St. Patrick's Day and the everyday teachings of non-american holiday's by Americans...

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

I feel compelled to write today, I don’t know if it is me specializing once again in “Productive Procrastination” or if I actually feel inspired, but what does it matter?

I coined Productive Procrastination...

A quick life-update: I have read 80 of 95 works of literature for my Masters Exam and am feeling pretty confident about getting the rest of them finished this week (some of them are articles I’ve read already, and a few of them are short stories). I know that my exam is in three weeks, and I am fully aware of the crucial time-management that needs to be done in the next week to finish so as to give me the proper amount of time to review my notes, make literary movement charts, flashcards, and the like, but once again, I am writing instead.

I do not read books, I devour them...

I have limited my teaching to doing activities that I created in the years past, quickly stealing teaching ideas off of the internet, or merely following their textbook in order to maximize my time outside of the classroom. This has actually been wonderful, because I am at a new school and none of the activities have been repeats for the students, and are actually working quite well. I have even found a way to do all of my grading and planning while at work, bringing none of it home as to ensure that I’ll be focused and can complete the reading that I have left.

I know I am technically an assistant, but that is just code for non-contracted native English teacher... 

With that being said, today is Saint Patrick’s Day, also known as St. Paddy’s Day - NOT St. Patty’s Day. I have always spelt this with two T’s, but my coworker today kept telling the children to write it with two D’s, which confused them because I had written it with two T’s on the board. This probably didn’t help their phonics any either, but being asked on the spot, merely because I am an Anglophone, to teach about St. Patrick’s Day, a holiday I know nothing about and do not celebrate, I did my best.

OH, That's the Holiday you were talking about when you asked what today was...

Normally when there is a discrepancy in spelling, even if the teacher is incorrect, I just tell the children that one spelling is the American way and that the other is the British way. As a side note, I am not being a bad teacher, this is generally a valid explanation, especially for words with Z’s in American English that carry S’s in British English, or if there is a u or not in color, and the list goes on and on. These spelling differences even have a wiki-page there are discussed so frequently.

However, this time, I was wrong. I did a little research today, the usual “type it into google and see what it says” way, and the first link that popped up had a wonderful sign explaining how much it is NOT spelled with two T’s. I’ll share that with you.

Sorry... no one taught me proper English...

Again, you can’t be sure with just one resource, as every good Masters student knows…. So I continued the search and found an even more explanatory site that basically said we were idiots if we ever thought it was spelled with two T’s, as that is a reference to a woman’s name, not a man’s name, thus impossibly referring to St. Patrick’s, and most definitely insulting the “ole bloke” by calling him a girl. This website was very helpful, and a bit intense, so it got its point across and I vow to always spell it with two D’s from now on. I’ll share this lovely article with you too.

http://paddynotpatty.com/   for the full explanation ;)

Although this error may seem unimportant and small to most people, I always feel terrible when I accidently give my students bad information, especially because they are counting on me, trusting me, to know my own native language and be an expert in all things associated. Even if I know nothing about the holiday…

At least we both celebrate it the same!! 

Luckily children supposedly only learn 7 new words a day, so perhaps they won’t remember if I spelled it with two T’s or with two D’s on the black board. However, I like to give my student’s the benefit of the doubt with their incredibly good memories and ability to find fault. So, I’ll bank on their laziness instead, hoping that the majority of them didn’t copy their new words into their home-made English dictionaries or their messy half-destroyed notebooks and have long since forgotten about our final lesson today and moved onto other more fun afterschool activities.

Yeaaaaa, they're never gonna find that again..

In my own defense, St. Patrick’s Day is an Irish celebration, and being an American, I hardly understand how I’m supposed to teach these children about the origins, legends, and Irish celebrations related to St. Patrick, when the American version of it only teaches us Drink, Drink, Drink and Green, Green, Green. So I’d reckon, despite the spelling mistake, these Spanish kids are actually getting a better education than I did on the holiday, they even taught me a valuable lesson today!

Sometimes... Sometimes... I don't know!! I'm so sorry, don't shoot me!

Happy St. PaDDy’s Day everybody!

Until next time,

Raely

Hiding Behind the Cigarette Burn - written for the Toast event prompt "burn"

Hiding behind the Cigarette Burn

Dedicated to my mom and grandma

The small black hole on the inside arm of the L-shaped couch caught my attention. I was only four or five years old, but I knew this little cigarette burn in the grey colored rainbow speckled couch in our living room, with its orange outer ring where it fringed and stabbed your arm sometimes, was my refuge. If I stared at it long enough, I could close my eyes and hide inside this small cave.

I tiptoed into the kitchen and turned into the living room trying not to wake Mom, Dad, or my baby Brother. I had looked to see if the coast was clear before picking up the phone, so I must have known somehow that what I was doing was wrong or I wouldn’t have tried to be so sneaky. Or maybe I was the only non-egocentric five year-old in existence and was actually concerned that I might wake everyone up, but that is highly unlikely as I was clearly going to bother my grandmother in the middle of the night, because I wanted to talk to someone.

I couldn’t tell time yet or was just oblivious to it, but it was late at night because it was dark and everyone was sleeping. I had woken up again and was lonely. This was the 6^th or 7^th place we’d lived in since I was born and even at a young age I had problems sleeping in new places. Especially big one’s like our new house. The apartments, duplexes, and grandma’s basement were much cozier. Grandma had said when we left that I could call her whenever I wanted and she’d be tickled to death to hear from me. So, that had been my plan when I couldn't sleep yet again tonight.

My sense of accomplishment must have given me the nerve to pick up the phone and dial the only phone number I knew; 9 - 1 - 1.

