~Exhibit A: My host dad made me dinner tonight - it consisted of the leftover pasta we had today for lunch. He literally gave me a huge heaping serving that was so enormous it almost spilled out over the plate and onto the table. Kind of like a muffin top, but way less disgusting. Now granted, I had just gone on a run about an hour before, so I was hungry. I continue to just kill that dish like it was nobody's business, and my host dad is just staring at me wide-eyed and in disbelief. "Well that was easy," he said in Spanish. "Jaja, yes, I guess I passed the test!" I joked, and then proceeded to laugh at my own lame jake. He didn't laugh. (Usual standard procedure after a lame Jenn joke). He usually offers me "postre" (meaning "dessert," but usually in my house, the postre is fruit), after I finish my dinner, so after a short silence, I asked, "Uhhhh, is there any postre?" (Shit man, I was still hungry...I gotta survive somehow). He said,
"No, I don't think so."
"Uhhhh, any more pasta, possibly?
"You ate the rest."
"Oh."
And then we started talking more about this subject, with me repeating my lame joke that I've busted out a few times here in this house, "Yo como como un hombre." ("I eat like a man.") And in response, he was just kinda like, "But you're kind of slender." But in a connotation of "how the fuck are you not obese with the amount of food you eat every day" kind of way. You know the drill.
I'm just gonna keep it real - I don't know how they survive off of the amount they eat. I mean, they aren't starving themselves, but shit, I need more than some palta (avocado) and pancito (bread) for my third meal of the day. And it's weird because most Chilean families are the opposite (although I talked to my friend Elaine and she said her family was similar too). Luckily they know I eat like a teenage boy and are accordingly adjusting, but it still cracks me up to think how amused they are with how much I eat compared to them. And yes, I am still the only one that goes back for seconds. It's embarrassing, but necessary, and you know what, I'm not apologizing for it. That chicken was good, and I want some fucking more, por favor. And it's not just the humans in my family that have noticed my appetite. Rufo, the dog, comes up to me to try to steal my food - I kid you not - every time I sit down and eat a meal, because he knows that I'm his best shot at getting something (More On Plate + Eating Slower Than The Rest = Rufo's Ideal Meal. It's really quite simple math. Even for me, the Token Humanities Major that can't even do simple multiplication anymore). And then my host dad yells out, "Pesote!" which means "troublemaker." And then Rufo retreats. And then proceeds to try to jump up and steal my food again. And then my host dad yells out "Pesote!" again. And Rufo retreats. And rinse, lather, and repeat. In not so related but kind of related news, he's still humping people. That's actually how he greets all of the friends that I've had over so far. In fact, he tried humping my friend Diego today at the lunch table. I think Rufo actually thinks he's being polite or something. Who the fuck knows , all I know is it's about time for a Bob Barker-worthy intervention. I mean, he's not overseeing Plinko, or the spinning of the wheel, or even the game with the yodeling figure that climbs up the cardboard mountain, anymore, he's got to have some free time on his hands.
~Exhibit B: So I make my bed every day. We've established this. When in Chile, do as the Chileans do (exception: calories consumed per day - see above). But I swear, some days, I think they re-make my bed because I'm so bad at it. Hey, when you haven't practiced in like 21 years to make beds, you're going to be a little rusty. What can I say, my hippie family was a little laissez-faire on a few aspects of child-rearing. Don't even get me started on my table manners. In related news, what do you use a fork for? Just kidding, I know what it's used for - to brush your hair. That's right, I just busted out a Little Mermaid reference like whoa. Bam. But anyway, back to my life on the mainland, I think I do a pretty good job of making the bed - in fact, I would go as far to say that I'm proud - yes, proud - of the job I've done. But there are some days when I notice a pillow in a different place, or the crinkles are a little bit more smoothed out than I remember. So, one of my major goals (besides that whole part about being fluent in Spanish, exposing myself to a different culture, blah blah blah) is getting to the point where I am able to make my bed so well (ok, let's be real, so satisfactory), that my Chilean family won't have to do it again. Wish me luck, comrades.
What can I say, I'm a hot mess. That's really all there is to it. Next up: charm school. I'm calling it right now.
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