frogg files

Happy National Poetry Month!

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 23:24:00 +0000

To get this month of poetry love off on the right foot (get it?), I am going to compose a limerick. Why? Because it's easy and I'm all about not spending a whole lot of time on this. Hey, at least I admitted it.

So here I go! Ahem:

There was a young woman named gracky,
who generally liked talking smack-y.
She said all she could
but friends thought she should
just shut up and stop being tacky.

You know, it's kind of amazing how many things don't rhyme with "gracky". Oh well. I give myself an "A" anyway, for an impressive lack of effort. (You didn't know I was being graded, did you? Luckily for me, I grade on the bell curve. ("What the hell is she talking about, Jane?" "I don't know, Fred. Let's go find another blog."))

OK, now it's your turn...

Hello Again

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Sun, 20 Mar 2011 16:33:00 +0000

It's a sad measure of just how long it's been since my last update that for a split second before I logged in, I couldn't remember my blogger password.

And now that I've begun, I have no idea what to say next. Oh dear.

Well, I guess I could tell you that I'm sitting in a cute little coffeeshop right now, a couple towns over from where I live, whiling away some time until the church up the street starts its eleven a.m. service. I write "eleven" because the numbers from one to six don't work on my keyboard, thanks to an unfortunate incident involving spilled tea. But the point is, I actually wanted to attend the church's 9 a.m. service. I left home a little late, and the weather was bad, and then there was a detour on the road, so I ended up arriving about ten minutes past the hour. Rushed in, found a seat, joined the congregation in singing whatever song they were singing—and then the pastor came up and gave a few words that I suddenly realized sounded kind of like a benediction. Which, as you may know, comes at the conclusion of a service, not the commencement. I had arrived just in time for the end.

D'oh.

In my defense—8 a.m.? Seriously?

It's actually been a while since I've attended any church in anything like a regular fashion (meaning, mostly I don't attend). Something about the church routine has been evoking a sense of frustrated weariness in me every time I even think about it, though I feel more drawn to God, to Christ, than I have in a long time.

So perhaps you could say I've given up church for an extra-long Lent. Except maybe for today, but we'll see. It's awfully cozy here in the coffeeshop...

The Gingerbread House Saga: The Conclusion

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Mon, 22 Nov 2010 17:59:00 +0000

So, on Saturday night, right about the time the cowgirl and I were kicking back with our drinks, a much-anticipated storm finally hit the area. It started snowing, and while we were still relaxing in the living room, the power went out.

The next day, the power was still out, AND we still had to assemble and decorate the gingerbread house we'd been working on for the competition the cowgirl wanted to enter.

(Actually, the power being out was no big deal, since we had a generator, and since the only part of making the gingerbread house that required electricity was using an electric mixer for the frosting, but I mention it on a vague principle of trying to be dramatic. Shocking, I know.)

Well, we got started on putting the house together around 10a.m., then "painting" on the windows and icing the roof. I personally cut about a million little chocolate discs in half to simulate roof shingles. Granted, it was my own fault, because it was my own idea, but I'm just saying.

The cowgirl, meanwhile, tapped into a previously unrealized talent as a sculptor, fashioning Santa's legs out of almond paste. Yes, just his legs. (These were placed inside the chimney; the ol' boy must've had a few eggnogs too many to try diving in headfirst.) Encouraged by the fact that the legs turned out pretty good, she went on to try her hand at an entire figure skater, who would eventually be skating on the pond we were going to make.

We changed our minds about both skater and pond when the skater couldn't be made to stand. Plus his/her head had a tendency to keep falling off, so.

Anyway, we were having lots of fun, and joking about how there was no way the gingerbread house was going to win, but hey, at least people might get a good laugh when they passed it by on their way to ooh and ahh over the full-on gingerbread villages that some people apparently feel compelled to make. "Who has the time for that," I asked.

"Oh, you'd be surprised," said the cowgirl. "People plan ahead all year for this."

Not for the first time during my visit, Los Angeles felt very far away.

Sometime in the afternoon (and yes, we were STILL hard at work decorating the house), a neighbor came over with her two kids to "admire" our creation. As we were chatting, we all started wondering whether or not there were different categories that you could enter, or if everyone — village makers and total beginners alike — get judged in the same (slightly unfair) arena. The cowgirl dug up the entry form, and in the process of reading through it, alighted upon the rather important information that the entry form was supposed to be turned in no later than November 19th.

A rather tense moment ensued.

After it became clear that neither the cowgirl nor I were going to break down, scream, or cry (though I've no doubt both of us were considering each and every one of those options during that tense moment), the atmosphere relaxed. After all, if nothing else, we'd learned a lot of valuable lessons during our 20+ hour adventure in gingerbread house-making, including but by no means limited to the following:

1) Unless you are a highly skilled gingerbread house maker, bigger does not necessarily equate with better.

2) Roll out smaller sections of gingerbread dough to bake the pieces from, instead of giant slabs the size of placemats that barely fit on your baking sheets (assuming you are able to move them onto the baking sheets in the first place, and good luck with that).