I gleefully waited through the rings, anxiously awaiting my grandmother’s loving voice, and frequently glancing at the doorway to the front room to make sure no one was coming. Operation Secret Phone Call to Grandma was immediately aborted when an emergency line operator said “911 emergency dispatch, can you please state your location and nature of emergency.”

Her shrill voice was not that of Grandma’s and the clang of the phone was loud when I abruptly hung up. Next, I did the only thing a scared five year old could do, I hid inside the couch to await the wrath of Mom. As 911 emergency protocols at the time required that all dispatchers immediately call back any hang-up calls, the shrill voice screamed through the three horribly loud rings that echoed through the sleeping hallways. I didn’t know if the loud ringing or the heavy, sleepy thuds of Mom’s footsteps scared me more, but I did know - I was in BIG trouble.

Mom was groggy and confused as to why an emergency dispatcher was phoning in the middle of the night and as she explained that there was no emergency, she spotted my little feet poking out of the arm of the sofa. The cigarette burn wasn’t big enough for an entire little girl and I’d only been hiding in it in the fear filled depths of my five year old imagination. So naturally, Mom spotted me curled up in a little ball in the corner of the sofa.

The “I can’t see her so she can’t see me” method only lasted until the phone call ended.

I wish I could say that I remembered her immediate reaction, but all I remember is her whispering “did you call 911?”

I didn’t know exactly what 911 was, but I said no - I called Grandma.

She took me back to bed and luckily for me she was too tired to punish me, but the next day she called Grandma for real and the laughing never ended. I didn’t really understand what I did wrong, but embarrassment quickly became a new form of punishment.

The image of that black hole in the arm of the sofa became my refuge once more. I sank back into the depths of the cave avoiding the loud laughter coming from the kitchen.

Slowly the years passed and I grew too big to hide in the tiny hole in the arm of the couch, and soon the sofa disappeared completely, as did the rest of the remnants of my childhood. I obtained an uncanny memory for people’s phone numbers and soon realized that 911 is for emergency calls only - not for lonely little five year old girls to reach their grandmas in the middle of the night.

Unless of course, your grandma just so happens to be an emergency dispatcher for your area, but you better be sure that she’s the one who answers when you call.

Raelynne Hale

June 2013

Him - based on a true story

This was a therapeutic experimental piece, not the most literary story in the world, and maybe I'll come back to it some day, but for now, it's a step towards healing.

HIM

Her life ended when she met him. It was almost overnight and as mysteriously as he had come to live in her apartment, her social life disappeared and her friends vanished. They no longer asked if she’d be at their usual hangouts or weekend activities, they knew the answer was no. The only real problem was that they assumed it was because she was in love. As many people often become lost in their relationships, they assumed she too had moved on from her single friends lives, into the monotonies of couple life, Sunday church, and couples outings. It wasn’t until a year or so later anyone realized the truth.

*****

He saw her in the corridor, hoping that they had class together. She was young, ambitious, and had the air of optimistic naivety to her. She was exactly what he was looking for in a girl - naïve. She sat in the front row, as many young, ambitious girls do, not noticing him at all. He was tall, fat, older, and had a beard that made him look even older or as he liked to think, sophisticated - absolutely nothing she was looking for in a guy. He knew this would be true, and it was confirmed on the first day that they spoke. She politely responded to his conversation, but immediately forgot him as she went about her day. She wasn’t attracted to him, and more importantly wasn’t interested in being in any sort of relationship, it was time to focus on her studies and nothing more.

Sooner or later, they crossed paths on a regular basis, he made sure of that. At the bus stop, he’d make small talk and joke about the class, anything to have something to talk to her about. She thought he was interesting, and slowly he became the type of guy she was looking for, he made sure of that too.

Somehow or another, due to a joke made in class, she owed him some sort of baked sweet. Kind hearted, and not knowing the consequences of her niceness, she laughed and agreed. Time went by and the baked sweet turned into a dinner and then into a movie. She didn’t know what to think, but her new outlook on dating permitted her to go to the movies, at least just once. She attempted to look nice, but he made a rash comment on how it made her look bigger than she was, and she never wore that sheer blue blouse again. But soon it wouldn’t matter because he’d buy her the clothes she was to wear. She hated his clothes and didn’t find him attractive either, but felt shallow not liking him merely because he was overweight. After a comment from a pretty girl at work saying he had a spectacular smile, she thought that she was being too judgmental and that if her beautiful coworker could find him attractive then perhaps she should agree to go out on more dates.

It wasn’t before too long that he had slowly become a permanent fixture in her apartment, and even had his own half of the bedroom closet. She was a simple girl and had simple things, but slowly he changed that. Providing a leather sofa, a large television set, and other staples for a nice apartment, things that, honestly, she cared nothing about. This was her first mistake - not caring. It wasn’t that it didn’t bother her; it was merely that she didn’t have time to care. Working at a restaurant in the evenings and on the weekends while finishing her degree in business gave her little time to think about what her living room looked like. She wanted to be a baker, because she loved cooking, but was realistic enough to know that she would need a degree in business to at least get her started with her own bakery or café in the future.

Despite not being allowed in her own kitchen while he cooked dinners that were too extravagant for her taste buds and being ridiculed on her lack of cooking skills, she held onto her dream of being a baker, making sweets that everyone could enjoy, not fancy pastries that only rich assholes could afford. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her cooking; it was that her cooking was too simple. He had more elegant tastes and although he was poor now, he had come from an upper class upbringing and was quite spoiled. His older brother had destroyed the family business and left him with only one antique Bentley that of course she wasn’t allowed to drive. It didn’t take long to convince the young girl that if she loved him they would get a joint account together, she was extremely against this and thus they had their first fight. She had seen many couples destroyed over money arguments and wasn’t thrilled about sharing her hard earned money with anyone, but she had no real reasons not to open a shared account with him, and within a few weeks, he had convinced her that she was being irrational and that what had happened to others wouldn’t happen to them. Still, she kept her old account open with a little bit of savings left in it, while her check now went into their shared account at his “family” bank. She didn’t make all that much money but it was double what he was making at his shitty internship. He had plans, big plans, and all those plans took time to think up and organize, many of such hours were spent while she was slaving away at work.

