What happens when you just don't agree?

I realize I'm not married yet, and that I am asking for advice well in advance of my real needs. However, last week we experienced a situation that neither of us (my fiancé and I) knew how to handle. Since I do not want to get into the personal details of our lives (I promised Honey I would never do that), I will present the situation as an analogy...

We happened to find ourselves, one day, without toothpaste at home. After all the normal bickering (Honey: How can you NOT notice that we are running out of toothpaste? You know all you have to do is ask for money and I will give it to you so that you can go buy toothpaste! Me: How do YOU not notice? You brush your teeth daily, just as much as I do, and since you have the money YOU could have gone and bought it...), we decided to go together to buy the toothpaste. We quickly kissed and made up because it is stupid to quarrel over toothpaste, and it was neither of our faults. I mean, nobody wants to wake up on a Monday morning and realize that, aside from the fact that the weekend is over, there is no freaking toothpaste. No one does that on purpose. And we both should have noticed, and we both should have said something, and we both should have offered to buy it (and pay for it). So, we both made a mistake, we laughed, and enjoyed our shopping...

...until we reached the toothpaste area.

I suggested the cheap, less-than-a-Euro toothpaste. He requested Colgate. I said that was silly: the cheapy one has the same components (I actually have no idea if they do, I was just trying to make an argument to support my claim) and cost one whole Euro less. He said that Colgate was clinically tested, and that 9 out of 10 dentists recommend it (he was just reciting one of the latest ads. I said it was silly and pointless to waste "so much money" (come one, it is 85 cents versus 1,79!!) on the same crap as the cheapy stuff. He said the cheapy stuff did not make his mouth feel minty and fresh. I said he was stupid. He said I was stupid and had bad breath. I said he had badder breath (because I am mature like that). He said he would buy his own toothpaste, which I would not be allowed to use, and he would buy me whatever product I chose - and he promised not to use it. I said that was ridiculous, that we were just buying one, and that it would be the in-between brand (not the expensive Colgate, but also not the cheap knockoff). He said no, and he put his foot down. And I said yes, and put my foot down.

We left without buying anything (had to rely on gum for the rest of the day) and did not talk to each other until the next morning.

**Please let me remind you that the above story was just an analogy of the real situation... our dental hygiene is perfect and no, we do not quarrel about silly things like toothpaste. As the woman in charge of the household, I buy whatever I choose to buy with his money - and it always is Colgate.**

The issue is, what happens when you just don't agree? What happens if you both find yourselves in a situation where neither one nor the other are willing to give in? And although the above situation was just make-believe, the real Apple of Discord was just as pointless. We were not discussing children nor death wishes, not country of residence - things that actually matter. Our discussion was as pointless and toothpaste brands. But neither of us would back down. We both believed that our "toothpaste brand" was the best for the situation. We both believe that the other's "toothpaste" was not only not the best choice, but rather the absolutely wrong choice to make. Our arguments were based on principle, on morals, on values, on experience. Both arguments were valid (of course mine was more valid) and both arguments were well supported. Both arguments made sense, and both arguments were sound and based on good facts.

But we both felt strongly enough about our toothpaste that we felt it necessary to make a stand and not back down. We felt it necessary to "fight" about it.

Of course all is well now. We settled on buying the normal Colgate, which costs 1 Euro. It is still the Colgate brand, which please him, but it does not have all the minty-crystal-whitening crap that not only does not work but also costs more. Everything worked out and now we are back to our pre-wedding happily ever after.

However, I know this will happen again. It won't happen over toothpaste, but it might happen over juice, or bed sheets, or beer. It will happen again, and I have to ask, all of you successfully married couples, what happens when you just do not agree with your partner?

Do you let it go and take his/her side just to bring back the peace?
Do you stick to your principles and to your argument until hell freezes over?
Do you just not talk about it in order to avoid a quarrel?
Do you write a blog about it?

This is not a rhetorical question: I seriously want to know, what happens when you just don't agree?

Translation is transmission

Michel Foucault said that he who holds the language holds the power -- and that is why translators are the people who are changing the world, and have been doing so for centuries. Millennia, even. It is not enough to posses knowledge, it is important to be able to transmit that knowledge, to share it, to teach it. The problem is that not everybody will be able to understand this knowledge, unless they, too, are in possession of the skills necessary to understand.

Translation is not just a matter of identifying the word in the source language and replacing it with the equivalent in the target language. If that were so, we translators (and I dare now include interpreters as well) would have proven to be obsolete in the late 1980s. Our success, our importance to the world, even, is the task that we perform, the impossible that we achieve: we are able to find the perfect oxymoronic juxtaposition of faithfulness and beauty in a target language from a source language.

Yes, we are geniuses. And I salute us. I salute my colleagues who have studied and learned and gone beyond the minimum requirements and survived the poor payments and bad treatments. I salute my friends who hold the power granted by polyglotism and suffer due to calloused fingertips and soar throats. Yes, my friends -- we are geniuses, and we, while holding the language, hold the power.

I invite you to read what my friend and colleague Rachel Eadie (English, Spanish, Italian) has published in the The Prisma, a multicultural UK newspaper:

The New Spanish Criminal
Photography Exhibition featuring Sex Workers
Alighiero Boetti at the Tate Modern

If you are in need a professional translation, please do not hesitate to contact me. I am sure I will be able to introduce you to a very talented translator in your area. Should your area be Germany or Colombia, I am your go-to person. 

Theoretical Situation

Say you have a friend. A very dear friend. And one day, he tells you he met someone. And you're all, like, OMG that is so awesome! You encourage your friend and, in trying to show your support for the relationship, establish some kind of virtual connection with the new girl he's seeing. It's all going great: you like her, she likes you, your friend likes her, she likes your friend, you and your friend like each other - it is like the mecca of friendship/love relationships.

And then you decide to hold a birthday party. Only this is a very special birthday party, because it's one of those milestone thingies and you will hold a huge party -- not huge enough that every single contact on your facebook friends list is invited, but huge enough that you are spending all of your savings in said party. Family from around the world is flying in... like, OMG WOW.

Of course your friend is invited -- he is your very best friend, after all. And since you like the girl he is dating, and they are still dating, and she likes you and likes him and it is all a freaking like-fest in this relationship, you invite the girl as well. Only to find out, a couple of weeks after announcing said invitation, that the girl is actually not "in a relationship" with him. Your friend misunderstood her (yeah, because apparently girls have way too many meanings for I love you and stuff) and whereas he thought they were dating (and so informed you), she thought they were just having fun hanging out (doing God-knows-what-when-where-and-how-many-times...).

Your friend hates the witch-with-capital-B, which in turn obviously makes you hate the witch-with-capital-B. But your friend, the idiot that he is, tells you that you should not hate her, because she genuinely likes you, and she is really cool, and that, in retrospect, he did kinda exaggerate things a bit.

