50 "who the hell cares!" B.Matt Trivia Tid-Bits

1. In pre-school I ate paste because it smelled minty. I ended up being sent home from school with a sore throat.

2. I am an introvert par excellence.

3. My sister, at the ripe old age of 8, proclaimed me in one of her "angry letters" to be "Miss Sarcastic of the Year." Where's my sash?

4. I spent a year - 8th grade - looking like a lumberjack. A male lumberjack, that is.

5. I went to college as an English major and graduated as a Spanish major.

6. My first boyfriend was Chris Pressler in the third AND fourth grades. It was an elementary school love match like no other. I got him a race car calendar for Christmas. Vroooom.

7. The words panty, wound and fester make me cringe.

8. I was good at sports growing up... except basketball, at which I was quite terrible. There are plenty of basketball anecdotes which I will not go into. We'll leave it at that I got more than a couple of confused looks from referees.

9. I'll never be too old to sip from juiceboxes... even though I have to drink 2 at a time to quench my AM OJ-craving.

10. I think that the French language sounds like spoken vomit... but I am thinking about learning it anyway.

11. My mom is a surprisingly talented beer pong player... even when she insists on playing with flavored wine coolers. Moms are cute like that.

12. Stephanie Casey and I used to have sleepovers to write - and illustrate - marvelous stories together.

13. I have a lot of strange and borderline OCD habits that nobody has known about until riiiiight now. Examples:
A) If I accidentally kick my left ankle with my right foot while walking, I repeat it the other way around to even things out... even though it hurts.
B) When in the car, I lightly squeeze a muscle or tap a toe inside my shoe everytime a light pole is passed. I have done this for as long as I can remember.
C) I constantly imagine ridiculous scenarios... such as if I were threatened with death unless I could remember how to play a certain piano song from memory, would I be able to?

14. I think too much and talk too little.

15. I grew up wanting to be a pilot. I took flying lessons and loved it... yet eventually turned down the acceptance into flight school.

16. I once pulled my brother's arm out of its socket because he wouldn't help clean up the Hungry Hippos game. Poor li'l tyke.

17. My parents named me Elizabeth even though they 100% planned on calling me Betsey. Why not just name me Betsey? Family mystery!

18. Driving a standard car is way more fun than driving an automatic. I don't think I'll ever be able to go back.

19. I sometimes worry about the fact that I don't worry about my lack of professional ambition.

20 I am deathly afraid of knives, paper cuts in the eye, doctors, being judged, driving off a bridge into water while sitting in the back seat of a two-door car, and birds (the ones that walk, not so much the little hopping ones). Luckily I have, since my childhood, overcome my fears of actually looking like a girl.

21. My favorite childhood activity was playing football with the neighborhood boys. I would pounce on Mike Walker's back trying to tackle him.

22. My dad knows me too well. I am essentially the younger, female, and non-Republican version of him :o)

23. As a child, my little sister used to eat dog food. For some reason I think I also recall her munching on newspaper once or twice. Good times at the Mattern household.

24. I am allergic to cats. It took going to Florida and staying with a friend's aunt to figure it out... she had 8 furry felines. I considered going to the hospital to see if I was dying from pneumonia.

25. I worry too much and take things too personally.

26. At Cliff Orvedal's Halloween party, I accidentally swallowed 2 feet of fake hair when a clump of my witch wig stuck to my cupcake frosting in the very last pre-bite moment. Mrs. Orvedal had to yank it out. I have had an aversion towards spaghetti noodles ever since.

27. My favorite movie of all time is and always will be the Little Mermaid. I can't help it... it's beyond my control. We got no troubles, life is the bubbles!

28. I was the ONLY student in my high school Culinary Arts class who did not receive an A+. I attribute this to one or both of the following reasons: A) possibly because I added 3 tablespoons of pepper instead of 3 teaspoons to my final project, resulting in a rather piquant New England clam chowder, or B) possibly because the teacher was my basketball coach. See #8.

29. I now get carsick due to my lack of car travel in Spain. On the way to JFK airport after Christmas my dad had to pull over so I could switch into the front seat.

30. My sister and I hated each other until I was 18 and she was 15, and my brother and I engaged in physical fights until I was in college.

31. I don't particularly like boats. I was on one when it caught fire.

32. I really want to go skydiving.

33. I despise the following instant messenger tendencies

• IM lingo (LOL, LMAO, TTYL, etc., etc.).
• when people put the humping hearts, i.e. <333,>
• when, again in their profiles, people randomly AND OBSESSIVELY change their fonts FOR NO APPARENT r.E.a.S.o.N.
  

34. I have never sucked an entire lollipop. I bite them as soon as my teeth will let me.

35. I am physically incapable of burping. Mark always said that he was going to feed me Alca-Seltzer pills to see if I'd explode. Apparently that's what happens to seagulls.

36. My first memory is going with my dad to buy a swingset. I was two and remember thinking it was the longest ride ever. I later found out it was a whopping 45 minutes, if that.

37. My favorite number to write is 4, and my favorite letter to write is a lowercase cursive z. I do a mental fist pump each time I get to the z while signing my name.

38. I can't watch surfing because those waves scare the begeezus out of me.

39. Scary movies really do give me nightmares.

40. I can entertain myself for a remarkably long time with a wad of bubble-wrap. My mom gets mad at me for popping all the bubble-wrap that protects our Christmas ornaments.

41. I love aquariums and zoos. There's just something about poo-flinging monkeys and dolphins jumping through hula-hoops that I can't get enough of.

42. I believe both in ghosts and in extraterrestrial life. E.T. WHADDUPPP

43. I am cluttered and mildly scatterbrained by nature. When things are organized I can't ever find anything I'm looking for.

44. I like art.

45. I abhor deep political or philosophical discussions, as the people who want to have them are generally pretentious and love to hear themselves talk.

46. My college roommate and I once went on the South Beach Diet. After a week and a half we threw the idea out and celebrated with a Costco-sized bag of Doritos. It was glorious.

47. I love Muppets marathons, especially the Swedish Chef skits. Bork! Bork! Bork!

48. I'm strangely glad my parents got divorced. I can't imagine my life without the additional family members that came out of it. Plus, two Thanksgiving food comas and two Christmases! I kid, I kid..

49. I dislike uncomfortable shoes, popped collars, small talk, bad grammar, decisions, and loud/open-mouthed chewers

50. I like banana bread, dirty jokes, socks, seeing new places, writing, celebrity gossip, going out for breakfast, cheesy pick-up lines, being immature, and opening brand-new tennis ball cannisters.

being pensive

When I set off to study abroad in Sevilla three years ago, I decided to really buckle down and make a conscious decision to start a journal... and to not succumb to my characteristic laziness. Surprisingly enough, I actually managed to write in it at least once a week... and I'm glad I did. I like to sit down and relive almost getting stranded on a Greek island, spending my first 4 days in Spain with no luggage (it was sitting on a trolley in an airplane hangar at the La Coruña Airport), fending off Spanish suitors and a slew of random and documented communicative issues, such as telling my Spanish mom that there was no more soup in the shower (oh come on now, which one looks more like the word for soap: sopa or jabón?)

Last year, when it came time for round two in Spain - this time in Madrid - I hopped on the technology train and decided to replace pen and paper with a blog. In its conception, good ole Bepsi Cola was meant to serve as a journal-esque type of chronicle which would allow my friends and family to keep abreast of the happenings in the life of the international superstar that I am... and also to quelch any worries that I may have fallen in with the wrong crowd and - to feed my crack habit - was making a living turning tricks on the corner.

However, the whole "journal" idea lasted approximately 2.2 seconds. Why? Because living in Spain for the second time was never really about brand-new, ground-breaking experiences. The first year was all about visiting Europe for the first time, seeing my first "real" cathedral, grimacing at my first bullfight, experiencing my first European soccer game, trying new food (never one of my fortes in the past... when I was 14 it took my dad 40 minutes to get me to taste manicotti), living far from home, integrating into a family of strangers... not to mention the whole language thing.

The second - and now the third- year in Spain has pretty much morphed into a life of the typical day-to-day "stuff" that I knew in the US. Everything that makes life what it is - inside jokes, workplace grumblings, relationships, friendships, bad moods, favorite restaurants, playing sports, grocery shopping - is the same, it's all simply transcurring on a different geographical pinpoint on the globe.

My "new" experiences are things that, frankly, excite only me and aren't necessarily worth of describing it for friends and family: discovering a new favorite candy (the red ones with the white stuff inside) or yogurt (Vitalínea, peach-flavored), following work-out vernacular at the gym's spinning class, or finding out the Spanish equivalent of something completely random and not academic (a "butter face" in English, i.e. a girl who is hot and attractive everywhere but-her-face, is apparently called a "shrimp" in Spanish, because you eat everything but the head).

