Bepsi-Cola

A glass of B-, please

2010-08-20T13:17:00.007+02:00

Settling into the couch with a glass of wine and a spread of crackers and brie cheese makes me feel refined. Elegant, even. The sensation is fleeting, however, as I realize that refined, elegant young ladies probably do not inhale the entire wedge in one sitting and, even if they did, probably would not do so while watching a blood-and-sex-laden episode of True Blood.

spanish wedding soundtrack

2008-07-28T11:13:00.002+02:00

In case you were wondering, yes they DO play YMCA, the Grease remix and Mamma Mia at Spanish weddings... haha!

slurrrrrrrrrp

2008-07-22T14:11:00.001+02:00

Every single day on my way to work I make a pit stop in the same shady convenience store and buy exactly two peaches. Nothing more, nothing less.

Now I've always liked peaches, along with the rest of the fruit gang, but I've never by any means been obsessed with man's favorite fuzzy fruit. If they're there, great... if not, I'll happily find something else to eat. Like a donut. BUT, these aren't just any old peaches. These peaches are seriously the biggest, juiciest, most delicious peaches ever. This is going to sound rather revolting, but I would say they are approximately the size of a human brain. I know that's gross, because honestly, who wants to think about sinking their teeth into a big juicy brain as they take a bite of their steroid-fed peach. Ew. But seriously. Size-wise, it's the most comparable thing I can think of.

Moving along, this leads me to the second part of the story. There is absolutely no way to graciously eat these monster peaches in a quiet place - let's say the workplace, where I do indeed eat them every day - without calling to mind a pubescent make out session. You go about cocking your head one way and then the other, trying to decide on the approach, and when you finally "go for it", it's just a symphony of slurping and you can't help but bashfully look around from embarrassment. I feel like I should roll my eyes and tell myself to get a room.

cuppycakes

2008-07-21T15:29:00.006+02:00

In other news, Joanne and I made cupcakes... because honestly, what else would we be doing on a Saturday night in Europe's nightlife capital?

vroom vroom!

2008-07-21T15:27:00.002+02:00

After seeing commercials on tv for several weeks, I pestered Alfonso so much with my not-so- implicit pleas that he finally gave in and took me to see the Red Bull X-fighters... a big freestyle motocross competition being held at the bullring. Alternate name: Hickfest 2008.

I loved it. No, better yet, I straight-up Celine Dion LURVED it. What can I say... like my stepsister told me, "Bets, you're so freakin' random."

Additionally, I like to approach the show as a type of cross-cultural sociological study... in that I think it's the Spanish counterpart of America's NASCAR culture. Let's just say that Madrid's entire population of white trash and juvenile delinquents was packed in the city's bullring that night. Oh, and then me with my obnoxiously cute Vera Bradley bag and Alfonso in his Lacoste polo. Needless to say, we fit right in with the locals... in that Alfonso refused to take out his cellphone for fear of it being stolen.

We were in the nosebleed seats which, while offering great bird's-eye views of the flips and twists, was teeming with impressively pruned mullets, far too many camel toes, horrifying bodily odors, massive tattoos and shirtless guys spitting sunflower seeds and flicking cancer-stick ashes into the hair of whoever happened to be sitting in front of them. Classy folks.

Anywho, here's some visual entertainment I took...

profound thoughts on my way to work:

2008-07-01T14:08:00.001+02:00

1) If you reside in an apartment in the middle of a city - let's say, for all intents and purposes, Madrid - and you're in the market for a puppy, why in the name of jeebus would you get a Saint Bernard? I mean, I love the movie Beethoven and all, but a) once full-grown the poor thing doesn't FIT in an apartment, and b) you can't just bring out a little plastic baggie to pick up its bid'ness in the street... you need to rope off the area and go at it with a snow shovel and a heavy duty (get it? duty? doody?) garbage bag.

2) The mid-summer temperature at 9-930am in in Madrid is PERFECT. Seriously. Betsey weather times infinity. Plus one.

3) It has got to suck big fat balls to be pregnant in the summer... and I don't mean "we just found out and we're so excited for this most glorious gift" pregnant. I'm talkin' "ready to pop, waddling down the street with a fully developed human being in you" pregnant. Did I mentioned summer in Madrid hovers around a refreshing 95 degrees? I mean, I practically overheat as it is when I have to deal with an additional bag with my sneakers and gym clothes in it, let alone having to haul Junior around non-stop.

i <3 dolphins, and other selected valencia photos

2008-06-24T11:53:00.006+02:00

valencia

2008-06-23T14:21:00.003+02:00

This past weekend, we (Joanne, Joanne's brother, Joanne's brother's friend and yours truly) boarded a train to sunny Valencia, home of the best orange juice EVER, for two action-packed days of feasting on paella, seeing fishies at the aquarium and sizzling at the beach like weenies on the grill.

We ate our breakfasts - coffee, OJ and toast - outside at sidewalk cafés, embracing those summer morning hours before the real heat sets in. We wore shorts and flip-flops, took pictures and didn't think about work. We spent 4 hours at the aquarium gushing over penguins, belugas and tropical fish... and oh yes, I had tears in my eyes at the dolphin show (don't judge, it's emotional!). At the interactive science museum, we saw baby chicks hatch and ooh-ed and ahh-ed our way through various exhibits, one of which was all about the woman. Try being with two 18-year old boys in a giant moon bounce meant to be a uterus and then through a laser tunnel of traveling sperm. We took long, leisurely strolls around the city, pausing from time to time to relax in the shade for a snack or a cool drink. We topped it all off with a day at the beach, spent sunning, swimming and nibbling on ice cream sandwiches.

It was lurvely. I love vacations... even two-day ones.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Vacation Anecdote:
Joanne, having been inspired by her roommate's raving reviews, decided to invest four of her well-earned euros in a tube of cream that is essentially meant to tighten up the skin in your - cough, cough - "trouble" areas. So, intrigued both by the supposed results and by the advertised "Cooling Effect", I decided to give it a go. I shrugged off the fact that it smelled like Halls cough drops.

Fast forward to 5 minutes later when I'm hopping around the hotel room in my underwear, trying to wipe off the cream with a towel while simultaneously blowing on myself with a hairdryer. Why? Well let's just put it this way: if by "Cooling Effect" they meant "Liquid Nitrogen that may or may not freeze-burn two layers of your skin off" well then bravo! They were spot on.

heaven, with a side of french fries and a dill pickle

2008-06-20T12:41:00.005+02:00

From homemade grilled cheeses to gourmet veggie wraps, I love sandwiches like a fat kid loves cake.

I probably should have sprung for a different metaphor, because now that I look at that, I guess that makes me a fat - or, as my grandmother called me during my shman years, "husky" - kid that loves sandwiches AND cake. What can I say... I'm just another carb-lovin' American.

Okay but seriously. Along with fireworks, puppies and batting cages, there are few things that please me more than a well constructed sandwich. Just ask my coworkers at the restaurant I used to work at. In the three years that I worked there, I ordered the same exact sandwich every single day for my free lunch: a #5 (chicken salad) on wheat, side of french fries and a pickle. Seriously, how mouth-watering does this sound (taken from the website menu): Grilled Chicken Salad Muenster cheese, Romaine lettuce, beefsteak tomatoes & fresh tarragon mayonnaise ...$7.25.

Drool.

So, as I try to ward off the rumbly in my tumbly, three cheers for open-faced tuna melts, falafels and chicken wraps. Warm paninis, pb&j's and ice cream sandwiches. Subs, hoagies and grinders. Chicken clubs, grilled cheeses and blt's. Egg mcmuffins, cheeseburgers and pitas. Gyros, shawarmas and kebabs... and all the rest.

how bad a wife would i really be

2008-06-11T14:45:00.006+02:00

Susan read this lil blog entry from jezebel and subsequently sent it to me, after which we both agreed that domestic goddesses we are not. In fact, we should probably come with a disclaimer.

Here's the original 1939 marital ranking scale for wives: http://www.boingboing.net/2008/05/13/1939-marital-rating.html

And here's the blogger's score and commentary. It's pretty fantastic:
http://jezebel.com/5015057/how-bad-a-wife-would-i-really-be

a pretty tell-tale sign that Alfonso needs to work less...

2008-06-11T11:53:00.004+02:00

... is when he unwittingly goes out in public like this:

Todd's Story Corner

2008-06-11T11:00:00.002+02:00

During college, my friend Todd would habitually send us all short stories that he wrote as a way to both procrastinate and foment his creativity. Not only was he a procrastinator himself, but he was also a world class enabler who provided all of us with just what we were desperate for: a reason to put off productivity for as long as humanly possible.

The Todd's Story Corner fan club (otherwise known as the recipients of his stories) grew and grew over the course of the four years we spent at our respective schools. As Todd himself describes, Todd's Story Corner was "like a secret society, but slightly funnier than the KKK and with more of a "can do" attitude than Heaven's Gate."

Anyways, now that he's a hot shot in LA, he's taken on the digital age by writing and directing skits. Take a look- they're pretty fantastic.

www.ToddsStoryCorner.com

supermarket olympics

2008-06-10T13:30:00.004+02:00

So this week in Spain there's a trucker strike to protest the rising costs of fuel. Essentially, this means that the transport of goods, be they eggs, lumber or socks, has ceased until some sort of agreement is reached.

Aside from the congested highways due to hundreds of stopped trucks that are blocking the majority of the lanes and causing massive traffic jams, what's on the news most is the gas situation. Because trucks aren't transporting fuel to fill gas station reserves, gas stations are literally running out of gas. Yesterday, I think I heard that 15% of Madrid's gas stations had already run out of fuel, not to mention the gas stations throughout the rest of the country... and that was just day 1. The gas stations that still have fuel have lines of cars waiting to refill, the drivers not even knowing if there will still be gas left by the time they get their turn. Being the semi-illegal immigrant that I am and having no car to my name, I luckily don't have to worry about getting stuck in traffic or running out of gas- something at which I have proven to be exceptionally talented.

For many people, namely those who commute to work, this is most certainly a problem. I, on the other hand, can focus my worries on not getting deported- HA!

My experience with the strike involved the supermarket, where it seemed like the entire population of Madrid was stocking up for some impending nuclear event. I, like my family, have never been one to worry about running out of the essentials. Whenever there were hurricanes - which, by the way, were usually pretty wimpy - closing in on the shores of southeastern Connecticut, we'd watch flabbergasted as people we knew scrambled to the supermarket to stock their minivans with enough bottled water to fill up the pool in their backyard, enough canned foods to feed a small to medium-sized country and enough batteries to keep their flashlights lit for the next 6 to 8 electricity-less years. We'd buy a box of cereal, a carton of milk and a jug of OJ, never thinking beyond the next day's breakfast. Miraculously, we're still alive and kickin'.

Upon entering the store last night, I was naturally thrown off by the check-out lines that extended down into the aisles. Having just come out of a four - count that FOUR - hour meeting that went two hours past quittin' time and my only desire involving a couch and a tv, I was already grumbling. What really threw me off, however, was the fact that my grocery shopping venture ended being contact sport. I swear to jeebus it was like the videos of people Christmas-shopping during the Cabbage Patch and Tickle Me Elmo fads. Never in my life have I been rammed into so many times by shopping carts and elbows, seen customers climb over each other in the name of yogurt or watched as people unabashedly cut off a handicapped person's path. I think I even saw one old lady use her cane to catapult her way over a shopping cart.

Screw hurricanes and food shortages. I'm just lucky to have made it out of the supermarket alive.

grammar hell

2008-06-09T12:50:00.003+02:00

Once, in a high school English class and in relation to a book we had read, we were assigned a writing exercise in which we had to conceive and describe our personal versions of Hell. Had I known then what I know now about the depths of human stupidity, I think my version would have involved constant interaction with bad grammar.

Let me explain. For certain projects at work, my boss - who has since departed thanks to what's being passed off as a "mutual decision" - would hire freelance writers. Being French, however, and no whiz at speaking/writing/listening in any language including his own, his standards for hiring freelance English writers are what I would describe as appalling at best. For example, I don't understand how people, in this case a supposedly native English-speaker from Canada, can get paid for writing like this:

Having a white Martini is common here, a glass of wine or a small beer. Accompanied by yet another little snack. Like; a few mussels, berberechos (cockle in English) or somekind of Tapa.

Sorry to burst your bubble, but there IS, believe it or not, a difference between independent and dependent phrases. A semicolon does NOT have the same functions as a colon, and for the love of God, why is tapa capitalized??? Is it a country? A person? A higher power worshiped by the masses? Since when is somekind one word? Ahhh, my brain is crying.

Imagine having to revise roughly 100 pages full of this shit. This is when it crosses the line between revising and rewriting.

My job today = awesome.

the (insert witty name summing up person described)

2008-06-06T16:32:00.004+02:00

One thing that never fails to baffle me is a character for whom I can't seem to come up with a catchy yet symbolic name, but whose definition would be something along the lines of the elusive, suddenly busy im-er.

A conversation with said character goes a little something like this:

Friend: hey!!!
Me (responding immediately): hey, what's up??? how's everything going?
Friend: (no response)
Me: (rolls eyes after 15 minutes, growls, exits chat box)

I can understand the occasional and unforeseen emergency that may prevent "Friend" from responding. Your IBS is acting up again and you had to sprint to the bathroom. The boss has appeared out of nowhere and is looking over your shoulder. The fire alarm has started beeping and you had to stop, drop and roll before crawling beneath the smoke to put out the fire in the kitchen. Carbon monoxide has invaded your home and you have passed out, possibly to never wake again.

I can understand it happening once in awhile; I take offense, however, at the repeat offenders. My question for you: why bother going through the hassle of clicking on my name, opening a message box and messaging me if you have no real intentions of actually maintaining a conversation involving more than just you? Are you trying to come across as popular or important? Were you hoping I wasn't there are were just saying hi as a courtesy? It's like calling someone on the phone, waiting til they pick up... and then hanging up without saying anything. Pointless!

an open letter to... Mother Nature

2008-05-29T13:47:00.003+02:00

Yo, Mama N... what the frijoles?

In times when parts of the world are being ravaged by earthquakes, hurricanes, tornadoes and floods, I understand that - in comparison - you're going pretty easy on me. After all, the floor has not collapsed beneath me, I don't have to paddle around town in a rowboat and the apartment roof remains firmly in place above my head. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate this greatly.

That said, and with the utmost respect, we have GOT to come to some sort of agreement here.

What's the deal with the overcast skies, constant rainfall and frigid temperatures? Are you pissed? PMS-ing? Vengeful? Depressed? Well it's time to snap out of it Eeyore. It's JUNE (well, in two days) and I'm still donning my winter attire. It's been weeks... I repeat WEEKS!... since I've seen the sun and felt its warmth upon my face. NOT ACCEPTABLE.

"June" and "hold on, let me grab my coat" are two concepts that should not, under any circumstances, go hand-in-hand. So please, pop some pills - be they Midol or Xanax - and bring that fiery yet beloved ball of gas out of hiding so I can put away my umbrella, store my sweaters and sip on cool beverages outdoors while enjoying its rays.

Mkay? Great, thanks.

huh?

2008-05-20T18:38:00.007+02:00

So I just spent an exorbitant amount of time choosing a new font for instant messenger when I should have been - cough, cough - working. Because it's borderline embarrassing, I will not reveal how long this selection process took, so let's just settle with "too long". Why did I do this? Because I am bored out of my mind at work right now and it was the only thing within my control to change. You im-ers won't know what hit you when you meet the new and improved Bitstream Vera Sans size 10 font Betsey in a kickin' shade of... navy blue. Can you feel the energy?

So then I got to thinking (again, instead of - cough, cough - working) that, as silly as something like a font change may be, it's only natural to want to tweak the things that we can so as not to be perpetually stuck in a monotonous wake-work-eat-sleep-repeat cycle. Now don't interpret this badly... I don't at feel stuck in a mundane routine and I am FAR from bored. In fact, I'm pretty damn happy. I'm just bored at work right now and feeling a tad over-caffeinated!

Anyways, unless you're a nomadic hippie - which believe me would be appealing if not for the inevitability of b.o. and offspring with names like Rainbow and Ocean - it's natural for life to become a little less up to you and a little more up to others (government, bosses, etc.). After all, society tells us it's a sign of maturity to wake up and be a productive member of society instead of living in a perpetual college mindset of "eh, I'll skip life today because I'm hungover". Blurry flashbacks of rocking out on the air guitar to "Summer of '69" on top of a beer pong table are funny when you're 22 but, when you're a balding 45-year old with no steady job but with a steadily expanding beer gut, that same scenario loses its comical edge and lands you a spot in pathetic creepster territory.

I think this need to exert control over the little things is also why so many women end up with shorter and shorter haircuts as they get older. Sure, they'll say it's for purposes of easier maintenance given that they don't have enough time to primp their mane as much as they once did. This is, of course, valid. I, however, think it has more to do with them feeling that - between working, grocery shopping, driving the kidlets to soccer practice, paying bills, packing school lunches, walking the dog, etc. - the hair is one of those few precious things that you can do whatever the frijoles you want with and it won't complain, cry, bark or grow mold. And, since you can't grow your hair in the snap of a finger and the snip-snip of a pair of scissors, shorter is the only way to go. Once the kids have moved out and the hair can't go any shorter, it means it's time to retire, sell the house and dedicate your days to bingo and grandkids.

Where am I going with this? I have no effing clue, although now that I think about it, I think this sporadic urge to "change things up" is also at the core of why I get deliriously giddy about buying new socks.

I'm sick of long sleeved shirts

2008-05-19T10:01:00.003+02:00

Why the frijoles isn't it summer yet?

ode to coworkers

2008-05-16T18:44:00.000+02:00

When people ask me, in a natural response to my constant complaints about certain "aspects" at work, about why I don't aggressively look for a new place of employment, I usually don't have a legitimate response. Trust me, it's sometime in the foreseeable future, as I certainly don't plan to be here when I'm 40. Or 30, for that matter. I know I have to move out and up. After all, I WOULD at some point in my life like to get myself out of debt to the US government sometime before i hit menopause... and hey, while we're at it maybe even save a few pennies!

However, right now I'm not in a rush and I'm trying to concentrate more on the positive aspects than the negative. So, there are a few key reasons that keep me here.

1) I'm in it partially for the papers, and a dim light is slowly coming into focus at the end of the tunnel otherwise known as Spanish bureaucracy.

2) Relaxed atmosphere. We take 1/2-hour coffee breaks. We drink too much wine at lunch on "social Fridays". We can just about go to work in our pj's if it strikes our fancy, and nobody will care. In fact, if someone were to show up wearing what others in the workforce know to be "work attire", we'd either laugh or assume he/she has an interview.

3) When it comes down to it, I DO like what I do. Sure there are a lot boring parts, but I write, I translate, I plan entire websites, I pretend I'm an internet guru and learn more each day about html and SEO. Nerdy, yes... but if my career path shapes up to be the path I think I'm starting out on, all of this stuff helps beef up my resume.

4 and most important) I have fantastic coworkers. While there's a constant flow of people coming and going, we somehow always have a great group of people. We laugh non-stop. We get drinks after work every Friday. We have inside jokes. We spend more time with each other during the week than we do with our significant others, and yet we still voluntarily choose to hang out with each other after work and on weekends.

Being from abroad, it's hard to form your own group of friends. Our childhood and college friends don't live in this city, in this country and, in many cases, even on this continent. There's no circumstance that forces you into befriending your dorm roommate, the strangers down the hall or the people sitting next to you in philosophy class. Instead, the tendency for us outsiders is to try to infiltrate the group of friends of some "link", whether it's a classmate, a roommate or a significant other.

At work we're from all around the world - USA, France, Germany, Spain, Russia, Dominican Republic, Brazil, Italy... - and yet here we are, each with their own reasons, in Madrid. Luckily for us, we're not just coworkers but we're legitimate friends beyond the workplace... and that's pretty special thing to leave behind.

city living thought of the day

2008-05-12T10:18:00.004+02:00

How much dog poo do you think blind people unwittingly step in?

yikesabee

2008-05-09T12:34:00.003+02:00

I found quite possibly the least aesthetically pleasing dog breed ever. It's called a "saluki". How the frijoles do you cuddle up on the couch with that??

Unfortunate.

2008-05-09T12:14:00.001+02:00

As I scurried to work this morning, I saw a woman (or maybe not..) who looked exactly like Adam Sandler's androgynous assistant in 50 First Dates. Remember? The one who dove headfirst into a barrel of fish and later got covered in walrus vomit? Yeah that one.

My list of day-to-day grievances

2008-05-07T15:37:00.003+02:00

That squeaky feel/sound of fabric rubbing against fabric.

