Hola . . .

I have many gifts.

I don't have the one I desperately need.

I do not have a gift for languages.

I married a guy from Costa Rica whose mother doesn't speak English.

She doesn't speak the language I happened to study in high school for three years which was French. The language of love and romance.

She speaks Spanish.

I know some Spanish.

Mostly swear words. Doesn't everyone?

I'm pretty sure swearing in response to everything my mother-in-law says wouldn't be appropriate. At least out loud. Most of the time.

We communicate by pantomime, Morse code, and long awkward stretches of silence. Well, at least I do. She just stares at me and makes the crazy sign, rotating her index finger in circles by the side of her head.

I understand Spanish, and can follow conversations, if no one is talking directly to me. I sit at family gatherings listening to everyone jabber away in their foreign tongue nodding and smiling and interjecting the odd, "Si" here and there just to let them know I get everything they are saying. The minute they turn to me and ask a simple question like, "Would you please pass the chips?" I freeze and forget everything, even my own native tongue.

Just passing the chips would be fine without saying anything. I have this problem when that happens. I can't seem to pass up the opportunity to converse in a language I have no business speaking. I want to make a connection with them. I blurt out the first thing that comes into my mind. Usually the wrong thing like, "Madam, that shirt and your mustache look lovely." I don't stop there. I keep going. I'm on a roll. My mind is racing. I'm searching my brain for the right words and then I say what I think is, "Here are the chips," when what I'm really saying is, "We're taking a bath right now." Out of the corner of my eye, I spy my mother-in-law making the universal crazy sign again.

Later, at home, I tell my kids how smart they were for studying Spanish in school. They tell me that they didn't learn anything but some useless phrases. My daughter asks me when she will ever use the following phrase, "Can you please direct me to the nearest pyramid?" or "Let's go hunt for buried treasure." I laugh. Then I store those phrases in my memory. They might come in handy some day. You never know. It could happen.

A little secret . . .

That's me.

I was a debutante.

A one-armed debutante with two hands (click on the photo for a better look).

I have no idea why I was one of the young ladies actually chosen to represent the organization. My mother came home one day from one of her philanthropic meetings and handed me an application to fill out. The application asked me to list all of the charitable organizations I belonged to. The lines underneath were numbered from one to twenty. I was only 17 at the time. I hadn't lived long enough to belong to anything other than the Girl Scouts. I pondered the question for about a minute and then my imagination took over. I wondered if being a faithful Friday night viewer of the Donny and Marie show counted as a charitable act. I put down that I had been a candy striper. They didn't need to know that I had been fired from my volunteer job on the first day of training because I ate all the candy I should have been delivering to patients. I started making things up just to fill up the space. I remember getting carried away and writing about how I single-handedly rescued 20 pagan babies from eternal damnation when I was in 2nd grade. It must have impressed the panel. I was in.

The guy in the red sash was my escort. He was supposed to be glued to my side all night long catering to my every whim. The guy in the blue sash was the back-up escort. He was supposed to take over if the red sash guy had to take a bathroom break or something. This was the one and only time I saw both of them all night. It's okay though because I didn't like my escort anyway.

That's my dad helping me down the stairs.

He's telling me to hurry up because he doesn't have all day. He's also telling me to quit asking him to carry me.

I've just finished making my St. James curtsey. That curtsey boot camp my mom sent me to for 6 months paid off.

I'm distracting my dad so he doesn't see the pink flowers and red walls and the orange shag carpeted stairs with stains and duct tape. He reminded me daily that it cost an arm and a leg for me to be a debutante. I should know...it was my arm.

It was a memorable night.

For the record, no pagan babies were given ridiculous names in the telling of this story.

That's hot...

I found this picture in my husband's yearbook.

That's the husband on the right.

Those authentic puka shells made the difference between liking him and loving him.

The rainbow wedge sandals sent me over the edge.

The open shirt . . . well, what can I say.

That's Borat on the left.

He hadn't been discovered yet.

I have nothing to say about him.

The picture tells the story.

Really well.

I looked at my high school yearbook's tonight. That is something no one should be allowed to do on a Friday night. Everyone knows that therapists don't have weekend appointments. I did it anyway. That's what happens when you are by yourself, and your husband is away, and your kids are out, and you have the house to yourself and time to waste.

I came across a few noteworthy comments.

M wrote: "I don't know why I like you so much." (Mom, I told you Sear's Charm School was going to be a huge waste of time.)

K wrote: "I don't know how we would live without you." (My nickname was, "The Savior.")

J wrote: "You are a bitchin' person." ( I'm still not allowed to say that word.)

KM wrote: "Howdy Fox, I love you." ( This one might have been flattering if a boy had written it.)

Just when things were looking up, I found the following messages.

L wrote: "You're a real weird person, but cool." ( It's all downhill from here.)

B wrote: "To a very unique person." (Unique was underlined so hard it tore through the page.)

E wrote: "You're a crazy person, but I love you anyway." (Crazy was underlined twice. I'm starting to see a pattern developing here.)

T wrote: "When you become a comedian I will come and laugh at your jokes." ( Just for that, I will let you in for free, but your friends have to pay.)

One of my teacher's wrote: "Remember, the final exam in Marriage comes in 40 years!, Love, Mr. K." ( Was that a proposal?)