3) Have a healthy supply of whatever your version of strong drink is on hand. This is for you, not the house. And trust me. You will need it.

4) Fondant works better than almond paste for making figures. But in my opinion, it doesn't taste nearly as good.

5) The little beads on those gummy raspberry and blackberry candies can be picked off and used individually in the decorations. For example, the red beads can be used to decorate a green-frosting wreath on the gingerbread house door. The black beads, on the other hand, look like deer poop when dropped on a gingerbread crust driveway. So, don't do that.

6) Check the due date on your entry form BEFORE you finish building your gingerbread house. You'll thank you. And so will the sister who spent all weekend helping you. (Love you, cowgirl! Wouldn't have done it for anyone else...)

UPDATE: Here's a picture of the house:

I know it's a little small, but if you look closely, you might notice that Santa has been joined by an elf up there on the roof. I can guess now why Santa "fell' headfirst into the chimney...

Also, notice the chocolate discs. Please, for the love of God, notice them.

Adventures in the Cowgirl's Kitchen, Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Sun, 21 Nov 2010 05:20:00 +0000

When I left off my last post, my sister the cowgirl and I were taking a break from the gingerbread house we were making so that she could help her husband put hay into a barn. This took a lot longer than I anticipated. I resume the saga a few hours later...

3:15 p.m. With help from the cowboy, the cowgirl remeasures the cardboard template pieces for the house and scales everything down. Way down. The goal, as I understand it, is to avoid having to make another whole batch of dough—a goal that I very heartily support. Not that making gingerbread dough from scratch isn't more fun than a barrel of monkeys, but I'm ready to move on to the next part of the process, whatever that might be.

The cowgirl lays out the cardboard pieces on the three giant slabs of gingerbread we've already prepared. A few moments later she says, "We have to do another batch."

Maybe I shouldn't have sampled so much dough when the cowgirl wasn't looking.

4:00 Round 2 of dough-making begins. For the record, my right arm still hasn't forgiven me for all the whisking I had to do in the first round.

4:05 "No wonder they sell kits for this," the cowgirl says.

4:15 - 6:15 A lot happens, including the preparation of a butternut squash soup while we are still in the middle of baking what are starting to seem like an endless parade of gingerbread pieces. I feel like I've fallen into some surreal dream, or maybe a Disney's Fantasia! segment, where kitchen implements come to life and dance around and food bursts into song and the whole world trips out. Worst of all, I can't stop myself from snacking on scraps of gingerbread, which is giving me a stomachache. Plus, it taste weird when eaten while the scent of the sauteed onions fills the air, which it does because of the soup.

At some point I realize I have not left the house all day. At another point, I pour myself a stiff drink.

The cowgirl wonders who first had the bright idea of making gingerbread houses. I suggest—or blame—the Swiss. I'm wrong, as it turns out, but I don't care.

6:15 If I never eat gingerbread again as long as I live, I'll be fine.

6:20 The cowgirl valiantly keeps trying to give me tips on making the butternut squash soup, so I can do it on my own in the future. Her confidence in my potential for domestication is rather endearing, really. Especially given her close proximity to me in the kitchen all day today.

6:55 The butternut squash soup is nearly ready! I think we are also still baking gingerbread, but I really have no idea anymore what's going on. Everything's a bit of a blur. And no, it's not because of the stiff drink. Even though I had another one.

8:00 Dinner's finished. The gingerbread house pieces are all cooked and laid out on racks on the dining room table. Are we almost done? No. We still have to make frosting tomorrow, once again from scratch. Why, I want to say, or, more accurately, scream. Why why why, when someone so cleverly invented ready-made frosting in a little tub that you can buy from the grocery store! (I'm sure it comes as a big surprise that between the two of us, the cowgirl is the one who's married.)

9:00 After cleaning up the kitchen, vacuuming, and starting a load of laundry, the cowgirl mixes a pomegranate martini for each of us. At least one of us has earned it.

9:10 I show the cowgirl what I've written here, before I post it to the blog.. When she gets to the part about the frosting, she says, "It's a different kind of frosting." Of course it is.

"And you earned it too," she adds, referring to the martini.

I laugh. "No, I didn't."

"You were standing up almost as long as I was!" She pauses. "You didn't drag hay into the barn, but..." I laugh again. A few minutes later, she asks if I want a refill. I say sure. Then she realizes there's only enough left in the shaker for one more drink.

I tell her to go ahead.

Adventures In The Cowgirl's Kitchen, Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Sat, 20 Nov 2010 21:00:00 +0000

10:00 Since I arrived at my sister the cowgirl's place last Sunday for a visit, she's been talking a lot about a gingerbread house competition she wants to enter. Today is the day that we are going to embark on this project. I told her I'd "help" but we all know what that means. (Hey, someone has to make sure everything tastes the way it's supposed to, right?)

10:15 The cowgirl turns on the stereo and the soundtrack from O Brother Where Art Thou starts playing. The cowgirl begins trying to tape together the cardboard skeleton of the house, which has been designed and cut out by her husband the cowboy before he left to pick up some hay.

