what the frijoles...

People, what's the deal with poor folks and accordians? That was meant to be said in the way that Seinfeld would say it but due to the very nature of a blog, just like instant messenger or any other written medium, the intonation is a little tricky to convey... like sarcasm. God I'm good at tangents, and no I don't mean the ones from geometry. I sucked at geometry. Here I go again..

ANYWAY, this trend has honestly had me confused since Betsey's European adventure round 1. I'm not criticizing it- my mind just can't grasp the concept with any degree of success. I find it to be an extremely odd coincidence that 3/4 of the homeless people that I see in the streets play the accordian, which, to me, seems like a tricky instrument to play and one that demands some sort of training. I mean, it's like playing the piano while simultaneously using a thigh-master... except with your hands... like Karen used to do on the beloved family sitcom Step by Step because she thought it'd make her boobs bigger. Anyways. The trend also calls to mind the example of the chicken and the egg- which came first? Were these people accordian players and then beggars in the street or beggars in the street who then learned to play the accordian? It has baffled the minds of many a great philosopher. Or I could be flying solo on this one...

There are a few logical explanations that have come to my mind to explain this phenomenon... amongst them...

Possibility 1: There is an underground, government-run university that teaches the accordian to people who can prove their homeless or poverty-stricken status. (the egg came first)

Possibility 2: Anyone who dedicates themselves to playing the accordian will inevitably be unsuccessful due to lack of demand and therefore end up on the street. (the chicken came first)

Possibility 3: They are aliens who are almost undetectably infiltrating our society and their secret language/code involves musical combinations that can only be achieved on an accordian.

Possibility 4: Being homeless automatically gives you super-human accordian powers! They see an accordian and automatically know how to play it.

Possibility 5: It's inherited. They're all from one huge homeless extended family who pass down accordian-playing generation to generation like an antique pocket watch from one's great-great-great-grandfather.

Possibility 6: The same man disguises himself and follows me around Madrid/Europe making it seem like the city is overrun by accordian players when really it's just one elusive guy.

Possibility 7: They're all members of the CIA or some other undercover agency whose aliases (does that become plural??) are poor accordian players. Meanwhile they're watching our every move and overhearing our conversations... right now... and now... and now...

Possibility 8: There is a surplus of accordians and therefore the manufacturers just hand them out to people on the street. Due to lack of job and probably a whole lot of boredom, they start fiddling around with it and before ya know it, an accordian player is born.

Possibility 9: Accordians are unexpectedly cheap and easy to learn.

Possibility 10: There remains a possibility which has failed to come to my mind.




Other thoughts:
--> Happy Valentines Day to all! Ok, now everybody go make out!
--> Thank God for www.youtube.com for providing me with my favorite Winter Olympics sports videos- anyone who likes snowboarding should check out Shaun White, Hannah Teter, and Gretchen Bleiler's kickass halfpipe runs- they all won medals (gold, gold, and silver, respectively). And screw you, Spanish tv, for barely showing the Olympics.

Spanish women (this may actually go for European women- I'm not sure) wear tighter clothes than American women. In fact, I think it can be generalized to include all Spanish people, and I'm not criticizing this. I'm merely observing it. Perhaps it's because Spain doesn't have the impressive obesity statistics that American society oh-so-proudly boasts (oddly enough my motherland has huge- no pun intended- obsesity issues but at the same time a ton of body image issues and eating disorders)- I have to say that I haven't seen a single muumuu here!! If I were to go to an amusement park here, I wouldn't be frightened of seeing 400 pound women who need portable oxygen tanks to get around without passing out but who still somehow think it's ok to wear a bikini... as one would see in Six Flags or Busch Gardens, for example. What I HAVE seen here are the tightest jeans ever... I'm talkin' that instead of jeans molding to the butt, the jeans MOLD the butt. The butt is no longer free to be itself, but rather has to conform. It's forced to live under a denim dictatorship.

Granted, the tightness isn't overly offensive to see- they're usually on small people because frankly, Spanish people all seem really tiny to me- especially the girls. I actually took an eye-level picture a couple weeks ago in a bar because I was a good head above everyone else, including the guys. I felt gargantuan. I've never thought of myself as short, but good grief.. 5'7 is not THAT tall. Anyway, tight pants...I remember upon my arrival in Spain two years ago I couldn't believe how tight the guys wore their jeans. I mean, wow. I felt like I should change pants with some guy on the street because his were too tight and mine too loose. When I left Connecticut I felt my pants were fine, but when I arrived in Spain I suddenly felt like I was wearing a circus tent. Guys here wear tighter pants than the Abercrombie-clad guys at home, and the girls.. well.. they follow the pattern just as one would think. Sometimes I think that they must position their pants on the street, and then jump from a 10 story building to get into them. I guess that's a little dramatic, but it's a fun concept, no?

Ok... so this rambling IS actually going somewhere. As I fleetingly mentioned in my last little superinteresting blogging, I bought jeans the other day. What is normally nothing more than an uneventful transaction turned out to be an unexpectedly funny experience. So I went to this place which pretty much only sells jeans. I saw some I liked, but you can't take the size off the shelf that you want... you have to enlist the help of the salesgirl. I know, I know... taking clothing off a shelf IS pretty tricky and demands concentration and highly-trained expertise. I TOTALLY understand and respect the logic... (stupid, stupid, stupid)

So I told her the size I wanted, and needless to say she gave me one size smaller. I thought 'hmm... this is not going to be attractive..." Not wanting to be annoying, I decided that well, maybe she knows what she's doing or maybe the jeans run a little big and she's just trying to save me time. No. They did not run big. At all. In fact, I think they actually run a little on the small side. She was clearly crazy. I proceeded to ask for the next size up (and the size I had originally asked for- imagine that!) and she wearily handed them to me. I put them on and they were good- but barely. Like, I'd never dare to put them in the dryer (not a problem here, as we don't have one) and gaining weight would be out of the question. As I checked out my ass in the mirror contemplating whether to go yet another size up, she came in and was like, 'oh you definitely need a smaller size- those are going to stretch out and be huge'. Meanwhile I'm thinking that either she's seeing people that don't exist and is talking to them or she actually wants me to look ridiculous so she can laugh about it. After a quick glance around confirmed that I was indeed the only person in the dressing room, I said, "no no no, I think this is the size I need." She raised her eyebrows in doubt as if to say, "oooookay but you're going to regret it..." I wondered how she could possibly want me to go smaller, until I noticed that her jeans, of course, were in serious danger of simply exploding off of her body at speeds so high that the button would go bullet-like through 8 store walls and kill the unsuspecting old woman shopping at the tea store down the street...

In the end, I bought the jeans in the size I wanted and am now so fond of them that I think we're having a pretty intense love affair. It doesn't take much to make my day.



