Oh! ALSO!

Yesterday, out of nowhere, I did 4 sets of 10 real, from the feet, genuine, honest-to-goodness push ups. Never in my life, not even when I was rowing, could I do 10 real push ups let alone 4 sets of them. I left the gym feeling kind of like a demi-goddess, or at the very least a badass Amazonian.

Merry Christmas to me!

It’s 1:37 a.m. here in Spain, which means that it’s officially Christmas. It’s been a long wind up for this one considering–as you might imagine–elementary schools start pretty early, and yet it doesn’t feel like Christmas to me at all. The most festive I felt was early last week: with Ella Fitzgerald singing “Sleigh Ride” from MariGrego’s boom box I cut out logs from many different brown-toned pieces of construction paper and built (with Felicity) a huge paper fireplace in the hallway, over which we later hung 200 Spanish children’s stockings which awaited sugarplums and sweet little pats from Papa Noel. I lost the spirit sometime between now and then, though, and though I have a pretty little Christmas tree in the living room and I’ve baked about 300 Icebox Hermit cookies between last weekend and this, without my house, without my family, without my mom in particular, it doesn’t really feel like Christmas. I do regret ever so slightly my decision not to go home for the holidays.

But I went through the motions anyway!

This evening I wrapped up wrapping up, and here’s the result:

If I report being unable to eat for the latter portion of January, the Christmas loot I bagged and then wrapped for the sheer joy of wrapping will be why.

Though Christmas eve has been a rather somber, solo event, Christmas day will not be. A sweet teacher from my school invited me to eat with her family and small dog. I’m excited to pet a pooch and to have some company, so to express my thanks I spent the time NOT wrapping baking.

Those glossy brown orbs you see are not, in fact, reindeer leavings but chocolate covered almonds. Substantially nicer, no?

The night’s bright spot was Skypeing with James–finally–and it was totally worth the wait! Face time with that bearded mug was a real treat, despite the time delay incurred by videochatting. It’s nice to know I have loving friends who still think of me over there in the States, and even nicer when they want to Skype just to check in and say hi. Joyous!

Considering that my sinus infection is still raging and I’ve been a mucousy mess for a full 20 days now, I probably ought to turn in. I’ll check back in tomorrow night with any luck with tales from my Spanish Christmas and, also, a very important update on new technology my roommate, M, is apparently developing: ham confetti.

Feliz Navidad, even if it doesn’t feel like it!

This is basically the general mood in my primary school this week, and also made me cackle for a good half an hour.

More on Christmas cheer next time I get some free time–most likely tomorrow.

Looking Ahead

Important life goals:

(when I have health insurance)

1) Get vocal fold surgery; train voice back up the right way.
2) Learn to read music.
3) Sing, because I love it. Sing in a band if I can. Or something.

Very immediate future-y goals:
1) Study for the GREs
2) Take the GREs
3) Heavily edit and prettify a chapter of my thesis
4) Be able to pump out 3 sets of 10 real push-ups by the end of January

Even more in the future:
1) Gain admission to a PhD program for English Lit
2) Learn French
3) Learn to cook as well as I can bake.

OR, in an alternative life:

Move to Oregon to open that café with Bridget, and learn to cook as well as I can bake. Make lots of eclectic friends. Sing. Write.

So… *cough* I did it. And didn’t wait ’til Friday.

Um. Hi.

Despite the fact that I nearly had a nervous breakdown in La Pelu while a lovably rail-thin, cardigan-clad denizen of Chueca named Adrian with huge black rubber gauges, pierced between-the-eye-top-of-nose-area (insert technical term here), and copious tattoos chopped off 8 or so inches of my previously lustrous curly brown hair… I think I’m happy? While it’s far shorter than I asked him to go, and not QUITE what I had in mind, I feel more like me now, so this is good.

In other news, today was a great day at school. I spent the morning industriously drawing, coloring, cutting, then hacking up various types of bird pictures into puzzles. These were used for a 1st grade science lesson. Later, we pretended we were birds and shook our tails, opened our bills, and flapped our wings in order to hammer into 25 tiny cerebra those oh-so-important vocabulary words. My day was topped off by making a Christmas activity to review all the vocabulary for 3 units on school items, family members, and food–and I think I pulled it off in style. More on that later. It involves stockings and Christmas lists, and the word “Auntie.” Oh yes. I went there.

And now to hustle and do a little Fathom work. The later it gets, the closer to fucked I become. MORE TOMORROW!

Oh my God. *touches back of head* My hair.

*faint*

On my love for the gym and man kisses

Newsflash: I’ve rekindled an old flame with a love I thought was gone forever. And it’s great.

