Last Post from Argentina

Am working on preparing myself for the Great Adventure home.  Remember all those old dog movies about the animals wandering all across the country trying to get back to their owners?

I make that look like a walk in the park.

Fortunately, however, I am not yet to the part where I am actually required to have any interactions with others.

Currently, I am in the Music Preparation Stage.  This is quite a process, and means a lot of iTunes research.  (It also can be very embarrassing, as when deciding whether or not a song is decent, one must first play it…  People are always inevitably present when the worst song possible begins to play.)

Leaving a country is always incredibly awkward.  Tend to do it all wrong, anyway.  For instance, said goodbye to my host brother today.  In my towel.  Mind was so filled with the fact that I WAS WEARING A TOWEL that I couldn’t come up with any good Spanish goodbye phrases, so I came off looking out like a major jerk.

People tend to spend their last day wandering around the city, taking pictures, and crying.

I’ve spent it… Not quite like that.

This afternoon has been filled with How I Met Your Mother.  (Which was super exciting, as it turns out, because Argentina is featured in the beginning of season three!  And it has Enrique Iglesias. Kind of blew my mind.)

At any rate, it will be strange to be gone.  No longer will I be able to blame my social awkwardness on a language barrier.  Gone are the days of being whistled at by strange men while going for my walk (if you’re picturing Cute Workout Barbie, try to picture more Elderly Woman in Atrocious Sweatpants).

I was recently reminded that I began my entire experience here with a That’s What She Said joke.  I know when I get back into town, everyone will ask me if I’ve changed.

But of course, I’ll say.  It was great – just wish it had lasted longer!

That’s what she said. 

In Which I am Nearly Deported.

Suspect self to not be a particularly talented traveler.

Went to Uruguay yesterday, and this supposedly simple trip was greatly complicated by my travel savvy deficiency.

The difficulty began the night before, when nearly froze to death when slumbering.  Yet instead of simply awakening and gathering warming materials like a sane person, I evidently opted to attempt to curl myself into some sort of warmth seeking lump of miserable.  Awoke to find entire self folded neatly (along with my blankie, of course) on my pillow.

I do not have a very large pillow.

This bit of nighttime aerobics gave me a limp all day, remarkably reminiscent of a ninety-year-old woman.  Or a one-and-a-half legged pirate.

At least no dignity was lost.

Despite this minor setback and a subway failure (after which I became solely responsible for the vertical maintenance of a sleeping woman), we arrived to the boat on schedule.

At which point tragedy struck.

Due to my new passport in which I bear startling resemblance to a member of the Elfin Nation, I had a myriad of Fairly Important Papers.

Presented them all to the scary looking man with my best and most hopeful smile.  He snatched them from my friendly grip with a grunt and began rifling sacrilegiously through them.  Keeping my hopeful-slowly-turning-concerned smile plastered on my face, I watched as he picked up my passport and walked away.

This was rather unexpected.

Abandoned, I remained at my post in front of the window.

Waited.

Preformed a foot shuffle.

Face began to twitch from the unexpected burden of maintaining my Most Presentable Face for so long.

It was at some point after I had begun to hum along to the soothing elevator music drifting softly throughout the building that he returned to twitching, shuffling, ever-smiling me.

Not bothering to restation himself in his proper place, he marched directly up to me (this would have been far more frightening had he been taller than four foot seven).

“Why are you here?” he asked brusquely.

Delighted to know the answer, I joyously announced, “Studying!”

This is where things got a bit strange.

“ILLEGAL IMMIGRANT!” he shouted at me.

“Ahhh…  Pardon?” I responded wittily.

“Illegal immigrant!!” he spat.  “You can’t just come here.  You need a visa.  A VISA!”

And with a snarl he stalked off.

Hmm.  Now, I may not be the most experienced traveler, but at this point, I deducted that this was not typical.

He returned with another growl, just for me, and an unfathomably complicated piece of paper.  He stamped by passport furiously, scrawled a note under the stamp, and threw my things back at me.

Relieved and rejoicing, I collected my items and scampered onto the vessel to commence the voyage.

The shock came when I opened my passport.  Under the exit stamp from Argentina was a message: until July 7^th.

I would be unable to re-enter Argentina.

I had been… deported?!?

This was fairly disheartening.

Frantic, I flipped to my new Fairly Important Paper and scanned it desperately for clues.

This paper was not in Spanish.

