Brasilian Wax

Cleaning house

2012-01-09T14:56:00.003-02:00

This weekend, Al and I embarked on a huge decluttering project. I had read part of a book on hoarding and was immediately scared straight. The little piles of unopened mail and the clothes scattered all over my bedroom were, to me, the early signs of an impending hoardpocalpyse that would end with Al and I sleeping on a bed littered with stained pizza boxes, cat feces, and antique dolls. Even though we don't eat pizza. Or have cats. Or collect dolls.

Anyway, they say that a clean home leads to a clean mind. Decluttering is supposed to reduce stress and boost happiness. So we did it.

We spent all day Saturday slogging through our closets and ended up throwing out six large trash bags full of crap, and collecting six huge moving boxes full of clothes to donate to charity. We had NO idea that we had so much stuff lying around. We were amazed to find that after the purge, our drawers actually shut and we could see the floors of our closets. Imagine! It felt great.

As we celebrated with leftovers and beer, I ruminated on the whole cleaning idea and started thinking that the same principles that apply to decluttering one's living space could apply to decluttering one's physical being. I don't mean to get all Zen on you guys, but I really feel that my body could use some major decluttering. After an indulgent couple of months full of friends, family, food and booze, I'm feeling fuzzy and soft and slow. Too much goes in to my body and sits around, like the many pairs of tattered old shoes that I found lying in the back of my closet. Those shoes weren't being used - they were just taking up space, creating an eyesore, and preventing me from finding stuff I actually need.

So, in the spirit of decluttering, I'm embarking on a cleaner living program starting now. The first step will be drinking less alcohol, because God knows I don't need that clutter in my liver (or my fat cells, for that matter) and eating fewer processed foods, if I can. Part of the motivation behind this is the fact that I am getting married in four months and want to look my best in an extremely form-fitting Vera Wang. Another part of it is that I'm tired of sleeping poorly and feeling stressed out from overeating, and want 2012 to be a fresh start, with clean closets, a clean mind and a clean body.

So here we go! Decluttering starts now.

Back in the saddle again...

2011-11-30T19:43:00.004-02:00

...Out where a friend is a friend.

Okay, enough singing, Gene Autry! It's time for me to offer my MOST ABJECT APOLOGIES for not writing in literally a year. So wrong! So unforgivable! So lazy! Although I must point out that when you signed on to read this blog, you knew I was gonna be lazy. I was really open with you guys about that (see, e.g.,http://teffsinbrasil.blogspot.com/2005/10/being-open-about-being-lazy.html).

I still feel bad, though. So let me try to make up for it by giving you a list of things that have happened over the past year, just to get the ball rolling, since this is feeling kinda awkward.

1. I moved back to America from Brazil. My wallet rejoiced. My mango bone (the imaginary bone in my body that requires daily doses of mango) mourned.

2. I got engaged to Al!! Yeeeaaaayyyy! We are getting married in May. YeeeaaaayyyY!

3. I wrote in other blogs - but don't worry, I'm not gonna do that thing where I go, "Find me on tumblr now!" because come on. Tumblr's not a real blog. But, just in case you want some more Eteffi in your life, check out http://eteffi.tumblr.com and http://tubetopix.wordpress.com/.

4. I decided to grow out my bangs.

5.

K, so there you go: four things happened since last year. I don't really feel that bad about not blogging that year anymore.

Anyway, I am back now and promise I won't leave for a year again! Unless I get really lazy! Which might happen!

Bye for now.

Wrapping up Brazil

2010-12-16T17:08:00.002-02:00

Here is my final (for now) Teffs-in-Brasil email. Enjoy!

Oi oi -

It's hard to believe that it's been SIX whole months since I arrived in Brazil, but I guess time flies when you're working long hours at a tedious, mind-numbing job. That's the saying, right?

I really can't wrap my mind around the fact that I've been here for half a year. So much has happened here in this gigantic, crazy country! Dilma got elected (sigh), as did a (possibly) illiterate clown (double sigh), Rio became a war zone, Brazil got its ass handed to it in the World Cup, someone spelled my name "Stethanie." So much stuff! And I guess stuff happened in the US, too. Or whatever.

Six months. Whoa. When I arrived here it was June and now it's December -- the warm heart of Brazilian summer and the frozen, miserable heart of American winter. I'm already scared about getting off the plane in DC on Saturday night with no winter jacket, no boots, and no gloves, with my already pitifully fragile circulatory system softened into utter uselessness by six months of lazy, South American heat. Pray for me.

So, I guess since this is my last Teffs-in-Brasil email for a while, I should probably wax rhapsodical about my time here and tell some witty anecdotes about cheese or whatever I usually write about. But to be honest, I am SUPER tired, because I've been going out this week *a lot* (trying to squeeze every last drop (of alcohol, mostly) out of Brazil before I leave) and during my free time away from partying, I've also been working, so my brain feels like mush, and whatever quadrant of gray matter that's in charge of wittiness is not lighting up today. I can't even get a metaphor right. Gray matter lighting up? C'mon, Steph.

But, I will say that although the last six months have had, shall we say, ups and downs, overall, I am SOOOOOO glad I came. Seriously. I know some of you have listened to me bitch hard-core about some aspects of my life here: my job, being lonely, not being able to find a decent piece of gum in this town, the weird smells, the fact that the toilet lid in my apartment touches your back when you sit down (*shudder*), the outrageous prices, etc. But you know what? All of the inconvenience, loneliness, and resentment was worth it. Over the last six months, I've made new friends, improved my Portuguese *vastly*, learned a lot professionally, and, yes, grown as a person. I know, gross.

This past weekend was particularly wonderful. It was filled with karaoke, towers of beer, barbequed meat, caipirinhas, Brazilian music, fresh fruit, dancing, buckets of rain, and intense sun. Sometimes all at once. The whole weekend left me with a warm, benevolent feeling about Brazil in general, and put a lot of the bad stuff in perspective. Of course, every day can't be a karaoke-barbeque-beerfest, but it's a nice goal to shoot for in life.

Anyway, it's nice to end my time here on a good note, and coming up I have so much to look forward to. I'm spending Christmas and New Years with Al and we're seeing all three of our familial units, in three different locations. International Christmas travel adventures will abound! In January I restart work back in DC -- never thought I'd say this but I can't wait to get back into arbitration. All in all, I have a good feeling about 2011. I mean, it better be good since the world's ending in 2012 and all.

Hope to hear from all of you when you have time. I'll see you guys on the flip side!

Beijos
xx
Eteffi

Baby Names, 2010

2010-12-13T15:55:00.005-02:00

Top 10 baby names, 2010

Boys

1. Mason
2. Grayson
3. Brayson
4. Chayson
5. Flayson
6. Branter
7. Rudolph
8. Tandem
9. Spigot
10. Spayson

Girls

1. Senna
2. Tehran
3. Tuesday
4. Brilla
5. Klüe
6. Kørtneÿ
7. Tambourine
8. Sarsparilla
9. Lunesta
10. Calliope

Six-month wrap-up - BRASIW

2010-12-09T17:09:00.013-02:00

I can't believe I have been here in Sao Paulo for almost six months - in a lot of ways, it feels like I just got here like, a week ago. Then again, some days it feels like I have been here for an eternity. The last six months have been, overall, a fantastic experience. I am so thankful I had the opportunity to come back to my beloved Brazil to work, make new friends, improve my Portuguese, and, most importantly, eat an ungodly quantity of mangoes. But there were definitely hard moments along the way, mostly having to with my extremely demanding work schedule (which, incidentally, is also to blame for the severe lack of bloggage - that and my incurable laziness), and also having to do with the extreme distance I felt between myself and loved ones. There were definitely days where Brazil felt like Siberia.

But now, I have less than a week to go here, and I am trying to process what it means that I have spent the last half-year in Sao Paulo. It's weird. But good. And, since I have failed to diligently journal my escapades in this space (or in any other space apart from my brain, which is not super helpful to anyone, including me), I am going to attempt to do an abridged list of Things I Did in Brazil, version 2010:

1. Got into soccer, albeit temporarily, as a total fair-weather fan. Lost all interest once Brazil and the U.S. were eliminated. Subsequently developed a healthy loathing of the vuvuzela.

2. Laughed out loud, against my will, at an episode of The New Adventures of Old Christine. You can only see that show so many times per day before it starts to wear you down. I blame Stockholm Syndrome.

3. Discovered jabuticaba.

4. More importantly, discovered caipirinhas de jabuticaba.

5. Learned WAY more Portuguese swear words than I ever used to know before.

6. Sampled a Brazilian red wine that tasted like sour grape juice, which was proudly presented to me as "the best" in the entire store. Oy. Stick to what you know, Brazil.

7. Tried something called "egg sponge bread," which tasted neither like egg nor sponge. It did taste kind of like cake, though. Probably for the best.

8. Cooked my first Thanksgiving dinner.

9. Helped throw a Christmas party for kids from a favela in Sao Paulo. We provided the trampolines, ball pits, mini basketball hoop, crayons and food. They provided the laughter, crazed energy, and, in one case, vomit. But overall, it was SUPER fun and rewarding. There's also something wonderfully surreal about seeing your boss dressed as Santa in 90 degree weather, handing out baby dolls and trucks to barefoot kids in tee-shirts and shorts.

10. Went clubbing on many occasions, and managed to escape being, pardon the phrase, face raped by the many overly enthusiastic, drunk Brazilian dudes in tight rugby shirts and designer jeans that appear to populate every balada in this city. Score for me!

11. Accidentally went to a lesbian party and met some really nice girls there. They were SO friendly! Less so once they realized we weren't gay. Still, fun party!

12. Discovered "chopp escuro," the dark version of regular chopp. It is so good - it's creamy but light and refreshing, and isn't bitter like Guiness, even though it looks like it would be. It reminds me of frothy chocolate milk. Alcoholic, frothy, chocolate milk.

13. Dressed up as a cat for Halloween (read: black fuzzy ears and bowtie, plus eyeliner whiskers and nose) and went to a party that was a mix of Americans and Brazilians. All of the Brazilians were wearing super literal Halloween costumes. I saw ugly witches, ghosts, ghouls, goblins, mummies, etc. I guess slutty Halloween hasn't fully hit the Southern hemisphere yet. It was refreshing to see women my age rocking big fake witch noses and unflattering black gowns. There was nary a sexy bumblebee in sight!

14. Attended a truly lavish Brazilian wedding. One of my coworkers got married and was generous enough to invite the entire office (plus about 350 other people) to his nuptials, which were held at this fabulous event space in the city. There was a full orchestra and choir playing during the ceremony (and a DJ for the reception), a scrumptious dinner and dessert buffet (make your own sundaes, yo!), champagne, a caipirinha bar, and beautiful flowers and lights everywhere. Pretty rad. I love me a good casamento!

15. Attended a number of fancy, schmoozy work events that involved expensive, and, in some cases, bordering on ludicrous, menu items (such as an egg cooked for three days) and large quantities of nice alcohol. I kinda see why people like being corporate lawyers sometimes.

16. Went to a fundraiser at the Canadian Embassy (yay!) and tipsily made the acquaintance of the Canadian ambassador. He seemed underwhelmed.

17. Witnessed the tail-end of a Brazilian presidential campaign, and the two rounds of elections. Watched in bemusement as an illiterate clown was elected to Congress.

I did more than 17 things in the last six months, obviously, but I am going to stop there, so as not to bore all of you to tears as I catalog every coxinha de frango that I ate, every pineapple caipirinha that I swilled (and you all know I would do this). I'll try to blog again before departing for the wintry steppes of Canada, Maine, and D.C. (where I'll be visiting with Al's family and my family). Ate mais!

Feliz dia de ação de graças!

2010-11-25T12:40:00.003-02:00

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. I haven't updated in a while because, you know, work. But I had to take some time out today, a gorgeous summer day in Brazil, to remark on the things I am thankful for this year, even though this Thanksgiving will pass, unremarked upon, at my office. Sigh. Here goes, in no particular order - Eteffi's (slightly Brazilianized) Thanksgiving list, 2010:

- My friends, new and old
- The fam
- Pão de queijo (and most other cheese products)
- Portuguese nasal vowels
- The music of Lady Gaga - how would I exercise without her?
- This American Life podcasts
- Recycling - a small (yet satisfying) way to lessen the overwhelming guilt of living in a developed country day-to-day
- Caipirinhas de fruta
- The Internet (thanks, Al Gore!)
- Guaraná Zero (all of the heart palpitations, none of the guilt)
- Puppies
- Bug spray
- The concept of 'brunch' and its manifestation in my own life
- Church incense
- My Slanket
- Al
- The Inbetweeners, Little Britain, and British humor in general
- Health (mine and others')
- Re-broadcasts of Oprah on Brazilian TV
- Climate-controlled environments
- Employment, even if I do have to work this entire weekend, grumble grumble
- Mandioca frita
- Karaoke

Obviously, I am leaving a lot off the list, as always. But these are some of the highlights of things I am thankful for this year. And, as mentioned above, I am going to be working this entire weekend, but my plan is still to celebrate Thanksgiving on Saturday night with a bunch of people who, despite not being American, love Thanksgiving. Of course, this being Brazil, we'll have to compromise a little bit on the menu: no pumpkin pie, no cranberries, probably no stuffing. A Brazilian friend suggested we cook a "Chester," which is, I swear I am not making this up, a "genetically enhanced" chicken. I plan on putting my foot down on this, obviously. I can compromise on a lot of things -- you wanna cook mashed sweet potatoes this year instead of regular mashed potatoes? be my guest -- but I cannot compromise on turkey.

Hope you're all having a wonderful turkey day.

A (not particularly funny) comedy of errors

2010-10-04T15:19:00.004-03:00

On the scale of "challenging," so-called "developing world" cities to live in, living in Sao Paulo does not compare to living somewhere truly heinous, like Port Harcourt, Baghdad, or Detroit. Generally, life runs pretty smoothly here, considering that it's a ginormous, crowded South American city. Infrastructure tends to be good (not great - let's not go crazy here), I think mainly because there are enough rich people with money to ensure that there aren't giant, car-swallowing pot-holes or outbreaks of crazy tropical diseases. Sao Paulo has Starbucks, tanning salons, and tart yogurt - all the trappings of a rich, prosperous and well-ordered city.

If you know anything about Sao Paulo, of course, you know that there is a gaping maw of inequality between the rich (those well-heeled Paulistanos who drive armored BMWs and wear Gucci sunglasses) and the poor (the masses of people who are forced to live in favelas, or who eke out an existence collecting trash and other debris to re-sell, for instance). There are Paulistanos who fall in between these two extremes, of course, but by and large, the middle class is not nearly as well-developed as in the United States, and income equality is probably one of the defining characteristics of Sao Paulo's demography. I live in a nice neighborhood full of well-off people who own tiny, sweatered dogs and who can afford to buy imported i-Pods, so it's sometimes easy for me to forget that in this city of 20 million people, there are many who live in poverty and whose day to day life is a real struggle.

The reason I'm telling you this is because I just wanted to preface the series of events I'm about to relay by letting you know that I do have some perspective on my situation and its relative cushiness, compared with how many, many people in Sao Paulo (and the rest of Brazil) live.

K. So while my life here is easier than a lot of people have it, it's also riddled with utterly Brazilian mishaps, which, cumulatively, are so irritating that my life FEELS much harder than it probably actually is. To illustrate, I'm going to list for you a series of things that actually happened to me, in chronological order, over the course of 24 hours last week, just so you'll have an idea of why living in Sao Paulo can, on occasion, bring me to near-homicidal levels of frustration and rage. Here goes:

7 pm: At work. I have my secretary call a taxi to come pick me up at 8 pm, since it is pouring rain outside.

8 pm: I walk outside to get my taxi. It is still pouring rain.

8:10 pm: no taxi. I call and am informed by a surly operator that the cab company "was not able to send a taxi for me." I am extremely upset by this news. They seem unconcerned.

8:15 pm: I find a taxi on the street, which barely delivers me to my apartment in one piece, after nearly careening into several other motorists. Apparently rain makes people here even more reckless drivers, a thing I never thought possible until I experienced it for myself.

8:17: I walk into my apartment and ask for my key, which I leave at the front desk every morning, since it has both the name of the building AND my apartment number on it (safe!). I am informed that the key is "missing." Fantastic. Desk guy suggests that maybe I forgot to leave the key at the desk that morning.

8:19: I take the elevator up 17 floors to my apartment, where the cleaning lady lets me in. I confirm that my key is not, in fact, there.

8:21: I take the elevator down 17 floors and inform the desk guy that my key is not in my apartment. He says it must have been "misplaced" and that he will, when he has a chance, look through the security footage to see what might have happened to it.

8:22: Taking advantage of the fact that I can't get into my apartment without inconveniencing the cleaning lady again, I walk a few doors down to Lojas Americanas, a combined variety store and Blockbuster video (read: clusterf*** of piles of underwear, towels, magazines and DVDs) to return some DVDs I had bought in error.

8:23: I get in line.

8:29: I get to the front of the line. I explain that I would like to return the DVDs. Girl who works at store says okay and disappears.

What feels like 10 pm but is actually 8:35: Girl reappears and tells me that they can't give me cash back for my DVDs and I have to take store credit. But it's not store credit that I can use at any time. I have to use it NOW!!!!

8:36: I begin to dash frantically around the store, trying desperately to use up the R$50 worth of store credit in what can only be described as a veritable post-apocalyptic, consumer wasteland of useless crap. It's like Supermarket Sweep, except I have to use my own money, and I have to buy stuff that I didn't want. I randomly throw things into my shopping basket: tampons, coat hangers, a brush. I linger for a minute in front of a shelf filled with bacon-flavored snacks but decide against it.

8:40: I rejoin the line.

8:43: I get to the front of the line and present my purchases. Girl rings them up and informs me I am R$5 short. Shoulda gotten those bacon snacks. "Why don't you get some chocolate?" the shop girl suggests, most unhelpfully. I reach behind me and grab a magazine that is devoted to covering the upcoming local elections, about which I care not an iota, and throw it into my basket. She rings me up again - I am R$2 OVER my initial budget. There are no words, except, of course: "f***." Seriously? Not only am I forced to buy a bunch of crap I didn't want, don't want, and will never want, but I have to pay EXTRA for it? COME ON, Brazil.

8:45: I return to my apartment building. Take the elevator up 17 floors.

8:47: The cleaning lady lets me in again. I tell her I am concerned about my key being missing. She agrees that it is a "disagreeable" situation.

8:55: Eat dinner.

9:30: Get into bed.

6:30 am: Wake up.

7:15 - 8:15 am: Work out at gym.

8:15: Walk into women's locker room, which is not air conditioned, and is approximately 468 degrees Fahrenheit. After showering, I spend the next thirty minutes feverishly sweating as I try to blow-dry my hair and put on makeup, which insists on sliding off my face and onto my clothes.

9:00: Leave gym in a sweaty, flustered mess.

9:10: Get on the bus, which is approximately 345 degrees Fahrenheit. After paying, squeeze my way through minuscule turnstile while carrying my gym bag and huge work bag. Lurch forward ungracefully as bus lurches forward, nearly colliding with a pole. Finally sit down. Even more flustered now.

9:30: Arrive at work. Repeat.

So. That's a typical day and a half in my life. Sad, isn't it? At least I can laugh (mirthlessly) at it now. Anyway. Better prepare myself mentally: I have to go to the grocery store tonight. Can't wait...

PS. They found my key. Silver lining!

Oobatooba

2010-08-24T21:33:00.008-03:00

Hey peeps. Long time no blog, right? Sorry about that. I was working and stuff.* But I'm back to fill you in on what I've been up to over the past few weeks, starting with my first non-Sao Paulo weekend since coming to Brazil! Here goes!

So, this past weekend, my friend Yohanca and I decided to hit the road and go to Ubatuba, which is a beach town about midway between Rio and SP. We took a four-hour bus ride, which started off delightfully, with us merrily stuffing our faces with pizza crackers (yes, these exist!) and beer, and ended with us both reeling with nausea from the combination of twisty-turny bus ride and godawful air freshener that someone insisted on spraying around the bus approximately every six minutes. I promise you that this air freshener was far more unpleasant than any conceivable stench it was intended to cover up. This is the kind of toxic, Brazilian air freshener that coats the back of your throat, burns the inside of your nostrils, and makes you cough and sneeze simultaneously. I also think it causes mild brain damage: to wit, I decided that Y and I needed to get off the bus at a stop a good 50 kilometers from where we were actually going. Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-air freshener.

One $75 dollar cab ride later, we arrived at our hotel, which was a non-descript yellow building on a quiet dirt road. Since it's winter here, Y and I were the only guests at the hotel, except for the huge, horrifying moth that was chilling on the ground outside our room. I guess this moth was taking a much-needed vacation from terrorizing Japanese cities and decided to stay at the Alentejano Hotel to get some "me time." Besides Mothra, the only other souls in the hotel were the staff. Oh yeah, and there was a really annoying bird that sounded like a mini air gun, which apparently lived right outside our room. Isn't nature grand?

Anyway, after that first night marked by moths and nausea, things improved greatly for us in Ubatuba. We spent the whole next day lying on the beach, drinking beer and eating an assortment of bizarre snack foods (including bacon-flavored chips with the texture of styrofoam with a picture of a demented squirrel on the bag) and beach cheese. Ah, beach cheese. I feel like I should capitalize it to show some respect: Beach Cheese. For those of you who haven't had the pleasure, Beach Cheese is perhaps the best cheese-related thing in Brazil, rivaled only by cheese bread and cheese ice cream. And I guess air cheese (proper name: queijo Minas - but it tastes like delicious air) . . . okay, so Brazil has a lot of good cheese going for it. But Beach Cheese, in my humble opinion, takes the (cheese)cake. It's a rubbery, white cheese, similar in flavor and texture to Haloumi, which comes in a block/stick, and is lovingly fried/grilled for you right there on the beach by your local Beach Cheese Guy (see below), who walks up and down the beach carrying a portable oven/grill. I am not making this up. Brazil is so awesome.

Other than the Beach Cheese, not a lot happened at the beach. We read a lot, chatted, ate weird snacks (aside from the aforementioned squirrel bacon snacks, we also found some so-called "egg sponge" bread that tasted, oddly, like cake), saw assorted carcasses lying on the road (two frogs!) and laid around. It was delightful. We also ventured into the main town for dinner on Saturday, which was an odd, rather anticlimactic experience. The main drag in the town was filled with an uncomfortable mix of families with small children, vagrants, and gangs of way-too-sexually-mature-looking 14 year-olds. There seemed to be no one there between the ages of 15 to 35 - was there some sort of city ordinance that we missed? Were all the twenty-somethings on another street? It was baffling. Since the options were a bit sparse for entertainment, we went to a homey, wood-paneled pizza place for food and then waddled over to the serve-yourself ice cream parlor to put the cherry on top of our weekend sundae of gluttony. This was instead of venturing into the one bar on the strip that seemed to be popular, because I was too intimidated by those sexy 14 year-olds.

So, that was my weekend at the beach. It was lovely to get out of the city, but I knew I missed SP when my cab back from the city bus station crawled past a gang of transvestite prostitutes in butt-less skirts (these exist, too) shaking it for the traffic. Welcome back.

*'Stuff' being mainly watching reruns of Oprah and eating cheese.

A Situação

2010-07-25T16:51:00.011-03:00

Being back in Sao Paulo almost five years after my first stay here, I'm starting to come to the realization that there is a big difference between 23-year-old, single Steph, and almost-28-year-old, non-single Steph. Not to be too reductionist about this, but the difference is basically that now I am old and boring, and before I was young and fun. This sad fact becomes glaringly clear when I go clubbing here, which is every weekend. Incidentally, in the U.S., I don't go clubbing very often -- I just don't get the appeal of paying a bunch of money to hang out with d-bags in shiny shirts and listen to really loud music, unless you're in Miami, of course. But here in Sao Paulo, clubbing is the only option if one wants to dance. The concept of a low-key bar with both bar stools and dancing (something that's common in the U.S.) apparently does not exist here, except in the context of samba bars, which are not really my cup of cachaça.

So, every weekend I embark on an epic quest to try to find fun music (read: not techno or any variant thereof) while not paying an arm and a leg AND not getting sexually assaulted in the process. This is the Brazilian equivalent of Frodo attempting to carry the ring to Mordor without getting eaten by Smeagol or falling into a pit of fire. I am Frodo in this analogy, by the way.

So far, my noble quest to find pop music in Sao Paulo has been arduous, and has resulted in some semi-bizarre clubbing experiences. Last weekend, for example, a couple girl friends and I went to a club that played odd, "alternative" house music (i.e., both boring and non-melodic) until a band came on at -- wait for it -- 3 am. Yes, the band STARTED playing at 3 am. I'm sorry, I'm just too old for this crap. Although I guess I can't really blame my lameness on my age, since the band members' parents and GRANDPARENTS were in attendance for their show. It's always humbling to realize that 80-year-old Brazilian grandparents have more clubbing stamina than you do.

This weekend was slightly more promising in terms of finding American music, but much more dismal in terms of avoiding being grabbed and otherwise harassed by strange men. On Friday, a friend and I went to a club called Happy News that I remembered going to when I was here before. I had vague memories of glowsticks and balloons and Beyonce, all of which seemed promising, so we went, hoping for the best. It turned out to be a mixed bag. The music was alright - they played that one Black Eyed Peas song a couple of times, which was my mediocre oasis in a desert of techno and Brazilian rock, but the clientele at this place was so distracting I couldn't even concentrate on the music. The only way I can describe the vibe at Happy News is to say that it was the Jersey Shore of Brazil.* I even saw a guy with Pauly D hair. Unfortunately, it combined all of the bad aspects of Jersey Shore (spiked hair, gold chains, aggressiveness) without all of the benefits (fist pumping, Ron Ron Juice). I got tired quickly, since I spent 80% of the night trying to dodge guys in too-tight rugby shirts who were attempting to grab my face and kiss me (barf). Yep, I threw a lot of elbows that night.

On Saturday night, some girl friends and I decided to go to a place with guaranteed pop music, a gay club called Gloria. Thank God for gay clubs. Where else can you go in Sao Paulo to hear vintage Spice Girls and even - not making this up - a little bit of NSYNC? The variety of music actually wasn't that impressive (and they didn't play Beyonce - what kind of gays are running this joint?) but I was appeased by the Gaga and the Britney. To be honest, I had a blast at Gloria and would gladly go back every weekend, but the single ladies in my group were left a bit cold by the lack of attention they got from the men there. To me, this is a huge advantage of going to a club full of gay men -- you get left alone (usually) -- but I get why single girls would get bored.

So the quest continues. I am hoping that one night I am going to stumble upon the Holy Grail of Brazilian clubs - a place that plays pop music and is full of respectful (yet straight) men and costs less than $100 to get in. I realize this might not exist. But I'm not gonna let that stop me.

*The episode where Snooki gets punched in the face.

An email update from yours truly

2010-06-29T15:10:00.005-03:00

When I first started Brasilian Wax, I used to just copy and paste emails that I wrote home and called it blogging. I think I've evolved since then, but you'll have to forgive me if I backslide every now and then. Now is one of those times: I am going to paste an email I wrote home to friends and family so that those of you never agreed to be inundated by teffsinbrasil emails can share in the fun. Enjoy.

from eteffi
date Sun, Jun 27, 2010 at 8:12 PM
subject Brasiw

Hello my faithful friends,

Thanks for agreeing to be bombarded by self-indulgent, Brazil-focused emails for the next four (or so) months. Here is the first one! I am going to try to make my emails different from my blog posts so as to avoid repeating myself and boring everyone more than is necessary. So, in the tried and true tradition of Steph-in-Brazil emails, I will list the (semi-interesting) things that have happened since I've been here:

1. I developed an interest in soccer. I KNOW. I never thought it would happen either. My long-held attitude towards soccer has been one of scoffing disregard, and I never intended to budge from that stance as long as I held an American passport, but it's basically impossible to be in Sao Paulo in the middle of World Cup season and not get a little bit sucked in to the futebol mania. I just had to abandon my anti-soccer attitude and embrace the World Cup - and you know what? It's been super fun. On days when Brazil plays, the entire city buzzes (and not just from those godawful vuvuzelas) -- you can actually feel the excited energy in the air. Everyone wears yellow or green and no one comes to work -- Brazilians have their priorities straight, after all (i.e., futebol > trabalho). One friend told me that on game days, you could go out to Avenida Paulista, one of the busiest thoroughfares in this city of 20 million + people, and lie down in the middle of it and take a nap, since everyone is glued to their TV screens when Brazil plays. Since Brazilians are so into their team, I took a page out of their book and decided to watch the USA-Ghana game with a bunch of Americans (and U.S. supporters) at a bar yesterday. We were the lone table of Americans in a sea of Brazilians, almost all of whom were rooting for Ghana (I made sure to glare at them in righteous indignation, although it's sort of hard to play the underdog card as an American), and I found myself YELLING at the TV screen as the U.S. slowly and painfully lost to Ghana. I never knew I cared about this crap. But I do. Who knew? Today I watched the Argentina-Mexico game (go Mexico!) and found myself yelling at the TV screen when I was ALONE in my apartment. Look who's a superfan all of a sudden.

2. I went clubbin'. I thought my clubbin' days were over, since the last time I lived here I was almost 5 years younger and had a significantly higher tolerance for ear-bleedingly loud clubs and house music in general. But on Saturday night, I found myself out until 3 am at one of my old haunts, Dolores, one of the only hip hop clubs in Sao Paulo. Side note about that: Brazilians don't think they are racist, and they definitely don't have the same issues with race that we do in the United States, but at least we don't call hip hop "black music." Yep. Brazilians call hip hop and R&B "black music," which they pronounce "blacky musicky," which makes it even more ridiculous. The club we went to last night advertises its "Sexta Black" (Black Friday), where they play exclusively blacky musicky, which I guess means no Eminem on Fridays? The best part of last night was seeing Brazilians wearing blinged-out baseball caps and wifebeaters C-walking (although it looked kinda like samba set to Snoop Dogg). Anyway, it was fun going out. Unlike last time I lived here, I didn't stay out until 8 am and then come home with my ears ringing and my hair reeking of smoke. Instead, I called it a night at the mature and reasonable hour of 3 am and went home and talked to my boyfriend and watched Shallow Hal. So much more grown up, right?

