I was spending the weekend with my friend G. We were getting ready to go to the Farmer's Market that morning and I was in the bathroom, putting on my make-up, when her 4 year old son came in.
(Maybe he was 5; I can't remember. It's been a while.)
"What are you doing?"
"I'm putting on my make-up."
"Why?"
"Because it makes me look better."
He climbed up onto the edge of the sink and watched, enthralled, as I sponged, dotted and powdered; brushed, swiped and blended. It's important to note that my friend G is a bit of a hippie--she is younger than I am and has better skin too--so she's not as concerned with putting on a daily mask. This was a new thing for him. He was completely invested in watching my transformation, like I was performing some sort of magical feat.
When I was finished, I turned to him and said "TA-DA! What do you think? How do I look?"
After a thoughtful moment, he said……………………………..
"You really don't look any better."
I thought of that this morning as I prepared to go out. I washed my face and opened my cosmetic bag. Looking into the mirror, those words--the truth--all that time invested just to hide the reality of my face--I zipped the bag back up and grabbed my coat.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Before You Make a Mistake (An Open Letter to Someone I Love)
Tomorrow someone I love is announcing "big news" and I await the announcement with bated breath & maybe a bit of trepidation. Trepidation because the person making the announcement is young, inexperienced in the ways of the world, honest and brave. Each of those attributes alone are admirable, but packaged all together... well... rose-colored glasses almost always end up shattered, don't they?
Here goes:
Dear Grasshopper,
I've been thinking about your pending announcement all day and since I'm better at writing than speaking and you are better at reading than listening, I thought I'd just jot down what I have to say.
I'm worried that you are going to make a mistake; maybe a big one. You could be making a mistake that leaves you penniless and alone. You could be making a mistake that ruins your life. You could be making a mistake that ENDS your life. I'm terrified that you might be doing something you can't undo and can't take back. I'm stricken by the thought that you haven't thought this through and horrible things will happen. You have no idea the misery that might await you.
So what are you waiting for? Go for it.
I remember when I was younger and sought out the advice of my elders. "Don't do that," they'd say; "You'll regret it." So I wouldn't do whatever foolhardy thing they advised me against and you know what?
I. REGRET. NOT. DOING. IT.
When I listened to their advice, I saved myself some heartache, no doubt.
And when I didn't, sometimes (most of the time) I made mistakes.
And when I didn't bother seeking anyone's input at all, sometimes (most of the time) I made GIGANTIC, HORRENDOUS, LIFE-ALTERING mistakes. And I don't regret them.
Let me repeat, in all caps and in bold: I HAVE MADE GIGANTIC, HORRENDOUS, LIFE-ALTERING MISTAKES AND I DO NOT REGRET THEM.
I learned from them. My successes mean more because of them. My life is richer because of them. (It's also poorer and any political aspirations I might have had are in the gutter.)
But here's the catch: when someone offers you practical advice, you can't get angry that someone loves you enough to try and save you from pain & disappointment. You also don't get to blame your mistakes on someone else. You don't get to say "you didn't tell me...." People who live their lives on their own terms don't hide behind other people. People who live their lives on their own terms don't care about other people's expectations. They step up to the plate and they swing. If it's a hit, they take the credit and if it's a miss, they take the blame. Let that be you.
I hope that tomorrow's announcement is grand. I hope that whatever path you are taking is a wonderful adventure. But just in case it's a mistake: Own it. Learn from it. Get up and swing for the fences again. Enjoy your life. I'm on your side.
I love you,
B.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
The Tomato Whisperer
Yesterday, my beau called me while I was at work. He had been mowing the back yard.
"You would not believe the tomatoes you have back here in your raised garden. It's insane."
??
We put the raised garden together a couple of years ago. I enthusiastically planted organic seeds and tended to it lovingly for roughly a month. That's probably an exaggeration. I did manage to see some sprouts. I even got a green bean. I plucked it from the earth, held it high and shouted "AS GOD IS MY WITNESS I WILL NEVER GO HUNGRY AGAIN!" Then I ate it. Standing right there in the garden. Dirt and all. The most expensive green bean of all time. After that, something shiny distracted me, I abandoned all hope of making my own salsa and everything went to pot, or to seed. Apparently, literally.