Well, it was. 

But the only words I recognized were “Virginia”, “judicial”, and “July.”

These were not soothing words.

Fortunately, I did not seem to possess enough sanity to stay panicked for long, so I fell asleep.

Upon arrival to Uruguay, I had the paper examined by a waitress.  (Officials scare me, especially after one had just ejected me from the country.)  She said lots of words to me that I did not understand, but from what I gathered I had not, in fact, been deported.

The people who allowed me back into Argentina seemed to agree with her, but they, too, said lots of words to me that I did not understand.

Then they asked if I understood, and I said yes.

This is a reflex, as to not appear stupid.  Instead, I will now walk around thrusting a random piece of paper at passerby to avoid deportation.

Good plan, Virginia.

Goodbye, Warm Weather.

My internet is refusing to allow me to be lazy.

I keep trying to access the magic website of Cuevana to watch 30 Rock, and it continually comes up with the error message BAD GATEWAY.

What??  What does this mean?!  Gateway?  What gateway?!?!!?

I am afraid of the telephone.

It isn’t as though the actual mechanism itself frightens me.  It is simply that the ringing is a sure sign of doom…  If I attempt to answer, chaos will ensue.  For on the other end awaits a Spanish Speaker.

This is more terrifying than I can possibly begin to describe.  For, due to some outrageous reason completely beyond me, Argentina has come to the conclusion that I can now speak Spanish.

This would be fine, except that I cannot.

Unfortunately, I have somehow managed to fool the entire country into thinking I’m practically native, so they ramble on to me with little regard for my comprehension.  Admittedly, I nearly always understand everything, but my Spanish vocabulary does not come complete with good Listening Words. 

I’ve gotten decent at making a good Listening Face, but sadly this does not translate well over a phone line. 

So I’ve developed a rather severe case of Select Deafness to combat the ringing.

I lied to the police.  Though it was the Argentine police, so it practically doesn’t count.

Although I am fairly certain this is still illegal.

Had to report my passport stolen, otherwise they may not have allowed me to leave the country (or fined me, which still means I’d never leave the country to avoid paying).

Yet I felt reporting that my passport was stolen a month ago in a different province would hardly sound spectacularly intelligent, so I may have changed some facts.

Sadly, I am not a particularly talented liar, and was originally informing them that my passport was stolen on Thursday.  If this were true, I would have received a replacement passport four days before I lost the original (I would make a very dumb crook). 

When I realized this, I began shouting in a panic that it was LAST Thursday.  He seemed a bit puzzled by this, but as my Spanish was not exactly at its best and I was accompanied by an incredibly hungover friend who looked as though he may hit the floor at any moment, the nice policeman let it slide.

Then the policeman asked the date of the robbery, and I told him April 19th.  For those of you who do not have a calendar handy, that was a Monday.

I am so clever.

Warm weather seems to have left the area, which presents a bit of a problem for me, as I refuse to wear pants.

For instance, at this very moment, I am shivering and have lost nearly all feeling in my hands, but refuse to change out of my shorts and t-shirt.

I really don’t like wearing pants.

Return to Blogging

I HAVE A GENIE.

This occurred during an exchange of Salt and Vinegar chips, which, as everyone knows, are nearly magical in and of themselves.

Unfortunately, he himself possesses no magical abilities (so perhaps this was a bad deal?).  Fortunately, I did get five wishes as opposed to the regular three, so I suppose I can use those extra two for something superb.

Like a yak.

I was off Facebook for the past few weeks, which was interesting.  Didn’t have a real reason to get self kicked off profile, except for the desire to spend less time chatting with people at home and more time watching 30 Rock.

Mission accomplished.

Was quite excited about my Return to Facebook, actually.  Had all sorts of visions of greatness (wedding announcements, invitations into relations by celebrities, talking animal Youtube links), but the only real excitement was a certain relationship status by a certain Spectacular Someone. 

Yes.  I’m talking about YOU.

My brother is currently in Buenos Aires, which is quite exciting.  This means my Spanish gets lots of practice.

Only sometimes I forget to translate and he’s left blinking and smiling hopefully at the employees.  He’s always a bit peeved when I look at him expectantly for some sort of answer.

This is unfair.  I always translate “si” and “no” without fail.  I’d say I’m ideal.

Speaking of ideal, that’s what I certainly seem to be for the men here.  This is a bit awkward, as the feeling is rarely mutual.