In unrelated, random, and useless news, I got a Valentine's day package from mom today and re-realized a few things 1) They should sell those Cadbury mini-chocolate eggs year round. You know, the ones with the speckled candy shell. They're so damn good. 2) I cannot suck on a candy. Take, for example, the Tootsie Pop I consumed today in approximately 1.7 seconds. I just have that necessity to violently CHOMP on it as if it had punched one of my loved ones... even when I say over and over again in my head "don't bite it, don't bite it, don't bite it.. be strong Betsey! See how many licks it takes!" Useless. 3) I love that my parents still send me holiday packages- who cares if I'm 23!

sprrringggggg is comingggggg

There are few things better than living in a city on a beautiful day. Well, having a beach nearby can also be quite lovely of course, pero a falta de playa, buenas son las ciudades (I'm so creative). The fun thing about cities is that on a nice day you can walk for hours and not repeat a single step nor see anything twice (this is also true of forests, but if I were in a forest I would panic about being eaten by bears if I walked for hours and hours and didn't see anything familiar...). Discoveries are made. Previously unnoticed details grab your attention. Then, when you want a little rest, you can sit outside for a coffee with your face turned to the sun, do a little people watching, think about everything or nothing... and you can't help but smile.

The last few days have been ideal- temperatures in the 50's and tons of sunshine- which means after class I go and take these walks. Long walks! Long enjoyable walks instead of my stress-relieving power walks! Yesterday, for example, my last class ended at 5:00. So taking advantage of the sunshine and my inevitable sunshine-induced good mood, off I went to who knows where (okay, okay.. I did buy a pair of jeans.. I admit it..). I completely lost track of time, and since we all know I have no sense of direction, I found myself on the opposite side of the city from where I had started... and it was now 8:00 at night. Obviously I Metroed it back- even when it's nice out that lazy streak in me still flares up from time to time.Today's walk was only an hour, but with an added 45 minutes spent sitting outside with Joanne drinking that beloved caffeinated potion otherwise known as coffee.

It feels like spring is coming! It's just too bad that little shit of a groundhog saw his shadow the other day...

owwwww!

Overall, I feel like I was beaten with an aluminum baseball bat.My knees are bruised to the point of being swollen... this evening I can finally bend them almost normally. My ass feels like I spent 8 straight days on a stairmaster on the hardest setting. I am pretty positive that I have stress fractures in both of my wrists. My entire back feels like it's going to fall apart. I can't lift my left arm more than 30 degrees or my right arm more than 60 degrees. Even my hair hurts. I look, and feel, abused.

Was I in a car wreck? Was I beaten in a dark alley? Did I get into a crazy bitch bar fight (I for some reason want this to happen- I think I'd do okay)? No no and no. Instead of spending yesterday relaxing like I tend to do on Fridays, I decided to try snowboarding. I've been wanting to for the past five years or so. However, whenever we go on our little family ski weekends, 1) nobody wants to learn how with me, and 2) i don't want to spend the whole weekend by myself on the bunny slope while the rest of the group is off exploring the rest of the trails. Therefore, up until now this little desire of mine has remained in my mental reservoir of things I want to do in my life (a few other list entries are sky-diving, getting a pilots license, and learning how to play squash). So when Nell suggested that we go, I figured, oh hell why not! Little did I know...

Like I said, I went with Nell, who knows how to snowboard and said she'd give teaching me a go. Even so, I was pretty much winging it... I had absolutely no idea what the hell I was doing. I feared for my life and the lives of anyone within a 3 mile radius. As soon as we get there and she shows me how to strap myself on to the plastic board of death, she's like, "Ok! Let's get on the lift!" I was like, "Ok!... um... how?" We get on and as we start approaching the end of the line, so to speak, I realize that this is not going to go well. In fact, I realize that this is going to go very, very badly. When getting off the lift, I was "that person" (who under different circumstances I would be mercilessly making fun of) who gets off and immediately falls into a sloppy heap and in so doing, practically kills a swarm of ski-school 4 year old children. I was already envisioning having to apologize to grieving parents for having run over and squashed their beloved offspring.

The first run down was by far the worst- it took me probably about an hour to get down. And that hour was spent falling over and over (... and over... and over...) again, alternating falling forward on to my knees with falling backwards on to my ass. At one point I fell so hard that I couldn't even articulate the four-letter words I was otherwise using every time violent contact was made with that bleeping Mother bleeping Earth (if I were the subject of a tv show, the soundtrack to my entire day would be one long censored bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep). Instead, all that made its way out was a soft, pitiful yelp accompanied by my eyes immediately filling with tears. A burst of pain travelled from my bum up and through my spinal cord and finally arriving at the top of my head with an intensity that I didn't even know was possible. I'm also pretty sure that due to that fall I'm now somehow consequently unable to have children, even though that theory is technically devoid of logic. I sat in the snow for 20 minutes following that digger, trying to establish whether I should hail one of the guys who go blasting up and down the mountain in their snazzy stretcher-towing snowmobiles.

On the positive end, I do have to say that after I changed from a left-foot board to a right-foot one (I just knew that trying to go with my left foot forward felt overly unnatural..), things improved. I kind of started to get the hang of it and by the end of the day my number of falls taken per run even made it down into the single-digits. The sport was actually beginning to seem fun.

However, the damage had been done by that point, and today is approximately 3847034.39 times as painful as yesterday. I currently have to lift my left arm up with my right one to do anything and have to duck my head down so my hands can reach to shampoo it when I shower. Putting shirts on and taking them off is borderline torture. I have to ease in and out of the sitting position like a 95 year old with arthritis. And finally, tonight I almost couldn't make myself a comforting hot chocolate because the microwave lay about a foot out of my range of arm movement.

BUT...I get to cross one thing off my life's to do list! Betsey wins!!!

chesterfield

There is a magical bar, in the distant Madrid district of Arguelles, that plays hiphop music every Wednesday night. Ahhh it felt like college- kind of like a night at Foobar, except 5 times the size and without the beer pitchers. The hoards of slutty Amerian sorority girls in impossibly small amounts of clothing... the musical stylings of Black Eyed Peas and Kanye... not feeling like I had to be popping ecstasy to handle what I lovingly refer to as the 'epileptic music' that Europeans seem to enjoy... (sigh) it was American heaven and the beginning of a new weekly tradition.

When the thugging began at midnight, our eyes filled with delighted tears... although, judging by how my clothes smelled afterwards, it could have just been the smoke. Regardless, during the night I managed:
1) get asked if I was a lesbian- I think that was my favorite part,
2) create a new personality for myself - I'm now Polish, I just arrived last week, I'm here on a month-long business trip, and my name is Elizyaya - for the sketchballs,
3) to befriend and then get the business card of two lawyers who also write a blog all about bulls,
4) inhale probably about 8 packs of cigarettes worth of second hand smoke... my voice this morning sounded like it came straight from a 1-900 number,
5) have a blast con mis ninas.




