My tangential connection to someone in the news

Since I have three midterms this upcoming week, of course, I’m on my couch, half-watching Slumdog Millionaire and checking for any updates on my usual websites.  I saw this article on Jezebel about a Smith College alumna who is urging… well, I’m not sure.  But she’s basically complaining about the amount of diversity at the school.  You know, all them lesbians and coloreds.

Anyway, I saw the name and was like, “WHY does this name sound so familiar…?”

SHE WAS A CUSTOMER AT THE CLEANERS.  HAHAHAHA.

Yeah, so basically, none of this surprises me.

Deutschland mit meine Schwester — Part 1 (26/1/12)

(Oh wow, look how Continental I am for adhering to the DD/MM/YY format!  I’m so cultured.  Oh my goodness, I’m already forgetting how to speak English!*)

After trying to plan this Ultimate Bavarian Sister Weekend for awhile, we finally booked our tickets and accommodations.  So exciting!  Unfortunately, since I booked my airline tickets only about a week before leaving Spain, I had to fly straight after class on Thursday and spend the first night in Germany by myself before meeting up with Clara on Friday morning at Hauptbahnhof (“central station,” but Hauptbahnhof is pretty fun to say).  I’d been eying a few perfect-looking flights for awhile that would have me arrive around the same time, but it had disappeared (as did its awesome price).  In the end, it was probably better for me to arrive on Thursday night since I would’ve had to leave Madrid incredibly early on Friday morning (and I probably wouldn’t have slept that night out of nervousness that I would miss my flight).

After ignoring my better judgment in November and agreeing to stay in a hostel in Bilbao (with 26 others in “my” room), I now categorically refuse to ever stay in a hostel again.  So I check out hotels.com and find an insanely cheap deal:  $49.16 (yes, DOLLARS!) for one night at Hotel Maria Munich, which is only a 15-minute walk from the train station.  Okay, the reviews weren’t fantastic, but it was cheap and I was only going to stay for one night.

My flight was fine (although we were delayed like half an hour so I wound up arriving at Hauptbahnhof around midnight.  I’d printed out the very simple directions to head to the hotel, but first I had to find Bayernstrasse, a pretty major street right by the station, but I didn’t know in what direction to head.  I exit the station and approach a not-capable-of-murder-looking man and ask (while patting myself on the back for remembering a minimal amount of college German), “Wo ist Bayernstrasse?“  Obviously, I should have remembered that asking for directions in another language is pretty useless when you don’t even remember how to say left or right in said language.  My bewildered face must’ve said it all to this guy, who was in the middle of giving me a rapid-fire answer, who finally threw up his hands and said (in a pretty friendly way, at least), “I don’t know!” in accented English.  Oh well.

Luckily I found the street (and the hotel) pretty easily.  It was about a quarter past midnight when I checked in, but I felt weirdly nervous because (I am pretty sure) it was my first time ever staying in a hotel by myself.  (This could be entirely untrue.  It’s entirely possible that this could’ve been my seventh time doing so.  I have absolutely no memory anymore.)  Mostly, I was scared because I had recently read this scary post on Jezebel about how a woman was assaulted in her hotel because the front desk gave a copy of her room key to somebody else.  (Apparently, this is really common!  Note to self:  buy a wedge door stop to use when I travel.)

Anyhow, I found my room (which had the weirdest key ever… I have to upload my photos), and while it was small, it wasn’t too bad.  (Sure, they offered a combination shampoo/shower gel, but I just kept thinking, $49.16!  You get what you pay for, right?)  I showered and was THRILLED to find an episode of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit on TV… in German, obviously.  But I had seen the episode a few times (the one where James Brolin plays a former NASA guy or something), so I kind of remembered what was happening.  I suppose it was counterproductive to watch an episode of SVU when I was convincing myself that I wouldn’t be raped in a hotel room in a city I don’t know at all, but good deity, do I love Benson and Stabler!

Anyway, I shall eventually update more about my trip with my sister!  And fun fact:  Law & Order: Special Victims Unit is known as Law & Order: New York in Germany… so what do they call the other Law & Orders?  If anybody knows the answer to this, I would love to know!

* I bear a scorching hatred for this ridiculous statement, which I’ve heard umpteen times while abroad.  It’s as absurd as the phenomenon of Americans saying loo, adding an unnecessary u to certain words, and giving their weight in kilos.  Look, I’m sorry you grew up in a homogeneous bumblefuck town in a quadrangular flyover state, but you’re American!  Embrace it!

