A little amusing Xmas contest

http://knyrrodriguez.blogspot.com

Pregnant stupidity

There are a lot of myths in the magic world of pregnancy. But some of them are really, really stupid.

This one comes really often, usually in any conversation that involves hospitals, drugs, tests, ultrasounds, and epidurals.
-You see, not so many years ago, women gave birth on their houses, without all this crap, and they were perfectly fine.
No, they were not! Giving birth was a high risk activity. Women died giving birth. Women still die in numerous places of this world because they don't have "all that crap". Most of those women would be very happy to give birth in a hospital, get epidurals, doctors looking at their vaginas, machines, medicines and a big package of blood prep in case it would be necessary. Not to mention that it is thanks to "all that crap" that now you don't need to make five babies just to make sure that one of them will survive to inherit the family land.

This one may be particular to Czech Republic, where women stay three years home after giving birth.
-You are going back to work so soon? But the baby needs his mum. He will be still having milk.
And he still can do it! Even in room temperature, mother milk is good for a couple of days, weeks in the fridge! Baby needs his mother, no doubt. And his daddy. And them to pay the mortgage. It would be nice for the woman to stay home, sure, but if the side effect is that you give up your career and daddy doesn't get to see the baby, I am not willing to take it. To me, the milk thing sounds more like a made up justification for an unjust situation. Pretty much like the bullshit we used to hear in nuns school about the woman having a "very important role in church".
Plus, it may be tough for a year, but the baby will love having a successful woman as a mum for the next twenty years of her life. Not only is a better example and can help with homework, but it will be very useful when she needs somebody to give her advices for her first job.

-It will be a boy/girl because "Insert stupidity here"
Ok, it is fun trying to guess, but there are people really convinced about their personal unscientifical belief. The shape of the belly, the number of spots in the face, if you vomited during the firsts months and the Chinese calendar.
If any of that was any useful, somebody would make millions selling this knowledge in China and India. Thanks god none of them works.


Pregnancy symptoms: Another delightful little known side effect. Candidiasis. i.e. fungus. And another delightful little know side effect of living in Czech. My gynecologist doesn’t remember I’m pregnant and try to give me antibiotics.

Mother instinct: I just wrote that I’m not willing to give up my career to devote myself to a baby. What do you think?

Prehistoric goddess shape attracts men

As my ass is getting bigger something really bizarre is happening. It is something that started during the summer but until now I didn't put two and two together. Listen this, for some reason, men feel attracted by pregnant women.
I was three months pregnant and I already had to buy new bras. We were going out and I felt just a little chubby and unattractive but, strangely enough, from all my gorgeous friends I was the only one that picked up a guy that night. Of course he ran like hell the moment he was informed about me and my little alien inside but needless to say, it cheered me up.

I haven't been going out that much lately, since I feel guilty when I force my fetus to hear crappy loud music, but two weeks ago there was a customer party that I needed to attend and when the guys got drunk someone felt the need to make some comment about my shape. It was as polite as you can be when you talk about a future mother, but graphic enough.

During that party I was still wearing my normal, slightly big clothes. Now that is not possible anymore. It is urgent and mandatory to visit a maternity shop and get some pants that can fit this enormous ass. So, I was walking all these curves in another party this weekend with the occasion of Martin's birthday and when the alcohol level got high in the room, Martin's friends also got descriptive.
"You look SO hot!!" "God, you look so, so hot!!" "Jesus, I had to tell you, you look so hot!" Hot? Beyonce is hot. I'm shorter and wider and I have belly. I'm the opposite of hot.

Anyway, what is it? Is it a prehistoric switch that tells them I'm fertile and activates something weird in their brains? Is it just too many starving models around? Or am I surrendered by fetishists?

Pregnancy symptoms: It is not really a symptom, but the moment of elastic waists have come
Mother instinct: The fetus is kicking like he is high on sugar… which is very possible, since I need chocolate every day. I'm a terrible mother, I cannot give me more than 3.

So many months in denial

I would need to start talking about the Czech health care system, which makes me sad. If I can summarize what I think about it with one example, the latest, here it is: The main star is this doctor, who replaces my usual gynecologist (a lovely woman from a private insurance that unfortunately has been on leave most of my pregnancy).

After messing around with my papers for a while, claiming that I am not his usual patient and after going through the usual revision, he puts some piece of sheet with results of tests in front of my nose. “Do you have this?” “No, I say, taking a brief look”. He then goes on to blame me because I didn't bring copies of all my papers, which forces him to browse through my folder, suggests that I stay home for a week if I have any kind of discomfort, and stands up to say bye, but my eyes are fixed on the test results.
-What does this mean?
-It means high risk of neuronal tube defects…
-What the fuck??!!!!
-It is not so accurate test… some clinics don't do it. It's a Travant.
-But this looks worrying. Should I worry?
-I don't know. You have to ask the genetics clinic. Maybe amniocentesis, maybe not… I don't know. Have a nice day.
-But…
-I don't know

So Martin and I have spent a week basically panicking, searching in google, panicking again, understanding how the fucking test works and what are really the odds of something going wrong to get finally to the appointment in the genetics clinic and find out there is nothing wrong with the baby besides the high dosis of stress that I imposed into it over the week.

