the best part of my day

creativity

I was lying in bed last night thinking about how while commercial website stuff is easy as pie, sometimes I have a really hard time being creative 8 hours a day at work whenever I'm assigned to do a travel guide. I mean really... there's only so much you can do to make 13th-century history "come alive," a dusty archaeological museum seem like a "can't miss" or a Spanish language course (the one commercial page and therefore whole purpose of each 100-page guide website) sound as exciting as a wild night of debauchery on the town. I myself prefer to limit my vacation to non-educational activities like eating, drinking, snapping a few photos and being a haughty American tourist.

So somehow that led me to thinking about how I used to write stories non-stop as a child. At the time I thought I was destined for awards... that my novels would line bookstore shelves... that people would cry over the heart-breaking dramatic scenes and chuckle at my witty way of describing amusing encounters between the well-developed and devilishly attractive characters. The words flowed from my magic marker onto the construction paper like fudge onto an ice cream sundae.

Back in the care-free days of Flanders Elementary School, we even got to publish our own "books." Basically, we scribbled the stories down in our still-in-the-works chicken scratch. Some volunteer mom would type these stories up, leaving the majority of each page blank so that you could grace it not only with your literary opus, but also with your artistic talents. Then, you picked out the fabric that would be on the cover and voila! A few weeks later you had, in your hands, a published hardcover book to bring home and show off.

So then I tried to remember what stories I had written... which is when I realized that my imagination was a bit on the strange side, even at the tender age of 8. Here's the plotline of one of my childhood stories. I remember my teacher actually sat down like, hmm Betsey this isn't really your best work, are you sure you don't focus on a different story? But I published it anyway. What can I say, I was dedicated to my craft.

Basically, it starts out with a woman who, to my recollection, has no name but is in the hospital because she's pregnant. She realizes she has to go to the bathroom, so she makes it there and is doing her business when plop... the baby falls out into the toilet like a turd. I was clearly a bit confused at the time regarding certain parts of the anatomy and their corresponding functions. Oh, and in case you were wondering, yes... I actually employed the word "plop."

She names her beloved newborn bundle-of-joy Diana, and after a few days they go home to embark on their lives as a family. Diana has a happy childhood, it would seem, but then one day she wakes up and her leg hurts. So her mom brings her to the hospital, where they discover she has a broken leg. So they give her a bright pink cast and she's all pumped because people get to sign it and such. Then, you turn the page....

...and the one line reads "The next day, Diana died." (I'm pretty sure this is when my teacher started raising her eyebrows.) So they have a funeral and her mom is a wreck. Then she decides to get four cats. The end.

Who smells a Nobel Prize for Literature in my future?

crosswalk woes

So I have dreams a lot when I sleep... and not of the unicorns or lottery-winning variety, either. Ironically, the earliest dream that I can remember involved my entire family getting eaten by alligators that circled in a dark pit located just inside the door to the local Cumberland Farms (ironic because they had gone in to buy Powerball tickets). I was 8.

My most consistent dream is being in a train that goes over a cliff due to a collapsed bridge. Freefalling. It's the dream I have every time I get into that "just falling asleep" stage when you randomly jump back awake.

Well, last night I had a dream that I was in the USA but trying to get back to Spain. For some reason the possibility of a plane flight didn't come into play, and yet a magical crosswalk did.

Basically, an otherwise white-striped, run-of-the-mill crosswalk in (whatever city I was in) took on the ability to transport people to other countries. All you had to do was pinpoint the exact moment at which this phenomenon would transpire, and then cross the crosswalk running at full speed... and bam! You'd end up in the destination of your choice. Kind of like Back to the Future.

However, I missed "the moment" because the crosswalk light didn't turn green in time, and I began running frantically back and forth across the crosswalk until I had to get dragged off the street by on-lookers. The crosswalk light had turned red again, and there was oncoming traffic.

WTF?

puppy love :o)

Oh and by the way, my apologies to Alfonso but I've fallen head over heels in love with Clyde.

Collective "awwwwwwwww."

i'm bored

The other day, I was involved in - and by "involved" I obviously mean in the passive, "just listening while I eat" kind of way - a conversation in which I'm pretty sure the general consensus was that the workplace in the United States is more laid-back than in Spain. Something along the lines of how, in the US, it seems that employees have more dress down days or don't have to go as fancy-shmancy to work to begin with. IIIIIIII disagreed (in my head), but decided to mull the idea over in the event that my mind was severely biased or otherwise warped. Nope, still disagree.

