On getting Bridget Jones Syndrome (with crazy amounts of GIFs from your--my--favorite comedians)

Hello, blogosphere! 'Tis I, the Mexican Georgie, coming to you live from the heart of Middle-of-nowhere, North England.

As I have miserably failed to have anything extraordinary or disastrous happen to me in the past week, I come to you in an act of desperation to gain your attention by attempting to complain about things that don't actually bother me much. The truth is that I am very happy in Durham, but we all know happiness doesn't sell--or at least that is what Mexican soap operas teach us. Therefore, I must go into the depths of my subconscious and find Ramona Consuelo De la Oca Fuentes.... the villain of my own telenovela. She, of course, is just a catalyst for complaining about random things.

First, I have Bridget Jones Syndrome.

This basically means I am constantly aware of my physical/intellectual deficiencies when compared to the stunning, brilliant English woman. But I make up for it with hilarious commentary, political incorrectness, outrageous situations, and just a whole lot of mental instability.

But on to Bridget Jones Syndrome.

1. British women have either deep, sexy voices or deep yet sweet and melodic voices. How? When I hear myself, it's like I hear any old hag from a fairy tale (seriously, have you heard me laugh? YIKES). But these girls can read the phone book and sound amazing doing it. They have these rich, sophisticated voices--they are interesting women, women who can conquer the world, and they have a British accent.

Yes, they are all like Mary and Sybil (and I'm Edith)

I am like a kid who hit puberty and his voice never quite changed... like it stayed in between. When I get excited I sound like a parrot and when I try to be interesting I sound too manly. Well, just my luck... I will never be a voice-actor, there goes my dream!!

2. They all have legs up to here, twice the length of my legs. This makes a huge difference when buying clothes. Tights, leggings, and those cute manly-looking dressy shoes are not for me---but for long-legged (or, on the rare occasion they are short, slim-legged) people. I cannot find clothes that fit me right in this country. I miss you, JCPenney brands :'(




3. They all know how to bake!!!!!!!!!!!! Seriously, I just learned how to cook like... last week. I don't even know how to use an oven---and all the guys in my flat do. All the desserts I've managed to make have been oven-free, so I'm basically great at pretending. But cake? Oh, gosh, I had to give it up for Lent in order to gain more time to procrastinate and not learn how to bake. Or else, this would be the reaction when I throw a dinner party:

I'm feeling very Tina Feyish today. 

You guys don't get it--I'm feminine now, I've reformed. I throw dinner parties and wear mascara and own shoes that are not sneakers. I can't just reveal my true tomboy self... I'm a changed man--errrrr---woman.

4. Femininity. Like the real deal. Like graceful, quirky, and Zoey Deschanelesque. Damn, dudes. DAAAAAAAAAAYUUUUUUMMMM.  They don't even need the make-up... it just exudes from them. Meanwhile, I exude masculinity, like a stock character in an Arthur Conan Doyle adventure novel (note to self: stop threatening men with punching them in the face. It really is not leading to anything good). I mean, I trim my beard and remind myself to wear deodorant (most of the time), but I am still struggling with all the dress/skirt requirements. And when I, on a rare occasion, wear a dress, you know I'm wearing shorts underneath. No, I will not say if they are basketball shorts or not. Sorry.

Kristen Wiig as  Michael Jordan. Or could it be Michael Jordan as a bald Kristen Wigg?

5. Slim. Healthy. No need to think "hmm... I probably shouldn't eat that taco" (no tacos here, but you get the idea). Like, amazing metabolisms. You know what British food is? FAT AND CARBS! Seriously. Yet everyone seems to be okay. This is going to be my doom! I was told I would lose weight in Europe (and pick up a British accent--and a British guy). None of these have happened. What should I do?

6. Walking brains. Like, I don't know if it's just that the British college system is better (hint: it is) or if I just smoked too much crack during my undergrad--but I'm just never intellectually there. I feel like an average dumb American... and I'm not even American!!!!!!