Yorkshire terriers

Pistachios that won't open

When the metro leaves just as you get to it

Alarm clocks

When the daily puppy isn't cute

The Electric Slide

Facebook application invitations

When people can't keep their their/they're/there and effect/affect straight

The tangle-prone Ipod earphones

Bad coffee

Kids sitting behind you on flights

Bread bag twisties

Pigeons. May they all perish.

Slow drivers cruising in the left-hand lane

Tuesdays

Looking at the clock and getting excited to see that it's 6:00pm. Then you realize that no, it's actually 16:00 and you still have 2 and a half hours of work left. Damn you military time.

Overzealous patriotism

The size of the towels at the gym

Subjunctive mode

Clementines with seeds

Mushy strawberries

The effect of gas prices on international flight fares

When your ipod keeps going back to the same songs even when it's supposed to be shuffling through your whole play list.

Incorrect weather forecasts

Music from Grease. Especially the Grease medley.

Traffic

Pennies and their international 1-cent equivalents

Bad grammar

When every single crosswalk you get to is a red light.

Reality shows

Any word in Spanish that has the combination of r followed by d in it.

Stupidity

Forgetting to buy something at the supermarket

B.O. in the metro

Cheap alcohol in plastic bottles

Ham-flavored chips.

When nobody posts new photos on Facebook

The dubbed voice in Spanish for Stewie in Family Guy. Just doesn't compare.

Slow news days

cat fanatics

2008-04-23T12:12:00.002+02:00

From one of my favorite comics, this is pretty funny:

www.nataliedee.com

what a novel idea

2008-04-10T14:21:00.008+02:00

On occasion, I have mentioned half-jokingly the idea of some day writing a book. Unfortunately, I've got a few speed bumps in my way, not the least of which is my attention span and patience, or lack thereof. This unfortunate combination barely allows me to maintain a blog with any degree of regularity, let alone create a 300-page work of literary genius. Plus, nothing has ever come to mind to which I could imagine dedicating myself for weeks, months or even years.

Anyway, this morning we went to the bar for our coffee break, which is really the daily opportunity to release our collective workplace anger so as not to explode and/or resort to violence. In a sudden moment of clarity, the skies opened up, the birds chirped, heaven's angels sang, and I realized the it had been right there in front of me all along- my working experience in Spain! Well, more specifically about my time in the company I work for. Believe me, there's more than enough material.

My nearly two years here have been laden with unusual anecdotes and bizarre characters: the Slovakian intern constantly and unabashedly perusing x-rated websites; the owner's bat shit crazy mother who flies through the office in a whirl of hairspray and Burbury plaid, with her ridiculously small Yorkie tucked under her arm a la Jacobim Mugatu; and, of course, the ridiculous boss, quite possibly afflicted with multiple mental disabilities, that blows Michael Scott outta the water. Seriously.

Really, the only thing left - aside from actually writing it and getting my multi-million dollar book deal - is deciding upon the genre: comedy, drama or tragedy.

my new set of wheels

2008-04-07T14:42:00.000+02:00

I bought rollerblades - woop woop!

That's right, I'm just a Ninja Turtle t-shirt, a pair of stirrup leggings and a few heinous scrunchies away from 1990.

kids vs dogs, round 2

2008-04-02T11:58:00.005+02:00

The second installment of the children vs dogs series.

Kids:
http://www.news4jax.com/news/15761895/detail.html

Here's a little excerpt:
Three of the nine Ware County third-grade students suspended after accusations that they were involved in a plot to harm their teacher will face some serious charges in juvenile court, according police. Waycross Police Chief Tony Tanner on Tuesday released pictures of the evidence, which includes a steak knife, a paperweight, handcuffs, gloves and several rolls of tape.

Dogs:
http://dailypuppy.com/index.php?itemid=1798

And the accompanying excerpt:
Nissa loves to eat our garden, and we will quite often spot her with a few flowers or some grass hanging out of her mouth. Nissa is also a sucker for a good belly rub, and will happily sit for ages if she scores one. She loves to run and jump - it was hard work getting these photos, because so often she'd move so fast that we'd end up with a photo of the ground!

an open letter

2008-03-28T16:07:00.011+01:00

Dear Jelly Belly Candy Company,

Ye pioneers of the palate and gods of glucose delight my senses and speak to my soul with your potpourri of mouth-watering Jelly Belly jelly beans. Even the random and decidedly strange flavors (see: "buttered popcorn" and "toasted marshmallow") have grown on me. Well, all but the jalapeño ones, which are, to be frank, quite horrid.

My relationship with your beans began circa 1994 on a venture to Washington, D.C. with my dad and siblings, when a good friend of his bet me 1000 jelly beans that I couldn't name the statue on top of the capitol building. He quickly learned never to underestimate the knowledge of an 11 year old.

A couple months later, when he traveled up to the good ole nutmeg state, he paid in full with three giant boxed assortments of Jelly Bellies. I was eating jelly beans for months. In fact, it's probably what added the chub factor to my already awkward teenage years (see: school photos, grades 6 through 12).

I was also quite fond of my tour of your factory back in the summer of 2002. I felt like Charlie entering Willy Wonka's humble headquarters; let's disregard the fact that Charlie was like 8 and I was 19. Regardless, for several weeks following the visit, I fantasized of practicing my backstroke in a vat of bubblegum-flavored Jelly Beans, which happened to be the flavor your employees were making on the day of my tour. I can only liken my fantasy to cartoon scenes in which Uncle Scrooge splashes about in golden coins, except I wouldn't emerge smelling like dirty metal.

So, as I sit here at work munching on handfuls of my "Christmas Mix" (yes, I am aware that Christmas was some time ago), I can't help but be moved to express to you my undying gratitude.

Sincerely,

long-time Jelly Belly consumer/current green-tongued enthusiast,
Betsey

Dogs are the New Kids

2008-03-10T12:52:00.008+01:00

Mark and I worked together for a couple summers during the good ole college years in this ghetto ass store/easiest place of employment called Odd Job. It was kind of along the lines of a small-scale Walmart, but with even more crap and even less English-speakers.

It was, without a doubt, the easiest job ever.

Aside from eating Hot Tamale and Mike & Ike candies for dinner and being the only all stars to have a) a high school diploma and b) teeth, we/I would keep a tally based on all the bratty 9 year olds who ran around the store screaming uncontrollably, knocking things off shelves, and generally living in a constant state of obnoxiousness. What made things even worse was that as the fruits of their loins launched slotted spoons and whisks at each other, the parents would just shrug and wander off to look at suitcases, insect repellent or four-dollar bras.

Moving along. From time to time Mark would hear my voice across 4 aisles yelling "dogs: 458", which was understood to be the first part of the score in the ongoing contest of dogs vs. kids. The second part was never necessary to include, as the little demons never managed to break into the positive numbers. During those summers, I truly don't know how many times I swore off ever having children.

In related news, last night Susan and I decided that I should start up a new blog called "Dogs are the New Kids", which would essentially juxtapose - through articles, photos and my ever witty commentary - the loving innocence of our cherished canine companions and their polar opposites: children. Why? Frankly, because every day there are new reports about children doing increasingly horrific things to each other. They shoot each other, stab each other over video games... anything seems to be game these days.

So, if I were to dedicate an entire blog to the kids vs dogs issue - and believe me, this is hyp-o-thetical - today's article contribution would be this:
http://www.kirotv.com/news/15547029/detail.html

Excerpt: A 10-year-old boy is in critical condition at Children's Hospital in Seattle after being buried in a backyard sandbox by his playmates.

Which would then be compared to THIS, today's dailypuppy.com photo.
http://dailypuppy.com/index.php?itemid=1747\

In conclusion, children possibly killing their playmate by interring him alive versus a beagle puppy playing fetch with a stick. I rest my case.

Questions?

SO ready for warm weather...

2008-02-28T12:59:00.004+01:00

This weekend it's going to be practically 70º in Madrid- woot!!! Bars and cafés had better get their outdoor tables set up!

Ch-ch-check it out: Madrid's 10-day

tuesday morning randomness

2008-02-26T13:02:00.006+01:00

How is it not at least Thursday?

Joanne might come back to Madrid in June... to stay! Yay America.

While a smidge embarrassing to admit, Britney Spears' newest album is great for the gym. With the exception of a ballad or two which I promptly skip, the beats of practically all of the songs are right on par with my rate on the elliptical: a nice range of 60 to 65.

I don't care how screwed up she is; Amy Winehouse totally rocks. She adds a touch of sultry sass to the mundane nature of my workday.

No matter how painstakingly careful I am when winding them up, my iPod earphones ALWAYS tangle themselves into knots. Wtf?

No Movistar, I don't want a cell phone contract. Please stop stalking me.

45 days til vacation- Hallelujah!

How beyond fantastic is the Sarah Silverman / Jimmy Kimmel video duel? HIL.AR.I.OUS.

Her video:

His revenge:

me = idiot

2008-02-26T10:26:00.001+01:00

Going to the gym in the morning, when you're still groggy and trying to figure out why the main characters in your dream were dancing forks, inevitably increases the possibility of leaving something behind. Luckily, such items are generally negligible... hence their being forgotten. Salad dressing. Socks. A spoon. Occasionally a bra. When these things are left behind, it's just a hitch. You can make do, even if it means eating dry lettuce for lunch or keeping the gals hidden with a sweatshirt.

Then today happened, when I found myself standing in the gym locker room - showered and otherwise ready to go - in leggings, boots and a tank top. Noticeably absent from my gym bag was the dress meant to go over said leggings.

I had 10 minutes until work, which is 5-10 mins from the gym, and I had to weigh out my options: A) go to work a la Catwoman, or B) scamper the 15 minutes home, put on the dress and then scamper the 20 minutes to work, hoping to make it in by 10. This is all up and down the same long street, mind you. A shop worker said hi to me three - count 'em THREE - times this morning.

In the end, tardiness prevailed over what would likely have been the saddest attempt at a Catwoman costume ever. Interestingly enough, I probably burned up more pesky calories outside of the gym this morning than inside it.

yay yay rah rah

2008-02-22T10:49:00.006+01:00

Is it just me or is Hillary Clinton always, always, ALWAYS clapping in pictures taken of her as she campaigns. I personally - and especially when you throw in the over-exaggerated facial expressions - find that it comes across as quite awkward. Like when parents try too hard to act "cool" or when scrawny, acne-prone teenyboppers in the throes of puberty try to break dance. Or rap.

Then again, I bet a hearty dose of self applause does wonders for your self esteem. That way, you know that you've always got at least one cheerleader on your side. Or in the mirror.

... go Obama!

morning encounters

2008-02-19T16:18:00.003+01:00

So there's this girl who I see at the gym pretty much every time I manage to drag myself out of bed in the name of physical well-being. I refer to her simply as, well, an abbreviated nickname stemming from a particular part of the female anatomy. It may seem crass, but trust me... it's appropriate. I will explain why. Plus, she's about an 11 on the bitch meter, so I don't feel too bad about it.

Now I'm not a prude; I understand walking to and from the shower naked. It's normal and doesn't bother me in the least. However, while most folks then put some clothes on or at least use a towel post-shower, this particular lass keeps on in the buff for another 20 minutes as she blow-dries her hair, puts on her make-up and goes through the rest of the steps of her a.m. beauty routine.

Then comes the fun part: when she apparently needs to exfoliate her entire body with this coarse loofah of sorts. This involves her - completely naked, mind you - throwing her leg over her head into a position that can only be compared to that of my cat when he is getting ready to lick himself.

a note from frank

2008-02-18T23:11:00.001+01:00

So today I get the following email:

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Elizabeth,

As Senior Vice President of Holy Cross, I am writing to ask you for some very valuable feedback. Our records indicate that you have not recently made contributions to the College. I am not asking for money at this time; I am merely looking for information. Will you share with us why you do not give?

If you take a moment to let me know why you don't give to Holy Cross, I promise to respond to you personally. We are working to make Holy Cross the top choice for ambitious students eager to discover themselves in an intellectually rigorous, Jesuit, liberal arts environment. We need the support of alumni to make that happen. That is why it is imperative for us understand why some alumni do not give. If you're willing to share that information, I would be very grateful.

Just email me at (email address) with your response, and I will get back to you as soon as possible.

Thank you in advance for sharing your thoughts with me.

Frank ________

Senior Vice President

College of the Holy Cross

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notice the strategically italicized "Will you share with us why you do not give?", as if it were Mother Teresa herself making a heartfelt plea for grain to feed the hungry. In reality, Holy Cross has bazillions of dollars that it invests primarily in schmoozing rich alumni, catering meals for the Jesuits on campus and, of course, plenty o' mulch.

Well, Frank... unfortunately for us all, I'm still looking at 10 years of paying off that intellectually rigorous, Jesuit, liberal arts education. Ask me a decade from now and then maybe we'll chat... perhaps when I have a bit of cash in the bank to complement my valuable intellectual affluence.

major peeeeeve

2008-02-18T11:27:00.001+01:00

If there's one thing I dislike about the gym more than my feet falling asleep on the elliptical, it's the obnoxious folks who plant themselves right in front of your machine in the gym and then attempt to will you off the elliptical/treadmill with their raised-browed eye rolls, piercing stares, exaggerated sighs and frenzied toe-tapping.

That's when I generally decide is a good time to test my physical threshold and go for as long as my endurance will keep me conscious, upright and breathing. And then I do a relaxed, very drawn-out cool down. Mwa ha ha.

SUCKAS.

why are sneakers exciting?

2008-02-14T14:04:00.006+01:00

I bought new sneakers yesterday, which is always exciting. No, not because I'm a girl and all girls intrinsically love adding new footwear to their collection... ahem, Elaine.

These babies are my first pair of Nikes since I was like 12, when I boycotted them. 'Why?' you may ask? Some would respond that it's because of the exploitation of young'ns in the Chinese work force. Nope, not my reason... though I certainly commend those folks for their noble nature.

It all goes back to when my brother went through his infamous head-to-toe Nike phase, when a typical outfit would feature Nike basketball sneakers, black Nike socks, Nike mesh shorts, a Nike t-shirt, a Nike sweatshirt and of course - the cherry on top of his bowl haircut - a Nike hat. This "phase" lasted for several years, and the over saturation of Nike apparel floating around the house made me shudder at all things swoosh-related. Only yesterday, 13 years later, did I finally break down and invest in a pair of Nike kicks that caught my eye and hugged my feet like little clouds of heaven. And, I must admit, they're pretty rad.

Why is it that buying sneakers excites me so? Well, to begin, anything new is exciting and there's definitely something to be said for the beneficial powers of retail therapy. But secondly, there was always something thrilling about buying new sneakers as kids, when the parentals loaded us up in the family station wagon (hell yeah wood-grain panels!), shuffled us into the local Stride Rite store and deposited us at the feet of some archetypal frumpy store clerk, who then embarked on the tedious process of getting us to stop squirming, measuring our feet, and then testing how much room we had in the various footwear candidates that came through the swinging door.

Eventually we'd narrow down the options, whining our way out of the personal favorites of our parents, and finally select the winning pair of gleaming white sneakers that would make us the masters of all outdoor pursuits. We'd proudly and squeakily wear them out of the store, our dingy and probably ill-fitting ones hidden away like illegitimate children.

We'd get home, anxious to show off our fabulous new high-tops in a game of neighborhood 4-square or tackle football, fully-convinced that with our brand new footwear we could run faster, jump higher, throw stronger and certainly look all sorts of good. We'd open the front door and wave regally to our friends like pint-sized popes greeting the hoards in Saint Peter's Square (otherwise known as our front yard). Just as we'd open our mouths to brag "Hey look at my new..", our mother always appeared out of thin air.

"No, no... those are your 'good' sneakers. Go put your old ones back on to play outside." And in that moment, all the fun was squeezed right out of the situation and our athletic prowess was placed back into the box... to be saved for more appropriate childhood activities that did not entail anything that sneakers are technically designed for.

So to answer the question, I just get excited that I don't have to "save" my new sneakers.

just gettin through the work day...

2008-02-13T17:11:00.003+01:00

1. Name someone who can always makes you smile? alfonsito, marky, my familia, dogs

2. What were you doing at 10:00 this morning? moving to our new office... and then trying to make it less hazardous

3. What were you doing 30 minutes ago? workin'

4. What did you do last night? slept

5. Did you watch the Super Bowl? sadly, i did not

6. Explain why you last threw up? ill

7. What color is your hair brush? purple, i think?

8. What cell phone company do you use? in the states, cingular... in spain, movistar

9. Have you text voted for an American Idol? hell nah

10. Have you ever run out of gas? touchy subject... aka twice. what can i say, i'm a procrastinator by nature and sometimes it backfires.

11. Hot tea or Iced tea? i like it hot and i like it green

12. What was the weather like today? chilly and cloudy

13. Where did your last hug take place? at work

14. What are you excited for? work ending for the day

15. Ever smoked pot? moi?

16. Closest thing to you that is green? box of green tea bags on my desk

17. Last person you spoke to? fabienne

18. Are you very random? quite

19. Do you want to get your hair cut? i think i'm gonna grow it again

20. Are you over the age of 25? gettin' old... i know

21. Do you talk a lot? nope... only if i'm drunk or hyper

22. Do you watch The O.C.? ew

23. Whats your screename? no, you can't stalk me

24. Will people IM you now that you posted it? see above

25. Do you make up your own words? spanglish does wonders for one's vocabulary..

26. Are you ticklish? don't touch me

27. Do you own rollerblades? somewhere in my mom's basement

28. Are your ears pierced? yup

29. Bar soap or body wash? whatever's in the shower

30. Are you a jealous person? sometimes

31. What brand of shampoo do you use? pantene

32. Do you chew on your straws? not obsessively

33. Do you have curly hair? HA!

34. What is the next concert you are going to? no clue

35. Where did you go today? let's see... old work, new work, bar downstairs for a coffee, back to new work, lunch, back to work. WOO!

36. What 1 item do you always pick up at the grocery store? juice

37. What is something you say a lot? holler

38. Last time you wore panty hose? ugh, i hate the word panty.. shudder

39. Red or White Wine? rouge, si'l vous plait

40. Do you think you are pretty? sometimes

41. What are you doing tonight? i love my will & grace reruns...

42. What was your last missed call? mom

43. What should you be doing right now? work

44. Do you have a nickname? betsey has opened up all sorts of opportunities... betsey-wetsey, buttsey, butts, etc.

45. Are you a heavy sleeper? sometimes

46. What are you listening to? regina spektor

47. What is the best movie you have seen in the past two weeks? juno!

48. Is there anyone you like right now? sure

49. When was the last time you did the dishes? i put dishes in the dishwasher yesterday?

50. Did you cry today? so far so good

51. Do you like Chinese food? some

52. How big is your bed? depends where i am

53. Do you know someone with the same birthday as you? not personally, although according to wikipedia there are quite a few of us

54. Laptop or desktop computer? laptop at home, desktop at work

55. How many pictures are hanging in the room you are in? zippo

56. Red Sox or Yankees? red sox, duh

57. Does anyone like you? hopefully not everyone hates me, put it that way

58. Do you collect anything? junk

59. Do you bite your nails? only in moments of stress

60. How many megapixels is your digital camera? i forget

61. Last time you went on a date? do people still call them dates?

62. How many times have you been pulled over by the police? perfect driving record suckaaas

63. Pancakes or French Toast? pancakes

64. What is on your mouse pad? don't have one

65. At what temperature do you put on a jacket? now that i have the cold tolerance of a 90 year old floridian, i'm always cold. how things have changed since i used to go entire winters without wearing a coat...

