vacation

I just got back from an excellent week in Idaho. Click the pic for more.

threes

I knew I was off to a rough Tuesday when a bird crapped on my face. I assumed it was an oversized drip from an air conditioning unit, but the wipe of a hand revealed the tell-tale oily white. No mistaking that one. Not to be discouraged, I continued my walk to work and stopped at my habitual bench to change from flip flops to heels. Strike two, as another bad-dream scenario came true in the form of mis-matched shoes. Granted, they were both black and round-toed. Also granted, one was a good inch and a half higher than the other. Once at work, I (stood with weight on one foot as I) reported my morning's events to two coworkers. "Watch out- bad things come in threes," warned one. Thanks, Alejandro. I don't consider myself at all superstitious, but I do have to admit I smiled to myself as the day came toward a close with nothing worse to report than an itchy shirt tag. I was so pleased with my having conquered the day, in fact, that I put an extra umph on the the big bowl of hummus I slid across- and off- our kitchen counter. Face down. Three.

dish-draining danger

In my last post, I failed to explain how my favorite bowl could possibly plunge to his death from the top of our fridge. Well, truth be told, he toppled from the dish drainer. 

I have to blame New York for this one; if our kitchen had any normal amount of counter space, this never would have happened. 

I'll miss you, bowl.

now, where was I

Oh, hi.

It's time once again to address the neglected blog. I'm not quite sure how this happens, but the first post back is always the toughest; there's so much pressure for it to be a "good one." Having given up on that idea, I figure I'll just throw something out there so I can move on. A lot (and yet nothing) has happened over the past two months, including but not limited to:
- a visit from the parents (free food and good company)
- a visit from the little sis (hilarious)
- the purchase of a new comp (my first mac)
- a promo at work (nice)
- my 27th birthday (what?)
- my favorite bowl plunged to his death from the top of our fridge (sad)
- I walked two miles in nail salon "flip flops" (true)
- I cut my hair (fine, it looks the same)
- I checked out some mayan ruins (cool)
- and I'm loving the current NY weather (can it please stay like this...?)

That's all I've got. "Good one," huh?

runaway raisins

You've seen it before: leftovers at a self-serve restaurant, cans on the roadside, gum on the street. I never cease to be annoyed with people who believe themselves above putting their trash in its place, and do my darndest to let my thoughts be known via scowl or raised eyebrow. Come on people, make an effort.

Confession, though: last week that person was me. It started off innocently enough, as I walked home from a late night volleyball match. Realizing my stomach could really use a little something to tide it over, I popped into a deli and came out with a six-pack. Of raisins, that is. I finished off a mini box a block later, tossing it toward a garbage can as I reached for a second. Yes, toward, and I timed that with a gust of wind you wouldn't believe. The next thing I knew, my raisin box was whipping across the street. I started quickly after it, but stopped in my tracks at the sight of oncoming traffic. I stepped back on the curb, and Sun Maid was lost in the night. And people scowled at me.

my words in print

flying disc

I came across this picture today and couldn't help but post it. I figured 1) it's the closest I'll ever come to foot modeling, and 2) honestly, what could better serve as webpage welcome than a trio of dirty feet? The picture was taken last September, after my best friend Katie and her best (boy)friend Britt added their names to the list of those who've tried to teach me to throw a frisbee. I wouldn't say they succeeded, but I'd like to think we made some serious progress. Perhaps '08 will be my year.

one glove

A sad realization this morning got a certain song stuck in my head. Then, as the day went on, the lyrics began to change:

One Glove, One Right
Left went and got himself lost last night
Hear the left hand crying (One Glove)
Hear the left hand crying (One Right)
Sadly, the Left got left on the train, yes he got lost last night
Sadly, Left went and got himself lost last night

(to the tune of Bob Marley's "One Love")
 

terms of endearment

My family has always been huge on nicknames, and the Batt farm heard many come and go across the years: Wayne-bo, Weo, Waynard; Winnie, Wendello, Windorff; Kath, Kahti, Kaz; Nico, Nucho, Nuck, and beyond.

I thereby learned to answer to pretty much whatever people called me, and when a Spanish-speaking coworker addressed me one day as "Wench," I responded. I smiled to myself when she left, sure it wouldn't stick- but it did. It spread like wild fire.

"Wench, have you seen this presentation?"
"Hey Wench, I like your coat."
"Where should we have lunch today, Wench?"
"Wench, want to grab a coffee?"

Little do they know that "wench" is an actual word in English, a word that means, to put it lightly, "wanton woman."

It makes me smile.

(208)

Now that we've established Idaho's geographical location, I thought I might point out that the entire state has a sole area code. The area code can therefore be dropped on all in-state calls, and people grow quickly accostomed to a simple seven digits. This is all fine and good until there's an animal clinic just across the Washington-Idaho border whose telephone number is identical to your cell phone number (plus area code, of course). As a result, people in Idaho half-dial the animal clinic and get- you guessed it!- me.

There was a time when I considered changing my number, but we've since come to terms. It doesn't happen too often, after all, and anyway what would I do without conversations such as this:

"Hello"
"Got my dog tangled up in a porcupine."
"Sorry, what?"
"Got my dog tangled up in a porcupine."
"Oh, right. I think you have the wrong number.. try (509)"

what's in a name

"When do you usually leave in the morning?"
"When do you want to go run?"
"When do you move to that place on 14th St?"
"When do you think you'll be done?"

"When do you normally go out to dinner?"
"When do you leave for D.C.?"
They get me each time as I stop, turn my head;
It all sounds like "Wendy..." to me.

lessons in geography

Ah, what have we here? could it.. no but it.. it is! A new post!
So I took five blogging months off. Big deal.
No excuses. Moving on.

Now, where was I...

Ah yes, a simple subject I've been meaning to address for quite some time now: my home state of Idaho.
"Iowa?"
Idaho.
"Ohio?"
Idaho.
"Oh yeah, the midwest."
Ehh, no.

Now, I've nothing against the midwest and by no means expect the general public to know all there is to know about Idaho, but let me paint you a picture:

I think that's a good start.

these are a few of my favorite things

You know it's a good day when you break through to the next color layer of your Post-it pad. I'm a sucker for Post-its. Post-its and tupperware and band-aids. Just last week I bought a new piece of tupperware- clear plastic with a pale green lid. I'm not yet sure why I bought it- heaven knows I don't need it. It was sitting by itself in the baggie section, apparently left behind in favor of the Ziploc version (which, by the way, I also endorse), and I couldn't help but give it a home. It's now sitting empty on top of my cabinets, but I'll put something in it sometime: cookies, perhaps, or a 7-layer dip. I debated relegating it to school supplies, but I figure the pale green lid will go especially well with guacamole. Or would that be 8-layer dip? Beans, tomatoes, cheese, black olives, salsa, sour cream, guac... 7 after all- give or take the sour cream, take or take the olives (though, yes, I've lost that argument before). As for band-aids, there's no better way to make the best of a bad situation; slap one on and you feel better instantly. You can't help it. And Post-its? Post-its will be around long after people believe themselves "paperless." Yes, these are a few of my favorite things: Post-its and tupperware and band-aids. And olives.

selected pics

Katie's Graduation: me, my sister, and our bearded brothersCattle Branding in Idaho: me, the spanies, and Uncle Dale

"Family Picture": me, my parents, and the spanies at home

here i am

You may or may not have noticed that Wendy's World was going by the wayside there for a while. More and more friends have been writing blogs lately, however, and a few of their links to my page have embarassed/inspired me into get it back in gear.

Before I return to my regular ranting, raving, and rambling, I thought I'd bring you up-to-date on what I might have written about in March, April, May, and 2/3 of June had I not been busy can-opener shopping:

• I got a new pair of glasses (same frame, worse prescription).
• My vball team got runner-up in our city league vball championship. yeah, first losers.
• It snowed (like crazy) on Easter.
• My cellphone died after I dropped it in the sink.
• My cellphone came miraculously back to life two weeks later.
• I got an unexpected- though not undeserved- bonus!
• One of my good Spanie friends moved back to Spain.
• Some of my since-gone Spanie friends came back to visit.
• We got kicked out of our apartment (semi-illegal sublet).
• We were allowed to stay in our apartment after all (still not sure why).
• I finally got a bed! (of sorts)
• My older brother bought a house (nice contrast here).
• Five of my Spanish coworkers came with me on a cattle-branding trip to Idaho.*
• My little sis graduated from Linfield with degrees in Art and Business (yeah Kaht!)*
• B20 apt mate and good friend Kristy Paredes got married last weekend, providing an excellent excuse for a much-needed CA getaway with long-lost friends.

* pics coming soon

cans closed

If you're in the market for a can opener, do not (I repeat: do not) invest in the $1 can opener from your local Walgreens. Tempting though it may be, I assure you it is not worth a dollar, nor any fraction thereof.

