Lost in Translation...WAY Lost.

So…I kind of like embarrassing stories. Mine, yours, anybody’s… I think they’re funny. I also think that if I can embrace the embarrassing aspects and stories of my life then maybe “Embarrasing” will rebel and go away forever. In an effort to repel my friend “Embarrassing” I shall now share a story with all of you. You can laugh at me if you want…I can take it. (And it’s pretty funny.) PS…the punch line this post is rated PG-13. Reader beware.

Here's how it all began...I learned a little bit of Spanish while I was on my mission. It was always far from perfect, but it was enough that I could get my messages across. I’ve always loved speaking my “Spanish,” even though it’s so completely incorrect. I do the best with what I’ve got. And now, here we are…two years post-mission. And now we get to the awkward part of the story (as if the Spanglish semi-failures for the past four years weren’t enough!)

Background: I know a kid named Denton (who I think my roommate Emily should marry). He wants to set me up on a date with his friend Jess. Apparently Jess is post-mission and all sorts of ready for marriage. Okay. I can totally support that seeing as I’ve officially embraced the concept of marriage since the end of October. Jess and I became Facebook friends a couple of weeks ago and last night we were chatting online for the first time.

What’s that lesson I shoulda learned before last night? Oh yeah: Never chat after midnight with someone you’ve never even met but who you can only hope will be your future omelet-making eternal companion (if you catch my drift). Nothing good happens after midnight!

Jess served his mission in Guatemala or somewhere like that. Somehow we began online-chatting about Spanish and Spanish-speaking and we were writing in Spanish and it was a Span-i-heyday. Ahem, please remember that my Spanish is horrible.

I told Jess how much I loved my Spanish-speaking friends on my mission and how I always felt like I fit right in with them. In fact, I used to tell them I was a bean burrito because, while I may be white on the outside, I’m brown on the inside…brown like Mexican. They loved it in PA when I used to try and speak Spanish. I always got super friendly responses to my bean-burrito joke on the mish, laughing, smiling…and a prompt change of conversation topic.

Change of conversation? I shoulda known.

Turns out…as Jess informed me…that in most Latin or South American countries that if you refer to a person as a bean burrito, you’re calling them a vagina. I had been telling my INVESTIGATORS, MEMBERS, RECENT CONVERTS, EVERYBODY—ON MY MISSION—AS A MISSIONARY— that I was a vagina.

Lesson #1: Don’t tell your potential future omelet-maker that you used to tell people you were a vagina.

Lesson #2: Don’t tell people you’re a vagina.

Lesson #3: Never forget lesson #2. Ever.

Now can I stop being embarrassed? Heh…let’s see if that blind-date ever happens. You may continue your laughter about this one forever...because I'm pretty sure I will. :)