The thing is, that during that horror I realized I probably could not kill it, even if there is something wrong. It moves, you know. It has five little fingers in each hand and it sucks its thumb. I am not sure I could kill it, even if it would be morally understandable. And that's why we bought baby shoes. That horrible worry, that sense of responsibility, that neurosis, that thinking I could not kill it even if it would probably kill me… I guess we finally understood that we are having a baby.

Tiny fluffy reindeer shoes

Yesterday Martin and I went into a baby shop and bought a pair of reindeer baby shoes. They are soooo cute. The baby will be born in March and the Christmas motives will look a bit outdated, or plain stupid, but it doesn't matter. They are sooooo cute.

When we first came into the shop Martin felt a bit out of place. Honestly, me too, but once the engineer instinct kicked in from the inside of both of us we enjoyed quite a lot. It was quite refreshing to find out that behind the pink and blue fluffy baby dresses, the magic world of pregnancy shops is full of gadgets and advanced technology.

First of all Martin explored the toys section and played with most of the playable items on display while I was trying to figure out the mechanism of a portable bathtub. I amazed myself studying all the different types of containers where you can store a baby and Martin compared prices of baby trolleys with the same enthusiasm as he would compare the engines of Skoda Octavias.

We both concluded what our friends already told us. The baby industry is a mafia that exploits the fact that tiny clothes with bunny ears are incredibly cute and that nobody should have to pay ten euros for ten cubic centimeters of stuffed animal. Not even for stuffed animal in the shape of reindeer shoes.

And one could wonder, what the heck were we doing in a baby shop anyway? I will tell more tomorrow.

Pregnancy Symptoms: I felt like chestnuts and partner didn't provide. It is not a symptom, but I want to record the fact here in case I need to use it later on. I have bad memory
Mother instinct:I bought reindeer fluffy shoes for the baby. That surely earned me a four

It moves... but it feels like trapped air

One of the less publicized side effects of the magic world of pregnancy is the fact that your belly is suddenly a mixture of baby, water, some extra blood… and air.

The digestive system apparently gets slower, and that means that as you get less and less sexy you fart more and more (it is not for getting strawberries at four a.m. that you need a loving, caring partner during pregnancy). Of course this is all accompanied by strange noises and movements going on under your skin.

So, in this situation, Martin comes and asks, you know, the fetus of my friend Ondrej is already moving! We should start feeling it too. Do you feel it? And he places a hand over stretched skin, placenta, fetus, water and moving bowels. Maybe, I answer… and he looks like me being incapable to distinguish baby kicks from gas has to do with my lack of maternal instinct.

Later the doctor asks again, "do you feel it moving?". "Probably…" I answer. It is either some tiny alien body kicking from the inside or yesterday’s chicken panner tikka. And he looks at me guessing again that I don’t have any maternal instinct and writes "movement +/-" in my maternity card.

At least that gives me an alternative answer to “do you feel it moving?” “plus minus” I will answer. And I will smile.

Pregnancy Symptoms: Big belly full of gas
Mother instinct:Pffff

Letting go of trousers

It's around week twenty now and I'm slowly coping with the fact that my winter trousers just won't fit anymore. Neither the summer ones. We spent a few days in Canary Islands and the only thing I could wear was a pair of "boyfriend cut" jeans.

Since I refuse to buy maternity clothes so soon, I'm happily embracing the fashion of XXL T-shirts, leggings and these dresses that fall loose under the breast. This is not the proper business attire, mind you, but nobody in the office has complained so far.

In fact, although my belly is not big enough yet for anybody to conclude that I'm pregnant, guys in the office has started looking at me a little bit differently. They say hi and immediately the eyes move in the direction of my belly. Just the same thing that happens when you are showing too much cleavage. One movement of the pupils down and up. The whole thing lasts just a second and I dare to say it is probably almost unconscious. Only now, they are passing over the cleavage all together and going directly to my belly button.

And that is a bit strange, taking into account that the only pregnancy thing I really needed to buy so far is a set of new, enormous, maternity bras.

Pregnancy Symptoms: Getting the shape of a prehistoric virgin.
Mother instinct: Nah. I suppose my body didn't fabricate the right hormones yet. Can they be bought somewhere?

