Half-assery/sorry Rasslery and an update on the job front

I can't keep up with this thing, can I?

I've contemplated quitting because I can't stand to be half-assed at one of the things that I actually enjoy doing. But it turns out I like you people more than most people I actually know in real life, and would feel too sad to say goodbye.

So here I am, being half-assed as usual.

I was honored to be invited over to Rassles house to play nintendo (i.e. to guest post) and I told her I'd be right over as soon as I was done with my chores and she hasn't heard from me since. I'm trying to figure out a way to beg for forgiveness but unfortunately my head remains inside my own ass, making even posting this extremely difficult for obvious reasons. Rassles, I AM coming over to play nintendo, so please save a nutty bar for me. It may get to you too late for you to ever use my stupid post, but you can save it for when you are too busy, or if you ever have one of these wordless bouts like I do. Lucky for the devout Rassles readers among us, you never do. Fuck, did I mention I'm sorry? I would buy you one of these if I could:




At this point, maybe people are done reading my apologies for things they don't know anything about and want some details about the jobby job.

Words come and then evaporate like NOx emissions (I don't know what I'm talking about. Do NOx emissions evaporate? We'll get to this ignorance later) and I try to hang on to them but a memory of a word is hard to keep once it has slipped away and become a contaminant. My mind is a mess of formulae and chemical elements I should have memorized my junior year of high school.

So, I'll use math to describe my current situation:

Making money + a quiet mind + a level of responsiblity that I'm comfortable with = something that resembles contentment + X, where X equals unforseen bullshit.

Or, we can do the long calculation.

• My desk is positioned in such a way that makes it impossible for me to read blogs, fuck around on facebook all day, or actually work on anything other than what I'm supposed to be doing. This is my excuse for why I haven't been round these parts in a long damn time. While being away from blogging is not good for me -150, being away from facebook is +125. Be gone, oh ghosts of yesteryear, pulling at my mind and making me feel old, what with your pictures from 1997 and all.

• I cross the Guadalquivir river every day en route to work and actually see the horizon again on a regular basis. I cannot describe what this does for my spirit. +200
  
  
  
  

• Guess what? I get free shit: Almost-Free (EUR .75) lunch everyday + 300. Free legal advice twice per month, although I hope I never have to make use of this benefit +50. All the language courses and computer courses I care to take. Free +100. Did I mention I like free shit? Access to an English speaking doctor, free of charge, every wednesday in my office with no appointment. This man better brace himself for unprecedented levels of hypochondria, and he better brush up on his dermatology cause I'm about to shove my moles up in his face on a weekly basis. Hello, blue skies. Fuck off, melanoma. +500

• There are beautiful views from any office in the building. Beats the dungeon I was pissing my life away in before in 8 hour increments. I have no good memories of that place, just memories of my sanity slipping away one day at a time. +100

• The pay is nothing to sing about, but this is an economic crisis, so I'd be stupid to look at my absolute income rather than my relative deprivation. Besides, considering the level of stress I'll have to endure compared to my last job, I make a killing. But I can't afford hired help anymore, so it looks like I'll have to clean up after my sloppy self again and I've never been very good at that. -10

• In my last job, I dealt with three kinds of people: 1) Those whose behavior I was responsible for, whose potential for fuckupery no words can describe; 2) Those that I was responsible to, and to whom I had to bear the unbearable shame of the behavior of the aforementioned fuck-ups. These people were the company clients who served rations of shit day after day for my eating pleasure; and finally 3) My bosses, who were nice enough but were too busy to notice I was about to jump out the window or hang myself with the telephone chord. They only called when there was a major problem. Basically, this meant that every time the phone rang I almost went into cardiac arrest thinking about what kind of fecal storm was about to hit the fan blowing on my face.
  
  Such is the life of cannon-fodder middle management.
  
  In my new job, I am positioned squarely at the bottom of the food chain, happily munching on discarded food that untrained labor entails.
  
  Well, to be honest, I haven't really been able to clearly identify the food chain at all and I don't even know if there is one in the traditional sense. I only know that I am only responsible for the task at hand and the actions of others effect me and my ability to work very little. This gives me a sense of freedom that makes me want to do cartwheels. Naked ones. I don't even know exactly who my direct boss is and it doesn't seem to matter. I just know that I need to show up and do my job.
  