3. I went back to Parque Ibirapuera. I LOVE Parque Ibirapuera. It's this giant park in the middle of the city and to me, it is one of the most fascinating and fun places to go for quality people-watching. It feels like the entire city comes out to the park on weekends - it's crowded and loud and a bit chaotic. Today, as always, it was a colorful mess of rollerbladers, skateboarders, bikers, tandem bikers, walkers, runners, boaters, basketball players, volleyball players, coconut sippers, corn eaters, dog walkers, music listeners, and, of course maker-outers. I even saw two girls making out today. Way to evolve, Parque Ibirapuera.

4. I saw a military police helicopter hover above my friend's apartment building for a good hour. Helicopters aren't that unusual in SP, because rich people often use them to get to and from work (no joke) but military police helicopters flying at close range and circling a small block for an hour? That's weird. I was at my friend Mariana's apartment and we had just finished watching the Brazil-Ivory Coast game when we heard the helicopter outside. We went out and looked and realized that there were military police cars parked up and down the block, and cops in bullet-proof vests prowling the streets outside Mariana's building, obviously looking for someone. All of the people in the building came out and stood on their balconies, blowing vuvuzelas and throwing green and yellow confetti down on the police. Ah, Brazil. Eventually, the helicopter left, I guess because it got dark and they couldn't find whatever super dangerous criminal they were looking for. Awesome use of taxpayer resources, eh?

Anyway. I guess I'll leave it at that for today. I've done more stuff here over the past week, but no one wants to hear about how many mangoes I've eaten (four) or which bad American TV shows I've seen ad nauseum (Smallville, Two and a Half Men). So, yeah, I won't even mention it.

Hope you are all well! Ate mais.
xx
Eteffi

Pumpin' Iron, Brazilian Style, Part II

2010-06-22T14:54:00.004-03:00

And now for the second installment in my chronicle of Brazilian gyms! I went from working out on an ancient, wheel-controlled treadmill to joining one of the schamciest gyms in the city within 24 hours. What a whirlwind. There were several steps in this process. To start with, I decided against re-joining my old gym, Reebok ("Hee-bocky," as the Brazilians say) because it's too far from my apartment and my office and I'd end up sitting in traffic for 20 minutes each way to get there. And since a 20 minute cab ride here costs about as much as a black market kidney in the US, I decided I needed to find a closer gym.

First, I tried Academia Fitness World. Its name led me to believe that it would be some sort of, like... world... filled with, I don't know... fitness. Or something. When I walked up to the building, I was shocked not to see anything representing a world of fitness. Instead, I saw a squat, orange building with a menacing looking metal gate. I had to be buzzed in, and the woman who let me in seemed confused by my presence. She gave me a look like, "Why are you in exercise clothes? What does this look like, a world of fitness?"

I was quickly introduced to a trainer (sigh), who, I was disappointed to note, did not have a mullet, but who did creepily hover next to my treadmill as I ran three miles or so. Then, the same trainer, Roberto, "trained" me on the gym's rickety old machines, explaining that the reason that I have shin and hip problems is because I "run too hard" and need to "run softer." EXACTLY, Roberto - this is why I invested in that company that builds anti-gravity shoes! They just need a few billion more dollars in R&D and they'll have this whole shin-splint thing solved.

Anyway, Fitness World was okay. A bit dingy, a bit small, a bit creepy, but it would do in a pinch. Then, someone told me to check out the Pele Club, which is, unsurprisingly, owned by the soccer icon Pele. The Pele Club turned out to be mind-blowingly expensive -- more than twice as much per month as my SUPER fancy gym back in D.C. -- but it has individual TVs on the treadmills, and I'm sort of a sucker for that. I mean, come on, how can I say no to watching all my favorite American shows on the "Warner Channel"* while I exercise? The Warner Channel plays such popular series as Two And a Half Men, According to Jim, The New Adventures of Old Christine, Supernatural, and Smallville**. You know, all this year's runaway successes of American television!

Anyway, when it came down to it, I was sold on the treadmill-TVs and the fact that after paying several hundred dollars to become a member of the Pele Club, I'd receive a tiny soccer ball. Seriously. That was their membership promotion: a tiny soccer ball. Whatever. I joined. Don't judge me. The way I justify it to myself is the following: 1) I pay more per month at my gym in DC since I have been seeing an outrageously expensive (but very good) personal trainer once a week anyway, and 2) this way I get "trained" every single day by Brazilians, who know all about fitness, and can probably teach me Brazilian stuff, like caipoeira and soft running.

Exercise is just different in Brazil. For one thing, I feel like a total bad-ass when I work out here, because the trainers always seem amazed at the fact that I can run for more than four minutes on a treadmill without having to take a cigarette break. Also, the exercises themselves are just... different. This morning, for example, I stopped by the Pele Club and was treated to something called "treinamento funcional" ("functional training"). This consisted of intervals of a series of seemingly random movements, interspersed with 2-minute sessions on a slow-moving stair-stepper. It was weird. It lasted thirty minutes, and when I was done, I felt more confused than anything else. I don't know, guess I am just used to having my a** handed to me on a plate by a personal trainer. I want to feel SORE and shaky and on the verge of muscle implosion (is that a thing?) after working out. Here, the gyms subscribe to a softer, gentler form of exercise (hence, soft running).

Stay posted - there will be another update coming about the dreaded, mandatory fitness evaluation that the gym is forcing me to do.

*Obviously this channel does not exist in the United States.
**Really, guys? Smallville? UGH.

Pumpin' Iron, Brazilian Style, Part 1

2010-06-19T20:59:00.006-03:00

I consider myself to be a bit of a connoisseur of gyms -- crappy gyms, fancy gyms, old people gyms, young people gyms -- and I have been to many gyms in many countries -- Austria, Argentina, Brazil, Chile, Scotland, Thailand, etc. -- and frankly, I've seen a lot of weirdness. For example, at a gym I visited in Krems an der Donau, Austria, they had signs designating different areas of the gym: arms, legs, cardio, ladies. The "ladies" section consisted of one of those ab rocker things and a couple of mats. I guess that makes sense. Or, what about the time I joined a gym in Chile where they insisted on measuring my body-fat with calipers before I joined and then told me I was "gorda" (just a shade under "obesa") and thus REALLY needed the gym membership? That was flattering.

Even though they have called me fat, I have a special fondness for South American gyms. These gyms tend to have a few key, endearing characteristics in common: an abundance of Velcro leg weights, a legion of overly-attentive trainers with mullets, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and, if you're lucky, techno. You guys already know what I'm talking about -- I've written at some length about my experience at the Academia Reebok, the fanciest gym in Sao Paulo, which I am actually considering re-joining for my four months here. But I've never really written about the other type of South American gym - the horrendously crappy apartment gym. This is a whole 'nother kettle of fish.

Today, after a series of events which conspired to prevent me from joining a real gym here, I decided, in a moment of desperation, to use my new apartment building's in-house fitness center (or, "o feetchy-ness," as the Brazilians pronounce it). Now, I have seen a lot of terrible apartment gyms in my day, so it's a rare treat when I see something so bad it surprises me. That's why I was both horrified and delighted today when I entered the feetchyness, which consists of two treadmills, a bike, and a few free weights, and saw the treadmill, in all of its glory.

The treadmill seemed normal at first glance, except for the fact that I had to stick a plastic key in the front of it to make it turn on. No big deal - I've seen weirder. After inserting the key, though, I couldn't figure out how to make the belt move. There were no buttons. No keys. And then I noticed the wheel. Yes, that's right, this treadmill's speed was controlled by a weird, plastic wheel -- you turn clockwise for faster and counter-clockwise for slower.

The problem with this system, as you might imagine, is that a wheel is an extremely imprecise way of determining the speed of a moving belt, especially when it is being controlled by someone running on said belt. Treadmill runners don't have the steadiest hand, which is something this wheel seemed to demand. I would touch it a hair to the right and the belt would jerk wildly forward, and suddenly I was sprinting. I'd turn it back and the belt would grind to a slow crawl, pitching me forward. Who invented this? Oh, that's right, a Brazilian engineer in 1973.

Ah, Brazilian gyms! Stay tuned - I am planning a pilgrimage back to the Academia Reebok this week, so expect an update. All I hope is that they haven't installed any wheel-treadmills since I was last there and that there are still plenty of Velcro leg weights to go around.

Iogurte

2010-06-18T19:38:00.007-03:00

It's my second day in Sao Paulo, and I have to admit I haven't seen much since I've been here. Basically, I've seen: the office, the buildings on the way to the office, the lunch place near the office, and my hotel, which happens to be right by the office. So I don't have a good sense of whether much has changed since I lived here almost five years ago. However, I did notice something pretty telling as I was walking back from dinner (which was, by the way, a ginormous chicken "beirute" sandwich with a fried egg, bacon AND mayo on it - holy Lord). I saw a sign advertising the opening of . . . a froyo place.

Yes, the froyo craze is finally penetrating Brazil. I am of two minds on this: on the one hand, I'm happy, because, as we all know, I love froyo so much I would marry it if it were legal in any state (I blame the Republicans). On the other hand, there's something sad about Brazil, land of pao de queijo and cheese-flavored ice cream, caving to the New York/Hollywood trend of negative-calorie, fake foods. I guess I should have seen it coming - women here already discovered those bug-eye sunglasses and anorexia, so it was only a matter of time before they picked up on froyo, I suppose.

I wonder what else has changed here since I left. I almost got hit by a motoboy while crossing the street, so at least that hasn't changed. And the air still smells tantalizingly of fried food, bus fumes, and cologne. Maybe not so much has changed after all.

Brazzzzzzillllll (again!)

2010-06-17T11:59:00.003-03:00

As some of you may know, I started this blog in the summer of 2005, right after I had graduated college and was preparing to move to Sao Paulo, Brazil, to start my first real, grown-up job as a paralegal. That was almost five years ago (whoa!) and the blog has slowly evolved from goofy observations about daily life in Brazil to even goofier observations about daily life in other places.

Well, I have some news for you all - I'm back in Sao Paulo for at least 4 months, working as a real lawyer this time, and I am going to start chronicling my Brazilian adventures in this space again. Things might be slightly different this time - I think my life will probably involve more working and less clubbing until partial deafness sets in. Hopefully, though, I'll still be able to regale you all with tales of Brazilian life when I have time away from work.

Right now I'm sitting in my new office (which will actually change soon, since my firm is moving offices on Monday), looking out the window at the tall buildings and scattered palm trees of the business district of Sao Paulo. I can also hear a dog barking somewhere -- ah, Brazil.

I am in too much of a fog from my long plane ride, which started yesterday at 2 pm and ended today at 7 am, to be funny or witty or even to double check my blog entry for coherence, so this will have to do. More to come soon!

Slovenia: piercings, babies and burek

2010-05-23T14:52:00.009-03:00

Hello! It's time for the final installment of my Austria-Slovenia vacation recap: Ljubljana, Slovenia.

Al and I were both really excited about going to Ljubljana, mostly because we'd heard great things about it, and partly because neither of us had ever been to a city with so many superfluous j's in its name before. Ljubljana is the tiny, precious capital of Slovenia, which is a tiny, precious country. Ljubs is miniscule: only 250,000 people in the whole capital! It's also gorgeous, set along a river (the aptly named Ljubljanica) with weeping willows hanging down along the banks. Al said the city reminded him a bit of Amsterdam, because of the narrow houses with balconies lining the waterway. But Ljubljana takes the cuteness a step further, with such adorable flourishes as this "triple bridge" in the old town:

Ljubs isn't just cute, though - it's also way too cool. There's artsy graffiti everywhere (probably mandated by the EU), everyone wears skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors, and the facial-piercings per capita rate is sky high. Even the hostel we stayed at was edgy - it was a converted prison called Celica. Each of the rooms is a "cell" (complete with bars on the door) designed by a different artist. The hostel is also located in Metelkova, an "autonomous social center" in the middle of the city. I think this means that people within the seven-building range of Metelkova are allowed to do way more drugs than everyone else in Ljubs, but I'm not sure.

So, as we were checking in to Celica, we were told that for the first night, we'd have to share a room with some other people, since all the private cells were booked. Fine, I thought, no big deal. We'd probably just end up sharing with another couple, some European version of us who would probably end up becoming our best friends and whom we'd vacation with for the rest of our lives. It just seemed like the most realistic scenario. To my plainly undisguised horror, however, when we got to our room, we realized we were sharing with two Swiss women and a baby. That's right -- we had to share a room with what is most likely the only infant in the autonomous social district of Metelkova. I was not pleased.

Al initially was a much better sport about our baby roommate than I was, saying that he seemed "well-behaved" (he was Swiss, after all) and it would only be for one night. Just one night, how bad could it be? Bad, as it turns out. Apparently even polite Swiss babies cry inconsolably during the wee hours of the morning, which we found out the hard way. Not to be dramatic or anything, but that night was a six-hour long audible parade of horrors. There was, of course, the wailing baby. Then there was the drunken howling of inebriated Englishmen immediately outside our door, who ran up and down the hallway making weird hooting noises and pounding on the walls from approximately 4 am to 5 am. Then -- and this was the absolute worst -- one of the Swiss women started breast-feeding the baby (who was at least 18 months old, come ON) approximately 1.5 feet from my head, as I cowered into the pillow, squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for it all to be over soon.

The next morning, I realized that I am a person who is capable of shooting dirty looks at an 18-month old. "Stupid baby," I muttered under my breath, seeing him happily playing with his Swiss wooden toys on our dormitory floor the next day. But the real target of my anger was his mother(s), who seemed happily oblivious to the fact that it's wildly inappropriate to bring a baby to a shared dorm room unless you are escaping a war zone (and I don't think Lucerne counts).

Our visit improved significantly once we got our own room at the Celica. We spent the rest of our time in Ljubs walking around the old city, visiting the castle on a hill, drinking cheap Slovenian wine, and eating absurd quantities of burek, which is some sort of Balkan meat pie that is so fatty and delicious, I shudder to think what would happen if food courts in the U.S. ever discovered it.

Overall, it was a lovely time and we were sad to leave Ljubs, but we had an enjoyable (and Burek-filled) train ride back through the Semmering Pass and into Austria, where we spent our last night in Vienna. A good end to a good trip. Tschuss!

Adorable Austria

2010-05-17T12:44:00.004-03:00

Time for Part 2 of my Austria-Slovenia vacay recap: the Wachau Valley, Austria. The Wachau Valley is a beautiful valley (as the name would suggest) formed by the Danube River in Lower Austria. It's known for two things: good wine and excessive cuteness.

We got there by taking a (cute) train from Vienna, arriving after a few hours in the (adorable) town of Krems an der Donau. The sheer unadulterated charm of this place was overwhelming: cobblestone streets, narrow alleys lined with pastel houses, an ornate church with with ivy crawling up its sides -- even the barbed-wire covered prison on the outskirts of town was adorable.

We stayed in a semi-weird but cool budget hotel about 10 minutes outside of town called, oddly, Orange Wings. We liked it because they had a vending machine in the lobby with mini bottles of champagne AND free wireless in our room! There was a (really cute) bus that ran from the hotel to the main part of town, which we took every day, along with ten or so spry Austrian grandmas and a few hipsters who were far too wholesome and non-dejected-looking to be convincing.

The main reason we came to the Wachau was not actually for the cuteness -- we came for the wine. Al and I are big wine people, meaning that Al is extremely knowledgeable about wine and I heartily enjoy drinking it (while remaining astonishingly ignorant about it). We also like mixing our boozing with light to moderate exercise, so on our second day in Krems, we decided to rent bikes early in the morning and ride them from adorable wine town to adorable wine town, following the Danube River. As we biked along the river, through the towns of Stein, Durnstein, Weissenkirchen, and Joching, among others that are too precious to even mention, we marveled at how each place we passed through was more charming than the previous one. It seems impossible, but the towns just kept getting CUTER. My favorite town was Joching, home to The Most Adorable Kindergarten in the Universe. I had to stop and take a picture, it was THAT cute. Everything was wooden -- the toys, the building, the floors, the broom that the pretty blonde teacher was using to sweep the floors -- and European and delightful. Definitely going to send my kids there. They can commute, right?

Our end goal for our bike-venture was the town of Spitz, where we were hoping to taste some wine and relax a bit. Unfortunately, no one clued us in to the fact that Austrians are actually Latinos, and take absurdly long afternoon siestas that start at 10 am and last until 3 pm. All these people do is sleep and make schnitzel, apparently. So, when we arrived in Spitz, expecting all of the wineries to greet us with open, boozy arms, we were disappointed to see that nothing at all was open. We went forlornly from winery to winery, hoping that someone would be willing to let us in and give us some wine, but most of the people who answered their doors seemed utterly perplexed by our presence ("Wine? Here? At a winery? Oh, goodness, no, no, we don't have anything like that here."). One man, though, seemed both confused AND angry that we had the nerve to ask if his winery, whose door was open and said "WINERY" on it, served wine. He said/roared something at us in what we think was a dialect of Austrian Ogre -- but might have been Western Austrian Troll, his accent was a bit muddled -- and we thanked him and backed slowly away, hopping on our bikes and pedalling furiously to safety.

After being turned away from a garden shop which in our desperation we mistook for a winery, we finally were forced to accept that nothing was going to open until 3 pm. Defeated, we sat down on a bench outside of a (closed) winery for our packed picnic lunch of cheese and bread and waited for the Austrians to wake up from their uber-siestas. At that point, though, the weather had started to turn nasty, and we soon found ourselves biking through cold, gusty rain showers back to Durnstein. Even though it was chilly and wet, it was sort of exhilarating to bike through lush green fields in the rain. It's amazing what an abundance of cuteness and charm can do for one's tolerance of crappy weather! In Durnstein, which was mobbed with slow-moving and bewildered (read: elderly) tourists in rain parkas, we finally had a few nice glasses of wine and, to top off the day, nearly died choking on a chocolate covered apricot seed (okay, that was just me).

After the unfortunate apricot seed incident, we decided to call it a day and head back to Krems, where we ate a meal that was 10% solid food and 90% cream. Al's dish, which was billed as pasta, was a bowl of cream with a few pieces of linguine floating in it. My meal, which I understood to be chicken when ordering it, was cream, a few pieces of asparagus, and what I believe may have been a poultry product of some sort, but it was hard to tell for all the cream. We also had cream of asparagus soup. You think I'm joking, but I'm not. Actually, speaking of asparagus, we noticed that in both Austria and Slovenia, asparagus (spargel -- one of approximately three German words I learned on my 10-day trip) was, shall we say, abundant. They LOVE them some spargel in Austria. I like when restaurants use seasonal ingredients and all, but I was a little spargel-ed out by the end of our time there. But I do like saying spargel. Spargel.

The next day, we ditched the bikes and took the train to Spitz, where we went on a little hike in the hills and woods surrounding the town and killed time until 3 pm before attempting any wineries. We had much better luck than the day before and it turned into a glorious, wine-filled day. We had some fantastic Riesling, Zweigelt and Gruner Ventliner, plus a delicious, fresh lunch that consisted of heaps of cold cuts and cheese and homemade, hot bread. Nom nom nom nom nom.

So, that pretty much sums up our time in the Wachau -- Al and I both agreed that it was the highlight of our trip. You just can't beat that cuteness.

Coming up, Slovenia!

Schnitzel my nizzle

2010-05-12T12:09:00.005-03:00

Hi loyal readers! I've missed you SO much. I've been off the radar for a bit because work was, as noted, insane in the membrane, and after the big hearing ended, I went on a lovely, idyllic vacation with Alastair to Austria and Slovenia and just got back last night. What a trip it was! Basically, it was 10 days of overwhelming cuteness and charm. The trip had three main components -- Vienna, the Wachau Valley, and Ljubljana, so I will describe the trip in three posts: first, Vienna.

Al and I got to Vienna in the afternoon after a long couple of flights from DC, and were completely wiped. We took the train and then the subway to Gumpendorferstrasse (not making that up) and checked in to the apartment we had rented for a few nights. Our hostess, a very friendly, lanky woman who wore a perma-fanny-pack, gave us the rundown on our accomodations and the neighborhood and handed us our keys. We promptly passed out in the apartment for several hours and got up for dinnertime.

Obviously, wiener schnitzel was high on the agenda for the Vienna portion of our trip. I had never had it before and, I'll admit, was unclear on what it actually was. I was picturing a wiener of some sort covered in sauerkraut, or possibly noodles with little wieners floating in them. Basically, I was expecting some kind of wiener. How wrong I was! Wiener schnitzel, for my fellow culinary ignuramuses (ignorami?), is a breaded and friend paillard of pork or turkey, served with a hot potato salad and sometimes a slice of lemon. Uh-may-zing. How can you not like a slab of crispy, breaded pork the size of a small woodland creature? Al and I each ate a schnitzel as big as our faces, washed down with large pints of beer, and then wandered off into the town.

Vienna is a beautiful city that really isn't afraid to throw some imperial grandeur at you. There are a lot of big, imposing buildings with ornate details, carefully manicured public gardens, and wide avenues that seem suitable for parades involving horse-drawn carriages and people wearing ermine stoles. However, as Al and I discovered quite accidentally, Vienna has its seedier side -- for example, the creepy, permanent carnival in the middle of the city. We foolishly took our landlady's advice and took the subway to what we vaguely understood to be a beer garden with rides, and ended up at quite possibly the Creepiest Carnival in All of Europe. The first thing that struck me about this carnival was that it was largely devoid of children. There were, however, several gangs of angry looking Aryan teenagers with shaved heads, and some competing gangs of angry looking Turkish guys in leather jackets. So, at least it was ethnically diverse, right?

Another thing about this place -- there was a surprising absence of any sort of jolly, well-lit beer garden. Instead, there were a bunch of what seemed to be spinal-injury-inducing rides, each blasting a different kind of intense, European techno. Fun for the whole family! We stayed a total of 10 minutes or so at the carnival, marveling at its sheer creepiness, then we walked quickly to the subway entrance, which is probably the one place in all of Austria that smells like pee, and got the hell out of there.

Scarred by our carnival adventure, we decided to try to get some culture in the city that's known for its opera, waltzes, classical symphonies, and Mozart balls (don't worry, they're chocolate!). We stood in line for the Opera, which sells really cheap, standing-room-only seats that you can buy 90 minutes before the show. We got in line at 5:30 for a 7 pm performance of Carmen, and were three people away from the ticket window when the show sold out. Foiled in our attempt to become cultured, we instead went to dinner, drank wine, and then headed to a seedy backpacker bar where we took vodka shots and wolfed down a microwave pizza before coming back to our apartment at 4 am singing songs and being completely obnoxious. I feel sorry for the quiet Dutch guy who, unbeknownst to us, was renting the other room in the apartment and probably wanted to murder us with his bare hands. Sorry, Dutch guy!

We did manage to get some modicum of culture while in Vienna - we went to a modern art museum, MUMOK, which had been billed to us as exhibiting naked people covered in salad, among other things, which was really all it took to pique our interest. Turns out that the museum just had a couple of small photos of naked people covered in salad, and then a lot of blocky, modern art exhibits for which my jet-lagged brain did not have the patience. Like, there was one exhibit that was a bookshelf leaning against a wall. I'm sorry, but that's just lazy. For the 8 Euros we paid to get in, I wanted to see real, live naked people slathered in Russian dressing. Disappointing.

So, that was Vienna in a nutshell. High points: wiener schnitzel, beer, pretty buildings. Low points: rain, sketchy carnival, lack of naked people. Overall, a good time! Next stop, the Wachau Valley -- wine country.

Sleeping Beauty

2010-04-14T00:30:00.006-03:00

I have sleep on the brain tonight, mostly because I haven't gotten a full night's sleep in over two weeks thanks to my job. Oh, my job. Sigh. Turns out that being a first year attorney isn't all high-powered client meetings and rooftop parties and sexy workplace trysts and airy penthouse offices a la ABC's truly ghastly abortion of a law firm show, The Deep End. I know, I was surprised too! I thought my boss would be Billy Zane and I'd wear sky-high stilettos every day and then, after a workday spent schmoozing and flirting, my colleagues and I would retire to our office's trendy rooftop bar for dirty martinis and witty, lawyerly banter. When I showed up at my job in November, I was disappointed to learn that -- get this -- there's NO rooftop bar. I mean, come ON.

To add insult to injury, my job has been koo-koo crazy for the past several weeks -- think leaving work while other people are waking up, and then coming back three hours later -- and consequently, I have had my first real experience with prolonged sleep deprivation. As a result of this unfortunate state of affairs, I find myself thinking about sleep a LOT. For example, before last week, I had never noticed those commercials for 5-Hour Energy, those creepy little bottles of mystery juice that they sell at drugstore checkouts. I think it's safe to say that ingesting a thimble-sized vial of a substance promising, based on their TV commercials, to give you diagnosably manic amounts of energy for five hours at a time is generally not advisable. But all of a sudden, taking a shot of a liquid probably made out of diet red bull and crystal meth run-off started to sound pretty appealing. Sure, it'll give you heart palpitations and a few (very slight) hallucinations, but it gives you ENERGY...for FIVE hours!

I haven't resorted to energy shots yet, but I have started paying for coffee in the morning, something I am generally opposed to, and have upped my Diet Coke consumption to two, sometimes three a day. I know, gross. But it's necessary. And I don't want to jump the gun here, but if I get cancer from this, I am totally suing my job.

In all of my recent musings about sleep, I have stumbled across some interesting things. For example, an op-ed in the New York Times last week discussed the healing powers of sleep deprivation therapy. The theory is that sleep deprivation can actually be used in a clinical setting to help treat depression, particularly post-partum depression. My mom, a psychiatric nurse, said that back when she used to work with psych patients, they would do both sleep deprivation and bright light therapies with the patients. Who knew? If curing depression is as easy as a few bright lights and no sleep, prisoners of war must be the cheeriest people in the world! I wonder if water-boarding cures depression, too?

Anyway, this op-ed claims that a night without sleep gives one a sense of euphoria (which subsequently wears off as soon as the patient gets a full night's rest). After my first sub-four-hour night of sleep before yet another long work day, I have to admit that I did feel a bit euphoric at work. I showed up after getting a woefully inadequate amount of sleep with a spring in my step, thinking, "Gee, I guess I don't need sleep after all!" I fancied myself a member of that elite club of people who just don't need more than four hours of sleep, like Fidel Castro and Martha Stewart. This sense of bouyant enthusiasm about my abilities to function without sleep for the rest of my life wore off by about 3 pm, when I was slumped over my desk, eyelids fluttering as I struggled to focus on my computer screen. So much for that theory.

I've come to terms with the fact that I am someone who not only needs sleep, but loves sleep. I know there are people who love sleep more than me -- for example, my dad, for whom napping is a structured hobby just like woodworking or stamp collecting -- but I do enjoy it quite a bit. When it comes down to it, I am just not one of those high functioning individuals, like Bill Clinton, who can get five hours of sleep and be fine. I'm really more of a George W. Bush when it comes to sleep.

I can't believe I just wrote that. But there it is.

So, until I can go back to my dorkily rigid schedule of climbing into bed at 9, reading for an hour, and then sleeping a delicious eight hours of sleep before getting up to start my day, I am going to dream of sleep with my eyes open. It's kind of torture.

By the way, I wrote this very late at night, so if my lack of sleep has infected my writing, please forgive me. And maybe send me a 5-Hour Energy care package.

Spa music

2010-01-27T23:44:00.003-02:00

I belong to a pretty fancy gym here in DC -- perhaps fancier, even, then the Academia Reebok, the beautiful-people-gathering-place-slash-gym that I belonged to in Sao Paulo, which, at time, blew my mind with its fanciness. My DC gym is fancier in terms of newness of equipment, trendiness of classes offered (ex: Budokon and "Group Centergy"), and quality of free beauty products available in the locker room. But really, no gym could top the Academia Reebok when it comes to ratio of beautiful people: regular people, or for that matter, the ratio of fake boobs: regular boobs. But that's another story.

So here's my question: why does my fancy gym insist on playing creepy, new-age music in the locker room/shower area all the time? I mean, I get it -- the gym is trying to cultivate a "spa" atmosphere and therefore it must play "spa" music. And don't get me wrong, I could get behind hearing some quiet strings and maybe even some Celtic flutes while I'm changing into my work clothes. But the music that I hear in the dressing room isn't calming -- it's crazy.

I've managed to identify some sub-genres of the spa music I've heard in the locker room so far:

1. Wailing Celtic women (<-- personal favorite)
2. Howling wolves
3. The tribal council music from Survivor
4. Wailing ghosts (possibly Celtic)
5. Traditional aboriginal music set to synethesizers (<-- offensive)
6. Traditional Native American music set to synthesizers (<-- also offensive)
7. Sad flutes
8. Whale calls
9. Dolphin calls
10. Rain-forest water drippings set to synthesizers

I take particular umbrage to the spa music that expropriates some sort of traditional tribal chant and jazzes it up in a studio to make it more palatable to the spa-going crowd. It kinda ticks me off. In fact, while reflecting on the offensiveness of such culturally insensitive locker room music, I sometimes find myself dabbing on mascara aggressively, and consequently poking myself in the eye with the wand, which does nothing to help me cultivate a peaceful state of mind.