Me and the gym? We’ve pretty much played tonsil hockey and made up. This is largely thanks to my having switched gyms from the crazy, sweaty, packed-with-sexy-but-infuriatingly-posturing-and-flirtatious-homosexuals-Energym to Urban Fitness, which could swallow Energym 6 times over and have room for another–and another protein smoothie thanksverymuch. There are also other women–sweating, grunting, focused women who enjoy working out because they enjoy working out–which I missed.

Somehow along the way I’d forgotten how surpassingly amazing it feels to have a good workout. I’m not just talking about any kind of workout–I’m talking about the kind that leaves you shaky, sweat-slicked, and totally, blissfully, shudderingly empty at the end. I know that description must sound borderline psychotic, but quite the contrary: I actually feel calm. Emptiness workouts are the only thing that makes me feel really calm lately, but little matter. For that largely subterranean afternoony period of the day I spend in Urban Fitness, I am free. And am resultingly capable of pumping out 40 knee-push-ups in a minute now when I used to be able to do only 12 before dropping. Sadly, I’m still only good for 5 or 6 real push-ups (flexiones, en español) before I flop on the floor like an exhausted, broke-back manatee, but hey–it’s something to work on!

I equally love and hate that Urban Fitness is a 15 minute walk from my pad in Chueca. On the upside, the jaunt shaves time off of my actual in-gym cardio time. On the downside, I nearly died in traffic today due to dodging slow Spaniards, and I am forever desperately trying to avoid lines of linked-arm walkers and snogging couples. I like people who walk like they have somewhere to go, even if they don’t so this meandering business that tends to clog main arteries is something for which I have zero patience. My angry stalking gets me around quickly, but not without sustaining a half dozen near-collissions with countless Fuencarral rubberneckers and couples making out in the middle of sidewalks.

And on that note:

On my way home today I witnessed what may be my first real man-on-man kiss. I’m sure I’ve seen plenty, idly passing by, but as I watched the dismount of this one, the thought that fired off in my head was “Wow. That was a singularly male kiss,” which is definitely the first time I’ve ever thought that thought. Here’s how it went down: I was walking slightly behind two very tall, scarved and parkaed men on my way home. They seemed to be pretty deep in conversation. Then, they both stopped. The one on the left grabbed the back of the head of the one on the right, pressed his lips furiously against the mouth of the one on the right, kept them there long enough to make them both stop in the street, and then the man on the left abruptly let go of the back of the man on the right’s head, so abruptly, in fact, that his head jostled back a bit. They exchanged goodbyes, and walked in separate directions, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, chins borrowed into scarves. The ferocity of the kiss shocked me enough to make me notice, and the brevity left me confused and even as a spectator yearning for a little more… something. It was interesting, and strange, and struck me as very…just… male. I wonder why they didn’t kiss longer–in Chueca it seem to be okay–and I wonder about the current of violence rushing beneath that gesture’s surface. I stumbled upon something I probably shouldn’t have seen and was probably too captivated for my own good. I dunno. Interesting.

It’ll be Christmas–and the end of December–and New Year–soon. I don’t know how I feel about that, but I do know I have a cookies to make and a haircut to get.

So do I chop off all the hair, or do I just trim it? I honestly can’t decide myself. It’s going down Friday. Cast your vote now or forever hold your peace.

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Insomnia, anyone?

It is now 12:22 a.m. At exactly 7:00 a.m. Spanish time I am going to loathe myself and probably everyone else. Despite lying in bed for an hour and a half, sleep would not come. The delightful cocktail of a cold, a miasma of generally icky premenstrual feelings, and deeply aching hips forbid this poor young lass from hitting the hay. So here I am, updating at 12:22 a.m. and already fearing tomorrow.

The truth is that the first graders are far more like animals than like anything remotely resembling human. Endeavoring to teach them something is like throwing 23 flailing cats into a bag with 24 balls of yarn and knitting needles, tying off the bag, then trying to teach them how to make a sweater. The majority of these children have what I would identify as behavioral problems. From violent, to sexually over… over…well…something–to just plain distracted to the point of vacancy, I’m shocked that the fiftyish kids in first grade can learn anything at all–and still have little evidence that they, in fact, can. I spend most of my time yelling over a babbly din of giggles and Spanish and not only does it exhaust my poor, cysty voice, but I am forced to be bitchy to little children. I do not enjoy that. I do NOT.

Plus, on my first day in first grade, my co-teacher restrained me as I ducked near to the gypsy children, Mara and Felix. “Be careful,” she said, a look of wry caution in her eyes, “they have some…eh…some animals? Yes, animals–on their heads.” There are no mandatory lice checks in Spanish public schools.

