screen. My new computer screen, you perverts! I got a new computer! And not because I was begging for it, but because Steve has been publicly harrassed over ongoing issues with my laptop and his solution was to buy me a new computer. You should see this monitor! It’s a 22 in. monitor. It’s like a damn TV sitting on my desk! And I can read what I’m typing without having to lean an inch from the screen to see it. I don’t even have to put on glasses to sit back in my chair and read the screen! It’s like having your very own big screen computer!

I know. Now you have monitor envy. Steve does. And he declared bitterly that it’s a better computer than his work computer. HA! Envy my huge… screen! ;D

Steve: Oh NO! Son #2’s basketball game conflicts with my karate class.
Me: Yessss?
Steve: That’s a huge problem for me!
Me: Sigh.
Steve: What are we going to do?
Me: We’ve already had this discussion.
Steve: We have?
Me: Yes….. Twice.
Steve: Really? How’d it turn out?

Why oh WHY would someone do an internet search for “buttcrack wounds” and why OH WHY would that bring them here? I have NEVER EVER talked about buttcrack wounds. I don’t even talk about buttcracks. Sigh. I get the whole naked cooking thing. We’ve discussed naked cooking although Susan is still refusing to admit she naked cooked. She’s in Hawaii so I can get away with trash talk until she gets back online. Until then: SUSAN NAKED COOKS, EVERYONE!

But I digress. We were not talking about buttcrack wounds and the people who have them. I think that was the same guy who searched for “breath smells like dog crap.” Dude. I recommend you stop eating dog crap. It’s bad for you and you could get sick. Not to mention that’s nastier than your buttcrack wounds.

Also, who the hell searched for “Can you eat raccoons?” WTF is WRONG with you?!?! Hell no! You can NOT eat raccoons and that fact that you asked means you are no longer welcome here.

And just to round out the freak show around here, the person who searched for cow manure fragrance oil is also banned from EVER EVER coming here again.

I am a genius. Just pure genius. Here’s how to motivate your children into giving away more than 50% of their toys. Use the following magic words:

You need to make room for Christmas. The more room you make, the more room you have for new toys.

Just between us, I’ll kill anyone who tries to replace that many toys. Game ON Santa!

When Steve heard what I did today, he said “Whoa. Thanks for throwing yourself on that grenade.” He thinks he escaped. He hasn’t seen what he has to carry downstairs and outside.

So I ask you, dear internet, when I repeatedly use a word with a Louisiana accent, is it warranted for my California-raised spouse to shout “IT’S CUISINART, YOU HICK!” in between peels of laughter? I still don’t even know how I pronounced it wrong…

There’s also substantial conflict lately over the word THEATER. He’s been known to say “It’s THEATER, you Bumpkin! It’s hasn’t been THE-ATE-ER since Gomer Pile!”

I won’t even get into the word POEM….

Go here. I’ll wait. We can both go gargle with rubbing alcohol now. OMFG.

Another holiday, another plumbing disaster. Another holiday, one sick child, one recuperating from surgery. Sigh. 2007 hasn’t been an easy year. Son #1 had surgery on Monday to remove the screws from his hip that he broke in February. So I knew we were going to have a quiet Thanksgiving. And I wasn’t even surprised yesterday when the kitchen sink backed up. Steve and I stared into the kitchen sink and said “Yep. It’s the holidays.” Not only does it know when Steve leaves town, it understands the word holiday or party and proceeds to back up. But I was totally unprepared for son #2’s sudden fever, and the shower leaking through the ceiling. Oh sure, you say: the shower has leaked through the ceiling before, but this leak is new. It’s from the OTHER bathroom. Sigh. And a holiday just wouldn’t be complete without son #2 vomiting on my feet. Oh sure, you say: he has reflux, he vomits all the time. Except, this is new. He’s vomiting repeatedly. Which can only mean it’s related to the fever. Germaphobia activated. I must keep son #1 from getting this. Or me. Steve’s on his own with the kitchen sink. ;D

My friend Amy sent me this poem today:

May your stuffing be tasty
May your turkey plump,
May your potatoes and gravy
Have never a lump.
May your yams be delicious
And your pies take the prize,
And may your
Thanksgiving dinner
Stay off your thighs!