I guess the point is that the music my gym plays is either so distractingly silly (see wolf music, above) or offensive (tribal chants) or annoying (dolphin calls) that it defeats what I imagine to be the purpose of playing it, which is presumably to help us gym patrons to relax a little bit after our workouts. But really, Lord knows it's going to take more than a couple of pan flutes to help D.C. women relax, so, no harm, no foul.

Bloggin' on a bus

2010-01-23T15:44:00.004-02:00

Hello. Big news: I'm writing this post from a bus! Buses have wireless now. Who knew? Actually, I expected the whole wireless-bus thing to be more thrilling and life-changing than it has actually been, since I've spent my entire trip so far (2 hours and some) reading a book (and eating a sandwich), neither of which required the internet. I guess my failure to take advantage of the in-bus-wireless up until now can be blamed on the fact that I was born pre-1994 and therefore don't spend every single waking minute using some sort of technology. Kids today! Rascals.

Anyway, the point of this post, contrary to what its title may suggest, is not to brag about using my computer on a bus. It's actually to announce that I am going to try to write here more frequently, because I had one of my annual moments of being chastened by other bloggers' prolificacy and my own laziness. But, to be realistic in this year's goal of better blogging, I think I will write more frequent but also probably shorter posts from now on. It just seems less daunting that way.

K, that's all. I'm on my way to New York to help celebrate the 27th birthday of my good friends Julia and Claire. Much hilarity is certain to ensue, then I will be back on the bus tomorrow afternoon to return to DC. As long as I manage to squeeze some Tasti-d-lite and/or Sixteen Handles into my 24 hours in New York, I'll be satisfied. And, if nothing else, at least there's wireless on the bus.

Buzz, your girlfriend -- woof!

2009-12-25T18:55:00.011-02:00

Merry Christmas to one and all! And even if you don't celebrate Christmas, I hope you're enjoying having the day off and eating obscene amounts of food like the rest of us. I am in California, celebrating Christmas with my parents and big ol' Irish-Mexican family as usual. It's a short trip, since I am only taking half a day of vacation off work and I have to go back to DC on Sunday. Boo. But at least I get a few days of quality time with the fam in beautiful, sunny San Francisco.

This year's Christmas blog is going to be my top 5 essential Christmas movies. I'm not claiming that all (or any) of these movies are rare or indie or deep or moving. But they are my absolute favorites and essential to my enjoyment of the holiday season, so I want to share them with you. In no particular order:

1. Home Alone

Home Alone came out when I was in second grade and I remember seeing it in the theater. It's kinda weird to think that the late, great John Hughes was still pumping out classics in 1990. I'd say that Home Alone was John Hughes' last great work. Curly Sue and Beethoven were good, I guess, but come on: Home Alone is in a league of its own.

Things I love about this movie: the big, beautiful suburban Chicago houses, Macauley Culkin's insolent cuteness, the blood curdling girl scream that Daniel Stern emits when a tarantula is dropped on his face (see below), the cozy disfunction of the McAllister family, the scene where Kevin asks a salesperson if a certain toothbrush has been approved by the ADA, the John Candy cameo as Gus Polinski, and, of course, the soundtrack. The title of this blog post is an homage to this amazing movie. I am watching it now, actually. It's at the part where Kevin sits in the living room with a huge bowl of ice cream and watches Angels With Filthy Souls. ("Too bad Acey ain't in charge no more.")

2. National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation

This gem of a movie is a particular favorite of my Dad's. The scene where Clark Griswold flies down the hill on a saucer makes my Dad laugh so hard every time he sees it, I think he is going to have an aneurism. Christmas Vacation came out in 1989: I am starting to think that late 80s, early 90s was the zenith of Christmas filmmaking. Anyway, this movie is unfailingly hilarious. Best things about the movie: the awful yuppie neighbors (Todd and Margo), Cousin Eddie's big-hearted cluelessness (and his classy white sweater-black dicky get-up), Juliette Lewis as a sullen Audrey Griswold, Aunt Bethany and Uncle Lewis, the squirrel, and my favorite quote from any Christmas movie, ever: "Mister, if I had a rubber hose, I would beat you..."

3. A Christmas Story

If you own a TV, you've probably seen this movie many times (today). It runs 24 hours on like six different channels during Christmas, and deservedly so. My favorite part is when Ralphie and Randy are waiting in line to see Santa, and the weird kid behind them in the aviator goggles says, "I like the Wizard of Oz... I like the Tin Man."

In sort of disturbing Christmas Story news, though, I recently found out that Scott Schwartz, the actor who played Flick, the kid who got his tongue stuck to the flagpole, grew up to become an "adult entertainment" actor. This might possibly be the saddest thing I've seen this Christmas season, including those emotionally abusive ASPCA commercials with Sarah McLachlan music and starving puppies and kitties:

Oh, Flick. Why?!

4. Mickey's Christmas Carol

This was my all-time favorite Christmas movie when I was a kid: it came out on my second Christmas (1983) and my parents had the foresight to tape it so that I could watch it, repeatedly, often during the summer, over and over, for the next 10 years or so. Consequently, I am pretty sure I thought that the Dickensian classic, A Christmas Carol, was based on this movie. Which means I thought that Ebenezer Scrooge was modeled off of Scrooge McDuck. Maybe I shouldn't be broadcasting this.

This movie is heartwarming and wonderful, and all of the Disney characters mash up oddly well to their Dickensian counterparts. Jiminy Cricket was the Ghost of Christmas Present, Mickey Mouse was Bob Cratchet, Daisy Duck was Belle, and Scrooge McDuck was, you know, Scrooge. The opening credits kinda sum it all up for me:

It warms the cockles of my cold little heart!

5. A Charlie Brown Christmas

Okay, I'm betting you are all familiar with a Charlie Brown Christmas, but if you haven't seen it recently, please watch it immediately. The cultural impact of this movie can't really be understated: yesterday my mom and I were at Christmas eve mass and the priest was reading Luke 2:8-14, and all I could think of was Linus' speech in a Charlie Brown Christmas:

So sweet.

On that note, I will bid you all a good night. I just ate my weight in London broil and cake, and am not even sure I'm typing in full sentences anymore. Hope you're all watching Christmas movies and enjoying yourselves as much as I have this weekend! Merry Christmas.

Thanks.

2009-11-28T03:38:00.003-02:00

I know it's been a while since I've written, and for that I sincerely apologize. I have a pretty good excuse, though: I no longer am a lady of leisure. That's right -- I was finally forced, kicking and screaming, into the real world. I got a job.

The good news, I guess, is that I am now a real lawyer. The bad news is that being a real lawyer requires going to an office, wearing professional clothes , and doing lawywerly stuff all the time. Plus, having to account for my time minute-by-minute while at work really cuts down on the incentive to blog, since every minute spent blogging is an extra minute I'll have to stay at the office, and one fewer minute that I can spend watching Oprah on my DVR. And I'm not about to lose precious Oprah minutes -- the clock's ticking, people.

Having said all that, if I can't spare a few minutes to take to the blogosphere on Thanksgiving weekend, then I should just throw in the blogging towel* now, and that ain't happening -- not today. Anyhoo, since it's Thanksgiving weekend, I would be remiss if I didn't write a semi-predictable post about all the things I'm thankful for. Okay, not ALL the things -- there's not enough space on this server for that list -- but some of the highlights. Here goes:

1. Gummi candy
2. Family and friends
3. The smell of burning leaves
4. Central heating
5. Air conditioning
6. Diet Coke
7. My Slanket
8. Scrabble and my familiarity with the list of acceptable 2-letter words
9. My law degree
10. Passing the bar
11. My Le Creuset frying pan
12. My dad's lentil soup
13. Stained glass windows
14. Ballet flats
15. My boyfriend's chimp impersonation
16. Digital cameras
17. Living in a mild climate
18. Dogs that sing to opera music
19. Shopping/froyo trips with my mom
20. Froyo (with sprinkles)
21. Palm trees
22. Ceiling fans
23. Ordering food online
24. Mineral makeup
25. Trashy gossip magazines
26. Jeopardy, and the theme song that never changes
27. The purple plaid trend
28. Karaoke
29. Dark rum
30. Michigan accents
31. Father Ted
32. My one-cup coffee maker
33. Skype
34. New York Times Sunday crosswords
35. Latin pop, especially Juanes
36. Portuguese nasal vowels
37. Omelettes
38. Ugg slippers
39. Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches
40. Ivy-covered buildings
41. Fireplaces
42. Belgian beer
43. Dogwood trees
44. Fat dogs and cats
45. Veterans and servicepeople
46. Seals and other mammals with flippers
47. Chilean Spanish, cachai?
48. Hoodies
49. Alpaca gloves
50. Reliable public transportation

Looking back on what I just wrote, it seems like the list is disproportionately composed of things that keep me warm and comestibles. Oh well. I yam what I yam. And that's all that I am.

Oh, and I'm really thanksful for blog readers. Love you guys. Happy Thanksgiving!

*blowel.

Golden Birthday

2009-10-27T16:03:00.003-02:00

Today is my golden birthday. Those of you who are completely and utterly out of the loop are probably asking, "What in tarnation is a golden birthday, Eteffi?" I'm glad you asked, you old so-and-so. The golden birthday is the birthday when your age matches the day on which you were born. So, today is October 27, and I am turning -- dun dun DUNNNNNNN! -- 27.

I know, I can't believe I am this ancient, either. Plus, I have now finally reached that age where if I make a joke about being old, people don't really laugh anymore. When you're 21 and you say, "Oh my God, I'm so old!" people either laugh or smack you upside the head. But when you say that when you're 27, people just sort of nod sympathetically and avert their eyes. But you know what? I'm okay with being just heartbeats away from (gasp!) thirty. I still feel as young as I did when I was 25-and-a-half! Maybe even 25!

You know, they say that 27 is the new 17, which means that I should be expecting my parents to buy me a 1997 Chevy Cavalier any day now and should start thinking about my prom dress. So I have all that to look forward to.

Anyway, I'm off to celebrate my birthday by hunting down a seasonal flu shot, a task that has proved nearly impossible here in DC. Wish me luck. And happy birthday, if you think of it.

An Ode to Wife Swap

2009-10-15T18:11:00.002-03:00

Hi bloggerheads. I am writing you from the cozy interior of a tea shop in Cambridge where I have been camping out for the last few days, since my internet no longer works in Al's place. It's okay, though, because this place has Argentine yerba mate (sin bombilla y mate gourd, unfortunately) and free wireless. Oh, and they serve bi bim bap. Yes!

Since I only use the internet while I'm at the tea shop, I take advantage of the time that I'm here to catch up on celebrity gossip, email people, read advice columns, check my horoscope and very occasionally read the news. Today, in fact, I was scanning the news and I saw this headline: "Six-year-old boy floats away in homemade balloon." I clicked on it, thinking it was a really early (or really late), mid-month April Fool's joke, but it turned out to be a real story. The kid who floated away (maybe -- we're still not sure) in his parents' homemade experimental balloon (sigh) is the child of a family that was featured on the truly underappreciated ABC show Wife Swap, one of my favorite shows on TV.

I actually saw the episode featuring this wackjob family, the Heenes, and had to turn it off midway because the nutcase, manic, rageaholic dad was driving me batty and I couldn't watch the poor swapped wife be abused by him anymore. Also, I was watching it at the gym and I was done with my workout, so...yeah. Anyway, this family, the Heenes, claim to be "science-obsessed" storm chasers who sleep in their clothes and pull their kids out of school to go chase tornadoes. In reality, though, they were just all kind of a-holes. The dad, as I mentioned, was a scary nutjob, the mom was a subservient, unhinged nutjob, and the kids were disgusting, unruly little hooligan nutjobs who were encouraged to fart and burp at the dinner table and jump off furniture, etc. They were truly awful.

So now, one of the little monsters from that family has apparently climbed into this balloon and has floated away. But the balloon has landed and there was no child inside, so now people are wondering whether he fell out or whether he was even in there to begin with because it was a publicity stunt staged by the family. Like I said, wackjobs.

But the point of this post is not to give the Heenes any more press than they already have, but to extol the virtues of Wife Swap. Here's the basic idea of the show, if you haven't seen it: http://abc.go.com/shows/wife-swap/about-the-show.

Only on Wife Swap do you unearth such wonderful moments as this:

It's pretty amazing. ABC somehow manages each week to find extremely odd families with bizarre parenting philosophies and lifestyles AND swap those families with ones that subscribe to the polar opposite set of philosophies and lifestyles. It's an art form. They've done neat-messy, hippy-conservative, winners-losers, safety-adventure, feminist-misogynist, junkfood-obsessed-exercise-obsessed...and the list goes on! Oddly, I always find myself siding with the uptight, rules-bound families that make their kids take Chinese language classes and aerial gymnastics lessons and have a rigid punishment/chore system. (Hey future kids! You have a lot to look forward to with me. Get ready!)

Part of the reason the show is so fun to watch is the sheer craziness of the families and the fireworks that inevitably ensue when the uptight, neat-freak wife has to milk a goat or whatever, but the real joy of Wife Swap is seeing the families actually learn from each other. Seriously, it's heartwarming. Everyone should watch this show.

Oh, yeah, and I hope the balloon kid is okay.

Bangkok, finally.

2009-10-06T16:10:00.005-03:00

I have been putting off writing about the end of our Thailand trip for several reasons, partly because the trip ended well over a month ago, and the longer I put off blogging about it, the more absurd it seems to write the post at all. But the real reason is that I don't have that much good stuff to say about Bangkok. You know that saying "If you can't say nothing nice, don't say nothing at all?"* Yeah, I kinda feel that way about Bangkok. But to be fair, let me try to create a list of nice things about Bangkok:

1. Lots of cute street cats that don't seem obviously rabid
2. Noodles
3. "Little Arabia" neighborhood with bomb kebobs ("kebombs?")
4. Air conditioning in our hostel -- actually, our hostel was the best part of Bangkok. It was called Lub'd and it was super, super cool. They had UNO in the lobby!
5. Noodles
6.

That's all I got.

My basic problem with Bangkok is that it's impossible to have good, clean fun there. Don't get me wrong, I didn't come to Thailand and expect to sit around a campfire singing Girl Scout songs and making s'mores (although some s'mores would have been nice), but I did expect to be able to go into a bar and have a drink without my boyfriend being solicited by prostitutes, or walk down the street without several people asking me if I want to see a woman cut a banana with her hoo-hah (answer: no). I mean, come ON! Shouldn't Bangkok make some effort to appeal to the approximately 3% of its visitors who aren't interested in having sex with underage prostitutes and/or seeing a woman smoke a cigarette using mainly her Kegel muscles? Bluh. I was grossed out by the whole scene.

On our last night in Thailand, which was supposed to be our big blow-out night, all we wanted to do was karaoke. That turned out to be an impossible dream. Like many things in Bangkok, turns out that karaoke involves prostitutes (and, as it happens, obscenely expensive beers). I think we could have lived with the prostitutes (even though they had terrible singing voices) but the $10 beers were completely unacceptable. So, we traipsed around the city for well over an hour trying to find a legit karaoke establishment (preferably one with The Allman Brothers' "Ramblin' Man"), but to no avail. After several disastrous and unmentionable** turns of event, we ended up back in our hostel, drinking Changs and playing UNO. Sigh.

So Bangkok was not my cup of tea. But at least now I've blogged about it. Yay. Now I can move on to other things in my life and you can look forward to more frequent blog posts (maybe). We'll see.

Okay, bye.

* Folksy double-negatives added by me.
** Won't-mentionable, really.

A sad, sad day for Stanford

2009-09-23T18:45:00.002-03:00

Okay, so I promise I will write about the rest of our Thailand trip at some point, but this news was just so disturbing, I had to post it immediately. Are you sitting down? Here it goes: FULL MOON ON THE QUAD IS CANCELED THIS YEAR. I know. I am not even in college anymore and this is still tragic news.

Deemed ‘recipe for disaster,’ Full Moon cancelled

Posted using ShareThis

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Stanford's many wacky, quirky, "out-there"* traditions, Full Moon on the Quad (or, as it is often obnoxiously abbreviated, FuMooOnQua) is a tradition dating back to Stanford's early days, where the senior men would welcome the freshman women to the campus with a kiss. Under the full moon. On the quad.

Over the years, this sweet (yet sort of creepy) tradition developed into, not surprisingly, a debaucherous free-for-all where students from all classes and all stages of (un)dress engage in a drunken, outdoor kissing orgy. It's the best. Like every Stanford event, there is plenty of booze, gross antics by the Tree (our mascot), loud music, and nakedness. The best part is that the whole thing is sponsored (read: paid for) by the school, and only a few people get mono. Probably.**

But this year, the fun has come to an end thanks to the gosh darn swine flu. I mean, I get it: it would suck for Stanford if a bunch of people made out and then dropped dead from a virulent strain of the flu, but come ON. What's a few deaths in the name of one, glorious night of socially sanctioned kissing sluttiness? Okay, yeah, I guess those few deaths would kind of be something. Point taken.

It still sucks, though, for all of those little Stanford freshmen who will lose out on the opportunity to swap boozy spit with a couple of cute guys, then have a supremely awkward 9 am Spanish class with both of them the next day. Hypothetically. Plus, if Stanford cancels Full Moon on the Quad forever (perish the thought!), what will the students have? There will only be like 6 other school-sponsored booze fests with naked people and loud music left! That just ain't right.

Hang in there, Stanford kids. There's always Exotic Erotic to look forward to.

*Some would say "trying too hard," but not me.
** In my opinion.

The Beach

2009-08-28T14:17:00.007-03:00

Remember that movie with Leonardo DiCaprio where he goes to Thailand and finds this idyllic, Utopian island filled with backpackers, where everyone lives in peace and harmony and smokes weed on the beach and wears white-person dreadlocks, until something goes wrong and they start turning on each other and then these opium farmers kill everyone? That was filmed near where Al and I went in the south of Thailand! Don't worry, there were no run-ins with sharks, AK-47s or white boy dreads on our trip to the beach, but there were plenty of fruity drinks in inappropriately-shaped glasses.

So yeah, our beach vacation was a tad less exciting than Leo's ill-fated trip to a hedonistic island paradise, but we still had a lot of fun. We first went to Ko Samui, a really beautiful island that a lot of people use as a jumping-off point for many of the other islands off the southeast coast of Thailand. Ko Samui is crawling with rich Italian and French tourists who spend piles of money on lavish accommodations and carafes of watered-down wine at the beach-front restaurants. Al and I, being the poor students we are, opted for a more budget-friendly guesthouse and kept pretty closely to our diet of Changs and fried noodles, with some exceptions for those drinks in the sexy glasses. The closest we got to experiencing the lifestyle of the rich and famous was when we picked up our luggage in the absurdly well-appointed Ko Samui airport. That airport was so fabulous I would gladly have stayed there, sleeping next to the baggage carousel, but I bet it'd be out of my price range. Maybe I could afford one of the comfy chairs by one of the gates, but probably only for a few nights. This is me at the AIRPORT:

Man.

Okay, enough about the airport. Ko Samui itself was fun, too. I overcame my fear of riding on a motorbike and allowed Al to drive me around the island on a little red Honda number. I am proud to report that we did not crash into a bus, drive over a cliff, or careen into a storefront, all of which I was pretty sure were real possibilities before I climbed aboard. Al is an excellent driver. We spent the nights lying on pallets at an outside beach bar, drinking mai tais and watching people light huge, lantern-like balloons and send them off into the dark sky.

Gorgeous.

After Ko Samui, we headed to Ko Tao, a much smaller island nearby, to meet up with Al's friend Tim and do some SCUBA diving. I had never dove before, but I wanted to try it, so I signed up for the beginning class to get my open water certification. I made it through the first two days (which involved so much pool time we all looked like white, wet prunes when we emerged) and my first open water dive without incident. During the second dive, however, several disasters occurred, I freaked out, and came to the conclusion that SCUBA diving is not for me. Most of it was just me panicking under water and thinking I was drowning, but after that happened twice and I was sobbing into my regulator, I realized, "Wait, isn't this supposed to be a recreational activity?" So yeah, I tried it, but I'm afraid SCUBA is one of those expensive, jet-setting hobbies that I'm going to have to pass on from now on, just like cliff diving and extreme yachting.

After I gave up on SCUBA, I had a fantastic time on Ko Tao. I went running in the hot, hot heat, discovered some new beaches, read a book in the shade, and ate a lovely salad in a restaurant that clearly catered to white girls who miss their fresh vegetables. Al and Tim quit diving early and we spent our last full day drinking Changs (surprise!) and hanging out. That night we headed out for a semi-debauched night at a beachside bar that allows drunk people to jump rope through fire. Suffice it to say that by the end of the night, one of us, who will go unnamed, had a burn on his leg from falling in the fire jump rope. Okay, it was Tim.

So, that was Ko Tao. Our next stop, after an excruciating ferry ride back to Samui, was Bangkok, for our final two nights in Thailand. Stay tuned for my next post on that experience. Laterz!

Therapy Elephants

2009-08-22T01:17:00.008-03:00

Hi loyal readers. Thanks for being patient while I got my Thailand on for the last 2 weeks or so. I'm now sitting in the Seoul Incheon Airport, eating a bag of this Thai snack that Al and I call chicken sticks because the bag has a picture of a chicken on it, even though the ingredients don't mention chicken. We choose not to question it. Anyway, I have a 10-hour layover here, and I'm in hour 7 now. I spent the first 7 hours wandering aimlessly around the shiny shopping area, reading a trashy book about vampires, and sleeping on a bench, probably drooling on myself. Now I am up and about and want to begin the semi-arduous task of blogging my Thailand adventure for you all.

The best place to start would be the beginning: Chiang Mai, the first place we went after our Cambodia detour. Chiang Mai is a very pleasant city in the north of Thailand that has somehow morphed into the activity center for tourists to Thailand. The options are overwhelming: trekking, ziplining, Thai cooking class, muay thai fighting class, massage class, Thai language class, whitewater rafting, elephant parks, tiger parks, monkey parks. Basically, if there's a dangerous wild animal that is capable of being doped up for tourists' enjoyment, you'll find it in Chiang Mai. (As a side note, I'd like to point out that although I am completely against drugging baby tigers so that they won't claw out the eyes of the chubby British girls who come to "play" with them, I am still not totally convinced that ALL of the animal parks are abusive. I seem to recall reading somewhere once that when elephants paint pictures by holding paintbrushes in their trunks, it's actually therapeutic for the elephants. Al thinks this is an absurd idea, and claims that no elephant would voluntarily paint a picture without being beaten, Dumbo's-Mom-style, behind the scenes. But I am not so sure.)

After much consideration, Al and I decided to go with two days of Thai cooking class, and a two-day, one-night trek to see the so-called "hill tribes" in the countryside outside of Chiang Mai. The cooking class was held at the Chiang Mai Thai Cookery School, which is a well-respected school run by a popular Thai TV chef at his beautiful home on the outskirts of the city. The class was really fun (we got to use a real stone mortar and pestle to make curry paste, and I didn't crush my own fingers!) and we learned a lot. We cooked six dishes a day and ate each one, so by the end of each day we were deep into curry-coma and had chili and garlic oozing out of our pores. Delicious.

On our third day in Chiang Mai, we embarked on our trek, which was a package deal that included trekking, staying overnight in a hill tribe village, riding elephants, whitewater rafting, and bamboo rafting. Like most things in life, there were disinctive highs and lows on this trip. The highs: seeing beautiful scenery on our trek, playing in waterfalls, not being murdered in our beds by our opium-addled guide, getting to pet an elephant! The lows: seeing elephants being speared repeatedly with large hooks by their handlers (this wasn't a therapy-elephant kind of place), having zero contact with actual villagers (except the ones who came around peddling candy bars and massages), peeing in a hole. Actually, the peeing in the hole wasn't so bad: it made me feel rugged.

Overall, the trek was fun and I'm glad we did it, but it was tainted by the bizarre antics of our guide, Johnny. Johnny, who referred to himself as "Mr. Johnny Walker," was a crazy-eyed, wiry man with long fingernails and wispy facial hair who smoked like a chimney and occasionally made howling noises as we were tramping uphill through the forest. His jumpiness and bug eyes were later explained by the fact that Johnny was smoking opium the entire time we were trekking. I know. It's like, come ON Johnny, get with the times: opium is SO China in the 1870s. At least upgrade to heroin.

Yeah, so, Johnny was creepy, but we somehow made it back down to Chiang Mai without him going all Opium Wars on us. After our trek, we decided to get Thai massages, because it's not a trip to Thailand without some small lady pulling your body into weird configurations, right? We tried to pick a place that looked like it gave legit massages and not "sexy massages," which would have been awkward, I think. The massage place made us wear these giant Thai pants that we had to hold up with our hands, and weird, ninja-style tops. Apparently wearing ill-fitting clothes makes the entire massage more effective. Al and I were on pallets right next to each other, but I still kept my eye on Al's massage lady for the first five minutes to make sure she wasn't pulling any funny business. Hey, this is Thailand: you can never be too careful.

The rest of our Chiang Mai activities were less structured. We spent a lot of time at the night market, buying knickknacks (or, as Al called it, "Sawasdeecrap"), eating noodles, and drinking Changs. We also went to a few bars in the city, with mixed results. The first bar we went to had a dart board and played classic rock. The second bar we went to had Connect 4 and was filled with prostitutes. The instant we walked into that second bar, Al and I both knew something was weird. I was the only non-Thai female in the place, and the Thai women inside thrilled at the sight of Al, then looked disappointed when they saw me. Once they realized that we were just there for drinks and not for "massage," they went back to sitting around expectantly, scanning the street with their eyes, on the watch-out for potential business. I imagine that they normally did a pretty brisk business, since Chiang Mai is crawling with old white men who are eager to pay for sex with young, Thai women. It's completely astounding to me how many creepy old dudes I saw with girls young enough to be their granddaughters, strolling down the streets unashamed. If I were a sex tourist to Thailand, I'd at least try to hide it, I think. Not these guys: they seemed proud of the fact that they were exploitative skeezeballs. Chiang Mai was our first encounter with the blatant sex tourism that is rampant in Thailand, but it wasn't our last. Turns out that Bangkok makes Chiang Mai look like Mr. Roger's neighborhood. Yick.

After five days in Chiang Mai, we headed off to the south of Thailand for the beachy leg of our trip. I will write more about the South later, but my time at the free internet kiosk is running up. Sawatdi for now!

Cockroaches and spiders and Cambodia, oh my!

2009-08-08T06:36:00.006-03:00

Hi everyone! I am writing you from lovely Chiang Mai Thailand. Since I last wrote, my life has improved approximately 1000000%, given that I finished the bar exam (and didn't die of exhaustion/hot-tub-borne illnesses) and flew to Thailand to meet up with Al. Vacation has never felt so sweet and well-deserved, let me tell you. Al and I met up in Bangkok and spent a few nights in the swanky Royal Orchid hotel before packing our bags and heading to Cambodia for a few days. In this post, I'll try to convey our Cambodia experience: the good, the bad, and the extremely creepy.

So, our initial plan was to spend three nights in Siem Reap, a town known mainly/only for being the site of the impressive Angkor Wat temple (and a bunch of other temples), now a U.N. World Heritage site. We decided to get to Siem Reap via the capital of Cambodia, Phnom Penh, because one of the airlines has some sketchy monopoly on direct flights from Bangkok to Siem Reap, and Al and I didn't feel like being extorted quite so early in our trip. If only we had known then that trying to avoid being screwed royally (no pun intended) in the Kingdom of Cambodia is like trying not to get your ass grabbed on the subway in Italy: functionally impossible.

Our trip from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap got off on the wrong foot almost immediately, when we were taken by our tuk-tuk (motorcycle rickshaw) driver to The Sketchiest Bus Company in Cambodia/The World, against our wishes, and then charged twice as much for a bus ticket to Siem Reap than the correct price. The "luxury bus" we were put on was hot and smelled kinda weird, and the driver insisted on blasting weird Cambodian television shows that seemed to involve an inordinate amount of shrieking. Did I mention the bus ride was six hours long? It was.

The absolute worst part of the ride was the rest stop that we made halfway between Phnom Penh and Siem Reap, in what can only be described as the armpit of Cambodia. Several disastrous elements collided to make this place particularly putrid: the intense heat, the piles of garbage, the mud, the standing water, the mosquitos, the grubby children relentlessly badgering us to buy pineapple from them, the heaping baskets of fried cockroaches and other unidentifiable insects for sale, the flies circling the plates of rice for which we were forced to fork* over exorbitant amounts of money. Not great.

The kids selling the pineapple were particularly tragic. Obviously their parents are forcing them to engage in this kind of behavior, since it's one of the only feasible ways for them to make money (especially US dollars), but these kids were super aggressive and a bit intimidating. One girl, about ten, would not leave Al alone for the entire half hour or so we were forced to stay at the rest stop. Her spiel went something like this:

Girl: You want pineapple?

Al: No, thank you.

Girl: You buy pineapple, you buy from me?

Al: I don't want any, but thank you.

Girl: (whipping out gigantic, live tarantula from somewhere and waving it in Al's face) You want spidaaaah?

Al: (hopping out of the way) WHOA! No, no, thank you.

Girl: Pineapple? You want some?

At one point, I walked away from Al and the spider girl to try to get around a big puddle of smelly mud, and the girl said to Al, "You want girl?" So not only do the adults have these kids peddling pineapple and spiders, but they have them pimping out prostitutes as well. AWESOME.

It wasn't the best rest stop ever.

We got back on the bus and made it to Siem Reap, where things improved immensely. Siem Reap is a cute, touristy little town with dirt roads lined with bars, restaurants, laundromats, and knick-knack shops (to meet all your Hello Kitty needs!). The entire place runs on tourism surrounding the temples, and there is not much else to do there besides temple gaze, except to sit around eating noodles and drinking Angkor beer, which is a pretty good alternative, really.

