Using this for selfish family reasons

I'm gonna go ahead and use this forum to show the world that I officially have the cutest nephew and nieces in the world. It is not possible for you to prove me wrong on this. It is just a fact of nature and there can be no denying it. Seriously. They should give them a medal or something for just how cute they are.

Completely unrelated to each other

This is a picture I took of something creepy in the Gloucester Road tube station. I don't really know what else to say except....yikes.

Yesterday's newspaper had an article about an infertile mother who has nine children. They gathered the whole clan together to take a photo and this is how it turned out. When I look at this picture, I literally cannot stop laughing. It's the little boy over on the left that kills me. Probably because I would have done the exact same thing.

Rotten peas smell worse than you think

In the immortal words of Carole King, last night I felt the Earth move under my feet. This is how the experience unfolded:
(Lisa sits at her computer around 12:50 am when the room starts to shake)
Lisa #1: Whoa! What the hell is going on? Is that an earthquake?
Lisa #2: Don’t be an idiot. England doesn’t have earthquakes.
Lisa #1: Is it my downstairs neighbors having such vigorous sex that it’s not only shaking the walls but also the ceiling? Because that would be some sex.
Lisa #2: Probably not, you moron.
Lisa #1: Well what IS it then?
Lisa #2: I don’t know. It’s just gonna be one of those things that happens and you have to accept the fact that you will forever remain clueless.
Lisa #1: Oh you mean like how it was that Rachael Ray found someone to marry her or why I can raise my left eyebrow by itself but not my right one?
Lisa #2: Exactly.

Big thanks to Michelle for clarifying:
Porkies = porky pies = lies
+20 points for helping out an illiterate friend in need
-50 points for the reasoning behind the slang

I met even more South Africans last night. Here is what I have learned so far:
1. Kiff = awesome (i.e. ‘That barbecue was the kiffest party ever!’)
Jol = party (i.e. ‘That barbecue was the kiffest jol ever!’)
Braai (pronounced like the ‘bri’ in ‘brian’) = barbecue (i.e. ‘That braai was the kiffest jol ever!’)
2. People from South Africa love their country. Despite all the crime that goes on, South Africa always feels like home to them and when they are away, they miss it terribly. (The country, not the crime.)
3. There is a serious drop in the 18-27 population due to people up and leaving to live elsewhere around the world. Related to this, if you are South African and you move to London, you will meet more people here that went to your high school than you did back at home.
4. No matter how much you hear it, the South African accent is very hard to distinguish from a British or Australian accent. (I’m sure anyone who isn’t American will disagree with this.)
5. South Africans will lapse back into speaking Africaans while in the middle of a conversation. This will lead listening Americans to paranoia that the Saffas are talking about them. The laughing and pointing certainly doesn’t help matters.

Actual newspaper headline: Women Who Love Fat Blokes
Overheard in the office: It was mushroom risotto soup……I think.

British game show contestants have no ambition; it’s depressing. Here is the difference between Americans and Brits when the host asks how far up the money ladder they want to make it:
American answer
“Well Bob, I’d like to win a cajillion dollars.”
“But Sandy, that’s not even a real number.”
“I don’t care, Bob. I wanna win it and then I’m gonna spend it on a motorized toilet paper dispenser, velvet wine glasses, a trip to Canton Massachusetts, and a night out with my family at The Outback Steakhouse.”
British answer
“Well Nigel, I’d really like to win £100 so I can afford to pay for my dear old granny’s heart surgery, but if I leave with only £20, that’s wonderful too.”

Ah, what a relief!

I took a walk yesterday at lunch since it was such a gorgeous day outside. Instead of taking pictures of scenic London and whatnot, I took pictures of building statues and relief and giggled at the possible conversations going on behind them.

Okay, so this first picture IS kinda scenic London, but it's only to show that I would NEVER cox on the Thames no matter how much money you paid me. This river has a life of its own - a life filled with club drugs, unprotected sex in a Burger King bathroom, back alley murders, and a lifelong NAMBLA membership - a dangerous, dangerous being.
(This is the view from outside our new building.)


Hitchhiker #1: Dude, no one is gonna pick us up with these huge corn stalks on our backs.
Hitchhiker #2: Why do you got to be so negative about shit, man? This is our corn! What are we gonna do, just leave it here?
Hitchhiker #1: All I'm saying is that it makes us look sketchy.
Hitchhiker #2: I don't care. I traded all our clothes for these lifesize corn stalks and I'm NOT leaving them!
Hitchhiker #1: Fine! Bastard. But can you at least not walk so close to me? You're really starting to freak me out.

Bodybuilder: Excuse me, but maybe you should check out my bicep.

Judge: Of course. Let me just get naked first.

Bodybuilder: Wait, wait, wait. Don't look at my right one, that's my bad side. Check out my LEFT bicep. You see the rippling muscles? That's 30 hours a week at Gold's Gym right there, baby.

ManWoman: Oh, Mr. Peanut!!! I didn't think you'd be so heavy! If only I hadn't lost my lower legs in that rollerblading accident I'd be able to lift you high for all the world to see your nutty goodness! Oooh, hey! Is that your monacle or are you just happy to see me?

Master Snake: Bring me that coconut tree, bitch!

Bitch: Mr. Master Snake, this is the fifth coconut tree I've brought you in the past three hours.

Master Snake: Did I say you could talk? Little Snake, did I say he could talk?

Little Snake: No Master Snake, you didn't.

Master Snake: That's what I thought. Now stay naked, keep quiet, and hustle with my damn tree already!

Bitch: I can't feel my legs.

**Cucumber Cool But Sexy As A Gherkin

Be honest: London is not a sexy city. Take a good look around. Do you see more than one velour-clad teenager in your Tube carriage squeezing her size-14 rear into size-ten tracksuit bottoms? Sexy? I think not. See that businessman wiping the sweat from his brow with the hairy back of his hand, before sliding his fingers over his trouser leg? Attractive? Doubtful.

London has a problem. We can do cool. We can do class. We can even do city sleek. But we cannot, I repeat cannot, do sexy.

The problem is as much historical as contemporary. Was Nell Gwynne sexy? No; she was the 17th century's equivalent of Jordan, only with better acting skills. Was Robin Hood really one of our nation's sexiest heroes? I'll say it in three words: he wore tights.

Fast-forward to London's current pin-ups. Prince William is balding, Amy Winehouse makes Kurt Cobain look clean and Russell Brand is a walking advert for that smear test you've been postponing. Never have I looked at a famous Londoner and thought: I want to be in bed with you. Now.

We could take a leaf from the sexy books of our foreign friends. In Buenos Aires, their most phallic building is called the Torre de los Ingleses, literally "Tower of the English". Yet an equally erect structure in London gets called the Gherkin. Yummy, I say. Give me a side order of that with my pickled egg.

Or perhaps we should look to the French, who actually know how to smell good: their women dab perfume, they don't spray. Here's a tip ladies: don't douse Britney Spears' Curious all over you as if trying to ward off mosquitoes in Africa. A gentle application to the pulse points is far likelier to be the ticket to a successful night. Remember: subtle is sexy.

I've lived in London almost all my life and believe it's the coolest place on the planet. Our miserable climate is counterbalanced by our dry wit. And no other country can claim to be the best sporting losers in the world. But it is lonely. With no sex, we have to rely on our "cool" to see us through. Amy Macdonald summed up the capital's affliction perfectly on her recent album: It's so rock 'n' roll to be alone.

