The Adventure of Sir Sandwich

"You wanna a sandwich?" asks my father.

Sandwiches are my father's "go to" fix anytime he is hungry.

The fact is, my father is content eating whatever is served in front of him.  My father is simple. Most men are simple. My father is perfectly happy to snack on a sandwich whenever he feels like eating. The more simple, the better it is for him. My father grew up poor in Ecuador.  My grandmother would scrape together what she could to feed her three hungry boys.  So, if my father is not eating a sandwich, he either eats pasta or rice with tuna, green beans, peas and Italian dressing, or another favorite, Campbell's soup. His favorite is Campbell's Tomato Soup.

When I was in Kindergarten, I remember when he would pick me up from school early. We'd go home and he would fix me either a bowl of cereal or grind open a can of tomato soup..or Cream of Mushroom soup, or my personal favorite, Chicken Noodle. I shudder thinking of how clammy Cream of Mushroom soup would be. Barf.

I can eat cream of mushroom soup NOW as a grown up, but I think I despised it as a child because I couldn't stand the flavorless taste of the soup. As a child though, what kid wants to eat that? Certainly not me. I once feigned an "allergy" to soup in the E.R., but that will be another story.

Another time, I went home to visit with my older boy. GC was four or five at the time. We went home for Christmas.  GC was a very picky little boy though now he is willing to eat whatever kind of food.

"Giancarlo, you wanna sandwich? You want soup? Campbell's Tomato Soup?" my father would shout-ask.

"No thank you, Abuelo" and GC would go on his merry way.  I would try to make some elaborate dinner in the over or on the stove, but my father's complaint was "You're making the house too hot!". But anytime I'd make that elaborate dinner, he'd eat half of it anyways...  Mmmm, hmmm...

Anytime we would travel to visit obscure relatives in far away states, Mom would pack a cooler and Papi would have his lunch meat which mainly consisted of Bologna, Cotto Salami, Mayo and nasty American cheese slices. At rest areas, we'd stop to pee and then after using the bathroom, we'd eat our snacks.

"Oh, dis is SOOO good!" my father would exclaim in delight.  He would then proceed to inhale the entire sandwich and anything else that he found in the cooler. Which meant if I was saving something special, it was consumed with glee.

Back in September 2002, my father ended up going on a road trip alone with my Tio (Uncle) to Florida, where my great aunt lived. She unfortunately had passed away the day before my cousin's wedding.  The wedding went on as planned, but the funeral was held a few days later.

My uncle and dad drove all the way from Kansas City to Orlando for the funeral. To get to Orlando from the northwest, you'd normally take the Florida Turnpike.  The beginning of the turnpike starts near Ocala off of I-75, or the "Wildwood" exit.

My father and uncle stop there to gas up and use the restroom, get snacks, etc.  One such snack my father finds at this "obscure" gas station are some sandwiches. He goes to the counter and orders one, piled high with meats and all sorts of extra stuff that my father normally would never buy at the store because it would take too long for him to chop, slice or just too expensive for him to buy for his sandwiches. Both he and my uncle share this sandwich and continue on their way to Orlando. On their return trip, my father yet again stops at the sandwich shop, gets SEVERAL sandwiches for him and my uncle to snack on while in the car and they continue on their somewhat merry way back to Kansas.

Upon their return to the Sunflower State, Papi proceeded to tell my mom about this "nice place een Ocala!"

"Dey have de BEST SANDWICHES!  You can get whatever you want on them!" my father exclaimed.  "The next time we go to Orlando, we go dere. Okay?"

My mom's eyes got real big as my father described these delectable meats, types of bread and condiments you could get on this sandwich.  They would even TOAST it for you!

My dad's mouth watered as he described these sandwiches.  If there's anything my mom considers herself another expert on, it's how to eat a good sandwich.  "I, " she says with a stately pause, "am a gourmand!"

(Yeah. We'll see about that. That's another story.)

Apparently, this place was the bomb diggity, according to my dad!

For Spring Break 2003, my parents decided we would do a family trip to Orlando to visit our extended relatives and meet up with my other sisters while there.

The entire way from Kansas City to Ocala, all my father did except talk about these awesome sandwiches.

"All the meat you want, mamita!" my father exclaimed excitedly.

"Oh, how nice!  I can't wait!" my mom would exclaim in delight.