Al and I stayed in the uber-backpackery and fun Garden Village Guesthouse, where we spent a considerable amount of time in the rooftop bar, eating noodles and drinking beer. Like I said, it's a pretty big activity there. We went and saw the temples on our second day in town. Perhaps I'll post pictures of the temples eventually, but suffice it to say they are impressive, imposing, and quite unique. We spent most of the day hiking around the temples and taking cheesy pictures among them, and were ferried to and fro by a really nice tuk-tuk guy named Nai, who was one of the only service people in Cambodia who we encountered who didn't try to overcharge us, cheat us, or take us to a crappy restaurant so he could get a commission. We really liked Nai.

After spending approximately 6 hours in the intensely hot sun and semi-suffocating humidity looking at the temples, we felt pretty templed-out and satisfied with our day, so we returned to the Garden Villa and decided that we'd take off the next morning. Since we had seen all we wanted to see of the temples, it made sense to go back to Phnom Penh to see something different for our last day in Cambodia.

After arriving in Phnom Penh on a cheaper and MUCH less creepy bus, we decided to visit the genocide museum that documents the atrocities committed by the Khmer Rouge regime during their nearly four years in power in Cambodia. The museum is situated in a former high school that was converted into a massive torture center by the Khmer Rouge in the 1970s. Oddly, this is the second former-torture-center-turned-museum that I have visited, since I went to la ESMA in Buenos Aires two summers ago. Perhaps not the most uplifting way to spend an afternoon in either city, but I think as a visitor it's important to try get a sense of the terrible things that people in these places have gone through in recent history, whether it's comfortable or not.

My basic thoughts on the genocide museum were the following: the Khmer Rouge was pure-D evil, the UN, France, and China should be ashamed of themselves for supporting them, and Cambodia seems to continue to suffer immensely almost thirty years after the regime was ousted. After all, during the Khmer Rouge regime 1/4 of Cambodia's population was killed, either executed or starved to death by being forced into the fields to work, since the government couldn't produce enough food to feed its own people after exporting most of its crops. Pretty horrific.

The Khmer Rouge also did things like banning music, perfume, colorful dress, the right to choose one's own mate, family units, money, schools, books, etc. Surviving a regime like that has to have long-lasting effects on the society that suffered through it, I imagine. It's crazy to think that when the Khmer Rouge took over in the 1970s, all of the cities, including Phnom Penh, were evacuated, forcing everyone who survived into the countryside to labor in the fields, as per Pol Pot's great plan to make an entire nation of peasants. It's hard to imagine a city as busy and bustling as Phnom Penh today, with all of its zig-zagging motoboys and tuk-tuks and cars, as being empty and lifeless just over thirty years ago.

Maybe the after-shock of the Khmer Rouge regime explains some of the swindling, hustling vibe that we got from a lot of people we encountered in Cambodia, but who knows. Long story short: I'm very glad I went, but I'm also really glad that I'm in Thailand for the rest of the trip (it's fantastic so far). Also, SUPER glad that the spider girl didn't throw the tarantula in my face. Close call.

I'll write more about Thailand soon. Keep it real, peeps.

*chopstick?

Notes from the Front

2009-07-29T21:37:00.005-03:00

Hello, dear readers. I am writing you from my hotel in beautiful Oakland, California to let you know that I am now 2/3 done with the California Bar Exam and have lived to tell the tale (knock on wood!). For fear of being harshly reprimanded by the Committee of Bar Examiners for revealing their heavily guarded bar secrets, I will be cautiously vague and say that so far, the exam has not been overly heinous, but is no walk in the park, either. I think it's the sheer length and intensity of the exam that are wearing on me. All I know is that into hour 4 of today, I kept finding myself contemplating dinner (Chinese food on my bed again?), or hoping that good reality TV would be on later (post-post-Bachelorette session?), or thinking about packing for my trip to Thailand on Saturday (how many maxi-dresses is too many maxi-dresses?) and then I'd snap out of it and reprimand myself for losing focus.

But despite my wandering mind, overall, I think it went pretty well. Anyway, I have one more day to go and then I am freeeeee!

So, enough about the bar. My real objective for this post was to have an excuse to show you the whirlpool that is incredibly situated right next to my BED, which obviously allows for convenient soaking while watching TV, eating, making phone calls, doing your nails, online shopping*, whatever!

Awesome, right? Anyway, time to wrap up, my Chinese food just got here and I need to go eat it in my bed.

*Do not actually attempt online shopping while immersed in water at home.

Ruh roh!

2009-07-22T21:38:00.005-03:00

I am officially losing my study marbles. Today I had to do a three hour "performance test" that involves reading a bunch of fictional law, then applying it to a fictional client's case, and writing that fictional client a letter explaining how the fictional law helps or hurts their case.

While reading, I actually made the following notation in my performance test:

What would lawyer Scooby Doo?

Hermione and Harry grow up. Sort of.

2009-07-19T02:12:00.008-03:00

It's a time of transition for me and a lot of people I know. We've graduated law school, we're going to start real jobs in a few months, we're studying for the bar and hoping it's the last ridiculous and anxiety-fraught test we'll have to take for a long time, and we're approaching that weird, late-20s period of life where we feel like we should be real adults but we're still living in our parents' basements and dressing up like Hermione Granger for Harry Potter movies. Those last two items might just be me, actually.

Dressing up for Harry Potter movies is a tradition between me and my friend John that dates all the way back to 2007. That summer, as you might recall, John and I were both working in Buenos Aires for human rights NGOs. By July, after being fully immersed in porteño culture (lo bueno y lo malo) for two months, we were both craving a good ol' American nerd-fest involving magic and wizards. So, when the 5th Harry Potter movie came out in Argentina, John and I were all over it. We decided to dress up, to have the fullest, most die-hard Harry Potter experience possible. (Also see http://teffsinbrasil.blogspot.com/2007/07/god-doesnt-want-us-to-go-to-uruguay.html)

The problem, it turns out, is that there aren't a lot of shops in Buenos Aires catering to a wizarding clientele. I ended up cobbling together a Hermione outfit out of some work clothes, a dingy yellow scarf that I found in a strip mall on my way home from work, and a wand made out of a Hannukah candle that I purchased in an odds-n-ends shop on Avenida Santa Fe. It was the best I could do. John's outfit was similarly slapdash, but we ended up being the best dressed ones at the theater!

In fact, we were the only people dressed up in the entire theater, and possibly in the entire city. Okay, let's be real: we were the only ones in the entire country of Argentina who dressed up as Harry and Hermione for this movie. We also made the helpful choices of drinking a lot of red wine before heading out, and choosing the sketchiest theater in the city for a late-night showing of the film. Let's just say that there were more hostile, rat-tailed youths clad entirely in denim eying us and our magical get-ups than I was comfortable with.

Anyway, this year, John and some other friends and I decided to repeat our Harry Potter experience, minus the angry porteño youths, in San Francisco. I constructed my Hermione outfit entirely from the juniors department at J.C. Penney, and I have to say, it was marvelous. John showed up as a hipster Cedric Diggory, and Jon, another friend, brought Hedwig, so we made quite the trio.

Surprisingly, we were again the only people in the entire, ginormous theater, dressed up. Oh, well, at least there were no local toughs hanging around ready to kick our magical butts this time.

Anyway, John and I may be almost grown-ups now, but we still know how to have fun, no matter how many people stare at us incredulously, which is something I don't see going away with the onset of adulthood. Plus, we still have the next two Harry Potter installments to look forward to, and since John is moving to London for work, we'll have ample opportunity for extra-authentic nerdery.

Thank you, Harry Potter, for being the last bright spot on my pre-bar summer. I'll see you on the flipside, fellow nerds!

Enough already

2009-07-10T19:26:00.006-03:00

I'm over the whole bar exam thing. Okay, wait, I was never under it, but now I'm super over it. But you know what I'm even more over? All the bar exam hysteria and ridiculousness that is going on around me, mostly via facebook and twitter. It took me a while to get to this point of being fed up to HERE with everyone's bitching, including my own, but I got here, and this is how it happened.

As you know, my entire summer (since May 18) has been completely consumed by bar studying. Sure, I've had time to have a dinner party, go to Pennsylvania, see a few movies, drink some wine, and walk the dog, but really, there hasn't been a lot of fun going on. I spent 4th of July by myself, in my pajamas, cursing the people who were out rabble-rousing. "Why can't I be out rousing rabble?" I whined. Except there was no one there to hear me, and that made me feel even more pitiful.

Making matters worse was that until yesterday, I hadn't taken a full day off from studying, because our Barbri class has us on a strict schedule of "reviewing," essay writing, and flashcard making. It's quite intense, and I was afraid to veer from it, lest the Barbri gods smite me for eternity. Anyway, up until perhaps yesterday, my attitude about bar studying was one of utter and complete misery. I had never hated studying for anything as much in my life, I was bad at it, I felt destined to fail the bar, and I was jealous of everyone else in the world, even those who live in stinking slums and/or leper colonies, because everyone else seemed to have it easier than me. You can imagine what a joy I was to be around.

And then, something snapped. Don't worry, there was no permanent physical damage. No, it was more of an internal, mental snapping, and it started when I went out to dinner and drinks with one of my friends from college, Bianca. Long story short, we drank an utterly excessive amount of wine and then went to a bar and danced around like eejits on an empty dance floor, while I took frequent breaks to request about 35 songs from the DJ (none of which he had). When I got home from my night out, I was in a fantastic mood; I felt free as a bird and didn't give a CRAP about bar studying. Part of that was probably attributable to the drunkenness. But still.

The next day, I woke up to what can only be described as a monstrous hangover: the kind of hangover where it hurts to lift your head up off the pillow, and the world seems dizzy and quaky and gray. Oh, it was awful. But you know what? I was still in a great mood, because somehow, my night of getting blitzed with my friend had given me some important perspective on this whole bar thing. I decided to take the day off from studying, since my hangover was so oppressively bad I couldn't focus on anything more complicated than putting on pants (and even that was a struggle). Instead, I went for a walk with my mom around Golden Gate Park, baked banana bread with my dad, watched Real Housewives of New Jersey, and read a non-law-related book. Heaven!

That one day off gave me a fresh lease on bar studying. I realized that there are 18 days until the bar exam, which isn't too bad, really, and that all I need to do for the next 18 days is study, but not punish myself, and keep on top of my assignments and I'll be fine. I'm not going to fail (knock on wood), and I'm not going to hate my life in the interim, either.

So, I took a six-hour practice test today, and as soon as I was done, went on facebook to see what the world was up to in my absence. I'd say about 80% of my friends who just graduated law school had facebook statuses that involved bitching about how much Barbri sucks, how far behind they are with studying, how much they HATE studying, how they are giving up partying for the next two weeks "FOR REAL," etc. Okay, I get it. I do. I mean, just two blog posts ago, I too was bitching about Barbri as much as the next girl. But you know what? We have less than three weeks to go, and in the great scheme of things, studying for the bar is not the worst thing you could be forced to do. As Kenneth Parcell once wisely said, "My mother always told me that, even when things seem bad, there's someone else who's having a worse day. Like being stung by a bee, or getting a splinter, or being chained to a wall in someone's sex dungeon."

So true, Kenneth. So true.

Whether you're studying for the bar or just living life, you should appreciate the fact that you're not in someone's basement being forced to put lotion on your skin. Just take a deep breath. Everything will be FINE.

Also, I reserve the right to take all of this back if I fail the bar. But let's cross that bridge when we come to it.

The name game

2009-07-05T18:58:00.008-03:00

Names are interesting to me. If you've read my past posts about trendy baby names* (see http://teffsinbrasil.blogspot.com/search/label/baby%20names), you might have guessed that I think one's name is important, interesting, and often painful and/or hilarious. Consequently, the opportunity to give someone else a name is a task that should be taken very seriously, whether you're naming your new goldfish or your firstborn child.

My own forays into naming started with my stuffed animals. Among my naming triumphs were Aunt Scissors (a bear), Drool (a camel), and Chad (a boy baby doll). Then, I ventured into real pet naming: Muffin (a kitten), Fred and Ted (fish), and Towser Ivy (a dachshund). A lot of deliberation went into all of these names, especially Towser.*

Naming a dog is a big deal for a seven year old, of course, but it doesn't compare to naming a child, because dogs won't ever get teased by other dogs at dog school. I really think that's the main factor that parents ought to consider while naming their child: what horrible, twisted permutations of this name will the kids at my child's elementary school come up with to make my child's daily life miserable? Fatima may seem like a beautiful name now, but give it six years, ya know?

Although, I'm not totally convinced that all the name-related taunting that goes on in school is really such a bad thing. Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? I mean, Tim Allen's original name was Tim Dick, and look how well he turned out!

I do believe, though, that naming your daughter Dorcas or your son Gailord will force her or him to be a stronger person in the face of adversity. It's like training for a marathon in Mexico City: the smog and the elevation and the floating smell of poop will make running the Boston Marathon so much easier in comparison, right? Same thing with naming your kid Ebenezer. If he can get through those 12 years of school without becoming a high risk runaway and/or seeking emancipation, he's good for life. Right??

Now, I am pretty sure I won't actually do this, but I've always been tempted to give my future children first names (or at least middle names) that I personally like, but that are objectively awful. I happen to like a lot of names that I suspect people would regard as "unconventional" (meaning: ugly). When I was a kid, for instance, I was convinced beyond a doubt that I would name my daughter either Merle or Eilish. EILISH. The taunts practically write themselves: it wouldn't even take a creative bully to realize that my child's name sounds only slightly different from a piece of hair designed to keep debris out of one's cornea. I liked the name, though: it's Irish, it's delicate, it starts with an E. And, confession time: I still like that name.

Don't worry, future kid, I won't actually name you Eilish. But Merle's still on the table.

I'm not advocating giving your kid some ridiculous name like Orangejello or Lemonjello (actual brothers) just to test the kid's acumen, but I'm just saying: every kid is gonna get teased, so you might as well toughen them up early. I think my mom was thinking along these lines when she suggested to my dad before my birth that they name me Petra Sanchez, after her great grandmother. Just to clarify, Petra Sanchez would be my first and middle name, to go with our decidedly un-Mexican last name. God help us all.

* I had also toyed with the name Bowser, but Towser seemed a bit edgier

The Jell Bar

2009-06-25T22:39:00.002-03:00

I find that I start a lot of my blog posts these days assuring my readers that I am not, in fact, dead. This time, I’ve been off the radar because my life since returning to San Francisco has been consumed by studying for the bar exam, such that the only activities I have energy for in my free time are eating and crying.

Okay, I’m being dramatic. I’ve also had time for exercise. Sometimes I multi-task by eating and crying at the same time, or by crying while exercising.

Yeah, it’s really not been the best experience, this whole bar thing. I won’t sugar coat it for you, or even Nutrasweet it for you (gross): I hate the bar, and I am pretty sure the bar hates me.

When I started my bar classes, I had this fuzzy idea that I’d just go into the lectures every day and Barbri (the bar exam prep company) would somehow program me into knowing everything that I needed to know, either through osmosis or else some sort of implanted computer chip process. It made sense in my head.

In any case, I thought that I’d walk in, sit down, watch the lecture, and walk out knowing everything I needed to know about torts, crimes, remedies, corporations, agency and partnership, contracts, real property, civil procedure, evidence, community property, and constitutional law, and it would be fine, and I’d still have time for reality TV and long, contemplative walks along the beach.

Things haven’t worked out that way. In fact, Barbri has told me, in no uncertain terms, that the first two essays I handed in for grading were of “fail” quality. That’s right, fail. Not to sound like a total type-A-hole here, but I have never in my life had a paper handed back to me with the actual word FAIL on it (in red pen, no less!). FAIL! I just graduated from Harvard, Barbri! What the hell?!

I get it, I get it, I need to get over myself and put my nose to the grindstone and the pedal to the metal and the rubber to the road and whatever other weird, car-oriented metaphor you prefer. I’m trying to do that, honestly. But I’m suddenly realizing that it’s hard to motivate when everything isn’t going your way, academically speaking. It’s scary.

Anyway, I’ve been trying to keep a tenuous grasp on what remains of my sanity by scheduling yoga twice a week, going to the gym, and still making time for reality TV. The other night, for example, I hosted a dinner party for my dear friends John and Helen, and we had the real treat of watching the MTV abomination “Is She Really Going Out With Him?,” a reality show dedicated entirely to the travails of semi-pretty girls who date d-bags with frosted tips. It’s the little things that keep me going.

Right now, I am taking the opportunity to have a glass of wine while waiting for dinner (pea soup lovingly cooked by my dad) because I finished a three-hour “performance test” that I have to turn into Barbri for grading. I am really hoping I don’t fail this one, because I’m not sure my self-esteem can take it. I hope someone from Barbri is reading this right now so they can take my fragile emotional state into consideration while grading my (brilliant) answer.

Pray for me.

Stanford Revisited

2009-06-12T22:52:00.006-03:00

Hi all. I'm back! After graduation, I spent a few days with my parents visiting my dad's family in Pennsylvania, and then I came back to San Francisco to resume my (fairly horrible) bar review classes.

I am living at my parents' place in San Francisco but commuting to Palo Alto every day to take my bar class at Stanford Law School. It's sort of a pain in the keester to have to drive for 45 minutes to get to class every day (and then spend another fifteen minutes parking on campus in one of the shiny new structures that definitely did not exist when I went to school there) but at least the drive along 280 is gorgeous, and I'm back at my alma mater, where it's always sunny, everyone is in shape, and there are red-tile roofs as far as the eye can see.

Being back at Stanford four years after I graduated is sort of weird, because now I feel like a bit of an outsider. I have to park in a visitor parking lot, I had to give myself guest access to Stanford wireless by creating a guest password for myself through my alumni account (what?), I can't get into buildings that require a student ID, and I'm surrounded by structures and plants and statues that weren't there back when I was a youth. For example, yesterday I was walking through White Plaza, the main plaza with all the fountains and old-style Spanish buildings and such, and I noticed that there are new, weird trees planted in front of the student union. This bothered me. Then, I walked into the little cafe in the union that I used to frequent, intending to get a cup of coffee, and I noticed that the coffee shop now sells frozen yogurt. The pure unfairness of this development cut me to the core: why wasn't there froyo available when I went there? All we had was stupid Jamba Juice. Waaaah, not fair!

But some things at Stanford never change: there are still Asian girls wearing white socks under black strappy heels, long-haired kids playing frisbee in any available open space, anorexic women running maniacally around Campus Drive at all hours, and a general sense of slightly forced, but nonetheless pleasant, sunny cheeriness. I miss it, to be honest. It's definitely a far cry from HLS, where women in pumps drag rolling suitcases to and from the library, people bust out bathing suits whenever the temperature rises about 45 degrees, and the closest thing to whimsy on campus is the skating rink/volleyball court outside of the Hark. But, strangely, I miss HLS, too, and I even feel a bit more connected to it than I do to Stanford right now.

I guess one's relationship with one's undergrad is always going to be a bit different that the relationship with one's grad school, especially when those two schools are as diametrically different as Stanford and Harvard. Stanford has its obvious charms: the wackiness, the palm trees, the sunshine, the laid-back attitude, the froyo. Harvard, too, has its appeal: the prestige, the white columns, the bagels on Monday mornings, the free tampons in the law school bathrooms.

When it comes down to it, I could never really pick a "favorite" between the two schools because they each played such different roles in my life and contributed to my growth as a person in different ways. I mean, when I started Stanford, I was 18 and I didn't know my a** from my elbow or s**t from shinola. By the time I graduated, I knew my a** from my elbow but was still a bit hazy on the s**t/shinola distinction. My intervening year in Brazil and three years at law school helped with that, although some of the legal s**t is still looking pretty shinola-y. I am hoping Barbri will help me with this.

I'll wrap this up by saying that in the end, despite all the great things about Harvard, it's pretty hard to beat that special Stanford smell of eucalyptus and flowers. And, of course, the froyo.

All growns up

2009-06-06T09:54:00.003-03:00

I graduated law school on Thursday, which I guess means I'm a real person now. Or maybe I am still just a kid, but now I have a JD. Either way, I suppose I won't really be a fully-formed, grown-up lawyer until I pass the bar in July (pray for me). Until then, I'm cool with just being a girl who went to law school.

Graduating from law school was pretty anticlimactic, after all of the speeches and toasts and mingling that went on on Wednesday, Class Day. By the time Thursday rolled around, I was ready to just grab my degree and peace out. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed all the commencement exercises and words of wisdom and self-congratulatory Harvard talk (complete with MANY references to a certain U.S. President who was HLS Class of '91), but after I finally walked across the stage and got my degree, I was pretty done. I was changed out of my robes and mortarboard and ready to leave campus before they even got through the rest of my graduating class. It's not that I don't care, but I wanted to get out of graduation while I still had a good taste in my mouth.

The thing is, I don't like graduation ceremonies. Never have, probably never will. If my future kids are reading this, sorry, kids. I (probably) love you and all, but I'm going to be bored at your graduation. Nothing personal. I hated my high school graduation (boring), loathed my Stanford graduation (hot, sweaty, sad) and was fully expecting to actively dislike my HLS graduation. But it turns out that the law school ceremonies were pretty fun, my parents got to meet and greet a bunch of my friends and their parents, we got free wine, and it wasn't oppressively hot. What more could you ask for in a graduation ceremony? It was good.

Unfortunately, since the bar exam is looming, I can't really kick back and relax after graduating. That won't happen until August 1, when I go to Thailand for three weeks (yay!). Until then, I'll just have to comfort myself by staring at my degree, in all its pretentious, Latin-lettered glory.

Anyway, cheers to being an almost-real person: we kinda did it!

Graduation Song

2009-06-02T17:00:00.006-03:00

Yesterday I went and picked up my cap, gown and hood for my law school graduation on Thursday. I wish I could say it was a surreal experience, and that every memory I've ever had from my last three years here at Harvard Law came rushing back in a montage set to a Coldplay song, but actually, it was pretty anti-climactic. I walked in, got my regalia, walked out, and went to go get my dry cleaning.

But then, as I was walking down Mass Ave to retrieve said dry cleaning, I started thinking about all of the things that have changed at HLS since I arrived here oh-so-long-ago, in September of 2006. A lot of this stuff may seem boring/irrelevant to those of you who aren't familiar with HLS, but you know what? I'm graduating and I'm allowed a self-indulgent, Harvard-focused blog post or two. So deal.

First of all, my class at Harvard was the last class to have actual letter grades for all three years of law school. You know, the A, the B, the mythical C, the non-existent D, etc. Every class below us, though, has received the benefit of Harvard's new, wimpy, pass/fail system. I mean, to be fair, it's not just pass/fail: there's also "high pass" and "low pass." But come on. My boyfriend, bless him, just finished his first year at HLS and never got to experience the Paper Chase-like Harvard Law that I attended back in the day. Back in Aught Six, people would steal your notes and shred them, or hide your ascot before class so you'd look like a fool in front of the professor, or dump all of the ink out your inkwell so you'd be forced to take notes on a slate with a rusty nail. These kids nowadays don't know what the real HLS was like, dagnammit.

Another big change since I arrived on campus three years ago is the closure of some of my favorite restaurants and businesses. For example, it seems like every good breakfast place in Harvard Square fell on hard times and closed, suggesting some sort of bizarre conspiracy to keep me from finding a good omelet in Cambridge.

Perhaps the saddest loss of all was the closure of Three Aces, one of my favorite greasy food establishments of all time. Please see below for a picture of it in all its glory:

Three Aces had it all: curly fries and straight fries. Pizza. Grinders. Mini bottles of wine that I'd always see construction workers drinking on their lunch break. Awesome. Almost as sad as the Three Aces' demise is the closure of the little nail place next door to it, Fancy Fingers. I used to go in there to watch Vietnamese TV, read gossip magazines, and get a darn good pedicure, but it closed down, too. Sad times.

Another thing that has changed since '06 is that our beloved former dean, Elena Kagan, was appointed Solicitor General of the U.S. When Obama made his nomination for the Supreme Court last week, I was really gunning for Kagan to get it, because: a) she is our Commencement speaker and it would have been cool, and b) I wanted to be able to tell people that a Supreme Court Justice called me. You see, when I first got into Harvard, then-Dean Kagan called me to congratulate me and ask me if I had any questions, etc. It was pretty cool. But it would be even cooler if I could manipulate that story in such a way that people believed that I was buds with a Supreme Court Justice. Oh well, I guess it's not meant to be. I'm just going to have to work with that one story I have about when Sandra Day O'Connor came into the Stanford Alumni Center when I was working there and I sort of said hi to her. I'm almost famous!

So, tomorrow's the big day: graduation. I am still keeping my fingers crossed for some sort of memory montage set to music to happen as I am walking across the stage to get my diploma. I'll probably just audibly hum a song by "The Fray" and hope for the best. I'll let you know how it goes.

(Oh, and congratulations to everyone else graduating tomorrow!)

ShamPOO, or, How Nigeria (Partially) Killed my Hair

2009-05-19T21:35:00.006-03:00

Hi. I'm back from Nigeria! I managed to escape without contracting jiggers, chiggers, river blindness, malaria, the plague, tetanus, rabies, blood worms, bone worms, teeth worms, Parkinson's, Tourettes, asthma, food poisoning, water poisoning, sickle cell anemia, Legionaire's disease, swine flu, bird flu, monkey flu, cold sweats, hot sweats, or fingernail sensitivity.

I did, however, come out with a head full of sticky hair, which I have been trying, rather unsuccessfully, for the last week, to rinse clean. I guess it could be worse, considering.

I ended up with said sticky hair through a long and complicated process, only part of which was my fault. Here's what happened: the first day I got to Lagos, I desperately needed a shower after almost 24 hours of travel, so I decided to wash my hair. I was in the shower at the hotel, lathering up my hair with the little bottle of shampoo I had bought in the Frankfurt airport, when the semi-robust water flow suddenly turned into a tiny trickle. Uh oh, I thought. Panicky, I tried to wash each strand of hair individually with the couple of measly drops sneaking out of the shower head, but that didn't get me very far. I had a meeting downstairs in a few minutes, so I decided to just sack it in and try to rinse everything out tomorrow.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

The next day, I woke up with a head of still-wet, sticky hair, plastered to my skull in odd formations. I tried to rinse my block of hair before we had to leave in the morning but it stayed the way it was, so I just pulled it into a bumpy bun and hoped none of my colleagues would touch my head during the day (usually a safe bet).

I guess I would have just continued the trip with semi-sticky and unmanageable hair, and things would have been okay -- good, not great -- but I made the situation drastically worse on Thursday by accidentally "washing" my hair with conditioner. I know. The deadly combination of my already gross, dried-shampoo-y hair and a tablespoon of thick conditioner can be analogized to an oil spill in Lake Erie. And I'm talking about the really foul part of Lake Erie -- the part that caught on fire.

After that, I suffered through the last few days of our Nigeria trip in a state of constant hair paranoia, positive that everyone was looking at my hair and wondering why it looked as if someone had raked their fingers through it, or why flies and other debris were getting stuck in it.

Things were getting truly desperate after the first leg of my trip back to Boston. I had a seven hour layover in the Frankfurt airport, and I decided that it was necessary to cough up 6 Euros to use the shower facilities in the airport. I never pictured myself as being the type of person who would shower in an airport, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I stood in there for 20 minutes or so, clawing at my mass of hair, trying to get the shampoo from almost a week ago out of it, to no avail. Horrible.

I've been back in Cambridge now for three days and my hair is still not totally back to normal. I've tried a lot of stuff since I've been back, including rinsing my hair with apple cider vinegar (I smelled like an overpriced salad the rest of the day). Finally, I went to Aveda and bought some cleansing shampoo, which helped, I think. Probably a few more days and my hair will be restored to its normal luster (lustre?) but it's a process. A long, excruciating, gross process, which I felt like sharing with you all.

The lesson that I've derived from all of this is that one should always use the buckets provided in Nigerian showers. They apparently do serve the very necessary purpose of catching those drops of water leaking from the shower head so that you can actually wash yourself (and your hair). I should never have scoffed at that bucket.

Hey, at least I didn't get guinea worm.

You eat African food?

2009-05-14T17:54:00.003-03:00

I want to relay for you all the conversation that just happened between me and a waiter here at the hotel restaurant in Lagos, before its level of ridiculousness fades in my mind. The back story is basically that I wanted to order eba, which is a dough made out of cassava flour that is boiled and then pounded into a soft cone that you can use to sop up soups and sauces, along with chicken in stew, which is this yummy, spicy red sauce served over chicken. Here is how my attempt to order went down:

Me: Yes, I'd like the fish pepper soup, and --

Waiter: (incredulously) You eat African food?

Me: Yes, why?

Waiter: No, I just asked. No reason. People say Nigerian food is very spicy. Usually people from foreign countries don't eat it. (Pointing to part of menu I was trying to order from) This is AFRICAN menu. (Pointing to page on menu with "spaghetti" listed on it) This is other menu.

Me: No, I eat African food. I like spicy food.

Waiter: (still incredulous) Okay...

Me: Okay, so I want the fish pepper soup, the eba, and the chicken in stew, please.

Waiter: NO NO NO NO NO. You cannot eat eba with stew, you must eat it with a SOUP.

Me: But isn't chicken in stew kind of soupy?

Waiter: NO NO NO NO NO. This is impossible. It is impossible. I tell you, this is not done. You must order a SOUP with eba. Only a soup.

Me: But can't I just use the eba to eat with the sauce?

Waiter: NO NO NO NO. Only soup. It is impossible to eat eba with stew. No no no no.

Me: Um. Okay, I guess I won't get the eba. I'll have rice instead.

Waiter: Okay, rice, NOW you understand. Very good.