In the park

All in a row...

I was fiddling around with the focus feature and did the complete OPPOSITE of what I wanted to do.

This one turned out okay. (Here is where Ted asks if I'm turning into his mother by taking pictures of flowers. As long as I'm not gluing fake flowers and buttons onto a hat and using puff paint, the answer is still 'no.')

Another thing about Gary Busey other than his teeth that creeps me out

Well it’s official – my world has come crashing down. I can no longer access Perez Hilton on my work computer. How will I survive you ask? I don’t know. I just. Don’t. Know.

So this guy at work, I don’t know his name so let’s call him Red, finds this gift bag under his desk this morning. He reaches into it, pulls out a pair of pink, fuzzy handcuffs and asks the office if they belong to anyone. He’s holding them with his pinky finger as if they are just covered in gonorrhea and syphilis (which, who are we kidding, it’s a corporate London office so they probably are) and is giggling like a little girl. I’m not really sure what to do or say at this point because I’ve never even thought about being in this situation before, let alone actually experience it. In hindsight, I should have said something clever like “Actually, the janitor mentioned to me yesterday that her pair went missing” or “Those are mine! I like to be naughty while I create my pivot tables” or “Well, they’re certainly not Graham’s…his pair has a ketchup stain on it.” Instead I just sat there and giggled too, probably just as appropriate a reaction.

I was talking to this British lady on the phone today and she said “You’re a star” and “You’re an angel” all within a span of 15 seconds. You have no idea how special I felt when I hung up. I am invincible!!! (Or people are just really polite here.)

Okay, so maybe you know that I have an uncanny ability to win things. Some people think I’m just lucky. But really, I think it just boils down to the fact that I enter EVERY CONTEST KNOWN TO MAN. So why should it be any different just because I’m a million miles from home? (I like to say a million miles because I don’t actually know how many miles it is.) Today I won a pair of tickets to go to the NME Music Awards and Afterparty on Thursday night. Granted I’ve never even heard of this award show, but I have heard of some of the bands performing – The Kaiser Chiefs, My Chemical Romance, and Arctic Monkeys to name a few. Plus, they could have offered me tickets to the Whale Awards and I would have jumped out of my pants with excitement. Needless to say, I’m pumped for it! This will be my first awards show so I’m trying to plan my outfit accordingly. I think I’ll fit in pretty well if I wear a dress suit with pantyhose; it’ll be perfect if I get caught up in a mosh pit.

War wound

Please ignore the fact that my thigh is pasty white - it's winter, gimme a break. The point of this picture is to show you what one paintball can do. I don't know who the b!tch was that hit me, but you can be sure I am hunting her down still.

Like a nun in a cucumber patch

I couldn’t help but notice that the supermarket sells delicious looking cookies that are called ‘digestives.’ I had resisted the urge to buy them because I was afraid they were packed full of fiber or laxatives and I’d be in the bathroom for most of the day. But after asking a couple people what the deal is, I was informed that they’re just regular cookies with a misleading name. I blame England for losing one month where I could have been eating this tasty treat.

The violin concert on Friday night was incredible. Okay, so maybe I fell asleep for a good portion of it, but you can’t blame me because the music was soothing and I was exhausted. Anyway, in the first half a viola player and a cellist joined the violinist on stage and they played a piece that sounded exactly like a soundtrack to an Alfred Hitchcock movie would sound…It was pretty intense. I was acting out the “film” in my head as well and had to cover my eyes when the lead actress was murdered by a flock of birds while taking a shower in a motel.

I think I had my first celebrity sighting Saturday night, but I could be mistaken. I was at dinner with Eric, Larry, and Jacqueline in a Polish restaurant in Kensington called Wodka. We were at vodka shot #4 when I looked out the window and thought I recognized Mika walking by with two friends. I didn’t know if it was him or not, so I made sure to keep an eye on the window to see if he eventually walked back the other way. Sure enough, after about an hour the three of them passed by again, but he hadn’t put on a shirt saying “Lisa, you thought right. I am Mika.” And so that’s why this is Possible Celebrity Sighting #1.

Paintball was awesome! Truth be told, I was pretty nervous about the whole thing; the only gun I’d ever fired was a water gun, and I’m not much for crawling around on the ground army style. I was lucky in that neither were 99% of the girls I was with. I think I was only shot about 4 times – in the chest, on my arm, on my thigh, and in the stomach. My favorite part was when I shot a girl right in the eye (obviously we were all wearing masks) and then stupidly stood up from behind my hiding spot and yelled “Woo hoo! I got her right in the eye! Yeah!” I was hit soon after that…

Anyway, here is a story that you will be sure to get a kick out of. The paintball manager dude was giving a prep-talk to everyone explaining the rules and what to expect. He told us that if your gun is hit with a paintball or a paintball hits you but doesn’t explode, it doesn’t count and you’re still “alive.” However if you are hit in the back with a paintball, you have probably just been shot by someone on your own team, most likely an American. Everyone had a good chuckle at this since most of them were British and South African, and Cass even pointed at me and gave an all-too-hearty laugh. I in turn responded with a fake hardy-har-har. Skip ahead to game #3 and my team is destroying the enemy. I notice a girl hiding behind a bushel of sticks and I know she doesn’t see me. So I aim and shoot at her. She then curses me and holds up her arm indicating her red armband yelling, “I’m on your team, you idiot!!!” We eventually win that round but I definitely lost because I had officially earned the nickname Friendly Fire. Way to perpetuate the American stereotype, Lisa…

Maybe it’s because I live in Boston where it would be considered blasphemous, but how in the world can someone not know the lyrics to Sweet Caroline??? Sunday night I went to the taping of Don’t Forget The Lyrics, a glorified karaoke gameshow where a contestant is prompted to complete a line of lyrics; But there’s a money ladder like Millionaire so there’s more than one round. The contestant last night, Nolan, made it through about three rounds (he ended up only winning 5000 GBP), when he gets to the Neil Diamond classic and he’s faced with ‘So now we look at the night And it don’t seem so __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __.’ He was pretty confident when he sang ‘lonely We build it up with only two.’ But since I’m the smartest person in the world, I was sitting there cringing thinking about what an idiot he was; I mean come on, that doesn’t even make sense. He uses a lifeline and brings his best friend on stage with him who also thinks it’s the right lyrics (this guy was even thicker than Nolan and insisted on doing his Elvis imitation no less than 6 times). Needless to say, Nolan lost (he said ‘build’ instead of ‘fill’). But here’s what’s funny about going to see a sub par gameshow: 1) The host is always some D list celebrity who maybe 5% of the population knows - in Britain’s case it was Shane Richie, apparently some soap star-turned-singer who had a #2 hit with ‘I’m Your Man,’ a song I didn’t recognize but wasn’t sad not to since it was terrible) and 2) Tou know that pause where they ask the judges/producers if the answer is right and there’s the tense moment of is it or isn’t it? Well in the taping, that moment is literally 20 seconds long. The first time we had to wait for the screen to turn green signifying a correct answer, the audience actually started laughing at loud at the absurdity of the pause.

So check your local listing for the last episode of the DFTL season. I’ll be the one in the third row with the green and blue striped shirt dancing terribly next to a dapper, yet tired looking, bald black man (K).

