This morning I was 2/3 of the way to work when I spotted two dogs rooting through the trash out on the sidewalk across the street. There was no one around and they were obviously roaming free, so I crossed the street to see if they were lost or hurt. They were two young, friendly pit bulls with no collars or tags, happily sniffing the garbage bags. I stood back a bit to avoid scaring them, but one immediately trotted over and started licking my leg.
I debated what to do as the first dog happily slobbered all over my feet and begged me to play with him and the other continued his methodical inspection of the trash. Just as I was getting out my phone to call the police non-emergency hotline to report them to animal control, a door opened up the block and a man came out with his recycling. I asked if he knew who the dogs belonged to and he said they lived a few houses down and he'd knock on the door and get the owner. I left, looking over my shoulder after a block to see the first dog sitting down, head cocked, watching me. His companion never stopped digging through the trash, which, by the way, was placed illegally on the sidewalk without a trash can. Five days before trash pickup.
I'm happy that I didn't have to be responsible for sending these dogs to the city shelter where they'd likely be put down. They were friendly, they seemed to be well-treated, they have a home. But this kind of blatant irresponsibility makes me fume. You cannot let your dogs roam unattended on a very busy street with no identification! They could run off, be hit by a car, be antagonized by the hoodlums that roam that neighborhood, bite someone who threatens them. If you're too busy to put a collar and a leash on your dog and take it for a walk in the morning, then maybe you shouldn't have a dog in the city. In fact, you know why I don't have a dog? Because I live in the city, I travel too much, and I don't have time to take it for walks. If I didn't have a cat who spooks at the sound of a truck driving by and if I didn't live in the world's smallest house, I would have rounded up those dogs and taken them home. Take note, people who live on that block. Your dogs are cute and next time I might just steal them.
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Other than my feelings of hostility towards irresponsible city pet owners, life is good. I spent the last two weekends celebrating: first, a friend's bachelorette-hood at the Jersey shore, and then our wedding anniversary in Colorado. Both included copious amounts of sunscreen, one ended with me vomiting in a Wendy's restroom. We returned home on very late on Monday night and found a killer parking space right on our block. As much as I love traveling and friends and fun, man, it's good to be home. What have you been up to, internet?
I was on yet another business trip this weekend, this time to San Francisco. My god, I am happy to be home. But I had a pretty fantastic time in California. Want to see?
On Holly's recommendation, I went down to the Ferry Building for brunch. I actually have similar pictures from the last time I was in San Francisco, about a year ago. But, uh, I didn't realize you could go inside. Turns out, you can!
I made myself a little picnic and sat outside to enjoy my gingersnaps and iced coffee (I could definitely get used to 75-degree weather in October), overlooking what I’ve now determined is the Bay Bridge. As in, not the Golden Gate Bridge. (The whole time I was thinking, wow, I really thought I remembered it being more… orange.)
Then I moseyed my way down to Fisherman’s Wharf, saw Alcatraz, the real Golden Gate Bridge (It IS orange!), and saw the sea lions.
Now, the last time I was in San Francisco, my sole mission was to see these sea lions. I walked all the way to Fisherman’s Wharf, looked all around, and could not find a single goddamned sea lion. Maybe they’re only here part of the year, like whales that migrate! I told myself. Or, maybe I got the neighborhood wrong. Maybe they’re actually in San Diego. Maybe they're in a zoo. I was walking, dejected and bitter, back to my hotel when this creepy dude jumped out of what I thought was a bush and scared the living daylights out of me. (Later, I learned this guy is somewhat renowned for doing this to tourists.)
Anyway, this time I had the address (even though I’d left my hand-drawn map in the hotel. Along with my room key, for the second time that day), and I saw me some sea lions.
I’d say something like, “I can’t believe I missed them; there are so many and you can hear them barking their heads off a block away,” but… I was sincerely confused about the color of the Golden Gate Bridge, so I do believe it.
Anyway! I had a fabulous time on my own, managed to get back to my hotel (on the cable car, no less!)without getting lost even on and now I’m back home. Oh, and did I mention that I got to meet Holly in person? I did, and she is even more lovely in person than she is online. I also managed to get myself locked in a cage on the street before meeting her, but that’s another story for another time because I have to and shove as much food in my face as I can in the next twenty minutes because I’m not allowed to eat after midnight, in preparation for my knee surgery tomorrow.
I realize I’ve neglected to mention this surgery here, and I’m not really sure how that happened, but here’s the really, really short version: remember that car accident? Yeah, well my knee is still messed up. Hopefully it is getting fixed tomorrow. I am very nervous, mostly about the whole no eating or drinking after midnight thing. And also, the needles and scalpels and what if they accidentally operate on the wrong knee (dear doctors: it's the left one!) and such. But really, I’m sure it will all be fine, and hopefully I’ll be able to do things like walk normally and do yoga again after this. So, it's a good thing, I'm scared anyway because I'm a wuss, and I have to go eat an entire pizza right now.
Although I consider myself a relatively seasoned traveler, I’ve never mastered the art of packing.Depending on my mood right before the trip, I either woefully underpack, telling myself it’s perfectly fine to wear the same sweater for an entire week or I end up lugging a suitcase filled with ridiculous just-in-case items and four potential outfits for every possible type of weather.
I wish I find some sort of a balance, and before every trip I tell myself that this is going to be the time I get it right.But instead, I found myself on a train to Boston on Friday with the following items in my suitcase:
Five (5) books. Two were being returned to NPW, so I guess effectively I only brought three books with me. Three books for one weekend it totally acceptable. I was halfway through one when I left, so I definitely needed a backup. And what if I didn’t like the backup?
One (1) Laptop, whose only use was to type up a draft of the post you're reading now. Theoretically, I could have found somewhere with internet at some point and… done work? Checked my email? I am not really sure.
Two (2) DVDs, which I brought just in case the backup book and the backup’s backup both end up sucking. Plus, the DVDs justified the bringing of the laptop. I watched neither.
Two (2) faux-down coats. OK, a coat was actually a smart move since it’s October and it was Boston and it was SNOWING on Friday, but I probably could have gotten away with just the puffy faux-down coat and left the puffy faux-down vest at home.
Three (3) pairs of shoes. I actually wore two of the three, so I guess that's actually not bad.
One (1) flat iron, which I have used approximately five times in my entire life and did not use on this trip.
One (1) hat, in case my hair still looked bad after flat-ironing, I guess.
Enough travel-sized toiletries to last me a month
If I had to choose one packing personality for the rest of my life, it’d surely be The Underpacker.At least when I underpack, it makes my return home that much sweeter.My moisturizer!My pajamas!A clean pair of socks!My toothbrush charger!They all seem so novel and wondrous.But if I’m in an overpacking mood right before the trip, I just can’t talk myself out of packing twelve of everything.I mean, I wouldn’t want NPWto think I’m lame and gross because I wear the same sweater two days in a row! I wouldn’t want to be stuck without a cute pair of shoes if Joel and I are on vacation and decide to go out a fancy dinner! And certainly I need to bring a hairdryer, two hairbrushes AND my flatiron just in case.
I’m thinking of trying out the idea of a packing list for my next trip to see if that helps, but somehow I doubt it.I think this is just one of those ingrained personality traits, like always being anxious about missing a flight or train.I mean, if packing and traveling were too easy, there’d be no beauty in coming home.
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So, speaking of Boston, it's lovely! And so are NPW, Heidiand Janssen and Bart, who I traipsed around New England with this weekend. I've had the pleasure of meeting both NPW and Heidi before, and Janssen and Bart were exactly as I'd picture them (except Janssen talks faster than I'd imagined. It's funny what ends up fitting your mental image of someone and what doesn't, isn't it? I certainly never sat around postulating about the speed of Janssen's speech, but that's what struck me at first. Heidi tells me that she thinks NPW and I both have accents. I agree that NPW has an adorable accent when she says "about", but I didn't think Heidi had one at all. And clearly, I don't have an accent.) We went on the world's worst ghost tour, which was so bad it was hilarious, we saw the 25,000 pumpkins at the World's Largest Pumpkin Festival, we gossiped and twittered like the nerd maniacs we are. It almost made me want to move to Boston, except for the whole IT'S REALLY COLD THERE part.
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Some of my favorite photos from the weekend:
NPW "participating" in our "interactive" "ghost hunt" in Salem, MA.
You guys, the impossible has happened: the Baltimore City Police Dept recovered our adorable stolen scooter. If you had asked me on Friday what the chances were we'd ever see that scooter again, I would have said about 10%. And then I would have said there was a 1% chance she was driveable. I really thought the only possibility was that the thieves would ditch her somewhere when they realized they couldn't drive her -- probably after beating the hell out of her, just for kicks.
But it seems I have a lot to learn about grand theft auto (that's what it says on our police report, by the way. Adorable scooter theft is Serious Biznass) and the hotwiring of scooters, because the cops apprehended a suspect in the act of riding our stolen scooter. Riding it! Without the key! So... I guess it is possible to release all those built-in brakes. Who knew?
She's being stored in the city lot right now, which I imagine to be the vehicular equivalent to a dog pound. Hang in there, little scooter, we're coming! We just have to go down to the lot during the inconvenient hours of 8:30am and 5pm and submit proof of ownership, wait for the city to verify said proof of ownership, and then return with Joel's truck (which is currently in the shop) during those ultra-convenient business hours and pay the $130 tow fee and the daily storage fee. Then we're planning to take her directly to some sort of scooter store to be repaired, because the message from the police indicated that there was "some damage" to the ignition and the gas cap. So we should have her back in riding condition sometime this month, if we're lucky. And dudes, I can't even bring myself to be annoyed. WE'RE GETTING OUR SCOOTER BACK! YIPPEE!
Item #2, Good News File:
I went to a wedding this weekend and I think it was probably the most fun I've ever had at a wedding. A bold statement, I know. I was, um, not exactly excited about going to this wedding for the following reasons (in descending order from most valid to least valid):
The wedding was in Iowa, and Iowa is far away.
Northwest Airlines changed my flights and added two hours to my layover in Minneapolis.
Joel had to coach, so I was going alone.
I was ridiculously tired after getting up at 5am on Wednesday and then having insomnia on Thursday because I was still pissed off about the scooter.
When I booked the flights, it seemed like a good idea to save $150 by flying out of DCA (a 45 min drive and then another 45 min metro ride away) instead of BWI (a 20 min drive).
I wanted to stay home and play with my cats all weekend.
I felt poopy and my knee hurt.
I couldn't decide which dress to wear and felt like wearing sweatpants all weekend.
My social anxiety, let me show you it.
I had a lot of TV to watch.
I didn't feel like packing.
Joe Biden says you get swine flu on airplanes.
My mood started to turn around the minute I arrived in the Des Moines airport. The hotel shuttle I'd reserved not only showed up, but was right on time and the driver greeted me by name. The hotel itself turned out the be the nicest Holiday Inn in the United States. And when I finally dragged myself to the Friday evening pre-party, I had an awesome time. The groom is a good friend of mine from college, and he was in a crappy relationship with a girl who can only be described as Pure Evil Incarnate for most of our undergrad years. I met his new girlfriend, who'd later become his fiance, two years ago when he brought her to our college reunion, and I immediately wanted to give her a bear hug. She is so wonderful and nice and perfect and at the risk of sounding really corny, their happiness was just infectious. Plus, I had a free glass of wine at the hotel bar, followed by several free shots from the friendly hotel bartender, followed by several more free drinks at the Friday night pre-wedding party. And then the best man performed an interpretive dance to Like A Prayer. Naked. It was a good time.
As an added bonus, I was able to convince my friend and his wife to drive out to see the bridges of Madison County with me on Saturday morning before the ceremony. I am almost ashamed to admit that I not only read Robert Waller's book, but I loved it. And yet, I managed to miss the fact that that the bridges in question were located in Iowa. Fifteen miles from our hotel.
But no matter what you thought of the book (or the movie, which I haven't seen), you have to agree that it'd be a shame to spend an entire weekend in Iowa and NOT see these bridges. Well, that's what I say, anyway.
We managed to squeeze in four of the remaining bridges before the ceremony started at 2pm.
Have I mentioned that I very nearly left the camera at home? Joel took the small one to his race, and I didn't feel like lugging the big Nikon alllll the way to Iowa. Yeah, I was THAT cranky on Thursday night.
