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

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

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

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:

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

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

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

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

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

Who took Senator Kennedy to the laser show?

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

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

That is all.

I’m in crush with you

Someone sneezed at work and it sounded exactly like a coyote howl. It was a severe ‘achoooo’ with the sound in the shape of a bell curve. I’m surrounded by a bunch of animals. Animals in French cuffs.

Last night, for the first time since I arrived in London, I saw someone fall down the escalator in the Underground. I am surprised it took this long for me to witness it (and even more surprised that it didn’t happen to me) since those escalators are incredibly dizzying. He didn’t fall all the way down the escalator, though. Now THAT would have been something. (I am a bad person.)

How many apricots is TOO many apricots?

London’s Crazy Headlines:
- Sword gang convicted of killing teenager (fyi – it was a Samurai sword)
- Cat poo cuppa for £50
- Girl finds father rotting in chapel
- Woman leaps to death after tick bite
- Jail over 16 imaginary children
- Baby No. 2 from 19-yr-old sperm

One of the little ways London is more polite than your average American city is that if a London city bus isn’t operating, its sign will say ‘Sorry – Not In Service.’ Now, when was the last time an American public transportation system apologized for not running?

I got a free pass to go see the new Colin Farrell movie In Bruges last night. Afterwards, because I’m a delinquent, I snuck into Drillbit Taylor. (I didn’t choose this one; it was the only movie starting at that time.)
#1 In Bruges was kinda lame.
#2 Ralph Fiennes is probably one of the greatest actors of our time (even though his name is pronunciatingly deceitful).
#3 I feel like I could have been Seth Rogan.

Let me explain. Seth Rogan is one of the great minds behind Knocked Up, Superbad, Freaks and Geeks, and Drillbit Taylor. I’m pretty sure every movie or tv show he has written has referenced a Bar Mitzvah, and his hilarious writing always centers around the nerdy kid in high school; so basically, he writes about HIS adolescent experience. But this could have been ME, I tell you!!! I’m funny! I had a Bat Mitzvah! I’m a nerd! I got wasted at a bar and knocked up some random girl! No wait…that’s not right. Okay, everything but that last part is true. But I think I know the reason why I wouldn’t be as successful as Seth Rogan. If I made films based on my youth, the following scenes would be the reasons behind the movies flopping:

Scene #1: Amy and Lisa make two boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese and proceed to inhale them without the slightest thought of chewing, all the while instructing Amy’s Apple IIe to say things such as ‘Lisa is awesome’ and ‘boobies.’
Scene #2: Lisa joins her high school marching band unknowingly destroying any chance of a successful social life. She is shunned by the cool girls who once used to talk to her in elementary school. On the bright side, she can now play You Can Call Me Al by heart on the trumpet and she has scored a fabulous pair of black Drillmaster sneakers.
Scene #3: Lisa and friends return to Eisner Camp to smoke weed out of a hookah acquired on their recent trip to Israel. Since they aren’t technically campers and are merely hiding out in a random building at camp, they are obviously caught by security who proceeds to kick them out at 2 o’clock in the morning. 6 stoned people sleep in her father’s Oldsmobile sedan in the parking lot of a Great Barrington pharmacy. Camp sends a letter home to our parents tattling on us. The letter is intercepted by Lisa who feels guilty and shows her mother, but insists that she not tell Dad.
Scene #4: Cut to fun, out of control party at a ‘cool kid’s’ house, complete with sex, drugs, and booze. Then cut to Lisa sitting at home at her desk trying to complete the matrices due in AP Calculus the next day.

*music – Look he’s crawling up my wall, black and hairy very small Now he’s up above my head, hanging by a little thread Boris the spidaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah

100% vested in nothing

Joke of the day: Why aren’t exit signs fashionable?
Because they’re on the way out.