Apparently the house is going to be a mansion. The cowgirl hopes the gingerbread sections (which "we" are going to make from scratch) will fit on her baking pans. I hope so, too, if for no other reason than that it will be a lot more peaceful around here if they do.

10:25 It turns out that cardboard is less cooperative than you might think.

10:29 The cowgirl is taking measurements, making drawings, and trying to get the house to stand up. "The roof is going to be the bear," says the cowgirl. My thoughts exactly. Or something like that.

10:47 Not for the first time, the cowgirl expresses concern about how big the gingerbread pieces will have to be. In the background, I hear voices singing a mournful chorus: "I am weary, let me rest." I suspect it's an omen but for once I keep my opinion to myself.

10:55 I am given the job of whipping some cream and vanilla together until it develops "soft peaks." Not being experienced in these matters, I'm not sure what this means, but figure I'lll find out. The cowgirl says I can use the handheld electric whisk, or just do it on my own power. I opt for the latter because "I need the exercise" but in reality it's because I'm too lazy to put together and plug in the electric whisk.

11:04 Whoever invented the handheld electric whisk deserves a medal.

11:15 I get in trouble for pausing the whisk so that I can sing along with the last song on the O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack.

11:25 Finally, the whipping cream is done, which is good because my right tricep is about to go on strike, electric whisk notwithstanding. R.E.M.'s Automatic for the People album is playing now. Ever so subtly, the atmosphere changes.

11:37 The gingerbread dough is all mixed! The cowgirl starts rolling it out. She stops, looks at the dough sticking to the rolling pin. "I can see this is going to get really obnoxious," she says. She's right. And what's even more obnoxious is how it takes both of us to try to lift the (giant) gingerbread pieces and move them to a baking sheet, and yet we still can't prevent the pieces from tearing.

"How does anyone do stuff like this by themselves?" I wonder aloud.

"I don't know!" the cowgirl wails. I pick up some of the scraps and eat them. Mmm, the sweet taste of silver lining...

12:05 Looks like we have a choice between making another batch of gingerbread dough or making the house smaller. The cowgirl and I glance at each other. She gets out her measuring tape and an X-acto knife.

12:15 The cowboy's returned with a truckful and then some of hay. The cowgirl has to run out and help him unload. I'd join them, but someone has to eat, I mean guard, the gingerbread dough. Besides, it's raining out there. Brrr.

More to come, I'm sure. Stay tuned.

Communion

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Fri, 05 Nov 2010 02:55:00 +0000

Last night I had communion in a pub. I didn't plan to, it just kind of happened. And I have to say, it was pretty awesome.

I get together at this pub every couple weeks or so with a few friends to have drinks and discuss various culturally relevant topics of interest to all of us. We call ourselves The Philosophers Club, I guess because we couldn't come up with anything much nerdier than that. (I mean honestly, could you?) But inevitably, no matter what topic we start out with — the evils of Facebook (that's usually my idea), the nature of truth, the pursuit of happiness — we always end up talking about church and Christianity. And last night was no exception.

Confession time: I haven't been to church in several weeks now, because my church is in my black books lately. It's hard for me to articulate exactly why, but basically I'm annoyed at the whole programmatic aspect of the endeavor. Church isn't a place to be anymore, if it ever was, at least in America. No, it's a whole new To Do list, especially when you add up the myriad of activities beyond the Sunday sermon to help you get "plugged in" or "connected" (and notice the terminology of mechanization).

As if we weren't busy enough already in our lives.

Here's the thing. I don't want to join a "small group", or lead one. I don't want to go on a missions trip. I don't want to go on my church's annual retreat, a decision that people simply can't understand when I don't offer up a good excuse along with it, such as, "I'm dying." And so help me God, if I hear the word "community" or the phrase "doing life together" one more time, I'm going to puke on someone's face.

What I want is rest. I want silence. I want mystery. And I want communion. But I don't particularly want church. At least not right now.

I said some of this to my fellow philosophers (all two of them) last night. Not in so many words, but that was the gist. At least it must have been, because the next thing I knew, one of them was flagging down the waitress (who, I thought, was already a tiny bit annoyed at us for not buying beer or food this time, just coffee and dessert) to tell her, "We'd like to do communion. Can we have some wine and a side of bread?"

I felt a little weird about it at first. Praying over the bread and wine when it was brought to our courtyard table, while some sports event played out on the big screen TV behind me. Passing the elements around and trying not to look at fellow diners to see if they were looking at us. But after we prayed, after we read the Passover passage from the Gospel of Luke off of my friend's iPad, after we broke the bread and shared the wine, we sat back, looked at each other, and said, 'Wow. That was really nice."

And you know what? It was. Really, really nice.

An interesting little addendum to this story: Today I found out that last Sunday the topic at my church was... the meaning of communion. Weird, right? Maybe God's trying to tell me something. Maybe I'll try not to think about what it might be. Because I have this sick feeling it involves the word "community." Ugh.

NanoWriMo 2010!