As I drove home, I laughed. How about that? I am the Tomato Whisperer. The key is to walk by the raised bed with your hands over your eyes like blinders. If they think you aren't looking, they'll grow.
I'll be able to make my own salsa after all. Maybe spaghetti sauce too. Homemade catsup? Fried green tomatoes? Good Lord, what I am going to do with all these stinkin' tomatoes? Give some to the neighbors. Start going to the Farmer's Market with my Miracle Tomatoes. Should I charge more? I'll write a book on Tao Gardening. Then a cookbook. I'll commercialize my spaghetti sauce: Tomato Whisperer Pasta Sauce. It has a ring to it, doesn't it?
When I get home the first thing I do is go out back to inspect my long forgotten vegetable garden. There are no tomatoes back there. Nothing that even remotely resembles tomato plants.
I come back inside. "Phil, honey, there are no tomatoes out there."
"Those aren't tomato plants?"
"No, the plant in the container on the deck that I'm currently ignoring? That's a tomato plant."
"Oh. Then what is that stuff in the raised bed?"
"It's a bumper crop of cilantro. At least I think it's cilantro."
The lesson is this:
1) Only hard work will get you where you want to be. Don't believe your own hype.
2) Until we take a more active role in our food (like oh, say, figuring out the difference between cilantro and tomato plants), Monsanto doesn't have much to worry about.
3) You also need cilantro for salsa. It makes a nice garnish on spaghetti too.
"You would not believe the tomatoes you have back here in your raised garden. It's insane."
??
We put the raised garden together a couple of years ago. I enthusiastically planted organic seeds and tended to it lovingly for roughly a month. That's probably an exaggeration. I did manage to see some sprouts. I even got a green bean. I plucked it from the earth, held it high and shouted "AS GOD IS MY WITNESS I WILL NEVER GO HUNGRY AGAIN!" Then I ate it. Standing right there in the garden. Dirt and all. The most expensive green bean of all time. After that, something shiny distracted me, I abandoned all hope of making my own salsa and everything went to pot, or to seed. Apparently, literally.
As I drove home, I laughed. How about that? I am the Tomato Whisperer. The key is to walk by the raised bed with your hands over your eyes like blinders. If they think you aren't looking, they'll grow.
I'll be able to make my own salsa after all. Maybe spaghetti sauce too. Homemade catsup? Fried green tomatoes? Good Lord, what I am going to do with all these stinkin' tomatoes? Give some to the neighbors. Start going to the Farmer's Market with my Miracle Tomatoes. Should I charge more? I'll write a book on Tao Gardening. Then a cookbook. I'll commercialize my spaghetti sauce: Tomato Whisperer Pasta Sauce. It has a ring to it, doesn't it?
When I get home the first thing I do is go out back to inspect my long forgotten vegetable garden. There are no tomatoes back there. Nothing that even remotely resembles tomato plants.
I come back inside. "Phil, honey, there are no tomatoes out there."
"Those aren't tomato plants?"
"No, the plant in the container on the deck that I'm currently ignoring? That's a tomato plant."
"Oh. Then what is that stuff in the raised bed?"
"It's a bumper crop of cilantro. At least I think it's cilantro."
The lesson is this:
1) Only hard work will get you where you want to be. Don't believe your own hype.
2) Until we take a more active role in our food (like oh, say, figuring out the difference between cilantro and tomato plants), Monsanto doesn't have much to worry about.
3) You also need cilantro for salsa. It makes a nice garnish on spaghetti too.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Ikea Kills Hippies (and Rational Behavior)
I like to think of myself as a responsible human being. Caring, giving and all that jazz... I recycle, rescue animals, shop at thrift stores, the whole bit.
But let me walk past the sliding doors at Ikea, and Katie bar the door. I MUST CONSUME.
For Heather's birthday, we decided a road trip was in order. To Atlanta. To Ikea.
We spent FIVE hours in that store. FIVE hours. I can't believe it's possible to spend that kind of time in a store where you aren't trying on clothes. Man, if Ikea had shoes, we'd still be there.
We both said "oh, I don't need a cart" when we walked in the door. By the time we walked out FIVE HOURS later, I had two of those giant yellow bags and a shopping cart piled high. I don't know what Heather had, I couldn't see her.
We started the trip saying "next time, we should ask so&so to go with us" and ended up saying "next time, we need to drive separately--can you see out of the rearview mirror?"
