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?

english

Last night, I was having an 'moment'... in fact, last night everyone in our apartment was having a 'moment'... and I was actually swearing AT the Spanish language (yes, out loud) as if it were an enemy who had thrown me down the stairs or an old friend who had betrayed me. So, I refused to speak it for a good two hours... that's right... I gave a LANGUAGE the silent treatment like I used to give to my brother and my sister when we were younger. My maturity amazes me.

In fact, the three of us were speaking in English... which is fun because it never happens... and yet it is nice when you are frustrated. Taking a break and speaking in English for awhile proved therapeutic... well, aside from Susan making fun of the way I say "cat" and "pan." It led to me saying "cat" and "pan" over and over again trying to understand- think along the lines of Dustin Hoffman in Rainman- cat, pan, cat, pan, cat, pan, cat, pan. Walmart, Walmart, Walmart. Gotta go to Walmart. I don't get it, whats the problem with the way I say my a's? Anyway, during said conversation, I also said "traduction" instead of translation and asked "in serious?" instead of "seriously?" Even when I'm giving Spanish the silent treatment it still invades my English bubble without my knowledge.

And then Joanne made apple pie, because she is a domestic goddess... annnnnd because she didn't want to study and when Joanne doesn't want to study she cooks. Nothing like a little visit to Fat Hell to improve a bad day.

...

frustrated

I am by no means a 'vain' person. I like to think I'm pretty low key in that respect. The only thing that I'm somewhat particular about, however, is my hair... and its not like I even do anything interesting with it... a) ponytail, b) blow dry. I don't know why it matters to me that much... that's a lie, I do know why. I think it is rooted in the shman phase of my adolescent years. Luckily, senior year of high school I had to cancel a haircut appointment, and since I am lazy, I just didn't reschedule one. A few months later, I noticed that letting my hair grow past my chin took some of the edge off the shman-ness. It made me look more like my little sister, who has very feminine features, than my little brother, obviously a guy. I think now-a-days, 6 years post cancelled haircut, if I were to cut my hair short again, I could manage to still look like a girl due to some other key features... and the discovery of makeup. But the fear of looking like my eighth grade self again prevents me from trying anything drastic, unlike Hannah, one of my pals here, who admittedly changes her hair all the time. "It's just hair" she says, "It'll grow back if I don't like it." I feel that way about dying my hair- you can always dye it and if you don't like it, you walk down the street and buy another box of hair dye- but not about cutting it. And believe me, I've made some hair-dye judgement errors... one time I accidently dyed it so black that it looked blue. Corinne liked it. I waited a few days for it to grow on me. It didn't. I looked Asian from the back, no joke. Four days later, the problem was resolved.

So anyway, to sum things up, I am always anxious of cutting my hair, even though the amount that I let them cut off is usually so minimal that nobody would even know if I didn't tell them. Even during the summer, when I cut off 6 inches it was hardly noticeable. However, after four months without a haircut I began to notice that a lil trim-ski was in order. That was two weeks ago. Since then, I'd been vascillating between getting it cut and just waiting until I go home for Christmas.

Yesterday, I grew some balls, figuratively of course, and finally went to get it cut. Phase one included the hair-washing girl, who I swear to God was actually aiming that fire-hose strength jet of water straight at my ears (do I LOOK like a 90 ear old man with hair popping out of my ears that needs shampooing? I personally think not) Then the girl with the mullet, which is a supposedly fashionable look here and not white trash, says she's going to cut my hair and change it up a little bit. Oh boy... that's when you pray with every fiber of your being that you don't walk out with business in front and a party in the back if you know what I mean. (Oddly enough, these are the exact same fears I had two years ago when I dared to cut my hair in Sevilla. That had big potential to be traumatic day. Because for all I knew, instead of efficiently explaining what I wanted I was probably saying, "please, take an out of control lawnmower to my head.")

After she spends some time attacking my head with her trusty scissors, she's like, "ooh now we're going to 'style' it." Twenty minutes later, having watched my hair actually emit plumes of SMOKE as she blew-dry it (I was actually bracing myself for flames and being doused with a fire extinguisher), I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like an electrocuted french poodle. As soon as I walked out the door, her pruned creation that used to be my hair went immediately into a ponytail.

Now, having showered, it's not too bad. The moral of the story: I got a haircut and I don't have a mullet.

Metro (no, not metrosexual)

I love me some good ole irony in my day to day life. Today's ironic sighting was spotted on the metro, line 4 to be exact. The following characters were all on one end of the metro car:

1) A nun reciting her rosary beads standing against one of the walls. Right next to her,
2) A tween couple making out and "exploring their newfound pubescent sex drive," the girl's hand blatantly down the front of the boys pants. Across from them,
3) Me, listening to Christmas carols on the Ipod-aroonie. And trying to contain my laughter.

just your typical guy from the Canary Islands...

I need to write this right this second to be sure not to forget any single detail of the experience I just had.

Here I was, in my apartment writing my paper on the presence of duplicity in the life and works of Salvador Dali... sounds about as exciting as it is. I'm on page 7. Of 13. Hoo-freakin-ray. I decided I was stressed out... which automatically translates to wanting to eat my feelings. Instead of devouring a television or something, I thought hmm... time to make voyage number 2 of the year to Subway. Frankly I'm proud of myself that I've only gone there twice seeing how I pass it on a daily basis... but the idea of a good ole American tuna grinder with extra pickles and a side of chips was just too good to pass up today. The Subway is right down the street on the corner... maybe a two minute, basically uneventful, walk. And yet, during this short stroll I met the single most strange person I have ever met in my life. Sometimes I ask myself how I manage to meet so many whack-jobs... and then think, clearly they are drawn to my inner-lunatic.

OKAY. So, I am walking down my street, putting my keys in my pocket and making sure that 10euro bill hadn't disappeared from my pocket if you want details, when a guy, probably about 30-35 years old, stops me and asks if I had a light for his cigarette. I respond saying no, sorry and I kept walking. I'm almost to the crosswalk when I hear "excuse me, excuse me!!" and look to find that he's running after me. So now he's speaking in English, since apparently my 'no, I'm sorry' wasn't in the most convincing Spanish accent. Here, more or less, is the conversation that followed:

Jose: I'm sorry, I just wanted to tell you that you have a wonderful smile. It's so natural... and it gives you... how do I put it... it gives you glamour. But I'm sure you hear that all the time.

Betsey: (Thinking 'yah natural my ass'... that's 6 years of braces buddy) Nope, not really... I'm not exactly a glamorous person, but thanks! (she turns to keep walking... the yellow Subway sign in her view)

J: Really? I find that shocking! I'm sorry, you must think I'm completely mad.

B: No, no... that's nice of you to say, thanks again.

J: Where in America are you from?

B: Connecticut

J: Ohh Connecticut, I actually know somebody from Connecticut.

B: Oh really? There aren't too many of us. Where are you from?

J: I'm from the Canary Islands.

B: Oh really. I actually know somebody from there as well. (side note: Angel, I can only hope that this isn't one of your relatives...)

J: What's your name? I'm Jose.

B: Betsey.

J: Bepsi? (clearly)

B: Betsey.

J: Ahh Betsey... it's a pleasure to meet you. (cheek kisses)

J: (Looks intently at Betsey, squinting his eyes.. then they pop open a bit and he gasps as if a lightbulb just went off in his head) Virgo? or Gemini?

B: (Thinks, oh boy... this is about to get interesting...) Uhhh... libra actually.

J: Ahh of course.. that makes sense. I'm sorry, you must think I'm crazy... it's just hobby of mine... not a job or anything...

B: No.. um.. that's very interesting (as she thinks yes, I think you're an absolute nut)

J: ... but I studied astrology for awhile back in the Canary Islands.

B: (voice in her head is screaming, RUNNNNNN!!!) Oh wow- thats certainly different...

J: ... I study astrological signs, read hands, I can sense vibes...

B: (inner voice: oh dear Lord..)

J: ... and I have to tell you, that I acted on impulse when I stopped you. (gets very serious) I sensed that you have very, VERY strong vibrations. I couldn't let you just walk by without talking to you.

B: Ohh...

J: I need to go... but can I please just look at your hand... please, I need to see it.

B: OOooookayyy... (holds out hand, eyebrows raised beyond normality)

J: OH... OH! Oh wow. This explains everything. You are an extremely complicated woman Bestey... and very intelligent. You have lot's of things going on in here (touches side of Betsey's head) and in here (points to Betsey's chest)

B: Oh .. um.. errr...hm..

J: How long are you in Madrid?

B: (too confused to lie and say 'tomorrow') Probably til May or June...

J: Oh wonderful! I would love to get together and have a drink... I would love to spend more time looking at your hands.

