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What I am: Complicated. A mom. A wife. A thinker. A seeker. A 'musician'. One of the volunteer executive directors of a niche music festival. An administrative business owner who set up shop in a senior's condo. Oh the stories!

Tuesday, 28 February 2012

Lost in Translation.

On Monday nights, I go to the University for Spanish class.  When I decided to sign up, the Monkeys in my head were not impressed.  "School?", they snorted.  "Seriously? We are too old for this.  And Spanish??  Don't you remember the time you meant to ask that Cuban cab driver what his name was, and you inadvertently declared your love for him?"  (True Story)

 Nonetheless, I am insatiably curious (read: Nosey) and I cannot stand it when I am on holidays eavesdropping on a perfectly good conversation and I can't understand a word of it!  Of all the crust! (as my father would say)  I ignored the Monkeys and signed up for the class. That's right, sign up now, think later. 

 Well, it would seem that my first night of class coincided perfectly with my husband's offer to cook supper.  This was great!  I wouldn't have to worry too much before class.  I would throw a salad and something resembling a vegetable together, and the rest would be taken care of.  My husband, you see, is a great cook, however, in the winter months in the absence of a barbecue, his meals consist of the following two offerings:
  1. Fried Meat
  2. Fried Onions (sometimes fried cabbage, but only on Special Occasions)
Now, these fried things taste wonderful, but that comes with a price...Smelly fried food clothing. Yes, when daddy cooks, our family walks into evening meetings, band concerts, and community events smelling like a porkchop. Is it our ventillation system?  Why does no one else smell like this?  Do they boil everything?

At any rate, Eau de Fried Onions was not the particular fragrance I meant to be wafting as I strolled into my first Spanish class.  I was mortified, but short of having a HazMat shower and borrowing some clothes from the neighbour, there was not a thing I could do.  I could have doused myself with my one daughter's celebrity fragrances, I suppose, but I think my preference would be to smell like plain fried onions instead of Taylor Swift's version. I detected stiffening of backs and wrinkling of noses as I walked in, but I kept my eyes on my new EIGHTY DOLLAR textbook.

Senora (I don't know how to make the wavy hat on top the 'n'), is our Professora.  Senora is very firm.  I am afraid of Senora.  Thankfully, she, like the seniors, can't remember my name, so I don't get called on individually.  She expects a lot from us and addresses a lot of questions to the whole group. Am I the only one who feels a certain level of awkwardness answering questions aloud...as an adult?  I feel like I'm in grade 3.

I might not be the sharpest knife in the Spanish drawer, but I seem to be catching on. Of course I am afraid to answer too many questions out loud.  The Monkeys are saying, "HEY, we know this one! We know this one too! Why aren't you saying anything??" I don't know...is it cool to answer out loud?  What if my classmates think I'm a Keener??  A Spanish TryHard-o.  I can just hear their conversations when I leave the room. Eyes rolling, they'll point to my empty chair, "Why don't you ask Fried Onions over there, she's got ALL the answers."  It is clear to me that there will be no lasting friendships formed in this class.  Oh, well, all I want is for Senora to pass me so I can go to the next level and learn to say, "Where can I get street food that won't kill me?"

Interesting aside: I learned that the Spanish words for 'married' and 'tired' are freakishly similar.  Consequenso?  Nothinkso...

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