In other news, do we all remember Jose? He who reads hands, studies astrology, and senses vibrations? Well I ran into him this afternoon... almost literally... and had to make up excuses as to why I didn't meet him the day we were supposed to have our 'date,' why I couldn't go out for coffee with him tonight, and why I couldn't give him my phone number. I hate being nice and not being able to say, 'Leave me alone you freak!' Oh well. I guess in the grander scheme of things it's better to be too nice than too bitchy. But don't worry, he asked some random person for a pen and wrote down his celly number. So if anyone wants their hands read by a full fledged whack job, just let me know... I've got his digits and his address.

Destinos

As one walks about this lovely city, there's only so much you can do to entertain yourself. You can people-watch, you can contemplate architecture, you can completely zone out and then surprise yourself when you arrive at your destination (think along the lines of Old School's Frank during the debate scene- I do this while walking AND while driving- probably not good), or you can just leave your mind to its own devices. I think I simultaneously occupy myself with all of the above. This afternoon, I was on my 20-minute trek back from class with Chucky Candle when a random memory popped into this pretty little head of mine. It is Spanish-related and pretty entertaining, if I manage to tell it as I remember. East Lyme, Connecticut. Senior year of high school. Second semester.

Maureen Epps, she of the bleach-blonde hair, the hot pink fingernails (which she once actually painted IN class..), and the gargantuan son (I believe we all remember the infamous 'Patrick'), needed to assign a project for her AP Spanish class. By this point, being it the end of second semester, we had all been accepted to our respective colleges, paid the deposits, and therefore didn't have to worry about grades anymore- ie we didn't give a shit. To change things up, for our project we had to do some sort of skit, video-tape it, and then show it to the class. Some people re-enacted scenes from current tv shows, translating them into Spanish. (I remember Priscilla Lloyd played Joey Potter in an endearing adaptation of Dawson's Creek.) Meghan Healy, Stephanie Loomis, and I were a group... and we decided to do a take-off of Destinos.

Destinos, for anyone who doesn't know, is an educational soap opera targetted at American High School kids. There's a plot, but then it's sometimes interrupted by little educational spots. It's pretty lame- but it's entertaining to make fun of it. The exhilarating, edge-of-your-seat plot of the countless episodes (42, I believe) of Destinos focuses on a woman named Raquel, a shoulder-pad-clad, scrunchie-wearing lawyer, whose old and dying client (don Fernando, I believe was his name- 42 episodes and two years of him gasping his last breaths) wants her to track down his wife. He had thought that the wife had died years and years ago during the war in Spain, but then he received a note that suggested otherwise. Anyways. So Raquel goes trekking around the Spanish-speaking world following leads and what not. During her travels, she meets that stud Arturo and a romance ensues. And what a romance it was- I think the most amorous thing they did (which seemed highly unlikely to our 18 year old hormone-driven selves) was make pizzas together, using vegetables to give the pizzas smiley faces. My God, anything more and it'd have to be classified as pornography!

I don't remember exactly what our plot ended up being. The video opens up with Raquel (Meghan Healy) at her computer... singing Don't Cry for Me Argentina... who then receives an anonymous phone call by a shadowy figure (that'd be me- I'm so shady, yo) saying that she'd better keep tabs on her boyfriend's activities (dun dun dunnnnnn...) Raquel, upset and worried that she was about to lose her "pizza pal" (that's what the kids are calling it these days..), proceeds to stalk Arturo. Unfortunately, since we were three girls, we didn't have anyone to play Arturo. As if by fate, Kati Green had a blow up doll named Mr. Stud that she was so kind as to let us borrow. All I can say is that at one point Raquel is in Macy's trying on the most hideous clothes we could find in the 'Macy-Woman' section (I was the store clerk at this point-- I suggested that Raquel put in more shoulder-pads). She then spots Arturo and a mystery woman in the lingerie section of the store picking out sexy nighties and the plot thickens! Well you know what this means. Yes, we walked through our local mall, and then through the Macy's lingerie section with a life-sized blow-up doll. A blow-up doll named Mr. Stud wearing nothing but a black speedo. At one point a store employee walked by us as we're filming, stopped in his tracks, shook his head and said 'I don't even want to know..' before moving along.

In the end, it turns out it's just Arturo's sister who's helping him plan a romantic weekend for him and Raquel. It also turns out that the 'shadowy' character from the beginning has a homosexual crush on Arturo and was making the phone calls to Raquel trying to break them up. SOMETHING LIKE THAT.

And that's the memory that popped into my head this afternoon. And Stephanie, Meghan... if you read this and still have the video... I want it!

Yo, mono libre

I pass this beauty of a poster every single day walking to and from class- and I have yet to decide whether it amuses, intrigues, or just plain scares me. I do, however, know that I have the strangest urge to head into the Centro Cultural de la Villa, buy a ticket, and see what this 'one monkey-man show' is all about. And I definitely want to meet this Ricardo Joven character- I know humans and apes have something like 98% similarity in their DNA, but I maintain that it takes a special man indeed to play a monkey...

Sidenote: The poster kind of takes away from the intended elegance of the neighboring poster for the Canadian Ballet Company's performances, wouldn't you say?

Monday at Friday's

So last night, our big plan was to go to this bar where Hannah's roommate Ines was performing. No, not THAT kind of performing you sickos. She's a professional magician. Yes, really. Anyway, 45 minutes later, our plans of beers and magic were dashed when, upon emerging from a rather long metro ride, I received a voicemail message from Hannah which went more or less like this: "Heyyy so guys. Umm we're here... but it turrnnnsssss out thatttt...Ines's thing isn't until February 23... sooo... yeahhhh..." We stood on our destination's metro platform staring at each other blankly trying to figure out what to do with ourselves.

Since we were dressed for action, hungry, and not at all close to our apartment, we took another metro line with visions of hamburgers (for her) and chicken fingers (for me) dancing in our heads (taken from "The Night Before Christmas: Fat Kids' Version" -written by me). TGI Friday's was the target, and it was every bit as gloriously American as we needed to make up for having our evening's hopes and dreams crushed by our group Texan. And oh did we dine in that oh-so-American way: overindulgently and until we felt mildly ill.

At one point during our romantic date, a group of about 8 all-American, sorority-looking girls (they were undergrads studying abroad) was seated near us. A little while later (I think right about when we had finished our plate of nachos) Joanne looks at me and says, "wow.. were we really that young when we came?" So we slyly watched them for awhile, and obbbbviousy eavesdropped. One comment made it rather clear, at least to me, that this little group had just arrived for a semester abroad from college. Either that or they are somewhat dense and just haven't caught on yet. It was: "Ohh my GAWD Stacy... and then this GUY came up to me and said that I just had the most beautiful eyes and that he was falling in love with me!! And he was really meant it... I could tell!!" ("Ohhh sistah-friend," I thought, "so much to learn... so very much to learn...") Delighted giggles ensued from the table of our fellow americanas.