Not exactly knowing why, she found herself asking for more hours at work and taking the maximum amount of hours possible at the University, including joining an unnecessary study group for statistics that most of the time she ended up basically teaching. She felt happy, and confused her obsession with work and school as ambition, and not admitting the fact that it was merely avoidance. She assumed that she didn’t want to be at home, merely because she had never been a homebody, and not the truth that he was unbearable. He wasn’t all too concerned as long as he knew where she was at all times, even enjoying all of the time he had alone in her apartment to take up hobbies like building car-models in her living room. And working in telecommunications he knew a thing or two about computers and phones and was able to monitor most of what she did and talked about, and as she had nothing to hide, he had nothing to worry about, and so survived the relationship.

Things were even quite pleasant for a few months and the two seemed to be getting along nicely. It was time to make sure she didn’t leave him, before the magic of the first months together wore off and she became aware of her own abilities and ambitions, leaving him behind with his thoughts and hobbies and unfulfilled plans. So, he went to his father’s house and unlocked his safe and took out the expensive engagement ring he’d had from previous failed relationships. He went to his “family” jeweler and had the ring polished and re-dipped. He had planned on asking her over the weekend when they were out, but instead he did it that night. Popping the question in the living room in a very unromantic and spontaneous way, surprising her and catching her completely off-guard. It didn’t seem crazy to her that only after 3 months of dating that he would ask her to marry her, they were in their last years of college and more and more couples were getting married right after college. The sparkle of the ring wasn’t what made her say yes, as much as the thought that someone actually wanted to spend the rest of their life with her. She had already decided two years before that she would probably die alone after the love of her life ran away to California to be some sort of movie star.

Newly engaged, her life changed rapidly. People at work noticed her; men who’d never spoken to her were now fascinated by her. Beautiful girls who never gave her more than a short whim of gossip were now all over her asking questions and commenting on the extremely expensive engagement ring. Being a kind and non-materialistic girl she even allowed other girls to try it on and look at it more closely. It wasn’t exactly her favorite piece of jewelry and it tended to catch on her apron and even caused her to spill a tray in the kitchen the first week wearing it. Distracted by the new attention and decisions she had to make about the wedding, she never really contemplated whether it was right or not. She just accepted it as part of her life and continued surviving.

The relationship was difficult and they disagreed on everything concerning the wedding, including how much money should be spent on it and where the reception would take place. It caused her a lot of stress and he continuously made her feel as if it would be her fault if the wedding was tacky and distasteful. It never occurred to her that she could simply move out of her own apartment and leave him behind if she wasn’t completely happy; she just assumed that relationships were hard and that you had to work at them. She also started to enjoy parts of her new life, most of which had nothing to do with him, but somehow were connected to him, even joining his Baptist church and making friends with some of the church choir, most of which were in their 40s or 50s. She enjoyed their company a lot and even joined a knitting group at the church with her new friends; they were insightful and always pleasant. Not even I can tell you how she found time between work, school, planning the wedding, and his demands to take up knitting with these little old ladies, but she did. She even went to church more often than he did, not missing a single Sunday all year; well of course, until the incident.

One night she was with her study group in the library, teaching the last chapters of statistics to her failing classmates in a final attempt to help them pass their end of term exams, and her phone died. He had called and called and left messages until her voicemail was full. She didn’t even realize the time and when they finally wrapped up the last bits of chapter eleven, she headed home. Arriving home to an irate boyfriend who had purposefully left the dinner cold on the table, she was once again caught completely off-guard by his behavior. He knew his routine well, and as he had many times before to others, he made her feel responsible for his worrying and commented on his doubt about how good a wife she would make, if she was so selfish that she couldn’t remember to call and tell her fiancé that she’d be two hours late that night. She apologized, honestly declaring that she hadn’t received his phone calls and explaining that her phone had died. Although her apology was sincere, it wasn’t enough for him, and he proceeded to make her feel awful for her mistake, telling her she could make her own dinners and to not expect him to do anything nice for her if she wasn’t going to be appreciative. She couldn’t take it anymore and cried, feeling like a failure at life and a terrible girlfriend. Seeing that he had succeeded in his desire to control her emotions and make her feel bad for making him wait to eat, because of course he was hungry and wanting to make a point had refused to merely eat before she got home, showing that he was a thoughtful gentleman and that she was at fault for his anger, he didn’t raise his hand that day. He saw that it wasn’t necessary, and he gave her a hug, accepting her apology and forgiving her this time.

Unaware of this type of behavior, unaware of all of the signs, unaware of the intentions behind the words, and completely oblivious to the escalation that would soon become a natural routine of actions, she went to bed, feeling guilty for being such a horrible fiancé. She of course paid for this mistake in other ways, but now that he knew he had more control over her, he was much happier and friendlier. He even allowed her to bake some weekends, and praised her rice pudding, even though he hated it. He became a bipolar mess, chastising her when he felt the need for power, putting her down for fun, and then showering her with praise and chocolates. He was having the time of his life, and she was an absolute mess not knowing what to do to keep him calm.