Somewhere along the way, Spain stopped being a visit. Instead, it's just turned into finding a niche for myself in which I can thrive, be comfortable, be happy and see that happiness enduring. There is no ultimatum in the foreseeable future at which it will all end... no bought plane ticket with a set date and time printed on it... no "next semester" to get back for. I can do whatever the hell I want, and that is - for lack of a more eloquent expression - pretty damn rad.

randomness

Today I left for work for the second day in a row without a jacket... and I left the gym this evening in my shorts. It was glorious. Hoping that this trend continues, I am almost ready to bid the seasonal adieu to coats, sweaters, winter blues, hot chocolate and being a hermit. So here's a little ode to spring and everything I like about it.

Blah blah blah the whole rejuvenation of nature spiel... flowers blooming, trees budding, birdies chirping and the rest of the accompanying cliché classics.

Visitors! Friends, sisters, BernBerns and cousins have sangria-induced Spanish shenanigans pencilled into their calendars.

Sidewalk cafés! In an age when international fast food chains are trying to gobble up the "cute café" culture anywhere they can, Spain's little outdoor cafés and bars comprise what is - without a doubt - one of its best assets. In fact, I put it on the totally unbiased "Spain Top 10" in my Spain guide (What Spain for all 2 of you who are interested)

Walks! As enjoyable as speed walking through the streets hoping that, in the process, the friction between your various out-of-shape body parts will stir up some additional body heat, strolling leisurely about in nice weather is always a more pleasant alternative for all involved.

Spring ahead! The sacrificed hour of sleep is every bit worth the additional daylight hours during which one might enjoy the aforementioned sidewalk cafés and leisurely strolls.

Lunch! Gone will be the days of eating at my desk. Facebook stalking and catching up on my celebrity gossip blogs will have to wait for the post-work hours, as they are soon to be replaced with dining al fresco- i.e. saran-wrapped sandwich from home on a park bench.

Ice cream! Last week, two coworkers and I played hooky for 15 minutes to partake in the inaugural "first ice cream of the season." We also raised up our plastic spoons and merrily toasted to many more to come... or at least I did.

Open windows! In houses, in cars... everywhere! The breezes are light, the air is fresh and, providing those pesky allergies aren't attacking like merciless kamikazes, there's nothing that says "spring time" quite like your arm hanging out a rolled down window.

give me presents!!!

Despite my overall indifference towards the day's "hip" fashion trends (leggings under skirts, boots over skinny jeans, anything that isn't the timeless combination of jeans and solid-colored cotton shirts...), I do enjoy perusing the pages of a fashion magazine from time to time. However, due to the lack of a pre-paid, home-delivery subscription, I am faced each month with the oh-so-daunting task of choosing but one glossy cover of the bunch.

Cosmo, In Style, Vogue, Glamour... the options are unlimited. Yet when it comes down to it, all "girl" magazines are just carbon copies of each other in that they essentially boil down to the following key elements:

• How to tone your (insert flabby body part) in just 6 days
  
  
• Cheesy monthly horoscopes, complete with lucky days your best astrological love match of the month
  

• How to make him (insert beg for more, commit, horny, say I love you, leave you the hell alone, etc.)
  
  
• (Insert number) easy do-it-yourself hair styles
  

• Fashion must-haves for (insert season and year) for (insert number) dollars or less

• Edgy photo shoot and accompanying interview with (insert celebrity) on family, finding inner peace, losing that pesky post-pregnancy weight and her budding relationship with (insert male celebrity/soon to be 4th husband/future 4th ex-husband)

With such a predictable formula, how, how, how can an indecisive gal like myself choose amongst the array of identical publications? The common go-to routine is to thumb through the whole magazine to see if it's got anything good; however, by the end you realize that you've seen the whole thing and buying the magazine would therefore be a complete waste of a perfectly good four bucks. You put the magazine back on the shelf, avoid the glaring eyes of the cashier and walk back out the door. Nobody wins.

Incentives, folks. I need incentives. I am indecisive but I have a lonely five dollar bill in my pocket. Sway me. Entice me. Seduce me.

It would seem that the current brains behind today's Spanish marketing campaigns studied together, having come to the collective - albeit obvious - conclusion that the most effective way to lure a customer is by appealing to their affinity for tangible goodies. So while the idea of "incentives" was made quite clear during their years of study, you can tell which former marketing students were the stars of their class (buy a newspaper, get a classic Muzzy video) and which ones barely passed (buy a tub of butter, get an English dictionary).

As for magazines, I would bet money that the real ace marketing students can now be found as campaign managers in fashion magazines. Why? Because instead of looking at magazine covers or giving them the ole thumb-through, I am easily sold to whoever is giving me the best free gift. And it's not a "send away for a free gift" or "log on to our website and enter this code and enter in the drawing for a free gift and maybe you'll win in six to eight weeks." No, no, no.

I'm talking gift-in-hand when I walk out the door. I've seen sandals, pj pants, t-shirts, scarves, beach cover ups, jewelry... fashion magazines totally put effort into their gift-giving. InStyle, the king pin of purses and bags, has proven to be a Betsey front-runner, and I have absolutely no problem admitting that my favorite bathing suit is a one-size-fits-all that came free last summer with an issue of Vogue.

Keep 'em coming!

blub-blub

Madrid Photo of the Day. Enjoy.


... because nothing says come dine at our restaurant like a giant fish puking up equally an equally giant crustacean.

Potsdam at the ATM

Now we have all - and by "all" I mean all of us who have studied abroad during their undergraduate college career - had those "I just don't understand why" days where the ATM sticks out its tongue and flicks you off when you go to withdraw your meager funds. Those days that leave you lamenting the fact that ATM's only shoot out 20's and 50's instead of 10's, thus deaming the remaining $19.02 (oooh so close!) in your account utterly useless and unattainable. Those days where you have to break down and beg your parents for a bit of funding. And while those days are not fun, we can all relate... or at least find it in our hearts to sympathize.

However. There is an unfortunate character that often pops up at the ATM, generally just when you happen to be in a hurry. The ATM negotiator.

You know you're dealing with an ATM negotiator when, as you stand behind them feigning patience, they constantly look from side to side as to ensure that nobody is lurking in the shadows. Why? Because they are about to head into some lengthy negotiations surpassed only by those of the Potsdam Conference.

You continue to stand behind them, restlessly shifting your weight from foot to foot, squinting impatiently at the back of their heads and contemplating leaving your withdrawal - and that bag of chips you had your hopes up for - for a later time.

They see you standing there, but now along with another 4 people that have lined behind you- all of us tapping our feet with exponentially increasing anxiety. Yet, the negotiator sees it as the most opportune time to carry out as many operations at the ATM as humanly possible... putting money on their phone, checking their bank statement, questioning their bank statement, checking their bank statement again, cancelling the transaction, putting card back in for a new transaction, scratching their head... and then comes the eventual debacle of actually withdrawing funds.

As you watch the negotiations transpire you can almost go so far as to create a dialogue. Or, you're borderline insane like me and you DO create a dialogue...


"Hmm I REALLY want a pair of those black leather dominatrix boots that everyone's wearing on top of their jeans these days. They'd go great with my whip and black leather corset. Hot, hot, hot. Let's take out 100."
...... Machine spits the card out. Machine: 1, Negotiator: 0
"No? 100's no good? Ok how about 80?"
...... Machine spits the card out. Machine: 2, Negotiator: 0
"No? Dang. Well, I guess I could settle with 40."
..... Machine spits the card out. Yawns and looks at its watch. Machine: 3, Negotiator: 0
"(Now with attitude) No? Not 40? Well if you don't give me 20 I'ma gonna cut you and ain't nobody gonna help you!"
...... Machine contemplates the idea. Wavers. Is persuaded. Admits defeat.
"Aha!! Yeah that's what I thought... cough it up biaaaatch." (Insert cash grab, fist pump and victory dance)


...All this for a lousy bag of chips...

deep thoughts on... lettuce

Lettuce is not meant to fly solo.

As I am increasingly anxious for the arrival of sunny spring afternoons and as yesterday's lunchtime temperature was a delightful 63 degrees, a coworker and I ventured to a nearby plaza to dine in style side-by-side on a bench. Despite the abundance of evil pigeons (insert fearful shudder), things were looking up. That is, until I sat down and removed the tupperware lid of my salad, at which time I realized I forgot my salad dressing back in the office refrigerator. Hungry, not wanting to make a scene and much too lazy to walk back, I started in on my dressingless lettuce and tomatoes. It was neither enjoyable nor satisfying.

So let's put this into metaphorical terms: aviation. Lettuce atop a tuna sandwich? Smooth sailing. In a colorful salad topped with dressing? No turbulance here. As a garnish? You are free to move about the cabin. But lettuce flying solo is essentially the culinary equivalent of a flight student sans his seasoned instructor who clearly knows better. Would you want to be a passenger on that flight? I certainly wouldn't!