B: Ohh.. uhh..

J: Ok I can't this week, but next Monday, at 6:00, meet me here on this corner... right where I first saw you and felt your vibes.

B: Ohh.. yeah, okay (translation: when fish grow antlers and carry Santa's sleigh..)

J: Okay, see you then! I live right here on this street (sidenote: yes, MY street...) so maybe I'll see you before then!

B: (speedwalks to Subway, vascillating between utterly confused and utterly amused)



Honestly... how do I meet these people? And why, why, WHY does he have to live across the street from me. This could get tricky. Next thing I know he'll show up at my door with a cape, a turban, and a crystal ball calling himself Jose the Great and saying that he can see our future children.



SOMEBODY REMIND ME NEXT MONDAY NOT TO PASS BY THAT CORNER BETWEEN 5:30 AND 6:30.

fun with numbers

We're going to play a little counting game.. ready?

1 is for the number of presentations I have left to give

2 is for the weeks remaining until break, when, upon arrival to JFK, I will fall into a heap and have to be wheeled out to the car in a luggage carrier. And then I'll make my dad stop at 11pm at the same sketchy rest stop to buy me an ice cream sundae at McD's... it's tradition.

3 is for the number of papers I have left to do.. a nice lil 30 cumulative pages of what's sure to be crap crap crap. On the positive side, at least for my art paper I got to read about how Salvador Dali used to piss himself in bed until the age of eight for the pure joy of doing it.

4 is for the number of exams I have to take, and consequently also the number of times I will get mentally, and possibly even physically, annihilated by them.

5 is for 5:00am, or my average bed time

6-10 is for the number of nervous breakdowns that I predict I've got left in me before they throw me in the loony bin... or better yet before I throw MYSELF in the loony bin.


Um, happy December?

just call me mother theresa

I'm not gonna lie, I have improved four people's lives today... or tried to at least. Well, maybe not so much improved but rather didn't make worse. This afternoon I spent five hours in a library, researching for one of the three papers that separates me from three weeks of recuperation with my trusty dog at my side. Rereading that sentence, I can't help but think it makes me sound like a fireworks accident victim adjusting to my new life as a blind woman with my new seeing eye dog. But no worries... eyeballs remain intact and functioning. Anyway. My deeds of the day:

1) While in the library, I fixed a photocopy machine and taught a guy, who was obviously having some difficulties with the technological marvels of the modern age, how to select a paper tray and push "copy." Impressive, since I don't pride myself on my technological abilities. I mean hell, at home when I invite friends over to watch a movie they know ahead of time that there's going to be a 25 minute delay while I figure out how to unhook this cable and switch this cable in order to get the DVD contraption to work... preferably WITH sound...

2) Also while in the library, a girl asked me how to turn on the little reading lights. And, being the kind and helpful person I am, I told her "you just have to push the little red button" which, to her credit, is actually pretty hidden and it took watching someone else do it before I found said button. Her face lit up with glee and she hugged me and asked for my autograph and then said she wanted to buy me a coffee! Thats a blatant lie. Actually she just returned to her desk and switched on her light. And then made out with her boyfriend, yes of COURSE in the library. Luckily my Christmas songs on my Ipod drowned out the suctioning noises as they bounced back and forth between the library walls.

3) Now this one is a pretty big deal. Being at this library meant that I was not in my part of the city. However, when a woman came up to me asking how to get to the nearest metro station, I could actually give her directions with some degree of certainty. A bit of a deviation from the norm, as the conversation tends to go a little more like:

"Excuse me do you know where the nearest metro station is?
"Ummm .. errrr... I thinnnnk.. hm... I don't know"
Asker detects an American accent and gives you that sympathetic, disappointed look that seems to be saying, "Ohhh of course you don't know... you're Amerrrrican..."

Anyways, I was pretty excited that I could orient myself, as in addition to my technological inabilities, I am also not known for my outstanding directional sense... 23 years later and I know for a fact that I have given people wrong directions WITHIN my town. Oh the beach? Yeah yeah just take a right here and keep going... you'll see it. Then you realize two minutes later, as you watch the beachware-clad older couple take a right in their Buick, that you should have said left.

4) I have recently been trying to get in the habit of complimenting strangers more when they've got something goin' for them that should be acknowledged. Getting into the habit meaning I've done it like, 3 times. And pretty much only when I'm alone travelling around on the metro, which always allows for some boredom and some serious people-watching... but regardless. I almost always have a little notepad with me for whatever purpose, so if I see, taking today for example, a girl with hair that I basically want to cut from her head and attach it instead to mine, I jot down the compliment and if I get off before them I hand it to them on the way out the door. They probably just throw it out like all the little publicity ads that get handed out all over the city for Ali-Babba's Typical Indian Restaurant, Learn English/Italian/German/French in 6 weeks!, Wax your whole body for 8 euros!, or what have you... but who knows. On the other hand maybe it made her day just a smidge better.

who needs sleep?

I found out early in life that sleep and I were going to have a relationship with a tense love/hate dynamic. Meaning I love sleep, but I hate how LONG it takes me to get there. By the age of nine, I used to get so frustrated when listening to the radio when the music program would change from "Light on the Bays" to "Night on the Bays." "Night on the Bays" basically meant that the DJ's were peacing out for the night and switching on an automated playlist of soft rock favorites. This is why I know all the songs of my parents' generation. Never missed a single one. My parents at this point would be in bed, my brother and my sister were beyond comatose, my dad would be snoring, the house would be creaking, and I would be fully aware of the fact that I was the only one in the home awake. And now not even listening to any Delilah-wannabe's talking about touching personal stories (ya know, special song dedications for husbands in the military, Grandma's passing away, Ronny being sorry to Jeannine for breaking up, etc). I'd look out the window to find not a single light on in any of the houses. I was ALONE. This was very distressing for the nine year old Betsey. I was a weird child, what can I say. (I also used to take every single one of my stuffed animals, pile them into a mountain three times the size of me on one half of my bed, cover them all with a sheet and try to hug them all protectively with one arm because I was positive that if someone climbed in my window to rob our house they'd head STRAIGHT for my yellow Care Bear or my Glo-Worm. Logical, no?)

Anyway, when you're one of these crazy people who ends up staying awake til the sun comes up without any good reason, you have to be creative to keep yourself entertained. At least until sleepiness, that lazy bastard who always seems to take his sweet freakin time getting here, decides to swing by. On weekends, sometimes it's fun to still be up at 3:00, 4:00, 5:00am... because you can stop watching the crazy television that they put on at these hours and from the window you direct your attention down upon the groups of people coming home from the bar. While this can at times be a bit depressing, as they are coming home from a fun night out and you, in your sweatpants and your hair in an attractive ball-like configuration, are stalkishly staring at them from a dark window. But then you get to laugh when things happen like when the drunk girl, clutching on to her boyfriend to keep the ground from spinning so much, trips on her own dominatrix-style boots, resulting in an out of control, inebriated stumble... complete with flailing limbs. And I, having seen it, can laugh just like Jon Lovitz in that scene from Wedding Singer after Adam Sandler sings that song to Drew Barrymore... (Jon Lovitz says, "He's going craaazy... and I'm reaping all the benefits" and then laughs evilly, his eyes bulging threateningly, as the curtain slowly shadows his face) I'm a little less creepy though, I think. I hope?

My brain activity peaks during the nighttime hours (I'd actually like to hook my brain up to a monitor sometime and compare the activity levels during, for example, History of Architecture class, during which the little bleep would flatline, compared with sitting in bed at 3:00am, when it'd be all over the place). In fact, I bet anything that I think more in one night than I probably do in a week's worth of daytime hours. This, of course, can be a positive or a negative thing, depending on your mood, the day you've just had, etc. It can be a good thing if you're thinking of fun things, or upcoming events, or happy memories, or funny moments that make you laugh out loud in bed, or weird thought patterns like relating Yoda to grammar, or just organizing things in your head... You eventually fall asleep content, or perhaps smiling and thinking about big multi-colored lollipops and clouds made of marshmellows. You have absolute freedom to let your mind wander to wherever the hell it wants to go because you are competely alone with nobody to distract you... everything that enters in your mind is absolutely pure, and raw, and untainted. Clearly it can be a bad thing when, for example, you can't help but replay scenes from the whopping three scary movies you've seen (the tunnel scene in 28 Days Later with the rats and then when the girl comes popping contortedly out of the tv screen in The Ring are the ones that CONTINUE to haunt me.. you think I'm kidding..), or when you replay and overthink things/ conversations/ scenarios/ comments/ etc, or when you stress out about this paper or that test coming up. At a certain point you just can't stop and it all just builds upon itself... and this is the worst sleeplessness: you eventually fall into a restless, worried, depressed, frustrated sleep that often follows you right up until you wake your ass up.

