4 posts tagged “qotd”
How many languages can you speak? Which languages can you read or understand?
Having been born and raised in a bilingual country, it's usually mildly surprising to others of different countries when I tell them I can only speak English, especially after telling them I took mandatory French classes for six years. Oh, and by other countries, I generallly mean the United States, as I have visited very few... er... no other countries. Case in point, nearly two years ago I traveled down to Pennsylvania at Thanksgiving to meet my boyfriend's family (AND extended family, whew) for the first time. We were sitting down at his grandparent's table ready to dive into Thanksgiving dinner when Dan's twelve year-old cousin made a demand: "Can you speak French!? Say something in French!", to which I dumbly responded with a searching "errrrr...", and promptly shoved a mountain of mashed potatoes into my mouth.
I suppose I could have responded with a quick "Je ne sais pas" or if I was feeling slightly more confident, "Je ne sais pas beaucoup francais", but why try to act all smart when, simultaneously, you're actually telling someone that your about as resourceful as a turnip on the given subject?
All this stuffage aside, no, I can't speak any other languages... fluently. HowEVER, I can speak very, very miniscule bits and pieces of French, mainly phrases and names objects, but I have a hard time sticking stuff together with the grammer. I can probably understand more of it then speak it, though. Also, I can also speak and write a wee bit of Portuguese, probably more then French at this point, as I took an introductory course on it last year as to fill my language requirement for school.
Due to staying up until 3 am and then getting up at 7 to wake up
everyone in my house and then drive my boyfriend to the bus terminal so
he could go back to his motherland, I went back to bed (um, the couch)
and slept until one in the afternoon and was therefore unable to answer
yesterday's question of the day, which, I guess, changes around noon.
For some reason. So, vox, I refuse to accept your weird and offbeat
change-o, presto antics and am answering yesterday's qotd, TODAY. Oh, snap! Or something!
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mouse, my Nana's very last car, my very first car, and my very first car crash.
As you can see, Mouse is a little old and a
little small. Driving Mouse is basically like driving a toy. As
previously mentioned, he belonged to my Nana, before she passed away.
Technically, Mouse isn't totally and completely mine just yet, as I
only have my beginner's (G1) lisense, and am therefore only allowed to
go for a spin when I am accompanied by a fully lisensed driver of four
years. This hasn't stopped me in the past, though!
Last spring, while my parents were in Portugal and Dan was paying me
a visit, I crashed Mouse into the front of my house (take notice of the
scratched paint on the front bumper). At this time, I was void of any
lisense whatsoever, but still thought I could manage pulling into the
driveway quite impressively. But no, I missed the driveway, went right
through the ditch, sailed over the lawn (actually, lurched is probably
a better word, as my feet were freaking out with me and kept going from
gas to break to gas), thrashed through the garden, and, well, House
meet Mouse (honking all the way, because, like my feet, my hands were
all over). Dan then backed the car out to it's proper place, and I was
left, lying on the front lawn, practially having an anneurism, while
the little girl next door was seen looking out her living room window,
giggling and what she'd just witnessed.
Not much damage was done, just a little paint scraped from the
bumper that no one noticed and some paint also chipped from the siding
of the house, which, conveniently, plants grew over, hiding my
stupidity. My parents never found out and I don't plan on telling them
until I'm at least 35. However, I got my lisense a few short
months after the incident, and as a result, was totally freaked out
every single time I got behind the wheel. I was convinced telephone
poles twenty feet away were somehow going to jump infront of the car.
But I'm cool now, dudes, and my driving instructor says I'm awesome and
told me I have the right to brag. Brag, brag, brag.
Okay, that's it, I guess. I need more sleep and a popsicle.
What do you usually do on Sunday?
Sunday, to me, is the lonliest day of the week. There's just something in the air, some kind of pressing melancholy, which prevades it. When I'm not working all morning and afternoon (which is usually the case), Sundays usually go like this (especially during the winter months):
Wake up, trudge into the living room, rub my eyes, stand there, trudge some more, stare out the window, twenty minutes, call a friend, no one is home, didn't want to do anything anyway, sulk, yawn, lie on the kitchen floor, open the cupboards with my toes, remember something, wander into a room... pause. Forget why I'm there, blink at myself in the mirror, pick something up up, drop it, leave it there, sigh, sulk, etc. When I was a kid, my family and I would go to church and then out for ice cream every Sunday. I liked that much better.
Do you have any tattoos? If not, if you were going to get inked, what would you get?
I do not have a tattoo and I would never get "inked" because I can absolutely, positively guarantee you that I would become utterly repulsed by the design I chose five days later. I can say this with assurance as this is a pattern weaved through pretty much all of my obsessed phases. For instance, my hair. Ever since eighth grade, my hair has gone through style phases which have lasted anywhere from six months to a year, and end with me being totally disgusted with myself ("oh my goodness, look at this photo, I never realized the back of my head was so UGLY!"). Eighth grade was the year of a high fountain ponytail a la Sporty Spice, ninth grade was cinnamon buns a la Princess Leia, followed by the half up, the spikey mess, the fushia fiasco, the nightmare perm, the curly pigtails, just-rolled-out-of-bed avec a squillion butterfly clips, the side sweepy bangs, the pompadour, etc.
Anygoo, I tend to get a little over obsessed with things and then
become really appalled by them. Tattoos, I'm sure, not withstanding.
I've really only seen two tattoos I've liked my whole life, anyway.