If you are any kind of person with feelings now you hate the witch-with-capital-B even more, because not only did the tramp break your friend's heart, she also destroyed his self-confidence.

But -- and here is a BIIIG but... she really is cool (which makes you hate her more!!), and she really does like you. And, in her eyes, the virtual "friendship" that she created with you has nothing to do with your friend. And you two do have a lot in common! And you like her! And she's cool! And she broke your best friend's heart and crushed his self-confidence.

So, in this theoretical situation... what would YOU do?

of cows and romance

As I was lying in bed earlier today, devouring my third easter chocolate bar, I said to Honey, "If it doesn't rain, I will ride my bike to class tomorrow." Honey made a face, and I --my mouth filled with chocolate, teeth brown and all-- said to him, "I need to have some kind of movement, Honey, some kind of exercise. I feel like a cow!"

He stopped what he was doing. I believe the world stopped spinning for a split second. As he was about to make some mean, evil comment about the fact that I am, in fact, a cow, I yelled at him to stop - to shut up. In the midst of my screaming I even spit a little chocolate onto his back.

"Don't you dare say a word," I shrieked, "don't you dare agree with me that I am a cow. Choose your words wisely, Honey, because the wedding can still be cancelled."

He looked at me with the loveliest puppy-dog eyes, the ones he uses when he knows he messed up. He looked at me with those eyes and said, "I don't care that you are a cow, because if you are a cow then that makes you my sexy cow. And I love you in spite of you being a cow."

I should cancel the wedding because he ignored my orders and called me a cow. To my face. But then again, how can I not be happy to marry someone who loves me in spite of my being a cow?

"Let the Rhythm take control"

My cousin, the dancer, was featured along with her husband in the local magazine, The Colchester Circle.

I wrote the article featuring them. Now they are both famous in Colchester, and I am an international freeelance writer for magazines. Well, I did it once... but once is enough to brag, right?

Read the whole article here. Go to page 36 to read my article about them.

Congratulations to Eddy and Goyo, and to The Latin Rhythm.

By the way, if you happen to be in Colchester, check out their salsa lessons. The will surely find your right foot, if you happen to suffer from the all-too-common "two left feet" syndrome.

http://www.latinrhythm.co.uk/
info@latinrhythm.co.uk

I will help make Kony famous

If you have a half an hour to spare, stop reading and watch this video:

Make Kony Famous 2012

If you don't have 30 minutes free, don't watch the video but continue reading. Do save this link, though, because you should find the 30 minutes. Really. (I am talking to you, Mami, you who are reading this and have no time for anything other than PEP and my wedding... find the time!)

When we are small, young and naïve, we are taught that we can change the world. That ONE person can make a difference. That we, every single one of us, can help. But then, unfortunately, we grow up. We grow up and we start to realize that no, one voice does not count; you need a million, at least. And no, your vote does not make a difference; you need half-plus-one in order to make a difference. And unless you are a philanthropist and have millions and millions of dollars, or even better, euros, you cannot change the world. And the sad thing is that you don't only realize it, you live it, you experience it in your own flesh and blood. And then you become jaded and bitter and you look after yourself and no one else.

But, dude, it's 2012. The 11th year of the XXI century. It's the age of communication, the age in which (plagiarizing a heck of a lot of people and having no hard evidence to support my plagiarized quote) there are more people on facebook than there were citizens in the world 200 years ago. That number may or may not be real - but that is not the point. The point is that we are always connected, always communicated (even if virtually and not physically). We are on-line.

And you know what? When we are on-line, we can make a difference.

Like now. There is a terrorist called Joseph Kony, who is the leader of the guerrilla group LRA (Lord's Resistance Army), in Uganda. He kidnaps children; the boys are forced to become soldiers, the girls are forced to become sex slaves. It is terrible. And sad.

And you think, "Wow, that's terrible. And sad." And say nothing else because you are comfortably sitting in your bed, or your office, or on the bus or train on your way home reading this on your BB or iPhone or Android or whatever. And you get to do this because you are lucky. Just like me, you are lucky. You are lucky that you were not born in Uganda, and that you were not kidnapped as a child, and that you were not forced to become a sex slave or a mercenary. You are lucky that you can read, that (like me) you speak more than one language, that you have a voice.

And that your voice counts.

I am not asking for your money - of course, if you have it, donate! But that is not the ultimate goal of my post. I am not even asking for your time, because maybe, like me, you are tied down to your city and cannot relocate to help with physical actions. I am asking for your online presence.

And that, my dear reader, you cannot deny me. Or anyone. Especially, you cannot deny your online presence to the people of Uganda. To the people of the world.

What do you have to do? Watch the video. Here is the link again, just in case you don't feel like scrolling back up: Make Kony Famous 2012

Watch the video and share the video. Tweet it, tumblr it, google+ it, facebook it, blog it, post it, pin it, BBM it, email it... just do it (that is in no way an infringement of Nike copyright or trademark).

YOU can do something. One person does make a difference. If we all help to make Kony (in)famous, we won't have to wait too much longer until others are made (in)famous and have them pay for their sins. I will help make Kony famous in 2012 because I want for the guerrilleros of FARC and ELN in Colombia to also be brought to justice. If it can happen in Uganda, it can happen in Colombia.

And we can help to make it happen. All you have to do is share. Easy, right?

I can make a difference. I am joining in with the world's rage against these evil people. I am helping make Kony famous.

A lil' pick-me-up

Whenever life seems to give nothing more than lemons, and I fail to be able to make lemonade or to pass my tequila shot with them, I talk to my mom. She doesn't always make things better, but she makes me feel better.

Whenever life is sweet and good and rosy and wonderful,  I talk to my mom. She doesn't always screw it up back to gray, but she makes me enjoy the moment and savor the experience.

Whenever -- wherever, á la Shakira, I talk to my mom. She's my lil' pick-me-up, even when I don't need pick-upping.

I suggest you call your mom right now. And if you can't, call mine.

I love you, Mami! <3

My Synthesizing Abilities

I had my first ever oral exam last week. I had never before had an oral exam. I don't consider my thesis presentation an oral exam, because I had two hours to present and support my thesis, and then answer questions from my panel - questions which I had already discussed with each one of the panel members individually. So that was no stress. And my thesis was awesome.

But the German system is very interesting, and I had to take one 15-minute oral exam for The Alamo Seminar. It was one whole semester on The Alamo and how it was represented in film, literature and popular culture. I am now an Alamo expert. I challenge my historian friends Julie and Joe to ask me anything they want.

Not everyone is required to take this oral exam for this seminar, so out of a class of 30, I think I was one of three who took this exam. I figured that the teacher would let us go easy and just make sure that we did do the readings; since I event to every single class (perfect attendance) and participated in all but one session (I did not do one of the readings because I thought it was unnecessary and, go figure, it actually was), I thought she would just chat me up a bit and give me my 1.0 (that's the highest score in Germany - I know, these people are totally weird).