I yelled at someone and it felt good

You know how sometimes, you fantasize about telling somebody off, but you never actually get the opportunity?  Yeah, that didn’t happen to me.  My roommate’s stupid 22-year-old boyfriend (mutually exclusive or not?) claimed that he was going to go hiking in Valencia but actually went to go see a girl, and poor thing was a wreck for days.  Seeing her so emotionally destroyed (he had just come from visiting her family for Christmas in the U.S.!) was terrible, and I thought of everything that I wanted to say to him but I figured that I would never get the chance.

Anyway, I did because he came over my apartment a few days later.  Dumb fuck.  (He also has a roommate.  As in, HE SHARES A ROOM WITH ANOTHER HUMAN BEING.  Even at 22, that’s a little ridiculous.)  When he entered the living room on Saturday night, he kept his eyes on the ground as my other roommate and I shot him death stares.  But the next morning, I saw him pass my room as he tried to sneak out, and I went out to greet him.  Some highlights:

• “So how was Valencia?  Did you have a good time?”
• “How are exams going?  Are they as hard as looking at [my roommate] in the eyes as you were planning to cheat on her?”
• “By the way, I like your jacket.  Did the girl you fucked in Valencia like it too?”

You get the picture.  I guess I should not take pleasure in making people feel guilty, but it felt pretty good.  He didn’t say anything except “I’m sorry,” with a pathetic look on his face.  I feel a teeny bit bad because my roommate should be able to invite over whomever she wants, but… this guy sucks.  My therapist would be proud of me… or completely horrified at how much pleasure I took in watching this cockroach squirm.

(FYI, he also can’t drive.  I went to Basque Country with them last November, and he failed to stop at a red light at least three times.  My only regret about my [I hope] last encounter with him is that I forgot to mock his driving skills.)

People?  Don’t cheat.  Cheating is bad.  Thanks.

Super Bowl Sunday

Last night was Super Bowl Sunday.  I love Super Bowl Sunday, not because I know anything about football (I don’t) but because it’s a great excuse to eat bad food and not feel guilty about it.  (Kind of like Thanksgiving, only better because there’s no pretense that vegetables should be included.)

A few friends of mine gathered together last night to watch the game, but kick-off was at 12:30 am, my time.  So not worth it to a non-football fan, especially one who has classes the next day.  So instead, I went downstairs to the bodega (so not a word used in Spain!) to buy these:

Yep, this was my dinner.  They were effing delicious and I ate them all.  I told myself that if I were in the States, I probably would’ve eaten at least two pieces of pizza, probably at least five wings, and God knows what else.*

According to Facebook, my friend made blue cheese mashed potatoes (among other things) for her Super Bowl party.  I didn’t even know blue cheese mashed potatoes existed.  God bless America.

* This is a total lie.  I scaled this down so you wouldn’t judge me.

I went to the mall today

In July 2011, after nearly five years (a good amount of time, I acknowledge), my MacBook finally died.  Of course, this occurred within like two weeks of my first semester of grad school, so it was a huge pain, but I have to admit that the timing was a little opportune.  There were tons of rumors that the newest MacBook Air was going to debut any day then, and when it finally did, I bought one with a clear conscience since I needed a computer anyway.

Anyway, my dumb MagSafe (whatever that means) Power Adapter has been acting spotty and has definitely stopped working as of this past Monday.  Obviously, this is a problem, and although I’ve been using my roommate’s charger, I needed my new one, so I scheduled an appointment at the Apple Store in the boonies (Leganés) at an actual shopping mall, the Centro Comercial Parquesur at the very end of the Metro.  (Why there isn’t an actual Apple Store — I’m not talking about those licensed retailer things, which are useless [yes, I tried] — in the center of Madrid is beyond me.)

So… I went to the mall!  An actual mall, which according to Spanish Wikipedia is the second-largest in Spain and one of the biggest in Europe.  It was very odd.  I felt like I was in the ‘burbs in the U.S. but I obviously was not.  I ate a sandwich at a place called Flunch (which I learned literally right now is a portmanteau of “fast” and “lunch,” thanks again, Wikipedia!).  There was an El Corte Inglés instead of Macy’s, Bershka and Massimo Dutti in addition to H&M, and Vodafone instead of Verizon, but I could’ve been anywhere in the States.  (Depressing.)

So I found the Apple Store, and the very nice Guillermo replaced my Power Adapter since I was still under warranty (thank goodness).  He claims that it isn’t a common problem, despite the numerous complaints on Apple’s website.