Oh, and we also did a drive-by of John Wayne's birthplace-- we were planning to skip it, but all roads in Winterset, Iowa lead to the John Wayne museum. No matter how many twists and turns we made trying to find the next bridge on our list, we were still forced to drive directly past the museum. And when we saw the painted van tribute to Mr. Wayne outside, we figured we might as well stop by for a minute. We drew the line at paying $6 for the guided tour, though.
I'm utterly exhausted, but in a happy way. Thanks for the memories, Iowa.
Step 1: Start off with some sentimental stories about all the good times you've shared.
Step 2: Break into a choreographed dance based (very) loosely on your friendship.
Step 3: Have a grand finale that involves displaying the bride and groom's names on your asses.
Step 4:Try to wrap up with a quick, sentimental statement about how happy you are for the bride and groom. This may be difficult because you will be extremely out of breath from all that Running Man.
So, I bought myself a new camera. It's a Nikon D80 and I am in love with it. Our cute little point-and-shoot is still quite useful for carrying around in my purse and taking self-portraits in hotel mirrors, but my Nikon, it is my baby. And now, just imagine! Instead of seeing crappy pictures of my cats, now you'll be seeing crappy pictures of my cats in 3872x2593 pixels. Like this!
Plus, the in-camera processing is pretty much The Shit.
Oh, yes. I foresee many good times ahead.
Oh, crap. I have to go to class tonight.
The impetus to finally up and buy this new camera, which I've been salivating over for months (ever since I realized that our cute little point-and-shoot did not have the ability to adjust f-stops manually) was that I'm taking another photography class. It's noncredit and not a big deal at all, but it's already 100 times better than the last class because the teacher is not insane. One week down, and so far that hasn't been a single picture of a stuffed pig dressed up in an Attila the Hun costume!
Hey, guess what! I went to Utah!
I got to try out my new camera in Utah this weekend. I had a meeting in Salt Lake City on Friday, and I got to meet the fabulous Heidikins on Saturday. I am on a roll with meeting up with bloggers lately! Heidi took me on a whirlwind tour of the SLC area, and dudes. It's pretty out there. We went up to Snowbird (where my little brother worked for approximately one week earlier this year) and on the way down we saw a storm passing through the canyon below. It was awesome and scary and beautiful. We also saw a sphinx with the face of Joseph Smith and the famous Temple Square and topped it all off with lunch at Cafe Rio. Now, I've carefully considered the statement I'm about to make, and I want you to know that I take food very seriously. The burrito I had at Cafe Rio was the best I've ever had. It was better than Chipotle. As I said to Heidi while we were eating (at 11:30am, after we'd already made trips to both a Starbucks AND an Einstein Brother's Bagel shop earlier in the morning), the only thing that could have made that meal better is if I had been really, really hungry. Is there anything better than eating something truly delicious when you're really, really hungry? I think not.
Boob tube
I think I'll need to dedicate an entire post to my thoughts on the return of TV, because my thoughts. They are many. But it's nice to actually have new shows to watch! I sort of forgot what that was like. Now I'm back to bemoaning the terrible decision to get the Tivo that only records one show at a time. But still! New stories to watch! Also: Wild card, bitches!YEEEEHAW!
I don't know if I'm becoming even more cranky now that I'm nearing twenty-eight or if commercials are really stepping out on a limb nowadays, but there are three commercials on right now that not only annoy me, they offend me. The first one might only be a regional commercial, and in that case you should feel very lucky if you don't live in the Baltimore metro area. If you do, though, have you seen that Comcast commercial that's on EVERY FIVE SECONDS singing Get what you want! Get what you need! while a series of attractive, hip-looking people (mostly women) jump on a trampoline in the background, whipping their head around like they're having the time of their lives at a rave? Does it make you want to kill something, too? Because I hate that commercial so much that I can't even fast forward and ignore it. I have to watch it, every time, and every time I come to hate it that much more.
The other two shit-list commercials are the two variations of the High Fructose Corn Syrup is Actually Quite Good For You Campaign.
I think that these commercials are personally offensive to me because they are so well done. If they were just filmed in someone's basement with a camcorder, they wouldn't be so goddamned convincing. And the thing is, I consume my fair share of High Fructose Corn Syrup. But at least I KNOW I'm making a Poor Food Choice when I do so, and I sort of feel bad about it for a second or two before enjoying that delicious cinnamon frosted Pop Tart! Now I'm all kinds of confused. I should go on a high fructose corn syrup boycott, just to protest this ridiculous campaign, I think to myself whenever they come on. But how is that fair? I don't WANT to give up cinnamon frosted Pop Tarts! NOW I AM CONFUSED ABOUT POP TARTS, THAT'S WHAT THESE COMMERCIALS HAVE DONE TO ME. I hope those bastards burn in hell, that's all I'm saying.
After my official work obligations were completed, we were all set to go America tourist all over everybody's asses. Our original plan was to hit up the town of Stirling, see the castle and whatever else there was to see, and then jet over to St. Andrew's to absorb some golfing culture and get my dad his much-coveted St. Andrew's golf shirt. It seemed simple enough, looking at a map. Stirling and St. Andrew's are both relatively near Glasgow and Edinburgh, where the major train stations are, and only 75 miles apart from each other. It seemed very doable at the time*. Looking at a map now, I have no idea why it seemed feasible, but it did. Either the travel bug renders me even more impervious to logic than usual, or I really have inherited a full copy of my mother's Vacation Overachiever Gene. In any case, we did not make it to St. Andrew's. But it's OK, because Stirling was very pretty. And we managed to get my dad some bootleg St. Andrew's gear in a department store back in Glasgow, which is what REALLY matters.
So! Stirling. Bonnie place.
The train ride from Glasgow to Stirling was typically idyllic. There were lots of sheep and the grass was very, very green. We followed the Back Walk along the border of the old city wall, meandering higher and higher until we finally reached the castle at the top of the hill.
The border of the castle is just surrounded by these purple plants, which I won't even try to identify. The air was positively filled with dandelion-like floaters. You can actually see them in some of the pictures. It almost looked like snow!
We spent a good part of the day walking around the castle, taking a free tour, stunning the tour guide with my knowledge about castle engineering (kitchens are far from the main house because they catch on fire!), you know. The usual.
(The formal gardens and courtyard)
(Dude, even dandelions are pretty in Scotland)
(Another close-up of a flower. [Insert exasperated sigh from travel companion here.] I just cannot help myself.)
After stopping for some lunch (pizza), we walked across the city to visit Stirling Bride. Which, you know, is only cool because BRAVEHEART ONCE FOUGHT THERE.
The Battle of Stirling Bridge took place in 1297 and that just blows my mind. I forget just how young our country is.
And that was Stirling! One day, 123 pictures! I think that might just be a personal record. I think I'll go have a cookie.
*It might have been doable if we'd rented a car. Maybe.
Once upon a time, in a land far far away, there was a lass named Alynda. Her blog was named "Alyndabear". Which is her nickname, you know Alynda (her name) + bear (bears are cute) = Alyndabear. Some of us may have wrongly assumed that her blog title was pronounced "Aly 'n da bear" but those people would be wrong and also possibly a little slow in the head. Because, seriously? ALY N DA BEAR? That makes almost as much sense as Operation Pink Herring. Shut up.
Anyway! One day a long, long time agoMs. Alynda+bear announced that she had just booked a holiday (they call them holidays in Australia... trust me, I know these things) to the United States and said she'd like to meet up with any blogger-friends who might live nearby. "I would be honored to make your acquaintance," I told her.
Because some of us cannot leave a comment without using either the words "totally" or "dude". Or both. Sometimes the situation warrants both. Dude, don't look at me like that.
And the days and months flew by, and Ms. Alynda+bear was in Washington, DC. A mere 40 minutes from OPH Headquarters. And I totally met up with her in DC.
Oh, the universe tried to keep our meetup from happening. First, it gave her an evil roommate for her trip who refused to pass on phone messages, so that when I got into my car on Sunday morning I thought there was probably a 50% chance that I would show up at the Air and Space museum at 1pm to hang out with myself and the copy of New Moon that I brought with me. (Oh, yes. That wasn't embarrassing AT ALL when my bag was searched by museum security.) Then it made me chug a big cup of coffee, chased by an even bigger bottle of water in the car. And then! Then it made the Orange Line metro hold me hostage for FORTY MINUTES while we single-tracked our way to NOWHERE. By this time I had to pee. Bad. Really, really bad. And I was also way late with no way of contacting Alynda+bear to tell her I was on my way, but at that point I did not really care about standing up a blogger who had come all the way from Australia. No, I really just cared getting off that damned train before both my kidneys gave out.
But I soldiered on! Finally, FINALLY, we arrived at an actual stop and I fled the train in search of a bathroom (even though I was now 25 minutes late and still five stops away). I switched to the Blue Line, which zoomed along to the Smithsonian stop in no time at all. And when I arrived at the Air and Space Museum, forty-five minutes late (DAMN YOU ORANGE LINE, DAMN YOU COFFEE), the lovely Alynda and her equally lovely friend Kirby were still there. Janet (also lovely) joined us and we had a (lovely) lunch were I tried to keep the fawning over Alynda and Kirby's Australian accents to a minimum. I failed.
Before we move on to Thursday, let's rewind a bit to the Glasgow Central Station, Wednesday evening. Dragging our luggage through the somewhat confusing station (erm, everything is a bit confusing when you have been awake for 36 hours), we suddenly started to hear shouting in the distance. Shouting and... singing? When we entered the platform where our next train to Bishopton was located, we saw the source of all the commotion. About a hundred people were lined up to board a neighboring train. Many were carrying flags, lots were wearing kilts. Everyone was singing. We couldn't understand a word they sang, but we deduced that they were headed to some sort of sporting event (a soccer game, we learned once we arrived at our hotel).
Generally, I do not enjoy watching sports at all. If I actually know someone who is playing, that's one thing... but otherwise, I'd rather do pretty much anything than sit and watch a sporting event. Football? Boring. Soccer? Boring. Baseball? BORING. And it's not that I haven't tried; I really, really have. I just can't make myself care. But I think that if giant foam fingers and seven-dollar hotdogs were replaced by kilts and drunken Scots singing their hearts out, I might just be able to get on board with the whole thing.
So, after that train departed, our train departed, and we arrived in Bishopton. When I travel for work, I don't get to choose the hotels I stay in. I stay where everyone else is staying, I just email the travel coordinator with the nights I need a room and POOF! Magically a reservation is born. Most of the time this is lovely. Other times, the room is accidentally booked under some horrid misspelling of my last name, or it's not booked in my name at all, or I'm given the address of the wrong Hyatt in Chicago and that is not quite so lovely. In any case, the hotels we use are always the same type of businessy chains and everything is always fine. I never bother to do any research, I just print out the address and phone number and shove it in my travel folder.
We were a bit surprised when we arrived at the designated hotel for this trip. I've never worked with the company that ran this meeting before (this was actually my coworker's trip, but she didn't want to go so I volunteered to take her place... I'm nice like that), so maybe they stay at super-swanky hotels all the time. Maybe all the normal hotels in Scotland were booked up. Maybe all the hotels in Scotland look like castles and have butlers. I have no idea. But this hotel, it was amazing. It was more like a castle. A castle surrounded by a million bunny rabbits.
Note the first: The Narration. Please remember that I was jetlagged. I mean, I always narrate videos like that, but at least this time I sort of have an excuse. Jetlag made me do it!
Note the second: Hello, Governor! Although I have no idea where this phrase actually comes from, we are aware that this has nothing to do with Scotland. At all. That did not stop me from laughing hysterically every time Joel said it. Jetlag made me do it! (Actually, that's a lie. I still think it's funny.)
Note the third: The Bunnies. Apparently, bunnies are to Scotland what squirrels are to New York. The cab driver that dropped us off told us, his thick Scottish accident full of disdain, that "this place is overrun with rabbits. Being from a city that is overrun with a different kind of vermin, we found this hilarious.
Bishopton! Day 3! (Thursday!)
We hadn't planned to do much on Thursday. We'd budgeted the morning for sleeping in and recovering, and then I was supposed to attend two meetings back to back in the afternoon. But then it turned out that whoops! One of the meetings had been rescheduled for yesterday, and they forgot to tell me! End result: we had three extra hours to do as we pleased on Thursday morning. Instead of sitting in a conference room for three hours, we went for a long walk by the the river near the hotel (which we'd identified as the River Clyde).
