Tips on How to Ask Me About My Travels (Slightly Updated)

As tends to happen, I'm starting to get a bit tired of answering the same five questions:

"So, did you have fun?" Nah, seeing amazing sites, meeting fantastic people and having grand adventures isn't really my thing. The $5 massages in Thailand were pretty decent, though.

"I want to hear all about your trip!" Great! Do you have an extra 3 months and the funds to pay me the living wage I won't be making while I retell every detail of my 90 days abroad?

"Are you glad to be back home?" Yes. And no. And it's way more complicated than either you want to hear or I want to share.

"What was your favorite place?" Vietnam. And Munich. And Krakow. And Singapore. And Sydney. And Amsterdam. And Cesky Krumlov. And Khao Sok. And the Cameron Highlands. And...well, it'd be easier if I just gave you my itinerary and you looked at that list there.

"So now what are you going to do?" Unpack. (Seriously. I've lent my backpack to a friend who's traveling Europe for the next two weeks and all I've done is lift the stack of clothing out of my pack and place it on my bedroom floor.) And maybe once I have things sorted here, I'll consider looking for work somewhere, anywhere. That is, unless I can convince each of you to pledge a dollar a day to support my next round of travels.

So, to help you get better responses from me (and to aid in my enjoyment and creativity in answering your questions) I give you a few suggestions that can get the conversation going:

"What was the best meal you had?" The cooking class in Hoi An was outstanding food in fabulous company.

"What local delicacies will you miss the most? REAL Belgian waffles and mango shakes from SE Asia. Yummmm...

"What was the biggest scare you had?" Looking up at the carabiners fastening my harness to the paragliding chute only to notice that they really weren't secure at all.

"How much beer did you drink?" More than I ever thought I'd try in my entire life. Believe it or not, I might actually enjoy a brewski every once in a while now.

"Why don't you look very tan if you spent an entire month in SE Asia?" Dude, the prospect of lugging a 20-pound backpack around the world on lobster shoulders really didn't appeal to me. I layered on the sunscreen.

"What was the biggest mistake you made?" Trying to break up with my boyfriend before leaving the country. That, and going a little crazy in the tailor shops in Hoi An.

"What handy travel tip did you learn along the way?" Carry an extra plastic bag. It comes in handy when shopping in European shops that charge you for bags, when you need to cover your drenched bicycle seat to keep from soaking your shorts, and when you want to keep your wet swim suit from contaminating the dry contents of your bag.

"When do you plan to go on another trip like this?" As soon as I save up the funds. And this time, I'm thinking 6 months. Wanna join me?

"How has this adventure inspired you? Ahhh...you'll just have to wait for another post for that answer...

It May Look Simple Here, But This Sucker Requires a College Degree to Strap Yourself in
I bought a backpack this weekend. But not just any backpack. This is my new Journey to the Center of My Soul backpack by REI. I want to take it into work just so I can zip and unzip all the zipping parts, clasp and unclasp all the clasping parts and tell everyone, "Look! This is where I can portion off my dirty clothes or hiking shoes! And here? Here is where you zip away the straps so they don't get caught in the conveyor belt if I decide to check my luggage (even though it's small enough to take as my carry-on). And you won't believe this! The sternum strap has a built-in whistle. It's like a rape whistle! That'll keep those Italians from clucking at me!"

Man I miss Show and Tell.

Suggest Your Own Hedline Here
I stopped by the post office after work today to ship a package, and the guy in line in front of me looked familiar. I don't know many people outside of work around that part of town, and I couldn't quite place him. He was looking at me like he recognized me as well, so I said, "You know, you look a little familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?" He replied, "Yeah, I was thinking that too. Maybe from the clinic?" And this was the trajectory of my thoughts: Clinic...clinic...clinic...? Oh! The doctor's office! Oh! He was the doc who saw me while mine was out on maternity leave. Oh. My. God. The last time he saw me I was naked under a paper gown and he was looking up my vajayjay. I promptly turned red and probably remained that way for the 15 minutes I was stuck in line next to him. I don't think I've ever taken so long and done such a thorough job filling out the customs shipping form.

