My college roommates and I at our NYU undergrad ceremony ’07

Congratulations 2013 lady graduates! You have officially been accepted into the sisterhood of unicorns. I know, you’ve been in your 20′s for a year or two now, but your college years don’t really count as far as your 20′s go. Sorry.

Societally speaking, women in their 20′s are invincible.  As far as commitments go, you probably don’t have many, making your life mobile and limitless. You can go anywhere, do anything, and be anyone you want to be.

Everyone is attracted to a woman in her 20s.  Why wouldn’t they be? Your boobs will never be perkier, your skin tighter, your ass firmer.  Genetically, you’re still young enough to lose weight easily.  I’m not saying losing weight is easy; it’s not, but it’s never going to be easier than it is now.   

Take it from Princeton Mom, there will never be a larger supply of men or women who want to date you. This is not to say you should date everyone or try to find a compatible mate ASAP, but rather, recognize that as you get older the dating pool will only get smaller.  Eventually, you will exhaust dating friends of friends, co-workers, random cute guys you meet at a bar/coffe-house/public library, and dating will get harder. Plus you’ll, hopefully, get pickier. This is a good thing. Less frogs, more princes, right.

This is all very general of course, because everyone’s situation is unique. Nevertheless, societally speaking, you are golden.  

It’s true, there is nothing like being in your twenties.  Right now everyone’s talking about it, yet something you should know, is your 20′s are going to suck. Big time.

In your twenties you will probably have your first serious relationship, followed by your first real heartbreak, the one that makes you understand why every love song was ever written.

Apart from romantic relationships, you’ll re-evaluate every relationship you have-friends, family, co-workers.  You will ask yourself, is this person important to me? Am I important to them? Do I even still like this person?

If you haven’t already, you may experience your first loss and it WILL shape you.

You’ll have to endure people saying, “Don’t worry, you’re so young,” as if this made your problems any less painful, any smaller. 

In your twenties you’ll discover that you’re probably way under-qualified and under-educated for your dream job. The realization will be depressing at first.  Luckily, this like everything else can and will change because you will change.

As much as people say your 20′s doesn’t count, it does.  Everything counts.  In your twenties, you’ll learn more about yourself than you will probably, for the rest of your life. “Eighty percent of life’s defining moments happen by age 35. [Your twenties are] the defining decade of your adulthood” (Meg Jay).

But as we all know, personal growth is never easy.  In fact, it’s going to be messy.  I’m not here to make it any less messy because I would never rob anyone of that experience.  Making a mess is often how we grow.  Rather, I want to remind you to enjoy it as best you can and whenever appropriate, laugh. Because your 20′s are also going to be some of the best parts of your life.

Creative people draw inspiration from everything around them.   However, when it comes to relationships, is there really a better muse than heartache?

I wish I could say happiness, but it wouldn’t be true, not for me at least.  After my ex and I broke up, I threw myself into my writing.  It wasn’t something I thought about or struggled with.  The creative process took over. 

This weekend marks my 2-year anniversary with my boyfriend.  While I’ve never been happier with another person, I’m literally staring at a blank page pleading my fingers to type something.  It’s as if my current relationship bliss has rendered me incapable of writing about romantic relationships.  It’s embarrassing.  I’m a writer, spinning words into gold is my job description. 

Let’s face it, the life of an average happy couple is boring.  As much as I cherish the simple things like grocery shopping with my boyfriend, it’s not exactly the stuff Pulitzers are made of.

No one wants to read a book about a happy couple.   Imagine if Noah and Allie from the Notebook hadn’t lost touch and had just gotten married in the first place.  BORING. People love a happy ending, but with a few twists and turns along the way.  I suppose there’s always books on HOW to be a happy couple, but I’m almost certain Dr. Phil has that market locked down.

Perhaps the problem stems from the fact that all my current relationship problems are good problems.  My boyfriend is so skinny that we wear the same size pants.  Even this isn’t really a problem. The way I see it, I now have more clothes.

As great news as this is for my personal life, I can’t help but feel like it’s a death sentence for my writing career.  With the exception of Gretchen Rubin’s Happiness Project, most of my creative role models thrived in times of heartache.  Case in point, Alanis Morissette.

Go ahead, gasp.  You and I both know she’s never been better than Jagged Little Pill.  Was Dave Coulier the love of her life or, the one who got away? Definitely not.  But did he inspire one of the most awe-inspiring and beloved breakup songs of all time, “You Oughta Know”? Yes.