The sound of music

Being pregnant, besides from magical and all that crap, has been so far a not so exciting exercise on responsibility.

Everything could possibly harm the baby (and this everything goes from shushi to working until ten). Pregnancy is looking at a sandwich in the cafeteria and thinking of bacteria damaging a little liver or a tiny brain. If you want to take it one step further, you can even worry about computer radiation as you read this. Or music.

Turns out that more or less at this point, our fetus should be able to listen. And then of course I started thinking about what out fetus is listening to. A bit of Czech radio and Spanish pop, turns out, which in itself is quite harmless, but, shouldn't we do it better? I cannot do with Mozart the whole day, but I started to tune our selection to include a bit more jazz, since I am not able to appreciate it properly and I would really like my child to do so.

Moreover, I was told that if you play some music regularly, that's what the baby will demand in order to sleep. Think about it. Is there anything in your CDs that you would not mind listening EVERY DAY???

But most of what the baby is listening the whole day is my own voice reminding the agenda of some meeting or chatting about silly stuff in slightly incorrect English with Spanish accent. We cannot be sure about what the fetus is picking up at this point, but not the right way of pronouncing the Czech alphabet, that's for sure.

So in an exercise of responsibility (another one), I'm trying to call my mum more often, so the fetus can hear Spanish. Yes, I know, what a mother wouldn't do for her fetus?

Pregnancy Symptoms: Looking forward to the moment when I go from "chubby" to "definitely pregnant".
Mother instinct: Two. I still cannot stand babies crying in public places

Eight little fingers and two opposable thumbs

Isn't it great? Today I'm not excited because I was assigned a big difficult project, or because my fellow engineers pretended to do what I asked them for. Today is a great day because the results of my analysis have arrived and I don't have HIV, nor syphilis, and, even more importantly, my fetus has four fingers and a nice opposable thumb in each hand.

I feel quite proud of being able to appreciate these little magic details. I am not living a simple life. I generally need technological and cultural complex aids for entertainment; Wii and Woody Allen, booze, thai food and overpriced shoes. I don't feel too ashamed when I say that I'm not really able to recognize the beauty of a green field or a stream of water. I'm a city girl. If I got lost in the forest, I would probably die. Luckily, it is rather unlikely that I will get enough close to the forest to get lost.

But those ten seconds... counting together with the unpleasant Czech lady in charge of the sono machine. One, two... and finally ten! oh, yes! Ten fingers which moved together with the little hand as the unpleasant lady poke the fetus with the sono device. Isn't it a miracle?

Pregnancy Symptoms: Looks like the fetus stopped messing with my stomach.
Mother instinct: Three. I was a bit upset with the unpleasant lady poking my fetus. Was it instinct when I wanted to slap her? Or was just her being a stupid and really unpleasant cow?

The grandma

Since I got pregnant my mother is calling me every second day to tell me some kind of story from her pregnancy, or my aunt's pregnancies, or my grandmas', or anybody else, friends, neighbors, their daughters, acquaintances and mascots.

In general I find it cute and dear when my mother tells me that she was craving for ice-cream in December, asks me if I'm already using cream against stretch marks, and announces very proudly that I'm so healthy because I took milk for seven months (and ruined my mother's breasts, by the way) and because she didn't take even an aspirin while she was pregnant.

Then, there is the slightly disturbing stuff that I didn't know before, like the fact that with my sister her belly was so big that she had to hold it with special underwear so it would't bounce around. Can it bounce around? Really? Gross.

And finally, there is the stuff that I definitely didn't want to know, for example, that my mother chose to be drugged with anesthesia when she gave birth to me. While I understand that epidural was maybe not usual at the time, and my mom and I share the opinion that God gave us opium for a reason... drugged? Really? Lucky me she didn't take even an aspirin during pregnancy...

Pregnancy Symptoms: Getting fat. Enormous boobs which Martin seems to find sexy despite terrible new giant bra.
Mother instinct: Nope, not yet. Not having aspirins, though. Feel proud. Hope fetus appreciate

And now a fetus

I was thinking of celebrating it in some way when our embryo would turn into a fetus, but as usual, things happened faster than we thought. Apparently, our embryo has turned into a fetus. Last week. And its future parents were totally unaware. For this, and for the shushi nights in Moscow, I'm pretty sure we will be blamed in the future.

Didn't we learn in school that the embryo turns into fetus after the third month? Dates doesn't seem to make any sense once you get into the "magic" pregnancy world. Either miracles are measured by a time scale that is not of this world, or the whole thing is evilly design in purpose to make things look way faster than they are. It is crazy, in the pregnancy world, the moment you take your pants off, you are already two weeks pregnant.

