All My Single Ladies

Recently I read a book recommended to me from my friend Megan, titled What I was Doing While You Were Breeding. In it, the author, suitably named Kristin (Newman) talks all about her travels and adventures that she has been up to, while her friends began nesting and building their white picket fences as part of their married lives.   While I didn't always find Kristin completely likeable, I did find her overwhelmingly relate-able and couldn't help but see myself in various scenarios and share many of her fears, thoughts, and dreams.  In it, Kristin struggles openly with the desire to be engaged or married but not having come across the right person that she would chose to commit her life to yet.  Rather than living her life on the sidelines and waiting around for "Mr. Right," Kristin dives into a life of travel, adventure, and fulfillment on her own terms and creates a life for herself, without a man.  What a concept.  There's a line that I wrote down from the book that struck a chord with me: "I haven't found true love, but I had stumbled onto the people who were going to make my life happier without it." I loved that, as she found other people and things to give her joy outside of what society told her would make her happy.

Like most people these days, it's easy for me to get caught up with the future, and the "bigger, better, best."  I find myself often preoccupied with plans for next month or week rather than the now and happenings of today.  Wouldn't it be nice if I had more money?  I wish I had 'blah' 'blah' 'blah' that she had.  Sweet Lord, if only my body looked like that.  But being the basic betch that I am, I have found a nice quote on Pinterest (apparently a Mumford and Son's Lyric) that I've hung on my wall to stop thinking like this and that "I will learn to love the skies I'm under."  Is it working?  Stay tuned... 

It recently occurred to me that six out of the nine girls I grew up with and have known since I was about 4 or 5 years old are now married (about 67%.)  Two of them have procreated--on purpose (about 22%.)  At age 25, this revelation came as a bit of a shock to the system and I took a second to step back and review the stats.

Let me start by saying that I couldn't be more happy to support them in their new stages of life.  These friends of mine had started a new chapter, one of which in the future I too hope to begin, as well.  They have made the decision to get married at the time that felt right and appropriate for them, and for that I give them my overwhelming support and well wishes.  I respect their life choices and will stand (and have stood beside them) on their special days, walking down the isle with the awkward guy I am paired with, and wearing uncomfortable shoes, so that I can visibly show I love them, and I'm genuinely happy to do it.  

However, as much as I can be happy for my friends who have decided to get married or have children, there is nothing I dread more than a bridal or baby shower.  Why you ask? If you yourself are a single 25 year-old girl, you know EXACTLY why.  Contrary to popular belief, it isn't watching my friend open hand towels and CUTCO knifes while I pretend to feign interest in the corresponding bingo game I have played a thousand times before to win a warm vanilla sugar candle.  No, the reason I hate bridal/baby showers is why every unattached girl my age does: The relentless interrogation from middle aged and old women* who abound at said events.  The litany of passive aggressive remarks that middle aged women and the grey-hairs have become masters of and the witch trials they lead are the reasons why I dread bridal showers.  

"So, Kristen, tell me all about your boyfriend..."

When I tell them I don't have a boyfriend they start to squirm and get uncomfortable and writhe around in their chairs, as if I just told them that I have months to live.  They quickly change the subject and get a sad, empathetic look on their faces, taking pity on me.  I told them I was single, not that my puppy just died.  I'm confused..... did I do something wrong here??

And here's the thing:  These women, as much as they would never publicly admit it or even recognize it outside of their own subconscious, actually do think I am doing something wrong.  They're feeling sad for me, because they think I'm missing out, and that I'm not living my life.   They can't relate at all to me, because they were already married with a baby on the way by my age.  After all, what can you possibly be doing of value if not for getting married after college?!  And as everyone knows within the definition of a fearful or ignorant person:  That individual will always dislike something they do not know/understand or to which they can relate.  Rather than asking me about the positive things I could possibly be doing in my life while not currently planning a wedding, these women sit sadly and infer that I must go home every night and knit like a depressed spinster, waiting to be saved by a knight in shining armor.

Make no mistake: me writing this article is not and argument stating that I am right and that my friends who marry young are wrong. Quite the contrary, really.  I believe that there really is no definitive right or wrong, but rather only choices that an individual can make that is right or wrong for themselves on a personal basis.  I think it is equally wrong for me to argue that you shouldn't get married young, just as I think it is completely ignorant of you to suggest I should get married young.  No, the purpose of me writing this article is to give you, my fellow single girl, ammunition to empower yourself and educate the pack of middle aged to old women at the next bridal shower you attend of the kind of life you are living by not having a spouse.  That your life still holds EQUAL--not less or more-- value to your married BFF.  And so, the next time some old lady winks at you and says "I bet you're next" you can rightfully rebuke that ignorant bitch lady who barely knows you with how kick-ass your life currently is by talking about some things you have been up to that you could only (or more easily) do as a single adult.

And while I'm sure you could find a strikingly similar list on a site like buzzfeed or Elite Daily, here's:

What I Have Personally Learned and Achieved by Not Being Married at Age 25.

1.  I have become a master of navigation and public transport.
Ask me how long it takes to get from Eisenhower to McPherson metro stop (in DC) and I can give you a precise figure down to the minute depending on if any of the lines are down, if there's a Nats game, or if it's after rush hour.  I know that I will always be out of breath as if I ran the rocky steps while getting out of Tribunal and that one should NEVER attempt to walk the stairs in La Latina, as those stairs were surely the inspiration for Stairway to Heaven (Madrid.)  I know at least three airports like the back of my hand, and can tell you which ones allow you to use Passbook on your phone and which require you to physically print your ticket before going through security.  I know all these things personally because rather than buying a house with my husband right out of college, I've moved around a lot and thus have learned the importance of public transportation in large cities. 