More Funny Sentences in my Voicemail
11.15.06 8:21 p.m.
"Hi! This is [CENSORED]. You may remember me from such appearances as 'That Guy You Knew in College' or 'That Guy Who Used to Return Your Phone Calls and Emails Promptly.'"

How I Almost Became a Wannabe Rockstar's Kinda Girlfriend. Maybe.
I don't blog about my love life. There are many reasons for that; chief may be that it's somewhat disturbing to discover that someone has been publicly chronicling his every step to get in your pants.

That being said, The Airport Guy was a walking blog post from the very beginning. And since it's been about six months since I last heard from him, I believe the statute of blogging limitations is over. I was awaiting my flight to St. Lucia (via Miami and Chicago) when I started overhearing this guy's cell phone conversations. From what he was saying, it became obvious he was in some kind of band and his bandmates had somehow left him the night before and he had to find his way to Ireland to meet up with them. His name-dropping became quite impressive (excessive?), so I started jotting down the names in my little travel Sudoku book: Interpol, The Strokes, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs (apparently a guy who used to play with Airport Guy's band is now playing for them), Death Cab for Cutie (Airport Guy's band was supposedly going to be playing with them in Ireland), Drew Barrymore's father (A.G.'s mother, an entertainment lawyer in LA, had him over for dinner the other night, nevermind the fact that John Barrymore died two years ago), Marilyn Manson (who apparently broke A.G.'s keyboard with a beer bottle the night before). Because I like talking with interesting people, regardless of whether they're being completely truthful, I struck up a conversation with him. During our conversation, or rather, during his monologue, I learned the following:

+ He was originally from Mississippi and moved out to Flagstaff after Katrina.
+ He grew up a few houses down the street from some Nobel prize-winning author (whose name I can't remember).
+ He was a big Faulkner fan.
+ He had written a book that told the "fictional" tale about how he had killed his best friend in a drunk driving accident and then spent 6 months hitchiking around the country doing a lot of drugs and sleeping with a lot of women. A few weeks later, Penguin Books was apparently flying him out to NYC to talk about publishing his novel.
+ He went to boarding school with Julian Casablancas.
+ He had packed weed in his checked luggage.
+ He had recently given up drinking. (He said this about 10 minutes before he offered to buy me a drink from the airport bar at 10-freaking-30 in the morning).

Somehow he talked me out of my phone number before boarding his plane to Dublin; I really never expected him to call, but sure enough, upon his return to the States, he rang. One of the first things he mentioned was that he had run into Phillip Seymour Hoffman while walking around some town in Ireland and offered to buy him a drink. He also ran into Dolly Parton in Temple Bar in Dublin. By this time I had enlisted Sarah's help in checking some of his previous story, and we learned that Death Cab for Cutie was definitely NOT playing anywhere in Ireland for the next three or four months. But Jason (I finally learned his name during the phone call) the Airport Guy amused me so I didn't really care how real his stories were. The next day he called to invite me to Sedona because his buddy Maynard Keenan from Tool was having a party celebrating the opening of his new vineyard. I had to decline because the party was that Tuesday and I had to work. He called me the next day to invite me up to Flagstaff so the two of us could go bike riding. When I told him I didn't have a bike, he said he'd buy me one. The next day he called to invite me to Sedona for a full moon party and even offered to charter a plane to fly me there. The next day he called me three times in one day.

And that was when I stopped returning his phone calls. I never did figure out what band he was supposedly in, not to mention which stories were real and which were completely fabricated, though I think the one about Marilyn Manson destroying his keyboard with a beer bottle might be my favorite. "Jason the Airport Guy" is still programed in my phone and I get a good chuckle when I scroll past it.

Rockstar?
Con Artist?
Confused Crazy Guy?

Who knows. But it makes for a good story.

Splish Splash
I have the flu, and my sister has kindly told me that my hair is greasy and that I stink. I think this means it's time for a bubble bath.

