It has recently come to my attention that there is some sort of “war” going on between Seppie and Arash to see who has the better blog. I, being infinitely cooler and wiser than they are, refuse to participate in this childishness. However, this does not stop them from poking fun at my little blog.
Well, I’m putting my foot down. If anyone out there has any compassion towards the underdog, join Team Roshan as we fight to vanquish these two clowns named Arash and Seppie. They may have more followers. They may have more views. They MAY post consistently about things that are actually relevant to what they’re doing. BUT do they say shmeh? Do they struggle with high heels on the cobblestones of Cordoba? Do they wipe poo off of other people’s butts? Do they emanate waves of cool the way I do? NO!
Only you can make the decision to join the side of the light. (Get it? My name means light? Ha. See! My blog’s hilarious.)
With that because Arash has said THIS about my blog:
Arash: you wont win
you
1. dont post interesting stories
2. dont try
3. dont have dedicated readers
me: 1. why do you say that
3. youre dedicated
Arash: 1. you hide your fun stories/keep it PGish
I will give you the title of the new super sexy and exciting blog post that will be coming soon (to a computer screen near you). It was previously removed because its not…. politically correct, and will probably offend people. (I apologize in advance for being a terrible person.)
Morocco: The Story of How Robyn and Roshan Ended Up Butt-Naked in a Dark Room Full of Total Strangers.
__________________________________________
Also here’s an update on goals:
Heels: Totally overrated. I rock my converse.
Spanish: I understand everything. Please don’t ask me to talk though.
Fun: It’s Christmas. You don’t even have to try to have fun during Christmas.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
A Typical Dinner con la Familia
Disclaimer: This post was actually written a long time ago and never posted because it was just a tad to self-deprecating and sad. But after reading Arash’s blog just be thankful I’m not asking you to listen to some crap music at the same time. (Really Arash? Justin Bieber? Have some shame man.) If you want to see a great parody of Arash’s blog, take a look at Seppie’s.
Dinner usually begins around an hour and a half after I’ve said to myself: “this is the end. I am going to die of hunger right here, right now.” (The time between this declaration and dinner is spent staring at my ceiling, waiting for my host mom to call me for dinner.)
Eventually, the beautiful noise of my host mom knocking on the door will finally be heard and I’ll jump to the kitchen with light speed, only to be greeted by…..
(Obviously, I don’t have this soup every night, but this is a typical dinner and I’m pretty sure we eat this at least three times a week.)
And so dinner begins: me, Robyn, Anna, Lily, Host Momma, Host Papa, the chicken noodle soup, and silence. We sit silently, slurping our soup, until finally Anna will say: “So how was your day?” (in Spanish) to the girls. Cue the responses:
Lily: One minute spent talking about whatever class she had that day and how exciting and awesome it was.
Robyn: thirty seconds spent saying she went to the gym and then went to class and allwas good.
Roshan: 5 seconds saying “me too.”
Silence once again will descend upon the table until Anna, bless her, will try and start some sort of conversation. This will, more often than not, fire Host Momma up and get her talking. And talking. And talking. Anna will partake by asking intelligent questions; Robyn will partake with her overly enthusiastic “mhms” and head nods; Lily will space out and stare at the table, and I will focus all my energy on trying to understand the conversation.
Ten minutes later Host Momma will still be talking and my focus will be wavering.
It’s at this point where I start to notice things like Host momma’s broken fingernail or the way her hair is slightly longer on the left side of her face rather than the right. As I daydream I’ll find myself thinking of something funny (ie- llamas doing jumping jacks), which of course will lead me to think about how bad it would be if I started giggling to myself while Host Momma was telling her super serious story. Now, if you’re a giggly person you probably know that once you think this you’re done. Soon you’re thinking about all the other funny things you shouldn’t be thinking about and before you know it you’re the crazy loon who’s laughing like a moron in an extremely uncomfortable situation.
Go ahead and color me crazy loon. But at least the laughter will cause Host Papa to remember some horribly rude, racist, sexist or perverted joke and dinner will end with everyone laughing (or uncomfortably looking at their finished soupy eggy bowl).
The End.
PS. Obviously now things have changed. I no longer zone out and laugh like a maniac and I pretty much understand everything that’s being said (unless of course she is asking a question to me directly in which case I panic and can’t understand anything).
Dinner usually begins around an hour and a half after I’ve said to myself: “this is the end. I am going to die of hunger right here, right now.” (The time between this declaration and dinner is spent staring at my ceiling, waiting for my host mom to call me for dinner.)
Eventually, the beautiful noise of my host mom knocking on the door will finally be heard and I’ll jump to the kitchen with light speed, only to be greeted by…..
Chicken noodle soup with an egg.
(Obviously, I don’t have this soup every night, but this is a typical dinner and I’m pretty sure we eat this at least three times a week.)
And so dinner begins: me, Robyn, Anna, Lily, Host Momma, Host Papa, the chicken noodle soup, and silence. We sit silently, slurping our soup, until finally Anna will say: “So how was your day?” (in Spanish) to the girls. Cue the responses:
Lily: One minute spent talking about whatever class she had that day and how exciting and awesome it was.
Robyn: thirty seconds spent saying she went to the gym and then went to class and allwas good.
Roshan: 5 seconds saying “me too.”
Silence once again will descend upon the table until Anna, bless her, will try and start some sort of conversation. This will, more often than not, fire Host Momma up and get her talking. And talking. And talking. Anna will partake by asking intelligent questions; Robyn will partake with her overly enthusiastic “mhms” and head nods; Lily will space out and stare at the table, and I will focus all my energy on trying to understand the conversation.
Ten minutes later Host Momma will still be talking and my focus will be wavering.
It’s at this point where I start to notice things like Host momma’s broken fingernail or the way her hair is slightly longer on the left side of her face rather than the right. As I daydream I’ll find myself thinking of something funny (ie- llamas doing jumping jacks), which of course will lead me to think about how bad it would be if I started giggling to myself while Host Momma was telling her super serious story. Now, if you’re a giggly person you probably know that once you think this you’re done. Soon you’re thinking about all the other funny things you shouldn’t be thinking about and before you know it you’re the crazy loon who’s laughing like a moron in an extremely uncomfortable situation.
Go ahead and color me crazy loon. But at least the laughter will cause Host Papa to remember some horribly rude, racist, sexist or perverted joke and dinner will end with everyone laughing (or uncomfortably looking at their finished soupy eggy bowl).
The End.
PS. Obviously now things have changed. I no longer zone out and laugh like a maniac and I pretty much understand everything that’s being said (unless of course she is asking a question to me directly in which case I panic and can’t understand anything).
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