This constantly amuses me, how in English we have one word for something that you requires a sentence in Spanish (and vice versa) like “That song that got stuck in my head”, and that makes total sense but the word earworm is just fun!

I tried, a bit desperately, to insist that there MUST be a word for it. If not, I can just invent one, as I am prone to do…like everyday. *sigh*

At any rate, here are the songs that provoked my earworm discussion. May they stick in your head as they have in mine. Enjoy!

From the little Portuguese that I understand, I knew this song wasn’t lyrical genius, but that didn’t stop it from running on loop in my head all month week. Anyway, if the audience of ALL WOMEN is any indication, this guy is good? 

One of my nerdier pursuits lately has been to brush up on my favorite TV shows. That includes starting Scrubs from the beginning. If I watch an episode a night and I have, what? Entertainment for the next six months? This scene got the next song stuck in my head. 

And the song.  This song had us googling “Erasure party in Santiago” and ironically there was one, across the city, but there was one.

I’m trying to bolster my pathetic music library for when I go running in the park. The music helps drown out any men who feel it is their right, no, DUTY, to scream their endorsement of my running clothes/blonde hair/ blue eyes/. So I downloaded 250 Greatest Hits of the 90′s. Yes, people, the 90′s had 250 hits. I was surprised, too.  I might have squealed a little when I saw this song. 

What’s your most annoying favorite earworm?

I was impressed as I walked into the large split-level structure decked out in sterile white. The secretaries at the front desk took my name and directed me to one of the many waiting areas. After about five minutes,  a confused tech appeared in front of me with a file asking, “Sara Becker Rodriguez?”

Erm…Becker Rodriguez? I hesitated, “That’s me…I think.” In the room, I tried to correct them, “No, my last name is not Becker, it’s similar, but that’s spelled wrong. My last name is like the beer. I mean, the better beer. And I don’t have a second last name.”

The tech and the dentist looked taken aback by this thought. “No second last name?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Surprisingly, I’ve been asked this before. It always makes me want to reply flippantly, “You mean for the last 26 years I’ve had a second last name and not known it? Thank you for discovering it!” In any case, if I had to choose a second last name it would not be one with so many R’s. I can’t roll them, thank you very much!

The tech finally corrected my name with sad shake of her head. I used to refer to myself as the poor petri-dish baby from everyone’s reactions when they found out I only had one measly last name. Meanwhile, the dentist asked me when I had arrived from Germany. That’s the first time I’ve gotten German in a while. I laughed, “My last name is German, but I’m from the U.S.”

“Ah, very good.”

He donned a pair of gloves, grabbed some sharp-looking tools and asked me to open wide. Really wide. No, wider than that. Can you breath? No? Okay, then that it probably wide enough.

Now, you must know that I hate going to the dentist. With a passion. I hate opening my mouth and having a stranger stick their fingers inside and scrap at my teeth with pointy metallic sticks. Yes, I’m a baby. Thankfully, that part was over quickly. He turned to me and said, “I don’t know if you need x-rays today. Your mouth is impeccable.” (Let the records show that I would pay, endure, and enjoy the torture to have someone say that I am “impeccable” at anything. Yes, vanity is a vice here at casa “Becker Rodriguez”.)

“Great! I wanted to avoid any unnecessary radiation.”

“Why?” Then comprehension dawned,  ”Are you expecting family?”

I paused. What does my family have to do with a dental x-ray? I started, “What? No, my family never…OH! Oh. No! I’m not. Thank God! Haha. I had a brain tumor so I try to avoid radiation whenever possible.”

That seemed to confused them further. Why would anyone say “Thank God, I’m not ‘expecting family’, I just had a brain tumor”? What’s that a euphemism for? Their twin expressions read, “People from the U.S. are so strange.”

Don’t they say that you learn a new euphemism every day? I think I’m good for at least a week!

People do this constantly, except most situations are more exciting than my lazy Sunday morning blogging. Common time markers are weddings, births, deaths, the purchase of a large item, a vacation, a new job, the first months or years of a child’s life, the beginning of a new diet, the list is infinite.

