GPS Makes People Stupid

And that includes me.

We’ve all read about the morons who turn onto a train track because they’re intently following a GPS that hasn’t been updated. And we’ve probably all laughed at the episode of The Office when Michael and Dwight plunge into a lake while following their GPS’s instructions. Plus there's nothing more annoying than people fiddling with a GPS and pressing all kinds of buttons while they’re supposed to be driving.

In fact, one of this blog’s followers had a dumb GPS moment. While I'm ever discreet and won’t reveal names, this particular friend was so obsessed with his/her Tom Tom that s/he once drove to the wrong town for a job interview, even though s/he KNEW what city the interview was in. When s/he arrived to the mistaken locale, tumbleweeds were blowing across the dusty street and whistling wind could be heard all around. His/her answer: “Tom Tom told me to come here!”

I myself once scoffed at owning a GPS, a feeling that was compounded by the horrible mishap of driving home from Long Beach Island, NJ, for FOUR hours with a borrowed GPS set to the voices of Beavis and Butthead. Do you know irritating it is to make a wrong turn and hear “You’re going the wrong way, dumbass. Hehehehe”?

Eventually I broke down and am now the proud owner of a Magellan (we’ll call it Madge). I don’t usually use it, but this past weekend I put it on while taking a different route than usual to my father’s house. While approaching a traffic light I heard the GPS demand that I make a right turn. As my brain had already settled into a low-functioning state while I let Madge do all the work, I blindly made the turn. Not two seconds later, I saw the bright, intrusive flickering lights of a cop car on the prowl.

The worst part? It was a female cop and my charms, or what remain of them, had no impact on her. She was large, in charge, and pissed off. Sauntering up to my window with her hands on her abundant hips and her black hair pulled into a fierce, angry ponytail, she barked whether or not I knew what I’d done wrong.

“Ummm, no” I said, making matters worse. “You made an illegal right turn. There were TWO green arrows pointing left AND a sign,” she said, before stalking off to write me a ticket. I glared at my GPS while I waited for her to come back and toss the ticket into my hand. I then followed Madge’s instructions down through a loop until suddenly I realized I was back at the same fartin traffic light.

“Don’t do it again!” warned my brother, from the passenger seat.

“WTF?!” I shouted looking at Madge closely. That’s when I realized that the right turn the device was telling me to make was in 1.7 miles, not at the immediate light. No wonder I’d made an illegal turn. Thanks for thinking ahead Madge, but NO thanks. As I approached the light, it turned yellow and I sped through it.

“You’re gonna get another ticket!” my brother shouted.

But alas, I didn’t. I arrived at my destination where my father, a police officer, had to hear about the latest in my string of traffic violations dating back to the time I first got my license. My only defense: “But at least this time I wasn’t speeding!” So let this be a lesson to you all. Screw all the Tom Toms and Madges and electronic guiding devices you're using and instead of being their slave Engage. Your. Brain.

Happy V-Day

Artwork by ECOL, http://www.ecol-art.com/

Give Me a T-Shield!

Did anyone else think the 2011 Super Bowl was boring? Maybe I’m an unfair critic, as I’m not particularly fond of football. Even when I am a fairweather fan, I only really like New York teams. But this year, I can barely recollect one funny commercial let alone a play that made me gasp or jump up and clap. Is this why people turn to betting? To inject some adrenaline into things?

Admittedly I’m a poor excuse for a sports fanatic. I was kicked out of ballet class at age 5 because I made up my own routine during a recital that consisted of leaping across the stage while kicking my own butt. Other unfortunate displays of athletic ability followed throughout my childhood (picture a 5 ft 7 in 90 pound gangly dork with braces and a mullet swingin' and a missin' every ball that came her way!). As for watching sports, with the exception of a live baseball game or two, and a cool experience attending a live World Cup qualifier game in Scotland in 1998, I steer clear of viewing sports events on television because I find them boring.

But I watch the Super Bowl for several reasons: 1) to throw my diet to the wind and eat an obscene amount of comfort food washed down with nice beer; 2) to watch the commercials; 3) to see if the pre, opening, or half time acts are entertaining.

This year only number one satisfied my needs. The commercials were lame (except the strange Doritos commercial in which a guy licks Doritos remnants off someone’s finger and then off a pair of pants – disturbing yet fascinating). And as for the half time show, all I have to say is @Fergie: FYI, please don’t sing a Guns N’ Roses song again! Slash couldn’t save you and even looked mildly disturbed at you gyrating against him as he tried to play. I did a better rendition of Axl while doing karaoke  three sheets to the wind at my 32nd birthday party!