And those are my thoughts on insomnia. And now that it's 5:28am, I'm going to try for the second time this evening to go to sleep. Good night, and may fluffy marshmellow clouds and cute hopping bunny rabbits be with you. Don't ask.

gobble gobble

Today was Thanksgiving. A fantastic American holiday whose only purpose is to celebrate the American way of eating: overindulgently. It's a full out celebration of obesity. Seriously... what other holiday is there that you wake up, eat breakfast, lay around all day in your comfies watching parades and football games, undo the first button of your pants to provide extra space, and then my God eat until you fall over in a 25 pound turkey-induced coma. And that, my friends, is why I love Thanksgiving.

So thank you to everyone who emailed and IMed me to rub in my face the fact that I could not partake as usual. You all hold a special place on my hate list. The following was information which was most pointed out to me by my loving friends:
1) I could not watch the Macy's Thanksgiving parade on tv
2) I did not wake up slowly to the smell of Thanksgiving preparations. Instead, I woke up to the musical delights of an alarm clock.
3) I WENT TO CLASS TODAY.
4) I didn't get to go to the East Lyme townie bar last night to get wasted. Oh wait, I'm not upset about that.
5) Your mother was making pies.
6) Instead of showering this morning, you decided to bathe in gravy... because you could.

Here was my Thanksgiving. I went to class. Yep. Class. On Thanksgiving. Our original plan was to make Thanksgiving here in the apartment and invite friends... especially exciting was the idea of giving our Spanish 'Thanksgiving virgin' friends their first Thanksgiving. I was envisioning the meal and the conversations regarding Turkey Day traditions... and thank you Paco for making one of my imagined conversations come true:

"Wait, so there's bread... stuffed INSIDE the turkey?" ideally accompanied by a puzzled, horrified look.
"Well yeah obviously... you stick it right in there.
"What the..." more horrified looks.
"But first you have to shove your entire arm inside the turkey and fish out the plastic bag containing all the turkey 'innards'"

However, we lost interest... not in our friends clearly (whew, close one) but more so meaning that general morale about actually preparing an entire Thanksgiving meal decreased and the amount that said meal would have ripped from our meager bank accounts made us think twice about it. And we didn't find any turkeys. Although, as Angel has pointed out, we did not look very hard. Regardless, we decided to go to the Hard Rock Cafe, which was offering a full Thanksgiving dinner. Hooray.

Thinking in advance like the smart gal that she is, Joanne headed down there last night to ask if they accepted reservations since we were going to be a group of 6. The response, from the English-speaking and actually English man, was "No... only for parties greater than 20 people." I point this out to show that there was no language barrier between the two and therefore no miscommunication. Fine. So today, we headed there an hour and half before we wanted to eat (our goal was to be seated and ordering at 8:30pm) to get in line/get a table/put our name on a waiting list... whatever. However, clearly because it's us, the first thing we are asked upon our arrival is:

"Oh, well, do you have a reservation?"
"No, they told me yesterday that you don't take reservations"
"Oh... well, we do for Thanksgiving."
We looked at him with dead, scathing eyes.

After a five minute conversation with this man, we learned that if we waited we could probably sit and eat around 10:30. It was 7:00. So, we headed towards Tony Roma's with diminishing hopes that they, being another American chain restaurant, would be offering up a similar Thanksgiving feast. The restaurant didn't open until 8:30. It was now 7:10. So, we sat on the steps right smack in front of the restaurant in the cold, people walking by looking at our determined faces, to assure that we would be the first people in the restaurant. It was reminiscent of camping out for concert tickets... except camping out for concert tickets normally yields desired results: you go to the concert and rock out to the music and its fantastic.

Camping out for Thanksgiving dinner at Tony Roma's apparently yields weird-tasting turkey, liquidy cold mashed potatoes, and a lump of shredded cabbage that resembled purple sauerkraut. We poured salt over everything to try and add some normal taste into the mix. And I mean a lot of salt: I can feel my arteries closing up. No bread, no stuffing, no cranberry sauce, no sweet gherkin pickles... I need to stop, I'm tearing up. Sniff. And the meal finished off with the weirdest tasting apple pie of my life. I pretty positive that instead of being something that was baked, it was a boxed pastry that was frozen and merely thawed out.

photos:
http://www.kodakgallery.com/Slideshow.jsp?mode=fromshare&Uc=i46xdcx.gij5x35&Uy=2bfax6&Ux=0

sPaNgLiSh GrAmMaR

Over the past 23 years, I've been on the receiving end of a lot of criticism for never having seen the Star Wars Trilogy... and even more for having seen only the new ones (look people, it wasn't my choice- Mark dragged me!). I think I pretty much have a grasp on what happens, however everything I know about the plots of the first three Star Wars I learned from the episode of Friends where Ross's erotic fantasy is for Rachel to dress up as Princess Leia (Laya? Leya? Lea? Oh hell, whatever the name is of the chick with the weird hair) and the Star Wars Gangsta Rap (if you don't know of it or haven't seen it, ASK ME. It's amazing), whose lyrics I actually have memorized (don't judge!! Allison and Krissy too!). I know, I know. I get it... it's a big deal. It's just that the Han-Solo-laden, Yoda-wisdom-divulging, I'm-your-father-admitting, light-saber-battling movies just haven't made their way into my VCR. Or my house. Or my list of movies to see. However, I do have a little something, apart from jokes a la Triumph the Insult Dog (Oh Conan... I miss you so... tear, sniff, snort... I swear to God if I come home to 2-3 weeks of repeats like the last time, you're going to hear about it) to contribute: the results of my mind-wanderings at 3:30 this morning. Typical night in the sack with the Bets-meister, really.

You've guessed correctly. This morning, I, Elizabeth M. Mattern, discovered the key to Yoda's whacky speech patterns... and here it is: it's just Spanish grammar, or probably that of any language stemming from Latin, but written/spoken in English! The crazy differences between English and Spanish regarding the order in which the subject, verb, etc. go is something that you have to get used to and proves at times to be a struggle... it's always just seemed so backwards (although I do admit that over time, sentence structure in Spanish began to make a lot more sense to me). But regardless, now it's all coming together and I see the real reason for the tricky little differences: it has allowed for the style of Yoda to be invented. SO OBVIOUS.

I was in bed, thinking about grammar (because that's what the cool kids are doing these days) and at the same time thinking about the symptoms I was/am currently experiencing of an oncoming illness. The two completely unrelated trains of thought collided head-on, and the result was: Me duelen los ojos = They hurt me my eyes do. In a flash, all I saw was a familiar green. No, not envy, not Fenway Park, but the other green... I saw YODA. From there, I probably amused myself in bed (in a G-rated way, you sickos) for a solid hour thinking up sentences and paragraphs in English but using Spanish grammar rules. Spanglish grammar... newly discovered to be Yoda-speak. I think it's finally proven that I'm one of those people that, since I don't do or take any sort of drugs, should start A-sap.

So the next big question which I've been tossing around in my head... in Star Wars dubbed into Spanish, is it in Spanish but using the rules of ENGLISH grammar??? In the Spanish version, does Yoda even talk weird? Did that cross over? When watching Star Wars in English, do Spanish people understand Yoda better than, for example ___________ (fill in with the name of whichever other galactic character, I dont really know any) who speaks in regular English? So many questions...

Oh geez... I read what I just wrote annnd have concluded that I am fo shizzle, sin duda, not a doubt in my mind, definitivamente... an idiot. Better to be an idiot than a raging hormonal biatch though, right?

Go Fug Yourself

I think this website accounts for my turning into a mean (but clearly in that charmingly and humorously mean way) person. These women are FANTASTIC.

www.gofugyourself.com

Betsey's Top 10 of the Day

You know you need to go home for a couple weeks when:

1. Your food budget now allows for a weekly head of lettuce.
2. The dubbed into Spanish voices on the Simpsons start to sound normal to you. Except I'm sorry, but the voice they have given to Reverend Lovejoy is just entirely unacceptable.
3. You run out of peanut butter... again!! Time to steal BernBern's BJ's card for a raid...
4. The words 'home-cooked meal' sound completely foreign to you.
5. Four months later, you can't speak English. Or Spanish, for that matter.
6. You contemplate going across the street to the music store to 'test out' the pianos to quench your musical thirst.
7. Your 'get ready to go out' music has switched from pop and thug to a vast collection of Christmas carols. Alvin and the Chipmunks... they get me every time. I just want a hula hoop too.
8. You are out of Tylenol PM. What is sleep like again? I can't recall.
9. You need to start weaning yourself off of Casa Poli and its coffee, its tortilla sandwiches, and its fabtacular waitors who are sooooo in love with us.
10. All of your winter clothes are at home and/or in the possession of your little sister... and while she is warm and snug in your favorite (and only) sweaters, you are frankly freezing your metaphorical balls off.

poeta soy yo

During the summer in Vermont, between reading 294892 books, fighting off the kamikazi mosquitos, doing ridiculous projects, trying to block out the smell of cow excrement, and spending endless hours doing work, I started writing haiku's in Spanish (so as not to break the all important 'Palabra de honor'). Frankly, it was an outlet for the MISERY I was suffering (it wasn't just me... it was a collective misery). The one that started it all off was:
Trabajando mas
Yo prefiero un tenedor
En el ojito.
... Y a los espanoles que leen este magnifico blog mio, si... siempre he asegurado tener en cuenta este fenomeno tan molesto de la sinalefa!

