So, time has passed, as it tends to do, even if life here at the lake always seems stuck in a bit of a time warp. Days of the week, nights of the weekend, ladies of the Wyoming rodeo, all blending together in a confusing blur of civic holidays and ass-less chaps. The following is a record of our time. We had a group bbq in honour of a friend’s departure, with potluck and all (meaning nachos and sausage, really), and all the drinks of the rainbow. And a couple Scottish chicks. Then, lo and behold, a couple weeks later, we had another potluck (ironically only days after the original departing fellow finally left after extending his stay by another week and a half – that tends to happen a lot around here) which focused more on tacos and cake, oh yeah, and breaded shrimp (sooo Guatemalan) which once again ended the same way every party seems to end, regardless of its relative proximity to the 49th parallel – with me bumming a smoke off someone too nice/drunk/pregnant to say no.
After much thought, debate and unerotically sleepless nights I came to the conclusion (highly unpopular among such parts of my body as my brain, and my spongy conjugating gland) that it was high time I brushed up on my Spanish yet again. As much as I hated to admit it, I had become fairly certain that it would, in fact, be useful to accomplish more in Spanish than purchase strawberries for slightly more than the usual price, or vaguely insult the local mayor with my indecent grasp of the Spanish slang for “slingshot”. Really, how was I to know his wife preferred the “Jonah and the Whale”? Her lips didn’t even look that chapped.
Ah, Spanish classes – I have always been told that you know you have really got the hang of it when you find yourself actually dreaming in Spanish. Or Hebrew. Or Pig Latin, should you find yourself born in 1973 and with equal intelligence to the salamander your nephew rescued from the horrors of a nearby pond (r.i.p. Manny). In this case, however, it was Spanish, also known as the “Language you must learn while mining gold for your new colonial masters”, as well as unrequited nipple splashing. Anyhow, while I still have yet to find myself dreaming in Spanish, I have most certainly woken up dreaming about Spanish, more specifically being run down and roughly sodomized by an improperly conjugated verb. Sorry, I mean having been sodomized by an improperly conjugated verb. Which I think was compartir, “to share”. Either way, I know it had really hairy knuckles. But after taking Spanish lessons for three hours a day for the last two weeks I find myself thrilled to now be able to stumble through an even greater variety of awkward conversations, still using the wrong words but at least in the proper tense now. Buen trabajo, nameless rapist!
New subject – Laynni finally got around to trying a yoga class and, not surprisingly, found it fairly invasive compared with her usual routine contorting herself weirdly on the roof, a routine apparently made reasonable by the fact it is done in tight pants on a padded mat (although I tried capping off a Thirsty Thirteen party like that once and everyone got upset). Nonetheless, I’m told it was everything a rational person might expect from $5/hour secondary education presented by a surprisingly nipply woman with a Grade 8 education and a faint odor of blue cheese. Which is, obviously – crowded, hairy and braless; the perfect setting for a yoga class, adult glee club or Green Party fundraiser.
We’ve been doing our best to go swimming every day, also, even with me having to be off to class by 8:30 in the morning. The last time it rained here was in mid October and with each dry day the water gets just that much clearer as well as, unfortunately, colder. Bracing, I believe the term is. Shrinking, would be another.
With our days winding down and a strange desire to spoil myself rapidly manifesting, the other day I ventured out to have my underwear professionally laundered. Decadent! You really should smell them, they’re divine. Like Christina Applegate’s toes after a Thursday night foot fetish party at Elton John’s place. You know, kind of oak-ey, like a nice 1982 Cabernet, or a really old armoir.
All right, time is running out, both on this entry and our stay at PasajCap (what a seamless tie-in), which has left us gazing despondently at the distant volcanoes even while we laugh our asses off at new found information about former neighbor’s love lives and the way that scab on my ass cheek just keeps hangin’ in there. By which I mean sadly, of course. Speaking of scabs (textbook segue, yet again), we will soon be heading up to Mexico all in one long day on a shuttle from here to San Cristobal de las Casas, the renowned home of Saint Christopher and his house, which was apparently so spectacularly trendy, not to mention absolutely Mayan free, that it was worthy of having an entire city named after it. After that, we spend a couple weeks in Mexico tooling around the Yucatan then home briefly for Christmas, as usual.
So, there you have it, a perfect example of what happens to a completely average, if underworked, human brain after a couple months among the stunning views, tranquil lifestyles and inappropriately erect expats of Lago de Atitlán. We also found this really good toilet paper. Like, all around good, not just stop a bullet good, or make Shelly Long look presentable good. Or three ply, because that’s just wasteful.
Next stop, good old Mexico. Let’s all hope the border police don’t confiscate the ass balloons I use to transport backup copies of my blog. Or the crack.
And in case you were wondering – God hates Michael Vick fans. Just sayin’.