For me, the biggest time marker of my life has been my brain surgery. There was a time when I even realized that my surgery was a personal D-day to me. There were events put into motion on that day that would irreversibly and irrevocably change my life forever. I even started to look at it in terms of historical or scientific dates on a calendar characterized by the BC or AD we all learned in grade school. My personal calendar looked somewhat different and consisted of Before Surgery and After Surgery:

BS —————————————–S—————————————–AS

That system for recollection made me laugh. I have the mentality of a 13 year-old boy sometimes, so yes, BS is HIGHlarious, except that it’s also significant. Yes, significant in the traditional sense of the abbreviation: BS.

There was so much in my life that was messed up Before Surgery: priorities, toxic people in my life, relationships that needed to change or end, goals, my self-confidence, how I looked at the passing of time as a right not a gift. It’s like what the fortune-teller in Baltimore told me before she banished my friend from the room: I was going through a personal renaissance, I was going to lose toxic friends, and my relationship was undergoing a painful change that would ultimately make it better. I scoffed. It was probably the first time after such a reading (note: such readings are probably a once a year phenomenon), that I really felt she had misread the cards. Literally. My friends and my relationship were fine! I reassured myself.

As it turns out, the woman whose Romanian accent is still dubious, was right about everything. And it was a seemingly endless transformation! Until one day it just wasn’t anymore, that is.

I realized last week as I was relating a story to a friend that I could have inserted the time marker “You know, before my surgery…” but I refrained. I recognized the gap in the conversation where it wouldn’t have even been awkward to place it, but I didn’t. Surprisingly, this didn’t bother me. In the past, it may have made me anxious to fill her in on the details, lest she think I’ve been sitting around watching bad TV for the past year and a half, but this time it didn’t. The realization was gripping and, yet, oddly peaceful at the same time.

I know that you, as my blog audience, are privy to thoughts that I don’t always share with others, so because of that the moment may not seem that momentous, but it was. It really was.

I logged into a web countdown website and found out that it took me exactly this long, to come to this resolution (the site marked CST with Dallas):

Time since Tuesday, 6 July 2010, 06:00:00 (Dallas time)

565	days
13562	hours
813747	minutes
48824822	seconds

Alternative version

It is 565 days, 2 hours, 27 minutes, 2 seconds
since Tuesday, 6 July 2010, 06:00:00 (Dallas time)

Current time is

Sunday, 22 January 2012, 07:27:02 CST (local time in Dallas)

48,824,822 seconds. Now, that’s the time marker.

Pssst! Hey, you may have noticed that I have a new header. It was thanks to Cialina from Paper Wings Design Studio who I found on my friend Amanda’s blog. Thank you Cialina for putting up with my weird requests and thanks Amanda for the tip!

Part of the “source to plate” disconnect happened this weekend. We made machas a la parmesana (that translates to pink clams with parmesan cheese, but I’ve never seen a ‘pink clam’ in the U.S., so I’m going to say machas). We made them once before in a huge production line of machas. Still, I had no idea how much work goes into the process so that they come out looking like this (garnish included):

Machas a la Parmesana from vidanutrida.com

Last time I made them, someone must have done some secret pre-cleaning because my job consisted of placing a clean macha on a shell; adding butter, cheese, teaspoon of white wine; enjoy!

This time it was like, “Alright, Sara. You sit at the head of the table. You are going to take the macha like so between your thumb and index finger and push the guts out onto this plate. Understood? Have fun!”

“By guts…you…er mean the poop?”

“Basically.”

“But, that’s disgusting.”

“Better than eating it.”

“So then you do it!” I can be very mature when I want to be.

I lost. I got macha pooper squeezer duty. I don’t know what was worse: the briny smell, or the sound effects I made for each macha (Bleh! Meh! Don’t kill me! Oh, why did I die constipated?), intermingled with “Grab my camera, this is good stuff!” (See comment on maturity.)

I have several pictures of the plate of macha innards, but I decided my readers would never forgive me for that. (You’re welcome.) After I finished my last macha, I looked at the plate and said, “This is why I never think about where my food comes from, because I’d have to think of macha innards. I didn’t even know machas had innards.  I thought they were like one-celled sea erasers.”

