Yo, mono libre

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

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

Monday at Friday's

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

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

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

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

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

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













Joanne and I, two years ago and this year.

411

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


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

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

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

I almost went to school to become a pilot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Susan has gotten me addicted to celebrity gossip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My alcohol tolerance is through the roof yo!

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

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

I live the torturous life of an insomniac.

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

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

I'm a crossword puzzle goddess.

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

I often have random urges to do hand-stands.

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

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

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



Real mature, Bets. Reeeeeeeeeal mature.

from my mental list of observations

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

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

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

Carenco

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

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

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

betsey's gone a little goosy upstairs

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

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

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

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

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

Providence

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





















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

post-Christmas reflections

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

my little sister

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

Funniness:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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