It’s almost time for my healthy afternoon snack (blackberry yogurt and almonds), but I used up all my hungry on those mini-Snickers my coworker Mike was giving out.  Bother.  I guess I could save it till tomorrow.

I really enjoy Spanglish rap.

“Ella no sabia that yo, I knew her plan
De que iba a salir with that other man.”  –From “Mentirosa” by Mellow Man Ace

What I like the best is the fact that “yo” could either be a repetition of “I” or it could be a rap-style “yo.”  ¡Misterioso!

I really miss Spanish a lot.  It was part of my life just about every single day from the age of 5 until about 24 or whenever I finished grad school.  I need to find ways to actively get it back into my brain.  I’ve been putting Spanish-language films in our Netflix queue (Denny is really a very good sport about it), and I speak it enough around the house that Denny understands some basics.  What I say the most is “¿Dónde está mi bolsa?”  I say it just about every morning as we’re getting ready for work and I can’t find my purse.  Maybe I started doing it as a way of talking to myself, because I didn’t want to admit how disorganized I can be.  Back when I lived alone (or at least with roommates who didn’t expend a lot of energy keeping my stuff tidy), I often found myself calling my own cell phone to try to track down my purse.

Now, though, Denny understands the phrase, and he usually knows where my stuff is.

He and I have very different approaches to locating items.  He uses this strange system of “logic,” wherein he imagines where said object ought to be, and then he goes there.  I prefer to use the method where I remember where I last saw something (case in point, Mount St. Aprille, which is a pile of clothes that until recently resided at the foot of our bed).  If I remember having seen some particular tank top in Mount St. Aprille, I’ll dig through it and reasonably expect to find it.

However, Denny has this habit of tidying up after me (which I don’t mean in a bad way; I’m very glad he does it, because it makes the whole house much more likely avoid being designated a Bad Place Where Terrible Things Happen).  This means that if he sees a tank top of mine on the floor, he throws it in the laundry, washes it, folds it, and puts it in a drawer.

How am I supposed to know he did that?  Where is my damn tank top?

Alas, Mount St. Aprille is no more.  I came home from about 24 hours away last weekend, and apparently it erupted and the DNR did a hell of a job cleaning up the detritus.

Denny insists I have lots of clothes, but I don’t believe him because I can’t find any of them.