management. Why beat around the bush… if you see someone chewing a piece of gum, why wouldn’t you ask them to have a piece… or someone wearing a watch what time it is? You wouldn’t ask the kid who is failing the class to explain the homework to you, amiright? I know I help people out in ways I don’t even know. One just has to be smart enough  to spot the opportunity and pounce. If you are smart enough to see something that will make your life easier, why wouldn’t you go for it? Someone would do the same for you.

I do, however, find this skill probably most similar to how serial killers choose their victims and married men target their mistresses… so proceed with caution and don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Don’t think if I have a flat tire (as a young female that usually wears heels and skirts) I don’t immediately target the burliest man with football playeresque stats to help me, completely overlooking to 90lb cheerleader? Duuuuuuh.

Everyone has skills and something to offer and I think picking out the sure thing is a compliment to them… usually. I’ll admit maybe I take advantage of this superpower ability to read people’s strengths and what I can get away with, but how else is a single girl with zero muscle mass and a negative bank account supposed to survive?

So feelings huh?

18 Dec

how-i-feel-when-funny-picture-1506When finding yourself in a new relationship and realizing you are not just rusty you’re completely inept, how does one catch up in the game of feelings? Apparently these things are supposed to be able to be verbalized and spoken………. but whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy? Is it like if you break the ice then there’s a flood of feeling spewing from your mouth like the Niagara Falls of emotion or are you supposed to chip away at it like a 5,000 foot wide log with a dull fork and a knife. Either way it seems painful, and a lot of work.

Whats the big deal really? Communication? What a silly concept… no one ever got anywhere COMMUNICATING right? Why can’t we all just telepathically stare at each other and understand what the other is feeling? Excuse me while I disappear into my much-needed invention laboratory.

I think it’s all just really overrated, which is why I’m more single than not. Ok, I just really need to find a personal tutor and multiple books on tape on the subject. Do they have Rosetta Stone for relationships?

I think social media has not only revolutionized how we communicate, but stunted our voice on the matter. You can say a lot through just posting a relationship status or tagging someone in a photo followed by hearts, but in real life face to face (or even copping out on the phone or in text) I feel like there is a missing link to my brain (okaayyyyyyy maybe my heart, blah blah blah) and my mouth. I even tried writing a letter… like with my hands and a pencil and I had no opinions…I was like the first caveman of the english language…yeah…I know… anyone here a doctor??  WHERE IS MY KEYBOARD!?

But seriously, when one has the emotional capacity of a nat and the attention span to go with it when  attempting to discover trust and truth in a relationship in the 21st century, how does one make feelings become words and not just inner obsessive compulsities? When is the right time in a new relationship to actually use your words and stop with the charade?

Language of Reality

18 Apr

What a difference a week makes!!

I went from the bustling concrete jungle of Madrid, living in complete bliss of the oblivion of language, to the METH infested reality of Midwest America and endless incorrect grammar.

Oh Spain, how I will miss your beautiful women who can roll cigarettes with one hand and drive a motorbike in 6 inch heels with the other, and dashing men who have their shit together whilst wearing tailored suits and simultaneously staring at me like they could either take me to dinner or eat me for dinner. Either way, I now find myself in a world with obese women whose arms are triple the size of my thigh and flying cow shit amidst lunging horses. My fascination with nuns in sneakers and rosaries and drag queens outside my doorstep, are surreally replaced with raving Republicans and scary misplaced hair extensions coupled with clown inspired makeup.

What once was unemployed bliss filled days and late evenings full of discotheques and Flamenco dancing, is now 8 painful hours of clock watching account reconciliation and evenings spent watching tornado warnings and 80’s cover bands.

Though Spain offered the most peaceful feeling of home one has ever encountered, I realize that the experience of finding a place that feels yours is what it must feel like to find this thing called a soul mate. The next chapter is just around the corner of a summer of serious reality, but a reality that brings an appreciation of the ability to create for yourself a next chapter at all.

So goodbye bread and hello 20 lbs that the bread left on my ass. Perhaps in another time and another place, Spain, I will see you again. But for now (and the next 3 years), hello Kansas and hello…chapter…

Fly Me Away.

4 Apr

Flying is such a luxury.