66. Do You Like Coffee? we have a very intimate relationship

67. How big is your largest television set? um? whichever it is it sure ain't mine

68. Do you know anyone in the military? yep

69. Do you have a globe in your house? maybe somewhere in my dad's basement?

70. Number of pillows you sleep with? 1 or 2

71. Do you make scrapbooks? i did in high school

72. Could you live without a computer? prob not

73. What are you wearing right now? jeans and a yellow shirt. tres interessant

74. What type of watch do you wear? don't wear one

75. Do you prefer Tile or Hardwood Floors? i guess hardwood?

76. Can you play pool? i have strangely good luck for being a shitty pool player

77. Last time you swam in a pool? not too sure

78. Are your nails manicured? never

79. Do you like maps? i LOVE google maps...

80. Tell me a random fact: i spent a long time wanting to be a dolphin trainer and work at sea world

81. Ever have surgery? negative

82. What celebrity do people say you look like? if i DO ook like someone, i hope it's at least a female...

83. What age were your parents when they got married? like 23... YIKESABEE

84. Favorite TV show? 30 rock & arrested development (never gets old)

85. Does your phone have a camera? yup

86. Favorite flavor of ice cream? moosetracks, cookie dough

87. Have you been to Times Square? several times

88. Who will you vote for in the 2008 Presidential Election? i am what can be defined as obsessed with barack obama

89. How many cars have you owned? actually "owned"? zippo

90. Does your car have a bumper sticker on it what is it? no car

91. Favorite quiz on QuizPox.com ? no idea what that is

92. Do you know anyone that is pregnant? too many for my liking... some chicks have already hatched

93. Last time you laughed at something stupid? like 5 mins ago

94. What time did you wake up this morning? well, i GOT up around 8:30... woke up every 9 minutes between 7:30 and 8:30 (thank you snooze alarm)

95. Wake up next to anyone this morning? the normal entourage... just a few male prostitutes and a pair of goats

96. Best thing about winter? fireplaces

97. Worst thing about winter? cold, lack of outdoor cafés

98. Do you have siblings? 3

99. Name a couple of favorite colors? green, red

100. What are you doing this weekend? sleeping and maybe a bar crawl?

new discovery

2008-01-29T15:26:00.000+01:00

Dark chocolate KitKats. Edible heaven.

On a less fat side note, we're now 2 for 2 this week re: gym attendance. I deserved an effing KitKat :D

she just can’t be bothered

2008-01-28T16:24:00.000+01:00

While delicious and free, two weeks of big American breakfasts, all the peanut butter products under the sun and the best gosh darn donut place in the world have done their damage. She's noticing the, ahem, “snug” fit of her clothing and she feels about two candy bars away from donning a muumuu and losing all definition between her chin and my neck. She dreads that moment when gravity does its thing and turns what was once a right angle into its hypotenuse, thus connecting her chin directly to her collarbones. And yet... she has failed to get back to the pre-work gym routine that she had gotten pretty good at and was shockingly even quite fond of. Instead, the sweet bliss of sleep, safe and snug in the refuge of her down comforter, has prevailed thus far.

"Meh… maybe this week" she shrugs, as she glances guiltily at the awaiting gym bag at her feet.

2008-01-24T16:10:00.000+01:00

Whenever I’m assigned at work to do a travel guide, I end up contracting a severe case of the infectious travel bug. It’s like an itch you can’t scratch, and you spend all your time at work thinking about when and how you could jet off to all the destinations that run through your mind. And then you dream of being a rich retired person or at the very least a jet-setting lottery winner who can just pick up and spend a year just traveling. I would be in my g-l-o-r-y.

Over the past six months I’ve been moved up a few notches in the company hierarchy... which means I don't work much anymore on the more interesting and creative promotional websites (city guides, etc.) Instead I get to work on the company’s commercial websites (course descriptions, text for informational brochures, company descriptions, etc.) and haven’t written a single travel guide since then. Now, however, I’m 25 pages into a guide about Pamplona (our company just bought a school there and needs to promote it) and, along with brushing the dust off of my adjective bank and revving up my creative wit, I am struck with "the bug"... and oh is it ever back with a vengeance.

So I present my “to be visited at some point in life” wish list:

Outside of Spain:
Ireland, Ireland, Ireland
Prague
Lisbon
Berlin; Germany in general
Finland (mainly to see the aurora borealis)

In Spain:
Cuenca
Bilbao & Basque Country in general
Cantabrian coastline
Pamplona
Pyrenees
León

In the US:
Chicago
Austin
Niagara Falls
Grand Canyon
Seattle
Denver

Maybe in 2008 I’ll even check a couple of them off!

Winged demons

2008-01-15T15:46:00.001+01:00

I don’t care how stupid people think I am for it. I am absolutely, positively, 150% terrified of birds. Well, not all birds. Canaries, cardinals, robins and their fellow birds of the hopping kind are all okay in my book, and who doesn’t let out a little sigh of delighted wonder upon seeing a hummingbird flitting around on a sunny afternoon.

Pigeons, however, are a much different story. There’s nothing cute, melodic or even mildly pleasant about them. They’re ugly and gray. And dirty. Unpredictable. Sly and greedy. And usually missing toes. Also falling under the “not ok” list are owls, hawks and other birds of prey whose TALONS could easily fit around my head and whisk me away to their nest, where their equally vicious babies would probably use me as their new chew toy. If I’m going to be whisked away to a remote destination, I’d much rather it be for vacation, play or romance than to be the
special du jour, thank you very much.

Maybe it’s because urban pigeons don’t fear humans and will dive right at your face without breaking a sweat. Maybe it’s because they sit side by side along an entire ledge of a building… staring at passers-by like beaked Mona Lisas. Maybe it’s because I saw “The Birds” when I was clearly much too young – age 14 - for that startling degree of horror. Maybe it’s even because in a former life I was a small woodland creature that met its end upon being picked off by a circling owl. I don't know- could be anything, really.

What I DO know, however, is that as I walk the city streets of Madrid, those beady little pigeon eyes stare at me.

(Picture description: As we ate breakfast at an outdoor eatery in Granada, the lovely patrons at the neighboring table started throwing food down for the birds and in the blink of an eye no less than 30 pigeons were flapping their wings in my hair and playing bumper cars with my feet as they scavenged for the morsels. I look deceivingly look happy in the photo, but I was actually laughing nervously as I wiped tears and huddled in my seat. The picture was taken when I actually almost started to cry. My friends are obviously sympathetic to my dilemma.)

thoughts of a judgemental globe-trotter

2008-01-07T07:02:00.000+01:00

(Written 12/24/07, found and posted today)

Thoughts from Madrid: In an age when airlines are supposedly trying to deter the induction of new members to the internationally-recognized Mile High Club, why would airport stores in departure areas sell approximately 8 different varieties (brands, sizes, tastes, etc.) of condoms? Isn’t that kind of asking – nay, demanding – that people let their hormones run rampant between dinner and the in-flight movie?

Thoughts from Paree: For being the supposed fashion capital of the world, a surprisingly high percentage of travelers passing through Paris (well, the airport) seem to open their closets to decide what to wear and somehow - perhaps having been struck by temporary blindness - reach the conclusion that Crocs are the way to go. Unfortunate.

Christmas II: the best conversation starter ever

2007-12-19T18:02:00.001+01:00

Hi, nice to meet you. I'm Betsey. Oh, you recognize my voice? Ha ha, I get that a lot this time of year. I'm somewhat of a celebrity come the holidays. Maybe you have heard me on the radio? Why yes I AM the voice of Dominic the Italian Christmas Donkey! Good job! Here, this one's just for you: "Ee-ahh, ee-ahh"

Christmas

2007-12-19T15:32:00.000+01:00

Despite how obscenely commercial Christmas is, I love every bit of it: the bright colors, the flamboyant lights, the music, the constant eating and drinking. It’s like Las Vegas goes on tour once a year and hits small-town America. Thank jeebus it leaves la Celine in all of her Canadian glory behind. Gag. Aside from a Celine Dion holiday album, nothing can chip away at my holiday glee. Not even the annual crew of over-zealous Jesus fanatics, who along with the Nazi priest who actually forbade us from saying "Happy Holidays" (incidentally the same priest who actually yelled at me with his fist in the air for wondering aloud about reincarnation in my CCD class) come out of the woodwork to drone on about Christmas losing its original meaning.

Christmas has yet to lose its special feel, even though we’re quite obviously no longer a pack of rugrats. Newer traditions (drinking, Mrs. Guarraia’s cheesecakes, Cortylandia) intertwine with the oldest ones, but the basics are still in place. It’s about being with your family. Rousing up a good fire in the fireplace. The Boston Pops and waging battles with wadded-up balls of wrapping paper. Flannel pajamas, giggles and surprises. Hopes for snow on Christmas morning. Pancakes and scavenging for batteries. That unexpected something in the very toe of your stocking that you didn’t come across before. The nostalgia for the days when Santa Claus still weighed out the year’s deeds and (hopefully) determined that you had indeed been more nice than naughty.

My cumulative vision of Christmas when we were children looks like something plucked right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. The Christmas tree stood in the corner, its strands of tiny bulbs blinking red, orange, green and blue weaving festively through the ornaments. We made sure to set out cookies and a tall glass of milk for Santa, along with enough carrots to fuel the whole gang of reindeer through the rest of their round-the-globe night.

Night would fall on Christmas Eve, and our parents would try to hustle us to bed with the classic “Santa won’t come if you’re not asleep” threat; this is not helpful, however, when you’re a seven-year old insomniac. Instead of struggling to stay awake to see what happened, I remember actually throwing myself into a sheer panic fearing that Santa Claus would know I was awake and skip on to the next house.

In the end, it'd all go off without a hitch, and come Christmas morning we’d be up before the sun was. Partly because we were early risers in our youth, but mostly because I’d feel a presence, open my eyes, and see my sister’s eyeballs no more than one inch from my face. She’s now 21 and has yet to relinquish her role as the Christmas Day family alarm clock. Once she managed to successfully awaken her first victim (me, since my room was the closest), she then sprang into full-speed action, bouncing up and down and off the walls like a super ball. My sister is also the one person who shot into super ball mode not only opening her own presents, but when everyone else was opening theirs.

Once we recruited my brother, we’d take on the task of getting our parents up. After spending long and torturous minutes poking and prodding our parents as if they were lethargic cattle, they'd finally groan awake and we'd give our first cheer of victory. We’d race to the top of the stairs, wriggling around in gut-wrenching agony which was only compounded when we realized our dad had full intentions of taking a shower (and his sweet time).

So we'd listen to the shower run, the three of us sitting side-by-side on the very top step. We weren't allowed to go downstairs, of course, until our parents gave us the green light... at which point we'd take off at speeds rivaling the Indy 500. The one time my brother crept silently down the stairs to take a peek around the corner before my parents came out of their room, my sister and I sat in breathless fear until he safely returned and whispered, his blue eyes huge in awe, "he came!"

Finally, the parents, freshly showered and yet back in their pajamas for the sake of the pictures (when every opened present was followed by "ok, now hold it up" and a flash), would slowly emerge from their bedroom as if they were ethereal beings gracing us with their presence. My sister, still bouncing, would squeal “Can we go down yet?” and before we even heard an answer we would be scrambling down the stairs and sliding across tile floors until we reached the family room.

To our delight, the carrots had always been nibbled, the milk was always gone but for a few drops, and just a few crumbs were sprinkled on the plate where the cookies had once sat. Some years, Santa would leave behind one half-bitten Oreo, and we’d marvel at it as if it were the freakin’ holy grail.

So while we're no longer kids and we now know that our parents - and now we, as well - suffer through daunting credit card bills, Christmas is still Christmas. Plus, our presents are still signed "from Santa".

5 work necessities of today's modern age

2007-12-17T16:04:00.000+01:00

... by a semi-disgruntled worker

Caffeine
Between coffee, diet coke and an occasional tea, my intake of various caffeine-infused libations essentially sets the structure for each work day. For example, 11:45am means time for a 1/2-hour coffee at the bar downstairs. If it's the start of the day and you don't yet see a mug of steaming energy in my hands, don't even think about asking me to get elbow-deep in html code, repetitive price tables and commercial writing jam-packed with enthusiasm, cheesy adjectives and an obscene amount of exclamation marks.

Post-its
While I have spent a lifetime practicing the art of writing notes on my hands, post-it notes bring all sorts of joy to my life. Even when we were young'ns playing office, the best parts were easily: 1) speaker-phoning each other, 2) ignoring the phrase "no, don't touch that", and 3) rummaging through my dad's supply closet and swiping legal pads, pens and post-its. At work, post-its literally frame my computer screen and part of the wall. Plus, making bulleted lists in pretty colors gives me a false feeling of productivity.

Snacks
Here at my job, we eat our feelings. Stress, boredom, frustration... all roads lead to cookies.

Facebook
What better way to procrastinate than by compulsively clicking refresh to see who, in the past 45 seconds, a) has gotten hitched, b) has broken up, c) has popped out a few puppies, d) blacked out last weekend, e) has posted new pictures, f) has changed jobs, g) has joined facebook... and so on and so forth. It's essential that I know, since we are clearly so intimately close that I don't know first-hand.

Sense of humor
That way, when wintry days arise in which neither the heat nor the internet work (kind of important, when you work in the company's internet department), you can just say 'hey, if penguins have no need for heat or functioning technology, neither do I.' Rad.

Idiot of the day

2007-12-10T12:21:00.000+01:00

9:25am. A middle-aged woman slowly limps her way down the sidewalk. She leans heavily on a cane with each step she takes... yet she wears 4" stiletto heels.

Spanish women's obsession with heels hits a new - and potentially dangerous - high.

Aranjuez, Spain

2007-11-02T15:34:00.000+01:00

halloweenies

2007-10-31T14:45:00.000+01:00

With newspaper spread over the entire floor, the coffee table pushed to the side, three different knives and spoons of various sizes... we carved the best jack-o-lantern EVER. For the record, Alfonso was an excellent first-time scooper.

Despite the sad and inevitable day each year when the local Dairy Queen would close for winter, I have always loved fall and everything that it entailed. Picking out pumpkins. Leaves in deep shades of red and orange. Apple-picking and haunted hay rides at the town's orchards. Chilly walks and running from the frigid waves at the beach. Cider. Brand-new fleece jackets. Lighting the fire in the fireplace for the first time of the season. Launching ourselves, kamikaze-style and giggling, into giant piles of fallen leaves... much to the dismay of a certain dad who may or may not have just spent hours raking all the leaves in the yard into orderly piles to be bagged up and discarded.

Fall, of course, culminated in the biggest event of the season: Halloween. When I was growing up it was FANTASTIC. I think it's what led to the chocolate binges that I still succumb to from time to time... well, replace "from time to time" with "on a daily basis." I don't know until what age I trick-or-treated, but it was probably pushing that limit when adults open the door and think to themselves, "hmm, aren't we a little old for this?"

Our little pint-size posse - the Matternlets and the Walkerlets - would always meet up first for pictures at the request/ demand of our camera-toting mothers who would somehow each manage to use up three whole rolls of film on a mere six costume-clad kids. We have envelopes upon envelopes jam-packed with snapshots of smiling superheroes, angels, clowns and cats, all of us armed with our pillow cases and pumpkin buckets and with a clear mission ahead of us: sugar.

The best years were the ones in which, after the picture-taking frenzy finally wrapped up, we managed to coerce one of our dads into pulling us around from house to house, us crammed into a wagon hitched up to the back of a tractor and sticking our tongues out as we passed the neighborhood kids who had to trick-or-treat on foot, while the moms stayed behind to hold down the fort and shower the arriving princesses, monsters and devils with ooh's, ahh's and candy. To this day my mom still lives for Halloween, her jack-o-lantern lit in the front window hours in advance, a big bowl of candy waiting in the foyer and a pen and piece of paper set out to keep a tally of the number of kids who come to the door. I will bet money that she'll give me the official 2007 stats during our next phone call.

Once we made it to the very last house on Village Drive, a route which at the time seemed to last for hours and hours, we piled back into the wagon - our once-empty sacks and buckets now bulging with sweets - for the voyage back to our respective houses. This is when - well, in our house at least - the business part of the evening commenced.

My brother, my sister and I would each rip off our costumes and claim a separate parcel of the family room carpet, where we then conducted inventory with a surprising degree of organization and formality. This is also when we'd find out that there were really cool neighbors (the ones who handed out king-size chocolate bars) and very, VERY uncool ones (the neighborhood grinch up the street who insisted on handing out free samples of toothpaste each year).

Candy was sorted into their respective piles and rows. KitKats lined up side-by-side. Packs of Bubbalicious gum. Ring pops and Skittles. Tootsie rolls, M&M's and gummy bears. Then there was of course the designated "junk" pile, where things like Sugar Daddy's, little boxes of raisins and the annual tubes of toothpaste were quickly discarded. This was subsequently also the pile we allowed our parents to choose from.

We'd spend at least a half hour with our stern business faces on, bartering our candy and trading with each other, our energetic negotiations fueled by a steady consumption of one of everything. The family room quickly turned into a microcosm of the New York Stock Exchange trading floor. One Snickers bar for 2 tootsie pops. Three bags of Skittles and one of Sour Patch kids for that king size Hershey bar. I imagine it must have been quite the eyebrow-raising spectacle for our parents.

Once the trades were complete and we began to come down from our sugar-induced highs, we'd place the candy back into our buckets, which were then placed on top of the refrigerator. However, I'm relatively certain that once we were all tucked into bed with stomach aches, sticky hands and traces of paint still on our faces, our parents would sneak our pumpkins down from their high perches... and deviate from the junk piles we so graciously gave them.

jelly belly jelly beans

2007-10-23T16:37:00.001+02:00

1 chocolate JellyBelly
+
1 toasted marshmallow JellyBelly
-----------------------------------------
= S'mores party in my mouth!

Random moments at work...

2007-10-23T15:11:00.000+02:00

... in which we look happy!

In a nutshell...

2007-10-08T12:42:00.000+02:00

I understand that everyone has gripes about their boss, I really do. However, we are dealing with an extreme case here. Until you actually spend time - albeit just an hour - in our little Internet department, you will never be able to truly grasp what we're dealing with on a daily basis. Whenever I've tried to describe, I've ended up coming to the conclusion that it is impossible to really convey him as a concept. However, a coworker recently managed to do the seemingly impossible by summing things up with just a few words:

"You ask him what time it is and he tells you it's raining outside."

the best part of my day

2007-09-20T15:29:00.001+02:00

creativity

2007-08-30T18:04:00.000+02:00

I was lying in bed last night thinking about how while commercial website stuff is easy as pie, sometimes I have a really hard time being creative 8 hours a day at work whenever I'm assigned to do a travel guide. I mean really... there's only so much you can do to make 13th-century history "come alive," a dusty archaeological museum seem like a "can't miss" or a Spanish language course (the one commercial page and therefore whole purpose of each 100-page guide website) sound as exciting as a wild night of debauchery on the town. I myself prefer to limit my vacation to non-educational activities like eating, drinking, snapping a few photos and being a haughty American tourist.

So somehow that led me to thinking about how I used to write stories non-stop as a child. At the time I thought I was destined for awards... that my novels would line bookstore shelves... that people would cry over the heart-breaking dramatic scenes and chuckle at my witty way of describing amusing encounters between the well-developed and devilishly attractive characters. The words flowed from my magic marker onto the construction paper like fudge onto an ice cream sundae.

Back in the care-free days of Flanders Elementary School, we even got to publish our own "books." Basically, we scribbled the stories down in our still-in-the-works chicken scratch. Some volunteer mom would type these stories up, leaving the majority of each page blank so that you could grace it not only with your literary opus, but also with your artistic talents. Then, you picked out the fabric that would be on the cover and voila! A few weeks later you had, in your hands, a published hardcover book to bring home and show off.

So then I tried to remember what stories I had written... which is when I realized that my imagination was a bit on the strange side, even at the tender age of 8. Here's the plotline of one of my childhood stories. I remember my teacher actually sat down like, hmm Betsey this isn't really your best work, are you sure you don't focus on a different story? But I published it anyway. What can I say, I was dedicated to my craft.

Basically, it starts out with a woman who, to my recollection, has no name but is in the hospital because she's pregnant. She realizes she has to go to the bathroom, so she makes it there and is doing her business when plop... the baby falls out into the toilet like a turd. I was clearly a bit confused at the time regarding certain parts of the anatomy and their corresponding functions. Oh, and in case you were wondering, yes... I actually employed the word "plop."

She names her beloved newborn bundle-of-joy Diana, and after a few days they go home to embark on their lives as a family. Diana has a happy childhood, it would seem, but then one day she wakes up and her leg hurts. So her mom brings her to the hospital, where they discover she has a broken leg. So they give her a bright pink cast and she's all pumped because people get to sign it and such. Then, you turn the page....

...and the one line reads "The next day, Diana died." (I'm pretty sure this is when my teacher started raising her eyebrows.) So they have a funeral and her mom is a wreck. Then she decides to get four cats. The end.

Who smells a Nobel Prize for Literature in my future?

crosswalk woes

2007-08-10T14:24:00.000+02:00

So I have dreams a lot when I sleep... and not of the unicorns or lottery-winning variety, either. Ironically, the earliest dream that I can remember involved my entire family getting eaten by alligators that circled in a dark pit located just inside the door to the local Cumberland Farms (ironic because they had gone in to buy Powerball tickets). I was 8.

My most consistent dream is being in a train that goes over a cliff due to a collapsed bridge. Freefalling. It's the dream I have every time I get into that "just falling asleep" stage when you randomly jump back awake.

Well, last night I had a dream that I was in the USA but trying to get back to Spain. For some reason the possibility of a plane flight didn't come into play, and yet a magical crosswalk did.