  I share an office with a Hungarian, an Italian, and a Dutchman. In the office across the hall there is a Turk, a German, and a Spaniard. I have no idea what they do, but I know it doesn't involve me. They aren't up in my business demanding explanations and they don't make me cringe because they are so brain dead that they can't even fill out a time sheet properly so that their dumb asses can be paid. I know that most of them are experts in whatever it is they do and they are probably freakishly intelligent. Mostly I like them because they don't need me to do anything to bail them out of some mess they've created. I know that they are pleasant people to share coffee and lunch with and at this point in my life, I don't need any further information from anyone. +1050

• I enjoy a standard, American work schedule. This is really meaningless to anyone who doesn't understand the burdensome tradition of the Spanish siesta. The siesta tradition sounds great to people that don't live here, but to anyone who has to live it, it translates into an extremely long working day, where you are on the go all day without a nap to be had by anyone. The only people that enjoy the siesta are the old school señoritos who have wives at home that iron their underwear and cook them paella on demand. Normal, working families get nothing from this set-up. The luxury of being off work at 5:00 p.m., no words can describe.
  +1000
  
  


• Did I fail to mention what my actual job is? Well, it turns out I spend the entire day reading gigantic documents pertaining to sinter beds, coke oven gas, and heavy metals. Now, I realize that to the untrained ear this sounds like sex, drugs, and rock & roll, respectively, which is more or less what I thought I was getting myself into. It turns out this shit is heavily dense and I don't understand a lick of it. I was trained to be a sociologist, not a geologist or whatever it is these people are. Yet, for reasons still unbeknownst to me, people (smart ones even) believe that I am qualified to do this job, and I have yet to question their judgement openly.
  
  But, I'm just a proofreader. I don't have to understand it. I just need to make sure every sentence has a subject and a verb and that the adjectives are in the right place and shit. It's mechanical. I don't give a fuck what the varying nitrogen oxide levels are or what the combustion thresholds are. I just care if that comma is supposed to be there and if this shit needs to be hyphenated or not.
  
  Brainless work? I don't care. When I leave for the day, my job disappears in a poof and freedom takes its place. Nothing weighs on my mind. Nothing makes me lose sleep. And if that wasn't enough, the end product of my labor is actually something I care about. So +100,000,000 in-yo-face.
  
  Can I get a "hell yeah" from the audience please?
  
  -Blues, in need a new avatar (Nevermind, I'm getting way ahead of myself).

Pictures: Big and Small by cmbellman and Puente Triana by Serlorencen both from Flickr.

Anyone have a light socket I can plug my existence into?

I haven't looked for a job in almost ten years. They seem to creep up on me before I even want them for some reason. Maybe this is where I have failed, by never pursuing anything, just taking whatever shit pile falls from the sky and smacks me down. But I hate looking for a job. I hate it more than working at a mind-numbing-fuck-my-cerebral-cortex job.

See, I have an "enchufe", literally a socket, like a light socket. Everyone knows that you need a socket if you want to connect a plug, you can't just plug something directly into the wall. Looking for job in Spain with no enchufe is akin to trying to plug in a lamp directly into the wall with no outlet, making a bunch of fucking holes in your freshly painted living room wall, never even getting close to the electricity wiring or actually jamming it into wires and getting electrocuted and then getting repeatedly frustrated because you're sitting in the dark, in a room full of holes with your hair on fire. No outlet, no light. No enchufe, no jobbie-job. Thems the rules around this place.

Despite hating this concept and disagreeing with it on every ethical level, I find myself relying on enchufes and also being them. This whole country is a mess because of enchufes. You go to the bank to open up an account and the person that opens accounts doesn´t even know how to type so you wait all morning while he pecks away at his computer, essaying it forever to find the "F" as in "fuck me" key, taking a coffee break mid-way through. The extent of his applicable experience consists of being someone´s brother-in-law.

