An Air-Kiss of a Hello and Success With Nike iD!
May 7, 2009
This is just to say that I recognize that I’ve been horribly remiss in blogging and to mount a small defense of such truancy by publicizing the fact that–for serious, yo–I’ve been outrageously busy. I’ve been at Fathom 45 minutes to two hours early since Friday and also worked this weekend. Holy of uncomfortable holies. We’re ass kickin’, crazytown kind of busy at that place, which I hope bodes very well for the future. Fingers crossed, eh?
In more exciting, less 9-5ly depressing news, I’d also like to report that my Nike article for The Retrospective is not only (a)live, but very, very well! I’ve been in touch with Nike’s lovely PR rep at the Atlanta headquarters a few times now and she’s sent me tidings of not only her personal satisfaction with the piece, but reams of dazzled, exhilarated and approving comments from Nike HQ staff all the way up the ladder. Color me delighted, and now go check out the thing itself on The Retrospective.
And now, I must sleep–but I’ll be back, I swear, and quite soon! I’ve got tidings of comfort and joy to share, various thoughts on the shambles in which contemporary society finds itself with regards to love and marriage, and a wee report of a rather sordid lust letter I received all the way from Spain, which may or may not pertain to this fellow here. And why yes! I’m a tease, but don’t tell me you don’t like it. 
Protected: Part the Third: The After Party, or, Confessions
February 14, 2009
Protected: Part The Second: Birthday Fetes, or, a Prelude
February 6, 2009
Protected: Part The First: We Meet Again, Batman, or, Setting The Stage: The past revived
February 1, 2009
The Most Exciting News on Either Side of The Atlantic!
December 9, 2008
…(gulp)
In a month from today (well, in a month and 18 minutes from today) I’m going to Spain!
While lazily perusing cheaptickets.com last Friday during my lunch (yes–this is something I do for fun whenever I dream about Iberia, which is often), I came across something so shocking as to choke me on my Earl Grey: a roundtrip ticket from Bradley to Madrid for less than $500. I don’t remember what happened between my first glance at the air fare and the arrival of my flight confirmation to gmail ten minutes later, but I do know for a fact that I’ll be going to my second home for nine days in January.
Elated, I made inquiries and discovered that not only will I see my sweet Morgan and Rachel–two of my fellow former Fulbrighters now pursuing schooling in Spain’s capital–but David, my dear, smart Basque friend, will be home for holidays from Scotland where he now resides and, somehow, miraculously, in Madrid. To slick just a little more icing on my slice of sweet, rich, soul-filling cake, Ali, on vacation from Germany, will get into Barajas the night before I fly out. There will be enough time for dinner, for acquainting our friends with one another, for hugs, and for stories. I will set up an appointment to visit Ramiro de Maeztu and hope that Nicolás and Angela remember me. And even if they rub small, insidious Spanish germs on me, I don’t care. Bring on the besos and bring on the love. I’m ready and more than willing.
Oh my God! And I can get a Spanish haircut from Adrian! (No–I refuse to even consider that he won’t be right at the salon where I left him!)
My heart feels so good right now I’m not sure what to do with myself. Something deep down in the center of my being responds to Madrid–to the people I’m to find there, to everything I left behind and arguably ought not to have–and sings. I’m going to bed happy, anticipatory, and smiling.
Back in the saddle
January 8, 2008
I’d just finished explaning puppies and mammal birth when Georgina beckoned me over with her pudgy little chorizo hand.
“¿Profe?” she inquired very seriously. “Profe. Ven. ¡Ven!” (which, for those of you who don’t speak Spanish means “Teacher? Teacher! Come here. Come here!) Like the dumb, dutiful slave I am to these devilish six year olds, I lumbered over and leaned near to her tiny, blue-eyed face.
“Yo sé tu secreto,” she said quietly, looking gravely into my face.
“Mi secreto?” I asked her, brow furrowing. What secret do I have that she could possibly know, I wondered, growing suddenly more nervous. Had the receipt from The Blue Bunny Tienda Erotica slipped from my wallet and into the virginal, unwitting backpack of some little Spanish child? Did I rip one before making it to the bathroom? Was there toilet paper stuck to my shoe afterwards? What?
