dragonlady7

Apr. 2nd, 2017

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I can attempt to hang with castellano! Hilariously my only real-world Spanish-speaking experience was a slightly ill-fated trip to Andalucia in 1998 with my even-less-fluent sister when we were teenagers so, I mean, we got by, but it was a shock.

I had not really truly realized before now how fast standard Mexican Spanish is. I mean, other South American accents, I’m like, this is okay, maybe I speak this language, and then Mexicans talk and I’m like you are the new yorkers of latin america and i will never be fluent. I’m sure this must vary within Mexico but I wouldn’t know, it’s all this high-speed stream of syllables I can’t parse. (I can’t begin to guess at the Caribbean regional accents, I’m not there yet.)

I should have guessed, though– I used to do roller derby with a woman from Argentina who became a translator for the FBI and when she told us, in genuine distress, that her Spanish wasn’t good enough for her new job, we all laughed, and she shook her head and said no you don’t understand, most of what they want me to translate is Mexicans, I can’t keep up with that! I assumed she meant the slang, but apparently it was also the speed.

I mean, all I’ve seen of y tu mama is the scene where Gael and Diego make out, so I should probably, you know, make an honest movie of it at some point.

I should link here to the terrible, terrible BBC atrocity of an educational telenovela that I have been watching, which is ostensibly set in Spain but I can understand them so who even knows, there’s barely a lisp to be had. This show is great if you want to time travel to the 1970s. “Una camisa moderna, Mamá!” he says, as his aged mother clicks her tongue at the olive floral monstrosity she’s trying to iron, which he later wears with, wait for it, a rust-colored three-piece suit with painted-on bell-bottom pants. Phenomenal. It’s called Zarabanda, and there is smoking and drinking in every scene, plus near-constant tape hiss in all audio. I can’t wait for the inevitable country-boy-debauched-by-city-girls scene that must be within the first five episodes.

Crossposts: http://dragonlady7.livejournal.com/1736754.html

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boxoftheskyking:

@bomberqueen17 this stuff is a brand called Kate (which might be part of Rimmel?) but it’s $5 at target and they have a bunch of matte colors. I have a bright red and more of a berry color. Put it in at 730, ate chicken and had two beers and sang for an hour and change and it was still mostly there at midnight when I went to bed.

fuck, man, i own so many different bright red lipsticks, and i can’t stop buying more, and i wear them almost never because who has time to reapply, but if you don’t you look ridiculous, so i just– i’m too self-conscious to ever wear them. but i love them. i love that they make lipstick in colors besides bright red by the way but i literally cannot understand why. i like to look at them but cannot make myself buy them. which means i have no excuse to buy more lipsticks. but god. i just want one that stays!!!

Crossposts: http://dragonlady7.livejournal.com/1737213.html

via http://ift.tt/2op1s3B:deputychairman replied to your post “klyaksa1 replied to your post “klyaksa1 replied to your post “well…”

As far as I know neither me nor my dude has any MH problems and this sounds a lot like how we live, so maybe a given percentage of the issue is The Patriarchy which lets dudes gaze upon filth in their own home and say, meh, not my problem, if I just leave it eventually a woman will clean it, right? They may not be aware that’s what they’re thinking, but they still are thinking it.

That is undeniably a factor. I mean, undeniably. I don’t have to pick his socks up off the floor, usually, but only because the literal first thing I did when we moved into this house was to put a laundry basket in the hallway and say all dirty clothes go in this and i will wash them, if they are not in this i will not wash them, which probably wouldn’t have worked except that when he lies in bed and takes his socks off, if he flings them straight forward, they go out the door, hit the wall, and fall into that basket. (And I do do every load of laundry.)

It was only when I completely broke down and said in order not to think about food i will literally buy dog food and eat it from a can every day so that i don’t have to think about this that he took over, and now he does virtually all of the cooking. And he makes me feel like shit about it, but he does it, and i haven’t really caved. I cook only occasionally. And he does almost all of the dishes, because I have a skin condition and actually wound up with a horrible infection that the antibiotics for gave me anaphylaxis and full-body hives and so after a while, he got more chill about doing the dishes. He complains sometimes, and I step in once in a while, but– here’s the thing, he only washes them immediately before preparing a meal. But he washes them.

So that means there are filthy dishes stacked high next to the sink literally all the time, because he washes them and then fills the sink again right away by cooking. But I’ve stood firm. This is just how I live. There’s constantly filthy dishes. But the dishes do get washed. So.

He recently tried to complain about this and I asked him to describe how our washing machine works, and he stopped complaining. We’ve lived here fifteen years and he’s run a load of laundry precisely once, when I had two sprained ankles and couldn’t get down the stairs to the laundry room, and the lack of socks hit a crisis point.

In college I postulated that there was a belief in The Housework Fairy that went completely unexamined in the minds of people, particularly male ones, whose mothers did too much for them, and this is borne out by a lot of observation since. It’s not even that a woman will do it for them, it’s a literal willful blindness that goes totally unacknowledged. The Fairy picks up dishes and socks, unloads the dishwasher, puts the remote back where it goes; waiting for a woman to do it would require that you acknowledge that the woman does anything at all. These sorts of tasks just Happen, as if performed by some corporeal extension of a benevolent universe.