My enchufe apparently wants me to have a job more than I myself even want one and has pestered me since before I left my other job for me to let him help me. Initially he offered me a job in his company, which didn't materialize into much. I woudn´t have made a good fit anyway there, but he worked his magic elsewhere, through his wife's company, and when that failed, his wife's former employer. And the enchufe gets gradually weaker, but you can still get a little flicker of light from it. Please stay lit, motherfucker!

Today was my second interview.

As far as interviews go, I know all the rules. I myself have spent the last three years interviewing people for positions. I paid close attention to what candidates considered appropriate interview attire (their instincts were almost always wrong).

I paid attention to see if there was any shit under their fingernails (you'd be surprised), how punctual they were (Don´t you dare show up late without calling, you idiot, and don´t show up thirty minutes early and stare me down until I interview you ahead of schedule), if they made eye contact (not avoiding my gaze but not creeping me out either), their handshake (not too firm, not a dead fish. Confidence, but not aggressive confidence).

Thus my instincts to continue this protest against washing my hair, and to wear a leopard print top and some hot pink stilettos, and turn up an hour late had to be abandoned in favor of clean hair, black suit, with no flare or anything that stands out other than my vast experience and impeccable professionalism (can you tell I´ve bought into all this bullshit?). Fingernails clean and manicured? Check. Shoes shined? Check. Self-esteem? Uh...check.


Deep breath. Remember, you don't give a fuck if you get this job. Oh, but you do, but your life has been a path leading to this. Shut up! You don't give a fuck, you're gonna ruin it if you are overly eager. Ok, these people are gonna have to beg me to work for them. Please hire me. Don't you see everything I've ever done has lead up to this point? Whatever, I might consider a position here with you chumps. I might let my talent grace your organization. Oh, please, pretty please don´t let me wither away into an unemployment statistic.

"Hello, I'm here to interview with Ms. Rodriguez"

"Right this way, I'll lead you to the interview panel," says the receptionist.

Interview...um...panel? What the fuck? All I heard was, "Let me lead you to the dungeon of doom where you will have your soul picked apart and you will have to justify your measly existence before a board of PhD's in Bullshit Detection."



Another deep breath.

When I get nervous it's physiological. My voice shakes. I don't give a fuck about this job so why is my voice shaking? My hands tremble. These bastards are gonna have to beg me to work here, so why can't my hands stay still? I can't find the right words. I don´t know why I am acting all jumbled and flustered, these motherfuckers should be jumbled and flustered.

Later in my mind I torment myself by revising what I had said and imagining I could start over again and practice what I would say if given another chance, something more eloquent, more thought through.

Well, I guess I have going for me that I've spent my entire life squirming my way out of uncomfortable situations without anyone seeming to notice I was squirming and nervous as hell, so maybe I did ok.

Fingers are crossed that the outlet I'm trying to plug the lamp of my livelihood into isn't burned out, or worse, filled with water and ready to electrocute me to my economic death.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I was just about to post this, when I got a call with a job offer. As you may have suspected, I didn´t make them beg. I thought about it for a second though.

"The Dogs of War" by Stephen Poff found on Flickr.

"The Directors of Distillers Company Limited" by Charlesfred found on Flickr.

"My, what is that you´re wearing?" by Dave77459 found on Flickr.

My happiness can be bought for the low price of 500,000 euros (or I´m only posting so I can abuse the hyphen key).

Sometimes when I’m looking for material to post on, I try to look deep within myself and find some really dark hidden reality inside of me to enlighten you all with so we can make some kind of human connection however fragile across these windows of integrated circuits and pixels n shit.

But, let’s face it, I’m not that substantive, and to be honest, sometimes I’m as shallow as that stagnant, piss-temperature puddle I just fucked my boots up in on my way to work. Trust me, I live with myself, I know this about me.

Shopping makes me happy. Not ephemerally, evasively happy, but real, Capitalism-Has-Hooked-It´s-Fangs-Into-Me-And-I´m-Ready-To-Speak-In-Tongues-For-This-Shit happy.

I know that deep down I’m a materialist. If someone gave me 500,000 euros it would buy my happiness. Or at least I feel like it would. I would buy a house in Arizona and a flat in Spain and I would quit my Being-Penetrated-In-My-Ear-Canal-Would-Be-Funner-Than-This job.