Until it is a bitch.

I have flown a lot of places and encountered a lot of things, but my 36 hour route to hell was not what I had expected. And I completely blame Ryan Air (and the French). It is the WORST airline of all time. What was originally going to be a cheap trip to Germany turned into the most expensive experience of my life. After 2 trains and an airport shuttle I found myself at the Neiderhein Airport.

Where is Neiderhein may you ask… It’s in the middle of FREAKING nowhere.

So I’m excited because I made it to the airport in one piece, got through security with my overweight bag… naturally… and was seated nowhere near children… or schizophrenics. SUCCESS!

Then comes the news that we are delayed… for three hours. I didn’t realize how hot planes get on the inside when you are just… sitting there. And I had on 6 layers of clothes… naturally. So after peeling off my layers and trying to psychologically convince myself that I wasn’t sweating through 6 layers and that I didn’t look like I had just got out of a KISS concert (I felt like Tina Fey in 30 Rock looking for the pilot…Matt Damon… to have an enraged standoff with and start raiding the snack cart), my flight was cancelled due to the striking of French air controllers (apparently the French strike for everything… naturally). I was at a loss.

However, the girl next to me was not. She had the definition of a meltdown. Actually two meltdowns. One in English and then one in German. I was not worried about how to get to Spain at that point, I was concerned about how to get away from the erratic psycho losing her mind next me. I was looking for the small children to take haven with. I had never seen more of a need for waterproof mascara, xanax, and a muzzle.

And then came the reality… the line. Ryan Air had 2 people ready to rebook at least 4 cancelled flights (that’s like 5,000,000 people I’m sure). Dumbasses. And I’m in Germany without a working phone and cannot understand any of the German or Spanish updates going on around me. Trying not to panic I do the only thing any sane person would do. I start roaming (Lord knows how much that cost. And I don’t want to know. EVER). So amidst the languages… I figure out that there are no flights for two days even going to the COUNTRY of Spain. And with all the people in front of me the soonest I would get to Espana would be 5 days from now. Awesome.

Ok. My flight back to the states is 4 days from now. I’m no rocket scientist but that math is no bueno. So I do what any sane person would do.

I panic.

On the inside of course.

But then I regain my control and start looking for options. I book a flight to Madrid on another airline at another airport. Ok, so now I have to get to the airport. One shuttle, two trains, a subway and a really nice German man and his family get me to the second airport. As soon as I arrive I get notification my flight is cancelled… naturally. Perfecto! Just what I was hoping for. So I book another. Cancelled.

So now it’s 3 am I’m in the completely closed airport camped out under a giant Giraffe (I named him Ferdinand…he was the nicest soul I had met all day) being circled by floor cleaners, flickering lights, and constant hammering… becoming schizophrenic myself. (Overnight in an airport is like camping but 1,000 times worse because it wasn’t planned, the floor is marble, and all the cafe’s close at midnight.)

Any trains from Germany to Madrid take an astounding 24 hours… naturally… I don’t know what circles they are going in… and renting a car costs over 1,300 euros… because that’s affordable (and after asking people to find fellow road trippers I realize that in Germany an 11 hour car ride is not a possibility in their world. And this thing called “roadtripping” is not a thing.  I had a hard time not laughing because that’s like 2 states and would be faster than my train/plane purgatory I was finding myself in. And if you don’t believe in roadtripping I would think there would be less strikes and more options than 24 hour trains!!! But I digress, in reality a roadtrip would have taken me 5 days instead of 11 hours due to my lack of inner compass.)

Now, not only am I freaking out, I smell like a homeless person who should be on the sidewalk not cozy under Ferdinand with a makeshift pallet consisting of dirty t-shirts and socks. I’m ready to slit my wrists. But I can’t find anything sharp. WON’T THE UNIVERSE THROW ME A BONE!

At 5 am I finally get a HIGHLY expensive one way ticket to Madrid (rape)… the only one going out that day… and there’s a chance it might be cancelled…naturally.

I go for coffee (I really just needed a scotch or two… or a bottle).

Apparently good morning in German is something that sounds like “Morgan.” I thought the barista had lost her mind, and I tried politely explaining I am not Morgan but Lauren and maybe the guy next to me was Morgan. She then proceeded to snarl at me “Good Morning” in English like I belonged on a short bus with the other crazies… not free amongst society.