So then yesterday I came across an article in the NY Times talking about the American obsession with work, this time regarding taking vacation (or rather lack thereof). Two lil tidbits:

Simplified a bit, it runs as follows: a nation of remarkably productive, often well-paid workers who are becoming increasingly reluctant to pause from their labors and refresh their souls — a nation whose cash-drenched corporate employers typically don’t pay for much time off (less than two weeks annually, on average), a nation whose globe-gripping federal government is the only one in the whole industrialized world not to legally require generous periods of paid kick-back-and-hang time — is a nation that’s socially screwed up, particularly in comparison with European countries like France, which orders its citizens outside to play for the entire month of August and a few other weeks spread through the year.

The most widely cited diagnoses of our allegedly harmful undervacationing can be found by searching the Internet, the same Internet that even the dwindling number of full-vacation-takers are purportedly using to elevate their stress levels by logging on from beach resorts and national parks — where, according to concerned observers, they would be better off restricting themselves to restorative, out-of-cellphone-range pursuits like brisk morning swims and sunset nature walks. That fewer of us are doing so, it’s said, is a symptom of either anxious overcompetiveness; upward-mobility addiction ; the breakdown of the family...

The article then lists the following stats:

Legally required paid annual leave around the world, by days:
France: 30
Sweden: 25
Spain: 22
Australia: 20
Germany: 20
UK: 20
Canada: 10
Japan: 10
USA: 0... ZERO... ZILCH... NADA!

I'm sorry, but I can't see how any industrialized country that can legally bind you to your cubicle every single day, all year-round and expect 150% productivity can ever be called "relaxed." In fact, one of the reasons I'm drawn to Spain in the first place is the overwhelmingly relaxed atmosphere, at least by comparison. People enjoying life, meals that last for hours, people-watching from the hundreds sidewalk cafés, Sunday strolls, staying out all night (despite my geriatric ways of late) because you can and, yes, more vacation days to let you kick back and remember that there is more to life than alarm clocks, clients, reports and pesky coworkers.

So sure, Madrid is undeniably a big, bustling city, and granted I don't have, nor am I interested in, some hot-shot corporate job... but to me the vibe is a billion times more laid-back than anything I've known. Hell, it's more laid-back than the Student Center at Holy Cross. Does New York City, Washington D.C. or even Topeka, Kansas empty out overnight for an entire month during the summer? Negative. American cities are non-stop, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Right now in Spain, however, as Spaniards are off traveling, sleeping, hanging out with family and frolicking at the beach for a month, the capital city of Spain is so quiet that at night as I'm reading with the window open I can hear the chiming of the crosswalk light from a block away.

fun with inboxes

Now I love opening up my gmail and seeing that I have an email or two just waiting to be torn into. Oh, and by "something" I mean something other than the New York Times "Today's Headlines" that I signed up for or Myspace friend requests from 17 year old boys in the Dominican Republic who I don't know. Now if that something, on the other hand, happens to be an email from Emily Pereira, well... it's pretty much guaranteed to be an entertaining read.

During our Holy Cross year in Sevilla, Emily was always the comedic relief of the 8 of us... and undeniably everyone's favorite little Portuguesa. Now in D.C., I can only imagine that she's the life of the party at the State Department, where she's " ridding the world of AIDS from my position as assistant to the ambassador." Well, I don't know how many parties are to be had when you're dealing with AIDS legislation and such all day, but... you know what I mean.

Emily and I email back and forth EXTREMELY irregularly, meaning we'll go for months at a time without a word and then bust out a string of emails trying to out-funny each other. So after not hearing from her for ohhh 5 months I get a gem of an email that, before going into the usual string of funny anecdotes and life updates, starts out with:

little miss betty, where have you been?
out in the barn, playing with the hen?
are you still in spain, you crazy nut?
wearing pointy high heels and a layered hair cut?

by,
emily pereira

Hell, any email that starts out with a poem and ends with a "you are my soul sister girl. my souuull sister" is the way straight to my heart. Well, that and maybe pie.

another thought of the day.. what can i say, i'm a thinker

Aside from folks of the geriatric and/ or disabled community, who waits 5 minutes for an elevator only to get off on the first floor?

thought of the day

Who wears corduroys when its 95º outside?

silliness

Some say that a successful career is personally rewarding. Others contend that having a gaggle of diaper-wearing screamers running around and knocking things off store shelves is the cherry on top of the sundae of life. Me? I'm a whole hell of a lot simpler- well, that and I'm a whole lot less ambitious (shrug) and a whole lot less pregnant (shudder, gag, choke). The first three things that come to MY mind when I think of life's rewards are: 1) 2 scoops of moose tracks ice cream, 2) popping open a brand-spankin'-new cannister of tennis balls and, finally, 3) a good stretch.

