Archive for May, 2009

The silver bullet has foiled me.  After all that fine praise of a car that would look better in a junk heap than a driveway, the old girl has let me down.  Big time.

I pulled into the parking lot for my wine appointment today, confident that I was about to place a big order.  The sun was shining, birds were singing, and I found a rock star parking spot right in front.  A smile on my face, I guiltily turned down the Shakira on the CD player so as not to draw attention to myself, reached for the door handle, and pulled.  Instead of opening the door, this motion caused a crunching noise.  I pulled my hand away, wincing, and found the door handle still in it- no longer attached to the door.

Trapped.  Claustrophobia.  Panic.  In normal circumstances, I could have crawled over the center console and out the passenger side door.  But today, in honor of summer weather, I’d opted to wear a short dress that offered the appealing feature of hugging my butt in just the right places.  Just the right places, that is, unless one needed to contort their body in ways that would require ripping the butt-hugging part of the dress wide open.

To add insult to injury, I’d also opted to celebrate the coming summer by going commando.  Normally I like a healthy breeze.  The thought of letting the dude sitting in his car directly across from me see my sacred spot was enough to make me long for anything to prevent a peep show, be they special Mormon underwear or polyester granny panties.

Clearly, getting out of my car by way of the passenger door wasn’t an option.  So what did I do?  Pulled a bobby pin out of my hair and used it to fashion a lever with the broken door handle.  MacGyver would have found me so hot.  Just in the nick of time, I was able to free myself from my confinement and go on my merry way.  But I know the silver bullet is going to have the last laugh, that bitch.  She’s waiting.  Probably until I’m inexplicably driving home naked only to accidentally plunge my car into a body of water, become trapped, and die a painfully slow and painfully embarrassing death.  I’m nervous enough that I’m considering the inevitable:  it might be time for a life upgrade, or at least a new car.

Most women go to their stylists intending to make a change and chicken out at the last minute, asking for a trim.  I have the opposite problem.  I go intending to get a trim and surprise myself by asking for things like “Oh, just cut it all off.”  I’ve long since accepted this about myself and realize that every time I sit in the chair is a crap shoot.  Half the time, I win.  Half the time, I want to wear hats for the next 6 months until time undoes what my 6-second impulse created.
My newest change in hairstyle, however, was somewhat pre-empted.  In that I mean, I saw a picture of Penelope Cruz at the Oscars, became immediately overwhelmingly obsessed with her bangs, and promptly made an appointment.  Actually, I asked if I could get in that day.  The appointment was only necessary because my favorite stylist in the area, Chad, didn’t work on Mondays.  I had to wait 24 hours.
“Have you ever had thick bangs?” Chad asked me, skeptical.
“Yes,” I half-lied.  I say half because I have had them, but I was approximately 7 when I grew them out.  That doesn’t really count.
“They’re sexy,” he continued, “but they’re high maintenance.  As in you must flatten them.  Daily.”
This should have caused pause.  My typical morning maintenance routine of late has included a 10-minute shower and putting my contacts in.  Occasionally I brush my flowing locks as well.  But since moving out of New York, I’ve embraced my low-maintenance Boulder surroundings and stowed the flat-iron in a dark corner.  I was riding the impulse train, though, and it’s impossible to stop it- especially when you think you’re going to look like Penelope Cruz on the other side.
To Chad’s credit, he does a mean hairstyle.  When he was finished with me, I had the cut I’d sought after.  Unfortunately, I also still had my bone structure and genetics and, thus, looked much less like Penelope Cruz than I’d hoped.  Furthermore, I also still had my lack of maintenance tendencies, which meant that after I was forced to shower 3 days after Chad worked his magic, I was left unequipped to mold my new ‘do into anything resembling the right look.  Typical.  My friends seemed to like the cut, or at least they politely said they did.  I forgot that bangs, while highlighting my light eyes, bring out my double chin.
The immediate regret from this hairstyle decision was less from the cut itself than it was because this impulse had come exactly 1 week before a trip to Spain in which I’d planned to travel with merely a backpack, showering every 2 days at best.  A flattening iron didn’t really fit the bill.  So instead of wandering the Spanish streets like a sultry model, I was doomed to lumber around awkwardly with a hairstyle I like to call The Helmet.
The Helmet is what happens when a flattening iron is not applied to one’s bangs and humidity coupled with a naturally wavy texture puffs this little section of hair up into something between a speed bump and a beehive.  Efforts to tame The Helmet are futile, as bangs are too short to be pinned back effectively, and unlike an actual helmet, the hairstyle cannot be taken off.
Fully expecting to be a style laughing-stock, I stepped off the plane in Madrid with a thick headband, to cover some of the damage.  And then wonder of wonders, I learned I was on the cutting edge of Spanish fashion.  Bangs styles abound, from the sidesweep to the Penelope Cruz to, unbelievably, The Helmet.  A new spring in my step, I ditched my awkward gait for a catwalk-worthy strut- and got a healthy sprinkling of lewd comments in Spanish, enough to boost any girl’s confidence in both her looks and ability to fit in.  Of course the façade would have been better if I had some sagging skinny jeans and, oh, 6 inches less of height, but turns out, for once, my impulse landed me in a situation in which I passed for belonging.
I’m sorry I doubted you, Chad.  In the immortal words of Napoleon Dynamite, “I like your bangs.”