2.  I have developed a palate for what I like or don't like in a city I want to live in.
Post college I have lived in four different cities and have started to acquire a taste in what I appreciate in a permanent long term home.  I know I rather dislike Austin's climate, but if I happen to go back for a visit, I won't leave before getting mac and cheese at Lambert's or having a drink on Rainey Street. While eternal PowerPoint presentations and Atlanta traffic would be my perfect hell, I know that nothing beat's Atlanta's music and dance scene and a fall night out on a patio in Buckhead is something dreams are made of.  DC Kickball is something for the books, and looking at the lit-up monuments late at night gives me chills and sometimes honestly brings tears to my eyes.  Spanish bureaucracy is something that could cause me to pack my bags this second, but I'll change my mind instantly after walking through Retiro with a chocolate croissant.  Rather than buying a long term home right away, wherever my husband or I found work, I've been lucky to test out a bunch of cities so that when I'm ready to purchase a place it's not arbitrary but rather intentional.  It's been fun getting to know different places independently and learning more about myself in the process.      

3. I make opinions for myself based on personal experience, not by what the media tells me.
There is a middle aged woman I know who won't go to the gigantic country of Mexico because it is "far too dangerous."  The drug cartels and kidnappings are terrifying.  I would agree, but I also know that saying you won't go to the entire country of Mexico is the equivalent of a foreigner saying they will never go to the US because of Detroit.  And how do I know for a fact that Mexico is not one gigantic war zone?  Because I've been there.  Because I was busy soaking up Margaritas and swimming with dolphins and all the while I never got shot.  Because I talked to the locals about their country and learned from their experiences.  Because I didn't take what Nancy Grace said one time as gospel and actually learned for myself.  Has said woman ever been to Mexico?  Not at all.  I'm not saying that she couldn't have traveled substantially from ages 22-fifty something if she wanted to, but the point is, she didn't.  She got married right out of school, and life got in the way.  Saving money for a home, not being able to take a trip one week because of Cara's dance recital, etc.  Travel is certainly something that is easier to do when you are younger and unattached.  That said, being single and responsible for only me, I have been fortunate to travel extensively for someone my age.  I'm currently on my third tour of Europe and have been to over ten countries and probably over 30 international cities with more trips planned this year. I'm taking this time to learn and grow from my experiences so that one day when I'm 56 I don't say something like 'the Mexico comment' for which a 25 year-old girl will roll her eyes at me (I'm sure I'll give her other reasons to do so.)  


4.  I have strengthened life-long relationships with my girlfriends.
Many of the married ladies I know still have a lot of girlfriends and make them a priority.  In no way do I find marriage and other friendships mutually exclusive.  However, I will say, I did have a few friends who got so consumed with their significant others and future spouses that they lost a large amount of friends along the way.  At one point, a friend was going through a difficult time with her then boyfriend and future spouse.  She confided in me, saying she didn't know if she should still be with him or where the relationship was headed.  I shrugged and said, "I don't know, if you are having all these doubts, maybe you should break up with him."  Then she uttered the chilling line I hope I never hear again: "But Kris, I don't really have any friends."
Staying with someone because you don't really have any other friends is not a decision I want anyone to make.  It's so important to remain close to your friends no matter if you are in a relationship or not.  Being single has provided me the time to really get closer to my friends, and take trips and build lasting memories with them.  Moving so often has allotted me the opportunity to make new friends, while staying in touch with long time friends.  A husband is great and all, but he's not an end all to beat all.  Plus, I'm pretty sure my future husband won't tell me if I should get an oxblood or forest green mani whereas my friends will absolutely have an opinion.

5.  I can live on my own and handle life tasks independently.
Living on my own since 18, I have learned to look after myself in basic ways without relying on another individual.  I learned how to do my laundry unlike Schmidt from New Girl, and can trick society into thinking I'm a normal functioning adult.  If I want to eat Bagel Bites naked in bed (who doesn't?!) that's my prerogative.  While I don't have the responsibility to cook meals for others, this in turn means I have no one to cook for me.  I've learned to make at least eight or ten meals decently (even if I don't cook often) but the point is, I can take care of myself.  Otherwise, if I don't feel like cooking, I can take the money I've made to use it to pay for dinner.  I have filed my own taxes, and even did what many single people my age haven't done: opened bank accounts and found housing and negotiated housing contracts in a foreign country and language.  I have balanced my own budget and renewed my own car's registration.  I don't have a husband to rely on telling me when to get my oil checked or the amount of money I'm allowed to spend on the grocery store.  Now, let's not get it twisted.  I'm not saying that those that get married young don't do these things themselves or can't do these things.  What I am saying is that I've personally seen a classic example where a woman got married right out of school to a man, and allowed him to manage many aspects of their lives while she remained blissfully disengaged from it all.  When he was no longer part of her life, there was brief panic, as she then had to learn how to balance a budget, manage finances, do her taxes, and handle car problems alone for the first time as a full grown adult.  Being single and independent at age 25 means I've been forced to learn all these things on my own without help.  I'm secure with or without a man helping me problem solve, and that is incredibly liberating.  

6.  I spend holidays the way in which I want.
Never have I ever had the following conversation:
"No honey, we did Thanksgiving with your parents last year.  We told my folks we'd have Thanksgiving with my family this year."

"Ummmm I don't know babe, Christmas last year at my house didn't really count after all of that drama with Uncle John in the hospital throughout all of it, plus I don't think we can afford the flights to your parents place twice this year."  

This Christmas break I will be traveling to Berlin, Prague, and Sevilla, and spending New Years in Madrid eating the traditional 12 grapes.   And why?  Because I don't have a marriage certificate. 