Basically, an otherwise white-striped, run-of-the-mill crosswalk in (whatever city I was in) took on the ability to transport people to other countries. All you had to do was pinpoint the exact moment at which this phenomenon would transpire, and then cross the crosswalk running at full speed... and bam! You'd end up in the destination of your choice. Kind of like Back to the Future.

However, I missed "the moment" because the crosswalk light didn't turn green in time, and I began running frantically back and forth across the crosswalk until I had to get dragged off the street by on-lookers. The crosswalk light had turned red again, and there was oncoming traffic.

WTF?

puppy love :o)

2007-08-07T13:50:00.000+02:00

Oh and by the way, my apologies to Alfonso but I've fallen head over heels in love with Clyde.

Collective "awwwwwwwww."

i'm bored

2007-08-07T13:45:00.000+02:00

The other day, I was involved in - and by "involved" I obviously mean in the passive, "just listening while I eat" kind of way - a conversation in which I'm pretty sure the general consensus was that the workplace in the United States is more laid-back than in Spain. Something along the lines of how, in the US, it seems that employees have more dress down days or don't have to go as fancy-shmancy to work to begin with. IIIIIIII disagreed (in my head), but decided to mull the idea over in the event that my mind was severely biased or otherwise warped. Nope, still disagree.

So then yesterday I came across an article in the NY Times talking about the American obsession with work, this time regarding taking vacation (or rather lack thereof). Two lil tidbits:

Simplified a bit, it runs as follows: a nation of remarkably productive, often well-paid workers who are becoming increasingly reluctant to pause from their labors and refresh their souls — a nation whose cash-drenched corporate employers typically don’t pay for much time off (less than two weeks annually, on average), a nation whose globe-gripping federal government is the only one in the whole industrialized world not to legally require generous periods of paid kick-back-and-hang time — is a nation that’s socially screwed up, particularly in comparison with European countries like France, which orders its citizens outside to play for the entire month of August and a few other weeks spread through the year.

The most widely cited diagnoses of our allegedly harmful undervacationing can be found by searching the Internet, the same Internet that even the dwindling number of full-vacation-takers are purportedly using to elevate their stress levels by logging on from beach resorts and national parks — where, according to concerned observers, they would be better off restricting themselves to restorative, out-of-cellphone-range pursuits like brisk morning swims and sunset nature walks. That fewer of us are doing so, it’s said, is a symptom of either anxious overcompetiveness; upward-mobility addiction ; the breakdown of the family...

The article then lists the following stats:

Legally required paid annual leave around the world, by days:
France: 30
Sweden: 25
Spain: 22
Australia: 20
Germany: 20
UK: 20
Canada: 10
Japan: 10
USA: 0... ZERO... ZILCH... NADA!

I'm sorry, but I can't see how any industrialized country that can legally bind you to your cubicle every single day, all year-round and expect 150% productivity can ever be called "relaxed." In fact, one of the reasons I'm drawn to Spain in the first place is the overwhelmingly relaxed atmosphere, at least by comparison. People enjoying life, meals that last for hours, people-watching from the hundreds sidewalk cafés, Sunday strolls, staying out all night (despite my geriatric ways of late) because you can and, yes, more vacation days to let you kick back and remember that there is more to life than alarm clocks, clients, reports and pesky coworkers.

So sure, Madrid is undeniably a big, bustling city, and granted I don't have, nor am I interested in, some hot-shot corporate job... but to me the vibe is a billion times more laid-back than anything I've known. Hell, it's more laid-back than the Student Center at Holy Cross. Does New York City, Washington D.C. or even Topeka, Kansas empty out overnight for an entire month during the summer? Negative. American cities are non-stop, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Right now in Spain, however, as Spaniards are off traveling, sleeping, hanging out with family and frolicking at the beach for a month, the capital city of Spain is so quiet that at night as I'm reading with the window open I can hear the chiming of the crosswalk light from a block away.

fun with inboxes

2007-08-03T13:56:00.000+02:00

Now I love opening up my gmail and seeing that I have an email or two just waiting to be torn into. Oh, and by "something" I mean something other than the New York Times "Today's Headlines" that I signed up for or Myspace friend requests from 17 year old boys in the Dominican Republic who I don't know. Now if that something, on the other hand, happens to be an email from Emily Pereira, well... it's pretty much guaranteed to be an entertaining read.

During our Holy Cross year in Sevilla, Emily was always the comedic relief of the 8 of us... and undeniably everyone's favorite little Portuguesa. Now in D.C., I can only imagine that she's the life of the party at the State Department, where she's " ridding the world of AIDS from my position as assistant to the ambassador." Well, I don't know how many parties are to be had when you're dealing with AIDS legislation and such all day, but... you know what I mean.

Emily and I email back and forth EXTREMELY irregularly, meaning we'll go for months at a time without a word and then bust out a string of emails trying to out-funny each other. So after not hearing from her for ohhh 5 months I get a gem of an email that, before going into the usual string of funny anecdotes and life updates, starts out with:

little miss betty, where have you been?
out in the barn, playing with the hen?
are you still in spain, you crazy nut?
wearing pointy high heels and a layered hair cut?

by,
emily pereira

Hell, any email that starts out with a poem and ends with a "you are my soul sister girl. my souuull sister" is the way straight to my heart. Well, that and maybe pie.

another thought of the day.. what can i say, i'm a thinker

2007-07-27T12:21:00.000+02:00

Aside from folks of the geriatric and/ or disabled community, who waits 5 minutes for an elevator only to get off on the first floor?

thought of the day

2007-07-26T16:50:00.000+02:00

Who wears corduroys when its 95º outside?

silliness

2007-07-24T16:53:00.000+02:00

Some say that a successful career is personally rewarding. Others contend that having a gaggle of diaper-wearing screamers running around and knocking things off store shelves is the cherry on top of the sundae of life. Me? I'm a whole hell of a lot simpler- well, that and I'm a whole lot less ambitious (shrug) and a whole lot less pregnant (shudder, gag, choke). The first three things that come to MY mind when I think of life's rewards are: 1) 2 scoops of moose tracks ice cream, 2) popping open a brand-spankin'-new cannister of tennis balls and, finally, 3) a good stretch.

I'm not referring to the "Doctors recommend that you stretch for at least 15 minutes before and after exercising" type of stretching, either. That's just damage control- head out for a run sans stretch and risk destroying the perfect muscles of your lithe gams. Kind of like buying flood insurance when you don't anticipate the flooding of any nearby bodies of water. You naively bank on maintaining an incident-free streak while running the risk of flooding your basement, thereby destroying great-great-grandpa's wooden leg or anything else deemed worthy of saving but not worthy of ground floor status.

When I say stretch, I'm talking about taking multiple minutes in the morning upon waking up (after you finally shut the snooze alarm off on the 4th, 5th or 6th round of infernal beeping) to just stretch out like a cat, writhe around and contort your body in ways that, should they be spotted, would land you a quick appointment with an exorcist.

During high school, for example, my morning routine was: wake up, call Mark and wake him up, and then - en route to the shower - throw my upper body over the edge of the bed, my legs still sprawled up top, and then stretch out in all directions until I slid into a heap of limbs on the floor. Then, I'd stretch there too, taking advantage of the floorspace. My parents would walk by my room, find me hanging upside down off the bed and - naturally, I suppose - wonder what the frijoles their daughter was doing.

This morning, due to an early wake-up to travel across the city by 8:30am, I missed out on my morning stretch. So what did I do when I got to work? Locked myself in the bathroom and went to town.

Alfonso: 1... Betsey: 0

2007-07-17T13:16:00.000+02:00

Alfonso: (insert string of unintelligible complaints) Ugh it's too hot in Sevilla... it's an inferno! Nobody likes it here... these aren't liveable conditions. Don't you hear those birds? They're making all that noise because it's so %&@$ing hot out here... (etc.)

Betsey: (rolls eyes)

...2 minutes pass...

Betsey: Hear those birds? You know what? They're HAPPY. They're HAPPY birds who LOVE Sevilla... they're SINGING with glee, not complaining because they're hot.

... Silence...

Betsey: Oh... Ok so that's the noise of the crosswalk light... but EVEN so...

Childhood "Things"

2007-07-10T18:43:00.000+02:00

Now every person has their fair share of childhood peculiarities that they may or may not share with their friends. My dad, for example, used to play a game with his neighborhood chums back in the good ole days in which they competed to see who could hit their head the hardest on a driveway. Due to a stray pebble, he still has a literal dent in his forehead from this wholesome childhood past-time... but gosh darn it did he win.

Mine? Well other than the whole ambiguous gender issue, there was my obsession with sleeping with all my stuffed animals because a) I really did feel bad if I didn't pay equal attention to all of them and actually feared a revolt, and b) I needed to keep them protected from the mask-wearing robber who was surely on his way to climb up a ladder, in through my window and straight after my beloved stuffed critters.

Then there was my massive sticker and keychain collections, both of which I am still incapable of throwing out. Not to mention my unwavering refusals to put jelly on my peanut butter sandwiches, try new things, and eat anything white (milk, coconut, cheese, etc.). My love of turning a bike upside down and pretending it was an ice cream maker. The "Roadrunner" game I used to play with my sibling, which consisted of running around in a circle in the family room saying "meep meep" "meep meep" as we ran. Then there's my steadfast aversion towards change, as demonstrated by the puffalump show-and-tell incidents as described 2 posts ago; dressing up as a cat for 6 straight years for Halloween; requesting that my mom make me the exact same birthday cake - the one with flattened gumdrop balloons and licorice strings - 4 years in a row... trust me, the list is endless.

Anyway, the Matterns are clearly not alone. By far the best part of my week, thus far, has been learning about Joanne's favorite childhood hobby. So, without further ado, enjoy the inner workings of a young Egnatchik, as narrated via gmail chat:

me: im imagining the egnatchik household

Joanne: haha

did i ever tell you about my hobby

me: hmm im not sure?

5:05 PM Joanne: from the time i was born til about 14 i used to buy huge 11 by 17 size sheets of construction paper

and cut it up in to the tiniest pieces ever

5:06 PM me: HHAHAHAHAHAA

Joanne: and store them in the plastic boxes my dad had to hold slides

me: the pieces of paper???

Joanne: yup

me: o my god

amazing

Joanne: i wasnt allowed to throw confetti

but

i was allowed to make it

me: you sure had enough of it

hahahahaha

o my

thats awesome

Joanne: my mom threw it out when i slept i´m sure

me: heeh

5:07 PM Joanne: cuz she always seemed to have a new empty box for me

i also liked to tape things

not grabar

sino scotch

which is fitting, since i have a future in cutting and pasting

me: :)

Joanne: not just things that were ripped

not even taping things together

just cutting a piece and strategically placing in on a piece of paper

5:09 PM me: hahahaahahahaha

this is the best part of my week right here

Joanne: just another reason for you to love me

5:10 PM oh yes,

the confetti boxes needed to be taped

because i didnt want any pieces to fall out

5:11 PM me: naturally

only in america... oink oink

2007-07-05T13:26:00.000+02:00

I was just skimming my local Connecticut newspaper's headlines... and these two were literally one right after the other:

"Nutrition-Education Programs Fail in Obesity Fight" -- About the government funding of programs and initiatives to promote healthy eating.

directly followed by...

"Only in America: Nation Celebrates a New Eating Champion" -- About the new champion of the annual Coney Island hotdog-eating contest. He ate 66 hotdogs, bun included, in 12 minutes.

childhood crush

2007-07-05T12:59:00.000+02:00

My first favorite television show was David the Gnome, which I watched each day before scrambling off to Mike Walker's driveway in hopes of arriving at his mailbox before him and subsequently ensuring my spot in the front row on the bus (nerd alert) en route to a stimulating afternoon of kindergarten.

The memory of enjoying the adventures of David and his pint-size posse goes hand-in-hand with the memory of my childhood babysitter/ honorary grandmother Phoebe, who would lay out a delicious daily spread of chicken nuggets arranged in a circle around a squirt of ketchup, hogdogs finely chopped into quartered slices ALSO symmetrically arranged around a squirt of ketchup, de-crusted peanut butter sandwiches sans jelly, or waffles cut perfectly along the lines. Who knew such an anal 5 year old could blossom into such an indifferent 24 year old whose life motto is "meh, whatever."

Tangent: Another fun kindergarten tidbit is that I would bring the exact same thing in each day for "show-and-tell": my beloved Christmas mouse puffalump (see photo). The game involved a format in which the show-and-teller gave hints to his or her fellow kidlets, who then tried to guess what the mystery object was. My turn usually ended with someone muttering "ughhh the puffalump again?" and yet I - clearly living in a world of one - would get giddy with content over the success of my hints as if it were the first time. Only now do I feel mildly dim-witted for this. Hey, hindsight's 20-20, right?

Punky Brewster is another classic, partly because she was essentially my twin and partly because Brandon was a carbon copy of my golden retriever Winston, aka "Winnie." Plus, the gal's fashion sense was way ahead of her time. Around the same time I was enthralled by Small Wonder, in which it turns out that a cookie-cutter middle class family has a robot daughter who wears the same lacy frock every day. Yes, a frock. While other kids had scraped knees, Vicky experienced the occasional short circuit. I think it was when her parents opened up her back revealing her circuit box that I deemed it a masterpiece.

And then... there was MacGyver: the crush of my childhood. Dreeeeeamboat, toot toot. In my pre-pubescent eyes, he could do no wrong. His voluminous locks styled effortlessly into the most glorious mullet to grace the small screen, his hip acid-wash jeans tapering down just so behind the tongues of his rockin' high-tops, and his discrete way with the ladies had me completely smitten. Plus, his quick wit and resourcefulness in moments of crisis totally blew the shipwrecked professor (also dreamy in his own right) of Gilligan's Island fame and his coconut telephone totally out of the water-- pun 100% intended.

Luckily, they air hours of MacGyver re-runs every morning and afternoon in Spain. Not so luckily, I made the mistake of switching the language into English- now an option with a few of the tv channels. As an enamoured young'n, I never quite came to realize that he was great at action but terrrrrrible at dialogue. In a world of awful dub jobs, you know it's bad when the cheesy Spanish voice they give to American tv show characters is better than the real thing.

Another dailypuppy all-star...

2007-06-16T04:15:00.000+02:00

"Such a regal young fellow. It is amazing to see the quick progression of development in this breed. One can only imagine the deep bark of this gentle giant. You lips are so full and lushious. Massive kisses and ear rubs to you sweet baby."

... Seriously???

bark bark

2007-06-01T10:13:00.000+02:00

One of my go-to stops as I do my morning internet rounds (and therefore postpone doing any actual "work" until after the coffee hits) is The Daily Puppy, a website that each day features a different plucky little pooch.

On my google homepage (yes, another pre-caffeination, pro-procrastination creation), I have Daily Puppy well above world news, weather and (gasp!) even celebrity gossip. Frankly, those pudgy little chow-chows, puggles, labs and shih-tzus have a much better impact on my a.m. attitude towards life than tuberculosis outbreaks, plane crashes and even the Hollywood trainwrecks' latest stints in rehab.

Well I'm certainly not the only one frequenting the Daily Puppy (www.dailypuppy.com, if you want to aww along with me), but I'll bet I'm one of the most normal of the crew. Visitors can browse through each puppy's pictures, award 1 through 11 virtual biscuits and leave comments. Now I love the little tail-wagging fur-balls, but sometimes I can't help but think that the real creatures are some of the people who leave comments. I can picture them sitting in their home, a living shrine to their ankle-biting Yorkie, dedicating their lives to painting their dogs' toe nails, maxing out their credit cards on designer doggie rain coats and abusing the utilization of the baby voice. For instance:

"What a beautiful baby! I could just eat you up with a spoon. Massive hugs, kisses, and buddha belly pats."

"Chloe, you are so expressive! You are a sweet sweet girl! I love your little smile! Kisses to you Chloe!!"

"Too cute! I think my computer just melted from all the puppy sweetness. Chloe looks as if she is trying to talk in a few photos. Absolutely beautiful! Massive belly rubs and nose kisses to her."

"OMG! OMG! OMG! I am soooo... in love with you Rufus!!!!!!!!!!!! You have the greatest, most expressive face!!!!! I can not gush over you enough!!! If my doggies knew (especially my black lab) they'd be so jealous! haha"

And finally, my personal favorite:

"Hey Woofus...you are a mighty cute lookin' pup. You have a very sweet face and eyes! You look like you need a friend! I am Bailey the golden retweevah...my mom didn't get me on this website when I was little but I would very much like to be your friend...wanna play? You should be warned though, my mom calls me the TAZ short for the Tazmanian "debil". And I am also known as CHAIN SAW...I will let you figure that out!"

conjunction junction, what's your function

2007-05-31T13:05:00.000+02:00

During the second year of my illustrious - illustrious in this context translating to frequent hangovers, constant procrastination and the rediscovery of Lucky Charms - academic career at Holy Cross, I was faced with a decision. No, not deciding whether or not to go to Spain the following year, but rather deciding which of my remaining core requirements I would fill and which ones I would put off until senior year.

Deciding to ignore icky-icky science for as long as humanly possible, I decided that I would suck it up and get my philosophy requirement out of the way. I would eventually fill that remaining math/science requirement during my final semester with a riveting class commonly referred to as Physics for Dummies. The geology class, better known as "Rocks for Jocks," had - much to my chagrin - been cancelled the previous year with the retirement of its 964-year old professor.

Now I'm not exactly into the whole "what is life, why do we exist" spiel, so when perusing the catalogue for possible philosophy courses, I narrowed in on a class called Logic & Language. I figured it would be something like the logical study of language and therefore devoid of all that far-fetched philosophical bull-poo. I was half right, but that's a story for another day. Let's just put it this way. I never "did" office hours. Never! And yet I was in that professor's office at least 8 times that semester with a look on my face which I believe communicated to him what I was feeling: "What the FRIJOLES are you talking about?"

The professor of the class was German, and whenever he spoke I couldn't help but think of him as one of the jolly animatronic oompah boys in the Bavarian Christmas Village at the Yankee Candle Company in Massachusetts (exactly 2 people will know what I'm talking about). Sure, he'd often launch into a lesson speaking and scribbling on the board in his mother tongue. Sure, sometimes we had no idea what the guy was saying or how to spell any of the philosopher names that he spat out because his accent was so thick that everything just sounded like spoken marbles. However, when it came to conjunctions, the guy was a veritable fiend.

I have never in my life heard anybody else who so often integrates "ergo," "hitherto," "notwithstanding" and "thenceforth" into conversations- even when I'd run into him outside of class and he'd chat about his son's soccer (or "sog-haahhh") game. The pride and joy of his mental bank of conjunctions was, without a doubt, "insofar as." I quickly took to keeping a tally at the top my page of notes (I remember once counting over 65), something I've done since middle school whenever I've picked up on teachers' habits- an entertaining tactic to get through class without falling asleep. However, I often had to stop, as the class material had such an incredible knack for being boring that I would become delirious, nearly erupting into laughing fits every time he said it.

I often contemplated my professor's dominance of the conjunction; I couldn't help but picture the miniature red-cheeked version of my professor as a child in the Bavarian Alps reciting lists of conjunctions in knee socks and lederhosen, a beer stein in one hand and a fork loaded up with kraut in the other. Oh, and then Heidi and Peter showed up and they ran off to frolic with the goats.

Fat Hell

2007-05-25T14:47:00.000+02:00

Fat, in most contexts, brings to mind images of obese swimsuit-clad women at theme parks, colossal men scratching their asses and plump 9 year olds named Marshall who thrive on a steady diet of Ruffles, Hershey bars and Big Macs.

Hell, as we all know, is the final hang-out for the world's so-called "bad boys," not to mention the cozy subterranean abode of Lucifer himself. A land with no exit door, but with an abundance of bubbling magma, nursing home thieves and politicians. Now that my imagination's running wild, I can't help but wonder if hell has monasteries for "wayward" priests. Hmm.

So Fat Hell would be what? A fiery abyss ruled by a tubby lord of darkness with chocolate constantly smeared in the corners of his mouth? No, no, no! Fat Hell may seem - to the untrained imagination - the epitome of unappealing destinations. However, the negatives cancel each other out, making Fat Hell a paradisaical land. It's pure mathematics, folks.

Comparable in many ways to Willy Wonka's clandestine factory of widespread literary and cinematic acclaim, Fat Hell is a magical place to which my friend Joanne and I frequently refer. No Oompa-Loompas though; frankly, they creep me out with their Gregorian-like chanting and orange hues acquired from extensive fake-baking sessions in the melanoma booths.

