A Married Couple Walks into a Bar ...

wah wah what the ...?

When your marriage comprises two languages and two cultures, communication is challenging at best. At worst, it's a drunken conversation with Charlie Brown's teacher over a bad Skype connection.

The esposo and I switch languages every week. I know, weird system, but there's a reason. Turns out it's really hard to change a relationship language once it's set. I didn't even know there was such a thing as a "relationship language", but there is, and apparently after a while it feels unnatural when you attempt to use the other, sidelined language. It feels awkward. Affected. Like group practice in high school French class.

Every dual-language couple we know has fallen into using only one language or the other because of this.

Some couples start out in one language, but then the situation changes and they need to start using the other. Maybe they move, or one person needs practice to get a job in the other language. A lot of people have told me they tried but couldn't make the shift. Others don't need to change their relationship language, but say it would be nice for communication to be more balanced, to be able to express themselves or use humor the way they can in their native language. Or just for the person doing life 24/7 in a foreign language to get a freaking break.

So the esposo and I decided from the get-go to use both languages. Now each of us knows what the fuck is going on about half the time, which is pretty good odds in a dual-language marriage.

jejeje

Sometimes I'm envious of English speakers whose relationship language is Spanish because they're more fluent than I am. They can argue in Spanish, they know all the slang. They can freaking tell jokes in Spanish.

So bitter.

Humor is the hardest thing in another language. Well, that and prepositions. It's a big deal for me. I was raised at the tit of sarcasm. I like funny people. I appreciate witty banter, a well-tooled phrase, penetrating conversation dripping with double entendre. Okay, maybe not quite that cheap and obvious, but you get my point. I like funny, but funny is hard in Spanish.

So it turns out I have two personalities. There's English Me and Spanish Me. I'm not even going to lie; Spanish Me is kind of a dud. English Me is fun at parties. Spanish Me, not so much. I mean, I'm not "unfun", I'm just kind of ... there.

Translating humor is a bitch. Take British and North American humor; even a shared language doesn't mean the culture translates. If you're North American, you either love or hate British humor. I find most of it brilliantly subtle and entertaining, but then there are those weird, over-the-top sit-coms bordering on slapstick, and it's like ... what the fuck is that about? And the Brits find our humor about as subtle as Jane Russell's bra. Now throw in a different language on top of the cultural divide.

Imagine you're at a party where half the guests are Seinfeld fans, and the other half, Three Stooges fans. Like that. That's me doing humor in Costa Rica.

If my friends were to describe English Me, humor would be mentioned. Granted, they'd probably make good use of the aforementioned witty turns of phrase to mock me and make me the butt of some excellent joke. Because that shit's funny. If my Spanish-speaking friends and acquaintances were to describe me, they'd probably say, "Es muy amable." Basically, "She's nice".

Right. Just put that on my tombstone. "She was nice."  Zzzzz.

... because a banana.

I'm making headway. You know how it is when a kid starts getting humor? Now he's got jokes. And he keeps starting over, like thirty-seven times, and he says "no, wait," and "okay, okay, so what happened was," and the punch line isn't that good, but the adults laugh because the little bastard has heart and doesn't quite realize he sucks, and there he is smiling, all pleased with himself, not noticing the adults  winking at each other over his head. Poor little fuck. Yeah, that's basically me, doing humor in Spanish.

It's an awkward stage.

So, as you may well imagine, the esposo and I sometimes have misunderstandings. Like every day. It happens often enough that I've decided to make these "moments in the life" a regular feature here. Lost in Translation, perhaps, though that's been done. What the Fuck Does That Even Mean? is also a possibility. Now that you all have the backstory, you're all set for the ensuing chortle-fest. At least try not to point. That's just taking it too far. This is another good reason that we switch it up every week, people -- who wants to always be the one who doesn't get it? Spread that suckage around.

So stay tuned for the first episode of What the Fuck Does That Even Mean? or whatever I decide to call it. (This is where the possum story comes in, for those who are breathlessly waiting.) Hey, I know you guys lost the This Old Motherfucking House series when I moved. I've got your back, amigos -- new show in town. And this one's cheaper. Well, except for my pride.