7. I spend money on things that are important to me.
When I lived in Texas and was completely miserable, I self medicated with purchasing two Michael Kors watches within one month.  Was that the most fiscally responsible thing to do?  100% not.  Were my $300 Atlanta shopping sprees healthy?  Nope.  But was I a 22 year-old kid making more money than I knew what to do with?  Yes.  Did I have a husband telling me how to spend it?  No.  How do you think I'm able to afford all the extensive travel I'll be doing this year (other than some loans I may be taking out?)  Well, the money I make is mine to spend.  I'm not sharing a budget with another person, and my travel is not coming at the expense of my kids getting diapers.  I'm selfish and that's okay-- because I don't have my own family yet.    


As you can see, just because I don't have a diamond on my left hand, it doesn't mean I've been hanging out knitting (Netflix maybeeeee.)  Life is all about trade-offs.  The friends of mine who are getting married young are going to be the hot moms.  They will probably have 401k's and Retirement funds because they weren't living life like a gypsy.  They have advantages that I don't have and that's okay.  It's not a constant contest of "who's better?!" so let's stop viewing it that way.  Let's all learn to love the skies we're under, single or married.

So in closing, here's my advice for the single ladies:  Have a bit of pride and stand up for yourself.  You are living a wonderful life that YOU are choosing, and everyone around you should be respectful of that.  Walk with your heads high, so the haters can see that beautiful statement necklace you bought with your own money they could never afford at your age.

And to the select middle aged and older women whom have been the inspiration for this article?  Get your head out of your ass and stop being mean girls.  We don't have time for you.




*Before all my mom's friends and the like become personally offended, know that I am not referring to every individual middle aged or older woman, only the women who are guilty of such heinous crimes.  I would dare to imagine if you haven't partook in such conversations, you would not be feeling offended right now.  However, I am looking at the woman at the baby shower who asked me about my engagement and fiancé when I wasn't even wearing a ring... use your head, lady....

A Hostage Situation

As any expat who has lived in Spain longer than a few months will tell you, there are just some things about this beautiful country that just won't make sense no matter how you slice it.  If you have been out of the European game for a while like me, your foreign eyes will be much more astute to these oddities being fresh on the scene than for someone who has been here a considerable amount of time.  You will notice these bizarre happenings everywhere and every day:  The way my yesterday morning bus' rear-view mirror was being held up by Dixie cups and packaging tape was a prime example-- I apologize in advance for not taking a picture.  Another thing I will never understand is the way that the Spanish find it completely abhorrent to walk around one's own apartment barefoot, but don't bat an eye at the fact that there are no sterilizing wipes at the gym (because people rubbing their pools of sweat into the machines with towels is completely kosher and sanitary.)

Seeing as I will be going to Stockholm, Sweden in a few weeks (Dec. 5) I find it timely to tell you the tale of how I personally grew to experience Stockholm syndrome within my own Spanish backyard (read: Dominoes) in a story that is surely the pinnacle example of how Spain just doesn't make sense.  I will begin said story now.

It all started with a common goal and desire between my friends and me to eat as much good food as possible, as cheaply as possible.  Mind you, this is before the days of me completely ripping a pair of jeans total Eat, Pray, Love style, so currently, I'm trying to reel it in a bit with the hotdog contest competition eating.  For those of you whom are becoming super attracted to me now, just wait, the feelings will most assuredly grow stronger over future entries.  However, this story takes place in a much more liberal time, where I would join any binge eating session with reckless abandon and without any hesitation.     

All my friends and I have our vices of things we miss from home (Allyson's jalapenos, my Frank's Red Hot Sauce, everyone's love for Hidden Valley Ranch dressing etc.) so striking a good deal on some American food from time to time is obviously a solid win for everyone.  Compound all of these desires in knowing you can get unlimited pizza somewhere for only €6,50 and it's obviously a done deal--thanks so much for the tip-off, Dillon.   

 
With this new discovery in mind, we did what any starving group of American ladies would do: strategically plot our plan of attack for our day in the sun with Dominos.  We all agreed that Sunday would be a great day to go, and that we should try to refrain as much as possible from eating prior to, in order for maximum pizza consumption to be had.  Mid-day around 3:30 pm would be a prime time to go, so that the food could sustain us long into the night, a la Thanksgiving dinner style.  An extensive whatsapp group chat was exchanged about what the proper attire was for this event and everyone agreed there was no other acceptable clothing apart from flowly tops and maternity pants that could allow for full utilitarian stretching and give for our future food babies.  We were prepared, and ready to go full American on some American dining.

We arrived a little past 3:30 pm- myself, Luisa, Megan, Brittany, Allyson, Kelly, and our two patient and loving Spaniard accomplices of this endeavor, Jaime (Kelly's fiancé ) and Tito (Jaime's BFF.)  I tell you that Jaime and Tito are Spanish now, not because it is currently relevant, but will become very important later on in the story.

We began ordering our first round of pizzas: pepperoni, barbeque, a meat lovers, and something like supreme. Some of us indulged in the unlimited and copious amount of free fountain soda, while others refrained from drinking too much, afraid that consumption would limit their pizza intake.  We originally wanted to come prepared with a bottle of ranch from the American store, but seeing as it was the end of the month and some of us had run out of cash, we sadly didn't have the funds to pay for it-- but what a great idea.

