Chi Chi

There are so many good signs in Spain.  I mean so bad that they are good.  Here’s my favorite of the day.  It deserves a little translation and explanation.

Oferta Semanal:  Depilación Púbica (ChiChi) 7 Euros, varios modelos.

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Hmm, a few worlds you can probably guess.  DepilaciónPúbica. 

Let’s start with the word “ChiChi“.  Sounds jaunty doesn’t it. A bit like “ChaCha”, like there should be some dancing involved.  Well,”Chichi” is a take off on the much loved Spanish word “ChoCho” which refers to the female nether regions.

I still have not gotten used to hearing Moms calling their daughters “ChoCho”.  In English it doesn’t sound so cute.  “Hey Vagina, dinner’s ready”.  Just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

Far more overused than “CHoCho” is its male counterpart “Picha”, which apparently they do not wax in the establishment above.  My husband refuses to admit it, but he refers to his brother as “Picha” (penis).  More common still, guys here refer to each other as “Cojones” (testicles.)  Insert “Conjones” or “ChiChi” anywhere that you would have used “Dude” in 1988.

I hear this in the street all day,

“Got a light, Cojones?”

“Love your Hello Kitty nail extensions, Chocho”

“What’s up, Cojones”

So the sign says, “Special of the week.  Pubic hair removal.  (vagina variety).  Various styles.” 

Although they have various styles, apparently none of them are suitable for your picha or cojones.

And that, ChiChi, concludes my short lesson of street Spanish.

Redefining Bull Fighting

Bull fighting is controversial.  It is deeply respected tradition in Spain, not to mention a money spinner.   But killing animals for sport is bloody, cruel and seen as barbaric in these times.

There is hope.  I think these freaks just nailed the future of bullfighting.   And a new generation of tumble-tot classes in Spain surely will help rebuild the economy.

Jump ahead to 0:39 seconds to get to the good stuff.

 

 

 

Redefining “Air Mail”

I have many stories about the snail-mail here in Andalusia.  Packages disappear.  Strange taxes appear.  Our mailman became the Mayor.   But our new mailman in Tarifa has taken bizarre to new heights.  3.37 meters high to be exact.

When I arrived home from the school run Friday there was a large package on the ground inside my locked patio.  How exciting. How strange.  How did it get there?

No one witnessed this mystery unfold so I can only assume this chain of events:

  • Mailman arrives to deliver a package.
  • Mailman rings bell, no one answers.
  • Mailman decides carrying package back to truck would be labour intensive and unsatisfying.
  • So, mailman throws large package 3 meters and 37 centimeters over the wall where large package drops onto the cement floor of my patio.

I measured. He threw it 3.37 meters in the air. That’s a little over 11 feet for those of you who don’t speak metric.

I can picture Mr.  Mailman looking at the wall, looking at the package, looking at the wall.  He probably turned the box around, searching for clues of its contents.  He gave it a little shake, muttering, “Doesn’t sound breakable”.  Then he took one last glance for witnesses, declared,  “F@&% it” and he pitched it over the wall.

My only question is whether the box made it over on his first toss, or if it bounced back onto the street a few time before clearing the wall.

Given my history with the Spanish mail service this experience leaves me elated.  The package arrived. It arrived in a timely fashion with no additional charges.  I did not have to stand in a line.

Thank goodness it was Lego and not a new laptop.

 

 

I’m back!

Happy Halloween.

Not So Spanish just won’t die.  This blog is rising from the dead in time for trick ó treat.

The school said the kids could dress up for Halloween.  The instructions said, “something scary”.

So they went as Spanish construction workers.  (Minus the ever-present cigarette).  Spanish construction workers scare the crap out of me everytime they enter the house.

This blog is in the middle of a messy remodel.  It could be months, I’m on Spanish time of course.  But I’m looking forward to clogging up your newsfeed again.

 

Dashing through the sand.

Boxing Day.  What is a good northern Canadian girl to do?  Take the family tobogganing of course!  No lack of snow can deter my cultural committment. Don’t fear, my little Canucks, we will have fun, like it or not.

Ñ

“Ok troops, this is what real Canadians do on Boxing Day.  And we don’t even have to take off six layers of clothes before we pee.  So no complaining now and everyone UP THE HILL!”

Ñ

“I saw her putting rum in that thermos.”

Ñ

“Looks like the Mommy is serious about this tobogganing crap.  She isn’t even waiting for us!”

Ñ

“Ok, now you just sit on the buggy board and slide down the hill.  And you laugh and scream and pretend you’re having fun.  Wipe that Spanish smirk off your face and start having fun, damn it.  I’m serious!”