Oh, no. No no.

She was totally prepared. I have no idea why I would expect otherwise, she is a German anyway, and it is common knowledge that the Germans are always prepared.

She had selected three of the Traditional Alamo Representations and three of the Revisionist (Post-Modern) Alamo Representations, and written four questions. The test-takers (well, me) were to choose one representation from each section and compare and contrast whilst answering her questions. After gasping a little in surprise and fear, I realized I had actually read all the texts and that the questions were clear and simple. I could totally do that in fifteen minutes. She even gave me 10 minutes to prepare and allow that I look at my notes and take new notes.

When she came in, the German in me arose: I was totally ready. Bring it on, I thought. Sat up-straight, and waited for her to instruct me to begin.

She did not do that.

Instead of giving me the green-means-go sign to address Question 1, she asked me to explain which representations I had chosen and why. No biggie. I was going to address that in Question 1 (which asked to compare both representations) anyway. I tackled that and as I getting ready to address Question 2, which inquired about the Frontier Myth and its importance in both representations, she asked me explain the role of slavery in both representations. Well, that had absolutely nothing to do with Question 2, but I was not about to contradict the Grade-Giver. I discussed slavery and nailed it. And then I wanted to go into the relevance of cultural memory in both representations, and she asked me what type of history these representations reflect. Again, absolutely nothing to do with the question, but I actually loved that question, and I totally knew the answer.

The thing is, my answer was dangerous. It was the same question she had asked in class a couple of weeks earlier, and I had raised my hand and contradicted her.

You see, she claims that Emma Pérez's Forgetting the Alamo, or Blood Memory is a creative anachronism type of post-modernist historical literature. I called BS and said no, because the fact that we are addressing an issue that is all over the place today (lesbianism) does not mean or imply that it was not an issue back in the mid-1830s. By saying that the lesbian theme is anachronistic we are claiming that lesbians did not exist back then, and that lesbianism is a 21st century trend. And that is why I called BS. Because homosexuality has always existed as a human condition as natural as heterosexuality. So I said it was more an apocryphal history post-modernist historical literary piece, because we are placing fictional characters in real-life situations that are so realistic that the possibilities of them actually having existed are very big.

And that was my internal discussion when she asked me what type of history is represented: Should I stick to my own analysis and evaluation, fully knowing that she disagrees, or should I just respond to the question the way she wants me to respond?

I went with the former, because I like to pretend that I am true to myself - especially when I know in my heart that I am right. That is not creative anachronism. To call Perez's novel creative anachronism is to diminish and belittle homosexuals and their contributions to society. So I got on my soap box, we began a heated discussion, and 30 minutes later (30 minutes after my initial 15 minutes were over, so after a total of 45 minutes) she agreed to disagree and proceeded to give me my review.

She said that my participation in class was very good (I know, thank you very much), that it was more than clear that I had done all the readings (I read ALL the things!), but that due to my less than appropriate synthesizing abilities - or, rather, lack thereof - she was forced to give me a 1.3 (I guess that would be an A instead of an A+?).

I smiled, took my grade, thanked her and left. After all, I am old enough now (I am the oldest in my Masters class) to not care about grades; now I rather care about knowledge, and I did learn a lot.

But on the ride back home, I kept thinking that had she not wasted 30 minutes of MY exam time trying to sell me her theory on how lesbians are a new thing and that the novel is definitely and undeniably creative anachronism, I would have ended right at 15 (or 16) minutes and I would have aced that test.

Oh, well. I guess my synthesizing abilities are below par... especially when I know I am right.

How many drinks do you need to...

How many drinks do you need to...

...do a snow angel at 3 am? Cero.

...speak fluent German? One. Maybe two.

...dance to House/Trance/Electro/Pop? Two.

...dance to House/Trance/Electro/Pop without getting bored or tired? Three.

...dance salsa-style to House/Trance/Electro/Pop? Four. Or cero. Who am I kidding.

...insult a girl pushing you on the dance floor? Five.

...insult her looking right into her eyes? Six.

...push a guy who is trying to hit on you on the dance floor? Seven.

...hit a guy who is still trying to hit on you on the dance floor? Seven-and-a-sip.

...yell at, hit, kick and punch said guy? Apparently seven-and-two-sips. Because then you spill your vodka-passion fruit glass.

...be forced out of said fight and driven home? Nine.

...to survive such an eventful night? Ten. But of water.

Penny for your thoughts...

I don't particularly care for unsolicited advice - I think no one does. I do appreciate people who care enough about me to give me such unsolicited advice anyway, but they do it in such a polite manner that I feel as if I asked them to advise me. Like my friend H, who sent me an email regarding my name, or my friend J who sends me pics of what dress I should wear. I like that. I like that because they are both just saying what they think while fully respecting whatever I choose. My friend J also happens to have the same taste in dresses as I do, so her advice is much more like SOLICITED help.

But then come the people who express their opinions in ways that make you want to kill them. Seriously. I am no murderer, but sometimes I can see why murders happen. Phrases that begin with, "It is so stupid to [insert MY personal opinion about the subject at hand]" seriously bring out the worst in me.

Dude, I think, if you want to persuade me to think like you and to agree with you, you *might* not want to begin your statements with how stupid I am.


But they don't realize what they are doing. They don't realize that they are messing up real bad. They don't notice the veins in my neck swelling up, my face reddening, my fingers twitching, my breathing getting heavy... no. They don't notice. They are so enthralled in their arguments as to why *people* (but they really are referring to ME) are stupid when doing such and such, that they don't notice my desire to shoot them. Or hit them. Or both.

You know what? They might even be right. When I think about the subject from a completely detached POV, I kinda tend to agree with them. Even their arguments are good. And when I try to be absolutely objective, it IS kinda stupid in the end.

But, you know what? I am the 99% - the 99% of the people in the world who get pissed off when someone else calls them stupid! Especially when the *someone else* at hand has no moral, legal or affective authority to do so! And even more - or, rather, even less when THEY are stupid. They breathe stupid, they walk stupid, they talk stupid, they live stupid.

(Ok, I may just be a little immature right now.)

The thing is, there are several topics that call for opinions, and others that don't. There are certain things that are to be decided by ONE person - by the ONE person to whom it pertains. Say, for instance, that you are invited to a very nice, very elegant birthday party (J, you get it?!). Say that you are the birthday girl. Your parents, especially your mother, who hosted you in her belly and gave birth to you, get to say something about the venue, the food, the guest list. Yes. It may be annoying at times, but they do get to say what they think. They also get to overrule you at times. Then you have your boyfriend (or girlfriend, in these modern times one never knows...), and he gets a say, too. He's the person with whom you spend the most time, so he has earned the right to *think*. He gets a say in what to offer the guests for drinks, and maybe even some kind of say in music and other details. If you have a good relationship with his parents maybe even they have the right to an opinion. They may suggest a good wine, or the most appropriate time or date. Maybe. Your best friend(s) totally gets a vote, and gets the power to veto, too. Not many people have veto power. Best friends do.

