I originally planned on having my own travel blog while I was in Spain. But considering the fact that this is the first time I am writing since I’ve gotten here (and that I do not intend on writing much about my “Spanish” life) I have decided that this would be a useless travel blog. Instead, I suppose I will continue writing here sparingly as I have done in the past; one pointless blog is quite enough.
Yesterday I received a package from my mother. I have never been so excited about a gift in my whole life. This may in fact be because I do not believe I have ever really received a package before. My mother is just not one of those boisterous baking mothers that send their children brownies and cookies at college. This is most likely a good thing for two reasons: 1. I could not possibly have the conversations I have with my mother with a mother like that (baking mothers usually live in a world where there children do not drink, smoke, or have sex…or at least that is how I imagine baking mothers). 2. I would most certainly be ten pounds heavier (I know this is true because when Josh’s mother sent him packages I would always eat half of the contents). Anyway, this package was particularly for two reasons, one of which I am proud of, the of which I am not. That being said, I’m not entirely sure which one I am more excited about. This package contained a great deal of books, in English. It’s not that one cannot obtain books in English in Madrid. You can. Unfortunately the only books that are in sufficient supply are books I do not want to read (i.e. John Grisham, Danielle Steele, etc.) While I enjoy reading books in Spanish, and I realize the more of them I read the better I’ll be, I simply cannot read with the same pleasure in Spanish, I cannot appreciate the language of the author in the same way. The second part of the package contained a great deal of DVDs. I’m not sure when this happened to me, and I am entirely sure that it is Willa’s fault, but I can no longer fall asleep without watching something. If I am not distracted by bad tv or movies I will lay in my bed staring at the ceiling no matter how late it is. In this case, why I did not bring DVDs with me is a mystery as is why I brought 5 pairs of heels and one pair of flat shoes. Anyhow, my mother sent me a myriad of guilty pleasures including DVDs of the OC, Grey’s Anatomy, and the Gilmore Girls. Needless to say, I am happy and am sleeping much more soundly.
While I was in Barcelona visiting Stephanie a few weeks ago, I started to read Chuck Klosterman’s Killing Yourself to Live because it was on her roommate’s night table. I hate not finishing books. So after receiving it yesterday, I finished it today. At the end of the day, I’m not sure what to say about it. I have read a few articles of Klosterman’s before but I’ve never read any of his books. I have plenty of negative things to say about it, not the least of which is that it appears to me to have no general point, especially not about the deaths of musicians. However, I do think he has his moments. His commentary on New York culture, while perhaps sometimes a bit too seeped in hipster self-awareness, is sometimes right on. And there is one passage towards the end of the book that seems to perhaps be the “point” of the book, even if the rest doesn’t necessarily lead up to it. It summarized what for me seems to be one of the saddest things about relationships. That said, I hate that I think this passage is true. He is essentially saying that there is one person that you fall in love with, that while you may not love them for the rest of your life, will always haunt your relationships. It is not the romantic notion of unrequited love or soul mates. He simply points out that inevitably, and often retrospectively, one person will become the definition of what loves feels like, “who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of those lovable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. You will remember having conversations with this person that never actually happened” And for me, an insufferably proud person, the worst part “That person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everybody else”. I hate losing, but I guess according to this theory everybody loses to somebody. That being said, don’t read the book. Those of you that live in New York will only be reading it because you are from New York, that’s probably why I did. There are better things out there to read. I’m merely saying that I think that he is right on this point, and it is depressing.
That thought aside, I am actually in an unusually fabulous mood. I just came from a class at my gym led by the cutest short girl with a high voice that’s always going “Uno, dos, tres, cuatro!” in pretty much the cutest way possible. On that note I am going to go shower and go out because I should not be sitting writing at 10 pm on a Friday night”.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sRx-peWf9ak

I find it hilarious that I even peripherally associate with this person.