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Mon, 01 Nov 2010 21:31:00 +0000

Well, it's November and that means it's also National Novel Writing Month. Somewhat to my own surprise, my friend Drew managed to talk me into participating this year. "It works out to 1,667 words a day," he said. Which sounded doable.

Until today, of course, when NanoWriMo officially begins. And of course my mind is blank.

Soooo, anyone have a first sentence lying around that they don't need? Just curious.

Honk If You REALLY Love Jesus

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Sun, 24 Oct 2010 04:00:00 +0000

The other night I was driving along Los Feliz Blvd when I found myself behind a car with a bumper sticker that said, "Honk if you LOVE it!" And I found myself wondering if people who have these "Honk if you love [whatever]" stickers on their car actually remember that they do. I mean, if someone behind them honks, do they think, "Cool, that person liked my bumper sticker!" or do they freak out and wonder if they did something wrong, or do they just plain go from zero to road rage and flip off whoever honked?

I considered honking to find out, but L.A. isn't really the sort of place where you want to drive around playing games with your horn, so I didn't.

Besides, the "Honk if you LOVE it!" sticker was underneath another sticker that said, "Real men find Jesus sexually attractive," and that gave me other stuff to wonder about. Mainly, why?

It's mostly a rhetorical question.

I Obsess Like

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 22:49:00 +0000

While the rest of the world is riveted by the saga of the Chilean miners, I have been obsessing over the I Write Like website. This should tell you something about me, but I hope you'll ignore it..

The important thing to note is that I finally got the website to say that I write like someone I wouldn't mind writing like. Someone other than Dan Brown, Stephen King, Chuck Palahniuk (I really can't believe I got compared to the author of Fight Club), Isaac Asimov and Rudyard Kipling.

Today I achieved... drum roll, please... no, really, I want the drum roll, so please do it... thank you... get ready now...

Ernest Hemingway!

Now, I'm trying not to think about the fact that I allegedly write like old white guys. I'm also trying not to think about the fact that I have actually been obsessing over what a website has to say about my writing. And I'm also also trying not to think about the fact that I got Hemingway after typing the following three lines into the "analyzer":

"The unicorn was dead when they found it. Nothing they could have done. That didn't make them feel any better."

I know. I have issues. Lots of them. But hey, so did Hemingway. Did I mention I write like him? A website told me so. Booyah.

A Rant of Biblical Proportions

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 07:07:00 +0000

Yesterday on my way home from breakfast, I stopped at a local used bookstore that specializes in books on Christian theology and spirituality. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, but as I walked in I remembered that I had been thinking about getting a chronological Bible and decided to see if they had any. But I was only in their "Bibles" section for two seconds before I felt the familiar weariness that is my standard reaction to Christian bookstores as a whole.

There were so many Bibles. I'm not talking about translations here; I'm talking about "The Couple's Devotional Bible", the "Celebrate Recovery Bible", "The Groom's Bible" (subtitle: "preparing spiritually for the most important day of your life"), and the one that really made me gag, the "Busy Life Bible" ("Got a minute? Only a minute? This Bible is designed just for you").

There were Bibles for students, for dads, for "all people" (I guess just in case, God forbid, a niche market was overlooked). There was an "Inclusive" Bible, which sounds like the Bible for all people, except it's not; it's an "egalitarian" Bible, meaning it uses words like humankind instead of mankind, and so on. There were indeed chronological Bibles (none of which I ended up buying), as well as one-year reading plan Bibles and study Bibles — including the "Inspirational Study Bible", edited, to my complete lack of surprise, by Max Lucado.

I'm not going to make some big point here (probably to your complete lack of surprise). I just feel kind of sad. It's bad enough, in my opinion, that American Christianity has been commodified into bumper stickers and T-shirts with saccharine slogans on them, or Jesus Christ action figures, or (God forgive us) this. All of that is plain awful, period. But what can you expect from people who see in the sacred text itself an opportunity for profit? Every carefully branded iteration of what used to be simply The Holy Bible is yet another triumph of marketing over mystery.

We talk about Christ paying the price for our sins. Well, believe me, he still does.

Technical Difficulties... Again

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Tue, 12 Oct 2010 19:41:00 +0000

OK, so I just posted something which may have gone out via RSS or whatever, but I had to delete it here because for some reason that I can't figure out, Blogger is cutting off the last part of the post. I've tried re-creating the post, re-publishing it, etc, but it's not working. So I'm going to try again tomorrow. In the meantime, please enjoy the music during this brief intermission...

What, there's no music?? Dang. I can't do anything right today.

You Know How Something Can Seem Like A Hilarious Idea At the Time....

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Mon, 04 Oct 2010 20:39:00 +0000

...and then later, you realize, no. No, it really wasn't.

Yeah, I'm kind of having one of those days.

On another note (because no, I am not giving details), it's a gray day here in SoCal and I can't decide how I feel about it. I mean, OK, last week's record high triple-digit temps were a bit much even for this sun-lovin' girl, but it's a bit weird that a mere few days later I could be bundled up in a sweater, a beanie, a scarf and jeans.