He then swept off to put in our orders and returned to deliver our drinks and two pieces of bread (there were three of us). After my colleagues ate their bread, one of them asked our waiter if we could have another piece, since there were three of us, after all. The waiter's response: "No... well, yes, but I will have to charge you extra." Our response: "Yeah, never mind."

Oh, Lagos!

HELLO FROM LAGOS MY DEAR FRIEND

2009-05-13T17:43:00.003-03:00

HELLO FRIENDS. I AM WRITING YOU FROM LAGOS, NIGERIA, WHERE WRITING IN ALL CAPS IS FEDERAL LAW. Just kidding. I'm here because I sent this cashier's check to this Nigerian prince who emailed me a couple months ago -- he just needed help with some political issues, I guess -- but I haven't heard from him since I mailed him the check and my bank account information, so I thought I'd come to Nigeria to check it out.

JUST KIDDING AGAIN.

I am actually here doing a clinical project for law school! I'm here with the Negotiation and Mediation Clinical, and we're doing a project involving negotiation trainings with local communities here in Nigeria. We're working with a Nigerian NGO to help develop a negotiation training program, and it's been really interesting so far.

My mind is truly boggled by the fact that on Monday afternoon, I was in Boston, on Tuesday morning, I was in Frankfurt, and by Tuesday afternoon, I was here in Lagos. Three continents in 24 hours! I keep looking around here and realizing, Whoa, I'm in Africa. It's wonderful to be in a new continent, and Nigeria is certainly a fascinating place to start.

After a day and a half in Lagos, I remain astounded by all the movement, color, and noise in this city. The city is chaotic, strewn with trash, loud, busy, and huge, sprawling over lakes and rivers and touching the Atlantic Ocean. Riding around Lagos by car, I've seen women carrying pallets of fruit on their heads, hundreds of churches with names like "Power of Christ Heavenly Restoration Church," almost as many mosques, oddly named fast food joints (such as "Tantalizers" and "Flaky's Fried Chicken"), people in traditional gowns and head dresses, motorbikes with four people on them at once, construction sites choked with dust and rocks, chickens pecking in the dirt on the side of the highway, snaking lines of cars in front of gas stations, scattered palm trees, and car after car after car zig-zagging from lane to lane.

It's pretty nuts.

Since part of our negotiation training plan involves filming some video components, we spent a good chunk of today searching out filming locations. First, we drove to a nature reserve in the city, where we sat outside in the sweltering heat and watched two peacocks fight with each other while our Nigerian guide tried to negotiate with the reserve people about how much we'd have to pay them to film a short video on the property. Eventually, we left and decided that we'd instead film at Lekki Beach, a long stretch of palm trees and sand, punctuated by colorful bits of litter, with a row of thatched houses against the water. After that, we returned to the NGO offices and sat around for several hours while the video guy procured video equipment, and finally started filming at around 6 pm. Whew.

By the end of the day, we were all exhausted and happy to come back to our hotel to an all-you-can-eat buffet of local dishes. So far, I'm a big fan of pounded yams, which are cones of dough (made from yam) that can be used to sop up soups and sauces. I like how Nigerian food is hot and peppery, mmm.

Okay, we have an early morning tomorrow so I should probably be getting to bed soon. GOOD NIGHT MY DEAR FRIENDS.

Now & then

2009-05-08T19:21:00.007-03:00

Today, I took my last law school exam ever. I am happy (see proof below).

It's weird to think that I've been in law school for almost three years and have taken five sets of final exams. Weirder still is that once I pass the bar (fingers crossed) at the end of July, I'll be a real lawyer. That means I'll be totally justified in writing "Esquire" after my name, and/or insisting that people call me "Dra." in Latin America. It also means I can legally go by my first initial and middle name (S. Margaret), and can begin to wear a severe bun.

I feel like I'm going to be passing on a lot of these professional benefits.

To be honest, I don't think the whole being-done-with-law-school thing has really sunk in yet. Earlier today, I was reflecting on what I did after finishing my exams spring of 1L year, two long years ago. Basically, the second I finished my exam, I went outside and began drinking with all of my section-mates, and kept that up until I had to start work that summer. It was awesome.

The afternoon we finished finals, someone thought enough ahead to bring a blender and various forms of booze and we sat outside in back of the Hark until someone came out and told us that mixing alcoholic beverages outside was against the rules. I actually think they just felt sorry for the kids still taking take-home exams in the dorms right next door, who could no doubt hear us reveling on our done-ness. Perhaps the best part of that day was when I got to jump in a giant bouncy house and express my sheer joy over finishing my first year of law school.

Now, that picture is my traditional "done with finals!" facebook picture. It really captures my feelings about the whole thing.

Today was a bit more low key. After I finished my eight-hour take home exam, I met up with my boyfriend, ate some candy, drank a Diet Coke, and walked around Harvard Yard, looking at all the beautiful buildings and flowering trees. Then, I took myself to get a manicure and pedicure, and now I'm sitting around, listening to Stevie Wonder (My Cherie Amour) and blogging. Oh, how times have changed! I haven't become totally boring in my old age, though. I'm about to go sit outside in this gorgeous weather and have a beer, before going to tear it up at salsa dancing.

Life is good, and I am DONE! Later, HLS. It's been real.

Pig-out

2009-05-02T20:29:00.005-03:00

Okay, so I will readily admit that I am the type of person who freaks out at things like the swine flu. You don't have to drag that out of me.

If you've been reading my blog for a while, you might remember that in 2006, I expressed mild concern over the bird flu (http://teffsinbrasil.blogspot.com/2006/03/tgisexta-feira-also-discussion-of-bird.html).

My exact words were:

I've spent a large chunk of today thinking about the bird flu and wondering if this is a people-stabbing-each-other-in-Walmart-over-duct-tape-and-gallon-jugs-of-water type situation, or something I should actually be freaking out about. Let's be honest, I'm going to freak out anyway, thanks to articles like this: http://www.freep.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20060309/NEWS07/603090573/1009

Detroit what.

I also blame Oprah for some of this. I mean, not for bird flu itself necessarily (but who knows really), but for my freaking out over it. She had this frightening show where a serious-looking epidemiologist or scariologist or whatever he was told us that we're all going to die and it's going to be like a horror movie and Oprah, you better reserve your vaccination now. And Oprah acted all scared. Like anyone's going to let Oprah die from bird flu. If anyone is going to be able to secure a personal supply of TamiFlu, it's going to be Oprah, I have a feeling. She and Gayle and Stedman are going to be a-okay.

Yeah. Turns out bird flu was not that big a deal and no one stabbed anyone in Walmart over it (Walmart deaths are generally reserved for Christmas-time stampedes). Oprah also survived, thank God. And I kinda have a feeling that swine flu will probably turn out to be the same kind of deal, where it just blows over after a lot of panic. It's obviously terrible that people have died from this, but I don't think it's going to kill 90% of humanity.*

But I'll admit that when news of the swine flu first broke, I was not so sanguine about it as I am now. The arc of my freak-out went something like this, if I had to graphically/textually represent it:

Mild alarm --> Resentment over CNN's fearmongering tone --> Fear --> More fear --> Considering buying a face mask but too embarrassed once in the drugstore --> Deciding to carry around hand sanitizer everywhere but forgetting to put it in my bag --> Trying not to touch anything in the subway, even when standing --> Lots of tripping --> Slightly less alarm --> Renewed alarm when someone tells me we are expecting the next global pandemic "any day now" --> Less alarm when I see that almost no one in the U.S. is actually dying from this and it's not spreading that fast --> Irritation over people talking about it so much --> Anger over Harvard Dental School idiots that brought the virus to Harvard and spread it around --> Annoyance that the law school has not been shut down and that my finals haven't been canceled --> Apathy.

So now that peeps are saying that the disease is "stablizing" or whatever, I feel like my earlier semi-freak-out was not entirely warranted. However, I continue to wash my hands three-hundred to four-hundred times a day, even after touching things in my own room. Who knows where that book has been? Okay, on my shelf, but still. One can't be too careful with the swine flu.

Okay, gotta go wash my hands after touching my own keyboard.

* But if it does, please note that I did express some mild concern over it.

Study fail

2009-05-01T22:14:00.003-03:00

So, instead of studying for the Legal Profession exam that I have on Monday, I have been sitting in my room, cruising the blogs and giggling like an idiot. I feel like as long as I am in my room with my outline open on my computer screen and my textbook opened beside me, I am "studying," and that is not mitigated by the fact that I am listening to an old interview of JK Rowling (http://www.accio-quote.org/audio/bbcradio4-2005.mp3) and adding C-list celebrities to my twitter following list (hi Kim Kardashian!).

Perhaps the best thing I have discovered tonight while "studying" is Fail Blog, which has had me laughing out loud -- LOL-ing, as the kids say -- uncontrollably for the last half hour. Here it is: http://failblog.org/

Here are a few fails that I particularly loved:

see more pwn and owned pictures

see more pwn and owned pictures

see more pwn and owned pictures

You get the idea. This website is my new best friend.

I guess I should get back to "studying" now. FAIL.

Brazilian Idols

2009-04-21T17:54:00.004-03:00

Okay, I'll admit it: when I used to watch it (before it sucked) the best part of American Idol for me was always the really terrible auditions. You know, the ones where someone comes in with a dream and a prayer (and a terrible voice) and the judges mercilessly shoot them down and send them home in tears? My favorites are actually the ones where the auditioner argues with the judges or tries desperately to prove how talented he or she really is, sometimes by dancing. It never works.

Does this make me a bad person?

Probably.

Oh well. So, even though I have seen some truly coo-coo stuff on American Idol, there is something even more hilarious about the rejects from the Brazilian version of the show, Ídolos Brasil. I don't know how I stumbled upon this clip, which is entitled "the best of the worst" of Brazilian Idols, but I did, and it is incredible. I suppose the clip might lose something if you don't speak Portuguese, but probably not. The outfits, hair, jewelry, and general Brazilianness of the whole thing should speak for itself.

My favorite guy has to be the one who sung that "Numa numa ne" Romanian song (in Portuguese) and steadfastly ignored the judges as they repeatedly tried to cut him off. That dancing cannot be contained! I also love how the judges openly laugh at the contestants. The Brazilian Paula is actually mean, turns out. I think I like her better than our Paula.

Don't get me wrong, I am not dissing Brazilian talent. In my opinion, Brazil is one of the most musically rich countries in the world, and on average, probably has more people who can actually sing than the U.S. But Brazil also has a special wackiness that makes it one of the most endearing places in the world, and produces some of the most hilarious wanna-be ídolos EVER.

Perhaps this next clip, which might be the best thing I have seen (except for the Susan Boyle video -- love her), will make it clearer:

Créu!

I love you, Brazil.

$29.99, two for fiddy

2009-04-16T21:27:00.006-03:00

Growing up outside of Detroit had many unique pleasures (see, e.g., frozen custard) but one of the things that I loved most about my childhood in Michigan were the amazing TV commercials. I know that statement probably makes me sound like a corporate pawn, but I'm not talking about the sophisticated, slick TV spots for Coke or Apple or whatever that you see nowadays. No, no -- I'm referring to true TV gems: local, metro Detroit commercials from the 90s. It really doesn't get any better.*

Plus, if you know me at all, you probably know that I love jingles. If it didn't sound so pathetic, I'd even go so far as to say that jingles are one of my "interests." And let me tell you, Detroit commercials back in the day had some great jingles: the Metro Detroit Ford Dealers song alone is like 4 minutes long with an instrumental interlude. I searched long and hard on the interweb to try to find one of those Ford commercials from the 1990s, but couldn't find anything. And I was dismayed to learn that Ford replaced its old, uplifting (if not excessively long) jingle with a new, much douchier one. The auto industry really is going downhill.

Even more disappointing: my number one FAVORITE commercial of all time, for Alan Ford dealership in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, is apparently now the stuff of legend and doesn't exist on the internets ANYWHERE. That means I have no choice but to describe it to you. Okay, picture this: a cartoon cowboy and his dog. Got that? Okay, stay with me here -- the cowboy sings this song:

Here dog, come on dog!
Me and dog want you to come to Telegraph Road
Right now
Get a good deal.

That's it. Ask anyone who was alive in Detroit in the 1990s and I guarantee they'll know the "here dog, come on dog" song. It had a huge cultural impact.

Maybe you'd have to be there.

In a close second in the contest for the best Detroit commercials EVER are the classic commercials from Mr. Alan's, an "urban wear" chain of a slightly ghetto persuasion (see http://www.mralans.com/locations.php). Anyway, Mr. Alan's commercials always involve a cartoon man (Mr. Alan) with big pants and extremely odd facial hair:

It's amazing Mr. Alan was able to flash those ambiguous gang symbols with only four fingers on one hand, isn't it?

A typical Mr. Alan's commercial from the mid-1990s would feature the cartoon Mr. Alan superimposed next to still photos of shoes and jerseys with a voice-over announcing the prices of those items with increasing levels of urgency. It usually went a little something like this:

MISTAH ALLEN'S!!!!
Timberland boots 29.99 two for 50!!
FUBU shirts 39.99 two for 60!!!
ROCAWEAR SHOES, 49.99 TWO FOR 80!!!!

You get the idea.

This is pretty representative:

And here is a slightly upgraded version of the classic Mr. Alan's commercial format, which actually involves real people talking:

One of the best Mr. Alan's commercials ever has unfortunately been taken off YouTube for reasons I do not fully understand, but you can use your imagination. It involved a high school kid trying to impress a girl and succeeding marvelously by going to "see the man" (Mr. Alan) and getting some sweet duds. Before he went to see the man, he looked like a total idiot in a plain red tee shirt. Once he emerged from Mr. Alan's, completely festooned with logos and insignias, though, things really started to look up for him socially. Thanks, Mr. Alan!

I miss those commercials. Here in Boston, there are a lot of cloying jingles on the air ("Bernie and Phyl's, quality comfort and price" -- ugh, we GET it already) but there aren't any ads that truly compete with the magic that came out of Metro Detroit. Oh, well. At least I have my memories.

*Except for maybe Brazilian commercials, but that's a post for another day.

Turkish Humor?

2009-04-15T10:23:00.003-03:00

Okay, so this video is exactly what it looks like: a Turkish TV anchorman in blackface reporting on Obama. I listened to the video and heard the word "negro" and "Obama" but everything else was, you know, in Turkish.

Oh, Turkey! You're so adorably offensive!

The best part of the whole thing are the comments left on YouTube defending the anchorman and claiming that Turks are not racist because there are no black people in Turkey. For example, one person helpfully explained, "speech has NO REFERENCE TO skin color since the history of skin color is FOREIGN in Turkey...we may replace "black face" with BLUSHING, as you ask someone a favor. Anchor tried to play on words by use of Turkish proverbs since Obama used a TUrkish proverb in his speech. LOST IN TRANSLATION." This person has a point: it IS easy to confuse greasy black paint for blush. Who hasn't made that mistake before?

Someone else wrote, "shortly,we havent any problem with skin color of obama,we have some concerns contiuning for a long time.that video explains them.He said a Turkish idiom:" a person who wants something has dark skin yet, a person who doesnt give anything has darker skin than a person wanting"(translated roughly) as you watch ,due to this idiom,he painted his face black and he is requesting something related to policies of america about Türkiye."

Oh, okay. That doesn't sound racist at all.

Here's the thing, Turkish anchorman. You may not have black people in your country, but you can still make a racist joke (even unintentionally). Next time, skip the blackface AND the monumental string music in the newscast, and you'll do much better.

A haiku for Changeling

2009-04-11T16:43:00.007-03:00

I recently saw the movie Changeling, and here is a haiku I wrote about it:

L.A. Police Chief
Why is your accent Irish?
And also Southern?

Did anyone else notice this? AWFUL. The actor who played the police chief in Changeling, who will go unnamed (but whose name rhymes with Schmeffrey Schmonovan) apparently thought that he was adding depth to his character by affecting that Lucky-Charms-leprechaun-meets-Al-Capone accent. Adding to the overall effect was the fact that the accent sort of came and went, like the wind.

It's always hard for me to get past a bad accent in a film. This is why I can't enjoy Cold Mountain, which seems to be on television EVERY SINGLE TIME I am at the gym, so I always end up having to make the Sophie's Choice between watching it or watching that reality show about dog groomers.* Here's my main issue with Cold Mountain: of all the actors in the world to play the two main characters in a Civil War-era drama set in rural North Carolina, they had to cast an Australian and an Englishman? Really? No one from this continent was available that month?

Now that I think of it, there are many movies where an actor just can't quite pull off the required accent (see, e.g., any Matthew McConaughey movie that is not set in Texas), which makes me appreciate even more actors who can convincingly mimic regional accents. Ex: Minnie Driver in Circle of Friends, Renee Zellweger in Bridget Jones' Diary, Frances McDormand in Fargo.

Anyway. I will end this post with another haiku.

Jeffrey Donovan
Where did you learn that accent?
Not in Ireland.

*The dog groomers usually win.

Weno

2009-03-31T18:01:00.008-03:00

Hi readers. I just wanted to check in with everyone to let you know that I am still alive and did not get kidnapped by gypsies, tramps, or thieves.* Instead, I went on spring break to San Francisco! And, most exciting of all, I took a roadtrip to Reno, Nevada, hence the title of this post.

Here's the thing I have recently learned about Reno: you have to have some ironic distance on that city to truly appreciate it. I learned this lesson the hard way, since my parents lived in Reno (for reasons still largely unclear) for four years, from 2002 to 2006. When my mother told me my parents were moving from my idyllic hometown in suburban Detroit to a city whose name I recognized only because Whoopi Goldberg's character in Sister Act (Deloris Van Carter) used to be a lounge singer there, I freaked out a little bit. I mean, Deloris left for a reason, right?**

I remember driving from Michigan to California with my dad before my sophomore year of college, and passing through Reno to see my parents' condo. I had been emotionally stable the entire trip up to that point -- I even made it through Omaha with dry eyes -- but when we passed under that gaudy, neon arch welcoming us into The Biggest Little City in the World, I lost it.

I dare you to look that clown in the eye and not break down, too.

That first encounter marked the low point of a never-fantastic relationship between me and Reno, but I did gradually come to appreciate certain aspects of the city while my parents still lived there. For example, there is an all-you-can-eat sushi place that serve giant glasses of wine! And there is a good Basque restaurant! And you're only thirty minutes from Tahoe! These are the things you will constantly hear people from Reno telling skeptical outsiders who aren't aware of the many cultural and gastronomical delights that Reno has to offer. Ahem.

One thing I never really got about Reno, though, until this most recent trip, was the whole gambling side of the city. Sure, when my parents lived there I had occasionally come into the casino in the middle of the day on a weekday with my dad when he placed a sports bet, but I certainly wasn't doing any of my own gambling on those visits. I was too busy staring at the legions of glassy-eyed retirees feeding their pension money, one dollar at a time, into the penny slots. Of course, sometimes you'd see one of those old people taking a break to suck air out of their oxygen tank or be pushed around the casino floor by their nurse, but they mostly stuck to their gambling. Even more depressing were the able-bodied, youngish-looking people listlessly playing the slots or pulling the crank on one of those machines that promises to pay out $1,000,000. Shouldn't those people be at work? I mean, call me judgmental, but there was something palpably sad and desperate hanging in the neon-heavy air of those casinos, and it made me uneasy.

On this trip, however, I approached Reno with a different attitude. For one thing, I was traveling with my friend John and my boyfriend Al, two Reno outsiders who were enthusiastic about seeing a new place. It also helps that John has a particularly well-developed love for American kitsch and had just been to Vegas and HATED it: both factors that weigh heavily in favor of liking Reno.

We stayed at the extremely tacky (yet loveable) Peppermill Hotel and Casino. The hotel part is done up in a "neo-classical" Italian style, with plush carpeting and loads of "classical" paintings, such as the one below, which John and I convincingly reenacted.

The casino part, on the other hand, can only be described as a neon nightmare. Understand that I am using the term "nightmare" here in only the fondest sense of the word: I mean, how can you not kind of love something that looks like this?

After we had checked in to our rooms, we hit the casino floor and went to town. After approximately seven minutes, all of us had developed full-blown gambling addictions and were pawing at the screens of the penny slot machines like wild animals. John even came up with nicknames for us: Gamblina (me), Gamblox (John), and Gamblor (Al). We were monsters.

However, even though we had turned into the pale, sweaty gambling freaks that I had judged so harshly on my previous trips to Reno, we managed to have SOME self-control, and each only lost a little bit of money ($15 or so), which was totally worth it since we got free drinks all night. Take that, Peppermill management -- we used you! (Kind of.)

The next day, we hit up one of the casino's many restaurants and ate giant omelets and buttery toast before hitting the road back to San Francisco. We all reflected on how obsessed with gambling we had become in such a short period of time, and vowed not to waste any more money. Three minutes later, as we were walking out of the casino, we decided to each play just a few more dollars in the $.25 video poker machines. The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, I suppose.

Anyway, it was a great trip and I have a new appreciation for the Biggest Little City in the World. Go check it out for yourself -- just avoid looking that clown directly in the eye, whatever you do.

* We'd hear it from the people of the town.
** To give my parents some credit, like Deloris, they also eventually fled Reno for San Francisco.

Baby Names 2009

2009-03-11T16:08:00.004-03:00

Top 10 Baby Names, 2009

Girls

1. Keratin
2. Karatyn
3. Curtain
3. Maude
4. Dustyn
6. Beta Keratin
7. Thursday
8. Simba
9. Fosfora
10. Pineapple

Boys

1. Yonkers
2. Staten
3. Queens
4. Herman
5. Roman
6. Polanski
7. Simba
8. Ripkin
9. Riptide
10. Olmec

Must buy Honda Ridgeline...

2009-03-10T11:15:00.003-03:00

Watch and love:

Can I ask you ladies a question?

2009-02-28T23:01:00.005-03:00

I have a confession to make. Ready? Okay, so, for me, there are very few things in life more satisfying than being able to call out a guy who is attempting to hit on me using the techniques from The Game. For those of you who don't know what The Game is, let me enlighten you. It's a book that tells men how to pick up women, and it's written by this guy:

I know.

Somehow, this dude, Neil Strauss*, also known as "Style," magically transformed himself from a d-bag who can't get women to a d-bag who wrote a wildly successful manual on picking up women. This book is so ubiquitous that it inspired a TV show, The Pickup Artist, as well as seminars attended by scores of desperate dudes who want to know the secrets to picking up chicks. Girls, I guarantee that every guy you know has read it and has used it. Guys, we're onto you.

Now, there have been plenty of articles written about the phenomenon of The Game and the so-called Mystery Method of seduction. But I am just going to give you the basic outline so that you, the reader, can identify/mock The Game technique when you see it in action. It's fun, trust me. The technique proceeds in three basic steps:

1. Peacocking: this refers to the practice of wearing a ridiculous and attention-catching outfit, like a white fedora and a mustard-colored bomber jacket, or a string tie and a mink stole. Case in point: Mystery, star of The Pickup Artist.

I mean, what girl wouldn't want to make out with a guy sporting a soul patch the size of a pea and a hat made out of some sort of Alpaca-polyester blend? I'll be honest, I'm kind of really into it. That hat looks soft.

2. Breaking the ice: this usually involves approaching a small group of girls with a contrived question that ALWAYS involves the word "ladies." For example: Hey, can I ask you ladies a question? Or: Hey, can you ladies settle a bet? Or: Hey ladies, my buddies and I are having a disagreement about something, can I get your opinion on it?

Once the girls say "sure," then the guy asks his inane, made-up question ("my buddy's getting married and we either want to get him a stripper for his bachelor party or else tattoo his face while he's asleep. What do you ladies think?"), before quickly transitioning into witty and lively conversation with his "target" (the girl in the group that he thinks is prettiest).

3. Insulting: once conversation is sputtering along, the guy then must insult his target so as to sufficiently lower her fragile self-esteem so she will continue to talk to him. In practice, it goes something like this:

Guy: So, okay, seems like the consensus is that we should just tattoo his face, am I right?

Girl: Yeah, I don't know, whatever.

Guy: Hey, you have food in your teeth. And you're chubby.

According to The Game, at this point, the girl will be so taken aback, she'll have no choice but to have sex with the guy. It's just inevitable. To me, this is pretty obviously one of the most idiotic pieces of flirting advice ever given to men, but apparently, it works on some girls. I guess it's one of those "thinning the herd" techniques where you look for the limping gazelle and tell her you can see her roots before going in for the kill.

So, that's it -- the Game, unmasked. Let me tell you a little story. So, last spring my best friend from high school was visiting me in Boston. My roommate, my friend and I went out for a girls' night at some semi-sketchy bar in Boston on a Sunday night. We're sitting in a booth, drinking Coors Light, when a guy in a loud checkered shirt and scarf sidles up to our table. Here is the dialogue that ensued.

Guy: Hey ladies, can I ask you a question? My buddies and I are having a debate, and --

Me: The Game.

Guy: Uh, what? What? Uh --

Me: You're using The Game. And you're peacocking. That plaid shirt -- that's peacocking, right?

Guy: I, uh. I don't know what you're talking about.

Me: I think you do. What was your question?

Guy: Uh...

He ended up awkwardly squatting next to our table for a while and then my roommate relented and let him sit down, where he lamely attempted to continue the pretext of having us "settle a debate" before he crept back to his own table after a few minutes. It was awesome.

My theory on this is that if a guy's going to interrupt a girls' night with some really widely disseminated pickup technique while wearing a ludicrous shirt, he kind of deserves what he gets. Maybe I'm a bad person. But before you judge me, please watch this video and tell me that Mystery doesn't deserve to have his method shot down a few times by actual women:

*What else would his name be?

Grab Bag

2009-02-27T18:33:00.007-03:00

Hi. I'm in the library. I know, I can't believe it either. I've somehow gotten into this disturbing habit of going directly from my Corporations class on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday straight into the Langdell law library, my sworn (edifice) enemy (please see: http://teffsinbrasil.blogspot.com/2007/05/donde-esta-la-biblioteca.html for more details).

I don't know, maybe I am becoming soft/nerdy in my old age, but I don't hate Langdell with the intense bile and bitterness that I did before. I still think it's lame that people have lockers in the law library -- I mean, how do you even sign up for that? -- but since I am a 3L, I can now approach Langdell with the calm remove of one who does not care anymore. Plus, it's not finals time, so the kids hanging out in the study carrels have not yet transformed into the wild-eyed, highlighter-stained variety of law student that will no doubt be populating this room in a few months. Believe me, I'll be far away from this place once finals roll around. *Shudder.*

Anyway, for someone who is in the library trying to be "productive," I'm managing to not get much done, so I figured I might as well give the people what they want and blog a little bit. Since I don't have a coherent theme in mind, this post will be a list of thoughts I've had recently, in no particular order.

1. I can't decide if Twitter is stupid or fun. I'm thinking it's more stupid, verging on pointless. But I still feel compelled to do it. http://twitter.com/eteffi

2. Why do some people take things that are meant to be fun so seriously that it actually ruins the fun? An example: last night, Al and I went to our weekly trivia-pizza-PBR night at the Newtown(e) Grill(e) in Cambridge and were flatly rejected by another group of HLS students when we asked if they wanted to combine forces and form a team. They had four people, we had two. A trivia team is ideally six people. Do the math. They told us no. Then, later, one of them sheepishly approached our table (I think only after they realized that their four-person team was sucking big-time at trivia) and asked if we wanted to join them after all. Al and I have our pride, so we said "thanks but no thanks." I mean, come on! The social dimness of some* law students kills me. And people say that engineers are the ones with Aspberger's Syndrome. Yikes.

3. I am obsessed with Real Housewives of Orange County, but MEGA-obsessed with Real Housewives of New York, especially with Simon and Alex. How do I love them? Let me count the ways! 1) they are admitted and committed social climbers, 2) their children's names are Francois and Johann McCord, 3) Alex had a nude photo scandal that managed to be both awkward and boring and 4) Simon wears a thong on the beach.

4. Is one's conception of love influenced by one's social class? Al and I got into this discussion last night. He said yes, I said I wasn't so sure. Then I started thinking about all the girls on The Bachelor who told the bachelor that they were "falling for him" after being on a sound-stage with him for like, nine days. The thing is, I think at least some of those women genuinely believe that they're "in love" with this guy:

Is that a function of class? Maybe. Is it a function of being a reality show prostitute?** More likely.

5. I am not the only one who thinks Gwyneth Paltrow is awful. Please recall this post from a few months ago:
http://teffsinbrasil.blogspot.com/2008/09/gwyneth-paltrow-seems-awful.html
Well, the New York Times has noticed that others seem to be lashing back at the heinous Ms. Paltrow and her "lifestyle" newsletter, the oddly titled GOOP: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/22/fashion/22gwyneth.html. I guess others object on a fundamental level to Gwynnie dictating her recipes and parenting tips to the commoners, too. I feel vindicated.

Okay, those are my five thoughts. Going to pretend to write a law school paper now. Later!

*Okay, most
**A prostitute is someone who has sex in return for money, right? Okay, just checking.

Lazy Town

2009-02-07T13:09:00.012-02:00

Before we get started, let me stress that the title of this post, Lazy Town, does not refer to that weird Icelandic show with the girl with pink hair. But while we're on that topic, can I point out that pink-haired girl is called Stephanie in the show? I knew I liked her.

Okay, moving on. This post is actually going to be an exercise in extreme laziness, because I am going to cut and paste something that I wrote for facebook and pretend it's an actual blog post. At least I'm telling you up front.

So, if you're on facebook, you've probably noticed that for the past week or so, everyone and their mom* has been posting these things called "25 Things About Me," where you write 25 "interesting" facts about yourself and then wait eagerly for people to comment on your wit. I have noticed that these "25 Things" posts tend to fall into three categories: 1) dreadfully boring ("I love cats!"), 2) inappropriately revealing ("I hooked up with my cousin once at a wedding and now we don't talk anymore"), 3) profoundly brilliant (see below). Here goes mine.