I feel like Kelly Kapoor: I can talk about the Kimye (???) or the latest Jimmy Kimmel prank or Ellen Degeneres interview, but when we start talking philosophy, theology, literature... I'm done, dudes. And I am doing a master's in literature!!!!! I know I was a late bloomer and started to read when I was super old and stuff, but still. Oh, and this whole not-reading-Lewis/Tolkien/Rowling-thing is really not helping.

Dakota Fanning doesn't know what Harry Potter is, either.

At least Jane Austen is something I can always fall back on, right?

7. Beautiful, abundant hair that naturally falls on its lovely, feminine place. I mean... have you seen my hair? You know how rainy it is in England. I am basically Medusa. I have a bad 'fro. Worse than Gilly:

My hair is more like Mufasa's mane after being trampled by a stampede (too soon?). I mean, on a good day, I can only aspire to have hair like Phyllis and Karen when they got a perm:

8. Not loud, obnoxious, competitive, or politically incorrect. What am I even doing here, you ask? Ah well, I suppose God wanted to spice things up a bit. Or actually help me calm down (and it's not working). I got a little dreadlock of sorts a few weeks ago (I basically wrapped a precious lock of crazy hair with different color threads). If you know me at all, you know that's basically the equivalent of a nose piercing, getting a tattoo, or snorting cocaine.

I'm having a middle-life crises 25 years early. I'm going through manopause. I've gone wild (in a very decent, tame, me manner). Oh, dear.

So there you have it. I clearly am at a disadvantage here. Or am I? I mean, after all, Bridget does get Mark Darcy at the end, you know? And the thing about Mark Darcy is... well, he's Colin Firth.

And I think I'm okay with that. I mean, look at Amy Poelher... she's batshit crazy and she got to make out with Bono.

In no way am I attracted to Bono. Eww. Plus he's married and has kids. I was thinking more along the lines of... IDK...

My life is a Sitcom called I LIVE WITH FIVE MEN

Well, I have not been writing as much. I thought that it was a good idea to write shorter blog entries because I was losing my readership. It turns out that, according to my very lazy source, the blog has become less interesting since I stopped writing as much--which is crazy, because this guy hates to read.

Anyway, this brings me to today, when I, instead of doing my homework, am here, staring at the screen. Let me tell you, then, about how my life has turned into a sitcom because...


I LIVE WITH FIVE MEN.

Yes, it seems that God thought it funny to play this prank on me, knowing how I always preferred to hang out with my boys when I was a child/teenager. Being a tomboy, the whole girly thing didn't quite suit me, so I always found myself playing football (or hockey with brooms or basketball without a hoop or baseball without gloves) with my guy friends. I was the faithful friend who held the bad guy as my buddy beat the crap out of him. I was the gentle soul who punched a kid in the eye because he was trying to grab my little cousin's leg under the water at a pool of the hotel we were staying for vacation. Yes, I was that marimacha, with the long t-shirts, the football jerseys, the baggy shorts, the pony tail, the sweaty face ('big cheeks' should have been my nick-name--but it was just Cris, which is manly enough and has stuck with me ever since).



I knew how to dribble a ball, ride a bike, spit, build a treehouse.  Of course, that included never EVER admitted you liked boys (to be fair, I didn't like boys until I was old as hell).

However, I was never boyish enough to join the torturing of small animals, pick my nose, or scratch my---well, you get it.

Anywho, so it seems that after I bloomed (late) into womanhood, I had stirred away from so much masculine company and had preferred "the ladies." This "blooming", by the way, took a whole ovary removal surgery, which is also quite the humorous joke from God. I was seventeen years old when I FINALLY started moving into some kind of semi-girly stage, mainly because I couldn't do this anymore without my knee going crazy:

Of course this was always the question:

BLA BLA BLA, YEARS PASS. THEN BOOM--God's like "LOL, YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD BE FUNNY? IF I GET THIS FEMINIST/ OLDEST SISTER/ RECOVERING TOMBOY INTO A FLAT WITH FIVE GUYS. YES, THIS SHALL BE FUN..."

Now, that I finally shop in the women's section--by myself. Now, that I buy shoes that are not sneakers. Now, that I do crafty things! SERIOUSLY?


