as requested..

conversation on Friday afternoon (today):
"So... should we plan to pick you up on Monday in Boston or no?"
"Um.. no? No."




Perhaps (ok, ok... it's a fact and I'm really sorry for ignoring you all for the past month) you've all been wondering what I'm doing with myself... so here is a straight up update which hopefully will contain some of the answers to the questions that I've been avoiding like a hypochondriac confronted with the bubonic plague.

First off, on my esteemed and extensive resume which is currently being viciously clawed over by top-notch employers (hahahahahahahahaha- that's a lie), I'm officially Elizabeth Mattern, M.A. Some may say that getting your Masters in your desired field of study makes you an intellectual. My family is proud of me. I got toasted at Christmas dinner by my uncle. I'm a hell of a lot broker (I owe the government more money than what my life is worth). All signs point to the fact that I've intellectually bettered myself. I tend to disagree. I'm still an idiot who does handstands instead of discussing Nietzsche. I would rather talk about the difficulty of finding the ever elusive blue bag of tropical Skittles than discuss politics. In my case (and in the case of approximately 60% of the people in this program) I think that M.A. stands for mediocre academic... but hey... on paper I look smarter. So... go me. Pop open some fine bubbly.

So this then leads to the question, what next? This has been a fun month... if you replace 'fun' with 'the most stressful'. I think we can all agree on just how indecisive I am (I like to call it 'easy-going', but hey... to each his own, right?). It's one of my most recognizable qualities. This is all fine and good until something important comes up... cough cough... such as life decisions. The first big one which very nearly caused me my first nervous breakdown was choosing a college. I prayed that four of my five college choices to reject me just so my options would be limited to one. Needless to say, the universe uttered a 'mwa-ha-ha' as he rubbed his hands together in evil delight as all five accepted me... and I spent the next 3 weeks in an infernal college limbo. So you can only imagine how I've been for the past month... I'm talking exponentially increasing levels of anxiety with each passing day, not helped by my natural instinct to internalize everything. And not to mention the added stress caused by the onslaught of questions from well-intentioned and rightfully curious friends and family everytime I connected to instant messenger, opened my email inbox, or picked up the phone. Because in the end, having finished the one and a half year cross-puddle Masters program, I was faced with what the hell I was going to do... and where... from this point on. Do I return to the U.S, to my family, to my oldest friends, to my comfort zone... or stay on in Spain... an ocean away from all that, a place where I have far less options and far higher degree of insecurity, but where I just have this feeling that makes me want to stay.

I opted for Jack Frost's legendary road less travelled, I guess. I pretty much decided a few weeks ago that I want to at least try my luck here. So, I tried to put into motion the changing of my flight. I have always been in love with British Airways. I like their little travel packs (toothbrush, toothpaste, socks, etc) that they provide, I like their free wine, I like their ticket prices, I like their easy to navigate website, I like their seats, I like their individual TV screens and the 20 channels to pick from, I like that they bumped me to business class that time, I like that they have given me food vouchers and a seat on the next flight out all of the 20482949230 times I've missed my connections, and I even really enjoy my in-flight meals. I'm perhaps even what one would call a British Airways snob... but hey, I feel that when you make a habit of taking eight-hour flights you're entitled. For British Airways, I even let the auditory torture that is the British accent slide. This is until over the course of the past couple of weeks we were repeatedly told "This is not a changeable ticket... there's nothing you can do." Bloody Red-coats.

'Well, there goes that idea,' I thought to myself. Faced with being forced to go back and not knowing how to handle that, I started stressing out... both of my parents had to deal with phone calls with me as I went through moments of what I call 'girlie emotions.' I (and I think the rest of my family is with me on this one) usually leave this delicate area of sentiments to my sister, who is the personification of said 'girlie emotions.' I love her dearly, but the girl cries watching sappy commercials and Lifetime movies. On the other hand, I don't think my parents know how to handle me when I get like that... because these moments are few and far between. I'm known as 'even-keel Betsey' for a reason. However, they are probably simultaneously relieved to have evidence that I am capable of human emotions and that there isn't a cold, cobweb-infested, black hole where a heart should be. (I promise that I'm not evil or emotionless... just an introvert)