Despite its reference to Hell, Fat Hell is not yet a part of popular culture and it's definitely not used as a fist-waving threat in any recognized religion. However, plans are tenatively in the works for the creation of a non-suicidal, non-comet-chasing but sugar-loving and hyperactive cult in which adoring members bow down and lay offerings of Cadbury mini-eggs at the feet of chocolate effigies of their wise leader: me.

Anyway, Fat Hell is a positive place. If I walk into a room at 9:00 in the morning and Joanne is elbow deep in apple pie, I simply acknowledge what we both know: she's going to fat hell. Then we laugh maniacally and she hands me a fork. If Joanne condemns me to Fat Hell just for the heck of it, we toast to my impending doom by running out to buy pair of pastries. After all, being condemned to Fat Hell is, when it comes down to it, the equivalent of being exiled to an island in the Caribbean with swaying palm trees, crystalline waters and a tan daquiri-fetching cabana boy named Diego.

All that said, I'm pleased to present the Fat Hell Recipe of the Month.

Fat Hell Recipe of the Month
Reeses Peanut Butter Cup Sandwich

Ingredients:
2 slices of bread (alternate possibility and Betsey favorite: 2 graham crackers)
Skippy Superchunk Peanut Butter, 2 tablespoons or to taste
Betty Crocker "Rich & Creamy" Chocolate Frosting, 2 tablespoons or to taste

Directions:
Create. Enjoy.

story time

2007-05-07T15:06:00.000+02:00

I spent the night in the city park. Sure, it's not a five-star hotel resort, and sure, the nights in the park are cold and boy are they dark... but the park affords us hours of tranquil peace in which we can dream about what life could have been, should fortune have only chosen a different path for us.

We - that is, us lowly guys - aren't picky when it comes to sleeping accommodations. Essentially we just settle in for the evening wherever we wind up once the sun goes down. Next to the swings, underneath the slide, inside the sandbox... wherever, really. Considering where some of us wind up, the park is like the country club of us ill-fated nobodies. The silence goes undisturbed- well, aside from the occasional prostitute that click-clacks by in her 5-inch platform heels in search of clientele. As long as they don't inadvertently step on us (the heels on those duds can inflict quite the blinding degree of pain), we coexist quite peacefully with society's godforsaken outcasts. Prostitutes, beggars, drug dealers, runaway teens...and us. We all have a common bond... a thread that unites us: people look down upon us. They forget us. We are, in every sense of the word, anonymous.

As the city's forgotten ones, we spend all day being walked on, kicked through the streets, thrown into puddles. For the love of God, if I had to tally up the number of times a sweater-wearing Yorkshire terrier has lifted its leg to shower me with its morning bowl of filtered water... well let's just say I don't have the fingers and toes to count that high. It's humiliating.

Today, I spent earliest moments of the morning enduring the kicking rage of a couple of ratty-haired school children whose parents, accompanying them to school while chattering away on their expensive cell phones, have clearly failed to provide an adequate upbringing. What ever happened to love and respect towards all of God's creations? Do you know what it's like to be kicked down the street, wind up in a puddle and lie there shocked and appalled as nobody says a word? Let's just say it's not an ego-booster.

Feeling particularly dejected following the morning's incident, I was presented with the unique opportunity - the opportunity we all wait and hope for - to even the score against the world's so-called "blessed" ones. It was going to be a victory for all of us... a symbolic event that would give us hope and change the future. Images flashed through my mind of me - little ole me - appearing in the history books, the encyclopedias, the classroom posters. They would interview me in Time Magazine about my inspiring rags to riches story, and I'd speak eloquently about the French Revolution, Rosa Parks' quest for equality through simple acts and my dream of eradicating social stratification around the globe.

I saw her coming nearly a block away. She was absolutely stunning. I hated her confident stride, her elegant air and her designer busines suit. I conveniently got in her way. Well, that is, I conveniently got in the way of one of her expensive European stiletto heels. She tripped and fell to her knees. She looked down at me and scowled before glancing around and smiling awkwardly at those who caught her in her fall from grace. I had done it! I was already envisioning my agenda booked solid with speaking engagements, commencement addresses, invitations to black-tie dinners...

But then, she stood up brushing herself off and laughing, commenting to the onlookers about how silly it was of her to have worn her brand new shoes without getting used to them first. Young women who had paused mid-step when they caught the flailing arms out of the corners of their eyes were now sharing a laugh... but they weren't laughing at her, they were chuckling and sympathizing with her!

"Oh why that happened to me just yesterday!"
"You know how us women are with our shoes..."
"Where DID you get those shoes? They're adorable."

No, this couldn't be!!! The young woman flipped her hair, caught her reflection in the store window, and smiled - her chin up and her shoulders back - before continuing along her way... leaving me there, forgotten and defeated, in the middle of the sidewalk.

Such is the frustrated life of a pebble.

I can't help it... these are strangely addicting to fill out

2007-05-04T10:56:00.000+02:00

Survey: 70 Quirks about me:

1. What are your initials?
EMM... although good ole cousin Bill likes to point out that they're also BM. Whatever dude, his are BO.

2. What is your favorite thing to wear?
an eyepatch. yarrr

3. Last thing you ate?
apple

5. I say Shotgun, you say?
nuh uh I already called it

6. last person you hugged?
lucky, lucky person

7. Does anyone you know wanna date you?
well i certainly hope so

8. Has anyone ever bought you flowers?
yes

9. Name something you like physically about yourself.
toss up between my abs of steel and my rockin ass

10. The last place you went out to dinner to?
kebab!

11. Who is your best friend?
mark j guarraia.. 19 years and going

12.Why are you still up?
namely because they might not take it well if i just passed out on the keyboard

13. Who/What made you angry today?
nobody yet... it's just a matter of time though...

14. What was the last injury you've had?
cut on thumb? does that even count?

15. Do you have any tattoos?
aside from the "naughty" scribed on my ass, nope

16. Favorite type of Food?
potatoes (chips, fries, mashed, baked...)

17. Favorite holidays:
thanksgiving... the only holiday dedicated solely to the art of unbuttoning one's pants and eating oneself into a food coma

18. Do you download music:
yes. arrest me

19. Do you care if your socks are dirty?
well if there's an option between dirty socks and clean ones, i'll take the clean ones...

20. Is your hair clean?
pshhh personal hygiene is overrated... but society says i have to shower, so i do

21. Would you date the person who posted this?
haha

22. Has anyone ever sang or played for you personally?
i think i would laugh... the "hold it in, hold it in... EXPLODE" kind of laugh

24. Do you like Bush?
in either context of the question, no

25. Do you like to swim?
i don't know if i'd define my water activities as "swim" but i like to bob around... particularly if it involves a giant inflatable alligator or something...

26. Have you ever gone white-water rafting?
scares me

27. Has anyone ten years older than you ever hit on you?
it's spain. it's what old men do

29. Have you met a real redneck?
middlebury, vermont... a town with two bars and fame for being the birthplace of john deere. enough said

30. How is the weather right now?
sunny... it's no match for this fabulous fluorescent lighting though... SIGH

31. What are you listening to right now?
billy joel- downeaster alexa .... NEW ENGLAND REPRESENTTTT

32. What is your current favorite song?
?

33. What was the last movie you watched?
umm... the perfume... or at least the 2/3 of it that i tolerated

34. Do you wear contacts?
20/20 baby!

35. Where was the last place you went besides your house?
work?

36. What are you afraid of?
1. drowning... back seat of a two-door car going off a bridge... does this not bother ANYONE ELSE?
2. birds... i swear those damn pigeons are plotting world domination... i see unbridled wrath in their beady little eyes...

37. How many piercings have you had?
5... we're down to 4 though

38. How many pets do you have?
4

39. What's one thing you've learned this year?
that a spanish term for "camel toe" translates to "deaf mute," because you can read her lips...

40. What do you usually order from Starbucks?
no clue

42. Have you ever fired a gun:
only ones that squirts water

43. Are you missing someone?:
lots of someones

44. Favorite TV show?
arrested development, scrubs, how i met your mother...

45. Do you have an iPod?:
yeah

46. Has anyone ever said you looked like a celeb?
according to those celebrity look-alike photo analyzer thingees, my closest match was lucy liu. fyi, SHE'S CHINESE.

47. Do you have a celeb crush?
of course

48. Who would you like to see right now?
my daaaaaaaaadddyyyyyyy

49. Favorite movie of all time?
little mermaid... OBVI

50. Are you loved?
hope so!

51. Have you ever been caught doing something you weren't suppose to?
who hasn't?

52. Favorite flower?
daffodil perhaps?

53. Butter, plain, or salted popcorn?
butter & salt... if i'm gonna buy popcorn at the movie theater, it had DAMN well promise to give me a heart attack

54. What Magazines are you reading?
i'll spring for an InStyle from time to time... namely when they come with free stuff

55. What's your favorite pair of jeans?
i have 2, and they're from the same place.

56. Has anyone you were really close to passed away recently?
the last was my beloved beta fish, jesus

57. What was the funnest thing you've done in the past 24 hours?
power-walked to work listening to Ace of Base. i know... awesome

58. What's something that really bugs you?
people that can't spell / write; the woman in my office who constantly smokes even though she's 8 months pregnant

59. Do you like Michael Jackson?
his old school music rocks... the fact that he named his son blanket, however, does not

60. What are you wearing right now?
a smirk

61. What's your favorite smell?
just after it rains; the ocean; banana bread in the oven; orange blossoms; fresh cucumber candle from Yankee Candle Company; new tennis balls; fruit markets

62. Favorite baseball team?
red sox!!! who wants to go this summer???

63. Favorite cereal?
lucky charms! i've come a long way since age 6...

65. What's the longest time you've gone without sleep?
3 days in college.... ahhh, holy cross: where your best hasn't been good enough since 1843

66. Last time you went bowling?
when i was home for xmas... wild night in SE CT...

67. Where is the weirdest place you have slept?
well when i was a kid i spent years either sleeping inside my closet or underneath my parents' bed...

68. Who was your last phone call?
BERRRRRRRRRRRRNICE

69. Last time you were at work?
now... and now... annnnd now...

70. What's the closest orange object to you?
close call... either orange juice or an Enforex brochure...

sue me... i was hungry

2007-04-26T14:54:00.000+02:00

Despite my mother's worries that I had succumbed to the dark world of eating disorders last year, there are few things I lurve more than food. I attributed the unintentional but welcome weight loss to a combination of a) full-day hangovers (which has led me to very nearly swear off heavy drinking) during which I can't eat, and b) power-walking to class, a high-speed daily endeavor not all that different from slalom skiing (just replace the red and blue flags with slow-moving Spanish señoras wrapped head-to-toe in thousands of dollars worth of animal fur). Due to my affinity for waking up late and procrastination in general, I did in 10 minutes what my roommates did in 20 in order to get to school before the spit-flying festivities of Teresa Bordón's riveting 9 a.m. linguistics class commenced.

Digression over. The fondness (understatement) of food - particularly those foods involving high levels of sugar, deep fried potatoes and/ or scoopable lactic products- is genetic to the noble Mattern lineage. It was passed down to me by my dad, Jim "why get 1 cinnamon roll when you can get 2" Mattern, much in the way that other families pass down antique pocket watches or china dishes brought over on the proverbial boat from the homeland. When it comes to edible goodies, the admirable self-control of my mom - Bernie "who wants to split a cookie" Kaiser - clearly has little or no presence in my gene pool.

This brings me to the random encounter of the day.

On my way to work this morning, I decided some mini-donuts would make a delicious companion to my multiple morning cups o' joe. For a fleeting moment (something more or less equal to the speed of light), I contemplated stopping into the fruit market to grab an apple or some other farm-grown product of nutritive value. However, in a mental boxing match of less than one round, fresh produce quickly lost out to the sugar-fused brawn of bite size chocolate-covered rings of dough.

As I cheerfully walk out, donuts in hand, a homeless guy approaches me. To ask for money? No. To ask for donuts? No. To tell me he's Jesus re-risen from the dead? Not even! The comment was essentially the following: "Be careful... pretty girls who eat too much turn out not so pretty."

Don't worry though, the Dr. Phil tough love approach doesn't work well on me.

ramblings on tourism

2007-04-20T15:20:00.000+02:00

I was totally that girl at one point. Yes, the one walking around snapping hundreds of pictures, thinking that - in the long run - the pictures that my artistically-inclined eye elected to take would do justice to a 14th century cathedral or a winding, cobblestone street. Hell, I took 400 pictures during Holy Week in Sevilla. Do I ever look at any of them? Rarely. Looking back, I think about 5 pictures to document the week would have sufficed. Frankly, unless I'm on the hunt for a new picture for my computer background, I generally skip right through entire chunks of albums - yes, even my own - until I get to the much more interesting pictures of people... namely the ones in which I look pretty. I kid, I kid..

Sure, pictures are fun to flip through when you feel like getting nostalgic for past experiences. I LOVE looking at pictures from college, for example. Then again, pictures taken at college are 100% necessary- without them, all those fuzzy Friday and Saturday (and Tuesday and Thursday and occasional Wednesday) nights would remain mysterious and forgotten. "Hmm I don't recall doing a kegstand. Why was I in a headlock? Aha that must be where my cell phone is! Oh, so THAT'S why my leg is sporting a bruise the size of Texas. Oh no, did I REALLY wear a trucker hat? Hey wait a minute... I don't smoke! So THAT'S where my pants are. Why am I playing the air guitar on top of the beer pong table?" The 68 long-arm photos (that you SWEAR you didn't take) that magically made their way on your camera served as guides to help piece together an evening's events and fill in the myriad blank moments.

Pictures are also good for - in cases like mine - keeping in touch with people who are far away. But hell, if I only see you twice a year, in the interim I sure as hell don't want to see pictures of a building you saw during your recent business trip to Minneapolis. I'm really only interested in if you got fat since I last saw you. Joke! I want to see you out frollicking through the streets of Manhattan, riding a mechanical bull at the Liquor Store bar in Boston, canoodling with your girlfriend/ boyfriend/ baby-daddy who I haven't met yet, looking all gussied up for your cousin's wedding, etc.

Back to tourism. The thing that kills, kills, KILLS (exaggeration rocks) me is seeing tourists so intent on snapping "the perfect picture" that they miss out on practically everything that lies beyond the limits of the tiny camera window that they have their eyeball constantly plastered to. The desired monument comes into view and BAM- they scramble frantically from one side of a building to another, switch from vertical to horizontal shots, zoom in and zoom out. They don't just sit back and take it all in- the view, the atmosphere, the people, the simple idea that they are looking at something that has been around since before America was even discovered. To contemplate the fact that Segovia's Roman aqueduct has not a single ounce of mortar holding the stones together or that Granada's incredible Alhambra palaces were built prior the existence of Spain as a single, unified entity.

Nowadays you can't walk through a cathedral or read the inscription on a monument without walking straight into someone's picture. It's like a touristic game of minesweeper... First step- clear. Second step- clear. Third step- shit, that entire group of golden agers is about to launch their fanny packs at me. THEN people get pissed at you because you inadvertantly "ruined" a group picture that they roped some poor, unsuspecting victim into taking with 8 different digital cameras. This is the digital age people- share your photos! That's half the benefit of digital photography!

Once they leave a monument, those same tourists then walk through beautiful medieval streets that wind through old buildings en route to the next stop listed on the travel guide itinerary. But, they miss the so-called "little things" along the way because they spend that walk flipping through the pictures they just took. And it's sad. The draw of European destinations is without a doubt the atmosphere. Everything is steeped in history and a world away from the modernity of American cityscapes. But too many people miss those experiences because of their quest to get the most "oohs" and "ahhs" from people back home to whom they show their photo albums.

In the end, what really makes a trip are the experiences you have while the camera is stowed in its carrying case. Memories - the visual, true-to-proportion image complemented by its accompanying feelings, sounds, smells and tastes - are far more detailed and true to reality than a photoshopped picture. A fantastic dinner, getting tipsy off a bottle of wine, kicking back in a plaza and people-watching, that dog in front of you that peed on every lamp post in sight along the way. Your mind automatically remembers these things - or at least mine does - because it knows when the camera isn't being used. So replace a few of those digital photos with mental snapshots while you sightsee... and for the love of God, fanny packs are so 1992. Let's not abuse the concept of utility over fashion...

the decline of the english language

2007-03-29T15:30:00.001+02:00

So I don't think it comes as any surprise that I enjoy writing. I do. I enjoyed writing the slew of application essays for college and grad school... and I think I even wrote a few extra just for kicks. However, I have long lived under the impression that making any sort of living as a writer would be beyond my capabilities. Hell, I may write decently well, but there are people out there who weave together verbs and adjectives in ways that stomp mine out like a cigarette butt in the pavement.

At the current moment, I am in fact making a living writing (well, I guess it depends on one's concept of "making a living"). I spend my 40 hours a week writing Spanish city guides, content for the company's four million websites, monthly newsletters, etc. Overall, I enjoy it. What throws you off, however, is when people who write like SHIT are being paid the same as you. You, meanwhile, will spend a half-hour reworking a sentence and racking your brain for witty expressions so that the text is at least vaguely interesting for the reader. What angers you is when not only do they write like a mentally challenged elementary school child, but you have to go through 100 pages of their text rearranging sentence structures and correcting their interpretation of basic grammar and spelling.

We currently have a freelance writer who writes some of the less important city guides. She claims to be British and a native English-speaker. Yes, England... the birthplace of the English language. My take is that she's about as British as the Dell customer service operators who claim to be Americans named Tom and Barbara, even though their unintelligible English gives away the fact that they've never traveled outside of India.

While this girl uses ultra-British and therefore inherently heinous expressions like, "If you have a hankering for..." which I promptly delete and replace, her comprehension of basic grammar and writing tactics that we learn before we hit puberty is deplorable. I have told my boss more than once that this "Anna" is either lazy, on drugs or just plain stupid. He has yet to act accordingly... in fact, he's rather pleased with her. Apparently the French know more about the English language that an English-speaker. Therefore, I continue to roll my eyes, grit my teeth and correct all of her guides.

While I was, for awhile, depressed at the fact that she probably gets paid about what I do, I have recently come to the following conclusion. Basically, if this girl can get continuously paid to write 100 page city guides, hell I could easily get paid to write entire novels. I'm not saying that I'd necessarily get a lucrative two-novel deal from Random House. However, I'd bet that my literary masterpieces could at least be sold at supermarket check-out lines with other $2.99 novels, right there amongst the book covers with long-haired and open-shirted Fabio-esque studs riding on white stallions, their tanned pecks grasped from behind by their recently-rescued, flowing-haired, untied-bodice-wearing lovers.

I may be coming across as overly self-righteous and haughty. Worry not! I have tangible proof. To be able to laugh about it - and to break up the hours of boredom and desperation - I began keeping track of some of Anna's treasures. Riveting text, really. My personal favorites are numbers 7, 8, 11, 12, 13, 18, and 21

San Sebastian just loves their festivals and parade, which provides a veritable calendar of exciting events – the Film Festival, Jazz Festival, Tinkers Parade, La Tamborrada are just among San Sebastian’s highly enjoyable events.
The portico is in the Renaissance style while a tower that in the baroque style was added in 1777.
How does San Sebastian's music scene look like?
Zona Romantica – ah, the district for romance! Located in the junction of Calle Larramendi and Calle Reyes Catolicos, this district is where you will find a great place to take your date – from great music pubs to chic cafes. What’s more, the cooking here is first-rate.
Get to know San Sebastian a little deeper as you look into its different district, culture and tourism.
This was chosen as the political capital of the Basque country, just recently (1980s).
It is one great way to taste all that Cadiz has to offer – and not end up losing your budget (not to mention your belly!). Tapas can be composed of virtually anything – the food mentioned above, plus cheese and locally produced ham.
Hmmmm – mmmm!
In fact, shopkeepers close down for a few hours as they enjoy this meal at home, after the meal, they cozy down to get some siesta (midafternoon nap).
It used to consist of a number of layers of walls, currently however, only one wall remains standing.
Made in pink brink has Mudejar style arches. (yes, that's a full sentence)
What's there to buy in Cadiz? Plenty, that's what.
And a-one, two, three, four... Move your body!
These includes egrets, vultures, ducks, doves, falcons, herons, flamingos, geese and many others.
The park also houses a learge population of mountain goats, deer, mountain ox and stag. These, as the rest of the animals are protected by law.
The fauna is just as varied – the wide umbrella pine forest gives excellent shelter to palmettos, blackthorns, junipers and rosemary.
Whether you want to go on a wine-tasting binge in Jerez and the "Sherry Triangle", or visit beautiful Seville or the White Villages.
Jerez de la Frontera is synonymous to the word sherry. In fact, that is what Jerez is. Jerez actually means Sherry.
For more inquiries about a trip to Jerez de la Frontera, visit the Jerez Tourism Information Office at Edificio Los Claustros).
the Fine Arts Museum (which has the second largest collect of pictures in Spain)
Culturally, Sevilla offers the best of Andalusia – flamenco and bullfighting. But that is not all that Sevilla has to offer – its people (the Sevillanos) are jolly, warm and fun-loving. Because of the people vibrant personality (throw in a bit of wit and charm), Sevilla sparkles in the minds of tourists because of its vitality.
This is especially seen during the Feria de Abril. This is when Sevilla especially bursts in brilliant color and sound.
Construction of the church was began by the master builder Alonso Rodriguez
To make the most of your excursion to Gibraltar, visit the Gibraltar Tourist Office, at the Duke of Kent House, Cathedral Square
Nestled between the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean, Gibraltar is quite small, only 5.8 square kilometers, but it is a complete community – with all the necessary amenities.
These are called the White Villages because the of the white-washed houses, castles and churches do make an enchanting sight, against the backdrop of green and brown countryside.
Reaching Cadiz by Car is an experience in itself – you get to see the countryside and stop whenever you want or feel like it. Take your time, explore the villages you pass along the way.
If you are staying in a hotel with a parking garage, you can make use of this facility, which charges around €9 to €14 a day.

