So this is Love

This delightful little candy knows the way to my heart: sea salt. I can't get enough of this magical seasoning, especially nestled inside of delicious sweets. The bar had me at first glance, with it's adorable little correspondence packaging-- the embossed gold heart mimicking a wax seal is indeed a nice touch. But the moment I knew that ours was the stuff of lasting love was when I glimpsed the Shelley poem printed on the inside of the wrapper...

The fountains mingle with the river

And the rivers with the ocean,

The Winds of heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single,

All things by a law divine

In one another's being mingle--

Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,

And the waves clasp one another,

No sister-flower would be forgiven

If it disdain'd its brother;

And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea--

What are all these kissings worth,

If though kiss not me?

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go make out with a bar of chocolate...

Footballer's Delight

With the World Cup finally coming to a frustrating end, I now have little excuse to keep me from resuming some kind of consistent blogging. But today, in honor of the only game I've ever loved, I will forgo the usual discussion of beauty products, pop culture and breasts to attempt something that's going to make my mother's jaw drop: sports writing.

My sporting penchants were set early in life: soccer was always around, my Chilean father ever the advocate with his regulation size ball in the trunk, pulling it out at the site of the smallest stretch of grass, dirt, or empty parking lot. I remember learning how to head the ball one particularly swampy afternoon in late summer of my elementary years, in a parched field landmined with drying dog turds next to Herman Park. After applying my forehead to an underhand toss maybe 4 out of 10 times, he declared me "ready," and sent a short-ranged chip square to my face.

My father had generally taught me that a 6-year-old girl's inclination to sob from pain is not okay. "Toughen up, Pipas. Be a man." But after taking a rock-like punt from a full grown man to the mug, I was having a hard time stifling the tears. Luckily for me, there is crying in soccer. And thus my love affair began.

Many of my friends are not too fond of soccer. The complaints are pretty standard-- you may harbor the same quibblings yourself: nothing happens, there are barely any goals, it's just a bunch of running around, etc. etc. I suppose, if I had not played the game in my childhood and early teen years, I would probably be among the chief carpers, because I certainly have my share of sniveling against other sports (American football! Baseball!). And while I know it can be off-putting to have someone try to convert you to the Other Side simply because they happen to reside there, well... this is my blog.

=)

Why I Love Soccer And You Should Too

Contrary to the notion that "nothing happens," the game is a full 90 minutes (usually more) of solid, unrelenting play. Two 45 minute halves that go mostly uninterrupted (even the most dire injury will be cleared away with the swift discretion of a C.I.A. operation) is a hell of a lot more action than you'll see in say, a 3 second football play or watching baseball players stretch their hamstrings all game. The average midfielder in a soccer match runs MILES (7 or 8, if you're Michael Bradley), on thighs plucked from a prized thoroughbred. Thus, ladies and gents, you don't have to care about the game to get into it: you can just sit back, drink a beer, and let the shameless objectification commence because these guys are fit. Seriously. Soccer players are built like gods straight from Mount Olympus. Case in point-- U.S.A. hero Landon Donovan:

Ah, yes. The good-looking athlete. Thank God for soccer because it seems like there are so many athletes out there looking like Shrek these days. I remember the first time I actually tried to watch an Astros game, looking down at Jeff Bagwell's enormous ass in his white pants. What? I thought. Doesn't he get paid millions and millions of dollars to play sports? Shouldn't he look like Herakles, rippling quads and sinew, delts straining against his jersey? And then I found out that there's really minimal movement required for baseball. If there isn't heart-stopping action, gorgeous players should be a requirement. Period .
(The USA team. They didn't win, but they're certainly easy on the eyes.)