I have never wanted to punch anyone more.

6 hours later… my flight is finally in the air and may I say that Lufthansa is the best airline ever!! I wanted to take that stewardess and put her in my pocket. And they served breakfast!! It was like I had made my journey through the Hunger Games to heaven … except I passed out and missed breakfast. But still! It’s nice to feel like an actual person when you’re paying an arm and a leg to be in flight and not scum that is in the way of the journey (airlines really have lowered their standards in all areas and need to regain their dignity. Ryan Air you need to take notes from Lufthansa …. as well as every other airline in existence).

So after another 3 subway transfers I arrived at my destination… 36 hours later  and have never been so excited to hear Spanish and so reluctant to ever fly again.

Ferdinand, I will never forget our one magical night under the track lights. However, I hope to never see you again… naturally.

Roadtrip anyone?

Go Lesbians.

12 Mar

After 10 weeks of awesomenes in Spain. ruts were hit this weekend causing me to miss home.

Gasp.

I didn’t think it could happen, but I miss America with a fiery vengeance.

*EXCEPT for the insane politics that are leading up to the next election which make me want to become permanently Canadian and  flee the possible second civil war and the white trash habitants that weigh over 356 lbs.

Just to be clear.

Sometimes a girl just wants to talk. After weeks of broken English, endless frustration, and many flailing calories burned by Nahum. My spanish is about where it was when my ship landed in Spain 10 weeks ago. I have a friend that speaks the king’s English but that shit is cray! Most of the time I think she’s making up words and calling them English. I just wanna bitch about something vocally. This hasn’t happened in some time. I’m not a talker. But man a complete sentence in American would be muy muy bueno. I must be sick or something.

Men. I NEVER thought these words would be coming out of my mouth. But American men are REALLY nice… ahhem in comparison… the bell curve isn’t really peaking by any means.) I will not take them for granted in the future… Ok, ok… I will TRY not to take them for granted in the future. In Spain the men play games similar to chess. Meaning I know neither the rules, where the board is, or what pieces we are using. But I do know that in the end they are king and it’s check mate for you no matter how you play your cards. Best just to surrender and become a lesbian… or nun.

Tricky bastards.

My mom’s cooking. The worst thing about me is my lack of attention to detail. This skill would have been a good one BEFORE I food poisoned myself. However, this also exemplifies my skills at magic. Because I food poisoned myself with pasta. Ta-Da! Skillz. (To be fair apparently the vegetables I bought had shrimp in them. Note to self shrimp in the Spanish language = gambas. And they need to be cooked throughly… or just avoided altogether.)

Nothing makes you want to kill yourself quicker than a bout of strong, self-inflicted, food poisoning. Check mate.

Internet. I JUST WANT TO SEE THE SNL SKIT OF THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF DISNEY!!!! It’s super frustrating that no American sites work outside the States. But rest assured they are all working on becoming available in my area. Good to know Hulu, NBC, ABC, some things on YouTube, and Pandora. Check mate my ass.

PS i’d kill for some Smoothie King and a Redbox.

Take that world.

6 Mar

I feel like I have found a place where I am discriminated against. Not because of the color of my skin, or the junk in my trunk, or my lack of political/religious/ and societal beliefs, OR because I put Ketchup on EVERYTHING…. but simply because I only know one language.

I go places and can’t speak Spanish… I try… sort of… and then I am defeated and speak English… and people look at me like I’m scum and they are going to test my lack of knowledge and level of idiocy because I have failed to expand my horizons and open my brain to new things.

I quit my job and moved to freaking Spain… alone… with no plan…and I’m 26 and have no illegitimate children or casual stints in rehab/AA. Cut me some slack people!

I only know I am being discriminated against because I will go with my Asian friend who also speaks English… and she is welcomed with open arms…it’s like they are ready to throw her a party… why?!??! ( I know why it’s because Chinese is IMPOSSIBLE, but she learned English… I WANT to throw her a party) She gets the red carpet treatment because they can tell English is obviously her second language and they respect that. I get it.

Ok, so now I have this information… what shall I do……………………………………….