Honk if you’re a homophobe!
I nearly drove off the highway yesterday evening. NPR’s Michele Norris was interviewing Paul Weyrich, a conservative activist and leader of the Free Congress Foundation, about the Foley sex scandal and Dennis Hastert’s role and responsibility. Weyrich said the following: (transcript taken from Wikipedia)

Weyrich: It has been known for many years that Congressman Foley was a homosexual. Homosexuals tend to be preoccupied with sex — the idea that he should be continued, or should have been continued as chairman on the Committee for Missing and Exploited Children, given their knowledge of that is just outrageous (Interview at 1:08).
Norris: Now, before we go on, I think I can say, Mr. Weyrich, that there quite a few people who would take exception to the statement that homosexuals are preoccupied with sex.
Weyrich: Well, I don't care whether they take exception to it — it happens to be true.
Norris: That is your opinion.
Weyrich: Well, it's not my opinion, it's the opinion of many psychologists and psychiatrists who have to deal with them* (Interview at 1:40).

What?!?! The same has been said about men in general, but no one ever said, “We should have expected no less from Clinton; after all, he’s a man!” In no way do I condone or excuse Foley’s disgusting actions, but if Weyrich’s rationale were rational, then what we really need is a (straight) woman in the White House, for lord knows our culture’s stigma says that women don’t think or talk about sex (a claim that Sex and the City does well to dispute). So here’s yet another reason W. shouldn’t be president: he’s man and is probably spending too much time thinking about banging his wife to responsibly govern our country.

*"Deal with them"? I "deal" with traffic on my daily commute; I "deal" with pesky telemarketers; I "deal" with PMS. And unfortunately I have to deal with homophobes and bigots like my good friend Mr. Weyrich.

Hello, my name is Erica and I’m a biblioholic
I have a problem. I can’t stop buying books. But that’s not the whole problem; the whole problem is that lately I have been buying or borrowing them faster than I can read them. I have bookmarks in no less than seven (SEVEN!) books right now. I’ve run out of proper bookmarks and have resorted to tearing off scraps of paper from notes, Google Maps directions and the phone number of a boy I really don’t want to call back. And last weekend I bought two more books. My car drove itself to Changing Hands Bookstore. I couldn’t stop it—I was just going to look!—but then I flipped open the back cover of a used hardback book, and I fell in love with Jonathan Safran Foer. I bought a book because of the author’s picture; I have stooped to a new low of patheticness. New, for your viewing pleasure:



But this book! This book is amazing. It may just pull me from my non-committal rut.

Observation from a weekend in Palm Springs, Calif.
The city (a distinction I apply liberally, since it seemed more like a town than a city) was a Mecca for geriatrics and gays. Quite the combo of demographics. The theater downtown had just let out its Sunday matinee when Ally and I drove past, and judging by the swarms of purple dresses and corresponding ruby colored chapeaus, there must have been a Red Hat Society convention going on. Every other shop had a rainbow flag out front, and we had to pick Ally's jaw off the floor of a "specialty shop" when she opened a happy wedding card that had an, um, revealing picture on the inside of a seemingly innocent greeting. To give you a flavor of our night out in Palm Springs, I present the following conversation:

SETTING: Walking along the sidewalk of a well-lit street late at night with my mother and younger sister.

MY MOTHER: So, why do you think we see more gay men on the street, but not hardly any lesbians?
ME: I don't know. It seems to me that in our culture, lesbians get the shaft...ummm [tries to stiffle laughter]...I mean they get the short end of the stick...er...I mean [errupts in a fit of laughter]
MY MOTHER: You'd better not put that on your blog.

