disconnect

I think that some people have this horribly misconceived notion of my life in Spain.

That I lead some fanciful existence...

some cross between the adventure and grandeur of Bourne's identity, supremacy, and ultimatum all rolled into one...

amalgamated with the passion and enchantment that can only compare to what happens below the sun in Tuscany.

LIE.

Now to rectify.





Truth. I have to clean a wicked messy apartment (note the untouched adornments left from the holidays.)
Truth. I have to take out the recycling (its currently chillin' in the hall.)
Truth. I have to wash dishes (we have no dishwasher.)
Truth. I have to go to the grocery store (none of the highly appetizing food in that fridge is mine.)





The difference is I just do it in Spain.
Life is normal here, too.
I don't brag.






True scenario (ie it happened tonight, but in Spanish.)






Me: This piso is miserably messy.*

Miriam (just out of the shower): I can't find my cell phone.

Mari (walking out of her room): I can't find my pen with the little chickens and eggs on it. It's yellow.

Sylvia (trying to run out the door): I can't find my calender, it's says 2007 on it.

Me (collapsing to floor in not unwarranted melodramatic fashion): We haaaaave to clean.

Sylvia (nonchalantly stepping over supine Julie Ann to leave): Ciao.

Mari: My tummy hurts. I have gas. I feel like pooting.


This is normal life.
(It's not a movie.)









*The Spanish word used here is fatal, which knowing what it means in English, I think gives an appropriate conception to the state of the piso.