L Dubs

Greasy pizza or insane abs?

2010-10-17T15:44:00.003+01:00

Does anyone else think Dave Andelman, CEO of The Phantom Gourmet, looks EXACTLY like The Situation?

Moving Van on the Second Date

2010-10-13T12:06:00.003+01:00

I was chatting with an old friend recently about dating co-workers. He himself is currently in what could be described as a fling with a lady co-worker. Now I'm usually one to go overboard. With everything. Anything new in my life and I will dedicate 100% of my attention to it. My friends and family have learned this the hard way, as I've dropped off the face of the Earth to spend every waking moment with a new girlfriend or my MacBook or rock climbing. (I've also recently decided I'm going to quit my job and become a Spanish tomato farmer, but that's another obsessive story.)

Back to my fling-ing friend. He said it was going well and at this point, they both are really enjoying all the time they spend together. I was dumbfounded. How do people work together every day, and in this case on the same team, and not go completely overboard? I didn't understand how he wasn't spending every moment with her at work when he could have been. After all, according to him she's gorgeous, fun, and generally awesome. I guess it's at this point that I should clarify and say that when I do that 100% attention thing, it always backfires; after a certain amount of time (1 week, a month, etc.) I see the error in my ways and purge my newfound obsession. So I asked if he wasn't worried about maybe it being too much too soon and he told me that they have a good balance and don't overdo it. Clearly "don't overdo it" isn't in my vocabulary.

But why is this? Why are some girls out-of-their-mind crazy like this? And why, if I know I'm one of said girls, can't I stop myself from doing it? There's definitely a part of me that looks down and thinks, "Wow. You are insane. If I weren't a part of your conscious, I would totally dump you right now." Guys are different. I know no guys who obsess over a new girl and plan out the next month's evenings with them in mind. Usually it's worse in lesbian relationships; another thing I don't really understand. Are the women who date men less obsessive because they know guys won't put up with crazy and would dump them? Is women's insanity exacerbated by proximity to other women?

I guess I'll just have to take the next 2 weeks to perpetually think about this...

1 Year Closer to Death

2010-10-08T02:27:00.002+01:00

Yesterday I turned 29. 29. It's the age that everyone says they are until they suck it up and finally admit that fine, okay, they're really 57. But I don't see what the big deal is about this milestone. Sure it's the last year I'll be able to say I'm in my 20s, but I'm really okay with that. Being a person who fears death and the end of anything from the fall season to summer camp, I started wondering why I'm not freaking out about turning 29. After all, I'm probably over a third of the way through my life.

Maybe I'm not afraid of turning 29 because I still look like I'm 17. I don't have wrinkles. I don't have that mature look that screams "I am not a girl anymore, I'm a woman!" I don't use a pocketbook or wear high heels or makeup. I opt for jeans and t-shirts and put my hair in a ponytail most every day. So how can I fear getting old when I know I won't look it for awhile? Don't get me wrong; I am not asking for your sympathy because I look young. But let's just say that it's tough for me to make "Oh my god I'm going to turn 30 soon!" complaints when I still shop at Gap Kids.

I guess if I were truly a 29 year old woman, right now I'd be curling up on my sofa drinking a giant glass of red wine, watching Grey's Anatomy, planning a night out with my girls at The Bell In Hand, and perusing the pages of Us magazine. Ugh. Thank god I'm just a 29 year old girl instead.

Par Lay Voo Fron Sace?

2010-08-25T22:14:00.000+01:00

I am probably the worst packer ever. I can’t take anything less than 2 suitcases for a weekend getaway. Also? I hate the phrase “weekend getaway.” But back to my point. I am leaving for my European vacation, dahlings, this Friday. And so tonight I will be packing everything I need for my journey.

Itinerary – 5 days in Cinque Terre Italy, 10 days hiking the Alps in Italy, France, and Switzerland, 2 days exploring Geneva

Exciting, but still pretty simple, right? I’m one person. One very small person. There is no way I need more than like, 20 pounds worth of travel items. But I guarantee when I start to lay out my belongings, I will have to remind myself that 8 CitySports t-shirts are overkill, while I think I’m gonna need my running sneakers there’s just no way it’s happening, and that no, I don’t need to bring all those Clifbars – I’ll just buy baguettes and cheese when I’m there.

I’m deathly afraid of forgetting something crucial, though. Let’s clarify for a moment. I’m not deathly afraid; there’s a 0% chance I will die at the thought of forgetting my toothbrush. But I’m still nervous about it. I am sure that somewhere over the Atlantic I will stop watching The Bucket List on the video screen in front of me and realize my pajamas are sitting on my desk.

I was thinking that maybe I would take some fancy pants clothes with me to wear out at night when I’m in Italy. Because isn’t that what people do in Italy? They put on their Axe body spray or Chanel No. 18 and hit the town, right? The last time I went out at night in Italy, Susan and I drank flutes of limoncello and then promptly decided we would never ever be drinking limoncello again, in flutes or not. Long story short, I’m not bringing fancy pants clothes.

Just taking a general poll here, but how many Q-tips is too many to bring on a 2 week vacation? And underpants? How many is too few? Eh, as long as I bring my passport and Travel Scrabble I should be okay.

Biker Chick

2010-08-23T22:34:00.001+01:00

Pros of riding a motorcycle 90 miles from Pembroke to Provincetown:
Feeling like you’re part of the somewhat-secret society of bikers who point to 7 o’clock with two fingers and wave when they pass you
Up close views of art galleries, antique stores, and “women”
The wind in your hair
Feeling so much cooler than those kids stuck in a minivan

Cons of riding a motorcycle 90 miles from Pembroke to Provincetown:
Helmet hair
Walking funny the next day
Speedbumps and potholes
Taking a bug to the face

Don't be mislead. I killed no cats.

2010-08-17T00:49:00.002+01:00

This is a picture of a smore made with vegan marshmallows. While it looks bubbly and plastic and horrid, it actually kinda tasted good. After 10 minutes of hemming and hawing over whether to eat one, I proceeded to "cook" and eat no less than 5 of them. Self-control doesn't factor in when chocolate, graham crackers and marshmallows (albeit vegan) are involved.

This smore, and pots of quinoa, were made this weekend while camping in the Catskills. In Woodland Valley, to be exact. And if we're going for details here, I suppose I'll confess that the following happened:

1) In three days, I took one shower (sans soap and shampoo).

2) I ran 16 miles, saw about 4 people while doing so, and realized that it would suck to train for a marathon while living in the boonies.

3) I gathered firewood, but managed to pick all the wet, slug-covered pieces.

4) Hiking happened, but was overshadowed by my excitement for Nutz Over Chocolate Luna Bars.

5) The gay male couple in the next campsite purchased a potted flower plant for their picnic table. Now THAT is gay.

6) I lost at Scrabble but played some great 4th grade words like 'dangly,' 'mist,' and 'bee.'

7) In order to light a fire, I burned the one section of the NYTtimes I was told absolutely, under no circumstance, to use.

8) No bears were actually seen, but it was assumed that any sound occurring after dark was made by one.

I suppose that as much as I enjoy the outdoors, I'm not really made for them. Though I DO have the eating part down to an art.

Herman's Hermits Crabs (what I would name a hermit crab pet store if I opened one)

2010-08-13T13:07:00.003+01:00

I'm going camping in the Catskills this weekend. It will be my first time to the region, my second-ish time camping, and the zillionth time I try to keep myself from falling asleep on a long car ride. I'm not entirely sure what my problem is when I drive more than 10 miles, but my eyelids just decide that they'd rather not remain in the open position. Sidenote - if you're thinking about getting that Starbucks energy coffee drink, don't. Just don't.

I spent my morning packing and I think I've nailed the essentials - bathing suit, deck of cards, 2 Nalgenes, Q-tips, headlamp, and Twizzlers. I will be prepared for ANYTHING. My adventure includes a stop at Tinker Tubes where I will rent a tube, maneuver my bony ass into it, and then float on it down a river. That is, until I make the slightest movement, topple over, and spend a quarter of a mile trying to hoist myself back up. Yesssssssss!

So, how's about that Prop 8 ruling, you guys? Nice going, California. I will forgive you for trying to steal Massachusetts's thunder because it's a noble cause. Just don't make a habit of it.

Last night I fell alseep to YouTube videos of Keane's "Somewhere Only We Know." I'm not sure why British people don't sound British when they sing; I'm on year 17 of trying to figure this out. Doesn't change the fact that this is my new favorite song, though.

I thought I found an extra bone in my elbow today, but it turns out it was there all along

2010-08-12T01:19:00.000+01:00

You have to really like hard boiled eggs to be confident enough to eat them at work. I thought it was safe to eat mine at 7:08pm, but sure enough, I soon heard “Great. Now it smells like eggs in here.” Sorry everybody. They’re a tasty, healthy snack…what do you want from me?

Marathon training is in full swing again. Only this time around, instead of listening to Car Talk on my bazillion mile runs, it’s The Nerdist, Doug Loves Movies, Fresh Air, and Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me. I’ve been told that only dorks listen to NPR while running, so I guess I’m a full fledged dork. I suppose it’s a trade off since I now know all about Daniel Schorr, Mark Ruffalo, and President Obama’s daily routine. Oh, and if you’re keeping track, Harvey has now eaten no less than 4 pairs of headphones. Sonofabitch.

I will soon be riding down to Provincetown on a motorcycle (as a passenger). I am both nervous and excited about this. Was it in an episode of Rescue Me that they referred to it as a “donorcycle?” That certainly isn’t helping matters. And then when I get there, I’ll have to play it cool like I ride all the time and sheeyit, ain’t no thang to be ridin’ on my bike, yo. (If I live to be 120, I don’t think there will ever be a time that I utter that sentence.) On the bright side, I finally get to wear my leather chaps in an appropriate setting.

of the Day

2010-01-20T21:14:00.000Z

Office Mundanity (it's a word now) of the Day: Trying to figure out how many buttons I need to press on my phone to answer a call with my headset. "Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello?" was overheard around my cubicle.

Dangerous Adventure of the Day: JPM carpool van trip to South Boston sans seat belt. Both ways!

Ballsy Wardrobe Choice of the Day: Red and black flannel lumberjack shirt. The fact that Amanda Bynes designed it and I purchased it for $6 at Building 19 1/3 helps.

Happy Surprise of the Day: Finding leftover Indian food is just as good the next day.

Music of the Day: Barenaked Ladies and one Lady Gaga song ("Honest Eyes")

Somewhat Embarrassing Moment of the Day: Being called out for picking a wedgie at work.

Don't even get me started on burping in public

2010-01-19T21:25:00.000Z

I don't understand mouth-breathers. First of all, I don't know if it's even hyphenated. Mouth breathers. Mouth-breathers. Hmm. I suppose it doesn't matter because if you're a mouth breather, you're probably so low on the food chain that you don’t know either.

There are only a handful of situations where breathing through your wide-open mouth is acceptable. I will detail them for you:
- You have a sinus infection and cannot breathe through your nose because it is filled with snot.
- Someone has just told you that they've been sleeping with somebody else for the past 5 years and can you please sign these divorce papers.
- You are running a sub 6:00 mile.
- You have a date in 5 minutes and you need to check with your best friend if you're good to go or if you need to gargle with Listerine first.

And that's pretty much it. If you think there's another viable option but it's not on the above list, it’s not a viable option. Close your mouth.

I learned the word atelier yesterday

2010-01-14T11:31:00.002Z

Gretchen and I went on a non-date last night to Teranga, a Senegalese restaurant in the South End. Or at least I think it was the South End. Basically, you get off at Mass Ave and Newbury and keep walking for 15 minutes. Yeah. South End.

Anyway, it was delicious. I might have been more smitten with the plates than the actual food, and that's saying something since the food was pretty incredible. It's hard to believe (I know!!) but I've never had plantains before. Last night I was initiated into the club. They weren't overly sweet and tasted more like giant sweet potato fries than starchy bananas.

It's fun to go to a West African restaurant with someone who has lived in West Africa for a number of years. Because when they order they sound all knowledgeable and cultured. And then YOU go to order and you butcher their words with your thick, naive American accent. So instead of asking for the name of the dessert dish, you say "I don't know how to pronounce this, so I'm just gonna say 'I'll have the donuts.'" Classy, right?

It is day 4 with no cable. I haven't even turned my tv on once. (Though I did watch the latest amazing episode (with song!) of How I Met Your Mother online.) I should have done this about 2 years ago.

Beards! Beards!

2010-01-09T00:48:00.003Z

I've been cooking a lot lately. It all started with my "New Year's Resolution" to eat healthier/eat one veggie a day. You have no idea how much kale, spinach, collard greens, green beans, and zucchini I've eaten in the past three weeks. And zucchini isn't even in season! I guess that's not all that exciting and doesn't necessitate an exclamation point, but I did it anyway. Point is, I'm eating vegetables. And my gastrointestinal system (and my co-workers) are paying dearly for it.

I'm hooked on Veronica Mars. I think I once promised myself I would never religiously watch a tv show from the WB, but I've gone and blasphemized. (It's a word.) Hoo boy does it feel good. Kristen Bell? Why was I not obsessed with her earlier?

As embarrassing as it is to admit, I really like Ke$ha's songs. That's right. I said it.

Man versus Woman

2009-04-29T23:48:00.002+01:00

This is long overdue. I was assigned this review about a month ago, did the grunt work right away, and then procrastinated due to reading, a cruise, and the Red Sox. In any case, I'm doing it now and that's what counts.

The following scenario is true 99% of the time: Ask a man if he likes the movie The Big Lebowski and he will emphatically say yes. Ask a woman if she likes it and she will emphatically say no.

I first saw this movie maybe 6 months after it came out and I remember not liking it, in true female fashion. But I kept wondering why there's such a gender chasm in its followers and I decided to watch it again to see if I'm still on the girl side of things. Theresa gave me the assignment of reporting back on my findings. Here they are.

I am a man. Wait, let me rephrase. I'm a woman who sometimes dresses up like a man. I can confidently say that I liked the movie. I can also confidently say that I did not love it. Obviously I liked the colorfulness (it's a word) of the characters. But then, the Coen brothers are known for their original, eccentric characters, so there's no surprise there. I think I would have been even more bored than I already was with the plot if the bits of humor mixed in and the characters' nuances didn't add to the scenes.

Things that were good: any scene with John Turturo, the concept of the white russians, the dream sequence (mainly due to the costumes and the music), the soundtrack, John Goodman (!), Philip Seymour Hoffman

Things that were bad: Tara Reid (this can be said for any movie she's in), not using Steve Buscemi to his potential, the scenes with the "cowboy" talking to the camera at the bowling alley bar, the plotline around Julianne Moore

I guess this movie is a typical Coen brothers movie which means I should have known that I would think it's good artistically but not good entertainingalingly (not a word). In other words, I can see why people would like it. But I still can't see why it's split between men and women. Is it the bowling? The swearing? Tara Reid? And are those the same reasons why women don't like it?

I think I'll stick with watching movies and not reviewing them. I'm better at the former....

Just saw a dude on a bike wearing ski goggles. It's 60 degrees outside.

2009-04-09T17:59:00.002+01:00

Vegan. Passover. Two words that I'm not sure should go together. Not because I don't approve of the vegan lifestyle or the Jews' exodus from Egypt. On the contrary - I'm all for escaping the wrath of evil dictators (lookin' at you, Pharaoh). But when you live your life without meat, cheese, eggs, fish, cheese, dairy, and cheese, also eliminating corn, bread, pasta, and beans seems a little, shall we say, impossible.

Erev Passover I went to my first vegan seder. It was a community seder, so most of us were strangers to each other. While everyone was a character in their own right, there was only one person who bordered on being judged as Really Weird (she brought more than 10 stuffed animals with her and didn't take any of her three shoulder bags off for the duration of the night.) It was a potluck style seder and I brought an unintentionally dense sweet potato/apple kugel and charoset. I expected to see a lot of dishes that were basically a vegetable sauteed in olive oil, but surprisingly most people brought kugel in one form or another. Since it was a lot of carbs, I didn't need to stop and get a steak on the way home like I thought I would.

We talked a lot about the four children and alternate meanings behind their personalities (the simple child, the wise child, the wicked child, and the child who does not know how to ask). While we were eating, our conversation turned to the vegan/vegetarian lifestyle (which, I guess, was to be expected) and I was delighted to find I was not the only carnivore there. I give those guys credit, though (vegans, not carnivores). They have principles, they stick to them (usually), and they endure the wrath of all the meat-eaters out there who not only don't approve of their lifestyle, but are obnoxiously preachy and try to convert them to the flesh-eating side.

ANYway, the seder was fun, the food was tasty, my Mom is happy I went, Jews are no longer building pyramids, I didn't have to sing the four questions, we got to wear masks with the 10 plagues on them (the lice and boils ones were the best), and I will be constipated due to TMMI (Too Much Matzah Intake) for the rest of the week. Next year in Yerushalayim!

Unnecessary tears

2009-04-03T16:51:00.002+01:00

I'm sitting on the stationary bike at the gym listening to some yuppy podcast and watching the (soundless) morning news on one of the TVs. A Hallmark card commercial comes on with an extended family sitting around the dinner table. It is the matriarch's birthday and she is opening a card from, seemingly, one of her relatives. You see her read the outside of the card and open it up to reveal the words "Happy Birthday Love, So-and-So." (It didn't actually say So-and-So, but I don't remember the name.) But that's it. That's all it says inside. And yet, she continues to stare at the inside of the card. Close up on her face to reveal that she's on the verge of tears after receiving such an emotional, heartfelt card. And there I am completely bewildered by this. She has spent 6 seconds reading 4 words, is STILL staring at the nearly blank card, and is close to weeping. What the fuck? Is this woman mentally retarded? I think to myself that Hallmark is way overdoing it and no one cares this much about a friggin' birthday card when the words "Hallmark Recordable Greeting Cards" comes on the screen. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, okay. I get it now.

Pardon the Interruption

2009-04-02T01:18:00.003+01:00

I went to the gym around 5:30 tonight instead of at 6:00 this morning. I don't normally like working out in the afternoon because I feel heavier and it just feels strange to exercise after my day is almost done. Anyway, so I'm there moving my legs back and forth quickly on the elliptical, my feet experiencing this weird burning sensation that I'm not sure a) how it starts or b) how to get rid of it, when I look up at the 7 treadmills in front of me. And on each treadmill is a 20-something "dude." And on each tv screen in front of each of the 20-something "dudes" is ESPN. I felt like I was in some strange robotic, futuristic movie. Then I thought about the clientele who frequent the gym at 6am. And it's mostly the female version of these robots. Granted, TMZ and The Hills aren't on that early in the morning, so they're stuck watching Doug Meehan give helicopter traffic reports, but still. Same thing.

Don't get me wrong. I'm glad that all these people are working out. I would much rather be surrounded by pretty, skinny people than fatty fat fat fats. But there's still no denying that I feel like I'm in a machine when I go to that gym.

I especially thought the "dude" who checked out every girl who walked by or went to the paper towel dispenser was particularly lame. He wasn't even trying to hide it. He DID have nice biceps, though. Dammit, Lisa!

A cocaine-dealing brother-in-law

2009-03-22T21:39:00.005Z

Saturday night Nana, Aunt Freya, and I were supposed to eat at the Hofbrahaus in celebration of Nana's 97th birthday (that's right...97...a "holy moly" is warranted here). But after taking a look at the menu and seeing only meat, meat, and more meat (all in German, I might add), Nana declared she'd rather eat at Pizzeria Uno. I secretly seconded her opinion. Unfortunately, at 5:45 pm on a Saturday night, Pizzeria Uno had a 25 minute wait, so we went to the next best place - Bertucci's.