The results? Disastrous, at least for me.

1. Pirate mouthiness.

2. Grotesque understanding of double meaning.

3. Anything you say can be used against you because

4. Housewife slavery without the benefits of five men's incomes.

5. Mrs. Pattmore duty all day e'eryday.

6. Unleashing of my political incorrectness.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8FPZxBRWnjM

7. Even less patience--if that's possible.

8. Everybody and their mamma knows when I am on my period.

9. Colitis.

10. Zero girl talk--zero obsessing over Danny Castellano/John Thornton/Mr. Darcy/Bradley Cooper and, of course, zero telenovela talk.

I spend half of my day cleaning the filthy-ass kitchen, washing dishes, sweeping, and moping. These pigs can leave a plate out with food residue for A WEEK--yes, yesterday I just decided to throw away a bowl that had sweet potato leftovers instead of washing it.... F*** that. See? And I'm turning into a worse cursing machine that I already was! And, because of my stupidity, now everyone says "that's what she said" about EVERYTHING! Like, seriously, none of them had watched The Office... I could have been so happy, untainted innocence and all.

ALAS! 'Tis too late.

I am a mother of four grown-ass men and the other one is too terrified of me to ever do anything wrong. I get texts like this:

This is from a man who is doing a Masters. Imagine when his future wife's water breaks. WEKJASEKFJASFJASDLFJASDFJAS;DFKASDKLFJADFGVADVJ *FAINTS*

Naturally, this situation translates into:

Shall I introduce the protagonists of my sitcom to you?

BHANU
a.k.a. Jerk

Need I say more? There's a whole blog entry about him in this blog. Poor thing is very proud of his calzones with the map of London on them. Smart, business-oriented (heartless) Indian guy who is trying to turn me into a salesperson for his business endeavor. Begs others for food. Doesn't shower enough. But he was the only person to come to my football game (even though he was taking pictures of the grass and the football all along).


RAJA
 a.k.a. Lampshade

Bhanu's BFF and potential new housewife. Ever since he arrived, they seem to have more arguments than Bhanu and I ever did. Nice, polite, all-loving dude. Just very cheap. Very appreciative of when I make something vegan. Sometimes talks too Indian to be understood.

RIDWAN

 the alias is too vulgar for here.

don't know how to turn the photo.

Nigerian guy who questions everything in an attempt to make something double meaning. Example:
me: eeew, it smells like ass here!
him: hehe, how do you know what ass smells like?

Need I say more? He is a gentleman of sorts, though, as he offered to pay for my fish-and-chips once.


STANLEY
a.k.a. "Stanny" because he can't pronounce the L.

I am sorry. I don't even have Stanny as a Facebook friend.

The only thing I know about Stanny is that he leaves a mess in the kitchen. He's not the most talkative guy.



KONRAD
a.k.a. Connard, according to Raja (deaf much?)

don't have a photo either. And he's not Irish. But kinda looks like this.

He's afraid I will scold him for making Mexican food wrong. But he is God-send because not only is he super nice, but he has a car!!! YAY! He just took me to Tesco and he just moved in like two weeks ago so I can't say anything bad--yet. He also cleans after himself.


Since this is a blog about viewing everything in a positive light (yeah right), let's draw the advantages of this situation.

1. No girl drama!!

2. Going back to being one of the boys!!

3. I am suddenly an amazing cook! Everyone loves my food that I just learned how to make five minutes ago.

4. I'm never the most politically incorrect person anymore.

5. The guys suddenly feel the impulse of making me tea or cooking for me and things like that. BRB, Bhanu just made me pasta (that I had to explain to him how to make).

6. I have fun.

7. There ain't no competition: I'm the Queen of this house, hommies! And that's my kitchen. And yes, I will make you a sandwich....

8. It's always awesome to tell people "I live with five men." That wins you hearts.

9. I got a gang protecting me. Don't worry dad, I'll be safe.

10. It brings out my feminine side even more. Somehow. I feel like I have to claim my femininity and cling to it desperately. Don't wanna go back to the spitting days.