I have been trying, for as long as I can remember and with limited success, to learn Spanish.

My husband, Peter, says I am good, but that is because he does not speak Spanish, so if I say anything that is understood by anyone, he regards it as a minor miracle. I feel that I have been stuck at about the same level of Spanish for at least 20 years. I can ask where things are and communicate in emergencies and exchange the usual greetings, then I dry up. I'd like to change that.

Since we are now planning to spend more time in Mexico, I've been taking this whole learning Spanish thing more seriously. I've been using Duolingo, which is a free program online, and I seem to be making progress, albeit slowly.

Duolingo relies on repetition -- a lot of it. It tries to replicate the way a child would learn a language, so instead of lessons to memorize, there is simply exercise after exercise that builds on one another. Just as a toddler repeats the same thing over and over again, Duolingo does its best to turn me into that toddler, repeating nonsensical phrases until they finally stick in my brain and become second nature. At least that's the theory.

"I really like hot sandwiches," I say in Spanish over and over again.

As I say this, it occurs to me that I have not actually eaten a hot sandwich in years. I'm trying to remember if I have ever had a hot sandwich. I try to imagine where in Mexico I might find a hot sandwich and have an opportunity to tell someone how much I like it. Then I realize that I'm not even sure that I do especially like hot sandwiches. And even if I did, who would care?

The next phrase is waiting for me. I move on.

"My dog never takes a shower."

Well, I no longer have a dog, so this phrase appears to be of even less use. It is true, when I had a dog, he never took a shower. Was he supposed to, I wonder? Would someone ever ask me this, in Mexico or anywhere else? Under what circumstances would someone ask, "Say, how often does your dog shower?"

"Oh," I'd confidently reply, "My dog never takes a shower!"

Again, I'm coming up with very few instances when this phrase would have much practical value.

When I get an answer correct in Duolingo, a little animated animal jumps for joy. While I would like to say that I find this ridiculous and unnecessary, I would be lying. Making that little owl do a somersault is deeply satisfying.

I don't honestly know if this is the best way to learn Spanish or not. There are a lot of programs out there. But most of them do not involve animated animals celebrating every time I get an answer correct and I might need that kind of encouragement if I'm ever going to get any better. These little animals seem to know I'm not the brightest Spanish student they've ever had, but they are patient. If I can correctly tell them about my dirty dog or my love of hot sandwiches, they are over the moon.

When I finish a lesson, a horn sounds, as if this is a grand accomplishment. I know it's not. The overexcited owl knows it's not.

But learning just a little bit of Spanish every day feels as if I am accomplishing something, so, what the heck. Let's celebrate with a hot sandwich.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon's memoir is called "Blue Yarn." Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

Verne knows me too well.

For the first time in our lives, my husband, Peter, and I live in a building with a front desk. It's nice to have someone there when packages are delivered, or contractors show up, and this person is usually Verne.

Verne is a natural for the job. He knows everything going on in town. He knows when music is playing in the park and where the food trucks are parked and what time deliveries are made. But what interests Verne most is what goes on inside the building. Verne knows what we are all up to, and he is never short on advice.

"I wouldn't go there," Verne told me when I was contemplating a Mexican restaurant. "It's cute on the outside, but the food is ordinary." He suggested a different restaurant.

"Oh! I like your hair," a complete stranger said to me in the lobby one day.

"She's overdue to get it colored," Verne said. "Her roots are showing."

"Verne!" the stranger said. "That's a terrible thing to say!"

"Oh, no," I told the stranger. "It's all part of the full suite of services Verne provides." (I colored my hair that week.)

One day I had to go to Home Depot twice for the same thing. "Two trips to Home Depot in one day is not a good day!" I told Verne. (Although to be fair, the folks at Home Depot were terrific.)

"Are you sure this is a problem?" Verne asked, "Or is this just your OCD talking?"

Verne had me.

"It's my OCD talking and it's a problem!" I said as I got on the elevator with another resident.

"Verne knows me too well," I complained to the pink-haired young woman in the elevator.

"Verne knows us all too well!" she said.