The obvious answer is: How do I look more Asian??

Yeah, I think that is 110% impossible.

But I do look Russian.

Even Russians think I look Russian. They will come up to me speaking Russian. (The jury is still out on whether this is a good thing… I’ll let you know after I go to Russia.)

But I think it is a thing I can use to my advantage.

“Now seeking a Russian language coach to aid me in achieving a believable Russian accent to speak English in.”

Take that world. Two can play this game.

Gone is my Gaydar.

1 Mar

So everyone has been wanting me to follow-up on Nahum.

Apparently I described him well.

Most days I hate him because I have no idea what he is talking about and I feel like a first grader minus my nap time, juice box, and freaking cheese and crackers.

Recently, another development came upon me and slapped me in the face. Nahum is gay.

Another one bites the dust. (Seriously all the good ones are gay!! Ladies we need to step up our game!)

So now I just hate him and cannot even enjoy his perfectly manicured beard and flawless language skills. But it brings about another issue that I have. My gaydar.

Can you take classes on these things? I used to be pretty good and it and I’ll admit it’s easier in your own country…. usually… but I must have killed too many brain cells in the last ten years because I am striking out at a solid pace. I am constantly getting my hopes up for men that are batting for the other team. Perhaps it’s because heterosexual men have lost any skills they may have had in the past at dressing well and general proper hygiene. Plus, gay men can carry on a conversation like they majored in it in college. And they generally know about the important things like designers, up and coming clubs, and celebrity relationship statuses.

Living in the gay area here in Madrid (which is the BEST neighborhood in any city and safest for moi seeing as how I have boobs and a vagina) I still get stared at which is most likely them looking at my shoes, my lack of brunette hair, or they can hear me thinking in my American accent. Either way it makes me feel special.

When it comes to the gays I guess a girl can wish and hope that miracles can happen… or everyone needs to start wearing name tags (preferably bedazzled) with their finest italian leather footwear of perfection, sweet-smelling aftershave in just the right dose,  and impeccable tailored suits indicating their sexual preference.

Baguette Me.

20 Feb

I never thought I was a picky eater.

Until I left the country.

I’m not sure how those people who only eat chicken nuggets, peanut butter and jelly, and macaroni and cheese survive out of the country… or stay thin. Bitches.

In Spain food has morphed from a caloric depression absolver to scavenger hunt. Some days in the grocery store I feel like that kid from Into the Wild and I’m praying to the food gods that this nut won’t kill me … or start eating my organs…. will taste like something a human would eat…and that Eddie Vedder will start singing my soundtrack after I die. The entire food experience has led me to be overjoyed with Golden Grahams and Orbit gum. Both of which I can read the label. The rest is gray area. Thank God for all those college years because my diet now consists of pasta, pizza, and pasta. I alternate my Italian delicacies to keep my taste buds on their toes.

I’ve eaten enough pasta in 5 weeks to kill an Italian.

AND OH MY GOD THE BREAD. (I could write 5 whole posts about the bread.) I’m not sure what those bakers in America are doing… but they are doing it wrong. You can’t get bread like in Europe. And my ass is proof. I think I go through a baguette a day. And when I say bread I don’t mean bread and cheese, or bread and mustard, or even like an actual sandwich. I mean just straight bread. I think about bread. I dream about bread. The bread has changed my life.

I’m going to need bread rehab.

But what’s even worse than my unhealthy bread addiction and lack of cooking skills is once again… the language. Surprisingly… they don’t have English menu’s here. Sssshhhhhhocking. So my poor friends are stuck translating everything (I already have menu anxiety;  you throw in a foreign language and I’m looking around for a paper bag and a corner to go rock myself in.) We have discovered, however… that you can’t translate a menu. And you especially can’t translate types of fish. Even my translator can’t translate.

My very first experience with eating out in Spain involved the death of a pig and a weekend of a salad diet and Jamon (which is really just fancy ham jerky that may or may not be cooked… the jury is still out… but the fat surrounding it definitely isn’t)… which is appropriate for EVERY occasion in the country… from posh CD release parties to pig killings. It’s like the Reese’s Peanut Butter cup of the States. My second experience was pig ears. They look like wontons and taste like fried oil flavor. you should try it sometime… at your own risk. My third experience was cow tail. I’m eating what I thought was really fatty stew with a ridiculous amount of bones in it when my friend let me in on the secret…. I could have gone my whole life…. and then some…. not knowing I was eating a tail. After I decided I wasn’t going to pass out or that I was food poisoned, I figured out the word for tail and have made a mental note to cross it off as a menu option.

