Don't say Haman.

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?  

No more mullet. Now just floppy on top.

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.

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T to G: “Those aren’t sausages. Those are abominations.”

Here’s a British media recommendation for you – The Catherine Tate Show. I assume that it is similar to the Tracy Ullman Show (I say assume because I’ve never actually seen TTUS). I watched two episodes of this hilarious comedy and immediately fell in love. Catherine Tate is the genius behind it and stars in each skit, which range from 15 seconds to 3 minutes or so, as a different, recurring character. I think my favorite character is Margaret who is startled by the smallest things and screams bloody murder (like when her husband bites into a piece of toast or when her cell phone rings, not to mention the screaming fit she throws when she pours milk on her Rice Krispies). So if your Netflix queue is running short, put this on your list. I promise you won’t be disappointed!

There is a SEVERE lack of iced coffee in London. Starbucks is the only place I can find that offers a plain iced coffee. But at $6, there ain’t no way I’m buying one of them.

I am normally a good multi-tasker. I can listen to my friends sob their problems to me on the phone while I set a new Minesweeper record. I can cook up a mean stir fry with one hand while disinfecting my kitchen with bleach with the other. But I can think of two cases where I am physically not able to do two things at once. One is singing/talking while playing the violin (and trust me, I tried really hard at accomplishing this) and the other I realized today as I was (gasp) washing my hands in the work bathroom. Hearing someone else do it made me realize I cannot pee and blow my nose at the same time. I just can’t do it. Don’t want to, either.

Sometimes when I admit these things to you, I have to think about who is on this distribution list. Will I be forever alienating myself from someone who I want to keep as a friend (or family member, for that matter)? Will everyone feel awkward when they see me again in Boston? But you know, I can’t worry about these things. If I did, I’d have nothing to write about. Plus, I know you all have your own strange, and perhaps just as unhygienic, habits of your own. Feel free to respond to me with them and I’ll add them to tomorrow’s email!

*music – one husband one wife, whaddya got, two people sentenced for life

Where Bear?!

I'm not sure why, but I am always 8 years behind the rest of the world in appreciating television series starring Ricky Gervais (the guy who created and starred in the BBC version of The Office). Today I am here to recommend Extras, the show that stars Ricky and another woman as actors who try to make it big. For those of you who might not like Ricky Gervais because of his ability to make the viewer cringe with every racist, sexist, and homophobic remark he says, this show will be better. Granted, it won't be any less painful to watch seeing as how there are still horrifyingly embarrassing scenes, but at least it's not his character causing most of them. In any case, I highly HIGHLY recommend it, especially the episodes with Patrick Stewart and Kate Winslet.

For the first time ever, in person at least, I saw a pregnant woman smoking a cigarette. I didn't have the balls to smack the fag out of her hand, but boy oh boy did I want to.

Here is installment #2 of sculpture conversations...

No! No please! Don't make me cover up BOTH of my boobs with this simple cotton sheet! Can't I please just leave one hanging free? Why do you always have to tower over me like this and threaten me with modest clothing? Oh hey wait a minute, what's this reminder rope around my wrist? Shit, I remember. I was supposed to change the kitty litter this morning.

Ah yes, my golden shoe. I think it accentuates my bulging calf muscle, don't you? I polish it every morning for 4 and a half minutes. No more, no less. You may ask why I don't polish the left one as well. I shall tell you, my son. I just don't feel the magic in it the way I do with Right Golden Shoe.
A la peanut butter sandwiches! And poof! I am immediately topless holding four pepper and onion calzones! Umm, wait a minute…excuse me? Can I talk to the director for a second? Yeah, hi. I just have a couple issues here. First of all, I'm going to need a pair of good high heels because standing on my tippy toes just isn't cutting it anymore. And second of all, this angel-wing sash? Yeah, it keeps slipping down my waist…can one of the prop guys get me some Velcro or something?
Bitch, hold up. Did you just say Whitney and CLYDE? Oh no she didn't just say that. Tina, did you hear what this girl just said? She said Whitney and Clyde done up and went behind MY back. Bitch, you best talk to the hand because I can't even look at your face right now.

Oh thank you thank you angel of heaven! You came and saved me just in time before the lions attacked and tore my limbs off one by one! Not to sound ungrateful though, but you wanna watch where you're putting your left hand? Just because you saved my life doesn't entitle you to a cheap feel, you know. Thanks. Appreciate it.

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).

Because I'm still reeling from it

If anyone wants to read up further on these "fake babies," the man who wrote this article felt every disgusted emotion I did while watching the show. Plus, he's funnier than I am.

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/tv_and_radio/article3122967.ece

Creepy old British ladies and their “babies”

I completely accept the fact that America has terrible television shows such as 1 vs. 100, The Hills, Wife Swap, and Step By Step. But England, you’d better sack up and admit that showing a program called My Fake Baby about women who buy dolls that look and feel just like infant babies is crossing a line. One man was being interviewed about his stance on his wife’s infatuation with the dolls while she was sitting right next to him. He made the mistake of referring to the dolls as, gasp, dolls and his wife corrected him, demanding he say “babies.” Another woman was asked how her husband feels about her obsession. She said, “He’ll just have to get used to it.” I’m DEFINITELY going to have nightmares tonight.

I think my mp3 player knows I’m in the UK because it’s playing a lot more Queen than it usually does.

The theater website K sent me is absolutely incredible. I already have tickets to go see three shows in the coming week. And for $4 a show, you can bet I’ll see any and every show that comes along.

As I maneuvered my way through a few tube stations at rush hour today, I realized what it feels like to be a commuter in a city of 8 bajillion. It’s EXACTLY like you’re doing double dutch and it’s your turn to jump in but you have to wait for that perfect moment amongst the hordes of people making sure you don’t step in anyone else’s way, step on someone’s feet, walk into a wall, walk into a turnstile, fall down the escalator, step onto the train while the door is closing, or go down the hallway that takes you to the Jubilee line when you really want to go to the Bakerloo line. I’m not very good at double dutch.

Bar bouncer: “What’s yer ight?”
Lisa: “What’s my WHAT?”
Bouncer: “What’s yer ight?”
Lisa: “Umm….”
Bouncer (makes a motion with his hand above his head): “Yer ight, yer ight!”
Lisa: “Oh, my height! I’m 5 feet.”
Bouncer: “Nope. You’re too short to come in.”
Lisa: “What? No way…”
Bouncer: “Hahahaha.”
(Silence)

Can someone confirm what substances make stains visible on your jeans under a blacklight? Is it really just bodily fluids and blood? Because if it is, I can never show my face in that bar again…and apparently, I really need to wash these jeans.

My new cell phone number for the duration of my time in London is 0750 2258 801. If you’re dialing from America, dial 011 44 750 etc. If you’re dialing from Sydney, well, I have no idea what to tell you, sorry. Also, feel free to text! (International rates should be the same as domestic.)