On the way home, I pulled out my receipt and started cataloging everything I had purchased:
a comforter
a duvet
3 bars of chocolate
5 packs of apple cookies (delicious)
12 roman shades (some of which I will tie-dye! Whee!)
6 mirrors (don't worry; I have a plan)
a floor lamp (quite possibly the only thing I actually needed, except the chocolate)
a folding side table
paint (to paint the folding side table)
a stuffed dog for my favorite 2 year old
a silicone bunt cake pan... (hmm.... )
an egg slicer (okaaaayyy....)
and about halfway down the list, here's where we go off the rails a bit:
a meat thermometer
We both laugh so hard I thought we were going to have to pull over. It was roaring, snorting, tear-rolling, snot-blasting, really, I' m serious, maybe we should pull over the car, screaming fits of laughter.
Because I'm a vegetarian.
But let me walk past the sliding doors at Ikea, and Katie bar the door. I MUST CONSUME.
For Heather's birthday, we decided a road trip was in order. To Atlanta. To Ikea.
We spent FIVE hours in that store. FIVE hours. I can't believe it's possible to spend that kind of time in a store where you aren't trying on clothes. Man, if Ikea had shoes, we'd still be there.
We both said "oh, I don't need a cart" when we walked in the door. By the time we walked out FIVE HOURS later, I had two of those giant yellow bags and a shopping cart piled high. I don't know what Heather had, I couldn't see her.
We started the trip saying "next time, we should ask so&so to go with us" and ended up saying "next time, we need to drive separately--can you see out of the rearview mirror?"
On the way home, I pulled out my receipt and started cataloging everything I had purchased:
a comforter
a duvet
3 bars of chocolate
5 packs of apple cookies (delicious)
12 roman shades (some of which I will tie-dye! Whee!)
6 mirrors (don't worry; I have a plan)
a floor lamp (quite possibly the only thing I actually needed, except the chocolate)
a folding side table
paint (to paint the folding side table)
a stuffed dog for my favorite 2 year old
a silicone bunt cake pan... (hmm.... )
an egg slicer (okaaaayyy....)
and about halfway down the list, here's where we go off the rails a bit:
a meat thermometer
We both laugh so hard I thought we were going to have to pull over. It was roaring, snorting, tear-rolling, snot-blasting, really, I' m serious, maybe we should pull over the car, screaming fits of laughter.
Because I'm a vegetarian.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
The Post In Which I Burn the House Down
Isn't this AWESOME! I found this today in the soup aisle at Kroger.
I LOVE grilled cheese sammiches. Those who know me well know that my death row dinner choice is grilled cheese and crinkle cut french fries-or steak fries-with ranch dressing.
I can't tell you how long I've looked for a way to idiot-proof grilled cheese making. The only reason I don't make one every day is because it's a bit labor intensive with the butter and the pan and all. (I say this almost completely sincerely.)
This thing has "As Seen on TV" written all over it-which means of course I had to buy it. In some ways, I am older than my years and recognize that As Seen on TV products-and this product too, even though it isn't As Seen on TV, it should be-are the cutting edge of technology. Let the others scoff. They will wish they could simply & easily make grilled cheeses like I can now.
If I never post again, it will be because I was a victim of false advertising and making grilled cheese in the toaster is actually the best way to burn down your house.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Let's Play Hide & Seek
I have spinach in my teeth. A wad wrapped firmly around my Dracula tooth. I've been sawing at it like Paul Bunyan for half the evening. It's going no where.
I give up and go turn on the t.v. (OK... I try to turn on the t.v. I don't really know how...) but my tongue keeps going back to that blob. Have you ever noticed how tongues will do that? It's like they have a mind of their own; they know when something isn't supposed to be there. (I think this might be a great scientific study for my tax dollars: Tongues. What do they know?)
I go back to the bathroom. I no sooner arrive than I forget why I came in there. "I must need to pee" I say to no one. So I pee and go back to my struggle with the remote control. Before my tush hits the cushions, I remember. Spinach.
Back to the bathroom-this process repeats itself more times than I care to admit-until I begin to chant "spinach, spinach, spin-ach" down the hall until I reach my destination.
I brush my teeth. Not budging. Man, this is some spinach. I break out a fresh string of floss and go to work. It moves a bit. I smile at the mirror. Still there. Lovely. I start making faces-Calvin & Hobbes faces-at the mirror.