A la Elf

I saw this sign as I walked around downtown during lunch yesterday. I wanted to run in and shout, "Congratulations! You did it! London's finest dry cleaner! Good job, everyone!"


(But I didn't.)

Pickles the Fire Cat

Tuesday night I talked to this Spanish lady at a bar for about 20 minutes. I think I understood maybe 4 words she said. Then she went to the bathroom and my friend Cass came over and I told her, “I didn’t understand a fucking word she just said to me.” Cass knew the lady and replied saying, “She’s been in this country for 5 years and she still can’t speak English very well.” “5 years?! I thought she said she’d only been here for 6 months! Okay, I REALLY have no idea what she’s been saying to me.”

Newspaper joke of the day: “What’s E.T. short for? Because he has little legs.” (I’m teling you – these jokes are awesome.)

I went to a film festival preview tonight (I got tickets through LondonIsFree.com which has been a gem of a find for a cheap bastard like myself). I had never been to one of these before so I didn’t know what to expect. Basically it was somewhat of a Who’s Who in London sitting in a posh theater watching 3 minute clips of indie flicks. I invited Cass to come along with me because she knows a lot of those folks and is a great people person. The movies themselves were just okay, but it was awesome getting into the after-party drinks and cake shindig. One woman came up to the two of us and asked who we were with. Not being a very quick thinker, I just stood there with my mouth open (the name of my company would not have sufficed as an answer in this scenario). Cass, however, was a little more creative and said we were with the South African Film Journal. She could have said we were with the Clovelly Lawn Bowling club of Australia and the woman would have had the same overly enthusiastic reaction as she handed us some flyer that we immediately hid under a pile of napkins. Cass and I then spent the rest of the night perfecting our story of who we are and what we do. Unfortunately, no one else asked.

I’m telling you – it has been a whirlwind of activity this past week. I haven’t gotten nearly enough sleep and next week isn’t going to be any better. Although it’s totally worth it because all the things I’m doing rock so hard. Here’s a preview:

Friday: Violin concert
Saturday day: Paintball
Saturday night: Dinner with Eric, Larry, and Jacqueline
Saturday late night: Going to a club (gasp! I know!)
Sunday: Going to see a taping of “Don’t Forget The Lyrics” (the British version of ‘The Singing Bee’ I think…or whatever show Joey Fatone hosts)
Monday: Going to see a taping of “The Book Quiz” (a tv quiz show about literature)
Tuesday/Thursday: One of these nights I’m going to an awesome-looking pizza restaurant in Soho with Dipak
Wednesday: Going to see a taping of “Through the Keyhole” (a tv quiz show where a celebrity panel has to guess another celebrity just by looking at video footage of their home and belongings)
Friday: A magazine publicity event at a club downtown

I can sleep when I die, I guess.

I couldn't find a picture of the man wearing sparkly pants

This wasn't even as high as they climbed. And whenever they reached the top I whispered to K, "Yeah, but how are they gonna get down?"

Like Peter Griffin, I am convinced this woman has no bones. Seriously. There were points during her routine where I didn't know if I was looking at her back or her front.

This was a contortionist who was 'spiderlike.' He fit his entire body through a tennis racket. (There was cringing when he popped his shoulder out of its socket.)

Running on empty

I have never felt like more of a sheltered, middle-class white girl from Podunk Massachusetts than I did last night. Kim and I went to see the show Afrika Afrika. To be trite, you could say it’s an African version of Cirque de Soleil. While I knew that what I was seeing wasn’t just a bunch of physically fit men and women doing circus tricks, I am really glad K was there to fill me in on some of the details. (K is not Asian as you might have suspected; he’s from Nigeria.) For each performance he told me what part of Africa it was representing based on the music, dance, act, and/or costume. Not all the acts are native to Africa (break-dancing and fancy basketball to name two), but they are still all part of the culture, many being performed by street entertainers. Among the acts were an insane juggler who impressed me when he used only 3 balls let alone the 8 that he was up to by the end, pole climbers who made the little Chinese dude in Ocean’s 11 seem like an amateur, contortionists who made me cringe and shield my eyes from the horror, men on unicycles doing double dutch, girls lying on their backs and spinning huge clay pots and tables on their feet, and of course, men who climbed on each other building man-towers 5 people high. I really enjoyed the show; I know there was a lot that went over my head since I’m vastly uninformed when it comes to knowing about African culture. But I understood that there was meaning behind it all and I could certainly tell that it was more than just a show to the 4000 people or so who were in the audience. All in all, I’m glad I bailed on another relationship-filled-with-drama play to see it.

I have become friends with two people from Africa in the past month. That is two more than I’ve befriended in my entire life.

Last night I found myself asking K, “Do you want to walk to London Bridge?” I realize this isn’t that far-fetched a question to be asking, but it still seems funny to me.

I hurt my finger peeling a banana. (Oh and thank you everyone for your concerns about my general hygiene with respect to wiping my fingers on my chair. What would I be without your judging? Other than a decent human being who doesn’t soil office furniture…)

The afternoon paper has a one-liner joke every day. So far, I’ve surprisingly laughed out loud at every one of them. Yesterday’s joke was “What do you call a heavy Italian fog? A bigamist.”

This was a headline in the same paper: “Official: Tube signs really do tell porkies.” Even after reading the article, I still don’t know what that means.

The ugliest grown duckling

I'm telling you. Most. Dangerous. Creatures. On. Earth.


Hula girls.


About 1/16 of Hyde Park/Kensington Garden.


No idea what the spires are. Probably something historic.

What’s it all mean, Basil?

I see a lot of GB bumper stickers on cars around London. Every time I see one, I immediately think, “It’s amazing that someone this far away from Massachusetts would have a Great Barrington sticker on their car. That’s pretty cool.” And then my brain starts functioning again and I think, “Really, Lisa. When are you going to stop being an idiot EVERY TIME you see that?”

It took me until yesterday, but I finally noticed that the hand bars/poles (is there even a technical term for them?) on the Tube are color coded to match their respective line. This will help prevent me from taking the green line when I really want the yellow line making me 15 minutes late for work because I don’t realize I’ve gotten on the wrong train until I’m 5 stops into the train ride and then I have to get out at Earl’s Court (where the hell is Earl’s Court anyway?) go up 50 stairs only to walk back down 50 stairs to get on the green line back to where I came from and then get on the yellow train I should have taken in the first place and ride 30 minutes into the city. Good thing I caught this early.

Do you think Sporty Spice feels lonely and sad when the rest of the Spice Girls bring their kids on stage with them? (Actually, I think having no kids is way better than being Eddie Murphy’s baby’s mama. But that’s just my personal preference.)

Unfortunately in my new office setup I no longer sit right across from G (collective sigh). I mean, he still sits close enough that I can hear his silverware and plates rattling at breakfast time AND lunch time, but not close enough to hear his incessant rambling. The guy who does sit across from me is boring. I have no idea what his name is and he’s a boss of some kind so I can’t make frankfurter jokes with him. However, this little tidbit totally made my day…maybe it might be okay after all:
Employee who looks like John Mayer who also works for Mr. Boring: “Can I leave at quarter to five today? I have a thing in my ear and I want someone to have a look at it.”