I took a look around the restaurant and assessed the scene.  Small tables of meek families minding their own.  A few guys together wearing Abercrombie and Fitch.  A man in KHAKI PANTS.  KHAKI PANTS IN A DOMINOS!!!!   My bleeding eyes!!!!  Having seen enough rat-pack movies and general teenage flicks to realize, I could tell that we were the "it" group of the restaurant that day.  Americans, boisterous and commanding, to the front of the restaurant, rolling eight deep, all dressed in clothing suitable for the event.  The envious stares were obvious.  My, my, my, how the tables had turned.  On the outside of those doors I was another blonde, clueless American.  But inside these doors? Inside these sacred doors of Dominoes, I was once again home in my American element.  My friends and I were a wolf pack.  We WERE The Plastics, or the Pink Ladies of Dominos, if you will.  The pride swelled within me.  I gave khaki boy a "yeah you wish you were us" type look.  #1776. 

At one point, a Dominos employee walked out of the kitchen with two hot pizzas and began taking them to the back of the restaurant.  With zero hesitation, Jaime immediately raised his voice and his hand and flagged the lady down alerting her that those pizzas were ours.  I told Kelly how proud I was of her man for taking such charge of flagging down our pizzas and that she is lucky to be marrying a man of such sustenance.  She agreed and proceeded to tell me that they are the lone members of a "pizza club" and get pizza every week.  I admired the pillars of their relationship.  Some may say this pairing go together like peas and carrots, but I know better: cheese and pepperoni.

After about two or three rounds and roughly six or seven pizzas total (can anyone remember the precise figure?) we decided we had consumed our maximum allowance for the day.  The girls and I gave Jaime and Tito our money, and they went to the front to settle up and pay.  We sat there talking amongst ourselves, and after about four minutes, the boys came back to the table.  We started to grab our purses ready to leave, but the boys stopped us.   

"Okay, so here's the thing," Jaime calmly explained, "we can't go yet, we have to order another pizza."

The girls and I laughed at them and how adorable Jaime and Tito looked so somber and 'in character' as they tried to trick us that we weren't allowed to leave.  We told them that they were funny and began to stand up ready for the door.  With more fervor, Jaime stopped us again.  "No, really, we can't leave.  It's part of the deal, we have to stay!"  He shrugged his shoulders in solidarity with Dominos, our captor, as if he truly agreed in the principle.  We had accepted a challenge after all, and if we fell short, he agreed we served to suffer the consequences.  Our Spanish boys admitted defeat and started asking us which pizza should be our last.

Meanwhile, my American comrades  and I could not believe a)what bogus line we had just been told but moreover, b) that our men accepted it and gave it no question.  Here we were at an "unlimited pizza" deal, with no restrictions, or should I say minimum requirements displayed on signage.  We were perplexed and squabbled amongst ourselves.  Some snip-its of our diatribe looked like this:

"How could this be?!  We are trying to actually save them money by eating less for the same price. This makes LITERALLY ZERO sense.  Why won't they won't let us leave?!"  

"No wonder Spain's economy is a complete s***show right now"

"I seriously can't comprehend the words I'm hearing right now."

And there we remained, trapped in the stagnant yet fragrant air of a Dominos.  My future flashed before my eyes, as I thought about what would be.  Surely this wasn't grounds for an Argo type of rescue scenario.... or was it?   All the while our men stood silently, heads down ready to eat our final pizza.  Growing up their entire lives in Spain and knowing nothing different, they found nothing weird with this idea Dominos shared that day and were content with the fact that we would be held prisoner inside a fast food institution.    

Slowly but steadily, the chorus from the popular Les Miserables song started to swell within my crew--sans gentlemen.

"Do you hear the people sing?  Singing the song of angry (wo)men.  It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again!  When the beating of your heart echos the beating of the drums, there is a life about to start when tomorrow comes..."

So Kelly politely asked Jaime "will you join in our crusade? Who will  be strong and stand with me?" brashly demanded, "Jaime, please just fix this and tell them that we aren't eating any more.  If we really need to eat something else, make them give us one of those Ben and Jerry's behind the counter to go!"

Yes that actually happened, we bargained with our captors.

Finally, after what seemed like close to two full days but was actually more like 4 minutes, the Dominos employees let us go.  We must have confused them with our differing correct logic to the point that they didn't want to fight it any longer.

Stepping out of the door and towards the outside world, things seemed to happen in slow motion.  The glances we swapped with each other silently seemed to say "you can breathe easy now, the worst is behind us."  As our grins grew wider, I felt the sunshine warmly caress my face.  The sun felt warmer than it did before we went to Dominos.  Surely, colors were now brighter, and the air had a certain freshness that the smoke-polluted air of Madrid never had previously.  High-fives abounded amongst ourselves.  It was a happy time, and a time to be cherished.  I thought about giving my earring to Luisa for her to remember me by like I had seen at the end of The Breakfast Club, but I reconsidered knowing I only brought a few pairs to Spain.    

They say when you come back from war, you will always share a comradery with those that fought alongside you.  There's a deep connection, an unexplainable bond that you share that no one else can quite understand.  Walking out of that Dominos that day, I thought of my seven unique friends differently, with a heightened sense of respect, love and loyalty.  Stockholm syndrome may be for the weak of heart, but it is also for the pizza lovers.

 

Leggo My Diego

Once upon a time in Madrid, I dated a guy named Diego for about two or three weeks.  The what, when, and why are really of no importance, as you can see I wrote datED as we are no longer together. (As I tell my kids at school, past tense ends in -ed.)  Mom, your heart rate can start returning to normal--I am not in love with a Spaniard, yet.

While I will write future entries of funny things that happened while Diego and I were dating, this entry is focused on the build up of our "relationship" if you can call it that, our abrupt ending, and why we are no longer "en pareja" if you will.