There is pressure, intensity, and emotion in every soccer match, the likes of which you are unlikely to see in any other sport. From superhuman athleticism to personal fouls, faked injuries or booking disputes, you won't want for drama in any given match. Soccer players are coursing adrenaline so thick they simply can't help but succumb to the extreme of every emotion they feel. And who doesn't want to see a grown ass man throwing a full out tantrum?
Now, I'm not much of a sporty jargon user, so I can't support the point as well as say, this guy, but I feel pretty confident declaring that soccer athletes are arguably some of the best athletes playing in any sport the world over. The game requires tremendous stamina, endurance and raw physical power. It ain't some small thang to run for almost 90 solid minutes over a space longer than an American football field while 11 demi-gods do everything in their power to plow you down. Manipulating a ball with your head or body demands perfect timing and unimaginable core strength. And, with no flabby guts slowing up the game, there's some serious break-neck speed, coupled with instantaneous decision making that is often breathtaking to behold. Here, check it out:
Best of all for the fan, there are no obnoxious commercials breaking the mood, nor billions of instant replays blocking out the game at hand: the fan is right there with the players in real time, experiencing each excruciating step up a mountain of intensity so great that the only way for it to end is with some fantastic, impossible athletic feat. And then, under insurmountable odds, the moment breaks in sheer, real emotion. You will find no poker-faced winner or grimly silent loser in this game. Adult men will shed real crocodile tears, will embrace one another in genuine camaraderie, will fall to their knees and shout praise to the floodlit heavens. Plus, who can make the argument that the post-goal celebrations aren't the most incredible celebrations to behold?

Why else do we value sports if we don't need for this spectacle? Call it simulacrum, but if you don't feel your troubles fading into the background you aren't paying attention. I used to doubt the benefits from channeling all of your stress and frustrations into a professional sporting event, but I can say now with full confidence that I not only understand the phenomenon but also support it. There's simply no doubting the cathartic and unifying effects of sports. Not once I found myself, tears streaming down my face, reflecting on recent troubles with a much lighter heart. Seriously. I could've been hanging out with one of my least favorite, pompous, obnoxious acquaintances, but witnessing that Donovan goal in the 90-something minute of the Algeria game and there would've been genuine, full-bodied bear hugs in order. Watching all that man-love on the field is just bewitching.
The World Cup pulled me out of the nasty, almost 3 month case of the Mean Reds I've been suffering after a wedding contract job went sour and my writing hit a major wall. The frustration, anger and outrage churning in my gut was enough to have me jumping into a superfluous and asinine court case over $200 with a passive aggressive bridezilla who seemed to believe that paying an inexperienced independent designer a little more than minimum wage would sufficiently cover a progressive list of jobs appropriate for an entire team of florists, designers and movers. Any bitch who figured that formula somehow entitled her to the perfect, problem-free wedding of her dreams obviously doesn't live on a planet where reason and logic roam free, but pride caused me to briefly consider taking the thing to small claims.

Luckily, after promising the Boogs not to do anything rash for at least a week, the tournament began. And, in those precious hours each day spent following ESPN.com and engaging in some major shit-talking with fellow supporters, I found all the anger and helplessness with the Crazy Bride melting away. What did I care about a bat-shit princess when I had referees and Argentina to endure my wrath? How could I sit around feeling sorry for myself when the U.S. was devastated after our best-ever run, or when Ghana went to penalty kicks after Suarez's outrageous Devil's Hand? The sound of an entire continent's collective heartbreak as they watched their last African hope fall out of the tournament was all the perspective I required to shrug away my now meager troubles.

(Suarez's desperate handball prevents a Ghanan goal in the last few minutes of overtime halves, pushing the game to penalty kicks)

Though none of my 5 picks made it to the final two (I was pulling for Ghana for third, Germany to win), and though I backed the Dutch in a game that will forever be etched into the books as one of the scrappiest, dirtiest, least-soccer-played finals in World Cup history (seriously, if Howard Webb red carded every time it was deserved, the match could have easily turned into some coo-coo banana circus event of 9 on 11, not that the Netherlands weren't asking for it) I bid South Africa farewell with a light, grateful heart. Thanks WC. See you in Brazil 2014.

Here, some articles on Why Americans Should Love Soccer, an excellent argument Supporting the Most Un-American Aspect of The Sport.