Lots of people have asked me how the Boston office is different from the London office. And by lots I mean more than 6 and less than 9. Yet I’m caught off guard each time they ask this, and I think I give a different answer depending on what’s in proximity to me at the time (Boston has less plants; London has a nicer coffee machine; there are more middle-aged balding men in the London office; Boston has more Thai employees; in Boston it’s easier for me to hide the fact that I’m on the internet 6 hours a day, etc. etc. etc.) I’m not sure what people are expecting my answer to be. I mean, a corporate office is pretty much a corporate office no matter where you are. There will always be cubicles, a bubbler that produces lukewarm water, water all over the countertop in the women’s bathroom, boogers on the wall over the urinals in the men’s bathroom, mirrors in the elevator for last minute hair checking, adjustable chairs that are so abrupt you could break your coccyx, a person who coughs every 15 seconds, a person who sneezes 8 times in a row, a person who insists on having their speaker phone set to 500 decibels for every call they make, vending machines with tempting snacks, and microwaves that smell like shrimp fried rice. I’d say the biggest difference I’ve seen between the Boston, Sydney, and London offices are the trashcans. I’m not kidding! This is the biggest, and most important I might add, difference – Boston has both a normal trashcan and a recycling trashcan at every desk. Sydney only had tall, bizarre cardboard trashcans (with no lining) that warned you against putting any “wet waste” in them (I made sure to ignore this stupid rule). And London? Well, like I said, London has no trashcans. You have to walk to the kitchen for that luxury. Personally, I’d settle for even more bald men if it means better trashcans.

Not exactly warm in here

The bathroom at the new office smells like cinnamon. I’m not sure why, all I know is that this is strange.

My chair at the old office had an upholstered seat. What does this mean in the grand scheme of things you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. It means that once I was done peeling my banana and was left with some banana peel remnants on my fingers, I could subtly wipe my fingers on the side of the chair instead of getting up and walking the 15 feet to the paper towels in the kitchen. My new chair, however, while sleek and pretty, has a plastic mesh type of seat. This means that if I wipe my potassium-laden fingers on it, I’ll end up just sitting on the residue and having pants smell like banana. Don’t worry, everyone. I am working the situation out by hording paper towels.

Picture ’30 feet away’ in your mind. (To help you visualize, picture me head-to-toe 6 times.) 30 feet. This is how close a coffee shop is to my new desk. I kid you not, my friends. My company, while very incapable of having a computer for an employee on their first day of work, has come up with the brilliant idea of putting a Costa Coffee right in the middle of our floor. This is both a blessing and a curse for obvious reasons. I mean, not only do they lattes, cappuccinos, mochaccinos, and Americanos, but they have sandwiches, fruit, soda, cookies, and croissants. What is a girl to do?!

A smattering of images

Someone in Kensington has awesome taste in scooter fabric.


Reminiscant of King Ralph.


Awesome roller skater in the park. I think my Dad has that same hat.

V&A

A couple shots from the Victoria and Albert Museum this weekend.

Chihuly - what a nice surprise! I had no idea he had an installment at the museum.


Man versus Snake. It sure seems like Man is winning.

Essex Sussex Wessex

G to T: “You’re just jealous that I have better legs than you.”
T to a co-worker: “You were drinking too much…you were wankered.”

Lunch at Old Doctor Butler’s Head was interesting mainly due to the fact that half the people ordered steak and kidneys and the other half ordered liver pot pie. (I was the odd man out who ordered the lasagna.) Sitting next to SR who ordered the kidney, I made the mistake of asking him what it tasted like and what the texture was, because when it arrived, he kept insisting that I try it. I almost had to use my self-defense techniques but he stopped pushing it after I made a somewhat-inappropriate face and said, “I’m not really that adventurous when it comes to trying new foods.”

But then all was well again when everyone started talking about how I would definitely fit into one of those moving crates at work. What is it with people wanting to fit me into small spaces like trashcans or file cabinets?

I still don’t understand the rules of cricket.

(Breaking news in this morning’s paper. A headline read: “Drugs May Be Very Dangerous.”)

Kibbles 'n Bits

Here is a picture of one of the potted plants at the new office. Notice how the 'dirt' looks like dog food bits. And trust me, I know what dog food bits look like because I used to eat them. (Ha! Mom, try explaining your way out of THIS one!)


This is a ambiguous bathroom door at the new office. Even though this probably wasn't done on purpose, what a great office prank!

I ate 6 eggs in 2 days

We are moving offices tomorrow. There’s something like 8 company offices all within the city of London and they’re consolidating three of them. This means that my day tomorrow will consist of watching frantic people trying to rid their desks of all unnecessary papers (which, truth be told, is every paper) but instead finding that Dorito chip they lost 8 months ago.

Either people will find any excuse to eat and drink here or they’re really sentimental about this building, because not only are we going out for drinks after work to celebrate our last day at Angel Court, but we’re also going to a pub for lunch. But get this – the name of the pub is Old Doctor Butler’s Head! One thing I learned very early on is that London is filled with fantastically-named pubs. (I like to think Old Doctor Butler’s Head refers to the bloodied head of a British doctor who accidentally decapitated himself while trying to perform brain surgery on a patient while intoxicated in 1893. Oh and the head? It haunts the pub.)

G has been quite active in the past two days in preparation for the move since his desk is exceedingly cluttered. What this means for me, the lucky person who gets to listen to him all day, is a handful of inane quotes (the context doesn’t matter…they still wouldn’t make sense):
“This is where the frisking happens.”
“Wonka wonka wonka!”

D said the word ‘movements’ today in the exact same way Austin Powers says ‘I’m gonna go watch a moooooooooovie.’ I have yet to figure out a way to snicker without having the people around me realize I’m snickering at them.

So that rocket building picture I sent awhile back? It’s nicknamed ‘The Gherkin.’

Many people have told me that I should go to Wimbledon in June, that it’s an amazing experience. I don’t doubt this and so today I inquired with a company ticket vendor to see if they had anything available. This was their reply:

Dear Lisa,
Thank you for your request.
Please note that unfortunately we are only able to source premium priced tickets for sporting events. See below for details:
Ladies Semi Final Priced at $2100 per ticket
Men’s Semi Final Priced at $4100 per ticket
Ladies Final Priced at $2400 per ticket
Men’s Final Priced at $6200 per ticket
All prices and availability are subject to change at any time. Please advise if we can be of any further assistance.

Here was my (fake) reply:

Dear Crazy Wimbledon Ticket Selling People,
$6200 for a single ticket? Are you nuts? Are those for the nosebleed seats too? I can understand paying this much for a Red Sox/Yankees playoff game; at least there I’m paying for the chance to see something as awesome as Pedro Martinez giving an ass whooping to Don Zimmer. And are the men really $3800 better than the women? I’m not a die-hard feminist or anything, but that seems a little silly to me. Please let me know if the prices drop down to $200 or below and I’ll be interested in a front-row seat.
Thanks a heap!

In completely unrelated news, Shaq is completely gone from South Beach leaving my Dad in utter despair. Today on the phone he told me, “I miss him already.”

A view from the top

This is what I see all day at work when I look left. I am in prime position to see everyone who gets off the elevator, the unlucky few who forget their ID cards and have to wait in the lobby for someone to come let them in (I only pretended I didn't see them a couple times), and, since I'm also on the way to the kitchen, I can see that one guy walk by at least 15 times a day to get tea.