I can't tell you the last time I ate at Bertucci's. I CAN tell you the last time I ordered Bertucci's rolls to go, took them across the street to a bar, and then proceeded to throw up my 3 Cape Codders into the bag of rolls, ruining the food for everyone and cementing the "Lisa and the Bertucci rolls" story for the rest of my life. I digress. We walk into Bertucci's and I am immediately hit with a wall of sound. Every table has a mother and father and at least two children sitting at it. All of whom are less than 5 years old, playing with some kind of toy, and screaming. Normally when I'm out in Longmeadow, Nana takes me to a place called The Grapevine for dinner. And at 6:00 pm, the place is filled to the rafters with senior citizens, not children. So this was a new experience for me. A new and very loud experience.

Freya orders the steak. Nana and I order the salmon with the intention of splitting it. The rolls come. I eat two. WITHOUT throwing up. Nana mentions that she thinks my brother-in-law is dealing cocaine in Mexico. Freya mentions that she thinks I'm losing my mind. I mention that I could eat the olive oil with garlic and parmesan cheese perpetually until I die.

Here's what fathoms me about Bertucci's, though. My salmon had absolutely no bones in it. Freya's steak had absolutely no fat on it. The green beans and asparagus were not only cooked to perfection, but were the most desireable shade of green, and the mashed potatoes were like heaven. How do they do this? How are they mass producing salmon, cows, and green beans so that the meals are picture perfect every time? I was too busy being freaked out by this to enjoy the taste of it all. Though I quickly got over being freaked out and enjoyed 3/4 of the salmon and a quarter of Freya's steak.

Restaurants like Bertucci's and Olive Garden and Applebees are mindboggling. I rarely eat at those places, feel disgustingly full and gross when I do, and typically make fun of the people who frequent there. But last night, as I created the perfect bite of meat, green beans, and potatoes, I ignored that nagging voice in my head that kept repeating, "You are eating the food of the people who shop at IKEA, watch Desperate Housewives, throw Pampered Chef parties, and laugh at Adam Sandler movies."

Important amendment

2009-03-18T14:55:00.001Z

This just in....

Theresa has alerted me to the fact that there is no way she looked up at me while eating her pizza. "I inhaled that," is how she put it.

That is all. Thank you.

Reply to all

2009-03-11T03:14:00.006Z

Tonight Jon and I talked a lot about work stuff. And it got me thinking. What do you think it would be like to be a CEO of a company or someone who is pretty high up in the org chart? Other than having people quiver when they get in the elevator with you, your life has got to be pretty cool. Specifically related to emails. I mean, I freak out and start sweating when I send emails to people two levels above me, let alone a CEO or managing director. How cool would it be if you knew that every email and spreadsheet you receive has been reviewed a million times for typos, alignment issues, and proper page numbers?

How many cute kitten picture forwards do you think JD (CEO) gets every day? Do you think he's tallied 577 years of bad luck for not passing on an email about a friend dying of cancer? And does he get the same spam emails trying to sell him electronic products that I do every day?

How many people have meant to email Helen an email about that hot guy in the tax department but instead have sent it to H (the second in command) instead? Did they send an apology email? Did they get fired?

All I'm saying is that my life would be a lot more efficient if every email and spreadsheet I was sent received the CEO treatment. No longer would I be preoccupied with finding the "they're their there" typos or worrying that when I print I'll get 18 pages instead of 1 because the page setup isn't set to "fit to 1" and in landscape mode.

Don't say Haman.

2009-03-09T23:57:00.003Z

Is it a full moon? It's got to be. Because people are friggin' crazy today. Last week at work I obsessively flipped between People.com and Lifehacker.com to pass away the time. I was just bored to tears. And all of a sudden it's like I have no time to breathe. People in Edinburgh are yelling at me in emails, people in Luxembourg are laughing so hard on conference calls that they are snorting, and people in Boston are so stressed they're reclining in their chairs and splaying their limbs everywhere. It's all very distracting.

Chris Wyman is convinced that when Patrick Swayze dies, they will play a marathon of his movies. ALL his movies....not just the one good one. Which means that I will have to suffer through Point Break. Again. I, on the other hand, am pretty sure that TNT will only play Dirty Dancing. There's no denying it; it was a strange conversation to have.

Yesterday I went over to Theresa's house around 2:30 and left around 10:30. It's weird, but I think we paid the most attention to each other in the car to and from her house. When we went grocery shopping, we were concerned with why Stop & Shop doesn't carry Peter Pan peanut butter and whether or not to buy fat free mozzarella cheese or 2%. Then, when we got to her apartment, I was concerned with uploading my video to youtube (not successful) and she was preoccupied with taking a shower. And then we watched some tv while both playing on our own computers. So, not really paying attention to the tv or each other then either. We kinda glanced up as we ate our pizza, but not really. It's amazing how 8 hours can feel like only 2 when you're not paying attention to anything. This is why I feel like my weekend hasn't started yet. I want a do-over.

Now it's 8:08. I should be out listening to the Megillah and twirling my noisemaker while eating hamantashen. But I'm pretty sure sitting here drinking decaf coffee while checking blogs counts the same. Right? Right, God?

My mortal enemy

2009-03-04T00:31:00.004Z

"Can we talk about you stealing Splenda, Kleenex, and shampoo from the hotel room?"

That's the first thing Susan said to me after all her other friends had gone home after her bachelorette party in Washington D.C. this past weekend. I responded with a simple "No." No need to discuss.

The weekend was fun.

Becca said "My mom's a pharmacist" twice.

Naomi tripped once.

I saw Dorothy's ruby slippers, Martha Washington's dress, Vermeer paintings, moon rocks, dehydrated ice cream, and a lot of pictures of Cincinnati Jews.

I ate a Nando's chicken sandwich, something I didn't think I'd do again until I went back to London.

A waiter sang "It's Now Or Never" to Susan at dinner and got the lyrics wrong.

Naomi and Melissa got an earful from me about eating shellfish.

We all played CatchPhrase in which we learned that, to Campbell, "sofa" is a weirder word than "couch."

We all played Apples to Apples in which we learned that, to everyone in the world, calling Helen Keller "frivolous" is hysterical...slightly better than calling Schindler's List "melodramatic."

Susan tried, on numerous occassions, to unbutton my shirt in public. She was successful only half of the time.

We all learned that if you want to taste the devil, take a lemon drop shot.

Becca told me she has killed 32 rats. And then she cut off their back legs. And then she skinned those legs. And then she snipped off the ends of the bone. And then she rinsed the bone of their bone marrow. And then she infected those bone marrow cells with the Hanta virus. All while in a space suit reminiscent of Outbreak.

The name Dan Green was mentioned way too many times. (I suppose this is the risk you take if you wear a helmet and don a "crustache" as Naomi put it.)

Susan and I watched Pineapple Express and didn't laugh.

I ate cookies.

My flight was cancelled. And then it was cancelled again.

Susan turned off her car by pushing a button.

We all took turns reminiscing about our first and/or favorite memory of Susan Casper. Mine started off, "The first time I met Susan, I thought she was a real bitch." It's one of my favorite stories.

Hey Susan. Happy Bachelorette weekend. Next time don't dump your drink down my back.

The Special People Club. Being...well, special.

2009-03-04T00:16:00.002Z

Josh came into town last weekend. Hilarity ensued.

I will be scolded for this entry.

2009-02-25T16:53:00.000Z

I'm teaching my Mom how to use iTunes. I'm mainly doing this so that she can listen to all the podcasts I love and get her back to listening to NPR. (One of my favorite memories growing up was listening to All Things Considered on the kitchen radio while my Mom made salmon latkes or shepherd's pie or spaghetti and meatballs.) Steve Jobs and the rest of the people at Apple have done a very good job of keeping things simple and easy for their product users. But apparently, not easy enough for a 50-something woman who refuses to get an actual pet but fills her South Beach condo with metal, plastic, and stuffed animals to which her husband assigns names like Rusty (a metal dog), Pelly (a stuffed pelican), or Doug (a ceramic fish..."doug" is the phoenetic way of saying "fish" in Hebrew).

We're talking on the phone while I'm at work the other day....I mean.....we're talking on the phone the other day after I spent a long, grueling day filling out spreadsheets and TPS Reports....and I'm walking her through the steps of downloading iTunes, populating her music library, showing her how to log on to the iTunes Store, and assuring her that just because she has downloaded iTunes that her songs will NOT disappear from her WinAmp. Progress is being made. All her songs are now in her iTunes music library (though she's unsure of what some of them are and is hands down CONVINCED that Apple has furtively downloaded Middle Eastern sounding artists onto her computer without her knowledge) and I've successfully instructed her how to find podcasts online. But when I tell her to download NPR's weekly hilarious quiz show "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me," she says "No. It's too liberal." Something tells me she won't be subscribing to Obama's speeches podcast..... And yet, I somehow managed to coerce her into downloading The Onion's video podcast. Weird.

I tease my Mom about her (lack of) tech savviness, but she's actually pretty good about picking stuff up. She even emailed me that night to tell me that she really likes the streaming radio on iTunes, which I didn't even tell her about. Who knows if she'll continue to use iTunes (I will have to secretly uninstall WinAmp the next time I'm in Miami) or, gasp, attempt to put the new podcasts on her mp3 player like I told her to, but I'm glad she's at least open to trying something new. My father, however, is a different story. There is no hope for him. How can there be when his biggest computer accomplishment, according to my mother, is that "he Googles things now." I've also heard that 90% of his emails disappear. He'll be typing and then, from the other room, my Mom will hear "Janet! It disappeared again!"

I feel like there's a huge untapped market for technology targeted towards old people. (I'm not saying you're old, Mom.) But it can't require more than three mouse clicks. And it can't take longer than 10 seconds to boot up. And it can't ever break. Or run out of batteries. Or cuss. Or show nudity. Or support Democrats.

Not the best format, but I'm working on it

2009-02-25T00:14:00.013Z

So, if I could do this right, or if I knew how to copy a screenshot on this computer, these four pictures would be all in a line. But alas, you'll just have to use your imagination.

Anyway, here are my cats. Spelling out my name.

Where is the friggin' double click on this mother?

2009-02-24T02:47:00.002Z

Here's what I like about twitter. I can post "heh heh hehn knitting" (CLEARLY a reference to Pee Wee's Big Adventure) and all of a sudden I will get an email telling me that Nancy Queen is now following my tweet. Turns out, Nancy Queen is somewhat of a knitting freak and probably tags words like "crochet" "knit" "old grannies" and "fibercon" in any and all tweets. Maybe I'll post some fake updates just for her. Something along the lines of "Just finished my 47th hat; this has got to be a one day record!" Or maybe "Has anyone successfully crocheted a g-string? My mom's birthday is tomorrow and I'm screwed!"

Life advice #89: If you make lentils with a lot of garlic and then put them in the fridge for leftovers, your entire fridge will soon smell like an anti-vampire convention (or at least I can only assume). Needless to say...don't do that.

Tonight I opened a brand new Sweatin' to the Oldies. This was one of the originals. The VHS was still in the plastic wrapping and the fatties on the front were wearing acid washed jeans. Totally retro, totally awesome. It's just too bad that I can't figure out how to get my living room VCR working. So now my only choice is to watch it on my bedroom tv while I fall asleep. I'm pretty sure only bad things can happen when entering REM at the same time Richard Simmons is yelling at you to firm your ass cheeks.

One of these days I will either fall off the treadmill whilst running or, after stepping off the treadmill, I will be so dizzy and discombobulated that I will stumble into someone else's crotch while they're on the elliptical. Either way the gym will become verrrrrry awkward after that. I'll keep you posted.

Is Steve Wozniak still single?

2009-02-20T22:03:00.000Z

I don't even have my new MacBook at home yet (it's still at the Apple store where all my music, pictures, and porn are being transferred on), but already I'm becoming an annoying Mac person. All I do is look up applications and widgets to download once I get it. I have decided that I will need daily sunrise and sunset times for every location in the world, 4 different versions of Freecell, a simulated rollercoaster ride, a demo version of Jeopardy, Passport Photo Studio which will allow me to take and print my own passport photo, 2 jigsaw puzzle games, and the Urban Dictionary word of the day. Will I use any of these things? Probably one of the Freecell games. And maybe I'll give Jeopardy a whirl, but I can definitely see myself giving up after completely bombing on the World History category.

I won't shut up about all the wonderful things iWork can do. But really - how often will I use a Yard Sale template or a keynote presentation? I mean, I could make a slammin' keynote file for Walter about how the kitchen sink is not an appropriate place to urinate blood, but I'm guessing he just won't listen nor appreciate it. I haven't spent the $49 yet on this software, but I'm going to download the free trial and see if I like it. My other option is to download Neo Office, the Mac version of Open Office. And while I'm sure this will more than do the job for standard word and excel type of applications, there's just something about iWork that is calling out to me and begging me to purchase it.

I'd say the thing I'm most excited about with my new Mac is the iMovie feature. I've (clearly) never made a movie. But now that I have some great software that is so user friendly, I think I'm going to make a movie about everything I can. Potential topics: 1) A documentary on the dude who works at the library - Why is he so quiet? Why does he cross his legs like that? Is he 25 or 45? Why does he print out the receipt every time for me when he sees me go outside and immediately throw it in the trash can? 2) A Fight Club montage of Harvey pummelling Walter. (Seriously. You should see these guys wrassle.) 3) A birthday movie for my Mom complete with clips of me perusing JDate.com, using coupons at CVS, calling Nana to say hello, and taking down the picture she hates of her and my Dad where she's not wearing makeup.

Irregardlessly of what I make my movies about, you can be sure that I will (at least try to) embed them in this blog. So get ready. My new MacBook will benefit everyone.

Have I mentioned I'm excited???

Where am I even going with this thing?

2009-02-14T01:23:00.002Z

I've only written about 6 entries since I got back from London. Apparently I was bored enough in London to write an amusing couple of paragraphs each day. And now that I'm back in Boston, I've been distracted with things like pissing cats, fixing my surround sound home theater, creating excel spreadsheets to adequately track overtime, joining a gym and figuring out how to make my arms look more toned without injuring myself, stealing the Wall Street Journal every day, buying awesome new Merrell shoes, remembering that Nip/Tuck is on at 10 pm every Tuesday night, and making trips to the bathroom at work with Theresa when I only have to go 50% of the time.

I miss writing. I don't miss stressing out that it's 11:30 pm and I haven't written my daily entry yet and oh my God I'm totally gonna let everyone down. But I do want to start writing again on a more consistent basis. I think it makes me a better person since, if I weren't writing, I'd just be watching another episode of the Food Network Challenge. And I swear...whoever does the program scheduling at the Food Network should be shot. Because the 7 pm timeslot is like, so amazingly precious, and they are fucking it up by putting a shitty show like that in there. Sure, I watch it. But not because I like it; I watch it because I need something to entertain me while I make my Kraft macaroni and cheese and the people on Wheel of Fortune are dolts.

Sometimes I make a deal with God in my head. I tell him that I will give him $1,000 if he can make my body instantly look like that Biggest Loser trainer, Jillian's, body. But then I realize that once I have that body, I would probably lose all its definition in about a week ('cause of, you know, candy). So I call off the deal.

Ted posed an interesting question at the Celtics game the other day. He asked if I would pay $1,000 to take a free throw shot. If I make it, I win $1,000,000. I can't remember if I said yes or no. My current answer would be 80% yes, 20% no. Which isn't really an answer at all.

Meowr

2009-02-07T00:47:00.002Z

I have two cats. I named them Harvey and Walter. When I chose those names, I didn't realize I had a cousin Harvey whose father's name was Walter. I just chose them because they were awesome old man names.
(Harvey is currently lying on top of Walter. I'm not exaggerating. He is lying horizontally on top of him. I'm actually quite worried about this since he weighs a staggering 13 pounds (he's not even 1 year old) and Walter weighs probably 6 pounds soaking wet. I'll keep you updated on the situation.)
Anyway, so yeah. Cats. They're pretty good to have, I reckon. They'll curl up with you when you're watching your fourth straight episode of Law and Order SVU. They'll lick your eyelids at 5:15 am because hey, it's time to get up already, you lazy ass. They'll preen and groom each other and you will wonder what kind of wonderful world we would live in if humans treated each other with that level of care. And they will wrestle with each other, occasionally doing stunts that are all too reminiscent of Keanu Reeve's mid-air attacks in The Matrix.
(Walter has become fed up with the extra poundage lying on top of him and has maneuvered his way out of the body hold. I don't think Harvey even noticed.)
But you know...cats can also suck. They can contract UTIs and pee on your bed, in your bathroom sink, in a stray cardboard box, on your bathroom floor, in their cat carrier, and in your bathtub all in a matter of 45 seconds (2 drops in each location). At first you might be annoyed by this seeing as how washing a comforter every night of your life isn't the most relaxing chore. But then you will realize that maybe you shouldn't get pissed every time you come home to your apartment and find a yellow puddle in the middle of your pillow. Because your kitties are sick. And they're probably either in pain or very uncomfortable. And you should go and hug them.
In conclusion, cats are fun. Urine-filled, but fun.

Don't even get me started on the woman who breathed onto my neck while I was waiting to get off the plane

2008-12-22T21:27:00.004Z

There are a lot of things about airports that are unbearably frustrating. I won't list them all because I'm sure you know most of them; and plus, it would only make me mad and I'm trying to focus on being positive these days. But here's something travelers do that is just mindboggling idiotic and needs to be whined about:

There are assholes out there who are under the impression that 96% of the bags that come out onto the baggage claim could be theirs. I don't care if they have a bright fuscia suitcase with a pink polka dotted dragon embroidered on the front with an orange tongue, a green cape with a 'D' on it (for Dragon, obviously), and blue flames shooting out its nose. They will pick up every single suitcase and check all 4 handles for nametags, airport tags, rainbow pom poms, and duct tape to see if it's theirs. Then, when they realize that a black Samsonite isn't at all what their bag looks like, they will throw it back onto the conveyor belt...only to pick it up again when it comes back around.

This morning I saw a woman pick up a two-tone colored car seat (and I'm talkin' bright colors, not just like beige and black or something), inspect it carefully, and then put it back. Douchebag.

3 homeruns, 1 hot dog, one beach ball incident, and one drunk guy ralphing

2008-07-29T22:16:00.000+01:00

Last night Nana and I went to the Red Sox vs. Angels game at Fenway Park. According to 96-year-old Ruth, our seats were along the first base line. In reality they were way out in right field. But for a price of zero dollars, I’d take Red Sox seats behind a fat guy challenging another fat guy to a hot dog eating contest. (Please don’t actually tempt me with this offer because I don’t know that I would actually follow through.)

Here are the highlights of the night….

Nana: “Do you know who’s pitching tonight?”
Lisa: “Actually I don’t. Who?”
Nana: “Dike-a-sake.”

Nana: “Is that Ortiz? Oooh, I hope he strikes a homerun!”

Nana (to the 115-pound college girl in front of us who dined on two meager slices of Papa Gino’s): “You ate too much pizza!”

Nana (to the same girl earlier in the game): “Can you scrunch down a bit? I can’t see.”