But hey, that's how we roll in the Golden State anymore. Thanks, global warming!

Anyway, I'm sitting in a coffeeshop today, trying to write but (as usual) mostly not succeeding. I kind of think I should just give up today, but I'm feeling stubborn. Sadly, my stubbornnes is not directed so much at getting anything done as it is at complaining about the fact that I'm not getting anything done.

I am a woman of very badly prioritized determinations, what can I say. And no, I really am not going to tell you about the Hilarious Idea That Wasn't. Sorry. Some things are better left to the imagination.

(Actually, I'm starting to wonder if my writing might fall into that category Gah! Let's hope not.)

UPDATE: I'm glad to note I'm not the only one winning awards in the Ideas That Weren't Incredibly Awesome In Retrospect department.

I Write Like

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Thu, 30 Sep 2010 04:10:00 +0000

Today a poet friend forwarded an interesting website to me, called I Write Like. What you do is, you paste in some text you've written, click the "Analyze" button and the site tells you what famous author you write like.

I pasted in the opening from a short story I wrote a while back and got Dan Brown. Horrified, I chose a selection from a different story... and got Stephen King.

I should perhaps mention that neither of the stories were even remotely thriller-ish.

In desperation, I pasted in an entire story, one of the few I've written that I actually like and which is in a more experimental vein. There is nothing science fiction-y about it, so naturally, it turns out that I write like Isaac Asimov.

I'm a little depressed right now.

Staying Sober

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Sat, 25 Sep 2010 20:24:00 +0000

Someone asked me the other day if I was "born again." I never know how to answer this question. The term "born again" denotes more of a(n extreme) conservative political stance these days, at least in the United States. You can say you are a Christian and still maintain a shred of respectability (very slight, and most definitely a shred), but say you are born again and you may as well walk around with a sign saying, "I am completely insane." I mean, OK, some "born agains" are insane, but frankly I think they would be one letter short of an alphabet no matter what creed they latched onto. It's just unfortunate that they picked Christianity as the philosophical and spiritual context in which to exercise their particular brand of crazy. But if anything, they are yet another exhibit for the defense of one of the foundational truths proclaimed by Christianity: Humans need some serious help.

The political and mental implications were one obvious reason I hesitated in answering "yes" to the question of my born againness. But as the conversation continued, someone else alluded to the other part of the "born again" concept that I have trouble with; namely, the idea that you "come to a point of decision" at which you "accept Christ into your heart" with the aid of a prescribed "sinner's prayer" that functions as a sort of magic spell with the result that after you say it, hey presto, you're saved! God has completed you! Ta da!

Well, that just reminds me of the scene in The Princess Bride where the man in black says to the princess he's come to save that "life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something." Same goes for Christianity. If you think all you have to do is pop a sort of prayer pill and everything will be fine and dandy, and you'll always have the answers to all the questions that haunt the human race, just wait a while. The pain is bound to come sooner or later, along with the doubts and the uncertainty. And then what do you do?

So I looked at the man who had started the whole discussion and my thoughts ran back over the course of the past couple years, all the doubts and all the (many) times I struggled (and still struggle) to believe in God, in Christ, in the whole Christian idea. I said that being born again wasn't so much about a single moment as a decision you make every day. Over and over and over again.

"Like staying sober," he said.

"Yeah," I said. "It's a bit like that."

Shadows

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 00:55:00 +0000

I've been having some trouble with my shoulder, so today I went to see an orthopedic surgeon who prescribed an MRI to find out exactly what's wrong. When I called to make the appointment, the woman on the other end went through a series of "routine questions", which included stuff like, "do you have diabetes," "do you have any metal inside your body" (yikes), "have you had brain surgery" (!). I went into a sort of autopilot of "No's" but then she asked, "Have you ever been diagnosed with cancer?" And I was just a little weirded out to hear myself say, "Yes."

Yeah, I know. It's been more than a year. But still.

The Long-Awaited, Probably Forgotten-About, Argentina Update

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Wed, 08 Sep 2010 17:00:00 +0000

Now that absolutely no one cares anymore about my Argentina trip — which, after all, took place way back in June — I'm going to finally update this blog with another post about it.

You can see why I never made it as a reporter. Not that I ever tried. Bleah.

But I just can't leave everyone with the impression that all I did during the entire time I spent in "the Paris of the South" was eat. I mean, it felt kind of like I ate all the time, but I also went and saw stuff and did things. Here are some highlights, in no particular order:

1) The Recoleta Cemetery.

This place is a true city of the dead. I mean, it even has streets with street signs:

OK, so the street signs aren't in that picture, but they really are there.

The Recoleta Cemetery is one of, if not the, most popular tourist destinations in Buenos Aires. Someone in our group asked the question, "What does it say about a city that its most popular spot is its cemetery?" I leave it to you to ponder the no doubt many possible answers to that question; it is way too early in the morning right now for me to start being philosophical.

2) El Ateneo Bookstore.

