¿Habla Español?

No hablo español. Which surprisingly is a problem since I’m taking Hispanic literature. Hispanic Literature: Literature written in Spanish by Spanish folk for Spanish readers. Warning: Must be able to speak Spanish in order to read, comprehend, and respond. Why did I fail this class the first time? Why am I almost failing again? Oh ya…no hablo español.

Spanish 101-First day of class: M starts talking to me. M: a boy about 22, acne, greasy hair, thinks he’s funny. He’s not. I immediately tune everything out. This includes the lesson on, ¿Cómo estas? I don’t know how to answer this question.

Spanish 102: I’m engaged. I meet K in class. She’s also engaged. We do homework together. Homework in Spanish class is insane. It never ends. Writing exercises come first then on to the listening exercises. By the time I get to the oral exercises it’s time to study for the test. I finish the homework by copying the answers out of the back of the book. I pass with an A. I still don’t know the answer to ¿Cómo estas?

Spanish 201: I’m already behind. I try to catch up. I try to learn Spanish. No more copying answers. No more engagement. Life catches up and I start to copy. I pull off a C. Since I didn’t make it out of bed the last month of class I’m calling it a miracle. I’m still behind.

Spanish 202 a.k.a. Hispanic Literature-First Attempt: I drop the second day.

Spanish 202 a.k.a. Hispanic Literature-Second Attempt: It’s early. It’s cold outside. Two things I don’t do. I go to class. It’s to early for Spanish. But even if it were later I wouldn’t understand. My grade starts slipping and my bed starts calling. My second attempt at Spanish 202 didn’t stand a chance.

Spanish 202 a.k.a. Hispanic Literature-Third Attempt: I take the early class again. Mistake #1. I miss classes. Mistake #2. I can’t speak Spanish. Mistake #3. Ever taking a Spanish class. Mistake #4.

Whoever said that Spanish is the language of love is obviously mistaken. It neither impresses me nor makes me fall in love. Now German there is a language I can appreciate. German is beautiful and makes sense. The rules are exceptions and the exceptions have rules that aren’t exceptions. If I were to be honest though I’d admit that Spanish is beautiful, maybe it is the language of love. But it is also the only academic area I have ever had to struggle with. I resent not understanding. I resent Spanish.

I’m supposed to write an essay in Spanish. The topic: How has Hispanic literature influenced your view or appreciation of literature in general? I use Google translate. For the whole thing. Then I give up. I update my blog on how much I hate Hispanic literature. I wonder if my teacher will accept it as my essay? Copy, paste, Google translate magic… homework done. Thank you Google man. I owe you big time.

Fun, Flirty, & 18

Confession. Recently I have dabbled in the pool of 18 year old, freshman boys. By dabbled I of course mean I have simply dipped a toe or two into the water. Confession 2. Maybe it was a foot. Or possibly a leg. Ok, ok so maybe I took a running leap and swan dived into that pool. In any case, I dabbled.

It all started with C. I met him at a dance. He got my number and the texting began.

3 weeks of knowing each other: He told me he liked me. I told him he was 18.

5 weeks of knowing each other: He told me he wanted to date me. I told him I saw problems in a relationship because of his age.

7 weeks of knowing each other: He asked me to be his girlfriend. I said yes. Turns out 18 year olds are determined.

It also turns out that 18 year olds are well…young. C asked me if it was ok if he took someone to prom. I laughed. Realized he wasn’t joking and laughed again. Realized I was to old to even be allowed in to prom as something other than a chaperone and felt like crying. There I was jealous of a 16-year old girl. Feeling old is an odd sensation.

Needless to say 18 year olds are just as volatile as they are carefree and just as quickly as C’s and my relationship took a step forward he was gone. I didn’t mourn his loss. He was 18 and 18 means no commitment. Tip of Advice: An 18 year old is just about to leave to what us, cougars, can only hope will be another country for two years. Nothing says goodbye quite like a suit, tie, and plane ticket across the world.