Theresa sent me a card in the mail and on the back she wrote:
P.P.S. I’m standing in line at the post office on Milk Street. There are three people in front of me in line. I wonder how long it will take and if I’ll have enough room left on the card. Wait it’s my

I know what London is missing. It took me two and a half months to realize it, but probably only because I wasn’t actually missing it. Frat boys. London is pleasantly devoid of frat boys. I was in Soho at 2:30 am on a Thursday night waiting for a bus home and, had this been any American city, I would have been amongst a swarm of drunk 20-something boys yelling and projecting their false sense of manhood on the world in the form of hoots and hollers. But the only drunk people around me were boys in tight black jeans, kissing French couples, and girls with terrible mullets (all of whom were eating McDonalds). And maybe Soho isn’t exactly the London frat boy hangout, but I can’t even think of a place in the city where they would be (other than the bars that Prince Harry frequents). Ted has said that London is my type of city; a lack of frat boys is just one example of why he is so, so right.
(However, for every macho guy I didn’t see that night, I saw at least one police car screaming by. I don’t know what it was, but in the 30 minutes I had to wait for my goddamn bus, I must have seen no less than 20 police cars. What an unruly town!)

I read at least one London newspaper every day and I have been tempted to create a section of my email that recaps the horrific and/or surprising headlines (you would not believe how fucked up this city can be sometimes). Up until now I have resisted that urge because I thought maybe it wouldn’t be that interesting to read. But after Friday’s edition, I am left with no choice but to start a segment called London’s Crazy Headlines:
- Ken admits: I have 5 children by 3 women (Ken is the mayor of London)
- Eat biscuits and have tubby baby
- Head found on beach is immigrant
- Trapped in the Tube for 3 hours

I received a company email on Friday whose subject line was: “Work area privacy PDA awareness.” I eagerly opened it, but it wasn’t about what I thought it was going to be about.

Video to search for on YouTube: ‘She’s f-ing Obama’

Have you ever been on the phone and found yourself nodding to the person on the other end? Funny thing, actually. THEY CAN’T SEE YOU NODDING.

I feel the need to further prove how right I am about the undeserving hype surrounding Mariah Carey. I check a website called TheLondonist.com which informs me of all-things-London. I was happy to read they reported ‘Mariah Carey’s in town and everyone wants a piece of her. This Londonista just doesn’t get it.’

I successfully mortified my mother with my do, dump or marry game. I think it could have been a lot worse had I chosen to do Hillary.

Did you know that the London Underground started on January 10, 1863? That is SO LONG AGO! (Of course, even after 150 years they still manage to trap their passengers on a train for 3 hours.) I know that Boston has America’s oldest subway system, but the Tube blows that right out of the water. How did those proper British ladies fit into the seats with their big poofy dresses?!

You know what’s funny? When you’re talking to a voice-activated credit card 1-800 number and you cough and they think you’ve answered one of their stupid questions. “We’re sorry, that disgusting cough is not a valid answer.”

I asked the question “What’s in that pasty” in front of my mother when she was here and wasn’t even the slightest bit embarrassed. I think that’s sign #1 I’m getting used to London.

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.

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

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.

Spiking my husband’s drink with anti-freeze

No really. Some British woman did that. It’s okay though…he lived. He just has an extreme amount of brain damage.

And in other news. I have been informed that phosphates in laundry detergent and toothpaste are other substances that cause blacklight stains. (Thanks, Staples.) I’m in the clear!

9:30 AM on the dot. Fire alarm.

Overheard in the Tube: “If you eat 25 eggs, you’ll smell quite foul.” (I don’t think the woman saying this realized the pun.)

As D and I were waiting for my computer to reboot, he mentioned that someone is coming over tonight to take a look at his car he’s selling. He said it’s too big of a car for him and he doesn’t use it. I asked him what make it is, thinking it’s a truck or some kind of SUV. Nope. It’s a Passat. Because a Passat is just waaaaaaaay too big.

I really like the sound of everyone’s fancy work shoes click click clicking away on the linoleum floor of the Underground as they hustle their way to their trains at night.

I know Mr Steve Gibson has replied to all breaking rule #3. He has been punished for this and won’t be doing it again. That is all.