Built in 1919, El Ateneo started out as a theatre house called Teatro Gran Splendid, or Grand Splendid Theatre. Today, it's a totally awesome-looking bookstore. Check it out:

As you can see, El Ateneo has retained the features of the old theatre: the box seats, where you can kick back with a book for a while; the stage, which is now a cafe; the domed, muraled ceiling, which you can't see in that picture because it's in this one (or at least part of it is):

By the way, I bought a book at El Ateneo, by an Argentine writer named Poldy Bird. An Argentine friend recommended her. Of course, the book is in Spanish, but in a fit of misguided belief in my self-motivational, not to mention linguistic, abilities, I thought, "Hey, I'll practice my Spanish by translating it!" Given how good my Spanish isn't, this was, to say the least, not my finest hour in the department of Great Ideas, but oh well.

3) Colonia del Sacramento, Uruguay.

When I heard that Uruguay was only an hour away by ferry, I decided to pop over there for a day trip because a) it was an easy way to get another stamp in my passport, and b) by that time I'd been in Buenos Aires for over a week and the city was starting to jangle my suburban nerves a bit. I needed a change of scene, and that's exactly what I got as I wandered the cobblestoned streets of Colonia, the oldest town in Uruguay (founded in 1680 by the Portuguese; thanks, Wikipedia). A few pics:

Here's the spot where my friend and I had lunch:

As we were leaving, another customer came along:

And finally, here's a pic of me under a shop sign that reminded me there's no place like home:

4) The World Cup.

Yes, my trip coincided with the epic soccer series, and it was quite interesting to observe how seriously Argentines take the game. Let's just say that if you are going to have a life-threatening emergency during the World Cup, try not to have it when Argentina is playing, because whoever would have come to your aid is probably glued to a TV screen watching the match, like every other human being in the country.

I watched the Argentina-Mexico game in a cafe with a group of friends, and afterward we went down to the Obelisk to celebrate Argentina's win with everyone in Buenos Aires (not much of an exaggeration):

Good times, although I will say that the mosh pit got a little alarming. But I survived, as you can see. Also, I believe my group got on Argentine TV at some point. No doubt the crazy Americans singing "Vamos Argentina" into the camera provided a great deal of amusement to whoever saw the clip.

5) Milion.

I don't have a picture of this bar, but if you ever go to Buenos Aires, definitely check out it out, located on the second floor of what was once an old mansion. It's not well-marked from the street, so if you don't pay attention you could walk right past it. But if you find it, it's a really cool spot for reasonably priced drinks.

Speaking of drinks, I'll finish off this post with

6) The Pisco Sour.

A classic South American cocktail, it tastes even better when mixed by a hot South American man. I don't know why that should be, but hey, I didn't make the rules.

Hmm, now that I've come to the end of this post, I'm suddenly remembering all the other things I haven't mentioned — touring the colorful La Boca neighborhood; visiting the estate of Victoria Ocampo, an important figure in Argentina's cultural history; having lunch at Cafe Tortoni, the oldest cafe in Argentina; exploring the city's many art galleries on Gallery Night; taking tango lessons and then watching a stunning tango show while enjoying dinner at El Querandi. And there's even more... the list could go on and on. But, no doubt to your great relief, it won't. Because I'm done. Whew!

Thanks for tuning in. Back to our regularly scheduled program of unpredictable updates...

We Are Experiencing Technical Difficulties!

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 08:06:00 +0000

I interrupt my own blogcast with some sad news. Last night, I spilled tea on my computer. Turns out that wasn't a great idea. Now, whenever I try to type numbers, I can't. Unless it's a 7,8,9 or 0. I also can't type any of the symbols that are on the non-working number keys. Argh.

So, guess who has a date with the Genius Bar at the Apple Store tomorrow. Sigh... I had a good Argentina post in the works, too. And it wasn't even about food! I know, that's hard to believe.

Anyway, I'll keep you apprised as the situation continues to unfold. Until next time, this is your intrepid correspondent, the frogg princess, signing off. With (of course) kisses.

On Waking Up In A Strange Town Alone

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 00:36:00 +0000

So while I was sampling the cultural (and yes, culinary) delights of Argentina, the editor of my MFA program's alumni newsletter sent me an email asking if I'd do a write-up about my time in Buenos Aires. I emailed her back and said "Sure!" and she replied, "Great, can I have it by July 19?" and I answered back, "Sure!" and then I procrastinated until I had to ask for an extension, then procrastinated some more until the final deadline (yesterday), at which point I cranked it out in about an hour amid lots of last-minute panic.

And yet somehow I continue to persist in believing that I am not a Real Writer. Ha.

But anyway, during a brief interval when "procrastination" took the form of "brainstorming" for the article, I went online looking for cool quotes about travel, because every writer knows the value of starting off an article with a witty and/or insightful observation by someone else who is more famous. (In my case, of course, that's pretty much everyone.) I found a website with the 50 Most Inspiring Travel Quotes of All Time, #18 being this:

“To awaken quite alone in a strange town is one of the pleasantest sensations in the world.” – Freya Stark

Which just goes to show you, even people more famous than you can end up veering out of "insightful" and into... well, silly.