A beachball came our way during the 5th inning or so and miraculously landed in Nana’s lap. I told her to pick it up and hit it. So she took the ball and, with all her might (which isn’t a lot), pegged a guy sitting two rows in front of us right in the back of the head. So he took the ball and jokingly turned around and pretended like he was going to nail her in the face with it. I think that kinda scared her because she put her arms up in defense. The man then realized that he could possibly be responsible for an old woman having a heart attack and apologized profusely saying he didn’t really mean it. I told him that while maybe he was joking, she surely wasn’t and meant to hit him.

Then, when we were trying to find the bus after the game, I’m pretty sure I made Nana walk around the entire perimeter of Fenway Park. Probably not the best idea in the world, but I told her that at least she wouldn’t have to go to the gym the next day (and yes, she actually does go to the gym).

So while the Red Sox lost 7-5 to a team with a guy named Figgins, I certainly can’t complain about a lack of entertainment or fun.

A posting full of cats

2008-07-28T14:25:00.003+01:00

Walter attacking Harvey attacking a trash can.

Harvey staring intently at nothing.

Their stares are intense.
Walter eating out of a cat.
Snugglemuffin.

We’re slowly falling out of reach

2008-07-28T14:24:00.000+01:00

So there I am sitting on the sofa watching Men In Black II with my parents when a commercial for a dog and cat nail groomer comes on. The product advertises as a less painful way to trim your pet’s nails and, to prove their point, shows a cartoon clip of a regular nail clipper snipping off part of a dog’s toe in addition to the nail. It is at this point that both my parents scream at the top of their lungs (much like you’d hear during the Achilles tendon part of the movie Hostel) and my dad yells above my mother’s shrieking, “Change the channel! Change the channel!”

I’m back in Boston. And all is right with the world. I’ve been back for two weeks and haven’t had time to breathe let alone write down some of the fun things that have happened. For example, I was walking home one night and saw a middle-aged man coming out from behind a secluded building fiddling with his pants. I then saw a middle-aged woman, who I presumed to be his wife, coming from an altogether different direction saying, “Honey, don’t be a weirdo.” Or that time that I was walking to play tennis on Boston Commons at 8am on a Sunday morning and saw a man (who didn’t appear homeless and/or crazy) spinning around in circles with his arms out. He then tried to walk in a straight line and obviously couldn’t. What kind of grown man does this?

By far the most awesome thing that has happened since I got home, other than finally being able to watch the Food Network with my new cable, was acquiring my two new kittens, Walter and Harvey (pronounced Wahltah and Hahvey like a true Bostonian). They’re 5-month-old tabby cat brothers who I adopted from the Animal Rescue League through some help of my friend Courtney who, as the shelter manager, has the greatest job in the world. Sometimes it’s hard to tell them apart since their markings are very similar, but the one distinguishing feature is that Walter isn’t exactly weaned yet and likes to pretend that Harvey is his mom and suckles all over him - his shoulder, his neck, his back, and his non-milk producing belly. This was cute at first, but when combined with a tiny sucking sound and a mat of wet fur, it’s become just disturbing. While acquiring two cats is a much bigger step on the way to becoming a cat lady than merely adopting one, you need not worry just yet because I will never take them for a walk on leashes or in a stroller. The day I do that is the day you find 34 frozen cat bodies in my freezer. Or the day someone pays me $200 to do it…whichever comes first.

The last blog in the form of fivers

2008-07-11T10:39:00.001+01:00

Top 5 Things That Happened In The Last 24 Hours
5) Nearly every other person at the Corporate Challenge ran with a Blackberry in their hand
4) I tried to look nonchalantly cool after I couldn’t figure out the Gatorade drinking nozzle thingy and had to pretend like I was actually drinking the beverage even though there was nothing coming out of the spout.
3) I watched 15 minutes of Big Brother for the first time and felt really thankful that I’m leaving tomorrow or else I would probably watch that show religiously.
2) While waiting for the race to start, I listened to a woman talk about her sister’s hysterectomy.
1) I unknowingly saw G for the last time since it’s 9:37 AM and I don’t think he’s coming into work today.

Top 5 British Words I May Or May Not Start Incorporating Into My Vocabulary
5) Fiver
4) Ta
3) Row
2) Nappy
1) Pants

Top 5 Places In London I Will Miss
5) The row of global embassy mansions behind Kensington Palace
4) Soho Square
3) The library on Shoe Lane
2) Portobello Road
1) Oxford Street

Top 5 Places In London I Won’t Miss
5) Queensway (it’s like walking around Downtown Crossing only trashier)
4) The Circle Line at rush hour or any time on the Central Line
3) Hackney and Peckham (where 90% of the stabbings happen)
2) The British Museum on a Sunday afternoon
1) Oxford Street

Top 5 Random Londoners From My Daily Routine
5) The guy who hawks TheLondonPaper outside my office
4) The security guards who are skeptical of my badge EVERY SINGLE TIME
3) The guy at the front desk of my apartment building who always has my LoveFilm movies for me
2) The barista at the coffeeshop on my floor who looks surprised every time I get a Diet Coke even though that’s the only thing I’ve ever bought there
1) The street cleaners who wave to me every morning on my run

Top 5 Foods/Restaurants I Will Long For Back In America
5) “Authentic” Indian (although I didn’t really notice too much of a difference)
4) Caramel-filled waffles
3) Sandwich shops EVERYWHERE (especially Pret A Manger)
2) Gourmet Burger Kitchen
1) Kitchen & Pantry coffeeshop in Notting Hill (any coffeeshop with plush leather sofas and chairs is okay by me)

Top 5 Co-workers
5) R – because who else uses as many exclamation points when they’re not needed? (“I had a tuna sandwich for lunch!!!!”)
4) M – she gets a little overeager with fixing defects sometimes, but she’s got an awesome South African accent
3) K – the best-dressed straight man in London
2) T – probably the only person who I would be friends with outside of work; he also wears cowboy boots which earns him 80 Awesome Points
1) G - you had to see this one coming

Top 5 Places I Visited Outside Of London
5) Bath – even though I made Susan wait an hour in the gift shop of the Roman bathhouse, walking around that quaint, English town was a lot of fun
4) The gardens at Hampton Court Palace – when I get rich I’m going to have an expansive garden just as beautiful
3) Beneath the streets of Edinburgh – okay so the ghost tour lady scared the absolute crap out of me by screaming in the dark, but I still found those old streets and homes intriguing
2) The Burren – seeing the look on Susan’s face when she saw that stone formation was about 3 feet tall was priceless
1) Paris – Theresa made that trip one of the best I’ve ever had and it wasn’t even because she fell down a lot

Top 5 Potential Cat Names For My Future Cat
5) Onoshobishobi Ingelosi (Shobi shobi for short)
4) Marvin
3) Meester
2) Killer
1) Schrute

Top 5 Things I Am Excited About Returning To In Boston
5) The Phantom Gourmet tv show
4) The South End Open Air Market, Shakespeare on the Common, Movies By Moonlight at the Boston Harbor Hotel, and classical music concerts at the Hatchshell
3) Papa Gino’s and Dunkin Donuts
2) My apartment (but not the year-old bagels from Finagle A Bagel I stole from work that are still in my freezer)
1) Hanover Street in the North End and the smell of garlic wafting out of the restaurants

Top 5 Things You Should Know
5) I can fit all my belongings into my three suitcases, but I can’t move them
4) I know how to say ‘meatballs in my bellybutton’ in Spanish
3) When I see you again, I will give you an excessively strong and uncomfortably long hug
2) It has been so much fun writing to you all every day and hearing your (mostly positive) responses
1) I will continue this blog when I get home, but it probably won’t be as frequent and it will only be found online (http://www.lisashoshana.blogspot.com/) as I won’t be sending out emails anymore

Much love to everyone and see you all soon!
Lisa

Ear buds are a very nice item, BUT - - if you were about to spend $100, then I would much prefer a kitchen mat

2008-07-10T10:32:00.000+01:00

I'm not sure who came up with this restaurant name, but I have a feeling it might have been a bird disguised as a human.

Bags? Excuse me?

I suppose it's normal to see a Princess Di postcard in a bicycle basket in London, but that didn't prevent me from stopping in my tracks and taking a picture.
On my way to Southbank on Sunday I crossed the Waterloo Bridge. As I was walking, I looked right and this was the view. It was at that moment that I realized how lucky I have been to have spent the last 6 months living in one of the greatest cities in the world. I mean, there I was just taking a walk and my neighborhood was Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, and the Millenium Eye. It was definitely a surreal moment.

18-5? Seriously? Wow. Look at you, Red Sox.

2008-07-10T10:20:00.001+01:00

Well things just never work out the way you think they’re going to, do they? I mean, when I was born my parents had hopes of me becoming a WNBA player (they had a gut feeling that a women’s professional basketball league was going to be formed eventually), I thought I was going to be the principle trumpet player of the BSO, and my friend Ted was quite confident that he was going to be our high school valedictorian. But alas, things change. And instead of returning to Boston on July 19, I’m coming home the day after tomorrow (that’s the 12th for those of you who don’t want to do the math).

Without going into too much detail about why the change of plans (I am now paranoid about writing anything pertaining to my company on an internet blog since it’s a terminable offense), suffice it to say that it’s for a 3 day conference-type-thing happening next week. Needless to say, I’m a bit frazzled. I have spent my morning packing all non-crucial clothes (why did I bring a bathing suit with me?), cancelling my LoveFilm account (I never did get to see The Bank Job), changing my flight (at no added expense probably due to the fact that I overpaid for the ticket to begin with), and trying to eat as much of the food in my kitchen as possible (too. many. grapes.).

Tonight is the Corporate Challenge race, tomorrow night is T's birthday part/my leaving do, and Saturday morning I will soak up the last bit of London before leaving extraordinarily early for my flight to take advantage of every possible moment in that British Airways Lounge. As for things I had planned for next week that I will suddenly no longer be able to do, it could have been worse. I was supposed to attend a BBC show taping about dogs on Monday, watch The Marriage of Figaro in the park on Wednesday, and go to dinner with co-workers at Wagamama for my leaving do on Friday. Now, if I had a date with Tim Curry and Hugh Laurie (yes, at the same time), that would be a different story.

And so the week I thought I had to prepare some leaving blogs has now been drastically whittled down to 1 day. This is the excuse I will use if it sucks. Be on the lookout for it tomorrow…

I'm secretly the reason behind A-Rod's divorce

2008-07-09T10:28:00.001+01:00

Living abroad for essentially the past year has shown me what a prudish, hypocritical country America is when it comes to censorship. There are prime time shows on network channels in America that I get embarrassed for while watching with my parents, teenagers wearing ridiculously skimpy clothes (no wonder pregnancy runs rampant), and video games violent enough to gross out this Sopranos fan. And yet there was such a brouhaha over those Legal Seafoods T ads in Boston. (For those of you who don't know about this, the restaurant Legal Seafoods posted "fresh" fish advertisements on the sides of subway trains such as "Hey lady, I've seen smaller noses on a swordfish," "This trolley gets around more than your sister," and "This conductor has a face like a halibut." T employees complained about the latter ad and said it was offensive.) So when I see advertisements in London such as the AussieBum one below, I can only shake my head and think that it'll be another 20 years before something like this would appear on Newbury Street.

Last Sunday I did a lot of walking around parts of the city I've never been to. This was really fun, but would have been even more enjoyable had it not been raining the whole damn time.

Worn out road.
Sunday afternoon I went to the Bossa Nova festival on Southbank. I was all excited to eat some delicious Brazilian food, but all I found was chicken wrapped in triangular dough pockets and deep-fried; it didn't look all that appetizing. I did manage to see some B-list British celebrity, though, so that was exciting.
This dude braved the Thames shore all in the name of sand sculpting. Gross. (3 hours later it was covered in water when the tides turned.)

The best part of the festival was the free concert Nouvelle Vague put on. I heard about these guys a couple months ago. They're a band from France who mainly do cover songs but revamped with a bossa nova beat underneath. They're incredible and I'm in love with them.

Captain Zoom should totally sue for copyright infringement

2008-07-08T10:26:00.008+01:00

The second half of Saturday I spent at The Big Day Out in Whittington Park in Islington, some sort of fair for families. I thought it was going to be way more exciting than it was, but this picture of Mr. Boom, One Man Band From The Moon was about as exciting as it got.

I don't know if I sent an image of this one already, but I finally managed to take a picture of Banksy's latest work off Oxford Street. The greatest thing about this one is that there's a huge CCTV camera immediately to the right of where he painted.

The Freddie Mercury statue at the Dominion Theatre where We Will Rock You has been playing for something like 7 years. I have to say that the Freddie Mercury statue I saw in Montreaux Switzerland was way cooler. And not just because it wasn't surrounded by hordes of high school kids on a field day.

On Sunday morning I went to the Good Food Festival also taking place in Islington. This too was rather disappointing. The only good thing about it was a huge herb stand that would have been a jackpot if I cooked at all. What do you think this tastes like though? Tender Vittles with a hint of toothpaste?

Ah, the Nice Green Van of organic and fairtrade ice cream. The choices are...limited.

I won’t be doing it barefoot, dressed as a chicken, or in a wheelchair

2008-07-08T10:25:00.000+01:00

Well, here it is. A confession blog of sorts. One that I have put off sending until now for reasons I will explain in a minute. I, Lisa Wolk, will run the Philadelphia Marathon on November 23 this year. That’s right. The person who, in high school, used to fake being sick every time we had to run the mile will attempt to run 26.2 of them.

I’ve been training for 3 months now and wanted to make sure that I wasn’t going to cry, break down, and/or die in my pursuit of finishing the race before I told you all. This past weekend I ran 13 miles and only felt like stabbing my eyeballs out to end my pain once or twice, so I think I’ll probably be able to manage a race twice as long. And while I already sent in my registration fee, I’d be more apt to forfeit the monetary cost rather than forfeit my dignity and admit to everyone that “Oh hey, remember when I told you I was going to run that marathon? Yeah, I’m giving up.”

So now it is your job to keep me from being a wimp. If I ever decide to opt out of the race, I give you permission to find me, threaten to take your love away, and box my ears. (Not too hard, though, I’m weak.)

I’m really excited about running, though. I feel like Running A Marathon is on everyone’s Things To Do In Life List and I know I will feel great when I check that one off. Even Jon Gezotis said it was an incredible feeling having finished one, and this is the guy who ran up to us spectators at mile 23, grabbed the Gatorade out of my hand, and blurted, “I’m fuckin’ done” in exhaustion. As for the venue, I know Philadelphia isn’t the most beautiful city in the world, but a) I fear Boston would be a little too challenging for a beginner like myself b) as a Bostoner, I couldn’t live with myself if I made New York my first marathon and c) Chicago registration was filled by the time I got my act together.

So if you’re in the Philly area around Sunday November 23, come on out with your orange slices, Gu gel, and signs saying “Lisa is the most awesome runner ever.” I will be forever indebted to you and will try my hardest not to get sweat on you as I excitedly wave in your direction.

Not that there's anything wrong with that

2008-07-07T10:28:00.001+01:00

The first event I went to this weekend was the London Pride Parade. Surprisingly, it wasn't nearly as good as the parade in Boston. But of course, there were some fantastic costumes and some hideous costumes. So here are some pictures guaranteed to make my parents cringe.

Oh my god these guys were so adorable. And the dachsunds were cute too. (zing)

I have no idea how they managed to walk all the way to Trafalgar Square without those things falling off. Nice tiaras, huh?

The only way I knew those guys weren't my dad was the fact that my dad got rid of his rainbow suspenders and tie-dye tank tops when he stopped being a hippie in 1987. (Gah! Mom, the dude on the left really looks like him, doesn't he?!?!?!)

I would put up a caption contest for this one, but I feel like it's just too easy. (Notice Wonder "Woman" swinging a whip around her head.)

The highlight of the parade for me happened before it even started. Sir Ian McKellen walked up to a parade marshal right in front of me and asked where he was supposed to be (the answer being leading at the front of the pack). Immediately after he left, the girl turned to her friend and squealed, "Oh my god! I just talked to Gandalf!"

No more mullet. Now just floppy on top.

2008-07-07T10:01:00.000+01:00

So I’m sitting at my desk at home and listening to a Time Life infomercial for power ballads of the 70’s and 80’s. The announcers, one of whom was in REO Speedwagon, are absolutely atrocious, and at one point the ditzy middle-aged woman gushes, “3 words – ultimate power ballads…perfect.”

Boston, you shouldn’t feel alone in having violence overshadow an otherwise lovely weekend; there has been something like 6 stabbings in London in the past week alone. I have picked up a lot of knowledge in the last decade watching crime shows, but one theory that flies out the window when trying to solve a crime in London is that stabbings are personal. In the nearly 6 months I’ve been here, maybe I’ve heard about 1 or 2 shootings, but stabbings have totalled over 20, I’m sure. People are stabbed because knives are the weapon of choice, not because people are seeking vengeance on someone they know. I suppose, like Sydney, gun crime in London is kept at a minimum due to stricter gun laws and less access. But a kid stabbing two Niketown security guards on Oxford Street at 7pm on a Saturday night? That is just frightening. Boris is calling for a “crack-down” on knife crimes in Britain, but with the weapons so readily available just by walking into your own kitchen, I’m not sure how they propose to spearhead this so-called crack-down.

Anyway, on a lighter note, this weekend was one of my favourites in London. Usually I’m pretty good at finding most events going on in Boston during the summer, but in a big city like London, you’ll be lucky to hear about half of the things taking place. This past weekend I managed to check out four events, all of which I’ll be posting pictures from in the next couple of days.

In any case, I have started my “countdown of things” until I leave. I now have two weeks, one weekend, one Corporate Challenge race, £40 in my wallet with hopefully no more trips to the ATM, one taping of a BBC television show, and three sleeves of cookies to eat.

John Candy, Paul Shaffer, Alex Trebek, Mike Myers, Barenaked ladies

2008-07-02T09:46:00.001+01:00

Well, like I said, yesterday was Canada Day. London celebrated by organizing a day-long-shindig at Trafalgar Square. I made it there after work just in time to see everyone drinking Moosehead beer.

A fantastic t-shirt. Of course, I had to say it in my head three times before I actually got it.
Something for the fellas....
And something for the ladies....
This woman is texting "Yeah, I'm wearing the flag in my hair. No one is talking to me. What the hell?"
Bacon bap, bison egg burger, HOT chocolate, curd cheese, and a misspelled 'poutine'...I don't know what to make fun of first.

The Relationship Manager job title sounds a lot different than the actual job

2008-07-01T10:49:00.000+01:00

Okay, before I forget. Many people keep asking me when I am coming home to Boston. Personally, I think they are more concerned with how much more Lisa-free time they have to revel in rather than how much longer they have to suffer without me. Whatever their reasons for asking though, I’ll tell you that I fly back to Boston on Saturday, July 19 (assuming Terminal 5 doesn’t crap the bed again). That’s a little less than 3 weeks away. The follow up question to “When do you come home?” is always “Are you looking forward to coming home?” And so I will cut you off at the pass, be unoriginal and tell you “yes and no.” I don’t doubt that I will tear up the day I leave my apartment, that godforsaken broken trash can, the shower that sprays water all over the bathroom floor, and the door that slams no matter how gently you try to close it. But as much as I will miss those things (and countless others), I am eagerly awaiting the day I walk through my condo door, see my fake plant covered in dust, curl up on my Jerzee sheets, and call Papa Gino’s for a large cheese pizza (“just for me”) delivery. I’ve found that 6 months is the perfect amount of time to spend working in a different country (3 months in Sydney was far too brief). But enough about this. I’ll write more debriefing blogs later.