But first, a bit about our dynamic:  Diego and I were a funny duo.  He was attractive (like most Spanish men) and tall (unlike most Spanish men) and most importantly adored every aspect of my being which was obviously my favorite thing about him.  Diego spoke next to no English, which was terrible because he couldn't fully conceptualize how truly amazing I can be when I'm witty or sarcastic but also amazing for him because I talk significantly less in Spanish.  During our dates together, I would teach him very important phrases like "butterface" and "turnt up," and in turn, he would teach me phrases like "no tienes un abuela" ( an expression basically meaning "you are full of yourself")  and gently tell me I shouldn't be so loud in public: clearly a perfect match.  He would tell me I was "pija" (posh) because I wore Michael Kors watches and I would freak him out over the amount of times I would abruptly stop our conversations in order to point to a cute dog walking down the street.  He amused me by getting Mexican with me one night even though Spanish people don't like spicy foods* and even learned to play flip cup with my friends one night pre-gaming.

On our first date, I assumed that I would probably only be able to talk to him for about fifteen minutes total due to my completely insufficient Spanish speaking abilities. However, as our boy Jason reminds us, "been around the world don't speak the language, but that booty don't need explainin'."  Diego and I were able to fake it til we made it and surprisingly found out a lot about each other amidst  numerous que?'s and charades that night.  We started out sharing sangria in a cave bar with a piano player, and next thing I know ten minutes turned into four hours.  We went to two different bars and he took me on a tour of various important sites throughout the city.  Sidenote: I felt I really killed it, as I was able to make a few jokes in Spanish.  For example, when he took me to the ruins of the Egyptian temple I asked him if he was going to swim for me in the moat.

When we walked over to the The Palacio Real (the royal palace) I asked him if he lived there.  Listen, you may not think those things are funny, but trying to be quick witted like that in a different language, I thought I did alright.  Finally after about four hours, Diego and I shared a "traditional Spanish goodbye" inside the metro in front of various on lookers.  Try as hard as you may, but MAC Lady Danger does not always stay in tact even if you wear lip liner, as was obvious to multiple passerby's. (I see you cringing, mom and Adam, and I apologize.  However, for the sake of the story...)

At the culmination of that date, Diego and I talked a lot.  He would always whatsapp me throughout my day, calling me guapa (beautiful) and asking about my day or telling me to tranquila whenever I overreacted--aka always.  He knew my roommate was creepy, (more on that in future entries,) and said he would come over sometime to assess him which I found chivalrous.  Diego said he would help me get my internet set up and ordered.  Being a computer engineer,  I figured he could set up my password for my internet too, along with dealing with the internet company.  Fun and also functional.  I learned that he was from the North of Spain from a cold city just like me, and I found it adorable that he looked up where Rochester was on a map and told me later what he learned.  He had two younger siblings that lived near home and his birthday was April 14, meaning that he would have to get me a birthday present first.  As you can see, I was obviously focusing on the right things.

One night before my first day of school he insisted we did something special to kick off my new job.  I just went to a dance studio that night and when I got out I was sweaty and gross. I told him fine, but I would need to go home and shower first. I agreed to meet him and that we would walk to where we were going together.  I finally showed up about 45 minutes late--whoops--and he just laughed at me.  I assumed we were just going to a typical bar wherever to tomar algo (have a drink or something small to eat) but instead he actually had a particular place in mind.  A Spaniard with a plan? I still don't believe it.

We got to Circulo de Bellas Artes probably around 11 or 11:30 pm which was still enough time for a drink or so before the 1 pm close of that night.  We walked into the marble entrance, and Diego paid our admission to get inside.  Marble everywhere.  Void.  A lone elevator to the top.  HOW. FANCE.  Then we got into the elevator which took us to the roof from which you could see the whole city.  There were photos of modern art all around the perimeter of the building.  Covering the roof there were high-top tables for having drinks with friends and large beds with canopies that overlooked the city for couples to be couples.  Now, although I have never been to Vegas, I have seen enough movies to know that this was the Spanish version of a rooftop pool bar, and I was most certainly deserving of this life.

Diego and I picked a canopy bed to hang out in so he could dame mimos, claro (cuddle with me, obviously) and we ordered drinks.  I attempted to be independent and order a vodka limon which due to my accent was a complete fail, so Diego saw my panic and stepped in to order my €9 drink for me.  We had great conversations that eventually lead to American football--why wouldn't they?--and I told him my team was the Buffalo Bills.  I told him that if he was going to want to continue seeing me, he would have to pick an American football team to follow as I could only talk about Real Madrid for so many hours of the day.  Diego obliged and picked the Pats which I promptly and vehemently opposed.  No prospective future boyfriend of mine would ever agree to liking the Pats.  (My ex had and it was a battle that was perpetually fought.)   I pulled up an NFL division listing on my phone and pointed out the teams that were miserable and told him he could only choose those select few.  Without hesitation, he arbitrarily chose the Oakland Raiders.  PERFECT.  I would have no competition and this pleased me.  The following photo is an actual screen shot of a conversation we had the next day or so during which he trash talks me on pretty much no statistical grounds (but so proud of his English!!)

A day or so later would be the last time I ever saw Diego.  It started usual, going out for tapas and getting a few drinks.  We met up with my friends, and he sat there attentively while we spoke in American slang and abbreviations like basic American girls, making it nearly impossible for him to understand anything that was happening.  When it was getting late, my friends and I decided it was time to go home.  I asked Diego if he wanted to get one more drink somewhere or do something else, but he explained that the bars were now closing and that the clubs were starting to open.  I didn't really feel like going to a club, so I politely declined and told him I'd probably see him tomorrow anyway.  We walked into the metro and were about to branch off and say goodbye before we each took our separate trains home to perspective places.  It was then that Diego was able to do what few people in the history of the world have been able to do: render me speechless.