(Side note: my water tastes peculiar.  This is only slightly my fault, as I did add some kind of flavoring into it called “green fruits”, which seemed fairly normal until this very moment in which I can think of absolutely no green fruits.  Certain apples?  Overly ripe oranges?)

At any rate, did a bit of shopping with a friend yesterday and nearly ended up with a dinner date.  Here was our conversation:

Me: Hello!

Strange Shop Man: Hey there. Do you speak Spanish?

Slightly Dumb Me (gesturing at friend): I do, she does some, too.

Strange Shop Man: What’s your name?

Confused Me (thinking: did I miss a step in this conversation!?): …

Strange Shop Man: So what are you doing later?  Want to go get a drink?

Now Very Bewildered Me (feigning sudden deafness and retreating quickly): …

I feel something went very wrong somewhere in the middle.

Was winked at today by a rather attractive motorcycle man.  This is a definite improvement from last week, when I was whistled at by a walking garbage man.  Wouldn’t have been nearly as offensive had he at least had some sort of vehicle to offer.  (Where would our potential children be raised?  A girl has to have standards, you know.)

(Really, this water is STRANGE.)

I return to the United States soon.  Don’t think I’m quite prepared – haven’t even selected a gaucho to bring home with me yet!  (For those of you who think I’m joking, I refer you to the time I took a trip to New Mexico and came home with a cowboy pen pal…  I truly pity my mother.)

This means it’s time to purchase souvenirs for my friends back in the States.  This is a truly terrible time, as I severely lack sanity when it comes to gifts.  Throughout my lifetime, I’ve given a variety of atrocious gifts, ranging from candy bars for anniversaries to used lamps for birthdays.

When abroad, I tend to get too excited and attempt to collect completely ridiculous objects.  I’ve nearly bought dragons (ie Tony) for several people, not to mention that strange ten foot instrument I circled for nearly an hour before discarding the thought.

I’ve bought quite a few bracelets now, in an effort to suppress the urges.  Still, no promises.

I tackled a small child today.  Tripped over a curb.  Brother laughed.

Tomorrow, I shun him.  No more translations.

I win.

Hat.

Think am world’s worst blogger.

As it has been quite some time since updates, I will begin with the most important.

I have purchased a hat!

This is not just any headgear.  It is gangster (just like me!).  More importantly, it is of the Red Bull persuasion.

Think I will wear it in my wedding.

Speaking of which, I have recently decided that any Potential Mate must be put through a variety of tests before any sort of arrangement will be met.  (Naturally, these are merely for others, as I have already found my perfect match in Lee Pace.)

You may first ask yourself the following: What is the most important skill a person can possess?

You’re right.

Walrus tracking.

Kickboxing is also desirable.

But such talents are not enough.  One must be fairly competent in the art of museum curation, capable of running a mile in under an hour, and have graduated from Shark Whispering Academy.

Mr. Pace qualifies in all the above.

His cardboard cutout is also an excellent dancer.

Drinking apple juice prompts me to make thoroughly bad decisions.  I do not understand this.  It seems a bit unfair, really.  Shouldn’t I be able to enjoy a deliciously childish beverage without suffering socially humiliating consequences?

Evidently not.

My birthday is exactly one month from today.  How thrilling!

Hope I get a pony.

For those of you who are not certain, this is not said in jest.

I honestly would like to get a pony.  It would be nice if it were wearing a bow.

Also on my wish list are a German Shepherd and a tiny giraffe.

Both would also be bow-toting.

Often I find horse owners who would be willing to trade their equines for a yak.  This boggles me.  I think I might like to get a yak to give them, but then I must consider why they are making the switch to yaks.  What if I fell in love with my yak and was unable to give it up in the end?

That would be sad.

Maybe I am secretly a Yak Whisperer!  And then I could ride it.  I think I would enjoy that thoroughly. 

I could put a bow on a yak.

I do not know any gang signs.  I am quite familiar with the peace sign, however.  Too bad now I look like a blonde Japanese tourist in a Red Bull hat.

This blog is rather lame, and I apologize for that.  It is a mere gesture toward normalcy. 

Never fear.  Awesomeness will someday soon strike again.

Taking Over Argentina, One Success at a Time.

I used to be a blogger.

That was before I discovered a website on which I could watch literally thousands of old episodes of 30 Rock.

Beginning to feel there is some shame in this.