Now onto more important things. Football.

Sunday night I watched the Euro 2008 game. I know, I know…I never watch football. It might sound ironic coming from someone who enjoys watching baseball and doesn’t think it’s boring at all, but watching football is about as exciting to me as watching Mr. McFeeley talk about how a VHS tape works. But since Euro 2008 is huge here (it’s analogous to the World Cup the way the Winter Olympics is to the Summer Olympics), I figured I would try to immerse myself completely in British/European culture. So I got my plate of grapes and tub of hummus (not to be eaten together) and sat myself down on my couch for the next 90 minutes. Truth be told, it wasn’t terrible. 90 minutes actually passed by quickly seeing as how they don’t stop the clock and I could be distracted by the players’ hairdos. The greatest part about watching a sport where, on average, there are only 2 goals scored is that I can change channels, watch 3 minutes of Frasier, flip back, and will not have missed anything. I also enjoyed when the announcer kept referring to that one player Javier as Jah-vee-air. I’m not expert in the Spanish language or anything, but I’m pretty sure it’s pronounced Hah-vee-air. All in all, it was a good time. And I’m not just saying that because the Germans lost and you know how I feel about Germans….

Oh and hey brother-in-law…happy Canada Day. Bring a little Toronto fever to the Holy Land, will you?

A cross-dressing nun called Transister

2008-06-30T11:04:00.001+01:00

Kanye West, here’s an update for you. The word ‘invisible’ does not rhyme with the word ‘invincible.’ (Another update? You are neither.)

I love to see a grown man walking down Oxford Street eating a Belgian waffle with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. I love even more to see that same grown man’s chin, nose, and cheeks covered in ice cream as if he were a 3-year-old with no inhibitions about shovelling dessert into his face. Wear that ice cream proud, sir.

Walking down the busiest street in the world filled with flocks of tourists is usually a painful experience for me. But studying (i.e. laughing at) human beings’ behavior in their natural habitat (i.e. within proximity to schlock-y stores and Chinese takeaway stands) more than makes up for it. Like when that one girl bumped shoulders with that other woman and she kept walking but quite obviously mumbled ‘bitch’ under her breath.

Lisa to Apple employee Pearce: “Is there any way to add songs to a current playlist on an iPod?”
Pearce: “Can you move to the iPod station over here? I’m not allowed to move from this spot.”
Lisa: “Okaaaaaay.” (Moves 1 foot to the right)
Pearce: “So, what can I do for you?”
Lisa: “I want to know if it’s possible to add an artist to a current playlist on an iPod.”
Pearce: “If you click the center button, it will play the selected artist.”
Lisa: (Realizing I need to put this in his terms so that maybe he’ll start answering the questions I’m asking) “Okay, say I’m listening to COLDPLAY but I want to also listen to THE BEATLES. How would I do that?”
Pearce: “Ah, okay. Well, say you’re listening to X&Y…that’s an album by Coldplay…if you click Play, it will play all the songs from that album. If you click on The Beatles, it will play Beatles songs.”
Lisa: (Thinking “Oh my God, my mother knows more about iPods than this man”) “Is there any way to create a playlist that crosses artists though?”
Pearce: “Sure, on iTunes you can create playlists. If you want to create a playlist for a party, you can choose the songs you want to hear and set them as your ‘Party Playlist’.”
Lisa: (About to shove the iPod up his British nose) “Right. I know about creating playlists on iTunes. But can I do that on an actual iPod?”
Pearce: “Oh on an iPod? No. You can’t do that.”

This weekend was the Glastonbury music festival. It’s about as big here as Woodstock was in America, except it happens every year. I suppose you could compare it to Bonnaroo these days, but with more people, normally more rain and mud, and more skinny jeans. Saturday afternoon I caught Amy Winehouse’s performance on BBC2. Okay. Here’s the thing. I used to feel sorry for this chick. She has genuine talent and put out a couple good albums, but the media won’t let up on her for a second just because of a few mere things like crack pipes, anorexia, domestic violence, and an incarcerated husband. But I really thought she was undeservedly being crapped on. Until I watched this show. Holy moly that girl has issues! I’m sure you heard about the highlight of her performance when she repeatedly punched a fan (in her defense, they are claiming he grabbed one of her knockers). But what you may not have heard about is Amy:
- Calling Kanye West a cunt
- Fiddling non-stop (and non-soberly) with the hem of her dress
- Shoving her boobs back into her strapless dress after each song
- Asking the audience to let her know if one of her “tits pops out”
- Holding up her beehive hairdo so that it wouldn’t fall over
- Running at pretty high speeds across the stage in heels that were not made for a 95-pound drunk girl
- Flubbing her entrance on “Rehab,” stopping the band, and starting over again
- Confessing that Blake used to beat her with a cricket bat

All in all, it was a pretty decent set.

Ridiculously unlikely suspects (A guest blog)

2008-06-26T09:23:00.001+01:00

Technically I don't have permission (yet) to re-print this email sent to me by Chris Wyman, but I have promised him a new container of lo mein if he has an issue with it. Actually, I'll probably end up buying him some Chinese noodles even if he doesn't have an issue with it. In any case, here's a fun story written by a man with self-proclaimed delicate and ladylike toes.

When I got home on Friday, I noticed that something in my kitchen smelled kind of funky. My roommate Tom has been off visiting relatives for a few weeks, and when left to my own devices I try to minimize the presence of perishable items in the apartment... so I was a little confused. I'd eaten Chinese take-out a few nights earlier, though, so maybe some decomposing lo mein was stuck to the bottom of one of the cartons and stinking up the garbage? I figured taking out the trash would get rid of the odor, and promptly did so.

The next morning, I meandered into the kitchen to discover that the smell was not only still present, but noticeably worse. A quick visual search of the fridge, cupboards, microwave, and stove revealed no suspects -- everything in sight was clean, non-perishable, or sealed in an airtight container, and no lingering remnants appeared to be stuck in the nooks and crannies. Naturally, I switched to following my nose, and carefully sniffed everything present, moving from likely suspects (like the drain in the kitchen sink and a pair of running shoes I'd left next to the radiator to dry) to ridiculously unlikely suspects that I felt the need to check "just in case" (like the paper-towel dispenser and a box of Cheerios).

Eventually, my nose reached the toaster -- or, more specifically, Tom's toaster. I do not own a toaster, nor had I ever used Tom's toaster. I'm not sure if I even know how to make toast. Like most normal people (or so I assume), if I want toast, I go to a restaurant. Moreover, this was a fairly new appliance -- Tom had received it as a christmas present, if memory serves. (I'm not sure how this fact entered into my reasoning over why the toaster couldn't possibly be the source of the bad smell... I guess I assumed that young toasters are less likely to "go bad," or that enough time hadn't passed for the toaster to have something rot-worthy entered into it?)

Well, in any event, I was wrong, because after one investigative sniff of the air around the toaster, I nearly fell over. Good LORD. There's only one thing in the universe that produces the ripe, charnel-tinted vapors that I had just inhaled, and that is our good, old-fashioned friend DEATH. Although no visual evidence could be produced to support my theory, it was clear to me that someone or something had crawled into Tom's toaster to die, and had done a pretty good job of it.

Since Tom is, like I said, on holiday, I decided to give his toaster a fair trial before executing it. Taking it apart to fish out the source of the odor was clearly out of the question, since this would involve occupying the same physical space as the toaster (and thus also its intolerable) smell for several minutes. Instead, I put a plastic bag over my hand, picked up the toaster, and ran outside, depositing the appliance under a lilac bush. Upon returning to the kitchen, the overall smell was worse, as if I had disturbed it, and it had become enraged -- but I was not deterred. The trial would continue.

The next morning, I confidently entered the kitchen and inhaled deeply. It smelled of dish soap, which is -- in fact -- one of several dozen acceptable smells for a kitchen to have, so I was pleased... but also saddened over what I knew had to happen next. I quickly found another two plastic bags for my hands (no sense in wasting a perfectly good pair of gloves, right?) and marched out to the lilac bush.

The cartoon version of events playing in my head expected the lilac to have wilted and browned over night from the presence of its new neighbor, but this was thankfully not the case. The toaster was still there, though, and it was attracting the interest of about a half-dozen flies. I don't remember what happened next, probably because I had resolved not to breathe once I had left the kitchen and was running out of oxygen, but I'm pretty sure it involved our apartment building's dumpster. When I came to my senses, I was back in the kitchen, searching desperately for a scented candle.

I learned many years ago (from Sesame Street, I think) that toasters, like ice cream cones and telephones, are not alive, and thus do not die. Also, I learned about two weeks ago that our apartment building has mice. So, naturally, I am operating under the impression that we are now short a toaster AND a mouse. Tom has yet to return from his vacation, but I have a feeling that when he returns, this whole story will end up costing me a trip to Target and about forty bucks. It will be money well spent, though, because I may be able to use this experience as evidence that we probably need to get a cat.

Abe Froman, Sausage King of Chicago

2008-06-25T09:39:00.003+01:00

So here's something amusing. As you may know, advertisements are everywhere in London and double decker buses are certainly no exception. This picture shows the ad for the new Will Smith movie, Hancock. The first time I saw this I thought, "Someone has put something on Will's lip to make it look like he has herpes. Well, that's kinda funny I suppose. Serves 'em right for plastering such a huge picture of his face on a bus." But then I saw the same circle thingy on another Hancock bus. And that's when I thought, "Wow. They got that one too. That is dedication to the vandalism cause." But when I didn't see ANY Hancock buses without the STD-resembling circle, I started to wonder if there was something flawed with my thinking. So I started checking out other ads, and lo and behold, that circle was on all of them. (Unfortunately for the model, placed in a very embarrassing place on the Armani underwear ads.) You would think that the advertising people would take this bus "nubbin" into account when designing their public transportation ads. I'm just saying.

Further down the fence is a sign that says "IMPOLITE NOTICE - LOCK YOUR MOTHERFUCKING BIKE TO THIS MOTHERFUCKING RAILING AND YOU'RE DEAD, MOTHERFUCKER"

If I had all the money in the world I would buy this truck for my niece, Chana...she absolutely loves trucks. She also loves to wear flannel shirts, smoke Marlboro reds, listen to Loretta Lynn, and be referred to as Large Marge.

The back wall of a butcher shop. First of all, that's a lot of plastic bags. Not very eco-friendly are we, Mister Animal Slaughterer? Second of all, I'm pretty sure that if you open the tape deck of that boombox, you'll find a Culture Club tape.

I have no funny quip about this one. I just like the picture.

Still on a mission to singlehandedly bring back the side ponytail

2008-06-24T09:49:00.005+01:00

You can't see it in this picture, but to the right is a Saint Bernard with a London Times in its mouth heading this way.

If this doesn't look like a relaxing summer afternoon to you, I don't know what would. (Okay maybe he could be eating an ice cream cone, but that would be overkill don't you think?)

A sign in Holland Park. If it were legal for a country to marry parks, I would be living in the land of Mr. and Mrs. Lovesparksalot. And Elton John would have sung at their civil partnership ceremony.

Here's a sign stating the obvious. Hidden on the left is a sign that says "TREE" with an arrow pointing to the right.

Here's what looks like a boring picture of old people...
The woman on the left is drinking some anti-oxidant pomegranate juice hoping it gets rid of her crows feet and finally makes her attractive to the 30 year old hunk in Corporate Accounting. The man in the blue sweater is talking about how his wife just spent £50,000 to renovate their kitchen which didn't need any sprucing up since she hasn't cooked a decent meal in her goddamn life. The woman in the yellow blazer is thinking that this 6th cup of wine won't be enough if he's going to keep talking about his whore of a wife and their kitchen. The man in the white jacket is thinking that it's been over 4 hours since he popped that blue pill and maybe he should consult his doctor. The couple on the right is talking about giraffes.
However, if you look closely, you will notice that on top of the brick wall is a blue blob. And wouldn't you know, that's a peacock!! They just roam free in Holland Park. It's amazing! (Not as amazing as old people's conversations, though.)

If I hustle, by Monday, I might even make it to Rhode Island

2008-06-23T09:20:00.000+01:00

No short jokes, please. Also, it's been quite awhile since I've seen an adult do this pose, and I feel like I'm due for a showing.

I'm telling you. I could spend another 6 months in this city and still find new parks to explore every weekend. They just love their grass and flowers here. This one was found in Regent's Park.
If you go to a park in America, you might see a pick-up game of football, baseball, or frisbee. If you go to a park in London, you will definitely see a pick-up game of soccer and cricket. And kite flying, naturally. (I guess the Let's Go Fly A Kite song from Mary Poppins wasn't as random as I thought.)

Jamie Lynn Spears' baby's daddy is a pipe layer. I am not making that up.

2008-06-20T09:24:00.002+01:00

Not too much going on. And so a couple snippets will have to suffice on this going-to-be-excruciatingly-long Friday.

I went to see a showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show at an outside venue near Tower Bridge this week. It was the first time I had been to an audience participation show, but it sure as heck won't be the last. Except next time I'll be dressing up; now I just have to decide whether to wear a gold sequined hat, a ratty maid outfit, or a corset with garter straps.

Yesterday I overheard someone at work saying they had made a "school boy error." I was left wondering if this meant they had blinded someone with a slingshot, pulled a girl's pigtails, or hid a frog in the teacher's desk.

Like I said, it's been slow going. In the meantime, here's a picture of G's desk to keep you entertained. (Please pay special attention to the "figurines" on his monitor stand.)

5318008

2008-06-19T09:46:00.001+01:00

Within Holland Park there's a lovely Japanese garden complete with a waterfall, koi, and plenty of rocks arranged in a feng shui pattern, I'm sure. (Crap, feng shui is Chinese, not Japanese. I'm never going to hear the end of that one.) In order to take this picture, I disobediently Kept On The Grass.

At least one of you (okay, so technically ONLY one) has complained that I'm not sending pictures with ME in them. This is because ever since Camera and I became best friends, I am reluctant to hand him over to others to take my photo. Knowing my obsessive-compulsive behavior about "my things," I'm sure you can understand this. Here's one that Eric took after we ate lunch at the rooftop Members Only Lounge at the Tate Modern (just one of the perks of hanging out with him). Warning - hips may appear larger than they actually are.

And here is one from a Houston rodeo in 2003.

Here's a Globe Theatre actor/musician making a face that appears to imply something inappropriate about playing his skin flute.

I hope Jack Nicholson has heartburn all day today

2008-06-18T09:46:00.001+01:00

Last night I walked around Holland Park and took a bunch of pictures that old people would like (flowers, statues, ponds, etc.). Here's one for all you grannies out there.

I love that there's some kid out there who's as fed up with her Crocs as the rest of the sane world is and has tried to hide them inconspicuously. (I assume it's a her and not a him for the child's sake.)

One of the marvellous things about summer in London that I will greatly miss is the fact that the sun is out from 5 in the morning until 10 at night. This picture was taken around 8:45 pm.

I don't know WHO Ian Collins is, but I certainly know WHAT he is.

I’m glad I didn’t throw out that Celtics hat I got in 1992

2008-06-18T09:36:00.000+01:00

Unrelated to the Bard, pigeons, falafel, and sweat-accommodating clothing, I have two updates for you:

1) The jets from Monday’s pictures were for The Trooping of the Colour in celebration of the Queen’s birthday. I felt only slightly ignorant for being informed of this by someone living in Boston (thanks Brent!).

2) Oftentimes in my blog I will refer to people as “stupid,” “idiots,” or “insanely incompetent.” Sigh. It is with great sadness, and shock for you I’m sure, that I must now include myself in those categories. When I mocked the Freddie Mercury fans for inscribing the words “I still love you” on his door, I was not privy to the meaning behind this phrase and simply took the opportunity to further ridicule yellow-toothed Brits. It was not until my friend Ted, a contender for Freddie Mercury’s Biggest Fan, enlightened me that this lyric was dramatically expressed in video for “These Are The Days Of Our Lives,” the last video made by Queen; Freddie looked straight into the camera and all but whispered it. It is believed that this was his way of saying goodbye to his fans. Excuse me, waiter? I do believe I’ll have a slice of that humble pie.

My inane thoughts are slowly creeping into my dreams. And while the following dream I had is absolutely absurd, it might also be a brilliant idea:
I was supposed to get together with some guy to study (I’m pretty sure I will be having nightmares about academia until the day I die) but we had never met before so there was uncertainty as to how he would know who I was (for some reason I knew what HE looked like). I was standing near the bus stop waiting for him to arrive when I saw him get off a bus. Instead of looking around for me, he simply bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Lisaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” and waited for me to come to him.
So. Clearly I had this dream so I could relay to all of you a fantastic way of rendezvousing with a blind date, a client, or a middle-aged study buddy with a colossal red beard. (Please do not make insinuations about beards, my dad, and my dreams. That’s not necessary.)

A brief, yet crucial letter to the sports teams of Boston:
Dear Red Sox, Patriots, and Celtics,
Please stop winning championships when I am out of the country. It’s really not working out for me waking up at 3:30 in the morning to eye-flutter my way through your games. By all means, keep being awesome and winning. But please try to keep my schedule in mind when you do, okay?
XOXO,
Lisa

I'm definitely going to be in trouble for calling my mother a crazy, old hag

2008-06-17T10:01:00.001+01:00

The stage. It was a nice gesture that they painted the ceiling so us paupers in the Yard could look up and have something nice to view.

The rich folks' seats. They actually weren't that plush; you could rent a cushion for £1 so that your backside wouldn't have to suffer the unforgiving wooden bench for hours. Maybe standing wasn't so bad.
Here is Eric sitting before the show. When I went back to stand next to him, I found that he had been singing to himself, securing himself as my favorite person in London.
After the show we walked along the river towards Tower Bridge. I expressed my fears about the Thames, large bodies of water, and large things in general. Buoys included. I pointed at these orange ones and told him that I found them to be quite petrifying. He told me I was being silly considering we could crush them. And then he did for me.

Tea at a cafe. Right before his iPhone rang, I was fiddling around with it and decided that maybe people who sell their souls to Apple for gadgets like that aren't so bad after all. I NEED ONE!!!!!!!

Is it wrong that I just kept picturing Gwyneth Paltrow as a man?

2008-06-17T09:46:00.000+01:00

Secret identities, gouged-out eyeballs, names like Cordelia, Regan, Edgar and Edmond, strangulation, sword fights, bastard sons, a character named The Fool, sororicide, and more “whilsts,” “thees,” “eres,” and “betwixts” than you can shake a stick at. You know what it all means, don’t you? Why Shakespeare, my good friends! King Lear at the Globe Theatre to be specific. I know, I know, I might as well wear a t-shirt that says “London’s #1 Tourist!” But I had to go. It’s just something that needed to be done in London.

Life advice #88 – If you aren’t familiar with a Shakespeare play, for heaven’s sake, buy the Cliffsnotes, read Wikipedia, ask your mother, or call up your 10th grade English teacher for a synopsis before you go see it. This will avert spending 3 hours standing in the Yard thinking ridiculous notions such as:
“Wow. Those costumes have mesh holes at the armpits. What a great idea! We should totally incorporate that into today’s fashion.”
Or.
“Those pigeons are definitely gonna crap on my head. They keep flying over me and there’s no way I’m lucky enough to walk away from this without a huge green and white glob on my shoulder. What do I do if it does happen? Do I ignore it? What if people look at me? Oh God! What if the actors look at me?”
Or.
“I am SO sick of standing. £5 for a ticket is great, but 3+ hours standing in one place? I don’t think I can make it. There is only so much shifting back and forth I can do. Were they serious when they warned us beforehand that we couldn’t sit down?”