Those metal bars are what make my day fun, though. There's a little step there that I guess building management doesn't want people to trip over, so they put in those bars which tell you, "Hey. Go out of your way and take this ramp." But since I'm quite lazy, I like to just duck and go under the bars, saving me a total of 4 seconds. One of these days I'm going to do some gymnastics move on it; maybe do some flips and somersault into a perfect 10 landing.

A day for groping

In celebration of a holiday that Jews all over the world observe but really shouldn’t, here is a last minute list of things you can do for your girlfriend/boyfriend/spouse/other on Valentine’s Day (because I know more than a few of you are planning on going to CVS at lunch to buy a box of Russell Stover chocolates and then picking up a dozen roses at Kabloom on the way back and that is just unacceptable):

Also, please keep in mind that if any of these do not go over well and/or someone loses an eye, I cannot be held responsible…

- In true junior high fashion, make a mix cd. Try to only include love songs with a heartfelt message: Bette Midler’s “The Rose,” Bright Eyes’ “The First Day of My Life,” or The Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody.” It’s best to stay away from songs such as Nelly Furtado’s “Promiscuous,” Akon’s “Smack That,” or The Divinyls’ “I Touch Myself.”

- Cook dinner. That’s right. I said it. Don’t just shell out $100 for a dinner that 30 other couples are also feasting on right next to you. That’s not special. What’s special is thinking of a dish you know your partner will love and then making it for them from scratch. I guarantee that even if they start choking on an olive pit that you accidentally forgot to remove, they will love it more than whatever Todd English was mass producing that night. Oh, and make sure there’s mood lighting, romantic music (go for something classic like Ella Fitzgerald) and candles on the table (I shouldn’t even have to tell you this).

- Make a scrapbook out of pictures that are just collecting dust (but don’t insist they take it to work to show everyone; that would be taking the express route to Singleville, population YOU).

- Write a poem; do not start it with the words “Roses are red, Violets are blue.” And no, it doesn’t have to rhyme. In fact, having it not rhyme is an easy way for you to write what you really feel about the person instead of trying to think of an adjective that both describes your love AND sounds like “thong.” Plus, it’ll make you seem artsier.

- Bake cookies or cupcakes and write appropriate or inappropriate things on them with icing. Feel free to individually wrap them in pink cellophane and hide them in your partner’s lunch bag; they will instantly become the most popular person at work.

- Send a dedication to them on the radio or in the newspaper or in the sky using one of those skywriting planes or even spray paint your message on a construction beam.

- If you insist on buying jewelry, inscribe something on it. There are lots of girls out there with that Tiffany heart necklace. Make her feel like she’s special (even if she’s not) with something meaningful written on it… “Two hearts, one soul, everlasting love” “Love is as priceless as this necklace” or the ever popular “Can we please have sex now?”

On the flip side, here is a list of things you CANNOT DO UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES on Valentine’s Day:

- Propose
- Send an e-card (unless it’s to a friend, then it’s okay)
- Use a pre-written message from 1-800-FLOWERS on your delivered bouquet of roses
- Go dutch
- Break up
- Tell her that maybe she shouldn’t eat the entire box of chocolates in one sitting
- Insist on watching tv after dinner…or during dinner for that matter
- Buy a card and then only sign your name in it; you’re better than that, you can write an original message even if it’s something as simple as “I’m glad we’re together because being single today would really suck”

So there you have all my wise suggestions. Then again, I’m single yet AGAIN on February 14 so what the hell do I know?

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone! (Except my Dad, my sister, and my brother-in-law. Then, just Happy Thursday!)

You should be lucky I left my Hustler magazine at home

Wikipedia defines the term 'meme' as a catchphrase or concept that spreads in a faddish way from person to person via the Internet. Well on one of the blogs I check daily, I read about one certain meme that is being passed along.

Here are the rules:
1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages)
2. Open the book to page 123
3. Find the fifth sentence
4. Post the next three sentences
5. Tag five people

I'm not going to tag five people because I don't want you to be checking THEIR blogs instead of mine. But I WILL post the three sentences because I think this is a fun idea.
The book is Charles Dickens' 'A Tale of Two Cities.'

...It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him through the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded the towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition, as he now pulled his turban off and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at intervals for the last six hours.
'Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?' said Stryver the portly, with his hands in his waistband, glancing round for the sofa where he lay on his back.
'I am.'

Reading the manual probably would have helped

So I've had this model camera for what? 2 years? And I'm just now realizing it can take black and white pictures.

So THIS is why I've been seeing all those blood drops on the streets of my neighborhood...Good to know.

The way people "fold in" their side mirrors here makes me think of little Lamborghinis or Deloreans.

No postage necessary

Dear City A.M. Newspaper,
Thank you for including the headline “She Hates You, Yeah Yeah Yeah” above the picture of Paul McCartney on his way into court. Tasteless, yet brilliant.
Your avid reader,
Lisa


Dear G,
I understand that yogurt is delicious. But please, can you keep the plastic container scraping at the end to a minimum? How many more spoonfuls are you going to get out of it? A half? This sound was annoying in the Boston office and it’s annoying here.
Your deskmate,
Lisa

Dear Brain,
Please don’t have another dream about Dan Andelman, the Phantom Gourmet food critic guy. That was beyond upsetting.
You,
Lisa

Dear Woman Fixing Her Wig on the Tube,
Next time don’t make it so blatantly obvious.
Your fellow commuter,
Lisa

Dear London Bus System,
I hate you.
Your mortal enemy,
Lisa

Dear Woolworths,
You’re a big conglomerate. I get it. What I don’t get is that you are not consistent with your wares. I can buy toilet paper in you in Plymouth Massachusetts and bananas in you in Sydney Australia. But in London you have neither of those things. So here’s what I need from you, Woolies. I need you to be more predictable with what you are selling so that I don’t get pissed off when I can’t find paper towels in you but am overwhelmed with children’s bicycles.
Your angry-yet-loyal consumer,
Lisa

Dear Grand Plaza Serviced Apartments,
Please do not feel that you are entitled to use the phrase *serviced apartment* in your name if you are not going to replenish my toilet paper supply. This almost led to a disaster last night and that is unacceptable.
Your perturbed-that-she-has-to-buy-her-own-toilet-paper-when-the-place-across-the-street-willingly-gave-her-more resident,
Lisa

Dear Big Toe on my Right Foot,
I don’t know what I did to you, but please stop hurting.
The rest of your body,
Lisa

Dear Whoever Just Set Off the Fire Alarm in my Building,
You suck.
Your bitter neighbor,
….Juanita Jones

Dear Readers of This Email/Blog,
Thank you for being understanding of my Negative Nelly-ness when I’m in a bad mood because I got lost yet AGAIN trying to take the bus home from about a mile away.
Yours truly,
Lisa

Aiming for my 5-a-day

This is what I made for dinner last night. The original recipe, stolen from 101cookbooks.com whose website I HIGHLY recommend, called for brussel sprouts, tofu, pecans, garlic, brown sugar, and other goodness. I ended up using only brussel sprouts, garlic, and peanuts. It worked, though!


And here's a close up....

Grammys smell like moth balls and Fixodent

Despite someone finding the head of a decapitated corpse and a double-decker bus driving into a bridge causing a man serious head injuries, it’s been a slow news day here in London. Although I would like to clarify that no, I didn’t start the Camden Market fire nor did I steal the artwork from Zurich. I’m good, but I’m not that good.

