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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.