The only option at this point was to simply 'miss' my flight and buy another one later on... an option that I hadn't considered until I talked to my dad. He made it all sound so simple... said not to stress out about it- it wasn't the end of the world... if I have to miss the flight I miss the flight and that's that. I was not expecting that reaction of either my parents. So then, of course, I was even more confused, indecisive, and racked with guilt. If I miss the flight, the ticket money goes to waste. I felt like doing that would make me that bratty, self-centered, spoiled, 'I don't wanna' type of person that I can't stand who just does what she wants despite the consequences. On the other hand, I don't think that I would have been humanly capable of boarding a plane come early Monday. So, here is the hypothetical plan as of now. I stay here until roughly the end of July. The first week of August I go to Maryland where my step-dad's family gets together every summer and hopefully to see my favorite soft-crab-sandwich-eating Maryland-er (Nell). Then, my dad has in theory changed the date of his five year anniversary of being cancer-free party from June to the second week... which I had originally been upset about missing. Following that, I either come back to Spain to work depending on how things go between now and July, or I stay in the U.S. But this is all two months away and at least for today I'm leaving it for 'future-Betsey' to figure out.

For now, all that matters is that on Monday morning at 7am, some relieved person on stand-by will board the plane and sit in my seat. And as that person is landing in London, I'll be waking up to another day of Spanish sunshine.

monkeys and fishies

I think we all remember that stunning poster for 'Yo, mono libre' featuring my favorite suited human-monkey back awhile ago. Well now, in that very same theater, we have a play about fish-babies. Or something. What is with this theater's obsession with cross-breeding for their posters???

whacking balls (this isn't x-rated, I swear)

When the nice weather comes, the Betsey wants to play. It’s just nature. She sees the sunshine and feels the warm air and she wants to be six years old again so that if she were to decide to do a few cartwheels of joy, people wouldn’t look at her with that look of pity that makes obvious the fact that they think she rode the little bus to school everyday. Coincidentally, I also receive this look when someone stops me for directions or to try to sell me a new cell phone plan or to get me to donate to the wildlife federation or whatever those people with the panda bear vests are from. I reply, the American accent is noted, and the ‘look’ with the accompanying exaggeratedly slow nod ensues. The one that says, “Ohhhh I see… you’re Ameeeeerican… that’s shame… I’ll ask elsewhere....”

Anyways. Every year, when springtime really comes around, I want to play sports. And by springtime I mean after those few teaser days in like February that are freakishly warm and that fill us with false hope before giving us the finger, throwing us down a flight of stairs, and plummeting us all back into tundra-like conditions. The weather right now (70’s, sunny, delightful little white puffy clouds…) makes me think of softball games and tennis matches. Unfortunately, it’s a little difficult to start up a quick game of softball/baseball/whiffle-ball for obvious reasons of participation. This is where tennis becomes really useful: you only need one other person and usually you can find that willing volunteer without too much difficulty. However, my tennis racket, if it hasn’t since been stolen by my brother during my cross-seas absence, is at home in my room, lonely and unplayed with since last summer. Wow. I almost just made myself feel guilty for neglecting it…

So I tried running. Like, hmm maybe I’ll learn to enjoy running, thinking that perhaps it’s an acquired taste. Like beer. When you sneak that first sip from your parents' beer when you're like 10 years old, you gag and spit as if you had accidentally swallowed sewage and then go clamoring frantically like a drug addict through the fridge in search of a grape juicebox to erase the taste of that fermented beverage from hell. And then, magically, by the time you're 18 that same devil drink quenches your thirst and delights your pallate. I keep thinking the same phenomenon may someday happen with running. I’ve tried this a few times… to get to the point where running is enjoyable. But no. I will never ever ever be one of those people who enjoy a good 5 mile run to start my day. I will also never be one of those people who go running to work off stress. In fact, it makes me MORE stressed because halfway into the run I’ll be yelling at myself. For example: “You KNOW Betsey, this would be a lot easier if you had some self-control and RATIONED that box of Girl Scout cookies instead of eating them all in two days.” When I’m stressed, I don't need to run around in cirlces. I need to HIT things. (Dear friends and family, don’t worry… this doesn’t include people… at least not usually…) In fact, the sports I like are the ones where hitting stuff is the key part of the game. Softball/ baseball (hit ball)… tennis (hit ball)… rugby (hit people and break their legs)… and the reason I stopped playing golf was because it has one fun part and the rest is crap. Like come on… I only get to slam the ball 18 times and then do the boring stuff at least twice that many times? I think not. Although driving the golf cart is unexpectedly fun, you can just leave me on the driving range. It’s the only part thats worth it.