Happy Thankgiving! Remember: Eat Tofu! ;D

“Daniel is traveling tonight on a plane. I can see the red tail lights, heading for Spain…They say Spain is pretty though I’ve never been. Daniel says it’s the best place he’s ever, ever seen. Oh and he should know, he’s been there enough…”

     -Elton John

Day three was the first day I really got out and saw Barcelona. And day three is when I really fell in love with the place. We have a dear friend, an American, who lives in Spain now. He took the bus into Barcelona and met us for the weekend. Chris very much enjoys being a harassing younger brother. When he found out I had one of those passports holders around my waist and shoved into my pants I had to listen to sweaty passport jokes the entire weekend. Sigh. I tried putting it into a passport sock one day, but it just got sweaty there too. *I* don’t even want to touch my passport anymore. ;D

People who know me well know how I loathe any sort of public transportation. I truly loathe it. And everyone’s a comedian when they find, oh about once a decade, that I have to get on public transportation. These annoying, unnamed people always have to take a picture when I’m on public transportation because it happens so rarely.

As we stepped onto the metro, I told Steve and Chris, “Don’t touch anything.” So Chris did what every annoying younger brother would do and tried to lick the pole, where everyone’s filthy hands have been, while I clutched my bottle of hand sanitizer and screamed. GAHHH! Chris and Steve laughed until they cried while they tortured me with filth.

After the harrowing metro ride that involved a level of jostling nearly making me touch things and coming within perilous proximity of the general public, we got off and checked out La Sagrada Familia. Which is this church designed by Antonio Gaudi, who clearly took lots of hallucinogenics. Please note Jesus is melting in a landslide.

We couldn’t get enough of drug induced architecture so we decided to hoof it on over to Parc Guell, which is more of Antonio Gaudi’s work. Except everything there involved mosiac tile, which actually was really cool. Believe it or not, the entire roof of this structure is mosiac tile.

There were walls, ceilings, fences and sculptures all done in mosiac. Here’s the famous salamander fountain:

Ok, yeah, it’s the weirdest lookin’ salamander I’ve ever seen too, but the drugs? Remember the drugs involved.

We spent the rest of the day wandering around Barcelona. We saw the Christopher Columbus statue allegedly pointing to America, but Chris and Steve, being the turbo geeks that they are, stood at the base of the statue and determined that Columbus was actually NOT pointing in the proper direction. This from the guy who was having trouble with the map and constantly getting us lost. Sigh.

We took a stroll down La Rambla and watched the street performers and pick pockets work. La Rambla is a main thoroughfare in Barcelona with a median about double the width of a city street and all up and down the median were street performers, street vendors selling their wares and a few booths selling chickens and roosters. I still don’t know what the live poultry was about. Here, let me buy a necklace, oh and honey? Can I get that rooster too? My alarm clock is broken.

We eventually found our way back to the hotel, exhausted and happy and agreed to meet up again early the next morning.

Son #2’s latest letter:

Dear Mom,
I miss you in Spain and remember this: come home today! and don’t worry I’m playing and being good (and son #1 is not.) and do you miss me?
Love,
Son #2

I love Ree. She never fails to crack me up. Thus, when I found the Oracle of Starbucks on her blog, I had to try it. This is what it said to me:

THE ORACLE OF STARBUCKS

The all-knowing Oracle of Starbucks Behold the Oracle’s wisdom: Personality type: Asshat You carry around philosophy books you haven’t read and wear trendy wire-rimmed glasses even though you have perfect vision. You’ve probably added an accent to your name or changed the pronunciation to seem sophisticated. You hang out in coffee shops because you don’t have a job because you got your degree in French Poetry. People who drink tall nonfat bone dry cappuccino are notorious for spouting off angry, liberal opinions about issues they don’t understand. Also drinks: Any drink with a foreign name Can also be found at: The other, locally owned coffee shop you claim to like better

You go get insulted. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

It’s amazing how sleep rejuvenates the soul. Whereas the night before, Spain felt scary and overwhelming, when I awoke the next morning I was really excited. Also the cobwebs had cleared and vocabulary that eluded me the night before was back. Steve had to work so we agreed to meet back at the hotel later in the afternoon. Our hotel was near a shopping mall so I dressed in my best imitation of Spanish style and headed to the mall. My confidence had returned and I threaded my way through the mall for the better part of the day speaking only Spanish and communicating without difficulty.