Madrid!

2007-03-28T12:43:00.000+02:00

The New York Times knows what's up...

Damn straight, biatches!

50 "who the hell cares!" B.Matt Trivia Tid-Bits

2007-03-28T11:50:00.000+02:00

1. In pre-school I ate paste because it smelled minty. I ended up being sent home from school with a sore throat.

2. I am an introvert par excellence.

3. My sister, at the ripe old age of 8, proclaimed me in one of her "angry letters" to be "Miss Sarcastic of the Year." Where's my sash?

4. I spent a year - 8th grade - looking like a lumberjack. A male lumberjack, that is.

5. I went to college as an English major and graduated as a Spanish major.

6. My first boyfriend was Chris Pressler in the third AND fourth grades. It was an elementary school love match like no other. I got him a race car calendar for Christmas. Vroooom.

7. The words panty, wound and fester make me cringe.

8. I was good at sports growing up... except basketball, at which I was quite terrible. There are plenty of basketball anecdotes which I will not go into. We'll leave it at that I got more than a couple of confused looks from referees.

9. I'll never be too old to sip from juiceboxes... even though I have to drink 2 at a time to quench my AM OJ-craving.

10. I think that the French language sounds like spoken vomit... but I am thinking about learning it anyway.

11. My mom is a surprisingly talented beer pong player... even when she insists on playing with flavored wine coolers. Moms are cute like that.

12. Stephanie Casey and I used to have sleepovers to write - and illustrate - marvelous stories together.

13. I have a lot of strange and borderline OCD habits that nobody has known about until riiiiight now. Examples:
A) If I accidentally kick my left ankle with my right foot while walking, I repeat it the other way around to even things out... even though it hurts.
B) When in the car, I lightly squeeze a muscle or tap a toe inside my shoe everytime a light pole is passed. I have done this for as long as I can remember.
C) I constantly imagine ridiculous scenarios... such as if I were threatened with death unless I could remember how to play a certain piano song from memory, would I be able to?

14. I think too much and talk too little.

15. I grew up wanting to be a pilot. I took flying lessons and loved it... yet eventually turned down the acceptance into flight school.

16. I once pulled my brother's arm out of its socket because he wouldn't help clean up the Hungry Hippos game. Poor li'l tyke.

17. My parents named me Elizabeth even though they 100% planned on calling me Betsey. Why not just name me Betsey? Family mystery!

18. Driving a standard car is way more fun than driving an automatic. I don't think I'll ever be able to go back.

19. I sometimes worry about the fact that I don't worry about my lack of professional ambition.

20 I am deathly afraid of knives, paper cuts in the eye, doctors, being judged, driving off a bridge into water while sitting in the back seat of a two-door car, and birds (the ones that walk, not so much the little hopping ones). Luckily I have, since my childhood, overcome my fears of actually looking like a girl.

21. My favorite childhood activity was playing football with the neighborhood boys. I would pounce on Mike Walker's back trying to tackle him.

22. My dad knows me too well. I am essentially the younger, female, and non-Republican version of him :o)

23. As a child, my little sister used to eat dog food. For some reason I think I also recall her munching on newspaper once or twice. Good times at the Mattern household.

24. I am allergic to cats. It took going to Florida and staying with a friend's aunt to figure it out... she had 8 furry felines. I considered going to the hospital to see if I was dying from pneumonia.

25. I worry too much and take things too personally.

26. At Cliff Orvedal's Halloween party, I accidentally swallowed 2 feet of fake hair when a clump of my witch wig stuck to my cupcake frosting in the very last pre-bite moment. Mrs. Orvedal had to yank it out. I have had an aversion towards spaghetti noodles ever since.

27. My favorite movie of all time is and always will be the Little Mermaid. I can't help it... it's beyond my control. We got no troubles, life is the bubbles!

28. I was the ONLY student in my high school Culinary Arts class who did not receive an A+. I attribute this to one or both of the following reasons: A) possibly because I added 3 tablespoons of pepper instead of 3 teaspoons to my final project, resulting in a rather piquant New England clam chowder, or B) possibly because the teacher was my basketball coach. See #8.

29. I now get carsick due to my lack of car travel in Spain. On the way to JFK airport after Christmas my dad had to pull over so I could switch into the front seat.

30. My sister and I hated each other until I was 18 and she was 15, and my brother and I engaged in physical fights until I was in college.

31. I don't particularly like boats. I was on one when it caught fire.

32. I really want to go skydiving.

33. I despise the following instant messenger tendencies

IM lingo (LOL, LMAO, TTYL, etc., etc.).
when people put the humping hearts, i.e. <333,>
when, again in their profiles, people randomly AND OBSESSIVELY change their fonts FOR NO APPARENT r.E.a.S.o.N.

34. I have never sucked an entire lollipop. I bite them as soon as my teeth will let me.

35. I am physically incapable of burping. Mark always said that he was going to feed me Alca-Seltzer pills to see if I'd explode. Apparently that's what happens to seagulls.

36. My first memory is going with my dad to buy a swingset. I was two and remember thinking it was the longest ride ever. I later found out it was a whopping 45 minutes, if that.

37. My favorite number to write is 4, and my favorite letter to write is a lowercase cursive z. I do a mental fist pump each time I get to the z while signing my name.

38. I can't watch surfing because those waves scare the begeezus out of me.

39. Scary movies really do give me nightmares.

40. I can entertain myself for a remarkably long time with a wad of bubble-wrap. My mom gets mad at me for popping all the bubble-wrap that protects our Christmas ornaments.

41. I love aquariums and zoos. There's just something about poo-flinging monkeys and dolphins jumping through hula-hoops that I can't get enough of.

42. I believe both in ghosts and in extraterrestrial life. E.T. WHADDUPPP

43. I am cluttered and mildly scatterbrained by nature. When things are organized I can't ever find anything I'm looking for.

44. I like art.

45. I abhor deep political or philosophical discussions, as the people who want to have them are generally pretentious and love to hear themselves talk.

46. My college roommate and I once went on the South Beach Diet. After a week and a half we threw the idea out and celebrated with a Costco-sized bag of Doritos. It was glorious.

47. I love Muppets marathons, especially the Swedish Chef skits. Bork! Bork! Bork!

48. I'm strangely glad my parents got divorced. I can't imagine my life without the additional family members that came out of it. Plus, two Thanksgiving food comas and two Christmases! I kid, I kid..

49. I dislike uncomfortable shoes, popped collars, small talk, bad grammar, decisions, and loud/open-mouthed chewers

50. I like banana bread, dirty jokes, socks, seeing new places, writing, celebrity gossip, going out for breakfast, cheesy pick-up lines, being immature, and opening brand-new tennis ball cannisters.

being pensive

2007-03-14T17:24:00.001+01:00

When I set off to study abroad in Sevilla three years ago, I decided to really buckle down and make a conscious decision to start a journal... and to not succumb to my characteristic laziness. Surprisingly enough, I actually managed to write in it at least once a week... and I'm glad I did. I like to sit down and relive almost getting stranded on a Greek island, spending my first 4 days in Spain with no luggage (it was sitting on a trolley in an airplane hangar at the La Coruña Airport), fending off Spanish suitors and a slew of random and documented communicative issues, such as telling my Spanish mom that there was no more soup in the shower (oh come on now, which one looks more like the word for soap: sopa or jabón?)

Last year, when it came time for round two in Spain - this time in Madrid - I hopped on the technology train and decided to replace pen and paper with a blog. In its conception, good ole Bepsi Cola was meant to serve as a journal-esque type of chronicle which would allow my friends and family to keep abreast of the happenings in the life of the international superstar that I am... and also to quelch any worries that I may have fallen in with the wrong crowd and - to feed my crack habit - was making a living turning tricks on the corner.

However, the whole "journal" idea lasted approximately 2.2 seconds. Why? Because living in Spain for the second time was never really about brand-new, ground-breaking experiences. The first year was all about visiting Europe for the first time, seeing my first "real" cathedral, grimacing at my first bullfight, experiencing my first European soccer game, trying new food (never one of my fortes in the past... when I was 14 it took my dad 40 minutes to get me to taste manicotti), living far from home, integrating into a family of strangers... not to mention the whole language thing.

The second - and now the third- year in Spain has pretty much morphed into a life of the typical day-to-day "stuff" that I knew in the US. Everything that makes life what it is - inside jokes, workplace grumblings, relationships, friendships, bad moods, favorite restaurants, playing sports, grocery shopping - is the same, it's all simply transcurring on a different geographical pinpoint on the globe.

My "new" experiences are things that, frankly, excite only me and aren't necessarily worth of describing it for friends and family: discovering a new favorite candy (the red ones with the white stuff inside) or yogurt (Vitalínea, peach-flavored), following work-out vernacular at the gym's spinning class, or finding out the Spanish equivalent of something completely random and not academic (a "butter face" in English, i.e. a girl who is hot and attractive everywhere but-her-face, is apparently called a "shrimp" in Spanish, because you eat everything but the head).

Somewhere along the way, Spain stopped being a visit. Instead, it's just turned into finding a niche for myself in which I can thrive, be comfortable, be happy and see that happiness enduring. There is no ultimatum in the foreseeable future at which it will all end... no bought plane ticket with a set date and time printed on it... no "next semester" to get back for. I can do whatever the hell I want, and that is - for lack of a more eloquent expression - pretty damn rad.

randomness

2007-03-14T00:22:00.000+01:00

Today I left for work for the second day in a row without a jacket... and I left the gym this evening in my shorts. It was glorious. Hoping that this trend continues, I am almost ready to bid the seasonal adieu to coats, sweaters, winter blues, hot chocolate and being a hermit. So here's a little ode to spring and everything I like about it.

Blah blah blah the whole rejuvenation of nature spiel... flowers blooming, trees budding, birdies chirping and the rest of the accompanying cliché classics.

Visitors! Friends, sisters, BernBerns and cousins have sangria-induced Spanish shenanigans pencilled into their calendars.

Sidewalk cafés! In an age when international fast food chains are trying to gobble up the "cute café" culture anywhere they can, Spain's little outdoor cafés and bars comprise what is - without a doubt - one of its best assets. In fact, I put it on the totally unbiased "Spain Top 10" in my Spain guide (What Spain for all 2 of you who are interested)

Walks! As enjoyable as speed walking through the streets hoping that, in the process, the friction between your various out-of-shape body parts will stir up some additional body heat, strolling leisurely about in nice weather is always a more pleasant alternative for all involved.

Spring ahead! The sacrificed hour of sleep is every bit worth the additional daylight hours during which one might enjoy the aforementioned sidewalk cafés and leisurely strolls.

Lunch! Gone will be the days of eating at my desk. Facebook stalking and catching up on my celebrity gossip blogs will have to wait for the post-work hours, as they are soon to be replaced with dining al fresco- i.e. saran-wrapped sandwich from home on a park bench.

Ice cream! Last week, two coworkers and I played hooky for 15 minutes to partake in the inaugural "first ice cream of the season." We also raised up our plastic spoons and merrily toasted to many more to come... or at least I did.

Open windows! In houses, in cars... everywhere! The breezes are light, the air is fresh and, providing those pesky allergies aren't attacking like merciless kamikazes, there's nothing that says "spring time" quite like your arm hanging out a rolled down window.

give me presents!!!

2007-03-07T18:46:00.000+01:00

Despite my overall indifference towards the day's "hip" fashion trends (leggings under skirts, boots over skinny jeans, anything that isn't the timeless combination of jeans and solid-colored cotton shirts...), I do enjoy perusing the pages of a fashion magazine from time to time. However, due to the lack of a pre-paid, home-delivery subscription, I am faced each month with the oh-so-daunting task of choosing but one glossy cover of the bunch.

Cosmo, In Style, Vogue, Glamour... the options are unlimited. Yet when it comes down to it, all "girl" magazines are just carbon copies of each other in that they essentially boil down to the following key elements:

How to tone your (insert flabby body part) in just 6 days
Cheesy monthly horoscopes, complete with lucky days your best astrological love match of the month

How to make him (insert beg for more, commit, horny, say I love you, leave you the hell alone, etc.)
(Insert number) easy do-it-yourself hair styles

Fashion must-haves for (insert season and year) for (insert number) dollars or less

Edgy photo shoot and accompanying interview with (insert celebrity) on family, finding inner peace, losing that pesky post-pregnancy weight and her budding relationship with (insert male celebrity/soon to be 4th husband/future 4th ex-husband)

With such a predictable formula, how, how, how can an indecisive gal like myself choose amongst the array of identical publications? The common go-to routine is to thumb through the whole magazine to see if it's got anything good; however, by the end you realize that you've seen the whole thing and buying the magazine would therefore be a complete waste of a perfectly good four bucks. You put the magazine back on the shelf, avoid the glaring eyes of the cashier and walk back out the door. Nobody wins.

Incentives, folks. I need incentives. I am indecisive but I have a lonely five dollar bill in my pocket. Sway me. Entice me. Seduce me.

It would seem that the current brains behind today's Spanish marketing campaigns studied together, having come to the collective - albeit obvious - conclusion that the most effective way to lure a customer is by appealing to their affinity for tangible goodies. So while the idea of "incentives" was made quite clear during their years of study, you can tell which former marketing students were the stars of their class (buy a newspaper, get a classic Muzzy video) and which ones barely passed (buy a tub of butter, get an English dictionary).

As for magazines, I would bet money that the real ace marketing students can now be found as campaign managers in fashion magazines. Why? Because instead of looking at magazine covers or giving them the ole thumb-through, I am easily sold to whoever is giving me the best free gift. And it's not a "send away for a free gift" or "log on to our website and enter this code and enter in the drawing for a free gift and maybe you'll win in six to eight weeks." No, no, no.

I'm talking gift-in-hand when I walk out the door. I've seen sandals, pj pants, t-shirts, scarves, beach cover ups, jewelry... fashion magazines totally put effort into their gift-giving. InStyle, the king pin of purses and bags, has proven to be a Betsey front-runner, and I have absolutely no problem admitting that my favorite bathing suit is a one-size-fits-all that came free last summer with an issue of Vogue.

Keep 'em coming!

blub-blub

2007-03-04T11:58:00.000+01:00

Madrid Photo of the Day. Enjoy.

... because nothing says come dine at our restaurant like a giant fish puking up equally an equally giant crustacean.

Potsdam at the ATM

2007-03-02T17:19:00.000+01:00

Now we have all - and by "all" I mean all of us who have studied abroad during their undergraduate college career - had those "I just don't understand why" days where the ATM sticks out its tongue and flicks you off when you go to withdraw your meager funds. Those days that leave you lamenting the fact that ATM's only shoot out 20's and 50's instead of 10's, thus deaming the remaining $19.02 (oooh so close!) in your account utterly useless and unattainable. Those days where you have to break down and beg your parents for a bit of funding. And while those days are not fun, we can all relate... or at least find it in our hearts to sympathize.

However. There is an unfortunate character that often pops up at the ATM, generally just when you happen to be in a hurry. The ATM negotiator.

You know you're dealing with an ATM negotiator when, as you stand behind them feigning patience, they constantly look from side to side as to ensure that nobody is lurking in the shadows. Why? Because they are about to head into some lengthy negotiations surpassed only by those of the Potsdam Conference.

You continue to stand behind them, restlessly shifting your weight from foot to foot, squinting impatiently at the back of their heads and contemplating leaving your withdrawal - and that bag of chips you had your hopes up for - for a later time.

They see you standing there, but now along with another 4 people that have lined behind you- all of us tapping our feet with exponentially increasing anxiety. Yet, the negotiator sees it as the most opportune time to carry out as many operations at the ATM as humanly possible... putting money on their phone, checking their bank statement, questioning their bank statement, checking their bank statement again, cancelling the transaction, putting card back in for a new transaction, scratching their head... and then comes the eventual debacle of actually withdrawing funds.

As you watch the negotiations transpire you can almost go so far as to create a dialogue. Or, you're borderline insane like me and you DO create a dialogue...

"Hmm I REALLY want a pair of those black leather dominatrix boots that everyone's wearing on top of their jeans these days. They'd go great with my whip and black leather corset. Hot, hot, hot. Let's take out 100."
...... Machine spits the card out. Machine: 1, Negotiator: 0
"No? 100's no good? Ok how about 80?"
...... Machine spits the card out. Machine: 2, Negotiator: 0
"No? Dang. Well, I guess I could settle with 40."
..... Machine spits the card out. Yawns and looks at its watch. Machine: 3, Negotiator: 0
"(Now with attitude) No? Not 40? Well if you don't give me 20 I'ma gonna cut you and ain't nobody gonna help you!"
...... Machine contemplates the idea. Wavers. Is persuaded. Admits defeat.
"Aha!! Yeah that's what I thought... cough it up biaaaatch." (Insert cash grab, fist pump and victory dance)

...All this for a lousy bag of chips...

deep thoughts on... lettuce

2007-03-01T14:53:00.000+01:00

Lettuce is not meant to fly solo.

As I am increasingly anxious for the arrival of sunny spring afternoons and as yesterday's lunchtime temperature was a delightful 63 degrees, a coworker and I ventured to a nearby plaza to dine in style side-by-side on a bench. Despite the abundance of evil pigeons (insert fearful shudder), things were looking up. That is, until I sat down and removed the tupperware lid of my salad, at which time I realized I forgot my salad dressing back in the office refrigerator. Hungry, not wanting to make a scene and much too lazy to walk back, I started in on my dressingless lettuce and tomatoes. It was neither enjoyable nor satisfying.

So let's put this into metaphorical terms: aviation. Lettuce atop a tuna sandwich? Smooth sailing. In a colorful salad topped with dressing? No turbulance here. As a garnish? You are free to move about the cabin. But lettuce flying solo is essentially the culinary equivalent of a flight student sans his seasoned instructor who clearly knows better. Would you want to be a passenger on that flight? I certainly wouldn't!

So to all of you people on the lick-the-lettuce diet, I am totally and unabashedly judging you. To you anorexia-proned individuals who insist with an exaggerated smile that "oh my God I just LOVE the taste of dry lettuce... salad dressing just detracts from the earthy taste of nature" or whatever crap you've brainwashed yourself into believing, I can only say "LIAR!" What do you think you are- a rabbit? Hell, your idea of fine dining is probably grabbing a handful of freshly-raked leaves from the pile in your back yard, maybe even following up the main dish with a good gnaw on a bamboo chute, a la panda bear. De-lic-ious.

So enjoy your bowl of dry leaves and your "favorite" afternoon snack of ice cubes. I'll be lathering my lettuce in this delightful vinaigrette and looking forward to my afternoon snack- my daily chocolate supplement.

do you know the muffin man?

2007-02-23T14:49:00.000+01:00

So in keeping with my red light day / green light day theory, please contemplate the following scenario.

I was having about 50-50 luck with stop lights on my morning stroll to work. I pass a young-ish man with a bag of little muffins, or magdalenas, who had dropped a couple on the sidewalk. He picks them back up and, just when I think he was going to throw them out, he unwraps one to eat it anyway. I do a mental shrug, because hey- who am I to criticize adherence to the five-second rule? I continue on my merry way.

The muffin man and I meet once again at a red light (bad sign!), where he proceeds to unwrap another muffin. He pops it in his mouth and, instead of utilizing the garbage can perched a mere 3 inches to his left, he FLINGS the paper muffin wrapper at my face - yes, at my face - and walks off in an angry huff.