So to all of you people on the lick-the-lettuce diet, I am totally and unabashedly judging you. To you anorexia-proned individuals who insist with an exaggerated smile that "oh my God I just LOVE the taste of dry lettuce... salad dressing just detracts from the earthy taste of nature" or whatever crap you've brainwashed yourself into believing, I can only say "LIAR!" What do you think you are- a rabbit? Hell, your idea of fine dining is probably grabbing a handful of freshly-raked leaves from the pile in your back yard, maybe even following up the main dish with a good gnaw on a bamboo chute, a la panda bear. De-lic-ious.

So enjoy your bowl of dry leaves and your "favorite" afternoon snack of ice cubes. I'll be lathering my lettuce in this delightful vinaigrette and looking forward to my afternoon snack- my daily chocolate supplement.

do you know the muffin man?

So in keeping with my red light day / green light day theory, please contemplate the following scenario.

I was having about 50-50 luck with stop lights on my morning stroll to work. I pass a young-ish man with a bag of little muffins, or magdalenas, who had dropped a couple on the sidewalk. He picks them back up and, just when I think he was going to throw them out, he unwraps one to eat it anyway. I do a mental shrug, because hey- who am I to criticize adherence to the five-second rule? I continue on my merry way.

The muffin man and I meet once again at a red light (bad sign!), where he proceeds to unwrap another muffin. He pops it in his mouth and, instead of utilizing the garbage can perched a mere 3 inches to his left, he FLINGS the paper muffin wrapper at my face - yes, at my face - and walks off in an angry huff.

I was speechless.

traffic signals

Everybody gets their share of good and bad days thrown at them; but you've got to just grab your bat, stroll up to home plate and prepare to receive your destined hodgepodge of tricky curveballs and easy lobs. By 9:30 am, I already know exactly what kind of pitch is going to be thrown my way. I simply accept and proceed because, as we all know, some days you're the windshield and some days you're unfortunately the flittering bug who doesn't see the 18-wheeler cruising down the highway.

Granted, while a lifetime without bad days certainly doesn't sound all that unattractive, without those "shove you down the stairs then kick you in the gut" days, the good days wouldn't stand out... or even exist, for that matter. Just as there are no heroes without villains and no big without small, there are no good days without their tempermental counterparts. You would be doomed to a life in which your mood never shifts out of "indifference" gear and, while you'd sure as hell cry less, you'd inevitably smile less to. The only smiles would end up being the polite ones you use with the supermarket cashier or when you and the person walking in the opposite direction try to side step each other but you both go left. Genuine smiles would be shoved into the bottom drawer and doomed to a life of fraternizing with useless small-talk, old varsity letters and clothes that don't fit. Life would cruise on autopilot and the world would be pretty damn boring.

So just how is it that, within an hour of being awake, I already know whether it's going to be a good day or a bad one? The answer is: traffic lights.

Each morning, I set out for the uneventful 10-minute trek to work. I take the exact same route, I pass the exact same buildings and even see the exact same people heading to their daily AM destinations. The only thing that varies from morning to morning is my luck with traffic lights. By the time I get to work, there are two possible outcomes, one of which consequently determines the day's tone. I either 1) cruise through all the green lights, or 2) hit every. single. red. light.

A sample green light day
The walk takes 10 minutes- all green lights. The fruit guy tosses you a smile and a free apple. The five hours until lunch fly by, propelled by superhuman productivity. Nobody hassles you. Somebody brings in cookies for their birthday. Your favorite songs pop up on your Ipod. You joke around with coworkers. You find a Reeses Peanut Butter cup that you thought you had already eaten. You go to the gym; all the machines work and the gym is practically empty. If you take the metro, it glides to a stop just as you reach the platform. You get home- someone sent you a letter! A good movie comes on tv. Perez Hilton has written a slew of exciting gossip updates. The sun shines, birds sing, elderly couples hold hands, babies giggle.

A sample red light day
Having been stopped at every red light, the walk takes 15+ minutes. You trip on a cobblestone. You arrive late to work. Your pen runs out of ink. The morning drags its feet like a turtle on downers. Lunch comes around; you realize you left your lunch on the counter at home. Along with your wallet. You scrounge up enough change at the bottom of your bag to purchase a diet coke; it explodes. Your Ipod runs out of juice and you're forced to listen to the radio station replay the same 5 songs. You make it through the day. You go to the gym; your preferred machines are broken and the resulting lines delay workout by 1/2 hour. You lose gym locker key. You spend 10 minutes walking around the gym scouring the floor for a silver glint. You find it, grab your belongings and walk out door. Surprise- unexpected rain storm! You decide to take the metro; you hear it leaving as you pass through the turnstile. The apartment building door won't open. There's no interesting gossip in the celebrity world. Children cry, dogs howl, car alarms go off, Satan chuckles.

lunchtime boredom

1. Where were you an hour ago?
exactly where i am now. the work day doesn't tend to be very mobile, though i do have wheels on my chair

2. Who will be your next kiss?
my reflection in the mirror... then again, if i'm feeling generous i may share the wealth. i love feigning narcissism

[wheres #3?]

4. Are you wearing socks right now?
yes. white ankle socks with my checkered vans slip-on shoes. i am the epitome of european chic

5. When was the last time you went out of the state?
i think the more appropriate question is actually when was the last time i was IN the state

6. Have you been to the movies in the last 5 days?
yes... german movie with spanish subtitles = fun with languages!

7. What was the last thing you had to drink?
coffeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

8. What are you wearing right now?
a very exciting jeans & brown shirt combo. the day that i get a job that requires me to actually wear grown-up clothes, i'm going to be screwed

9. What was your last purchase?
cookies... breakfast of champions

10. Last food you ate?
see #9

11. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone?
miss sarah b

12. Have you bought any clothing items in the last week?
nope... waiting until elaine "shoe fiend" mattern gets here

13. Do you have a pet?
doggies beaux-jangles, lucky & sadie, cat k.c...... & the spirits of dog winston, hamster peanut, fish bob (his name foretold his fate), kitty pumpkin, dog maggie & fish jesus. pets are rad.

14. What's the last sporting event you watched?
alfonso & salva being super-manly and wrestling

15. How much sex have you had in the past week?
gasp! well that's awfully forward of you

16. If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be?
i'd take either a) upon the sandy shores of a caribbean island or b) back in bed. or maybe testing my luck and retail knowledge on The Price is Right. you choose

17. What is the last thing you purchased online?
a "cats that look like hitler" mug for allison. totally worth it.

18. One thing you hate about yourself?
my inability to do the clamshell thing with my tongue. that and maybe excessive laziness and lack of professional ambition... although the latter two don't bother me nearly as much as they should

19. What's your favorite soup?:
progresso chicken noodle all the way. or tomato basil. or cream of broccoli. i want soup.

20. Do you miss anyone?
yes, especially the fam (sniff, sniff)

21. Last play you saw?
well i saw ALL the plays of the first quarter of the superbowl.. do those count?

22. What are your plans for the day?
to change the world... one webpage at a time

23. Ever go to camp?
girl scout camp. but i was an 8 year old insomniac and my best friend started snoring next to me. i couldn't fall asleep, started crying and made my mom come pick me up. laaaaame

25. Were you an honor roll student in school?
of COURSE... those donut breakfasts they gave us after the honor roll "ceremonies(?)" were totally worth not going to physics

26. What do you want to know about the future?
when full meals start coming in pill form, will full exercise regiments come in pill form too?

27. Are you wearing any perfume or cologne?
negative

28. Where are your best friends located?
an ocean away... but mark comes in 3 weeks!!! :o)

29. Do you have a tan?
i think i've had a tan exactly once in my life. i generally glow under a black light

30. How old do you want to be when you have kids?
shudder... gag... shudder... i'm currently gearing up to care for my first Chia Pet-like plant thingee (it's a piggy from Angel's trip to Singapore), so let's just leave it at that

31. Last person who made you cry?
i cried from laughing too hard the other day... at myself for saying some smug smart-ass comment and then turning around and walking directly into a pole.

32. Do you have any tattoos or piercings?
4 piercings and 1 scar

32. Have you ever drank your soda pop from a straw?
i love straws.

33. How do you like your soda pop?
are we really calling it soda pop? am i wearing a poodle skirt?

34. Do you like hot sauce?
"it tastes like burning" -ralph wiggum

35. Next time you'll take a shower?
tonight, after my hypothetical gym sweat fest

37. What is your mood?
meh (indifferent)

38. Are you someone’s best friend?
i like to think so

39.What do you want for valentine's day?
pshhh...the easter bunny is way cooler than cupid

40. What are you doing right now?
eating a salad and wanting more cookies

this just in...