Until the shoe store. Sigh. Before I ever tried on any shoes, I had found a box of shoes that had European and American sizes on it. Spanish women are small. I am not tall, but I have the feet of a fricken’ giant. Spanish women have dainty feet. I have skis. So I had figured out what European size my skis feet were and went into a store where I wanted to try on shoes. Triumphantly I announced I was a 40 or 41. The sales lady threw me for a loop when she said in Spanish ”What size are you in English?” Oy. I thought I had dispelled that myth. I wasn’t even wearing tennis shoes. So I told her a 9 or 9.5. She gave me a strange look then said “No. What size are you in English?” again. I was confused. I understood what she was saying, but I did not understand what she was asking. Again I replied that I was a 9 or 9.5. She shook her head and said in Spanish “No. That’s huge.” I said “Well, look at them, they’re huge.” And I shrugged sheepishly. Again she shook her head and said “No. That’s not your size.” I sighed. “Fine bring me whatever you think.” As it turned out, there hadn’t been a communication breakdown. She was referring to my UK size, but the word she chose means English. Luckily, this was the only “whose on first?” conversation I had the entire trip. And it was an understandable miscommunication. I ended up not buying the boots though because Steve started making pirate noises when I showed them to him. He’s so annoying. They were totally cute boots.

So I spent the day buying little things like giant hoop earrings and enjoying myself thoroughly. Not being subjected to other (small) people’s whims and needs was pure heaven. The realization hit that I could do whatever I wanted, when I wanted. Oh, happy day!

One of the things I love about Spain is that they do not eat like we eat here in the US. I could TOTALLY get used to their way of eating. They eat multiple small meals throughout the day, having second breakfast, second lunch AND second dinner. And the portions are small and snack-like so you CAN have second breakfast, lunch and dinner. The Spanish have Tapas bars (snack bars, if you will) that they go to for the equivalent of our dinner time, then eat dinner around 9 or 10 pm. Our family eats dinner quite early at home so Steve and I never did end up holding out for the late second dinner. We usually ate tapas and then if we got hungry later would get another plate of tapas; usually Spanish cheeses and fruit. Also, at every turn you can get absolutely fantastic fresh squeezed orange juice. And just so you know, the Spanish word and Latin American word for juice is totally different. Luckily, I only made that mistake once and the guy I was talking to knew what I wanted. That could have gone poorly though.

It was at dinner that first night that something odd happened. When Steve went to pay with a credit card, they asked him for his passport. “Why’d they do that?” I asked him. He informed me that whenever you use a credit card in Spain, you have to show your passport. I pointed out that I had been buying things all day and no one had asked me for a passport. I teased “You’ve been labeled as a gringo, my friend. Whereas *I* have been accepted by the natives.” Steve scoffed, however the entire trip he continued to have to show his passport at every purchase and I never had to show mine once. Only one occasion did someone ask me for identification and I showed them my Washington driver’s license and they accepted it. I teased Steve mercilessly the entire trip about being a gringo.

As the days went by, I no longer had to think before I spoke in Spanish. I never tried to speak in English. I quickly understood that the difference in the way people reacted to us came from me speaking the native language, and Steve not speaking it. People naturally assumed that I lived there. And just so you know? I could TOTALLY live there. I love Spain. I do want to live there. I told Steve as much. We’re trying to figure out a way to spend some significant time abroad. We think it would be a fantastic experience for the whole family. And Steve really does want to learn to speak Spanish fluently. High school Spanish classes just don’t cut it.