Ñ

The friction coefficient is all wrong, Papi.”

“You’re right son.  To make this fun we either need more slope, less clothing, or more rum.  I’ll check-in with your mother.”
Ñ

“Hello down there.  Are we having fun yet?”
Ñ

“Papi, I have sand in my underwear”

“I suppose it’s better than snow.  Let’s just humor her a bit longer and  I’ll buy you a toy bullfighter on the way home.”

Ñ

“Who filled my thermos with sand?  Come back here, you little twerps!”

The Nativity Garage

Have you read the Pope’s new book?  Since I have never understood the Spanish nativity scene fascination I might have to give it a read.  Apparently he clears up big misconceptions regarding the nativity scene.

We’ve had it all wrong about the donkey.  There were no donkeys gazing lovingly at baby Jesus during the real deal.  So if your family prefers a realistic interpretation of the nativity, put your plastic animals back in the garage.

But a shout out to my Spanish family, I was excited to hear that the three wise men came from Andalusia!  How they managed to travel from Spain to Bethlehem on camels is unclear; obviously I need to read the whole book.

In what chapter does he discuss the Vatican’s official position on Hot Wheels?

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We’re on form with official donkey doctrine.  Our donkey was crowded out by a Playmobile bus.  All the parking spots near the manger were already taken.

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Baby Jesus has been stuffed under the sofa since this photo was taken.  Does the Pope really understand the ramifications of new nativity scene protocol?  Because this is what happens when three wise guys from Andalusia show up at your nativity scene.

Sticking around the Christmas tree – 2012

Christmas tradition time!   Here we go,  the third annual wonky Christmas tree extravaganza at the Santos-Fraser household.

I’ll remind you of previous entries.

2010

laddertree

Low tech, efficient, portable.

2011

hangertree

Perfect for encouraging a closet clean-out.

But this year the kids are older and we have new needs to fill. Banging for example. We are always in need of appropriate opportunities to bang that begeezes out of something. Sticks are also popular. And we  mustn’t forget the perennial toddler favorite, picking garbage treasures off the beach.  So we went beach combing for Christmas tree ingredients.

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Cheaper than Walmart!

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There was heated debate over how many sticks we could haul home on our bikes  the attributes of various components.

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But I did all this just for the boys.  I didn’t have any fun at all.

2012

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Tada!  This is what we came up with.

Pros:  no needles to vacuum.

Cons:  no evergreen fresh smell.  Whatever.  I’ll buy an air freshener.

I put it outside for a week to annoy the neighbours, so the whole complex could enjoy our work.

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Then we moved it to the patio to decorate it.

How long until one of those monkeys climbs it?

Things that make you go “Hmmmmm”

I tried to publish this post with a more explicit title but WordPress wouldn’t let me.  It tripped their pornography filter.  Ha ha.

Just a Mommy blogger with a few illegal kale plants and I’m on the internet shit-list.

These were washing up all over the beach last weekend.

Last time I saw something like this it was at a battery-powered “Tupperware party” for bored housewives.  wink wink.

What is it?

Guerilla Gardeners

The idea of a community garden in our complex is batted about periodically.  Apparently Manolo the maintenance man always shuts it down.  But given our dirt deprivation, we’ve resorted to drastic measures.  We have joined the revolution.  We’re going guerilla.

It’s never too early to introduce your children to a life of crime.  For example, 8:00am is a good time.

Here we have two bad boys, creeping around the complex in their fuzzy footed PJs in the wee hours of the morning.  Their crime?  Unauthorized swiss chard.

Guerilla gardeners! Río is the look-out man. What Manolo won’t know won’t hurt him.  He never weeds in there anyway.

Something tells me we won’t keep our secret for long.  Some of the smaller members of our band are easily persuaded to talk.

Maybe blabbing it all over the internet isn’t so clever either.

So if you are wandering through Tarifa and you spot a cabbage or kale in an unlikely spot, stop and give it some love.  Or eat it.

Harvest Moon

Look what came out of the garden the other morning.

I love steamed greens for breakfast.  But today was the first day we harvested enough to fill a pot with beans and greens for a real Caldo Gallego.

It’s one of our favorite winter dishes;  warm, filling and healthy.  What else could you ask for?  That Rogelio makes it, not me!  That’s why it’s my favorite.

Yes, the kids high-grade the sausage out first.  But eventually they eat the greens too.

Did I mention that I didn’t have to cook this?  Yippee!  But I’ll hide my smile behind the greens.

We have to go incognito. I’m on the lam.

Stay tuned.