There is, however, one thing, one tiny little detail that only you, YOU as birthday girl have power over. The littlest of all things, for which no one, NOT ONE PERSON IN THE UNIVERSE can protest. Not even your mom has a say in this issue. Not your life-partner. Not your best friend. Not your amazing little sister. Not your dying aunt or grandmother or god-mother. No one at all. That thingy is...

Your dress.

You can wear whatever the heck you want because it is your birthday - and you will cry if you want to, cry if you want to. You want to wear a skanky little black dress? Go ahead. You want to wear a huge white snow-monster type of dress? Knock yourself out. You want to wear a tight kinky scarlet red dress? Be my guest. You want to wear a summery sun-dress in winter? Just do it. You want to wear a thick and warm wooly suit in summer? I dare you.

No one, NO ONE can tell you what to wear. Not on your day. And that day comes only once a year... unless I am using "birthday" as an allegory for something that happens only once in your lifetime. In which case seriously, absolutely no one has a say other than you.

So, for all the people out there who have thoughts on what I am going to be wearing on my birthday, I will give you a penny for your thoughts. Not a penny to tell me your thoughts, but a penny to put your thoughts in a little bag, fill it with rocks, and throw it in the far, deep end of the body of water nearest to you.

It's my dress. It's my problem.

(And I will look amazing, if I may say so myself!)

Say my name, say my name

What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet - right? But then, when remembering who you are, you need to know where you come from, or so said Mufasa. And both of those require your name. So your name is you. And changing your name changes you. Right? If a rose were called "violet" it would not be a rose. Yes?

I don't know. I'm not even sure what side I'm arguing for. Or against.

All I know is that right now I am faced with making the decision of what the heck to do with my name.

My name is really long (last name, that is), because in Colombian culture people use both their father's as well as their mother's last name. It used to be that when women married, their name would be legally changed: They would lose their mother's name, keep their father's, and become "of" the husband.

For example: my aunt was born Graciela Murillo Salazar. But when she married (a half a century ago) she legally became Graciela Murillo de Araújo. And that was ok, because that was the law, and that was what everyone did. There was no discussion.

But then feminism came along. Feminism came along and ruined everything because it gave us CHOICES. Now we can CHOOSE. Oh, shoot! Now we have to THINK in order to make CHOICES. OMG!

Ok, I'm being sarcastic. I am very pleased that feminism made it OK for me to further my education and to have a job other than secretary/mistress.

I like what post-feminism women did, like my mom. For all legal intents and purposes, she IS and remains Irene Chegwin Vergara (daughter of Alfonso Chegwin and Alycia Vergara). But for social situations, like dealing with schooling issues for her children or when introduced to my father's friends and acquaintances, she was Irene de Delgado Chegwin. That was all nice and cool and wonderful. She kept her "identity" (assuming that your identity is solely dependent on your name) and was still able to be someone's other half, at least socially.

The Americans and Germans (perhaps many others too, but I only know of these two for a fact) have come up with the wonderful idea of hyphenation, where both parties change their name legally. I don't actually know any couple in which the man has also changed his name to include the hyphenated addition of his wife's name, but I do know of a couple here in Germany in which the guy legally changed HIS name to take his wife's name. Cool! (That might have to do with the fact that her last name is really sophisticated: Proietto-Plaza.)

In many instances, the girls will just add their husband's name to their own: Woodell-Aller, Hardy-Perron, McGowen-Hudson, Bresch-Stills.

That's very nice.

But look at my situation.

My name is Delgado Chegwin. Not hyphenated. Two words. So not only is it foreign and hard to pronounce for the Germans, it is also very long. And now I'm getting married. (OMG I'M GETTING MARRIED!! Check out our wedding website!) And I have to decide what my new legal name will be. Because I will be someone's wife. OMG. I'm going to be a wife! So, do I remain Natalya Delgado Chegwin?

But that is oh-so-long! It would be easier to take Honey's name. Natalya Hergett.

Because for me there is no middle ground in Germany: I can't be Natalya Delgado Hergett (with or without hyphen) because my legal last name is Delgado Chegwin - not Delgado alone, not Chegwin alone.

So it's either ME, or NEW ME.

I have six months to think about this.

In the meantime, I have Destiny's Child's old song, Say my name, stuck to my head.

This is how scary movies are made

My situation this morning is what people make movies from. Scary movies, that is. Dude, if you don't find a new blog by next Monday, or if you don't notice me on Twitter or Facebook or LinkedIn or BBM, it might very well be because I got murdered in the lecture hall. Olsenhauserstraße 75. And my bet is, it was the janitor lady who murdered me. 


I was the ONLY ONE at the bus stop at 7:27 a.m., and there are always more than 20 people waiting with me. There were less than 10 people (including me and the driver) on the bus, when I generally cannot find a free seat. I was the only one who got out on my stop at 7:32, which is one of the three main stops for a university catering to over 23,000 students. 


The bus driver asked me, "Why so lonely?", which of course creeped me out even more, making me for the first time realize, OMFG, I'm actually alone... 


I smiled, managed some sort of answer (which I later realized was wrong, because I should have use the getrennt form of the verb, and it should have been mit Dativ and not mit Akkusativ... so he probably figured I was the dumb blonde who deserved to be murdered) and continued on my way.


I got off at Leibnizstraße 4, like I always do, crossed the street and walked into the Olsenhauserstraße 75 building. It was alone, all lights turned off. Not even the main doorman was there. 


Upon opening the lobby doors to the lecture halls, I stumbled upon a janitor lady. By "stumbled" I mean I shrieked hysterically as soon as I saw her. She scared the bejeezus out of me, and with a freaky laugh said, "Guten Moooooorgen!" and continued to mop, giggling occasionally. 


I hurried my pace - if she was out to kill me, at least I'd make her run for it. I opened yet another set of doors into the lobby of the lecture halls, climbed up the stairs and tried to find my way around, using only the backlight of my BlackBerry - which shuts off every 15 seconds, apparently. That, or it was scared, too. 


I opened the door, and I can swear I heard it "click" on the keep-it-open feature thingy. I turned on all the lights - ALL THE LIGHTS - and found my place right in the middle. Dead center. 


Ha ha. 


Dead center.


At that moment I analyzed what was going on - you know, that little epiphany moment before you are brutally murdered... I was alone on campus. Completely and utterly alone. The lecture hall I was in was for 300 people, and the whole left wall were windows leading to a forest. Although it was almost 8 o'clock in the morning, it was pitch black. Ah, winter in Germany. It could have very well been midnight. I heard a noise. Of course I heard a noise. I think it was my heart exploding, trying to burst out of my chest. At that moment I jerked, turned around, and saw the freakin' door closed. The same door I had "clicked" open. It was closed. 