So now there’s a new sport in my life. It’s a little thang called padel/paddle, which I like to think of as a cross between tennis and glorified ping pong. Smaller court, a wall which I will never be able to properly use to my advantage, tennis ball, and this crazy paddle-racket thing with holes in it. We’ve had a few rough patches, this game and I… for example, being completely confused the first day, getting used to the shorter length of the paddle when I’m used to the length of a tennis racket (there were a lot of whiffs that first day… and Angel, Alfonso, and Salva were probably rolling their eyes non-stop during this attempt to teach me to play), and then the other day I actually whacked myself in the forehead with the paddle, an ace move which luckily went unnoticed, along with the fact that I was running around with one eye closed for a few minutes until the pain dulled, by the same three people. For anyone who was worried, the egg that it left is almost gone.

So, I actually really like playing now, I once again get to run around and hit stuff, and all is well in the world.

God changed his mind... and he's God, so I can't contest that...

I'm not what one would call 'difficult' to please. In fact, I'm pretty much content, and even full out happy, doing anything. Unless it involves flocks of large birds. Or anything that Martha Stewart would consider to be one of the ingredients in her recipe for sheer joy. This of course includes cooking... cleaning... sewing... decorating (time-out, unless it's a cake- because hey, who DOESN'T like those packaged sugar letters that spell out Happy Birthday...) I'm pretty sure that I was one of those young'ns who was ten times more entertained by the cardboard box than by the toy within. In fact, my favorite childhood item, and the subject of many days of sorrow when it mysteriously 'disappeared' that fateful day when I was about ten years old, was one of my dad's old t-shirts which I kept with me at all times... while I sucked my thumb. People in the supermarket must have frowned upon my poor parents, who by the way spoiled their first-born with Cabbage Patch dolls, Glo-Worms, and bicycles, upon seeing my adorable but silent four year old self carrying around a hideous, mustard-yellow t-shirt and treating it with the care and protection that would befit the Holy Grail... not a ratty piece of Dad's old clothes that was probably otherwise destined to be a rag used to clean the car's oil stick. But I was beyond happy with it in my hands.

Not much has changed since then. Although I have since abandoned my thumb-sucking habit, and the t-shirt fixation ended much to my dismay, there's still not a whole lot of upkeep necessary in regards to making me a happy gal. I mean, I'm 23 going on 8 years old... I roped Angel and Alfonso into going to the zoo with me the other day because I wanted to see monkeys and dolphins, I have spent up to an hour straight popping bubble wrap, and I'm not embarassed to say that I still enjoy a good handstand when nobody's watching (warning: close your shades if you're going to practice this childhood art in, say, your dorm room, because all of a sudden you will look across to the neighboring dorm building to find that half of its inhabitants are staring at you with raised eyebrows. Needless to say, you will then see these people in line at the dining hall and/or next to you on the ellypticals at the gym). The fact that I'm easy to please and beyond content doing anything as long as it's with people I like perhaps helps to explain what many classify as my chronic indecisiveness.

Moving along these same lines, one of the things that makes me most happy in this world is going out to eat... particularly for breakfast, and if given the choice, at the Shack in East Lyme. I mean, there's not a whole lot that would classify it as the thrilling experience I find it to be, and yet 8 dollars for a cup o' coffee, a big ole orange juice, and of course eggs, toast, and homefries, makes this Betsey a happy Betsey. Unfortunately, while the breakfast situation outlined above will forever be a favorite of mine, it is losing ground to a new foreign enemy: sunny Spanish afternoons spent sitting in street cafes with my ever-refreshing carbonated friend Coca-Cola light. I mean, it's the ideal situation, and the great thing about Madrid and Spain in general is that they all understand the wondrous wonderful wonderfulness of it... and therefore its practice is widespread and celebrated. If only us Americans would catch on to the street cafe lifestyle. It's THE equation for a glorious and yet relaxing afternoon: sit+sun+sip+stalk strangers. The only thing marginally close that I can think of near East Lyme is Charley's Restaurant at the mall, which now offers outdoor seating with a splendid view of... yes folks, the mall parking lot.

So, America, get with the program. Make your lives just that much more enjoyable.