I'm not referring to the "Doctors recommend that you stretch for at least 15 minutes before and after exercising" type of stretching, either. That's just damage control- head out for a run sans stretch and risk destroying the perfect muscles of your lithe gams. Kind of like buying flood insurance when you don't anticipate the flooding of any nearby bodies of water. You naively bank on maintaining an incident-free streak while running the risk of flooding your basement, thereby destroying great-great-grandpa's wooden leg or anything else deemed worthy of saving but not worthy of ground floor status.

When I say stretch, I'm talking about taking multiple minutes in the morning upon waking up (after you finally shut the snooze alarm off on the 4th, 5th or 6th round of infernal beeping) to just stretch out like a cat, writhe around and contort your body in ways that, should they be spotted, would land you a quick appointment with an exorcist.

During high school, for example, my morning routine was: wake up, call Mark and wake him up, and then - en route to the shower - throw my upper body over the edge of the bed, my legs still sprawled up top, and then stretch out in all directions until I slid into a heap of limbs on the floor. Then, I'd stretch there too, taking advantage of the floorspace. My parents would walk by my room, find me hanging upside down off the bed and - naturally, I suppose - wonder what the frijoles their daughter was doing.

This morning, due to an early wake-up to travel across the city by 8:30am, I missed out on my morning stretch. So what did I do when I got to work? Locked myself in the bathroom and went to town.

Alfonso: 1... Betsey: 0

Alfonso: (insert string of unintelligible complaints) Ugh it's too hot in Sevilla... it's an inferno! Nobody likes it here... these aren't liveable conditions. Don't you hear those birds? They're making all that noise because it's so %&@$ing hot out here... (etc.)

Betsey: (rolls eyes)

...2 minutes pass...

Betsey: Hear those birds? You know what? They're HAPPY. They're HAPPY birds who LOVE Sevilla... they're SINGING with glee, not complaining because they're hot.

... Silence...

Betsey: Oh... Ok so that's the noise of the crosswalk light... but EVEN so...

Childhood "Things"

Now every person has their fair share of childhood peculiarities that they may or may not share with their friends. My dad, for example, used to play a game with his neighborhood chums back in the good ole days in which they competed to see who could hit their head the hardest on a driveway. Due to a stray pebble, he still has a literal dent in his forehead from this wholesome childhood past-time... but gosh darn it did he win.

Mine? Well other than the whole ambiguous gender issue, there was my obsession with sleeping with all my stuffed animals because a) I really did feel bad if I didn't pay equal attention to all of them and actually feared a revolt, and b) I needed to keep them protected from the mask-wearing robber who was surely on his way to climb up a ladder, in through my window and straight after my beloved stuffed critters.

Then there was my massive sticker and keychain collections, both of which I am still incapable of throwing out. Not to mention my unwavering refusals to put jelly on my peanut butter sandwiches, try new things, and eat anything white (milk, coconut, cheese, etc.). My love of turning a bike upside down and pretending it was an ice cream maker. The "Roadrunner" game I used to play with my sibling, which consisted of running around in a circle in the family room saying "meep meep" "meep meep" as we ran. Then there's my steadfast aversion towards change, as demonstrated by the puffalump show-and-tell incidents as described 2 posts ago; dressing up as a cat for 6 straight years for Halloween; requesting that my mom make me the exact same birthday cake - the one with flattened gumdrop balloons and licorice strings - 4 years in a row... trust me, the list is endless.

Anyway, the Matterns are clearly not alone. By far the best part of my week, thus far, has been learning about Joanne's favorite childhood hobby. So, without further ado, enjoy the inner workings of a young Egnatchik, as narrated via gmail chat:

me: im imagining the egnatchik household

Joanne: haha

did i ever tell you about my hobby

me: hmm im not sure?

5:05 PM Joanne: from the time i was born til about 14 i used to buy huge 11 by 17 size sheets of construction paper

and cut it up in to the tiniest pieces ever

5:06 PM me: HHAHAHAHAHAA

Joanne: and store them in the plastic boxes my dad had to hold slides

me: the pieces of paper???