In light of Natalie's birthday, I have once more put to use my creative talents... except in the mother tongue and sans negativity. I'm way poetic like that.

Ahem..(clears throat for dramatic effect)

Twas the 17th of the 'ember of Nov'
And as if from the Cabbage Patch grove
A girl named Natalie came into our lives
22 years later, on shopping she thrives

Thank you.

Happy bday Nattie!

just a typical morning

This morning, having successfully showered, dried the hairs, and gotten dressed in 25 minutes, I was on target to arrive on time to class. My bedroom is interior (it faces a little patio-ish thing and another apartment's window... therefore I keep the shades closed.. just in case I decide to dance around nekkid in my room sometime) and therefore clearly did not notice the depressing DOWNPOUR that nature was throwing down upon the city of Madrid. So I walk downstairs and somewhere in the range of 3 feet from the door I notice the wrath of good ole Mama N. I swear that cranky biatch has her u-trou all up in a bunch this week. Not overly concerned, I turn around to walk upstairs to retrieve my umbrella... and then realize that I have forgotten my keys. Perfect. Oh but it's ok! I can avoid getting soaked in my 20 minute journey to class by taking the metro. Good! I like technology! So I head to the metro stop, where I proceed to realize I have neither a) money nor b) my metro pass with me. They're in the OTHER coat. Yes, the coat with a hood... another item oh so conveniently left behind that I would have found quite useful this morning. So... I trudge back up to the street to confront a fabulous 20 minute walk to my least favorite class of my life... a walk full of puddles, wet hair, and those pity stares of people who you KNOW are saying "whoa, this girl looks like a wet dog... what an idiot for not bringing an umbrella." It was a good... nay, a GREAT... morning. The best part? Upon arriving to class (now 5 minutes late) and sitting in a puddle of squish, I opened my wet backpack to find... my umbrella. And I'm pretty positive it was actually sprouting horns and laughing demonically at me. If I hadn't been in class and had the professor not been talking... it could have easily become a violent scene.

Sidenote: there should be an obligatory class during the formulative years on umbrella etiquette. Lesson topics would include but are not exclusive to:
1. If you have an umbrella, let the people who happen to have obviously forgotten to bring one walk beneath the overhangs. You selfish bastards...
2. Just because a girl does not have an umbrella does not mean that she wants to be offered a private walk to her destination. Yes, I'm talking to YOU, you creepy, middle-aged, unibrowed man.
3. The umbrella is a useful friend... not a weapon.
4. When walking through or as part of a group of people, raise the umbrella just a smidge to avoid the totally unnecessary clashing with the umbrellas of the people walking in the opposite direction... and half-killing the girl stuck in the middle (cough cough, ME).
5. When standing around waiting to cross the street, it's not ok to twirl your umbrella back and forth, sending an extra bucket or so of water shooting off in all directions like a freakin' fireworks display. I understand you are bored, but your cute little singing in the rain tendencies cause you to further soak and therefore anger the already wet and surly girl to your left.
6. When walking in the rain, especially in an urban setting, it is not necessary to have an umbrella big enough to fit a family of five. In doing so, you are impairing anybody who is not a midget (er, vertically challenged person) from passing.

argghh

Do you ever just get full-out pissed off at yourself? I do.

Gonzalo, part deux

Good news ladies!! Lucky for all of us females, Gonzalo (http://wapa82.blogspot.com/2005/09/gonzalo.html) is still very much on the market.

Joanne and I, our heads pounding from a lack of caffeine, headed down to Casa Poli (where everybody knows your name) for our coffee. And who was sittin' there at the counter? Gonzalo, in all his taxi-driving, greasy-ponytail, sketchball glory. This time around not only were rides in his taxi (yah, I'm sure that's what he means) offered, but there were marriage proposals involved... and now he's using back-up. He had a wing-man who sat next to us listing off all of Gonzalo's stellar, just STELLAR, qualities. We told him we were both already quite happily married (maybe I should have thrown in with a bun in the oven... you know... guys don't want to marry chicks with "baggage" in the form of a crying, runny nosed brat)... his response? Dont' worry, our marriage can be like an Elizabeth Taylor type deal... it's ok if I want to have like 8 spouses... he doesn't have to be the only one nor the most important. FYI: If I were to have multiple husbands, each one would have, serve, occupy, or at least perform a specific function. Unfortunately for Gonzalo, he doesn't make the cut...I just don't think that he would serve any worthwhile function... nor do I think that he frankly has anything that functions.

Luckily, the Poli waiters are mildly (ok ok.. insanely) in love with us and go into fatherly mode, protecting us from the creepy advances of a certain taxi driver. And from now on, we know to avoid Casa Poli around 5:30pm.

Everybody has their vices. I say this fully aware that in the other room Joanne is feverishly tearing through the Sudoku (a puzzle game here in Spain... like a crossword but with numbers) book that she just bought in Corte Ingles. She also has lost the ability to blink or speak in coherent sentences whilst crunching numbers in that smart little head of hers. But I'm coming to realize that I have a lot, and I mean really an excessively absorbant amount, of addictions and/or obsessive compulsive tendencies.

First I have my everyday food addictions. Everybody has these, whether they be your common place daily need for cookies and cream ice cream or something obscure like plums (cough cough, Mark). I tend to gravitate towards chocolate, Diet Coke (mmm... Christmas break, when I can drink Diet Coke instead of Coca Cola light.. and yes there IS a difference), coffee (I've hit the need for two cups a day of Spanish coffee, otherwise known as the closest thing you can get to a caffeine injection), and peanut butter (I don't feel the need to elaborate... I think it's understood). And clearly, since they taste so damn good, it's an unwritten rule that they have to in some direct or indirect way try to kill you. Diet Coke... causes cancer. Coffee... ulcers. Chocolate... diabetes, obesity, heart problems, etc. Peanut butter, when eaten in moderation, is good for you. Needless to say, the self-control part of my brain is in a permanently switched to the off position. In fact, I think I may have been born without it. One day in the day of Betsey's eating addictions is like watching a commercial for some Pfizer medication... I love these. It's like, hey you'll be cured of your depression, but this medication "may cause high blood pressure, drowsiness, 38478383 types of cancer, your left ear to fall off, dizziness, temporary blindness, 8 hour erections, foot fungus, memory loss, anal leakage, and death." I don't know about you, but depression is sounding more and more like a Caribbean vacation.

Then come my non-food addictions. This is where I will first divulge my relatively secret addiction. PANDA CAM. This is completely pathetic and I have no problem admitting it. Yes. I, Elizabeth Marie Mattern, stalk panda bears. During the summer while I was in Middlebury (little known fact, Middlebury comes from the Native American word Middlebumbororouy, which means infernal language boot-camp), I was illegally reading cnn.com (illegal because it's written in English... language pledge taboo) and came across a story saying that a panda cub was born in the national zoo in Washington, D.C. AND, that you could check it out on a webcam! I was curious, and directed myself to said webcam to find to my delight that there were actually two. So, basically I have been, on a daily basis, charting the growth of this panda cub from the time when he was born and weighed 2 pounds to now, when he weights 15 pounds and has been learning to walk. AND, I don't think it's necessarily a coincidence that my birthday was the selected day on which the cub's name was chosen... not that I keep track of those things (his name is Tai Shan)

My daily crossword puzzles. I have to do two a day, the two preferred being the Eugene Sheffer and the Boston Globe puzzles. The thing is, I'm living in a country in which everyday I wind up wanting to hit myself in the head with a large, blunt object because the things in my head somehow become idiotic babbles when they come out of my mouth. I need some self-affirming evidence to prove that I can survive in at least one language... hence crosswords. However, the addiction is nearing a stage of obsession which calls for an intervention of some sort I believe. It's just a matter of days before I walk into my apartment to find my family and friends sitting semi circle in our den, asking me to accept help from professionals. Then I'll go to some Texas ranch or health lodge on a lake to learn to breathe deeply, ride horses, count to ten, and find new outlets for my energies.