***Update***

So we're getting a second webmaster tomorrow, which is good. But, because it's a girl, my crazy boss - and head webmaster - is referring to her in all seriousness as the "webmastress." The term cracks me up but also makes me feel once again like I'm associating with technologically advanced medieval characters.

my guilty pleasures

-Little Mermaid. Whenever I had a bad day in college, my go-to remedy was to just pop my old school Little Mermaid tape into my old school VCR, nestle into my top bunk and prepare to recite the lines, belt out the songs (off-key, of course) and swoon over that dreamy Prince Eric. Hubba hubba.

-Caffeine. I love it, I need it, I crave it. End of story.

-Chips and fries. Whether crunchy and rippled or golden, crispy and soft, if it's a potato product (deep-fried in a vat of grease, naturally) that I can eat by the handful, then it figures into this list. Actually, if they're mashed I can make a potato volcano and hell- who doesn't like to reenact the destruction of Pompeii with butter lava and a doomed and unsuspecting pile of peas. Mwa ha ha.

-Jeans. Now, this in no way means that I own half a million pairs of jeans. In fact, I own two. However, since I rotate between the same two trusty pairs, I've come to the conclusion over the past year or two that spending a li'l extra for a good brand and a pair that you really like is worth not eating for a week.

-Porn. I don't know how I'd ever get through a whole day without some hard-core, whip-wielding... jusssssst kidding Dad.

-Facebook and MySpace. I like to stalk, and I'm not embarrassed about it. By the way, if you have your MySpace set to private, you're on my shit list. (Insert angry growl)

-Celebrity gossip blogs. Good god, I'm hooked. During college, I scoffed and rolled my eyes at Deana's subscription to Us Weekly and her non-stop chatter about the lives of LA's finest. Today, I could easily get you all up to date on who's dating (Whitney Houston and Brandy's little brother!), who's pregnant (Bridget Moynihan, ex-girlfriend of Patriots hottie Tom Brady, is 3 months preggers with an itty-bitty-Brady... I guess from one last pre-breakup romp in the hay) and who is in rehab (well, the now bald trainwreck otherwise known as Britney Spears was in rehab for less than a day). Don't even get me started with the Anna Nicole debacle.

***update: Brit-Brit is BACK in rehab
***update #2: Brit-Brit checked OUT of rehab again

-Bookstores. Ok, so reading is good for you so I guess there's technically no reason to classify visiting bookstores as a guilty pleasure. Even so, get me into a Barnes & Noble or a Borders and I can easily occupy myself for hours reading book covers... and subsequently doing some pretty serious damage to my bank account. Over Christmas break, I spent well over $100 in books and earned some major points on my Borders rewards card.

-Tom Jones. Cheesy, yes. In love with his own chest hair, definitely. However, nothing puts a smile on my face quite like a little "What's New Pussycat (whoa whoa whoaaaa)" or "Sex Bomb." Plus, without Tom Jones there would be no Carlton dance, and that would be a true television tragedy.

-Chocolate. I'm a girl... it's an inherent part of having two X chromosomes.

-Days of Our Lives. I hate the concept of a soap opera and I hate the idea of obese middle-aged women sitting home in their floral-printed muumuus and completely losing touch with reality by getting way too involved in the lives of fictional characters. Yet whenever I'm home I inevitably gravitate to the tv at that 1:00 mark to find out who on Days of Our Lives has been killed / been kidnapped / had a baby / come back to life / had a scandalous affair / lost their memory / found out that their lover is actually their sister and therefore that their son is actually their own half brother... and so forth and so on.

-Breakfast Club, Dirty Dancing, & Co. The kick-ass music brings you back to your childhood; the characters and storylines make you feel warm and happy inside; and the hair and clothing trends of the 80's make you feel stylish.

The Greatest Show on Earth!

Us Americans know that the beloved comic strip "Family Circus" - about a family with a gaggle of mischievous young'uns - is a permanent fixture in daily newspapers across the United States... and has been for 40 or 50 years.

Well, if they ever want to give the comic strip a modern update, I think my work environment is a virtual jackpot of material. It would be like Family Circus meets The Office. In fact, Rachel, my fellow American text writer, and I have decided that we should set up a slew of cameras throughout the office to capture the daily shenanigans for the enjoyment of the general public.

Now, while the whole "keep it in the family" approach to a business has gone back centuries and while I'm sure there are few things that please a parent more than for his offspring to proudly take the reins and carry the family mattress business into the future, a family-run business can easily take a turn and morph into a full-fledged circus. A full-fledged family circus, that is.

In the case of the company I work for, we are without a doubt referring to the latter category.

First we've got the founder/owner/head honcho (Antonio) who randomly appears in the office - between trips to Ibiza, that is - who goes from department to department exclaiming various matters to be "urgente! urgente!" when it turns out that nothing actually is. Two days ago, for example, he did his "urgente" spiel for a minor adjustment to a newsletter or something. Everyone dropped whatever they were doing, seeing as how it was something of "urgente!" nature. Needless to say, he then didn't send the newsletter out for another two days. Urgente my ass, I say.

Then there's his brother / internet guy / personal bitch (Alejandro) who has crazy techno blasting at full volume whenever his phone rings 8 rooms away. He randomly launches into full sprints, his head tucked down and his arms pumping back and forth like a steam engine, throughout the office while yelling into his phone... often to his parents, who call incessantly for no particular reason, especially considering the fact that he is in his upper 30's and still lives with them. One of my favorite workplace memories thus far is the day his mom called 6 times within one hour and Alejandro refused to pick up. Finally, he picks up the phone for approximately 3.2 seconds and, just before hanging up with a resounding slam, he belted out "I can't talk Mom!"

It was BRILLIANT! (Guinness voice)

Their 400 year old father, who I secretly call Mr Turtle (shh don't tell), wanders through the building looking like a lost kid. He just shuffles around with a random folder or clipboard in his hands, poking his head into rooms and looking around without actually saying hi to any of the people stops to stare at. Meanwhile, their crazy red-caped mother busts into the office out of breath to, for example, spatter the contents of her brand new vial of holy water ("oooh it's from Fátima!!") throughout the office and on to its unsuspecting employees. Throw in a good 8 or 9 thousand squabbling in-laws occupying various executive positions, and voila! Family Circus par excellence.

Whenever Antonio wants us (the lamely-named "E-Team" or just the two of us text writers) to get something "urgente, urgente" done or change something on one of the various websites, he insists on relaying the word through Sandy- my eccentric, scatterbrained French boss and company "Webmasterrrr" who, by the way, speaks neither Spanish nor English to any distinguishable degree. Our weekly meetings are often QUITE interesting. The emails go through Sandy even when Sandy is, for example, in Philadelphia and Antonio is two rooms away from us. Sandy, in turn, then sends us a handful of completely unintelligible emails, which a) confuse everyone and b) force us to ask Antonio what it is he actually wants, thus making the whole cross-Atlantic correspondance between Sandy and Antonio completely pointless.

Yet, the cycle repeats itself again and again. And again. Annnnnd again.

east lyme's main attractions

Aside from my family, friends and menagerie of loveable pets, my absolute favorite thing in East Lyme is essentially little more than an old tree branch.

Clearly I'm not too hard to please. (Let's keep that comment G-rated, mmmkay?)

Sure, I look forward to stopping in for a nibble at my favorite breakfast and lunch niches when I'm in town, but nothing pleases me more than to go out for a drive past... the turtle log. Well, that and maybe a double scoop of Michael's Dairy ice cream with my fellow ice cream-loving Matterns (cough, cough.. you know who you are). It's in the genes.

On the drive from my part of town towards the bustling action of our so-called "down town," you inevitably pass a big ole pond with an old, fallen tree branch that sticks up out of the water. Now this isn't any old hunk of wood. I'm surprised we don't have postcards of it. Then again, maybe we do. It has become an East Lyme landmark, which I'm sure would just thrill Mr Thomas Lee (the Thomas Lee House was built in 1660 and, by East Lyme standards, is a pretty big deal).

On sunny days, this seemingly simple log becomes the hip hang out for a hoard of tiny turtles just lookin for a little low-key fun in the sun. I don't know how many times I've almost driven right into the pond as I "awwww, lookie!" at the little guys with their wee heads poking out of their wee shells.

If East Lyme ever gets rid of the turtle log like they are doing with the Shack (insert solemn moment of silence for my favorite breakfast place), y'all are going to have to deal with one bitter, bitter Betsey.

versión original

When it comes to the cinematic arts, I am a self-proclaimed snob. And I don't mean in the "oh look at me. I wear all black and have funky eyeglasses and speak in monotone and only shop in organic grocery stores and only watch artsy films in independent film theaters " way. No, no, no. I'm way too much of a goof to get myself involved in that world. Plus, I thrive on celebrity gossip and I think that'd be way too mainstream for them.