"What are you? Six?" says my adult voice. Then I start laughing at the face staring back at me. I'm starting to have fun... I blame this behavior on the fact that I'm a bonus baby. I'm accustomed to entertaining myself.
A bonus baby is that kid you have when you think you can't have kids anymore--that kid who shows up when your other kids are 9-10-12 years old. My mother cried when she found out she was pregnant with me-and not tears of joy. I've got some great bonus baby stories... next time. Just let me leave these two words for my older friends still within child-bearing years: BIRTH. CONTROL.
When I was little, all I wanted to do was hang out with my siblings. They were so cool; they got to do so many fun things--without me. Their friends would come over and they'd play Hide & Seek. I'd shout "can I play too? Pleeease??"
"Sure" they'd say. "You go hide and we'll come find you." Yay! They let me play too!!
Now, where to hide? I look around. Ah, perfect. A boxwood hedge at the front of the house. I was small enough that I could crawl up in it like it was a little mini-tree. They never found me. Do I need to spell this out for you? Let me: if you never look for something, you never find it.
They never found me.
But the wasps who had built a nest in the boxwood... they found me.
I remember that evening well. Sitting on the bathroom vanity, wailing--partly because, jeez, it hurt and partly because my feelings were hurt, while Mama used tweezers to pluck out every last stinger with this "why me" look on her face. Come to think of it, she had that look a lot.
My gums are bleeding while that tale crosses my mind, digging with all my might at that blasted piece of spinach. And then it occurs to me....
Tweezers.
Spinach.
Gone.
I give up and go turn on the t.v. (OK... I try to turn on the t.v. I don't really know how...) but my tongue keeps going back to that blob. Have you ever noticed how tongues will do that? It's like they have a mind of their own; they know when something isn't supposed to be there. (I think this might be a great scientific study for my tax dollars: Tongues. What do they know?)
I go back to the bathroom. I no sooner arrive than I forget why I came in there. "I must need to pee" I say to no one. So I pee and go back to my struggle with the remote control. Before my tush hits the cushions, I remember. Spinach.
Back to the bathroom-this process repeats itself more times than I care to admit-until I begin to chant "spinach, spinach, spin-ach" down the hall until I reach my destination.
I brush my teeth. Not budging. Man, this is some spinach. I break out a fresh string of floss and go to work. It moves a bit. I smile at the mirror. Still there. Lovely. I start making faces-Calvin & Hobbes faces-at the mirror.
"What are you? Six?" says my adult voice. Then I start laughing at the face staring back at me. I'm starting to have fun... I blame this behavior on the fact that I'm a bonus baby. I'm accustomed to entertaining myself.
A bonus baby is that kid you have when you think you can't have kids anymore--that kid who shows up when your other kids are 9-10-12 years old. My mother cried when she found out she was pregnant with me-and not tears of joy. I've got some great bonus baby stories... next time. Just let me leave these two words for my older friends still within child-bearing years: BIRTH. CONTROL.
When I was little, all I wanted to do was hang out with my siblings. They were so cool; they got to do so many fun things--without me. Their friends would come over and they'd play Hide & Seek. I'd shout "can I play too? Pleeease??"
"Sure" they'd say. "You go hide and we'll come find you." Yay! They let me play too!!
Now, where to hide? I look around. Ah, perfect. A boxwood hedge at the front of the house. I was small enough that I could crawl up in it like it was a little mini-tree. They never found me. Do I need to spell this out for you? Let me: if you never look for something, you never find it.
They never found me.
But the wasps who had built a nest in the boxwood... they found me.
I remember that evening well. Sitting on the bathroom vanity, wailing--partly because, jeez, it hurt and partly because my feelings were hurt, while Mama used tweezers to pluck out every last stinger with this "why me" look on her face. Come to think of it, she had that look a lot.
My gums are bleeding while that tale crosses my mind, digging with all my might at that blasted piece of spinach. And then it occurs to me....
Tweezers.
Spinach.
Gone.
Friday, March 8, 2013
The Pedicure
Since I'll be working through the weekend & I got off a little early today, I decided to give myself a little treat. What to do? Easy decision. There's precious little in the world that I enjoy more than a pedicure.