Anyway, I really couldn't help but be kind of shocked. Because technically/chronologically that WAS us two years ago, but I never felt then as young as they looked (or acted, for that matter). And never once was I fooled by the 'beautiful eyes' gig... then again I was dating somebody at the time and therefore not in dire need of compliments from strangers. But regardless, I'd just roll these "beautiful eyes" (I'm quoting, not complimenting myself) at him and then watch as he'd shoot the same comment to the girl standing next to me... probably a friend of mine. Sometime I couldn't help but wonder what such a character would say if he ever came up behind a girl who, unbeknownst to him, has say, an eyepatch- just a thought- because if he said that to her he'd get a swift kick in the jewels for being a sarcastic, insensitive bastard.

How was that for a tangent. Anyway, just to clarify things, I don't consider myself wise or old. Okay, I MAYYY have had a minor age crisis upon turning 23 in which I thought I was old ("OH MY GOD I ONLY HAVE LIKE 70 YEARS LEFT AND I HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING WITH MY LIFE YET!!! I'M RUNNING OUT OF TIME!!!"), but I by no means feel or think of myself as ready for a participating role in adult society. By 22 my parents were married, working, and otherwise heading gung-ho into life. Meanwhile, their oh-so-mature eldest offspring (that'd be me), at 23, is pretty much the polar opposite. The idea of marriage makes my knees tremble in fear, there's no company at home that's currently awaiting the addition of my brilliance to its esteemed workforce, I turn green and need fresh air or possibly an inhaler when thinking about having children, and I'm still in school which, consequently, means I remain somewhat financially dependent upon my parents....who, by the way, are saints, ("I SWEARRRR I'd write that even if I didn't know they were going to read this"- she says with a sweet, innocent smile.) Go me! At least I write senseless blogs, I guess, for the entertainment of more people than I had been previously aware of.

I don't really have any concluding thought to tie things up, so I'll just leave off with a quote off the wall at TGI Friday's that I jotted down on a scrap of paper: 'Here's to the good ole days, which we are having right now.' It pretty much summed up how I was feelin' last night, out and about in Madrid, eating and laughing with one of my best friends.













Joanne and I, two years ago and this year.

411

Everything you need to know (and even more stuff that you don't need to know) about moi


I really like violent sports- they're great for relieving frustration and stress. The sports I played all involved succeeding through hitting things as hard as possible- softball, tennis, rugby... The sports I most enjoy watching are men's lacrosse, hockey, and football because it's basically just a bunch of men trying to kill another bunch of men through the most violent means possible.

I have a really sarcastic sense of humor. I can't help it and I (usually) don't mean to offend.

My birthday is October 17, which is also the birthday of Norm McDonald, Evel Knievel, Wyclef Jean, Pope John Paul I, and Eminem. Word.

I almost went to school to become a pilot.

People think I'm indecisive, which I am. Or am I? I can't decide...

There are a few words that I absolutely hate. I can't even physically make them come out of my mouth. Some of these words include: "wound", "gown", "moist", "fester", a few choice terms for female 'no-no zones,' and oh dear God the worst of them all is definitely "panty." Ughhh.. I can barely even type it...

I miss being entertaining. In English I'm funny.

My biggest fear is the following scenario: sitting in the backseat of a two-door car that goes over a bridge into a river. Being in the backseat of said two-door vehicle, there are no doors through which to escape... therefore making a drowning death all but inevitable.

Other fears include rejection, paper cuts in the eye, bees, swiss army knives, commitment, and big flocks of birds.

Scary movies really do give me nightmares. Also, when things unexpectedy pop out in a scary movie, I have a tendency to scream obscenities.

I am an AIM stalker. I think I need a 12 step program.

My first word was "doggie." Damn straight, that's TWO syllables.

I am an obsessive people-watcher and eavesdropper. I don't do it to be creepy, I SWEAR, I just really enjoy studying people.

I have an Answer-Me Jesus doll given to me by the Three Frauds (I mean... Three Wise Men/Kings/Whatever the hell they are..... jussssst kidding, kids). It's rather like a Magic 8 ball, but instead of a ball it's a Pepto-bismol pink likeness of JC. The responses it gives are along the lines of "Sinner" "Repent" "I'll ask my dad" "I still love you" and "Resist the Devil"

Simple pleasures make me the happiest. Popping bubble wrap, for example.

I don't like talking on the phone. I can't do it. Something about the lack of eye contact makes me unable to successfully communicate.

As a child, it took me an abnormally long amount of time to learn how to tie my shoes. I used to lock myself in my closet to try to do it.

Susan has gotten me addicted to celebrity gossip.

The two places I most want to travel to are Ireland and Germany. You know... to get in touch with my roots. They are also the two countries I wanted to go to while I was in Spain two years ago. Needless to say, I went to France and Greece.

My favorite show is Late Night with Conan O'Brien. I believe my obsession is rather publicly known.

I have talented eyeballs. My vision is better than 20/20. These peepers also change color: sometimes they're blue, and sometimes they're green.

I am the opposite of a hypochondriac... I never go to the doctor. Once, when I had to go to the hospital to get a shot, the woman was looking for my record and was shocked because there was only one thing on it: my birth, 21 years earlier.

I also don't take medicine... except for debilitating pain or for what I believe to be allergies. Otherwise, I literally lose the ability to breathe. It's kinda scary.

I resort to laughing in all situations. This includes when I'm happy, stressed, nervous, scared, mad, or upset.

I can do a disturbingly accurate impression of a baby crying.

When I was little and woke up in the middle of the night, I would go in my parents bedroom and instead of crawling INTO bed with them, I'd squeeze UNDER their bed and sleep there. Then I'd grab my mom's ankles when she got up in the morning. She didn't like that too much.

My alcohol tolerance is through the roof yo!

I detest when people grill me about my political views. And grilling is different than simply asking.

Also, don't ask me about my plans for the future. I don't know what I want to do nor even what country I want to be in.

I live the torturous life of an insomniac.

I'm very unorganized. And yet, when I go and organize everything, I can't find anything that I'm looking for.

I really like Spain, even though it's where I've had my phone stolen, my money stolen, and a man jump out of the bushes right in front of me in a park and proceed to rather aggressively please himself. These experiences have somehow managed not to negatively impact my opinion.

I'm a crossword puzzle goddess.

My favorite movie of all time is the Little Mermaid... and I have no qualms about making my guy friends watch it with me.

I often have random urges to do hand-stands.

This is what I do with my college degree....