The high is over
It's like the feeling you get when you return from a mountaintop religious experience, and that's what a week with friends in St. Lucia is like - a religious experience. I've converted to island life. If anything, I'm about 98.3 percent converted to the concept of a destination wedding. I loved that we all got the chance to celebrate Megan and Jon's love for each other over several days. They exchanged vows and rings in the company of the people who loved not only the two of them, but who had grown to love the company of each other. All 36 of us sat at the reception dinner table with conversation that could outlast the mountains of food. Now that is how you celebrate the joining of two lives; it's a joining of families, of friends, and of corners of your lives normally separated by time, distance and circumstances. But in this week, Megan's and Jon's families, childhoods, collegiate-hoods and adulthoods collided with each other just for the chance to be a part of such an important moment of their lives (well, and a chance to work on our tans). There wasn't really much of a reception line at the end of the wedding ceremony; that's reserved for your traditional big-bang wedding where guests typically get a 15-second handshake with the bride and groom. There was much more than handshaking going on throughout the week (plenty of rum shots shared comes to mind...). And the reception dinner tables weren't segregated between cliques of friends because by that time we were all friends and conversation could flow easily from Brit to Yank, family member to high school classmate, groom's mate to bride's friend. The week could have only been sweeter if we could have shared it with more of Megan's and Jon's friends and family.

I left the island not only with a sunburn on my shoulders and mosquitoes packed into my luggage, but with new friendships, inside jokes, theme songs buzzing in my head (The Final Countdown!), new bug-eye sunglasses, sand in my swimsuit and several more couches I could crash on the next time I'm in good ol' Londontown. In the spirit of David Letterman, I offer the following Top Ten lists:

Top Ten Lessons Learned on the Island of St. Lucia
10. Mosquito netting is not just there for ambiance.
9. Rum and biscuits (cookies to you Yanks) make for a quality lunch when you plan to spend the day at the beach.
8. No one really cares if you wear the same outfit twice (or thrice).
7. Four-thonged flip flops are very uncomfortable.
6. The English can't play volleyball worth crap. This means that I can actually look like a quality athlete in front of somebody!
5. Mango juice and red wine makes for a great makeshift sangria.
4. Warm showers are for wimps.
3. Thank God for the tank top with a shelf bra. Who wants to wear a bra when it's 86 degrees Farenheit and 84 percent humidity?
2. Cows like mangoes; just be careful of the mango-induced cowpies.
1. Avoid the Miami airport at all costs and especially the Miami Airport Hotel. For such a major hub, it's a shabby excuse of a port of entry to the States.

Top Ten Cross-Cultural Experiences
10. Teaching the Brits how to play 500 in the ocean (and walking away with quite a few bruises on the arm and back).
9. Dom thinking my pronounciation of "bottle" was "butthole," thus sparking many requests for a "butthole" of rum/beer/wine.
8. Quizing Charlie to name all 50 states over breakfast, before the coffee sets in.
7. Learning that the best man's toast is more of a "roast" of the groom in the U.K. rather than a ode to the couple's love, and I think Will toned his down for the sake of the Americans present.
6. Jenny breaking out into the Australian national anthem.
5. Introducing s'mores to the English.
4. Tripping out when seeing Charlie wearing a KCOU t-shirt, purchased at the Blackberry Exchange in Columbia during his, Will's, Josie's and Rich's Great American Road Trip the summer of 2003.
3. Listening to Dom put on a Deep South/hick accent.
2. Watching the mute local groundsman shimmy up a palm tree, fetch some coconuts and weild a machete to skin it and create a hole from which to sip the coconut milk.
1. Watching Will and Josie get into a sparring match over the correct pronounciation of the word "scone" - whether it's like "cone" or "gone." Apparently this debate is as big as the "pop" vs. "soda" debate in the States.

Top Ten Lines from the Week*
*As I remember them; not meant to be verbatim.
10. "...That was after Uta gave birth to the Pitons." --Megan
9. "I drink so much rum I shit myself." --A cab driver's response to the boys' request for where they could find the best rum on the island.
8. Any line revolving around Will's "strap-on carry-on."
7. "Jon measures your level of chill by how often you wear flip flops, and Jon wears flip flops in the middle of winter in London." --Will in his best man toast
6. "And we all remember when Jon faked a case of SARS just so Megan wouldn't forget about him." --Will, again during his toast
5. "Maybe this is weird, but I don't think I'll ever cheat on my wife. I mean, I haven't yet, so I probably won't." --Another cab driver, just after he asked Jenny to join him and his wife for karaoke with the condition that he probably wouldn't talk to Jenny at all during the night since his wife would be there.
4. "I think you get coconut milk by milking the coconut teats" --Josie. "No, I do not think that is correct." --Nico's response.
3. Steve-O's unprintable comment about what he'd like to do to a certain type of person where after he'd had one (maybe more...) too many drinks during the stag night.
2. "We wish Megan and Aaron the best in their wedding tomorrow." --Tom (father of the bride) at the groom's (Jon) dinner; Aaron is Megan's brother. Many insestual jokes ensued.
1. "There is no drug problem in St. Lucia." --The justice of the peace in her words of welcome at the start of the wedding ceremony.