I know, I know, you will say that if I had the money, I would just find new things to be unhappy about and it wouldn’t bring REAL happiness. Well, save it, cause luckily I don’t believe in real happiness. How could I? I’m kidless. Everyone knows you can’t even fathom real happiness until you spawn. Duh.

So in the meantime, I’m gonna drool over some new boots I might treat myself to if I start feeling really desperate for some happiness relief and dream of the day I can tell The Man to get his dick out of my ear canal.

Anyone have a Q-tip?

-Bluestreak

Drum roll please...

I´m not one for awards or achievements of any kind. Receiving them, that is.

I´m trying to recall any awards I´ve received in the past and the only one that comes to mind was when I was in the 5th grade Science Fair. I won 2nd place for an Acids and Bases experiment that was 100% designed by my dad´s girlfriend at the time, a 2nd grade teacher. I had no clue what acids and bases were but just saw a bunch of nicely organized cotton balls with different colors on construction paper. I remember being terrified when I won because I thought someone was gonna ask me a question or I would have to talk about it and everyone would realize I was a huge fraud (this same fear has accompanied me to date). My dad´s girlfriend had the best intentions, but being a second grade teacher, she could have made sure I had some inkling for what my project was about. Oh well, she ended up leaving my dad, which I thought was great for me, because I had recently seen Parent Trap and had a whole plan concocted in my mind for reuniting my parents. (Side note: the writers and producers of that movie should be burned at the stake).

Anyway, Awards and Achievements.

Grade school and Junior High, nothing. I was "uninvolved" according to my parents´accusations. I think it was because they forced me to do music and I hated it, quitting violin lessons cause the violin was too heavy, quitting singing lessons for fear of having to perform, quitting guitar lessons because I was embarrassed for having drooled on my guitar in a moment of intense concentration during a lesson once (my mouth was all full of braces and rubber bands n shit).

I tried out for the basketball team and made the "B team", which was a consolation prize for not making the "A team" (read: REAL team). They didn´t want us rejects giving up on our stupid dreams so they created a new team just for us. I sucked even on the "B team".

I tried out for cheerleading. (Insert game show noise alerting failure).

Gaaaaaawd.

High school, nothing. No Model U.N. No student council. No Spanish club. I joined track and field because I was in love with a pole vaulter, but asked the coach if it was possible to just go to practice and never compete. A resounding NO, was the answer. I quit again.

So you see, given this history, actually receiving an award makes me light up like a Christmas tree. I´m all silly and giddy now because I have an award for that scrapbook that never was.

Tobi et al awarded me with this:

“This blog invests and believes, in ‘proximity’ meaning, that blogging makes us 'close'. They are all charming blogs, and the majority of them aim to show the marvels of friendship; there are persons who are not interested when we give them a prize, and then they help to cut these bows; do we want that they are cut, or that they propagate? Then let’s try to give more attention to them! So with this prize we must deliver it to eight bloggers that in turn must make the same thing and put this text.”

So I´m passing this award on to eight bloggers, all for the same reason: because they make me drop whatever I´m doing, no matter how important whenever I see them updated in my reader:

El Guiri

Gnomespeak

Formerly Fun

Praying to Darwin

A Free Man

Sometimes I Make Lists

Xbox4NappyRash

Sanity, Interrupted


Thanks, Tobi, for making me smile.

xoxo

-Bluestreak

I was expecting a serious ass kickin'

Bluestreak has been reviewed.

When you voluntarily submit your blog for review at a site whose domain name is http://www.iwillfuckingtearyouapart.blogspot.com/ you have to kind of expect to get a good ass reaming.

I was prepared to have my limbs removed and then get beat over the head with one of them while being figuratively sodomized. (sound familiar, Key? I've had limb-fantasies ever since that post)

If you don´t know the folks over at Ask and Ye Shall Receive, they refer to themselves as dominatrixes who "love to deliver a well-placed and timely spanking". Formerly Fun refers to them as the "cool kids" that let you sit with them at lunch. I tend to think of them as the "bad kids" smoking cigarettes behind the dumpster at the 7-11 who may or may not kick your ass into an oblivion and then chuck your remains into the dumpster on your walk home from school, depending on your level of bad-assness and/or your ability to not talk shit (by having a crap blog).