After a blissful day, we both fell asleep at our regular bedtime and I’m happy to report that I stayed asleep, even through the foghorn, and didn’t awake until the next morning.

Part One, Barcelona here.

Oh. Mah. Gawd, YA’LL! I am here. I made it. Miraculously in one piece! You wanna talk about visiting my limitations though? Um. Yeah.

The flight was fairly uneventful to London. I sat next to someone who lives about 2 miles away from us. Her husband also works for Microsoft and is coming to this same conference. I stepped off the plane in London though and did the Scooby Doo “Ruh Roh.” Cuz Toto? We’re not in Kansas anymore. How is it possible that there are like, 15 different British accents and I can only understand about 3/15? I mean, we’re speaking the same goddamned language! I can understand the Harry Potter accent and the really pretty one that sounds like royalty. It goes severely downhill after that.

So the last time I was in England, the pound and dollar were about equal. And somehow I’d failed to notice that England chose not to go with the Euro. How I missed that little detail I’ll never know. But I had checked the exchange rate before I left and it was 1.00 us/1.50 euro so the first thing I did when I got off the plane in London is go eat. I was starved. I took the redeye, slept only about 1.5 hours and just picked at the swill they served as food. When I got the bill at the restaurant I was totally confused because the amount had the pound sign next to it and I was pretty sure the pound sign wasn’t the same as the euro sign. I leaned over to the next table and said “Um excuse me, but are you all on the Euro or is it still pounds?” He looked at me like I grew a second head right before his very eyes and informed me that indeed, England still uses the pound. Damn. To further my humiliation I said “So if I go to a bank machine I’m not going to be getting Euros?” Um, negative. Still being financially ignorant, I decided to do a little shopping. Can we say four hour layover and no sleep? Sitting down spells narcolepsy. So I bought the boys some books on armour and the Tower of London and Celtic myths. They will love them. And then I spotted Harrods. I LURRVVV Harrods! I couldn’t believe they had a Harrods in the airport! Woo hooo! And I found a T-shirt that I LOVED. And only 25 pounds. Woo Hoo woo hooo! Except when I paid for it, I discovered that the dollar isn’t worth shit and I paid FIFTY FIVE DAMN DOLLARS FOR A T-SHIRT! Yah. That ended my shopping spree. As it turns out, when I made my confession to Steve that I had accidently spent $55 on a T-Shirt, I came to find out that he paid even more for four pairs of socks. There were no stones thrown this day.

I decided to people watch for awhile. There was a certain quality about the people that you instantly knew they were European. I could spot the Americans easily. So I sat there trying to figure out WHAT it was that gave it away. Have you ever visited certain part of the United States where it’s like stepping back in time because they haven’t caught up with the latest fashions and such? Well Europe is much hipper than the US, so I felt like a fashion-challenged dork. Especially London. I knew hair and makeup had something to do with it. After about an hour though, I figured it out. The shoes. Americans wear sneakers with everything. Europeans only wear sneakers to exercise. I felt like such a damn dork in my tennis shoes. I might as well have been wearing a giant sign that said “AMERICAN!” Sigh. I watched closely and decided I needed a serious shopping spree. This was confirmed when I went to breakfast this morning and the hostess looked at me from head to toe and could barely contain her distaste for my apparel. OK! I get the picture. The shoes have to go! The hair needs to be changed and I need MORE MAKE UP. Sigh. I also noticed my jewelry is all wrong too. I gave up those giant hoop earrings 20 years ago with the hope that they would never return. Alas, they’re back. Along with ballet slippers, skinny jeans and slouch boots. No better way to make your legs look stumpy than with those suckers. A trifecta of ugliness, for certain.

So anyway, back to the airport. I tried to pretend I was invisible and finally boarded the plane to Barcelona. Ya’ll remember I’m a germaphobe, right? To my complete and utter horror, I was seated next to someone who was sick. Coughing and nose blowing the whole way here. Everytime she coughed or sneezed I jumped about 10 feet and felt compeled to pull out the Purell bottle. It was my worst nightmare, people.