I'm certainly not complaining. (I am just really, really glad that I decided to double check the meeting time before hopping in a cab back to Glasgow to sit in a conference room by myself.)
Once we made it down to the path (construction of a golf course was blocking the normal route from the hotel to the riverbank, so we had to slog through a muddy trail in the woods for a bit) we had a great view of the front of the hotel. You see what I mean about the clouds? I loved them. They made everything look dramatic and beautiful.
To the left, the path extended as far as I could see along the riverbank.
We followed the path in the other direction until it ended under the M8 highway. We walked back along the road at a brisk pace, since we'd gone much too far to retrace our steps and still make it to my remaining meeting on time and we weren't exactly sure which road led to our out-of-the-way hotel/castle. But in the end, we made it back right on time, and I even got to snap this picture along the highway. It's one of my favorites from the trip, so I guess I should thank whoever rescheduled that meeting.
Ah, Scotland. Bonnie, bonnie Scotland. We have now been back for, oh, two weeks? One week? It's now September (WTF? SEPTEMBER?) so maybe we've been back for a month? I have no idea. I can't stop crying over that video of the hugging lion long enough to figure it out. And yes, I'm aware that this video was probably a huge internet sensation about seven years ago (I like to jump on bandwagons after they've already done a few victory laps), so I think that would make it 1992 right now? Merry Christmas?
Anyway, I've been meaning to write a post about Scotland. Scotland was awesome! You should all go to Scotland. Oh, wait. You've already been. And you're already planning to go. So... nevermind! Good job, everyone! Scotland, ho!
Every day I think "I should really write a post about Scotland", and then every day I don't write a post about Scotland because I just don't have time to do it justice. And then that gets me to thinking about how I still haven't made a photo album for our trip to Barcelona. Or our trip to Lake Tahoe. Which was... one year ago. Wait, Nessie who? Oh, right. Scotland.
So here is my brilliant solution, internets. I am going to do this in segments. Smart idea, no? I wish I had thought of it myself! Oh, wait. What were you saying?
BWI and Newark! Day 1! (Tuesday!)
Let me begin by saying: I am not at all a fan of overnight flights. I have enough trouble sleeping in our Tempurpedic Bed O' Magic, with my well-loved sleeping mask and my Special Walmart Fan for background noise. Sleeping on an overnight flight is a total joke. But that's how the world works, you fly eastbound over the Atlantic and you're going to be grouchy, groggy, and nauseous the next day. But our flights over were about as comfortable as we could have possibly have hoped: the puddle jumper from Baltimore to Newark was fairly smooth and didn't even smell too strongly of piss and Mystery Airline Bathroom Cleaner; the flight from Newark to Edinburgh was empty enough that we had a whole row of three seats to ourselves and we had a choice of 20 on-demand movies and our own personal TV screens in the back of every seat. (I watched When in Vegas, and it was actually pretty entertaining. Just in case you were wondering.)
Edinburgh! Day 2! (Wednesday!)
By the time we'd arrived in Edinburgh, I'd practiced saying Eh-din-burr-ah enough times in my head to sort of get it right and we actually managed to get an hour or two of sleep. The airport had an extremely helpful information desk that sold us tickets to the Airlink shuttle bus and told us where to pick it up and everyone had the most delightful accents on earth. Also, I brushed my teeth and managed to order a coffee without too much confusion. Score.
We made it onto the double decker Airlink bus, which dropped us off at the Waverly bus station in downtown Edinburgh. I have to commend the Scots on the ease of use with all of their public transportation: the recorded announcements that played on all the buses and trains we took were clear and easy to understand. There were electronic boards listing all the departure times and gates, the gates were all clearly and logically numbered. When the train or bus started moving, an announcement would come on saying "This train is for Glasgow, calling in stop1, stop2, stop3, and stop4. Next stop, stop1." As someone who has accidentally taken a bus from Baltimore to New York (which is in New York) when she meant to go to Newark (which is in New Jersey) (which is a different state than New York) in the past, this was reason enough to give Scotland an A+ in my book.
We managed to store our bags in the train station for the day, buy some breakfast/lunch/WHATEVER IT WAS FOOD, take out some pounds from the "cashpoint", and make our way out of the train station. I just pointed the camera around taking pictures of all kind of buildings with no idea what they actually were, but I am sure that Jenners is a department store, and that this is Princes Street. We walked along Princes Street until we were directly below Edinburgh Castle, and then we hiked our way on up.
We spent the rest of the day in the castle, which was enormous. This is the first real castle I've ever seen, and it was even cooler after having just read Pillars of the Earth. I got a real thrill out of knowing what a "keep" was. And then I fell asleep standing up for a few minutes and took a few blurry pictures of my feet.
A note on the weather weather: maybe I'm a little biased at the moment because Baltimore is so disgustingly sweaty, but I thought the much-maligned British weather was downright delightful. Jeans and a sweatshirt were comfortable each day we were there, and I think I'd be perfectly happy living with summer temperatures in the 50s and 60s. It rained a bit (we were told it was the wettest August on record, or in 50 years, or something like that), but it was never a stay-inside-all-day-and-watch-movies kind of rain. This first day in Edinburgh was the rainiest day of our trip, but we were fine with rain jackets and no umbrella, even being outside most of the day. It misted on several other occasions, but it wasn't even enough to be an inconvenience. The sun was absent most of the time, but the cloudy and overcast skies were just incredibly dramatic; not at all depressing.
After we'd seen all we could see at the castle, we made our way down the Royal Mile and back to the Waverly Train Station. We retrieved our bags, bought tickets to Glasgow and got on the train.
We made it the Queen Street Station in Glasgow, successfully navigated ourself to the Central Train Station in Glasgow and caught our next train to Bishopton - where our almost-embarrassingly-super-duper-fancy hotel was located - and what's that? You'd like a video tour of our hotel suite? Well, I declare, it must be your lucky day, Internet! Because it just so happens that I took a half-delusional, very sleep-deprived video of our room when we arrived! So what I need you all to do is to cross your fingers and hope real hard that tonight I'll actually be able to locate said video on our home computer. I recently reorganized everything on there and there is a slight, teensy chance that I might have accidentally "organized away" the few videos I took on the trip.
Peace out, to be continued, happy Friday, et cetera et cetera!
So, I sort of forgot how rough jetlag is. It's 6:18am, according to the computer. It's 11:18am according to the clock on the desk here. It's six days ago according to my body. And also, I'm tired.
Scotland is glorious. It's so nice being in a foreign country where everyone speaks English, even though I can't understand a word most people are saying here. It all just sounds so pretty. There are more kilts being worn around on the street on an average Wednesday than I would have expected, which is awesome, obviously.
The hotel that was chosen for me (by my work) for these first three days is beyond ridiculous. Our room overlooks a river with sheep-dotted hillside behind it. Kiera Knightly and Steven Segal have apparently both slept in the bed we slept in last night, we're told. I can't find the hairdryer, although the butler (yes, butler) assures me it's "in the drawer". There are a lot of drawers. I think the hairdryer might have its own apartment next door.
We landed in Edinburgh yesterday morning and spent the day staggering around Edinburgh Castle. We took the train to Glasgow last night, and we'll be based here for the rest of the trip. I uploaded our pictures so far to Flickr. I'll be adding more pictures to that set as we go if you want to check back during the week. But first I have to go take a nap. For the rest of the day.
So.... it's the eighteenth of August, my calendar tells me. That means I am leaving for Scotland, um, tomorrow! How about that?
I have not even opened the lovely Frommer's Scotland book I so studiously borrowed from the library three weeks ago.
I realized this morning that we probably should obtain a power adapter or converter thingiemabober, but I have no idea which kind.
I have not packed.
I have not finished reading Twilight for the third time.
I think it might be cold in Scotland.
I am not sure where my passport is.
But most importantly: despite several diligent web searches, I have not been able to find Ewan McGregor's address.
HALP.
So, internet, I may not see you for awhile. Don't rob our house, we have three vicious attack cats armed with a pink piggie and an arsenal of Aflac duck keychains.
I'm in Chicago today and tomorrow for work, and although I forgot my laptop charger I wanted to use my last minutes of battery power to share some wisdom my cabbie imparted on the way from Midway to my hotel.
It seems that on December 21, 2012, the earth is going come into alignment with the galactic plane. This, among other things, is going to cause a disruption in the earth's magnetic field, which in turn is going to cause all the tall buildings in metropolitan areas to fall down. So... I guess we should all stay away from buildings on that day. Mark your calendars!
Oh, also - global warming is all just part of the natural cycle of the universe. We'll reach the peak of the warming phase in 5-10 years (approximately), but it may continue to warm up for another 3,000 years (or so) before the earth begins cooling and we enter the next ice age. So, if you're one of the lucky few to survive the great magnet disaster, watch out for that.
Last, but not least, he told me the cure for Alzheimer's Disease - it's a combination of three simple vitamins: K, C, and... he couldn't remember the third one. Unfortunately, he didn't see the humor there. Instead, he just recommended that I take a multivitamin every day, to make sure all my bases were covered.
I was going to try to work out before my meetings this afternoon, but since the world is coming to an end in four years, I think I'll just sit here and watch Seventh Heaven reruns instead. I'll pop a few Centrums when I get home to make up for it.
Although I've been to Vermont several times before (twice with Joel and at least once with my family), this was my first time visiting the Green Mountain State in the summer. It was like a whole different state, and I felt like I was seeing everything for the first time. Sure, it was beautiful and white and snowy in the winter, but it was also COLDCOLDCOLDCOLD. Beyond cold. Cold makes for great skiing, but it also makes for me being extremely unhappy. I could not get over how gorgeous Vermont is in the summertime - there are wildflowers everywhere, the mountains the background are covered as far as the eye can see in greenery, and the wildflowers... seriously, they are EVERYWHERE.
We landed in Burlington on Saturday afternoon, and all I could think about at that moment was getting some hand lotion. I'd forgotten put any in my purse, and after two hours of dry airplane air, I was DYING. I could not wait for our checked bag to arrive so I could get some out of my toiletries kit, no. "I need to find a Body Shop the second we get off this plane so I can get some hand lotion out of one of their testers," I told Joel. "Uhhh... I'm not sure if there are any Body Shops in this airport," he told me. Nonsense! There is at least one Body Shop in EVERY airport, I thought. I have seen quite a few airports, and trust me - this is not the first time I've forgotten to pack any hand lotion. I know where to get some free moisturizer in a pinch, don't you worry.
Yeah, there were no Body Shops. There wasn't even a food court. Nor was there a separate arrival and departure gate. There were no cops hovering curbside, ready to issue tickets to anyone who dared to turn off their ignition while unloading the car. I realized we were not in Kansas anymore. And then I realized that I actually had packed some lotion in my purse.
We had lunch in Burlington with my friend Sarah, who has just moved to Vermont to be a real live doctor, and then we headed off in our rental minivan (we'd requested a compact car, but the BVT Thrifty had all of three available cars, so we happily took the minivan, Massachusetts plates and all). Joel decided to take the scenic route so I could enjoy the beautiful views. I promptly fell asleep and woke up in the driveway at his parents' house. What, all that hand-lotion searching had me exhausted.
We spent the rest of the week with his family near Stowe. I wanted to do something "Vermonty" every single day, and I think I succeeded.
We drove out to Cabot, VT and visited the place where Cabot cheese is made. We didn't get to see all that much since it was a Sunday and therefore the actual factory was closed, but we did get to eat our weight in free samples. Joel warned me that Vermont's version of "sharp" might be a little ahem, stronger than I was used to, and that it might not be a good idea for me to shovel the entire bowl of "Seriously Sharp" samples into my piehole, but I was starving so I didn't listen. Oh. My. Gah. Not only was that shit SHARP, it was the most delicious cheese I've ever tasted in my life. We brought two two-pound bricks home with us. Four pounds of deliciously sharp cheddar. I cannot wait until our stupid Safeway brand cheddar is all used up so I can bite into those babies.
Day 3: We were outdoorsy
My mom is going to be so proud when she reads this: WE DID TWO HIKES IN ONE DAY.