I’m definitely not an adventurous eater. Perhaps, I should rephrase that: I am definitely not an adventurous chef. I’ve got a long way before I’m this guy: 

But, I’d say I got pretty close this weekend with the macha squeezing action.

Last Sunday, I went to the grocery store, as most normal people do. I’m trying something new that I call “Don’t eat it if I didn’t/couldn’t make it/pronounce what’s in it”. The details aren’t important, but let’s say it involves a lot of fruits, veggies, and stove-top cooking. (Note: My oven scares the crap out of me. Its previous owner left it with several coatings of thick, sticky, enamel-like encrusted food. I leaned my head in once to clean it with that toxin oven cleaner, but I started to feel a little too Sylvia Plath, if you know what I mean. Also, don’t know how the thing lights. With a match – I know that! But, I don’t want to lose my eyebrows. Thank you very much!).

*Wipes brow*

Whew. Anyway, I wanted apples. Nice. Simple. Apples. Shouldn’t be a problem in Chile. They export APPLES to everywhere in the world. Right? There was not a single apple in the entire store. Not a one. I also couldn’t find eggplant, or spinach. But I just cared about the apples! No one really snacks on eggplant. That’s weird. A crisp apple is another story. I gave up and bought peaches and plums, instead.

I left the store complaining loudly that APPLES are a basic staple. They are a right of groceryhood! One cannot call themselves a SUPERmercado without apples. And don’t give me that crap about buying local or in season…I could write the book. I wanted an apple. Actually, it bothered me because it reminded me of the disappearing semolina from the previous week.

Same story yesterday. I went to a store as I was leaving my yoga class and the selection was even more dismal. A family in front of me was speaking a foreign language that I pegged as possibly Eastern European. The woman walked up to the bored looking man waiting to weigh our fruits and vegetables and tried to ask him “Manzanas?” (JIC manzana = apple.) He didn’t get it. She raised her voice “MANZANAS?!?” getting flustered. He shrugged, still not getting it. Across the room, her husband yelled, “Tienen manzanas?” This time the guy understood and gave the sad finger wag that implied no and, at the same time, what an odd question. That’s right. It was odd. Apples. In a grocery store. Odd.

The week progressed much like that. I became a little obsessed with it. One may argue that I have too much time on my hands. To that person, I’d say I was simply surfacing for air amidst all the paper writing happening over here. Seriously. I’m a machine.

This morning I woke up early and, as a treat to myself, I ordered a latte at Starbucks. Starbucks in the U.S. is usually reserved for moments when a better coffee shop (like Caribou) can not be found, and here it literally translates to “Expensive and trendy coffee shop chain that serves coffee in cups larger than a thimble, and, while still lacking in quality, you go there because they play music in English and it reminds you of home”. The woman who took my order was a b*tch and a half. She couldn’t understand me and I had to repeat myself several times, but instead of being patient she acted like it was my fault. Finally, when they called out my order, they called it out as “Small latte for Sam? Sam? Sam? Small latte? Sam?” I realized they were talking to me. I was “Sam”. Sam is ,ironically, my brother’s name. My brother. As in a man. Riiight. Someone later mentioned that gringos have weird names. I could have been a SAMantha. Whatever. It doesn’t change the fact that Sara sounds nothing like Sam – not even with my accent.

Leaving Starbucks, I was all “Screw it. I’m going to go home and make something delicious.” I walked to the store across the street. What’s the first thing I see as I walk through the doors? A man standing on a stool putting the finishing touches on a large display of…wait for it! Apples.

GAH!

Except, I’m still working on all those other fruits – like the fuzzy kinds. I went home and spent the afternoon trying to find a way to unlock my iPhone which they tell me is too updated. It’s either wait or buy a new phone. Fun.

I know. I know. I sound a little like the Modern Family episode where Cam explains why he and Mitchell arrived late, “It’s a somber occasion and all my tops were too joyful.” Mitchell rolls his eyes and says, “You don’t want our problems.”