Because let's be honest: The first thing that happens when you wake up in a strange town quite alone is, you try to go back to sleep so you don't have to face the fact that it is totally and completely and unavoidably on your own shoulders to figure out the agenda for the day. If by some chance you really just want to stay in bed "to relax", you will have to fight the guilt that will start whispering in your ear about how you are wasting an Amazing Travel Experience and that when you get home you will SO regret that you didn't do a lot of Exciting Tourist Things.

I don't know about you, but I wouldn't qualify any of the above as one of the "pleasantest sensations in the world."

But there is this: The sensation of knowing that, even though you're alone, you're somewhere you've never been. You're someplace new, different. And you yourself are different in that place. Or maybe just more yourself. There's none of the usual routine and distraction and same-old that gets in between you and your own soul. And OK, yes, that's actually kind of an uncomfortable sensation, but if you can live with it, (or live through it, as the case may be), you never know, you just might be rewarded.

And I imagine that could actually end up being pretty pleasant.

PS Oh by the way, I didn't end up using an inspiring travel quote for my article. I figured Real Writers should come up with their own, so here's mine, taken from the actual article I finally sent off to the newsletter editor:

Of course, I can’t write about being in Argentina and not mention the food. One word: Amazing. Two more: HUGE portions.

Why I'm not famous yet is beyond me.

Inception: A Pseudo-Review

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 20:27:00 +0000

I'm just going to take a quick little break from re-capping Argentina to ask a question: Am I the only person in America who did not in fact think that Inception was totally awesome?

I mean, OK, oodles of props on the mind-bending premise, the exceptional special effects, and the scene-stealing charm of Joseph Gordon-Leavitt (who is frankly adorable even as a grim, all-business... well, I don't actually know what he was, because the film doesn't make it clear, come to think of it). Oh, and not to mention the eye candy that was Tom Hardy (wow). But 2.5 hours is a long time to spend wandering in and out of people's brains and still not really have a good sense of where you want to go, or where you've ended up when the credits (finally) start rolling.

As the movie went on, I had the sense not so much of being taken on an exciting ride as being forced to watch someone else's exciting ride. Namely, Christopher Nolan's, as he tried valiantly to keep control of the wild horse that was his screenplay, eventually beating it into some sort of sullen, but not entirely satisfactory, submission.

Ultimately, I felt that Nolan had this truly amazing, fun, thought-provoking idea but didn't know how to really dig into it, and so he settled for building on his intriguing foundation with a totally pedestrian (and underdeveloped) storyline that dragged on for way longer than I think it had to.

Also, Hans Zimmer's score was a little overly enthusiastic in its pounding dramaticness, if you ask me; especially in the final scene.

So yeah, that's my take. Anyone else see it who'd care to a) correct my Philistine impressions, or b) laud my incisive critiquing skills (aka my cool wild horse metaphor)?

Eating in Argentina; or, How Not To Lose Weight

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 16:31:00 +0000

Here in America, we are often lamenting over the terrible eating and lack-of-exercise habits that have resulted in what we call our "obesity epidemic." One of the things we like to blame a lot for our weight problem is the size of our meal portions, particularly when we go out to restaurants. Anyone who has ever been to Claim Jumper knows exactly what I'm talking about, and if you haven't been, don't start now! You could gain a few pounds just by looking at their ridiculously gooey, six-layer Chocolate Motherlode Cake. (For the record, this dessert is listed on Claim Jumper's menu under the heading "Sweets for Sharing", but honestly folks, it's too big even for two people. Or three. Or five.)

So anyway, I have thought for a long time now that America was the world leader in eating more food at a single sitting than one might think humanly possible. Argentina broadened my understanding of this issue — to say nothing of my waistline.

On one of my first nights in Buenos Aires with the creative writing program, I went out to dinner with a few of the students and one of them ordered a calzone. Here it is:

The guy who ordered it said, "I asked for the small." I nearly choked. And then my food arrived:

Yes, that is a baked potato, and yes, it was roughly the size of my entire head. I mean, it was good, but wow.

From a restaurant outside of Buenos Aires, here's a version of a caprese salad, which a friend of mine ordered in an effort to be somewhat healthy:

As you can see, that is pretty much just a big bowl of cheese, with a few tomatoes and olives thrown in for color. So much for healthy.

I honestly think the only thing that kept me from having to buy a whole new wardrobe when I got home was the fact that I tried to walk everywhere we had to go, instead of taking taxis. Even so, when I got home I had to spend a few days eating nothing but salads, and I couldn't even let myself THINK of the word "empanada." Ugh.

By the way, if you are surprised that I haven't mentioned anything about the one food Argentina is famous for outside of Argentina (i.e., BEEF), well, the truth is, I was kind of surprised myself that it wasn't as big of a deal as I was expecting. Most of the restaurants I went to in Buenos Aires offered cuisine that showed the influence of the region's Italian heritage — milanesa, pastas, calzones (see above!), that kind of thing. There were vegetarians on our trip, and they didn't seem to have any problem finding good stuff to eat, so there's certainly no need to write Buenos Aires off as a destination if you're not carnivorous. (That said, I still managed to eat more meat in the few weeks I spent in Argentina than I have in about a year. Not an exaggeration).