So, my friends, I commence again.  Blogging.

Blog. Blog. Blog.

You know what I don’t get? 

Who does the laundry in China.  I mean, in all Western parts of the world, the Chinese do the laundry.  So… do Westerners do laundry in the East?

I feel this is a valid question, as here in Argentina, my laundry man only addresses me in Mandarin.  This is a bit unfair, as I do my very best to speak to him in Spanish.

In the end, absolutely nothing is communicated except that I continually and reliably lose socks. 

Registering for classes is like trying to convince a straight man to drive a Smart Car – nearly impossible.  And even when everything appears to be going to plan, you get the sneaking suspicion something has gone terribly wrong.

It is the bane of every college student’s existence.

For Truman State University, this endeavor was held over the past week.  It was impossible to forget, as everyone’s Facebook status was about it.

“Registration – you suck!!!” 

Well.  I did not realize Registration was a functioning being.  I will have to write him a strongly worded letter.

Post-registration, it is common practice to swap horror stories.  Now, logically, rapidly typing in numbers into a computer, then waiting for the Screen of Doom to pop up doesn’t make an actual saga.

College has nothing to do with logic.

The irony of it all is that for as hard as one works to get into a class, NO ONE EVER ACTUALLY WANTS TO TAKE IT. 

Not that this is ever disclosed to the faculty, of course.  We actually frequently write to our (hopefully) future professors, stating how thrilled and privileged we would be if granted the opportunity to take their course.

When met with success, gratitude is shown by not using the first class period for naptime.

Every class period thereafter is fair game.

I like tall people, but sometimes they frighten me.  What if they become self-aware and begin to use their size to their advantage?

Game over for us regular-sized people.

I don’t like my Spanish class (again).  It’s quite embarrassing, being the only one who doesn’t actually speak the language.

Had to get into a debate with a Mexican girl last class.  We were not exactly evenly matched.

She said convincing things, like “In the case of the American economical situation…”

I announced things like, “Dog! Cat! Train!”

Stalemate.

We also had to discuss our perfect match.

I was nearly silent on the issue – not for lack of qualifications, of course, but because I simply had no idea to express things like “good at tying shoes” or “is actually capable of comprehending a map.” 

When I was inevitably called on, I told my class that in my perfect world, the gentleman would know how to do dirty things to a horse.

This is not what I meant.

Somehow, Spanish books only ever taught me this phrase, instead of the much more useful and desirable phrase “to ride a horse.” 

Textbook writers are such jokers.

Helping the Universe!

I think self-help books are funny.  The advice is always just a bit too positive, there is always an excess of exclamation points, and the titles are far too conspicuous.

Which is why I’ve decided to write one.

It’ll be a work of genius.  I’ll save people around the world with my writing!  I may even be nominated for sainthood. 

Though what I’d really like is to be knighted.  I already took fencing lessons, which I assume is a prerequisite.  Think I was pretty good, too.

At least the teacher was afraid when I had a sword in my hand.

But I musn’t get ahead of myself.  First I must practice what I plan to preach.

Which is why today I decided to make a list of all the things I want in life.

When I was done, I had three dog breeds, five actors, and about eighteen potential horse names.

I think I might need some reevaluation.

Society is a frightening place; I never live up to its expectations.

It is not my fault I am prone to interpretive dance.

Within society exists two categories of people.  I politely refer to them as People I Would Like to Talk To and People That Frighten the Bejezus Out of Me.

Unfortunately, the latter seems to be far more common than the former.  This group includes midgets, men with large mustaches, and women carrying briefcases.

Strangely, people always seem to be very prone to talk to me.  My mother has the same problem, so I can only assume it is some kind of hereditary illness that draws people to us like suicidal moths to flames.

Mom’s a lot better at handling it, though.  She’s got all the right listening noises, and backs away slowly enough to avoid suspicion.

Me?  Well, I’m still in Society Training.

When strangers approach me unexpectedly, I go into Defense Mode.  It involves a lot of blinking and the occasional twitch.

Usually gets rid of ‘em pretty quick.

Now I must depart.  I’ve discovered a moth on my clock, and must discuss a plan of action with the Round Table.

Goodnight, Interweb.

Fearsome Fears

I got my hair cut yesterday.

This was done in a desperate attempt to combat a truly terrible feature that I, for some inexplicable reason, was cursed with.

Baby Face Syndrome.