She slowly came to hate their routines, she was no longer happy and optimistic, and absolutely hated sharing the bathroom with him in the mornings, despised shaving his disgusting back, and was exhausted from all of the lecturing. But she didn’t know how to leave him; she didn’t know how easy it was to end a relationship. Sometimes she would sit in the bathroom and set the horribly gaudy engagement ring on the sink and think of ways to leave, to escape and never come back, but the embarrassment of telling all of her family and friends that the wedding was off was unbearable. And the reasons to leave him weren’t big enough, weren’t important enough, were they? What would others think? Oh just because of a little fight you ended an engagement? He’s such a wonderful man. He’s so nice to you, and buys you clothes. What more could you want? That was the other problem, to everyone on the outside they were the perfect couple. They were hard working, finishing their degrees, church-going and the like, and as she was completely disconnected from her friends and family, whom all had strongly disliked him, she felt stuck. She didn’t really have anyone to call, and all of her “new” friends, or rather his friends that they hung out with and went on couple activities with, would never understand. She didn’t feel like bothering her girlfriend from work, and her only friend left had moved out of town. She had no choice but to put the ring back on and leave the only place she had to herself sometimes - the bathroom.

Even the bathroom became a dreadful place, he would get so upset if she wasn’t happy and if she showed any signs of distance or leaving him he would throw a fit like a child and lock himself in the bathroom. Occasionally showing signs of suicide and making her feel guilty; she had lost a close friend at a young age to suicide, and although he didn’t know that, he knew that this type of manipulation really worked. She did everything she could to make him happy, to bring him out of his depression, but it never worked, not until he was completely satisfied. She was a marionette of emotions that he could provoke and manipulate at any time.

One evening after criticizing the dinner she had made, she couldn’t take it anymore and called him out on his meanness and manipulation, even taking a stab at how disgusting he looked to her naked. She was so angry, she couldn’t take it anymore and all of the anger built up inside her came bursting out. At first she thought perhaps she had put an end to some of it, that taking a stand would help and that he would change, but she didn’t realize that he was very well aware of what he was doing, and was hoping for this moment, hoping for this excuse, and in his silence he smacked her, knocking her onto the floor.

She looked up at him and he looked huge towering over her and his fat stomach no longer looked disgusting, but instead looked dangerous and scary. He looked like a beast and for the first time she felt as small as she really was. She was weak and scared and didn’t know what to do, she laid there motionless, as if time had stopped, and this memory stayed with her, frozen for eternity in her mind. He was immediately mortified by his actions, all an act of course, and he started crying, apologizing for what he had done. He cradled her in his arms, but she wasn’t there, she was gone, in some other place, far far away in the dark cave her mind created instantly to protect her from more harm. She held onto that fear, that place, for what seemed like forever, but somehow he convinced her to forgive him within a week. He said she’d pushed him too far and that it would never happen again and that he loved her, and that was why her words had hurt him so deeply, driving him to smack her. She admitted that she’d maybe been too harsh, something he should have been apologizing for, but as the feeling of guilt had been so deeply ingrained in her, she let it go. The moment passed and what is known as the honeymoon phase commenced.

He showered her with love, respect, and gifts, and although the gifts were new clothes that she was to wear, she felt better. She thought that maybe they’d reached a good point in their relationship and that she’d gotten through to him and that he had realized his anger issues and that he’d gone too far. She was really truly convinced that it wasn’t going to happen again, and she was happy for the most part. She lived with the fantasy that maybe it was going to be okay, and she went back to church the following Sunday and sang louder than anyone else in the choir, rejoicing for the wonderful change that had happened in her fiancé. He went too, although he hadn’t been in awhile, but it was more to erase his guilt, and feel as if it was out of his control, because God was leading him down the right path. She continued to work, she studied harder, portraying the image she wanted of her life, replaying this imaginary person in her head, until she too was convinced it was real, but it would soon fade, as the honeymoon phase always does.

She had to work an extra shift that week and was extremely exhausted, she came home hoping to go to bed, but found him in the “mood”. She attempted to show her exhaustion and merely get ready for bed, but he didn’t listen, and he didn’t care, as always, his needs came first. She didn’t have it in her to fight anymore and merely let things happen the way that they always did, knowing that tomorrow morning she would be miserable at work. The hate continued to grow inside her, but she ignored it. She became spiteful and sometimes unpleasant to be around, her anger seeped out of her at work and she wasn’t as friendly as she had been. Her friend at work noticed, and asked her what was wrong. She just replied with a sigh and poor excuse about being worn out from all the work and studying. The girl, knowing just what to do, invited her to come over the following Friday and they could have a girls night. Surprised by her answer, she agreed without asking her fiancé. When she arrived home, she asked him if they had plans Friday and he said no, interested in her new found interest in their schedule he asked why she needed to know. She told him about her friend at work, and how she’d like to go, and astonished, he agreed it would be good for her. It was worrying that he agreed so quickly, and she had a bad feeling about it, but happy for the small freedom she had been granted she didn’t question it.

The following weekend was wonderful, she stayed out extremely late at her friends and they drank until very early into the morning. She had let her fiancé know that she would stay there as to not drive drunk, and he didn’t respond, expecting his anger and disapproval she enjoyed the time that she had and slept on her friends couch. On the drive home that morning, her head was pounding from an intense hangover, and she was anticipating the fight. The fight came and went, the apologies came and went, and it was so routine at this point, that she wasn’t phased by it anymore.

Motivated by the small bit of freedom she had had, she wanted more. She made sure to stay a little bit after work just to chat with her friend, extending her shifts by one hour or even more some nights, but as it was work and she couldn’t “control” the time she was there, he never gave her any trouble for it. Until one day he stopped by her work to find her outside on the park bench chatting with her friend, discovering that she’d gotten off two hours earlier, he was furious. He’d lost control and she was rebelling, he could see the end in sight and he wasn’t about to let that happen, not again.

