halloweenies

With newspaper spread over the entire floor, the coffee table pushed to the side, three different knives and spoons of various sizes... we carved the best jack-o-lantern EVER. For the record, Alfonso was an excellent first-time scooper.











Despite the sad and inevitable day each year when the local Dairy Queen would close for winter, I have always loved fall and everything that it entailed. Picking out pumpkins. Leaves in deep shades of red and orange. Apple-picking and haunted hay rides at the town's orchards. Chilly walks and running from the frigid waves at the beach. Cider. Brand-new fleece jackets. Lighting the fire in the fireplace for the first time of the season. Launching ourselves, kamikaze-style and giggling, into giant piles of fallen leaves... much to the dismay of a certain dad who may or may not have just spent hours raking all the leaves in the yard into orderly piles to be bagged up and discarded.

Fall, of course, culminated in the biggest event of the season: Halloween. When I was growing up it was FANTASTIC. I think it's what led to the chocolate binges that I still succumb to from time to time... well, replace "from time to time" with "on a daily basis." I don't know until what age I trick-or-treated, but it was probably pushing that limit when adults open the door and think to themselves, "hmm, aren't we a little old for this?"

Our little pint-size posse - the Matternlets and the Walkerlets - would always meet up first for pictures at the request/ demand of our camera-toting mothers who would somehow each manage to use up three whole rolls of film on a mere six costume-clad kids. We have envelopes upon envelopes jam-packed with snapshots of smiling superheroes, angels, clowns and cats, all of us armed with our pillow cases and pumpkin buckets and with a clear mission ahead of us: sugar.

The best years were the ones in which, after the picture-taking frenzy finally wrapped up, we managed to coerce one of our dads into pulling us around from house to house, us crammed into a wagon hitched up to the back of a tractor and sticking our tongues out as we passed the neighborhood kids who had to trick-or-treat on foot, while the moms stayed behind to hold down the fort and shower the arriving princesses, monsters and devils with ooh's, ahh's and candy. To this day my mom still lives for Halloween, her jack-o-lantern lit in the front window hours in advance, a big bowl of candy waiting in the foyer and a pen and piece of paper set out to keep a tally of the number of kids who come to the door. I will bet money that she'll give me the official 2007 stats during our next phone call.

Once we made it to the very last house on Village Drive, a route which at the time seemed to last for hours and hours, we piled back into the wagon - our once-empty sacks and buckets now bulging with sweets - for the voyage back to our respective houses. This is when - well, in our house at least - the business part of the evening commenced.

My brother, my sister and I would each rip off our costumes and claim a separate parcel of the family room carpet, where we then conducted inventory with a surprising degree of organization and formality. This is also when we'd find out that there were really cool neighbors (the ones who handed out king-size chocolate bars) and very, VERY uncool ones (the neighborhood grinch up the street who insisted on handing out free samples of toothpaste each year).

Candy was sorted into their respective piles and rows. KitKats lined up side-by-side. Packs of Bubbalicious gum. Ring pops and Skittles. Tootsie rolls, M&M's and gummy bears. Then there was of course the designated "junk" pile, where things like Sugar Daddy's, little boxes of raisins and the annual tubes of toothpaste were quickly discarded. This was subsequently also the pile we allowed our parents to choose from.

We'd spend at least a half hour with our stern business faces on, bartering our candy and trading with each other, our energetic negotiations fueled by a steady consumption of one of everything. The family room quickly turned into a microcosm of the New York Stock Exchange trading floor. One Snickers bar for 2 tootsie pops. Three bags of Skittles and one of Sour Patch kids for that king size Hershey bar. I imagine it must have been quite the eyebrow-raising spectacle for our parents.

Once the trades were complete and we began to come down from our sugar-induced highs, we'd place the candy back into our buckets, which were then placed on top of the refrigerator. However, I'm relatively certain that once we were all tucked into bed with stomach aches, sticky hands and traces of paint still on our faces, our parents would sneak our pumpkins down from their high perches... and deviate from the junk piles we so graciously gave them.

jelly belly jelly beans

1 chocolate JellyBelly
+
1 toasted marshmallow JellyBelly
-----------------------------------------
= S'mores party in my mouth!

Random moments at work...

... in which we look happy!

In a nutshell...

I understand that everyone has gripes about their boss, I really do. However, we are dealing with an extreme case here. Until you actually spend time - albeit just an hour - in our little Internet department, you will never be able to truly grasp what we're dealing with on a daily basis. Whenever I've tried to describe, I've ended up coming to the conclusion that it is impossible to really convey him as a concept. However, a coworker recently managed to do the seemingly impossible by summing things up with just a few words:

"You ask him what time it is and he tells you it's raining outside."

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.