At one point on the drive down, my mom was listening to my dad repeat himself for the 327th time about these sandwiches, when she interrupted him.

"This isn't Subway, is it?" Mom asked.

My father with his hands on the wheels, turned in my mom's direction with a quizzical look.

"Subway? Wha's dat place?" Papi asked.

"It's a place where you get sandwiches, Papi." I told him.  "Remember, we went to Sandy's once and got sandwiches there?"

Oh, yeah, yeah! Uh huh, uh huh.  I remember. No, that's not this place.

We continued driving south on I-75 and finally cross into Florida.  The map indicated that we were still quite a ways from the exit we needed, about two more hours to go. We continued driving until we get to the Wildwood area and discover there is construction EVERYWHERE.  So much so that my father missed the exit.

The next exit was 7 miles down the road.

"I can't believe it!" my mom stated, with her fists clenched. "You missed the exit, Mario! I want that sandwich!"

It really was an easy mistake. Anybody not familiar with the area would have done the same. After backtracking 14 miles, we finally got to the exit.  Papi said it was near a gas station, which meant we would fill up our tank and then go into the restaurant to eat.

Making a right turn into the Sunoco gas station, we pull into a parking space and wouldn't you know what sign greeted us?

SUBWAY.

I, of course, thought it was funny and couldn't help but laugh in the back seat until I cried.  My mother's reaction though was priceless.

Turning shades of red and sweat beginning to bead on her forehead, I could tell my mom was about to explode.

"Are you FUCKING SHITTING ME, MARIO?!!!!!" my mom shouted. "We drove ALL THIS FUCKING WAY FOR FUCKING SUBWAY?!!!!!"

Totally bewildered, my father looked at my mother.

"I deedn't know!" he said. "It was a sandwich place. I like sandwiches!"

With that, my mom looked at both of us, my father with his puppy dog look and at me totally laughing my head off in the back seat, opened the door to the car.  She got out and slammed the door.

She stamped her foot and shook her fists in rage.

"I'm HUNGRY, DAMMIT!  and I don't want FUCKING SUBWAY! I can't believe it! I can't believe," Mom muttered to herself, "we drive all this way for FUCKING SUBWAY! I'm not eating Subway, Renny. I'm going to eat at this other place.  Come with me!"

This other place, I can't even remember the name of it, but for name's sake, I'll just call it the "Country Kitchen" which essentially had any kind of soul food home cooking you want from the South.

I looked at my dad, who felt terrible for not having noticed, but then he shrugged his shoulders.  I was kind of torn. I really didn't want to eat country home cooking, but I didn't want my dad to feel alone. "I'm going with Papi".

"Well, ees okay. I hongry..." and with that, we walked inside.

Papi and I go to the counter and my dad points to the ingredients to the lady behind the counter, "I want dis! and dis and dis".

Mom, on the other hand, was sitting by herself in a booth eating meatloaf, mashed potatoes and green beans.  The look she gave my father was one of Death.  She totally ignored him and when her waitress came by, my mom proceeded to complain about how her meatloaf was cold, how it sucked and how she was totally deceived by my dad into thinking there was a really awesome Mom and Pop sandwich place at this exit.

The waitress just stood there with her coffee and didn't know what to say, except, "Let me warm that food back up for you."

"No, I'm fine. I just wanted to let you know!" mom said. With that, the waitress filled up my mom's coffee and left.

Papi and I sat across from Mom at the booth as she glowered at my dad. Totally unperturbed by my mom's anger, he just sat there and happily ate his sandwich.

"Why you so angry, Mamita?" asked my dad, in between bites, with his mouth full.

My mom, with tight lips, and a wild look, sputtered, "Mario! I can't believe...we drove ALL. THIS.WAY for FUCKING SUBWAY. We have one in Mission!"

I couldn't help but continue to laugh at this whole debacle.

"Shut up, you!" Mom said to me, with her face still red. She shook her fist at me.

I stopped giggling at my mom.  "Is it really a big deal that it's Subway, Mom?" I asked. "It's food."

"Yeah! It's just a sandwich!" my dad said.

"You two are terrible. I can't believe this. I'm not talking to you guys anymore," my mom said.

With that, she left the remnants of cold meatloaf and mashed potatoes.  "The potatoes weren't even that good. I bet it was that powder crap they use for "mashed potatoes!"

Mom went off to the bathroom.  Papi and I sat there eating our sandwiches.