I learned this strange fact in the first visit to the doctor, when he told me I was seven weeks pregnant. Seven weeks?? The future father and I looked at each other, remembering two months of party nights, weddings, apple tobacco and Spanish wine. But... it is impossible. We are pretty sure when we ordered the child, and, believe me, seven weeks ago, it was not even in stock.

It starts counting from the last period, the doctor explained, so the future father and I looked each other again. Did you learn that in your school? and then, isn't that stupid? But, hey, pregnancy is not stupid, it is a miracle. Probably the child was already in the magic accounting books of the magic monkey that delivers the babies.

Pregnancy Symptons: No ginger, no homeopathy. Spanish food is the answer to morning sickness.
Mother instinct: Zero. Annoying baby in restaurant. At least fetuses are not so annoying

It moves!!

I have seen before these ultrasound souvenirs from other pregnant ladies. Generally I would have problems even to recognize that white bean over dark background as "the baby", leave alone share the mum's-to-be excitement over the size of the embryo.

This feeling didn't really changed after my very first ultrasound. There was a blurry white thing in the middle of my uterus and a blinking spot, supposedly the heart, that made the father-to-be smile like an idiot. I was mainly relieved. It's good to know the embryo has a heart. It's good to know there is an embryo inside after all and these hormone kicks I'm experiencing is not due to some bizarre illness.

Anyway, on Friday I had my second ultrasound. The white bean had expanded to what it appeared most of my uterus, and it looked shinny and blurry as usual. And then the doctor said "he is sleeping" and I was shocked. Does it sleep? How do you know it sleeps? It seems too small and undefined to sleep. And then the doctor said "no, he's moving". And she turned the screen and I saw it too. It moved! and I have to say, yes, I was touched. And I smiled like an idiot.

Pregnancy Symptons: There should be gone already!! Why I still feel like there is a parasite stealing my energy?
Mother instinct: 2. Because I have been showing around the picture of the white, four centimeters bean

Imagining disasters

Pregnancy is not the ideal stage for slightly hypochondriac people. Any book, web page, friend or colleague will enumerate a number of possible scenarios where your baby is born deformed, half dead or worse because you had a sandwich of parma ham, a hot bath, too much or too little tuna.

All that would still be ok, but hypochondriac people stretch it a little bit further. Creative hypochondriac people can stretch it way further. There is plenty of space for that.

We have toxoplasmosis in the parma ham and listeria in the home made desserts. There could be mercury in your tuna salad and too little fish will make your baby stupid, so you may want to stick to salmon, unless is raw salmon, or has mayonnaise, or looks suspicious for some other random reason. Because this is only about the known bacterias. What happen with the unknown? What happen with the army of imaginary parasites that are ready to attack your vulnerable pregnant body? Oh, yes, I can imagine all those uncatalogued viruses walking past the antibodies, who are too busy doing nothing in order not to harm the single parasite you would like to keep inside you.

One could stick to buying and cooking all her meals, but this is hardly a solution for Martin and I. Our cooking is probably as dangerous as preparing yourself a tea with the bottom of a McDonalds fryer and some herbs from the New Age store.

It is great. Now every time I sneeze I panic. And since I'm pregnant I sneeze a lot. Which could be caused by the extra blood running through my nose, or by a virus I got in a shushi dinner in Moscow, which could cause my baby to be born with a finger more or less. I already feel like a terrible mother.

Pregnancy Symptons: Needed to eat calamari in the way to Moravia. Not any calamari. I mean fresh and fried, with ali-oli and Spanish bread around. Boyfriend doesn't take me seriously
Mother instinct: 2. Because transferring my paranoia to the embryo means I care

Naming the embryo

I think the guy that got me into this and I are experiencing denial. Faced with the uncountable issues that we should solve before the embryo develops lungs and fingernails, I say uncountable meaning that we don't know which issues we should solve, hence, we cannot count them. I was saying, faced with the need to find a proper nest and a not-too-terrifying hospital, we focus instead on the small insignificant details. Such as naming the embryo.

We shouldn't even get too attached to the embryo, at least until it is upgraded to fetus, but I guess we cannot avoid start looking at the options. Most women do this as soon as they meet a theoric partner anyway. And of course, as an international couple, there is a number of issues to consider. The surname, for example. It could be Knyr, Knyrova, or Knyr Rodriguez, the latest being the preferred one if we can convince Czech bureocracy that we are not joking. His mum thought we were joking. We are not. People in Spain has two surnames and my embryo is not going to have less.

Then the first name. It has to be Spanish, of course. My embryo cannot be called Rostislav Knyr. People would wonder if I bought it in Ukraine. However, not every Spanish name is acceptable. A boy's name cannot be ending in "o" because that sounds femenine in Czech. That eliminates, Antonio, Francisco, and other hundreds of options. We have to eliminate also anything that makes Czech people laugh. Jesus, for example. Don't ask me why it makes them laugh. And the guy that got me into this would like an international name. Nothing mexican-sounding, like Pedro or Carlos.

