not funny.

I just remembered another time I was the only one that thought something was hilarious.

This was before we got married, three years ago. We had just rented an apartment. It needed quite a bit of fixing up. We were basically living at Luuk's parents' place, about 20 min away. Every night we could, we'd drive to our little place in The Hague to ready it for moving in in the next couple of weeks. That night we were going to start putting in floor boards in preparation for the cheapest decent-looking carpet we could find. Luuk's dad went with us. So, Luuk, his dad, and I jump in the car, drive all the way to the house, get there and all stand waiting at the door for one of the others to pull out their key to open it. We each have our own set. And we each forgot to take it with us.

I thought this was pretty damn funny. And I laughed. Hard. For a couple of seconds. Before I realized that the other two were both not amused. Pissed, in fact.

Yes, we had to drive back to get the keys. Yes, it was a waste of a good hour, and yes, we didn't have a whole lot of time to waste to get the place ready before the wedding. Yes, gas is expensive. Yes, the unnecessary two way trip back to their house to pick up the keys was going to cost us. And, yes, we should have checked if at least one of us had a key before we left.

But come on! That's worth laughing at, right?!

Inevitable?

I'm debating calling the latest place I've applied to. I know I should; it gives the impression that I am proactive and interested, and it's more personal than black 'Times New Roman' size 12 on a white page. But, the longer I let it sit, the longer I can think my resume is actually doing something all by itself and the longer I can think I have a shot at the job I applied for. And the longer I can feel satisfied with myself for having tried.

But, then again, the longer I wait, the less involved, proactive, and interested I seem. And the less likely I am to make a good impression. Or any impression of any sort. And the less likely I am to get hired. Thus, the more likely I am to feel dissatisfied in the end. And disappointed, again.

I guess I'll call.

Homesick.

Yesterday I had the pleasure of filling in at the "multi-culti" activity room at the old folks home, serving coffee for an hour. It's not really multi-culti, it's Marokkan. Just ladies; the men come on a different day. They greeted each other affectionately, stretching their hands out to each other and holding each other's face before planting a kiss on the other's cheek or forehead; this to each other woman in the room. Two of them spoke a little bit of really broken and difficult for a Dutch-as-a-third-language speaker to understand. Occasionally they would break in their converstation to say something like "So sorry, we speak Dutch for you. You cannot understand Arabic, eh?" And I'd smile and say something like "Oh, don't worry! I enjoy hearing you talk to each other." Which was true. This group is very unlike the Dutch ladies. They talk loudly, constantly, in and over each other's words, and laugh after every-other burst of rapid tongue-rolling pieces of speech. I immediately felt at home and realized that this was something I had missed for years and didn't know it. If they took off their headscarves and suddenly started speaking in Spanish, I would be back in Yucatán, listening to a conversation about a hundred equally unimportant and hilarious little things in life.

For the first time, a difference in my background and the Dutch culture became clear to me. I remembered a Christmas a few years ago when we had just finished decorating the tree at my in-law's and the tree fell over. I burst out laughing, and then realized I was the only one. A few of the decorations had broken, some were expensive and some had history. Of course, the breaking of the Christmas tree decorations was not actually funny. I think I've possibly slightly offended people who've just told me something serious, by giggling. And Luuk is much less amused when I shrink his favorite sweater or get lost when driving somewhere than I seem to be. I used to think it was a nervous thing, this laughing. Now I think maybe it's the Mexican in me, to laugh at everything, even in the face of things less humorous. Or maybe I'd just like to think that.

My hour with the Marokkan ladies ended, and I went back to my Dutch folks. They were knitting and chatting away, quietly and contentedly, with an occasional chuckle here or there. Mrs. S. complained about the temperature and wished the weather was brighter, then smiled at me and went back to reading the newspaper. Mr. H. nodded off; he'd slept horribly the night before. Mrs. F. started a story about something back in the day when she was a little girl, talking loudly and expressively; the other ladies listened politely and occasionally responded, sometimes leaning toward each other to comment quietly so as not to interrupt. I knew that when they all headed to their homes, they'd wish each other a pleasant evening, maybe rest a hand on one person's shoulder before waving to the rest and walking out.

I went home with a smile on my face. I'd enjoyed the day. But I missed Mexico more than I have in a while.