Anyway, all of this got me thinking about Nipplegate: the infamous Janet Jackson boob horror (and the nip-shield she donned). That’s precisely what the ‘bowl was missing! Some boobage! Screw the subsequent outcry across America against the evil of all evils: the exposure of a woman’s body. F the innocent children who were forced to see the spine chilling boob in all of its glory (despite the fact that, as children, it was in their face feeding them for the first months of their lives). And yes, of course I know that a boob is far more dangerous than the abundance of guns and violence we have on television. When you think about it, boobs could, if left to their owner’s devices, rule the world. Call me Canadian (only about 50 complained about the 2004 half time show), but instead of a demure Christina Aguilera in a tacky dress suit and the Tronned up Black Eyed Peas, I say we listen to Justin Timberlake (the accomplice) and next year, Bring Boobies Back.

Girl Date

Why is it so hard to make friends as an adult? (or, erm, is it just me?). When I moved to Barcelona from New York ten years ago, I was fresh out of college, with a huge group of university and high school friends. I remember feeling homesick my first few months in Spain, especially before I got a job, as I went to the beach, movies and markets, alone, not speaking the language and not able to express my stellar personality. Eventually, after years, I remember throwing a big bash for my birthday. Looking around at the 40 or so people gathered to drink, eat, and watch me do a painful rendition of Sweet Child O’ Mine complete with Axl Rose signature dance, I thought – wow, I’ve really made a lot of friends over the years.

Then I moved back home. And while I have friends here, and my dear BFFs, I’ve lost touch with many people. Over the years, the gap that was left by my departure has sort of filled itself in. People change, move on. I decided I had to make an effort to reintegrate…branch out…put a stop to my antisocial tendencies. But how to go about it? Can match.com make a findmeafriend.com? Is there speed-friending?

Enter my girl date. When a friend recently visited from Barcelona, we went out in NYC with a friend of hers that recently moved to New York. Later I thought that perhaps, being that this girl was “new” here too, I’d ask if she wanted to meet for coffee. It felt strange e-mailing someone I barely knew to ask her to hang out. Did it make me seem pathetic, stalkery, weird? I worded and reworded the e-mail. Debated not sending it. Suddenly it felt worse than a first date!

When she responded that she’d like to meet up, and seemed excited about doing so, I got all giddy, complete with butterflies in stomach. I felt instant relief for having put myself “out there” and not getting rejected. But then more worries set in: what would we talk about? What if there was nothing to say? What restaurant should I pick? What should I wear? I now have a newfound respect for men who have to take us girls out on a date…it’s absolute agony!

I wrote to my friend in Barcelona , who suggested I make a list of topics of conversation. Like a job interview, I’d have to know how to talk about my strengths and weaknesses and why I thought I was good for the friendship. “She’s worked in publishing too…likes travelling…and she likes lobsters,” my friend offered.

“Great,” I said. “So I’ll just open it up with, ‘Soooo, heard ya like a good lobster?”

“Also, she’s tall, so maybe you should wear heels,” my friend added.

“I’m tall too! I’m 5’7,” I scoffed.

 “Yeah but you slouch.”

In any event, the big day is Thursday and my closet is a disaster. Should I get my roots touched up too? Joking and anxiety aside, hopefully it will be a ‘friend connection.’ But if not, it did seem like the checkout girl at Starbucks and I had a lot in common by the way she handed me my chai latte.

*Special thanks to Jana Lia for editing my silly spelling errors, helping with ideas for my ‘date’ and this post, and finding me a friend.

Undercover Boss

As if I didn’t have enough work—by day, an editor, by night, a freelance writer—yesterday I had another job thrust upon me by an old, bald, bespectacled man in Starbucks.

I was waiting near the bathroom, minding my own business, when he sauntered over and positioned himself behind me, wiggling around like a kid doing the peepee dance while nervously eyeing the short line at the cash register behind him. I could almost hear the gears turning in his head: Coffee or peepee…coffee or peepee.

“Excuse me, miss? I’m going to get a cup of coffee…so, if anyone comes, I’m in line behind you,” he said. I was instantly put on red alert (annoyance alert, that is), and thought of “quien es el ultimo,” the bewildering culture of line forming in Spain, which I recently blogged about.

“I’m just waiting for someone,” I said. “So I’m not really in line.” Baldy looked back at the coffee line and then at me. “You sure you don’t have to go?” he asked. I scrunched up my face, pretending to contemplate it. “Mmmmm, yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

Baldy hopped over to the coffee line, where he stayed for all of two seconds before hopping back to me, his squirming increasing (I was worried he may actually pee in his pants). “You sure you don’t have to go?” he asked again. I started to squirm myself. Did he know something I didn’t? Did I secretly have to go? Was this some sort of sign?

“No, I don’t have to go,” I said, firmly.

“Ok, so, here’s what I’d like you to do,” he said to my utter annoyance. Was this guy gonna ask me to fetch him a fartin coffee? “I’m gonna get a coffee, but if the person comes out of the bathroom, you’re gonna come tap my shoulder on line (imitates tapping motion in air in case I don't 'get it'). Before I could answer he reached back, fumbled with his pants and freed a wedgie. Even worse. A number 2 emergency.