"I still don't know why she so angry. It's just a sandwich," said Papi confusedly.

"She'll get over it, Papi. Don't worry. Just eat your sandwich" I said, laying my head on his shoulder.

With that, my father finished his meal and we all continued on our Not-So-Merry way to Orlando. But before we left the Subway, my dad ended up getting two more sandwiches to go.

What can I say, my father is Sir Sandwich.

Paradise of Alligators, Beaches and Bugs vs. Land of Oz.

Kansas experiences hot summers. 

Kansas also has some cold winters. 

An exciting thing is that I don't have to deal with snowy winters anymore as I am now a Floridian Transplant.  I do have to deal with hot, humid summers from about mid-March to mid-October, though.  Winter here in Florida is cold.  That being said, even though Florida is part of North America. We typically have two seasons: hot and cold.  There is no in between. 

You're probably shaking your head and wondering..."What does she mean that it's cold in Florida?"

I shall explain.  

Florida, being humid year round, experiences a few months of chilly to cold weather in the wintertime.  When it is 60 degrees here in Florida, it's cold.  It's a wet kind of cold.  

As a kid growing up in Kansas, anytime the forecasters said, "Well, folks, It's going to be 60 degrees tomorrow" in December or January, that meant you could run around like Superman without a jacket and wear shorts and a tank top.  My dad used that term whenever he noticed I ran around without a jacket or sweater. "You are not Superman!" he would shout at me with his Ecuadorean accent. "You are going to get sick!"  "Sick" always sounded more like "seek". 

Another thing about living in the Land of Four Seasons is that you have to wake up extra early to warm up your car when it's cold.  You have to scrape ice or snow off of your windshield. You run the risk of your boogers freezing while prepping yourself for your daily bump and grind, like if the weather is below 20 degree Fahrenheit.  Do I want to do that all time?  No, thanks.  Although, living in Kansas does have its benefits. 

This summer, I will hopefully be going home for a few weeks to enjoy the summer heat of Kansas.  Kansas summers to me are incredibly hot, but at least they won't be as humid as they are here in Florida.  It seems to only get humid before it's going to rain in Kansas.  One thing I really like is when you first walk outside in the summer. It's like a blast of nice, hot air in your face.  I like getting nice and tan. :D

If I were to move back now, after having a ten year absence with exception of family vacations, I might have a better tolerance for the nasty weather. In Kansas, you can experience the four seasons in merely one day.   Once, I wore shorts in the morning as it was 80 degrees outside.  By nightfall, it was snowing.  I don't know many places in the world that can do that in one day. 

All of this nostalgia for my home state reminds me of the last winter I spent at home before moving out to Florida ten years ago.  I lived for 21 years in the Land of Oz 

before moving out to the Paradise of Alligators, Beaches and Bugs. 

I worked at a place called the "Nazarene Publishing House" back in 2003-04.  As the name implies, it was a place where books were published. I didn't spend my time working with books, though. I worked in their cafeteria.  The former manager is one of my mom's best friends, Nancy. She is an amazing cook. :D This place was located on Troost Avenue in Kansas City, Missouri, in a pretty crappy area of town.  When it was first founded in 1912, the area in which the NPH is located was a nice place. Not so much now.  Even the Hostess head bakery was located next door. I could actually touch the Twinkie Building!  Now, there's nothing but resident hookers and crackheads on every corner. But apparently, there are plans to revitalize the area.  Good luck with that, City Commissioners!

Run away!!!

One day, in February '04, I was hard at work in the kitchen, cleaning and cooking. A blizzard was forecast for the day. I didn't think anything of it, as I was used to snowstorms. I wasn't expecting it to come until late afternoon.  My car at the time was a 1994 Mitsubishi Mirage, 5 Speed, Periwinkle Blue, with "Hello, Kitty!" car seat covers. 

Mine had Black Spray paint on the hubcaps. Thanks, Dad!

 The Ren-Mobile, a great little car for driving in the snow. It would only take me about 30 minutes to drive to work or home.  Work was 8 miles from my house. No biggie, right?

Well, this particular day the president of our company sent us home early because the forecasters kept saying "It's a doozy out there folks!" It turns out that February was one of the snowiest on record, which has been surpassed by now, I believe. 

Everyone else in the House was able to leave right then and there, but we kitchen workers still had food to pack up, dishes to wash, tables to clean, food to restock, etc. 