"But I don't need a fancy can opener," you protest.
Fair enough, but let's assume you'd like a can opener that opens cans. Walgreens' $1 edition would be a great choice if you're hoping for the type of can opener that simply clamps, but if you're thinking more along the lines of a can opener that cuts- you best take your dollar elsewhere.

"But I hardly ever eat canned food," you say.
I see where you're coming from, but BACKFIRE!, my friends. Canned food is desperation food- food you resort to when there's nothing else, or when you're sick and just need soup. These are not the times to be messing around with a can-mauling wannabe. Will you eventually get your cans open? yeah, as time and time again you find yourself cursing the can and trying to figure out the "trick." There is no trick; pay the $5.49.

a slightly later letter

On Monday I sent off a letter
Addressed to my good friend KT,
But Tuesday I opened my mailbox
And found it there, waiting for me.

"RETURNED FOR ADDRESS," said the red stamp
And, sadly, the red stamp was right,
Her name was there, written quite clearly
But an address was nowhere in sight.

I knew that the mailman was rolling his eyes
When he saw my poor, ill-addressed letter;
The fact a "RETURNED FOR ADDRESS" stamp exists
Has not made me feel that much better.

So I added a line to the "Dumb Things I've Done"
And re-sent the letter today,
Katie, you'll soon get your letter!
It's just on a three-day delay :)

danger shoes, adieu

I threw out my danger shoes today. By "danger shoes" I mean the shoes I fell down in four times. Ah, but I didn't just fall down in those shoes, I fell down because of those shoes. Danger shoes.

They look innocent enough. No heel, decent traction. Decent traction, that is, until you wear through it. At that point, you reach the plastic o' death, and it's literally downhill from there. Even then, the plastic is deceiving. I'd only worn through the outside corner of each heel- as is my custom- and walked without a worry so long as I didn't place all my weight on that 1/2 inch of slick. Unfortunately, there comes a time (or four) in every walker's journey when a step is indeed dependent upon that back 1/2 inch.

I'd given my danger shoes the benefit of the doubt for a long time, but as the heels wore through and the plastic peeked through, I knew the time was drawing near. After tonight's final skid, slide, and two-hands-down, I decided it was time to get my danger shoes off the streets and into a dumpster where they belong. May they rest in peace.

last known photo

toast post

The obvious topic options for my first post in over a month would logically include my (excellent) Christmas vacation or my (lack of a) New Years resolution, but tonight I've something else on my mind.

I don't like toast.

"Who doesn't like toast?!"

Me.

Seriously, though, does anyone? Really? I mean, like it? Choose it? Eat it? Apparently so, or they wouldn't give it to you with every breakfast. "Would you like white or wheat toast?" Neither. How did this happen? Can't you see I'm eating pancakes?

Toast alongside eggs or an omelet makes a little more sense- "part of this complete breakfast" and all- but what interest have I in eating "bread that has been browned by exposure to dry heat?"

I'm not against all forms of toast. Do I enjoy french toast? Absolutely. Cinnamon toast? Sure. A toasted sandwich? By all means. But toast? Plain toast? Toast?

couch control

I recently received a request for more tales from the farm. Here's an all-time favorite, short but sweet:

Nick was 1, Katie was 3, I was 6, and Wayne was 8. At the time, Wayne still had a few years to go before reaching his peskiness peak, and I'd yet to earn the nickname "Big Bossy Booger." Katie spent a great deal of her time chasing butterflies, while Nick was ever improving his block-building skills.

One afternoon, my mom decided the "big kids" were old enough to watch over the little kids, and asked Wayne and me to keep Katie and Nick out of trouble while she took a quick shower. "Of course," we said, and we did.

When my mom got out of the shower, Wayne and I were downstairs watching TV. Katie and Nick were upstairs, tied to the couch by their necks.

the very couch

gainfully employed

Did I mention I got a job? Well, I did. Granted, it's doing the same thing in the same place as my so-called "internship," but now I have the salary, the benefits, and the longer hours to prove it. This is exciting. This is very exciting with the exception of the longer hours. For as much as I liked the idea of being an intern-for-life, the time had come. This means I'll be in New York a longer than originally planned, but I'm looking forward to it. I'm also looking forward to no longer living my life in four-month increments. But who am I kidding? This isn't my first job by any means. Now that I think about it...

A Brief Employment History
Weeding onions (two cents/weed, mind you): age 6 (Idaho)
Vineyard trellis removal: 7 (Idaho)
Training hops: 8-9 (Idaho)
Hoeing beet/bean/hop fields: 10-14 (Idaho)
Spraying weeds, washing windows, sweeping spiderwebs: 10 - present
Childcare (little bro and sis, mostly): 15-18 (Idaho)
Lawn-mowing: 12-18 (Idaho)
CBS (Intl Licensing Department, Intern): Fall 2002 (Santa Monica, CA)
Walgreens "Business Affairs Intern": Summer 2003 (Idaho)
BBVA Comercio Exterior Intern: Sept 2005 - March 2006 (Madrid)
BBVA Business Development Intern: May 2006 - Oct 2006 (NY)
BBVA Business Development Analyst: Nov 2006 - present (NY)

Keyword: gainfully

battwoman returns

Better late than never, we finally have contracted internet! My apartment mate and I did our darndest to survive two months' worth of pirated wireless, but when "jimmyb's" connection went wild and "qhouse" instated a network key, we knew our time had come. I don't even know what it costs yet. Whatever it is... it's worth it.

More soon.

pumpking pie?

I can not, for the life of me, type "pumpkin" without typing "pumpking". Can not. If I am typing along at anything that resembles a normal speed- even if I know full-well that the word is coming up- my darn left index finger slips over and pops in a final "g". Wha? I'm then forced to go grudgingly back and delete it. This gets particularly annoying at a time when one is repeatedly forced to acknowledge the name of a gourd that's ignored for eleven months out of the year. Pumpkin pie, pumpkin party, pumpkin fest... bah. I therefore suggest that "pumpking" be adopted into standard English. Yeah? Yeah? Surely I'm not the only one with this problem. There will be no need to pronounce it differently- a "silent g" will suffice- and I really think this will lead to a greater appreciation for some other words with multiple spellings. Call it stubbornness, call it laziness, call it ridiculous... I won't fight it anymore.

mmm... pumpking pie

new chair, blue chair

At work we would sit every day In chairs slightly thread-bare and grey Until late one night To our utmost delight The grey chairs were taken away. And then the next morning, what fun! There, before work had begun Sat waiting brand new ones Some shiny, bright blue ones Imagine the work we'll get done!

sweet dreams

I received a few concerns about my camp-pad situation last week, so you'll all be happy to know I'm now sleeping on clouds. Kind of.

Last week I went to Target with the intention of buying an air mattress, but after 30 minutes staring at the air mattress section (a surprisingly large section), I spied a sleeping bag in a neighboring aisle. Ooooo, sleeping bag... done deal. My bed is now assembled as follows: camp pad (so?) + sleeping bag + mattress pad + fitted sheet + (me) + sheet + quilt. Not bad. My logic was this: the sleeping bag doubles as, well, a sleeping bag! For visitors!

It's a trundle, of sorts.

many moves

I write from the “comfort” of my new apartment. I put “comfort” in quotation marks because, well, I'm currently using a camp pad for a bed. I actually have no problem with camp pads, but a lot of people apparently think that's weird. I'll probably upgrade to an aero-bed this week so I can really impress the visitors. Another option might be a real bed, but who does that? Not me, and not when I don't know where I'll live come January. One of these days I hope to stay in one place long enough to invest in such luxury, but the wandering continues for now.

Post grad house-hopping analysis:

# When Where Where? w/whom Pros Cons Note 1 Jun'04 Dulio’s house Monterrey, Mexico Dulio, Bea, Pedro guac tacos across the street one bathroom for four interim for apt search 2 July'04 Señora's house Monterrey, Mexico Señora, Bea cheap no A/C too hot, move to survive 3 Aug–Dec'04 Calle Nápoles Monterrey, Mexico Bea my own room for the first time since high school no oven, the occasional cockroach care packages never arrive 4 Jan–Feb'05 Alex's House Monterrey, Mexico Alex, Karla, Alex's mom my own bathroom alex's twin poodles winter session before Spain 5 Feb–Nov'05 Plaza de Castillo Madrid, Spain Bea, Karla, Joyce, Regis, Ileana six girls six girls all-time record: 10 months 6 Dec'05–March'06 Pacífico Madrid, Spain Bea adorable apt tiny apt after the six moved on 7 May'06 Meri's apt New York, NY Meri view of the gym Meri (jk, jk) interim for apt search 8 Jun–Aug'06 46th St & 9th New York, NY Chris rooftop everything on a slant summer sublet 9 Sept06 - Union Square New York, NY Julie TBD TBD TBD

mixing it up

I don't know what came over me yesterday, but I think we can all learn from it.