My murderer was there. 


I texted my friend Bobby (who happens to live more than 8,000 km away and was dead asleep by that time) and told him where I was so that he could lead the search party. He didn't reply...


I hear a noise again. Door closed. Something moving in the woods outside. Looking at me. Watching me. Waiting. Waiting...


*  *  *  *  *  


10 hours later, Bobby sent this message:

You entered a parallel twilight universe set in limbo where only the souls of the restless dead wander about...

His brilliance made me realize my murder would have made an amazing story. He could have totally written it. And shot it. 


But, his brilliance also made me realize that, oh, yeah, btw, I didn't get murdered.


At least not today...

I hate marketing

I hate marketing. I hate it. I hate it -- because it works.

You see, I'm getting married in seven months (yay me! Check out our wedding website), and I need to do all the planning here in Germany for a wedding taking place in the Caribbean coast of Colombia. It does seem like a challenge, but I am an amazing planner and I can do it. Also, my mom and sister/Maid of Honor have it all under control.

But, as I said, since I'm in Germany, there are many things I need to do online. So I have to rely on websites to kinda figure out what I want.

Before I went online, I took advice from my good friend Hope (who also recently married) and closed my eyes and imagined my perfect wedding. This is what my perfect wedding looks like:

At the beach, hopefully getting our feet wet while saying "I do", at sunset, with only our closest family and friends (so, no more than 20 people), drinking piña coladas and eating fish and coconut rice, listening to soothing background music and laughing, laughing because we are all so deliriously happy... and because we have had too many piña coladas... The decorations would be the palm trees and the stars, and a full moon would be cool. Nothing more, possibly less.

So I requested quotes from ALL the hotels and resorts on the general vicinity of where I dreamed this wedding. There was one website in particular which caught my eye, because the pictures are so amazing and the site is just so well made. In fact, look at it. When looking at the other websites, this one really became my favourite. But, as we all know, webmasters only post the BEST pics, right? So websites are not really trust-worthy...

They replied first. Like, the replied within the 24 hour thingy that everyone claims and no one manages. My first impression of them was already getting better. And things only improved from that moment on: impeccable writing skills (I am one of the mean people who ALWAYS correct others), perfect use of font size, and a wording that made me feel like royalty:

Dear Miss Delgado Chegwin:

Congratulations on your wedding! It would be for us the greatest privilege to be able to host your event. We would very much like the honor to make your special day even more special. You deserve it after all. Our expert staff is at your discretion. Please see the attached quote, and let us know how we may contact you for further details.

Please allow us to reiterate our congratulations for your and your Fiancé. May you two have a wonderful beginning on your own personal "forever".

Sincerely,

--Hotel Staff

If that wasn't enough, their quote was more than complete. 

Reception venue. Catering with exotic sea food. Open bar with national and international options. Decorations by a renowned professional decorator. Music, live band and DJ (including all the sound set-up). Professional photographer and videographer. 

Not only that...

They have their own Priest, so the actual ceremony CAN be held ON THE WATER (well, at the shore at least) like I wish. 

The quote included a violin duo for the wedding march, an organ for the ceremony hymns, fireworks for our first dance, a group of professional dancers to "pump things up" a little before midnight, a little midnight dinner treat, 2 minutes of fireworks after midnight, and then again the violin people to give us the farewell as we leave the reception (at 2 a.m., when by law the party has to end) and go enjoy our first night together as a married couple in the honey moon suite, courtesy of the hotel.

The quote also included pampering of the Bride PRE-wedding, so Spa, manicurist, and blah blah blah. 

It was far from my dream wedding. Faaaaar from it. But it sounded amazing. Seriously. Doesn't it sound amazing?! I mean that is just one step short of a Disney wedding.

It was not what I dreamed of, definitely not what I needed for my 20 friends laughing at my beach wedding... 

BUT I WANTED THAT SO BADLY!

That just became my dream wedding - BOOM! I want the 1000 guests and the violin and the fireworks and all that crap. I want it all. I WANT ALL THE THINGS!

But ALL THE THINGS cost 30 million pesos - that's 15K in US dollars. It may not sound like too much to you, but our budget is that amount divided by 3. So, no. 

The thing is, when I sit down and look at it from a rational perspective, it's a real NO, because I don't want that fake fairy tale wedding. I don't want it. I have never dreamed of that. I don't like fireworks. I don't like people prodding my fingers or toes. I don't want a Honey Moon Suite. I don't want a pro to decorate my wedding and my cake and me and tell me how I should look on my day. 

But marketing... ah, you evil, evil thing. You make me want it.

So I turned down their offer with a bittersweet feeling. I turned it down rationally knowing that even if I had the money, that is NOT what I wanted. But I also turned it down painfully, because, I ask myself, Really? If you had the money, would you really not want it?

Marketing, I hate you. 

My sister doesn't read my blog because she knows all the stories already

I couldn't sleep a couple of nights ago. I must have eaten too much. But that happens more often than not. I try to finally "go to bed" (as in, go to sleep) when I can no longer keep my eyes open. But that takes a while. I have been known to surf all the things on imgur on my iPhone until the battery runs out, which really bothers Honey. He says that we should sleep together, at the same time. I try not to think, I try to free my mind. But that doesn't always work. And, like I said, I really couldn't sleep the other night.

I "went to bed" at 10 pm, but I was really, really tired. I could hardly keep my eyes open, I could not focus on anything, I could not stop yawning. So I figured it was about time.

Of course, as my friend Murphy would have it, it was only when I turned off all the lights, hit the mute switch on all the phones, turned off the TV and the laptop, found the perfect pillow position and sighed what I expected to be the last sigh of the day, that my mind woke up and began working.

Tomorrow is Tuesday. I have my Alamo class tomorrow. I have not done the reading for tomorrow. Today was a holiday, that kinda threw me off. I'm not complaining, though, I salute the Germans for having holidays. I read somewhere that Colombia is one of the top 5 countries with most holidays per year. The Germans have a few, but the northern Germans, where I am, have fewer, because they are not catholic. And you know us catholics, we love our Saint days. There are also other things catholics like, such as sin. Oh, that was inappropriate, even for my private stream-of-consciousness soliloquy here. Soliloquy - how is that spelled? And what is the difference between that and a monologue? Or a diatribe? I have always found it difficult to make metaphors. Do you make a metaphor anyway? Like you make a cake? No, you don't make a cake. You bake a cake. The Germans have such specific words for cooking. I guess we have them in Spanish too, but since I don't cook, I don't use them often. I need to read more. I need to have done my homework. I also need to get ahead on the Colombia trip with the Germans next year. I need to lose weight for next year. I need to get the excuse to miss two weeks of class next year. I also need to --


And then I got real mad at myself. Seriously, Myself. Seriously. Why couldn't you discuss all this with yourself before I shut everything down? No no. This is not allowed.

We shall sleep. All of us.

