This Little Otter Went To Market

I have a variety of different friends from different countries which I have collected over the years like stamps, and so I understand the perils of multi-lingual conversations (one of my Brazilian friends, for example, cannot understand the difference between the words "beach" and "bitch", which has made for a surprising and confusing sentence on more than one occasion). However on a day last week, my Portuguese friend and I had a phone conversation which was as follows:

Portugal: So, there is a guy at my work. He was off for a while but he came back today. 

Me: Okay.

Portugal: And now he's dead.

Me: ..I'm sorry?  He's dead?

Portugal: No! His father.

Me: ...His father is dead?

Portugal: No!

Me: I am so confused.

There was a brief, puzzled silence on both sides of the phone.

Portugal: He had a baby....?

Me: Oh, he's a dad! I get it now. 

I started learning Portuguese recently (you know I'm a language whore, with my Latin and my classical Greek, and my casually pointless favourite French phrases - currently "parce que j'ai le jeux, mes chiennes!" For those of you who don't speak French, it basically means "because I've got game, bitches") but it came to my attention quite quickly that it is mostly an annoying language, full of unnecessary extra grammar and names that don't make sense. I asked my Portuguese friend about this one day.

Me: Okay so, Monday is 'segunda-feira' in Portuguese, right?

Portugal: Yes.

Me: Which translates as what?

Portugal: Second Market Day.

Me: (gaping at her) Second...?

Portugal: Market Day.

Me: Right. Tuesday is 'Third Market Day' and so on until Friday, which is 'Sixth Market Day', yes?

Portugal: Yes.

Me: Okay. But Saturday and Sunday are called "Sabado" and "Domingo"?

Portugal: (clearly worried about where this is going) Yes?

Me: Why?

Portugal: Why what?

Me: Do you not see how ridiculous that is?

Portugal: What do you mean?

Me: Why are Saturday and Sunday not called "market day" too?

Portugal: They just aren't... Maybe there were no markets on those days.

Me: Okay, but if there wasn't a market on Sunday, then why call Monday "Second Market Day"? Presumably it's actually the first market day?

Portugal: No, because Sunday is the first.

Me: (pinching my nose) Then why not call it that?

Portugal: I don't know!

Me: (narrowing my eyes) Your language is stupid. I'm going to blog about this. And possibly write a letter to your government.

The Magic Is In The Cannibalism

This post began with a tiny bottle of wine and a vague idea. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I love tiny bottles of wine. My parents bought me some for Christmas and every time I open one, I can't help feeling like a giant, which is in fact one of my favourites ways to liven up almost any activity. My all-time favourite foodstuff to do this with are Milky Way Magic Stars, which if you've never had them (and I pity you if you have not) are small chocolate stars with little faces printed on. When my colleague walked over to my desk the other day, she was eyeing the packet of jelly sweets near me and, much like a gentle furry maternal mammal in a forest clearing in the first ten minutes of almost any Disney film, had no idea what traumatic event was about to befall her.

Colleague: Ooh, jellybabies! Can I have one?

Me: Sure! On a related note, they're not mine, but go right ahead.

Colleague: I like to bite off their heads first. Isn't that wicked?

Me: Perhaps. I prefer to torture Magic Stars.

Colleague: (bewildered) What?

Me: (holding up a star) Watch.

Star: (in tiny high-pitched voice) Please don't eat me, no!

Me: (roaring like a giant) I MUST EAT YOU.

Star: Please stop! I have a family! I have tiny chocolatey star children!

Me: THEN THEY SHALL WATCH YOU BE CONSUMED.

Colleague: (backing away) .... Um.

Me: (shoving the Magic Star into my mouth like I'm a hungry troll) THE SWEET DELICIOUSNESS OF YOUR DESPAIR SUSTAINS ME.

See? Totally normal. Everyone does this. Right? I'm absolutely convinced that this is not at all a sociopathic thing to do. It's just the otter in me.

Featuring The 21 Hurl

I'm still a little traumatised by one of my New Year experiences (namely the girl who tried to chat me up, and when this did not appear to be working, added in slight desperation "but I'm ALMOST 20!" I apparently shooed her away from me like a chicken in a farmyard. In order for that to make sense, I should point out that the Fleetch and I developed something we call 'the 21 hurl', which basically means that any time anyone 21 or under flirts with us - rather than being flattering and so forth - it instead makes us want to vomit all over ourselves and the other person. We used to yell "21! Hurl!" at each other a lot, which I'm sure our neighbours appreciated as a nice change from all the "FLEETCH!" and "STEVE!"s they used to hear) so I do apologise for not having blogged sooner. However, a funny conversation happened last week between me, Wetsoks, and our Portuguese friend. I don't know whether people just don't say what they mean in Portugal, or whether it is always Opposite Day over there, but this was the result of our cultures merging.

Portugal: Do you like this film?

Me: Yes, it’s pretty good.

Portugal: You don’t like it.

Me: I just said that I did like it.

Portugal: No, you don't.

I made small despairing noises. Wetsoks looked very excited at the thought of having a new way to mock me.

Portugal: We can watch something else, you know.

Me: I fucking like it, woman! My god!

Portugal: …No, you don’t. I'll change it.

Me: *pinching nose in frustration* Gah!

Wetsoks: (grinning) Hey, do you want this cake? You don't, do you?

Me: I do.

Wetsoks: You don't.

Me: I like cake.

Wetsoks: Nah...

Me: (near tears) You know I like cake.

Wetsoks: No you don't.

Me: SERIOUSLY! NEED! CAKE!

Otter All Night Long

Dearest otterminions, I can't bring myself to tell you the entire story of my debauched New Year. It would only traumatise you (one thing I will point out is that I posted the video for Lionel Richie's 'All Night Long' on the Sarahnator's Facebook page, and wrote underneath "this is how we're going to party". Not only did we in fact party all night long, but that song played in the bar we chose. It was fate. And Lionel Richie). Instead, I shall relate the tale of dinner, before the evening drinking had begun (okay fine, the drinking had begun. Just shh and let me tell the story).

Me: Where is the cublet? I'm starving!

Sarahnator: She's on her way.

Me: I'm going to text her to tell her how slow she is. Maybe something about her mother...being less than speedy...

There was a brief pause as we all thought about this.

Me: Suggestions are welcome.

Wetsoks: How about "yo momma is so slow I'll still be doing her next year"?

Me: Perfect!

Sarahnator: I'm not sure that will make Tanyakit get here any faster.

Me: (draping myself pathetically over the table) The humour will give her wings. Like Red Bull. I'm wasting away here. I want food in my mouth now. Right now.

Wetsoks: You don't want much, do you?

Me: No. Just the moon. On a stick.

Sarahnator: You want what?!

Me: Um... the moon on a stick?

Sarahnator: That makes more sense. I misheard the first time - I thought you said "womb on a stick".

Me: Hey, I know this place is Mexican but let's not get all black-market-stereotypey. Did you think I was going to say "Yes, can I please have a burrito, with chicken, black beans... uh huh... yes and I'd also like to have one womb on a stick please? Thank you."

Sarahnator: I never quite know with you.

Me: I shall take that as a compliment.

Sarahnator: It's not.

Me: You're welcome.