The jist of it is just that I can't stand dubbed movies. With the exception of cartoons, watching an American movie dubbed into Spanish (or vice versa) is like putting yourself through a multilingual ventriloquism act in which the ventriloquist and his puppet friend never quite seem to be surfing on the same wave. A voiceless mouth moves and then a mouthless voice speaks, but they just can't ever seem to coincide. Everything is a half-beat off, the pubescent voice just doesn't match the beefy actor and, like fat kids at military boot camp, the jokes just don't quite make it over that tricky language barrier.

Needless to say, I insist on going to the theaters that show movies in "versión original," ie in their original language.

However, shouldn't I be more sympathetic to them? Is it hypocritical of me to reject dubbed movies so much if technically I am the personification of one? To the best of my mediocre abilities (I love self deprecation), I dub my words, my jokes and my mannerisms into Spanish, but in the end does my personality really make it across or do I just subconsciously create a new, slightly modified version of me?

Ohhh Elaine...

Disclaimer: My sister is one of my best friends and we get along wonderfully. I lurve her to death and can't wait until she comes to Spain to play. That said, read on.

Growing up, my brother, my sister and I all had what could be defined as "roles" or "personality types." I have always been the mellow sarcastic one, my brother was traditionally the moody-broody one, and my sister has been and always will be the dramatic one.

In the photo is my 20 (or, according to the identification she is carrying at a given time, sometimes 24) year old sister. She looks like an all-American girl straight out of a wholesome small town lifestyle. If you were to create a little profile about her based solely upon first appearances, you'd probably go for the "attractive, intelligent, fun person, nice personality, good sense of humor, all around great person" route. Oh how naive and mistaken you would be...

I find that Elaine's existence can be more or less summed up by a scene from the cinematic gem "Mean Girls," starring Hollywood mess Lindsay Lohan. The referenced scene to which I refer is towards the end when Regina (aka Rachel McAdams) finds out that Lindsay Lohan's "Cady with a C" character had been giving her fattening energy bars instead of diet bars, thus causing her to gain 15 pounds right before the school's annual and highly anticipated Spring Fling dance. Stomping around and wielding a pair of scissors, Regina proceeds to shriek violently for the next five minutes of the film.

For much of my life, I was fully convinced that my sister suffered from a psychological disorder that required heavy medication... possibly to the point of sedation and brain-shock therapy. There was no middle ground with her. Elaine had exactly two modes: she was either asleep (mildly content) or awake (angrily psychotic). She fit the description of bipolarism to a tee, and I remember actually insisting to at least one of my parents that we needed to stage an intervention and get her into some psychological clinic for testing and observation, albeit against her will and despite the inevitable fact that she would try to fight back with her fangs and talons.

Trying to engage in any sort of conversation was like awakening an evil god from a 1,000-year slumber deep in the dark abysses of the underworld. The following are true life examples. If you were both sitting on the couch, and your pinky toe happened to be touching "her side," she'd scream at you. If you told her - after a volleyball game in which her team had won - that she/the team played well, she'd scream at you. If you asked her to grab a napkin from the counter right behind her chair at dinner, she'd scream at you. I once told her she had too much eyeliner on, and she screamed at me. If my mother even made a move that suggested she was going to speak, she'd scream at her. If you asked her if she wanted some of your ice cream sundae, she'd scream at you.

Following such an outburst, most typically while the rest of us attempted to enjoy a nice meal, she'd get angrier with each passing moment until the following sequence of events occurred:

• The following sound, first a deep rumbling in her throat before emerging as a full-blown shriek out of her mouth: "Ahhhghhghghhhrgggiiiiiiahhhhh!!!!"
• She would stomp up to her room, screaming as she went
• She'd slam her door
• She'd open her door again to scream out one more "I HATE YOU! Ahhhghghhhgriiiahhhhh!!!"
• She'd stomp around her room and throw objects against the door.
• She'd blast her "I'm angry" music at top volume.
• She'd plan her next angry letter to us all about how abused and tortured she was.
• She'd emit an assortment of shrieks, growls and other sounds that I assumed to be vocal yet sounded as though a scene straight from the Exorcist was transpiring within the confines of her room.
  

One of the worst possible things you could to yourself do was to end up in a situation that involved you and Elaine in a confined space with no bars, electric wire or other protective precautions separating you from "the beast"... in a car, for example. Once, Elaine's bitch button was switched on (ie she was awake) and started going off on anyone who was fortunate enough to be partaking in that same car ride. Under his breath, my brother muttered "psycho," clearly not a wise decision on his part. Seething with rage and with the vein in her forehead visibly pounding, she replied, in escalating decibal levels, "I.. am not... A...PSYCHO!!!"to which my exasperated brother could only respond "Look at her!" The high-pitched screaming that ensued cracked the windows and there has been an incessant ringing in our ears ever since that specialists have been unable to cure. For obvious reasons, this is one of our most referenced family stories.

For some reason, my mom voluntarily endured the psychological abuse thrown at her by my sister by continuing to go to Elaine's volleyball and lacrosse games. At said athletic events, cheery parents would come up to us - namely up to my mom - just to tell us how much their daughter just loved Elaine. How Elaine was just so gosh-darn nice-helpful-funny-interesting-thoughtful-caring. We'd naturally look behind us to see to whom this smiling parent was actually speaking. Seeing that we were alone and that this parent was indeed talking about Elaine, we'd think dumbfoundedly to ourselves, "her?"

a whole new world

My week just improved by 110%. I took advantage of my lunch break to buy a new pair of headphones for my ipod, and let me tell ya... it's a whole lot easier to ignore everyone at work when the left as well as the right side works. If you could truly grasp the non-stop circus show I deal with in here, you'd understand. Someday I'll write about it, but not when one of the main attractions is sitting right next to me.

my nose is cold

In high school I think I wore a coat twice to school. The 8º temperatures typical of a winter morning in Connecticut were nothing. I'll bet I could have been found each morning scraping ice off of my windshield - normally a 20 minute task - in a mere sweatshirt. During the next phase of my life, spent in Worcester, Massachusetts - legitimately one of the coldest cities of the northeast - I had no problem. Sure, it was damn cold... and windy, snowing and icy... but I'd go out to parties and bars at night just wearing a cardigan.

Things now are a bit different. I go into shiver-mode when the mercury hits 60º. Even 70º often calls for a jacket of some sort. I admit, I have been warped into a warm-temperature creature.

I hate being cold. I used to prefer being cold to being hot, but I think the year I spent in Sevilla completely altered my temperature gauge. I also think that the 20 pounds shed over the past couple of years has deprived me of the extra insulation that once helped to fend of the chilly temperatures. Yes, I just compared myself to a balleen mammal.

This, however, is ridiculous. Imagine the following scenario (and, mind you, this scenario has been repeating itself for the past month or so). I'm at work. It's 12:30 and the heat has yet to come on for the day. I have my knee-length knit winter coat wrapped mummy-style around my legs. I have my sleeves pulled down to my knuckles. I am wearing my scarf. Every few minutes I have to blow into my hands so my fingers don't stiffen and thus make me unable to type (ie work). I have microwaved a mug of hot water several times today just to hold it in my hands. I think I feel the effects of hypothermia coming on, and I fear I'll soon have to resort to snapping off my toes to avoid the spread of frost bite.

The "web team" has just been relocated from our former location to one of the newly renovated rooms. As we don't have to deal with people other than ourselves, do you think anyone would notice if I started bringing my frog-printed fleece blanket to work?

remnants of college life

Contextual tid-bit #1
One of my favorite activities is googling people that I know to see if anything scandalous comes up. I would even be satisfied with some mildly interesting. Even a posted resume on monster.com or something would do just fine. Alas, my searches usually come up fruitless. This evening, I ran out of people at work whose full names I know and ended up googling myself. Guess what- my name actually came up right there in the number one slot.

Contextual tid-bit #2
During my college years - and this is before I dipped my toes in the sea of blogging - I would sit down and write random stories when I was a) highly caffeinated, b) procrastinating, or c) intoxicated. Chances were that at any given point during that last year at HC I could be found in one of those states of being between sleep periods. Moving along, I wrote the following story at the beginning of my senior year at Holy Cross, sent it to Joanne as a joke, and she then went and got it published in an annual bilingual / Spanish and Latin American-inspired literary magazine that Holy Cross puts out. Anyway, I'm going to plagiarize myself for this post.

15 Minutes of Fame

"My turn? I’m first?,” said Paco, feeling increasingly distressed as five of his pals crowded around him in excited anticipation. His eyes darted from one friend’s face to the next. He knew something big was happening. Many of his relatives had made the big journey into the city for this very event, and he was finally going to see what the fuss was all about. He thought he was going to throw up all over the place, and it scared him to just think about how mortified he would be. Word on the street was that the royal family was even going to be making an appearance today. What happened if... Oh, he didn't want to think of what would happen if...