When I got out to the parking lot and my car, five inches of snow had since fallen since that morning. I started my car to warm it up. Grabbing my ice scraper from the back seat, I began to brush snow off my car since it's against the law in Missouri and Kansas to have snow all over your car while driving.  Snow has the potential to fly off your roof and hit someone's windshield, thus causing a visual barrier. It's some sort of liability issue. It's ridiculous.

Twenty minutes later, I'm still brushing snow off of my car. Meanwhile, the snow is falling fast and accumulating quickly. I hop in the car, put my car in reverse and all I can hear is my tires spinning. So... I get out AGAIN!  I figured if my tires were spinning, what I needed to do was scoop snow from underneath my car in order to back out of my car space. I'm laying there on my stomach, scooping snow from underneath my wheels, on the corner of 29th and Troost Avenue in Kansas City, Missouri, which, mind you, is a VERY BAD area of town. Anyone from KC on both sides of the state line know not to go in that area after 5 pm. All I'm doing is shoveling snow from underneath my car and my tires. I am laying there on my stomach and thinking, "I could get shot at or mugged and have my car stolen".

After spending 10 minutes backing my car out, success! Kansas City lies on some pretty large hills and river bluffs. Everyone hears that Kansas is flat. Well, not eastern Kansas. 

 Trying to drive either up or down these bluffs and hills with snow and ice on the road is just a tad difficult. I decided I was going to take the "Long Way" home, which is more or less flat, but takes me about ten to fifteen minutes more time.  It's more or less the same distance, but there's more stop and go traffic.  The publishing house is only 8 miles from my parents house, if you take the Interstate and go the way of the hilly side roads, but it takes awhile to get to and from going the backroads because of stop and go traffic. 

Route A in Grey; Route B "The Long Way" in Blue

I'm driving south on Troost Ave., all the while praying to God that I don't get stopped by somebody demanding my car or worse, pointing a gun at me. I'm the only one on the road, except for the homeless people and neighborhood crack heads sitting on the benches, waiting for buses. 

Driving in the snow takes great care. I'm not sure what your expertise is driving in the snow, but my motto is "Safety First".  I don't care if you are an expert at driving in the snow. I will be a slow driver until I feel I can drive safely at a fast speed. Any of you can drive as fast as you want and flip me the bird...I still don't care. Safety First.

As I am heading south on Troost towards 43rd Street, I see that I have a green light!  "Green light, go!  Heck, yeah!" I thought to myself. I'm finally emerging from the bad area of Troost and Gang...  Accelerating carefully, I am near the intersection, when all of a sudden...out of NOWHERE, there's a guy crossing the intersection, crossing Troost.  All I can think of is, "WTH?!  I'm the only person out here on the road. Can't you merely wait until I cross through the intersection? Don't you know that I have the right of way since I am the one with a green light?! ARGH!!!"

Of course, I slow down because I don't want to get a ticket, just in case there are cops hanging out and about, you know. As I stop at the intersection, with a green light pour moi, mind you, I notice that this man is wearing shorts. SHORTS!  IN WINTER!! DURING A SNOWSTORM!  Picking his way carefully across the walk, I also notice his legs are VERY white. I thought to myself, "This poor black man is so cold, and wearing shorts, that his skin has turned white!  Aw, poor guy!"  If I had had a blanket or a jacket, I would have gotten out of the car and given him one. 

Upon further observation, I noticed why his legs were white. They were prosthetics. 

With my mouth agape, all I could think of was how absurd this all was to me. As he finished walking across, I put my car in first gear, skidded, slipped and slid some more. I was prevented from leaving my new perch because, guess what? My green light had turned red.  Boo. I sat there some more thinking, "Lord, why do I encounter the most random stuff?! Answer this for me." 

With the light finally turning green, I slowly made my way to the next intersection where a Metro Bus was stopped and surrounded by, guess what this time?! Cop cars, paramedics and fire engines. I couldn't see this down the road six blocks because in a snow storm, you can't see squat more than 10 feet in front of you. It's impossible.

Yet again, I had a green light, but yet again, I was prevented from going through the intersection by a police officer. He motioned for me to roll my window down. He asked me where I was going. 

"I'm going home from work, Officer."  I said. 

"Where's home?" he asked, eyeing my little blue car with suspicion. 