“Si,” Georgiana said, nodding and beginning to smile, “tu secreto. Nerea me ha dicho.”
So this was a secret Nerea, the creepy, hyper-sexual 6-year-old in my first grade class “knew.” My eyes narrowed.
“Siiiii, Georgiana?” I said. “¿Y cual secreto es este?” (Yes, Georgiana? And what secret is this?)
“Que,” Georgiana began, suddenly coy with a smile playing at the corners of her mouth and blue eyes widening. “Queeeee…¡que los Reyes Magos te han traido un novio!”
I stared at her for a moment before bursting out in laughter, “Si, Georgiana,” I told her, “los Reyes Magos me han traido mi novio de los Estados Unidos.”
Georgiana and Nerea exchanged an intense look across the classroom and tittered. I just walked away, shaking my head and smiling. I still have no idea how they found out, but whatever. Now my whole class thinks that the Three Wise Men “brought me “a” boyfriend for Three King’s Day. Ja ja fucking ja. I mean, doesn’t everyone love mystical handouts? Apparently my little children do. (:
So. As you may already have ascertained, today was my first day back to school from vacation (also known here in Spain as “bakachons” *wink wink*, Ms. Amber). It began inauspiciously: I spilled rather unattractively onto the line 9 metro this morning as the doors closed and, sweating (also rather unattractively), set to stalking against gravity and momentum towards the front of the train, hoping to get a seat. Instead, I stopped dejectedly to lean against a centrally placed pole upon coming to grips with the truth that there were no seats available. Loosening my scarf and palming perspiration from my face, my gaze happened to catch on the visage of none other than Nawaf, a teacher in the bilingual program at my school. He waved shyly, looking rebuffed and sorry. It then dawned upon me that, hey, there may indeed have been a reason I’d felt like someone was tugging on my sleeve back there. I sheepishly endeavored to smooth things over by saying hell, but the end result of this effort was the most constipated Spanish conversation I’ve ever undertaken in my Spanish speaking career. Sensing things going from bad to worse, I made my escape by mumbling something about wanting to find a seat, walking away, and collapsing into an open booth near the front of the train. This was not, however, before I’d nearly eaten it, tripping over a slick businessman’s polished mahogany shoe.
In fact, now that I consider it, my morning began even more inauspiciously (and earlier) than that. 1 a.m. saw me writhing in bed with a menstrually-induced migraine. A timeless-feeling thirty minutes later, I rushed to the bathroom and slid into home on my knees, making it to the bowl just in time to upchuck a delightful whorl of tzatziki and chickpeas into the porcelain depths. I don’t suspect I’ll be eating at Maoz for the next few weeks, but I did feel better after fifteen or so shaking minutes in the bathroom and two Excedrin Migraine pills. Today’s been a little better aside from a slight migraine hangover and the conviction held by both I and my jeans that I belong in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Anyhow, the rest of the day was fineish–rather what I expected. There’s still no lack of mucous in first grade. Christian’s golden mullet is even more resplendent than it was in 2007, which I’m sure comes courtesy of negligent parents and an unwillingness to sit still for longer than 40 seconds. It was nice to see Eli, Ana, and Araceli–and my fellow TA, Felicity, too. Not nice enough, however, to keep me from wishing I were still on vacation.
I know not how it gets to be 11:40 and I’m still not asleep, but before I go, here are a few thoughts:
There is a convenience store in the Nuñez de Balboa metro station where often I’ll stop to buy an energy drink or some licorice drops. Every time I make a purchase there, I drop the contents of my change purse on the floor and into the gum rack. Every time. Without fail. Could it be a self fulfilling prophecy at this point, or could there really be some sort of magnetized field that calls my wallet forth from my hands and forcibly prises the change from its depths, refusing to stop until my 1 and 2 euro coins are buried deep in boxes of strawberry-lime Trident Splash?
There is a certain spot in front of my apartment, near the planters where weekend partygoers piss, where I drop my keys at least thrice a week. Again: self-fulfilling prophecy or magnetic force? What the fuck? And am I really that clumsy? On the upside… I may have just discovered the locus of my constant Spanish sickness and it has nothing to do with 1st grade mucous…
Okay. Bed. More when I’m less snippy. 