One more thing: a musical PSA
Go right now to The New Kentuck Quarter's MySpace page. This is Ron (Lindsay, Megan's Matron of Honor's husband)'s band. He sang at the wedding a song he wrote. While that song isn't available on their MySpace profile, you can hear several songs he sang for us around the bonfires on the beach. If you're on MySpace, add them, and if you're ever in the Madison, Wisconsin area, go to one of their shows. Do it.

The requisite pictures
Hen Night
Groom's Dinner
Retka-Tidd Wedding Ceremony
Wedding Reception
Around St. Lucia
Pictures at the Beach
Around Balenbouche Estate (The old sugarmill where all the "kids" stayed and where the ceremony and reception were held)

And for those of you who are feint of heart and don't want to wade through hundreds of pictures, here's a pared down album with all the essentials:
St. Lucia favorites*
*This will be updated Monday as there are a few of the best still missing

In short: Best. Holiday*. Ever.
*That's "vacation" to you Yanks.

Vignettes of the Weekend with Sarah

Scene: SARAH and ERICA are sitting at the bar at Amsterdam with their martinis in front of them. Madonna comes on for the second time during their 10 minutes of being there.

SARAH Madonna again? What is this? A gay bar?

The girls switch on their gaydar and scan the room.

SARAH Whispering. Um, my gaydar is totally going off on the bartender. And those two guys just left with their arms around each other.

ERICA Dude, we have to call Pat right now.

-----

About 45 minutes later at the same bar after it has filled up with more and more gays and lesbians. SARAH and ERICA are deep in conversation (you know, the usual: politics, religion, boys) as OLD GAY BARTENDER comes over and scoots SARAH's chair closer to ERICA.

OGB You know, she's not going to bite.

OGB Goes back to business behind the bar.

ERICA He totally thinks we're a lesbian couple. Hee hee.

-----

Still at Amsterdam, SARAH and ERICA are now getting their nails done for $5 by two stylists—one male, one female—who work at the bar every Monday night.

GAY MANICURIST With a lilt in his voice. You know, girl, I'm not sure if I wanna drink tonight. I mean, half of me does, but the other half doesn't.

ERICA Well, then you should only drink with your left hand, not your right.

GM Ooh, girl! I like the way you think! We're totally going to be friends.

ERICA But I'm only going to be friends with the half of you that's drinking.

GM Laughs. Alright, babycakes, what color are we doing tonight?

-----

It's after midnight in ERICA's room and the two girls are in their respective beds.

ERICA Sneezing and blowing her nose. Blech.

SARAH Coughing. Uggh.

ERICA What the dynamic duo the two of us make this weekend.

-----

The same night, while discussing the finer points of Saved! before drifting off to sleep.

ERICA You know, I've decided I want a guy who is a combination of Patrick Fugit's characters in Saved! and Almost Famous. But out of high school, of course.

SARAH Oooh, yeah. Hip, but caring.

ERICA Totally hip. Knows what he believes in, but appreciates others' beliefs, too. That scene where he asks Mary out...

SARAH Oh yeah..."You're, like, totally adorable." What a cutie. But he'd definitely need to be out of high school. We'll go for the future Fugit.

-----

Walking along Mill Avenue near the ASU campus

ERICA Ahhh!!! No! Make it stop!

SARAH What?!

ERICA Points. That sign is all in Comic Sans!

ERICA pulls out camera to yet again document the travesty that is the misuse of Comic Sans font.

SARAH You know, you should start a blog like Fiscus's Learn to Spell, America and post pictures of ugly Comic Sans.