Basically, there was no real point to this post, but I am actively trying to avoid my reading.  So I will leave a photo for you guys instead.  One of my roommates has been very generously lending me her charger, so I went to put it back in her room but she is away for the weekend.  In her room, I found this:

In case you can’t identify what’s in the bowl, they are three moldy strawberries.  Oh, and if you look carefully enough, there’s some of her hair.

I doubt she’ll ever come across this blog, but if you do… hey!  Haha.  Luckily, I did not take photos of the two half-full plates of food that she left under her desk before she caught her train yesterday (FYI, pesto gnocchi on one plate and a fried egg and some avocado on the other).

Also, happy birthday to my sister who is currently in Nuremberg!  We did wind up meeting in Munich and Salzburg, so I hope to get around to blogging about our very fun trip last weekend!

Alles Gute zum Geburtstag, Klara!  (The “K” seems appropriate.)  Or, feliz cumpleaños, Clara, for when you read this in two months!

An argument for intercultural studies if there ever was one

I’ve spent every morning this past week going to yoga, which I use as a justification to park myself on the couch for the remainder of the day.  Since half of the channels on our TV have stopped working for some inexplicable reason, I alternate between MTV España (all of our terrible reality shows, plus some equally terrible British ones such as Making the Band rip-off Breaking From Above, starring Blue Ivy’s grandpa Mathew Knowles), Telemadrid (lots of movies), and Kiss TV (a never-ending loop of mostly awful music videos).

I’ve been seeing lots of ads on MTV for some mysterious new show called Vida XXL about an overweight girl who goes to Los Angeles to fulfill some dream.  Intrigued, I did a little sleuthing and realized that the show is originally entitled Chelsea Settles.  Since I had only yesterday joyously shared my discovery with my cousin (and fellow aficionado of any reality show relating to obesity, weight loss, or body image) Laura that Ya no estoy gordo (“I used to be fat”) airs in Spain, I emailed her again to demand all the details about Chelsea Settles, aka Vida XXL.  She promptly responded:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA IM DYING LAUGHING. ok my friend rachel and i spent like 5 hours watching chelsea settles and with each episode we were trying to figure out what the fuck the show is about. is it about fashion? is it the poor girl’s version of ‘The Hills’? Is it about loneliness? But apparently it’s about an XXL life. CASE CLOSED.

So there you go, friends.  Sometimes, if you don’t know what the hell an uneven reality show is about, you should probably research its title in another language and you just might get your answer.

Hunger Games-themed birthday parties

I’ve never been a big fan of Kristen Bell (I’ve never seen Veronica Mars — which I hear is fantastic — but I have, unfortunately, seen When in Rome), but according to this interview, she is a huge Hunger Games fan and had a Hunger Games-themed birthday party:

No, but my 30th birthday I themed after The Hunger Games and I put District numbers up around. I put District 4 for water over the pool. I put District 2 for electronics over the stereo and iPod. I had a blow-up castle bouncy house on the front lawn and I put The Capitol over the bouncy house. And over my front door, I put District 12. All my friends dressed as the characters and I dressed as Katniss. I was head-to-toe in spandex with a fire cape and carried a bow and arrow.

Okay, that’s a little adorable.  So much so that I will forgive her for mistakenly thinking that District 2 specializes in electronics.  Any self-respecting fan knows that it’s District 3.

Talking heads are so last decade

I’m watching 100 Greatest Songs of the ’00s on MTV.  (I’ve undubbed the dubbed-ness.)  It’s… so sad.  There are all these D-list “comedians,” some washed-up musicians, Jersey Shore cast members, and Fonzworth Bentley (aka Diddy’s former umbrella-holder), who are trying to be clever while commenting on songs from 2003.  It’s… SO SAD.  I mean, at least when I Love the ’80s premiered in 2002, the whole “talking head” thing was pretty novel and nostalgically interesting.  Now it’s just… sad, and even Michael Ian Black (disclaimer:  I love him) is probably declining offers.

It’s still 3:45 pm, and I just changed from my pajamas to my yoga clothes.  My newest roommate Yasmin arrived today with her friend as I was sprawled on the couch in my pajamas eating spaghetti while simultaneously checking Facebook and watching TV.  I guess I’m going to have to be less disgusting now.

Feliz día de Reyes!