Joanne: yup

me: o my god

amazing

Joanne: i wasnt allowed to throw confetti

but

i was allowed to make it

me: you sure had enough of it

hahahahaha

o my

thats awesome

Joanne: my mom threw it out when i slept i´m sure

me: heeh

5:07 PM Joanne: cuz she always seemed to have a new empty box for me

i also liked to tape things

not grabar

sino scotch

which is fitting, since i have a future in cutting and pasting

me: :)

Joanne: not just things that were ripped

not even taping things together

just cutting a piece and strategically placing in on a piece of paper

5:09 PM me: hahahaahahahaha

this is the best part of my week right here

Joanne: just another reason for you to love me

5:10 PM oh yes,

the confetti boxes needed to be taped

because i didnt want any pieces to fall out

5:11 PM me: naturally

only in america... oink oink

I was just skimming my local Connecticut newspaper's headlines... and these two were literally one right after the other:

"Nutrition-Education Programs Fail in Obesity Fight" -- About the government funding of programs and initiatives to promote healthy eating.

directly followed by...

"Only in America: Nation Celebrates a New Eating Champion" -- About the new champion of the annual Coney Island hotdog-eating contest. He ate 66 hotdogs, bun included, in 12 minutes.

childhood crush

My first favorite television show was David the Gnome, which I watched each day before scrambling off to Mike Walker's driveway in hopes of arriving at his mailbox before him and subsequently ensuring my spot in the front row on the bus (nerd alert) en route to a stimulating afternoon of kindergarten.

The memory of enjoying the adventures of David and his pint-size posse goes hand-in-hand with the memory of my childhood babysitter/ honorary grandmother Phoebe, who would lay out a delicious daily spread of chicken nuggets arranged in a circle around a squirt of ketchup, hogdogs finely chopped into quartered slices ALSO symmetrically arranged around a squirt of ketchup, de-crusted peanut butter sandwiches sans jelly, or waffles cut perfectly along the lines. Who knew such an anal 5 year old could blossom into such an indifferent 24 year old whose life motto is "meh, whatever."

Tangent: Another fun kindergarten tidbit is that I would bring the exact same thing in each day for "show-and-tell": my beloved Christmas mouse puffalump (see photo). The game involved a format in which the show-and-teller gave hints to his or her fellow kidlets, who then tried to guess what the mystery object was. My turn usually ended with someone muttering "ughhh the puffalump again?" and yet I - clearly living in a world of one - would get giddy with content over the success of my hints as if it were the first time. Only now do I feel mildly dim-witted for this. Hey, hindsight's 20-20, right?

Punky Brewster is another classic, partly because she was essentially my twin and partly because Brandon was a carbon copy of my golden retriever Winston, aka "Winnie." Plus, the gal's fashion sense was way ahead of her time. Around the same time I was enthralled by Small Wonder, in which it turns out that a cookie-cutter middle class family has a robot daughter who wears the same lacy frock every day. Yes, a frock. While other kids had scraped knees, Vicky experienced the occasional short circuit. I think it was when her parents opened up her back revealing her circuit box that I deemed it a masterpiece.

And then... there was MacGyver: the crush of my childhood. Dreeeeeamboat, toot toot. In my pre-pubescent eyes, he could do no wrong. His voluminous locks styled effortlessly into the most glorious mullet to grace the small screen, his hip acid-wash jeans tapering down just so behind the tongues of his rockin' high-tops, and his discrete way with the ladies had me completely smitten. Plus, his quick wit and resourcefulness in moments of crisis totally blew the shipwrecked professor (also dreamy in his own right) of Gilligan's Island fame and his coconut telephone totally out of the water-- pun 100% intended.

Luckily, they air hours of MacGyver re-runs every morning and afternoon in Spain. Not so luckily, I made the mistake of switching the language into English- now an option with a few of the tv channels. As an enamoured young'n, I never quite came to realize that he was great at action but terrrrrrible at dialogue. In a world of awful dub jobs, you know it's bad when the cheesy Spanish voice they give to American tv show characters is better than the real thing.

Another dailypuppy all-star...

"Such a regal young fellow. It is amazing to see the quick progression of development in this breed. One can only imagine the deep bark of this gentle giant. You lips are so full and lushious. Massive kisses and ear rubs to you sweet baby."

... Seriously???

bark bark

One of my go-to stops as I do my morning internet rounds (and therefore postpone doing any actual "work" until after the coffee hits) is The Daily Puppy, a website that each day features a different plucky little pooch.

On my google homepage (yes, another pre-caffeination, pro-procrastination creation), I have Daily Puppy well above world news, weather and (gasp!) even celebrity gossip. Frankly, those pudgy little chow-chows, puggles, labs and shih-tzus have a much better impact on my a.m. attitude towards life than tuberculosis outbreaks, plane crashes and even the Hollywood trainwrecks' latest stints in rehab.

