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