Since the Grammy’s were last night, I figure now is as good a time as any to talk about music. I didn’t watch the award show last night because a) I was too busy watching the BAFTA’s (Britain’s version of the Oscars which, by the way, had the phoniest laugh track I’ve EVER heard) b) it wasn’t being televised and c) it was on in the middle of the night. However, I am ecstatic that Herbie Hancock won Album of the Year; it’s a nice change from one very mainstream act sweeping the whole show (although I guess you could say Amy Winehouse did all but that). In any case, one of the best things about traveling to Sydney and London is being introduced to new music that isn’t played on Kiss108. So here is a list of awesome music that might not necessarily be new but is new to me…if you are looking for something to download, try these out:

Glen Hansard – This is the guy who starred in the somewhat-autobiographic movie ‘Once.’ He is an Irish singer-songwriter whose voice will grab you from the first note.
Song of note: Falling Slowly
Lyric of note: *And games that never amount To more than they’re meant Will play themselves out*

Scouting For Girls – A ‘Britpop’ band who just released their eponymous album. I decided to give them a try simply after hearing their band name. I am in love with every one of their songs. Probably the most-played band on my mp3 player this week.
Song of note: The Mountains of Navaho
Lyric of note: *You took my car but you left your cat Who I never really liked and I’ve since sent back to your mother*

The Cat Empire – An Australian ska/rock band. Don’t be fooled by the ‘ska’ part; their songs are guaranteed to make you tap your toe and smile (yes, at the same time). But be warned that you have to be down with Aussie lingo to understand their lyrics as they like to throw words around like ‘capsicum.’
Song of note: Protons, Neutrons, Electrons
Lyric of note: *We’re just flesh with socks and locks and frocks*

Vampire Weekend – I think these guys might be from New York, but you shouldn’t hold that against them. Another band who I decided to listen to based on name alone. These guys are your typical indie band, I guess. But to me, that’s a good thing.
Song of note: Oxford Comma
Lyric of note: *First the window then it’s to the wall Lil’ Jon he always tells the truth*

Spoon – Their album Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, other than being tedious to type, was on numerous Best Albums of 2007 lists. More indie…
Song of note: Black Like Me
Lyric of note: *Street tar in summer Will play a trick on your soul*

The Darkness – Okay, so I’m a little late on this band, but better late than never thanks to Chris Wyman. And don’t think that their hit ‘I Believe In A Thing Called Love’ is their best song; practically every other song on both their albums is just as awesome. Plus, who doesn’t like a lead singer in spandex unitards?
Song of note: Love On The Rocks With No Ice
Lyric of note: *You can’t abide my showing fatigue When you come home just to relay All the events that made your heart bleed And the ones that ruined your day*

Operator Please – These guys won their high school Battle of the Bands contest in Melbourne (or at least I THINK it was Melbourne) and went on to make a record after they were so well received. The only song I know, and their biggest hit to date, is ‘Just A Song About Ping Pong.’ I will fully admit that the lyrics are ridiculous (they talk about beef jerky having an aftertaste), but it’s totally catchy and addicting.

Kisschasy – Another Aussie band. A little bit mainstream, but their song ‘Spray On Pants’ rocks. It’s a great image, isn’t it?
Song of note: Spray on Pants (der)
Lyric of note: *He is learning the tambourine He tells his band that’s what they’re missing*

Sarah Bareilles – Okay, truth be told, I first saw her on VH1’s You Oughtta Know artist list. But she’s worthy of a listen as is Yael Naim (the voice on the new iMac commercials), New Buffalo, and Ingrid Michaelson.

So that’s my list. But in the immortal words of Levar Burton…you don’t have to take my word for it. (Cut to random, multi-cultural children concurring.)

Garlic in a tube

I just happened to mention to a few people that I would be downtown this weekend and look at the turnout!


An interesting sticker on the Tottenham Court Road escalator.

It’s all about the Pentateuchs, baby

Saturday morning I went to the synagogue near my apartment (or what everyone suggested was the synagogue from the quiz responses). Here are the highlights:

· Before being let in, I was told repeatedly that if I wanted a tour, I should come back tomorrow because there was a sermon going on right now. I guess I just look like a tourist and not a Jew.
· An old man limped in wearing a Yankees baseball hat.
· The synagogue was an Orthodox synagogue. But instead of the typical black hats Orthodox men usually wear, these British men wore top hats! Top hats, I tell you! I was waiting for them to pick up their canes and tap dance to Puttin’ On The Ritz.
· There was what sounded like a barbershop octet instead of a cantor. Even the ‘amens’ were sung in harmony.
· The ladies sitting in the balcony with me looked like they were about to go to the Kentucky Derby with their fancy hats.

After services I went to meet D at Nando’s, a popular Portuguese-style chicken chain. Little did I know there was a New Zealand pub-crawl going on outside. Of course, no one came right out and told me that’s what it was; all I saw were throngs of drunk 20-somethings wearing All Blacks shirts with beers in their hand and Australian flags on their back (or worn like a skirt around their waist in some cases). I figured out it was a pub-crawl by reading people’s shirts that cleverly said “Waitangi Circle Line Pub-Crawl 2008.” (Waitangi is another way of saying New Zealand Day.) The gist of the pub-crawl is that you go to a slew of bars along the Circle Line, the Tube line that goes around the heart of downtown London. I think the highlight of watching all the drunken Kiwis was when one girl stopped in the median of the very busy Bayswater Road and funneled a beer.
*You can read some guy’s experience of last year’s pub-crawl here.

They don’t refrigerate eggs in the supermarket.

I have a tendency to pass by huge buildings that are obviously noteworthy and important and have absolutely no idea what they are. (This happened when I moved into my apartment on Tileston Street in the North End and had to ask what they big church was right behind my building.) So just in case you come to London in the near future and see a big, fancy domed building downtown, it’s probably St. Paul’s Cathedral.

What’s really cruel about a city that is already filled with hard-to-navigate streets is when they decide to name three pubs all within a 2-block radius O’Neils.

I was reading an article in Time Out London written by an American ex-pat about the differences in American humor and British humour. (Other than the ‘u.’) These are two jokes that he said an American would find funny but a Brit would be offended by (I can at least concur on the American opinion):
- President Bush said, “If one more person compares me to Hitler, I’m going to gas them.”
- Two Middle Eastern fathers were comparing pictures of their sons. One of the dads said, “Ah, they blow up so fast.”

I’m sure you saw it in the news, but you remember that picture I sent of the Punkyfish store in Camden Market? Well that’s exactly where the fire was on Saturday night. It’s a creepy feeling to know that I was JUST there and now it’s gone. Weird…

All played out

I think maybe I’ve been seeing too many plays. I was ready to go five minutes into tonight’s one-man play about a psychiatrist. It was even more boring than it sounds. I suppose ‘discretion’ should be the word of the day.

To prove my point about those deadly swans, I read the following quote about said birds in a London magazine today:
“Every British man seems to have a story about those graceful but homicidal birds, usually ending with the warning, ‘They can break your neck with one swing of the wing.’”