Well it turns out the bad kids didn't chuck me in the dumpster after all. So this is my BIG THANK YOU to Calamity for the very kind review and the friends who commented.

If anyone else has any suggestions on how I can improve my blog, please feel free to comment here or at the review site.

-Bluestreak, silly grin ear-to-ear

I'm 100 and I'll do what the F@&! I want*

Seeing as though traveling home confuses the hell out of me and makes it nearly impossible for me to write a coherent flowing post with paragraphs about my trip, I'll make a list of things that happened while at the celebration of my Grandfathers 100th birthday bash:

1). Received unsolicited sex advice, AGAIN, this time of the anal variety from my brother who is six years my junior. Ewwwwww. This is so wrong. In my mind, you are like six years old. Quit it or I'm telling on you. I know you are married with two kids and so that must mean that you are sexually active, but spare me the information overload re anything involving an anus, especially yours. I also found out that he knows something extremely embarrassing about me and I refused to let him tell me what it was, something he may have seen or found in my apartment. My curiosity is kind of killing me but I just can't deal with having that conversation and being able to control my vomit reflex at the same time. I screamed at him to stop when he started to say it (in front of a lot of other relatives...IDIOT), so I have no idea what it's all about. And I'm racking my brain trying to think of what it could be, because, fuck, I don't need a lot of props and have never taken sex pictures of myself, so that's out. I hope to god my younger brother didn't spy on me having sex. SICK.

2). Glared at my brother in law with the look of death for mentioning my blog on multiple occasions in front of family members that should not know about it. Knock it off, Carl, or next time, I'm taking you out to the parking lot, and getting you high until you turn into a mute. I don't even smoke weed, but it will be worth it to shut you the hell up.

3). Had someone convince my atheist husband, the biggest religion critic I know, to play guitar at a Catholic mass in honor of my Grandfather's 100th birthday, and TO TAKE COMMUNION IN FRONT OF THE WHOLE DAMN CONGREGATION. Now that's love. He then proceeded to play La Bamba in front of 400+ drunk Irish Michiganders who were previously singing "I wish I was back home in Derry". Boy's got baaaaaaaaalllls. Oh, then he spilled his drink on a $1700 guitar. Oops.

4). Realized that my liver can't swing it with the younger generation in my family. The Kamikazes, Washington Apples, Jolly Ranchers, and Oatmeal Cookies have been superfluous elements in my life as of at least 10 years ago. So why did I do that to myself and then try to eat that bean burrito from Taco Bell? Also realized that even with all of the above shots, I still cannot handle watching my youngest brother hitting on girls at a bar. Nor can I handle drunk husband trying to talk to youngest brother about kinky shit. NO. CAN'T HANDLE IT.

5). Raised my glass to "kid-lessness" with the very, very few people remaining in my family who have decided not to supply the planet with more inhabitants for now and bless it with their reproductive ability. Biological alarm clock ringing, yes, the stupid whore, but snooze has been enabled for now.

6). Remembered how extremely controlling and manipulative my family can be. Something is wrong when my uncle is passed out on the ground, covered in a table cloth, and I am sneaking off to the parking lot to smoke a cigarette so that my parents and none of my aunts and uncles see me. What am I, 15??



7). Sang "Don't stop believing" by Journey at the top of my lungs together with the coolest freaking people on earth (my 50 some crazy cousins).

8). Listened to my Grandpa give me stinging advice as if he had ESP into my life, even though I don't think he knew who he was talking to at the time. But I took it to heart even if it was meant for someone else. I also listened to him with tears in his almost completely blind eyes tell me stories of my deceased Grandmother. That alone was worth my trip home. This man is as hard-headed and controlling as they come in my family, which is saying a lot, but damn if he can't bring tears to my eyes within five minutes of sitting next to him.

Happy 100th, Grandpa.

- Bluestreak

*thanks, Kristy for my title.

Relief? Oh, and whoring.

I quit my other job today. Not the whore-job, but the other one, where I pretend like I know more than fuck all about microalgae.