So it's actually really entertaining to rename Spanish people with variations of their names' English equivalent. Obviously this only applies to a certain group of people... not everyone is a candidate for this renaming process. We've done this for a few of our professors because we were bored... and for some mysterious reason it actually makes you like your professors more. Gives them a certain something. Or maybe it's just because we can blatantly laugh at them. Regardless, here are a few gems... my favorites... the shining stars of the bunch, if you will:

Rafael Castillo = Ralph Castle (he started it all)
Carlos Vela = Chucky Candle (my personal fave)
Alfredo Ramon = Alfy Ra-ra (it's so incredibly fun because he has the sense of humor of a piece of cardboard)



Real mature, Bets. Reeeeeeeeeal mature.

from my mental list of observations

Never, in my 23 years on this earth, have I ever seen so many fur coats in one place. In fact, in the course of my life I don't think I've even cumulatively seen so many as I have the last couple months here in Espana's capital. Don't get me wrong, I don't really have a ideological problem with using animals' fur for warmth...I mean come on, that's how the human race survived before things like cotton, lycra, polyester, etc made their grand appearance(s) on the market and in our closets. Man, more than likely, would not have made it to the 21st century had it not been for the consumption of animal products and use of their hides. So eat meat (even though I don't like it... but I do lurrrrve the chicken). Wear fur (even though it's not for me). In doing so we're just following in the footsteps of our instinctive pre-historic ancestors.

Never-the-less, as it is with pig products (who wants ham? anyone? pigs feet? this kind of ham? that kind of ham? hanging ham? what? you don't like ham???), Madrid is, in my humblest of opinions, excessively infested by fur coats (someone told me it's more so in this district of Madrid.... but since I live in this district and this is what I see all the time, I am generalizing it to all of Madrid. Leave me alone, I'm just another ignorant American and don't know any better). I began noticing the trend back in ohhh, October or November with the first "chilly" days. Chilly meaning I was wearing more than a t-shirt. But out came the animals from their summer-long hibernation in storage. And these coats aren't kiddin' around either. It actually looks like middle-aged women in Madrid have been targetted, preyed upon, and then finally swallowed..... by a herd of giant, steroid-popping gerbils. All semblances of a human shape are all but lost: you can see what appears to be a head sticking out of the top and then if you're lucky two little high-heeled-feet sticking out of the bottom. But between those extremes is just a whole lot of furry critter.

All I can say is that I hope PETA doesn't use any of their funds to try to launch an anti-fur movement around these parts because they're going to find themselves extremely overwhelmed, outnumbered... and probably eaten by gerbils.

Carenco

The new out of reach object of my affection is a certain Louisiana-bred, Boogie Kings guitarist-spawned Mr. Marc Broussard. During my very active vacation of watching good ole American television and physically feeling my brain cells pop one by one, I happened across a music video on one of the 2948729483 channels my dad now has on his cable. 'Twas a young man, the very Marc Broussard, singing the song "Home" (which remains my personal favorite of his) and I instantly downloaded pretty much every song possible of his in that illegal way I like to do it. Itunes? Pay??? Me? I think not... until I start my hypothetical career in my hypothetical field and make some hypothetical money, I will remain a cheap bastard. (Well it's not so much that I'm cheap so much as I'm broke. In debt, actually, is the appropriate term.) Anyway, I have now been keeping Marky-Brou, as he likes me to call him, on repeat on the trusty Ipod and boppin' along to his songs on the Metro. He's like pop mixed with rock mixed with honky tonk mixed with soul and blues... and it's just a Louisiana jumbalaya of southern goodness.

So, goodbye Howie Day... peace out Amos Lee... hasta lasagna (in the words of the loveable comic character Garfield) Damien Rice. I set you all free. Wait no I take that back... I'll keep Damien around on the side for the Irish accent (and ,well, he is a helluva crooner). But hello Marc Broussard. Just give me some overalls and a plaid shirt (I believe I may have some things laying around from 8th grade...) and let's go play on the farm and twang on some banjoes!

Two related tidbits
1. After giving a good 360degree turn to make sure nobody is around, I have the habit of singing in public as I walk. Self-entertainment, I suppose. However, usually I turn my head a few minutes later and find that a group of people has somehow magically materialized right behind me... and for some unknown reason they always have their eyebrows raised... It may or may not have something to do with the fact that:
2. I'm not exactly the best of singers, as anyone who's had the pleasure of hearing my angelic voice straight from the heavens can readily attest. God placed me in the womb and said, 'This girl shall henceforth turn heads with her voice." Well, He was right... because it is to the ear what a bag-full of rotting garbage is to the nose. That, in fact, should be on the analogies section of the SAT's.
So, to conclude, download 'Home' and hear what's currently got me embarassing myself. :0)

betsey's gone a little goosy upstairs

Well I’m sitting in Heathrow Airport for my kickass 4 hour layover. I’ll have to remember to copy/paste this bad boy because I’m way too cheap to pay for internet hurr in the airport. I’ve been here since 5am. It’s now 8:24. Kill me. Please. No, really… just pretend I’m that soccer coach that made you feel like shit for missing the goal or something when you were 8 and kick my head in. Like Emilio’s childhood hockey coach in the Mighty Ducks. I’m really tired but terrified of succumbing to this lounge chair by falling asleep and missing my flight… so forms of entertainment are necessary, especially now that I’ve finished the last of my Butterfinger (sigh). I’ve resorted to eavesdropping on a whole slew of conversations going on around me, now that these people are awake and this area of the terminal no longer appears to be the hospital coma ward. I think, well actually I know for a fact, that I’ve gotten caught a couple times- you know, when you’re looking at somebody and all of a sudden you realize that they’re looking back at you… and yet you keep looking for an extra 2 awkward seconds. Yeahh..

Side note (to give you some atmosphere)…. somebody is snoring really loudly and nobody is taking him/her out of his/her misery and there is a child wailing so obnoxiously that it puts into question any future of mine as a mother. Annnd I’m pretty positive that the sound that just emerged from that carriage was him regurgitating this mornings applesauce. Even more annoying are his clearly inept parents who are sharing an Ipod to drown out their child’s screams. Jerks.

Meanwhile, here is a question- odd but totally legit- that just popped into my head. I was sitting here watching/blatantly listening to a couple (traveling to Milan it appears- does anyone else have Will Ferrell in their head right now?). They’re comparing their passports which got me to thinking why married couples, for example, can’t have joint passports. I guess there’s always that (ever growing) possibility that a divorce will make this idea problematic and I’m sure that there are all sorts of security breaches involved in issuing a joint passport. So THIS led me to thinking about other instances which might call for a joint passport. Logically my thought process then led me to thinking of Siamese twins. Is it really necessary to have two passports for two people who are, say, connected at the head? I mean honestly, if Siamese twins appear together on one passport, is some dumbass security guy actually going to glance between the quite literally bonded brothers and the passport questioning whether the Bob connected to the Larry in the passport photo is the Bob connected to the Larry trying to pass through security? Plus, I highly doubt that any terrorists are going to pose as Siamese twins... it wouldn’t exactly put Muhammed Al Bakalaka (that came out very racist, and I don’t mean it to be… I’m basically using Team America as the source for my terrorist’s name) and his cohort discretely under the radar. I can’t think of any instance, be it terrorism or any other objective one wishes to achieve, in which someone would say, for any reason, “I know how we’re going to do it. YES! We will glue ourselves together at the ass. Brilliant!” I’m giving my imaginary terrorist a British accent and I don’t know why- the ‘Brilliant’ is to be said like the little animated bathing suit-clad men say it on the Guinness commercials.