Shakespeare. Sure he’s a brilliant guy. But oh boy is he good at making me, not to mention those other ditzy-looking American tourists, feel unbelievably dumb for not being able to understand our own language. Having said/complained that, I really did have a great time; even if I was dangerously close to being spat on by the actors who approached the edge of the stage.

One last thing. I would like to point out that my mother quite frequently reminds me of her favorite King Lear quote: “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.” I don’t believe she actually deems this true, though. That crazy, old hag will say anything.

I had porridge for breakfast. It was surprisingly delicious. And mushy.

2008-06-16T09:46:00.001+01:00

Sometimes I am amazed at the things I stumble upon in this city. Saturday I was walking along the river after a somewhat successful day of testing in the office (this time my computer actually decided to work!) and all of a sudden there were a whole bunch of jets in formation flying above. I'd say there were about 10 or so different groups of them. I have no idea what they were, why they were doing fly-over's in London, or whether they were headed towards Kate Middleton's backyard.

I got bored waiting for the Tube, so I started taking pictures of things.
They didn't look that heavy to me; maybe they're just retaining water.
I don't know if you heard about this or not, but this is a telescope that sees from London to New York. It's rising up through the ground here in London right in front of Town Hall. When I saw people looking into the lens and waving, I turned to Eric and said, "Wait, a minute, they can actually see people in New York? I thought it was just a prop?" To which he replied, "Yes, they actually built a telescope that goes through the middle of the Earth and when you look in, you can see straight through to America." Touche, Eric. Touche. (Just to clarify, there's a camera on both telescopes so you actually can see each other. But as Tenacious D would say, we don't have the technology yet to build a telescope through the Earth's core.)
Saturday was the World Naked Bike Ride in London. It was pretty much what it sounds like - naked people riding bikes through the city of London. In case you can't read what the pamphlet says, the mission of the ride was to: Protest Against Oil Dependency; Curb Car Culture; Celebrate Body Freedom. Oh and yes, that IS an image of E.T. in the upper right hand corner. I staked out a good spot on a park bench right at the beginning in Hyde Park and took as many pictures as possible without seeming too perverted (mission probably not accomplished). Clearly I can't send you the pictures I took of the ride because I'm pretty sure I would get fired for that. So if you want to see some funny-yet-disturbing pictures of naked people riding bikes, go to the blog (www.lisashoshana.blogspot.com) as I've posted some there.

Nudity and Bikes! (Part 2)

2008-06-16T09:01:00.002+01:00

The hat makes the outfit.

The view from behind (pun intended) wasn't any better...

Good thing this guy wore a disguise. No one even had an inkling it was Denzel Washington.
You want 2 cd's?
Unicycles! Mantinis! I can't really think of anything that would top this.

Nudity and Bikes! (Part 1)

2008-06-16T08:54:00.002+01:00

This dude fell right at the beginning of the ride. Falling off a bike isn't a graceful thing to begin with; so the fact that he was naked only added to the overall awkwardness of the situation.

Okay, so this guy wasn't naked. But how could I not take a picture of a guy dressed as a gorilla riding a bike while sitting in a leather chair? Come to think of it, I think I saw that image on a Rorschach test the other day.

This was one of two pregnant women I saw on the ride. I love the message written on her belly. Also, she looks a little like Jane Montossi, no?

This is a situation where fanny packs come in quite handy, don't you think?

I can't imagine how much work went into this get-up. Also, tandem bikes added a whole new layer to the Naked Bike Ride.

Approximately 100% of the time

2008-06-13T11:00:00.002+01:00

They told me I couldn't bring my triton to go fishing. "You'll never catch any trout that way," they said. Oh really? Well how's this for you guys? Not only have I caught 4 trout and 2 bass, but I haven't taken this crown off in 37 hours. Not to mention my incredibly muscular thighs which I think simply intimidate the fish into dying for me.

You want to know my talent? I suppose it's a valid question for the Mr. Scotland pageant to pose. Let's see...where shall I begin? I know all Aaron Neville's songs by heart, I can ride a unicycle, I make a shepherd's pie that makes your mother's look like dog food, I rock this drum major hat like it's my friggin' job, I can dismantle and assemble my rifle in 97 seconds flat, I wear a size XXL kilt, cats fear me, I can say "Let down the drawbridge" in 5 different languages, I once recited Top Gun in its entirety, and I scored a 1370 on the SAT's. Is that enough for you, gentlemen? Now please hand me my tiara, I have a 4 o'clock trolley to catch.

I know I was paid 400 shillings to pose for this (What the hell is a shilling anyway? How many pints can I buy with 400 of them?), but I have a couple gripes. First of all, I have a no nudity clause. And, if I'm not mistaken, I do believe that's my right nipple showing. Second of all, my receding hairline isn't that bad, is it? You couldn't take some liberties with that and cut me some slack? And finally, I thought I was just holding a copy of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban for "scaling purposes." I didn't actually think you'd include it in the final sculpture!!! But this is still okay. I only have one request - change the name on the base of the sculpture from Kirk Cameron to Hume so people don't know it's me.
This is bullshit! I know the rules of war statues - a man on a horse with all 4 legs on the ground died at home, a man on a horse with one leg in the air was wounded in battle, and a man on a horse with only his rear legs on the ground died in battle. But what the HELL does it mean when there's a man sitting on a horse and his face is absolutely covered in bird shit and the horse is spotlessly clean? Are the birds targeting me? What did I ever do to them? For the love of all that is holy, it looks like I'm crying poo!
Cindy: You said 4:30!
William: You heartless wench, I told you I was working late and wouldn't be able to pick them up until 7!
Cindy: This is SO like you, William. Every time I have something to do and ask you to take care of the kids, you come up with some excuse and ruin everything!
William: Well maybe if you hadn't pushed for custody and acted like a total bitch in the courtroom we wouldn't be in this position!
Cindy: Don't blame me for this, William. Don't you DARE blame ME when I wasn't the one sleeping with my secretary.
William: Whatever, Cindy. Just give me Lucy and Joe. We're going to Chuck E. Cheese.

In which Lisa finds where the frat boys of London are

2008-06-12T10:47:00.001+01:00

So you remember that guy on a sticker whose picture I took way back in my first week here? I said I didn’t know who he was and made fun of his hair. I’ll refresh your memory:

That’s Boris Johnson. He’s the new mayor of London. And yes, his hair still looks like that. He recently beat out Ken Livingston, who had been mayor in town for quite some time, for the position; you probably read about the elections over in America, or, if you live in England, you probably went down to your local Ladbrokes and put a tenner on who you think would win. Well it was Boris. And one of the first things he did as mayor of this town was to instate a new law that prohibits drinking on public transportation. That’s right…prior to June 1, you could sip on some gin and juice while riding the Bakerloo line, chug a Magners on a 390 bus to Oxford Street, or guzzle Johnny Walker Black on the DLR train to London Bridge. So you can imagine the chagrin the drunks, the under-25 London population, and recently-laid-off people felt when they heard about this new law. But they weren’t going to take this one lying down, or passed out in a Soho doorway as the case may be. Oh no. They would go out with a bang. With, of course, a little help from something I like to call Facebook.

A couple weeks leading up to “Tube Day” as it was called, multiple Facebook groups were started with the sole intention of forming a party on the Underground like no Underground has ever seen before. Boris could take away their drinking rights after June 1, but Saturday May 31 would still be theirs. And so messages were sent, posted, and forwarded to more than 15,000 people and pretty soon there wasn’t a dude-mush in the city who didn’t have plans that Saturday to buy a case of Bud heavy, grab their funnel, and make their way to the nearest Circle Line station to revel in the last moments of acceptable public boozing.

But the geniuses behind the London transportation system would not be intimidated. Sure, they were aware of the impending debauchery about to be laid at their feet, but somehow they trusted the public to behave themselves and so, in all their wisdom, they did not increase the amount of employees scheduled to work that night. Well, I’m sure you all know where this is going, so let me just enlighten you with some statistics of the night:

Liverpool station closed due to overcrowding
Baker Street station closed due to overcrowding
Euston station closed due to overcrowding
Euston Square station closed due to overcrowding
Aldgate station closed due to overcrowding
Gloucester Road station closed due to overcrowding
17 arrests
4 Tube drivers assaulted
3 other members of staff assaulted
2 police officers assaulted
50 staff verbally abused or spat at
Quote from a random dude-mush: “There were people’s sweaty armpits in my face but I didn’t care because I was drinking.”
Quote from The London Times: “But what started as a happy drinking session descended into chaos as drunken revellers jammed stations, fought, vomited and damaged trains.”

I’m not saying I’m the world’s smartest person (though a case can certainly be made), but even I saw this one coming from a mile away. Oh, and while there were no statistics reported about the increase in the amount of urine found in the stations, I’m sure you can all take a stab at it.

Here are some more visuals for you:

87% of the way to Mulletville, population 1

2008-06-12T09:36:00.001+01:00

I'm telling you that Brits are obsessed with ice cream. I enjoyed my first cone (half mint chocolate chip, half pralines and cream) in Brighton and was absolutely delighted to find that they put crack or something as equally addicting in the cones here...the actual cone, I mean, not the ice cream. It just tasted flakier, deliciouser, and wonderfuler somehow. It took everything I had not to steal both of these kids' cones and run away giggling. (The kid on the left will be a plumber one day.)

This was part of the entranceway to the burned-down West Pier. I'm telling you. Graffiti in England is like strewn Dunkin Donuts cups in America; they're everywhere.
In addition to bull riding, a scrambler, a haunted house, and bumpah cahs, the beach was home to this weird bungee "ride." You strap on a harness (let's hope the JPM filter doesn't pick this up) and after the cords are released, you go flying into the air inciting oohs and aahs from the crowd. And if you're this guy, you do somersaults over and over again both impressing this little lady taking your picture, but also making her want to throw up a little bit.
Normally I don't like crowds. But for some reason I wasn't bothered by the throngs of people crawling out of their hibernation caves during the first genuinely hot weekend we had here. I'm pretty sure it was the ice cream that appeased me.
And then there was the rockin' guitar and bass. They sounded as awesome as they look.

Patrick Swayzed. Happy now, Britain?

2008-06-11T10:04:00.002+01:00

I didn't get a "taster" reading by Ann. Even if I were interested in getting a tarot reading, I certainly wouldn't trust a woman wearing a floppy blue hat reading a tabloid magazine.
Good question....
This used to be the West Pier of Brighton Beach. I guess it burned down awhile ago and this is all that's left of it. That man is clearly still in shock.
On the East Pier, the one still standing, there was an amusement park a la Coney Island (which I've never been to but can easily make assumptions about). I stood and watched potential bull riders for about 10 minutes taking pictures only at the moment they were thrown from the plastic, rocking animal. This woman looked so angry every time she fell off.
I'm not exactly sure what this is a picture of. It could be a man falling on another man. It could be a man falling on his shadow. It could be a man falling on a moped that has already fallen over. Whatever it was, I didn't want it to happen to me so I tread slowly.

Unknowingly being funny, Alex complained, "The Queen looks like a royal bitch."

2008-06-10T09:49:00.001+01:00

A bench on Brighton Beach. Do you think they made it that way or do you think some...big-boned...people left, shall we say, a lasting impression on England?

If I were 3, I certainly know which automobile I'd choose on this merry-go-round.
Last night I went to see Freddie Mercury's house in Kensington. And by house, I mean a lone door in the middle of a brick wall topped with 6 layers of barbed wire. I must say that it was somewhat anti-climatic.
On the green door are tributes to The Man In The Spandex Unitard. This was my favorite one...mainly because it says "I still love you." Do you think that this person went through a phase where they loved him, didn't love him, loved him again and now still loves him? Or do you think they were offended by his buck teeth and still loved him despite them? Oh Vicky....
My parents are quite cute. Yesterday I received this card in the mail. I didn't even notice until this morning my dad's signature on the card. But the bear with the beard is priceless.

Being made fun of for saying “zee” instead of “zed”

2008-06-10T09:38:00.001+01:00

I’m not sure if it’s just the office I work in, but people here have strange bathroom etiquette. My co-worker B started talking to me the other day in the elevator lobby; she chose 5 months after I arrived to ask me about my secondment in London. I was more than happy to answer her questions seeing as how she’s as nice as you’d think a stereotypical British woman would be, but after 5 minutes or so of talking, she assumed I was going to lunch and so we said goodbye. Except before I headed out to lunch, I had to stop in the bathroom first, as did she. That was the first of the awkwardness. Because not only did we walk into the bathroom together having thought we were going our separate ways, but she continued asking me questions once inside. Okay, that’s cool. I mean, it wasn’t an emergency bathroom trip or anything so I could spare another minute or so chatting. But I figured we wouldn’t be talking for that long, so I stood right-in-front-of/almost-in the first stall signalling “It’s been fun but once we cross the restroom threshold, idle conversation must cease.” Unfortunately, she did not pick up on this. So the dialogue continued. And other women kept coming in and out of the bathroom wondering, I’m sure, just who the hell chooses the ladies’ room to have a heart-to-heart about what Lisa likes most about London. Suffice it to say that the whole situation was very odd. And let’s just say I rushed out of there afterwards so as not to have our hand-washing (yes, I did it that time) and elevator ride downstairs coincide as well.

Good grief! Am I really as anti-social as that sounds? I swear I’m not – I’m just against bathroom bonding is all. You feel me, right?

Lots and lots of pale, plumpy bodies

2008-06-09T09:46:00.004+01:00

Yesterday I went to Brighton Beach for the day. It was almost as hot there as it was in every other city in the world. The cool thing about this beach is that it's rocks and not sand. This is my kind of beach - no sand to get in your body orifices, no sand in your shoes, no sand in your potato chips.

Conditions: Summertime!
P.S. Don't Tim and Ricky sound hot?

The annoying woman next to me clearing her throat every 20 seconds

2008-06-09T09:38:00.000+01:00

Even in Scotland they have some pretty outrageous newspaper headlines…
- Accused too smelly to appear in court
- Man is banned for life from women and drink
- Scots now have greater choice of unspoilt places to go swimming
- Woman found living in wardrobe (Actually, you might have read about this one since it happened in China)

Here’s my favourite article from the Edinburgh paper, though…
- Women would race to meet Sir Sean
Sir Sean Connery has been named the celebrity women would most like to greet them as they finish a race, according to a cancer charity. The 77-year-old topped a poll of more than 1,000 women surveyed to find out which celebrities would motivate women to get to the finish line of the Cancer Research’s Race For Life.

If the London Transportation people rattle off a list of delays and suspensions for EVERY POSSIBLE UNDERGROUND LINE (signal failure on the Central line, a person under the train on the Circle line, a sick person on a train on the Jubilee line, a passenger alarm on the Victoria line, dismantling a World War II bomb on the Metropolitan line (this actually happened last week)), it doesn’t really make them look okay to follow it up by saying “There is good service on all other lines.”

Here is a story that I still have a hard time believing. I was sitting on the Tube reading my book on my morning commute when a 20-something man sat down beside me and proceeded to start reading The Metro. Normal so far. But then, out of the corner of my mind, I think I’ve seen him just put his finger in his mouth. But that can’t be right because seconds before that, I think I’ve seen him pick his nose. And certainly no male over the age of 4 would pick his nose and eat it. LET ALONE ON PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION SURROUNDED BY HORDES OF PEOPLE. So I chalk it up to the early hour and assume my brain isn’t functioning properly quite yet. But then it happens again! I am dumbfounded. I stop reading and stare at him furtively, all the while keeping my book open so that others don’t realize I am trying to watch a full grown man eat his boogers. And sure enough, he continues to do it. Finger up the nose, swirl and pick, finger out, finger in mouth, slurp. That’s right…there was audible slurping. But what is so unbelievable about this, moreso than the mere fact of the matter, is that he had no shame about the snot feast. He wasn’t even trying to hide it! At one point I thought that maybe I was on Candid Camera and that it was some kind of trick he was playing to see how many people would say something. But Allen Funt did not jump out with a boom microphone and I was left alone knowing this is a London memory that will stick with me forever.

Awkward comments made about having an affair by a co-worker who everyone thinks is actually having an affair

2008-06-06T10:28:00.000+01:00

Even in Scotland they have bizarre stickers. I don't know what it means, but my guess would be they're talking about a playing card swap.

Up and down the Royal Mile in Edinburgh (the main road), there are these side alleys called closes. They add a lot of character to the city and not just because of the ghost stories that center around them. This one has such a pretty name.
That's $160 for the whole outfit. Dashing good looks not included.
Eating a fried haggis with brown sauce Lady and the Tramp style.
A close-up of said haggis. For those of you not dry heaving right now, let me remind you what's in one of these puppies...sheep heart, liver, lungs, onion, oatmeal, and suet all boiled in the sheep's stomach.

The amount of running in the office has drastically increased in the last two days

2008-06-06T10:27:00.000+01:00

So there I am running on a path that follows a river at 6:45 in the morning in a town in the middle of nowhere. Up to this point I haven’t seen a single person (rightfully so since it’s ungodly early), but all of a sudden there are three people and a dog a little ways down running on the path towards me. Well, two of them are running, the other woman and her dog were meandering. I notice that I’m on a collision course with the dog so I veer to avoid it. At the last moment, the dog also changes course and RUNS RIGHT INTO ME, forcing me to stop running, trip over my feet a little bit, and put my hands out to prevent myself from kicking him in the face. Obviously the other two joggers see it all happen and I’m pretty sure I caught one of them snickering. Someone was clearly playing a cruel joke on me to have the only other 3 people awake in Durham witness my humility. (Please note that I tried to draw this situation out using Microsoft Paint, but even this one was beyond my ability.)

Graffiti on a boathouse in Durham – Carter beats the devil
(Do you think they mean “beat” in a physical way or just metaphorically? I like to think it’s the former because then I can picture the devil curled up in the fetal position on the floor pleading for Carter to stop punching him in the nose with his brass knuckles.)

Sign posted on a telephone pole in Edinburgh – Man Animals Party (telephone #)
(Even I can’t think of what this sign possibly means.)

Right. So the pizza flavoured scotch. My friends and I took a tour of the smallest single malt distillery in all of Scotland. Luck was once again on our side and we ended up on a tour with about 30 people all over the age of 80. I wasn’t so interested in hearing about the scotch-making process since this will never be part of my useless fact canon used to impress people at parties, so I hung back and took pictures. As we passed by one of the big vats filled with a bubbling, yeasty liquid, my ridiculous mind started thinking some ridiculous thoughts. What would happen if you dropped something in there? Would they fetch it out? Would they scrap the whole vat and start over because of contamination? What kinds of things would they deem “start over-able?” Because I am obnoxious, I felt I had to ask the tour guide these questions, after the tour had ended of course. (Unlike 90% of the people in the distillery, the guide was maybe 21 and had a sense of humor enough to laugh at himself when he made the faux pas of referring to their cream scotch as Bailey’s, so I knew it would be okay.)
Unfortunately, when I asked “What would happen if, say, I dropped a piece of pizza into the vat?” he looked at me incredulously and I could just tell he assumed that’s exactly what I had done. So I back peddled.
“No, no, no! Don’t worry. I didn’t ACTUALLY drop pizza in there. I’m just asking what if.”
He was still taken aback by this question (and wasn’t at all put at ease when I followed it up with, “Okay, well what about a camera? Or a hot dog with no bun?”).
He replied, “I don’t know, but I can find someone who does.”
So he went up to the old man behind the store cash register, who happened to be wearing a kilt, and asked him the question. Again, I was met with a face that said, “Oh my god, you dropped PIZZA in our SCOTCH??? Who is this elfin-like person who dares to contaminate our century old alcohol?” So now both the tour guide and I are assuring the decrepit old geyser that there is no trace of pizza in his precious scotch. He stumbled a bit but managed to form some kind of sentence with the gist that if whatever I had/hadn’t dropped in there had a strong enough flavour that yes, it would change the flavour of the scotch. They didn’t really answer my question of whether they would throw all of the liquid away and start over, but at this point I was getting death stares from my friends and knew I had to say thank you, cut my losses, and get the hell out of Dodge before they call over more people in kilts.