First, we went to see Moss Glen Falls, which wasn't a very long hike, but it was a hike nonetheless. I took lots of pictures of flowers and berries and fungi and general greenery, and then we hopped into the Massachusetts minivan and drove to Smuggler's Notch, where we did a very long, very steep hike and saw more trees, moreflowers, more water and a whole bunch of very, very green mountains.
On the way home, we got a "creamy", which is pretty much a soft ice cream cone, only better. Because it's called a "creamy". Or "creemy", "creamie", or "creemie", depending on the preference of whoever made the sign.
Day 4: We went canoing
We rented a canoe, threw it on top of our Massachusetts minivan, and drove out to the local reservoir to paddle around for the afternoon. We saw multiple beaver lodges, a couple of loonsand a dude kayaking with his dog.
After dinner, Joel suggested that we take the canoe out on the river, and well... the sun was setting on one side, the full moon was out on the other and I didn't have to paddle at all because the river just took us along (and Joel steered). Now, THAT'S the way to canoe.
Since it was twilight there were tons out animals out and about, and we saw: two beavers swimming, a mama duck with twelve ducklings, several small sandpiper-type birds, another loon, and a gigantic owl. I managed to get exactly none of them on film. Oh, well.
Day 5: I shot a gun
Now, I am not a fan of guns. Up until last week, I'd never held one in my hand, let alone shot one - and that was perfectly fine with me. But Joel really wanted to take me a-shootin', so after a quick lesson and some practice shooting at cansin the backyard, we piled into the Massachusetts minivan and drove out to the local gravel pit. (Which, incidentally, was surrounded by MORE GORGEOUS SCENERY. God, Vermont, give it a break one in awhile).
Not only was shooting more fun than I'd anticipated, but I was actually a pretty decent shot! Now that I come to think about it, that's probably why it was kind of fun.
Not to worry, though. I only shot at paper targets, and I practically threw myself in front of an adorable little woodchuck (who has been destroying the family's garden all summer) to keep Joel from shooting at it.
Day 6: We went to the Ben and Jerry's factory
Enough said.
That evening, we went out to see the sunset. I took onemillionpictures, naturally.
I could really get to liking Vermont, if only it didn't get so damn cold in the winter.
Day 7: We went Champ-watching
On our last day, we said our goodbyes in the morning, and then spent the afternoon in Burlington before our flight departed. Burlington is an adorable little town (ahem, "big city"), but the thing I love most about it is Champ. For those of you not in "the know", Champ is the mythical Lake Monster that lives in Lake Champlain. I have been obsessed with Champ since our last trip up to Vermont in December 2006, and my favorite Champ Fact is that he is protected by both Vermont and New York State law, should he ever be proved to exist.
Alas, we did not see Champ because it was too hazy. Maybe we'll see Nessie next month when we're in Scotland.
The entire photo set is on Flickr, and there are a fewmore videos on Vimeo. If you watch the videos, just know that I really, really like loons. Just because they're called loons.
Intuitively, it seems that a vacation should always seem shorter than it actually was - the weekends always fly by, so why do I feel like I've been gone for more like six months than a measly ten days?
I have a million pictures to upload from our week in Vermont and about a hundred thousand from the scary and awesome bachelorette weekend at the Jersey shore.
I missed you internet, but not as much as my 185 unread work emails missed me, it seems. Fill me in - what did I miss?
I've got two weekends in my six-weekends-out-of-town marathon down, and so far... so good! I was a hot, cranky, tired mess when I rolled into Baltimore around 6pm on Sunday evening, but since then I've done some vacuuming and some laundry and caught up with some emails, and I feel fairly recovered.
In terms of a quick weekend recap:
My threesidedishes for the fancy bridal shower came out wonderfully (if I do say so myself)
I FINALLY went to see Sex and the City (loved it... totally cried during the Brooklyn Bridge scene)
I had two servings of ice cream cake at the Fancy Shower to combat the brutal heat and GOD WAS IT GOOD. How come no one reminded me how good ice cream cake is?
I went to a swanky clubin NYC for the bachelorette party, where I did not pay for one thing. It is good to have friends with connections, it seems. Also, bottle service is the best thing ever. Especially when it is free.
The one real snag of the weekend occurred when we arrived at the apartment we'd graciously been given access to for the bachelorette party. As I walked in with my suitcase, dragging a cooler of leftover food and drinks from the shower, I saw a very large fish tank in the middle of the room. Please tell me there is a fish in that tank, I said to my bride-friend. Please, please tell me there is a special fish who doesn't need any water in that tank. A fish who looks a lot like a snake. Because that cannot be a snake in that tank. NO ONE TOLD ME THERE WAS GOING TO BE A FUCKING SNAKE.
In case I have not mentioned it lately, I HATE SNAKES. "Hate" isn't a strong enough word. I fear them, loathe them, wish they did not exist on this planet. And the snakes I fear most are those of the constricting variety. I do NOT DO nine-foot, 50-lb boa constrictors. Absolutely, positively, no way in hell. I don't love anyone enough to sleep in the same room as a boa constrictor, sorry but THOSE THINGS CAN KILL PEOPLE YOU KNOW.
And then the funniest thing happened! I had about nine drinks, and all of a sudden the snake didn't seem so scary anymore. I made a tentative peace with the snake, and I even tried to get the bride (who happens to be a professional snake handler) (seriously, that's not some kind of bachelorette party humor... she handles snakes and other reptiles for a living) to feed the poor snake a sandwich when I learned that he only eats once a month.
I slept not more than an arm's length away from him and he didn't strangle me in the middle of the night. I guess that's what you would call "progress". Or, "passing out". Whatever.
My baby brother, Michael, has safely arrived in Utah. He drove the 2,164 miles by himself over four days, stopping in Cleveland, OH on Sunday night and in Des Moines, Iowa on Monday.
The travel bug in my thinks this whole adventure sounds like so much fun. Driving across America! Seeing the sights! I have to admit, I've always loved roads like Route 80 and I-95 that span thousands of miles. On bright sunny days in high school, I used to get the urge to just hop on Route 80 and keep driving. Not because I wanted to run away, but just because the whole idea that I could just head out on one road and evenutally end up in California enchants me. When Jenny and I drove from the Fort Lauderdale airport to Miami beach in the spring, I couldn't help but squeal as we got on 95. I mean, it's the same road I drive on to go to the mall at home! Isn't that cool?
On the other hand, taking this kind of road trip alone sounds sort of boring. I've been known to succumb to highway hypnosis on the simple three and a half hour trip from Baltimore to New Jersey, so much so that I actually missed my exit on the Turnpike on one occasion. (That was followed by a panicked phone call to my dad because OMG WHAT HAPPENS AFTER EXIT TEN? HELP DADDY, I DON'T WANT THE HOLLAND TUNNEL TO EAT ME ALIIIIIVE!) And sitting in the car for that long without the ability to sit Indian-style or stretch out on the back seat periodically would probably leave me on the side of the road with a sign that says "WILL WORK FOR ADVIL". So I guess I will just continue to live vicariously through my little brother for this particular adventure.
So, way to go, Michael! Here's to hoping for lots of snow.
The Bon Jovi concert was pretty cool. I'm not exactly "into" Bon Jon... don't get me wrong. I like his music. I just don't have REALLY STRONG FEELINGS like some people (ahem, my friends) do. I think the problem is that I wasn't cool enough in the 80s to be into the popular music. Jon's songs don't so much remind me of the good ole eighties as they do frat parties freshman year of college. The only new songs of his that I know are the ones on the radio. I really do love the "Who says... you can't go back" song that is the theme song of the NJ Tourism commercials. Now that makes me feel nostalgic.
I had been led to believe Daughtry was opening, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I had never heard of Mr. Daughtry and his self-named band before. My coworker asked me if Daughtry was opening last week and I said "uh... yeah" because I didn't want to admit that 1. I had no idea who was opening, and 2. I had no idea who Daughtry was. After a quick Google search and the help of my brother's CD, I realized I knew a few of the songs from the radio. OK.
Then Joel looked up the concert and told me that in actuality, the All American Rejects were opening. AWESOME. Is it weird that I love them? Like, a lot? And that I was sort of more excited to see them than Mr. Bon Jovi?
Is it also weird that I just depend on other people to organize things and I have no idea what is actually going to happen until I show up? That's just how I roll.
Unfortunately, we got distracted by the sangria and tapas we were having pre-concert and we missed nearly all of the opening act. I got to hear Move Along while we were waiting in line for beer, so it was OK. That's really the song I love them for. In fact, I'm not sure that I know any of their other songs. And our seats were so far up that I wouldn't have been able to see anything anyway, so hearing the song in the beer line = good enough for moi.
Here's a picture of Jon.
That's him, I promise.
Unfortunately, even when I zoomed in all the way, I still couldn't see how white his teeth were. Sorry, guys.
And here's a picture of what I saw during the ENTIRE CONCERT.
These ladies DID NOT SIT DOWN AT ALL. I have a problem with this. My friends tell me that I'm the one that's in the wrong here, but I really don't see how standing up during a show demonstrates your superior love for the performer. Sure, stand up and clap when he comes out. Jump up and dance during your favorite song. But for the majority of the show, SIT YOUR ASS DOWN. People pay for seats at a concert, not a square foot of cement to stand on. But because they decided to stand up, I had to stand up. For three hours.
(You know what else pisses me off in the exactly same manner? People who put their seats back on airplanes. I know that, again, I'm in the minority here, but I think it's just RUDE. If one person puts their seat back, that means that the person behind them has to either suffer in a teepee-like formation for the duration of the flight, or put their seat back as well. And then the person behind THEM is faced with the same dilemma. RUDE.)
(It's possible I've been traveling a bit too much lately. Ya think?)
Jon puts on a great show. He played the new album from start to finish, which I guess would have been awesome if I were more familiar with his new stuff. Then he played the old favorites. Then he played some more. And more. For three hours. (My feet really, really hurt).
And then it took us two hours to get to my friend's apartment in Harlem because the subway line wasn't running and the Path was late and blah blah blah I didn't get to sleep until 4am. It's possible I'm still a teensy bit cranky from lack of sleep. I took two naps today. Enough said.
Yesterday I flew directly from Newark to New Orleans for work. I actually got to see a bit of the city (unlike last time) on this trip, and that was really nice. The 75-degree weather was also pretty awesome.
I am not at all impressed with the Sheraton for a bevy of reasons that would be very boring to list out (wireless internet is spotty! Ozarka brand bottled water tastes funny! No shower cap in the bathroom! See? BORING), but I did get a room with a kick ass view.
I'm going to have to get up at dawn, seeing the sun rise over the Mississippi while I groggily try to find the shoes packed at the bottom of my suitcase is a pretty good consolation prize.
The view straight down was not at pleasant for someone with a teensy fear of heights, so let's not talk about that.
(32 floors up, window DIRECTLY on the side of the building, in case you were wondering)
We went to the Orleans Grapevine for dinner last night, and it was great. The food was delicious and the atmosphere was adorable. Tin ceilings, chandeliers, and stuffed flounder. Yum. Today I had a lot of free time, so I did a lot of walking around and had lunch at a cute little coffee shop whose name I can't remember. I was going to treat myself to some beignets, but I am feeling particularly unhealthy after all this travel (which automatically means less-than-healthy eating, for me at least) and I thought I might not fit into my pants if I stuffed three giant donuts down my piehole. Of course, I don't think that the turkey and bacon wrap sandwich I got instead was exactly Weight Watchers approved, but at least I can tell myself that some actually nutrition was included in those calories. (Just not in the bacon. Or the ranch dressing. Both of which were delicious.)
I finished reading Water for Elephants (which I really liked), and then walked along the riverwalk.
When I came back to the hotel (oh God, I just accidentally typed "home" instead of "hotel"), I was taking a picture to document Operation Grow Out Brassy Highlights, I found this bad boy:
I think that is enough links and pictures for one day, dear internet, so I'm off to pack up my hundred pounds of crap and get some sleep before my 8:25am flight tomorrow. Happy Veteran's Day to all, and to all a good night.
You know what will teach you to stop complaining about how much you hate your fancy new phone?Being without it for five days.
My friends and I had tickets to the Bon Jovi concert in Newark on Friday night. Say what you will about New Jersey, but there is no better place to see Jon (we’re on a first name basis) than NJ. There were perms. There were feathered bangs. It was perfect.