Well I'm certainly not the only one frequenting the Daily Puppy (www.dailypuppy.com, if you want to aww along with me), but I'll bet I'm one of the most normal of the crew. Visitors can browse through each puppy's pictures, award 1 through 11 virtual biscuits and leave comments. Now I love the little tail-wagging fur-balls, but sometimes I can't help but think that the real creatures are some of the people who leave comments. I can picture them sitting in their home, a living shrine to their ankle-biting Yorkie, dedicating their lives to painting their dogs' toe nails, maxing out their credit cards on designer doggie rain coats and abusing the utilization of the baby voice. For instance:

• "What a beautiful baby! I could just eat you up with a spoon. Massive hugs, kisses, and buddha belly pats."

• "Chloe, you are so expressive! You are a sweet sweet girl! I love your little smile! Kisses to you Chloe!!"

• "Too cute! I think my computer just melted from all the puppy sweetness. Chloe looks as if she is trying to talk in a few photos. Absolutely beautiful! Massive belly rubs and nose kisses to her."

• "OMG! OMG! OMG! I am soooo... in love with you Rufus!!!!!!!!!!!! You have the greatest, most expressive face!!!!! I can not gush over you enough!!! If my doggies knew (especially my black lab) they'd be so jealous! haha"

And finally, my personal favorite:

• "Hey Woofus...you are a mighty cute lookin' pup. You have a very sweet face and eyes! You look like you need a friend! I am Bailey the golden retweevah...my mom didn't get me on this website when I was little but I would very much like to be your friend...wanna play? You should be warned though, my mom calls me the TAZ short for the Tazmanian "debil". And I am also known as CHAIN SAW...I will let you figure that out!"

conjunction junction, what's your function

During the second year of my illustrious - illustrious in this context translating to frequent hangovers, constant procrastination and the rediscovery of Lucky Charms - academic career at Holy Cross, I was faced with a decision. No, not deciding whether or not to go to Spain the following year, but rather deciding which of my remaining core requirements I would fill and which ones I would put off until senior year.

Deciding to ignore icky-icky science for as long as humanly possible, I decided that I would suck it up and get my philosophy requirement out of the way. I would eventually fill that remaining math/science requirement during my final semester with a riveting class commonly referred to as Physics for Dummies. The geology class, better known as "Rocks for Jocks," had - much to my chagrin - been cancelled the previous year with the retirement of its 964-year old professor.

Now I'm not exactly into the whole "what is life, why do we exist" spiel, so when perusing the catalogue for possible philosophy courses, I narrowed in on a class called Logic & Language. I figured it would be something like the logical study of language and therefore devoid of all that far-fetched philosophical bull-poo. I was half right, but that's a story for another day. Let's just put it this way. I never "did" office hours. Never! And yet I was in that professor's office at least 8 times that semester with a look on my face which I believe communicated to him what I was feeling: "What the FRIJOLES are you talking about?"

The professor of the class was German, and whenever he spoke I couldn't help but think of him as one of the jolly animatronic oompah boys in the Bavarian Christmas Village at the Yankee Candle Company in Massachusetts (exactly 2 people will know what I'm talking about). Sure, he'd often launch into a lesson speaking and scribbling on the board in his mother tongue. Sure, sometimes we had no idea what the guy was saying or how to spell any of the philosopher names that he spat out because his accent was so thick that everything just sounded like spoken marbles. However, when it came to conjunctions, the guy was a veritable fiend.

I have never in my life heard anybody else who so often integrates "ergo," "hitherto," "notwithstanding" and "thenceforth" into conversations- even when I'd run into him outside of class and he'd chat about his son's soccer (or "sog-haahhh") game. The pride and joy of his mental bank of conjunctions was, without a doubt, "insofar as." I quickly took to keeping a tally at the top my page of notes (I remember once counting over 65), something I've done since middle school whenever I've picked up on teachers' habits- an entertaining tactic to get through class without falling asleep. However, I often had to stop, as the class material had such an incredible knack for being boring that I would become delirious, nearly erupting into laughing fits every time he said it.

I often contemplated my professor's dominance of the conjunction; I couldn't help but picture the miniature red-cheeked version of my professor as a child in the Bavarian Alps reciting lists of conjunctions in knee socks and lederhosen, a beer stein in one hand and a fork loaded up with kraut in the other. Oh, and then Heidi and Peter showed up and they ran off to frolic with the goats.