Diego asked me if we could sit down.  As in, right there, in the middle of the metro station on the steps.  I figured this couldn't be good, but in no way did I anticipate what was about to unfold.  He sat there nervous for a second, and I took his hand and told him it was okay, and encouraged him to speak.  I thought maybe he was going to tell me that he didn't really want to see me anymore or basically anything other than what actually came out of his mouth.  The following phrase will be burned into my mind forever:
"YO SOY UN PAPA."                      "I am a dad."

Ummmmmmmmmmmm, whattttttttt, Diego?!?!?  I'm sorry I hallucinated for a second and thought you told me that you were a father.  Maybe you mean to tell me you are gay?  Surely you mean you are gay, as it is a repeating pattern in my life where men of whom I'm interested in will come out to me.

This is the part of the movie where colors fade and the person talking starts to sound like Charlie Brown's teacher.  I was so completely caught off guard and clearly confused.  He continued to tell me about how he wished he could tell me earlier but the timing didn't feel right.  I agreed: the steps of the metro just before it closed was certainly the best time and the place for this.  I asked him about the babymamma, and he said they were never truly together, but just liked to enjoy eachother's company from time to time, if you will.  Fantastic.  She was now with someone new so it was completely 'ok' if he was dating someone else.  I asked if we could please switch to speaking English.  My brain was blowing up and Spanish words were not computing.  He said no, but he would speak in Spanish slower instead.  I was not comprehending anything.  At a loss for words, I asked how old the kid was--8 months old.

WHAT?!?!  I couldn't even do the math in my head but what I did know was that wasn't a lot of time and the baby was in diapers.

TOO. MANY. SHOCKS. TO. THE. SYSTEM.  I sat there in stunned silence.  He looked at me genuinely concerned, as he had never seen me pause more than three seconds between words before.   I didn't know what else to say.  Hating awkward silences myself, I staggered to the next logical, yet not helpful question:  "What is his name?"

"NO, Kristen.  Hay dos!  SON GEMELOS!!"

And that, ladies and gentleman, is how I learned the Spanish word for twins.


Diego asked me, "Estoy enfadada conmigo?" ("Are you mad at me?")
"No"-- I wasn't just shocked -- and "Estas flipando?" ("Are you flipping out?")  "No"-- A total lie because I was.  He said he was so relieved and that he swore he had no more secrets.  Well, I sure as hell hope not, Diego.  He went on to tell me that one  of the kid's infant's was named Edgar, after some famous soccer player.  Yes, they named their kid after a famous goalie or something.  The stereotype was so glaring that I felt like I was reading a page out of a Chelsea Handler autobiography.  We said goodbye as normal, but somehow that time the kiss felt stale and lifeless--I can't quite put my finger on why. 

The next day, I ate a chocolate bar the size of my face (ok, bigger,) and a bag of Cheetos.  I felt bamboozled, and utterly confused.  Diego was fun and I enjoyed spending time with him. However, I couldn't shake the thought that I didn't want to love spending time with him because at age 25 I was not ready to be a step-mom. Of infants. Twin infants. In a foreign country.

I went out with some girlfriends for Sangria the next day or so later.  When I told the girls that Diego had to tell me something, and he sat me down on the steps, I asked them to guess what they thought he said.  Some of the guesses included "he's gay" or "he has herpes or AIDS."  Everyone agreed that the reality was worse.   

Throughout the day he kept texting me, wanting to get together to talk it out.  I told him I needed more time, and that I could maybe meet him in a few days.  I didn't know what my game plan was.  "YOU AREN'T SEEING HIM AGAIN" chorused my friends.  Apparently that was the game plan.  Of course they were right.  Over a string of probably six full paragraphs back and forth to each other, he would beg to see me again "at the very least to say goodbye."  I got frustrated, stressed, and sweaty, and passed the phone to my darling friend Allyson to handle the text exchange.  I had tagged out, and now this was her personal telanovela, and man did she love the drama.  

He told me (but really Allyson) that it wasn't really a big deal that he has twin babys because he only sees them a few times a month and that I won't even realize he has kids.  They live in a different city, after all.  Gentlemen, if ever you are trying to win over a girl, make sure that you tell her you would like to see your kids as little as possible, and would definitely put her over your children.  Watch the ladies come running.  Finally, after a few more glasses of Sangria and a few more sappy exchanges, Allyson past the phone back to me and pretty much was all, "Consider it handled," Olivia Pope style.  At some point throughout the course of this mellow drama, and my various "I can't EVEN with Diego right now" my friend Brittany exclaimed what we were all thinking:  "LEGGO MY DIEGO."  

Diego and I share one picture together, and it is the only picture that will ever be had of us.  It was at a pregame at his place, and it is just the two of us.  Contrary to his wishes, there will be no picture of him, me, Edgar, and the other child's whose name I had promptly forgotten.  Although I know many of you would like to see an image of the guy who would be so intelligent as to date a foreigner while having infant twins, I am not Taylor Swift and therefore do not feel comfortable providing the internet population with his stereotypical Spanish last name nor his image.

EPILOGUE:  A few weeks later, after all communication with Diego and I had come to a full stop, I was out shoe shopping with my friend, Megan.**  I was at the register when I read a text from Diego that read something to the effect that he still wanted to be friends.  Um, okay, yeahhhhh, Diego. As I got my bag and Megan and I walked out the door, repeating phrases such as "whatttttt" and "like really?!" to each other we stepped into the sunshine.  Walking out of the boutique, the first store we saw across from us was called HOUSE OF DIEGO.  Well played, universe, well played.  