Sleep is good. It's almost midnight now. I'm hungry. I'm always hungry. I wish I could have turkey. Turkey is good. The Germans eat a lot of turkey. The Germans eat duck, too. I don't like duck. I had duck in Thailand and once here in Germany. I really don't like duck. I do find them pretty, though. Especially the ones with the green heads, mallards. They remind me of Dorian. Ha ha, Dorian and Sir Daddy. That always makes me giggle. I remember --


No no. This is not good. I shall prevent myself from thinking by singing a song.

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me

a partridge in a pear tree --

What's a partridge? And why is it on a pear tree? Have I ever seen a pear tree? I don't much care for pears. I do like apples. Apples and oranges. Ha ha, the Spanish equivalent for the "apples and oranges" phrase is "el arroz con mango" or "el caldo con la tajada". That's cute. I wrote a blog about that. I wonder if I should re-post. It was not that good. It was witty though --

Stop.

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me

a partridge in a pear tree.

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me

two turtle doves

and a partridge in a pear tree --

Turtles - teenaged mutant ninja turtles! I used to really like that show! I also remember thinking that it was funny that the girl's name was a month. Ha ha. And also --

Cut it out.

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me

a partridge in a pear tree.

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me

two turtle doves

and a partridge in a pear tree --

On the third day of Christmas my true love game to me

three... 

three...

uh...

three...

two turtle doves and partridge in a pear tree --

Three what?

Three what?

THREE WHAT?!

And at some point I finally fell asleep, being puzzled by nothing other than three somethings... followed by 

fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive golden rings!

four mocking birds (?)

three red hens (?)

two turtles doves

and a partridge in a pear tree!

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night! And happy new year. OMG it's 2012 already!

Operation Rivers of Light

(This Pre-Christmas Post replaces the Monday post for December 26. Back to the normal Monday schedule on January 2, 2012)

As you may already know (oh, come on, I'm sure you know), we have very large, illegal, guerrilla leftist movements in Colombia. We have tried to combat and defeat them for over 60 years, and we are slowly winning the war against them.. but we still have a long way to go.

Before I go on, please allow me a little of your time to get on my soapbox and explain a couple of things. Listen, dude, we (Colombians) are not against leftist movements, like people (such as Chávez and his dictatorial regime, for instance) want to make you believe. We welcome the left, because we are well aware that without a left there can be no right, but rather meaningless unilateralism. Our nation was founded in 1810 based on leftist ideals. We, all of us, all of us Colombians, used to be leftist rebels who stood up against the Spanish monarchy. And we won. We understand and celebrate the importance of the left.

What we don't understand, what we don't accept and what we most certainly DO NOT celebrate is that the so-called "left" (the guerrilla movements you might be familiar with via CNN or the BBC) use illegal actions to gain money. They are no longer looking for political power, they no longer have political ideals. Those ideals died in the 1980s with the birth and growth of drug trafficking. There are no more philosophical leftist pillars on which the current guerrilla can stand. It is just greed and lust and ignorance.

A few so-called "leaders" (and I use the term VERY loosely) have forced thousands of Colombian peasants, farmers, women and children, to join their ranks with the promise of money. And in a country where so much poverty reigns, it is easy to understand why they joined - also, they were given no choice. The options were either to join or to die a painful death.

That is why we, Colombians living on the legal side of the story (both rightists and leftists, conservatives and liberals, catholics and atheists), are asking that the Guerrilleros come home, to leave the guerrilla movement and join us on the civilian side.

The 2011 Operation Rivers of Light was carried out this week. I invite you to watch the video, with Spanish audio and English subtitles:

My President, Juan Manual Santos, and his family participated in the event three days before Christmas, sending out their own personal messages, with the hope that the Guerrilleros will receive the message and be touched enough to come home. After all, there is no better place to be on Christmas than at home.

I invite you to join me, to join all Colombians, in asking that Guerrilleros demobilize. I invite you to write (tweet, blog, whatever) using the hashtag #GuerrilleroDesmovilicese (Spanish for "Guerrilla Combatant, leave the illegal guerrilla forces").

My very close and dear friend, Mafe Barbosa, sending away her message...

I don't know if it's God, but it's a lousy coincidence anyway...

I'm not the God-fearing person I'm supposed to be. And I'm alright with that. Having gone to university in the US Bible Belt, though, I had my fair share of people trying to "save" me, which I appreciated. I mean, you have to really care about a person to want to save them from going to hell, right? I was lucky (blessed?) to have all those people around me, and am still lucky (blessed?) to have them put up with me and my agnostic ways after 10 years.

The thing is, I don't believe in blaming nor accrediting God with everything. If something good happens (something over which you had some kind of control, like a good job offer or a raise or that your self-made dinner tasted delicious), then why should you claim that God did that? I mean, God surely gave you the talent to be the best you could be, and He (She?) even "blessed" you with strength and courage and whatnot. But there are certain things that YOU do for yourself. No one does them for you. At the same time, if something lousy happens (something over which you had some kind of control, like not getting a job, or getting fired, or having your self-made dinner burn in the oven), then why should you blame God for that? It's not His (Her?) fault that someone got better grades in college than you did, or that you were caught surfing porn during office hours, of that you did not pay attention to the oven because you were cyber-stalking some ex. Do you see where I'm going with this?

Some things are just coincidences (like my meeting people from Barranquilla in Kiel), and some things are just you working hard for them (like my being accepted in the Masters program). For the other things, those that neither money nor MasterCard can buy, I have no explanation. But that is not my point.

My point is, my Aunt (my Uncle's wife) died last Monday. A week ago today. She was not ill, she was not old (mid-50s), she was not a bad person. She was the opposite of bad: she was an awesome mother, an incredible artist, a leader in her church, a role-model for her family. She is (was?) the type of person who should live forever.

But God wanted her Angel back in heaven, said one of her sisters.

Well, God, I think you're a little bit selfish if that is why she died. I mean, did you really, really need her before Christmas? Seriously, dude. Not cool.

But God is lucky, because I don't believe that is why she died.

God is punishing her youngest daughter, because she is an atheist, said one of my aunts to my grandmother. That side of the family is very, very religious. God-fearing people, alright. The Bible Belt equivalent, but in my country. And my cousin, 23 years old, is a declared atheist (I tend to think she's just confusing terms and she really is agnostic, but that is not my point), and thus God decided to punish her by killing her mother. By killing her mother right before Christmas.

Well, God, I think you're a little bit selfish, because she (my Aunt) had 3 other children, a husband, 7 younger siblings, a mother, and a huge group of friends who loved her, and all of whom believe in You. So why kill her to teach one puny little human a lesson, while at the same time punishing so many? Seriously, dude. Not cool.

But God is lucky, because I don't believe that is why she died.