And finally, we need to put all of this together and make sure that name and surname goes fine, so the baby doesn't hate us when it grows up. Let's admit it, not many things go well with Knyr. And anything starting with K goes really bad. Like Kenny or Katka. So basically we don't have anything. It's terrible. But we will keep on thinking, since this topic diverse the attention from the need of a mortage, car, and a somehow mature life.

Pregnancy Symptons: All of them. Morning sickness the whole day. Pregnancy is a rather annoying thing so far.
Mother instinc: 2. Because giving the embryo names must count as mother instinct

Miracles in my belly

My pregnancy books just arrived. Since neither I nor the dude that got me pregnant had any idea of what to look for, I just went for the more scientific looking book I could find. Bullet points, diagrams and names of hormones. I discarded any volume where the word miracle was printed anywhere. Mating two members of the same species and different gender, both in reproductive age and permanent jobs is hardly a miracle.

I also discarded any book in pink colors, childish font and fluffy stuff. It is bad enough to read that you are likely to get hemorrhoids, to read it in comic sans over a violet background with a picture of a baby looking at you is masochism.

So well, I got my serious looking books and starting documenting myself about all those magic, amazing changes going on in my body. And what the book recommends to deal with the annoyance of these miracles? Homeopathy. Seriously. Homeopathy. In other words, water and sugar pills. Expensive water and sugar pills. But this is not the worst. The worst is that they advise to be careful with the dosage. Because… too many drops of water might… kill… you…?

Yes, I was shocked. People around me, however, seems to find this normal. Some people recommend also to massage the baby mentally and say babies that have it easy during labor are less ambitious as adults. Stop for a second. What is going on? These are educated people. Engineers. Atheists. Why is it about pregnancy that brings out the pseudo scientist we all have inside?

But of course, pregnancy is all about miracles. Maybe I should take those sugar pills, sit back and enjoy the placebo effect, waiting for the rules of physics to be violated as my belly grows.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=swDpWNKB5Co&feature=related

Pregnancy symptoms: Discovered embryo doesn't like Big Mac
Mother instinct: Going down as I look at pictures of smalls heads going out of vaginas

Surprise, surprise!!

So yes, I have been months making jokes about having children and suddenly, quite suddenly in fact, I don't know what to say.
Our little "planned accident" caught us quite off guard.

We were supposed to be planning our trip to the Gobi dessert and instead we were visiting pharmacies in Moscow, first for a pregnancy test, then for a second pregnancy test, finally to get vitamins for pregnancy.

Then everything went too fast. The call to the gynecologist:
-It's not an illness, you can do normal life, it's all common sense
-Sushi?
-No
-Sauna?
-No
-Gobi dessert?
-Definitely not

I don't have common sense. At least not the kind of common sense that is expected from pregnant ladies. But of course, in the pregnancy world everything is pink and flower-ish and can make you puke more than the morning sickness. I don't have much of that. I only experienced it the morning I found out I was pregnant, but I'm sure I'm not the only one that cannot swallow a bite after such news.

Pregnancy symptoms: Urge to cry and say stupidities, hormones must be getting nuts
Mother instinct from 1 to 10: Zero, but urge to cry when presented homeless puppies. Hormones…
Belly status: Big, but I cannot blame the embryo for that

More than a girlfriend, less than a partner.

That‘s how the main character of “The Ghost” described his relationship. He complained that there wasn’t a word for it. Well dear, we have three languages to search and couldn’t find a suitable word either.

Martin once thought it was very funny to introduce me as his “current” girlfriend. Ha-Ha. No comments.

However, partner is a terrible word. It triggers the same chain of thoughts in most people. “Are you gay? Aha. Then, why don’t you marry?” Moreover, to be a partner as such, I think you should be registered and introducing Martin as my “unregistered” partner could be fun for just a while.

The main problem is that even if we find the right description it would be just that, a description, rather than a word. It ranges from weird to pathetic to call somebody flatmate with benefits, genetic material supply, alternative to celibacy, or long term investment, even when all those things are true.

So the problem stays unsolved. We are damned to keep on defining each other with more or less creative descriptions and hoping for the best. The movie, by the way, great. My regular cinema companion and I enjoyed it a lot.

Sports

Czechs are competitive people. Ask them about their children and they will answer something like „The boy is very good at basket and floorball, but the girl is amazing at swimming and football“. In Spain, if you ask the same, you would obtain the children academic record instead.

I generally try to keep far from Czechs in competition. There are high chances to end up injured or lose respect for your colleagues once you see them in sport clothes.