So what next?  The book’s written. Everyone knows everything there is to know about my love life.  And I’m tired of writing about my ex.  Nothing gives the impression that you’re still not over him, than constantly bringing it up.   I’m over it, I promise.  Still, writing about happy and healthy love just isn’t the same.

In case you haven’t figure it out, I’m officially writing a post complaining about how much it sucks as a writer to be in a healthy relationship, and judging myself for it. Oh well, I suppose I’ll think of something.  Who knows, maybe my boyfriend will turn out to be an ax-murderer. (fingers crossed) So I ask again,

IS THERE A MUSE BETTER THAN HEARTACHE?

So in honor of this momentous life event, which will probably only ever be topped by me pushing a human being out of my body, I put together a short list of my life’s most mortifying moments.

My So Called Life has got nothing on Awkward Ali.

1. Once while walking on the sidewalk I started having eye sex with this super hot dude. At least, that’s what I thought was happening.  However, I quickly discovered that his eyes were really saying, “Watch out for that lamppost!”  
2. When I was in high school my best friend tried to hit on our waiter by seductively sucking her straw. Unfortunately for her, she missed and poked herself in the eye. He saw the whole thing as did all of our friends. (Reason 1 million and 1 why I love her, we’re so alike)
3. In high school I “borrowed” my mom’s leather clogs and wore them to a basketball game.  Halfway through, I tried to excuse myself to go to the bathroom, however the crowded gym made my feet sweaty, and so I slipped.  Flailing my arms, I slapped all of the varsity football players sitting in front of me, upside the head.  Everyone in the bleachers turned to look, including the basketball players, who actually stopped playing, just to stare. Now that’s what you call, a show stopper.
4. After my ex and I broke up, I went on a date a guy who asked me, “Are those your feet or mine?” referring to the smell. Damn you flats! Either I’m a good kisser or he had a foot fetish, because he asked me out on a third date.
5. My freshman year of high school I had a major crush on one of the varsity football players, Alex.  Back then it was “super cool” to wear matching outfits with your friends and take pictures at Walmart.  Without thinking, my friends and I dressed up like Target employees, red tops with kakis, and took pictures. Afterwards I gave the picture to my crush complete with a note on the back. U played well last game. Not long after I found out he had been benched the whole season.
6. Back in high school, a guy came up to my friend and asked him if he had a dime.  Figuring I’d help out a friend of my friend, I fished in my pocket and offered him a nickel and five pennies.  I didn’t know why everyone thought it was so funny until I got to college.
7. When I was 16 my mom tore her ACL.  So for two months, I was tasked with wheeling her around. Once at Target, I bumped into a friend who, when he saw my mom exclaimed,  “I didn’t know you volunteered!”
   

“Alison! I have a question!” My student says to me after class.  “What do you think about the lawyer in the U.S who thinks everyone should have a 3D printed gun?”

This is one of the things I hate most about living in Spain; you become an unofficial ambassador for the U.S.

My job is to teach this guy English and yet there he was, waiting for me to give some official statement as if he were a reporter and I, a senator.  Like it or not, people think everything I say and do is typical of American culture.

The second time I met my boyfriend’s parents, they asked me about my family.  Not wanting to lie I explained my family situation, which happens to be extremely complicated.

I am the oldest of my mom’s children, the youngest of my dad’s, the only child from my parent’s marriage, and the middle child when you put all my half-siblings together.  After drawing my family tree on a napkin for my mother in-law, her reaction was, “Hm well, I guess that’s normal in America.” I assured her it isn’t but I don’t think she believed me.

Imagine, me, normal.  Now that’s amusing.

Worse is that people expect me to know every aspect of American culture or anything remotely related to English.   What do you mean you don’t know all the lyrics to Money Money Money by ABBA? But it’s in English? I didn’t want to offend my friend, so I bit my tongue, yet what I wanted to say was, “Yes, well, I’m not 70.” I’m American, not an Encyclopedia.

However, the absolute worst is convincing people that the one other American person they’ve met isn’t an ambassador either.

“But my teacher last year told me that it’s normal for Americans to have guns.”
“Was that teacher also an elected representative?“
“No…”
“Well then that teacher was speaking from personal experiences and doesn’t necessarily represent everyone in the United States.”

Unfortunately, the Spanish aren’t entirely to blame. People have a habit of getting over zealous when they express themselves and consequently, confuse their opinion with that of an entire country.  Happens.  I know, because, I’ve done it.