But anyway–I really ought to be tired, dammit. It’s been a full weekend which, come to think of it, felt like it started on Wednesday. Wednesday evening Amber, Liz and I dined together at a delicious italian place I highly recommend if ever you’re in Madrid. Pizzaiolo makes glorious, thin-crust pies with delicious and inventive toppings like ham and arugula (Amber’s choice), and ham and mushrooms (mine). They also do a mean cannoli and a passably bangin’ tiramisu. The girls drank beers and I nursed an agua del grifo, and we chatted for almost two hours, nonstop. Amber saved me from being hit by a bus (or, rather, just theatrically reacted to a bus she thought was a little too close to me for comfort), and we parted ways joyfully for the evening.

I and the same Lady who saved me from an untimely public transportation death had plans for a Saturday night in, cooking something delectable involving setas (mushrooms) arugula and goat cheese, but at the last minute, dinner party plans were hatched, amber resuced me from wallowing in my own sad nostalgia and yearning, and I met some absolutely lovely people. Among the party that commenced around ten at a vinoteca in Plaza Santa Ana and adjourned at 1:30 at a restaurant down the street were a two of the most delightful non-straight men I have ever encountered–one named Raoul, the other Chad (short for Am-Chad)–two creepy Spanish men, and Amber’s sweet (but tardy), animal rescuing friend Roxana. My first glimpse of Raoul yielded a black fedora and a pink and black houndstooth scarf which, in my mind, is the recipe for immediate love, and Chad promised over the next morning’s breafkast date to teach me and Amber how to cook an authentic curry and daal. Roxana was generally sweet, the short creepy Spaniard bought me a glass of wine, and I laughed a lot with lovely new people and one familiar and much-loved newold friend. Amber woke me on Saturday morning in time for our breakfast date with Chad using a tap on my door, a huge grin, and a cup of Bengal Spice tea. Who could ask for anything more? Oh wait–I did. Her pants, sneakers, and a squirt of fig-cassis perfume before we left.

Last night our dinner-in dreams came true with mixed results, and a final, weary stop at a criminally good ice cream parlor by the name of Giangrossi.

Argentine ice cream in quirky flavors is right up my alley–as is really any ice cream–and I enjoyed a small halfsie tureen of the yoghurt with dates and honey and chocolate almond. Good christ will I need to hit the gym hard this week.

Despite the cold and general glum I’m experiencing, today was good and involved a date with people I like, and I’ve begun a book that intrigues me. Now, the task is to make it through the week so as to enjoy a four-day weekend. My appreciation for Spain’s multitude of Saint’s days off is almost enough to inspire me into an ecstatic religious experience.

22 days ’til Christmas, alone in Madrid.
20 days ’til my last school day for the 2007 school year.
11 work days ’til my last school day for the 2007 school year.
24 days ’til Greg gets here.

Also, I’m taking a poll: do I buy a fake Christmas tree from a eurobazaar for 9.50, which I KNOW I can carry home without too much effort, or do I wait ’til next weekend, hope the Christmas fair thing is still in Sol, and purchase a 15 euro, hip-height real tree which I may or may not be able to carry to my apartment? My instinct and my New England snobbery dictates that I splurge on the real one, but I really don’t know how practical it is. Either way, as I begin to pine (ha! pine!) more for Christmas at home and for decorating the tree with my mom, I realize I need one of my own, whether it be real or fake. What say you?

A Weeks Worth of Things, II. – Tuesday, or “We Have The Sex”

And now for the greatest moment in ESL, quite possibly ever.

My first graders are currently learning English mealtimes. By “English mealtimes” I mean that we are teaching them the times of day in which you eat meals, and what they are called. Breakfast, snack, lunch and dinner are the key terms here, and in and of themselves, are not so hard to grasp–if you’re not a combination of 6 and entirely attention deficit and slightly diabolic, that is.

So on Tuesday, the first grade teacher and I gave an elaborate presentation on mealtimes, demonstrating for them on a schedule and a brightly colored chart on the board when we eat breakfast, when we eat snack, when we eat lunch and when we eat dinner. In order to try to teach them sequential ordering, we emphasized what happens BEFORE and AFTER these mealtimes.

Tuesday’s after-lunch review period is mine to lead. I approach the blackboard and ask, accompanied by a slew of grandiose illustrative gestures, “So guys, what do we eat (*spoons imaginary food maniacally into mouth*) after we wake up (*huge, exaggerated stretch/yawn*) in the morning (*points to clock)*?” Of course, I receive about 12 blank stares–only 12 because 6 are busy touching their privates, playing with their pencil cases or pulling their seat mate’s hair, and the other 6 have their fingers–often a full two knuckles’ worth–jammed up their noses and are energetically mining boogers from the farthest reaches of their nasal cavities.
“Come on,” I say. “Somebody?”
Silence again. More snots are extracted from around the ocular nerve. Babble.
“Por favor!” I finally yell, exchanging a worried look with the teacher. “What do we have after we wake up in the morning, before we come to school?”
There are a few more seconds of silence until one child (one of the 6 not picking his nose, but formerly rummaging in his pencil case) crumbles under the pressure. “Brrreakfaaast!” he shouts. “Hwe haf the brrreakfast!”
Delighted that someone has paid attention, I affirm him enthusisatically.
“YES!” I say. “Right! Good work, Marcos.” Perhaps there is some hope, I think. Maybe they’re absorbing something? With more hope in my heart, I move on. Snack is next up to bat.