And since this was a spontaneous decision, I was woefully ill-prepared, clad in my dress pants and riding boots. But the nail salon is right next to a Dollar General (classy, I know) so I could just pick up a pair of flip flops there.
News Flash: Dollar General doesn't have their flip flops out yet. So I end up buying a pair of granny house slippers. I'm totally going to Kroger after this, I thought to myself. I've always wanted to know what it was like to traipse through Kroger in my slippers like so many people do these day. I did it once before, but that time I was walking that fine line between the flu & runny nose zombieism, so the only reaction I got that time was pity. This time: check it! Yo! I'm all gangsta & my toes are perfect!
Anyway...
They may be next to a Dollar General, but my nail salon has a pretty upscale feel to it. It's the kind of place where they offer you a complimentary glass of wine. You may choose between white or pink ... I know this is hard to believe, but I pass on the wine. Pink wine = Boone's Farm. No thanks. I have enough problems. Like this insane desire to walk through Kroger in granny house slippers.
I am assisted immediately by a young man who seats me in the massage chair. First of all, I'm short and those things are programed to service someone at least 5" taller than I am. If I were 5" taller, the chair would be squeezing my shoulders at the base of my neck instead of pinching the back of my head like a grape. The second reason... well, I'll just be blunt. I have big boobs. I jiggle plenty by myself. I don't need a machine to add to it. So the massage chair is not my favorite part. I usually try to catch them before they turn it on, but today I failed so I decided to just roll with it.
Then I was instructed to roll up my pant legs. Oh yeah. Sorry, cute little Vietnamese hipster boy with the sassy haircut I was shooting for the last time I had my hair cut-instead of the Girl Interrupted chop job that I got. Soooooooo sorry. You see, it's not quite Spring yet and I live in a drafty old house. It's pragmatic to not shave during the winter--yeah, pragmatic. Saves on heat bills. Soooooooo sorry. He didn't seem to care.
There's no moral to this story. I just thought I'd share. I impulsively had a pedicure today. I was embarrassed that I hadn't shaved my legs and even more embarrassed that I had to walk out to my car in granny house slippers. Maybe the lesson is this: don't worry about what other people think, enjoy your pedicure and put a pair of flip-flops in your car, girl.
And since this was a spontaneous decision, I was woefully ill-prepared, clad in my dress pants and riding boots. But the nail salon is right next to a Dollar General (classy, I know) so I could just pick up a pair of flip flops there.
News Flash: Dollar General doesn't have their flip flops out yet. So I end up buying a pair of granny house slippers. I'm totally going to Kroger after this, I thought to myself. I've always wanted to know what it was like to traipse through Kroger in my slippers like so many people do these day. I did it once before, but that time I was walking that fine line between the flu & runny nose zombieism, so the only reaction I got that time was pity. This time: check it! Yo! I'm all gangsta & my toes are perfect!
Anyway...
They may be next to a Dollar General, but my nail salon has a pretty upscale feel to it. It's the kind of place where they offer you a complimentary glass of wine. You may choose between white or pink ... I know this is hard to believe, but I pass on the wine. Pink wine = Boone's Farm. No thanks. I have enough problems. Like this insane desire to walk through Kroger in granny house slippers.
I am assisted immediately by a young man who seats me in the massage chair. First of all, I'm short and those things are programed to service someone at least 5" taller than I am. If I were 5" taller, the chair would be squeezing my shoulders at the base of my neck instead of pinching the back of my head like a grape. The second reason... well, I'll just be blunt. I have big boobs. I jiggle plenty by myself. I don't need a machine to add to it. So the massage chair is not my favorite part. I usually try to catch them before they turn it on, but today I failed so I decided to just roll with it.
Then I was instructed to roll up my pant legs. Oh yeah. Sorry, cute little Vietnamese hipster boy with the sassy haircut I was shooting for the last time I had my hair cut-instead of the Girl Interrupted chop job that I got. Soooooooo sorry. You see, it's not quite Spring yet and I live in a drafty old house. It's pragmatic to not shave during the winter--yeah, pragmatic. Saves on heat bills. Soooooooo sorry. He didn't seem to care.