Last week a boy gave me his number. I asked how old he is. 18. I didn’t bother to text him. I’ve sworn off 18 year olds. No dating them, no kissing them, no involvement. So to all my past 18-year old boys, thank you. Thank you for being young and carefree. Thank you for being fun, and flirty. Thank you for being 18.

Crosswalks and J-birds

Rexburg has a phenomenon wherein a fight between a pedestrian and a car is won by…oh yes a car. Just like everywhere else. Interestingly enough however, the pedestrian’s still seem to believe that it is possible for them to succeed.

Case Study A: Imagine the typical Rexburg day. It is freezing. Quite literally. The temperature is in the negatives. The roads still haven’t been plowed from last week’s snowstorm (which is a whole different topic. Apparently when it snows 9 months out of the year the town just doesn’t have the manpower needed. But I digress.) and conditions are to say the least icy. Jane is approaching the cross walk driving at a slower than normal speed since she just twirled through the round about when Roger hits the crosswalk light and proceeds to cross the street. Jane slams on her brakes but due to the hazardous conditions slides through the crosswalk barely missing Roger.

Problem 1 with Case A: Really walking people??? Just because you hit a light does not guarantee that a car will be able to stop. The yellow light is not magical. It cannot save you. Remember the “Rules of the Road” as taught to you when you were 4 years old. 1. Hit the light. 2. Look both ways to ensure no cars are coming. 3. Proceed across the street.

Problem 2 with Case A: Us, car owners, we try to stop for you we really do. But due to the lack of plowing intelligence maintained by the City of Rexburg the roads are icy. And we are unable to. When my car slides into the street and almost into you I am just as scared as you are. I just know I’ll be the one to survive. Give the cars a little more time to stop before you skip on your way to class.

Case B: It is night. Jane is driving with her roommates singing along to California Girls although let’s face it she’s from Michigan. An infatuated couple, wearing black, dart across the street. Jane slams her brakes and barely misses them.

Problem 1 with Case B: It is nighttime. Yes cars have headlights but alas we still cannot see you “poppers”, especially when you clad yourself in dark colors. I know, I know but you just look so good in that black tee. Well take an extra two seconds and walk to a cross walk and then once again follow, “The Rules of the Road.”

Case C: Jane approaches a crosswalk. Ben is just about to cross the street so being courteous Jane waits. Ben slowly steps out into the street and begins to meander his way across. Maybe stops to pick some yellow flowers growing through a crack in the charcoal pavement for his soon to be wife. He stops and smirks up at Jane. Turns up the I-pod and years later reaches his final destination, the other side.

Problem 1 with Case C: “I will run you over!” is what every single car owner is currently thinking. Once in the street, get across the street. Do not dilly-dally and no meandering. Please don’t think I’m being ridiculous. I don’t expect you to run across the street. However, it shouldn’t take 5 minutes. Nor should it take 2 minutes.

Problem 2 with Case C: Please wipe that smirk off your face. I drive a car. You are walking in negative 20-degree weather. Even if I did stop and wait for you I will still get to school first. Plus I am decently warm. All your smirking does is make me not want to ever stop for you again. Or maybe “accidentally” stop braking. I kid, I kid. But for real.

In the words of the BYU-I Pedestrians, stop getting yourselves killed campaign, “Remember to share the road.”

Disclaimer: Despite some harsh words spoken above I would never intentionally hit someone with my car. That would suck. I hate going to the car wash. :)

So it begins:

Beginnings. The greatest. The worst.

Beginnings are like Christmas mornings and moving to a new town senior year all in one. A smoothly wrapped present waits: red wrapping paper, crisp lines, perky bow. In my case the present is a blog. Moving senior year sucks. Why parents ever do it to their children I have no idea. Mine did not. But I have an imagination. And even my imagination shivers at that cafeteria full of strangers. Beginnings bring out my insecurities. I’m not a fan of facing those. However, apparently blogs are the new thing. Once the fad extended itself past the loving circle of Mormon mothers I knew it was time. Christmas morning has arrived; the red paper lies safely crumpled in a steel waste bin, there remains no choice but to dive into the sea of hormonal girls and acne struck males. So begins my blog.