Gay food versus straight food

Although I’m mortified to be commenting on an article that ran a full two days ago (I mean, was I under a rock?), I thought this Times feature on Simon Doonan, who is promoting (of course) his new book Gay Men Don’t Get Fat, was adorable.  He talks about how straight food (e.g. the author’s panini, “pressed flat and bulging with cheese,” which is already making me salivate) must be mixed with gay food (e.g. sushi, “some seriously gay food”) to stay slim.

(Don’t worry, he acknowledges that he’s over-simplifying everything ["Sweeping generalizations are the key to everything, and they invariably contain nuggets of truth. Sometimes infinitesimally small nuggets"], but I think it’s pretty cute.)

I’m sure Mr. Doonan would have disapproved of my very heterosexual dinner last night:  salchipapas (appetizer) and menestra with chicken (entrée) at Rincón Ecuatoriano (Barco, 8).  I gave my order to the waiter, who said dismissively, “Oh no, too much food!  The menestra comes with rice and beans.  This is too much.”  I interpreted this as a challenge, and my friend assured him, “No, she can eat it!”  Unfortunately, my meal (a heaping portion of hot dog-like things with French fries, followed by a huge piece of chicken with rice, beans, yuca, lettuce, and onions) won.  (Even though I didn’t eat it all, but I ate most of it and my stomach was angry with me for abusing it so.)

Had I been able to submit a question for his Q&A, I would’ve asked for his advice regarding my alpha-male diet.  For now, I guess I’ll just aspire to be as gastronomically bisexual as Mr. Doonan.

NYE in Madrid

It’s 2012.  I’m happy to report that I was back in my apartment and in my pajamas by 1 am last night, enjoying some time alone before my roommate Liz arrived an hour-and-a-half later telling me about the horror of trying to get her drunk friend home.  (Yeah, thank God I left when I did.)

My New Year’s Eve was a nice mix of being at home and going out (and by “nice,” I mean the part being at home was nice).  Liz and I were home, and four of our friends joined us for mini-pizza-and-alcohol festivities.  I even used an oven!  (This is a big deal.)  The mini-pizzas came out great and perfectly crispy, but I tried following the directions to make croquettes in a pan, and this was the result:

We ate like half of this anyway.  I would’ve eaten more if I weren’t so full from mini-pizzas.

I’d bought a bunch of grapes (actually two bunches… haha!), but Actual Spaniard Jordi suggested that we de-seed them before midnight because they would be much easier to consume.  Of course, being a red-blooded American, I didn’t think that these grapes would be seeded in the first place.  Hmph!  Here we are de-seeding the grapes like a bunch of animals:

I noticed yesterday that the supermarket was selling little packs of 12 grapes each.  So at least we weren’t that lazy.  When we arrived at Sol, there were also vendors selling similar packs of grapes.

Ugh, yes, we went to Sol.  It was just as terrible as I expected it to be, but at least it was a new experience for me, so it wasn’t quite as abysmal since I could at least observe.  Also, we only had to arrive like an hour before midnight, which wasn’t too bad.  Actual Spaniard Jordi led us all the way to the center, right by the “tree”:

Of course, there was a drunk guy in a wig trying to climb it, but I don’t think he was successful.  But he didn’t fall or get arrested right away, so I lost interest in him.  Anyway, when it was midnight, I dropped one of my 12 grapes on the ground, so I’m obviously doomed to have bad luck in 2012.  Oops.

After we consumed our grapes, leaving Sol was awful.  At one point, it felt like a mosh pit (not that I’ve ever been in a mosh pit), and there were just bodies all around me.  It was disgusting.  I would’ve gone home immediately, but I had to go to the bathroom, so we found a bar or a club or something where I waited to use the bathroom with many other women.

I found my friends and danced for maybe two songs (including that “Baby, Tonight!” song — wait, I’m going to look it up — okay, it’s called “DJ Got Us Falling in Love Again” by Usher and Pitbull… no wonder I hate that song) before yelling above the music, “That’s it!  I’ve hit my limit!  I’m going home!  Don’t follow me, I’ll be okay!”  (I really wanted to leave before that Black Eyed Peas song would inevitably play.)  It was 12:45 am, and I walked home in 15 minutes.  It was wonderful… I love my bed.

It reminds me of a new resolution, which I try to do anyway:  don’t waste my time doing stuff that I don’t want to do, like dance to terrible songs in a bar where there are four scantily clad girls dancing atop a table.  I’m way too old for that.  But I did have an excellent time with my friends!

HAPPY OFFICIAL NEW YEAR!

(PS – Four blog posts in 24 hours?  This must be a record!)