A few coworkers and I had adventured into a new deli for lunch, so I stepped calmly to the side while I surveyed the goods: pastas to the left, couscous to the right, soups in the back, hmmm. Then I spotted what I was looking for: the make-your-own-salad station. Perfect. Lots of deli's have a similar set-up, but the options will vary so I scanned the ingredients board as I took my place in line. Unfortunately, it was a line of two, and I soon found myself staring into the eyes of The Salad Man: "Yes, miss?" I started off calmly with the "Romaine mix," then requested my standard "mushrooms" (fresh) and "tomatoes" (cherry). I generally mix it up- so to speak- at this point, so I searched the mini-containers as Salad Man tossed the tomatoes and mushrooms. "And?" And... and... "blue cheese." And... and then I saw it: Pesto Chicken. Pesto Chicken?! I love pesto chicken! "Pesto Chicken," I said, "and oil and vinegar." Salad Man mixed it up, topped it off, and undoubtedly shook his head for the rest of the day.

Blue cheese + pesto + vinegar? Sick.

pictures worth a thousand words

Maybe not a thousand, but a step in the right direction:

a tribute to my summer school neighbors

If I ever say "summer school neighbors," I am without a doubt referring to those of 2002: Katie, Tyson, Jeff, and Jonny.

It all began that May. Katie and I were excited just to be reunited after my spring semester abroad, but little did we know that the summer had a few extra friends in store for us. We got a "taste" soon enough, as we met our across-the-hall neighbors, Tyson and Jeff, by means of a strawberry fight and its subsequent practical joke war. Soon after, we were playing tennis, a little later we were baking cookies, and in the end we were inseparable. Well, at least until Tyson left at the end of the May and we replaced him (but not really) with Jonny, even more tennis, and still more cookies.

We all pulled a mini-reunion in April, but a recent revival of emails has left me in need of another. Guys? Calling all summer school neighbors...

the return of the orange links

what a relief

blue links

Instead of writing a post this week, I thought maybe I'd just turn my links blue. Yeah? Yeah?

Actually I was deleting the link to a friend's [weak] blog, and I seem to have deleted some essential tags in the process. Looks good, no?

Drat.

Blue is one of my favorite colors, actually. The favorite, perhaps- though not among links. In any case, I don't feel like finding/fixing the problem right now, so I'll ramble on.

Mini update: I've recently extended my New York City life at least through December. This is for your visiting convenience, not to mention my desire to ice skate around Rockefeller Center. Ooo, and I should mention my job title is now "analyst" rather than "intern," though little has changed.

Actually, my title may soon be "homeless," as I have to find a new apartment by the first of September or I'm out on the streets. I thought I had something lined up with a fellow intern at the bank, but she's on vacation- and not responding- in Spain for the moment.

My volleyball team is now 0-6. No wonder I have blue links.

I burned my tongue on a cappuccino today, but it's more pink than blue, really.

That should probably do it for now.

scare package

I requested a few items- mostly volleyball stuff- from my family a while back, so I was excited last Friday to finally receive the goods. I ripped open the box in hopes of a few extras, and was not soon disappointed. I got extras, all right.

I wasn't at all surprised by the water-squirting octopus or a candy cane from last Christmas, and was most grateful for the two cans of mousse. Then, suddenly, I spied some zip-locked papertowels nestled in among the kneepads. "Cookies?" I wondered, but grabbing for the bag I felt the contents to be quite light and perhaps a bit crunchy. "Aw, dried flowers," I concluded, thinking of my mom's lilacs on the west side of our yard. Not so, I'm afraid. As I gently unrolled the paper towels, I was shocked to find three giant (dead) JUNE BUGS.

I realize that very few of you will have had experience with the June Bug (technically, I think, a beetle), so let me assure you that they are 1) very large and 2) very ugly. I loved the things when I was little, as their sticky legs allowed them to scale my entire arm without falling off. They also make a delightful hissing sound when you provoke them- which, of course, I did whenever I could. After all, they're only around for late June (thus the name?) and July each summer- at least at my house.

Unfortunately, they fell from my grace circa 1995, when I uncovered a pile of their unsightly larvae (also 1. very large and 2. VERY ugly). The bugs have been a family joke ever since, so I should have known better than to request a package in the middle of the summer. Ew.

hot town, summer in the city

60 degrees: shorts. 70 degrees: barefeet. 80 degrees: play in the water.

Those were the rules ingrained in me as a child, so lately I'm wondering where in the world is my Slip 'n Slide. I think my brothers, sister, and I slid our way through an average of one per summer in our early years, eventually earning ourselves a Crocodile Mile.

"YOU RUN! YOU SLIDE! You hit the ramp, and take a DIVE!"

Except you didn't, really. How those kids in the commercial caught so much air, I'll never know. Still, it was the Crocodile Mile! I was always a little disappointed our edition didn't have the arched Croc streamers and we all know the "giant splashdown pool" wasn't all it was cracked up to be, but streamers might have interfered with The Twist I was ever-perfecting, and a larger pool would have inevitably led to more dunkings by the older brother. Slip 'n Slides, running through sprinklers, wading in ditches, SuperSoakers and water balloon fights, trampolines and hoses... those were the days.

Where's my popsicle.

up up and away

You work on the 45th floor
So staircases simply won't do,
You press the ^ patiently, waiting
The elevators coming for you.

But others are not quite so patient
They press ^ and press ^ again,
They think that it makes it come faster?
One shakes his head: "slowest it's been."

But ding! one arrives, you assemble,
Pack in for that cattle-car feeling,
Every head now facing forward
Every eye, glazed, toward the ceiling.

No talking (well, maybe weather)
Prepare for the ear pop: one, two,
And that's it, that's elevator culture-
All worth it, I think, for the view :)

against all odds

Remember my inter-office World Cup pool? $20 buy-in, limit 3? Well, I won! Fine, fine, I got third-- but still! Nothing like a hard day's work; I collected a cool $108 to complement the bragging rights I was really after, and it's since become my number-one conversation piece. "Oh, you're the girl [American, INTERN] that won in the pool." Yes, yes I am. I figure now I can really start throwing my weight around in the office.

phlushing

So, I uh... flushed my cell phone.

What?

Yeah. Saturday afternoon I walked into a bathroom clutching my Samsung e105. Five minutes later, I walked out empty-handed.

As I entered the stall that fateful afternoon, I thoughtfully freed up my hands by slipping little e105 into my right-side shorts pocket. A shallow pocket- sure- but a safe place, right? I then went about business as usual, pulled up my shorts, and reached for a right-handed flush. With the stretch, my right-side pocket positioned itself directly over the bowl, and in doing so must have woken e105's suicidal tendencies. As I pressed through with the flush, e105 took a dive for the waters beneath. I saw a flash of silver and plunged my hand into the depths (what- you would have done it too), but it was too late. e105 was gone.

It all happened so fast.

world cup!

You know your office is World Cup obsessed when:

• every third word is "futbol"
• 35+ people watch the Spain games in the conference room (lights dimmed)
• trading room TVs are set to ESPN2
• twice-daily emails update the inter-office pool standings ($20 buy-in, limit 3)
• flags abound- you name it, we've got it
• people are seen kicking soccer balls in the hallway
• sudden groans, shouts, and sighs of relief are not uncommon
• lunch hours turn verrrry flexible
• your boss sports a jersey

I love it.

ID ID

If you're going to be from Idaho (not a bad move), and decide to carry an Idaho driver's license as your primary form of photo ID (logical), may I recommend not having it issued on 12/15/2004. Many ID-checkers have apparently "never seen one of those before," and a look-up in The Book will promptly reveal the example as issued on- you guessed it- 12/15/2004. Suspicious? They think so. While you're at it, avoid losing or cracking your card, as doing so results in a replacement screaming DUPLICATE across the top right-hand corner. As it turns out, "duplicate" is not a favorite word among ID-checkers. Worst case scenario? A duplicate ID from ID, issued right there on the 15th of December, 2004. Very suspicious indeed.

we've got mail

I opened a box of greeting cards last night, and what should flutter out but a note from Hallmark. They thanked me for joining in their tradition of "enriching lives through meaningful communication" and emphasized their belief in the "emotional value of written communication." No need to thank me, Hallmark- I'm all for it. In fact, aside from the closer-to-family-and-friends factor, good old-fashioned mail easily tops my "good to be back from Spain" list. There's no comparison, really: stationary is more available and much better looking; sending is at a lower cost and higher convenience; and receiving actually happens- even if dominated by my own internet shopping.