S wrote: "With the possible exception of Mary G., you are the funniest person I have ever met." ( With the possible exception of everyone else, you are my best friend.)

R wrote: "How do I love thee, let me count the ways." ( That wouldn't be so creepy if I hadn't attended an all girl's school.)

D wrote: "Call me (555-1534)." ( Um, is it too late?)

N wrote: "Well ya caught me, just don't tell anyone." ( Apparently I was very attractive to other girls. It must have been my Dorothy Hamill haircut.)

D wrote: "I'm horny." ( I'll be right back, I have to go wash my hands.)

L wrote: "You've been a great P.E. ass." (Proof that I have never possessed any athletic ability.)

The rest of the messages were full of shameless flattery and declarations of lifelong friendships.

I read those nightly to boost my fragile ego.

What was I thinking?...

Dear Mrs. M.,

I wasn't a good babysitter. There are some things I would like you to know about the time I spent in your house. Just know that I am sorry for them all.

I'm sorry I painted your half finished ceramic giraffe. I'm really sorry I finished it. I'm sorry I found the paint, and the brushes, and the artists palette, and the cute little French beret that made me look like an artist. It was an impulse thing. I was impulsive. Okay, I admit it, I was out of control.

I'm sorry I painted the half finished mural in your daughter's room. I'm sorry I went upstairs and snooped around. I'm really sorry I saw the paint, and the brushes, and the artists palette sitting on the dresser. I looked all over for the cute little French beret but couldn't find it. Your muralist must not have been French. I'm really, really sorry I opened the red tube of paint and placed a little (okay a lot) on the brush and made a ladybug hiding in the grass. I'm even sorrier that I painted some (lots) of grass around the tree. I'm sorry about the tree. I know painting a carved heart with my initials and the boy I had a crush on was inappropriate. I couldn't help myself. Impulse and all...you know.

I'm sorry about the carpet. It was me. I ruined your chocolate brown shag carpeting. I'm sure it was a complete mystery to you for years as to how your shag carpet was one day whole and fine and then mysteriously had gaping holes in random spots. I'll tell you how it happened. I was in the zone. Painting furiously. I know. I had no business (or art degree) painting anything in your house. I was supposed to be watching your kid. He was asleep. He slept a lot. I wasn't much of a TV watcher. I did love art though. I thought I would just paint one blade of grass and it would be enough. It wasn't. Then I thought I would paint one little, teeny tiny ladybug and it would be enough. It wasn't. Then I got the great idea of carving (painting ) my initials in the tree that your professional muralist had created. It needed something more. I helped. I must have tossed aside the red paint when I was finished with it. I stepped back to admire my work and my foot landed right on the tube of red paint. What were the odds? Apparently not so good for me.

The paint squirted everywhere. It ruined my white ditto jeans. They were my favorite pants. I'm sure you don't care about that. The carpet was a mess. Paint was everywhere. That little tube of paint made a big mess. I panicked. I freaked out. I looked at the clock to see how much time I had before you were expected home. I had a few minutes. I ran like I was being chased by a wild animal over to my house (2 houses away) and changed. I threw the pants in the trash. I cried a little. I slapped my own face and pulled myself together. I came back and tried to get the paint off the carpet. I made a bigger mess. I tried to make designs and swirl patterns on the carpet when I saw that it wasn't coming out. Maybe you would have liked it. Probably not.

It was then that I decided to cut my losses. . . and your carpet. I ran downstairs and grabbed a pair of scissors from the junk drawer in your kitchen. I ran back upstairs and began hacking away. I cut carpet from under the dresser. I figured it would be less noticeable. I hoped that you didn't vacuum very often. I hoped my parents would move us to China before you found out. I cut all the red paint out of the carpet and carefully laid the brown fuzzy shag pieces I had snipped and hacked from under the dresser over the holes. It looked bad. I know it. If glue guns had been invented, you never would have known, but it would be a few years before that invention and I wasn't babysitting anymore anyway.

I heard the garage door open and shoved everything under the bed. I ran downstairs. You came in. I did a couch dive. I made it just in time. I saw you look around. I saw your eyes fall on the giraffe. The finished brown and yellow giraffe that had been white when you left. I hope you liked it. I'm sorry. You frowned and gave me a strange look. I jumped up. I almost fainted. I was dizzy from all the running and cutting and hiding stuff. I told you that this one was on me. I couldn't possibly let you pay me. You insisted. I declined and ran out the door mumbling my goodbyes and something about never babysitting again.

You will be happy to know that I grew up and out of my impulsive behavior. I'm sure you care. I never painted another giraffe or touched another artist's mural again. I have also never worn a beret after that day. I look terrible in hats.

Sincerely,
Romi

p.s. I had nothing to do with the million dollar bottle of alcohol that dripped all over your bar while I was on watch. You know, the one that was on a special stand and had a spigot. I didn't do it. I swear. I really mean that. The entire time I was babysitting your kids, and playing with them, and trying to make up for the carpet and giraffe and mural, I smelled something funny, like licorice. I heard a faraway dripping sound, but that's it. I didn't discover the cause of the noise and smell until I heard you come through the garage door. It was not me. Now, my conscience is clear. Well, almost clear. I still have a couple more letters to write. I will sleep better tonight knowing that I have apologized. I'm sure you will too.

. . . to be continued.