Anyway, this Saturday I couldn’t refuse to participate in a company sports event. There were seven disciplines to be played in couples, and I barely knew the rules of one of them. Of course, the whole thing was just for fun. I was expecting to lose every match, finish early and devote myself to drinking beer and getting tanned. But it wasn’t so easy...

First of all, losing a match didn’t guarantee that you didn’t have to play anymore. The losers needed to compete again in a all-losers competition. If it wasn’t enough embarrasment to get my ass kicked in every discipline by a mother of three, I was eventually cheered by the team I was competing against. People were nice. I felt a bit like a disadvantaged kid, but they are not to blame for this, only the hours I spent in the library instead of playing football outside.

After over eight hours of losing at ping pong, and floorball, and everything else, when I thought the embarrasment was over, the results were announced. Every score. From the first to the last couple, obviuosly us. I appologized profuselly to my partner, and we went to drawn the defeat in beer.

Once back in the office, still in pain from sports hangover, I was greeted by an email with the scores, and an ironic „how was the competition?“ by my colleagues. I was patient. Let them have their fun. It should be over now. Isn’t it? No, I got a meeting invitation today to attend some diploma giving ceremony tomorrow. And that’s it. I will either call in sick or hide in a meeting room. At least I know now how this competitiveness grows on them. Because I plan to train ping pong and throw penalties until I can recover a bit of dignity the next time.

Language doesn't matter, because always sooner than later, couples create their own. After some time you can tell when that lost look in the morning means he run out of clean underwear, you know what he is going to order in the restaurant, and the moment he calls you can answer "so, you are late, aren't you?" and you can tell what he is going to say next. And how he is going to say it. And in which language.

Language doesn't matter, but it matters so much. Your own particular language. The words you say with your eyes, and your gestures and with everything you do. Because after some time, you not only know but you expect that he knows. That he understands your smile or your lack of it. And knows what to say next. And how to say it. And in what language. And if he doesn't, well, that's is a real communication problem.

In a relationship

So, it is true. I don't have any "relationship status" in facebook.

The thing is, I asked Martin some time ago if he was "in a relationship" and he told me he wasn't aware of having any status. Yes, I didn't need to ask, I could have checked, but you see, we don't really do much facebook at home.

I supposed in such a case, you would be listed as "single", which is unacceptable, because we ARE in a relationship and anything else would be lying. Moreover, amongst our friends, we have a kind of record of "being in a relationship" versus "not being in a relationship" or "being in a marriage" and it is not unusual for normal couples to actually break up for something like not having the correct facebook status.

But now, it turns out, we don't have facebook status. I feel a bit disadvantaged. Should I change it? Or, more exactly, should I force Martin to change it? Taking into account that the simple mention of the word relationship makes him shiver, will this be a step in the direction of acceptance? Or in the direction of getting traumatized and downgrade me to "in something like a relationship that is not a relationship even if it has looked like that for over six years"?

Visitors

This week I had visitors home. It was great but exhausting. I realized how much my childhood friends are like family. I love them very much, but if they stayed one more day in my place, I would need to slaughter them and no one could blame me.

It was tiring even before they arrived. We had to clean up the house, make sure that we had enough supplies and fix the stuff that needed to be fix so they wouldn't have a reason to raise their eyebrows. Sure enough, if Martin and I we were an organized, tidy couple, the kind of people that do shopping and cleaning on Saturday mornings, we would not need to make so much effort, but well... we were obviously not looking for this kind of skill when we found each other in a student party in Eindhoven.

Of course, and the same thing would happen with family, all this cleaning spree could not possibly be enough. Among the general complains that my friends raised during the weekend were the fact that my bathtub is too high, we don't have drapes in the windows, we don't have enough pillows, my umbrellas are too big, my gel produces allergy, the clocks in the house are noisy, the birds in the neighborhood are singing at night and I should go to the hairdresser. Plus, in Czech Republic the sun raises too early.

I love them. I really do. They filled my house "literally" with wine and sweets and it was great to spend time together. But I have to say I felt so relieved when they left... the house was a mess, there were tons of dishes to clean and candy everywhere. We sat in the couch with a bottle of Spanish wine and did nothing but to recover energy. And yes, like family, irrationally, one day after I was already missing them.

Another picture of you two looking like homeless

I need to talk about my mum again. You can think I have mum issues, or she is an inexhaustible resource of funny remarks. Whichever way, here it goes.

We were in a trip and had the great idea of taking a picture with the phone, and thanks to the miracles of modern telecommunications, send it to my mum with our greetings from the Ramon Rocks in Israel.

She didn't look so excited about the fact, though. Maybe she didn't realize the awesomeness of getting an instant, customized, digital postcard from a dessert in the Middle East with all the love of your caring child. So I called her.