Don't get me wrong- I love (understatement) email- but there's something to be said for personalized, hand-written cards. Out-dated or not, I like writing them, I like receiving them, and I like subjecting poor people to my wannabe-chickenscratch. In the words of Hallmark, what a great way to "keep in touch and nurture relationships."

seat-swivel view from the office

-

an apartment!

Kind of. A future apartment, more like. After 42 craigslist emails, 18 replies, and 7 visits, I've found the lucky spot. From June 1st to August 31st I'll be living in "Hell's Kitchen," a neighborhood just blocks from Times Square. Yes, Hell's Kitchen. The apartment belongs to two girls who are taking off for the summer, and is the nicest, closest, cheapest place I saw. By "nicest" I mean the 5th floor of an old building without an elevator- ha- but it's a little bigger (almost has a living room!), a little cleaner, and a lot better taken care of than many (all?) of the others I looked at. By "closest," I mean 25 minutes walking to everywhere I'll frequent- work, the park, shopping, etc- and by "cheapest," well, we won't go into that. The neighborhood seems really clean and safe, and there are piles upon piles of restaurants, bars, and coffee shops close by.

The catch: I'll be living with "Chris," (a random guy) which was not part of my original plan. I did already meet him and he seems nice enough... maybe a little younger (?), from Florida, works with video/film. I must admit I'd originally hoped to live with 2-3 other "young professional" girls, but the apparent lack thereof- combined with the "nicest-closest-cheapest"- roped me in at the offer. Ah, and I'll have Internet (whew), rooftop-access, and A/C eventually. I can't say there's a whole lot of space, but I can say that visitors are more than welcome. Sign yourself up.

variations on voicemail

I did a very embarrassing thing last night. I "signed" a voicemail. I'm not sure how else to describe it.

It started off as a normal- if rambly- "welcome home" message to my little brother, but ended horribly with the words "talk to you soon. Wendy." Wendy? Wendy?! What is that?!? Granted, I'm just working my way back into telephones, but that's ridiculous.

and kind of funny.

the big move

So here I am in New York City.

I must admit it hasn't yet sunken in that I'm living here. I think it will fairly soon, though, as my days are much more business than pleasure. Still, I'm loving it. Here's what little is going on so far:

The Living Quarters
Temporarily staying at Meri's as I search for a ("cheap"?) place to live.

The Office
45th floor of 1345 Avenue of the Americas (6th) between 54th and 55th... let's just say I have an unobstructed view of all of Central Park at the swivel of my seat. I'm currently working on the corporate banking portal, a new effort to connect branches and information throughout Central and South America. I like it. I don't particularly like the dress code, which requires a full-on suit jacket. People in my office are from everywhere (23% American, I think?), and I definitely hear more Spanish than English. Above all, everyone has been really nice.

The City Life
Working on it!

details, as promised

I've been holding off on detail revelation primarily because I haven't had many details to reveal. What I can tell you is that on May 1st of 2006 I will enter BBVA NY as its newest intern in the Strategic Business Development department of the Corporate Banking Americas area. "Americas" as in "Latin America," and "intern" as in "temporary." That said, I must point out that- miraculously- I will indeed be paid, and I'd like to consider the post as much a trial period for them as for me. As for where I'll be living, what exactly I'll be doing, and whether I'll pick up the New York accent... stay tuned.

big news

There once was a girl- hey, that's me
Returning from o'er 'cross the sea
Was Idaho-bound
But then a job found
In "The Big Apple-" yes- NYC!

more details to come...

hiatus

Oops. I should have mentioned that the Whirlwind Tour of the Iberian Peninsula wouldn't include many (any?) Internet stops for trusty webpage updates. Sorry about that.

In other news, I'm back on US soil and currently working on some "leads" for employment. Ha.

23 days

Well, I've less than a month left in Spain. It's hard for me to believe that I've lived here over a year, but the 30th of March will mark my return to the US in pursuit of that inevitable "real job." I finished my last day at BBVA Madrid on Friday, so this week has consisted primarily of hanging out, packing up, and doing all those things I've put off for the last six months (app-sending, book-reading, city-exploring). The older brother arrives next Tuesday, and then we're off on Wendy's Whirlwind Tour of the Iberian Peninsula which I think will make for the perfect goodbye... or at least a perfect "see you later."

larval fish?

I was walking home from work today when I came up behind a guy. Ah, but not just any guy, a guy with a sports bag. And not just any sports bag, a sports bag embroidered "29th Annual Larval Fish Conference." I half-laughed to myself, wondering whether it was a joke or some sort of vintage-attempting knock-off. On closer inspection, however, I decided that the bag- and its owner- were convincingly authentic. Once home, I did what any other curious soul would do and Googled it. Sure enough, the 29th Annual Larval Fish Conference was held in Barcelona, Spain from the 11th through the 14th of July, 2005. Disappointingly, registration was closed. Oooo! but the 30th Annual Larval Fish Conference will be held in Louisiana this year from the 12th of July through the 17th.

I'll probably see you there. I need that sports bag.

happy post...poned

After a few whiny weeks' worth of Junkers, honking, and sock loss, my little brother informed me that it was high-time for an uplifting edition. I couldn't agree more and was about to sit down for the session when I realized I was in dire need of chapstick. There's no arguing with a chapstick call, so I went right over to my purse to dig it out. While there, I thought I'd go ahead and stash that cash I'd taken out of the ATM earlier... ah, but it's not there. Hmm... well, it must be in my coat (no), pants pocket (no), book? (no), bathroom! (no), bed?! (no), etc (no no no!) [repeat]. And so it seems that I managed to lose 110 Euros somewhere between the convenience store and my apartment.

I'm hoping against hope that it's here somewhere, but in the meantime it looks like I've made some lucky person's night quite uplifting indeed.

unsocked mysteries

Fuzzy, come back.

Every time I do laundry, I come up one sock less. Where do they go? Who- or what- is responsible? I can't even blame others like I used to, since my only apartmentmate wears a size five shoe. So, are they lost en route to the washer? Stuck in the depths of the machine? Vaporized during the spin cycle? Or are they shredded? Threaded? Dissolved? I've more or less ruled out a drop from the line, as I managed to lose socks throughout my dryer-dominated laundry career. One way or another, socks disappear.

This week's loss was particularly painful, as two total loads turned up an unheard-of THREE matchless socks: one white, one black, and one fuzzy. The black and white are the same style and I simply matched them together in anticipation of next week's victim(s) and a potential re-pairing, but the fuzzy is irreplaceable. More of a slipper than a sock, really- and a Christmas gift from the sister- the fuzzy really had a place in my heart. Here's hoping he'll turn up with next week's wash. If not...

It's better to have fuzzed and lost than to never have fuzzed at all.

ha! it's done then!

I went to Paris this weekend, returning on Sunday with a Masters of International Business in my hot little hands. It's amazing what a scrap of paper can represent, and the whole ceremony got me reflecting on the past year and seven months. From the first unsure weeks in Mexico to a final toast with classmates and friends, it's been an incredible experience of challenges and rewards that has taught me more than a paper could possibly say.

Now, to figure out what to do with it.

spanish-english shirts, vol 2

I've been slacking off in the spanish-english shirts department. It's not for lack of material, trust me, but for my unwillingness to take pictures of people actually wearing them. Nonetheless, I managed to come across a few good ones in stores lately, enabling me to "try them on" aka take pictures of them in the dressing room. Hopefully this is not illegal.

I plan to update the album soon, but "my beautiful duckling" ought to tide you over:

Yes, soft feeling.

ping pong, anyone?

Once upon a time in a faraway land, my apartmentmate was on vacation. She wouldn't be back for another two weeks and we'd just changed apartments, so I did what any other person in her right mind would do and took to exploring the new neighborhood. One fine evening, I tried an until-then-neglected eastern route and soon found myself staring at the door of La Federación Madrileña de Tenis de Mesa. That is to say, ping pong.

I walked by. I walked by again. I walked by, and went in. I made my way back to the office, then pretended to read the bulletin board while waiting for local champs to offer me a place on their league teams, or perhaps throw out an endorsement deal. I was my 8th grade PE-class ping pong champion, after all- singles and doubles. But ignored at the board, I shrugged it off, found my way out, and walked on.

The feet moved on, but the mind did not. Visions of my excuse-for-a-forehand and Christmas family tourneys flashed through my brain, and I knew what must be done. Forehand reform, potential new friends, and a revival of the 8th-grade glory days? So be it.

I'm in ping pong school.

honking

I was woken the other morning by honking. Woken. By honking. And if there's one thing in the wide world that I can't get a handle on, it's unwarranted honking. That's not to say that all honking is unwarranted by any means; it most certainly has its time and place. When a dog wanders into the road, for instance, or if someone needs a little encouragement with the light change, a little beep here or there can go a long way. If you've arrived at a friend's house or if someone starts rolling back on a hill, let 'em know you're there. You can even use the horn to critique bad driving or to simply acknowledge a friend in passing. It's a handy little device.