This is true problem, as having the face of a fourteen year old is hardly desirable.  My host mother actually described it as the face of baby and the body of… RAWR.  Literally.  She growled at my body.  I take this to mean I do not possess the body of a fourteen year old.  Which begs the question –

Is this like being some sort of mutant animal?  Like… a centaur?

Also, really would like to purchase a leather jacket, but am afraid of looking like a lesbian.

Not that I’m against lesbians, I just happen to not be one.  Therefore it would be wrong to dress like one.

That’d be false advertising.

This reminds me: I have fears.

Some find this difficult to believe, as I will happily doggy-paddle through any ocean, hurl myself from any height (assuming precautionary measures have been taken), and hold a conversation with any form of a costumed individual (clown, mime, firefighter).

But please do not expect me to walk past a midget.

I also blatantly refuse to sing “Happy Birthday”, as I am rather incapable.  I can never stay on tune (or at least keep in the same octave as everyone else), and spend the entire joyous song hopelessly hopping from note to note, desperately trying to make it sound like a melody. 

My lip-syncing, however, is impeccable.

Yet though I have adapted this coping strategy, deep down I am still utterly petrified that someone, someday, will give me The Birthday Song Test.  And I will fail and be kicked out of birthday celebrations forever.

Which would truly be a pity, as I am rather fond of cake.

Dead things throw me into a bit of a panic.  Still not entirely sure why this is, although I do have my theories – the most prevalent is that I simply do not know what to do with them.  See, with a living opossum, I know to avoid it.  He is living his merry little life, and I am living mine, and there is no particular reason our lives should intersect each other’s.  Also, I do not like the idea of it running over my feet, should I get too close.  (Or potentially playing dead, which would be a bit counterproductive for my example.)

But a dead opossum?  Walking directly over it seems a bit sacrilegious.  Blatantly ignoring it strikes me as equally rude, so I often just pretend it’s still alive and behave accordingly.

Don’t want to hurt its feelings.

Facebook can be a place of terrors. 

It seems fairly straightforward, Facebook stalking.  But I often find that I have wandered on to someone’s profile who is very much so removed from me – to the point that we have absolutely no friends in common, and are not reliably of the same species.

It is one of my greatest fears that I will not be able to navigate away from the page safely.

What if I accidently add them as a friend?  Or like something they said?  I’ll forever be known as the Worst Facebook Stalker Ever!

Which, honestly, I might already be, as I tend to get distracted by puppies and forget to stalk their owners.

So there you have it – Virginia, Unmasked.

On a different note, it has recently been decided that my hermano (translation: hamster) will be coming to visit in mere days!

This is quite exciting, as he speaks absolutely no Spanish and knows virtually nothing about Argentina.

This means I can drag him wherever I please and if he complains I can leave him stranded places.

I think I will enjoy this.

Blog Fame.

Have now been asked on multiple occasions to give “shout outs” to my most fervent admirers.

I am not sure how to go about doing such a thing.  But I know what it means.

I have made it.

Must admit I am not certain where “it” is, but assume it to be a good indication that I am well on my way to becoming Queen of the Internet Machine.

THE POWER!

This also, I feel, grants me – in fact, thrusts upon me the responsibility of acting like a famous person.

Now from what I gather through ardent research, this will involve the constant use of dark sunglasses and weather inappropriate attire.

I must also begin to carry around small creatures in my purse at all times.  Am considering purchasing a particularly plush bag in which to place my cat.

Must also begin to date a man who is older than me by at least a decade (the other option is younger than me by at least a decade, but that doesn’t seem quite desirable or even legal).  This will not be a problem, as with my spectacular Dating Skills I can snag anyone.

And I’ve already chosen my match.

For those of you who know me, you will assume that I am referring to the one and only Enrique Iglesias. 

I must correct you.  Though he and I are madly, passionately in love, there is another.

One other.

Lee Pace will be my Arm Candy, as he has a spectacular last name that is utterly pronounceable by all races.  Furthermore, he is not bad on the eyes, and strikes me as a complete gentleman.  If he misbehaves, I will write him a script, as he seems to be quite talented at following those.

I will also possibly put him in the corner.

Fortunately, I already have the insane-religion-that-no-one-understands part down.*

Now on to my entourage. 

I’ve decided I cannot possibly have anyone prettier than me amongst my disciples, so I will request that they all wear masks.