Sometimes, if I’m lucky, whatever left liberal agenda I’m spewing, will line up with the majority.  However, more often than naught my opinions are not representative of the entire United States but rather, one person. Me.  Like they say, if you’ve met one person, you’ve met one person.  At least now, I’m aware of it.

My niece and I

Letting your daughter raid your closet, and not caring, even when she finds your bedroom slippers and demands to wear them to Thanksgiving dinner.

(I was 10.)

Thanks Mom!

Oh and in case you didn’t get a chance to read it last week. Here’s Mother’s It’s Complicated.

a beautiful mess, by me. Graphic by Nicole

When it comes to motherhood and a career, there’s already a debate as to whether we can have it all. But what I want to know is, can we have it all when it comes to relationships?

I used to think so, because when you’re young you’re taught that anything less is settling. However, after years of dating in the real world, I’ve realized men who have it all don’t exist, except for on shows like the Bachelor, and we all know how well those relationship work out.  Subsequently, I find myself wondering, am I asking too much from my partner?

According to Esther Perel–yes. In her Ted Talk:The Secret to Desire in a Long-Term Relationship Perel explains how the evolution of our concept of marriage has led to unrealistic demands.  These days people want their partner to be their lover, best friend, confidant, and a whole laundry list of things that an entire village used to provide, except now we live twice as long.  More interestingly, Perel argues that, “The very ingredients that nurture love, mutuality, reciprocity, protection, worry, responsibility for the other, are sometimes the very ingredients that stifle desire.”

Watching Perel, I couldn’t help but think of my ex-lover Jean Mi, a French psychologist who I started dating after my ex and I broke up.  Imagine Bradley Cooper’s French doppleganger.  Yeah, that was a no brainer.

Despite not being able to speak the same language, Jean Mi and I talked about everything, including my breakup with my ex.  I remember asking him, “How is it possible to love someone so much and not have it work out?”  Wise man that he is, he told me,

“Love is a like fire.  Some are explosions, intense but unsustainable, and so they quickly burnout.  Then there are loves, that because they shine a little less, have enough energy to last a lifetime. Anyone can find a firecracker.  It’s about finding a love that lasts.”

Le swoon no? Turns out he and I were the type that ignites quickly and fizzles even quicker. So it was really, le fail.

All’s well, we remained pen pals; I eventually got over my ex, and met my current boyfriend.  This month marks our two-year anniversary.  It’s the longest relationship I’ve ever had without any breaks.  More importantly, it’s the longest I’ve ever lived with a significant other.

Before my boyfriend and I moved in together a year and a half ago, my friends warned me, “Be prepared to say goodbye to your sex life.”  I laughed of course, and smugly rolled my eyes, pitying them and their situations.  He and I would be different. Spoken like a true person who’s about to eat their words with some sriracha, that way you feel the burn twice.

A year later, I can happily say in my sriracha-stained shirt, my friends were right.  Our relationship has changed.  I love my boyfriend more than ever, but we definitely don’t have sex twice a day anymore, or even every day for that matter.  Funny thing is, I really don’t mind.

In my mind, our relationship is still passionate.  For me, part of the excitement is seeing how our relationship matures over time.

While I don’t believe Perel is saying that love and passionate sex can’t co-exist, I do recognize that at times, the stability love provides can conflict with the desire newness brings.  

Honestly if given the choice between an unstable yet super sexed relationship or a healthy relationship with some sex, I’d pick less sex in a heartbeat.   My teenage self would have called this settling, however I know better.  This is a duraflame log.

This one goes out to all the baby’s mamas, mamas, mamas….
-Outkast

Yesterday was Cinco de Mayo or as they call it here in Spain, Mother’s Day.  As if the day needed any more reason to drink.

This may come as a surprise to many people, particularly those who’ve read my book, but I don’t hate my mother.  I understand why people might get the wrong idea; my depiction of her in the book isn’t exactly flattering.  Nevertheless, my mother is by no means a monster or a person worthy of hate, least of all mine.

We may have our differences, but she and I are not so different.  In fact, some of the things I love most about myself come from my mother, e.g. my body.  Thanks mom, for endowing me with an incredible rack and ergo 20 years worth of free drinks!  Another bonus of having the same body type is that I have a pretty good idea of what I’ll look like in thirty years—hot.