It's a handy little device that's abused. Unwarranted honking has gotten entirely out of control and can be defined primarily by one moment: stuck in traffic with the desire to express one's frustration. Unacceptable. I guess the fundamental question really comes down to this: will it make a difference? Will the dog move? Will the person go? Will your friend come out? Will traffic suddenly move? In that last case, doubtful.

If your horn has no little-to-no effect on the outcome, lay off and keep the streets that much happier.

beep beep.

junkers

My apartment's boiler, a JUNKERS brand ZW28 Euroline, lived up to its name Thursday night with a sudden decision to flash a red button rather than heating my water and apartment. I know nothing of boilers, but hoped the poor thing would come back to life and figured that a few extra blankets and showerless days never hurt anybody. Since Friday was one of the biggest holidays in Spain, (Felices Reyes, by the way) I decided to wait until Saturday morning to call my landlady. When at last I did, I found she knows less about boilers than I do. Her son thought it might be due to low pressure, however, so armed with JUNKERS manuals and my Eddie Bauer multi-tool, I fiddled around for an hour or two before calling back with my failure report. One cold day later, my landlady and her son came over with manuals and tools, fiddling around an hour or two of their own before calling it quits as well.

My landlady talked to the JUNKERS man today, and it turns out all we had to do was hold down the flashing red button for 10 seconds.

Where were you on that one, manual.

a five-hour layover in amsterdam

I'm on my way back to Madrid, a trip that somehow included 3.5 and 5 hour layovers in Minneapolis and Amsterdam respectively- not to mention the perfectly good New Years' Eve that I lost somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. It all seemed worth saving $300 in plane tickets at the time, but the second-thoughts are now freely flowing. Ah well, nothing a little airport Internet can't remedy, and anyway the blog was in dire need of attention. Again.

Since I bumped off a poem last week, here's a little piece- of sorts- from the plane:

"Veggie curry or chicken?" she asks
"Chicken," I finally say,
[Debating, but since I had curry last week]
She smiles, goes to hand me my tray.

Chicken goes sliding, hits cranberry juice!
Who teeters, then tips on my lap,
On my pants, my jacket, my carry-on bag
And on KLM's World-Wide Flight Map.

Six napkins later, as "sorries" subside
I return to the chicken at hand,
Joined by potato and green bean supreme
I find all "surprisingly" bland.

For salad: some lettuce, tomatoes in-wedge
Carrot and cucumber dice,
Then cheese and a roll, some cake and of course
My cran-apple remnants: just ice.

Not a bad meal, all-in-all, I suppose
My juice stains you hardly can see,
But seven full hours: wet pants and one thought:
That next time, it's curry for me.

home for the holidays

The Gem State. Famous Potatoes. Idaho.

It’d been a while- 11.5 months, to be exact- but I’m back in the old neighborhood for three sweet weeks of vacation. I find it to be colder, quieter, and calmer than Madrid, but very much like I remember. The housing and commercial development is going crazy, but I still run into the same people downtown, I still live in the middle of nowhere, and I still have to drive 20 minutes to get anywhere which is, well, nice. I’ve eaten steak and potatoes, listened to country music, watched Monday Night Football, gone shopping, and am catching up with the old friends one-by-one. Up next: a little skiing and a lot of brother/sister pestering.

sweater deceit

I'm wearing an itchy sweater today. Granted, it's an itchy sweater that I bought last spring, but that doesn't make it any less itchy, now, does it? My wearing it has really enforced my November's Resolution, and I'm seriously considering whether my decision to not buy a single itchy sweater this season should be expanded to require the donation of all currently-owned itchies. Then again, I'm not sure I can bring myself to give this sort of torture to anyone.

Such materials should be outlawed. It's just that they always look so nice and soft in the store. "It can't be that itchy, can it?" Oh yes, it can, and it is. And they get me every time, including this morning when the inviting "green fuzzy" took advantage of the ever-susceptible morning-brain. Three hours later, I'm wondering what was I thinking and, tonight, "green fuzzy" will be retired. One down, three to go, and the life shall be itch-free forevermore.

I'm back!

Poor blog. Poor, neglected blog. I guess that's what happens when, over the course of one week, I am forced to not only write and present my entire internship report but also move my entire life into a new apartment without Internet. Repeat: without Internet. Luckily, that's just a temporary situation- a situation to be resolved within three weeks. Also luckily, I'm going home on Monday and I thereby evade two of those weeks. Unluckily, I'm going home to a dial-up modem.

Poor blog says he'll take what he can get. More soon.

thanksgiving

Thanksgiving has passed, but it's never too late to give thanks. A mini sample from the many things I'm thankful for:

family, friends, fireplaces, sneezing, country roads, smiles, freedom, peanut butter, health, pianos and guitars, fresh peaches, laughter, snow, everything chocolate-mint, sledding, baking, colors, mountains, post-its, waves, seasons, long showers, oceans/rivers/lakes, sand volleyball, chapstick, hugs, fountain pens, beaches, driving, soup, tall trees, letters, plastic organizers, picnics, walks without destinations, ski/snowboarding, internet, driving, thunder storms, pictures, mousse, swiss army knives, good books, tupperware, bandaids, sweaters and jeans, mashed potatoes, real conversations, trampolines, mittens, friendly strangers, . . .

strawberry quik

You might think less of me after this one, but I like Strawberry Quik. I do, and I always have. I'm not sure if I always will- since it's kind of nasty and has no redeeming value- but I'm going pretty strong for the moment. I know it boasts nothing more than sugar and artificial flavors (well, and maltodextrin, citric acid, red 40, salt, and blue 1), but that has yet to discourage me. It had probably been a good 15 years since I'd had it, but the "we only want what we can't have" came immediately into effect when I discovered Chocolate Quik sitting solo in Madrid markets. Fondly remembering the days before my mom's own Quik ban, I promptly set my US exporters to work and have since enjoyed a glass almost daily. While Nestle suggests stirring 2 tablespoons into a cup of milk (or sprinkling it on ice cream or topping your cereal or adding it to other drinks or... ), I strongly suggest 3 tablespoons accompanied by a spoon for sunken granules. Mmm.

After all, it helps build strong bones.

And I refuse to call it "Nesquik."

umbrella slam

I gathered my things, said goodbye to the coworkers, and was headed toward the door when my boss suddenly turned and said "be careful in the rain." Uh... "likewise," I said, but half-smiled as I turned the corner. Rain? Come on. Two floors down and one door out, however, I understood what he was talking about. It's not the rain, it's the people.

I'm not sure if it's Madrid in particular or big cities in general, but the streets around here have always been somewhat of a challenge for me. And again, it's not the streets, it's the people. I've gone about most of my life believing that when two people are walking directly toward each other, each takes a slight step to the side to avoid tangles. Not so in Madrid, where two people walking directly toward each other results inevitably in a game of chicken. I was frustrated at first, time-after-time taking my understood step-to-the-side only to find my left shoulder plowed straight through by my counterpart. No fair! I thought, but two can very easily play at that game and I've since honed my intimidation stride and non-mover recognition skills.

Chicken with umbrellas is another story altogether. Plowed shoulders are one thing, but poked-out eyeballs are quite another. You'd think that a dual side-tilt or a little "you lower, I'll raise" action would be common sense, but observation proves otherwise. People and their umbrellas refuse to budge, as my right temple will attest. And so, tonight's walk to the metro quickly turned into a game I affectionately call Umbrella Slam. It's quite simple, really: walk down the street and hold your umbrella as if you were the only person there. If someone's coming, brace for the hit and follow through. Hold strong, don't stop, no tilting required. Your weapon doubles as your shield, so heaven help you if you bought the 3 Euro outside-the-metro version. I still pull the umbrella up for the young and the elderly, but have no mercy on the spiteful ladies protecting their hair at the expense of my face. Part of me says I'm becoming a city-monster, but the other half is counting my victories.

May the best umbrella (holder) win.

the visit

I know I missed my traditional Saturday post, but I have a good reason, I do. Having managed to con my pepp friend Cory and my new friend Brent into a Madrid visit, I was busy playing tour guide. With pleasure. Between Saturday afternoon and Tuesday night, we somehow managed to cram in most all of the big stops, patronize my favorite restaurants, and laugh more than we had any right to- especially there toward the end. I racked my brain all of Tuesday to come up with some sort of train-sabotage plan, but alas they're off to France. Everyone still has an open-ended invitation to enter the competition, but Cory and Brent are quite possibly the greatest guests a hostess could hope for.

the highlights:

life plans (or lack thereof)
bird flu
walking/talking tours
mullet sightings
gmail conversion attempts
alternating starv- and stuffation
handshakes vs euro-kisses vs latino-kisses
magic tricks
losing my voice for no apparent reason [not a highlight]
dolce vita pics
swi??ers
zorro, the complete movie experience
3 people/2 umbrellas
pepp reminiscing and people updates
starbucks: 5 sugars
playing mom
finding church
broken [evil] eyes
lessons in spanish: no me importa, cuidado
the epic rock-paper-scissors "battle for the towel"
gift overkill
sierra leone/mi morena/la camisa negra/dee dee dee...