"Merriam, in Johnson County, where I live with my parents." Saying that you're from Johnson County while you're in KC is your ticket anywhere. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am. It's just your car looked suspicious with those spray-painted hubcaps of yours." I rolled my eyes, and said "Thank my dad for that one. He didn't like silver color that they were and thinks they look better spray painted black. But, since you've stopped me, can you tell me what's going on?"

Turns out that an attempted purse snatching had occurred on the bus. The intended victim was a little old lady who had a heart attack that had to be carried out on a stretcher. The assailant was arrested by one of the cops and they were waiting for backup. The cop moved me along and I was on my merry way.

It took me TWO HOURS to drive 8 miles. Luckily, I didn't have any more strange encounters. When I got home, I wasn't able to park my car in the driveway because a foot of snow had fallen. That's how fast it snowed in the two to three hours I had left since work. I had to park my car across the street. As soon as I got inside, my mother impatiently asked me for the meal that I had brought home from work. 

"Are you going to give me any of Nancy's food?" she asked, pursing her lips.

I was in such a bad mood that I said, "No. I'm going to eat this myself." 

I told her about my day. Mom had absolutely no sympathy for me. 

As absurd as that whole story was, I certainly did not bat an eye.  I seem to be destined for interesting things and events. 

Even if it includes weather. 

No Escape from THE FOGHORN

Recollection sometimes is a wonderful thing.

Sometimes, it can be used to remember a loved one that has gone the Way of Yonder, a.k.a. Death. Other times, it can be used to remember a painful memory.  Lastly, it can be used to remember something so memorable, that it's worth laughing about.

Today, I was doing some of the latter.

I was at a friend's house today, regaling her with stories. I honestly don't remember how I got on the subject of awkward people, but I remembered this story of a girl from my time at Flagler College.  Reason being...this girl was really weird.

Here, I shall pause and say, I'm kind of weird, too. I'm weird in a fascinating and funny way. I am unique! You won't find anyone else like me.  None of this creepy crap with me.  No way, José! I am blunt and realistic.

For the last four semesters of my undergrad, I attended Flagler College. Flagler College is a nice little college in Saint Augustine, Florida, that caught my eye for many reasons.

Not only is it a beautiful college campus, but they have reputable academics and small classes, which appealed to me. In 2004, it had a stained glass minor. I had never heard of a college with that kind of a program, so naturally, I wanted to minor in stained glass!  As the Vallazza-Luck would have it, the year I arrived was the last year that anyone could enter that particular minor program. So, I switched to Spanish as my major and Creative Writing as my minor.

My first class on the very first day of my "career" at Flagler was "Theatre History".  I sat down on the risers with my notebook, pen and paper.  The room began to fill up with other students. I didn't know a single soul since I had just moved from Kansas.  At last, class began and our teacher, Andrea, went over the syllabus. Just as she was finishing, in walks a mulatto-skinned girl with long hair wearing brogue shoes, a long skirt, a white t-shirt, and a unibrow meant to be the envy of Frida Kahlo.  She dragged a suitcase on wheels wrapped in silver duct tape.  She found a seat and abruptly sat down.

Her suitcase was one that rolls with an extendable handle.

Andrea, the professor, greeted her. "Hello, Renee."

Renee looks at Andrea. Without a smile of acknowledgement in return, she opens her mouth and releases the most basso profundo voice I have ever heard on a woman.  "HULLO!"

Her voice, manly and coming from what seemed like an endless abyss, sounded just like a foghorn.

This was the first of four semesters that I was to have experience with the girl I shall refer henceforth as "The Foghorn", except in case when it has to do with my name or hers, which are both very similar. I had many classes with this girl. In fact, not a single semester at Flagler was spent without having her in at least ONE of my classes. One semester, she was in TWO.  That was a nightmare.

The Foghorn was, what I will delicately say here, socially awkward and inept. The poor thing had very limited social skills and really needed friends to help her.  She was pretty polite, but as I mentioned before, her social skills were severely lacking. Surprising for a theatre major.

One of many experiences I had with The Foghorn was when I somehow got roped into being the "Inter Club Council" member.  A friend of mine got sick and could no longer attend the meetings as the ICC rep so she elected me to be the ICC member. That meant that I had to pal around with The Foghorn.  As I've mentioned before, this girl's name is Renee.  My nickname is "Ren" or "Renny".  People were always confusing us because our names are so similar.

However, does that mean I think it's funny or okay to confuse us both?

