Messy, Silly, Sad, Joyful, Terrifying, Ridiculous Life!A series of reminiscences, reflections, notes, and ideas of a chronically anxious late-blooming author and expat living in Spain. Impromptu Grief Counseling

I'm remembering a party, thirty years ago now, and it was fraught for a number of reasons but the main thing was that I have always covered my social anxiety with laughter. This guy came in, a punk with a shaved head, wearing a black mini-dress and boots, stomping around, and when I saw him I laughed—it wasn't a mean laugh, it was a Wow, that's fantastic! laugh, I was genuinely delighted to see a guy say Fuck it! and try something different but of course I never would have had the courage to approach him and say Good for you, so laughter was the only option. But Yes, Queen! was not the way he took it, he got really angry, and immediately left the party, and by the time I realized he had misinterpreted my laughing, he was gone, and there were questions. Not the first or the last time people have asked Why are you laughing? when apparently I wasn't supposed to, or at least they didn't think I should. One time with a friend declaring at length how housework is the yoke of womankind who became incensed I was laughing my Right on! laugh; another with a fellow bookstore worker who was demonstrating how she consoled a customer who couldn't find a book they wanted, she was super serious but I couldn't help but laugh at her reenactment of impromptu grief counseling in the cookbook section.

Strange Fruit

I usually prefer red grapes, but these green grapes the other day tasted strongly like strawberries, how is that possible? Local restaurant El Pop (Catalan for octopus) serves olives which don’t taste like olives at all and I can actually eat them. Olives are the anchovies of the earth. Also I’m horrified by eating octopuses, they’re as smart as children, maybe smarter considering some kids I’ve known. The naranja cookie we asked for tasted wonderfully lemony instead. Naranja is Spanish for orange, which is surprisingly close to the Sanskrit source, nāraṅga. The fruit was named for the color—the more you know.

For the Love of Mud

I've been stung by a bee three times in my life. The first was when I was sitting on top of a swing set playing with the neighbor kids, and a fly landed on top of my head. I reached up to swat that fly, but it was a bee of course, and it stung me. I cried but didn't fall off the swing set. The next was when I ran over a bee on my tricycle, maybe on purpose, casual killing as kids do. I pulled over and dismounted to check on my work, poking the bee to see if the job was finished, and it stung my finger, maybe after death even, a real zombee. Instant karma. The last was in Palm Springs on a family vacation. My father was ferrying me around the pool, I must have been quite young, and as we were moving through the water I saw the bee out for a swim too and watched as we moved closer and closer until *sting* right on my chest. Tears and wailing. My father took me to this grotto-like planter contraption by the side of the pool where I had been playing earlier, there was a pocket of dirt flecked with mica, special dirt maybe? It was really sparkly, I'd fallen in love with the dirt. My dad grabbed a handful of it to press on my bee sting and then I was doubly distraught that he had disturbed my beloved mud.

Beep Bop

Every time, without fail, I can’t help it. Whenever someone sticks out their knuckles for a fist bump, I am compelled to say out loud the sound effect I hear in my head. “Boop.”

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