But before I go on and write ad nauseum about my birthday weekend, let me clarify something, my last post wasn’t meant to sound sad or nostalgic. I got a few emails afterwards telling me to cheer up. The ironic part is that I was fairly cheerful when I was writing it and that was my attempt at light-hearted humor. #Fail.

Moving on, it was a full birthday weekend! I have no shame in drawing out my inevitable creep towards 30 into 72 awesome hours. You heard me. We celebrated from Friday to Monday. Wait…That’s more than 72 hours. Whatever. You do the math. And I’d like to share some camera phone images of the weekend with you. You’re welcome.

On Friday night, we went to the theatre. The Municipal Theatre was showing a ballet titled 30 y Tres Horas Baraccompanied with music from Chile’s Los Tres. It was my first time in the theatre and I loved it. I love old buildings, but I love them even more when they are well-maintained like the theatre obviously was.

Teatro Municipal de Santiago

I <3 the theatre boxes. The ballet was great, even if it was a bit contrived to fit Los Tres’ music. Very Mamma Mia-esque, sans the cheesy dialect.

Big chunk of whaa?

After the ballet, we stopped off for a chorillana. It *may* have been my idea. For the uninitiated, a chorillana is a mountain of french fries, fried eggs and onions, sausage, and steak. It is a veritable heap of fat and cholesterol with little redeeming nutritional value. Yes, this is coming from the same person who lived a nearly vegan existence in Texas. Qualifier: I still don’t like to cook meat. I’m never going to say something like, Well, I’m going to whip me up a heart attack on a plate. However, I will eat it if offered (usually), or if someone else cooks it. Call me a flexitarian.

Last night, on my actual birthday, not my pre-birthday, we went to a Peruvian restaurant called El Otro Sitio. It was worth it for the pisco sour alone.

Best Pisco Sour of my LIFE

There must have been a secret ingredient – LIKE CRACK – that they added to the mix because it was so delicious and smooth. Normally, I don’t drink much. I can’t really. After two drinks, I’m ready to dance on a table. I’m what pop culture refers to as a “cheap drunk”, but that pisco sour was amazing. Usually, drinking pisco for me is like taking a kick to the stomach: Instant ulcer. On top of that, the pisco sours are usually too sweet, too sour, or bitter. This one was the perfect mix of all three. I could have married it, but that would have been weird.

Yesterday morning, I got my funemployed butt out of bed to a morning kundalini class and somewhere between the forward folds and the breath of fire, I started feeling the effects of this weekend’s excesses. It was like, OH, hello chorillana! That’s where you’ve been hiding. Gross.

All and all, it was an awesome birthday.

How was your weekend/Monday?

You know that I am a wanderer at heart and that I am once again making a go at it in Santiago.

And all will be fine as long as the soccer fans don't get me...

You know that a year and a half ago today I had surgery for this guy and that the news shook me to the core.

I’m sure you also know that I subsequently went through a long funk and ran away to Costa Rica.

One of the many beaches at Manuel Antonio

And then picked up and moved to Texas.

Then I got really into yoga. Like reallllly into it.

Am I missing anything? It’s been a crazy ride! See!?! You know almost everything about me except my favorite brand of toothpaste (Crest) and how I take my coffee (milk, no sugar). And now you even know that! So who are you dear blog readers/fans/lurkers? Also, what brings you here? Is it my winning personality? My offbeat wit and charm? *gulp* Voyeurism? Let me know and maybe I can bring more of what keeps you coming back here in the next year.

In the meantime, I’d like to wish myself a Happy Birthday!

Happy Birthday!

I decided to try a class at a yoga studio that came recommended. It’s a Kundalini studio. the last Kundalini class I attended in Chile consisted of an exercise to control and see our auras which inexplicably left me near tears. My classes in the U.S. were more mellow. I think I was expecting a mix of the two in this class.

Kundalini yoga image from http://www.shaktinj.com/styles.htm

The environment was welcoming. People in flowing white clothing waited on bean bag chairs for the next class to start. The secretary who took my sign-in information didn’t say anything when I snarfed at the question “what is your spiritual name?” Sister, I’m lucky if I remember my real name on most days, I wanted to say, but I refrained.