Along the same lines, it’s kinda like when they tell 287 year old decrepit grandmas in wheelchairs to remove their shoes because clearly a woman who is old enough to have romped about with Tyrannosaurus Rex back in the day would be capable of concocting some complex terrorist attack using her orthopedic, doctor-issued shoes. Ok, back to our attached amigos… of course there’s always that chance that they will be surgically separated, but until then is it REALLY necessary to have two passports? The answer, people, is no.

Good God get me on this plane and to Madrid so I can take a nap.

Providence

Reasons why Mark has been my best bud for 18 years:





















To see more East Lyme fun in Providence compliments of Mark's camera, click here:
http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=i46xdcx.17brx9zl&x=0&y=-w3e8nv

post-Christmas reflections

I love Christmas decorations... I used to spend hours driving around various nearby towns looking at decorated houses and picking annual favorites. And then I'd always be just a little bit depressed at the beginning of January (ie right now!) when, the holidays having passed, ornaments get packed back up and put back in the basement, candles disappear from the windows, Christmas trees are thrown away and forgotten, their needles vacuumed up... and the streets would be plunged once again into darkness.
Back to decorations. Now, there are various directions in which you can go in relation to your exterior Christmas decorations. After some serious thought resulting from too much idle time (always dangerous), I think the most logical way to classify the various decorating styles is clearly using a system of sexual preferences. I pretty much have the same system with ice cream sprinkles as well, but that's another story. As I see things, holiday decore basically comes down to the following:
1) Businessman straight: like its human counterpart, this very hetero way of decorating the home has no thrills. On the straight businessman, you generally find a simple tie to go with a nice clean suit and some squeaky clean polished shoes. On the straight businessman house, its simple white lights (perhaps around a lightpost in the front yard) and white candles in the windows. All very clean. Very to the book. Inside you will probably find two perfect children (praying by their bedsides and then peaking out of their doors to see if Santa Claus has come yet), a dutiful wife (in an apron baking perfectly round cookies from scratch), and of course... the straight businessman (I don't exactly have an image of what he'd be doing-- but it'd probably involve a recliner after a long day at work). Inside, there is a Better Homes-esque Christmas tree with perfectly spaced candy canes, an arrangement of ornaments, and yes, more white lights. The hetero Christmas soundtrack: strictly symphonies' renditions of traditional songs (Boston Pops, for example) and religious hymns (O come all ye faithful, O little town of Bethlehem, etc)
2) In the closet: Homes of this decorating style tend to follow the rules of the businessman straight trend... at first glance anyway. On the human you have a nice suit and a style resembling that of the straight-arrow businessman. But then you notice perhaps a bright orange and green printed tie or some fancy-shmancy Italian shoes made from crocodile or ferret or some other random wildlife creature that spices up that classic (or boring, depending on your style) businessman look. The same goes with the in the closet home. You have the white light candles in the windows, a nice wreath on the front door, everything looks pretty basic and by the book. But then you see some random accessory thrown in... perhaps one of those huge blow-up Santa Clauses/snowmen/reindeer plopped in the front yard and a 14 feet tall Christmas tree in the living room window with brightly-colored, rapidly blinking lights. So everything looks basic and Leave it to Beaver-ish at first.... but then you notice a few key elements that keep you guessing and wondering if just maybe there's more to the story. Soundtrack: an eclectic mix of traditional caroles with some random new, hip Christmas songs thrown in. Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer and I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus are a few of my my favorites. Just a little edgy for Christmas but still maintaining overall wholesome, G-rated values.
3) Very much out of the closet: I think you know where we're heading here. Homes of this trend are my favorite- definitely the most fun to seek out. They are also the most expensive to maintain due to an intense focus on outward appearance... for this reason you can usually spot these houses from 2 miles away. On the human, economic ruin is caused by costly designer clothing... on the home, it's costly electricity bills... see how these connections are so rational? People who decorate their homes in this way just go all out: white lights are completely banished and replaced with all sorts of brightly-colored bulbs the size of your fist which sporadically blink in no set pattern. You've got blow up Santa's in the front yard, fake Santa with reindeer nailed to the roof, lights on every tree on the property... basically, it looks like the home-owners just go to Walmart and buy up every possible Christmas decoration/fad and make their home look purposely tacky. And I love it. Soundtrack: there is no set soundtrack for these crazy Christmas-aholics. I'd say songs that fit in between the categories of Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer and Santa Claus Was a Black Man (yes, it exists... I actually have it downloaded). Below you will find a street in my town on which all of the homes on the entire street dedicate their homes, during the month of December, to this out of the closet trend. It's like Disneyworld on Christmas crack. And every year I go look at the houses.

my little sister

It's amazing how one day she's that annoying little rugrat who you can't bear to be around for extended periods of time... but then before you know it she's your best friend who you can't bear to be away from for extended periods of time.

Funniness:

-When she was born, which I remember, I was so excited that when she fell asleep I'd purposely wake her up because I wanted Betsey-Elaine time. Somehow I'd always end up getting in trouble; she'd open that giant boca of hers and scream bloody murder. I have that effect on people.

-That shrill whine that cracks glass and easily beats out the sound of fingernails down a chalkboard. No contest.

-Corrupting her- aka getting her legit drunk for the first time- at Holy Cross. From that point on she always argued that she had my tolerance. Then she'd throw up and have a hangover for 3 days. (see below)

-That one time at Holy Cross (spring 2005) when she visited, ended up feeling "under the weather", and then when she stood up she did a 180 degree spin on one foot and landed flat on her back. I laughed and laughed.

-Being unable to control our laughing fits in church. We are clearly 19 and 23 going on 4 and 8. Very mature.

-When she visited me in Sevilla, wanted to take a picture of a bunch of bulls in a field, got out of the car, and the bulls all started running away from her. She whined and ran down the road with her camera poised for action. Needless to say, now she has a nice collection of pictures of bull bums.

-And my personal favorite (and probably hers as well): last year, trying to get back from a HC basketball game for the 2 hour premiere of Alias. As we got off the highway exit (literally 3 minutes from my house), I ran out of gas (sadly, not even for the first time- who remembers the bus back up junior year at the High School? Oh yes... that was allllll me!). Elaine decides she's going to get out and PUSH the Cadillac with her Herculean strength because we know there's a gas station just over the hill. So she's out back trying to push the giant car in her bubblegum pink sneakers... meanwhile I try to start the car again... and succeed! It starts and the car starts moving. Clearly I can't brake for Elaine because that runs the risk of the car stopping again. I watch her get smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror... so I yell desperately out the window, "Elaine... RUN!!!" So she's running down the road (limping too, due to a bad knee) I lean over and open the Cadillac door and Elaine leaps (very ungracefully) into the moving car in a fit of laughter. We get over the hill on fumes and coast downwards towards the gas station. The lights are off. It's very much closed. Those 15 minutes of laughter were the best ab workout I've ever had. (side note: thank you Todd for bringing us a gallon of gas)

new years, catholicism, and procrastinators

This is going to be a really random assortment of things-- be forewarned!