Today, for a brief moment, I thought the world was ending. I was sitting at my desk editing some silly word document when all of a sudden I heard this earth-shattering explosion and the table started to shake. My heart practically leapt out of my chest and my pulse started racing as though I were about to give a speech to thousands of people about the differences between swaps and futures. It was then that I realized the world was not in fact ending. Rather, G had just sneezed a sneeze that could have killed 17 horses or 25 small ponies.

*Blog update* I decided that I will start to post the occasional entry written by someone else. There are just too many good articles and stories out there that need to be shared. For example, today’s extra entry was about conformity and a delicious Subway sandwich. All non-Lisa entries posted to my blog will have ** added to their title as well as being tagged ‘plagiarism.’ Read them, don’t read them, it’s up to you. But I will try to only include entries that are qualified as truly awesome. Also, I’m not sure why it took me this long, but I figured out how to add pictures. Now you don’t have to settle for the poor quality email pictures.

(http://lisashoshana.blogspot.com/)

There's a popular graffiti artist named Banksy who is all the rage these days. Every market I've been to has sold prints of his work and I'm guessing I'll buy one before I leave. Here are a couple of his works:

**The elaborate sandwich filling maketh the man (Short List article by Danny Wallace)

I am standing on the high street as the drizzle soaks through my jacket on a dull grey Wednesday afternoon and I am staring - bewildered and alone - into the middle distance. I have just taken a bite of the finest sandwich I've ever tasted; perhaps, even the finest ever made.

"There was lettuce involved," I tell my friend Colin later, my wild eyes shining as I relive it. "And some kind of...sauce."

Colin looks amazed. Later, I am sure, his amazement will turn to jealousy. But for now, we are just two men talking about an incredible sandwich. I had been in the queue at Subway when it had happened. Usually, like millions of other dull, unimaginative men, I would order a Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki sub. It is what I normally do. It is safe. Trusted. I know where I am with that, and it's usually just outside Subway with sauce down my top and a piece of tomato on my shoe. But not today, my friends. Oh no. Today was different.

I'd been in a hurry. I had a train to catch. Things to do. And the queue was slow. In front of me, a man in a leather jacket was taking his time. Not for him the simplicity of choosing a predesigned sandwich, no. He was going off-menu. Improvising a new and elaborate creation. He was a lunchtime maverick, operating outside the boundaries, like a law unto himself. He selected his ingredients, mixed and matched, chose the perfect bread and the right sauce. He added a little cheese, I think, and certainly a smattering of jalapenos. He asked for some salt and pepper, requested it not be toasted and made the server take out some of the lettuce because it was "just too much".

At first, I was annoyed: "Who is this clown? Who does he think he is, laughing in the face of sandwich convention? Why does he not simply order a Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki sandwich like the rest of us?" But I maintained my dignified silence. Soon he would be finished and I would finally be able to order my drab and soulless lunch.

"Ah, hang on," I suddenly heard him say. "That's not what I asked for - I asked for the six-incher. Not the whole sub. I told you that."

There was a slight harrumph from the server, who muttered something about not being told to stop, and a sigh was passed down the queue as we realised our wait would be extended by a few more seconds. I looked at my watch. And I thought of my train. And I suddenly said, "Look, I'll have the other half. I don't mind. I just want to get out of here."

The man smiled and said, "Are you sure?" I nodded graciously but with eyes closed to indicate that this was an extraordinary gesture on my part. He left with his six-incher, I watched him head into M&S and then I paid for mine and hurried along the street towards the Tube. And it was there, on the high street, that I took my first bite.

"It was a taste sensation," I tell Colin. "Light without being frivolous. Substantial without being overbearing. It was a thing of such beauty that words cannot do it justice."

"Who was he?" asks Colin. "Who was this man?"

"Who knows?" I say. "But, oh, what taste he has! He probably drives a classic Jag and drinks freshly brewed coffee on his Eames chair while his supermodel girlfriend naps on the Chesterfield! He probably has a favourite red wine! I bet he uses moisturiser and summers in Italy!"

"Definitely!" says Colin, wide-eyed. "If his Subway sandwich is anything to go by!"

In that moment, I wanted to be that man. A plan formed in my head: I would hang around in Subway all day from now on and, when he eventually walked in, I'd follow him round constantly. Into out-of-the-way, cool little cafes that I'd never have found, or designer boutiques that I never knew existed. And I would buy exactly what he did. I would trail him in the supermarket, picking up pasta sauces I'd never tried because I always had Dolmio, or cocoa beans from the Andes I'd never tried because I always bought a Twix. I would be this man's copycat, and he my guru. It would work. It had to. Because that sandwich was bloody incredible.

"Imagine the museums I'll go to!" I say to Colin. "Imagine the people I'll meet! The things I'll see!"

"And you're sure this bloke won't mind you following him around all the time?"

"He'll never know! And if he does, I'm sure that we will become great friends. He will see in me a soul mate to mentor. We will be united by exquisite taste."

"We should go to Subway," says Colin, suddenly. "Maybe you can recreate that sandwich!" I laugh, and shake my head. Poor, simple Colin. If only life were that easy, I think. Alas, it is not.

For a few days, I think about the man in Subway. And then, one day, a week or so later, I spot him again, striding down the street with a Starbucks panini in his hand.

And my heart stops. He is wearing the worst trousers I have ever seen: bright red slacks with stupid pockets. The sort of trousers you'd buy in M&S on a dull and grey Wednesday afternoon after you've just been all picky in Subway. I am shattered.

Later that week, I return to Subway.
I wait quietly, and then say, "Chicken Teriyaki please."

My milkshake brings all the boys (and Theresa, Cait, and Elissa) to the yard

Excuse me while I rant…

Here is a list of things I highly dislike:

· Groups of people who take up the entire sidewalk while walking at a snail’s pace making it damn near impossible to get anywhere in less than 4 hours
· If you are female and shorter than 5’2” or male and shorter than 5’4” and people around you literally step on you or walk right into you because they just DON’T SEE YOU BECAUSE YOU ARE SO LITTLE
· The fact that crossing an ocean means you pronounce words like “assume,” “issues,” and “schedule” in a strange way
· Body odor
· Splenda that comes in tablet form instead of a powder form
· Not knowing where my laundry room is
· Pantyhose
· Going to a play and not paying attention to the plot because all I can focus on is the spittle flying out of the actor’s mouth and coming quite close to landing on me


However, to try and not be completely negative, here is a supplementary list of things I enjoy:

· Kevin Spacey and Jeff Goldblum (especially when I get to see them LIVE!)
· Coming home to find my cupboard and showerhead fixed
· British accents
· Snap peas
· Knowing that I will buy at least two more pairs of Doc Martens before I leave this country
· Hearing witty dialogue and thinking “I should totally write a play/screenplay/novel” even though I know there’s pretty much no chance it’ll happen
· Kittens

Frozen soy milk

That’s what you get when you don’t realize your fridge is set on “Arctic.”

Here’s a fun mental image for you. The showerhead in this new apartment has four large holes around its perimeter that look as though they would have great water pressure. Alas, I was not lucky enough to find out whether or not this is true because the only water I experienced came in a light mist, except of course, for the very thin stream of water that had so much water pressure that I’m pretty sure it drew blood. So there I am trying to rotate the showerhead in hopes that it was just on the “Incredibly Irritating” setting and move it to the “Soothing Waterfall” setting. But that’s somewhat hard to do when you’re five feet tall and can’t quite reach said showerhead without getting that one Super Soaker-strength water jet right in your eye. I am surprised I didn’t fall down.