Disobedience will be met with the harshest consequences.

They will be banned.

These masks will be especially important in hiding the true identities of my companions, for I fear that one has already begun the ride on the Fame Train in her own right.

She was on Kirksville television.

Now, if I were to receive any application with such a background in performance on it from any other applicant, they would immediately be shunned.

Yet this particular entourage member is indispensible, as she is my fellow Awkward Party Attender.

At some point in our lives, we missed the stage when everyone learns how to be regular, socially viable members of society.

Instead, we stand in the corner at parties (frequently shoved behind potted plants, doorways, or obese gentlemen), and whisper worriedly to ourselves about our poorly planned outfits.

We emerge from these shadows only in severe cases of Dancing Fever, when we hit the dance floor and immediately begin to jerk our bodies about in the manner of someone being tased.

Another entourage member will not be surprised to hear that I fully intend on demanding at least two restrooms be within a fifteen foot radius at all times, neither trapped behind tricky locked doors.

And we shall keep our secret love affair away from the press.  Can’t upset my Lee.

I will, of course, have many more admirers.  I certainly hope they plan on sending me love letters.  And chocolate.  And candy hearts.

I think I’ll be able to adjust well to this life of fame.

*Last night I attempted to explain my religion to my host mother.  I don’t actually know any useful words for describing things of a religious nature though, so I ended up just shouting, “Jesus! God! Devil! Birth! Death! Life! JESUS!” and gesturing wildly with my hands. 

She now thinks I am a Satanist.

Things did not exactly go according to plan.

Gone are the days of feigned normalcy.

I. Am. Famous!

THIEVERY!!

I’ve kept trying to write this blog, but for some reason or another it’s proven to be rather difficult.

This is not for lack of topics, as I would gladly share my opinion on just about anything.  I find myself to be an expert on life in general, as I am an acting, breathing creature that has survived (some would say miraculously) nearly twenty years. 

I do suppose I should do an Argentina update, as this was the original purpose of the blog.

I attempted to go to Salta this past week.

From the beginning, I suspected it was one of the strangest vacations of my life.  Then I was nearly caught in the midst of a drug deal.

Oh, how I underestimate myself.

The bus ride to northern Argentina in and of itself was a bit of a personal nightmare, as we were trapped on the top floor of a violently rocking vehicle while the bathroom was conveniently located below us.  This was a bit of a predicament, as I find walking difficult on flat ground, not to mention navigating through a precariously narrow aisle way without tumbling into the laps of strangers.

I quickly became infamous for my perceived promiscuity.

Furthermore, they did not feed us on the bus.  For twenty-five hours.  I generally eat every twenty-five MINUTES.

Pushing these inconveniences aside as future amusing antidotes in the story that would become our travels, we trekked through the city of Salta in search of a hostel.

Though first we were laughed at by the information desk man for thinking we would be able to find accommodation. 

This was encouraging.

Finally ended up in a location.  I’d prefer to be more specific in my description, yet there is still open debate as to whether it was a prison, hostel, hospital, or clandestine concentration camp.

Despite our hesitation, there was a bed and a roof.  It was a kind of fun having fellow scuttling guests in the room.  Though they we were the only humans...

We proceeded to eat for the next four hours.  (This sentence is worthy of clarification.  No, it is not an exaggeration.  And no, I am not obese.)

After our feasting, we returned to the room and suspiciously lowered ourselves between the sheets.

Woke up the next morning ready to bolt from our current place of residence.

In readying my cosas, I realized I had misplaced my Elvis wallet.

I peered into the depths of my purse, scanning for Elvis.  Confused, I began to paw through my items.  No Elvis.

Hmmm.

A bit disturbed, I sat to ponder a moment. 

But of course!  My backpack. 

Relieved at my own brief insanity, I leapt to the sack began the search anew.  Humming absent-mindedly, I dumped out its contents and began shuffling through them.  Shuffle, shuffle.

No wallet.

Beginning to panic, I shuffled harder.  SHUFFLE, SHUFFLE.  Clothing was thrown from the bed, things knocked askew.

NO WALLET.

I stood above the disarray, panting. 

Robbery.

It was at this point that I was struck by insane rage.

I began pacing about the room, frothing at the mouth.  Thieves!  Bandits!  The scallywags!

Growling, I vowed that my wallet would be avenged.  I had just seen Taken a week before, so I had all kinds of ideas.