In order to get to this concert, Jenny and I planned to meet on the #86 train. She caught it in Richmond at 8am, and I planned to hop on in Baltimore at 11:08am. I caught a cab to Penn Station, arriving at 10:41. I remember exactly what time it was, because I kicked myself for stressing myself out about being LATELATELATEOMG when, really, I had all the time in the world. Plenty of time to print my ticket, get cash from the ATM and get myself some coffee before settling down on a bench to call my mom and tell her that I probably wasn’t going to be able to stop by while I was in NJ. I fished around in my new bag for my phone and came up empty-handed. I put down my coffee so I could look with both hands. I took everything out. I put everything back in and took it back out again. No phone.
FUUUUUCK.
Just then the board clackity-clacked its updates into place and the #86 train’s status changed from “On time” to “15 minutes delayed”. It was 10:56.
I don’t really need my phone. If I leave now I can go back and get it. What if I miss the train? I think I can make it if I leave right now. But what if I miss the train? Jenny will kill me. But I’m sure there are other trains to Newark today. I really need my phone. I’ll just call Jenny and tell her I may miss the train. OH WAIT I CAN’T BECAUSE I DON’T HAVE MY PHONE. I have to go back and get it.
I left my coffee on the bench, grabbed my stuff and ran outside to the taxi line. The driver sped home and turned the car around while I ran upstairs to get my phone. I was certain I’d left it on the bedroom dresser, where I’d put it down that morning when Jenny called to make sure I was awake.
Except it wasn’t there.
FUUUUUUUCK.
I picked up the house phone so I could call my phone and find it. House phone was dead. I ran downstairs and got the OTHER house phone and called my phone.
Ring, ring, ring went the house phone’s receiver. No corresponding ring from the cell phone. Voicemail. I tried again. Ring, ring, ring went the house phone. Nothing from the cell phone.
FUUUUUUUUUCK.
It was now 11:07. I hopped back in the cab and sped back towards Penn Station, convinced that I had now arranged it so that I was going to miss the train AND have no cell phone. We arrived at the station at 11:20 and I flew out of the cab with my wallet $27 lighter.
They hadn’t even announced the track for the #86 train. My coffee was still on the bench where I’d left it. I'm not proud of it, but I'm not going to lie: after a moment’s consideration, I picked it up and took a big, delicious chug. I didn’t really care if it was roofied. I needed some damn coffee and I’d just blown $27 on a fruitless cab ride and my cell phone was still missing.I managed to kill the cup just as the train was announced.
Because Jenny is a smart girl, she’d told me what car she was in. I found her and we called my phone several times, my ear to my suitcase to listen for its telltale BEEEPPP BEEEEPPP.
And then, on the third try, someone picked up just before the call cut out. SOMEONE PICKED UP MY PHONE. WHO HAS MY PHONE?
We called back and learned that the thief on the other side of the call was actually my first taxi driver. Whoops, I left my phone in the cab! No problem, he said, he would bring it to me. Where was I, he asked. I’m on a train, I told him. Somewhere in Northern Maryland. I don't think you want to meet me in Newark, NJ to return my phone.
No problem, I’ll take it to your house, he said. I gave him my address a bit skeptically since I’d caught the cab several blocks away from home and as nice as the guy was, his English wasn’t great. Our street name is difficult to pronounce and even harder to spell. I was just hoping that if he dropped it in our neighbor’s mailslot that they’d forgiven me for watching the Netflix that the mailman accidentally delivered to our house. (It was Elizabethtown and it sucked anyway).
And that was all I could do. I called my mom and told her I wasn't coming by. I called Joel and told him my phone might be on the floor when he came home. That was all I could do. Time to relax and forget about it.
Except I can’t stop myself from instinctively reaching for my phone a million times a day. It wasn’t so bad while I was in New York this weekend, with Jenny’s phone to depend on. But this morning I flew all by my lonesome to New Orleans for work and I AM GOING CRAZY. I feel cut of from the world. As much as I hate the thing, I am completely dependent on it. And I promise that when I return on Tuesday, I will give my fancy phone a big, sloppy kiss and never say a bad thing about it again.
6am: Jenny and I begrudgingly get out of bed, shower, and zip up our suitcases.
7am: We leave for the airport
9am: Fly from BWI to Hartford, CT
10:30am: Get picked up at Hartford
11am: Screw up the crafty bridal scrapbook we were asked to help on.
11:30am: Run out of double-sided tape.
12noon: Run to crafts store. Give up and go to bride's house for lunch.
2pm: Nails (note to self: get a freaking manicure every once in awhile, if only for the kick ass shoulder massage!)
5:30pm: Rehearsal
6pm: Rehearsal dinner
10pm: Karaoke in the hotel bar. Drinks. Shots. Singing. Until 3am.
Saturday
7am: Wake up, forced to shower by Jenny even though I just showered yesterday (and I washed my hair!)
8am: Dunkin Donuts run
8:30am: Arrive at salon. Beg hair and makeup stylists to be gentle with me. Requests for a bobby-pinless 'do and foundation-less makeup are honored. All is good. Take a mini-nap in one of the hair washing station chairs to avoid messing up hair.
11:30am: Change into dresses
12noon: pictures in hotel, pictures in lobby, pictures picture pictures
2pm: arrive at church. Realize we haven't eaten since 8am. Shove a mangled South Beach Diet bar down my throat before walking down the aisle. Manage not to trip.
2:30pm: Witness Clippy's MARRIAGE!! Make it through the ceremony without crying!
4pm: More pictures
6pm: Reception. Much eating. Much drinking. More eating. More drinking. Dancing. More eating and drinking. Some crying.
1:30am: Fall into bed.
Sunday
7am: Wake up. Shower, pack bags. Meet car driver in the lobby, just as he is about to leave because he didn't find your name on the hotel registry. Um, sir? Maybe you were going to call my cell phone WHICH I GAVE YOU MYSELF before assuming I'd just up and left? Because sometimes people stay with other people, and only give one name to the hotel? It happens sometimes. And you almost seriously screwed me.
7:30am: Drive to Boston Logan airport.
9:30am: Check in for flight.
10am: Go through security.
10:01am: Vomit in Logan bathroom.
10:02: Vomit again.
10:05: More puking.
10:10: Purchase altoids, gum, and vitamin water.
10:15: Feeling much, much better.
10:55: Board plane. Fly to San Francisco.
2:30pm (Pacific Time): Arrive in SFO. Buy burrito. Devour burrito.
3:30pm: Arrive at hotel. Make out with king sized bed. French kiss gigantic flatscreen TV. Shove Bliss products in my toiletries bag.
4:00pm: Work meeting. Many jokes about why I am not wearing my bridesmaid dress are made (har har, that's the last time I tell people about my recurring nightmares about forgetting to pack a work outfit)
6pm: Reacquaint myself with the internet after two and a half days of being completely offline.
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So, hello, internet! I've missed you. I'm so exhausted that I've moved from "tired" to "completely delirious" and I am looking forward to Tuesday, which will be devoted entirely to recovering from the Longest Weekend Ever, more than I can put into words.
This month has been crazy, and my dear baby Jesus, we're only nine days in. (Nine, right? I actually have no idea what day it is.)
Oh, hello there bullet points. It's nice to see you!
I am taking the exact same flights I took to Chicago last week on Friday and Saturday. I feel very sophisticated and important, like those CEO types who commute from New York to Atlanta every week. I actually know (of) people who do this, plus I read about it once in Southwest's in flight magazine, so it must be true.
I also feel tired. And like I should maybe know what day of the week it is.
In going through the Netflix list to make sure I had some good movies to take with me as in-flight entertainment, I found that we have 162 movies in our queue. Apparently Joel has learned how to freeze time, because dude. We are never going to watch 162 movies.
I got a much-needed haircut yesterday, and I was quite pleased with my new stylist.
I fired the old one, remember him? He told me I couldn't go darker because "no one does that in the winter" and also was kind of an asshole? He's gone.
So, pleased as I am with the new lady, I was not pleased when I got my bill and saw that what she really meant when she said "I'm going to give you a styling lesson" was "I'm going to charge you $22 for this".
Win some, lose some. I'm on to her game now. Will not be so naive next time.
And the total was still only $39, so I'm not too upset.
Plus, she wasn't an asshole, so it's still a step in the right direction.
She also didn't cringe when I told her I only wash my hair every other day. (She asked how often I wash it, which I thought was a little hint that coming to the salon right from a hot yoga (=very sweaty) class, in addition to not having washed your hair in two days, is not cool. Instead, she was actually just wondering. See! Not an asshole. I like her very much.)
Edited to add: She told me I should only be washing my hair once a week. I'm really not sure I can pull off once a week. But hey, I didn't think I could pull off every other day, and that worked out fine. So I'm game to try it, at least. (You see what happens when I try to publish posts at home? I leave out critical information. This little experiment is under the advice of a licensed professional!)
If you see me in the next few weeks and my hair is greasy, just try to focus on my new cut. The old brassy highlights are almost gone! Hooray!
Also, less shampoo is better for the environment.
And easier for me.
So I like it.
Tonight at the gym, I saw someone get busted. A chick came in, and I think her mistake was sort of looking like she was doing something wrong. She just had a suspicious look about her. You've got to play it cool, sister. The girl at the desk asked her if she'd swiped in, and suspicious chick replied that she'd forgotten her keys (the swiper goes on your key ring, like those fancy schmancy grocery store cards). No problem, said Desk Girl, I'll just look you up in the computer. What's your name? Suspicious Chick stuttered a bit and gave her name. Desk Girl could not find it in the computer. Suspicious Chick admitted that she does not have a membership, and was ASKED TO LEAVE!!!
I have never been so happy to be paying for something in my whole life. How narrowly I averted getting busted by the gym police!
I know it's boring to talk about the weather, but how about this heat? Can you believe it? Personally, I am ready for some fall-like temperatures. I had to bring back the sweat towel this weekend, and it wasn't pretty.
And now if you'll indulge me in some girly girl talk, how often do you wash your hair? I know a girl who washes it TWICE A DAY. I also know that Miss Zoot never washes hers. Do you think once a week is do-able?
Do you think I could get away with showering once a week?
And say you have to be up, awake, and in your biznass pants at 5:30 tomorrow... IN THE MORNING.
Also, let's say that you're not a morning person.
What is the proper course of action?
A. Go to your dry, boring business dinner, make polite and witty conversation, then discreetly excuse yourself to get to bed at a reasonable hour.
B. Go to your dry, boring business dinner,drink five glasses of wine, and ingest enough calories for a week.
C. Go to your dry, boring business dinner,, drink five glasses of wine, ingest enough calories for a week, and then stay at the restaurant until midnight.
D. Go to your dry, boring business dinner,, drink five glasses of wine, ingest enough calories for a week, stay at the restaurant until midnight, and then lock yourself out of your hotel room.
E. Go to your dry, boring business dinner,, drink five glasses of wine, ingest enough calories for a week, stay at the restaurant until midnight, lock yourself out of your hotel room, and then blog about it.
If you answered E, I'm afraid that tomorrow is going to be a very, very long day for you. Also, you are an asshole.
Goodnight, friends. Or should I say good morning?
PS: This post is not spell checked because I am drunk.
I'm a little bit ashamed. When I asked for suggestions of fun things to do in Boston, I was not really expecting you guys to give me great suggestions. Because, you see, if someone were to ask me for suggestions of fun things to do in Baltimore, I would say something like, "You should not go to the Inner Harbor, it is full of tourists. But I guess it's nice, if you're a tourist, so maybe you should go there after all. If you do, you should go to the Chipotle for lunch, but don't go at any time that could be considered a reasonable hour to eat lunch, because it will be packed full of people and you'll have to wait an hour to get your food and by that time you'll probably be so hungry that you'll blurt out that you want a chicken burrito when your turn FINALLY comes, even though you actually wanted the steak burrito with guacamole, and then you'll spend the rest of the afternoon wondering why you always freak out under pressure. So maybe you should go to Panera Bread across the street instead."
I thank you all for your lovely and thoughtful suggestions. Duck Tours are lots of fun (Oh, I've been on them before. You are not alone in your geekdom), and all those restaurants sound so lovely that I almost want to hop on a plane right now and go to every single one of those cafes, except I don't know where Beacon Hill or Newbury are, I was staying in the "Financial District" and I'm not even sure where that is. Maps, what are those? What can I say, other than "I suck." I feel unworthy.