In short, don’t bring pizza to distilleries.

It's like an orange on a toothpick

2008-06-05T10:28:00.002+01:00

You can't go to Scotland and not take a picture of a bagpiper; they were on every corner. And I'm pretty sure they're only allowed to play Amazing Grace. "We have a piper down! I repeat! A piper is down!"

This lovely patch of green in the center of Edinburgh used to be Nor Loch (North Lake). It's no fluke the grass is so vibrantly green; the lake was filled with human refuse. See! I paid attention during the tour!
Then we went to the lamppost/Doric column line dance.

This handrail reminds me of the door knocker in the movie Labyrynth who tries to speak but can only mumble because he has a door knocker in his mouth.

Call me immature, but this was the easiest way of taking a picture while looking up a Scot's kilt.

The first of Those Girls….

2008-06-05T10:20:00.002+01:00

Tamara is my oldest friend. We met at Eisner Camp in 1992 and, since we were a part of the select few who lived in Massachusetts (she’s from Brookline), we consistently saw each other over the school year. We bonded over Indigo Girls concerts, trips to The Garage in Harvard Square, the ceramic dalmation in her room that would scare the shit out of me every time I woke up and saw it staring at me, When Harry Met Sally, delicious lox and bagel spreads on Sunday mornings in her kitchen, a leopard print bikini that she had to wear when she was Mowgli in Bonim’s production of The Jungle Book (I think I was an elephant or something…the story of my life), the tiny cot in her bedroom that her mother still calls Lisa’s Bed, reconciling after our first fight on our trip to Israel when she threw a pair of socks at my head, bickering over who got doubles of the good pictures from Banquet, faking our way out of Instructional Swim, and that oh-so-awkward sermon about prostitutes the rabbi gave at her bat mitzvah. Seeing as how we were always in the same bunk and had the same amazing counselors (Abby, Liz, Dara, Stefi, etc.), our lives were molded in very much the same way; for example, neither of us were ashamed to have worn flannel shirts for 4 years…it was just the cool thing to do.

And so today I announce (because she’s not cool enough to have her own blog where she could do it) that Tamara, my enthusiastic color war general with an empowering clipboard, is engaged! What makes the fact that the proposal happened in the UK so cool, other than the fact that I get to embarrass her on my blog by bringing up the leopard bikini, is that I was the first one to find out. And by first one to find out, I mean the first one to physically be in their presence when they announced it (confiding to friends and your girlfriend’s father before the trip doesn’t count). This is great for me because I am ALWAYS the last person to find out about things; I didn’t know my sister was pregnant until I went to visit her and this baby wouldn’t leave her alone, forcing me to awkwardly ask, “Hey Stacey…It’s really great to see you, but what’s with the strange baby?”

So here is to Tamara and Alex - a future psychologist and future veterinarian who will undoubtedly live in a happy home that will never be without a bowl of grapes, a Philadelphia Flyers jersey, and a copy of The Great Muppet Caper.

Lisa: How can you possibly not like the movie Elf?
Alex: I don’t like raccoons.

Apart, they are freakish:
Tamara eating haggis (minutes later she complained of the “grittiness” of the chopped up sheep hearts)

Alex trying to fit an entire loaf of bread in his mouth

But together they are perfect…

Durham pictures

2008-06-04T10:07:00.001+01:00

....and called it macaroni!
(I'm not taking anyone seriously who wears a hat like that. I don't care if you're Ghandi, Maya Angelou, or Russell Crowe. It's just not necessary.)
I stumbled (almost quite literally due to cobblestone streets) upon a farmers market on my run and then demanded that the three of us go there for breakfast. I never met anyone as enamored with free samples as I am until I met Tamara. Here she can be seen hording dried fruits and nuts.
One of the cool things about Durham is that it has a castle and cathedral right in the middle of town. The cathedral is still used for praying and tours with no flash photography, but the cathedral has been made into university residences for the local college. This makes for excellent students-playing-cricket photo opportunities on the green.
And here are two Chosen People standing in front of a cathedral where people exalt Jesus Christ.
How could I not take a picture of this sign RIGHT OUTSIDE the cathedral entrance?

The one where Lisa attempts to take a shower

2008-06-04T09:55:00.001+01:00

Here's a wonderful story for you where you will not only get to picture me naked in a tub, but, well, you'll get to laugh too (those things should NOT be caused by one another).

On our drive up to Scotland from London, we stayed in a little town called Durham. We didn't make plans to stay there, it was just the closest place around at the time our eyes started to get droopy. I awoke early Saturday morning and went for a lovely run in and around town (Saturday mornings before 7 am is truly like living in another world...everything is so serenely beautiful and eerily quiet). When I got back to the hotel and went to take a shower, I tried to be very quiet so as not to wake Tamara and Alex from their slumber. So there I am in the bathroom, yes naked, waiting to get in the shower when I am faced with this plumbing set-up:

You'll have to excuse my Microsoft Paint skills, but this is the best I could do. The top circle is the shower head. The middle bar is a bar with a knob on either end. The red and blue circles are other knobs. The thing that looks like Barbra Streisand's nose is the tub faucet.

In this case, what would you think? Which knobs would you turn? Well, if you're anything like me, you turned the red knob first. And boom. Out came scalding hot water from the tub faucet. Okay, okay. Not a terrible start. I turned the blue knob a bit to minimize the chance of burning my skin while I continued my Shower Lesson In The Nude. And so now there is a gushing of tepid water pouring from the tub faucet. But how do I get the water to come from the shower head? Oh, I know. I'll turn one of the higher-up knobs. Yes. Good idea. So I turn the knob on the left. The stream of water from the tub remains the same, but now there is also a freezing cold spray coming from the shower head. Well, that certainly wasn't right. So I turned that one off. Then I turned the right higher-up knob. Same exact thing. So then I did a combination of the two higher-up knobs but with always the same result. How in the hell? This went on for 8 minutes. Alex later told me he could hear me audibly say "What?!" from the bedroom. I would have said way more than that, but again, I was trying to be quietly polite.

After those very chilly 8 minutes (for, by now, the sweat had cooled on my body and the cold floor tiles weren't helping matters), I gave up. But I couldn't NOT clean myself because I had just run for 70 minutes and was stinky. So I only had one option left. I would have to take a bath. I put the plug in the drain and waited for the warm water to fill the tub (since that was the only faucet I knew how to draw forth warm water). But I was so cold while I was waiting!!! So I got in the tub when there was maybe an inch of water covering the bottom. And there I am sitting in tortoise pose splashing the water over my back, face, and hair EXACTLY the way Will Ferrell did in Elf when he was forced to shower in the elfin bathroom. Even as I was doing it, I realized what a ridiculous, sad sight it must have been.

But here's the kicker. When the tub finally filled, I went to turn off the faucets and as I did, scorching water started spraying out of the showerhead onto me. It took everything I had not to scream Janet Leigh style. I quickly undid whatever the hell it was I had just done. Thinking, thinking, thinking....ah, yes. Okay. Bottom knobs are for the tub. Top knobs are for the shower. There is only so much hot water so that if the bottom hot water knob is on, the upper hot knob will still create cold water. Turn OFF the tub hot water and voila - boiling water from the shower head. If you're confused then I have proved my point. Shower systems in the United Kingdom are absurd. One handle would suffice; turn it to the left for hot, turn to the right for cold. Easy. Simple. Why physically and mentally scar your tourists with inane systems?

Advice on how to storm the Edinburgh Castle

2008-06-03T10:10:00.001+01:00

There are basically 4 options. I'm not sure why no one thought of these before...idiots.

Option #1:
Enlist the help of Meatloaf's doppleganger standing outside the entrace taking pictures with tourists to raise money for a cancer charity. Make sure he isn't beheaded by an Asian man on vacation first.

Option #2:
Buy the guards ice creams from the dairy truck and hope they're all lactose intolerant.

Option #3:
Choose to storm when there is no guard on duty. I'm guessing this happens more often than not. In my opinion, the manager of the castle should be fired for screwing up the schedules.

Option #4:
Simply call for back-up. I mean, even if someone is already using one of the phones to order Papa John's, there's another one right there for you to use. Der. And hey, wait a minute. What's that ladder doing there? I think I just thought of an Option #5....

In other news, this was a plaque mounted on the wall near the entrance. I like to think ELO played at its installation. (Please ignore the fact that it was unveiled in 1929. ELO is truly a timeless band.)

Becca says, “Oh and apparently I witnessed the world’s biggest hora”

2008-06-03T09:58:00.000+01:00

I’m on a train from Edinburgh (that’s Edin-burrah for all you non-Brits) to London and should be telling you all about my weekend in Scotland, including the bits about the horrid ghost tour woman, sheep hearts, and pizza-flavored scotch, but that will just have to wait. Because I’ve more pressing matters to talk about. Namely, Paul McCartney.

Last night I watched his concert telecast live from Liverpool. I’ve always been a fan of The Beatles. It started when I was only allowed to listen to Oldies 103 in the car with my mom (I’m proud to say I knew many more Beatles songs than New Kids on the Block songs in the 80’s) and only continued to grow as I surrounded myself in high school with friends whose lives revolved around classic rock. But it’s always a different experience watching a musician or band in concert. I know it’s from Wayne’s World and I know they were talking about a television sound stage, but a concert is “where the magic happens.” To watch one of The Beatles perform their songs written when the world was so drastically different than it is today (even if it was on a 13” Panasonic) was an amazing experience. To watch him give peace signs to the audience between songs, strum out the chords to Something on a ukele given to him by George, and, like 60-something year old men tend to do, forget a line to A Day in the Life, it was no surprise that I secretly cried thinking about the profound effect this man and his three friends had on millions of people across the world.

(At one point, my friend Alex walked in the room and said “To think, Michael Jackson is making money right now.” I was also informed that ever since Ringo Starr claimed that there was nothing good about the city of Liverpool, people keep chopping the head off his topiary in town. I think maybe they were just upset he quit Shining Time Station.)

Could we ever have a band like The Beatles again? Could there ever be another group of four musicians known in every country around the world as the four men who just wanted to give peace a chance? The world today seems so negative and cynical that I would think we would pooh-pooh a band who sings about love, peace, and walruses before they even take the stage. Paul represents a group of people (i.e. hippies) from a time past. A time when people were hopeful about the future. Hopeful that peace wasn’t a futile idea. And I guess that’s why I cried (other than the fact that I’m an emotional person); it was inspiring to see a stadium packed full of people who were/are a part of that and still believe in peace. And tie-dye.

Albert Poo Holes

2008-05-21T09:31:00.000+01:00

Don’t ask me why, but this morning on my run I started thinking about my family’s IBM Tandy 2000 computer. This was the computer you bought in 1987 if you didn’t want to buy an Apple IIe and get dysentery playing The Oregon Trail…rather, get dysentery in the game The Oregon Trail (I don’t know anyone who has gotten dysentery just by playing the game, but I suppose anything is possible). Anyway, apparently even in the 80’s we weren’t Mac people, so the Tandy 2000 it was.

And now, every summer when I go out to Otis, my parents beg and plead with me to let them throw this monstrosity of a computer away. And every time they ask, they are met with the same response: “What are you, crazy? You can’t get rid of that computer! It was bad enough when you sold our house in Kingston! Now you want to get rid of one of the last relics of the house I spent my childhood in?! Shya right! Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be outside watering the roses with my SuperSoaker.”

But really, what are my reasons for keeping anything in that house? There are none! There is no excuse for a 26-year-old woman to harbor 4 Cabbage Patch Kids, a toddler-sized stuffed Elmo, Andrew Keegan, Celebrities’ Brains On Drugs, and New Kids on the Block posters, a Mickey Mouse comforter, a Glo-worm, and 37 troll dolls. I am at that house for a total of about 25 days a year and I can’t remember the last time I played with the Bar Mitzvah troll. So what’s stopping me from getting a huge trash bag and finally cleansing myself of All Things 80’s?

But back to the computer. This morning I wondered what the reason was exactly as to why I prohibited my parents from trashing it. Sure, there are a lot of fun memories attached to it – there’s that one contestant on Family Feud who gives the middle finger when he answers a question wrong, a very robotic-looking Vanna White who claps with her arms perpendicular to the ground and straight as a board, the ever-elusive Carmen Sandiego who somehow always manages to hide the Statue of Liberty in Lisbon or Reykjavík, and of course, all the outrageous team names my dad used to come up with like Bungeeshmungees and Billybonkers.

If I went back and played these games today, none of them would be very fun. After all, when it comes down to it, I’d just be playing a crappy 80’s computer game from a floppy disk. (My dad actually asked me why I couldn’t just transfer the games to my current computer and I had to remind him that the games were stored on a flimsy disk the size of a cd case that has been obsolete since before our deaf dog Annie decided to take a stroll across our very trafficky street.)

And so maybe it IS time. Maybe that first weekend I go back to Otis this July will be the start of a new era for me, one without my treasured, outdated computer. Oh I know I will still shed a tear for every game of Gertrude’s Puzzles I played, for every dot matrix banner/card/sign I made using Print Shop, and for every game of Card Sharks I lost because at the age of 8 I didn’t know how many women out of 100 said they would never cheat on their husbands. But it will be okay. Because I will always have the memories of playing those games. And I suppose that’s all that matters. Well, that and the high scores, but since I could never do better than team Bungeeshmungees, I suppose that’s okay too.

Plus, now maybe there will be extra room for yet even more beds in that house. Because 8 isn’t enough. Seriously. I’m not lying. 8 beds. 1 house. For just my mom and dad. Talk about pack rats.

Who took Senator Kennedy to the laser show?

2008-05-19T10:55:00.001+01:00

On my way into work this morning I saw a man wearing those zipper pants that can be made into instant shorts. I’m not sure what line of work this man is in that things would get so hectic and sweaty he would absolutely need to do away with half his pants to alleviate the situation. I will just go ahead and assume this man is a tool.

If you needed any more evidence that women are the most unreasonable, catty species on the face of the Earth, take the London Circle Line from Bayswater to Blackfriars any morning around 8:15 AM. It is here that you will see women, aged 21-35, push little children, step on grown men, and elbow the elderly all for the sake of being able to sit for their 21 minute train commute. If you had asked me a couple months ago who I thought the demographic is for Obnoxious, Selfish Train Commuters, I would have said obese people, male assholes, and tourists; I would not have been more wrong. It’s these yuppie, corporate females reading Nick Hornby books or checking their Blackberry that are the scum of the tube. They are devils in pants suits. And they will stop at nothing until their asses are firmly situated on those upholstered seats. I used to try to get a good ‘position’ on the train car in order to maximize seatage opportunity so I could go from standing to sitting in less than two stops. But seeing these savage animals tear each other’s heads and limbs off with nary a thought for anything but themselves has changed my way of thinking. I would rather stand for my 40 minute commute than be categorized as one of these self-obsessed biotches.

That is all.

**How many pastries is one too many?

2008-05-16T15:06:00.001+01:00

I am sitting in a huge glass-and-metal foyer outside the office of a very important man. There are plasma screens everywhere and busy people rushing around, shaking their heads, studying pieces of paper. I sit quietly with a cup of tea and a croissant.
“This is very different from my office,” I think, to myself. “In my office there is just me and some unopened mail.”
I bite into my croissant and notice a homeless man outside. He is shuffling around, looking at his feet, and glances inside. I stop chewing. It feels rude.
“Danny?”
I look up. It is the important man’s assistant, who has come to collect me.
“Imagine having an assistant!” I think, as we walk through the building together. “You’d be able to get all sorts of assistance with things. You could say, ‘Quick! I need some assistance!’ and be guaranteed to receive it. I bet they never have any unopened mail lying around the place.”
In every office we pass, there are more important people, being important, and being assisted by their assistants. I am jealous. Finally we arrive at the office of the important man I’m here to meet.
“Please do take a seat,” says the assistant. “He’ll be here in just a second. And help yourself to a pastry!”
She says this with joy in her voice and indicates a plate of them. She hovers by the door, waiting for me to take one, but I’ve just finished mine and I don’t really feel like another. She looks disappointed.
“I’ll have one in a moment,” I promise, but the door has closed.
I stare at the pastries in silence. The door opens and in strides the important man.
“Danny!” he says, and we shake hands. “Have you had a pastry yet?”
“I haven’t!” I say. “I just finished one of my own.”
“Oh,” says the man. “Well, have another!”
“I’m fine,” I say, patting my tummy and making a satisfied face, to show that I am satisfied, and that I have a tummy.
“They’re very good pastries,” says the man, raising his eyebrows and pushing the plate slightly towards me. “Freshly made. Bought especially for this meeting!”
“Please don’t let me stop you,” I say, generously. “Do please feel free to eat one yourself!”
“Well, you first,” he says. “I had quite a big breakfast!”
“Well, maybe I’ll have one when you have one!” I say.
We are both being very jolly about things but it is clear that there is a certain tension growing. This is becoming some kind of pastry-off.
“Come on,” he says, picking up the plate. “I insist.”
“I really couldn’t,” I say, quite firmly.
There is an awkward moment. Suddenly, the important man’s voice lowers. His eyes dart nervously towards the door.
“We’ve got to eat a pastry,” he says.
“We’ve got to. She went out to get these this morning. She went to a lot of trouble.”
I suddenly realise the seriousness of the situation. If we don’t eat one, the important man will get into trouble. Hey, I might too!
“But I just had a croissant,” I whisper. “Downstairs! Moments before coming up! I think she even saw me!”
“I had a full English,” he says, desperately. “I’ll be lucky if I can fit a coffee in. Please!”
Suddenly, by the frosted-glass door, we hear the assistant, shuffling about. We both fall silent. The important man puts his hand out, ready to grab a pastry if she walks in. It is absolutely terrifying. It’s like that bit out of Jurassic Park. We can see her shape through the glass. We hold our breath. For a horrible moment, it looks like she’s reaching for the door handle, but then a phone rings and she stalks away. We breathe out.
“I might have to hide some in my desk,” says the important man. He suddenly seems a little less important than before.
“But we’re grown men!” I want to shout. “Grown men shouldn’t need to hide pastries in a desk!” But I don’t. Instead, scared, I say, “Good idea,” and decide to help him.
He stands and grabs two small pastries and tip-toes over to the desk, never taking his eyes off the door. While he does that, I wrap a croissant in some tissue and pop it in my bag, then do the same with a pain au chocolat. We break it in two to make it look like it’s been somehow devoured.
“Hey,” I say, “turn the plate slightly to make it look like it’s been constanty to-ing and fro-ing between us.”
“Yes! Good!” says the important man. “How about crumbs?”
Silently, we sprinkle crumbs over the table and on two plates. The important man scrunches up a napkin and tosses it on the floor. I carefully place a flake of pastry next to it, and then two more. We look around us.
“Perfect,” we say.
We have our meeting. When it’s over, we flinch as his assistant strides in. She takes in the scene. Her face falls. It is one of devastation. It looks like we’ve been throwing foodstuffs at each other for an hour. She scans the room, trying to work out where her huge number of pastries have gone. All that remains is one small piece of Eccles cake. The man and myself look at each other, guiltily. We shake hands and say goodbye.
“I don’t think I want an assistant,” I think, as I leave. “It is too much like having a boss.”
I offer my croissant to the homeless man outside. He declines.