Suddenly I have...oh my god...is that?...free time? Um...what? Time to keep my toenails looking like they are appendaged* to a normal humans´foot? Time to throw away chocolate boxes and other such clutter that has colonized my domicile? Time to question why I´m whoring myself out for money to the highest bidder at my regular job (well, actually the only bidder that showed up for the auction)? Time to make my life resemble Groundhog Day a little less? Time to not just pretend like I´m going to go to the gym and actually cook the poultry mutha fucka in my fridge like I did yesterday? Time to wash my hair? (Washing it feels like a tiresome bitch right now, as does quitting smoking, which should be description enough to tell you what my hair smells like). Time to call family members? (Uh oh, I have to remember that sometimes family members actually read this). Time to spend the money I no longer have?

Time to wish I was elsewhere?

I´m not used to all this time. It´s agobiante. This afternoon with all this free time, I´m going to do what I do best; Nada. As in, nadadamnthing.

By the way, speaking of whoring people out, I thought I´d whore out my new blogger friend ghost of keywork, cause the dude really needs to win a trip to NY and I´m not about to stand in his way. You may recall how I feel about going to NY (so I may as well spread a little NY karma) You´re supposed to vote him as the hottest blogger here, which is hard to contest because he´s the only person I know with the balls enough to A) post a real life picture of himself and his house-arrest-ankle-bracelets on his blog and B) call himself hot after doing so. He deserves some kind of award for that, right?

-Bluestreak

Photo by monkeyc.net from Flickr

*yeah, i know that´s not a verb. So what?

trip home in numbers

Number of people currently drunk and posting under "bluestreak": 1

Number of days home: 2

Number of siblings still willing to get drunk with me: 2

Age difference between me and one of said siblings, which explains why they will still get drunk with me: 9 years.

Number of family members that tonight I discovered have been arrested and spent at least a night in jail: 2 (WTF????!!!!)

Number of beers needed to be able to begin to handle a meal with Spanish parents-in-law who have accompanied us on this trip to the states: 2 (clash of civilizations post in workings)

Number of times I've felt like banging my head against the wall during a meal: >10

Number of cigarettes smoked that I was made to feel like a crack addict for smoking: 10 (yeah, I'm an asshole, I know I said I was quitting)

Number of cigarettes my instincts have told me to smoke: 1000+

Number of times people have asked me when I'm going to have a kid: 28

Number of times I've wanted to smack someone for asking me a stupid question: 28

Number of times I've wanted to throw up because one of the people asking the question was younger brother who attempted to discuss my sex life at the dinner table: 1

Percentage decrease in size of functional ovaries each time I'm asked the question: 3.5%

Projected weight gain during next two week period due to a mix of nervous eating and gorging on food I miss: 10 lbs.

Number of people that need to get their ass to bed and sleep it off: 1

-Bluestreak

Know what I love about Spain? Portugal.

Reasons why my weekend in Portugal kicked serious ass:


Other reasons it kicked ass:

1). Didn´t smoke. Ok, just one. Thanks dude from Chiringuito. Thanks too for not hitting on us. I know you were almost blinded by my whiteness when I came up to bum a smoke, therefore you couldn´t see how hot I looked underneath the glare.

2). Played drinking games in rooftop luxury. What? How old am i again? Thirty-what? Thanks to the one that was young enough to remember the rules to those games. I had long filed those memories away under "stuff you should never do again if you have any dignity".

3). Ate ridiculously cheap food that was ridiculously good. Thanks, fish haters, more for me.

4). Had only thirty seconds tops pass between severe laughter seizures, thanks to you and your lovely madness.

Now I just need to make a list of reasons why I need to get back to work.

-Bluestreak

Back to the Present

Quick update on me for anyone who gives a damn before I proceed to post on some sick shit: Head has been pulled out of ass and am finally thinking in present tense instead of past. Pat on back. Nothing like a good massage and having your hairs ripped out by the roots by a fucking sadist to put you in the present.

I am in awe right now.

In-law Land never ceases to amaze me. Although this is the place of weird flamenquín fans I discussed earlier, it is also the place where Bob Dylan just played, so it has something going for it in my book that it never had before. There are two other things In-Law Land has that are high on my list right now of things that make my eyes roll back into my head with pleasure:

1) A kick-ass massage
2) A thorough wax job (I told you I get embarrassingly personal).