Thanks for a great weekend, guys, I'll take the late lunch anytime.
.

november's resolution

I will not buy a single itchy sweater this season.

frisbee failures anonymous

Frisbee. Great sport. It's probably as "life-time sport" as you can get, when you think about it. You can play ultimate when you're 20 and standing-still when you're 80. You can play in the park, you can play in the field, you can play at the beach. You can play with your friends, your family, your dog.

Unless you're me, in which case you do not play at all.

I think I somehow missed frisbee training as a child. I'm not sure how, since my brothers and sister are frisbee champions, but I missed it. Most likely, I recognized my lack of talent from the beginning and compounded my weakness by taking off when the frisbee came out. Little did I realize how much this would later affect my young-adult life. "Everyone can throw a frisbee," they say. Not the case, I assure you. While other people are busy working on the finger-flip, thumber, and over-hand wrist flip, I'm trying to master the basic backhand. Several kind coaches and attempted-trainers have volunteered their services over the years, but I've driven them away one-by-one with my hopeless cause and finger chafing complaints. I've even played by myself at time or two, throwing the frisbee from one end of the yard to the other in my own private game of fetch.

But perhaps I'm not alone. If you or someone near you suffers from this affliction, please contact me and we can work through this together.

Or maybe just play ping pong.

an ode to BBVA

I couldn't decide between writing a poem and writing about work so...

Adventures at BBVA
"Bay Bay OooVay Ah" to you,
Downtown, Alcalá building
From 9 until 7, floor two.

International payments and profiles
Analyses, investigations,
Electronic banking and transfers
But for now, just a few observations:

José likes his windows wide-open
Teresa gets cold and complains,
The person at my desk before me
Enjoyed making paper-clip chains.

Raquel dashes office-to-office
Running- not even fast walking,
Juan Carlos fiddles a silverish cube
When calling or waiting or talking.

Alberto's a paper-ball wadder
The smaller, the better, the tighter,
Smoking inside is permitted in Spain
I think I might steal Pepe's lighter.

The cleaning girl cuts up old bottles
To plant little ivy-type beans,
It makes the whole place feel exactly like home
Without casual Fridays or jeans.

My computer is none-too-impressive
My efficiency? Hmm, not the goal,
I'm dealing with low RAM and hard drive
But at last I've a mouse that can scroll.

And my screen boasts a perfect reflection
Of my boss, whose desk is behind me,
So reading the news... checking my mail...
Writing poems? he never will find me.

Afterword: I actually wrote all these verses at home on a Saturday... faithful little employee that I am.

curl dedication

.
This might strike some people (most people?) as a little odd, but I used to dedicate curls on a regular basis. Sometimes by request, sometimes by chance, they always went out to someone who I thought had earned it. My hair is really more crooked than curly, so it's the Susan[from Ramona Quimby]-style "boing" curls that get all the attention. It's not every day you get a dedication-worthy version, however, and they're only good until the next shower. I can hardly remember the last time I dedicated a curl, so when I came across this one today I knew what must be done. I had a few deserving friends to choose from, but since Air Supply's "Every Woman In The World" came on the iPod as I was walking by Starbucks yesterday, there was no arguing. This one's for Moose!

the farmer in the dell

Dell Computers, that is. The cable's arrived, the computer's alive.

hi-ho the derry-o

down for the count

I understand that my dedicated and faithful readers (cough) had high hopes for a new post today, particularly since I've managed to post at least once weekly since my July debut. Pretty impressive (obsessive?), if I do say so myself. Anyway, many apologies, but this is mostly a post to say there will be no post. Sense? My laptop charger/adapter has taken ill, deathly ill, and instead of lighting his green light and charging my comp, he emits a faint beeping. I might have been able to withstand the beeping if he could only accompany it with the charging, but that's apparently too much to ask. After a quick internal debate over whether or not I could survive until Christmas without a computer, I kicked myself and asked who am I kidding. Replacement is on the way.

sock shock

I was pulling my clothes out of the washer this week when I suddenly stopped and wondered, "why so many socks?" Socks, who until only recently represented a relatively small share of the laundry-split, have apparently grown to dominate my wash by number if not by volume. How the...?

I'm not one to rip on socks. After all, they've seen me through many a ski-trip, hike, and sporting event- not to mention the occasional cold night. They've served me well and I fully expect them to continue the trend; I just wish it weren't every day.

Socks mean shoes, a concept I've tried to avoid since birth. Growing up, my feet were hardly acquainted with shoes before preschool, if then. The sharp rocks on our driveway served primarily as "tough feet" training, and shoes had no business wading in irrigation ditches or making mud pies in the sandbox. In the event that some form of sole-covering were required, an open-toed or sandal version was always preferred. Even the boots of winter were tolerated only to make the spring's first official Barefoot Day that much more glorious. I would later claim "academic programs" as my primary Pepperdine pull, but who's to say flip-flop dominance didn't rake me in?

And so, imagine me having to wear close-toed, semi-heeled shoes every weekday from nine-to-seven, eight-to-eight with travel time. There are a few shoe options out there, true, but there's only so much you can do with slacks, collars, and the occasional suit. I'm just going to have to consider it a really long winter.

This year's Barefoot Day will be glorious.

barcelona weekend

We had Friday off last week, so Joyce, Regina, and I picked up and went to Barcelona. No reason in particular, really- no tomato fights or running bulls- just a good, old-fashioned tourist trip, and I must admit I enjoyed it thoroughly. Madrid has its charm, but Barcelona has a beach. The Catalan is beyond me, but there's just something about a city on the sea that relaxes people. Bring out the flip-flops, I say. It's been four years since I set foot in Barcelona, so I joined up with Joy and Regis and we did it all: Las Ramblas; La Sagrada Familia; everything Gaudi; seaside; el barrio gotico; I even got conned into feeding pigeons in la Plaza Cataluña, which is pretty much against everything I stand for. I hate pigeons, and even moreso now that I have photographic evidence of one attacking my face. That's disgusting. I almost sang "Feed the Birds" from Mary Poppins, but felt more like the lady in, what, Home Alone 2? The pigeon attack was fortunately offset by our Saturday night visit to the "magic fountain," which for me would justify a Barcelona visit in and of itself. The water, the music, the lights... can I get this Friday off too?

"Feed the birds, tuppence a bag. Tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a bag."

september's santa

Bea went to the US this week. I tried my best not to be jealous, but she was going to none other than my old romping grounds of Los Angeles, California. While I'm not the biggest of LA fans, the mere thought of the Targets and BJ's and beaches almost got to me. Luckily, sending Bea stateside is the next best thing to actually going. Since I'm not scheduled to return to the US until- oh wait, I'm not even scheduled yet- I sent Bea off with a hug and a list of goods. My Spain-ignored essentials included: Herbal Essences Mousse (surely you called that one), American Eagle jeans, Trader Joe's dried mango, Victoria Secret Lovespell lotion (Kristy!), marshmallows, cocoa, and strawberry quik. I also requested peanut butter and mascara, as Spain has been blessed with such luxuries but their pricing/sizing leaves something to be said. Thanks to Bea, I'm back in business on all accounts.

Now if only she could have packed a few of you Los Angeles-residers along...

but the mango will have to console me.

new job

I call it a job. It's officially an internship, but I call it a job. Any "work environment" that requires I be there from 9 am to 7 pm has far surpassed internship status in my book- whether or not I have a two-hour lunch. It's going well for now... check back in six months. I'm in the "Comercio Exterior" department of the "Banco Transaccional" sector of the Corporate and Investment Bank of BBVA, theoretically analyzing the competition's electronic banking strategies, but currently just trying to figure out what in the world is going on. It's a strange transitional period, going from knowing nothing at all to (supposedly) learning everything. Nevertheless, I hope to soon convert myself- with the help of Alberto, my boss- from burdensome becario to productive personnel. All in good time. My first days have consisted primarily of me learning everyone's names and positions, locating the coffee machine, reading up on all sorts of past presentations and formation manuals, and organizing my desk when my boss isn't looking. Having a so-called job sure cuts down on posting time, though, and makes for some potentially boring topics besides. We'll see what I can do.

la tomatina!

