The social network

I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm obsessed with Facebook. In my opinion, it's one of the biggest phenomena in the history of mankind, only bested by the invention of the wheel... Who doesn't have a Facebook profile? You can find virtually anybody there. Even Jesus Christ has got quite a few profiles (seriously, check it if you don't believe me, but come to think of it, he can't have made them himself, can he?). Anyway, the point is that Facebook has taken over our lives (OK, MY life...) It's easier to contact me through Facebook than through my cell phone. I am the proud owner of one of the busiest profiles in the whole wide world.

You can search for whatever you can think of and it's bound to have a fan group e.g. "Bocadillo de Nocilla". There are other groups which are absolutely surrealistic. Take this one: "I hate it when I'm studying and a velociraptor throws bananas at me". What the fuck?! Who makes up these names?

However, there are other groups that make you feel really identified with them when you find them: "Yo también tiré el yogur al fregadero y la cucharilla a la basura", "Mi madre también se inventa la hora que es cuando me despierta", among others... The latter is particularly true for me. My mother would wake me up by shouting from the kitchen: "Vero, get up, it's almost half past eight! You're gonna be late for school!" Then, I would invariably jump out of bed only to discover that Mum had tricked me again and it was only half past seven. The only good thing about it is that I was never late for school, because I bought her motherly lies day in day out.

Some Facebook groups are both accurate and tremendously funny, such as the ones that start with "Señoras que...". "Señoras que discuten para ver quién está más enferma" is one of my favourites, along with "Señoras que producen un eclipse solar cuando tienden las bragas"... Have you noticed that inside a pair of knickers like the ones old ladies wear you can fit the entire population of Valencia? So, as I said, accurate and witty.

Anyway, raise your hand if you haven't got a Facebook profile. What are you waiting for? For God's sake, even Jesus Christ's got one and he lived more than 2,000 years ago! You know what they say, you have to change with the times, or, as Darwin said, "Adapt or die"...

Things that mystify me: Escalators

I would like to inaugurate a new section in my blog. “Things that mystify me” shall approach different aspects of daily life that, try as I may, I don’t understand. This month, I’ll be dealing with something that gives people many a headache: the escalators at “El Corte Inglés”. Apparently, escalators work in a very simple way: if you want to go to an upper floor, you take the one that moves upwards, and if you want to go to a lower level, the one that moves downwards. As simple as that…’Well’, you may think, ’it doesn’t take a scientist to know this. I have never had problems with them’.
Right, I find it a most disconcerting device and I’d like to meet the sadistic mind that designed this hellish system so as to discuss a couple of issues with them (or to slap them round the face, more like). My problem is that I am never able to find the right one. It really puzzles me!
My mother and I went to the abovementioned shop some days ago. After wandering around the third floor for a while, I told her to go down to the first floor, where I had seen some items of my interest. Now, where’s the downward escalator? We were facing the upward one, so the only thing we had to do was to walk around it in order to find the downward one…right? Easier said than done. It was as though somebody was teasing us, changing the position of the escalators so that we were always facing the wrong one. We must have looked pathetic because, in the end, one of those extra-kind shop assistants guided us and showed us the downward escalator, giving us a rather pitying look before leaving. I was starting to feel dizzy… At that very moment I had an epiphany (as you may have noticed after reading my post on the Oposiciones episode, my life is full of these lately). I have found out why the escalator system is so twisted and I feel that it is my duty as a citizen to warn you. Ok, there it goes…They want to keep you from leaving the building, that’s why you can’t find your way down. All the escalators lead you to the Oportunidades section, which is on the topmost floor. But have you ever thought about the type of clothes that are sold up there? THEY ARE THE GARMENTS OF THE PEOPLE THAT DIED TRYING TO FIND THEIR WAY DOWN!!!! That’s why they look so horribly scruffy and old. According to the staff:“Son restos de serie”. But you mustn’t believe them, they’re in on it! Some people say: “Urgh, one may think these clothes are second-hand!” Well, of course, because they actually are!
So, let me give you a last piece of advice before calling it a night: you’d better keep away from escalators, they are the work of the devil…

Who wants to be a teacher?