At the apartment they had a huge fight and slamming the door behind her she left. She had already decided that she would call her friend from work and ask her to stay there for awhile, knowing that she would probably not mind. The phone call was interrupted by non-stop calls from him. Finally, she said she’d explain later and answered his call. What now? He calmly made some statement about how he wanted her to come home, and she answered that that wasn’t possible and that she’d be back tomorrow after they’d both calmed down. In the background she heard a glass shatter. What was that? He very softly said that he’d accidentally dropped a glass while doing the dishes. She wasn’t convinced as all the dishes were clean and realized that all of her belongings, all of her life was in that apartment and knew fully what he was capable of doing. She turned the car around and was going to go to her apartment to confront him and hopefully save it from being destroyed by the demon that now occupied her fiancé’s body. She opened the door and he was sitting on the couch as if nothing had happened reading one of his magazines that she undoubtedly paid for out of their joint account. You’re back early. He said cattily. We need to talk, she’d decided on the way there that this had to be the end, she just couldn’t take it anymore. I came to give you your ring back, she said, knowing that this would hurt him more. She tossed it back to him and shut the door, but her victorious thoughts were crudely interrupted by another glass smashing, but this time it smashed on the door behind her. She opened it, ready for the fight, and she screamed at him. What the hell was he thinking throwing things at her!?! His replies of accidents and excuses were well rehearsed and they just made her angrier. Finally she sat down outside, not knowing what to do; she wanted to leave but was terrified he’d destroy her apartment. He came outside after a bit and sat down next to her with the ring in his hand. She looked at him, tears in her eyes, disgusted with who she was at that moment, and furious at him for making her that way. He handed the ring back to her, it’s not over, we just have some communication issues we need to get through, he looked sadly into her eyes, and kissed her forehead. They apologized and she ignored the phone call from her friend as they talked through what was bothering them. Again, she forgave him, he hadn’t hit her after all, it was just a broken glass and she had provoked him, hadn’t she?

There was another honeymoon phase that lasted long enough for them to pick a reception venue for the wedding and even take a weekend trip together. She was happy again, living in her imagination, hoping that it would stay this way for good this time, and convinced that he really wouldn’t hit her again, since obviously he was more in control of his anger now. They’d dealt with the last big fight in a productive and healthy way, or so she thought. She told her friend that she had been stupid to think that she needed to stay with her and that they just needed to work things out. Her friend was concerned, but let it go as the girl became more delightful at work and seemed to be happier.

Naturally, things went back to how they’d been. She even gave him his ring back two more times, but somehow he convinced her it wasn’t over, and not knowing that it doesn’t take two to make the decision to end a relationship, she couldn’t see a way out. He began to see her slowly slipping away and his grip tightened and his ridicule and hateful comments were sprinkled within each conversation. He became more aggressive and she cowered in fear that he’d hit her again, so she became more submissive. The more control he had, the nicer he was, and although she wasn’t aware of it, her subconscious knew this and merely gave him complete control over her life, down to what she wore to church every Sunday and what their plans were each weekend. She didn’t even know what kind of music she liked anymore, she didn’t know what food she wanted to eat, and she didn’t even know that it was happening. She was completely unaware, as children are when they think they are making a decision, but really they are choosing between two things that their parents want them to do. The small decisions that she did make had nothing to do with her actual preferences and soon she lost sight of them entirely. If only she’d have known that it only takes one to end a relationship, and that she could easily leave him if she could just admit that she needed help from others, and admit the truth about her relationship. But she couldn’t do that, she was too ashamed, how could such an intelligent girl allow something like this to happen to her?

She graduated and had an opportunity to go to a great culinary school that would actually help her to become what she truly desired, and he found a school nearby where he could get a Masters in whatever it was he fancied at the time so that they could stay together. She saw her way out; she saw the light at the end of the tunnel and had an escape plan. She would move out first, take her things, and go somewhere else, somewhere far away. She didn’t exactly know where, but she’d figure it out later. She turned down her dream school opportunity in order to get away from him, but it was too late.

He found the email, he overheard the phone call, and he knew her plan. He was so angry that when he confronted her he was already blind with fury, you lied to me! You lied to me! You said you loved me and you never loved me you lying bitch! Before he realized that he was suffocating her, holding her against the wall by the neck with both hands, she’d already slipped away through his fingers, into the dark black cave her mind had created to protect her, and that’s where she stayed, because she never did come back from the darkness.

Raelynne M. Hale

9^th February 2014

Cuenca and their San Mateo Celebrations; Beware of the Bulls Running in Plaza Mayor!

Hello Lovelies!!

I went to Cuenca this weekend on a spiritual journey to do some soul-searching, heart-healing, head-clearing, life-exploring stuffs.

What I found was an entire town in PARTY MODE! Viva la fiesta in Cuenca! People were wearing the wine they were drinking; pants, shirts, shoes were not spared and are quite possibly permanently stained with Sangria, bottled tinto de verano, good ole' Don Simone, and who knows what else. Half of the city smelled like a frat house on Sunday morning after homecoming weekend. Pee and vomit smells included. The only real difference was that the whole town from age 3 months to 93 years old was involved.

Plaza Mayor right before the Bull Run (el toro del fuego)

I wandered through the lower half of the city, the more commercialized 20th century, less-party stricken area on my way to my hostel. Hostal de la Luz, fitting for my spiritual journey, as I'm "looking for the light" in my life. The hostel was a bit further away from the festivities, but not far enough away to lack the horns, trumpets, trombones, cheering, and fireworks. The hostel was cute, and two dogs greeted me with wagging tails - looks like I came to the right place. It was a warm and wonderful welcome to a tattered soul. Dogs are awesome. (Don't worry cat lovers, I still love cats as pets too.)

Just follow the little picture of the London-esk looking man waiting for rain... silly guy, it doesn't rain here!