- buñol, spain
- august 31st, 2005
- 11:00 am to 1:00 pm
- 40,000 people
- 100,000 pounds of tomatoes
- me

I will never look at a tomato the same way again. I first heard of La Tomatina four years ago when, after returning from summer school in Madrid, I was asked if I went to the "huge tomato fight." "What?" I asked. To be honest, I'd never heard of it and had returned to the US before it. Four years later, I can proudly say 1) that "yes! I went," and 2) that calling it a "huge tomato fight" is an understatement.

Background: The whole thing started with a plaza food fight in 1945, and has been an official Buñol (pop. 9,000) festival since 1959. Even better, the city provides the tomatoes. As our other friends were working, Benjas, Carlos, and I drove four hours to the grand event and arrived just in time to partake. At the first bang, seven trucks' worth of tomatoes are dumped into the street and the madness begins.

I was saturated in tomato within the first five minutes, and did my fair share of "saturating" as the tee-ball and softball years paid off in a series of direct hits. One of the few rules is that the tomatoes be "squished" before throwing, easing the blow and multiplying the mess. Once no whole tomatoes remain, everyone resorts to straining and slinging the street slush that resembles the "crushed" tomatoes of your mom's spaghetti sauce. The whole deal essentially becomes boys vs girls with whoever's next to you, accompanied by a great deal of chanting and jumping around. In the end, I was standing calf-deep in what looked and smelled like a river of tomato soup.

After the second bang, all the neighbors come out with hoses and everybody does their best to rid themselves of the tomato-seed helmet and armor effect. I strategically selected what appeared to be the highest-pressure hose, but let's just say my fifth and sixth Q-tips were still coming out with ear-tomato remnants last night.

Excellent.

hair history highlights

My hair is not normal. I've always known it, but today I realized that my talks with strangers include my hair more often than my name. It's a conversation-starter, really. Following suit, these "hair history highlights" (no pun intended) answer my most Frequently Asked Questions as well as a few extras:

• 1981, born with curly hair compliments of both my parents
• roll hair up in a round brush (haven't we all done that?) at the age of 4, older brother to the rescue with scissors while mom sleeps
• start "styling" my own hair in 2nd grade, my favorite "do" being one side half-up with a green-and-black-polka-dot-ribbon-adorned barrett
• bangs, edition one, start in 4th grade and continue through 6th in a fluff-up, to-the-side number
• my hair-referring nickname "Mushroom" (as conceived by the older brother and friends) overtakes the elementary schoolbus
• curl and frizz take a drastic turn for the worse in junior high
• mousse is introduced for the first time in the summer after seventh grade, and immediately applied to:
• the 8th grade "year of the bun," a tightly-combed version of the ballerina with a twist and a favorite navy scrunchie. every day.
• bangs are reintroduced in ninth grade and (unfortunately) continue through early senior year (see picture at right); this time with a 1 1/2 inch barrel curling iron and 30 minutes of frustration each morning
• mousse in its modern form is adopted freshman year in the form of "Wednesdays only," later extended at the encouragement of friends
• Costco's solitary mousse option is Herbal Essences, securing my allegiance at an early age
• as a soph, I take on the first of two "bets" with my dad to go mousse-free for one week (he likes the "natural"). Conditions include: no ponytails, no disclosing payment, bangs ok.
• five total "straight hair!" events include: 1. fall formal, sophomore year (4.5 hours worth of hair-blow drying and flattening irons*); 2. fall formal, junior year (2.5 hours worth of flattening irons*); 3. senior year "crush party," in efforts to play the part of Demi Moore (2 hours, technique perfected); 4. by stylist in Mexico in the fall of 2004 (4 hrs due to the guy's inexperience with a blow-dryer); and 5. Thursday! (1.5 hrs with just a blow-dryer but a lot of ripped-out hair).
• "big hair" has made the calendar just once (ghetto formal 2004**) and is not expected to return without enormous compensation

I've scientifically tested every mousse brand on earth and am an Herbal Essences loyalist, so my latest challenge has been its inavailability here in Spain. I strategically request a can or two of every visitor- whether or not I know them- and have worked up a decent stockpile for the moment.

Good thing, or it'll be a return to the bun.

*special thanks to Meri, KT
**frizzing by Kristy and KT

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MERI!

Today is Meri's birthday. It also marks our five-year anniversary (or very close to it) of having met. Mmm, strike that, we actually met at NSO in July. Sorry I missed our anniversary, Meri. Anyway, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! and anniversary, observed.

And so, a small tribute to Meri:

• diet coke (although preferably diet pepsi, and even better through the nose)
• chicken caesar salad (even if it means george foreman grilling in the dorms)
• coogie's zucchini bread (well, and chicken caesar salad)
• duhsies, hmmsies, brrrsies
• always cold (thus... London)
• white fingers
• "jared" and the laptop incident
• volleyball (tourney champs... and Chip?)
• stalking (example: britney spears)
• always switching into one of my classes (highlights include: adler, miguel and felipe; dr. summers and john mayer's "woo ooo ooo"; exchanging schaffer and seshan tips)
• peeps
• pi phi and big bear retreats
• CBC hangouts
• convertible top hang-ons
• the one song she can still play on the piano
• sleepovers (and Thanksgiving!) in Anaheim Hills
• Hurley and J.D. Power interviews ("so, you like cars?")
• mandy moore
• stalker-contracting
• 7th man
• formal date finding
• G-Dogg's killer brownies
• email consulting
• meri's music mixes
• "the favorite"

Most certainly incomplete, but perhaps I'll add more as they occur to me.

Happy Birthday (and anniversary) Meri!!!

MY toast acoustic

I was just sitting down to write when I heard the toaster go off. Oh, but this is no ordinary toaster: it's the MY toast acoustic by Taurus, which claims to be the only toaster on the market to visually and acoustically notify when the toast is ready! Ah, good, because the sight and sound of toast popping up never quite got through to me. Nothing like a little high-pitched beeping and blinking red lights to start the morning off right. I don't really like- or eat- toast, but I've considered setting it to "really dark" one night to see if it will serve as my morning alarm clock and thereby justify the counter space. But I don't want this to come off too negative; I'm told it actually works really well so, hey, to each her toast.

spanish-english shirts

I hesitate in posting today, knowing full-well that pressing "publish" will bump my "missing skirt" story off the front page. It's my favorite post, after all, and recounts my life's most traumatic experience to date- how can I not milk that for all its worth? I suppose I could change my settings to include more than 7 posts on the front page, but I think that's kind of cheating... and anyway I like seven. What's great is that with the missing skirt passing into archives today, I am given the chance to talk about it here! Front page! First post! and I'll probably bring it up again when it disappears off the "previous posts" sidebar and finally goes to rest in the unsuspecting "July" folder as well.

For today, I simply have to post. I just got off the metro, where I was sitting across from a girl with a shirt reading USA SPORT (and then, below) munber #23. That's right, munber, and that to complement the pound sign in case you weren't sure what it stands for. He he he. Of course, this served only to remind me of Spain's incredible amount of english-printed shirts that- in my opinion- a native English speaker would never, ever buy. If only I could remember them all. I should really be taking pictures because some of them are downright indescribable, but we'll see what I can do. To start, Zara has just introduced its fall collection, boasting an entire line screen-printed with Fairy Ladies above some flying tinkerbell-type characters. Not bad English, by any means, but fairy ladies? I don't know. Another Zara line consists of shirts each with a large, silver letter above a word and its definition. My favorite? R for release (n.) liberation (of gas, etc). Need I comment?!? An H&M example: SEE THE SEA printed in silver caps on a dark purple t-shirt. Is that an order? An invite? Where? And a final, brilliant Zara edition: Forever and never, white and silver on black. Granted, they could have done that on purpose... ? I don't want to say I've never made a mistake in Spanish (ha! understatement!); for example, I once said I was a pig instead of saying I was blind. Then again, I'm not printing t-shirts.

green tea again

I bought green tea yogurt yesterday. I guess I'm still a little frustrated with 1) Starbucks of Europe for not introducing the new Green Tea Frappucino, and 2) my subsequent inability to cast a deciding vote on the matter: "refreshing" (Meri) or "crap-frap" (Dan). But back to the yogurt. Yesterday I didn't even know they made green tea yogurt, and today I was having it for breakfast. It was... interesting. Interesting, but not life-changing. Not life-changing, but still good. Good, but I probably won't buy it again. I know, I know, I can't go around judging a Starbucks Frap by a Dannon yogurt, but it's as close as I can get for now. In the end, I'm back to where I started- neutral- and have resigned myself to awaiting the real deal. Vote?

P.S. PICTURES ARE UPDATED! PICTURES ARE UPDATED!

grand theft

"STOP! THIEF!" I screamed. Well, or at least I would have, had I realized I was getting pick-pocketed. Pick-pursed, actually.