I hate New Years resolutions. Therefore, I never make them. If you really want to change something in your life, do something about it when the idea occurs to you. If you decide in April that you want to shed those lovehandles, start being a nicer person, quit smoking, stop serial-killing or whatever change you see necessary in your life, why wait til the following January to actually do something about it? You could lose those 15 pounds, replace your outer bitch with your inner sweetheart, lessen your chances of lung cancer, and spare a few lives long before January 1st rolls around. So, in a nutshell, that's why I think they're stupid.

Another reason that I don't make resolutions is because I am admittedly lazy/ indifferent/ unmotivated about things like that. (Example: the one time I tried an actual organized diet, I did it with my roommate and we lasted for two weeks before we bought a bag of Dorito's and freakin went to town on those bad boys. Mmm, crisp, cheesy deliciousness.) I don't see the need for a whole lot of changes in my life and the things that I could hypothetically change about my lifestyle or myself don't bother me enough to actually do anything about them. I'm pretty healthy, I'm not fat, I don't smoke, I'm nice although sarcasm sometimes gets the best of me, I don't drink unhealthy amounts of alcohol (anymore), I don't torture my siblings (anymore), etc. I'm not saying I'm perfect (pretty damned close though!), but hell... if I don't bother others and I don't bother me, then why try to fix what's not broken if you know what I mean.

"Giving up" things for Lent goes right up there with New Years resolutions. Granted I went to the 'College of the Holy Cross' and life experiences have confirmed that yes, I believe in God, however I do not like or support my religion (don't tell my Grandma. I made the mistake of telling her that I never have gone nor go to church in Spain... and I've never seen such a look of utter disbelief and disappointment. It was a key lesson on 'when lying is a GOOD thing'). So why would I change my lifestyle for forty days for something that I don't believe in? When I was a kid in CCD classes I already knew that me and the Catholic church weren't overly compatible, so when they asked us what we were giving up for Lent, I'd always just say "I'm giving up chocolate" to get them off my back. Then I'd eat a KitKat bar on my ride home. A king size one just for emphasis. Devout is my middle name.

Meanwhile, for Christmas my dad gave me the "Procrastinator's Planner for 2006," full of tips, tidbits, and laughs for chronic procrastinators such as myself. So, for a chuckle, here is the procrastinator's planner's take on New Years resolutions:

Every January 1st you decide that THIS year will be THE year. Promises are made, resolutions are set... then two weeks later the dementia sets in and it's, "Resolutions? What resolutions?" Sure, you could go that route, or you could make some effortless changes for the better. Who said eating more ice cream isn't worthwhile? What genius made clothing size the measure of a human being's worth? Skip the guilt and stress this year, and jump right into some more realistic resolutions:
Relax- Get more sleep
Be loved unconditionally- Adopt a dog
Love unconditionally- Buy an inflatable doll
Get into shape- Choose any shape you desire
Prepare for your future- Find a sugar mommy or daddy
Learn something new- Figure out how to work the DVD player
Find inner happiness- Find a good gin
Love yourself- Tattoo your own name on your arm
Find daily inspiration- Read your horoscope
Become a better person- Become a better procrastinator.

writing so Alfonso will still be my friend

'Twas a sunny, rather mild day in Madrid, annnnnd I was opting to head home to the frozen tundra that is currently East Lyme, Connecticut. In theory, I reassured myself, seeing my family and friends and taking peanut butter baths would cancel out the cold factor. I'll let you know after this vacation whether that's true or not... :o) So I bid farewell to our beloved waiters in Casa Poli (an extra tear was shed for Fernande..) and got a free coffee out of them before I hailed a cab and set off for the airport. My flights would follow the normal route I take between Spain and the U.S. of A., the normal route being that it included a stop in good ole London. Which I have grown to like because I know my way through Heathrow airport so well now that I feel like some sort of seasoned traveller with my little laptop bag. For some reason it almost makes me want to throw on a pair of giant sunglasses and carry around a little dog.

Regardless of how dear to my heart British Airways may be, I almost always have to deal with some sort of incident. A few of the examples:
August 2003 - Delayed flight out of JFK, missed flight in London, therefore missed flight in Madrid, arrived to La Coruna without luggage. Luggage seems to have disappeared miraculously into thin air. Airline says luggage has been delivered, Betsey's lack of a) clothing, b) a cheery disposition, and c) basic personal hygiene products suggests otherwise. 5 days later, Betsey goes back to La Coruna airport to fight with the people there. It is discovered, 2 hours later of talking to one person after another, that Betsey's cherished possessions are sitting in an airplane hangar full of cardboard boxes in the middle of the airfield. Why?? You're asking the wrong gal.
September 2003 - Nobody told us that we'd perhaps have a problem with luggage weight when flying within Spain. Since we spent the first month in La Coruna, we brought all of our things there. One month later, I had to get to Sevilla... preferably with all my belongings. Turns out that domestic flights and international flights do not have the same weight allowances and so we're all charged some ungodly sum of money for 'overweight' luggage. Meanwhile, I was petrified of arriving in Sevilla and having no clothing/toothbrush/stuffed bear again, so I packed as much as I could in my carry-on bag. This leads to a very Meet the Parents moment in which I was starring as Greg Focker in the scene where he yells at the flight attendant with the sticks in her hair telling her that she'll have to rip his bag from his kung fu grip. It didn't escalate to me being carted off the plane and interrogated by police, but the flight attendant did try to take it from me. ... I made it fit. So what if I ended up with bra's jammed in my pockets.
January 2004 - After a 3 weeks vacation, I was heading back to Sevilla for semester 2 of the academically easiest year of my life. Yes, that includes kindergarten. Anyway, I got to talking with two American guys who were permanently moving to Spain and I was too busy taking mental notes (just in case I decided to eventually do the same thing) and therefore clearly did not pay attention to where I put my passport and tickets. Needless to say, this became a problem when I tried to board the plane. Said passport and tickets were back in terminal 4, the terminal I had flewn into. I was in terminal 1, trying to board my next plane. They were eventually found by airport security and rushed via golf-cart (with a siren) to me and I made the flight by approximately 30 seconds.
September 2005 - Almost an August 2003 repeat. Delay at JFK --> late arrival in London --> Betsey running through the airport --> arriving 3 minutes late to the gate --> biatch airlines worker yells at Betsey for being late, even though it was not her fault and reinforces Betsey's dislike of British accents --> Betsey misses flight --> Betsey, tired and travel-weary, cries --> eventually Betsey is given a pity voucher for a sandwich in the airport and is put on another flight --> Betsey arrives in Madrid --> turns out Betsey's luggage is still chillin' up in London

However, the one time I was bumped up to first class (December 2003) for the long flight from London to New York remains fresh in my mind and balances out the bad experiences. British Airways had accidentally sold my seat because I was late checking in (due to.. what else.. a flight delay in Madrid)... so I was bumped up. Score! Big, comfy seat. Footrests. Other things that delighted me which I can't seem to remember now. So now, whenever I fly, I have that glimmer of hope for another upgrade. This past Saturday, that glimmer of hope was trampled and thrown down a flight of stairs.