            Sometime between the veritable tantrum I’d thrown upon exiting the Ventas metro stop around 2:30 in the afternoon and the moment 4 hours later when I found myself in the blazing Madrid sunshine with my eyes covered with my hands, I’d realized what happens to the bull at the end of the bullfight.  Or what usually happens to the bull.  At 2:30 in the afternoon, when I was cranky from the lack of sleep caused by my incredibly un-Spanish hostel’s rules that its guests get out at 11 am after a “cultural” night ending at 7:30 am, it had seemed exciting to partake in a the event Franco made the national sport during his autocratic rule.  I pictured it like a lazy afternoon baseball game, drinking light beer in the sun over mindless chatter, only with guys waving capes instead of swinging sticks.

            Adam, bless his heart, tried to talk me out of it.  Another less bloody Spanish cultural experience was taking place that evening:  the Real Madrid vs. FT Barcelona soccer game.  He seemed to be more interested in meeting his Spanish friends in a pub, drinking good beer, and watching 22 men in shorts run around for a couple of hours.  He preferred the drama of a potential but easily avoided bar fight to the drama of an unavoidable death.  But at 2:30 that afternoon, I forgot that bullfighting is about death, imagined it was simply a spectator sport akin to the rodeo, and stood firm.

            4 hours later, we were climbing to the uppermost level of the historic bull-fighting ring (I’d managed to convince Adam of the activity only by agreeing to buy the cheapest tickets and leave after the first bull).  “I hope the bull wins,” I remarked jokingly.  The bull never wins.   And it was with that utterance that it slowly dawned on me what “winning” means.  As the opening ceremonies began and men in elaborate pirate-like garb strode into the rings brandishing sharp weapons, my stomach clenched.

            I leaned over to Adam, hoping he’d allay my fear.  “Do they kill the bull in the end?”  At this point, his eyebrows shot up and his face contorted in a half laugh.  When he realized I wasn’t kidding, he buried his shaking head in his hands.

            “No.  They doctor them up real nice afterwards.”  Dense as I am, I got the sarcasm.  I was beginning to regret my rash impulse to come to this event.

            And so the action began.  One of the pirates galloped into the rink on horseback brandishing a knife while a couple of his compadres hid behind the hollowed out boxes.  After some showmanship that reminded me of old 50s Westerns, they let the first bull into the ring.  It was a sluggish creature, showing only a passing interest at the flourishes of pink and red flashed in its face. 

            “They save the wild bulls for later,” Adam noted.  Apparently.

            When the first knife went in to the bull’s shoulder blade, my hands took the place they would remain for the rest of the spectacle:  firmly in front of my eyes, where I could clamp my fingers closed should the viewing become too grotesque.  I employ this method in all horror movies, no matter how benign, and it reduces my nightmares later by at least 25%.

            Knife after knife went in as the crowd cheered, but the bull kept standing.  In fact, as more sharp objects penetrated its skin and muscles, it became livelier.  I can’t imagine why.  I’m sure getting stabbed repeatedly is a really relaxing event.

            “I have a bad feeling someone’s going to get gored,” said Adam after the bull still seemed to be going strong.  For the animal’s sake, I wanted it to be over.  Eight knives in a shoulder seemed like an unnecessary amount of torture for a peaceful creature oft depicted in pastoral scenes.

            Apparently, the matador thought so, too.  He abandoned his horse and came back into the ring, where the exhausted bull was spiraling back and forth between the helpers, who were finally brave enough to venture out of their holding boxes.  Showing the crowd the knife meant to deliver the final blow elicited a wave of cheers (and a gagging motion from yours truly), and the fighter approached the bull.  What seemed to be monotonous series of movements and flourishes finally ended with the matador driving his sword into the animal…

            …And then all hell broke loose.  The bull, evidently pissed off about this latest assault, bucked wildly- and gored the matador.  The matador curled into a tiny ball while the bull continued his offensive.  A team of uncostumed handlers and medics rushed into the ring to help the injured man, while the compadres, now visibly a bit shaken, tried to distract the bull away from him. 

Against all odds, the bull had won.  My first reaction was to think, bloody well right.  My second thought was a bit more compassionate for my fellow man:  the death of the matador might be the only thing worse than the death of the bull, I hope he’s all right (we read the next day that he had several contusions, but was alive).  And finally, I hoped they’d let the bull go.  I thought his victory meant the handlers would take him back to his pen, congratulate him for a job well-done, and maybe let him nurse a glass of scotch while they tended to his gaping flesh wounds.  Not so.  Instead, they sent in a back-up matador to finish the job.  This unwilling subject made a couple of attempts to no avail. 

Finally, as the muttering crowd of conservatives began to loudly voice their embarrassment with the cruelty of the sport and looked on the verge of calling PETA and declaring their allegiance, an animal handler was sent in with a herd of bovines, meant to herd the injured steer out of the eyes of the crowd.  The animal was exhausted and refused to follow, creating a downright pathetic scene that made the tension in the crowd skyrocket.  I felt nauseous, my hands now being used to cover my eyes and my mouth.  I imagined even the staunchest opponents to animal rights felt a tug at the heartstrings.  When they finally did get him to the edge of the ring, they made one more attempt from the side to kill him swiftly- and failed.  The bull reared up and galloped, nearly goring his offender over the rail.  They had no choice but to corral him out of sight, where they likely finished the job with a stun gun.  I, for one, couldn’t take it anymore.  I was ready to retreat to the safety of an Irish pub and less primitive national past times (as a sidenote, I find that participation in soccer rivalries is one of the most interesting and telling cultural experiences one can have- much more interesting than an event one can’t even watch without looking through fingers).  The booing crowd seemed to agree with my sentiments. 

Already illegal in more liberal areas of the country, bullfighting will likely be outlawed everywhere in Spain in the near future.  I respect that the sadistic event is part of Spain’s storied past, but I can’t say I’ll be sad to see it go.  And before my next hamburger, for which I’ll need to slowly build up an appetite, I’ll silently raise my glass to my food’s mistreated Iberian brother.