An older gentleman wearing a name tag that read “Manolo,” must have noted that young Paco was about to suffer the effects of a crippling nervous breakdown because he promptly left the room, returning moments later holding something in his hand. He smiled his harmless four-toothed grin and gently patted Paco’s back to soothe him. The sight of this innocent older man and his consoling touch already left young Paquito feeling relieved.

Paco jumped, his eyes bulging, upon seeing the needle that Manolo was wielding; it looked like a torture device! “Hey there buddy! Don’t be scared of this little needle, it’s only going to help you out in there. You’re gonna need it!” Paco couldn’t have agreed more. He could hear the hoards of people as they pushed through each other on their chaotic search for their seats. A few stray music notes somehow managed to make their way through the roaring cheers of the crowded arena, signaling that the band was warming up for the big event.

Boy, was Manolo right on with that medicine! Paco felt almost instantaneously calmer. He was in control of his emotions. His mind seemed just the slightest bit cloudy, which he attributed to his thoughts trying to get themselves back in order. His heartbeat had finally stopped assaulting his ears and had returned to his chest, where it should have stayed in the first place. His confidence was slowly returning as he thought to himself, “Hey, this won’t be so bad! I hope the royal family is here, I’ll show them what I’m made of!”

He was proud of the body he had built up over the past three years. He had been eating right, exercising daily, avoiding the lifestyles that had led to several members of his rural community being kidnapped by a mysterious pack of men, presumably to be killed. He didn’t want that for himself, and he wanted to honor the memory of his late father. Finally he had reached a point where his aunts told him that he was the spitting image of Paco Sr., which filled the young Paco with such pride and elation. He was in the prime of his life, and he was ready for anything.

His best friend, Javi, pushed him, reeling him back to the present moment. Back to the cheers, to the music, to the excitement that lay before him. “Hey P, are you OK? You look a little confused or something.” Paco shook his head back and forth trying to clear the fog. “Sí, sí. I’m fine... Just thinking about papá, ya know? I think he’d be really proud of me today.” Javi nodded his head. They had been friends since infancy because their mothers had become quite close when their husbands went missing on the same fateful day over two years ago. “Don’t worry, P, we’re gonna make everyone proud. We’ll have such stories to tell!”

All of a sudden the crowd went quiet, making way for the festive tunes of the band to set the mood for the celebration. Paco’s nerves set in again, this time making him feel more sluggish. Everything went into slow motion as he was welcomed into the large arena with almost deafening cheers, muffling the joyous trumpets. He glanced around at his audience. He was surrounded by smiles and floating, and had to chuckle at the irony: here he was, in the prime of his life, and half the people watching him were these crusty old men who looked about ready to die.

Paco quenched these feisty people’s thirst to see him by taking a quick jog around the place, showing off his muscular physique. Oddly enough, he was feeling increasingly tired and groggy. He shook it off. “It’s just the stress... I just gotta get my adrenaline goin’!” All of a sudden, everything got so much s..l...o....w......e......r. It all came together in the course of about half a second. His mind snapped into gear, panicking, while his body slowed down with fatigue. His father’s disappearance, the medicated syringe, his mother’s overly tearful good-bye, the dirt below his feet, the sweat pouring down his face, his clueless band of childhood friends waiting behind him, the slam as the door was swung shut and locked...

He looked to the royal family with a final look of desperation, but noticed they weren’t even looking at him. Their attention was focused on a young man appearing from behind a wall, the hot Andalusian sun reflecting off of his skin-tight, sequined suit. Then, as the pair of feet, clad in pink tights and ballet slippers, slowly padded towards Paco in the soft dirt, he heard just two words over the cheers and jeers of the crowd. As he saw the immense red cape and the glinting sword come into view, he just barely heard the young man yell: “¡Venga toro!”

So as part of the superstar "Equipo Web" - aka Internet Team - at the company that so lucratively employs me, I am little by little and subconsciously turning into a full-fledged internet geek. I can't help it, as it is now well beyond the grasp of my control. It's like a virus (Get it? Internet? Virus?) that invades your personality and effectively breaks down any traces of coolness and turns it into pocket-protectored, cowlick-sporting and technological nerdiness. In fact, I'm beginning to fear that it's a matter of days before I acquire headgear, a membership to the Dungeons and Dragons online forum and - the cherry on top of the sundae - a resounding snort.

After seven months or so, I know html code to a simple but nevertheless existent degree, I can cruise through Dreamweaver - an html program - like the Queen Mary 2 on a calm day at sea, and I am more than familiar with snazzy terms like "upload to the server," "template," "PHP" and "domain." Which brings me to the term "webmaster." My company's webmaster, and therefore he who is directly responsible for my employment, is a nice - though marginally crazy - French guy who speaks variations of both English and Spanish, both of which require careful decoding on the part of the listener. While meeting him that warm June morning of '06 yielded a job offer, it also altered the images that the word "webmaster" once invoked in my mind.

Every time I see the word, which over the past few months has exponentially increased up into the thousands, I can't help but imagine an old, bearded wizard named Merlin wielding an orb-topped sceptor and donning a star-spackled pointy hat- a la Mickey Mouse in the cinematic treasure that was and still is Fantasia. Every time the webmaster of my imagination enters a room, an aura of mystery electrifies the atmosphere as the lights dim and a deep-voiced British accented man straight from 1750 proclaims "hear ye, hear ye... 'tis the webmaster."

Some say that I have an overactive imagination.

I have long been a sucker for anything that is soft- stuffed animals, those squishy beanie pillows from Brookstone, fleece blankets. I lament having to wash new sweatshirts and sweatpants because the plush softness inside succumbs after a few bouts with the spin cycle. It also turns out that people get legitimately creeped out when I randomly start petting the inside part of their arm.

During my childhood, I had little - if any - control of my softophilia. For example, unlike my brother, I didn't have a blankie weathered hard with drool, filth picked up from being dragged across the ground and a few too many spills. Instead, I carried around an old, mustard-yellow t-shirt that was once my dad and that I'm fairly sure that he acquired free from a walk-in clinic or real estate firm. But believe me... it had this one spot just big enough for my finger to rub that was softer than the finest silk. If I'd had the income or a hefty inheritance at that young age to afford a velvet pillow, I probably would have used it to carry around the beloved t-shirt with style instead of draping it around my neck as to ensure that it wouldn't hit the ground. It was undeniably hideous and had without a doubt been moments away from being lost amongst the pile of rags destined to be put to use for car washing, checking oil levels, burying hamsters headed for a better life and a larger spinning wheel (RIP Peanut... you're still missed) and a wide range of other nitty-gritty household roles. But I, the Patron Saint of Ugly T-Shirts, salvaged the poor thing from such an unfortunate, undignified fate and - to my parents' dismay - insisted on taking it everywhere. It mysteriously disappeared a few years later. Information leading to its recovery and/or whereabouts may or may not yield a considerable reward.

When I was four (and five, six, seven, eight...) years old, I was under the self-involved impression that there existed evil people (alias: jealous meanies) who coveted my soft belongings and were on a quest to take them from me. So, to ensure that none of my soft friends fell into the wrong hands, I fervently insisted on either a) sleeping inside my closet with all of my stuffed animals, or b) piling all of my plush and bean-filled treasures on one half of the bed and covering them with a sheet. In hindsight, the fact that they formed a mountain rivaling Everest may have given it away, I thought myself particularly intelligent as these measures were sure to throw off robbers who came in through my window in search of stuffed bears, bunnies and other woodland creatures. But hey... hindsight is 20-20.

When I ceased fearing robbers and instead began contemplating the possibility of house fires destroying my menagerie of pals, I actually wrote a letter that I would leave at the foot of my bed in the event that I was trapped in my room by searing flames and thus required a heroic rescue by firemen. There were clear instructions laid out directing the East Lyme Fire Department as to which of my cherished companions to rescue as they pulled me to safety. While I was sure to write the letter in another room so as not to cause suspicion throughout the crew, the fact that I had to pick and choose the hypothetical survivors while leaving the others to perish wracked my early childhood days with guilt and haunted me for years. The Toy Story movies and their theme of forgotten toys being cast aside like yesterday's news were like daggers to my heart... and that's practically two decades removed from those early years.

I was not what one would traditionally call a quote-unquote "normal" child.

channeling richard simmons

So I think I've really driven home the fact that I'm a people-watcher / creepy stalker. Spending a few post meridiem hours slouched back into a chair seeking out the world's more interesting creatures is pretty much my idea of a night out on the town, especially on a lucrative night of "sightings." Chueca, Madrid's gay neighborhood, is - for example - a veritable treasure trove of cross-dressers, awkward "real life" disco-dancing street performers and a wide assortment of other characters that never fail to astound me. Just throw in a cold beverage and some form of fried potato product - be it chips or fries - and it's quite possibly the ultimate night for this gal.

All this said, sidewalk cafes have a new prime people-watching hot spot rival. The gym.