A post for no one - because that is who reads this blog

New York is a place full of emotions and emotional people. It's true that we might hide behind our Stella Artois or gin and tonic or in our new Gucci dress or with the click of our heels on the pavement. But nevertheless New Yorkers are angry. New Yorkers fall in love, and out of love. They cry and scream just like everyone else. I only know because I can hear it on the streets or in my own apartment. But one thing I think New Yorkers might just lack is the feeling of guilt. Guilt just doesnt seem to fit between our stressful job, our reservation at Ono, cocktails downtown, or brunch the next morning. Guilt just isn't convenient in a city, where we may be emotional, but only when it comes to ourselves. It only took a trip an hour and a half out of the city to remember about guilt. And since then I've been thinking about it nonstop. Someone recently told me that guilt is a two-sided coin, it can make you do better, but it can also weigh you down if you don't release it. Certainly, New Yorkers do not want to be slowed down by guilt. By Sunday morning no one wants to think about Saturday night's guy or girl, or be slowed down by apologizing to those friends you blew off to be with said guy or girl. As long as we're stealthy we can avoid owning up to our mistakes or getting caught in our lies. But in a slower place, where the honking and the alcohol doesnt inebriate you, guilt finds its way in even without getting caught. Many New Yorkers, myself included, don't really believe in much spiritually. We live in a world of concrete things, almost literally. This makes not asking for forgiveness easy as long as we can preclude guilt. No religion informs our decisions are demands our apologies. But if guilt gets its nasty smell all over you, and you have no God to forgive you with a sign of the cross, who do you ask? And if this guilt has already achieved its one goal, improving one's future decisions, how does one release it without having to take an ugly look at the past?

read and love it

http://greenbean22.livejournal.com/

The end of an era

I've realized that some of the most amusing interaction I have nowadays are with the nine-year-old that I babysit, as is obvious from some previous posts. After two years after spending every afternoon with someone, regardless of age, this is inevitable. This Friday is my last day babysitting. In tribute two awesome quotes:

Damian (singing to David Bowie but making up new lyrics): You smell like goat cheese...ooooh yea....and there's nothing I can do about the smell!

Later...
After purposely frustrating me by saying what I said didnt make sense (when it did!): Danielle....you just can't handle my level of sarcasm.

P.S.

Alexa got an apartment of her very own with her sister. She moves on July 1st. We will miss her dearly. But it will give us an excuse to go all the way up to the east side just to have 10 dollar brunch with unlimited mimosas that will lead us to waste away all of our Sundays. In addition, our dear friend Jenny will be with us for three weeks in July. If you dont' know Jenny, you will. She is way louder than me, this is saying something. It will be fabulous.

It's ALWAYS there (even when you can't be grounded anymore)

Just the other day while confiding in me about his grounding, I had the following exchange with the nine year old that I babysit:

"Danielle, you know how there's that naughty side of you that wants to do stuff even though you KNOW you shouldn't" (with a name like Damian what can you expect)

"Of course, but you have to learn not to because then you get grounded and that's not worth it" (obligatory paid response from babysitter)

"But Danielle it's ALWAYS there".

-Wisdom from Damian

Wednesday May 24th

TODAY;

1. case of beer on the roof
2. dance party
3. ignoring all responsibilities
4. Midday drunk dials
5. Alexa lyrically dancing to "Don't Speak" RIGHT now

that is all.

There ae a few things that I will always love about coming home no matter how much I complain about it. Considering the past week or so, the most important seems to be that they will always be on your side, even when you really aren't. This goes for Andrew that is equally part of my family. Second is Sunday dinners. Big family Sunda dinners are the most excellent experiences. Food and my family's ritual making fun of the looks of everyone else. Of course this ends in one leaving my Aunt's house stuffed with fattening food and paranoid about your weight because they spent all of dinner making fun of everyone else's obesity. Despite this, it is still excellent. Last night sitting on my fire escape and drinking shitty red wine I realized that I would be ok spending the rest of the summer just like that. Andrew is here. I must go.