"I know everything!" Verne agreed, as the elevator doors shut.

But there is something very comforting about having Verne at the desk in the late afternoons.

"Where are you going tonight?" Verne will ask. He'll suggest things I should look for in the neighborhood, and I'll come back and report to him. It's nice, knowing there is someone at the door to greet me, someone who is interested in where I've been and where I'm going.

Then, one day, we got some awful news. Verne was retiring.

"I'm turning 70!" Verne said. "I can't keep working five days a week."

"But what will we do without you, Verne?" I asked.

"Oh! You won't be without me." Verne said. "I'm just going to work the weekend shift instead. John is retiring."

John is also very nice, but he is nearly blind and requires a cane to get around. It was probably a good time for John to retire. So, there was a big retirement party for John, and Verne took over the weekends.

One Sunday afternoon, John came back to visit. Now, instead of a cane, he needed a walker to get around. But he had a big smile on his face. He had come to visit Verne.

"Pull up a chair!" Verne said. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"I would!" John said.

"Would you like dessert to go with that?" I asked Verne.

"What kind of dessert?" he asked me.

"None of your business. Do you want some or not?"

"Oh, yes!" Verne said.

I had some leftover pumpkin cake, and I brought down two pieces.

"Thank you for the cake," Verne said later on, after John had left. "That was very nice."

"Oh, it was nothing," I told Verne. "What would we do without you?"

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon's memoir is called "Blue Yarn." Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS

It's that time of year again. No, I am not talking about bikini season. I'm talking about bunion season.

I did not even know I had a bunion until fairly recently and now, every time I start wearing sandals again, I am reminded that I do. I imagine it was growing on the sly for years before my husband, Peter, brought it to my attention.

"You have a bunion," he said.

"I do not!" I immediately answered -- because I had no idea what it was.

"Yes, you do. Right there, on your foot."

"That's not a bunion. It's always been like that ... I think."

"No, that's a bunion. That's what they look like."

I had heard the word "bunion" before, but had no idea what it was. For some reason, I associated it with old women in cottages who raised sheep and made cheese. I googled it and learned it was nothing nearly so romantic.

As I read up on bunions, I learned they were very unlikely to afflict a young person. Since, on most days, I still regard myself as a relatively young person, this was more than a little deflating.

"How did this happen?" I asked, shocked to learn that I had joined the ranks of the little old cheese-making women.

"It just happens when you get older," Peter informed me. Peter is older than I am and, occasionally, he lords this over me, as if there is a wealth of information about getting older he is withholding for my own good.

I was not at all pleased about this bunion. I asked the doctor about it at my next appointment. She was completely unimpressed.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

"Well ... no."

"Then I wouldn't worry about it."

This seemed to me a highly unsatisfactory response. If young people got bunions, I have to believe they would be taken a lot more seriously. Doctors would say, "We must find a treatment for this bunion or this young person's foot will never fit properly in their sandal! They might experience discomfort and embarrassment and never find a mate!"

By my age, no one cares. The doctor shrugged. From this, I gathered that she did not think I would live long enough for my bunion to become a genuine problem worthy of medical attention.

I told my sister that I had a bunion, wondering if she had one as well. She is younger than I am. To my slight disappointment, I learned she does not. Yet. But my sister said she had a friend who had her bunion fixed.

"Really!" I said. "That's wonderful!"

"No! It was terrible!" my sister said. "She had to have it fixed because she was in pain when she walked."

"What did they do?" I asked, all ready to do the same thing myself.

"They operated on it, but then she couldn't move -- at all! She had to stay in bed for two weeks. She couldn't even get up to pee!"

I will tell you right now that I have not verified this information. If it is incorrect, don't write to me -- write to my sister. She's the one doing the fearmongering. Whenever I'm told about somebody who had to pee in a bottle, I already have more information than I want.

So it appears my bunion and I will have to learn to live with one another. It does not hurt. All it does is make my foot look funny in sandals. Luckily, I'm not easily embarrassed and I already have a mate, so maybe I shouldn't complain.

But now I have.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon's memoir is called "Blue Yarn." Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION FOR UFS