Like the crossword puzzle, another habit that I've picked up from my dad the lawyer is my daily checking of the New London Day (my newspaper at home) to see if anyone I know has been arrested. This is not normal. On the more positive end, I do also check to see if anyone I know has gotten engaged or married. That makes me slightly less cynical, no?

Cows. For anybody who knows me well, it's a given that I have a very weird attachment to our bovine friends. In fact, it's quite possible that I was a cow in a past life... but that's beside the point. So obviously airplanes and such have radar. Me? I have cow-dar. There could be a random pair of cow-printed socks in the back corner of a store on the other side of the street, and I will see them. I don't even try. You know it's bad when all of your friends see cow-printed objects, stuffed animals, cards, etc and automatically think of you. If you people could see the diverse collection of cow things I have in my rooms at home... wow. To the looney bin I would be sent.

The last of these is more of a OCD tendency. I don't have claustrophobia... but I cannot stand to be stuck in a crowd of people. I freak out. For example, I have gone twice to El Rastro, a huge weekly flea market here. The amount of people that go is overwhelming. I went with Hannah and Nell and they were both like "Bets, are you ok?" I need to walk fast and I cannot be stuck behind a big group of slow-moving people. It's actually starting to cause me physical damage, which makes me think that it could be becoming a problem. Sunday afternoon, I was taking a walk and getting lost about Madrid. I had finally oriented myself and was close-ish to home, when I found myself on a street which had the highest population I have ever seen of handicapped people. I mean, old women who couldn't walk, TWO guys on crutches, and a blind person. And, they were all in front of me, creating an obstacle course that would make me look like a complete bastard if I went dodging through all of them. I'd probably knock over a guy in crutches, causing an old woman to trip and she'd fall on the blind person's dog, clearly making the blind person then trip, etc. To avoid such debacles, I opt for my normal routine of walking on the curb part of the sidewalk, which is separated by a line of trees. Needless to say, I am at this point listening to my Ipod and walking at a 'quick' pace on an 8 inch piece of sidewalk wedged between trees and parked cars, when BAM. I misjudged a tree's placement and get it instead in the side of the head, causing a delightful bump (which remains there today) and an accompanying sweet scratch on my arm. Having heard the "clunk" of my head and an "ow!" from my mouth, the old and hardly able to walk woman, along with her equally decrepit companion, stared at me questioning MY ability to walk.

My OCD's, addictions, and obsessions are going to get the best of me one day...

barcelona antics

The people that I have run into while traveling, whether the trips be long or short, never cease to amaze me. For example, one time 3 years ago on the commuter rail between Worcester and Boston I met an Elvis impersonator. He didn't look like Elvis. Which made me embarassed for him... I hate when that happens.... feeling embarassed for somebody else because they obviously lack that part of their brain or were absent that day of school when they taught humiliation. But anyway. So when we set off for Barcelona last weekend, I knew it would be no exception. And furthermore, you know going in that if you're paying a whopping 15 euros a night to stay in a hostal, you're gonna leave with some stories...

Our hostal. So many cherished memories. We took a midnight bus which put us hungry, overtired, achy, and cranky in Barcelona at 7:30am. We eventually find the number at which our hostal is supposed to be located. Needless to say, there was an iron GATE guarded by a man in such a manner that one would think that there were secret treasures... or maybe even heaven... behind those gates. This lovely gentleman (I wanted to kick him in the shins) told us repeatedly that there was no hostal. It had been closed. For a long time. And it wasn't opening. Ever. Nell, luckily, was even crankier than me and yelled at him saying that we had a reservation. Eventually, he took out the blessed keys to the heavenly gate and let us in. Surprise surprise, yes there was a hostal on the 2nd floor as we suspected. Had there not been, it wouldn't have been pretty to watch our reactions.

The hostal owners. We walk into the 'reception' (a card table) where the woman proceeds to shuffle through approximately 308398304839 papers looking for ours. The husband materializes from a part of this place that I didn't even know had a room... sans shirt. They have a tween daughter wandering around the place wearing a blanket. How's that for a family. Then the woman offers us coffee. We accept. Then she says they have no running water and sorry.

After about 25 minutes of standing there waiting for the woman to organize our "papers," the husband tells us to grab our stuff; we're leaving this building, walking to another building 10 minutes away where we will be staying. So off we go towards our temporary abode. As soon as we turn down the alley where the entrance to the building is, it hits you. The smell that you just want to bottle up and put away for Christmas gifts. It was a delightful mix of pee and fish. I'd like to proudly point out that I coined the phrase "piscado" ... a combination of "pis" (pee) and "pescado" (fish). Come on, 2 points to the Bets-meister for creativity. Turning purple from holding our breath, we are at the same time hiking up a few flights of stairs til we get to "the room." It's your typical cheap-ass hostal. One room with 12 beds, and then two adjoining rooms, each with two more beds. Fine. Then, the hostal man pulls out two blankets. He seemed not to have noticed that there were four of us. And it was like ultimate zero in that room. "Don't worry... I'll be back in FIVE minutes with blankets and towels." Oookay. We PEACE OUT on the beds. I planted my face nose down into the mattress and passed out. I awaken to all sorts of noise and the lights being switched on. Then, hostal man creeeeeeps in and says "Here comes Papa Noel with the blankettsssssss.." with a big grin. The image continues to remind me of the scene in Meet the Parents when the mom brings Greg Focker a set of Jack's pajamas.

Then, he pulls out the towels. I looked at what he places on the bed. Now, they were white and packaged in plastic no bigger than the side of a ziplock sandwich bag. I knew this was going to be good... yes, that's right... the plastic contained a towel-sized paper towel. Needless to say, by day two I had a giant hole in this luxury towel because apparently I was trying too rigorously to get the water out of my hair.

The neighbors! Like I said, staying in a cheap hostal is directly related to meeting weird people. So I'll start low and go from the weird up to the total freaks. First, the American who doesn't speak. And who took 45 minute showers. In a place that has a tank. And very little hot water. A Betsey going on no sleep and a cold shower is not necessarily the sweet, happy version that you all know and love.

Then the American from Idaho. He was traveling with three other people (one from Brazil, one from Mexico, and one from Ireland) because they are of some program in France. From the second the four of them arrived, he was making the four of us mad. He wouldn't make his own bed... he made the Brazilian girl do it for him. ANd then he asks us, "Is there like, a Gap around here? I need to go shopping." So we reply no, but that you can get the same kind of stuff/look in various stores and we proceeded to name a few. Then he scoffs and says, "um, no... Gap is Gap" followed by a "ughh! where did you put my Steve Maddens!" to his friends. We're thinking, Ok buddy.. settle down with the trying to be metrosexual and get a grip. You're from IDAHO. I love potatoes... they're one my favorite foods fo-EVA yo... but think about it. Your claim to fame is being part of spud land.

The Italians. The Italians were by far the most dynamic of the group. They, thank God, had one of the private rooms. Now these Italians, a very "active" gay couple (thin, THIN walls kids..) arrived very late the 2nd night and then they proceeded to go out. Therefore, we didn't talk to them nor did we know at this point that they were an "item." The next day, Hannah and I walk into our hostal to see Joanne and Nell on their beds eating crackers in that methodic, shell-shocked way. Nibble by nibble. Yes, the Italian couple was goinnnnn' at it. A few minutes later, Italian #1 walks out fully dressed, but with his pride and joy still very much at attention, looking to bum a post-sexx cigarette off of one of us. He talks to us for a few minutes and we quickly tag him as the 'woman' of the relationship. Then, Italian #2 walks out.. and Italian #1 gets all doe-eyed and rosy-cheeked and says, "Now I'd like you to meet the best of Italy.." signalling Italian #2...Because they obviously know at this point that we are quite aware of why such 'noises' were coming out of their room. So overall the Italians seem to be pretty nice guys. They are asking Nell, since she studied abroad in Barcelona 3 years ago, places to go and what not. They go out. This is when Italian #1 takes the cake for being absolutely nuts. They come home at about 4:30am. We have been sleeping for probably about 2 hours at this point. Italian #1 makes his way through our backpacks plus those of the four other people ('Gap is Gap' and co.) to arrive beside my bed. I wake up and his face is literally 6 inches from mine. Obviously I am startled and he's lucky he didn't get a punch in the face, as I am at this point thinking that he is some stranger who came in through the window to attack me (childhood nightmare). Then he starts patting my head saying it's ok and that they're home... and then goes to sit down beside me on my bed to chit chat... I just kept repeating 'ciao' 'ciao' 'ciao' 'bona note' 'ciao' until he left. Normal??? No!! Scaring the crap out of Betsey seemed to be a theme of the trip... another example being the man dressed in a giant gorilla suit who creeped up beside me in the middle of Las Ramblas and then started grunting like I suppose a gorilla might do. I screamed. People were laughing at my misfortune. We all know I don't do well with things that just pop out to scare you. I mean c'mon... even the Scream movies scared me.