Why is it that every picture of Hillary Clinton I see she looks as though someone is either goosing her or she has just seen Alex Trebek riding a mechanical bull with a tiara on his head? Seriously. The woman needs to take the level of facial emotion down about 32 notches. No one is that happy about running for President.

Is Huckabee really still in the running? Are you kidding me? One of the London newspapers had a list of all the celebrities endorsing the candidates and Huckabee was the only one with a lone mention – Chuck Norris. That is sign Numero Uno that it’s time to throw in the towel.

I have learned something today. And not something crappy that I’ll just forget in 48 hours…something awesome. Maybe you all know this already and I’m just that much behind the rest of the world, but whatever, better late than never. Charles Dickens was in the middle of writing a book called The Mystery of Edwin Drood when he died. The kicker is that he set up this amazing plot with a cast of colorful characters, but no one knows how it ends because he dropped dead before he could finish it. Tonight I saw a musical/play that told the story of what he DID write and then, much like Shear Madness in Boston, the audience voted for who we thought was the culprit based on clues Dickens had given in the first part of the book. But can you imagine how frustrating this is? All this setup – one character who only made one appearance leading the reader to believe he would play a key part later in the book, a character who is thought to be a previous character in disguise whose real identity is never revealed, and a murder (or was it merely a disappearance) victim – all of whose outcomes will never be known! Arg! I’m in agony!

I ate McDonald’s tonight.

So tired…

It’s 12:45 am. I’ve been up since 6:30 am. The only mini nap I took today was during the one-man Shakespeare play. And I tried REAL hard to stay awake (I was in the front row and in prime the-actor-can-see-me territory).

The two reasons I’m not asleep and dreaming of candy bars right now is that a) I just moved into a new serviced apartment tonight and had to unpack all of my things and b) I now have internet access and need to watch that new Sarah Silverman/Matt Damon video. And all those Superbowl commercials I missed.
I am totally going to be regretting this tomorrow morning when my alarm goes off.

Today I set a record. I got lost before 9 o’clock in the morning.

Anyone who knows me knows that washing my hands isn’t high on my priority list. While I should be ashamed to admit this, I don’t really think it’s a big deal. But lately I’ve been finding that my hands are a LOT dirtier. After holding on to the poles on the subway and reading the newspapers, by the time I get to work, I don’t want to touch anything without washing my hands for fear of contaminating it. Why are things so much dirtier around here? Why are they making my life difficult and insisting I use soap? Who are the mean British people doing this?!

One of the perks of the proximity between London and Belgium are the waffle stands throughout this city. It’s both cruel and a blessing at the same time. Every morning I walk past this one stand that practically shouts my name yelling, “Lisa!!! Eat me! Buy me and a cup of coffee for 2 pounds and you will be the happiest person alive!” I am proud to admit that I have resisted this urge all 14 days or so that I have walked by. I am embarrassed to say that I don’t think I can hold out much longer. But unlike the roasted nuts carts in Boston, these waffles better taste more delicious than they smell or else there will be hell to pay.

Now I’m going to go pass out.

P.S. My new address is:
42 Princes Square
#234
London W2 4NL

You know, in case you want to send me something awesome.

Sweet potatoes! Am I glad I slept through THAT Superbowl!

I received a few responses on how to “deal with” the double kiss fiasco. I think Sylvia put it best when talking about standing on my toes to come up to them and said, “Just because we’re short doesn’t mean we should have to work harder at their customs.”

Here’s the deal with censorship in the UK. There is none. I saw a picture of a half naked woman in a store window today. Watching both tv shows and commercials as early as 7 at night it is possible to see full frontal (and back for that matter) nudity. And swearing? Anything goes with that, too. But even though the youth of England is exposed, no pun intended, to all of this, they still manage to grow up with more manners and less violence than American kids who can’t hold hands in an elementary school without getting suspended.

Saturday night I went to see a play called The Seventeenth Valentine. The play itself was okay; kinda depressing material and dialogue that didn’t really blow my skirt up, but was well acted nevertheless. What was most interesting though was the theater. In London, you can find pub-theaters all over the place. They’re basically self explanatory; it’s a pub in front and a theater in the back. The one I went to on Saturday, The White Bear Theater, was the dodgiest pub I’ve been to. Everyone was drunk and watching soccer when I came in and they hadn’t moved from that position when I left. Actually, as I was leaving there were two men getting into a pretty heated shouting match, or slurring match rather, over the Man United game.

Something happened on my way back home that night that made me remember the goodness in people. I was doing my crossword on the Tube and this older French couple was sitting next to me. After about five minutes, the British woman across from us leaned over to them and said, “I just want you to know. The two of you make a wonderful couple.” She hadn’t talked to them before this, she had simply just watched them whisper to each other. But she saw something in them and wanted them to know. Hearing her say this to them made me smile all the way home.

Mwah

I am in the land of the double kiss. So far, every one of mine has been awkward. I never know whether I’m supposed to hug AND do the double kiss…what is the appropriate amount of body contact? And am I really supposed to kiss each side of the person’s face or do I just do the air kiss? Do I do it both at the beginning of the get together AND the end? After doing the double kiss at the beginning, is it okay to do just a one kiss at the end or even not at all? And most importantly, what do I do when I meet up with someone who I really don’t want to do the double kiss with lest it give them the wrong impression, after all, they’ve been smothering me at work asking me to SLEEP OVER when they have a girlfriend? (I won’t name names, but his name beings with ‘R’ and ends with ‘ichard.’) Little help here?

As I was talking to a box office teller this week, I slipped in the word ‘quid.’ I’m not sure why, but whenever I use this word I think I am using it incorrectly and I feel like the person who I’m talking to can see right through me and knows I’m a phoney.

Gimme a ping = gimme a ring

In order to finance my coffee habit (and at 2 QUID a cup, it’s getting a bit expensive), I signed up to be a volunteer for a research study. Even I’M a little surprised I was able to find this so quickly in a new city, but it’s amazing the things this so-called internet has. I basically had to read a couple pamphlets on medicine and then answer reading comprehension questions. Despite the fact that reading comprehension was the only subject I ever got a C in (college, and therefore my D in “The Hebrew Bible,” doesn’t count), I did okay. Fine, truth be told, the girl had to point to the answer in the reading a couple times for me, but I still earned enough to pay for 12 coffees, so it’s all good.

Last night was my first play/musical in London! It’s called Blair on Broadway and it was at a tiny theater in the West End. I was distracted for a lot of the show because the guy playing Blair had a foundation smudge on his shoulder and I kept wanting someone to brush it off for him. Regardless, the show was really funny and well put together. I had to lean over to K a couple times to ask questions like “Who’s the fat guy on the left supposed to be?” “Did Blair really get arrested?” and “Did Gordon Brown really tackle Blair like that at 10 Downing Street?” (The answers being a Deputy PM (I think, but completely forget already), yes, and no.) Maybe I would have enjoyed the play even more had I known more about the politics of Tony Blair, but even as an ignorant American I could get the gist – he’s a lady’s man, he’s all smoke and mirrors, his country hates him as much as we hate Bush for going to war in Iraq, etc etc etc.

I will say this though…going to Sydney and London certainly help me learn who the current prime ministers are.