I had the worst seat on the flight. Without a doubt-- my dad even checked it out on some website. My seat was in red, which indicates a 'warning'... aka an undesireable seat. I can't help but wonder if the J in 53J (my seat) is for JIPPED. Why? Well let's see. It's the last row on the plane, which isn't a big deal in itself. However, being in this last row means that my seat does not recline. There is a BARRIER behind it. Therefore, while you're trying to watch Hitch, The 40 Year Old Virgin, and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (the three movies I chose) your nose is flattened up against the little tv screen attached to the back of the fully reclined seat in front of you. Oompa-loompas become giants, you can see up Johnny Depp's nose, and Will Smith is well, still hot.

In addition to the non-reclining seat, being in the last row also means that you are in the bathroom section of the plane. Yes, your seat has basically the same distinction on the plane as a toilet. This can be convenient if you're somebody who pees a lot or often feels sick while flying. I don't belong to either of these categories. This also not fun if the bathroom to your side, which you can see with your peripheral vision without turning your head, is frequented by a man clearly suffering from irritable bowel syndrome. I was scared to breathe through my mouth at times because I didnt want to pollute my lungs with whatever was well, for lack of a more eloquent way of putting it, coming out of that man digestive tract.

And then, since you are already the least happy person on the flight due to the knots in your back and the acquired knowledge that you didn't want of bathroom patterns of everyone else on the plane, you are the last person off the plane. By the time you get to the door, the pilots and the flight attendants aren't even standing there to say "Have a nice day... Fly with us again." They've already checked in at their hotels and gone out to the bar. You're then the last person in the customs line, the last to get your luggage, etc. So while Ivana Trump (yes, she was on my flight annnnd sitting in a somewhat different section of the plane) is already in her hotel/luxury apartment/NOT in the airport, I was just getting off the plane.

I think that flight home, not to mention it was an HOUR AND A HALF longer than usual, was a kick in the face for them having bumped me up that one time. Like a reminder saying, "hey it happened once... it ain't happenin' ever again."

alemania

I think the language to study is undoubtedly German. At least some key phrases anyway. That way when you want to, for example, have a fist fight with your 86 year old history of architecture professor for being a complete ass, you can do your stunning Chuck Norris roundhouse kicks with the added vocal effects of a German dictator. Now that'd be a force to reckon with. While in mid-air, you could just yell "my what a pretty kittycat you have!" and it will sound as if you are threatening imminent death to him and to his loved ones.

My one German phrase that I know and cherish as if it were a rare gem (thank you Karsten Steuber, my Logic professor at Holy Cross, who was German and often would start teaching us in German without realizing it) is "Der shnee ist weis!!!" Oh that's right, I SOOOO just went there... I pulled out the big guns. Throw in a few added exclamation points, some profuse sweating, and maybe some pulsating veins popping out of your head and just try to tell me it doesn't look like a threatening phrase. Sorry, but the same phase in English (the snow is white) and in Spanish (la nieve es blanca) just doesn't evoke that same level of cowering fear as its German counterpart.

Maybe if I were able to speak said language of 1/4 of my ancestry, I, the girl impossible to anger, would actually get mad every once in awhile just as an excuse to use it.

Tuesday the 13th

Today's uplifting email of the day:

Embassy of the United States of America
Madrid, Spain
U.S. Citizen Warden Message
= December 13, 2005 =

The following Warden Message is for maximum dissemination to U.S. Citizens.

SUBJECT: PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT -- WORLDWIDE CAUTION

1. This Public Announcement updates information on the continuing threat of terrorist actions and violence against Americans and interests overseas. This supersedes the Worldwide Caution dated August 2, 2005 and expires on June 12, 2006.
2. The Department of State remains concerned about the continued threat of terrorist attacks, demonstrations and other violent actions against U.S. citizens and interests
overseas. Ongoing events in Iraq have resulted in demonstrations and associated violence in several countries. Americans are reminded that demonstrations and rioting can occur with little or no warning.
3. Current information suggests that al-Qaida and affiliated organizations continue to plan terrorist attacks against U.S. interests in multiple regions, including Europe, Asia, Africa and the Middle East. These attacks may employ a wide variety of tactics to include assassinations, kidnappings, hijackings and bombings.
4. Extremists may elect to use conventional or non-conventional weapons, and target both official and private interests. The hotel bombings in Jordan in early November
illustrate how terrorists exploit vulnerabilities associated with soft targets. Additional examples of such targets include residential areas, business offices, clubs, restaurants, places of worship, schools, public areas and locales where Americans gather in large numbers, including during holidays.
5. In the wake of the July 2005 London bombings and the March 2004 train attacks in Madrid, Americans are reminded of the potential for terrorists to attack public transportation systems. In addition, extremists may also select aviation and maritime services as possible targets.
6. U.S. citizens are strongly encouraged to maintain a high level of vigilance, be aware of local events, and take the appropriate steps to bolster their personal security. For additional information, please refer to "A Safe Trip Abroad" found at http://travel.state.gov.
7. U.S. Government facilities worldwide remain at a heightened state of alert. These facilities may temporarily close or periodically suspend public services to assess their security posture. In those instances, U.S. embassies and consulates will make every effort to provide emergency services to U.S. citizens. Americans abroad are urged to monitor the local news and maintain contact with the nearest U.S. embassy or consulate.
8. As the Department continues to develop information on any potential security threats to U.S. citizens overseas, it shares credible threat information through its Consular
Information Program documents, available on the Internet at http://travel.state.gov. In addition to information on the Internet, travelers may obtain up-to-date information




On that note, I'm off to walk through my residential neighborhood. Then, I'll take the metro to my American university. Then, after taking my exam, I'm going to eat in Burger King. Perhaps to relax we'll throw on our GAP shorts, J.Crew flipflops, a Red Sox jersey, and a John Deere trucker hat (cocked to one side, clearly) to go play football or frisbee in the park. Then, we'll head to one of the movie theaters that plays movies in English. For dinner, some 16 ounce burgers in a Tex Mex restaurant should do the trick. THEN, we're going to get blackout drunk and go walking through the streets of Madrid singing the U.S. National Anthem wearing an American flag do-rag. Then, just for kicks... we'll say we voted for Bush and stand by his every move. Anyone up for a good ole fashion crucifixion?