So those are 'the characters' of our little voyage to Barcelona. Altogether, they have provided the four of us with so much inside joke material. In between, we had a ton of fun being complete tourists... and took 3948393994400 pictures. Magic fountains, Erotic Museum, Picasso Museum, Chocolate Museum ("pleasure" chairs which looked more like medieval torture devices to famous Picasso paintings to Disney characters sculped out of chocolate... all within 24 hours of each other). Running around in giant labyrinths. Long walks. Parks. Realizing that Gaudi is totally an architectural dictator in Barcelona... he's EVERYWHERE. Watching Nell chase down and scream obscenities at the man who grabbed her bag. Eating... alot. And more! Ch-ch-ch-check 'em out!

http://www.kodakgallery.com/I.jsp?c=i46xdcx.t6jrio1&x=0&y=-222d08

There is almost nothing bad about fall (except maybe for daylight savings and the closing of Dairy Queen).. I mean come on, it CAN'T be bad... it's my favorite time of the year and also the season during which the world celebrated the miraculous event of my birth. That's two big points right thurr. I have to admit that summer, a season I used to not like very much at all save the fact that we didn't have school, is starting to grow on me. After years of hating the heat I adapted to it during the year in Sevilla. Now I make use of shorts (instead of refusing to wear anything but jeans back in the day) and I try to capitalize on how lucky I am to have beaches in my town. But even so, nothing compares with a New England fall. All the leaves changing color, the first time you see your breath in the cool, crisp air, fleece blankets, comfy sweaters, football games, my dad and his coat obsession (our childhood toy closet now houses an extensive collection of his coats, jackets, windbreakers, vests, you name it), childhood memories of jumping in giant piles of leaves with my brother and sister (and sometimes on top of a stray, hidden rake... ouch), the season's annual inaugural fire in the fireplace, the intense, clear blue of the autumn sky, heading down to the beach with a tennis ball to run around with my dog, the ability to see tons and tons of stars at my mom's house because there's no lights anywhere nearby and the air is so crisp...

So today, when Susan's mom who has been visiting asked me if I missed being in the USA, these are things that I thought of because I had fall on my mind. My mom, the other day on the phone, told me that this week is the peak week back in East Lyme, CT for the changing leaves... and that made me sad! Not in the "I want to go home" way, but in the "I miss fall!" way. Because like any normal city, there isn't a huge amount of trees here... and I don't have a car to go out driving around Spain looking for hills and hills of oranges and reds as the leaves change... and you can't really see the stars too well...and I can't find that perfect hot chocolate mug... and we don't have a fireplace. I mean, I guess I could buy one of those videos that you pop in the VCR that looks like a fire in the fireplace... but it doesn't emit the warmth or the smell that I luuuurrrve (yes, that's a Celine Dion love... that meants intense!).

I miss driving up the driveway to see smoke coming out of the chimney... which always makes me so happy because it means I can curl up on the floor in front of the fireplace in my favorite sweatpants with my dog, a book, and a big mug of hot chocolate. You know the mugs... they're big enough so that you can hold it with both hands against your chest, taking slow delicious sips. My personal favorite, currently sitting unused in the cabinet at home, is one made of clay that a friend gave to me back in high school with a painted sun and moon on it. It's MADE for hot chocolate perfection... especially if you throw a glob of fluff or some marshmellows in there. Mmm!

Haha, I need to stop listening to Ben Folds when I decide I feel like writing something. It makes me introspective.

"soy pintor"

Throughout my 294830920 (... or maybe it's only been 19 or so..) years of schooling I, like any other normal person, have had my share of teachers and classes that I have not liked. It's normal. Well, right now, I am in the class that takes the cake. It's torture. One and a half hours of teeth-gritting, fist-clenching, wanting to scream torture every Tuesday and Thursday morning. I prefer coffee in the a.m. hours... not this cruel punishment (good God I must have committed some terrible, terrible crime to have deserved this..) called 'History of Architecture in Spain."

Having taken a lot of art and art history classes at Holy Cross and at the University of Sevilla, I tend to really enjoy art classes. I find them interesting. A nice break from the typical classes' subject matters. Photography, Digital Imaging, Drawing, History of Ancient Archaeology, History of Art in Andalucia, etc... I liked them all! It's an entirely different type of learning; they're an opportunity to expand your mind and to see the world differently. So, obviously, when I saw in the Middlebury class list that they were some art history classes being offered, I said giddyup yee-haw let's go! Sign me up! What could go wrong? I mean, I like the subject material, I've studied art history in the past, I'd like to know more, etc...

Two words: Alfredo Ramon. That's what can go wrong. So very, very wrong. He's hardcore Debbie-Downer and rains on my artsy parade everyday. I detest his class, and each passing day gets increasingly worse. Today for example, was so bad that I am already dreading Thursday's class. An hour and a half, which seems oh so short when that's how long I sleep at night, seems to last days. Years. Decades. I feel my sanity wanting to give out. I leave the class each day increasingly tired, weary, and feeling old. That's right... I'm 23 going on 80.

With each class, the amount of material he teaches us becomes progressively less... why? To make room for his lectures of course. To call tourism stupid (I'm a tourist... and tourism is fun, thank you very much), to tell us we can't "enjoy" architecture because then we'd be stupid (if I'm going to spend 5 euros to get into a centuries old cathedral, I'm damn well going to enjoy it), to mention 1948293 times per class that he's a painter (and, when he's at home... he has his own studio... where he, what? Oh right, he paints. We don't care! Your paintings probably suck!). I can't imagine him ever feeling "pleasure" in any facet of life. I can't even fathom this... I get all happy-giddy just from the sound a canister of tennis balls makes when you open it for the first time. I bet he eats stale bread because normal bread would be too close to enjoyable... and God help his poor wife if he's married. Poor woman's going into her 70's and probably never had a good romp in bed.

He half-yells at us telling us we need to understand the HISTORY of architecture in order to study the architecture. No shit dumbass, so TEACH us something. You can't lecture us on learning the history of architecture if you don't teach it to us because you're so focused on calling us dumb. And then he throws in a "Soy pintor (I'm a painter)" and maybe another "Las cosas.. hay que verlas'. (You have to go see things.)" He will, for example, mention a random plaza or street in Madrid, and if we don't know what he's talking about, he scoffs and throws out another 'Hay que VER las COSAS' before launching into another lecture.

Today, I almost stabbed myself with my pen in the eyeball because that would have been less painful than sitting through this class. I found myself wondering if I could get the pen right in the pupil. At least it would have been some sort of diversion. Even more disconcerting is that I actually subconsciously wrote "Kill me" in my notebook today. Hannah, out of nowhere, whimpered an "I hate him" and Susan said she wanted to kill him. Susan and I are both going to take ourselves out of a class he's teaching in the spring, one which had a lot of potential to be a good class. Because frankly, taking another class with him would be like volunteering to stay in a Prisoner of War camp in which they shove bamboo chutes down your fingernails when given a brief opportunity to escape...

communication breakdown

Two years ago, before coming to Spain for round one, I wrote a letter to my then future Spanish family to tell them when I would be arriving, some tidbits about me… and that I was really excited to meet them. Of course, come to find out a few months later, instead of writing that I was emotionally excited in that ‘really looking forward to meeting you’ way, I had written something to the effect of “I’m so horny to meet you!” How’s that for a first impression. Not exactly what I had intended, to say the least. Looking back, I guess it’s a good thing they knew I wasn’t a native Spanish speaker because they probably would have locked the door to avoid living with a perv. Hopefully they just chuckled amongst themselves.

And that’s the beauty of (or problem with) living in a country in which you don’t know the language inside out. You don’t know all the little meanings that a single word can carry depending on the context. You say one thing while trying to say something completely different… sometimes creating an awkward situation or making yourself look like an uneducated ass. I’m good at that. Perhaps you try to say “your mother is so nice” but instead you say “your mother is a fat whore who eats children.” (Just to emphasize the point… not taken from real life example) And then there’s my sense of humor… which often times goes misunderstood. I try to be sarcastic, which is my way of life in English, but find that my idea of humor doesn’t always necessarily function in Spanish the way I’d like it to.

To avoid situations such as these, there is a remedy! Every Monday and Wednesday morning I start off my day with a swig of orange juice and a little thing I like to call Oral Communication class, where we learn to communicate better… orally. The structure of the class is more or less the following. First, the professor teaches us the material in a given section of the giant packet of material that we have. Then, we divide up into pairs and create a quick 20 second dialogue to practice whatever it is we just learned. Makes sense… and avoids the characteristic monotony of the rest of my classes.