NO!

I don't even resemble this girl in any way shape or form, so I felt slightly insulted each time the mistake was made. She had long hair, bushy eyebrows, café au lait skin, and dressed in potato sacks. My hair was short, sculpted eyebrows, Beaner skin and I wore shorts and a tank top with flip flops.

Costa Rica, 2006.

Anyways...back to my story. 

For Christmas 2004, we had to come up with an ornament to put on the Christmas tree in the rotunda in the Ponce De Leon hall at Flagler.  Me, being creative with wannabe flair, wanted to come up with something snazzy.  The Foghorn took it upon herself to decorate an ornamental ball she found at Michael's with red puff paint that simply said 'ARIEL' Spanish Club.  We were supposed to place the ornament on a tree during a special ceremony. The club with the best ornament was to have won something pretty awesome, which must not have been that awesome because I can't remember what it was. 

The Foghorn told me to meet her at her dorm room at 5:45 p.m..  I had just recently moved off campus, about three blocks away.  As I was getting ready, I realized what time it was, 5:30 p.m., and ran three blocks in heels.

 I sweat the entire way there.  Running up two flights of stairs to her room, I see the door ajar. I knock, wait a moment, hear no answer and very gently pushed the door open.

Lo and behold...The Foghorn is hanging around in her undergarments and she's typing away on her computer.  Not even remotely getting ready. 

"Uh...you told me to meet you here at 5:45.  You're not even ready! I just ran three blocks and two flights of stairs. In heels, I might add. " I said, exasperated. 

With her booming, manly voice, The Foghorn says, "YEAH. I KNOW."

"Aren't you going to start getting ready?" I asked.

"YEAH," she boomed.

"Well, I'll just wait for you downstairs," I said, rolling my eyes.

"YEAH. YOU CAN DO THAT," honked The Foghorn. And she went back to her computer.

Annoyed, I walked down the stairs and headed straight for the cafeteria. I had some remaining meals on my plan and decided to get an ice cream. In fact, I went and got TWO. Yeah!

In the time it took for The Foghorn to get ready and come down, I had eaten one cone.  By this time, it was 6:05 and the ceremony had begun.  The choir was screeching Christmas carols and I was well on my way licking down my second cone. The Foghorn carried our drab looking, golden ornament in her hands. 

The clubs were called alphabetically.  ARIEL was the second club called up to the front for the night.  After the first club went, hung their ornament, they handed The Foghorn the microphone. I am almost finished with my cone. All that remains is the actual cone itself, so I shove it into my mouth so that people aren't looking at me eating ice cream in front of the whole school.  

She blasts into it, "My name...UM.... is Renee <Insert Last Name Here>. UH....UM....UH...I'm the president of...UM...UH...ARIEL, the Spanish club.  And this is...UH....UM..."

She thrusts the microphone in front of my mouth. 

CRUNCH!!! CRUNCH!!! CRUNCH!!! 

All you can hear through the microphone is me munching on the rest of my ice cream cone. 

"THAT'S REN. SHE HAS AN ICE CREAM CONE IN HER MOUTH. SHE IS THE ICC REP FOR ARIEL," announces The Foghorn.

Mortified, I manage a goofy smile with bits of cone in my mouth. I wave at everyone like a dolt. 

I hand the microphone to someone else and we hang the ornament together onto the tree.  As soon as that was over, I left.  LOL.

Another case in point was class. 

The Foghorn had this special knack for asking questions. Lots of them. Which is fine, mind you. There's nothing wrong in asking questions, especially if the meanings or context elude you. The Foghorn would ask questions when the answer was obvious, or if it were in the textbook, or in the discussion.

Here is an example from a blog I wrote back in 2005. I was taking a "Literatura Española" class (Spanish Literature Class) and The Foghorn was in that class.  As I mentioned before, The Foghorn was the PRESIDENT of the Spanish club, ARIEL, at Flagler. How she got that position, I have NO IDEA because the poor girl was not fluent verbally in Spanish.  All you could get out of her were deep vocalizations of "UH's" and "UM's" in between incoherent Spanish words and phrases.

Read the excerpt below from November 3rd, 2005.

I think I've mentioned that I have a particular classmate that is really loud, but also just doesn't get it. 

Today in class was another classic event.

This girl is in my Spanish Literature class. The class is conducted entirely in Spanish, so what ever questions or discussions that we students have must also be spoken in Spanish.