I. Would. Hunt. Them. Down.

Realizing my only potential weapon was a rather large hairbrush, and forcibly brushing their hair would only be effective if they were Rastafarians, I poutingly abandoned my plotting.

We took this as a sign of Vacation Failure, and got back on a bus to Buenos Aires.

I would like to insert here that at this point, we had not showered for approximately three days.

This did not stop the catcalls, which made me suspicious of their veracity.  In the defense of the hombres, none of the whistles came from within a fifty-foot radius.

It was on this ride home that the drug bust nearly occurred.  Here, they often stop buses to look at the luggage or check the documentation of the passengers (which is one of the reasons the thief also got my passport in my wallet, the brute). 

Evidently there was a thoroughly suspicious bag on our bus, as the Official Looking Men  stared it down for a half hour, and all the passengers were climbing over each other to watch eagerly out the windows.  Nothing came of this, but there was some intense staring for a good while.  The Drug Mafia must have psychically paid off the OLM.

We also stopped to eat dinner at a restaurant.  The kitchen was a warehouse.  Needless to say, it was a classy joint.  I plan to hold my wedding reception there.

Returned home and showered, much to the relief of the entire country.

The trip wasn’t a complete disaster, as I did return home with a backpack that has a long-necked animal on it (llama? alpaca? giraffe?) that I am madly in love with (there is a pouch for Tony, so he isn’t particularly jealous), and a t-shirt from a concert I didn’t go to.

Photos are forth-coming.

And for those who doubted my relationship expertise, I should like to inform you that through my methods, a consultee of mine is currently well on her way to becoming a Tanzanian princess.

As a final note, dear readers, please feel free to give me topics on which to write.  What would you like to read about?  I have many stories, and even more opinions, all ready for the sharing.

Where to begin?

Get Ready to Have Your Relationship World Rocked.

Lately, I have been bombarded with relationship questions from friends, animals, and plants alike.  “Should I break up with my girlfriend?”  “Why doesn’t my boyfriend like it when I shave his legs?” “Does this dress make me look fat?”  “Is photosynthesis a fancy version of an abusive relationship?”

All are understandably difficult questions.  And they will all be answered in this blog post.

Now, I am a bit of an expert on the subject, as I’m now working on a healthy three-year relationship with my cat.  Impressed?  Don’t let my credentials fool you – even I don’t have all the answers. 

Just most of them.

Allow me to continue with my lecture.

The first thing you should know about relationships is that they are relations between two individuals, generally both humanoid.

This is where many panic.

“Where can I find another homo sapien in with which to enter relations, Virginia??”

Have no fear, I will aid you.

The selection process is fairly basic.  There exist only a few critical qualifications:

Can the Prospective Relationship Partner (PRP) lift and hold heavy objects for an extended period of time?  Demanding a demonstration is encouraged.

Does the PRP possess a means of transportation?  Tricycles are desired but not required.

Is the PRP prone to rash actions?  If so, good!  They will often surprise you, which is considered highly romantic by mainstream society.

If you were honestly able to answer yes to the above three questions, congratulations!  You’ve snagged a prospect.

If not, do not give up hope.  Recruitment is easy.  I, personally, find it best to hang a sign out the window of your homestead, signaling you as a Single Person Looking For an Emotionally Unstable Strong Person.  Your neighbors will envy your ingenuity.

Once you have your prospect, it is time to move to Phase Two: Maintaining Their Interest.  You are a fascinating, wonderful person!  But that is irrelevant.

In making sure they do not get bored, run away, or are captured by the authorities, it is necessary to take certain steps.

1.     Make sure you have a plot of land or area in which they may roam.  This will avoid feelings of smothering.

2.     Change things up a little bit!  If you normally wear your hair down, shave it all off to keep them intrigued.  If you are male, you may consider fashionably shaping your hair into a mullet.

3.     Never let them know you’re interested.  Be aloof at all times, and if they approach you, begin to hiss and flap your arms at them.

4.     This is imperative: the PRP must chase after you, not the other way around.  To encourage this behavior, I find it useful to take something valuable of theirs, then tauntingly run away.  They’ll wish they were with you in no time!

Now that you’re in a real relationship, you may want to relax a little.  NO.

You can relax when you’re dead.

Relationships are work.  As such, I frequently suggest to my clients (aka, friends) that they demand fiscal compensation from their significant other.  Every job has a salary.  For the first week, I’d begin at minimum wage, and discuss a raise after that.  You must not seem high maintenance!