My Aunt died due to medical negligence. She went in for a routine cholecystectomy, just like I did last year, and the doctor accidentally ruptured her intestine. Notice that I said accidentally. The guy made a mistake. He may have saved many lives before and after on that very day, but he made a terrible, fatal mistake on my Aunt. And she died because of it. The guy is more than likely a good doctor, a good doctor who, like many working for the State in my country, earn too little and work too much. He just made a mistake and my Aunt died.

God is more than likely sad. God is probably saying to the Doctor, Dude, I gave you all the skills and talent and wisdom to know when to say no and when to open your eyes and double-check, but you, exercising your FREE WILL, chose to close her up and send her to the recovery room... 


One might even go as far as to question why she needed that cholecystectomy. Why did God "give" that to her? Why did she seem to recover for a couple of days and then die? Well, $#!+ happens, that's why. I have no other explanation for that. But I need no further explanation as to why she died. It just happened. It's too pragmatic, I know, but what can I do about it?


It was sad. It was terrible. It was sudden. It was shocking. It was many things, but it was not punishment. I don't believe in that God. I don't think that omnipotent, all-punishing God exists. I believe in something superior, in something grand and marvelous, something capable of giving life. I believe in something who placed a whole lot of wonderful characteristics in one woman and made her my Aunt. I believe that I am a better person for having known her. And I thank life and the universe for the coincidence or conspiracy of having placed her in my life.

I do appreciate that my family back at home feels "in peace" because it was God's decision to take her away. I think everyone is entitled to deal with pain any way they want (that is why I write this Blog in English and not in Spanish). Good for them. I'm glad that they can thank and blame one poor Guy or Gal for everything that happens: weather, traffic, problems and blessings.

I don't think it was God, but I don't know. I'm a simple agnostic mortal who knows nothing. But it was a lousy coincidence that my Aunt had to die right before Christmas. To whom do I write my letter of complaint?

Surprise!

Honey hates birthdays. At least so he claims. Last year, I "forced" him to have an awesome birthday party - and he had a blast! We all did. We all had loads of fun. We began at 8 p.m., and 6 a.m. we were still singing. Actually the singing began only at 4 a.m., but that is beyond the point. The point is we had fun. And the best part was (for Honey, at least, who was paying the bill) we payed a little over 100 Euros for more than 30 guests in a private room at an awesome bar. So, seriously - wow.

But this year Honey really didn't want to to do anything. He said that he did not feel like inviting both friends and acquaintances to drink at his expense, but that he did not know how to not invite the acquaintances; he said it was too complicated, and too expensive, and that he didn't have any ideas for a venue, and and and, but but but. After trying to convince him for a couple of days (that was waaaay back in early November), I came to a realization: You know, I told myself, the fact that you like birthdays does not mean that everybody else has to love birthdays as well. Why don't you let Honey celebrate his birthday however the heck he wishes to celebrate it?! And so I told Honey that we would do whatever he wanted to do.

And since he wanted to do nothing, we agreed that nothing would be done.

Except that sometime in late November he said that we had actually thought about it and that he agreed with me: he wanted a party. But he didn't know where, and he didn't know who to invite, and he didn't want to spend too much money (or any at all), and he didn't and didn't and didn't - only negatives. He even mentioned that it would have been awesome if I had planned a surprise party for him, so that he would not worry about anything or anyone and just enjoy his birthday.

I got upset and told him to stop sending me mixed signals: either you hate your birthday and you don't want anything, or you simply don't enjoy planning events but do enjoy your birthday. It's one or the other. But you can't claim to hate your birthday and expect people to still celebrate it for you! Also, I said, I have no time to plan anything. It's two weeks to your birthday, I'm sure everyone is already scheduled for something else, I said.

But I told him not to worry, that his birthday present would make up for his momentary sadness. I had purchased it already, and I knew he would love it. I had found the perfect present: something that he really wanted, but something that didn't cost too much - because, like every other man, he enjoys spending his money on me, but hates it when I spend my money on him. I like this mentality... And my gift met all the criteria.

Finally, the birthdate arrived. We had gone to bed early on Friday so at 8 a.m. on Saturday we were wide awake. When he got up to go to the bathroom, I ran to the closet, where I had hidden his present, and ran back to the bedroom to wait for him. He came out and I sang, Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Honey, happy birthday to you! and proceeded to present him with his present.

He looked at the box - smaller than he was expecting, but still seemed heavy. He opened it and -

- was vastly disappointed. It was a "beauty kit for men" from Nivea, including shaving creme, aftershave and bath and shower gel. But dark blue, so very manly.

I told him his reaction was unfair, for he had told me that if my gift to him was too expensive, he would force me to send it back. And I stayed within a very reasonable budget, so I didn't understand his reaction. He said I was right, apologized, and very politely pretended to enjoy his gift.

A couple of hours later I made him breakfast, a very special birthday breakfast. While I cooked he showered. I laid out brand new clothes for him, which we had bought earlier last week. New shirt, new pants, new boxer shorts, new belt. We sat down to eat -

- and the doorbell rang.

We weren't expecting anyone, but it is not terribly unusual for the doorbell to ring on someone's birthday. So he went to open the door, only no one was there...

... no one, but something.

He could not believe his eyes. Was this a joke? It clearly is a box which claims to contain a TV, but, but, really?!

Yes, really.

I had spoken (early November) with very close friends of ours, and had arranged for this 51" plasma Samsung 3D TV to arrive at their house so that Honey would not notice. They brought it over, helped us set it up, and had some cake and juice.

Honey asked if they wanted to come by in the evening for a beer or something, and they said that only for a few minutes, because they had another appointment previously scheduled. But that was ok, Honey figured. They could come by for a beer or two, and then we could both watch 3D movies all evening together and so spend his birthday.

It was all agreed. We went out to a romantic lunch and came back in time to meet with our friends. We were watching TV while waiting for them and the doorbell rang.

As scheduled for over two weeks, all his friends walked into the apartment! SURPRISE!

Aw, Honey! Of course I had something planned for you! Of course I was not going to let your birthday go unnoticed! Of course I was not going to honor your I-hate-my-birthday wishes! Of course I was going to surprise you!

And I did. And we had a blast.

Honey, it's not that I ignore your wishes... it's that I know you well enough to know which ones are the ones you really wish for, and which ones are those you want me to ignore.

Happy birthday, Honey!

BTW, you can take a guess as to whether or not 

the TV was returned due to exceeding the expected budget... 

To view more pictures, go to this youtube link

If it's not rain, it must be snow!

I am somewhat of a world citizen. I have lived in four continents, I have learned new languages and new cultures; I have seen and done things that most people would only dream of doing. I have ridden exotic animals, I have prayed in thousand-year-old churches and temples, I have had water (or, let's be honest, Coca-Cola) in 80 cities, I have gotten wet with rain in 15 countries, I have gone swimming in three different seas... You might say that I have seen and done so much, that I am difficult to amaze.

But you'd be wrong.

I am amazed by snow.