Fat Hell

Fat, in most contexts, brings to mind images of obese swimsuit-clad women at theme parks, colossal men scratching their asses and plump 9 year olds named Marshall who thrive on a steady diet of Ruffles, Hershey bars and Big Macs.

Hell, as we all know, is the final hang-out for the world's so-called "bad boys," not to mention the cozy subterranean abode of Lucifer himself. A land with no exit door, but with an abundance of bubbling magma, nursing home thieves and politicians. Now that my imagination's running wild, I can't help but wonder if hell has monasteries for "wayward" priests. Hmm.

So Fat Hell would be what? A fiery abyss ruled by a tubby lord of darkness with chocolate constantly smeared in the corners of his mouth? No, no, no! Fat Hell may seem - to the untrained imagination - the epitome of unappealing destinations. However, the negatives cancel each other out, making Fat Hell a paradisaical land. It's pure mathematics, folks.

Comparable in many ways to Willy Wonka's clandestine factory of widespread literary and cinematic acclaim, Fat Hell is a magical place to which my friend Joanne and I frequently refer. No Oompa-Loompas though; frankly, they creep me out with their Gregorian-like chanting and orange hues acquired from extensive fake-baking sessions in the melanoma booths.

Despite its reference to Hell, Fat Hell is not yet a part of popular culture and it's definitely not used as a fist-waving threat in any recognized religion. However, plans are tenatively in the works for the creation of a non-suicidal, non-comet-chasing but sugar-loving and hyperactive cult in which adoring members bow down and lay offerings of Cadbury mini-eggs at the feet of chocolate effigies of their wise leader: me.

Anyway, Fat Hell is a positive place. If I walk into a room at 9:00 in the morning and Joanne is elbow deep in apple pie, I simply acknowledge what we both know: she's going to fat hell. Then we laugh maniacally and she hands me a fork. If Joanne condemns me to Fat Hell just for the heck of it, we toast to my impending doom by running out to buy pair of pastries. After all, being condemned to Fat Hell is, when it comes down to it, the equivalent of being exiled to an island in the Caribbean with swaying palm trees, crystalline waters and a tan daquiri-fetching cabana boy named Diego.


All that said, I'm pleased to present the Fat Hell Recipe of the Month.

Fat Hell Recipe of the Month
Reeses Peanut Butter Cup Sandwich

Ingredients:
2 slices of bread (alternate possibility and Betsey favorite: 2 graham crackers)
Skippy Superchunk Peanut Butter, 2 tablespoons or to taste
Betty Crocker "Rich & Creamy" Chocolate Frosting, 2 tablespoons or to taste

Directions:
Create. Enjoy.

story time

I spent the night in the city park. Sure, it's not a five-star hotel resort, and sure, the nights in the park are cold and boy are they dark... but the park affords us hours of tranquil peace in which we can dream about what life could have been, should fortune have only chosen a different path for us.

We - that is, us lowly guys - aren't picky when it comes to sleeping accommodations. Essentially we just settle in for the evening wherever we wind up once the sun goes down. Next to the swings, underneath the slide, inside the sandbox... wherever, really. Considering where some of us wind up, the park is like the country club of us ill-fated nobodies. The silence goes undisturbed- well, aside from the occasional prostitute that click-clacks by in her 5-inch platform heels in search of clientele. As long as they don't inadvertently step on us (the heels on those duds can inflict quite the blinding degree of pain), we coexist quite peacefully with society's godforsaken outcasts. Prostitutes, beggars, drug dealers, runaway teens...and us. We all have a common bond... a thread that unites us: people look down upon us. They forget us. We are, in every sense of the word, anonymous.

As the city's forgotten ones, we spend all day being walked on, kicked through the streets, thrown into puddles. For the love of God, if I had to tally up the number of times a sweater-wearing Yorkshire terrier has lifted its leg to shower me with its morning bowl of filtered water... well let's just say I don't have the fingers and toes to count that high. It's humiliating.

Today, I spent earliest moments of the morning enduring the kicking rage of a couple of ratty-haired school children whose parents, accompanying them to school while chattering away on their expensive cell phones, have clearly failed to provide an adequate upbringing. What ever happened to love and respect towards all of God's creations? Do you know what it's like to be kicked down the street, wind up in a puddle and lie there shocked and appalled as nobody says a word? Let's just say it's not an ego-booster.