"Mum, did you get my message?"
"What? Ah! Yes! Another picture of you two looking like homeless..."
"What?"
"Yeah, you have thousands of pictures like this, with baggy clothes in some random mountain"

So then, later in Jerusalem, I sent her a picture of myself enjoying a cocktail with a great view of the old town.

"So... what do you think about this picture?"
"mmm, I showed it to your aunt. That's not Martin Who is he?"
"It's me!!"
"You? Don't be ridiculous, darling. That's a man in the picture"

Screw the miracles of telecommunication. As log as my mum doesn't get a phone with a decent resolution, I'm sticking to postcards.

Two people running in circles in opposite directions

A friend of us is doing a thesis about the meaning that people assign to words in different languages. For the purpose of the study, she chose the word "love" (I will not comment on this) and the study includes Czech, Russian, French and English, all languages she speaks fluently.

Martin volunteered to be rat lab. He was supposed to draw what love means for him. Here you have the masterpiece.



I have to admit this made me really confused. I understand the concept behind the circle, no beginning and no end. But the arrows according to Martin, represent people. People running in opposite directions that will eventually meet each other and… crash leaving behing a bloddy mess or a cloud of ashes? Or they will run past each other forever and ever, without finding their other half? Whatever the alternative, something is very wrong in his head.

And now, as usual, I wonder. Is it a Czech thing or a men thing? Therefore, I asked our friend what other people drew. Apparently, women tend to draw more figurative items, the tipycal stuff; hands held together, two people, hearts and the like. What about men? Here are some examples:



I think I got my answer.

Scary Birthday

I thought now that I have become thirty, I needed to start coping with the idea that all the friends I have been gathering during these years are probably gone.
Not only works steals a lot of time, but on top of that some of my friends have to take care of children. And some of them have to take care of children in the opposite side of the globe, which makes it really difficult to meet up for a coffee from time to time and catch up in the small things.

So, it comes the time, I said to myself, when I might need to start counting co-workers as friends and rediscovering the joy of spending time with myself. It comes the time where self-aid books don't look so retarded anymore. It comes the time when you cannot stuff yourself with wine and chocolate without paying the consequences. It comes the time when make up is not a Saturday night thing. Maybe, I said to myself, maybe the time has come.

And then the day actually comes and my friends from the other side of the globe and my colleagues from university, whom I haven't seen in ages, find the time to write a line for me, my co-workers organize a surprise party and I stuff myself with two different kinds of cakes and I drink French wine with my lovely boyfriend who has bought thirty red roses for me (implicit marriage proposal, according to my aunt) and I think Wow. Seriously. I'm a lucky bastard.

And I know that it is thanks to facebook and skype that everybody knows I’m crossing that scary imaginary line and it is as probable as scary that all my real friends are becoming virtual. Even my mum said “the computer is telling me you are thirty now”. “The computer is becoming bit too clever, mum. Ignore it”. That’s why I decided to invest a bit more time this year to visit friends and get to share the small things, and maybe even get in touch with those little scary things they have decided to create. Yeah, it’s going to cost a lot of money too, but it is absolutely necessary. I’m thirty now! It’s scary! I'm sure they are scared too!

Paris

Ah, Paris!

C'est une belle ville, Paris. It's lovely, Paris, with such a friendly people and the language… so beautiful, so understable. It's my latest fascination, France and the French language. Why everybody hate French? Nothing bad can come out of a country that likes food so much.

Everything is lovely in France. We visited a lovely couple and their lovely flat that has a lovely view of Montmartre and the Eiffel Tower. They made me believe in American cheese movies, where you can see the Eiffel tower from every window of every hotel.

They are expecting a half Spanish half French baby and Cecile will make his/her clothes herself. She already made the furniture of the house out of cardboard and she made also dinner for us. If this wasn't enough, she speaks six languages, including Spanish, which they usually speak at home. Yeah, I would date her too.

Just to make it even more perfect it was sunny the whole weekend. I felt like singing "la vie en rose" while we walked along the Sena, Notre Dame a droit. I couldn't even get upset about paying twenty euros for a beer. Afer all, I spent the same amount for cookies.

And then we came back to Prague, and it was raining, and the way home from the airport didn't look lovely at all. I looked at Martin and for a second I wished he was French and I could understand his mum. But just for a second. then I thought I couldn't date a French guy, everybody hates French...

Easter Time

Yesterday again, he sighted “sorry, guys, this weekend I have to go to Spain”. Again, his friends didn’t really understand what was wrong with spending Easter in a lovely Mediterranean country full of bizarre traditions. I reminded him a lot of people save money the whole year to go a couple of weeks to Spain, you know? Again, he complained in the usual terms “Yeah, but we will just visit your family. It’s a lot of money for a few days of drinking coffee and eating ham. I don’t even like ham that much”. Don’t get me started with the ham. Seriously. How is that even possible? That’s like not liking the Beatles. Insane.

