My Hand Was Eaten By a Giant Snake and I Was Waiting For the Reattachment Surgery
What? That sounds like a hell of a better reason than "I can't think of anything good to sayyyyyyyyy."
In a nutshell, my life still sucks, but I'm tired of bitching about it, thus leaving me little to talk about.
Did I tell you I went to Mexico for the wedding of Golden Boy and Crazy Girl at the end of April? No? Well. Hi, I went to Mex ... yeah. So anyway. My mother knew I was some sort of special type of moron way back in elementary school, and she went through different phases regarding it. Sometimes she tried to pretend I was just like all the other kids, but other times she admitted I couldn't run with the bulls and did things like fussing at the administration to make me foreign language exempt from middle school, on through high school.
Now, I don't know if my lack of taking Spanish is why I am completely unable to say anything with a proper accent, but I doubt it, since all the French words I know courtesy of years of ballet also come out of my mouth without an accent.
This means that gracias always sounded like grassy-ass when I said it. The frustrating thing was that I'd hear it come out of my mouth that way, hear that it was wrong, and still not be able to say it with the correct pronunciation. Thus, the little foreign language I know, I never used. You would cringe to hear me say croissant. Except that I never say it because I'm embarrassed at how it sounds coming out of my mouth.
I was very worried that the Mexicans I would encounter would sneer at me and make me feel like shit for my shitty attempts at Spanish, and for reverting back to English after the greeting portion of conversations had been completed. My brother reassured me numerous times that this would not happen. That Puerto Vallarta is a resort area, that they want you to have fun and be comfortable. That they all speak English, and if they don't, someone who does will always be close by (this was true also).
The Golden Boy does not lie. Everyone was so warm there. Even the cab driver who fucked me over did it nicely (it was my mistake - I'd been warned to always ask a cab driver how much the ride would cost before getting in the cab, and I didn't think to do that, figuring it would cost the same amount to get back to the hotel as it had cost to get where I was leaving from).
I pushed myself really hard to always speak in Spanish if I knew the words for what I was trying to say. They must be used to that in a tourist town, and by the second day I had gotten pretty good at using a combination of Spanish, English and pantomime to get concepts across. By the third day my grassy-ass had become a real gracias and all of a sudden the accent I could never wrap my tongue around had materialized.
Which may account for why two weeks ago, when I found myself lost in the Mission and running late, I didn't hesitate to walk up to three men manning a garage sale, greet them and then ask where the street I needed was, all in Spanish. They answered me in English, which to be honest, is good, since I would not have understood "You're very close, just two or three more blocks that way," in Spanish.
As my friend and I walked on she said to me in amazement, "I didn't know you speak Spanish." I smiled. "I don't."