-----

SARAH and ERICA have met SARAH's cousin JODI and JODI's friend MICKEY at Casey Moore's near campus so that SARAH can play with JODI's baby PHOENIX. SARAH coos and giggles at PHOENIX.

ERICA I think between Viviane, Bandit and Phoenix, you're going to have used up your Cute Thing quotient for January, Sarah.

-----

At a gas station after leaving Casey Moore's. The girls receive a text message from PAT: "Yall driiiiinkin?"

SARAH What? Does he think we're just a pair of lushes?

She texts him back to say they're going to see Brokeback Mountain. A minute later, they receive a text from PAT in return: "You two are really gaying it up, aren't you?"

-----

At the Jade Bar in the swanky elements (too hip to capitalize) restaurant on Camelback Mountain. CUTE BARTENDER (who is definitely not gay in the girls' minds) has just filled ERICA and SARAH's martinis to the brim. CUTE BARTENDER rings up their bill while ERICA sets out the cash to pay for the martinis and reaches for her drink, which she subsequently spills on the bills. She tries to clean it up without CB noticing, but to no avail.

ERICA Hands soggy bills smelling of eggnog martini to CB Sorry about that.

CB Don't worry about it.

SARAH Fortunately, I've heard that eggnog money is still accepted in 40 states.


-----

Later that night, SARAH and ERICA are sitting on the couches at elements, half-drained martinis in hand, looking out over the dark city while trying to figure out where Jennifer Anniston and Vince Vaughn had sat when they dined there Thanksgiving weekend.

SARAH See, this is why I need to move to Denver.

ERICA To be in a big city?

SARAH So I can spend the morning shopping at TJ MAXX and my evening drinking $14 martinis. I love it that you don't have to be dressed up or super casual all the time here.

-----

There, wasn't that just like you were there with us?

Barack Obama is a rockstar
He also has nice hands. I went to hear the senator from Illinois at a rally in support of 2006 Senate candidate Jim Pederson on the ASU campus this afternoon. It made me miss the fun and excitement of election season. And true to his reputation, Barack "Too Hot for HottestUSSenator.com" Obama had quite the swooning following, including someone who had strung up a "I LOVE OBAMA" banner.

I didn't get that fancy degree for nothin'
After the rally, and after I shook his hand and told him, "Thanks for all your hard work, Senator," I managed to get snagged by a reporter for the East Valley Tribune who proceeded to ask me a bunch of questions. (Nosy reporters.) When I had answered them to her satisfaction, she told me, "You know this job requires me going up to random people anywhere from 8-years-old to adults and asking them a bunch of questions, and I don't think I've ever had anyone answer my questions so concisely and clearly and eloquently as you." (Concise! Clear! Correct! -- Of course my opinions are correct!) My response: "Well, I have to admit that I graduated from the University of Missouri School of Journalism, so I've been in your shoes before and I know a bit about what you're looking for." "Cheater!" she replied.

I went to the fights tonight, and a hockey game broke out
I got my introduction to hockey tonight at a Coyotes game against the Mighty Ducks of Anaheim. (An appropriate opponent because my only previous experience with the sport was The Mighty Ducks, the movie.) I would have benefited greatly from the expertise of my many northern friends who grew up in hockey country. The game halted several times without any clear reason, players all of a sudden jumped over the wall at random (yet seemingly planned) times, and penalties were dished out without explanation. But I enjoyed myself and was surprised at how graceful the athletes can be on the ice in such bulky outfits.

to london, with love
9/11 may have had more deaths and casualties and may have been only half the country away, but yesterday's attack on London hit closer to home, because it hit closer to my heart. In September of 2001 I had never been to NYC or DC, and I knew no one in either city, (save for Gracy having grown up in a DC suburb, and she of course, was safe in Columbia). I had seen New Yorkers running from an attack on their city before - I had watched Independence Day. So even though my brain knew that the news cameras were not using special effects to alter the scenes of destruction, I didn't react emotionally to the attacks for months.