There are also, of course, fun times.  These often must be scripted to avoid argument, but generally result in Happy Feelings.

You may choose to act on these happy feelings, and show the other person affection.  This can be done in one of two ways:

a)     precisely three pats on the top of the head, or

b)    the sending of an E-card.

Unfortunately, you must also prepare yourself for The End.  It is statistically improbable that you and your significant other will remain together forever and always, as nothing lasts forever.  Especially not packages of Twizzlers.

On the day that you part ways, there are certain expectations that must be met.

Firstly, I recommend sending a stand in.  This way you do not actually have to do the work, and no one gets hurt.  If the other person in the relationship is foolish enough to show up as themselves, it will be a good test to see if they truly know who you are.

In ending the relations, it is prudent to ensure that the other person knows that you were not to blame.  Your innocence should be the main subject of discussion.

Once your good name has been cleared, you may chat at length about the weather, scientific facts, or recently released incriminating photos of celebrities.  This conversation may last a maximum of ten minutes.

Upon arriving back to your room, you must delete them from absolutely everything.  Further contact is always a Bad Idea, as it then opens the door to reminiscing about the past or murder plots, neither of which are desirable.

Taking into account this termination of contact, I discourage entering into romantic relations with friends, convicts, acquaintances, or co-workers.  Beginning a relationship with an enemy is often strategically invaluable.

With this wisdom, you are unstoppable!  You are on your way to becoming a Dating Machine.

And should you ever find yourself in trouble, who you gonna call?

No.  Not the Ghostbusters.

Virginia, Relationship Wizard.

Skip Day.

Blog, I am your master!!

Once again, my fear of not being funny has kept me from blogging.

Then I happened upon my views, and realized as I’ve lost most of my original viewership anyway, I have nothing to fear!

So here we go.

Today was Skip Day.

I love Skip Day.  There’s something about lounging about in bed all day while everyone else is stuck in school that’s absolutely luxurious.  I, however, am not a good bed lounger.  I get bored and start hiding under the blankets and pouncing on specks of dirt on the floor then bouncing back onto the safety of the mattress.  I quickly lose interest in this game. 

Instead, to pass the time, I begin guessing what different objects in my room are.  With my eyesight, this is quite an adventure.  Unfortunately, with my overactive imagination, I often convince myself that there is a fanatic Christian/murderer/midget/evil wizard IN MY ROOM. 

This is panic inducing.

In an effort to combat the intruder, I often ready my blanket to the defense position (wrapped around my head like a turban).  I then creep stealthily over pillows and across blankets, toward the unwelcome guest. 

It is often poised in this unusual crouch at the end of the bed that I realize my error.

Chairs aren’t nearly as frightening when one can see them properly.

I do tend to wake up early, so these types of shenanigans simply cannot last all day, and excitement about other activities often rouses me from my bed.

Skip day means I can take my walk in the morning.  This is thrilling in and of itself, as then I am out walking with the dog walkers.  These are very unusual men, as it would appear as though they have absolutely no interest whatsoever in animals – yet they have twenty or so wrapped around their waist.

The dogs themselves are remarkably well behaved, and trot along as a little pack through parks and busy city streets.  There are always ridiculous size differences between the animals, though this never seems to present a problem.

I’ve never seen a trampled Chihuahua.

My walk was fairly uneventful, except that I set off a car alarm and knocked over a moped.

Oh, but before that happened a man hit me with his pole.  This is not as inappropriate as it sounds.  He was carrying like a rather long post for some inexplicable reason (might have something to do with the fact that he was a construction worker… But what does one do with a long pole other than poke people?).  At any rate, he evidently lost control of it and bopped me in the head.

I took this to mean I do not fall into the category of Things People Would Not Touch With A Ten Foot Pole.  So that’s good for my self-confidence.

But the car alarm was surprising.  I was toppling off the sidewalk and used the vehicle to right myself.  This did not please the vehicle, so it began screaming at me.  Shocked, I reeled – right into a parked moped.  Which proceeded to tip over.

Thanks, gravity.

Did the only logical thing I could think of, and sprinted away.  Was wearing an excellent disguise, really, as I was in workout gear and everything.

Ironically, I was listening to “Can You Hear Me?” by Enrique Iglesias.

Yes, Enrique.  I think they heard us.