As I was waiting, a man with long hair tied back in a bun walked in carrying a tiny basket. He announced that he was selling little “balls” made with oatmeal, cocoa, and honey and that we could buy one for 200 pesos. That sounds nutritious and delicious, I reasoned, I’m in! I forked over my two coins, and as he handed me my healthy treat, the man behind me said none too quietly, “You must not eat before meditation.”

*sigh*

Really? *sigh again*

This is how the brainwashing starts, I thought. First they tell me I can’t eat, then the next thing you know I’m wearing a turban and all white. Leave me alone to eat my little oatmeal ball that I paid 200 pesos for and let me worry about my meditation.

Once we got in the classroom, I realize that the man who had chided me earlier was blind and a favorite amongst instructors and students. He sat up by the front so he could hear how the postures were described. I normally try to sit on the left side, so I can see the instructor with my good eye…and yet I still complain! That’s it, I thought, now my karma is really messed up. This year is a wash before it has even begun.

The class was a nice mix of kriyas to calm the nervous system and open the glandular system .I enjoyed it, except, as usual, I couldn’t concentrate during the meditation. Not even for five minutes. It’s like my subconscious wanted to screw with me.

Subconscious: Hey….hey…hey!
Me: Uh…what?
Subconscious: Nothing. I just wanted to say that you should be concentrating.
Me: I’m trying but you interrupted. 
Subconscious: My bad. I’ll be quiet from now….
Me: Thanks, because I’m starting to get really distracted. In fact, I’m thinking that I want those rock lamps for my apartment.
Subconscious: Totally. You totally should. *whistles* Hey…hey…hey!
Me: Yes?
Subconscious: You should get the little crystal ornaments that are hanging from the ceiling, too.
Me: Good idea, tha- STOP THAT! Are you doing this because I ate?
Subconscious: Your guess is as good as mine.

Yes, my meditation was off. It’s because I ate. It had to be. That is what food does to me. Everything comes down to food. I leave jobs (actually, I left joB, not jobS – and just the one mentioned above) because I like eating it too much and I can’t concentrate during meditation because of it. Food is overrated.

This month, as I finish the last two classes for my master’s I think I’ll take full advantage of the one-month pass I bought for the studio. Maybe I’ll work up to fasting beforehand like a diehard yogi, or maybe I’ll continue to struggle with my self-sabotaging subconscious. We shall see. I just know that leaving the studio last night, I felt awesome! Maybe I put some points back in the karma bank? Yes??

To be continued…

So as you may know, 2011 sucked a little. Okay, it sucked a lot. The good news is that it’s over now. Just like that. In one handy little countdown, my calendar opened to a brand new page untainted by 2011.

New Year’s Eve has never been my favorite holiday. I prefer Christmas. Maybe it’s the lingering anticipation of Santa Claus and memories of trying to stay awake with my brother to catch a glimpse, or the food. Oh the food!But, you know, the food wasn’t too bad this year I even got a little snowman place saver. A snowman in the summer…It made sense to me.

No, New Year’s was always a night to have a quiet dinner with family, watch the ball drop in Times Square an hour before it was actually midnight in Minnesota, and turn in for bed by the time midnight really rolled around. Exciting stuff.

Chileans get a little more into their New Year’s Eve. These were the spectacular fireworks over the harbor in Valparaiso.

We had a nice view.

I’m sort of partial to the champagne colored ones. What about you?

After the fireworks, I wanted to walk through downtown Valparaiso and see everyone outside. I was told that there are so many people you think it’s daytime…except that it’s not.

And most of them are drunk and wielding confetti or silly string. I gotta say, I love me a good confetti-ing by a stranger – especially if the stranger happens to be about five and can only throw confetti at your knees.

Happy 2012! I hope it’s a good one. We deserve it. Am I right, blogosphere? Tomorrow is back to work, or if you are funemployed like me, then you might occupy your time trying to find a yoga studio or trying a new vegan recipe, so you can, uh, detox after the *possible* overindulgences of the last two weeks.