I had a room to myself and even a private bathroom, which was nice. The real gem was the cute window with a view of one of the most beautiful rivers I've ever seen - el Río de Júcar. It was such a vibrant clear river with so much life, you could see the little ducks webbed feet paddling underneath them. I immediately knew where the name of Cuenca came from - if you say Cuenca just right a few times in a row, it almost sounds like ducks quacking. haha. Broma, broma.

The view of my hostel from the river!

The lovely hostel hostess informed me that I needed to (and I'm paraphrasing in English her Spanish directions) "follow the river, cross the little iron bridge - not the stone one, and climb the giant zigzag path - slowly - to the top" where I was to find Plaza Mayor, where all the festivities would be taking place. Little did I know that these festivities were even happening, much less that a BULL RUN (el toro del fuego) would be passing right through plaza mayor. 

Just follow the signs of anguish up the giant hill... you'll be fine... really!

The barricades were two fences thick with space in between for crazies, I mean runners, to jump to safety if need be. Sounds like fun to me! (Not!) I have told many people that I have no interest in partaking in any such activities, as running from an angry bull just isn't on the top of my list of things I must accomplish before I die. Mainly because it is important for me to survive after I do things off of said list, but I digress. Mostly the spectators sat on these barricades, young, old, crying, scared, screaming, but not me. I stayed back and stood on the stone wall far away from said protective barricades. Had the bull really been running rampant freely, I did NOT want to be near it!

The protective barriers serving as bleachers.

Luckily the bull was not allowed to run through the city freely, that would be utter madness. Instead la Vaca was paraded through the streets held back by two strong men holding onto ropes tied around the bull's horns, and being lead by who I assume was a trained Matador who guided the bull by pulling it's horns in certain directions. The crowd went wild, literally. They were running, screaming, some jumping over the barricades, some chasing the bull trying to smack it's ass as if it were some football champion who just scored an easy goal. Even the band chased the bull around playing playful taunting music to keep the crowd entertained and the energy high. Although the music was joyful and fun to jump up and down to, I can't help but feel as if the bull was merely annoyed and ready to go home for his afternoon siesta. It was actually quite sad. 

Poor bull being showcased around the city!

After the bull came through the plaza and disappeared and circled back, I assumed that the madness had ended. People were still sitting, chanting, waiting, but a few were moseying around, so I thought, "hey, I'll wander around the rest of the city and see what else is happening." I couldn't have been more wrong! I found myself out of the barricades and right in the middle "Bull Lane". When people started running into boarded up restaurants and hiding behind the big bars placed in the restaurants doors, I began to worry. But, idiot-tourist me just scooted to the side. 

"I'll be okay" I thought. "Surely he won't come over here" I thought.

Only then did I see the bull coming right out of the main plaza, hurling faster than I had seen before, strait into our zone. He veered right, and headed RIGHT TOWARD ME! I had nowhere to go, I was done for, I was a goner, I was a stupid tourist in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Luckily the bullfighter pulled his horns, perhaps he sniffed out the little american girl and realized the dangers of her cute but stupid ignorance, and saved me from being rammed into the side of a boarded up restaurant. THANK YOU Matador Man!

(On a side note after I realized I wasn't going to die, I'd wished I had had my camera to catch that beautiful and sad creature's photo right before being pulverized to death).

Who knew my relaxing weekend would consist of accidentally being part of a bull run. And here I've sworn up and down I never wanted anything to do with such nonsensical madness! Jerks confusing me, making me think that the bull run was over! Why would you hang out knowingly in Bull City!?!?!

They were right to stay safe up in their balconies!!

I decided to not only head back behind barricades where I knew it was safe, but also to just vacate plaza mayor altogether. I found a back corridor linked to some restaurants and a lookout point and fell upon a giant party tent. At first I felt out of place, alone, not dressed in San Mateo garb, not drunk, not Spanish, and clearly oblivious to how anything worked around here, but food and alcohol brings people together! I sat for a few minutes and broke my technological hiatus to chat with Katherine and check my whatsapp messages. Then I ate the most delicious chorizo-brats I've ever had, gulping down some summer Shandy (Spanish Beer mixed with Lemonade is a common drink in the summertime and now has a bottled version).

My delicious Chorizo-Brat Sandwhich and Shandy beers!

Needing a Siesta I headed back down the mountain to my hostel, to safety, to peace and quiet with the ducks. An old man asked me if I was from Madrid, I don't know if this was due to a newly acquired Madrilena accent, or if he just "knew" somehow. Let's just say he was crazy and made a good guess.

The cute old buildings in the "ciudad antigua".

The other side of the "mountain".

I sat by the river for a long time, and commenced the spiritual part of my journey. I picked up three leaves to release into the river. Each one representing something that I needed to let go of in order to move forward in my life. Each one a burden I would no longer be carrying with me.

My heart felt lighter. I finally felt whole again, my heart has finally opened up and rejoined me. I took a deep breathe in, filling my lungs with the fresh air of a new beginning.

I even stopped to smell the roses. Oh the smell of hot summer roses!!

The river was beautiful, as well as all the little bridges crossing over it throughout the city.

I took a nap at the hostel before heading out again. This time I went to the lower part of the city, stopping at a park full of old people, also avoiding the young heathens. I read my book, in concurrence with their wise decision. I also really didn't want to walk up the mountain again, or accidentally run into my new four-legged angry and horned best friend.

A weird fountain of a boy riding a spitting swan.... It was cuter when the old man and his grandson were playing in it.

A little gazebo in the middle of the park, serving as a jungle gym for little kids.

Wandering around, following the tracks of two girls with delicious looking ice-cream cones, I found hazelnut gelato, and settled down for a nice dinner of pork chops with eggs sunny side up and french fries (This is actually a quite typical Spanish meal).