Let´s start with the latter because I have bitched many a blue streak (in real life, not yet on my blog) about waxing, hair removal, and the endless-hell-that-is-my-ape-like-albeit-blonde-body. If it were not toxic, I would superglue every single hair follicle on my body shut after first having each hair ripped out to its death. I don´t care if it isn´t natural or if I have bought into sexist consumer culture and the barrage against women convincing them that they should go through these painful procedures in order to remain youthful and sexy. Blah blah blah. Bullshit. Hair is sick. Get. Off. Of. Me.

I´m actually one of these weird people that gets pleasure from getting waxed (that is once I get over the initial fear that the aesthetician’s jaw will drop to the ground and then she will proceed to tell me that I am the hairiest individual she has ever laid eyes on). I actually like the feeling of having my hairs ripped out. I know that is weird, especially since and I have zero tolerance for pain normally and if you come near me with a syringe I will pass out before you get within 3 feet of me.

DISCLAIMER: Proceed only if you can bear TMI (too much information):

Spain is full of waxers, and this is where I was turned onto the whole joy of it all. But for some damn reason the ole U.S. of A. has surpassed Spain in the waxing of the nether regions (i.e. Brazilians, thanks Sex and the City). When it comes to that area of the body (the area that really matters) wax jobs SUCK here, and by here I mean the whole fucking city of Seville because my hairiness has been around town, believe me. Brazilian, Caribbean, what the hell does all this mean?? They still do not get all the effing hair off. I am sorry but there are certain areas of my body that I should not have to ask to be serviced (that sounds gross, I am talking about getting waxed here…Ok, admittedly still gross), it should be understood. No words should be exchanged. They should just think to themselves “Aaaw, honey, trust me, you don´t want that there….let me just…RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA” and then life would be golden.

Lucky for me, this happens in In law Land. They are ahead of the hair-game. They are ahead of their time for being such a small Andalusian city. Maybe they watch more late-night free Spanish T.V. porn and know what the nether regions are “supposed” to look like in 2008.

As for the massage, I was delightfully surprised the other day when I spent the day at the spa and got a GREAT massage. Normally it is like someone tickling you with a feather over here, they do not seem to get that they need to actually work at it and bust some muscle into it.

So here I am today in the NOW, happy, relaxed, muscles that feel like butter, hairless and loving it. The present is good right now. My past was much too hairy….but those were the 90´s. It´s forgivable.

-Bluestreak

Outgrown

2:00 a.m. Alone, weird apartment in España profunda (Alomartes, Granada -- DON´T google it). Don´t ask.

I have no idea how I ended up here.

I am thinking of the sweetest, truest words I have heard from any friend in a long time:

"You have outgrown your old self".





Thank you.

And I am thinking "Anda que la vida no da vueltas ni ná".

Then, four nut-covered chocolate donuts later I am thinking, "What´s so bad about a fat ass?".

-former aerobics instructor, current donut overdoser, Bluestreak.

artwork from Flickr by nuanc

Spring Fever....A Happy post about nothing.

Ahhhh, Spring Fever. I admit to not ever knowing what that term meant until I moved to Seville. Why is the Spring so much more intense here?? Suddenly there has been a change in the air and I am not such a whiner anymore. It is just hard not to be insanely happy when the orange blossoms usurp the city like this and you leave work and you still have a little bit of day left! Everyone around me is suddenly so good looking too. What is with that? Maybe it is all the skin I keep seeing.

I feel like I have been complaining all winter and now I have something to truly be grateful for. It comes in waves living over here. But I admit that when I have visitors come to town, especially when it is spring, I start to view this city again like I did the first time I came here (thanks for the visit John and Kelly!). I guess it is easy to take the surroundings for granted when you have to get up and go to work every day just like anywhere else. Sometimes I think people are under the impression that we are in a constant state of bliss just for living here, when that is not the case at all….but I can say I feel a little blissful these days.

Maybe it was the trip to Barcelona last weekend that has made me so happy. You know you are an American expat living in Seville when you go to Barcelona for Indian food.

Life is good and it smells fucking great in this city.

It is Friday, I do not know what the hell I am still doing at work with this kind of weather, and I am about to go have a beer.


-Bluestreak.