More than my body, my mom gave me self-esteem.  Because of her I learned early on how to love myself and more importantly, that sexy is not an appearance but a mentality.  “Some girls have it and others don’t,” she’d say, immediately followed by, “And we’ve got it”

Even though she and I don’t speak, my mother is still very much a part of my life. Whenever I’m sick I make her famous arroz caldo, which is essentially Filipino chicken soup.  I make it just like she taught me, loading it with garlic, ginger, rice, and chicken with the bone still in (this is important since the bone gives germ fighting super powers).  It’s simple things like this that remind me how much my mother and I are still connected.  What’s great is that I can make the soup, think of my mom, and not feel angry.  Because when I make the soup all I feel is love and appreciation.

When I first moved to Spain, I couldn’t imagine myself feeling this way about my mother.  I was so tired of constantly feeling hurt and disappointed that even the good memories made me feel bitter.  Over time this has changed.

Something I’ve learned from getting my heartbroken, repeatedly, is that if you love a person they’re always going to be a part of your life, even after the relationship ends.  Personally, I think that’s beautiful.

So why are my mother and I still not talking?  Frankly, like any other family relationship, it’s complicated. However, I’ve finally figured out a way to have a healthy relationship with my mom.  That relationship happens to involve 6000 miles of space and no communication, but whatever works right?

I’ve been in Spain for almost 3 years now and much to my mother in-law’s dismay, my bidet usually just sits in my bathroom collecting dust.  However, I’m happy to report that I’ve finally figured out what to do with my bidet.

Towel Rack

Laundry Basket

Book shelf for toilet reads

I-pad holder

Pedicure

Place to Soak Delicates/Hand Wash

NAILED IT!

Dinner with friends in Santiago

Whenever I tell people I live in Spain, their immediate reaction is to squeal and say, “Ugh! You’re so lucky.”  Then something amazing happens, I’m suddenly able to read minds.  It’s true, I know exactly what they’re thinking because it’s the same thing I thought before moving to Spain, which is that life here would be simpler, slower, and therefore somehow better.  I was right about the whole simpler and slower part.  But better?

It makes me think of a certain line from The Descendents, the book not the movie, although go ahead and imagine George Clooney’s sexy voice if you like,“I bet in big cities you can walk down the street and no one will ask you what’s wrong or encourage you to smile, but everyone here has the attitude that we’re lucky to live in Hawaii, paradise reigns supreme.  I think paradise can go fu@k itself.”

I don’t blame people for romanticizing my life.  After watching movies like Vicky Cristina Barcelona one can’t help but imagine my life consists of drinking sangria all day and being swept off my feet by Javier Bardem dopplegangers wearing matador costumes.  I’m not saying this doesn’t happen.  It does, maybe 0.01 percent of the time.  Otherwise, here’s a much more realistic depiction of what living in Spain entails:

No dryers=iron dry clothes.  My first apartment in Spain was a shit hole but one thing it did have was a washing machine.  It was my first post-college in-house washing machine and I relished the thought of not having to carry 10 pounds of laundry down the street.  So what if it didn’t have a dryer? I’d hang dry my clothes and be green. Yeah! Go me!

This cute little plan of mine would have been fine if I didn’t happen live in the dampest part of Spain, where humidity often reaches 100%.  The first time I washed my clothes it took four days for them to “dry”.  By then, they had developed a strange damp smell from not drying properly, and so I was forced to wash them, again.  After that, I quickly learned various coping strategies- wash less, iron things dry, and/or get used to semi-wet jeans.  This got me through my first few years in Spain.  Having committed to living here, I’ve since broken down and bought a dehumidifier.–Is it sad that this has been one of the most life changing purchases I’ve made since moving here?–Still, I miss the warm-soft feeling that only a dryer can give. Right now, I’d just about kill for some fluffy towels.

This brings me to the issue of heating in Spain.  Heating in Spain is expensive.  You can try and be smart about how and when you heat your apartment but I assure you it’s never going to be by any means warm.  Consequently, I’ve learned to keep warm by filling hot water pads with boiling water. Add a knit cap and an electric blanket and you basically have my Grandma.

Siesta= longer working day.  My workday starts at 8am and doesn’t end until 9pm.  This is partially due to the fact that I have a huge break in the middle of my day for siesta.  Although siesta literally means nap, siesta is a time for families to go home and eat together. Quaint right? Except I don’t have kids and those who do, tell me that lunch is just a mad rush to get kids fed, changed, and on to the next activity or in some cases, back to school since parents often have to head back to work.