But yesterday had me in tears the moment I heard of the bombings on London's transport system. I felt very much under attack even half-way across the globe. London is my city. I can picture Russell Square, hear the computerized voice saying, "This is a District Line train to Edgware Road," remember rushing up the stairs to the top of a red double-decker bus for the best seats in the house and have pictures of me with the trolly beneath the sign in the King's Cross station marking Platform 9 3/4. The city holds a piece of me in its history, and it holds Megan and Jon now. When I got into work and turned on my computer, the image of a Tube map that I had set as my desktop wallpaper back in January flickered into view, bright, colorful and looking as safe as it had the day before. The tube map, so central to London and my experiences there, the map is London itself to me. And despite its smells and crowds, or maybe a bit because of it, the Tube is one of my favorite parts of London.

Glued to NPR, I clung to the report that the Jubilee Line was unharmed, knowing that was the line Megan took to work every day, and burst into tears as soon as her mom said she and Jon were safe. But even knowing they were safe didn't keep my emotions in check for the rest of the day. A woman was interviewed on NPR outside Earl's Court Tube station, a block from where I once lived, and I could imagine her - I could imagine ME - standing there, next to the news agent with an Evening Standard poster proclaiming the day's biggest headline: "Terrorism on London Transport." An attack like yesterday's wasn't unexpected. There were warnings when I was there. But knowing it could happen doesn't dull the shock when it does.

One of my favorite depictions of the Tube map was the '80s "Tate by Tube" poster that shows tubes of paint creating the Tube map (Get it? Paint tubes? The Tube?) and promoting the Tate Museum - I don't remember if it was for the Tate Modern or the Tate Britain, but my hunch is the Tate Modern. I had a horrible vision yesterday of some ignorant 2-year-old mussing up that image by finger painting.

Maybe it sounds a bit callous, but while 9/11 left a hole in the skyline of New York, 7/7 left a hole in my heart.

and now for a little comic* relief
I've been house- and dog-sitting this week. For me, this has meant eating sugary cereals for breakfast (Golden Grahams - yay!), drinking fun drinks for dinner (chocolate milk - woohoo!) and having special drinks for dessert (Bailey's - oooooh!). For the dogs, it meant peeing on the clothes I set out for church. I've never lived with dogs before. Apparently they don't like it when something new is on the floor. Or maybe they had warmed up to me and were marking my clothes as part of their territory, in which case I feel I should sense some kind of flattery, but it's evading me. I quickly made a new rule for myself: all clothes go in the closet, behind a shut door, and nothing is left on the floor. I must have disobeyed my own rule, because today I came back from work to find a pair of my knickers torn and in a knot - A KNOT! These cute black poodles literally have my panties in a bind. I didn't know dogs knew how to tie knots.

*Sans the sans, of course.

bags packed
The aniticipation of travel is a lot like the early stages of falling in love: You choose a destination, an adventure, a culture that makes your pulse race, your heart leap. When you arrive, you don't know if it will turn out to be a casual flirtation, a torrid affair, a long-term relationship -- or if, in the end, after all the planning and expectation, you'll find out there's just no chemistry.
-"When We Take Travel to Heart" Daisann McLane, National Geographic Traveler May/June 2005

Following the metaphor above, I'm returning to an old flame in two days, and I'm two parts jumping out of my skin with excitement and one part nervous that London has moved on to other loves, that the old chemistry just won't be there.

Nah...who am I kidding? I'm all parts jumping out of my skin with excitement.

up next:
A Clark-like quiz.

PS
I totally just accidently closed the window with my completed-but-not-yet-published post. My heart was calmed and my curses quieted when I tested the "Recover post" option that Blogger recently added and found my intact post. Thank you, Blogger!!!!

it's not me. it's you
I wish one could turn down an offer for friendship like one can break up with a guy. When telling a suitor that you see your lives going in different directions, you're applauded for being open and honest. If I can turn a guy down, why can't I do the same with a girl?