A little on the salty side, but delicious anyway!

Since I was alone on this trip, I loaned my empty seats to the most adorable group of grandma's on the terrace. I like to pretend that they were a group of disguised party ninjas, guzzling Sangria in their kitchens while the youngens were up top secretly filling their canteens with wine. Grandma's just can't be seen partaking in such outrageous street drinking, one must do that in their own kitchen. I see you over there, sipping your little beers contently!!!

I misread a flier and thought that there would be some sort of ritual-like bonfire up in plaza mayor, so I followed the other little river and climbed up the other side of the small mountain, only to be disappointed that everyone was doing exactly the same thing, except more drunk and more wine-covered this time. I am still pained by the thought of that poor bull being paraded around so many days in a row, so many times a day for these festivities, but tradition is tradition I guess.

These were all over the city, in case you were a big stupid-face and didn't know it was a festival weekend!

The city of Cuenca itself isn't all that beautiful, it's the beautiful rivers passing through it, the mountains, and the ancient city above that gives it it's charm.

Río de Júcar

Some cliffs leading to the "ciudad antigua"

A beautiful fiver walk, where I spent most of my time in Cuenca.

My last day in Cuenca I avoided the city altogether and followed the bigger river out of the city and into a canyon-like valley. Here there were people running, kids riding bikes, dogs playing and a man-made beach, there was something very western USA about it. On my way back to the city and to the bus station to catch the afternoon Avanza bus to Madrid, I enjoyed Oreo and Rocher gelato, Arroz Caldoso, and some lamb chops for lunch.

Breakfast! Un Bollo and Red Tea!!

Lunch?? Naaaa, just a good excuse for ice-cream!

Arroz Caldoso, when in doubt about what a food is, just order it, and see what happens!! 

And of course, the yummy wine.

Overall, I would say that my little trip to Cuenca was just what I needed, and maybe even a little more exciting than I had anticipated!

Me! I had to throw at least one in there. Just for you Dad!! <3

Until next time my lovelies,
Raelynne

The Opera: Cosí fan tutte or The Pretty Woman Reenactment

I have always wanted to go to the opera, perhaps something to do with the movie Pretty Woman and my obsession with the actress Julia Roberts when I was younger, or merely it has something to do with my involvement in Theater and wanting to see another type of stage performance. Either way, Guillaume made my dreams come true and bought me tickets for my birthday. What a sweetheart!! 

So, last night we went to the Opera, Cosí fan tutte which was written in 1790 by Wolfgang Amadé Mozart and Lorenzo de Ponte. We had no idea what the opera was going to be about until we got there, and there weren’t any reviews yet, because Guillaume had to buy the tickets before it was even showing, because the opera sells out quick. (Who knew! lol)

This is how I felt all night. Sharp, Classy, Sexy.

But first, I needed a dress. I got off work early, the day before we were going, so I finally had time to stop by a dress shop I’d seen in our neighborhood. The parallels between Pretty Woman and my dress hunt started out very similarly. Apparently my jeans, greasy hair from working all day, and worn down boots made the lady dismiss me as an actual client, but either way she made me feel unwelcome. 

At least Julia Robert's hair was clean...

I had two dresses in my arms, and after the other client left and I was the only one in the shop, I asked her to help me as I was going to an Opera and didn’t know my dress size. She played with the radio for about 4-5 minutes until settling on the least scratchy channel and came over to me. Looked at the dresses I'd selected and asked when the “party” was. 

“It’s tomorrow.”

The look on her face was enough to know that she thought I was impossible. Oh, but I don’t think our seamstress will have time to make the necessary alterations on the dress that quickly, this is impossible. I replied that I hadn’t thought of this, as I’ve never had to have alterations done except for bridesmaid’s dresses for weddings. This is mostly due to my motto while shopping, if they don’t have my size, I’m not meant to have it. I looked at her and asked, well what if the dress fits? She looked flabbergasted, well it’s very difficult to find a perfect dress; there is always a little alteration that needs to be done. 

“I’ll go to some other shop then.”

She was shocked at my response again and as she hung up the dresses in the changing room stated firmly that it wasn’t about it being the shop, but that any shop would say the same thing.

“Am I not allowed to try the dresses on then?”

“Well, yes, but…”

I almost walked out of the store just then, but I have a fighting spirit. I stepped into the dressing room, and picked the first dress, once again almost deciding not to even try it on and just go to another store, but I really liked the dress and just had to see if it fit.

I stepped out. She zipped me up. Perfect fit. 

“Wow, that looks great on you, let me get you a waist sash for the middle.”

The dress is amazing, I love it!!! (in your face shop lady!)

Oh, now you want to be helpful… I decided not to try on the other dress as it was clearly too long for me, and would need alterations. How much is it? She didn’t know, we needed to go next door to the actual boutique (apparently this was not a different dress shop, rather the outlet. Good news, that meant the dress was 50-70% off). We went next door, and the owner, Tony, was on the phone. So I started to look around and found two more dresses I wanted to try on. Luckily the woman had to go back to the store next door to help other customers and I was left with a very helpful man who was all but interested in the new freckly customer. NOW, they take me seriously. Ridiculous. 

I tried on the other dresses and liked another one and it was yet ANOTHER perfect fit. Great, now I have to make a decision on which one I want, and here that lady thought I wouldn’t find any dress that fit! Tony seemed to take a liking to me and told me he’d give me a “precio especial”, which really just meant that he gave me a good deal on the second dress if I bought them both. So, I ended up with a lovely dress for the opera and a dress for one or all of the many future weddings of our friends and families coming up in 2014. 

Me trying on the dress at the store.