Feeling particularly dejected following the morning's incident, I was presented with the unique opportunity - the opportunity we all wait and hope for - to even the score against the world's so-called "blessed" ones. It was going to be a victory for all of us... a symbolic event that would give us hope and change the future. Images flashed through my mind of me - little ole me - appearing in the history books, the encyclopedias, the classroom posters. They would interview me in Time Magazine about my inspiring rags to riches story, and I'd speak eloquently about the French Revolution, Rosa Parks' quest for equality through simple acts and my dream of eradicating social stratification around the globe.

I saw her coming nearly a block away. She was absolutely stunning. I hated her confident stride, her elegant air and her designer busines suit. I conveniently got in her way. Well, that is, I conveniently got in the way of one of her expensive European stiletto heels. She tripped and fell to her knees. She looked down at me and scowled before glancing around and smiling awkwardly at those who caught her in her fall from grace. I had done it! I was already envisioning my agenda booked solid with speaking engagements, commencement addresses, invitations to black-tie dinners...

But then, she stood up brushing herself off and laughing, commenting to the onlookers about how silly it was of her to have worn her brand new shoes without getting used to them first. Young women who had paused mid-step when they caught the flailing arms out of the corners of their eyes were now sharing a laugh... but they weren't laughing at her, they were chuckling and sympathizing with her!

"Oh why that happened to me just yesterday!"
"You know how us women are with our shoes..."
"Where DID you get those shoes? They're adorable."

No, this couldn't be!!! The young woman flipped her hair, caught her reflection in the store window, and smiled - her chin up and her shoulders back - before continuing along her way... leaving me there, forgotten and defeated, in the middle of the sidewalk.

Such is the frustrated life of a pebble.

I can't help it... these are strangely addicting to fill out

Survey: 70 Quirks about me:

1. What are your initials?
EMM... although good ole cousin Bill likes to point out that they're also BM. Whatever dude, his are BO.

2. What is your favorite thing to wear?
an eyepatch. yarrr

3. Last thing you ate?
apple

5. I say Shotgun, you say?
nuh uh I already called it

6. last person you hugged?
lucky, lucky person

7. Does anyone you know wanna date you?
well i certainly hope so

8. Has anyone ever bought you flowers?
yes

9. Name something you like physically about yourself.
toss up between my abs of steel and my rockin ass

10. The last place you went out to dinner to?
kebab!

11. Who is your best friend?
mark j guarraia.. 19 years and going

12.Why are you still up?
namely because they might not take it well if i just passed out on the keyboard

13. Who/What made you angry today?
nobody yet... it's just a matter of time though...

14. What was the last injury you've had?
cut on thumb? does that even count?

15. Do you have any tattoos?
aside from the "naughty" scribed on my ass, nope

16. Favorite type of Food?
potatoes (chips, fries, mashed, baked...)

17. Favorite holidays:
thanksgiving... the only holiday dedicated solely to the art of unbuttoning one's pants and eating oneself into a food coma

18. Do you download music:
yes. arrest me

19. Do you care if your socks are dirty?
well if there's an option between dirty socks and clean ones, i'll take the clean ones...

20. Is your hair clean?
pshhh personal hygiene is overrated... but society says i have to shower, so i do

21. Would you date the person who posted this?
haha

22. Has anyone ever sang or played for you personally?
i think i would laugh... the "hold it in, hold it in... EXPLODE" kind of laugh

24. Do you like Bush?
in either context of the question, no

25. Do you like to swim?
i don't know if i'd define my water activities as "swim" but i like to bob around... particularly if it involves a giant inflatable alligator or something...

26. Have you ever gone white-water rafting?
scares me

27. Has anyone ten years older than you ever hit on you?
it's spain. it's what old men do

29. Have you met a real redneck?
middlebury, vermont... a town with two bars and fame for being the birthplace of john deere. enough said

30. How is the weather right now?
sunny... it's no match for this fabulous fluorescent lighting though... SIGH

31. What are you listening to right now?
billy joel- downeaster alexa .... NEW ENGLAND REPRESENTTTT

32. What is your current favorite song?
?

33. What was the last movie you watched?
umm... the perfume... or at least the 2/3 of it that i tolerated

34. Do you wear contacts?
20/20 baby!

35. Where was the last place you went besides your house?
work?

36. What are you afraid of?
1. drowning... back seat of a two-door car going off a bridge... does this not bother ANYONE ELSE?
2. birds... i swear those damn pigeons are plotting world domination... i see unbridled wrath in their beady little eyes...

37. How many piercings have you had?
5... we're down to 4 though

38. How many pets do you have?
4

39. What's one thing you've learned this year?
that a spanish term for "camel toe" translates to "deaf mute," because you can read her lips...