A few months ago, I decided that I would replace a couple post-work hours each day in "active mode." A gym right down the street was having a two year anniversary promotional thing where joining was really cheap if you bought a year-long membership in the moment. Cheap is good. I like cheap, me and a girl I work with joined. I don't need anything special... just give me an elliptical and some weight machines that don't involve the possibility of crushing myself and I'm happy as a clam. However, this gym happens to be one of those techno-blasting athletic facilities to which pretty people go to not work out. Needless to say, a people-watching MECCA. Especially now that New Years and the annual semi-serious "I want to lose 10 pounds" resolution has brought a new crop of subjects. Here's a brief run-down...

The socializers. The first week that I went to the gym back in October or November, I was the sweaty oreo cream filling sandwiched between two perfectly composed cookies on the elliptical machines. Confused as to why I was the only red-faced slob of the trio, I switched into stalker-mode and decided to check out their stats. Sure, woman on my left. Your matching get-up and perfectly constructed ponytail are lovely, but treading on level 1 and burning exactly 112 calories over the course of a half-hour is pointless. Just because it makes your mascara run doesn't mean sweat is to be feared.

The metro or homosexual. In Spain, I often find there to be a very fine and unclear line that separates the two. A metrosexual, by definition, is a heterosexual man displaying female tendencies. I guess the stereotypical homosexual is thought to demonstrate those same tendencies, but switching the prefix and choice of partner. Either way, hairbands (and no, I don't mean Nike sweatbands) are quite a hit amongst the male population of Urban Fitness (ie my gym), as are waxed legs, fake-baking, hair products and snug, matching exercise outfits that can really only be classified as "cute."

The well-endowed. I will never understand why, when given the option, large-chested women opt to NOT give their girls some extra support. Boobs + gravity + treadmill = whoa, put those things away!

I will also never grasp why it is that Spanish women don't wear shorts to work out. Is there some sort of leg deformity that runs common amongst the "she" Spanish population that I am not aware of? When I work out, I usually feel like an overheating car... and that's with shorts and a tank top. Yet, I stick out as the only pair of female "I glow in the dark under a black light" legs in the place.

Annnnd that's my return to blogging.

...

It has been a long time, and my super-blog is coming back from vacation. Or at least she thinks she is. I like to fantasize that she was off galavanting in the tropics, spending her days breaking dashing young pool boys' hearts and sipping on frozen margaritas. Possibly even mastering roulette and subsequently making a fortune in some one-room casino in the middle of the Caribbean with the likes of tuxedo-clad mob bosses and Colombian drug lords.

Chances are, however, that she was instead lazing around in sweat pants doing crossword puzzles and eating hershey kisses like an unmotivated slug.

london layover

*written now to be posted at home where I don't have to pay 5 bucks for internet use

Boredom means I write stuff… which is probably part of the reason I haven’t written in a gosh-darn long time- just haven't been bored enough! Anywho… I am currently in Heathrow Airport, staring at a tv screen waiting for my gate to pop up next to my flight number, and inevitably surrounded by bothersome bloody British-accented wankers… oh BOLLOCKS.

I would first like to discuss the family that I had the pleasure of sharing the otherwise delightful row 4 with on the first leg (Madrid-London) of my trip home. First of all, the family sat down and all seemed fine. They had two perfectly cute daughters… at least that’s the opinion I formulated based solely upon first appearances. Two hours and 20 minutes of hell in the skies later I find myself needing to amend that opinion, as I now believe that they were sent here by Satan himself to infiltrate our earthly society while remaining under the radar with their crafty disguises in the form of matching dresses and curly pigtails. Evil, earth-attacking aliens are of course another option and have not been ruled out.

The father, who I sat next to for the first hour, was perfectly normal. Well, technically he seemed depressed about life and completely lacking the energy to tell his daughters to- and I’m just throwing out an example here- stop screaming bloody murder at each other over their spelling flashcards. He cleeeeeeearly did not know what he was getting into when the opportunity to procreate presented itself. Well, I guess technically it was the woman who presented herself... procreation being the resulting side effect… but that’s just technically.

The father was Spanish, the mother was American… and I have yet to see why this cross-cultural bond was formed and documents signed. The man was clearly weary and worn down by these days of domestic hell. I will bet all 6 euros of my personal savings that he is probably ruing the day he decided to move to the USA to marry the love of his life. Eek. The wife was one of these “Did you call your father? You KNOW it’s your brother’s birthday on Thursday… Now don’t leave anything in the overhead compartment like the LAST time…” and 294848583 other inane questions and comments to which the husband simply sighed and nodded with downcast eyes. Poor tuckered out lil Spaniard.

An hour into the flight, the mother and father switched seats after the full-fledged military operation otherwise known as taking their daughters to the bathroom. Then daughter #2 comes to sit in the formerly unoccupied seat between me and her oh-so-pleasant mother. So then the mother looks at me, and then shaking her head says to her daughter “Look at what a bad, bad girl this girl is… she wrote on her hand... you know how Mommy feels about writing on your hands…” The daughter then looks at my hand and proceeds to raise her head to give me the most disappointed, condescending look a four year old can possibly give. SUE ME people… I need to remember my dang flight numbers!

And FINALLY… the daughters’ names were Ariana and Alexis…. And if I wasn’t so irked by the female parts of the family and saddened by the sole male, I would have laughed out loud instead of politely stifling it. Anywho, hello? Saturday Night Live? Cheerleading skit? The husband has an excuse- perhaps he isn’t as well-versed in late-night American comedy sketch shows. The wife though? EVERYONE knows that skit. “My name is Craig… I give good hugs… we can’t be friends… if you do drugs… Wooo!”

So originally the family was going to be the first of a few things… but turns out they provided enough on their own.

the american store

It's fate. I move to another part of Madrid... and land myself a mere 5 blocks from 'The American Store' (www.theamericanstore.es) which, according to them, is the largest American store in alllllll of the noble land of Spain. Well, it was not all that big... but I felt like a little kid going through the 5 aisles looking at the assortment of goods that I had forgotten I'd even missed. Mike 'n' Ikes! Cranberry sauce!! Rice krispie treats!!! Quaker oatmeal!!!! Lucky freakin Charms!!!!!! I resisted the temptation to buy it all... I somehow even managed to not pick up the Lucky Charms, that beloved childhood cereal which I rediscovered in Holy Cross's dining hall and proceeded to eat with a rather disturbing frequency because Mom wasn't there anymore to make sure I ate the proper ratio of marshmellows to cereal. The Lucky Charms tub and the fro-yo machine were my two favorite and most visited parts of Kimball... even miraculously beating out the omelette line at weekend, aka 'hangover recovery,' brunches.

I went to the American Store with a mission, my wallet, and a list of four items of the utmost importance: cake mix (and obviously an accompanying tub of frosting), Skippy superchunk peanut butter, root beer, and for the love of God some normal pickles NOT soaked in a vat of plain vinegar (insert gagging). A half-hour later I came out with a rather sizeable plastic bag like a trophy of my success filled with aforementioned products... annnnd perhaps some other treats that mysteriously made their way into my basket. Three bags of Reeses Pieces? What? A giant bag of Root Beer Barrel candies? Huh?

And as a gleeful exclamation point to my American shopping experience, the woman working there summoned one of her underlings working in the basement up to floor level to offer me a free root beer from the store's secret subterranean refrigerator "to beat the heat." It was glooooorious- so much so that I almost could have skipped home out of sheer contentment.

taxistas

When hailing a cab, you never know what kind of taxi driver is awaiting you within. In the past year, I have taken my fair share of taxis... normally in the 4am time range... and normally in a less than sober state of being. You know when I'm in a less than sober state of being when I get 'chatty' and make friends with, for example, two middle aged lawyers who then give me a business card for their bull-fighting webpage. I have yet to figure out how that conversation even started... all I know is that I like to think that I was not the one to initiate it.

Anyways, less me and more taxi drivers. In NYC, which is the only place in the United States where I've really even taken enough taxis to make a totally prejudiced generalization, you never really know anything about your cab driver because without a doubt they do not speak English. Half the time they just plain don't speak... when you give the address to which you'd like to arrive, there's no confirmation. No nod. Just a look in the rearview mirror and the car goes into motion. I never know whether or not to feel disconcerted. Here, on the other hand, habitually taking taxis is like doing an in-depth nature versus nurture study... one job, same language, same city, same job requirements... and yet those circumstances yield 2935830276262 personality types. Let me provide a few fun little examples..