David Shrigley pictures

2008-05-16T09:49:00.002+01:00

I came across an artist named David Shrigley while perusing a Soho bookstore. He takes pictures, sculpts, and draws. Here are some of his photos (I'll send out some of his drawings later.)

Who else is seriously bothered by Simon Cowell’s haircut?

2008-05-16T09:44:00.000+01:00

Not a lot of updates today.

I will clarify since many of you have asked – I didn’t move my seat in the theatre the other night because about 5 more people came and sat on the other side of me, essentially trapping me in my hell. However, they did have enough common sense to leave an open seat between us.

British people love ice cream. I mean, they really love it. If it gets to be over 65 degrees, people flock to ice cream trucks like it’s their job.

The forecast for Saturday is: Rain, some thundery

I don’t usually get my panties in a bunch about being politically correct, but this blurb from yesterday’s paper regarding Angelina Jolie’s babies rubbed me the wrong way:
“The twins will be the fifth and sixth children for the star who already has one natural daughter, one-year-old Shiloh, and three adopted kids.”
I mean, ‘natural daughter’ isn’t the best way of saying that, is it?

P.S. Congratulations to everyone graduating this weekend (and in the upcoming weekends as well)! Special congratulations go out to Elissa who will officially become a librarian tomorrow; she will be handed a cardigan and glasses on a chain as she walks across the Simmons stage. Let’s all whisper our praises to her.

David Crosby's love child

2008-05-15T10:17:00.001+01:00

Hampton Palace. I'm looking into a timeshare. Who's with me?

The Goat Major pub in Cardiff. Seriously. Who thinks of these pub names? Do they have a brainstorming session with a bunch of drunk dudes and one douchebag in the corner (who clearly has had some intimate moments with livestock) slurs, "Waitaminute, waitaminute, waitaminute. Whattabout this? The Goat Major. Right? (burp) People'll luv it." And then, because no one else thought of anything better, that's what they went with.

There were dragons everywhere around the city of Cardiff. You can't get a cuppa without being reminded that "Hey...dragons are on the loose."

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand it’s raining again

2008-05-15T10:02:00.001+01:00

The short story: Don’t go see the movie Heartbeat Detector.

The long story: Time Out London magazine sent me a free pass to go see a French flick that sounded somewhat interesting. And by that I clearly mean that I manipulated a past email they sent me and changed the date to May 13 and the movie title to Heartbeat Detector and voila! Instant movie pass! (I’m okay with this since these movie screenings are never at capacity.) I show up at 6:20 to the 6:30 showing and the theatre is sparse. I know it’s not going to get much more populated either. Here is a picture of what the seating looked like. “Other People” are blue squares, “Yours Truly” is the pink square.

Enter a man and his girlfriend. They stop and scan the theatre, assessing the seating situation. Guess where they decide to sit. Take a look back at that seating plan. Look at all the empty seats. LOOK AT THEM!!! Now, I will ask you again. Where do you think this wanker and his cow of a girlfriend decided to sit? Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaat’s correct. Right. Next. To. Me. (Wanker and cow are green squares.)
So fine. They’re sitting next to me. I can deal with that. I just won’t be able to drape my legs over the armrest (which may or may not be a rude thing to do anyway) and if it’s a tearjerker of a film, I’ll just have to be discreet about wiping my tears. But then. Then, my friends. He takes out a sandwich and begins to attack it with his face. It sounded like like the sound effects from Jurassic Park. I prayed that he would take big bites and just get it over with already. I didn’t care that I was staring at him and making judgemental faces; I was just hoping he would catch me glaring at him and realize that wild boars have more etiquette than he does. So finally(!) he finishes the sandwich. And I breathe a sigh of relief. But no sooner do I finish thinking, “What an arsehole,” that he takes out a Fosters tall boy. For the love of all that is holy!!! And so the loud beer sipping begins, followed by the silent, yet pungent, beer burping. At this point the movie hasn’t even started yet and I am contemplating walking out. Between sips he leans over to French kiss his girlfriend and all I can do is wonder, “Who is this woman that she not only tolerates this disgusting behaviour, but she is still physically attracted to him enough that she wants to kiss that mouth?”

The movie begins. It is dreadful. It is the slowest movie I have ever seen and there’s a scene that is just literally one man singing for 10 minutes. He trails off at some points and you think he’s done but just like Austin Powers peeing for the first time after the cryogenic freezing process is complete, he starts right back up again. Everyone in the theatre laughed when this happened because they too couldn’t believe that there is a filmmaker out there that sadistic. But I continue watching. Because I like to boost my culture levels and watching an awful French movie seems like a good way to do that.

But that man. Oh, that man. He starts to do this nose breathing/throat clearing thing. At first I think he’s laughing…you know, one of those big-burst-of-air-through-your-nose types of laughs. But nothing funny was happening in the movie. And then he did it again, a little more abrasively this time, and I cringed thinking, “Oh heavens to Murgatroyd! He has a nervous coughing tic! Will the horror never end?!” And so it continued. For the next two and a half hours! One time it was so loud that I thought for sure someone would say something like, “Hey buddy, if you’re gonna do that, take it outside will ya?” It was terrible. It was soul-wrenching. It was homicide-inducing.

I went home and took 6 hot showers trying to wash the bad away.

Just another egret

2008-05-14T09:24:00.001+01:00

Who can take a sunrise sprinkle it in dew? Cover it in chocolate and make a miracle or two? The candyman can.

I've got a Thing To Treasure....having a roof that doesn't look like it's about to collapse.

A duck walks into a bar and says, "I'll take a shot of bourbon and put it on my bill."

Why did the algae and the fungus get married? Because they took a lichen to each other.

Photo Caption Results!!!

2008-05-14T09:23:00.001+01:00

Runners Up:

- Scaramouche! Scaramouche! Can you do the fandago?

- Leonard: "En garde! Coule! Quarte! RIPOSTE!"
Mortimer: "I have to poop."

- Little is known of the fate of Aaron Burr, save the oft-quoted vow the controversial Founding Father once made to 'go down fighting.'

- Errol Flynn and Douglas Fairbanks, Jrs., The Golden Years

- My name is Inigo Montoya. You wet your pants while sitting in my barcalounger. Prepare to die.

- Az di bobe volt gehat beytsim volt zi geven mayn zeyde! (This one is from Brent...apparently he's going through a Yiddish phase.)

But I must declare Sylvia Mon the winner of this one (though really, the picture alone is a winner).
Her award-winning caption is:

- See, Rupert! I told you I'd poke Agnes one way or another.

Lunges are really not my favorite exercise in the world

2008-05-13T10:41:00.001+01:00

This is the Churchill Arms pub in Kensington. I think that in order to technically be called a pub, there must be an exorbitant amount of plants taking over the facade of the building. Well done, Churchill Arms. Well done.

Our drinks at a Leicester Square pub. The story of my life.

Neon sign at the coffeeshop on Brick Lane. This place is great to go to on a Sunday morning to read the paper and do crossword puzzles while drinking orange and coconut tea (it tastes better than it sounds).

The 'dilly Circus tube.

Here's another Photo Caption Contest for you. This is a picture in this morning's Metro from an article about old people and fencing. So work your magic and send me your ideas. There is no excuse not to have any, either. I mean, just LOOK at this picture!!!

Tube delay due to a person UNDER a train

2008-05-13T10:21:00.003+01:00

One of the perks of living and working in downtown London are the world movie premieres. Case in point - Sex And The City: The Movie last night in Leicester Square. Here is where I'd like to tell you that I was in the front row of the crowd, got autographs from SJP, Kim, Kristen, and Cynthia, and took amazing pictures that I will now sell to Hello! Magazine for oodles of cash. However, I'll opt to not lie and tell you that I made Yulia stand on some street corner with me for 35 minutes while the limos drove past and I tried to peer in the tinted windows to try to discern (to no avail) who it was. This got old quickly and Yulia was itching to be anywhere but there. In my defense, unless we had started queueing at noon for a 7:30 premier, there was no way we were going to get a glimpse of anyone; there was just an overwhelming amount of screaming girls and flamboyant guys. But honestly. For a show BASED IN NEW YORK whose title even includes a REFERENCE TO NEW YORK and a plot line that CENTERS AROUND NEW YORK, why oh why would someone choose to have a world premiere in London?! I am assuming money had something to do with it and that people aren't that dumb.

There was a big presentation at work last Friday for some big shot manager who is leaving the company. My friend K was in charge of organizing the card, gift, and presentation. So we're all standing around watching as this guy opens all 7 of his gifts (I told you he was important) and Aussie T says in front of everyone: "What about my idea for the gift, K? Is she not coming?" (This is the type of stuff I miss about the people from Australia.)

The problem with stopping at the bathroom before you go outside to read on your lunch break is that you're just the freak walking into the work bathroom with a book under your arm.

Joke of the day that is just so horrendous it has no choice but to be funny: What's green and sings rock 'n roll? Elvis Parsley

London's Crazy Headlines:
Stunning Results For Police Tasers
Bodies Of Two Babies Are Found In Toy Boxes
I Have Just Been Run Over By A Cow

She didn't even bring me a kangaroo, that wench

2008-05-12T09:56:00.001+01:00

So y'all remember Yulia From Sydney, right? She was a main character in stories such as Lisa Wears Fancy Shoes On A Sydney Harbor Boat Cruise And Still Has The Scars On Her Feet Today, Yulia And Lisa's Adventures With Bikram Yoga Vol. 1 - Lisa Wants To Die And Yulia Smokes A Cigarette Immediately Afterwards, and the ever-so-classic Yulia Tells Lisa About Thai Street Massages And Lisa Gets Punched In The Back So Hard By One That She Cannot Sleep Comfortably For Two Days. Well Yulia (Gulia) came to London for a quick visit this past weekend. As much as I'd like to tell you that she travelled across the world just for me, that wouldn't exactly be truthful; her sister lives in Paris and so she took a month off from work to visit her and travel around Europe. We had a great weekend - I showed her the good (and bad) parts of London and she caught me up on all the stories I've been missing from Sydney (Glenn, Holly, and Kieran - I now have some great blackmail material).

This is Yulia freaking out about looking down the ginormously long escalator at the Piccadilly Circus tube (she wasn't as calm as her face appears). Granted, she has a point since people have died trying to slide down those handrails...idiots.

I made her walk a lot this weekend for many reasons: 1) I walk a lot. 2) It's cheaper than taking the Tube (and at $4 a ride, she agreed). 3) It was a gorgeous weekend. But she got to a point on Saturday afternoon where sitting in a pub and drinking a beer was a WAY better idea than taking just two more steps.
(I think she was talking to me from the looks of her mouth in this picture...I can't be sure because I wasn't paying attention to anything she said.)

She might be mad about that picture, so here's one that she can't complain about. (We shopped for two hours on Oxford Street so that she could buy that pink singlet. If she had listened to me when I told her that a long sleeved t-shirt would be too hot in 25 C weather, we could have spent those two hours picking the nose of a Buckingham Palace guard instead. Her loss.)

This is scenic Trafalgar Square outside the National Gallery. When I say it was gorgeous out, I mean it. I am still as pale as a raw potato.

You and your pussycat nose

2008-05-09T09:08:00.002+01:00

Okay, where’s the fight? I’m ready to kick some ass! I’ve got my Wales flags comin’ out BOTH my ears, I’m daintily holding my sword, and I can’t see for shit. Bring ‘em on! Wait a tic…why am I in a souvenir shop? There ain’t any Romans here…

Daughter: Mommy!
Mom: Don’t worry, it’s only a picture of Tom Jones, not actually Tom Jones.
Daughter: His tight pants scare me!
Mom: I know, dear. I know.
Edith: I love your skirt, Gertrude.
Gertrude: Oh thanks, deary. I got it at the Oxfam shop up the street. Only cost me two quid. Are those new pants you’re wearing?
Edith: No, they’re old. But I pulled them up a little bit higher today for the Prince’s parade. Louise, why don’t you stand up straight?
Louise: I am standing up straight! What do you want from a little old lady who has no neck? Ooh, ooh! Here he comes, here he comes!
Gertrude: That Prince Harry is so fine, I tell you. Maybe if he looks this way as he passes by he’ll notice my skirt and give me a hug.
Louise: Bollocks! If he’s going to notice anyone, it’s going to be me. Just look at how many jackets I’m wearing!
Edith: My dentures are too big for my mouth and my face is stuck in a perpetual smile. I’m in pain.

Check it out, it’s the actual magazine! (Okay, maybe I’m a little obsessed with Notting Hill.)

This was an actual book (as opposed to a hologram or something) I found at one of the antique stores in the Cotswolds. I didn’t peruse through it so I can’t elaborate on the kinds of food a hungry monk would eat, but if I had to guess, I’d say Doritos, Twinkies, and Hot Pockets.

**Unleash your inner pyjama-wearer

2008-05-08T18:39:00.002+01:00

I am embarrassed because my wife has caught me. “What are you doing?” she says, moments after walking into the bedroom. She looks horrified. I had hoped she wouldn’t notice, that perhaps I could get away with this.
“I can explain!” I yell, desperately, but it is too late. She has seen me. She takes her wide eyes and walks into the bathroom, possibly to sit down and shake a bit.
I am wearing little pyjamas.
I didn’t mean to. It just happened.
I’d just returned from a few weeks away on the other side of the world, working. It had been a tough routine of constant flights, drab and dusty hotels, punishing early mornings and very late nights. Of long car journeys and bad fast food. Of throat-drying air conditioners and bone-chilling winds. But in the middle of it all…I found comfort. Comfort in the form of a free pair of slightly undersized cotton airline pyjamas. Pyjamas that I only put on, that first, fateful night, because I was a shallow, jetlagged husk of a man, who stank of aeroplane and taxi and smog. I wasn’t thinking straight. I was confused.
But everything changed in that one moment.
These pyjamas just felt good. They felt…right.
Yes, they were a little too small, but that night, I slept the sleep of the innocent. I was warm. Comforted. Protected. I was a tiny cotton ball, all wrapped up in a charcoal sleep suit and as my eyes opened the next morning, I realised…my eyes had been opened.
“Pyjamas are incredible,” I thought to myself. “Why don’t I always wear pyjamas?”
I wanted to scream it to the world! “I am Danny Wallace and I love wearing little pyjamas!” I wanted to text my friends! To ask them whether they, too, had discovered the delights of little pyjamas! To tell them there is no need to explain, that we could embark upon this journey together – that we could wear our little pyjamas with pride! Maybe it would just take me to show them!
But this, of course, was all through the freedom that travel brings. I was in a different country, in a different time zone. Anything seemed possible. The world was my oyster, and I would be in that oyster – a small and simple pearl bouncing happily around in a pair of cotton PJs.
As the trip had come to an end, however, a certain hollowness had begun to creep in. Because I knew that, for me at least, the world of pyjamas was soon to be over.
“But why?” I thought, as I pretended to watch Desperate Housewives with my wife. “Why must I deny who I really am?”
“Coming to bed?” she said, as the credits began to roll.
I nodded, silently, and then decided: tonight would be the night I’d test the waters. And 20 minutes later, I’m yelling, “I can explain!”
“Look,” she says, the next morning. “I don’t mind if you want to wear pyjamas. I just wish you’d given me some warning. It was a bit of a shock.”
I am still wearing them and eating a bowl of Coco Pops.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I promise it won’t happen again.”
But I know it will. Because I have become an addict. How could I have been blind to them all these years? Why had I not seen the signs earlier? My dad was virtually born in pyjamas. When did it become socially unacceptable for a man to wear formal nightwear? Have pyjamas gone the way of pipes and monocles? I’d look great, all dressed up in my pyjamas with a pipe and a couple of monocles! We all would!
Why, then, do they bring such shame upon us? Why do our womenfolk frown upon us so? Maybe they just need to see us in our pyjamas to realize the comfort, the joy, the pleasure they bring! Maybe they will want their own. And if they do, we should be kind. We should simply pat them, patronizingly, on their heads and say, “There is no need to explain.”
I keep my pyjamas on all day. It is my own kind of protest. “Maybe this is what I will do,” I think, as I wander around the house, liberated. “Maybe I will wear pyjamas during the day and change into more appropriate clothing when she gets home.” But I resent having to go underground with this.
At half past six, though, I get changed into jeans and a T-shirt.
My wife is a little late home. “Perhaps she’s stopped off for a drink with her friends,” I think. “To come to terms with things. Settle her nerves. I’ve come out of the closet, wearing a little pair of pyjamas, after all, and this kind of thing can have an effect on the unenlightened.”
When she arrives home, things are a little stilted.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hello,” she says.
She puts her bags down and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“I just got a couple of microwave meals from M&S,” she says. “Is that OK?”
“That’s great,’ I say.
There’s an awkward moment.
I look in the bag.
She’s bought herself a little pair of pyjamas.
“I can explain!” she says.
“There is no need,” I say, patting her on the head. “There is no need.”

Gargamel and Azriel

2008-05-08T09:09:00.006+01:00

Correct me if I'm wrong, but that sure does look like a unicorn gargoyle outside Hampton Court, doesn't it? Now that's my kind of palace!

One of the inside courts of the palace. Looks like someone had one good idea for a window pattern and got a little carried away, no?

This is a man wearing uneven socks looking longingly at a sundial. Pretty self-explanatory. Well actually, wait. No. No, I can't think of ANY explanation as to why he was doing this.

They're not cankles, it's just the way my legs were resting on the ground! (That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.)

One of the 7 gardens surrounding the palace had these cute little mushroom-shaped trees everywhere. They were great for shade and picture-taking. I could have spent the entire day just lounging underneath one of them, but bearded-Marie would have wrung my neck if I was late back to the bus so I didn't.

Worthy of its own entry

2008-05-08T09:08:00.000+01:00

I don't trust a man who wears a pinky ring.

Peter, Paul, and Mary are kinda frightening when you think about it

2008-05-07T09:26:00.005+01:00

I must have a knack for capturing men in photos grabbing themselves. But I promise you I didn't notice the guy in this one until I was transferring the pictures from my camera to my computer. I don't seek these people out, they just happen to be standing in front of the British prince.

The band in the changing of the guards. It's one thing to be a male flute player. It's another to be a male flute player wearing a big fuzzy hat.

A part of Windsor Castle. Rapunzel not included.

A cottage and garden in the Cotswolds. I like to think really nice British grandparents live here and not just rich yuppies whose primary residence is in North Hampstead, London.

Your stereotypical English cottages. I can just smell the tea brewing and the scones baking.