So this past Wednesday, we were doing suffixes! Two girls were doing their little conversation in which they were talking about a dog... but the professor didn’t catch the part when they mentioned that it was a dog to which they were referring. So, they’re going back and forth using various suffixes to describe how handsome the dog is. How smart he is. Etc. So then one of them says, “Pero mira, tiene la cola ganchuda.” Which means “but look, he has a hooked tail.” The funny thing about the wold “cola (tail)” is that in another context, it can also mean penis. So the professor, thinking that they were talking about a man, hears “but look, he has a hooked penis.” Needless to say, there was some choking on her water involved, a few stuttered words, some eyebrows raised and a bottom jaw dropped… then finally a “cómo?? (What??)” before it got cleared up.

And we lauuuughed and lauuuughed…

accessorizing

This is a topic I've been wanting to tackle for quite sometime and today is the day that I will finally put it down on paper. Except minus the paper..

To begin... I realize very, VERY well that I am no fashion goddess. I mean good grief, my path to girl hood was long and is pretty embarassing to look back upon. Most people have a few blackmail photos from their childhood. Screw that buddy, I've got ALBUMS of photos. BOXES of negatives. You had an awkward year? WAH.. I had an awkward DECADE. In fact, I would just love to run for public office or date someone really famous someday just to see what photos of me get dragged into the public eye.

My "phases," because my stunning looks really did go in stages, progressed as follows. 1: Mommy dressed me in cute things until I began to refuse to wear them. 2: I spent my childhood playing tackle football in the front yard with all the neighborhood boys... therefore I was in my tomboy phase donning mesh shorts below the knees and giant t-shirts. The evolution of Betsey continues with step 3, which I like to call the "shman (she-man) lumberjack," and which reached its peak during 8th grade. This stunning era was spent in my men's Eddie Bauer flannel shirts which were worn ON TOP of overalls (very chic at the time.. according to Woodcutters Weekly Magazine) Then we move on to a crucial step 4 in high school, when I wore jeans and nice big comfy sweatshirts... the gray zip-up to be exact... those of you who have known me since before college remember that bad boy quite well I'm sure. Step 5 happened in college. One day I looked in the mirror and had a revelation. Something along the lines of 'well would you look at that... turns out that I DON'T have man parts and therefore maybe.. just maybe.. I should start trying to fit in with my fellow boob-possessing peers' (and I'm not referring to old man boobs, as tempting and physically attractive as that would be..). I highlight this Darwinian evolution of Betsey (I really should have my own chart) simply in an effort to point out that I have never nor will ever consider myself an authority figure in the realm of style and I don't typically take it upon myself to judge how others dress. Fine. Express yourself. Go to town. Change it up. Don't blend in. Be you! All that classic 'be yourself pamphlet' material.

That being said... there is a girl in our program who will remain nameless although she shall henceforth be referred to as OTT (over the top). Now I could EASILY dedicate an ENTIRE blog to the various "characters" in this program and daily stories/observations of them. They are weird... and I don't mean quirky weird, or individual-type weird, or funky weird, or 'wow she's weird, but I respect that' weird... I mean just plain WEIRD. Nuts. Wayyy out there. Beyond normal human comprehension. Believe me, I don't by any means consider myself to be "normal," but these people just shock us more with each day that we spend in class with them. OTT is a proud member of this special group of people.

Moving along. There is a lot of accessorizing going on in Spain... and I like accessorizing mainly because I'm a cheap bastard. I mean, instead of buying several shirts, I can buy one shirt, re-wear that shirt with different stuff, and spend the saved money at the bar. Or the bakery. Score! But there is a limit. And that limit is called not wearing every damned accessory under the sun at the same time... OTT evidently didn't get this memo. She's like a walking entertainment venue. Everyday we sit in class waiting for her arrival just to see what she decided to throw together... I will randomly take an outfit from a typical day:

Checkered slip-on Vans. I love them, have wanted them to come back into style for the last four years, and am contemplating buying a pair, so OTT gets two points there. Now add giant gold belt worn not where belts should be worn, but rather up around the ribs... serving some therapeutic purpose I'm sure. Weight lifting perhaps. Check. Big chunky gold earrings. Check, check. Now throw a little black J.Lo-esque hat perched on one side of her head into the mix. Check. And some necklaces. Check, check, check, check. And a big scarf. Check. And ARM-SOCKS (you know.. like gloves but with the fingers cut off in a very hip 'I want to look homeless' way). Check, check. With big chunky black and gold bracelets worn OVER the arm socks. More checks. I can't even continue... Senorita OTT, you are out of control. I mean honestly, does she look at herself in the mirror, think she looks boring, and decide the only remedy is to put everything she owns on at the same time? Isn't that what crazy old drunk ladies do? My God, I would kill to see the concoction she puts together when she gets married...

And the best part is that not only does she get fame for being OTT on a daily basis, but she's also a grade A, art class over-nodder. A double offender!

birthday

I never knew life could taste so good.
I need a little minute, just a moment to breathe.
-----------O.A.R.


I love you guys :o)

caja madrid

Today, for your reading delight, I bring to you the latest episode of C/ General Pardinas 28 (our aparment) vs. Caja Madrid.

As we normally do upon the return from our mind-stimulating and nerve-testing (due to a few, ahem, "characters") classes, we opened our little mailbox to see if anyone had sent us any goodies. As usual... there were no fun cards, letters, cookies, or tubs of Skippy (I feel like I'm starting up a Where's Waldo game... where in her blog does Betsey mention peanut butter..), but to our childish delight there WAS a menu for a Chinese restaurant along with an envelope from Caja Madrid (the bank with which we have an account to pay our landlord/bills/male prostitutes). We received our bank summary which said that X amount of Euros had been withdrawn for the gas and X amount for the electricity. Fine. Looks good. As expected. Successful month handling the bills = treating our proud and smiling selves to Frappuccinos at Starbucks. But then, as our eyes scrolled further down the page, there appeared a mysterious, miscellaneous charge of 40 euros. Hmm, we say. Curious, no? Turns out this month I WON'T be trying the caramel flavored Frappuccino, which looked oh so mouth-wateringly delicious on the poster...

We knew that another fun trip to Caja Madrid was inevitably in the near future... always an adventure. Just the knowledge that we'd have to make more than the single monthly visit to Caja Madrid put Joanne in funk-mode and needing chocolate. Why? Well, because it really is like pulling teeth. Generally, approximately 45 minutes of the early a.m. are spent waiting in line (and that's being 3rd in line) with antsy businessmen and bitter pregnant women... and clearly in a cloud of smoke, while the single woman at the desk goes about her things ever. so. painfully. sloowwwllyyyyyy. I mean... wow. Even Hannah walks faster than these bank people work. Despite the funk, Joanne, being the saintly martyr that she is and for which we are infinitely grateful, volunteered herself to go into battle. The battleplan was to 1) state that we'd never asked for or been notified of this random "insurance" from Mapfre (a company) and then 2) demand firmly, but ever so politely and grammatically correct, that they give us back our damned money. I mean hello? We're broke enough as it is. Believe me, my rotation of salad, grilled cheeses, and peanut butter sandwiches isn't as luxurious as it may sound. I don't think it's what Oprah's private chef prepares for her, put it that way...

Turns out this insurance is automatically tacked on to any given account when it is opened and we somehow had to know through our obviously clairvoyant ways to cancel said service in advance, or so explained the bank woman. And what, you may ask much as I did, does this insurance charge cover? It's DEATH insurance. To ensure that, should we meet an untimely end here in Espana, our ashes be delivered back to our native "land." Okay. There are a few things wrong with this scenario. 1) This automatic insurance charge that they tack on without telling us... NOT COOL. 2) Why this heightened worry of death? Is there something about this country that I don't know about? 3) We already have travel insurance which covers this 'death' possibility. And most importanly, 4) Who in the hell said I wanted to return to my "land" in ASH FORM. I would assume that should I be fatally struck by one of these crazed Spanish drivers or by falling pieces of our bathroom ceiling, they would at least notify my family before turning me into a pile of chimney grit and sticking me in an urn. Who said I was into being incinerated?? FYI Caja Madrid, I would prefer to remain intact.