Sometimes I forget that business trips aren't just a free plane ticket and hotel room; I'm actually expected to go to meetings and do work, and often that leaves precious little time for doing any of the fun things suggested by your savvy readers. It's sort of tragic, but not to worry! I did manage to go to one place, thanks to my wonderful boyfriend who knows me well enough to send turn-by-turn directions when he emails me a place to go. And I didn't totally miss out on the Boston experience. No, siree! I had a delicious lobster salad for dinner on Wednesday night. Fine, the lobster was actually from Maine, but close enough. And after my meetings concluded on Thursday, I did some shopping before leaving for the airport and I picked up some delightful things in a quaint little New England boutique. Maybe those of you from the area have heard of it? It's called the Ann Taylor Loft. I hear they only have them in Boston, so it sure is a good thing I snatched up this dress, because I never could have found anything like it in Maryland.
I'm off to New Jersey for the weekend, leaving Joel home alone with the cats for a Boys Weekend. Have a great weekend, Internet people!
My flight this afternoon was on one of those awesome 50-person puddle jumpers. And by "awesome", you know I mean "puketastic", right? Everyone with a briefcase-sized or larger suitcase dutifully gate-checked their bags and boarded the plane, Air Force One style.
There must have been something in the air today, or maybe the sweat through your clothes weather just had everyone on edge, but the passengers on this flight were CRANKY with a capital "bitch". First, the woman next to me freaked out about some condensation on the air vents inside the plane. Even after the flight attendant assured her that it was completely normal and everything was fine, she still felt compelled make a stink about it, and then elbow me the entire flight whilst huffily typing Very Important Things on Her Very Important Laptop. Awesome.
Another passenger became extremely agitated when he learned that there would be no pretzels available to him on this 90-minute journey. Dude, we had a choice of cheesy cracker sandwich things OR the trademarked Delta biscotti crackers. That's like a choice between an hour-long foot massage and $100 gift certificate to Ann Taylor Loft. You just can't go wrong. Forget the damn pretzels and get over yourself.
But Pretzel Lover didn't even come close to the rage exhibited by the guy I saw approach one of the construction workers inside the airport. "Delta Service Counter", he said to a construction worker in the temporary walkway we were ushered through to get to the main terminal. First of all, I love it when people who are pissed off can't even be bothered to form their words into a question. "Where is the Delta Service Counter" would have been far too much trouble for his angry lips to utter. The construction worker, who was clearly NOT an airline employee (and also clearly did not speak much English), did not know where the Delta Service Counter was, shockingly, but in an effort to be helpful, he asked the man what was wrong.
"I want to complain about this service! This is unbelievable! They just leave your bags lying out on the runway! They just throw them on the ground! Anyone could take my bag!"
The precious bag in question? Pink. Paisley. Garment. Bag.
Awesome. And even more awesome was the fact that he made such a big deal about the mistreatment of his pink paisley bag that everyone in Logan Airport took notice of his fashion statement.
I have a crapload* of travel coming up this fall. Some work-related, some just for fun, and some combinations of the two. The result?There is a high probability that I will not work a 5-day week (in the office, that is) until after Thanksgiving. Awesome. I’ll also rack up quite a few frequent flyer miles. And come December, I’ll probably have to lock myself in the house for a full weekend just to recuperate.
Trip 1: Boston.(Um, TOMORROW)
The Good: Since my flight departs in the early evening tomorrow, I’ll have the morning free to run errands, go to yoga, and pack for the trip.I am a very efficient last-minute packer… unless “the last minute” is during the morning hours.Then I’m guaranteed to forget my toothbrush, my laptop charger, my cell phone, or something of similar importance.Once, I forgot to pack a bra.That was a good time. (Oh, stop looking at me like that.No one in their right mind wears a bra on an early morning plane ride.)
Even Better: I’ll be working on my laptop in Boston on Thursday, which means I’ll either be in Starbucks (or similar establishment with free wifi) or in my hotel room catching up on Days of Our Lives and Passions while I work.If I could work like that every day, I’d be a much happier person in general.I actually get a ton of work done, too.Chalk it up to the power of a positive attitude... or the power of room service.Whatever.
The Bad:I won’t be getting home until late Thursday night.
The Ugly: Even though I’ll have plenty of comp time, I’ll be coming in to the office on Friday.And Casual Friday is officially in hibernation for the winter.(Wah!).
So… does anyone have suggestions for anything fun to do in Boston? Anything that’s going on, uh, tomorrow?
*(Side note: I’m typing this in Word today, instead of directly into Typepad, and when the little Red Squigglies of Improper Spelling showed up under “crapload”, I actually went back and re-typed it.The squigglies showed up again and I was stumped for a few seconds.Hmmm… l-o-a-d, that’s right… OH.“Crapload” isn’t actually a word.RIGHT.)
EEK. I just requested time off for our vacation in August (our REAL vacation, not to be confused with the Fake Vacation I'm taking in two weeks to stay at home by myself). Dates have been set. Lake Tahoe, here we come. Please go ahead and put out those wildfires before we get there. K, thanks.
Why do I always feel guilty requesting time off? It's not like I don't have twenty-six days of vacation time saved up. Still, I feel like a giant slacker whenever I ask for time off. This is the same slacker feeling that keeps me from calling in sick when I truly feel awful. Because, you know, I'm better off sitting in my office like a zombie than using the twenty-two sick days I have accrued. What, I might get the bird flu and need those days! Plus, I hate calling in sick. And I also hate requesting vacation time, as it turns out.
Actually taking that vacation time, however, I'm totally fine with. I am not sure which vacation I'm looking forward to more -- Fake Vacation, where I'll have a week to myself to compulsively clean the house, work on The Wall, finish painting the bedroom, and possibly watch some Law and Order reruns (all of which will be done in sweats, sans bra) or the Real Vacation, where we'll be hiking in Lake Tahoe and seeing ghosts in Virgina City and winning big on the slots in Reno. It's really a toss up. I'll let you know which one wins when I get back from Tahoe.
I think I'll do this every summer. Real Vacations and Fake Vacations are equally important. From now on, I'm taking one of each, every year. Yes. That sounds nice.
In other news, Operation Detox is going extremely well -- let's hope I didn't just jinx it. Last night I fell asleep before midnight, and I slept straight through until 4:30am. This is big progress! Then I went back to sleep until 7am. Woohoo!
Also, when I went to sleep, Max was in the cat bed. When I got up at 4:30, Madison was in it. When I got up at 7am, Henry was in it. That's right: ALL THREE CATS SLEPT IN THE CAT BED LAST NIGHT. Cat bed was NOT a waste of $17! Edited to add: Just to clarify, all three were not in the bed at the same time. They do not like each other THAT much... yet. Plus, it's physically impossible, because Max hardly fits in the bed by himself. Must put Max on diet.
After much indecision and a lot of internet research by Joel (on a dial-up internet connection!), I have come to the conclusion that searching for a vacation destination is hard. Denver or Salt Lake City? Reno or Iceland? Each of these places is decidedly not my office, and so each seems equally appealing. How ever could we choose, especially when I seem to be incapable of remembering to pick up the seven travel books I ordered from the library?
Put them in a hat and pick one. Literally, that is what we did last night. And the lucky winner is.... RENO, NEVADA! Now I'm having a bit of picker's remorse, since it wasn't even in Joel's top two. Also, Nevada? Doesn't Nevada kind of suck? Aren't there snakes there?
However, I am quite excited by the possibility of seeing Old West towns like Carson City. I love that stuff, don't ask why. I have no idea.
Also, I hear Lake Tahoe is kind of cool. So off we go!
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Speaking of snakes (sort of), who watched the premier of Man vs. Wild's new season? Can I get a HOLY CRAP? In this episode, my beloved Bear Grylls:
Waded through the Everglades for three days
Made a house in a tree, with a fireplace
Roasted a turtle for dinner (very sad, but he made a point of saying that he didn't enjoy it)
Jumped in a sinkhole, then climbed out
Caught a "baby" alligator with his bare hands
The episode as a whole just reinforced my two already-strong beliefs that (1) Bear Grylls is could totally kick Jack Bauer's ass, and (2) Florida is really hell on earth.
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You know how sometimes you'll get a word or phrase stuck in your head, and you don't even know what it actually means, and then you start wondering where on earth you could have picked up that term? Was it subliminally messaged into a TV commercial during Rescue Me? Was it in an ad in a magazine? Did you read it somewhere? And then it drives you crazy until you figure out how that word/phrase got into your brain?
Well, as we were going to bed, I asked Joel, "Who is John Cavendish?" He had no idea. I thought long and hard about Mr. Cavendish, wondering where I could have heard his name. Was it during the duck tour of Philadelphia we took on Saturday? He certainly sounds like an historical fellow. Or was he that surfer I was reading about in Joel's latest issue of Outside Magazine?
Neither. According to Google and Wikipedia, I am going insane.
So I ask you, internet, just who IS John Cavendish? And why is he in my head?
So, here I am in the Decatur, IL, racking up some overtime so I can get some much-needed cash in my next paycheck. Plus, I thought it would be cool to see the Midwest on work's dime. I need to start learning that when you're in a place for less than 30 hours, you don't see much of anything. And also, you don't really need to pack an entire suitcase for one night away from home. Come on, self. Get a clue already.
Anyway. The midwest sure is... midwesterny. I've never been anywhere officially midwestern except for Chicago, which I'd argue doesn't really count. I mean, I've been to Chicago many times, and I've never seen a single corn stalk or heard a mention of Honest Abe. So far, in my hour-long drive from the Springfield airport to my hotel, I've seen 198473 signs pointing to historic Lincoln-related sights and 234872342323428379234 cornstalks. In fact, the slogan of one radio station was "Where the only thing taller than our corn stalks is the Marriott". Huh? There were also a few cows. I really wish I had time to see some Lincoln stuff. Alas, I'll be back home in time to catch the tail end of Heroes tomorrow night.
I'd like you all to know that I rented a car, at Joel's insistence, since a cab ride would have been astronomically expensive (plus, the Springfield airport turned out to have a total of 3 gates and 0 available taxis). I drove the car myself. And get this: I didn't get the rental insurance. LIVING ON THE EDGE, people.
In addition to the corn and the Lincoln-frenzy, my only observation about Illinois is that the people are absolutely fantastic drivers, zero sarcasm intended. They use their blinkers. They drive a reasonable 10 miles over the speed limit on the highway. They stay in their lane. They come to a complete stop at stop signs. It's kind of disconcerting. Maybe I've just been living in red-light running, tailgating, talking-on-the-phone-with-your-dog-on-your-lap-while-driving metropolis for too long. Or maybe I emit some kind of Nervous Rental Car Driver sonar that warns everyone on the road around me to exercise extreme caution.
Having a car was very handy for getting me some dinner tonight, since the hotel has no room service (although it does have a minifridge and a microwave, WOOT!) There is a nice stripmall down the street, which I thought would offer lots of dinner options; options in which I could get a good meal without having to sit alone in a restaurant, pretending not to be uncomfortable eating by myself in public. However, I didn't take into account that I went out searching for food at 8:30pm on a Sunday night in Decatur, IL. In other words, nothing was open. Well, nothing but Applebee's.
Never in my life have I left an Applebee's feeling satisfied. Nothing on their menu is the least bit appetizing, and I LOVE food. All kinds of food. I can only wonder at the type of effort it takes to create an entire fold-out menu on which NOTHING makes me salivate. Just to give you a frame of reference, I am the type of person who vacillates between 2 or 3 choices every time I go to a restaurant. Should I get the steak salad or the chicken marsala? Or the pizza? Oh god, pizza. Yes, pizza. But mmmm... steak. And salad. Or maybe the salmon? That sounds good. Hey, what are you going to get? Maybe I should get that. Can I have a bite of yours when it comes? I usually just wait until the waitress arrives and then make a Gametime Decision, going with whatever comes out of my mouth when the waitress looks at me with her pen raised, ready to take my order. But at Applebee's, they manage to put together an entire slate of offerings in which nothing induces my mouth to water. Impressive.