Nowadays, everybody is obsessed with becoming a civil servant, what with the global crisis we’re going through and the job insecurity. Ex-classmates, workmates, acquaintances…Everybody wants to become part of this elite, the Chosen, the ones whom aren’t affected by recession. Even I (briefly) contemplated becoming a Secondary teacher. Now, who in their right mind would want to spend their life trying to teach bloody beardless youths who don’t give a toss about what you’re saying? But then again, social and parental pressure is way too strong. How can you make somebody understand that you don’t want to study Oposiciones, that you’re heart’s not in it? They treat you like a weirdo, they just can’t get it…So you just keep on with it, lying to yourself, trying to convince yourself that there’s light at the end of the tunnel, when there isn’t (or at least you can’t see it). You feel tired, disheartened, but you have to carry on studying for the others’ sake…

The Oposiciones process in the case of Teaching is a rat race: very few vacancies, way too many people who are ready to stab you if you dare ask them where the examination is on the day of the exam…This actually happened to me last June when I jumped in head first and decided to sit the Oposiciones exam (well, they didn’t actually stab me, but they wouldn’t tell me where the room was, either, in the hope that I would go home if they didn’t tell me so that there was “less” competition. So, I hadn’t had time to get down to studying properly, but I decided to sit the exam anyway. I remember myself waiting for the test to start, standing in the lobby of the EOI, watching people carry out pre-exam rituals, do some last-minute revision and talk to acquaintances, telling them how hard they had studied and how they thought that that year would be their year. I had nothing to win, but nothing to lose, either. But this little bug living inside us kept telling me to go home: “What are you doing here?” “You’re wasting your time, you haven’t revised”. “Shut up”, I kept telling him. “If I’m here, I might as well do the bloody exam, get it done with and forget about it till next year”. But at that moment, right there and then I had an epiphany: Translation would save me!! I stood up and left the room.

Next stop: Facultad de Filología (my old second home…)

That’s where my journey through Traducción started. A brand new path opened in front of me: translating texts!!!! Have you ever heard of a book answering back, telling you that he doesn’t want to do his homework or, even worse, telling you to fuck off? No, because, unlike children, texts don’t speak!!!! Seriously, I’ve always loved reading and I’ve always loved languages, so if you put it together…ta-da!!

Now, who wants to be a teacher?

Cerrado por Derribo

Este adiós, no maquilla un "hasta luego",
este nunca, no esconde un "ojalá",
estas cenizas, no juegan con fuego,
este ciego, no mira para atrás.

Este notario firma lo que escribo,
esta letra no la protestaré,
ahórrate el acuse de recibo
estas vísperas, son las de después.

A este ruido, tan huérfano de padre
no voy a permitirle que taladre
un corazón, podrido de latir
este pez ya no muere por tu boca
este loco se va con otra loca
estos ojos no lloran más por ti.

De otra cosa no sabre, pero de nada...

This post is for those people who torture their acquaintances with their "infinite" wisdom... How many times have you heard this comment: "Si sabre yo de eso... de otra cosa no, pero de eso..."?The world is full of know-it-alls (I'm sorry, but mostly men) who can't tell their arse from their brain, but anyway, they always know more than you about any topic. If you're talking about quantum physics: "De otra cosa no, pero de quantum physics...", if you try to explain to somebody how a woman's menstrual cycle works, the usual suspect would put his foot in it and claim that he is familiar with this cycle: "Yo hice un ciclo menstrual de grado medio y estuvo de categoria...De otra cosa no, pero de menstrual cycles..."

Don't let them fool you, they have no clue what they're talking about. It's probably their lack of self-confidence what makes them be an utter pain in the ass, but it'll be easier to deal with them if you think that they're just like the Duchess of Alba: they know nothing.

But there is a subcategory; there are some individuals who don't boast about their vast knowledge, but whose typical remark is: "Pues anda que yo..." They are always more than you.

If you say: "I've visited the Niagara Falls", they counterargue: "Pues anda que yo... I jumped off the edge and swam with my wife and my children..."

Or if you have the brilliant idea of telling them how you saw some celebrity or other walking in the street, they invariably say: "Pues anda que yo...I was having lunch with Pedro Almodovar in person, and he offered me a part in his next film..."

You can't escape them, they are all around. The only thing you can do about them if they're bothering you is this:

GIVE 'EM THE FINGER!!