You need to understand why, though: as much as I have traveled, and as old as I am (I have been informed that my new hair cut makes me look my real age...), I still grew up and spent more than half of my life in Barranquilla, on the Caribbean coast of Colombia, where the average temperature is 35ºC and the daily weather report shows a bright, shiny, beautiful sun. We have rain, of course; but somehow the sun manages to shine through the dark, grey clouds. I remember, one time, ages ago -my gosh, I could not have been older than 10- it started raining really, really hard. And the raindrops, well, they looked funny. And they fell funny, and made a real loud noise. I went towards the window and saw "ice cubes" falling from the sky. It was an amazing phenomenon - so amazing, that I sometimes wonder if that is a real or made-up memory that I have.

I don't know.

But it is precisely because of that warmth in my life that snow baffles me. It is the only reason why I stand the cold. And it is very, VERY cold. But it's white. And oh-so-lovely! I know the shoes get all messed up, the bottom part of jeans and pants is always wet, it's difficult to walk and dangerous to drive. And the crazy Germans keep living like nothing is happening - school goes on, university goes on, work goes on. It should be a National Holiday every day snow falls! But I realize that, in Germany, that would be highly deterrent to the schedules, since snowfalls here are not only hard (and serious) but also last for months.

I promised my friends and family (those living in The New World, you know, the real Western World) that I would not write about the snow every winter. I promised I would not be another cute little latina fascinated by the white cotton-candy balls falling from the sky. I promised I would not have the same sort of blog every December.

I lied.

We had some sort of hail yesterday, but it was enough to make the grass in the gardens and the rooftops white. So I named it snow. For me, winter AND CHRISTMAS have now officially begun, because it is now white. And yes, I will go out and make snow angels as soon as there is enough snow to sink into. And yes, I will take plenty of pictures and send them to The Snow Flake Queen, and yes I will more than likely begin complaining in February, and yes, and I will be just another cute little latina fascinated by the white cotton-candy balls falling from the sky.

First "snow" for 2011

Dear Santa, send me a maid!

Dear Santa,

I hate being a housewife. I do. I really, really do. And I realize how unorthodox it is to begin a "Dear Santa" letter with a statement of hatred, but I just need for you to understand how important my first world problems are, and thus help me by sending me a maid for Christmas.

If you're going to send THIS maid,
make sure you let me know so that I can send Honey
 far, far away from home during her working hours!

Santa, I hate being a housewife. I love Honey, though he has not yet made me his wife, so maybe I am not technically a housewife - perhaps next year I will ask for a big rock on my ring finger. But look, Santa, look at how pressing this maid issue is: I need a maid more than I need to be legally married!

Santa, God blessed -and simultaneously cursed- me with great attention to detail. Which means that a task (like washing dishes or folding laundry) that would take the average housewife 15 to 20 minutes, takes me 30 to 40 minutes. Because it has to be done just right, it has to be perfect. And since I don't always have the time to invest in mundane tasks (I mean, who needs clean panties anyway?!) because I have to study for my beloved Masters, then I leave the task for later. Or for tomorrow. Or for the day after tomorrow. Or until I have gone commando for two days straight and realize that I really, really need to do laundry.

Santa, my kitchen is dirty and my bathroom has a particular pee-stench that I have been unable to remove. And by "unable to" I of course mean "unwilling to". EW! I don't want to get down on my hands and knees and scrub. I don't want to get my unmanicured hands dirty with detergents and stuff. I don't want to have the smell of latex gloves to avoid the stench of disinfectant.

Santa, I WANT A MAID! And you see, because I am so magnanimous, I am even willing to accept the maid with the bill. I mean, I will pay for his/her services. And I will pay well! I will stop eating Berliners, I will down-size Honey's side of the Christmas Wish List (my Christmas Wish List includes necessary items, such as a black coat and furry shoes. I mean, who can live without those two items?!), and I will pay for the maid.

Santa, I need a maid. Pretty please. That is all that I ask of you this year. I need a maid. I want a maid. This simple little wish will not only help the German economy (I will be incrementing the job market), but it will also help end my first world problems. Which is funny, because I only have this first world problem because I am a third world person, where maids are part of the family.

Santa, a maid. Please.

With love,

--Nat


PS: World Peace and an End to Hunger would be cool, too.

Ich bin ein Berliner

There are so many things wrong with that phrase. The first one being, I am not a jelly-filled doughnut, although I do eat so many of them so often, I might as well be. Also, I am more than three hours away from Berlin, so if I were to be some sort of German I would be a Kieler, not a Berliner. And no, "Kieler" is not funny, and no, it does not sound like "Killer". Long and short vowels are there for a reason. In addition to the previously stated, I would never say "Ick", like the famous person said it, nor would I say "Ish", like the foreigners say it. I would use a perfect "Ich", thus actually reinforcing my point:

I am a German. I found this out as I was trying to make a point in two different classes last week.

In the first class, American 20th Century Short Fiction, I was supporting my claim that there is a European-settler-vs-Indigenous-People trend in Hemingway's "Indian Camp". I mentioned how the doctor, Nick's father, Nick and Uncle George all "cross over" to the Indian camp and go take care of an Indian woman giving birth. Upon hearing her screams, the doctor, Nick's dad, tells Nick that he need not hear them, for her screams are not important. And here is what I said: "It is a very clear reference to you people coming over to my land, to my continent, and taking command of my people."

Because I am totally indigenous, right?

In the second class, Remember The Alamo, I claimed that although Santa Anna was well known for his pleasure and desire of war and dominion, we could not ignore the fact that the Americans had come over and pushed "my people" to the other side of the border, thus wanting to take control of a land that had originally belonged to "us".

Because I am totally mexican, right?

At some point in between the two classes the issue got mixed (because of race, the train of thought is easy to follow) with black people and slaves and all that stuff. To which I appropriately mentioned, that "my people" had been mistreated by The White Man for centuries.

Because I am totally black, right?

My teacher includes me when counting the Germans, she (actually, they both do) include me in the collective "we". "We" symbolizing Germans, Europeans, The White Man in general. And they do so because I am white. Very white. As white (whiter?) as the Germans that are around me in both of my classes. I am educated following the western educational system, which is different from that which one would expect of an indian, a mexican or a black person back in late 19th - early 20th century America.

But more than that, beyond the preconceptions that Europeans might have of "my people" (whoever "my people" are), I follow all the preconceptions "my people" have of Germans: I am on time, always, if possible early. I am prepared, always, if possible even further than expected. I am serious, always, if possible with some wit here or there. I wish I could say I was also tall and green-eyed and blond - I am working on the blond thing.

I am a German. I dislike what the Germans dislike and like what the Germans like (except for the Rotkohl thingy...). I think like a German. I try to act like a German. I include myself in the German collective "we". I hang out with Germans. I spend time with Germans. I try to talk like the Germans do (that might take a while longer than expected...).

I am a German. Ich bin ein Berliner.