On top of that, EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. they mess up your order. (In this feat they are matched only by Ruby Tuesdays, but that's another topic for another day). I'm not talking about bringing out a plate of fried duck liver when I ordered the grilled chicken sandwich. It's little things, like soaking my salad in dressing when I asked for it on the side. Putting unsolicited blue cheese on my burger (don't get me wrong, I love me some stinky cheese, but you have to be in the mood for that stuff. Biting into a sandwich and tasting unexpected blue cheese? Not cool). Not bringing me a glass of water to chase my Diet Coke with, even after repeated requests. That sort of thing.
Tonight, I ordered myself a fried chicken salad -- basically, some lettuce with a few chicken fingers thrown on top. I contemplated going to the Micky D's across the street and just getting some nuggets, but then I decided to be all "healthy" so I can keep fitting into my skinny jeans instead. Yes, I do consider a salad healthy, even if it has friend chicken on it.
So, a chicken finger and some lettuce. Pretty hard to mess up, right? So imagine my surprise when I got back to my room with my Carside To Go bag, only to find chopped eggs and tomatoes, along with some random shredded cheese, all at the bottom of the salad bowl. Eggs and cheese are fine in my book. Tomatoes, not so much. I freaking hate tomatoes. Sliced ones are easy enough to pick off and throw away, but chopped tomatoes are IMPOSSIBLE TO PICK OUT. Just so you know.
It's good to know that no matter where you go, some things stay the same.
One of the very few friends-in-real-life that reads this blog -- let's call her "Liz" since I am too tired to make up any more semi-clever fake friend names -- called me last night to tell me that she was very disappointed in me for saying that I was contemplating posting the worst picture ever taken of me, and then neglecting to actually post said portrait. Internet, I must apologize if I misled you. I am still going to post the picture. We just haven't gotten to that part of the story yet -- the part where I drink an excessive amount of alcohol and bust a move with a rastafarian man on the dancefloor. But we will. Yes, we will. And I'm quite sure that I will regret it, but that's what the "edit post" button is for, right?
Right?
When we left off, my friends and I were napping/drinking/watching Pussycat Dolls: The Search for the Next Doll in our hotel room while it rained outside. When the rain cleared, we headed out to the main strip of South Beach for our last night in Miami. Our objectives were: 1. Find and consume Cuban food, 2. Dance, 3. Get as much Miami fla-vah as possible.
(Side note: I haven't watched the PCD finale yet, but I did see that Asia won. What? Eff that. Asia was such a passive aggressive drama queen. I was rooting for Chelsea, but WHATEVER. The Dolls can make it up to me in Season 2 -- which according to the CW's website, is currently auditioning)
We wandered around South Beach, and quickly settled on a place called Mango's for it's 110% Miami vibe. The waitresses were dressed in the most horrific and yet wonderful outfits I've ever seen in.my.life. Each one had a different version of an animal print body suit. Some were see-through. Some had strategic parts cut out of the fabric -- leaving their thighs covered, but their asses completely bare, for instance. They were all wearing at least 4 inch heels, and when they weren't serving, they were dancing in the street or on the bar. Oh, and the men? Were all wearing leopard print vests with nothing underneath.
Awesome.
They had the sort of drinks you'd imagine an outdoor Miami restaurant would have -- margaritas, mojitos, what have you. As I perused the menu, one particular drink called the "South Beach Iced Tea" caught my eye. You see, I have a sordid love affair with Long Island Iced Teas. I'm a lady who love a bargain, and when it comes to getting the most bang for your drinking buck, LITs are the way to go. When made well, they are delicious. When made poorly, they taste like vodka. Either way, they get the job done and they don't mess around. And those are the qualities I look for in a man drink. The description for the South Beach Iced Tea read Long Islands not strong enough for you? Try our South Beach version! Sign me up!
Now, when we were making the trip down, I told Jenny that I was not planning to get all-out wasted on this vacation, because I did not come to Miami to spend half the weekend hungover, wishing I were dead. Which is what happens every time I partake in hard liquor nowadays. My plan was to drink in moderation, have an awesome time, and then sleep it off on the beach sans headache. That plan went out the window when I saw the words Ice Tea on the menu. I'm in Miami! Let's get wild! Screw moderation!
Which is how I went from this:
to this:
in the space of an hour.
(That is my second South Beach Iced Tea, right there. When it arrived, I knew I was in trouble, because it tasted to me like they'd forgotten to add the alcohol. What! Why are they trying to give me fruit punch and pretend it's a cocktail?? Does this restaurant thing I'm too drunk for a second drink or something? I had everyone else taste it to make sure I wasn't getting screwed out of my money's worth of liquor, and they confirmed that, in fact, it tasted like rubbing alcohol. Sweet, sweet, goodness.
When we got up to leave, I realized that either there was plenty-o-alcohol in that last drink, or Miami was having a minor earthquake that no one else seemed to be noticing.
A few minutes down the street, we spotted a restaurant with the word "Cuban" on it's awning, and in we went. The food was great, and I'm sure my drink was too, but I can't really remember because I was mesmerized my the way Jenny and KP were killing off their 45-oz margaritas. It was truly an amazing sight.
Wow is right.
With a little help, KP finished hers off as well, and at this point I'd say I was no longer the drunkest one of the group.
After this, we only had one thing left on our to-do list: dance. And so we went into the first "club" we saw. I put that in quotes because this was not the kind of club where you pay cover and bump elbows with celebrities. It was more the type of club you find on the each in Cancun. Which was awesome, because there was no cover.
The night deteriorated quickly from there. I paid $7 for some kind of mixed drink that tasted mighty weak to me. There was a guy we referred to as "scrunchy man", who was trying to seduce every woman who came within 10 feet of him with his off-white scrunchy and his flowing blonde curls. There was an old guy who was dancing with what appeared to be his scantily clad wife and daughter... and then the two women started posing in sexual positions while the old man took pictures with a disposable camera. There was a bachelor party of about 15 guys that were all wearing bright orange shirts with the groom-to-be's face screen printed on the front.
What I'm saying is, I think we fit right in.
Eventually, Melly and Jenny got "tired" and decided to go home, while Bethy, KP and I stayed. Because, obviously, we hadn't gotten in enough fun yet.
We kept dancing.
And dancing.
And dancing.
And then this lovely man started trying to dance with us. We told him "no thanks" about 27 different ways, ranging from just walking away to looking him in the eye and saying "I'm a lesbian, and these are my girlfriends, so back off", none of which worked.
Here I am politely trying to tell him that I don't dance with men who wear rastafari hats.
And here he is not listening.
When I drink, I smile nonstop, but trust me: I was not pleased. We tried several more times to get him to just LEAVE US ALONE, but he since he would not, we decided it was time to leave.
Honestly, it's easy to see why he was so persistent. I mean, wouldn't you want to dance with someone who looked like this?
I cannot believe that I am allowing the internet to see this picture. I almost died of embarrassment when I showed it to Joel, and he's seen that version of me live and in person many times. But there's something about seeing photographic evidence of your sexiness that is a little... horrifying. Joel's only comment? "Your hair looks really good". Seriously. That's what he said. I was too distracted by the vein popping out of my forehead, the tongue hanging out of my mouth, and the thoroughly disturbing pose THAT I WAS APPARENTLY DOING IN PUBLIC to notice my hair. So it's a good thing he pointed that out.
And after that, we took a cab home, went to sleep, and the trip was over. Thank goodness, because clearly Miami could not handle much more of me.
So, Lizzy, there it is. The Worst Picture of Me Ever. Are you happy now? Do you promise not to mock me? Will you still take Henry for a "vacation" when you move to your big new house? Do you want me to never call you again?
Here we are, another full twenty-four hours later, and I still don't have time to write a proper post about Miami. That's what happens when you take a long weekend off to go lie on the beach and take pictures of giant, oily men in thongs: you get slammed at work when you come home. It's the law of the universe. Or something.
But! In light of the fact that the picture I posted yesterday elicited a record number of comments for this site, I'm going to skip my lunch break today so I can write about Miami. That's selflessness for you, internet. You can thank me later. I am partial to tulips and I take my hazelnut coffee with skim milk and splenda, just so you know.
So. Let's begin. I only have an hour here, and so very much to tell you (actually, not that much, as we did nothing but eat, sleep, and drink, but that doesn't sound as fun, does it?) I suppose that I should first introduce you to the characters of this tale; the four fabulous friends that made this trip with me. We have my friend who now lives in Richmond, Jenny, my friend who lives in NYC and has the cutest and trendiest wardrobe of anyone I know, Melly, the friend who is an Anthropology Grad Student, Bethy, and the friend who is an actual lawyer with an actual assistant in New York, KP. God, that just took so much thinking, I'm not sure I can go on.
But I will. For you, internet. Tulips, remember.
On Thursday night, Jenny drove from Richmond to Baltimore, and after spending the night listening to Henry cry at the inhumanity of his nocturnal confinement in the bathroom, we both dragged ourselves out of bed at 5:30am and drove to BWI for our 8am flight to Fort Lauderdale. I'm not going to say the trip was easy because I am morally and ethically opposed to calling anything that involves getting up before 7am "easy", but it was not too bad. I don't know about Jenny, because the lovely folks at Airtran Airways would not allow us to sit together, but I passed out the second we got on the plane and woke up what seemed like 5 minutes later in Florida. After we claimed our bags, we made our way to the largest rental car facility I have ever seen in my life to pick up our Kia Rio or similar vehicle. If you ever need to rent a car, please allow me to recommend that you NOT rent from Thrifty. The idiocy of their counter staff was unbelievable. They refused to let me put the car on my credit card unless I was going to be the driver (and, as we know, that wasn't going to happen). They refused to let Jenny put it on her debit card without charging an extra fee. They barraged us with pointless questions that were obviously for their marketing purposes only, because I don't see why they need to know what company I work for or my office phone number. Jenny ended up yelling "I DON'T HAVE A JOB" (which is untrue, she is gainfully employed) just to get the Thrifty lady to stop asking for her company name, and finally we got the keys and sped off down 95 toward Miami.
When we arrived at the hotel, we encountered similar ineptitude. We could not check in until 3pm (understandable), and we couldn't valet the car until we were checked in (huh?) Since the only other option was meter parking that cost 25 cents per 15 minutes, we pooled our change, parked the car, and went to change in the lobby bathroom, only to find that it required a room key to open the door. We didn't have a room key, of course, since we weren't allowed to check in. At this point, Jenny's head exploded, a sympathetic employee slipped us a key card, and we put on our bathing suits and headed to the beach. KP had arrived at the hotel at the same time as Jenny and I, and Melly was already waiting for us on the beach.
As soon as we got out there, everything was OK.
The weather was perfect and warm, the ocean was refreshing and clean, and it was joyous. After lathering up on sunscreen (of course) we all stretched out on our towels and took a nap. A few hours later, Bethy arrived and all was right in the world.
When we could take no more sun, we went back to the hotel, checked in (finally), showered off the sunscreen and headed out to the main drag of South Beach. It took me about five minutes to realize that every single stereotype about South Beach is true. We saw people walking down the street with giant snakes around their necks (I screamed), girls wearing outfits skimpier than my skimpiest underwear and shoes taller than I would have thought were humanly possible. We saw people eating dinner at fancy restaurants in their bathing suits. We saw 50-year-old men wearing nothing but booty shorts and big gold chains over their leathery tanned skin talking on their cell phones in thick Long Island accents about their Ferraris. It was glorious.
The place we finally picked for dinner could not have been more perfect. It could totally have been a set for Nip/Tuck. In fact, I kept looking around Julian McMahon. There was a guy playing a jazz flute walking around, club music playing in the background, flashing lights everywhere, and a girl was dressed like she was auditioning to be The Next Pussycat Doll dancing while twirling fire on a stage. Although our dinner and drinks cost as much as I make in two weeks it was worth every penny.
Melly and Bethy with their dirty martinis. Which, by the way, taste like rotten buttsweat. I'll stick to my vodka and cranberry, thank you very much.
Is it totally lame to tell you that when we finished our (very long) dinner, we went home and passed out? Because, um, what I really mean is that we went out clubbing until 7am. Yeah.
The next day we headed out to the beach again, but we were forced to come back to the hotel around noon when it started to rain. So instead of lying on the beach, we laid in our beds watching a marathon of The Pussycat Dolls: The Search for the Next Doll. I suppose I should have been disappointed, but I was not. At all. I am embarrassed to admit this, but seeing as I think I'm going to post the most horrible picture ever taken of me ever later in this entry, here goes: I love The Pussycat Dolls show. It's like America's Next Top Model, but with choreographed dancing. And I only got into it a few weeks ago, so this marathon allowed me to catch up on all the drama I'd missed. It was awesome.