1. I insisted on being pushed in a stroller long past the point where it was appropriate.

2. I am an only child but have a shedload of cousins who I am close with. (However, when I was younger, my cousin Catie and I fought like cats & dogs, which I think was a reasonable substitute for having a sister.)

Catie and I in San Francisco. I think we were in a fight.

3. I've never not had a dog in my family.

Our dog, Max, who was my older brother and the favorite child in the family.

4. My favorite food as a child was broccoli, so much so that I made up a song about it. The chorus was "brooooooocoli."

5. I was born in Maryland, grew up in Michigan, went to college in California, worked in Brazil, and now live in Boston, am moving to DC, and still don't know where I'll end up.

6. My dad is an awesome, improvisational cook but I still have to hew closely to recipes.

7. I am obsessed with reality TV, especially MTV reality TV, especially "Next," and really think I have a future casting and scripting those shows, if the whole law school thing doesn't work out.

8. I ran track and cross-country in high school and still run several times a week, even though I'll probably be crippled by the time I'm 30 as a result.

9. I speak three languages, mais ou menos. Spanish and Portuguese are like my two children: secretly one of them is my favorite but I don't say it out loud so I won't hurt the other one's feelings.

10. I am dating an older, foreign gentleman.

11. My middle name is my mom's first name, Margaret, and my confirmation name is Zita, who was the patron saint of maids. You can also pray to her if you lose your keys.

12. I have always called my mom "Ma." When I was little, I used to call my dad "Pom" (an attempt to pronounce his first name, Tom) but now I have adopted the more traditional "Dad."

13. I spent three months in Havana, Cuba, doing field research for my undergraduate thesis and eating government-issued crackers.

Me and two friends in Santa Clara, Cuba, where it was really, really, really hot.

14. I've been bit by a stray dog in Chile and had to have 5 rabies shots.

15. I figure-skated for eight years and quit after I learned how to land an axle.

16. People never know what ethnicity I am and always ask in sort of weird ways ("what's your nationality?" "American." "No, I mean, what's your NATIONALITY.") For the record, Mexican-Irish-Italian-Scotch Irish.

17. For seven years, I didn't eat red meat. Nowadays I would eat three steaks a day if it weren't cost-prohibitive.

18. I started salsa dancing a few months ago and really like it, but sometimes I get a bit dizzy from all the spinning.

19. I have never understood why "hippies" have to wear patchouli oil. Is that an official rule? Aren't the white-boy dreads enough of a signal already?

Yeah, we get it, you're a hippie.

20. Brazil is one of my favorite places in the world and I think about going back constantly, even if only for the fried manioc.

21. I used to want to name my kids Merle and Eilish. I have since changed my mind.

22. I have Raynaud's disease, which means I have terrible circulation, and have had frostbite several times.

23. My favorite movie of all time is Wayne's World. Love those Canadians!

24. People tell me I look like Jamie Lynn Sigler (Meadow Soprano).

25. Totally copying Catie's last one here, but my grandfather is one of 21 kids, both of my grandmothers are one of 12, and my mom is the oldest of 9. See below for pic of my grandfather's family in 1924:

So, that's it. Now you know 25 things about me that I bet you were just dying to find out. You're welcome.

* Who should really not be on facebook, by the way. Not cool.

Smile, dammit.

2009-01-29T19:10:00.004-02:00

This is a follow-up to my earlier post entitled "Eye contact," in which I lamented the tendency of certain strangers (always male) to tell me to "smile" when passing me on the street. Apparently (and not surprisingly) I am not the only young female who is ordered to smile by people I don't know. I was reading my favorite advice column, Dear Prudence on slate.com, when I came across this letter:

Dear Prudence,
I have recently become a recipient of commands from strangers to "smile!" The most recent occurrence was in my town's only mall, when a man in a group I was passing actually stepped out of the group, stood in front of me, and all but shouted, "Smile!" My usual response is to look through the person as though they were not there at all and continue as I was, inwardly saying something inappropriate. I come from one of the largest cities in the United States, and I moved to this town for a job. I did occasionally get accosted this way in the city, but it happened only about once a year. Now I feel as though I'm getting similar reactions at least once a week. I don't think anyone has a right to command me to emote. Is there a better way to react? I know better than to say aloud the things I think about the person, but I wonder if there is a way to convey how little I appreciate their words.

—Not on Candid Camera

Dear Not On,
I used to frequently get the same exhortation from male strangers. Let me assure you, even if you never change your default facial expression, this problem will eventually take care of itself because men say this only to unsmiling young women. Strangers don't care enough to see happiness suffuse the face of a crabby-looking middle-aged woman. Of course you're right, your facial expression is nobody's business, and there is a large element of sexism in this—I promise you these men are not encouraging young, brooding males to lighten up. You are free to keep walking and ignore them. I, too, used to just deepen my scowl when I got similar advice. Then, in response to, "Hey, it can't be that bad" from a stranger, I smiled, and he smiled back—and it was nice. I realized maybe these strangers had a point. So consider that your expression, while adaptively off-putting for the big city, may be unnecessarily severe for the smaller, friendlier town where you now live.

http://www.slate.com/id/2209435/

I am not sure if I totally buy Prudie's advice here, although I get the distinction she is making between people who say "smile" in a hostile, aggressive manner and those who say it in a more gentle, authentic way. Like, if a kindly old man with a cane said, "Hey, it can't be that bad," I'd probably smile at him. But he'd have to be old. AND kindly. AND have a cane. In general, I view almost all exhortations by strange men to get me to smile as lame pick-up attempts and scoff at them appropriately, and will continue to do so. I'll smile when I want to, dang it.

Alright, that's all for now. Have a wonderful day. Smile!

En fin

2009-01-19T16:55:00.008-02:00

Hey everyone. Sad news: I am no longer in Argentina. Instead, I am sitting in JFK Airport with $20 worth of magazines and a copy of Brideshead Revisted, which hopefully will get me through the almost five-hour layover I have here. Luckily, I picked an interesting gate to sit at; there is a girl having some sort of emotional breakdown here and I am listening/watching out of the corner of my eye while pretending to blog. It's getting juicy. Anyway, I wasn't supposed to have this long of a stopover in NYC, but the Delta people in Buenos Aires decided to change my flight to two hours earlier than it was supposed to take off without telling anyone, but didn't feel it necessary to also change my connection time. Nice. Thank God I got to the airport three hours early, because if not, I'd be sleeping on the floor of Ezeiza Airport tonight. Yay Latin American travel!

I feel bad about not updating my blog for the past week, but it was hard because I was having too much fun with Al, and our days were pretty packed with sleeping and eating ice cream, so I didn't want to overtax myself. I actually had quite a few clever blog title posts ready to go, including "Eye-mergency" (describing my trip to the emergency clinic to get a piece of trash out of my eye), and "Angertina," to describe the SECOND run-in I had with an underage street urchin in Buenos Aires, but alas, those titles are going to have to go to waste.

Instead, this post will be written in a style that should be quite familiar to devotees of my blog: lazy bullet points! In no particular order, here are some things I did in BsAs over the past week:

- Went to a dinner/tango show with Al, which turned out to be really entertaining. Tango shows are like bowling: it never sounds that fun till you get there and put on the shoes. Except with the tango show, you just wear normal shoes. But you know what I mean.

- Ate tons of delicious food at some incredible restaurants. Two of our favorites were Lola, where I had an incredible ojo de bife steak with eggplant, mushroom, and onion (OMG) and Almacén Secreto, a "secret" restaurant that specializes in regional cuisine from Salta, like locro. Mmmm, looocrroooo.

- Went out a lot, including to the infamous Club 69, which has a tranny show on Thursday nights. Trannies are always fun, of course, but the real highlight was the amazing break-dancing performance they had. Seeing break-dancers in Argentina is a little like seeing a cat wearing a top-hat, you know? It's not natural, but boy, is it fun to watch.

- Walked around the city, including to the Rosedal (rose garden) in Palermo Park, which was beautiful.

- Watched a fair bit of Law & Order UVE (Unidad de Victimas Especiales)

- Ate semi-weird Argentine pizza topped with palm hearts and salsa golf (like Thousand Island dressing except syrupy-sweet)

- Got my hair cut and learned the Spanish word for "bangs" (flequillo)

- Hung out with friends, including my long-lost friend Karen and her boyfriend Adam, yay!

- Met several groups of chatty Brazilians when we went out; shamelessly spoke Portuguese with them.

- Went to two different gyms, both of which looked "fancy" from the outside and turned out to be spectacularly crappy on the inside. But at least I managed to successfully wriggle my way out of having to be "trained" by the mulleted trainers at each gym. Close call!

That's about it, I guess. Overall, it was a wonderful trip and I was sad to leave. I don't know when I'll be back in Argentina but I'm glad I left it with a good taste in my mouth.* Hasta luego, Argentina.

*Mostly meat.

Eye contact

2009-01-14T14:55:00.003-02:00

Given that I have had this blog for three and a half years and have spent large portions of that time in Latin American countries, I can't believe I haven't already written an obvious, semi-played out, culture-shock-themed post about eye contact! I mean, this post was begging to be carelessly dashed out years ago! But since I am getting tired of reporting on my daily doings in Buenos Aires (went to panaderia, bought a baguette, ate a sandwich, walked around, did laundry, ate another sandwich, got dripped on by dirty water, etc.), I am going to make some wry and incisive cultural observations.

Here's the thing about eye contact in Latin America -- it can be a dangerous thing. The first time I ever spent significant time in Latin America was when I studied abroad in Chile my junior year of college. During our orientation, the program director sat us wide-eyed Stanford kids down for a chat about how to function day-to-day in Santiago without getting our asses kicked. One of the first things she told us was that we should avoid making unnecessary eye contact with strangers, and we should especially avoid smiling at people. Turns out, if you're a friendly American twenty-one year old female and you go around smiling at every dude with a rat-tail on the bus, you're going to have yourself a bus full of would-be pololos (boyfriends)by the time you get off at your stop. Not good.

This is a difficult thing for Americans to get used to, I think. With some notable regional exceptions, Americans tend to be a pretty friendly bunch, and we like to acknowledge strangers with a smile, or at least a cursory head bob. Where I grew up in Michigan, for example, when you passed someone on the street, you'd smile, or at the very least least nod at them. I mean, Detroit's not the South, so you're not going to invite every stranger in for a glass of iced tea or anything, but you'll at least acknowledge someone's presence. Similarly, when you're running, you smile and wave at other runners. When you see a policeman, you say hi. Of course, a lot of these rules don't apply in a certain region of the United States, which will go unnamed, but rhymes with "the Schmorth Schmeast," but in great swaths of the U.S., it's completely normal and expected to smile at strangers.

But just as I learned pretty quickly in Chile that you probably don't want to be smiling at that guy in the denim jacket and stonewashed jeans on the subte, I figured out pretty quickly in Brazil that you don't want to be smiling at that policeman with the bat, gun and helmet. It's just not a good idea. Today, when I was out on my daily walk in Buenos Aires, I realized that eye contact is a hard thing to avoid, especially for me. First of all, as I mentioned, I'm from the Midwest. Second, I'm a starer. It's true, I'll freely admit it: I like to stare at people. Not in a creepy way, of course, but I do like looking at people/judging them by their clothes, so it's hard for me to avoid.

As I was walking around the little lake in Palermo Park today, I kept accidentally making eye contact with sweaty, shirtless dudes with long hair, each of whom had apparently already been giving me smoldering, off-putting stares when I happened to glance at them. Ew. That's the danger of Argentine eye contact, I think. If you're a woman and you even happen to glance at a man, chances are he was already staring at you, and chances are even better that he'll then take your eye contact as an invitation to lick his lips, give you a come-hither look, or say something involving the words "amor," "mamí," or "lindeza." It's exhausting. And gross.

And that's just the porteño men. If you make eye contact with a woman, she'll most likely look you up and down as if you had a mild case of leprosy, and then sneer at you until you break eye contact or your self-esteem evaporates, whichever happens first.

I think I'm getting better at sullenly staring ahead and avoiding people's gazes, actually. The good thing about Argentina is that unlike in the U.S., there are no obnoxious strangers telling you to "smile" when you are walking along without an ear-to-ear grin on your face. You know what I'm talking about. It's always a guy, he's always unattractive, and he's always actually trying to pick you up, but only ever succeeds in enraging you. And by you, I mean me. ANYWAY, I like that Argentina is a country where you're free to stalk about, scowling and ignoring passersby, without anyone accosting you for not being cheery enough. Ideally, though, I'd like to find a happy medium in some country where it's okay to smile at policemen but not okay to order a stranger to smile. Canada, maybe? I'll keep searching.

Agua sucia

2009-01-12T18:19:00.004-02:00

How is it possible that everywhere I walk in this city, no matter what street, neighborhood, whatever, there is always dirty water dripping on me from above? Seriously, you can't walk three feet in Buenos Aires without something wet and dirty dripping on your hair or down your back. What's up with that?

I guess it's not surprising, though, since this city is full of dirty water. FULL of it. Water runs down the streets in brown rivers. The city even has employees in jumpsuits who sweep the currents of water along down the street, herding trash and debris with their brooms as they go. There are also many large, murky puddles of what I refer to (fondly) as Tetanus Water lurking in the middle of sidewalks, even in fancy neighborhoods.

Perhaps the grossest experience I've had so far with Buenos Aires' dirty water happened the other day when I was running down calle República de la India, a street that borders the city zoo. I wasn't paying super close attention to my feet and suddenly, I splashed through a puddle of zoo water that had collected on the sidewalk. That's right, zoo water. South-American-zoo-tetanus water. All I have to say is, thank God I've had my rabies shots. And thank God you can't get rabies through puddles.... right? Just in case, I washed all the water, which was probably teeming with mange and giraffe feces, off my leg when I got home. Close call.

Livin' la vida loquísima

2009-01-09T16:42:00.004-02:00

I had two near brushes with death/disaster today.* Pretty standard day in the life of Stephanie, really, but somehow the situations I get myself into south of the Equator end up being slightly more bizarre than my normal, North American misadventures. Let me explain.

The first thing that happened was that I got into an altercation with a street child. Now, before you go labeling me some sort of modern-day Dickensian villain who pushes around defenseless homeless kids**, let me explain the situation fully. I was walking around near Plaza Serrano, minding my own beeswax, probably staring off into space, when this girl, probably around 12 years old, came up to me and screamed into my face to scare me. It worked. Turns out that having someone yell in your face unexpectedly is rather alarming. This girl, by the way, looked kind of tough and scraggly, and I think she was out hustling/stealing from people. Maybe she's borrowing one of the tactics of those Gypsy kids in Italy who throw newspapers in tourists' faces and then steal their wallets. Or maybe she's just a little monster who screams in people's faces for no reason.

In my state of shock, I didn't have time to think of something to say in Spanish, so I just turned around, glared at her, and said, "You little brat!" and then I kept walking. She gave me a smug look. The nerve! So then, about an hour later, I was walking down a different street, and I saw the same girl and a boy of about the same age coming toward me. The bratty girl and I locked eyes and I knew instantly she was going to scream in my face again. I said (in English), "Don't you dare try that again, you little b*****," but yeah, she did, and so I pushed her. I didn't push her hard, but hard enough to knock whatever she was carrying out of her hand. She started laughing maniacally and called me "fea." Yeah, whatever, I'm fea, but you're a horrid little wretch that screams in people's faces, and one of these days, you're going to get your ass kicked. Possibly by me.

If you're wondering whether I feel guilty for pushing a child, the answer is no. Any child that goes around antagonizing strangers deserves to be pushed, and probably slapped. The end.

The next weird/dangerous thing that I got myself into was on the way home from shopping, when I decided I wanted a pedicure, and impulsively walked into the first salon de belleza that I saw. Yeah, bad choice. As soon as I walked in, I regretted it: a hairdresser was slathering blue goop all over a woman's parched scalp, there was dust all over the floor, a TV was blaring somewhere, and the beauticians looked somewhat... rough around the edges. "I should leave," I thought. "I'd like a pedicure," I said. My brain was telling me to run, but my mouth was asking for prices and agreeing to sit down for a full pedicure, despite the fact that the pedicurista seemed less than 100% sure about what a pedicure was, and she had to wipe a layer of dirt/skin dust/hair off of the chair I was told to sit down in. "Oh my God," I thought, "I'm going to get foot and mouth disease here." I sat down. I watched the woman bustle around, retrieving her instruments from behind a curtain in the back. "Those aren't sterilized," I thought, looking at the instruments. "Is that blood crusted on that nail file?"

"You know what?" I said suddenly, standing up. The pedicurista looked at me, puzzled. "I really don't have time today. I am going to come back tomorrow." Everyone turned to look at me, including the woman with the blue goop on her head. "I'll come back tomorrow," I said, backing out of the door gingerly. I took off down the street muttering to myself stuff like, "What are you doing Stephanie? Do you want to contract some deadly Argentine fungal disease?" Close call, huh?

So, that's what I did today. Considering the circumstances, I escaped relatively unscathed, and only had to shove one child and offend one beautician in the process. Overall, not a bad day.

*"Death" here can be read as "weird foot disease."

**Probably named "Patches" and "Scrapes."

Solita en la ciudad

2009-01-06T17:36:00.006-02:00

I've been in Buenos Aires by myself for four days now, and I gotta tell you, it's been a roller-coaster ride of emotion. Well, mainly emotion, but also boredom and insomnia. I am very happy to report, however, that things have definitely taken a turn for the better. The mopey, sad Stephanie of the last three days has been replaced by the normal, chipper Stephanie! My boyfriend, who I have been crying to via webcam recently, rejoices. But let me walk you through my last few days to give you a sense of what I've been up to here in la ciudad porteña.

Monday was my first full day in Buenos Aires by myself. I woke up optimistic, determined to go out and catch the city by its tail and shove it in my pocket, or something. As the day passed, that unstoppable optimism turned out to be rather stoppable. The day was okay, I guess; I spent time working on my research project (sending out surveys, setting up interviews, etc.), going for a hot and sweaty run in the park (see picture below), buying groceries (olive oil, wheat pasta in a bag, cheese, etc.), wandering aimlessly around Recoleta and Palermo, and watching TV.

By the end of the night, however, I had begun to feel lonely and blue, and when I was still wide awake at 3:30 AM, the loneliness amplified into intense anxiety and tears. Not my best night. Thank God for skype -- I talked, or rather blubbered, to my cousin Catie and Al, and finally fell asleep at 5:30 AM. Definitely not my best night.

Tuesday, I decided to break out of my rut of wandering aimlessly by instead wandering aimfully to a designated location, el Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes. I walked there by going down Avenida Libertador, a long avenue lined with fancy apartments with thick wooden garage doors and marble entryways. As I walked, I noticed that clinging around the doorways of these beautiful apartments was a distinctive, light smell, which I recognized instantly as what I think of as the South-American-wealth smell. I first smelled it when I moved to Brazil and stayed at my boss's apartment in one of the chicest neighborhood of São Paulo, Vila Nova Conceição. It's this unmistakable smell that brings to mind potted palms, white marble floors, chandeliers, fruit yogurt, and cleaning solution. Funny how that smell only exists in South America, though. Rich people's apartments in the U.S. smell different, somehow.

Anyway, Bellas Artes is a nice museum with an impressive collection of art, and I knew as soon as I walked in that I would be bored with most of it, so I skipped directly to the stuff I like, Latin American art. I have learned after years of sporadic museum going that I get no cultural enrichment whatsoever from forcing myself to look at numerous oil portraits of pasty-faced children in ruff collars. It's sort of like my revelation as a middle schooler that I didn't actually need to read every single Sunday comic, especially the ones I hated, like Family Circus and For Better or For Worse. So now, when I get the Sunday paper, I only read the comics I like (Garfield, the Peanuts) and when I go to a museum, I only look at the art I find interesting.

My path through the museum took me from the semi-interesting to the fascinating. First I spent some time in a low-lit room peering at a bunch of Pre-Columbian vases used to smoke hallucinogenic plants. Then I went to the Argentine art collection and breezed through numerous portraits of sallow, bored looking people, as well as a bunch of landscapes of running horses and serious cowboys and angry Indians. The ush. Then, I checked out the Latin American masters exhibit, which included art from some of my favorites (Diego Rivera, Frida Kahlo, Wifredo Lam). One painting that I really loved was "La Venus Criolla:"

But my absolute favorite was an untitled painting by Jorge Pirozzi:

Can I get a dress that looks like that painting? I'd wear it every day.

My last stop at Bellas Artes was the photography exhibit on the top floor, which featured historical moments caught on film, such as the death of Che, Menem's presidential victory, the assassination attempt on Ronald Reagan, etc. It was weird looking at pictures of Alfonsín and Menem, both of whom I met two summers ago, but not that weird, I guess, considering that I am in Argentina, after all.

On my walk back from the museum, while marveling at what a completely different city this is during the summer than during the winter, I took a different route home. I ended up walking down what I now believe is the coolest street in Buenos Aires, calle Lafinur. I don't know what it was about this street that moved me so, but I just loved everything about it: the trees, the balconies, the awninged cafés - I guess now that I'm describing it, it seems like any other street in Buenos Aires, but it felt unique somehow. I passed by a chic-looking boutique and looked up to see a skinny, weathered looking woman leaning out of the second-story window, cigarette dangling out of her mouth, massaging her temples. I bet she wouldn't have a headache if she knew that she works in a boutique on the coolest street in Buenos Aires. Oh, and did I mention the Evita museum is on calle Lafinur? I mean, what more do you want?

Today was my best day in Buenos Aires by far. I went for a nice run in the park again, which reminded me a bit of running in Parque Ibirapuera in São Paulo, except minus the Brazilian park mainstays of tandem bikes, corn on the cob, and an abudance of boob-popping sports bras. After my run, I headed out to do the first pair of interviews for my project. The interviews were exhilarating and a big confidence-booster, and how refreshing to have some sort of meaningful human contact for the first time in over four days! It's really strange being in a foreign city by yourself because it means that you go through the day without having any real, live conversations with anyone. Sure, you exchange pleasantries with the guy who weighs your vegetables at the grocery store (and who subsequently hits on you) or you ask the surly woman behind the glass to give you two subte tickets, please, but other than stuff like that, no real human connection happens. It's an odd feeling, floating through space without having anyone to talk to or share things with. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for long, self-reflective walks, but there's only so much self-reflection one can do before one just wants to go get dinner with someone else. Needless to say, I am amped for Karen to get back to the city and for Al to get here. But until then, I'll keep on keepin' on.

Hasta luego.

Argentina, round 4

2009-01-04T19:50:00.004-02:00

Buenas tardes, mi gente. I am writing to you all from my lovely rented apartment in Buenos Aires. I got here today after a long and sleepless day-night-day of travel, including a ten-hour red-eye flight from JFK that had such rough turbulence, I really thought the plane was going to fall out right of the sky. It was one of those flights where if you look around the plane during the turbulent bits, you'll make eye contact with lots of other people gripping their seats with white knuckles and glancing around nervously to see if anyone else is freaking out. My policy in these situations is to look towards the flight attendants; as long as they seem calm, I'm okay. But you know stuff is bad when the flight attendants are looking around nervously and gripping their seats with white knuckles. It's like seeing your doctor get queasy when taking your blood.

Anyway, this is my fourth time in this city, and I am hoping it'll be the best. As you'll recall, I worked here in the summer (Argentine winter) of 2007 at a human rights NGO. That was the coldest summer of my life. Now I'm here in the dead of (American) winter and it's 87 degrees Fahrenheit -- more my speed.

All I've done today is get settled, take a long walk around Recoleta, get groceries, and hang out at home, pretending to do work. Since my dear friend Karen isn't back from her vacation yet, I am using this opportunity to stay in and rest up before the fun starts.

More to come! Chau chau.

A Christmas miracle!

2008-12-25T23:24:00.004-02:00

Santa (in the guise of Air Canada) surprised me today by delivering my long-lost luggage, which I was sure was lying in a drainage ditch in Saskatchewan, lost to me forever. Honestly, having my luggage back was the best Christmas present a girl could hope for. Well, almost the best -- when I opened my bag, I realized that my camera was gone, and so was the one wrapped gift in my entire luggage, the Estée Lauder Beautiful lotion I had bought for my mom in Ottawa. Some Air Canada employee's wife is probably slathering that stolen lotion over her rough, wind-chapped skin as we speak. The nerve! But I do get great comfort out of the fact that my camera was broken AND without a battery, so joke's on whoever stole that, am I right?

Despite the missing goods, this Christmas day has been lovely. I slept in, ate, talked to Al, opened presents (a warm pair of gloves, a necklace, a spa gift certificate, and a new makeup bag), worked out, and then my parents and I went visiting (wassailing?). The highlight was probably the stop at my grandparents' house, where I ate a cold duck-goose-turkey sandwich on sourdough and more chocolate bark than anyone should be allowed to consume. Mmmmm, chocolate bark. Now I am at home, ensconced in front of a House marathon in my PJs. Oh, life is so good.

I hope everyone had a fantastic Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwaaanzaaaa/Handwashing Awareness Week/other winter celebration of your choice. Feliz natal!

Blame (French) Canada.

2008-12-22T11:49:00.005-02:00

I promise not to write an angry screed against Air Canada or their employees. This isn't really the proper forum for angry screeds.*

I will only ask the following question: how does an airline go about losing the bag of a passenger who has never left the airport? It's a riddle!

No, but seriously, Air Canada? You canceled my flight, so I never left Montreal. So how the HELL did you manage to lose my bag? Do you need me to ask this in French?

Anyway, I am still in the Montreal Airport, which has become like a horrible, French Canadian home away from home for me, and I am supposed to be flying out in 20 minutes. If they cancel my flight today, I will kill someone. You'll see my name in the news (le Gazette!).

*Not that that's stopped me in the past.

Blame Canada.

2008-12-21T16:55:00.002-02:00

Hi, I'm in Canada.

Well, I'm kinda in Canada -- I'm in Montreal.

Why am I in the land of poutine and maple syrup, you might ask? Well, I went up to Ottawa for a few days to spend time with Al and his mom, stepdad and brother before Christmas, and we got hit by what the Ottawa paper was calling "Snowmageddon 2008." You know if a Canadian paper is comparing a snowstorm to the apocalypse, it has to be a decent amount of snow... or else just a slow news day. Either one is plausible in Canada, I suppose.

Anyhoo, after reading about the impending End of (Snow) Days, I decided that it would be wise to change my bus ticket from Ottawa to Boston to come back on Sunday morning instead of Sunday night. I figured giving myself an extra thirteen hours to catch my flight to San Francisco on Monday afternoon would be more than enough time -- but the Greyhound people (damn their eyes!) had other ideas, and canceled all buses to Boston today. Nooo! (Nooon! <-- the Canadian government requires me to translate this.)

Suddenly, I found myself in the Montreal bus station, alone, surrounded by French Canadians, the undeniable smell of stale croissants hanging in the air. Noooo! (Noooon!). Of course, I instantly assumed I'd be spending the night on the floor of the bus station, subsisting on poutine cheese curd runoff and Coke Diete, but Al's mom saved the day and booked me a plane ticket out of Montreal into Boston this evening. So here I am, in the Montreal airport, hanging out until my flight leaves in a few hours. Keep your fingers crossed that they don't cancel this flight, because if they do, I might miss my flight to California tomorrow.

I hope none of you are reading this while stranded in a bus terminal or airport at the moment. Stay in and out of the snow/ice, or, if you're in San Francisco, make sure to put on a sweater before going out in the frigid 50 degree weather (hey Dad).

Bye!
Adieu!!

Exámenes

2008-12-15T21:46:00.004-02:00

Hola gente.

Sorry for not writing for a while; it's been exams season here at Harvard Law. Consequently, I've been dividing my time between studying diligently at the Hark, our law school commons, and trying to maintain a somewhat normal social life. So, in the past week, I've written a 25-page paper, taken an eight-hour exam and studied for another eight-hour exam (to be taken tomorrow), but I've also managed to go out drinking with a bunch of 1L's, go salsa dancing, and attend an office Christmas party (not my own)! Now that's what I call multitasking.

After recently spending an inordinate amount of time in the Hark, a place to which people come to both study and socialize, I have become acutely aware of my own particular issues with other people. The basic problem is the following: I hate being around other people who are studying because they either sit alone and make annoying noises, or else they sit with other people and make annoying noises, usually insisting on discussing their upcoming exam in excruciating detail. But I also hate being around people who are not studying, because they make even more annoying noises, and tend to have even louder, more distracting conversations about even stupider things. Yet, I can't be left alone in my own room to study, or I'll end up watching daytime TV and/or giving myself a pedicure, so I have to go somewhere public to get my study on. It's quite the dilemma.

I'm not being unreasonable here, I assure you. First of all, according to a Cosmo "couple's quiz" I recently forced my boyfriend to take with me, I am a person whose dominant sense is hearing (while he is more of a "seeing" person). This means, according to the researchers at Cosmopolitan University (School of Pseudo-Science), that I get easily annoyed/distracted by noises around me and enjoy long, cloying conversations with my significant other. True and true!

This sensitivity to noise causes me a lot of angst when I am studying in the Hark. While it is quiet there, it's not quiet enough for me, and even the lowest voices carry. I mean, I can deal with low-level conversations going on near me, but I definitely can't deal with listening to any of the following, all of which I've had to endure this week:

1. Intense study group conversation involving a guy casually throwing out the phrase "seemingly thin veneer," as if the term "veneer" doesn't already imply "thin," and as if that pretentious "seemingly" was necessary.