So, dearest Caja Madrid, thank you for being not only our bank but for also taking care of my post-mortum affairs without my knowledge. Just your typical bank, really. I just cannot for the life of me understand why Bank of America doesn't jump on that bandwagon...


p.s. Happy Birthday Greg! :o)

far from home

I've never really been homesick. I mean sure, there are times when I wish I could just walk downstairs and have a cup of hot chocolate with my mom, get a hug and some reassuring words from my dad, goof around with my brother and sisters. Sometimes I even miss my little sister's whining... this is shocking, if you've ever been so lucky to hear that shrill, nails down the chalkboard sound. I'm not kidding when I say that she's shattered a few windows. But that empty feeling where you feel you NEED to be at home? I can't say I've really experienced it often. Maybe because my parents divorced when I was 10 and I'm accustomed to not being with everyone I love at any given time. Maybe it's just my personality. But regardless, there are times when you just want to have everything at once: family, friends, childhood, college years, and the right now all at the same time.

I'd love to be back in East Lyme just for a little bit the way I like to remember it: long drives and chats with Mark like they used to be, just walking next door to goof off with Mike like I've done since I was four years old, grabbin' a DD's with Dave, "mastering" pool in Todd's basement, harassing Andrew (all with love, Andrew, all with love :o) ), etc etc. I miss Holy Cross, and how within five minutes I could go from hanging out in my apartment to surrounding myself with so many people that I love as though I'd known them all my life.

But times change and people move on... and I'm not bitter because frankly, I'm no exception. High school graduation sends us off to our respective schools. We move on, change friends, become more independent. We really start to become who we will be. Four year fly by, and then college graduation is followed by moves to California, New York, Boston, Florida, South Carolina, Washington D.C., etc. Other cities, other states, other countries. And the cycle starts again. New lives, new friends, new careers, new goals. But despite how much you may love and are excited and proud of your new life, you always think back to how things used to be... and you miss it just a bit.

I'm in Spain! I mean, hello... I'm living a dream and I consider myself ridiculously lucky. I absolutely love where and who I am and what I'm doing. And I do have new friends who are fantastic, and caring, and FUN...and I can't imagine having never met them. My life is completely different from anything it's been before... which is what I wanted. What I needed. But when you decide to head far away to, for example, Spain, you realize that you're leaving everything you love behind for something unknown. Your parents, your friends, your favorite ice cream place, your beach, your favorite driving routes. You know you're going to miss get-togethers of friends and family, parties, funny moments that normally you would have been present for.

And you know that you can't drive home in an hour. Or take a random weekend trip to Boston to visit your pals. And you deal with it because you know that you're doing what you want to do with your one precious life, be it selfish or not. But at the same time you realize that if something were to happen at home to a friend, to a family member, or even to your dog, that you can't just hop in the car, take a drive, and offer a long hug or some reassuring words. And you and them understand that you'd be there to support them if you could... and it hurts you to know that someone you care about is far away hurting so badly and there's nothing you can do to help. But the important thing is knowing that between friends, whenever something happens, the love and support is there... even if you can't physically give that hug that you so desperately want to offer.

I love you Corinne.. you're in my prayers.

"them"

You know who they are and you know you're annoyed by them too. If you ARE one of them, stop. You've rolled your eyes at them, perhaps you've been caught making a face. Natural habitat: front and center. Temperment: over anxious. Communication habits: Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. Favorite exercise: hand-raising.
The 'over-nodders,' as I so fondly call them, exist in almost every type of class and appear to increase in numbers as we move up the chain from high school to graduate school. They tend to congregate in classes with a cultural subject matter: namely literature and art. Oh dear God, the art class nodders. Perhaps the most offensive of the species. Oh you know who I'm talking about. The professor is talking about a piece of art: a painting, a building, the form of an arch. He knows what he's talking about, he's not looking for any form of affirmation. He doesn't need it. He has a doctorate. He has a job. He's your superior. He's studied this stuff for years and there's a pretty good chance that he's written a book.
But there they are, nodding in that "Oh yes yes of course, I knew that already" way. Nodding so much that I'm surprised they don't have neck or dizziness problems. At times the nod is so exagerated that the chest practically interferes with the motion. Said nods are frequently accompanied by a strategically placed "mm-hmm, mm-hmm" (up to 5 mm-hmms at any given time) uttered just a little bit too loud as to assure that everyone else knows that they know what the professor is talking about. Now I know this is hard to take, but "everyone else" doesn't care if you know or not. Your nodding does not make you appear smarter. And your nodding head is really quite irritating for people sitting in back of you trying to look at the projected slides. I know that I, at least, don't feel like synchronizing head motions with you in order to avoid seeing your bobbing dome piece in the middle of a barroque church.
So here's to you, over-anxious head nodders. Because if I were to lose a bobble-head doll, I could throw a Red Sox hat or a hula skirt on you and stick you on my dashboard.

dumb and dumberer

There was a time, long ago, when I was actually quite proficient at the English language. In fact, in an ironic twist, the original plan as an entering freshman at Holy Cross was to wait one semester and then declare an English major. Obviously, things ended up heading down an alternative path and a different language was to dominate my four collegiate years: espanol!

Over the years, I had acquired a decent vocabulary that I had been building up since learning to speak. I was a good writer and a decent speaker. I spent my childhood writing and illustrating stories (Stephanie Casey and I were co-authors of a pretty impressive collection... I believe she'd agree) and reading freakish amounts of books. During (I almost wrote durante) the years of good ole Flanders Elementary, I found sick pleasure in vocab quizzes. Scrabble was and remains a favorite. My dad instilled in me an obsession with crossword puzzles... I do two a day and I'll admit it, I'm damn good at them. I actually ENJOYED writing college application essays. I am one of those people who would take writing a paper over taking an exam any day. I love sitting down with a good book. I appreciate intelligence in a person and an ability to express oneself in a somewhat articulate manner.

This last sentence officially now makes me a hypocrite. Why? Because I can no longer speak English. The language I was brought up with. The mother tongue. The language of my forefathers (well, aside from the ones speaking Gaelic and German anyway...). I officially now sound like a blundering idiot. Short, simple, choppy sentences completely lacking in segues and any form of fluidity. Single syllable words. Basic grammar that I can't screw up. The Middlebury program, for anyone who I haven't told, has a rule (we had to sign a pledge) which states that we have to speak Spanish 24/7 since day 1. Because of said pledge, us Middleburyanos instinctively speak Spanish with each other when we're in class, when we run into each other in the street, when we go out. In fact, I pretty much don't know how anyone in the program outside of our little pandilla sounds in English. So, for example: I live with two other girls in the program, and we speak exclusively in Spanish (well, except for when English is necessary to make a story actually funny so the other two don't have to fake a laugh). We eat in Spanish. We go out drinking in Spanish. We clean in Spanish. Susan whines in Spanish. Joanne has her rumbos in Spanish. I bask in my aura of perfection in Spanish.

My language issues started over the summer during the 6 infernal weeks in the Middlebury gulag. Upon our arrival, we signed the "pledge," and by doing so we signed away our rights to speak English for six weeks. After four weeks, BernBern (alias: Mom) came up to visit and I found myself having serious problems to the comedic delight of my mother (almost wrote madre). I found myself speaking in Spanglish... INVOLUNTARILY... randomly throwing in Spanish without realizing it while trying to maintain a conversation in English. Mom thinks its funny and laughter ensues (hers). Betsey thinks she's losing it. She thinks to herself, who else can't distinguish between one personality and the other? Oh, right.... I believe they are a called schizophrenics and are often found in institutions... and no I don't mean Middlebury College.

Now that I'm livin la vida loca (oh Ricky Martin, how your words speak to my soul..) in Madrid, it has gotten progressively worse. The no English rule is obviously the key to the success of this program and I see the value of it all and know that it must be helping my Spanish. However, it is slowly killing my English. How will I interview for jobs? (Ugh, that word just made me throw up a little in my mouth.) I have it figured out now that instead of being good at one language and at a "language in progress" level with another, I'm now just plain dumb in both. I speak English like, once a week when Bern-Bern calls. And here are some self-observations. I have been known to say things like "I have thirst" instead of "I'm thirsty" because I'm thinking in Spanish grammar. My very first word as an adorable, loveable, perfect, chubby baby was "doggie"... but now when I see a dog I automatically think "perrito!" And I am embarrassed to admit that the other day I spelled "shoe" as "s-h-o-o" and spent a good two minutes debating about whether it looked right or wrong. I mean, wow.

Finally, the most disturbing and confusing of the habits that I've picked up is that when speaking in English, I have somehow acquired a "hick" accent. HICK. Like hay hanging out of my mouth, dirty bare feet, double first names, and confederate flag in the window of my '78 pickup hick. I don't know why or how I ended up with this red neck affliction, but Joanne also appears to be showing signs. I'm starting to picture myself in overalls living with Jim-Bob and Jethro in a trailor park in the Tennessee boonies with a bun in the oven saying things like "Come on Pa, go on and git that there fiddle of yours, we's gonna have us a hoe-down!"