There's no moral to this story. I just thought I'd share. I impulsively had a pedicure today. I was embarrassed that I hadn't shaved my legs and even more embarrassed that I had to walk out to my car in granny house slippers. Maybe the lesson is this: don't worry about what other people think, enjoy your pedicure and put a pair of flip-flops in your car, girl.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Leaning In (or This Oughta Be Good)
For my foreign language requirement in high school, I took an important language. Latin. I chose it mainly because I liked the instructor. When he would call on me to translate a sentence, he would say things like "this oughta be good". Such was my ability for linguistics.
Fast forward about 30 years (yikes!), and I have decided that I need to learn to speak Spanish. I downloaded Coffee Break Spanish and listen to it every day on my way to work. It was free. It is taught by a guy from Scotland. This oughta be good.
Before now, I only knew one phrase in Spanish: uno mas cerveza, por favor. It served me well.
Lots of factors could have contributed to my decision: the number for Spanish speaking residents in the United States have doubled over the last 20 years & I like to talk; I like to talk to everybody. It's good to be more versatile. Good business move, etc. But none of that played a role in my decision.
It was a little boy.
On occasion, I have the honor of helping a group called Mission of Hope. One that particular day, we were helping underprivileged children pick up school supplies. Each adult would walk with a child and guide them. When it was my turn to guide a child, his teacher said to me "he doesn't speak English". I looked down at the Kindergartener with the big brown eyes and the lost look; I looked back at his teacher "none?"
"None." Well, this oughta be good.
Uno mas cerveza wouldn't help me now. He and I struggled through the exercise together. He was a good little trooper, but I could tell that he was a little confused and maybe a little scared. His hand felt weak in mine, his gait unsure. It was the beginning of the school year--his 1st school year--and every morning his mother would tell him to go, it would be okay, but he wasn't convinced yet. He didn't know what was happening. Maybe his teacher spoke Spanish, but he couldn't be with her 100% of the time. I tried to put myself in his shoes.
That little boy has haunted my heart, so when I hear people say "Learn to speak English!" my thoughts go immediately to him. He will learn to speak English, but couldn't we make it a little easier on him along the way? Wouldn't our time together have been much more enjoyable for him if I could have actually explained what was going on. Instead of being wary of me, he could know me as a friend. Wouldn't the whole world be better off if we leaned in, instead of leaning away?
That's why I'm attempting to learn Spanish. So far the only sentence I have down pat is "no soy de escocia; soy de los estados unidos." But it's a start. I'm leaning in. This oughta be good.
Fast forward about 30 years (yikes!), and I have decided that I need to learn to speak Spanish. I downloaded Coffee Break Spanish and listen to it every day on my way to work. It was free. It is taught by a guy from Scotland. This oughta be good.
Before now, I only knew one phrase in Spanish: uno mas cerveza, por favor. It served me well.
Lots of factors could have contributed to my decision: the number for Spanish speaking residents in the United States have doubled over the last 20 years & I like to talk; I like to talk to everybody. It's good to be more versatile. Good business move, etc. But none of that played a role in my decision.
It was a little boy.
On occasion, I have the honor of helping a group called Mission of Hope. One that particular day, we were helping underprivileged children pick up school supplies. Each adult would walk with a child and guide them. When it was my turn to guide a child, his teacher said to me "he doesn't speak English". I looked down at the Kindergartener with the big brown eyes and the lost look; I looked back at his teacher "none?"
"None." Well, this oughta be good.
Uno mas cerveza wouldn't help me now. He and I struggled through the exercise together. He was a good little trooper, but I could tell that he was a little confused and maybe a little scared. His hand felt weak in mine, his gait unsure. It was the beginning of the school year--his 1st school year--and every morning his mother would tell him to go, it would be okay, but he wasn't convinced yet. He didn't know what was happening. Maybe his teacher spoke Spanish, but he couldn't be with her 100% of the time. I tried to put myself in his shoes.
That little boy has haunted my heart, so when I hear people say "Learn to speak English!" my thoughts go immediately to him. He will learn to speak English, but couldn't we make it a little easier on him along the way? Wouldn't our time together have been much more enjoyable for him if I could have actually explained what was going on. Instead of being wary of me, he could know me as a friend. Wouldn't the whole world be better off if we leaned in, instead of leaning away?
That's why I'm attempting to learn Spanish. So far the only sentence I have down pat is "no soy de escocia; soy de los estados unidos." But it's a start. I'm leaning in. This oughta be good.
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