Anyway, there are some minor compromises a person needs to make to keep his partner happy. Going on holidays to Spain is way down the list of unpleasant stuff ever done because of being in a relationship. It’s a bit away from having to drink wine before it gets bad and accompanying your partner to a chocolate spa.

I don’t think it has anything to do with the fact that he will be missing the Easter celebration in his home town, which consists of course on getting wasted and beating young girls with a stick. That is likely to get a bit boring once you become an adult, and in any case, we will probably see some beating in Spain during the Easter celebrations too. Ha-ha. Ok. Not so funny.

So, in any case we are going to Spain and I’m sure that food and wine will be, as usual, enough to entertain him during the expected English-unfriendly conversations. And he will not dare to say to his buddies that is was horrible how my family forced sea food and Ribera wine down his throat. They would slap him.

Spanish girl in Afghanistan

Mum bought a book for me. In Christmas and birthdays she is generally more concerned about my supply of panties, so this is news.

The book is a real story about a Spanish girl that gets trapped in Afghanistan with her Afghan husband, who she met in London. There is a word that explains very well what the book makes you feel: idiot, idiot, idiotic girl.

Actually, the book is supposed to be a beautiful love story. She is not willing to leave Afghanistan without her husband, and she even had to be rescued twice, because she came back to him after the first time. Idiot…

I’m sure this is exactly what my mum had in mind. Of course, sadly, now I know this is the way she feels about me: she feels I’m an idiot and this is her subtle way to tell it to me.

But she is not right, at least not completely. For starters, Martin and I are way more careful when we travel. This girl crossed the border of Afghanistan leaving all her money and documentation in the hands of a kid. Idiot… Plus, she gets pregnant twice while being there and we are not even thinking about it… well, more exactly we are waiting for the right moment in the year of the dragon when the moon is in Jupiter and we have loads of money so we can feed caviar every day to our child.

Mum probably thinks I'm more adventurous than I really am, and Czech Republic far more wild than it really is. God bless her imagination. But talking about imagination, wasn’t that was fairy tales were all about? Princes risking their lives once and once again for princesses trapped with some evil dragon or Taliban. When did we stop dreaming about it? When did the prince start thinking twice? “As far as I’m concerned if you silly enough to get stuck in Afghanistan, you can rescue yourself. Or call your mum”

An Infectious Disease

We look cute together. He is tall, skinny and blue eyed. The kind that grows a little rounded belly at thirty. I have a funny Spanish accent that sounds even funnier in Czech. It’s exotic to be an international couple. It’s cool and it’s definitely in right now, but like other international couples I know, we are a bit crippled.

It is nothing too serious. It’s like a chronic illness. In theory you can live forever, but let’s face it, your chances are lower than those of other healthy people. Only, unlike an illness, you can get rid of your partner and look for somebody more statistically suitable, some relationship with higher life expectancy, something that would be blessed by Hindu parents with high quality standards.

You could, if only it was so easy. Once the parasite gets inside you it’s rather hard to get rid of it. It’s not only about the shortage of blue eyed guys in Spain, but the kick you get from having by your side such a different point of view, and I do not mean somebody that supports Barca instead of Madrid, but somebody that queued for bananas during communism. I’m talking adventure; I’m talking the kind of inspiration that compels you to write a post comparing your relationship with an infectious disease.

It’s not easy at times. It’s tough when you need to use Google translator as a relationship aid. But it is also fun; it is a nasty road trip, with bumps and camels in the middle of the way. And my job is not that interesting. I often need that kind of kick.

Communication Problems

When Martin and I met in Holland, language wasn’t a problem. It was a toy to play with.

Martin would say “Dobry den - good morning” and I would repeat “Dobry den”. I would then say “me gustas” and Martin would obediently repeat it. Martin would continue “Jsem nadrezena”, and I would say “what the heck is that?” and he “go figure”.

So I asked the Internet, of course, more concretely the mailing list from the university exchange students, and I obtained several answers from people that didn’t know what nadrezena means but they were happy to translate anything I needed to Tamil, funny guesses from people that tend to read emails after a few drinks, and eventually the correct translation from some Slovak, and a Croatian, and a Polish… Yes, writing “I’m horny” in the internet is quite an ice breaker.

Now it’s more or less six years from that day, and I can’t help but wonder if this story is really meant to work. Wonder if it is really a good idea to go all the way there, and settle down, and buy a house, and bring kids to a world of poor English and two isolated mother tongues. And then I think, hey! That would be a good joke, wouldn’t it? Guess we both have a twisted sense of humor.