If I’m not back in 5 minutes…just wait longer

2008-05-07T09:05:00.000+01:00

There I am walking in the gardens of the Hampton Court Palace when two 7-year-old girls, presumably sisters, walk past me. One holds something out in her hand and says to the other, “Smell it, baby! Smell it!” Now, what is even more disturbing than the fact that a 7-year-old girl has just said that phrase is exactly where she heard it from. Because little girls don’t just come up with shit like that on their own; they have to hear it somewhere. Personally, I fear they overheard their mother saying it to their father, but about what specifically I don’t want to know.

Marie, the little old lady who happened to be my tour guide on both Sunday’s trip to the Cotswolds and Monday’s trip to Windsor and Hampton Court, was a little more sane than Alun Booth, but came very close to having as much facial hair as him. Anyway, at one point during the drive to Windsor, Marie is talking to us about the town we’re passing through and stops mid-sentence to point out, “Oh look! They’re playing cricket! How very British.” (This is the same woman who later said, “Everyone who’s here is here.”)

Overheard in a kitchen store in the quaint town of Burford, England: “Do you have that knife that does everything?”
(I immediately pictured a knife doing a tap dance followed by a knife drag racing followed by a knife drawing a bubble bath. Because if they make a knife that indeed does everything, I’m buying two.)

Okay, so Prince Harry. Princess Anne was giving out some medals to Harry and his fellow soldiers for fighting in Afghanistan at the barracks in Windsor. I didn’t know this until I walked past a barricade and overheard a policeman talking to some other tourists about it. Naturally I wasn’t going to let a date with royal destiny slip through my fingers and I made my way to where the crowd was forming; little did I know that the viewing spot I picked, right in front of a church, would be the last stop on the troops’ parade across town. So the horsies come. And the band comes. And then a bunch of army guys in fatigues come. And I am taking pictures like it’s my job. I kept my eyes peeled for ‘the other prince,’ Prince Charles, and/or Kate/Chelsy, but didn’t see any of them. I think I should have kept my eyes peeled a bit better since all the papers today showed pictures of them there. Hmm…. But whatever. I am happy with my pictures of Harry. Because even though he likes to dress up like a Nazi (which is unforgivable no matter who you are), it’s not every day you get to see a member of the royal family.

Today I bought some super duper pills with codeine and some other stuff in them without a prescription. England regulations are fun! (I bought them at Boots and not on a street corner, so settle down.)

A preview.....

2008-05-06T09:32:00.000+01:00

I know I haven't written about this yet, but I would just like to bring this picture to your attention. (You can read all about the event on cnn.com or thelondontimes.com or your other favorite news source.) Yes, I took the picture and yes, I was about 15 feet away. Yes, we made eye contact, he mouthed the words 'marry me,' I mouthed 'of course, my prince,' and we are currently engaged. Yes, I am only using him to get to his brother.

Save the Wales

2008-05-06T09:16:00.002+01:00

This t-shirt was almost too hilarious to pass up. I took a picture instead. After all, I wouldn't want someone looking at me wearing this shirt and thinking I was serious about any of these principles. (Especially #4)

This sign reads 'WHEN RED LIGHT SHOWS WAIT HERE WHEN GREEN LIGHT SHOWS TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS'

Aaaaaaaahhhh!!! More flowers!!!!

Sir Alun Booth (check out the award-winning facial hair). I do believe he's saying, "And over there you will see a sheep wearing ass-less chaps."

Despite the imminent threat of a dragon attack, Wales is a pretty country.

I am an unhealthy (i.e. unattractive) shade of pale

2008-05-06T09:15:00.000+01:00

Saturday afternoon I was surrounded by about 10,000 large, bald, drunk, enthusiastic men. I’m sure there are many places you’re thinking I was, not limited to - the Independence Mall in Kingston, a Wolk family reunion, the International Burping Competition (oh MAN, what if that were an actual thing?!), and a Rammstein concert. Unfortunately you would be wrong on all accounts, for my friends, I was in Cardiff, Wales. Little did my tour guide know that there would be some massive rugby competition taking place at the stadium downtown. And I’m not just talking one team versus another; something was going down with ALL the Rugby League teams since faces were painted every color of the rainbow (not in an actual rainbow…that’s a different gathering).

Our Cardiff tour guide was literally a Welshman we picked up on the side of the road. Granted, we planned to meet him there, but still. Side of the road. That pretty much sums up his eccentric personality. His name is Alun Booth and he talked for about 20 minutes explaining the in and outs of the Welsh alphabet and how the ‘u’ is pronounced like an ‘i’ so his name still sounds like “Alan.” (At one point he also said “It’s take-your-clothes-off weather.” This would have been okay had it not been said by a 70 year old man.)

Right. So Cardiff. There’s a castle. There’s a pedestrian mall with a KFC, Starbucks, Next, and Quiksilver store. There’s one of those mini merry-go-rounds with a child sitting on a double decker bus looking more nauseous than jovial. Most of the teenagers wear makeup (both male and female) and black clothing. It rains. There are dragons everywhere. And the signs are all in Welsh and English. Oh, and the tuna pasta salad they sell at the grocery store? Its onions are way too potent.

I would write more about what I saw in this other UK country, but eh. It wasn’t all that exciting in person and so to make it exciting just by using words would be like trying to describe how amazing all my camera, phone, and computer cords look on my desk.

May Day! May Day!

2008-05-02T09:03:00.003+01:00

Here's one of Piccadilly Circus (not as crowded as usual).

I meant to send these pictures out with the roast entry yesterday since they're relevant, but I suppose I was too preoccupied with wondering just what the HELL Nick Cannon (or the now Mr. Mariah Carey) is thinking.
This is K's garden/backyard.

This is K's spacious and cupboard-filled kitchen. Oh, and K.

He doesn't like his picture taken, so this is probably the closest picture of K you'll see. I know it's blurry. Shut up.

Tolerant and even welcoming of lactose

2008-05-02T09:01:00.001+01:00

I’m trying to be a more positive person. The whole ‘say Yes more thing’ and an eye-opening email suggesting I try to talk my way through a misunderstanding instead of just sighing heavily and doing an obnoxious eye roll are just two changes I’m trying to make that show me I could use more than a slight nudge towards Let’s Be Awesome About Life and away from Let’s Make Snide, Sarcastic Comments About Things That Piss Me Off.

Having said that, this morning I came across a hilarious blog called 1000 Tiny Things I Hate. I highly recommend watching the video in post #101, or The Way The Man Who Sat Next To Me On The Train Last Night Ate His Peanuts. It’s even funnier than it sounds. Seriously, check this site out. I know I suggest a lot of things…books, movies, MUSIC…but this one is pretty damn funny. And plus, I know you don’t really need to check CNN.com for the 8th time today. Nothing has changed.

My co-worker BT sends me a link to some random online game pretty much every day. I’m not really sure how he finds them (his answer is always simply ‘RSS Feed’), and so far his success rate in me clicking on the link, giving more than 3 seconds of my attention to it, actually playing the game, and liking it enough to play it more than once is about 3 in 437. (He actually sent me a couple awesome typing games which appeal to the nerd in me and so I must thank him for that.) But the other day he sent me a link to a game whose objective was…. “Protect the castle from invasion by not allowing evil tiles to spread to it.” Evil tiles, BT. Evil tiles.

I know a lot of you have heard about my feelings behind the lobby security guards at the office in Boston. In fact, I wrote a little blurb about them and won some free milkshakes for my team (the point of the contest was to explain why my office deserved to win the shakes and I claimed security guard harassment entitled us to them). But let me tell you that the security guards in London have those Yankees beat by a long shot. Sure, we have those same turnstiles you have to swipe your card at in order to get through. And sure, we have the same sign-in book for Guests, Clients, and People Pretending To Be A Guest Or Client So They Can Enter The Building And Secretly Use Our Coffee Machine. But the actual security men...oh boy. Before you can even think about swiping your ID card, you have to first show it to them so they can see that yep, it’s your picture on there and yep, it’s my company's badge. Not that this isn’t enough craziness on its own, after all, it’s no small feat to gain building access on an ID card since it takes at least three weeks for an actual employee to get it. But the security guards, all three of them on a rotating schedule, act as though THEY HAVE NEVER SEEN YOU BEFORE IN THEIR LIVES. I feel like I know their eating habits, the way they tie their shoes, and the names of their children, but they don’t recognize my face every morning? There was one day that one of them was logging someone into the guest book and I stupidly assumed I could just walk by without assuring them I wasn’t an employee from a different company in disguise. Oh he let me have it all right; he all but punched me in the face to prevent me from going through those turnstiles. And it’s not just a day-to-day thing, either. I’ll enter the building in the morning, smile, show them my chipmunk cheek-faced ID picture, go out for lunch later in the day, and when I come back am met with quizzing looks as if to say, “And who are you? Do you work for our company? I’m going to need to see some ID before I can let you in this building, Missy.”

How did I do on staying positive?

*music – Hey there I said it “I’m in love with you,” There’s an ocean between us just like me deep and blue, And I at times have had nothing, But tonight I want nothing but you

**Bridging the great train class divide

2008-05-01T10:10:00.001+01:00

I am standing, jammed against the toilets of a packed and sweaty train from London to Bath. It is a Friday evening. There are at least one-million people on this train, only a handful of them sitting.
“Look at them,” I think. “Sitting with their smiles and their laptops and their Guardians. The bourgeoisie. The so-called ‘Elite.’”
I shake my head in disgust. It’s all about who you know on a train like this, I think. And about booking a seat in advance.
Perhaps, though, I am the lucky one. For I am one of a small group of people standing in the cold, jolting section between carriages, and I am part of a brotherhood. We have camaraderie through our suffering. We are the proletariat. We may not have seats, or warmth, but we have spirit.
And then, for the fifth time, a man bats me in the face as he turns the page of his newspaper and I realise that, really, I’d rather have seats and warmth. He doesn’t apologise. His eyes remain fixed on the sports reports. His paper is two inches from his face and one inch from mine. I am in real danger of receiving severe paper cuts every time he finishes another supplement.
Someone opened the window somewhere outside Reading and now it won’t shut. A large man has jostled me into straddling the section of the carriage that twists and gives as the train rounds bends. I am essentially snowboarding.
A feisty young woman barges through my section of the crowd, swearing at us under her breath, as if standing there deafened by the screeches and groans of a too-old train is a lifestyle choice. We look away, ashamed, blaming ourselves for being a burden, sorry to have bothered our masters. Twenty minutes later, she barges back through the other way, holding a can of Foster’s and a baguette, and swearing again.
I try to find someone’s eye. Enough is enough. Perhaps we can start a revolution. Perhaps those seated buffoons are not better than us. Perhaps we can rise up! But no one meets my eye.
“Where’s the camaraderie?” I think, looking around me. “Where’s the spirit of the Blitz? We’re just outside Swindon! Here, if anywhere, we need the spirit of the Blitz!”
But there is nothing. I strain to look down the still-rammed carriage. The feisty woman with the Foster’s has sat down with a grunt. And then I notice…she is alone! The feisty woman is now alone! She wasn’t before! There is a spare seat! Someone must have got off at Reading!
I wonder whether this is my chance to make something more of myself. To do something with my life. To join my betters. To sit down for the last part of the journey!
I cast my eyes around the brotherhood. Their eyes are fixed on the floor, or on their newspapers, or on the ceiling. They have not seen!
“I will do it,” I think, and I break away.
The small automatic door opens, and I can feel the eyes of my former brotherhood fixed on the back of my head, looking at me with hatred and envy. And then there are the surprised and panicked eyes of the already-seated. “What is he doing here?” they seem to be thinking. “Who are you, traveller, who dares enter our world?”
But I press on, exhilarated. I steady myself on the seats as the train judders, taking care not to hold on to them for too long, lest I anger my superiors. And then I am by the feisty woman’s side. Her Foster’s is open and there is a small piece of tuna on her lap. So this is how the other half live!
“Excuse me?” I say, a little too quietly. She does not look up. “Excuse me?”
She is sitting by the window. But I see what she has done. She has placed a small handbag and a light windbreaker on to the seat next to her, as a kind of clever shield. Her plan is impressive. By putting those things there, she thinks I will think they are an actual person. Or a strange shield which means she can’t see me or even hear me. But I will persist!
“Excuse me,” I say, louder, and this time she looks up.
There is no getting out of this one. That’s her lightweight windbreaker. That’s her handbag. It’s the same bag she was carrying when she bought her Foster’s and baguette!
“Is…er…is someone sitting there?” I say.
She looks at me. I look at her. I smile.
“Yes, there is,” she says, and goes back to eating her baguette.
I am stunned. Of course there’s no one sitting there!
“Sorry?” I say.
“No problem,” she says.
No! I was not apologising! And yet somehow I’ve…apologised!
I turn, shamed, and begin the long walk back. Those seated in the warmth look satisfied that my efforts have been rebuffed and go back to their Dan Brown books and style magazines. “No matter,” I think. “I will return to my rightful place, my head held high. I will return to my people!”
But I see that someone has already taken my spot. Now I must stand, embarrassed, next to the automatic door, where I will constantly set it opening and closing.
The man with the sports pages looks at me, smugly. I am an outcast. I have betrayed the brotherhood. I stare at the back of the woman’s head. At Swindon, she gets off, taking her windbreaker and bag with her.
The man with the sports pages waits a moment, and then takes her seat.
I stand all the way to Bath.

William Makepeace THACKERAY

2008-05-01T09:13:00.002+01:00

No matter how much Splenda you put in it, a Parisian cup of espresso will always be insanely potent.

Also potent? Theresa drinking wine out of a plastic cup before 9 am.

The pig looks worried. Understandably so.

I feel like chicken tonight, chicken tonight

2008-04-30T12:41:00.002+01:00

They’re a gluttonous people, the British. They indulge in scarves, £5 tuna sandwiches, terrible prime-time soap operas like EastEnders, drug-addicted and self-destructing celebrities, hot beverages, skinny jeans (oh Britain, you really shouldn’t), and Everybody Loves Raymond re-runs. But one thing they indulge in that comes very close to being heart-warming is Sunday roasts. Basically it’s like Thanksgiving every week minus the football games, cranberry sauce, and the grandmother who insists on talking about your (lack of) breast size at the dinner table (although I suppose that depends on whose table you’re at). K invited me to his house’s roast this past Sunday where it was his turn to cook. Here’s what I took away from the experience…

America preaches spending time with your family, especially sitting down to meals with them NOT in front of the tv. But maybe if we had a structured custom like Sunday roasts the way Britain does, this would be easier for the typical American family to accomplish. After all, knowing you have a once-a-week date is easier to keep than trying to do it every day, feeling overwhelmed and then not doing it at all. (Though come ON, sitting down to a meal with your family isn’t that hard to do. Even between flute lessons, tap dance classes, Hebrew School, conference room meetings in the barn, and listening to the news on NPR, my family managed to handle it. P.S. The barn was an office, not an actual barn, so you can stop picturing my dad telling sheep the pros and cons of investing in global equities.)

In London it seems as though you’re either a die-hard vegetarian or a die-hard meat lover. Go to Camden or Bethnal Green if you want to save the animals and prefer to eat steak made of seitan (it’s no coincidence it’s pronounced ‘satan’) and tofu burgers. Go to a Sunday roast if you own the t-shirt ‘Meat Is Murder Tasty, Tasty Murder.’ (Actual t-shirt sold here.) We had lamb and chicken on Sunday, but I’m sure any animal that moves is acceptable fare to sprinkle with seasoning and cook at 350 degrees until tender and crispy.

For a country that insists on creating such heavenly sweets such as sticky toffee pudding, they sure do love their vegetables. These are a staple at any roast. No, they’re not drenched in butter, salt or cheese the way vegetables were meant to be eaten; they’re just plain, steamed, good-for-you veggies.

If you don’t have friends or a family, you can always go to your nearest pub (which is never more than a stone’s throw away) and partake in their Sunday roast menu.

I’m not sure what standard Sunday roast conversations should revolve around, but if ours was anything to go by, Aussie Rules Footy, the Berlin wall, nosy neighbors who gossip about the divorcee living next door, and roasting an entire lamb on a spit are all acceptable topics.

Anyway, I am inspired to start my own Sunday roast for my friends in Boston when I return. I would say family as well, but none of them love me enough to live in the same city as I do (my mother just gasped and felt a pang of guilt). I’m sure this ritual will only last one week since I never stick with anything other than that one pair of Levi jeans, but at least I will try. And you are all invited, so get excited and save the date!

*music – Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow Hang a shining star upon the highest bough, and have yourself a merry little Christmas now

Mrs. Dalllaire would be proud

2008-04-30T09:16:00.000+01:00

I have decided that when I buy a house, I will dedicate one room to being a library. It will come equipped with a spiral staircas and an upper level of books just like this picture. Oh, and you will be required to smoke a pipe upon entering.

This library would have been great for a scavenger hunt. There were so many hidden nooks and crannies. It would also be good for making out.

The other cool thing about this library is that the 6 floors of books were separated by metal grate floors which allows you to look through and see all 6 floors at a time. This picture is kinda bad at capturing that, so I guess you'll just have to come to London and see for yourself.

Tiny kitten lips

2008-04-30T09:15:00.000+01:00

Here’s a sure way of making new friends at work. Get into an elevator with 5 other people. When the doors open at your floor, immediately press Door Close thinking it’s Door Open and you’re being chivalrous. That’ll be a real hoot.

The 60-something man in front of me in line at the library checked out two books – The Devil Wears Prada and a Guide to Birdwatching. It’s gonna be a big weekend for him.

Right. So about that library. No, the other one…The London Library. I went on a tour on Saturday and, call me a nerd, but it was really interesting! Here are some facts you can use at your next party that are guaranteed to make you cooler:
- It’s the world’s largest independent lending library due to the fact that it retains every book it’s ever received.
- Its president is Tom Stoppard and its patron (whatever that means) is the Queen.
- The dates of the books go all the way back to the 1500’s (I’m guessing these are books such as The Pro’s and Cons of Wearing Poofy Skirts, Christopher Columbus Explored My Body (And other short stories), and Places That Haven’t Yet Been Made British Colonies).
- They don’t use the Dewey Decimal System; all their books are shelved alphabetically. They, and I, think this is cool because it really lets you see the depth of their collection; while browsing for Death (because who hasn’t done that before?), you also might come across Demons or Dentistry.
- Because it is not funded by the government you must pay a membership fee to use the library. This I can understand. What I can’t understand are the exorbitant fees. To use the library for a day it will cost you $20; for a week, $60. But here’s the kicker. You can buy a lifetime membership which will obviously vary in cost depending on how old you are when you purchase one. If you are between the ages of 18 and 25, it will cost you….$32,000 to become a member of the London Library!! I’m pretty sure you could buy all the books you’ll ever want for less than this; and if you’re using the library for research purposes, I’ll bet throwing in the cost of buying someone else’s research papers would also cover it. Yikes!
- Past members have included Charles Darwin, Arthur Conan Doyle, George Bernard Shaw, Charles Dickens, Virginia Woolf, Agatha Christie, and William Makepeace (I don’t actually know who this is, but I like his name)

I swear, if they claim that the Austrian incest guy is insane and cannot be held responsible for his actions, I will fly there myself and shoot him in the face. This is a promise. (And not that I agree with Perez Hilton on everything, but he hit the nail right on the head when he said the guy looks like Donald Sutherland. Creepy.)

*music – Dana Andrews said prunes gave him the runes, And passing them used lots of skills But when worlds collide said George Pal to his bride, I’m gonna give you some terrible thrills