After several hours of napping, Pussycat Dolls reruns, and drinking in the room, we headed out for night #2. I would like to pause for a moment here to let that ruminate: I went out two nights in a row. I'm such a rockstar, maybe I should audition for The Pussycat Dolls! (I seriously, really, love the show, in case you couldn't tell).
And, that's all I have time for today. Miami: Part 2 will have to come tomorrow. Stay tuned!
I m back from Miami. It was awesome and fun an amazing and warm, but I have too much work to get done before I can write a real post about it. So for now, let me just leave you with this:
Why, yes, that is a totally jacked, totally oiled man walking down the beach with his arms outstretched while wearing nothing but socks, sneakers, a black G-string and a visor. Why do you ask?
Um, so I'm going to Miami in FOUR DAYS. I can hardly believe it.
My friends and I have been talking about going on a girls reunion for years, pretty much ever since we graduated from college and stopped having pre-determined Thanksgiving/Christmas/Spring Break times to see each other. Sure, Christmas and Thanksgiving are still the same times every year, but now we've reached the stage where several of us (myself included) are coupled off and don't make it to our hometown for every holiday. Also, we're now spread out across the eastern seaboard from Richmond to Connecticut (and for three years, one of us was living in New Mexico! We saw her... never. It was sad), so traffic makes the holiday schedule even more hectic.
So after years of talk about "we should plan a trip together!", we finally decided to do it, and all of a sudden we were all booked on flights from New York and Baltimore to Miami. At the time, the trip was about eight weeks away, and I don't know what the hell happened in between, but now, all of a sudden, it's THIS WEEKEND.
And all of a sudden I also remembered that in the interest of saving a few hundred dollars, my friend Jenny and I decided to fly in to Ft. Lauderdale, thinking we'd figure out how to get from FLL airport to our hotel in South Beach later. You know, when it got closer to the trip.
Luckily there's nothing I love better than a problem and a fast internet connection to solve it. After spending the morning on Google and travel sites, I came to a disturbing conclusion: we were going to have to rent a car.
Shit.
Well, we don't HAVE to, but it makes the most sense. Shuttles run for $80 each way, which is about $10 short of what we paid for our flights, so that seems excessive. Public transportation costs $1.50 each, but the estimated time is 113 minutes, it would require two bus transfers, and one travel site mentioned the stops being in "not the best areas". Um, no thanks. Renting an economy sized car, however, will cost us $100 total. No waiting for shuttles at the airport, no worrying about finding a way back to the airport on Sunday afternoon. Plus, now we'll have a way to get around if we need to leave South Beach for any reason. Perfect, right?
Here's the thing: I am terrified of rental cars. Actually, I am terrified of driving any car but my own. I am so afraid that if something were to happen, whoever's car it was would never forgive me. And/or I would never be able to pay for the damage.
This probably stems from the fact that I have never had collision insurance on a car I've owned, and therefore every accident I've been in (three total) has resulted in a huge hit to my bank account. Even still, it's just not worth it to pay for the insurance on a car as crappy as mine. Don't get me wrong, I love my car. But I only paid $5000 for it, so it doesn't make sense to pay for extra insurance on a car that was worth $5000 three years ago when I bought it, and is probably closer to $500 Kelly Blue Book value now. So when I rear-ended a jackass taxi that TOTALLY CUT ME OFF a few years ago, my insurance happily paid for the Honda CRV in front of him to get a new spare tire cover (which cost all of $80 but still jacked up my insurance for three years), and I was left with the $1000 bill to fix my own car's smashed in front and get a new hood.
Good times. But at least it was my own car! And at least my car is not worth that much! The great part of having a POS car is that you don't have to worry about it as much. Like the time Joel was driving my car and put it into first gear instead of reverse on a giant hill and consequently smashed into the pickup in front of me? I forgave him. Even though it was the week after I got my brand-new hood put on. It's a lot easier to do that when your car is a POS to begin with. A little dent in the hood just keeps it in character with the rest of the car.
Plus, I am just not the greatest driver. There, I'll admit it. Driving stresses me out. I am easily distracted. I suck at directions and I freak out when I think I'm getting lost. I freak out extra when I'm not used to the car I'm driving. I know my car. I know how far I can push it before it stalls (pretty damn far), how fast I can gun it to merge on the highway (not very fast at all, thank you v4 engine!), and that the little shaking it does when it goes over 80mph is just its way of saying "slow down, boss". I know that the engine light coming on means nothing and that the left blinker only works every other Tuesday. I do not know all these things about other people's cars.
Even more scary to me than driving someone else's car is driving a rental car. Why? Because I fear the rental company suing the crap out of me if I wreck their car. I always buy the optional rip-off insurance, but I"m still scared that it won't cover everything. Come on, everyone knows insurance companies are the devil.
It probably doesn't help that back when I went to Arizona in January, my coworker and I rented a car to go to Sedona, which was hit by a freak snowstorm while we were there. Driving back in said Freak Storm, I could not see a damn thing, missed a turn and then jumped a curb at 40mph trying to make an illegal U-turn to get back on the highway in the right direction. Whoops! The rental company didn't come after me. I'm not even sure they noticed the nice dent I left in the wheel well. So it worked out fine. But that doesn't stop me from being afraid that next time I won't be so lucky. God, I hate driving.
But I love going on fun trips with friends. Here's to hoping that Jenny won't mind being the driver on this trip. Which I'm sure she won't. But does that make me the navigator? How about I just man the radio instead? Actually, I totally suck at being the DJ too. I'll just lay down in the backseat and take a nap. We are leaving for the airport at 6am, after all.
Hey, guys! So I made it here to New Orleans. And I have not stressed out very much at all. Even when I had to sit next to my supervisor on the plane (she was coming down for something unrelated to my meeting, and I knew she was also coming today, but I did NOT know she was going to be on my flight), and she was wearing her business clothes and I was wearing my brown Old Navy fleece pants and a North Face zip-up. We had a nice chat. It was actually kind of nice.
Holy cow, this whole "relax" thing really works!
BTW, do you guys think it's weird that I refer to nice, work appropriate clothing as "business clothes"? What else should they be called? I refer to my "business" pants on occassion, meaning the 5 pairs of pants (three brown, two black) that I wear to work every day, such as, "Crap! I have to do the laundry tonight because all my business pants are dirty and I have nothing to wear to work tomorrow". Every time I saw that, Joel breaks down laughing and starts asking me what kind of biz-naz I'm planning on doing. Work pants? The pants I wear to work every day? The pants I wear on days other than Casual Friday? What do you call them?
Anyway, after we landed, I met up with another person from my office (who was there to work with my supervisor, I'm here solo on my project) at the baggage claim, and he asked me if I wanted to share a cab. I said, sure! Don't mind me while I just call the woman I'm supposed to meet here later, who is Kind of Crazy and I really, really didn't want to wait around for anyway, and make up a little white lie about all the work I have to get done in my hotel room.
So... that's what I did. And then I went walking around the French Quarter instead of doing any work. Because I also told her I would not be available until 6pm -- honestly, the things she wanted my "help" with are TOTALLY not part of my job and she is a very manipulative person, so I am glad I had the guts to "stand up" to her. By leaving a message on her voicemail. A message that was a total lie. yes, that is what I call Standing Up To Someone.
Kind of like when I "stood up" to the vet by agreeing to not get Henry neutered for 6 months and then just secretly taking him to another vet.
Anyway, I don't really know what I expected, but New Orleans is differnt than I thought it would be. What I love is the Old South feeling I get just walking around. I've never really been to "The South", and I feel like I'm walking through antebellum movie for some reason. I love it.
What I do not love, and what I was not ready for, is The Dirty. As I was walking around, I decided to walk on Bourbon Street, since that is the famous street, the only street I've ever really heard of. Oh. My. God. It smelled like horse poo. There were Margarita stands, next to take out beer stands, next to Larry Flint's Barely Legal club. On every block, people were wheeling kegs in and out of storefronts, and old people were walking around with giant cups of beer in their hands. All this, at 2 in the afternoon. I could practically see Mardi Gras taking place all around me, and that's probably why it made me feel uneasy. Crowds scare the crap out of me. Drunken crowds are my just worst. Drunken crowds with pictures of alligators all over the place is pretty much my worst nightmare.
But! Once I got off Bourbon Street, I liked the city much better. Thanks to Janet's suggestions, I made my way to Jackson Square, which was gorgeous.
I stopped at Cafe du Monde for a cafe au laite and beignets. I was all, "Oh, I'm only going to have one of these things because I really don't need three! That would just be gluttonous"
And then I had one bite, and I thought, "Well, this is my lunch".
And when they were gone, I wondered if I could get another order without looking like a total pig.
(I didn't. But I really wanted to)
And then, I had grand plans to ride the street car and see the Garden District, but then I got distracted by the Evil Coach Store.
Um, I have been wanting a Coach wallet ever since my wallet got stolen in December. I've been looking on Ebay, and when we went to Chicago we stopped in the Coach store on Michigan Avenue so I could see them in person... and I fell in love with this bag. I was really contemplating buying it, but I decided to think about it and come back later. When we went back later, it was gone. They didn't have any more.
So when I walked into this Coach store, I looked around for it. I didn't see it. So I asked the store employees. They weren't sure they had what I wanted. I gave up, and decided to just look around. And then I found it in a corner. The last one they had.
And I bought it.
I feel sort of sick about how much money it cost, and sort of giddy about how much I love this bag.
And now, dear Internet, I have to actually go do some work to make some money to pay for the designer bag I just bought.
Overall, this trip has been better than expected. Well, I should say it was less bad than expected. It was OK. What I'm trying to say is, I'm ready to come home. Now.
I'll give you this: Arizona is very pretty, in a bleak, desert sort of way. My friend and I escaped from the meeting this afternoon and drove to Sedona, which everyone said was "cool" and a "must see" and "only a short 2-hour drive away". It was gorgeous. And cold. And windy. We didn't see any snakes, because did you know that snakes hibernate in the winter? I did not know that, and hearing that snakes give you a four-month break of looking out for their slithery, venomous bodies was pretty much the second-best news I've heard all week (right behind the "you don't have to give a presentation" news).
After we went on our overpriced but lovely guided hike around Red Rocks, we decided to stop in a coffee shop to go to the bathroom and get warmed up before taking off for the 2-hour ride back to Scottsdale. Except the coffee shop next to our car was closed. As was the one down the street. And the rest of the shops on the block. All closed. It was 5:30pm.
The only thing that was open was a diner, so we stopped in, had some coffee and soup, and used the bathroom. In the 30 minutes we were inside, it apparently started to snow. A lot. Like, half an inch in half an hour. You know what they should really put in the trunk of a rental car? A snow scraper. Or even a snow brush, or ANYTHING TO BE USED TO WIPE SNOW OFF THE WINDOWS. We used a t-shirt (the one my friend happened to be wearing) to wipe off the back, and I decided to use the old roll-down trick on my driver's window. This resulted in me getting a half-inch window-sized block of snow in my lap. I swear, I have used this trick a million and half times in my twenty six years on this earth, and NEVER has the snow fallen INTO the car before. Never. Arizona snow apparently responds to a different gravitational force than East Coast snow. Must be something to do with all those energy vortexes that we were supposedly driving over.
After I drove the car into a curb trying to make a U-turn on the highway (I thought I was turning into a parking lot, damn snow on the ground makes it hard to see) (as does snow falling from the sky in biblical proportions), we thanked the vortex gods that we had decided to spend that extra $23 on rental car insurance and sped home. The one thing I have to say I love about Arizona: Speed Limit 75, baby.
So now I'm home in my hotel room, and I really should be packing, but I'm so bored. Really, what hotel charges this much money for a room and then has only ONE channel playing an actual show? In what alternate universe is my beloved USA an All Car Shows, All The Time Network? WHERE ARE MY LAW AND ORDER RERUNS? I just ordered my room service favorite, French Onion soup, and it came in a styrofoam container and that was the final straw. I just spend $11 to rent a movie (a first for me), and then I'm going to sleep and in 12 hours I'll be on my way home.
April 14th, 2008 at 11:38 pm