My dog sometimes smells like popcorn

For those of you who don't know him, this is Mr Lucas Shakespeare, my Frenchie puppy. This picture was taken last July, when the little creature was only one month old. Isn't he sweet? He had blueish eyes and a spotted snout. The vet told me that it was a flaw having to do with his pigment, but now he's got a perfectly black snout, thank you very much. Seriously, Lucas is the loveliest pet in the world. Whenever I'm sad, he just sits next to me and tries to comfort me. How? He curls on my lap and licks my hand or simply lies behind me so as to let me know that he's there, ready to play with me and make me overcome my sadness.

Lucas is a most curious puppy. I still remember the first day, when we brought it home. The poor little fellow was used to being with his siblings and his mum, Dana, and we didn't know how he was going to behave when he found himself alone in his cradle, with no tits to suck from. But everything went just fine. He never whined (he wasn't able to bark yet), he never tried to jump onto the bed, he never disturbed us...He used to be pretty independent when he was little. Perhaps too independent. I used to ask my boyfriend whether the dog loved us or not, because he didn't make a fuss when we got home. Lucas never jumped out of happiness or showed any enthusiasm when we returned from work. At first we thought that it was not in his nature, that he was not the usual dog. Sure, we didn't expect him to welcome us with the daily paper in his mouth and a pair of slippers for us, but it was really frustrating when he DID jump and make a fuss whenever somebody else arrived, even if it was the postman or the neighbour.

Fortunately, things have got better. His welcoming ceremony is far warmer than it used to, but it may be because our arrival is a synonym for grub... Hmmmm, I hadn't thought about it...

My boyfriend Carlos thinks that the puppy is a spoilt little brat and I am to blame, in his opinion. Lucas is pretty disobedient and he thinks that it's because I pamper him. Now, be sincere, wouldn't you pamper such a sweet little creature? You haven't seen the way he looks at me when I'm stroking his forehead. We are his only family, so, if we don't give him love, who will?

The fact that he is disobedient and stubborn is not my fault, Frenchies are all like this... When he first went for walks, after being given the necessary vaccinations, he wouldn't walk. Try as I may, I couldn't make him move an inch if he wasn't in the mood, so I became famous in my neighbourhood: I was the girl whose dog had to be dragged. "He doesn't want to walk", they used to tell me. I would thank them for their perceptiveness and proceed to make my dog progress one more inch... I remember being pretty muscular back then. Who needs gyms if you own a stubborn Frenchie like mine?

(Now it's just the opposite, I'm the dragged element in the composition).

I'll tell you more things about him soon. Let's not reveal everything in one go...

Cheers,

Miss Shakespeare

The Pink Unicorn

Have you ever heard about the Invisible Pink Unicorn? It is said to be a parody of most religions (notice the incoherence: If it's invisible, how do you know it's pink?= If you haven't seen God, how do you know it exists?) Anyway, what I like most about this myth is that it finally explains where the fuck all my socks go when I do the laundry. Let me explain this for those of you who are more organised than I am. Whenever I hang out the laundry, I never produce the same number of socks that I put in the washing machine at first. This fact has caused me many a headache and nearly driven me insane. Is there a black hole in my washing machine? Has it got to do with quantum physics? Is there a hungry little dwarf inside the machine who eats my socks so that, no matter what I do, I always have a single sock with no companion? The only "feasible" explanation that people can come up with whenever I tell them about my problem is: "Maybe you forgot the matching sock in the laundry basket...". Oh, thank you!! Is this all that you can think of? So helpful...Obviously, I can't contradict them because this is devastating logic, but I still can't find the fecking socks. If I continue claiming that they disappear inside my washing machine, I run the risk of being sent to a mental asylum. But surely I can't be the only one, can I?Here is where the Pink Unicorn appears. In one of these debates about the whereabouts of my socks, one of my students, in her infinite wisdom, told me about the myth of this creature, and after further research on the Internet I came to the conclusion that this is it. This unicorn has set up a shop which sells our missing socks, and his best client is Pippi Longstockings, since, try as she may, she would never be able to find a real pair. This is just fine for her, she wears the most ridiculous combinations, so she's not going to complain about the missing sock...
Victims of this ruthless unicorn, do come up! Let the world know that we are not gaga!!
Cheers,
Miss Shakespeare