*when will you all learn that Spain is not Mexico?!

**Yes I bought them, they are brown cognac leather booties, and very Euro chic.  Message me privately if you want a picture. 

Wyclef: My Angel in the Outfield

Some of you are very familiar with a DC boozy brunch.  Some of you are not.  For those of you who are not so well versed, let me explain a few things that will shed a little clarity to my trip to Spain (two months ago today,) and how it went a little rockier than necessary. 

In DC we love our brunch.  Saturday? Amazing.  Sunday Funday?  Even better.  The point is, if you are able to drag yourself out of bed on the weekend before 2 pm, you really have no valid reason not to partake in brunch.  "Brunch?" you say, "I don't understand the hype."  Well trust me and the thousands of others in the DC who participate in the weekly ritual: you'd understand if your city had bottomless Mimosas/Bloody Marys, too. #1776. 

So it should come to no suprise to you all that before leaving for my epic voyage across the Atlantic, my friends and I would plan one last "going away" brunch to bid farewell and allow me to order an extra side of bacon in knowledge of the fact that I wouldn't be having it for some time. 

We went to Ulah, and commenced the festivities around 10 or 11 am if I remember correctly. Having stayed at Lindsey's apartment that weekend (my bff- holla atcha gurlll) my bags were ready and packed in anticipation of  my cross-continental journey.  The plan was to be at brunch until about 3 pm, then go back to her place, pick up my luggage and take an Uber over to Dulles by 4:40 pm, in plenty of time for my 6:40 pm flight.  However, for those of you who have experience in the DC brunch scene, I'm sure you can already guess that this did most assuredly not go to plan.

After a few hours of brunching, my crew and I were well libated from the delicious nectar of the gods we call Mimosa.  Feeling fine, and wanting to be close with friends, it seemed only instinctive someone would suggest going back to Emily and Laura's apartment complex with a case or so of Bud Light for the after party.  Never one to be the voice of reason or deny a party, I clearly obliged.  Making the trek in the pouring rain over to Dupont to continue drinking WAS the right thing to do. 

Things became more and more haze-like as shenanigans continued at the apartment.  Drinks were had, songs were sung, dances were dances, and the most photogenic of photos were taken.  The most joyous of times were cut abruptly when Lindsey leaned over and said "Hey Kris, it's getting late, we should probably get you to the airport."  (Lindsey-- how do you always KNOW?  Thanks. Thank you, always.)

Before I knew it I had my bags in an Uber back in Alexandria saying goodbye, headed over to Dulles.  Let me say that I have flown an awful lot for someone my age and am pretty confident in independent aviation travel.  This wasn't after all, my first flight I've been on where I maybe had drank more than I should.  However, it was one of the first times I had been to Dulles, and it was the first time I had consumed that magnitude before an international fight.        

Find airline. Print ticket. Get through security.  My brain had reverted to basic survival mode.  I was running late and in serious danger of missing the flight.  After I got through security, I started to panic.  This airport was way too large, and given my current state and rising level of anxiety, there was no way I was making it on time.  That's when I saw him, nearly giving off a warm celestial glow in his airport uniform.  Wyclef: my Angel in the Outfield.

Although some of you are probably now concerned why Wyclef would be handling luggage and working in Dulles Airport opposed to working on his musical career, this was not my concern at that moment.  I, too, would now like all the answers you are currently seeking.  However, in the heat of the moment, and in my time-pressed schedule, the only thing I cared about was that Wyclef Jean would come to my aid, look at my ticket stub, take me across various shuttles, and personally deliver me to my gate.  He must have known that my mother would have been Killing Me (not so) Softly had I missed that flight.

Once on the plane, I could finally relax.  I tried to sleep, but sleeping eight straight hours on a plane is a challenge, even for me.  As such, I was pretty in and out of sleep the entire flight.  After a heavy night of drinking in "real life"people traditionally go to bed drunk and wake up sober, yet hungover.  However, a funny thing about international travel:  I don't know if it's the altitude, time change, or light on and off again sleeping throughout the journey, but getting into Heathrow for my connection I didn't feel drunk, sober, or hungover.  I just felt a weird limbo between all three, and was pretty positive I was dead.

Pressed for time yet again to make my connection to Madrid, I got to go to the fast check lane through security before heading to my gate.  Those of you who haven't yet been to Heathrow: JUST. DON'T.  It's absolutely a hot mess, and no one (I mean no one) has their ish together.

As I snaked to the front of a completely disorganized line, I was directed to remove any 'liquids or gels' I presently had in my carry-on.  Now of course writing this is going to put me on some sort of TSA watch-list, but I can assure you that never in my life have I heard that phrase and taken it to heart.  I have MISTAKENLY brought my mace on a plane at least 3 times round trip, and a FULL SIZED BOTTLE of nail polish remover in my purse on a previous flight.  I really didn't have time to show off my travel-sized shower gel.  My toilitries were staying in my bag-- this American woman had a flight to catch.

I passed through security and waited for my bag on the other side of the conveyor belt.  Things were going slowly.  What was happening?  Oh no-- my bag. Ma'am?  Why are you taki--ok, please just hand it to me bef-- wow.  the 'special' lane, huh?! So you gonna do me like that?!  I starred at my bag in terror as it was segregated to the 'at risk' pile.  The people checking the bags one by one couldn't care less if your luggage happened to fall in the wrong category. At this point, I honestly thought I would pass out if I didn't get something to drink ASAP.  I asked one of the ladies working security if she thought I'd "have time" to quickly go over to a neighboring stand to get some water before she finished checking my bag.  She looked at me as if to say Oh sweetie, you have NO IDEA what you are in for.  I would soon recognize this look on a daily basis.  But then, I ignorantly smiled, and made a break for the overpriced airport stand. 