2. A guy loudly snorting, sniffling and making other gross mucus sounds, continually, for like three hours.

3. Shrill cell-phone conversations about the stress of exams.

4. Over-analysis of the idea of "content discrimination."

5. Slurping sounds. WHY did the Hark need to start serving Asian noodle bowls?

6. Girls lamely flirting with the guy who works at the café/making annoying food orders. "That's skim, right? And a large chocolate chip cookie, please."

7. The laughter of children coming from the HLS skating rink.

It's been a rough week for me. I've gotten through it by heavily relying on Diet Coke, my headphones, and Swedish Fish. Thank God I am done tomorrow, and then I can take off for Christmas break. Almost there...

If I had a time machine...

2008-11-29T21:49:00.010-02:00

... I would go back to high school in many different eras and take pictures of myself wearing each era's clothes and hairstyles. What? Isn't that what everyone would do with a time machine?

Anyway, turns out I don't need to bend the space-time continuum to make that dream come true, because I discovered the website http://yearbookyourself.com/. Here are the fabulous results. Prepare yourself.

First, some context. Steph in 2008:

Steph in 1960:

Steph in 1966 (blonde!):

Steph in 1968:

Steph in 1978 (Mexican-Irish-Italiafro):

Steph in 1990:

Conclusions: I should really look into getting a pair of cat-eye glasses, AND I look good with an afro. Am I right?

Day-twah

2008-11-25T19:33:00.011-02:00

As some of you may know, I grew up in Southeastern Michigan, about eight miles north of 8 Mile Road, which marks the infamous border between Detroit and its suburbs. I know you've all seen "8 Mile" and know what I'm talking about. Don't pretend otherwise.

I'll admit, the cute little city where I grew up, Birmingham, is a far cry from the mean streets of Detroit. We have an Anthropologie, for goodness' sake! But, still, there's no denying that even us Metro Detroiters who grew up in cushy suburbs have an undeniable link to that complicated metropolis that everyone loves to hate. Like it or not, the city of Detroit defines Southeastern Michigan, and I find that people who grew up in its surrounding suburbs simultaneously ridicule Detroit for being dirty, dangerous, and depressing, while also feeling some sentimental tie to it, in all its decaying glory.

A house in Birmingham

A house in Detroit

After all, Detroit has its own unique character and history, and is associated with some pretty significant industrial and cultural achievements for our country, despite the city's current bad rap. There are the obvious things that Detroit is famous for, of course, like Motown music and the now-struggling auto industry, but there are also the things that perhaps only Metro Detroiters can appreciate, like Red Wings hockey fever, incredibly delicious Middle Eastern cuisine, and the adrenaline-pumping experience of getting lost in the Cass Corridor when driving back from Canada. Only in Detroit!

What makes me really sad, though, is that despite the love I have for the fuzzy, romantic idea of Detroit, the actual city really is putrid, and has only gotten worse over the last decade. It's true that I haven't lived in Michigan for over six years; my parents moved to Nevada between my freshman and sophomore years of college, and since then I've only gone back to Detroit once, to visit my high school best friend during my senior year of college. But I follow Detroit's decline closely. The city's fall, sadly, is not that hard to keep track of. To put it extremely mildly, Detroit has been through a lot of crappola lately: the spectacular collapse of the auto industry, for example, as well as the humiliating and frustrating spectacle of Kwame Kilpatrick, the former mayor, being convicted of perjury, after dragging the city through several years of corruption, waste, and scandal. You might already know all of this; Detroit's sad state has been broadcast widely. Forbes named it the "most miserable city" in the United States (http://www.forbes.com/2008/01/29/detroit-stockton-flint-biz-cz_kb_0130miserable.html), and it is holding steady in the number three position for worst crime rate in the country (http://www.cnn.com/2008/CRIME/11/24/crime.stats/).

The crime rates, the crappy economy, the abandoned houses and lack of infrastructure: this is all bad stuff. But I think one of the biggest slaps in the face that the city of Detroit has received in recent years came from its mayor, the aforementioned Kwame Kilpatrick. This man, who is widely regarded as the Worst Mayor Detroit has ever had (which is saying something), dragged Detroit through quite the sideshow of corruption scandals, and even threw a stripper-murder scandal in there for good measure. Sigh. He was charged in March of this year by the Wayne County prosecutor with misconduct in office, obstruction of justice, conspiracy to commit obstruction of justice and perjury, and in August, two felony counts of assaulting or obstructing a police officer. Eventually, according to the New York Times, "He agreed to plead guilty to two felony counts of obstruction of justice and to plead no contest to a felony count of assault on a police officer; to pay restitution to the city of $1 million; to surrender his law license, forfeit his state pension to the city and be barred from elective office for five years; and to serve 120 days in the Wayne County jail, followed by five years’ probation. The other charges were dismissed." So yeah, he's in jail.

Kilpatrick and his chief of staff (with whom he had an affair) Christine Beatty

But here's the really baffling thing. Kwame Kilpatrick was an awful mayor; he used taxpayer money to give his friends jobs, buy himself cars, and get himself out of trouble. A lot of people in Detroit, who are mostly poor and largely disenfranchised, were understandably ticked off and called for his resignation early on. However, even as Kilpatrick was racking up the charges and facing jail time, people were writing supportive messages to him on the website http://kwamekilpatrick.com/. Here are some of the messages:

i,m sorry kwame kilpatrick that u in jail i wish u get out soon
this is latoya white. we miss u mayor. -latoya white

i feel like everybody cheat but you just got cought but they dont
have to take you to jail for that
-lawandabrunson

Kwame - Kwame i dont think u Should Resign you are a strong african american man
you have done so many thinhg for detroit. Everyone mess up in there life, you should
stay strong through this and and work through this with your wife your No.1 Fan Elijah M.
-Elijah

I'm sorry, but WHAT? Why in the world would anyone in Detroit support Kwame Kilpatrick after he wasted their money and made an embarrassment of the city? Based on the three messages above, I think there is some confusion about what Kilpatrick was actually going to jail for. Hint: it wasn't for cheating on his wife. It was for LYING UNDER OATH and PERJURING himself in court. But even assuming for the sake of (stupid) argument that it would be somehow possible in the United States of America to be sent to jail for adultery, why would people support him anyway? It blows my mind.

It can't just be because Kilpatrick is African-American and people view his jailing as racial targeting, because most of Detroit's population is African-American, and huge numbers of black Detroiters wanted the mayor locked up. Check out, for example, this very thorough blog advocating for Kwame to take a hike: http://goawaykwame.wordpress.com/, and this video showing ordinary Detroiters publicly calling for Kilpatrick's resignation:

And it can't just be the fact that he is a "strong African American man" that makes people want to support him, either, because both of the police officers who blew the whistle on him were also African-American, and I'd imagine you have to be a pretty strong individual to stand up to a corrupt public official who is in charge of your livelihood. Is it because Kilpatrick dresses well and wears a diamond stud earring? Because one would think that if you're an impoverished person in Detroit whose mayor is using your tax dollars to pad his own salary, you wouldn't want to write effusive messages to the mayor wishing him the best. Right? Or am I missing something?

The whole thing is sad and confusing, but at least Kilpatrick is in jail for a while and probably won't be holding public office again any time soon. Hopefully the voters of Detroit will learn something from this fiasco and elect mayors who won't drive the city even further into the ground. In the meantime, I'll continue to watch and hope for the best for the city from the removes of Boston. Come on, Detroit, bring back the glory!

Evilitamins

2008-11-16T21:46:00.004-02:00

I feel it is my duty as a vigilant consumer to inform others about products out there that may make them barf. It's especially important to warn people off of "vitamins" that will make them barf, I think, because if you barf up your vitamin, then what's the point, really?

So, here's the deal: I bought these One-a-Day All Day Energy vitamins this summer in DC, kind of on a whim, partly because I was intrigued by the idea of a combination vitamin AND energy booster, and mostly because I still have the One-a-Day jingle from the '90s stuck in my head, and probably always will ("One-a-Day people, healthy people, for everybody there's a One-aaaa-Daaaay...").

Shortly after I bought the vitamins, I decided to take one before going to the gym one morning. Expecting a wonderful energy boost, I was somewhat dismayed when five minutes later, I was curled in a fetal position on my bed, dry-heaving. After a few minutes of intense, crippling nausea, the feeling passed, and I got up and went to the gym. Being Stephanie, I didn't think anything of it, and continued to take the vitamins a few more times that summer, despite the fact that they made me want to toss my cookies every time I took them.

I think because I took the vitamins so infrequently, I didn't connect the dots and realize that the gross vitamins were actually the ones responsible for the waves of nausea that overtook me every time I swallowed one. Yeah. The last straw came a month or so ago, when I took a One-a-Day and found myself, again, lying curled in my bed fighting off the impulse to hurl. Lying there, I suddenly realized, "Holy crap, these vitamins are EVIL." It took me a while, but I got there. This is sort of like the time it took me two years to figure out that I was giving myself stomach ulcers and slowing my heartbeat down with ibuprofen. These are all signs that I should probably not enter a career in the medical field (sorry, University of Phoenix).

Anyway, I was so weirded out by these vitamins that I went online to see what other people have said about them, and I found that they have made other people violently ill. Plus, they're LOADED with caffeine and guaraná, that crazy Amazon berry that os brasileiros are obsessed with. I read some of the comments online about the vitamins and here is a select sampling:

"Started having major sleep disturbances, waking up seeing things on the wall like images, not feeling right, breathing, very tired feeling, chest pains, up now at 4:30 a.m. because of this, and came to read the back of product and seen that one pill contains as much caffine as a cup of coffee, that's terrible. Guess it's my fault for not reading the label. I already have high blood pressure so this product is definetly not a good recommendation. Stopping usage of this product today!!"

"I am 25 and I took them. I had to stop when they kept making me vomit. A nutritionist suggested I try an organic vitamin instead because the iron in those cheap vitamins can be really hard to digest."

"Into my second bottle, I noticed I was anxious...I was gritting my teeth and just couldn't relax. It was like I was holding my breath and I had to consciously attempt to relax. I attributed it to daily stress. After continued high blood pressure and chest pains, I went to the ER where they suggested I get a pacemaker!! Since I passed the treadmill stress test and Holter monitor, they decided against it. I stopped taking the vitamins and things are slowly getting back to normal."

So, just a few side effects, I guess: nausea, anxiety, nightmares, hallucinations, chest pain, vomiting, high blood pressure, bad spelling. I guess One-a-Day apparently subscribes to the belief that whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger. But these vitamins seem like they might actually kill you. I guess I probably won't take them anymore. Or I'll just keep taking them and have a defibrillator handy...either way.

Flashbeagle

2008-11-14T03:05:00.004-02:00

This particular Charlie Brown TV special, the 1984 Flashbeagle, was recently trashed by a Slate article (which was singing the praises of earlier, more melancholy Peanuts specials), but I still love it. Please watch this and tell me that Snoopy flash-dancing isn't awesome.*

And can we please play tribute to the "Lucy is the Boss" song? I had this song stuck in my head for like 6 years when I was younger.* Might as well pass it on to you guys. Also, please note that at the beginning of this video, it shows Snoopy wearing a leather jacket, strutting down the street with a gang of little yellow birds.** Snoopy was such a bad-ass in the 80s!

*Ages 5-11.

**I'd like to comment here that a certain Canadian boyfriend, whose name will go unmentioned here, insists that Snoopy's bird friend (Woodstock) is actually named Peanut. Just thought I'd throw that out there.

Loose change

2008-11-09T14:40:00.002-02:00

You know, I very much agree with Carrie Underwood that celebrities really shouldn't make political statements. Ever. Think about it: most celebrities are both extremely uneducated AND wealthy, which means that not only will their political beliefs often be astoundingly ignorant, but they'll also be unrepresentative of most Americans' views. It doesn't matter what side of the political debate celebrities are coming from. I cringed just as much when Britney Spears voiced her support for W in 2003, as when Sean Penn wrote an open letter to him in 2002.* I guess what it all boils down to is the following: who gives a crap who Pete Wentz wants for President?

I may not be a celeb, but I also tend to abstain from making political comments, both in my blog and in most of my personal interactions, because I'm not a very politically active person, and because I despise political arguments. Political arguments are futile, frustrating, and boring. My preferences usually aren't strong enough to warrant making a comment anyway, so I leave that to the passionate politicos that walk among us. You know who you are.

However, I do feel compelled to make a teeny tiny comment about the fact that the United States of America just chose Barack Obama, our first African American President-elect, on Tuesday night, because I am pretty excited and happy about it. I'm not going to make some big political proclamation here or anything. I just feel optimistic and I would be remiss if I didn't comment at ALL about the momentous election season we just wrapped up.

To be honest, for me, the election couldn't have come soon enough. I was bored of the politics and posturing very early on (i.e., about two years ago) as is my custom in presidential elections. When Sarah Palin entered the scene, I officially checked out. Done. I voted early in San Francisco and left City Hall more interested in seeing how the California ballot initiatives would come out (not great, as it turns out -- Prop 8 is pretty disgraceful) than the outcome of the Presidential election. But on Tuesday night, watching the returns come in at an election party in Boston hosted by a Romanian couple, I felt excited and happy. Not Oprah-level excited and happy, but pretty jazzed. More than tapping into some previously undiscovered wellspring of support and love for Obama, I was just happy that our country (or, a majority of it, anyway) seemed energized and engaged, and still does.

It warmed my cold little heart to watch John McCain's extremely classy concession speech (and see his adorable, ancient mother on stage with him in Arizona) and to see the Obamas, with their two cute little girls, take the stage in Chicago. It was all very nice and warm and fuzzy. And perhaps the most touching moment of this whole past week was seeing Elisabeth Hasselbeck, a staunch supporter of McCain and the much embattled lone Republican on the View, speak warmly about Obama and national unity. I think she was slightly full of it, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.

Of course, I know that this warm fuzziness is not shared in all households in our country, and I realize that it will fade quickly into the day-to-day drudgery of life and politics, but it's nice for now. America, f*** yeah.

*I bet Bush was thrilled to get the Spears endorsement.

Slanketeer here

2008-10-29T22:46:00.009-02:00

I am writing you from the comfort of my new Slanket. That's right, a Slanket -- a blanket with sleeves. I received said Slanket for my recent birthday (26, yo!) and it's all I could have ever hoped for. It's warm, snuggly, and sleeved, what more could a girl want?

Now, don't confuse the Slanket with its low-rent (and possibly inbred) cousin, the Snuggie. You may have seen the recent Snuggie TV ads, which show Snuggie wearers mirthlessly reading the news, talking on the phone, and completing other mundane tasks, apparently unaware they are wearing sleeved blankets. You'd never see an ad like that for a Slanket, because it's impossible to wear a Slanket and not smile.

By the way, I kinda hope the Slanket marketing people are reading this and writing me a check for boosting their sales among my readership.*

Anyway, please enjoy the series of gratuitous Slanket pics, below.

Go Slankets!

*Mostly 15-year old boys in Macedonia and Norway.

Gwyneth Paltrow seems awful

2008-09-18T11:02:00.005-03:00

I have always thought that Gwyneth Paltrow seemed like a vile human being,* just based on some deep, gut instinct. She just exudes ickiness. She is thin and pinched and pale and haughty and plays bitchy, aloof characters, and I have heard from someone whose cousin went to high school with her that she was an insufferable wretch. I mean, that's enough cold hard fact for me to go on in reaching my conclusion that she is probably a horrible person. I'd even be willing to bet that GP is even meaner than Madonna, and that is saying something. Madonna!

My instincts about Gwynnie were confirmed yesterday as I was watching Oprah (I can't help myself!) and GP was on the show with the famous New York chef Mario Batali. Apparently GP went on a "culinary road trip" with Batali across Spain, pretending to eat solid foods for a few weeks while constantly flinching at the sight of jamon serrano (she's macrobiotic, y'all!). She and Mario came on Oprah to hype their new PBS show and cook paella. At the end of the show, as Oprah was hawking their new book, which was most likely written 100% by Mario Batali or his ghostwriter, Oprah failed to mention GP as a co-author ("with Gwyneth Paltrow"). Noticing the omission, Batali added, "I wrote this with Gwyneth!" And Oprah, looking slightly flustered, said, "Oh, yes," and emphasized GP's role in the book. Gwyneth, who was smiling icily throughout the exchange, said, "Yeah, um, we did it together. But that's okay." In other words, GP had to make it clear, in the last three seconds of the show, that she was pissed, and that she deserved recognition for some stupid cookbook she probably had no hand in writing. Oprah looked like someone had pissed in her Cornflakes as her show ended and the local news at 5 started to roll... "But that's okay."

The whole thing is ridiculous. Really, is the knowledge that Gwyneth Paltrow was a co-author of a book involving FOOD going to make anyone want to buy it more? Maybe the twenty subscribers of "Cooking with Kelp Monthly" would be inspired to purchase the cookbook knowing that Paltrow had a bony hand in its creation, but for me, it's a turnoff. I actually think less of Mario Batali now, knowing that he's friends with Gwyneth. Sorry, Mario. Pick better celebrity friends and we'll talk.

*But, I will always love her classic performance as Margot Tenenbaum, I guess.

Trippin', part 2

2008-08-31T15:58:00.008-03:00

This is a continuation of my last post about my recent Euro trip...

After Croatia, Al and I headed to Cologne, Germany for a day. We stayed in a lovely hotel right in front of the Dom Cathedral, this big Gothic church that towers over the city. The plaza in front of the Dom is mainly occupied by those creepy buskers who paint themselves gold and pretend to be statutes -- and you KNOW how I feel about those people -- and German skater teens. Here is one particularly creepy busker -- dead, German Thomas Jefferson or what?

We spent our time in Cologne wandering along the river, enjoying uber-cheesy oompah performers, tasting wine, munching on black licorice and other assorted gummies, and watching a fat Turkish man handily beat several skinny German dudes at martial arts with his eyes closed. We ate sausages and sauerkraut for dinner and drank big beers. Ah, Germany.

The next morning we flew to Edinburgh, where we dropped our bags at Al's cousin Kathryn's friend Steve's house (whew) in Leith. Apparently, Leith used to be a fairly/very sketchy area (it's the setting for Trainspotters!) but now it's cute and clean and gay, with several "gubs" (gay pubs). We only stayed in Edinburgh for a few hours before taking off for St. Andrew's, where we visited Al's grandparents, who are very sweet and Scottish. We all watched the Olympics on TV, and Granny commented that Michael Phelps, the incredible American swimmer, could probably get a job out of this whole Olympics thing. "He could be a lifeguard," she suggested. Haha! After watching University Challenge and Coronation Street, we had some whiskey, beer and sweets with Granddad and he sung us some Scottish songs.

After St. Andrews, we went to Linlithgow for dinner with some more of Al's family, and then to Glasgow for a night, before heading to the Isle of Arran for a family party. The island was beautiful and green, with cute white houses sprinkled throughout. Quaintness overload! Before arriving on Arran, one of Al's cousins had said, "Ooh, Arran's lovely, it's like going back in time." I think he might have been confused about what going BACK in time entails, because the lodge/resort we stayed at was super modern. I mean, the gym had yoga mats and stability balls. Come on. Anyway, I had a blast on the island; we went biking, had a fancy wine-pairing dinner, and played loads of Scrabble.

Next stop after Arran was Glasgow, where we stayed at Kathryn's gorgeous flat for a night. We went out for delish Indian food and hit up a pub before coming back to the apartment and collectively stalking people on facebook. A good end to a good night! The next day, Al and I were off to Edinburgh again for the Fringe Festival, which is this huge arts festival that takes place every August in Edinburgh. We didn't know any of the acts ahead of time, so we semi-randomly chose a comedy show and bought tickets for it. We ended up seeing Luke Toulson. His show was called "There are so many things I can't do," and it was hilar!

This is a clip of him performing somewhere else last year:

The next morning, we went to London to catch our flight to Iceland. We had heard ahead of time that Iceland is crazily expensive and that we should bring our own food and even booze. With this in mind, we arrived at Heathrow fully stocked with crackers, bananas, vodka, cheese, peanut butter, and apples. However, our plan was abruptly foiled at the security checkpoint when they confiscated our peanut butter, which apparently counts as a liquid, gel, spray or cream. What?! It was CHUNKY. It ended up being fine, though, because the guesthouse we stayed at in Reykjavik included breakfast, which was basically an open fridge that we could graze from for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The vodka did come in handy, though -- I mean, who wants to pay 312984129 krona for a beer? Not me!

Reykjavik was a really weird, barren little city of pre-fab houses perched on top of mossy lava rocks. We stayed outside the city center in what appeared to be an industrial park, and the city center itself seemed abandoned and quiet. It wasn't unpleasant, just a bit strange. The highlight of the Iceland trip, though, was definitely the Blue Lagoon, a natural sulfur hot springs where Nordic-type people go to relax and be blond. At the entrance to the springs, you're given a plastic bracelet with a computer chip embedded in it that opens your locker and allows access to the springs. So high tech! We spent several hours swimming around in the warm, sulfuric water (Al said it was like swimming in a giant, warm egg) while it drizzled cold rain over our heads. It was excellent.

Two cheeseballs in the lagoon:

So, that was Iceland. We stayed two nights and then flew back to Boston. And here I am, back in Cambridge, gearing up to start my last year of law school. Woo hoo. More to come later...

(Don't be) trippin', part 1

2008-08-30T18:13:00.005-03:00

I haven't updated the old blog in a while because I was on vacation, and it was fantastic, and I want to tell you about it over several posts. This is pretty much the internet version of being forced to watch your aunt and uncle's boring slides from their latest trip to Maui when you go over for dinner. Dim the lights, please. Click!

The day after finishing work at the law firm in DC, I got on a plane to Boston, and that same day I took the red-eye to London. In London, I met up with my friend Ricardo, who used to go to law school with me but went back/escaped to England during our first year. When Ricky came and met me at the train station, he hadn't yet been to bed after partaking liberally of the London nightlife. We made quite a team for walking like zombies around the city, since I had been on a flight and in airports all night and also hadn't slept. We trudged around the city for a few hours and I chewed on a big baguette sandwich while taking in a bunch of the big sights -- Parliament, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, etc. London was pretty much exactly as I expected it to look -- totally charming and pretty with beautiful green gardens and red double-decker buses. Charm alert!

After saying goodbye to Ricky, I took the tube to London Dungeon and met up with Vicky, my old friend who I worked with in Brazil. I hadn't seen her in almost three years and it was so nice being reunited with her. We went to her adorable apartment in Greenwich, dropped off my stuff, and then went to dinner at a Mexican restaurant in town, then to the local pub. It was all very quaint.

I got about four hours of sleep before waking up at 2am to go to the airport for my first EasyJet experience, which is apparently a British rite of passage. I had to fly out of Gatwick Airport, which is sort of/really in the boonies. When I got there at 3:45, the airport was packed with English people with straw hats milling around as they waited to get checked in for their flights to Tenerife and Palma and Santorini. After a bit of pushing and shoving, I got checked in for my flight to Split, Croatia -- yay!

Arriving in Split was thrilling because I was about to see my boyfriend, the handsome Alastair, for the first time in over two months. He surprised me by meeting me at the airport, and we took a bus back to our beautiful hotel on the outskirts of Split. This was the view from our hotel window:

It was okay, I guess.

We spent a few days in Split, lying around on the rocky beaches, drinking beer, eating pizza, and relaxing at our fabulous hotel. Our next stop after Split was Hvar Island, which, Al and I both agreed, was a little TOO picturesque. Hvar has it all: crystal clear blue water, boats bobbing in the harbor, cobblestone streets, winding alleyways, and lively outdoor bars -- yeah, we GET it, Hvar, you're charming. Our time in Hvar was largely spent lying on the beach, swimming, drinking, eating, and marveling at the astonishing rudeness of the Croatian people. In terms of surliness, the Croatians give the Argentines a run for their money, which is no easy feat. For example, one day, Al and I went into the local supermarket to buy supplies for a picnic lunch. We needed some cheese so we were waiting at the deli counter as the two sullen female employees behind the counter flirted half-heartedly with some dude with an earring and bad hair. We waited patiently for them to finish their conversation and help us, but they glanced over at us and went on to ignore us for several long minutes. When their manager came over and told them to help us, they both turned, looked us up and down, and one of them said, "Da?" (yes?), as if our presence were a personal affront to her. I mean, we had interrupted her scintillating conversation with Earring McCreepy, so you can see how she'd be annoyed. How dare we demand a slice of cheese! Who the hell do we think we are?!

Anyway, we got the cheese in the end, but we left Hvar thinking that the Croatians are not the nicest peeps in the world. Al pointed out that their country is shaped like a boomerang -- an EVIL boomerang. But really, they don't need to be nice, if you think about it -- tourists are going to flock to the Dalmation Coast even if the natives greet them at the airport by spitting on their shoes. And, I must add that not all of the people there were rude. We encountered some very nice people, most of whom were old waiters. I love old waiters.

Our last stop in Croatia was Dubrovnik, which is one of the most beautiful capitals I've ever seen. The old town is walled in and looks like it's been preserved since Roman times. Here's a street where people actually live:

Our last night in Dubrovnik, we went to a pizza place called Mea Culpa and then wandered through the old city till we found this little outdoor bar looking over the water. The bar was special because it was perched on a cliff above the water and was lit by candlelight -- romantical!! -- and they were playing a tape of Kenny G covers. Until you've heard Kenny G cover "Kiss from a Rose," you really don't know what romance is.

So, that was Croatia... more to come soon.

Oh, to be young again...

2008-07-26T18:59:00.006-03:00

I walked into Abercrombie & Fitch today and immediately regretted it. I was too self-conscious to turn around and walk out, because I felt like the smirking nineteen year old male model they hired to stand at the front door was judging me, so I did a quick lap through the dark and thumping recesses of A & F and departed, confirming for myself what I already knew.

1. I am too old to be stepping foot into Abercrombie & Fitch.

2. The music in that store is absurdly, stupidly loud.

It's a strange feeling to be twenty-five years old and feel ancient, but Abercrombie somehow manages to make me feel like Methuselah with its club-like, throbbing bass, fifteen-year old staff, and dark, cave-like lighting. The weird thing is, I used to shop there -- quite recently, in fact. Like, last year. Thank goodness they don't check ID's at the door because I'm pretty sure people over the age of twenty-two aren't really allowed in there unless they're shopping for ripped-up, $72 jean shorts for their fifteen-year old (slutty) sister.

Oh, but I remember the first time I shopped at an Abercrombie store. I was twelve, it was the summer between sixth and seventh grade, and I was in Baltimore. This was back in the day when the stores had plaid carpeting, bright lighting, and sold flannel shirts and tapered corduroys. I know this because I purchased several flannel shirts and a pair of tapered corduroys and was thrilled when a "cool" girl told me she liked my pants. Apparently I was not the only one in 1995 who thought ankle-pinching pants were awesome.

Then, sometime in high school, Abercrombie got wildly popular, and they started charging $15 for those big fat catalogs full of pictures of nearly naked white people. And with those ridiculously overpriced catalogs, the "Abercrombie model" look was born. According to these pictures, girls must be skinny with stringy hair and vacant eyes, with their shirts unbuttoned at all times. Also, girls usually only wear underpants, even outdoors. All guys must look like Olympic gymnasts in hemp necklaces. Guys are always wet and glistening -- maybe they just all went swimming? Again, at the time, this seemed cool.

When I was seventeen or so, I "dated" a guy who worked at Abercrombie and was in a frat at Michigan. Major cool points. He always wore a beaded necklace and dark-wash jeans, because apparently during that season at Abercrombie, light-wash jeans were verboten. I thought he was super cool, until he told me that he and all his co-workers used to steal bags of clothes after every inventory. But, to be fair, they did only give him a 20% discount. They were asking for it.

By the end of high school, though, I think it was widely understood that working at Abercrombie was actually not worth whatever limited social cachet you got for being attractive enough to get the job in the first place, because Abercrombie paid less than Burger King and forced you to wear their overpriced clothes from that season. And no light-wash jeans.

Anyway, the point is, I think I can't really allow myself to go in there anymore. I hate feeling old, and I also hate going deaf. It was nice while it lasted, Abercrombie.

Can you hear the drums, Fernando?

2008-07-23T21:32:00.005-03:00

One of the best movies ever made, in my humble opinion, is the 1994 Australian film Muriel's Wedding. I saw this movie for the first time when I was in middle school. I remember renting the video and watching it in my basement, sitting in my pampasan chair, utterly moved. Here's what makes it awesome:

1. Almost the entire soundtrack is Abba (with the exception of Blondie's "The Tide is High").

2. Toni Collette is so believable as a mopey, dreamy outcast who attempts to reinvent her own life, and Rachel Griffiths speaks with her real Australian accent.

3. The names of the places are wonderful (Porpoise Spit, Hibiscus Island).

4. Muriel fake-marries a hot South African swimmer (see below).

But really, it's the Abba. The film uses Abba in such a heartfelt, wonderful way. And I'm not the only one who thinks so. The New York Times paid tribute to the film in a video: http://video.on.nytimes.com/?fr_story=02c6f1c18d62ae6bad3205ad1b5d674317d5a2d3

I had been exposed to Abba before Muriel's Wedding, of course. My mother and her sisters are fans, it turns out. When my cousins and I used to go up to our aunt and uncle's cottage in northern California, we'd put on Abba Gold and run around the house belting out the hits between going to the pool and watching "Blood In, Blood Out" repeatedly on the ancient VHS. Abba reminds me of lying in a bunk-bed in a wood-paneled room in the cottage, singing earnestly along with the sweet strains of "Fernando." The lyrics are so goofy, of course, but you can't totally ridicule that song, or any of Abba's tunes, because they're SO gosh darn catchy. You have to give those Swedes props.