It had to have happened as I was going down the steps from the Reina Sofia. Broad daylight. No crowds. Embarassing. No excuse for it, really. Three of my friends had been pick-pocketed since February, and you'd think that just one of those events would have served to provide me a decent warning. But no, I walked down those steps as nonchalantly as ever, my easy-zip purse on the backside. In the end, I must count myself lucky; it appears as if my pilfering pal had time enough to take only 40 euros and my green-striped Post-it book, thankfully leaving my credit cards, licenses, digi-cam, cellphone, and even my metro pass in peace. That said, the open-zipper realization --> sinking heart sensation made me feel quite violated. It's sad to be reminded that yes, this is the world we live in, but I do remain grateful for the limited loss and hope that my friend needed the money more than I. He/she probably just had to buy a nice shirt for a job interview to finally get back on his/her feet, right?

Didn't need to take my green-striped Post-it book though.

on holiday

All stories aside, I thought it high time I return to my webpage's original objective and provide a mini update of what (in the world) I've been up to lately.

I wrapped up the last of my program's classes and projects about three weeks ago, and have therefore been on so-called vacation ever since. Unfortunately, those three weeks were filled primarily by internship research, applications, and interviews. On Monday, I finally got the offer I was waiting for: an internship in the Investment Banking department of BBVA for the (incredible) sum of E450/month. It's a six-month post, but since the entirety of Spain seems to take the entirety of August off, I start at 9am on Monday, the 5th of September. In other words, I'm back on vacation, and this time for real. That said, the majority of my friends (including all of my apartment mates) were a little more timely in the job search and can now be counted among the five-odd percent of Spain that doesn't get August off. That means vacation solo.

A typical day would consist of going to sleep at 2:30, getting up at 10:30, and then strategically choosing among the following activities:

• read (emails, articles, books (Harry Potter, El Alquimista, The Buddha of Suburbia))
• write (emails, journal, blog)
• think (life plan, Spain reflection, travel ideas)
• shower
• cook (breakfast, lunch, dinner, Thursday desserts)
• research (companies, jobs, mass-email prep)
• look up train/plane times and prices to assorted destinations
• take a walk
• clean the apartment
• go downtown/to a museum/people watching
• listen to music
• watch a movie
• paint fingernails
• paint toenails
• go to the park
• shop (you know, groceries)
• organize (room, computer (iTunes, photos), clothes, closet)
• do laundry
• relax
  

That's all that occurs to me right now. Time for option #5.

the aspirations of a foot model

It was early fall of my sophomore year of high school and we were standing around, talking, and generally waiting for the end-of-lunch-bell when one of my friends suddenly pointed down and said to me, "you have cute feet." Looking down at my open-toed, Jesus-style-sandaled toes and then performing a quick-scan of my friends' similarly-clad feet, I realized she was right. So right, in fact, that I insisted on wearing my open-toed, Jesus-style-sandals until it snowed.

Okay, not quite, but it did get me to thinking... foot modeling. I mean, that's got to be pretty easy money. I could do nail polishes, acrylics, toe jewelry, and would know I'd hit it big if ever chosen to be the "after" model in the warts or athletes foot commercials. Not a lot of time, not a lot of labor, minimal risk from celebrity-stalkers, why not?!

It's been almost eight years since my sophomore-year realization, and I've not a single photo shoot to speak of. It's my own fault. I always figured that the nail places would be where the scouts hang out (or at least where they receive tips from), and yet I've barely ventured in for a pedicure twice- and both for weddings, where all the bridesmaids are running around and creating an atmosphere far from the ideal negotiating conditions. I must also admit that my pepp friends were not nearly as supportive of my ambition as were my hometown friends, although perhaps my little toes do curl in slightly. In any case, since then I've suffered from the loss of two toenails (left, fourth toe from a good stub last year and right, big toe from raquetball last fall) and only TODAY have I declared the second of the two completely, 100% recovered! I am back on the market! Now if I can just straighten out those little toes...

the day has come

I always knew it would. My worst fear in creating my so-called "blog" has come to pass: I have nothing to say. Come on. I haven't even gotten past my secret testing stage yet, and I'm already at a loss. Guess that's what happens when Meri and Dan call an apparent truce and stop fighting about Green Tea Frappucinos. In any case, it's times like these that a person has three (fairly obvious) options: 1) don't write anything, and bare the risk of subsequent reader shrinkage (unthinkable!), 2) force-write something (not recommended), or 3) address the matter and then ramble on about it in hopes of a sudden, brilliant idea (also not recommended). I've obviously chosen option 3, but must admit I'd rather hoped that the sudden, brilliant idea would have come to me by now, whereupon I would delete the above paragraph with no one the wiser.

But, this being an honest and historically-accurate web page, I will leave it at that and go fold my laundry. Now that's a brilliant idea.

duffel vs duffle

As the Spanish gets better, the English gets worse. You might not notice from my proof-read posts, but I'm struggling here. Yesterday I caught myself using the wrong form of "your," and the other day I typed "they're" instead of "there." What a nightmare. It's times like these, therefore, that I am grateful for words like "duffel." First, its got a great connotation- sports, travel, adventure!- but, above all, it has flexible spelling! Who knew?! On my second read-through of the skirt story, I found that I'd spelled it "duffel" the first time, and "duffle" a few paragraphs down. "Odd," I thought, but not surprising given my recent record. Not one to feel comfortable publishing spelling errors, however, I took to the books- answers.com, that is- and what to my wondering eyes should appear but

duf·fel or duf·fle (dŭf'el) n.
1. a large cylindrical bag of heavy cloth; for carrying personal belongings
2. a coarse heavy woolen fabric

Incredible! You can't go wrong! For consistency's sake I chose one for both accounts, finally going with "duffel" because a) it was the original instinct, b) it is, after all, listed first of the two [alphabetical? ...I think not], and c) the original word is Dutch, after Duffel, a town of northern Belgium.

Even better? The synonym for "duffel" is "duffle." thanks.

the case of the missing skirt

I received an email from Dan this morning, wondering if "the long skirt story is real" and, if so, could he please have the whole story. Of course it's real, Dan, and of course you can have the whole story. I've also decided to respond via the world wide web so as to benefit all (ahem, both) my readers. It's a pretty good story, if I do say so myself.

It was a blustery, winter day in Idaho, cerca 1995. Eighth grade. I had a basketball game that afternoon, and while I generally hated dressing up per team tradition, I had no hesitation in selecting my wardrobe that fateful morning. My closet boasted a new outfit bought specifically for my Christmas piano recital but not yet worn to school: a dark green silk, long-sleeve shirt; black knit vest; and dark green, long crinkle skirt. I completed the outfit with black boots, twisted my hair into my 8th-grade trademark bun (another story for another day), and felt myself to be the epitomy of junior high (Idaho) fashion.

After a quick breakfast of my dad's scrambled eggs and toast [I hate toast], I grabbed my coat, backpack, and duffelbag and went outside to take my place in the Honda Accord. The morning seats were strategically assigned since Katie and Nick were dumped off at the elementary school while I continued with Wayne to where the Vallivue Junior and Senior High schools were located side-by-side. I therefore sat back-left, directly behind the driver, and Katie and Nick were right-siders so as to bail as quickly as possible when we came to a near-stop at West Canyon.

The Honda had studded snow tires, but the roads weren't slick that morning and- after dropping Katie and Nick- we pulled into the Vallivue parking lot in pretty good time as the Smashing Pumpkins blared from the radio. As Wayne directed the car toward his normal spot, however, I was suddenly yanked to the door. Before I could scream, my dark green, long crinkle skirt had ripped down the side, around the waist, and out the door. "Stop! STOP!" I cried, but it was too late. "What?" said Wayne. "MY SKIRT RIPPED OFF ME! MY SKIRT RIPPED OF ME!" Near tears. Wayne, the Accord, and I were in our normal parking spot by then, but I was sitting back-left in my underpants. Official tears. Wayne got out, walked back 20 yards, and came back with some dark green silk remains, which he tossed back to me. "What're you gonna do?" "Call Mom, I guess." sniff. "Alright."

I had apparently shut a sizable amount of my skirt in the car door back at the house, an amount that got caught on the tire's snow studs as we went over a speed bump there in the VHS parking lot. Pulling myself together, I grabbed my yellow basketball shorts out of my duffel bag, put them on, and walked to the Junior High where I proceded to leave a shaky, most-likely confusing message on my mom's answering machine before going to first period. By second period, I was able to relay what happened to friends questioning my green-silk/yellow-shorts/black-boots combo, and by third period I had borrowed a pair of black warm-ups which went nicely with my knit vest. Throughout the day, people came up to me having heard that I was "hit by a car," "fell off the bus," or "caught on fire." At lunch, when I went to the bathroom, I discovered my dark green, silk waistband still sitting pretty around my waist.

Luckily, I get to relive the moment at most holidays and family get-togethers, as well as any time I dare put on a longer skirt. "Get it ALL in the door, Wendy. teee." Thanks, guys.