The evil woman from next door returned as I was checking out, and said that I was extremely lucky to have found not one but TWO dresses. I just smiled and said, well, if I hadn’t have found one, I would have just worn one I already had. She just kind of smirked, as if she would never have done such a thing. If I like a dress, you better be damn sure that I’m going to wear it again and again and again. I don’t care if there are already pictures on facebook of me in that dress. It looks good, so “Imma wear it!”

I really wanted to do this...

The next day came quickly and I got ready, nails, hair, makeup, the whole 9 yards - which most of you know, is something I only do for very special occasions, or when I just randomly feel like spending 2 hours to look fabulous once or twice a year. Guillaume pulled out his nice suit and ties and was ready in about 20 minutes, shower and all. Boys are so lucky! 

Nice and Sharp before the show

All ready!!

We took a taxi to the Teatro Real de Madrid, which is the great Opera House that was built in 1850 in Madrid and has been putting on Opera’s, Ballets and plays every since. This is also the Theatre that Cari, Vivian and I went to last year for the Cuban Ballet. 

Teatro Real de Madrid: Opera House

A nice man outside took our photo in front of the theater before we headed inside. As we found our seats, I felt even more like Julia Roberts in her bright red gown. Everyone is looking at me, I look ridiculous, they know I’m not supposed to be here, everyone is more casual than me, what if I don’t like it... and more thoughts that Katrina and Karen assured me were ridiculous via text.

Ready for the Opera!!

To add to these emotions and the parallels between the 90s hit, we sat in a “Palco” or a private theater box with four other people on the first floor of the theater. It was fantastic. We could see the main floor where at least a few hundred people were piling in, the director of the full orchestra (with TWO oboes), all but a small corner of the stage hidden by the elegant velvet railing of our private section, and I felt like a princess (except that I wasn’t sitting in the Kings private theater box). 

Theater Box 6. Our "Palco"!!!!

Even the signs are fancy.

Us in our seats!

View of the theater from our seats. So beautiful.

The opera itself was in Italian, and there were a selection of screens that displayed subtitles in Spanish and in English, as well as a screen on the balcony level three or four floors above us that displayed a close up of the actors while they were singing. 

Our tickets to verify we weren't dreaming and we were indeed in this theater box!

I caught a few words in Italian when they were singing songs that reiterated the theme of the previously sung conversation, and followed the plot through subtitles. It was nice, because singing takes longer than reading, so you could quickly read the subtitles, then return to watching the opera and listen to the orchestra play. 

Dorabella and Ferrando, Don Alfonso, Guglielmo and Fiordiligi, and the maid in the back, Despina

The plot itself was very misogynistic presenting two couples and an old jaded man who bet the men that their lovers would betray them, proving that women’s loyalty is like the wind. The men, being extremely arrogant, not necessarily counting on their lover’s pure love, but betting on the fact that they believed themselves to be of the most noble, wealthy and charming men out there, agreed to deceive their lovers to test their loyalty. 

The conniving old man and the arrogant young men

I must admit now, that I was rooting for the women the whole time. Hoping that they would recognize their lovers in disguise and play a mean trick on the deserving idiots, but we have to remember this opera was written in the late 18^th century, by a man, and that there would be no strong, intelligent, independent women in this opera. Other than the maid who in my opinion was a terrible skank and I can’t believe she sided with the old man for gold and lead the women astray - THEY TRUSTED HER. Oh, I could write a novel on how much that character irked me at the core.  

The conniving maid who sold her girls out for a gold chain...

In the end, everything went as the maid and old man wanted, and the lovers were increasingly cocky. Although, the hilarious point of the story is that the women chose each other’s lovers in their secret admirers, which really bothered the men, obviously. I rather enjoyed this part of the opera because the men were secretly shocked and outraged, and thought they had been discovered, but actually the women were just “being women” according to the author. (The author even had the audacity to have the women sing “what do you expect, we’re just women” as part of an explanation for their unfaithful actions).

Fiordiligi, one of the main characters, singing about her confused passionate feelings for her lover

In the end, the solution was marriage, and the men were advised by the old man to just marry these two ladies because they still loved them, and to be honest, no other woman would be any different anyway, so there was no point in searching with jaded eyes for new lovers. SAY WHAT!??!

Their practically forced marriage with the "opposite" men, before the real identity was revealed.

I wish I could say that this opera no longer had real meaning in the 21^st century, three centuries after being written, but unfortunately it holds a sad truth for many people even in our society today. Although, I think many things have changed, and the ending would be quite different, some still believe this thought process to be true, and for some it is. 

Needless to say, the giant love quadrilateral made everyone unhappy.

We couldn’t help but wonder how the women in the opera feel about playing their parts in this extremely misogynistic opera each day. Do they accept it as an old-fashioned opera and merely jump into character as they sing their lines? Or do they wish to re-write the opera and represent a more modern view of women as I do?  

Dorabella and Fiordiligi

Even though the storyline really bothered me and I was disappointed in all of the character’s actions, the actors did an amazing job and god they could sing. I wonder if I would have enjoyed the opera more had I not read the subtitles, although, it was quite obvious what the opera was about. The orchestra was phenomenal and the music was written very well. 

Orchestra section and curtain call

The only bizarre thing about the entire opera was the choice of costumes for the characters. There were characters in clothing from the time period the opera was written, including the old man and maid and half of the extras, and there were characters dressed in modern-day outfits, including the main couples and the other half of the extras. I wonder if this is to show that the old man’s thoughts are “old fashioned” or that the opera holds a “truth” even in modern-day society? Either way the emotions, acting and music were magnificent. 

I encourage everyone to see a classic opera at least once in their lifetime. It was an experience I really never will forget. 

Merci beaucoup Mon Cheri!!!

Until next time,

Raelynne