Luckily at that moment, the bathroom became free and he jumped in before I had to do anything else for him. But it left me wondering…was he the undercover boss and CEO of freaking Starbucks? Was he just some big wig with a penchant for coffee and telling people what to do? Or simply a victim—a poor, old man asking for more than I was willing to give. I’ll leave it to you, Dear Reader, to decide.

New Year's Delusions

Happy Fah-reiken New Year Dear Reader(s)!

And happy birthday to this blog, which I started on January 4, 2010, with the same air of post-holiday annoyance about me as I have right now! I began experimenting with blogging, like I'm sure half of America did, after watching the film Julie and Julia. Although I haven't quite inspired the same reaction as that particular blogger, and have not been thrown into fame with a stellar book deal, I do, according to my Blogger stats, have at least one reader in several countries AND one very strange blog stalker. I also started this blog because I was depressed after last year's holidays, had major writer’s block, and thought that keeping a semi-regular blog would at the very least salvage the remaining shreds of creativity that haven't been snuffed out and soul sucked by my day job (medical and business writing/editing).

In looking over the past year of angst-ridden posts, I realized that while the amount of posts per week quickly diminished from two per week to about once a fortnight, I still derive much pleasure from writing my observations, and even more pleasure from the five or six faithful readers who provide witty comments that are often funnier than the blog post itself. So, as I sit to write my list of New Year’s resolutions that I will never follow, I'm making sure that keeping up with this blog is at the top of—well, at least half way down—my list:

My New Year's delusions are as follows:

1. Convert perfect "flabs" to perfect "abs" using any means possible, including ordering strange exercise contraptions from late night infomercials that will only serve as clothing racks after initial use.

2. Wean self off of Biggest Loser, Survivor, Apprentice, and any other pathetic reality show as to be more productive person and to achieve delusion number 1.

3. Be kinder to and more patient with fellow humans
—exceptions:
     a. commuters don’t count.
     b. bratty children don’t count.
     c. teenagers and young adults who text incessantly don’t count.

4. Get up at least twice per week before 6 AM to get an hour of writing in before work in order to finish future best selling novel.

5. Continue awe-inspiring blog writing at least once per week…erm month.

6. Reverse aging process by using plethora of products not so subtly given to me for Christmas from family members tired of hearing about said aging process.

7. Drink wine ONLY once twice ok three FN times per week.
—exceptions:
     a. all bets are off if there is a party, wedding, family gathering, or half  price wine Wednesdays at favorite restaurant.

8. Save more of meager earnings by taking lunch to work everyday, trying to follow delusion number 7 and dumping therapist, who yawns through entire session anyway.

9. Learn [another] new language. No joke. This one’s for real.

10. Keep self from folding in regards to Facebook, Twitter and any other social network in fight for right to privacy whilst using best friend’s account to satisfy stalking needs.

That’s it! Please feel free to share yours in the comments box below. Let’s have a good year people!!

Christmas and Caga Tió



Figure 1. Caga Tió

There are many things I miss about Barcelona—the food, the beach, the barrel-like grannies who sideswipe you for a seat on the metro. But apropos to this time of year, I miss one of the most fascinating Christmas traditions I’ve ever encountered: The Caga Tió (the Poop Log).

Instead of leaving cookies for a round, jolly Santa plopping down the chimney, some Catalan families place a log (traditionally near the fireplace, but it could be elsewhere), which gets “fed” little snacks starting on December 8 (Feast of the Immaculate Conception), until Christmas. In modern times, this shit log stands on four legs and has a little smiley face drawn on one end. (See Figure 1.) The Caga Tió is covered with a blanket to keep it warm. The reason it's fed is so it will later “poop out” presents.

On Christmas Eve, or Day, the family serenades the Poop Log, invoking it to drop a load (of gifts) while hitting it with a stick to move things along. The song has several variations, one of which goes as follows:

caga tió,
caga torró,
avellanes i mató,
si no cagues bé,
et daré un cop de bastó.
caga tió!

Translated from Catalan as:

Poop Log
Poop out torrone (a Christmas cake)
Hazelnuts and cottage cheese
If you don’t poop good
I’ll hit you with a stick
Poop log!



Figure 2. Caganer.

The Catalan fascination with feces doesn’t end here. In their intricate and detailed nativity scenes, there's one figurine that stands out from the rest: the Caganer, or town shitter. This figure has pants dropped and is in the process of defecation (See Figure 2).

For all of you who think I’m smoking hectic weed, or that I’m just obsessed with excrement—you’re partly right! I do love a good poop story. However in this case what I say is true, as confirmed by the gospel (Wikipedia). To purchase your own poop log or town shitter, click here.

And, I’ll end this little lesson in culture (and caca) with an old Catalan saying:

“Menja bé, caga fort i no tinguis por a la mort!" (Eat well, shit strong and don't be afraid of death!)

Merry Christmas (Bon Nadal) and Happy Holidays (Bones Festes) everyone!