I was speechless.

traffic signals

2007-02-22T16:18:00.001+01:00

Everybody gets their share of good and bad days thrown at them; but you've got to just grab your bat, stroll up to home plate and prepare to receive your destined hodgepodge of tricky curveballs and easy lobs. By 9:30 am, I already know exactly what kind of pitch is going to be thrown my way. I simply accept and proceed because, as we all know, some days you're the windshield and some days you're unfortunately the flittering bug who doesn't see the 18-wheeler cruising down the highway.

Granted, while a lifetime without bad days certainly doesn't sound all that unattractive, without those "shove you down the stairs then kick you in the gut" days, the good days wouldn't stand out... or even exist, for that matter. Just as there are no heroes without villains and no big without small, there are no good days without their tempermental counterparts. You would be doomed to a life in which your mood never shifts out of "indifference" gear and, while you'd sure as hell cry less, you'd inevitably smile less to. The only smiles would end up being the polite ones you use with the supermarket cashier or when you and the person walking in the opposite direction try to side step each other but you both go left. Genuine smiles would be shoved into the bottom drawer and doomed to a life of fraternizing with useless small-talk, old varsity letters and clothes that don't fit. Life would cruise on autopilot and the world would be pretty damn boring.

So just how is it that, within an hour of being awake, I already know whether it's going to be a good day or a bad one? The answer is: traffic lights.

Each morning, I set out for the uneventful 10-minute trek to work. I take the exact same route, I pass the exact same buildings and even see the exact same people heading to their daily AM destinations. The only thing that varies from morning to morning is my luck with traffic lights. By the time I get to work, there are two possible outcomes, one of which consequently determines the day's tone. I either 1) cruise through all the green lights, or 2) hit every. single. red. light.

A sample green light day
The walk takes 10 minutes- all green lights. The fruit guy tosses you a smile and a free apple. The five hours until lunch fly by, propelled by superhuman productivity. Nobody hassles you. Somebody brings in cookies for their birthday. Your favorite songs pop up on your Ipod. You joke around with coworkers. You find a Reeses Peanut Butter cup that you thought you had already eaten. You go to the gym; all the machines work and the gym is practically empty. If you take the metro, it glides to a stop just as you reach the platform. You get home- someone sent you a letter! A good movie comes on tv. Perez Hilton has written a slew of exciting gossip updates. The sun shines, birds sing, elderly couples hold hands, babies giggle.

A sample red light day
Having been stopped at every red light, the walk takes 15+ minutes. You trip on a cobblestone. You arrive late to work. Your pen runs out of ink. The morning drags its feet like a turtle on downers. Lunch comes around; you realize you left your lunch on the counter at home. Along with your wallet. You scrounge up enough change at the bottom of your bag to purchase a diet coke; it explodes. Your Ipod runs out of juice and you're forced to listen to the radio station replay the same 5 songs. You make it through the day. You go to the gym; your preferred machines are broken and the resulting lines delay workout by 1/2 hour. You lose gym locker key. You spend 10 minutes walking around the gym scouring the floor for a silver glint. You find it, grab your belongings and walk out door. Surprise- unexpected rain storm! You decide to take the metro; you hear it leaving as you pass through the turnstile. The apartment building door won't open. There's no interesting gossip in the celebrity world. Children cry, dogs howl, car alarms go off, Satan chuckles.

lunchtime boredom

2007-02-21T14:46:00.000+01:00

1. Where were you an hour ago?
exactly where i am now. the work day doesn't tend to be very mobile, though i do have wheels on my chair

2. Who will be your next kiss?
my reflection in the mirror... then again, if i'm feeling generous i may share the wealth. i love feigning narcissism

[wheres #3?]

4. Are you wearing socks right now?
yes. white ankle socks with my checkered vans slip-on shoes. i am the epitome of european chic

5. When was the last time you went out of the state?
i think the more appropriate question is actually when was the last time i was IN the state

6. Have you been to the movies in the last 5 days?
yes... german movie with spanish subtitles = fun with languages!

7. What was the last thing you had to drink?
coffeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

8. What are you wearing right now?
a very exciting jeans & brown shirt combo. the day that i get a job that requires me to actually wear grown-up clothes, i'm going to be screwed

9. What was your last purchase?
cookies... breakfast of champions

10. Last food you ate?
see #9

11. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone?
miss sarah b

12. Have you bought any clothing items in the last week?
nope... waiting until elaine "shoe fiend" mattern gets here

13. Do you have a pet?
doggies beaux-jangles, lucky & sadie, cat k.c...... & the spirits of dog winston, hamster peanut, fish bob (his name foretold his fate), kitty pumpkin, dog maggie & fish jesus. pets are rad.

14. What's the last sporting event you watched?
alfonso & salva being super-manly and wrestling

15. How much sex have you had in the past week?
gasp! well that's awfully forward of you

16. If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be?
i'd take either a) upon the sandy shores of a caribbean island or b) back in bed. or maybe testing my luck and retail knowledge on The Price is Right. you choose

17. What is the last thing you purchased online?
a "cats that look like hitler" mug for allison. totally worth it.

18. One thing you hate about yourself?
my inability to do the clamshell thing with my tongue. that and maybe excessive laziness and lack of professional ambition... although the latter two don't bother me nearly as much as they should

19. What's your favorite soup?:
progresso chicken noodle all the way. or tomato basil. or cream of broccoli. i want soup.

20. Do you miss anyone?
yes, especially the fam (sniff, sniff)

21. Last play you saw?
well i saw ALL the plays of the first quarter of the superbowl.. do those count?

22. What are your plans for the day?
to change the world... one webpage at a time

23. Ever go to camp?
girl scout camp. but i was an 8 year old insomniac and my best friend started snoring next to me. i couldn't fall asleep, started crying and made my mom come pick me up. laaaaame

25. Were you an honor roll student in school?
of COURSE... those donut breakfasts they gave us after the honor roll "ceremonies(?)" were totally worth not going to physics

26. What do you want to know about the future?
when full meals start coming in pill form, will full exercise regiments come in pill form too?

27. Are you wearing any perfume or cologne?
negative

28. Where are your best friends located?
an ocean away... but mark comes in 3 weeks!!! :o)

29. Do you have a tan?
i think i've had a tan exactly once in my life. i generally glow under a black light

30. How old do you want to be when you have kids?
shudder... gag... shudder... i'm currently gearing up to care for my first Chia Pet-like plant thingee (it's a piggy from Angel's trip to Singapore), so let's just leave it at that

31. Last person who made you cry?
i cried from laughing too hard the other day... at myself for saying some smug smart-ass comment and then turning around and walking directly into a pole.

32. Do you have any tattoos or piercings?
4 piercings and 1 scar

32. Have you ever drank your soda pop from a straw?
i love straws.

33. How do you like your soda pop?
are we really calling it soda pop? am i wearing a poodle skirt?

34. Do you like hot sauce?
"it tastes like burning" -ralph wiggum

35. Next time you'll take a shower?
tonight, after my hypothetical gym sweat fest

37. What is your mood?
meh (indifferent)

38. Are you someone’s best friend?
i like to think so

39.What do you want for valentine's day?
pshhh...the easter bunny is way cooler than cupid

40. What are you doing right now?
eating a salad and wanting more cookies

this just in...

2007-02-19T15:47:00.000+01:00

***Update***

So we're getting a second webmaster tomorrow, which is good. But, because it's a girl, my crazy boss - and head webmaster - is referring to her in all seriousness as the "webmastress." The term cracks me up but also makes me feel once again like I'm associating with technologically advanced medieval characters.

my guilty pleasures

2007-02-19T01:48:00.000+01:00

-Little Mermaid. Whenever I had a bad day in college, my go-to remedy was to just pop my old school Little Mermaid tape into my old school VCR, nestle into my top bunk and prepare to recite the lines, belt out the songs (off-key, of course) and swoon over that dreamy Prince Eric. Hubba hubba.

-Caffeine. I love it, I need it, I crave it. End of story.

-Chips and fries. Whether crunchy and rippled or golden, crispy and soft, if it's a potato product (deep-fried in a vat of grease, naturally) that I can eat by the handful, then it figures into this list. Actually, if they're mashed I can make a potato volcano and hell- who doesn't like to reenact the destruction of Pompeii with butter lava and a doomed and unsuspecting pile of peas. Mwa ha ha.

-Jeans. Now, this in no way means that I own half a million pairs of jeans. In fact, I own two. However, since I rotate between the same two trusty pairs, I've come to the conclusion over the past year or two that spending a li'l extra for a good brand and a pair that you really like is worth not eating for a week.

-Porn. I don't know how I'd ever get through a whole day without some hard-core, whip-wielding... jusssssst kidding Dad.

-Facebook and MySpace. I like to stalk, and I'm not embarrassed about it. By the way, if you have your MySpace set to private, you're on my shit list. (Insert angry growl)

-Celebrity gossip blogs. Good god, I'm hooked. During college, I scoffed and rolled my eyes at Deana's subscription to Us Weekly and her non-stop chatter about the lives of LA's finest. Today, I could easily get you all up to date on who's dating (Whitney Houston and Brandy's little brother!), who's pregnant (Bridget Moynihan, ex-girlfriend of Patriots hottie Tom Brady, is 3 months preggers with an itty-bitty-Brady... I guess from one last pre-breakup romp in the hay) and who is in rehab (well, the now bald trainwreck otherwise known as Britney Spears was in rehab for less than a day). Don't even get me started with the Anna Nicole debacle.

***update: Brit-Brit is BACK in rehab
***update #2: Brit-Brit checked OUT of rehab again

-Bookstores. Ok, so reading is good for you so I guess there's technically no reason to classify visiting bookstores as a guilty pleasure. Even so, get me into a Barnes & Noble or a Borders and I can easily occupy myself for hours reading book covers... and subsequently doing some pretty serious damage to my bank account. Over Christmas break, I spent well over $100 in books and earned some major points on my Borders rewards card.

-Tom Jones. Cheesy, yes. In love with his own chest hair, definitely. However, nothing puts a smile on my face quite like a little "What's New Pussycat (whoa whoa whoaaaa)" or "Sex Bomb." Plus, without Tom Jones there would be no Carlton dance, and that would be a true television tragedy.

-Chocolate. I'm a girl... it's an inherent part of having two X chromosomes.

-Days of Our Lives. I hate the concept of a soap opera and I hate the idea of obese middle-aged women sitting home in their floral-printed muumuus and completely losing touch with reality by getting way too involved in the lives of fictional characters. Yet whenever I'm home I inevitably gravitate to the tv at that 1:00 mark to find out who on Days of Our Lives has been killed / been kidnapped / had a baby / come back to life / had a scandalous affair / lost their memory / found out that their lover is actually their sister and therefore that their son is actually their own half brother... and so forth and so on.

-Breakfast Club, Dirty Dancing, & Co. The kick-ass music brings you back to your childhood; the characters and storylines make you feel warm and happy inside; and the hair and clothing trends of the 80's make you feel stylish.

The Greatest Show on Earth!

2007-02-16T15:24:00.000+01:00

Us Americans know that the beloved comic strip "Family Circus" - about a family with a gaggle of mischievous young'uns - is a permanent fixture in daily newspapers across the United States... and has been for 40 or 50 years.

Well, if they ever want to give the comic strip a modern update, I think my work environment is a virtual jackpot of material. It would be like Family Circus meets The Office. In fact, Rachel, my fellow American text writer, and I have decided that we should set up a slew of cameras throughout the office to capture the daily shenanigans for the enjoyment of the general public.

Now, while the whole "keep it in the family" approach to a business has gone back centuries and while I'm sure there are few things that please a parent more than for his offspring to proudly take the reins and carry the family mattress business into the future, a family-run business can easily take a turn and morph into a full-fledged circus. A full-fledged family circus, that is.

In the case of the company I work for, we are without a doubt referring to the latter category.

First we've got the founder/owner/head honcho (Antonio) who randomly appears in the office - between trips to Ibiza, that is - who goes from department to department exclaiming various matters to be "urgente! urgente!" when it turns out that nothing actually is. Two days ago, for example, he did his "urgente" spiel for a minor adjustment to a newsletter or something. Everyone dropped whatever they were doing, seeing as how it was something of "urgente!" nature. Needless to say, he then didn't send the newsletter out for another two days. Urgente my ass, I say.

Then there's his brother / internet guy / personal bitch (Alejandro) who has crazy techno blasting at full volume whenever his phone rings 8 rooms away. He randomly launches into full sprints, his head tucked down and his arms pumping back and forth like a steam engine, throughout the office while yelling into his phone... often to his parents, who call incessantly for no particular reason, especially considering the fact that he is in his upper 30's and still lives with them. One of my favorite workplace memories thus far is the day his mom called 6 times within one hour and Alejandro refused to pick up. Finally, he picks up the phone for approximately 3.2 seconds and, just before hanging up with a resounding slam, he belted out "I can't talk Mom!"

It was BRILLIANT! (Guinness voice)

Their 400 year old father, who I secretly call Mr Turtle (shh don't tell), wanders through the building looking like a lost kid. He just shuffles around with a random folder or clipboard in his hands, poking his head into rooms and looking around without actually saying hi to any of the people stops to stare at. Meanwhile, their crazy red-caped mother busts into the office out of breath to, for example, spatter the contents of her brand new vial of holy water ("oooh it's from Fátima!!") throughout the office and on to its unsuspecting employees. Throw in a good 8 or 9 thousand squabbling in-laws occupying various executive positions, and voila! Family Circus par excellence.

Whenever Antonio wants us (the lamely-named "E-Team" or just the two of us text writers) to get something "urgente, urgente" done or change something on one of the various websites, he insists on relaying the word through Sandy- my eccentric, scatterbrained French boss and company "Webmasterrrr" who, by the way, speaks neither Spanish nor English to any distinguishable degree. Our weekly meetings are often QUITE interesting. The emails go through Sandy even when Sandy is, for example, in Philadelphia and Antonio is two rooms away from us. Sandy, in turn, then sends us a handful of completely unintelligible emails, which a) confuse everyone and b) force us to ask Antonio what it is he actually wants, thus making the whole cross-Atlantic correspondance between Sandy and Antonio completely pointless.

Yet, the cycle repeats itself again and again. And again. Annnnnd again.

east lyme's main attractions

2007-02-06T14:49:00.000+01:00

Aside from my family, friends and menagerie of loveable pets, my absolute favorite thing in East Lyme is essentially little more than an old tree branch.

Clearly I'm not too hard to please. (Let's keep that comment G-rated, mmmkay?)

Sure, I look forward to stopping in for a nibble at my favorite breakfast and lunch niches when I'm in town, but nothing pleases me more than to go out for a drive past... the turtle log. Well, that and maybe a double scoop of Michael's Dairy ice cream with my fellow ice cream-loving Matterns (cough, cough.. you know who you are). It's in the genes.

On the drive from my part of town towards the bustling action of our so-called "down town," you inevitably pass a big ole pond with an old, fallen tree branch that sticks up out of the water. Now this isn't any old hunk of wood. I'm surprised we don't have postcards of it. Then again, maybe we do. It has become an East Lyme landmark, which I'm sure would just thrill Mr Thomas Lee (the Thomas Lee House was built in 1660 and, by East Lyme standards, is a pretty big deal).

On sunny days, this seemingly simple log becomes the hip hang out for a hoard of tiny turtles just lookin for a little low-key fun in the sun. I don't know how many times I've almost driven right into the pond as I "awwww, lookie!" at the little guys with their wee heads poking out of their wee shells.

If East Lyme ever gets rid of the turtle log like they are doing with the Shack (insert solemn moment of silence for my favorite breakfast place), y'all are going to have to deal with one bitter, bitter Betsey.

versión original

2007-02-05T14:57:00.000+01:00

When it comes to the cinematic arts, I am a self-proclaimed snob. And I don't mean in the "oh look at me. I wear all black and have funky eyeglasses and speak in monotone and only shop in organic grocery stores and only watch artsy films in independent film theaters " way. No, no, no. I'm way too much of a goof to get myself involved in that world. Plus, I thrive on celebrity gossip and I think that'd be way too mainstream for them.

The jist of it is just that I can't stand dubbed movies. With the exception of cartoons, watching an American movie dubbed into Spanish (or vice versa) is like putting yourself through a multilingual ventriloquism act in which the ventriloquist and his puppet friend never quite seem to be surfing on the same wave. A voiceless mouth moves and then a mouthless voice speaks, but they just can't ever seem to coincide. Everything is a half-beat off, the pubescent voice just doesn't match the beefy actor and, like fat kids at military boot camp, the jokes just don't quite make it over that tricky language barrier.

Needless to say, I insist on going to the theaters that show movies in "versión original," ie in their original language.

However, shouldn't I be more sympathetic to them? Is it hypocritical of me to reject dubbed movies so much if technically I am the personification of one? To the best of my mediocre abilities (I love self deprecation), I dub my words, my jokes and my mannerisms into Spanish, but in the end does my personality really make it across or do I just subconsciously create a new, slightly modified version of me?

Ohhh Elaine...

2007-02-01T15:15:00.000+01:00

Disclaimer: My sister is one of my best friends and we get along wonderfully. I lurve her to death and can't wait until she comes to Spain to play. That said, read on.

Growing up, my brother, my sister and I all had what could be defined as "roles" or "personality types." I have always been the mellow sarcastic one, my brother was traditionally the moody-broody one, and my sister has been and always will be the dramatic one.

In the photo is my 20 (or, according to the identification she is carrying at a given time, sometimes 24) year old sister. She looks like an all-American girl straight out of a wholesome small town lifestyle. If you were to create a little profile about her based solely upon first appearances, you'd probably go for the "attractive, intelligent, fun person, nice personality, good sense of humor, all around great person" route. Oh how naive and mistaken you would be...

I find that Elaine's existence can be more or less summed up by a scene from the cinematic gem "Mean Girls," starring Hollywood mess Lindsay Lohan. The referenced scene to which I refer is towards the end when Regina (aka Rachel McAdams) finds out that Lindsay Lohan's "Cady with a C" character had been giving her fattening energy bars instead of diet bars, thus causing her to gain 15 pounds right before the school's annual and highly anticipated Spring Fling dance. Stomping around and wielding a pair of scissors, Regina proceeds to shriek violently for the next five minutes of the film.

For much of my life, I was fully convinced that my sister suffered from a psychological disorder that required heavy medication... possibly to the point of sedation and brain-shock therapy. There was no middle ground with her. Elaine had exactly two modes: she was either asleep (mildly content) or awake (angrily psychotic). She fit the description of bipolarism to a tee, and I remember actually insisting to at least one of my parents that we needed to stage an intervention and get her into some psychological clinic for testing and observation, albeit against her will and despite the inevitable fact that she would try to fight back with her fangs and talons.

Trying to engage in any sort of conversation was like awakening an evil god from a 1,000-year slumber deep in the dark abysses of the underworld. The following are true life examples. If you were both sitting on the couch, and your pinky toe happened to be touching "her side," she'd scream at you. If you told her - after a volleyball game in which her team had won - that she/the team played well, she'd scream at you. If you asked her to grab a napkin from the counter right behind her chair at dinner, she'd scream at you. I once told her she had too much eyeliner on, and she screamed at me. If my mother even made a move that suggested she was going to speak, she'd scream at her. If you asked her if she wanted some of your ice cream sundae, she'd scream at you.

Following such an outburst, most typically while the rest of us attempted to enjoy a nice meal, she'd get angrier with each passing moment until the following sequence of events occurred:

The following sound, first a deep rumbling in her throat before emerging as a full-blown shriek out of her mouth: "Ahhhghhghghhhrgggiiiiiiahhhhh!!!!"
She would stomp up to her room, screaming as she went
She'd slam her door
She'd open her door again to scream out one more "I HATE YOU! Ahhhghghhhgriiiahhhhh!!!"
She'd stomp around her room and throw objects against the door.
She'd blast her "I'm angry" music at top volume.
She'd plan her next angry letter to us all about how abused and tortured she was.
She'd emit an assortment of shrieks, growls and other sounds that I assumed to be vocal yet sounded as though a scene straight from the Exorcist was transpiring within the confines of her room.

One of the worst possible things you could to yourself do was to end up in a situation that involved you and Elaine in a confined space with no bars, electric wire or other protective precautions separating you from "the beast"... in a car, for example. Once, Elaine's bitch button was switched on (ie she was awake) and started going off on anyone who was fortunate enough to be partaking in that same car ride. Under his breath, my brother muttered "psycho," clearly not a wise decision on his part. Seething with rage and with the vein in her forehead visibly pounding, she replied, in escalating decibal levels, "I.. am not... A...PSYCHO!!!"to which my exasperated brother could only respond "Look at her!" The high-pitched screaming that ensued cracked the windows and there has been an incessant ringing in our ears ever since that specialists have been unable to cure. For obvious reasons, this is one of our most referenced family stories.