I’m thinking I’ll just label baguette my “manna” and see how long before my hair starts to fall out or I die of anemia. Bets anyone?

Queen’s wear underwear too, right?

7 Feb

When did it become such a bitch to get around Europe??

I’m in Madrid trying to get to London… You can practically see it from my window… if you look really hard. It shouldn’t be that hard right?

After a metro ride, a queue to ask about the queue for RyanAir… which is apparently the worst airline in existence according to all security personnel and queue buddies I got well acquainted with in the hour and a half wait to get into another line because apparently it was the wrong line and then only to have the passport approver send me to another line to get it stamped…his wrists must have been suffering from a serious bout of carpel tunnel. I was finally to security.

Yay, 1/4 quarter of the way. Shoot me. There’s nothing worse than having ADD and having to wait in a constant line. Lines should be destroyed along with the concept of Visas, exchange rates, and gynecologists. Amiright?!

Aaaaaaand then who’s an idiot for wearing ten bracelets, a watch, difficult shoes, and scattered liquids. This girl. (You’d think being an American and having to fight through airport security like what I would imagine 30 consecutive days of camping to be like, I would wise up…and wear socks without holes in them…but I figured it’s close… this is cake… and aerosol deodorant?! That’s a liquid? It doesn’t even work well. YOU CAN HAVE IT MR SECURITY MAN! Get it out of my sight! Deodorant is so overrated anyways. And I need an updated liquid list por favor!) If ONLY I would have known how all these things collectively would get me to one VERY personal metal detector and three even more touchy personal pat downs… I think she thought my bra was similar to that of a fen-bots because the airport pat down lady definitely kept going back…vigorously. (Yeah! My boobs are there lady I promise… you just need a microscope and some fresh contact lenses to see them.) I even got a hand down my pants.

If she wanted to know where I got my underwear, she could have just asked.

So now I’m waiting for my plane in the fetal position due to my aforementioned molestation experience… and all of a sudden it’s like the cowbell for the dining hall at summer camp. It happened so fast I didn’t even see it! People are pushing and herding together like cattle. And I’m looking around for the emergency exit in case there’s a stampede. Ohhhhhhh waaaaaaaait, it’s just the line to get on the plane.

And I’m last.

Duped again by the lack of knowledge in Spanish. Nahum you need to step up your game.

So now I’m on the plane… next to small children, naturally… they can sense my love for them…

And two hours later I’m in London!

The hard part is over right. Nada.

Apparently the UK customs man thought it quite necessary to remind me of why I am in Europe to begin with… “not really suuuuurrreeee”… after two games of 20 questions about this topic, I found out that apparently that’s not a good answer. So after 15 more minutes of him not believing that I quit my job and moved to Spain… only for as long as I’m allowed of course… constant questions about my bank account, the entire history of my life in America, as well as the entire history of America, (duuuuuuudee it’s not like I’m here to break into the palace and rummage around the Queen’s underwear drawer. I just want to shop and spend an ungodly amount of money for five days. Everybody. Calm. Down. And you’re freaking welcome.) I think he could tell he was wearing me down and I might burst into tears at the knowledge that “yes, I’m literally floating in this world, yes, he’s a jackass for judging me, and yes, no one likes a crying girl at the border… of anywhere.”

Then as fast as the stampede erupted, I was stamped and brushed to the side.

And now I’m running for my train…

…the train I thought I had to be on time for, but really I could take any of the trains that were coming… every 5 minutes.

Workout. Check.

So one train ride, one wrong tube ride, one sketchy attempt at acquiring a tube map that they had ran out of… two correct tube rides… and one black town-car ride driven by a Persian looking man with BO stronger than a vat of garlic that’s been roasting for 5 days, I arrived at my friends house.

Don’t worry the trip back was quite similar.

I’m never leaving Spain again.

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