Well, I think I've talked enough about food for one day. Next time, we'll take a look at — I don't know, I haven't decided yet. Something besides eating, though. I promise!

I Left My Taste Buds in Argentina

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 17:29:00 +0000

Well, here I am, back from my travels, and yes, I'm late in updating the blog. Who's surprised? I thought so.

Anyway, I had an absolutely fabulous time in Argentina, and over the course of the next week I've planned a series of posts about the trip, including photos. For now, a few highlights:

1) Sampling dulce de leche granizado ice cream from Freddo's. Mmmm.

2) Getting addicted to alfajores (a typical Argentinean treat which consists of two little round cakes joined together by dulce de leche).

3) The delicious flan at Parilla Peña, which was even more incredible with the addition of dulce de leche on the side.

Are you seeing a trend here? Let's just say that if you go to Argentina and manage to NOT have dulce de leche during your sojourn there, I think you actually ended up in another country by mistake. Which is too bad, but I hope you had a good time wherever you were. As for me, I did in fact do other things besides eat dulce de leche (and accidentally hit on museum guards; see previous post), and I'll be talking about those things in the upcoming days. So stay tuned, kids!

In the meantime, I leave you with this revealing quote from the renowned Argentine writer, Jorge Luis Borges, who said, "I have always imagined that Paradise will be made of dulce de leche."* Mmmm, Paradise...

* OK, I lied. What he said was, "I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library"** but that didn't really fit my theme, so.

** Really, Borges? The harps and clouds idea wasn't boring enough for you? I love books and all, but honestly.

A Little Spanish Is a Dangerous Thing

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Thu, 24 Jun 2010 02:49:00 +0000

One of the problems with knowing solamente un pocito de Spanish is that, when you find that you actually can get by pretty well with the basics, you'll start to get reckless and attempt actual conversations, which involve actual knowledge of grammatical conjugations. And that can lead to little problemas.

For example.

Tonight I went with a group of writing program students to the Museo Nacional de Bella Artes. During the course of my thoughtful perambulations around the exhibit rooms, I ended up talking to one of the museum guards, who had already spoken to other members of the group and knew we were all from the U.S. He asked me a few polite questions, in Spanish, about my visit to Argentina, and I gamely tried to answer with more than just "yes" or "no". The problem came when I attempted to ask him how long he'd worked at the museum. Apparently that's not what I actually said, because he answered that he got off at 8:30 and that if I wanted he'd walk around with me afterward.

Oops.

The conversation from that point only got more difficult, as at first I thought he was asking me to invite him to join our whole group. But no, it turns out that's not what he meant. And then he asked if I had a free day and I, bizarrely, answered that yes, it was possible I'd come back another day. I even asked if he worked every day til 8:30. Why? Probably because I knew how, and in spite of my good sense I was going to deploy the tiny bit of Spanish I knew at any cost.

Including the cost of never again going to the Museo Nacional de Bella Artes. Sigh...

Adventures in a Hostel Land

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 00:52:00 +0000

My hostel in Buenos Aires leaves a lot to be desired. Namely, everything. It's noisy, run-down and the linens are surely from the 70s. At least the bathroom was clean. Granted, there is no shower per se, just a shower head installed high up on the wall next to the toilet, i guess in the name of maximum efficiency. Still things could be worse. Like, it could sound like a construction crew was using a jackhammer or some similar heavy equipment right outside my window.

Oh wait, it does.

My reservation is for nine nights. We'll see.

Estoy Aqui

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Fri, 18 Jun 2010 20:30:00 +0000

"Aqui" being a hotel room in Mendoza, where I am watching Close Encounters of the Third Kind in Spanish. Because, you know, that's the kind of adventurous freak I am. I do it so you don't have to.

Anyway, I think this movie makes about the same amount of sense in any language.

So yeah, I arrived safely in Buenos Aires (obviously), where I spent the night with friends. The next evening I boarded a bus for the 12-hour journey to Argentina's wine country--because I guess I hadn't had enough of sitting still after my 13-hour flight. But today I made up for my lack of exercise with a vengeance, with a 45-minute walk to my hotel from the bus station and then two hours of wandering fairly aimlessly around the city, pondering the fact that travel is always a lot more glamorous in theory than in actual practice, especially when you are an introvert traveling alone.

Tomorrow will be good, though. I signed up for a group wine tour in the Uco Valley. Definitely looking forward to that.

I wish I could write more, but I've been typing all this on my iPad and I'm kinda over it for now. So I'll check in again later. Amor y besos...

noreply@blogger.com (grackyfrogg) — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 17:17:00 +0000

Well, I'm off...again! Can't believe my last international trip was less than two weeks ago. But anyway, here I go, on my way to Argentina. I'll let you know how it goes. In the meantime, be good! And if you can't be good, don't tell anyone.

Just kidding.

Ciao for now! With lots of hugs and kisses from the frogg princess...