At last we landed in Spain and I gave myself a pep talk. I can do this. I speak the language. I walk off the jetway and the first sign I see is not in Spanish. Looked like portuguese or something. I spot more signs. Not in Spanish either. WTF? I panicked. Then I remembered that Catalan is these people’s first language. FABulous. My throat started to close down and I was fighting rising panic. The first person who I had to speak to started speaking to me in English. I have GOT to get rid of the shoes and change my appearence! I could totally pass for at least half Hispanic because of the color of my eyes and hair. I’m usually mistaken for Hispanic so this was NOT good. I also discovered that being tenative about speaking Spanish annoyed people and they spoke to me in English. After the third person I had to communicate with, I realized I needed to sound more confident. I can do this. I speak the language.

I had managed to get myself lost in the airport. And damn if the word I knew for “suitcase” was one of those regional Latin American words that they don’t know in Spain. I needed to find baggage claim. I was in the wrong terminal so I had to go back through security. I had forgotten that I had a water bottle in my backpack and I was scolded by security for trying to sneak a water bottle on the plane. In Spanish. I guess he didn’t notice my shoes. I eventually found my luggage and went the ATM (oh, that’s an American word too) where my card wouldn’t work. I started to panic. I only had dollars on me and I had to take a taxi to the hotel. I finally realized that that spouse of mine, who was about to get his ass kicked, had probably used the ATM already and I was exceeding the maximum daily withdrawal amount. I managed to get some out by reducing the amount and doing lots of name calling in both English and Spanish.

When I finally made it to the hotel last night I was utterly exhausted. Steve left me a note telling me to meet him for dinner at a restaurant. Right. I’ll get right on that. Not so much. I needed to cleanse myself of the airplane funk, first and foremost. Also, I might have been harboring some serious germs what with all the sneezing and coughing and nose blowing going on next to me. It felt like it was crawling on me. After I got out the shower all I wanted to do was sleep. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t eaten in ages. All I wanted to do was sleep. Oh and I would have. Except for some effin foghorn going off every 3 minutes. Seriously. A fricken’ foghorn. Steve stumbled in around11:30. Me thinks he might have had a few too many sangrias. Because he was out cold in minutes.

And then at 1:30 am it happened. The revenge I’d waited eight years for. See the last time we were in Europe, Steve and son #1 kept waking up at 2 am and wouldn’t let me sleep. They and their marching bands were up for good and didn’t even try to pretend to let me sleep. In fact, I distinctly remember BOTH of them peeling open my eyelids and peering in. Oh how I have longed for sweet, sweet revenge. So you can imagine my delight when I woke up at 1:30 and couldn’t go back to sleep. A slow smile spread across my face as I rolled over. (poke!) “mmmmm, what?” said Steve the sleeping giant. “I can’t sleep.” I whispered. “SO?!” he said indignately and immediately started snoring again. (poke!) “WHAT?!” he hollered. “I said I can’t sleep!” the smile now an ear to ear grin. “You are fricken’ kidding me! *I* am sleeping!” And before I could answer he was snoring again. (poke!) ”Oh my God! If you wake me up again, you’re gettin’ it!” Innocently I said “I’m just paying you back for eight years ago.” And I promptly turned on the light and started to read. Except much to my disappointment, HE can sleep through that. My fun was totally spoiled. Sigh. It was very anticlimatic after waiting eight years.

At 3:30 there was still no sign of the sandman, so I took matters into my own hands, took a sleeping pill and finally fell into a deep, blissful sleep. Oh the foghorn was still going, but the call of las drogas kept me oblivious.

I’m sorry I’ve been an absentee blogger. I’m leaving for Spain today and I’m not packed. I’ll try to blog from there because I know ya’ll miss me so much. My mother in law arrived late last night to take care of the kids while we’re gone. Son #2 lovingly left her a letter that reads (with phonetic spellings corrected):

Dear Nana,

I am in bed. And do not open the door. Cuz you snore loud. OK? Get it? I can’t answer your question.

Love,

Son #2