I ordered a water and an orange juice.  It took forever, but finally I was handed a water while the guy working behind the counter prepared the orange juice. I drank over half the water before I received the juice.  WATER. What substance had ever tasted so delicious?!   He handed over the juice and told me some obscene price like "8 pounds." I smiled, handed him a 10 Euro bill and waited for my change.  He looked at me with sheer disdain.  "Ma'am, you handed me Euro.  This is England.  Here we take pounds." A wave of panic rushed over me.  I had no pounds.  I also had no belongings.  Was this where it ended?  I thought, Do I make a break for it and just run, or do I pan-handle for 8 pounds?  

"Ma'am, do you have a credit card?" 
"Oh my Godddd, yes, a card!  Hold on, I'll get it!" as if he just invented time travel.

With my newly purchased beverages, I wandered back to the security.  I had been gone a solid 10 minutes.  Surely my bag was waiting for me.

Sure as hell it WASN'T.  My bag was still about the fourth from the line.  I started bargaining with God in my head and pacing back and forth.  I absolutely needed to make this flight.   Literally about an hour later, I started to cry.  I could see from the overhead screens that my flight was boarding and I wasn't to the gate, and was still waiting for my bag.  As I begged the guy to begin, he took EVERY ITEM out of my carry-on in order to inspect it with a special tool that I can only assume is made to find bombs.  Keep in mind, I prepped to spend about a year abroad.  Your carry on does not get weighed.  That carry on was packed to the brim with clothes so precisely in order to fit as much as humanly possible.  While blinking back tears, he explained to me how to get to my gate before handing me the last item.  Finally he was done checking everything (including laying out all my underwear for everyone to see) but it was my duty to repack the entire bag.

I threw items in with reckless abandon and sat on my suitcase like a cartoon in order to zip the bulbous luggage.  I sprinted as quickly as I could to the gate.  Luckily, it only took me about five minutes to get there as it wasn't too far from security.  The gate was empty-- the entire plane had boarded.  I slowed down and staggered over to the people at the gate defeated, like the last couple on Amazing Race, knowing I was too late and missed my flight. 

"Are you Kristen Witkop?  The plane is waiting for you."

Dumbfounded, I took my ticket that they had printed off and ran past them, profusely thanking them along the way.  I bumped through the passengers, threw my carry-on into the overhead compartment with great challenge, and silently sweated next to my neighbor in satisfaction.  I was making that flight, and I was getting the Sangria that was rightfully mine. 

Two hours later, I touched down in Madrid, a full 12 hours later from my Dulles experience.  I took a taxi to the hotel, and proceeded to sleep nearly 12 full hours before my orientation.

So in retrospect, maybe it could have gone smoother.  Maybe I could have done some things differently.  However, on September 13, 2014 Wyclef and I shared an incredible memory that neither of us will ever forget, and for that I think we all can agree it was worth it.  
 

I am Mrs. Iglesias

Before I begin my first ever blog post, I must start with an apology.  I'm so sorry it's taken me a while to get up and running on this.  I know quite a few of you have been looking forward to reading my ramblings.  By saying quite a few, let me be more precise: about four people.  Okay, let me stop being so egotistical, about half of that number.  And actually half of that.  (Really, I'm looking at you, mom.)  So here I begin....

Prior to starting this blog and being fully confused on how to work Blogger (should I be embarrassed?) I was really hung up on a title.  Do I go for the cliche Spanish phrase like every other basic white girl who "finds herself" in this wine-soaked region?  Do I try to be much more cultural and make a witty pun embedding Spanish history into the headline?  Both seemed so tacky and rehearsed, and just not me.  Clearly, this was causing me much distress, as this blog is obviously my gateway to assured fame. So I did what any normal human would do: procrastinate and do nothing.

But alas, have no fear, as Hollywood would come to my aid, making me a damsel in distress no longer.  Yesterday I came across the gif that I have featured at the top of my blog and was reminded of this piece of pure cinematic gold from the movie Bridesmaids.   
 
If you haven't actually seen Bridesmaids, I'm incredibly perplexed as to how you found this blog, as no friend or even acquaintance of mine would have ever made the grand error to not make this movie a priority.  If you for some unknown reason find yourself in the minority of the entire human population, however, do yourself a favor right now and put your life on hold to watch the entire film  or at the very least this clip. (From 2:16 on...)   Bridesmaids airline scene.

Having seen this gif again, I couldn't help but identify with Kristen Wiig's character, Annie. Blonde hair and sunglasses, slowly lurking on to the scene, hoping beyond hope to go unnoticed.

Stove:  "Miss?"
Annie: "Um no.  It's not me."
Stove:  "Yes it is you. Please go back to your seat."
Annie:  "Yes, I'm with him, I'm Mrs. Iglesias." 

I can't even begin to tell you the amount of times I tried to fit in or thought I was fitting in in this city, only for it to be glaringly obvious to everyone else that I was a foreigner, and didn't know what I was doing (at all.)  Beyond the fact that it's challenging to hide blue eyes and blonde hair, it's even harder to hide the cocktail of idiocy and ignorance of which I often lead.  As such, I already have a list of about ten very exposing stories I hope you enjoy that I plan on featuring on this blog.  Finally, a title that fit everything I was looking for: short, fits my personality, and it exposes the hot-mess theme of this blog you will see on repeat.  For anyone who decided to read this, thank you, and I'm so sorry for what is about to unfold.

From here on out, you can refer to me as Mrs. Iglesias...