40. What do you usually order from Starbucks?
no clue

42. Have you ever fired a gun:
only ones that squirts water

43. Are you missing someone?:
lots of someones

44. Favorite TV show?
arrested development, scrubs, how i met your mother...

45. Do you have an iPod?:
yeah

46. Has anyone ever said you looked like a celeb?
according to those celebrity look-alike photo analyzer thingees, my closest match was lucy liu. fyi, SHE'S CHINESE.

47. Do you have a celeb crush?
of course

48. Who would you like to see right now?
my daaaaaaaaadddyyyyyyy

49. Favorite movie of all time?
little mermaid... OBVI

50. Are you loved?
hope so!

51. Have you ever been caught doing something you weren't suppose to?
who hasn't?

52. Favorite flower?
daffodil perhaps?

53. Butter, plain, or salted popcorn?
butter & salt... if i'm gonna buy popcorn at the movie theater, it had DAMN well promise to give me a heart attack

54. What Magazines are you reading?
i'll spring for an InStyle from time to time... namely when they come with free stuff

55. What's your favorite pair of jeans?
i have 2, and they're from the same place.

56. Has anyone you were really close to passed away recently?
the last was my beloved beta fish, jesus

57. What was the funnest thing you've done in the past 24 hours?
power-walked to work listening to Ace of Base. i know... awesome

58. What's something that really bugs you?
people that can't spell / write; the woman in my office who constantly smokes even though she's 8 months pregnant

59. Do you like Michael Jackson?
his old school music rocks... the fact that he named his son blanket, however, does not

60. What are you wearing right now?
a smirk

61. What's your favorite smell?
just after it rains; the ocean; banana bread in the oven; orange blossoms; fresh cucumber candle from Yankee Candle Company; new tennis balls; fruit markets

62. Favorite baseball team?
red sox!!! who wants to go this summer???

63. Favorite cereal?
lucky charms! i've come a long way since age 6...

65. What's the longest time you've gone without sleep?
3 days in college.... ahhh, holy cross: where your best hasn't been good enough since 1843

66. Last time you went bowling?
when i was home for xmas... wild night in SE CT...

67. Where is the weirdest place you have slept?
well when i was a kid i spent years either sleeping inside my closet or underneath my parents' bed...

68. Who was your last phone call?
BERRRRRRRRRRRRNICE

69. Last time you were at work?
now... and now... annnnd now...

70. What's the closest orange object to you?
close call... either orange juice or an Enforex brochure...

sue me... i was hungry

Despite my mother's worries that I had succumbed to the dark world of eating disorders last year, there are few things I lurve more than food. I attributed the unintentional but welcome weight loss to a combination of a) full-day hangovers (which has led me to very nearly swear off heavy drinking) during which I can't eat, and b) power-walking to class, a high-speed daily endeavor not all that different from slalom skiing (just replace the red and blue flags with slow-moving Spanish señoras wrapped head-to-toe in thousands of dollars worth of animal fur). Due to my affinity for waking up late and procrastination in general, I did in 10 minutes what my roommates did in 20 in order to get to school before the spit-flying festivities of Teresa Bordón's riveting 9 a.m. linguistics class commenced.

Digression over. The fondness (understatement) of food - particularly those foods involving high levels of sugar, deep fried potatoes and/ or scoopable lactic products- is genetic to the noble Mattern lineage. It was passed down to me by my dad, Jim "why get 1 cinnamon roll when you can get 2" Mattern, much in the way that other families pass down antique pocket watches or china dishes brought over on the proverbial boat from the homeland. When it comes to edible goodies, the admirable self-control of my mom - Bernie "who wants to split a cookie" Kaiser - clearly has little or no presence in my gene pool.

This brings me to the random encounter of the day.

On my way to work this morning, I decided some mini-donuts would make a delicious companion to my multiple morning cups o' joe. For a fleeting moment (something more or less equal to the speed of light), I contemplated stopping into the fruit market to grab an apple or some other farm-grown product of nutritive value. However, in a mental boxing match of less than one round, fresh produce quickly lost out to the sugar-fused brawn of bite size chocolate-covered rings of dough.

As I cheerfully walk out, donuts in hand, a homeless guy approaches me. To ask for money? No. To ask for donuts? No. To tell me he's Jesus re-risen from the dead? Not even! The comment was essentially the following: "Be careful... pretty girls who eat too much turn out not so pretty."

Don't worry though, the Dr. Phil tough love approach doesn't work well on me.