“All right, guys,” I say. “So if we eat breakfast after we wake up, what do we have after breakfast?” Of course, my inquiry is met by empty looks and a resounding, buzzing silence.
“Come on! During recess–on the patio–what do you eat?”
(nothing)
“Guys. At recess, at 11:00 every day–your mom gives you something to eat (insert “eating” gesture here) while you play. Sometimes it’s an Actimel, sometimes some biscuits–what do we call that meal?”
(nothing). Finally, I point to the word on the board, silently underlining it with my finger. Maria, a head-scarfed wonder who is an intelligent little kid when she pays attention–also not very often–catches on. I can see her mouthing the word, dark Bambi eyes fixed on my chalk scrawlings, as my finger traces beneath each letter. I finish with k, and she gasps, one hand shooting into the air, the other over her mouth. She leaps up from her chair, bouncing up and down. Without waiting for me to call on her, she removes the hand from her mouth and shouts:

“The sex! We have the sex!”

I nearly die of shock and amusement and spend the next 15 minutes laughing. Who knew “snack” sounded so much like “sex” to non-native speakers? I just have to say that I wouldn’t be at all opposed to an 11:00 break engineered expressly for “the sex.” It might make some of the teachers at my school less highly strung.

A Week’s Worth of Things, I. – Futbol

I’ve been truly lax about regular updateage, but that’s not to say I haven’t been considering it. Heavily. And not acting. But considering it no less! Mmyes. *cough* Anyhow–declarations of good intentions aside–hitting the gym regularly, seeing friends a lot, and getting incrementally more sleep explain my poor blogging habits. It’s been a busy, fun week. Here are some things:

Monday, though thanks to my new position as first grade beast wrangler I am free to leave school at 3:15 instead of 4:00, I tarried in the ‘burb where I work ’til 6:00. This little suburb or Madrid really isn’t anywhere I’d be psyched to spend extra time, but keeping a promise to a bunch of 7-year-olds surmounted my own selfish desire to lounge in bed like the big tired walrus I become at approximately 4 p.m.

Last-last week, Rubén García invited me to his soccer game. Though I couldn’t attend the Monday that on which I was invited, I promised him I’d be there the following one–this past week. After my last first grade class I killed time by going grocery shopping (for some delicious ravioli, no less), and taking myself for a ramble ’round the town. I was back on school grounds by 5:00 to witness both the end of 4th grade’s practice and also the arrival of the menacing, yellow-and-blue clad Artilleros team. As soon as Rubén caught sight of me he set up a delighted whoop and notified the other second grade boys, José, Andrés, Carlos, Miguel, Willan, and Eduardo, that I’d come. Of course, they swarmed.
Rubén was the first to bound up to me. “Has venido!” (you’ve come) he crowed “has venidoooo!”
“Pues, claro que he venido!” I told him, “me invitaste, no? No pensaste que iba a asistir?” (Of course I came. You invited me, didn’t you? Didn’t you think I was going to come?”)

Winsomely enough, Rubén just hugged me in response and introduced me to his mom and dad. Before he went off to the field–where he made the only goal for the first half–he rushed back over to me.
Ya tienes una flor?” he asked.
A flower? I asked him. What do you mean?
“Una flor!” he insisted. “Alguien te ha dado una flor?”
No, I said. Nobody’s given me a flower.
“Ay! Pueeeees…” lamented Rubén. In short order he’d collected a lovely assortment of autumn leaves, poked ingenious little holes in them, and gifted me with a bouquet of “fantasmas de hojas,” or, leaf ghosts. Of course. Who doesn’t want a leaf ghost?

After I received my corsage I sat back on the icy cement stairs for some gripping 2nd-grade soccer action. The game was great, though I’d be telling a bald faced lie if I alleged that my kids played well. Between shameless displays of baseless machismo and confused kicking tactics, it was a delightful shitshow. All except Andrés, the goalie, were relatively poor (but adorable!) players. Perhaps the worst player of all was my favorite kid Miguel, who kicked the ball maybe twice–when he could remember to stop chasing his own imaginary tail on the wrong side of the field. Also, unsurprisingly, Miguel was the only child sporting a white high-necked turtleneck and gray cargo pants beneath *cough* his uniform.

Long story short, my school lost to Artilleros, 3-7, but I had a great time and screamed loudly for my kids. I was happy to be there for them, and so happy they were happy to have me there. *insert glimmer of joy here* God bless us everyone!