"I'm sorry," I would tell her. "I just don't think we're right for each other. I want to find someone who will watch great movies with me and discuss politics and travel, while you want to go out to expensive clubs and discuss how few hot guys are out tonight. If I want to talk about the lack of hot guys, I can do so at home and not pay cover. I want someone who will hike Camelback Mountain with me, you enjoy using the back seat of my van to mount a guy you met two hours ago at a club. I just don't think this is going to work out."

There's a word for people who say mean things like that: bitchy. So, instead, I ignore her phone calls and appologize for having other plans. ("Sorry I can't come out with you tonight, I have to wash my hair.") My evasion was working well; I hadn't heard from her since before Halloween. But tonight she called.

Thank goodness for caller ID.

playing with the big kids now
It is 1 a.m., and I've just returned home from an office holiday dinner party. Against my better judgment, I am posting on this leaky cauldron, of sorts because I feel guilty; I have let the links bar to the right grow longer than the recent entries in the main column of this site. It is time I revisited you, dear blog readers and amused you with the goings on here in the Valley of the Sun.

Tonight we went to a nice steakhouse for dinner. "Nice" doesn't cover it, though. When I arrived, I parked a block away so as to avoid the restaurant's valet parking. When I saw the waiters in the white suit coats swirling around the tables, I was glad I had changed out of the pale blue tank top I had planned on wearing. Nearly every other woman seated around the table was wearing a sequined blouse. A waiter swooped in on me as soon as I sat down, replacing my crisp white napkin with a crisp black one, "So as not to get lint on your black slacks," he said.

Earlier in the day I had been lulled into a false sense of security that my peers at work were my kind of people. Having told us to wear comfortable clothing, our editor treated us to an afternoon out of the office, taking us to a rock wall climbing center. We spent a few hours scaling the walls, and I was at home in clothes I've also worn as pajamas. Then, we were told to meet him as Mastro's Steakhouse, "And I wouldn't wear jeans," he told us, his eyes emphasizing that a shower would be necessary.

Mastro's was the type of restaurant one goes to for (insert life-changing event here). Our table of 10 didn't have one white-jacketed waiter; we had four. There was a man whose sole duty, I determined, was to stand watch over the three tables in our area, keeping careful guard for water or wine glasses nearing the half-empty mark. Another man, who looked like he could be playing the role of a Secret Service agent with his black suit and earpiece stood at the opposite side of the table. The seafood sampler came out with dry ice "smoke" spilling over the sides of the dish, and I felt like a foreigner scrutinizing the natives around the table, mimicking their moves as I tried to figure out how to extract meat from a lobster claw without squirting lobster juice all over my boss.

When it came time to order our main course, the ring leader of the waiters got our attention saying, "Excuse me ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to take this time to introduce our menu." I ordered the lamb porterhouse, and when it arrived, it announced its entry into the room, sizzling on a 400-degree platter. The food was amazing, and of course I couldn't finish it (I knew desert would be coming and I had to save room). This was not the type of restaurant where one asked for a doggy bag, though. Instead, the waiter returned with my lamb in a small box occupying a shopping bag large enough to carry a live version of my dinner. The bag read:

Mastro's:
Scottsdale + Beverly Hills

After dinner, I followed a couple of coworkers out for drinks at Barcelona, a nearby club. This time, I parked two blocks away not because I wanted to avoid the valet parking; I seriously doubted that the bouncers would let me in the building after watching me alight from the beat-up green minivan I drive. The men in our group paid their $10, and though we women entered free of charge, I gripped the Burberry purse my grandmother bought me for my 21st birthday as if it alone could sanction my presence in the upscale club. I was afraid my plastic Target chandelier earrings would give me away, and I adjusted the £5 pashmina Pat brought me back from a London street vendor, hoping it would lend my outfit an air of global style.

I should have realized that the days of Chipotle as a high-class meal were long gone a month ago when I attended a "get together" at a coworker's house. She asked that guests bring something to eat or drink, so I brought chips - I went all out and brought two bags, actually - which seemed to slightly offend my hostess. I set my bags of chips on the table among sushi, tri-tip, mussels, candied almonds and chocolate-covered bananas and turned to the little black terrier that follows us Kansas girls, saying to myself, "Toto, I don't think we're in college anymore."