Flying does not make me nervous. Mr. H closes his eyes and grabs my hand when we take off, but I am usually scrambling to turn the video screen to the channel that shows the under-plane camera and jamming in ear plugs so I can start ignoring fellow passengers. However, on the return trip, I am paralyzed with fear as soon as I get off the highway within five miles of my house. I call this “The Zone of Ironic Death.” I have no qualms about being vaporized at 35,000 feet over some place exotic, but to get hit by a garbage truck around the corner? What a waste of my victim tribute photo that would be.

We had a lovely time in Spain. The food was soooo delicious. We ate at Pizza Hut, Subway, KFC, Starbucks, Dunkin’ Donuts, Burger King, and McDonald’s. I am totally kidding. There are 14 McDonald’s locations in Barcelona alone, and there is no way we had time to go to all of them. We counted 10 Starbuckseses too.

As usual, the only people who annoyed us were other Americans. There was the spoiled college girl loudly espousing her life philosophy and complaining about having to fly back for her cousin’s Bat Mitzvah in Connecticut, and of course we spotted people wearing sneakers and sweatshirts and braying about the prawns having heads. Luckily, we passed for European of Indeterminate Origin, so Americans wearing fanny packs asked us directions, shouting at us so we’d understand. Donde esta THE TRAIN STATION. I always lied in broken English. No wonder Americans think everyone else in the world is out to get them.

Yesterday I went to the grocery store, and my soul was nearly crushed by the lack of delicious yogurt. I came outside only to find that some intrepid soul had managed to use his vehicle to ram a shopping cart into my passenger door. I dropped to my knees and swore bitterly. Clearly America does not want me. To add insult to injury, the paint smear indicated that the cart must have been one of the blue ones from the Wal-Mart across the plaza. Poor people indirectly touched my car!

I am still hunting through photos, trying to find the ones where we are wearing pants. Control yourself, Internet.