In spite of my huge break, I find it impossible to relax, knowing I have to go back to work. To be fair my case is extreme, most people usually only get an hour.  This would be reasonable by American standards, but in Spain everything is much slower and now that I live here I understand why-OLD PEOPLE and roads made for clown cars.

My house is only fifteen miles from work and yet it takes me at least a half an hour to commute. This is because I’m forced to drive 30mph (50km/h) on a one-lane road, behind buses, other commuters, and old people who are going 20mph. I’d ride my bike if it weren’t so hilly, rainy, and dangerous.

Parking in Spain was made for carnies.  Spanish architecture is charming but made for tiny people. Their parking is even tinier and I’m convinced, designed evil city planners who enjoy torturing people. Spanish parking is so notoriously bad that I’ll be at a bar and actually overhear people bragging about how they were able to park in 3 maneuvers rather than five. It’s that serious.

Since working hours are usually the same if not longer than business hours, you can forget running errands.  Oh and there will be errands. The Spanish are huge fans of silly paperwork, nor have they gotten around to doing things online.  The only way to get things done here is to take a sick day. This is assuming you have a job; which if you’re under thirty, you probably don’t.  One out of every four Spanish person is unemployed.  If you’re under 30, this figure is even higher, 55%.  Be grateful you have a job, my friends tell me.

No good television. By the time I get home from my marathon workday I’m spent.  All I want to do is switch off my brain and enjoy a little boob-tube.  However, enjoying Spanish television requires more than simply turning off your brain; it requires a lobotomy.  Unless you pay for an expensive package, 30 channels are all you get.  Thirty channels which show nothing but old re-runs from the 80’s or shows that have been canceled.  Consequently, I find myself watching shows like MacGuyver or Lipstick Jungle not to be ironic, but because there is nothing else! Thank God for the Internet, assuming the wind isn’t blowing, then you’re just out of luck.

No yummy ethnic food. According to Galicians, which is what you call people from my region in Spain, Galician food is so good that there’s no need to eat any other kind of food.  Pasta or kebabs is about as exotic as it gets around here.  As much I love the Galician diet, a girl needs some variety!

While I understand that these problems are all a matter of perspective, changing your perspective is hard. So for now, I try to bide my time by focusing on life’s little victories, like parking in less than 5 maneuvers.

WINNING!

Nuns hitchhiking.

Finesterre, Spain

Just kidding. That’s illegal. She was taking a walk along the highway. Still, nuns are inescapable in Spain.  The first time I bought condoms here, I went to my local pharmacy, where I found myself surrounded by nuns.  When my turn came  I tried to be discrete, whispering, condoms.  Unfortunately, the pharmacist couldn’t hear me so I repeated myself. Still nothing.

This is how I ended up yelling CONDOMS in front of a bunch of Spanish nuns.
Condemnation party of one?

Dogs walking in and out of restaurants. FDA who? 

Oporto, Portugal

Just your average Spanish busker. Wait what?

Santiago, Spain

I’ve asked the Spanish what their deal is with blackface and their reply is always–blackface?  Here they don’t understand why imitating a race via caricature would be offensive because they don’t have the same history as we do.  Nor do they see it as a caricature.  Rather, black people have big lips.  That’s not racist, it’s stating the obvious. This is their explanation on it anyway.

Besides, he’s giving me a thumbs up!

Amazingly inappropriate ESL errors.
World’s best diaper bag, right?

Vigo, Spain.

 And what would be poo without its bf pee? Anyone up for a game of wiwi?

carnival game prize, Santiago Spain

Random pornographic dolls sitting in the window of antique furniture stores. Note, the dolls are not for sale.  They’re for decoration. Naturally.

Oporto. Portugal

All things pig.
Depending on the season, you can find pigs heads anywhere from local grocery stores to farmer’s market. That’s right, there’s a season for pig heads.  Spring. As in, after winter comes pig head. Meanwhile, mention apple cider donuts and you’ll get a sideways look.

A child sporting his Sunday Best.

http://seesawdesigns.blogspot.com.es/2011/02/nanos.html

For some reason, posh children in Spain always look like they belong in the film Hugo. Although most parents reserve this punishment for Sundays, you can find a child dressed in 1940′s attire on just about any day of the week.

Anyhow, that’s it for now. But don’t worry, tomorrow’s another day.