Now with this whole Mamma Mia craze, I guess I'm feeling a bit bittersweet. Yes, Abba is experiencing a re-surge, but is it really Abba? I mean, Meryl Streep singing "Mamma Mia" isn't the same as Benny, Björn, Anni-Frid and Agnetha singing it. We all know that. And no Abba-based movie will ever compare to Muriel's Wedding. How could it?

I'll just leave you with this final quote from Muriel: "When I lived in Porpoise Spit, I used to sit in my room for hours and listen to ABBA songs. But since I've met you and moved to Sydney, I haven't listened to one Abba song. That's because my life is as good as an Abba song. It's as good as Dancing Queen."

A tribute to TV

2008-07-01T21:25:00.006-03:00

One of my favorite things to do is to go back through old emails I have written and received and look at my past through rose-colored glasses. "Those were the days!" I inevitably mutter, skipping over the parts of the emails where I bitch and moan about work, school, waiting in line, etc. I know it's a bit self-indulgent to re-read my own correspondence. Well aware.

Oh, are you expecting me to justify it somehow? Yeah, I've got nothing.

ANYWAY, I was going back through some emails from my time in Brazil and I came to the realization that, man, I talk about TV and movies a lot in my emails. Please observe the representative snippets below:

Date: July 27, 2005 2:23:07 PM EDT

So far no rat-tail sightings but I have been watching Brazilian TV and there are some weird hair trends nonetheless. Like the other day on Brazil MTV they had this kind of makeover show where this kid gets to get a new image, etc., but they cut his hair in this horrible bowl/mushroom/shag thing, and at first I thought it was a joke, like Punk'd, "just kidding, now it's time for your REAL haircut," but no. They were serious.

Date: September 28, 2005 2:44:46 PM EDT

And no, Flightplan hasn't come out here but wasn't there a movie exactly like that with Julianne Moore where she thinks she has a son and everyone tells her the son doesn't exist?? Is it just me or is Hollywood getting lazier!? The Julianne Moore one came out like last year.. are the Hollywood execs like, Eh, just get a new actress, make the son a daughter, and add in a plane, people won't notice it's the SAME MOVIE....

October 6, 2005 10:53:05 AM EDT

Last night I watched this really good documentary about "super gifted' children who were trying to get into a high school program called Transitions that lets them graduate h.s. when they are 14 and start college right afterwards. (i think it's insane, personally) Some of the kids chose to do it, and some didn't get in the program, and some chose to just go to regular high schools. Some of these kids just made me sad, bc the parents pushed them so hard and the children really were deprived of childhoods.. like this one Asian kid, his dad was totes living vicariously through him, and was coaching him before the interview for this transitions program.. and the dad said, "make sure you tell them that you are humorous. so if they ask you about yourself, what are you going to say?" and the kid said in this monotone, "i am humorous." SO SAD.

Date: January 20, 2006 7:12:05 AM EST

I had the WEIRDEST dream last night, where a bunch of people were sitting in a circle, including me and my mom, and Elton John and David Furnish.. Elton sat right in front of my mom, even though it was supposed to be a circle, and she was pissed. I think she said something sort of bitchy to him, and he replied bitchily, and I was like, Ma, you don't want to be on Elton John's black list, just let it go...*

February 7, 2006 10:58:35 AM EST

America's Next Top Model is over and I missed the last episode, but Dougal explained it to me in detail. I guess Naima deserved to win but I was rooting for Kahlen. Naima was sort of a bitch when it came down to it.. but then I guess it's not about personality, it's about being FIERCE... right now American Idol is on, plus the usual favorites.. oh and a new season of Supernanny, which I can't get enough of. Oh yeah and I just realized a few weeks ago that they play Arrested Development on Saturdays on Fox... i LOVE that show, I think it is one of the funniest shows ever, like the kind of thing that I almost wet myself watching, even when I am by myself. Have you seen it?

Date: February 16, 2006 11:32:27 AM EST

The documentary last night was so weird. it was about BBWs (big beautiful women) and FAs (Fat admirers) -- there is this group of men who honestly like women morbidly obese. this one british guy dated obese women in the US and Britain before he finally found a 566 lb girl in the US to propose to, and then he was upset when she started losing weight because she was so dangerously obese (like she had trouble breathing, walking, etc).. she was worried she was going to lose him because he really likes HUGE girls.. but he said, "don't worry, sweetie, you're never going to be REALLY skinny so it's okay.." it was like, topsy turvy world.

Date: February 25, 2006 7:17:10 PM EST

Salvador is okay... it is just a sea of humanity, like entire families come here for carnaval (mostly to sell stuff) and they sleep on the street, plus there are just drunk people running around 24 hours a day. but it is SO relaxed, even more-so than rio, like today a guy walked into the internet cafe wearing a speedo, no shoes, and carrying flippers, hahah...Tonight I am just staying in.. basically all I did today was eat a lot and sleep and watch bad Brazilian soaps.. we only get 4 channels on the tv in our room so we are stuck watching wheel of fortune (brazilian style) and floribella (bad novela!!)... but i am trying to keep a positive attitude.

I mean, I guess I already knew that I liked TV but when I re-read my Brazil emails I expected to find some more profound cultural observations than that South Americans have bad hair. We all know that, Steph. And why the heck was I watching Brazilian MTV? In some way, though, I think watching TV does provide some cultural insight, even if that insight is largely lost on me. At least I always have something to talk about, no matter what country I'm in.

Yeah, what was I saying? Whatever. Gotta go, TV's on.

* I realize this one isn't actually about TV. But I kind of had to share it.

Growing up

2008-06-14T20:20:00.003-03:00

Steph in 2005 was a bit different from Steph in 2008. Steph in 2005 lived in Brazil and went clubbing till 8 am three nights a week. Steph in 2008 lives in the US and recently attended a Renaissance fair. But one thing that hasn't changed in three years of quite varied experiences is Steph's willingness to cut and paste emails she's written as substitutions for real blogging. So that's what this post might turn into -- just a fair warning.

I was speaking to my parents on the phone earlier today (they always put me on speaker and both sort of yell across the room in the general direction of the phone as they do other, more pressing things) and she mentioned that she had recently read my boyfriend's blog and asked me why I hadn't updated mine in, well, a while. "Are you giving it up?" she asked. Me, give up blogging? Oh, HELL no. But she had a point. If Al, who is currently in the wilds of Central Asia, can update his blog (http://stantastico.blogspot.com/) while living in a yurt and eating horsemeat kebobs, certainly I can update mine from the comforts of our nation's lovely capital. Right? Of course right.

Anyway, here is an excerpt from an email I wrote recently about what I have done in the past few days:

"So, today is Elise's bday. We both got up pretty late and went to our respective gyms and then went to get pedicures at this place near Adams Morgan. This place was crazy! There was a long wait and like 10 pedicure chairs, and they were just hustling people in and out. I guess this is the "it" place to get your nails done because it is "cheap." Evz. Anyway now I am in the rare state of having both beautiful hands and feet.

Ummm what else. Oh, yeah, the firm retreat... it was fun! I did "yogalates," which turned out to be pilates with a couple of downward facing dogs thrown in. Thank goodness the lady who taught it made sure to tell us which poses were good for "sexual energy" and "releasing toxins." After that, I got a "spa manicure," and was received by the totally ridiculous guy who worked at the spa who was trying on a Madonna-esque fake British accent. It sort of came and went, so I wanted to keep him talking so I could hear it. He also did theatrical hand gestures. He was great, I wanted to just hang out with him all day and wait for him to break character.

Theeeen, I hung out by the pool, and finally, I did wine and herb tasting, which is exactly what it sounds like. Yeah. This really talkative (read: annoying) sommelier made us chew up weird herbs that she apparently had plucked from the golf course before tasting the wine. Yum. The good part was that she gave us full pours for the tasting, so I got a bit tipsy. Luckily I left before they brought out the reds, hehe."

There ya go. That's a quick update on my life lately. As I mentioned above, tonight is my roommate's twenty-fourth bday so we are going to go eat dinner in a few minutes at a fun Mexican place that features frozen margaritas at the bar and a long wait for a table, which means everyone is always a little drunkety-drunk when they sit down to eat. Therefore, it's a good bday place. Okay, off I go!! Later.

Green guilt

2008-05-05T23:44:00.004-03:00

I've come to the conclusion that "being green" comes pretty naturally to: a) children of the depression, and b) people who tend to be anxious and guilt-ridden, especially those who were nervous kids. Not that I have anyone particular in mind.

I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT ME.

Okay, maybe I am talking about me.

No, I'm exaggerating. I wasn't actually a Nervous Nelly as a child, but I did have the tendency to fret sometimes. Like, in high school, when I got a 6 CD changer (the cutting edge-ness of this technology was almost unfathomable at the time), I used to get up in the middle of the night to make sure it was turned off, because there was something about that little red light being on, unblinking throughout the night, that made me think bad things would happen. What bad things? I don't know -- but think of all that wasted energy! Planes could crash! Worlds could collide! I had to turn it off!*

Now that the green movement is here, I have even more reasons to get up in the middle of the night. Now I have to unplug my desk fan if I'm not using it, my computer charger, my speakers, my cell phone. If you leave those things plugged in at night, you're singlehandedly contributing to the rapid destruction of the planet. If you don't unplug that lamp, the green people say, our beloved Mother Earth will silently scream in pain as you drain her life force, just because you're too f-ing lazy to pull the plug. I think now there might be a special circle of Hell reserved for those who fall asleep in front of the TV.

This is why I think that the green movement goes hand in hand with the American (upper) middle class's latent guilt and anxiety about being the American upper middle class. Now, this particular brand of guilt clearly does not affect everyone in that particular stratum of society (you know who you are, Lincoln Navigator owners). But there's a certain subset of people out there who feel crippling guilt about their own privilege, wealth, and success, and attempt to compensate for it through environmental self-flagellation.

There's a strong undercurrent of self-deprivation and punishment involved in "going green." Remember when Sheryl Crow said each person should only use one square of toilet paper when going to the bathroom? ONE SQUARE! That's just one example of the environmental asceticism that more and more wealthy people are embracing. Consciously going green, it seems to me, replicates a certain type of religious experience, one in which believers are expected to deny themselves earthly (i.e. non-green) pleasures. Green products, after all, are less pleasant and cushy than their polluting counterparts. Green toilet paper scratches your butt. Green toothpaste tastes weird and doesn't clean your teeth. Green clothing gives you rashes. Green food is expensive. The fading away of rigorous religious practice in this country has been replaced by an adherence to greenness and a concomitant heaping of guilt. On the other side of the coin, rigidly adhering to a green lifestyle allows one to feel superior to environmental sinners.

Now, maybe my perspective on the green movement is influenced by the fact that I was raised Catholic, and no matter how “relaxed” one's religious upbringing may be, a certain dose of daily guilt is inescapable for every Catholic. Now that I don’t go to church very often anymore, I find it comforting to at least partly replace the rigors of mass and penance with environmental conscientiousness. I am vigilant about unplugging things. I recycle every scrap of paper, every plastic bottle, every tin can. I switch off lights and appliances every chance I get. I re-use plastic baggies and rubber bands. I write on the backs of pieces of paper. I buy organic spinach. I use a Nalgene bottle so I won’t go through so many plastic water bottles. Oh, and did I mention I don’t have a car and walk everywhere?

Don’t get me wrong, all of this is GOOD (maybe even great) AND it’s easy. It’s not like it’s a huge sacrifice to throw my Diet Coke bottle into the recycling bin instead of the trashcan, right? I just think it’s interesting to note the compulsive, quasi-religious rituals that accompany greenness. An awareness of the value that the green movement places on self-denial isn’t a reason to abandon environmentalism, however, any more than it’s a reason to abandon religion. After all, a little self-denial is good, especially in these times of overindulgence and hyper-consumption.

So, those are my thoughts -- thanks for listening. Oh, and please remember to unplug your computer when you’re done reading this, and to say 40 Hail Marys before bed. Have a lovely day.

*I realize that I'm making myself sound like a serious sufferer of obsessive compulsive disorder. Um, I guess I should probably say something to redeem myself now, but as the wise Popeye once said, I yam what I yam and that's all that I yam.

Hungry walk

2008-05-04T17:50:00.003-03:00

I just did the Walk for Hunger in Boston. Well, actually, to be completely honest, I did half of it, which means I still walked 10.5 miles. I just felt like that was enough, ya know? Plus, I was hungry. Which I guess was the point of a walk for hunger.

Despite the crappy, drizzly weather, the walk was pretty cool, and I got to see parts of Boston I'd never seen before, like Brookline and Newton. Here is the route:

http://www.projectbread.org/site/PageServer?pagename=walk_route_large&printer_friendly=1

My friend Rachel and I got to the halfway point (labeled on the route map with a number 5) and decided that we were done walking and ready for lunch, since we had been going for 3 hours and there were shuttle buses back to Boston Common just waiting for us -- beckoning us, you might say. Once back in Cambridge, we went for a big dim sum lunch at Changsho, mmm. Shrimp shu mai has never tasted so good.

I'm glad I got out and did something today, since today was shaping up to be another day spent entirely on my butt in front of the TV. Since finishing my final on Thursday, I have become a totally unmotivated lump. It's been sort of glorious. I mean, I watched Oprah the other day. OPRAH. To be fair, it was the Tom Cruise interview and there was no way I was missing Oprah grilling Tom about the 2005 couch jumping incident. I watched the interview sort of (i.e. REALLY) hoping that Tom would go off the rails again, but he maintained kind of a low-key nuttiness. There was no jumping. Don't get me wrong, he's still a nut -- but he got the mania under control, which is obviously disappointing. And Oprah didn't ask him about the Scientologist practice of Silent Birth, which I think we all wanted answers on.

Well, now that I have gone walking and eating, I guess I'd better try to finish up the few remaining tasks I have before my second year of law school is officially done. Off I go!

Babbling brook of consciousness

2008-04-22T22:13:00.004-03:00

I signed on to my blog just now because I remembered how in my last post, I had apologized profusely for not writing and being inexcusably lazy, and had promised to remedy the situation, starting NOW. So, in an effort to make good on that promise, I figured I might as well just sign on to the old blog and see what I have to say, even if I can't think of anything interesting to share at the moment. It's like one of those creative writing exercises! "Fill up a blank page with whatever comes to mind, just keep that pencil moving!"

But actually, does anyone ever actually light upon a fantastic idea while scrawling self-indulgent drivel on a piece of paper? Stream of consciousness exercises are to writing what word association exercises are to therapy -- filler. Stream of consciousness exercises are what happens when your Learning Annex professor wants to go take a "cigarette" break and needs to keep the class busy for 11 minutes or so while he goes to his Volvo to get his rolling papers. Oh, and speaking of word association, one of my favorite scenes from the movie "What About Bob" is when an unwitting Bob is being driven by his therapist, Dr. Leo Marvin, to the mental institution where he will be committed for observation:

Bob: Where are we going?
Dr. Leo Marvin: Intensive psychotherapy.
Bob: Wahoo! Okay, some free associations from my infancy. A beach ball. A dog. A log. A poodle. A noodle. A doodle.

So, be warned -- this post may turn out to be of the poodle/doodle/noodle variety.

Here are some things I definitely won't be discussing in this blog post:

- the Pennsylvania primary
- abortion art at Yale
- Earth Day or anything involving being "green"
- the goings-on in Kenya
- Richie Sambora
- the Boston marathon

Things I am tempted to write about, but won't:

- this month's "Red-Hot Read" in Cosmo
- naan, and why it is so good
- my sore throat and runny nose
- the Real Housewives of New York City
- the weather

Okay, so here's what I am actually going to share with you today. I am shamelessly stealing this idea from Perez Hilton, but the video (and the accompanying New Yorker article) are fascinating, so everyone should take a look. This is a video of a man, Nicholas White, who was trapped in an elevator at his work for 41 hours. The video is from the security cameras and only takes a few minutes to watch -- really unsettling and interesting!

http://www.newyorker.com/online/video/2008/04/21/080421_elevators/?yrail

Anyway, that's all I've got for you today. Just be thankful I spared you some free associations from my own infancy.

Flog

2008-04-17T21:28:00.003-03:00

The title of this post refers to the harsh flagellation I deserve for falling off the blogodar for so long.* There's really no good excuse for it, as usual. But I want to tell you some of the things I have done since last writing, just so you won't think I've been sitting on the couch reading Marie Claire and eating Ho Ho's.

I have:

- gone hang gliding in Rio. I gained a huge dose of confidence in my chances of not crashing to my death after seeing a pudgy, middle aged patron go ahead of me.

- drank *several* caipirinhas over the course of my 8 day vacation to Brazil, each of which could be (and probably was) described (by me) as "the best caipirinha I've ever had in my LIFE, you guys."

- smoked my first cigar. Clean living!

- negotiated the crap out of a fake divorce settlement in my Negotiation Workshop (super depressing, yet rewarding)

- finished a first draft of a long-ass research paper, which makes me feel like I don't actually have to do any more work this semester, despite having several final exams and papers to prepare for.

- watched a full season of 'Real Housewives of New York City' on Bravo. Typical dialogue from the show:
Alex: "My children, Francois and Johan, have a French au pair who ONLY speaks to them in French. They're fluent now. We are just so lucky to be raising our children to be bilingual."
*Jump to shot of French au pair and children eating breakfast.*
French au pair: (in English) Francois, can you say "cereal" in French?
Francois: *sullen silence.*
French au pair: Francois? How about "milk?" Remember how I taught you this word?
Francois: I HATE milk. I want sparkling white grape juice!

- narrowly avoided getting dengue fever in a creepy, dank, mosquito-infested hostel in Buzios

- hung out with elderly Azorean ladies at a local Portuguese community center.

- got my butt (and various other body parts) handed to me on a plate by a gym class called Body Bar. It has been almost three days since I did the class, and it still hurts to sit. And walk. And lift my arms. I am DEFINITELY doing it again next week.

- eaten almost half a pound of Twizzler's Pull & Peel with my boyfriend. That's half a pound EACH, incidentally.

- found an apartment in Washington, DC for this summer with my roommate, yay.

There's probably more stuff. But as you can see, I've been a busy girl. Twizzlers, Real Housewives, masochistic workout classes -- my plate is quite full right now. Speaking of masochistic workouts, I am going to scurry off to the gym now. Promise I'll be better at blogging once finals are over. PROMISE.

*We need WAY more words to describe the world of blogging, hence "blogodar." Patent pending.

super tranny from transylvania who's not apologizing for it.

2008-04-01T19:13:00.002-03:00

Tickity tack tranny hot mess.

In pursuit of better blogging

2008-03-09T14:50:00.004-03:00

Hey. I realized the other day that other people who have blogs actually write in them. Like, frequently. There's this girl I went to college with, for example, who writes in her blog every day, even if it's just to give an update of her morning commute ("More traffic, AGAIN!!! What a drag!!!"). But that's taking it too far, I think. Because really, who gives? I certainly don't. Yet, I still click on this girl's blog in some sort of slacker-blogger self-flagellation ritual. I dunno.

I try to blog when I have something to say, but sometimes, even when I do have something to say, I'm too lazy to actually sit down and type it out. All that finger work, so arduous. Plus, I have this sneaking sensation that most of the people who read my blog are teenage boys who are just scanning the page in desperate search of pictures of Brazilian waxes. Finding none, they then click on the "Next Blog" tab, which, 90% of the time, will bring them to some doofy family's photoblog of their wall-eyed baby ("Our Little Miracle!!!"). Seriously - try it. Sometimes you luck out with Next Blog, though, and get something like this: http://misssrilanka2008.blogspot.com/. So, you never know. Roll the dice!

So last night I went out to dinner with some of my girl friends, and we were talking about the website Yelp.com, and how we don't trust the reviews of bars. The yelpers tend to slam bars with "loud music" and "revelry" while praising establishments that allow for quiet solitude and unobtrusive service. Plus, if you're sitting down to write a lengthy and impassioned review of Tommy Doylez ("Irish kitsch abounds!"), you probably have a bit too much time on your hands. But, I pointed out to my friends that some topics on Yelp are more reliable (for example, reviews of salons), because if you had a really bad experience at a salon ("I'm bald now") or a really good one ("I look GOOD"), you want to share it with the world. That's kinda how I feel about blogging. I wouldn't sit down to write a review of a bar ("There were many types of alcohol there, and some sort of music playing in the background"), but I would certainly write a review of an aesthetician or hair salon.* Similarly, I wouldn't blog about my morning commute ("I passed that fire hydrant again") but I would write about, say, blogging.

Sorry for yet another meta-blogging post. I just want you all to know that if it seems that I am slacking, it's really just that I am saving you from less-than-stellar blog posts. You should thank me. Or at least don't click on Next Blog just yet.

*In fact, in college, I did write a review of a really good waxing place I went to in Palo Alto, but then took it down when I came to my senses. Some details don't need to be shared with the world, Stephanie.

I could really go for a pop.

2008-02-26T22:21:00.002-03:00

Please note that I have taken two (2) "What American accent do you have" quizzes, and both have confirmed, to my chagrin, that I STILL have a Michigan accent, even after all my efforts to lose it in college. Sigh.

Take the quiz and see what you get.

What American accent do you have? (Best version so far)

Northern

You have a Northern accent. That could either be the Chicago/Detroit/Cleveland/Buffalo accent (easily recognizable) or the Western New England accent that news networks go for.

Click Here to Take This Quiz
Brought to you by YouThink.com quizzes and personality tests.

Cuba, Cuba.

2008-02-24T18:39:00.005-03:00

Since Fidel Castro announced this past week that he won't pursue the Cuban Presidency in the future, the New York Times has published a spate of articles discussing the situation on the island -- what may change (if anything), what Cubans are thinking and feeling, the US reaction, and so on. When I heard the news about Fidel's "resignation," I wasn't very surprised, nor did I see any major significance in the announcement. In some ways, it seems to me, Fidel "resigned" over a year ago, as his brother Raúl has taken over many of the important presidential functions already. In another sense, it seems like Fidel will never really leave, even after he's buried with his boots on. The DePalma article I've posted below compares Fidel to a giant plane that leaves such a strong wake after its takeoff that other planes have to wait for it to pass before they can leave the jet-way.

DePalma echoes my prediction that little (if any) radical change will happen for a long time in Cuba. His article also briefly touches on the deep sadness felt on both sides of the US-Cuba divide, and the overwhelming uncertainty about the future that everyone (but particularly those who live on the island) feels constantly.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/02/24/weekinreview/24depalma.html?ex=1361595600&en=81001b93410234f9&ei=5124&partner=permalink&exprod=permalink

I also found this article, about the changing tenor of Cuban exiles' views about Fidel, to be quite interesting:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/02/20/us/20miami.html?ex=1361250000&en=5d85891c8dda8797&ei=5124&partner=permalink&exprod=permalink

Oh, and just FYI, Raúl is officially the new president of Cuba:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20080224/ap_on_re_la_am_ca/cuba_leadership

I'M IN A BOAT IN HOLLAND!!!!

2008-02-13T23:00:00.003-02:00

For those of you who don't know, which I'm assuming is most non-British people reading this, Trigger Happy TV was a British hidden camera show that ran from 2000-2002, started by this guy Dom Joly. According to Wikipedia, the show "did not revolve around trapping normal people into embarrassing and impossible situations. Instead, Joly often made fun of himself rather than others, and many scenes made people stop and either laugh or simply wonder what was going on; the passers-by are never made aware of the fact that they are on television, presumably until they sign a release form allowing the use of the footage shot."

This show used to be on Brazilian TV a lot and I'd watch it on weeknights before retiring into my bed at 9 pm. Below is a compilation of sketches involving Joly and a giant, novelty phone that he answers at inappropriate times, in quiet places. Believe me, it's definitely worth it to cut and paste this link into your browser and watch it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NciO7AEqKYE

"NAH, IT'S RUBBISH! JUST A LOT OF CHEESE AND STUFF."

The Socratic Method of Lunch

2008-02-09T16:49:00.000-02:00

I'm in the bagel shop, trying to study. Below, word for word, is the conversation going on in the booth next to me. I want to commit hari kari with a cream cheese spreader to make it stop:

Old, Wise Philosopher: "They're called Isostics, and the "issics" term is derogatory. It's like wise-ass. But basically, Socrates was going around asking people, well, you can say something like this is just or that is just, but tell me what justice is in the general, you know, and he'd do that with various things, but in the end, he was like, I know that I don't know, and you guys suck. But I mean, you have to look at the political situation. This was towards the end of the 5th century, when the culmination would be the civil war with Sparta, and for someone to question what justice was, that was threatening. But Socrates didn't write anything. So."

Clueless Younger Guy: "Whoa. Wait. But. Okay. I'll be right back, I gotta get a bagel."

So now, blessedly, there is a break in the extremely loud philosophizing, and I can hear the AWESOME R.E.M song that has been playing in the bagel shop that these jackasses were drowning out before. WHO comes to Bruegger's to talk Socrates? That's all I want to know -- who are these people, where do they live, and would it be feasible to egg their house later?

Follow-up note: the young guy came back and now they're talking about their favorite harpsichordians. This promises to be a lively and edifying exchange!

My favorite Superbowl commercial....ever.

2008-02-04T02:02:00.002-02:00

So, I just watched the Super Bowl, which was disappointing for two main reasons:

1. The Patriots lost (which I don't care about), but there were no riots to be seen (I was at someone's apartment near Fenway), despite the 50 million police officers with clubs and the 15 armored trucks right outside our door. I mean...if the Pats are gonna lose, the least Boston could do is start a few fires, right?

2. The commercials were not as good as last year. I was expecting great things, or at least something as funny as my favorite Super Bowl commercial ever, which I am posting here:

Beard Comb-over

Add to My Profile | More Videos

The commercial above is amazing and will never be topped, because it involves Jim Gaffigan, Michael Ian Black (dreamy), short shorts and roller skates. This year's commercials, in contrast, were either racist cartoons, boring shots of cars driving in futuristic landscapes, talking animals (SO five years ago), or just plain nonsense (Naomi Campbell dancing with lizards). Come on, Super Bowl. Get it together.

My baaaaad

2008-01-24T19:30:00.000-02:00

The title of this post is a sheepish apology!

I am apologizing because I have been SO bad with the blogging as of late. I have a couple of reasonably good excuses -- I was taking a winter term class, I went to Paris, I had an exam, and I am a lazy son of a gun.

Probably the best excuse for my bad blogging was my Paris excursion, which was totally, like, life-changing. I learned SO much about Europe after living there for a full three and a half days. Like, people in Europe all drive small cars because they love the Earth more than Americans. Everyone bikes to work, and school, and to the patisserie and the boulangerie and the pizzerie. That's another thing -- if you want to buy a croissant, you have to buy it at the bakery, but if you want a wheel of fromage, you have to get it from the cheese shop, and you have to carry it home in a cloth bag in the front basket of your bike.

European children also only play with locally-made wooden toys, and they each speak four languages, but not because their neurotic, competition-driven parents over-schedule them, but because in Europe, you just organically learn languages without even trying. I think it's because they don't put fluoride in the water. Damn you, fluoride!

Another thing about Europe: people are SO much more fashion forward. They wear tailored trench coats and scarves tied around the throat, and hairy shoes (see picture below).

I don't expect you non-Europeans to understand this type of innate, superior fashion sense. Just trust me when I say that if you live in France as long as I have, you'll just get it. One day, it'll just make sense to you. That's when you know you've LIVED in Europe.

It was a big three days of self-discovery, I'll say that. Anyway, I am back now and ready to blog. Missed you guys.

What the Dickens...?!

2007-12-27T22:07:00.000-02:00

The other day, I had the unique experience of attending the Dickens Fair(e) at the Cow Palace with my cousins Amanda and John. "What is the Dickens Faire?" you may be asking. Well, it's pretty much exactly what it sounds like: a fair celebrating the works of Charles Dickens. Except not really. Because really, the Dickens Faire is a renaissance/medieval fair for those who wish they could wear corsets, speak in a strained Cockney accent, and drink mead every day, but can't because of societal constraints. For instance, once inside the Cow Palace, I saw, among others: a rough looking chimney sweep with ash and grease all over his face,* a six year old slutty pirate wench, a constable chasing a drunk, and several singing prostitutes.

Initially, I was confused as to what the point of the Dickens Faire was, but now, well...still kinda confused. I mean, there are "shops" where you can buy such practical items as corsets, wooden boxes, assorted spices, hair garlands, and mystical goddess paraphenalia (which was obviously super popular in the Victorian Age), and there were shows happening on various stages, but there was no main(e) event. I suppose the main event for me was probably ye olde pub, where I ordered a hot cider with rum. Yum.

After my cousin John and I got our drinks and Amanda bought some nuts in a paper cone, we went to look for Amanda's friend from work, a performer at the Faire who was the impetus for Amanda's suggestion that we go in the first place. We found her eventually (she was dressed as a singing whore) and she greeted us. The conversation went like this:

Amanda: Hi!

Singing whore friend: 'Ello, luv!

Amanda: So, um. Are you having fun?

SWF: Great fun, sweet 'eart! I'm just tickled you could come! Why don't you 'ave a seat righ' over there and watch the show?

Amanda: Oh, uh, okay.

That's right -- Amanda's friend didn't break character even when speaking to her friend and work colleague. Now that's commitment. And exceedingly weird.

We took Amanda's friend's advice and sat by the stage and watched a burlesque show unfold, which involved a fat lady with truly scary cleavage singing a song with a cucumber as a prop. Gross. And there were children in the audience! Kids grow up too fast in ye olde England, I think. After the show ended, we took another spin around the shops, gazed longingly at the meat pies being sold in the back, and then left because Amanda's eyes were red and watery. Her Dickens allergy really acts up this time of year.

Anyway, if you want the official line on the Dickens Faire, check out this link: http://www.dickensfair.com/

Judge for yourself. Cheerio!

*Also could have been a modern day homeless person.