We've been studying a piece called "La Celestina". If you really care, it's set in the late 1500s in Spain and is about a prostitute by the name of Celestina who is a money monger as well as a matchmaker. She sets two people up by the name of Calisto and Melibea. Well, anyhow, think of this story as another Romeo and Juliet, but set in Spain. 

Any movie with Jordi Mollá is worth watching...

Calisto, the guy, dies by falling out of a tower and Melibea, distraught over having lost her true love, wants to kill herself. But of course, before she does so, she has a long monologue over how she lost her virginity and how she cannot live in society as a "loose" woman. Then she pitches herself over the same tower and dies.

Now, The Foghorn has no social skills.  She shoots her hand up right away and asks in Spanish, "Cómo sabe...UH...la gente que...UMMMMM... sí no estoy....UH...virgen?" 

Meaning: How do people know that I'm not a virgin? 

First off, she misconjugated the verb "to be" incorrectly. She should have used "SER" instead of "ESTAR." Secondly, she should have said, "soy" for "I am". "Estoy" mean "to be feeling" or "to be located". Let me localize your virginity before I take it!

This girl is a VERY conservative Christian. For her to say something like this is way out of the ordinary, as if Hell froze over! 

For those of us that are bilingual or just really good at Spanish, we tried really hard not to laugh straight in her face. I snorted and a few people turned their heads away from her so that she wouldn't notice them laughing either at her or her question. 

She then blushed, corrected herself and said with her booming voice, in English, "Wait! UM....No, I don't mean me!  UH, I mean her. I'm still a virgin, guys!" 

EVERYONE laugh more than they were.  A few people were crying from laughing so hard.

But she was in earnest and wanted to know. The teacher didn't know how to respond to her question.  I was fed up, since by this time, she had already asked several questions that annoyed the class. 

So I told her, in English, "Honey, they didn't use certain feminine products back in that day and age. They're going to know whether or not she's a virgin when she gets poked." 

Everyone started howling with laughter! 

This girl is so naïve. I feel so sorry for her. She is so out of place because she has absolutely no people skills.

Everyone tries so hard to not laugh openly at her because the questions she asks are absurd. 

But, I guess I have to sit back and realize that there really are people who just don't know about things."

Later on that day, after I wrote that post above, I felt badly. I went and actually wrote The Foghorn an apology for laughing at her.  The nice thing she did was tell me that she hadn't noticed.  That made me feel a little bit better about the whole situation. Nobody wants to get laughed at. I would feel poorly if I laughed at someone, knowing that I caused them some sort of hurt for doing that. 

Another time in class, the last semester that I was to share a class with her, she walks into the the second installment of Literatura Española, with her duct taped suitcase.  She stalks in with her long skirts and heavy brogue shoes.  She stops directly in front of a new student, who turned out to be a roommate of mine later on, and says to him, "I'VE NEVER SEEN YOU BEFORE IN MY LIFE."

Well, no shit, Sherlock! Of course you haven't. 

He looked at her strangely, then looked back at me, while I smiled at him a knowing smile of  "Be careful with her," and he simply smiled at her. 

Later on in the semester, he invited her to a "Study Party" we ended up having at our house. I remember him saying, "Dude...we are going to get her messed up!!! I'm going to give her lots of beer!  She'll loosen up that way."

I remember thinking and I even told him, "Oh, please...don't do that. Invite her, but don't try to get her drunk. That's not funny."

She came to the party, but politely declined all offers to ply her with alcohol.

"I'M A BORN-AGAIN CHRISTIAN. I WAS RAISED A ROMAN CATHOLIC. IT'S AGAINST MY RELIGION. JUST LIKE HAVING FEELINGS FOR WOMEN IS AGAINST MY RELIGION."  She boomed.

Well...that explains why she speaks with a deep voice, then.

As I have grown older and become a teacher myself, I realize now that I was pretty harsh in my view of her back then.  I have had students in her situation that suffer from anxiety disorders related to interacting with others.  She could very well had Aspergers Syndrome, which disables people from being able to socially interact with others on a high level. 

She was pretty smart, from what I understood, but just really lacked the skill necessary to interact with people on a whole different level. 

I wish I could go back and tell myself from 10 years ago that perhaps what she needed was someone to help her.

Knowing that now, I think that's what I'll do in the future to help out a person like...The Foghorn.