My mortal enemy

"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.

In which Lisa finds where the frat boys of London are

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:

Not a bad time to work for my company

I had an overdue library fine today for the first time in about 8 years. I cannot even convey the enormity of my disappointment about this. I blame the British library system. It was even worse when I tried to pay and the woman was like, “I’m afraid you’re 5 pence short.” No lie – I had 1.58 GBP in my wallet and my fine was 1.12 GBP. I really need to go to the ATM…this book addiction is getting serious.

I love my mom. She’s probably the cutest woman on Earth right behind Kristin Chenowith, the woman who plays Eric’s mom on That 70’s Show, and Hillary Clinton. Having said that, she’s totally still a mom and is in the dark about many things, like many moms are. This comes in handy when I make inappropriate references in my blog that go unnoticed. But after I sent out the pictures of me at Stonehenge and the Eiffel Tower today, I got an email from my dear, dear mother that read:
“2 pictures so far ‘rocking out’ with a hand gesture. I am not familiar with this.”
I’m sorry mom, but I could win the lottery right now and this email will still have been the highlight of my day.

Every time I got in our little Irish Nissan, I reached over my left shoulder for the seat belt that was located over my right shoulder. You would think that after the first 4 times I would have learned. I didn’t. And then I hit a car. (I’m going to keep bringing this up until it’s not true anymore.)

I must have missed the brochure about the Roman baths in Bath being a romantic getaway because that place was just filled with touristy couples sneaking kisses around every corner. I mean, I guess I can see the appeal of togas, steamy water, and Ionic columns…if I try REAL hard.

The good news: I ordered a Guinness at our first pub in Ireland.
The bad news: I had about two sips before I made the ‘I hate beer why do I keep drinking this’ face and gave the rest to Susan.
The good news: Susan ordered a Guinness at another pub and proving rumor true, it tasted different than the last one we had ordered. This one was sweeter and didn’t taste like death, so I had another sip. That brings my total beer drinking on this side of the Atlantic to a quarter of a pint. Yahoo!

Kinda lame, kinda funny…Joke of the day:
What did the skeleton ask for at the bar?
A beer and a mop.

I’d like to have my own personal Jamie Oliver

A conversation between S, my co-worker, and me taking place this afternoon in the office bathroom:
Lisa: “Hi S. What’s goin’ on?”
S: (Clearly not understanding the question and therefore replying with every possible answer except the appropriate one) “Awright. Yeah. Fine.”

No one has their own trash can at work. There are communal trash cans and recycling bins. This makes it quite stinky when I get lazy after eating my banana and wait a good 20 minutes before building up the effort to walk to one of the bins. I’m not sure how minimal trash receptacles is a good idea, but again, they’re British; I won’t question it, I’ll just mock it.

The vending machine at work is replenished every day. I think someone came about once a week in Boston to refill ours. I guess people just really like their junk food here.

Whenever G talks I immediately think of Ricky Gervais. And when that woman was sitting next to me today talking on the phone, I immediately thought of Elizabeth Hurley. I’m not sure what it says about me that the two stereotypical Brits I picture when I hear the English accent are David Brent and Vanessa Kensington, but oh well. At least I’m amused.

I was invited out for my first drinks at a pub today after work. (The National Portrait Gallery will just have to wait until next Thursday.) You will never guess what we all talked about at the bar…G's bacon! Except I learned that it’s not bacon, it’s frankfurters. I guess it’s just common knowledge that at 9:30 every morning, G heats up some frankfurters and stinks up the kitchen. I was so overjoyed that I wasn’t the only one privy to his morning snack. I’ll try to keep the talk about G's meat to a minimum now. I think I’ve gone well beyond the appropriate limit for this topic.

I met two K's at the bar tonight, one male, one female. Male K is going to send me a website link where I can find tickets to shows for 2 pounds. I am very excited about this. Female K is going to invite me out to drinks on Friday nights with her mates. I’m less excited about this.

For the first time in pretty much ever, when I ordered a diet coke and followed it up with an “I’m not a big drinker,” I was not met with hostility and rebuttals! It was fantastic! A bunch of different people offered to get me a drink and each one accepted the fact that I was okay sippin’ on my soda. I think I might live to see the end of 6 months!!! Now…where did I put that bottle of Jack?