The partier. Once upon a time when Joanne used to come out and was still tearing up dance floors with her snazzy moves (the running man, the supermarket, etc.), she, Susan, and I went out for an evening of drunken debauchery. As folks tend to do, we got tired somewhere in the realm of 5am. Cue the ruthless battle for the few open cabs that dare to pass through the area. We finally get one, much to the shagrin of the scantily clad bimbos 10 yards ahead of us who had been frantically trying to hail the same cab. I sometimes have to keep myself from sticking out my tongue and nah-nah-nah-nah-boo-booing them as we pass by. Anyways, by the end of the car ride I'm pretty sure Susan would have gladly given the cab to those girls... because this cabbie was a party-cabbie livin' up the Madrid night life from within the comforts of his own taxi. He was dancing in his seat, blasting music, flirting with the car of girls in the lane next to us, and he actually had a little hanging disco ball dangling from his rearview mirror. As I laughed and Susan clutched the car door as if to jump out at any moment, Joanne was having a blast dancing along with the cabbie, asking for the names of all his Euro-trash music (I call it 'epileptic' even though that's mean) because apparently these days it's the music that brings two souls together (Joanne and Paco). Luckily we made it to our apartment in one piece and he went off to find some more party passengers.

The politician. One day, I was heading to the La Latina part of the city to meet up with some homies for tapas. I, in my state of not wanting to go about changing metro lines, decided to take a cab. From the second I shut the door and divulged my destination, it became apparent that without even trying I had given off the impression that I'd love a not-so-brief run-down of the Spain's political situation for the past 30 years. Eventually it got to the point where he was apparently overcome with passion that he was yelling and waving his fist in the air in a rather violent manner. I'm pretty sure at this moment in time I was shrunken into the back corner of the cab, bug-eyed and with one finger on the door handle. The situation was further aggravated when we ran into a traffic jam due to - what else - a political demonstration in the street. What timing. Luckily for me, this extended the cab ride by about 15 minutes, 6 euros, and 10 more years of political history (accompanied by his own personalized commentary, of course).

The bitch. Female cab-drivers, like female 18-wheeler-drivers, are few and far between. I almost feel lucky when I have one... it's like seeing a comet that can only be seen from earth once every 284,000 years or going on a whale-watching expedition and seeing a rare albino orca whale. I don't know why an albino orca comes to mind... perhaps lasting effects from having recently seen DaVinci Code. Anyways, on this particular day (almost two weeks ago- as I was bringing a suitcase to Alfonso's) I was lugging aforementioned suitcase, that by the way weighed approximately the equivalent of a mastadon, across town and I sure as hell was not going via metro. I stood on the street corner beneath the 'Taxi' sign like an upstanding (non)citizen with my suitcase for a good 15 minutes to watch time and again as women finishing up a day of shopping snagged the few cabs that were passing by at that time of day 20 feet in front of said taxi sign. So, I dragged my mastodon suitcase to the other side of the street to try my luck there. Bam. Within two minutes I had a cab. With a woman! What luck! So I get the suitcase in the trunk, get in the back seat, and tell her where I'm going. She stares at me in the rearview mirror with dead eyes and informs me that I should have caught a cab going in the other direction. For a moment I actually thought she was going to make me get out. I explained the situation... I had waited for a really long time and people kept getting the cabs just ahead of me... to which she replied with a heavy sigh, a dramatic shift into first gear, and finally a 'Well I guess I'll just have to turrrrn arouuunnndd ughhhhh.' When we got to Alfonso's street I asked if she could pull to the left side of the road (it's one-way). She pulled to the right and stopped where there was no opening in the fence. Whatever. I got out, collected my belongings, and silently cursed her. Hey lady, just because you only have half of a thumb don't take it out on poor innocent moi.

The nice guy. These are my favorite cabbies. They indulge in pleasant conversations with their passenges. They don't, for example, yell at you when you get a cab going in the opposite direction from the one you're headed to. The nicest one I ever had was the one who started talking about how he didn't understand girls who wear really short skirts but then knee-high boots, combining two opposing seasons in the process. We laughed about other female clothing styles (something I like to do on a frequent basis anyway.. need I mention my daily observance of the Over-The-Top girl- a fellow Middlebury student- and her crazy belts, fish necklaces, hats, and yes, TIES).

The fanatic. When my family was here, we went to a soccer game. During that week, due to my mother's fractured ankle, we took taxi's everywhere. It was just a given. So obviously we weren't going to be going up and down flights of stairs and switching metro lines with thousands of boisterous, inebriated soccer fans. At least we didn't lug along the wheelchair (aka "Charlie") on this particular outing... that night I got to just get into the cab instead of leaning in to ask 'Can you open the trunk' first. Well, on this fine afternoon for a soccer game we happened to get a cab driver who by a stroke of luck turned out to be a soccer fanatic. First he was asking us all about soccer teams and which Madrid team we were fan of and if we'd ever been to a game before and if we knew the songs. We, needless to say, had not recently brushed up on our soccer songs... and as a result, he spent the rest of the cab ride singing and trying to teach us the songs for BOTH Madrid teams... which at first was funny and entertaining. But... after ten minutes it just grew uncomfortable and we were all shifting in our seats and smiling nervously.

So what is it that makes one cab driver an absolute beast but the next someone to whom you want to say 'Will you be my friend?'

another chapter closed

Well... I have bid adieu to our former abode at good ole General Pardiñas 28. Sigh. Last night I slept there for the last time. Alone. And on the couch because having washed all the sheets and such I couldn´t very well put them back on the bed and use them. Isn´t that decent of me? I also came to realize that I had packed and sent all of my clothes over to the new abode (Alfonso´s), forgetting to keep out pajama pants... which meant (not to give you all nightmares) then sleeping in my u-trow. In the den on the couch. It felt so wrong. I used the extra interior lock on the door in case the landlord made an early appearance this morning. Luckily for both of us, he didn´t. He probably would have found something to charge us for.

Being alone in the apartment was a wholly pathetic experience. Imagine the following scenario. A lonely (and sick... annnnd, as previously discussed, pants-less) Betsey in an empty apartment, her only remaining belongings being (that was a lot of consecutive -ing words) a few towels drying on the drying rack, her computer, 1 bottle of shampoo, 1 dvd of Arrested Development season 3, and (yes Angel, here´s your demanded shout-out) a ginormous steroidal tennis ball (Angel´s LAAAAAME attempt at a joke after I may or may not (ok- I did) have had a few problems adjusting from the length of a tennis racket to that of a paddle on my first day playing what else.. paddle/padel). Said ball has now been TRASHED in a demonstration of how I feel about our friendship. Psych! Just kidding. I gave it to a couple kids I saw on the way to the trash bin. They were delighted.

Then I went to Poli for the last time (hahahhaha that´s a lie... I´ll SO travel the half hour to the other end of the red Metro line for coffee at Poli. No, I´m not kidding.) I love Poli... and am slightly distressed that Poli and I no longer share the same address. I mean, I´ve spent the last nine months going there for daily (and often twice daily) caffeine binges. The waiters protected us from the advances of creepy middle aged men, ignored other customers to chat with us, and often slipped us free food. The other day, when Joanne and I went for our final coffee (well, Joanne was freaking out about leaving the next morning... therefore we substituted coffee for beer) date in Poli, they forced farewell shots upon us. Needless to say, and despite the three of them repeatedly proclaiming with obvious pride ¨Qué rico, qué rico,¨ they were the single foulest tasting shots I have ever thrown down my throat.. and trust me, that´s saying a lot; it´s this radioactive-looking, electric-yellow supposedly herb-flavored liquor that I had sworn never to try... and until the last week of Poli had avoided with a great deal of success. (I have now tried three of the five things I had sworn not to even try while here: foie, shitty herb liquor, and morcilla... which I´ve tried TWICE... damn you peer pressure! And no, I will not disclose the final two items of the list) As predicted, I spent the following hour grimacing and downing Smints trying to dissolve the taste like Barry Bonds with steroids trying to dissolve Babe Ruth´s record. (That´s two steroid references in one entry that doesn´t have to do with steroids- strange) Apparently his steroids paid off. My mints didn´t... all that came out of it was a bad taste in my mouth and a stomach ache. Fabulous. Anywho, today I ended my reign as an elite Poli frequent customer with a delicious cup o´ joe before handing over our three sets of keys to our landlord.

Goodbye General Pardiñas 28! We shall miss you, Casa Poli, and the naked painter across the street!




In other news, I feel the need to broadcast to the world (or the 7 people who are bored enough to read this crap that I write) the following story, about my stepsister Allison (aka ´Son´) and told to me by my stepsister´s roommate/other half/subway platform crawler Krissy:

¨Another day in the life of Krissy and Son: At 2:45 am Son comes into my room, wakes me up, and tells me that she accidentally drank perfume because she thought it was her water bottle. She asks me if she is goin to die, I tell her no; make fun of her for about 20 minutes... and then she threw up lavendar scent. I called poison control just so she would stop worrying, and was on hold for 10 minutes. Apparently other idiots are drinking chemicals in the middle of the night. Have no fear, she is okay, but will NEVER live this down. HAHAHAHA!¨