For some reason, my mom voluntarily endured the psychological abuse thrown at her by my sister by continuing to go to Elaine's volleyball and lacrosse games. At said athletic events, cheery parents would come up to us - namely up to my mom - just to tell us how much their daughter just loved Elaine. How Elaine was just so gosh-darn nice-helpful-funny-interesting-thoughtful-caring. We'd naturally look behind us to see to whom this smiling parent was actually speaking. Seeing that we were alone and that this parent was indeed talking about Elaine, we'd think dumbfoundedly to ourselves, "her?"

a whole new world

2007-01-30T15:17:00.000+01:00

My week just improved by 110%. I took advantage of my lunch break to buy a new pair of headphones for my ipod, and let me tell ya... it's a whole lot easier to ignore everyone at work when the left as well as the right side works. If you could truly grasp the non-stop circus show I deal with in here, you'd understand. Someday I'll write about it, but not when one of the main attractions is sitting right next to me.

my nose is cold

2007-01-25T12:47:00.000+01:00

In high school I think I wore a coat twice to school. The 8º temperatures typical of a winter morning in Connecticut were nothing. I'll bet I could have been found each morning scraping ice off of my windshield - normally a 20 minute task - in a mere sweatshirt. During the next phase of my life, spent in Worcester, Massachusetts - legitimately one of the coldest cities of the northeast - I had no problem. Sure, it was damn cold... and windy, snowing and icy... but I'd go out to parties and bars at night just wearing a cardigan.

Things now are a bit different. I go into shiver-mode when the mercury hits 60º. Even 70º often calls for a jacket of some sort. I admit, I have been warped into a warm-temperature creature.

I hate being cold. I used to prefer being cold to being hot, but I think the year I spent in Sevilla completely altered my temperature gauge. I also think that the 20 pounds shed over the past couple of years has deprived me of the extra insulation that once helped to fend of the chilly temperatures. Yes, I just compared myself to a balleen mammal.

This, however, is ridiculous. Imagine the following scenario (and, mind you, this scenario has been repeating itself for the past month or so). I'm at work. It's 12:30 and the heat has yet to come on for the day. I have my knee-length knit winter coat wrapped mummy-style around my legs. I have my sleeves pulled down to my knuckles. I am wearing my scarf. Every few minutes I have to blow into my hands so my fingers don't stiffen and thus make me unable to type (ie work). I have microwaved a mug of hot water several times today just to hold it in my hands. I think I feel the effects of hypothermia coming on, and I fear I'll soon have to resort to snapping off my toes to avoid the spread of frost bite.

The "web team" has just been relocated from our former location to one of the newly renovated rooms. As we don't have to deal with people other than ourselves, do you think anyone would notice if I started bringing my frog-printed fleece blanket to work?

remnants of college life

2007-01-24T23:26:00.000+01:00

Contextual tid-bit #1
One of my favorite activities is googling people that I know to see if anything scandalous comes up. I would even be satisfied with some mildly interesting. Even a posted resume on monster.com or something would do just fine. Alas, my searches usually come up fruitless. This evening, I ran out of people at work whose full names I know and ended up googling myself. Guess what- my name actually came up right there in the number one slot.

Contextual tid-bit #2
During my college years - and this is before I dipped my toes in the sea of blogging - I would sit down and write random stories when I was a) highly caffeinated, b) procrastinating, or c) intoxicated. Chances were that at any given point during that last year at HC I could be found in one of those states of being between sleep periods. Moving along, I wrote the following story at the beginning of my senior year at Holy Cross, sent it to Joanne as a joke, and she then went and got it published in an annual bilingual / Spanish and Latin American-inspired literary magazine that Holy Cross puts out. Anyway, I'm going to plagiarize myself for this post.

15 Minutes of Fame

"My turn? I’m first?,” said Paco, feeling increasingly distressed as five of his pals crowded around him in excited anticipation. His eyes darted from one friend’s face to the next. He knew something big was happening. Many of his relatives had made the big journey into the city for this very event, and he was finally going to see what the fuss was all about. He thought he was going to throw up all over the place, and it scared him to just think about how mortified he would be. Word on the street was that the royal family was even going to be making an appearance today. What happened if... Oh, he didn't want to think of what would happen if...

An older gentleman wearing a name tag that read “Manolo,” must have noted that young Paco was about to suffer the effects of a crippling nervous breakdown because he promptly left the room, returning moments later holding something in his hand. He smiled his harmless four-toothed grin and gently patted Paco’s back to soothe him. The sight of this innocent older man and his consoling touch already left young Paquito feeling relieved.

Paco jumped, his eyes bulging, upon seeing the needle that Manolo was wielding; it looked like a torture device! “Hey there buddy! Don’t be scared of this little needle, it’s only going to help you out in there. You’re gonna need it!” Paco couldn’t have agreed more. He could hear the hoards of people as they pushed through each other on their chaotic search for their seats. A few stray music notes somehow managed to make their way through the roaring cheers of the crowded arena, signaling that the band was warming up for the big event.

Boy, was Manolo right on with that medicine! Paco felt almost instantaneously calmer. He was in control of his emotions. His mind seemed just the slightest bit cloudy, which he attributed to his thoughts trying to get themselves back in order. His heartbeat had finally stopped assaulting his ears and had returned to his chest, where it should have stayed in the first place. His confidence was slowly returning as he thought to himself, “Hey, this won’t be so bad! I hope the royal family is here, I’ll show them what I’m made of!”

He was proud of the body he had built up over the past three years. He had been eating right, exercising daily, avoiding the lifestyles that had led to several members of his rural community being kidnapped by a mysterious pack of men, presumably to be killed. He didn’t want that for himself, and he wanted to honor the memory of his late father. Finally he had reached a point where his aunts told him that he was the spitting image of Paco Sr., which filled the young Paco with such pride and elation. He was in the prime of his life, and he was ready for anything.

His best friend, Javi, pushed him, reeling him back to the present moment. Back to the cheers, to the music, to the excitement that lay before him. “Hey P, are you OK? You look a little confused or something.” Paco shook his head back and forth trying to clear the fog. “Sí, sí. I’m fine... Just thinking about papá, ya know? I think he’d be really proud of me today.” Javi nodded his head. They had been friends since infancy because their mothers had become quite close when their husbands went missing on the same fateful day over two years ago. “Don’t worry, P, we’re gonna make everyone proud. We’ll have such stories to tell!”

All of a sudden the crowd went quiet, making way for the festive tunes of the band to set the mood for the celebration. Paco’s nerves set in again, this time making him feel more sluggish. Everything went into slow motion as he was welcomed into the large arena with almost deafening cheers, muffling the joyous trumpets. He glanced around at his audience. He was surrounded by smiles and floating, and had to chuckle at the irony: here he was, in the prime of his life, and half the people watching him were these crusty old men who looked about ready to die.

Paco quenched these feisty people’s thirst to see him by taking a quick jog around the place, showing off his muscular physique. Oddly enough, he was feeling increasingly tired and groggy. He shook it off. “It’s just the stress... I just gotta get my adrenaline goin’!” All of a sudden, everything got so much s..l...o....w......e......r. It all came together in the course of about half a second. His mind snapped into gear, panicking, while his body slowed down with fatigue. His father’s disappearance, the medicated syringe, his mother’s overly tearful good-bye, the dirt below his feet, the sweat pouring down his face, his clueless band of childhood friends waiting behind him, the slam as the door was swung shut and locked...

He looked to the royal family with a final look of desperation, but noticed they weren’t even looking at him. Their attention was focused on a young man appearing from behind a wall, the hot Andalusian sun reflecting off of his skin-tight, sequined suit. Then, as the pair of feet, clad in pink tights and ballet slippers, slowly padded towards Paco in the soft dirt, he heard just two words over the cheers and jeers of the crowd. As he saw the immense red cape and the glinting sword come into view, he just barely heard the young man yell: “¡Venga toro!”

2007-01-22T14:36:00.000+01:00

So as part of the superstar "Equipo Web" - aka Internet Team - at the company that so lucratively employs me, I am little by little and subconsciously turning into a full-fledged internet geek. I can't help it, as it is now well beyond the grasp of my control. It's like a virus (Get it? Internet? Virus?) that invades your personality and effectively breaks down any traces of coolness and turns it into pocket-protectored, cowlick-sporting and technological nerdiness. In fact, I'm beginning to fear that it's a matter of days before I acquire headgear, a membership to the Dungeons and Dragons online forum and - the cherry on top of the sundae - a resounding snort.

After seven months or so, I know html code to a simple but nevertheless existent degree, I can cruise through Dreamweaver - an html program - like the Queen Mary 2 on a calm day at sea, and I am more than familiar with snazzy terms like "upload to the server," "template," "PHP" and "domain." Which brings me to the term "webmaster." My company's webmaster, and therefore he who is directly responsible for my employment, is a nice - though marginally crazy - French guy who speaks variations of both English and Spanish, both of which require careful decoding on the part of the listener. While meeting him that warm June morning of '06 yielded a job offer, it also altered the images that the word "webmaster" once invoked in my mind.

Every time I see the word, which over the past few months has exponentially increased up into the thousands, I can't help but imagine an old, bearded wizard named Merlin wielding an orb-topped sceptor and donning a star-spackled pointy hat- a la Mickey Mouse in the cinematic treasure that was and still is Fantasia. Every time the webmaster of my imagination enters a room, an aura of mystery electrifies the atmosphere as the lights dim and a deep-voiced British accented man straight from 1750 proclaims "hear ye, hear ye... 'tis the webmaster."

Some say that I have an overactive imagination.

2007-01-18T21:07:00.000+01:00

I have long been a sucker for anything that is soft- stuffed animals, those squishy beanie pillows from Brookstone, fleece blankets. I lament having to wash new sweatshirts and sweatpants because the plush softness inside succumbs after a few bouts with the spin cycle. It also turns out that people get legitimately creeped out when I randomly start petting the inside part of their arm.

During my childhood, I had little - if any - control of my softophilia. For example, unlike my brother, I didn't have a blankie weathered hard with drool, filth picked up from being dragged across the ground and a few too many spills. Instead, I carried around an old, mustard-yellow t-shirt that was once my dad and that I'm fairly sure that he acquired free from a walk-in clinic or real estate firm. But believe me... it had this one spot just big enough for my finger to rub that was softer than the finest silk. If I'd had the income or a hefty inheritance at that young age to afford a velvet pillow, I probably would have used it to carry around the beloved t-shirt with style instead of draping it around my neck as to ensure that it wouldn't hit the ground. It was undeniably hideous and had without a doubt been moments away from being lost amongst the pile of rags destined to be put to use for car washing, checking oil levels, burying hamsters headed for a better life and a larger spinning wheel (RIP Peanut... you're still missed) and a wide range of other nitty-gritty household roles. But I, the Patron Saint of Ugly T-Shirts, salvaged the poor thing from such an unfortunate, undignified fate and - to my parents' dismay - insisted on taking it everywhere. It mysteriously disappeared a few years later. Information leading to its recovery and/or whereabouts may or may not yield a considerable reward.

When I was four (and five, six, seven, eight...) years old, I was under the self-involved impression that there existed evil people (alias: jealous meanies) who coveted my soft belongings and were on a quest to take them from me. So, to ensure that none of my soft friends fell into the wrong hands, I fervently insisted on either a) sleeping inside my closet with all of my stuffed animals, or b) piling all of my plush and bean-filled treasures on one half of the bed and covering them with a sheet. In hindsight, the fact that they formed a mountain rivaling Everest may have given it away, I thought myself particularly intelligent as these measures were sure to throw off robbers who came in through my window in search of stuffed bears, bunnies and other woodland creatures. But hey... hindsight is 20-20.

When I ceased fearing robbers and instead began contemplating the possibility of house fires destroying my menagerie of pals, I actually wrote a letter that I would leave at the foot of my bed in the event that I was trapped in my room by searing flames and thus required a heroic rescue by firemen. There were clear instructions laid out directing the East Lyme Fire Department as to which of my cherished companions to rescue as they pulled me to safety. While I was sure to write the letter in another room so as not to cause suspicion throughout the crew, the fact that I had to pick and choose the hypothetical survivors while leaving the others to perish wracked my early childhood days with guilt and haunted me for years. The Toy Story movies and their theme of forgotten toys being cast aside like yesterday's news were like daggers to my heart... and that's practically two decades removed from those early years.

I was not what one would traditionally call a quote-unquote "normal" child.

channeling richard simmons

2007-01-15T21:03:00.000+01:00

So I think I've really driven home the fact that I'm a people-watcher / creepy stalker. Spending a few post meridiem hours slouched back into a chair seeking out the world's more interesting creatures is pretty much my idea of a night out on the town, especially on a lucrative night of "sightings." Chueca, Madrid's gay neighborhood, is - for example - a veritable treasure trove of cross-dressers, awkward "real life" disco-dancing street performers and a wide assortment of other characters that never fail to astound me. Just throw in a cold beverage and some form of fried potato product - be it chips or fries - and it's quite possibly the ultimate night for this gal.

All this said, sidewalk cafes have a new prime people-watching hot spot rival. The gym.

A few months ago, I decided that I would replace a couple post-work hours each day in "active mode." A gym right down the street was having a two year anniversary promotional thing where joining was really cheap if you bought a year-long membership in the moment. Cheap is good. I like cheap, me and a girl I work with joined. I don't need anything special... just give me an elliptical and some weight machines that don't involve the possibility of crushing myself and I'm happy as a clam. However, this gym happens to be one of those techno-blasting athletic facilities to which pretty people go to not work out. Needless to say, a people-watching MECCA. Especially now that New Years and the annual semi-serious "I want to lose 10 pounds" resolution has brought a new crop of subjects. Here's a brief run-down...

The socializers. The first week that I went to the gym back in October or November, I was the sweaty oreo cream filling sandwiched between two perfectly composed cookies on the elliptical machines. Confused as to why I was the only red-faced slob of the trio, I switched into stalker-mode and decided to check out their stats. Sure, woman on my left. Your matching get-up and perfectly constructed ponytail are lovely, but treading on level 1 and burning exactly 112 calories over the course of a half-hour is pointless. Just because it makes your mascara run doesn't mean sweat is to be feared.

The metro or homosexual. In Spain, I often find there to be a very fine and unclear line that separates the two. A metrosexual, by definition, is a heterosexual man displaying female tendencies. I guess the stereotypical homosexual is thought to demonstrate those same tendencies, but switching the prefix and choice of partner. Either way, hairbands (and no, I don't mean Nike sweatbands) are quite a hit amongst the male population of Urban Fitness (ie my gym), as are waxed legs, fake-baking, hair products and snug, matching exercise outfits that can really only be classified as "cute."

The well-endowed. I will never understand why, when given the option, large-chested women opt to NOT give their girls some extra support. Boobs + gravity + treadmill = whoa, put those things away!

I will also never grasp why it is that Spanish women don't wear shorts to work out. Is there some sort of leg deformity that runs common amongst the "she" Spanish population that I am not aware of? When I work out, I usually feel like an overheating car... and that's with shorts and a tank top. Yet, I stick out as the only pair of female "I glow in the dark under a black light" legs in the place.

Annnnd that's my return to blogging.

...

2007-01-15T20:42:00.000+01:00

It has been a long time, and my super-blog is coming back from vacation. Or at least she thinks she is. I like to fantasize that she was off galavanting in the tropics, spending her days breaking dashing young pool boys' hearts and sipping on frozen margaritas. Possibly even mastering roulette and subsequently making a fortune in some one-room casino in the middle of the Caribbean with the likes of tuxedo-clad mob bosses and Colombian drug lords.

Chances are, however, that she was instead lazing around in sweat pants doing crossword puzzles and eating hershey kisses like an unmotivated slug.

london layover

2006-07-26T02:20:00.000+02:00

*written now to be posted at home where I don't have to pay 5 bucks for internet use

Boredom means I write stuff… which is probably part of the reason I haven’t written in a gosh-darn long time- just haven't been bored enough! Anywho… I am currently in Heathrow Airport, staring at a tv screen waiting for my gate to pop up next to my flight number, and inevitably surrounded by bothersome bloody British-accented wankers… oh BOLLOCKS.

I would first like to discuss the family that I had the pleasure of sharing the otherwise delightful row 4 with on the first leg (Madrid-London) of my trip home. First of all, the family sat down and all seemed fine. They had two perfectly cute daughters… at least that’s the opinion I formulated based solely upon first appearances. Two hours and 20 minutes of hell in the skies later I find myself needing to amend that opinion, as I now believe that they were sent here by Satan himself to infiltrate our earthly society while remaining under the radar with their crafty disguises in the form of matching dresses and curly pigtails. Evil, earth-attacking aliens are of course another option and have not been ruled out.

The father, who I sat next to for the first hour, was perfectly normal. Well, technically he seemed depressed about life and completely lacking the energy to tell his daughters to- and I’m just throwing out an example here- stop screaming bloody murder at each other over their spelling flashcards. He cleeeeeeearly did not know what he was getting into when the opportunity to procreate presented itself. Well, I guess technically it was the woman who presented herself... procreation being the resulting side effect… but that’s just technically.

The father was Spanish, the mother was American… and I have yet to see why this cross-cultural bond was formed and documents signed. The man was clearly weary and worn down by these days of domestic hell. I will bet all 6 euros of my personal savings that he is probably ruing the day he decided to move to the USA to marry the love of his life. Eek. The wife was one of these “Did you call your father? You KNOW it’s your brother’s birthday on Thursday… Now don’t leave anything in the overhead compartment like the LAST time…” and 294848583 other inane questions and comments to which the husband simply sighed and nodded with downcast eyes. Poor tuckered out lil Spaniard.

An hour into the flight, the mother and father switched seats after the full-fledged military operation otherwise known as taking their daughters to the bathroom. Then daughter #2 comes to sit in the formerly unoccupied seat between me and her oh-so-pleasant mother. So then the mother looks at me, and then shaking her head says to her daughter “Look at what a bad, bad girl this girl is… she wrote on her hand... you know how Mommy feels about writing on your hands…” The daughter then looks at my hand and proceeds to raise her head to give me the most disappointed, condescending look a four year old can possibly give. SUE ME people… I need to remember my dang flight numbers!

And FINALLY… the daughters’ names were Ariana and Alexis…. And if I wasn’t so irked by the female parts of the family and saddened by the sole male, I would have laughed out loud instead of politely stifling it. Anywho, hello? Saturday Night Live? Cheerleading skit? The husband has an excuse- perhaps he isn’t as well-versed in late-night American comedy sketch shows. The wife though? EVERYONE knows that skit. “My name is Craig… I give good hugs… we can’t be friends… if you do drugs… Wooo!”

So originally the family was going to be the first of a few things… but turns out they provided enough on their own.

the american store

2006-06-15T22:28:00.000+02:00

It's fate. I move to another part of Madrid... and land myself a mere 5 blocks from 'The American Store' (www.theamericanstore.es) which, according to them, is the largest American store in alllllll of the noble land of Spain. Well, it was not all that big... but I felt like a little kid going through the 5 aisles looking at the assortment of goods that I had forgotten I'd even missed. Mike 'n' Ikes! Cranberry sauce!! Rice krispie treats!!! Quaker oatmeal!!!! Lucky freakin Charms!!!!!! I resisted the temptation to buy it all... I somehow even managed to not pick up the Lucky Charms, that beloved childhood cereal which I rediscovered in Holy Cross's dining hall and proceeded to eat with a rather disturbing frequency because Mom wasn't there anymore to make sure I ate the proper ratio of marshmellows to cereal. The Lucky Charms tub and the fro-yo machine were my two favorite and most visited parts of Kimball... even miraculously beating out the omelette line at weekend, aka 'hangover recovery,' brunches.

I went to the American Store with a mission, my wallet, and a list of four items of the utmost importance: cake mix (and obviously an accompanying tub of frosting), Skippy superchunk peanut butter, root beer, and for the love of God some normal pickles NOT soaked in a vat of plain vinegar (insert gagging). A half-hour later I came out with a rather sizeable plastic bag like a trophy of my success filled with aforementioned products... annnnd perhaps some other treats that mysteriously made their way into my basket. Three bags of Reeses Pieces? What? A giant bag of Root Beer Barrel candies? Huh?

And as a gleeful exclamation point to my American shopping experience, the woman working there summoned one of her underlings working in the basement up to floor level to offer me a free root beer from the store's secret subterranean refrigerator "to beat the heat." It was glooooorious- so much so that I almost could have skipped home out of sheer contentment.