Brilliant

Instant message from D: “And so after one dumb Blair Witch movie, Hollywood decides on making a sequel. How pants is that?!”
Pants = lame
(Also, pants = underwear)

R has told me at least twice already that I am “a legend!” I wouldn’t go as far as saying that I’m a legend, but I would have to agree that I’m pretty awesome.

It’s great living in a new city where even the most mundane things can be different to what you know from home. There are so many new things for your senses to explore – the first sip of a cup of a coffeeshop latte, the strong gust of wind that seems to come out of nowhere on the subway platform, the placement of a doorknob in the middle of the door instead of the side, the crosswalk on the road that allows for the cars on both sides to stop so close to you that you think they’re going to crash into you, the free daily papers handed out in the street in both a morning edition and an evening edition (crossword puzzles abound), the way the tap water gets scalding hot in less than three seconds, and the way the Doppler effect seems stronger here when the police sirens go past. I find something new or different around each corner.

After visiting New York a few times and getting lost in the “hustle and bustle” of it all, I decided I didn’t want to live in a city that big, that noisy, that impersonal. But being in London for only a week and a half, I am genuinely surprised at how much I love this city. Getting off the Tube at Piccadilly Circus is insane; there’s no better word to describe it. You can’t walk from one corner of the intersection to another without touching someone at all times. It is a sea of people whose waves are ebbing and flowing as everyone makes their way to their destination. (And if you’re not careful, it’s possible to literally be trampled.) Yet even though it’s so easy to get lost and ignored in this madness, the city at least has character. This is not to say that New York doesn’t have character, as any fool knows that; it’s just to say the character here is more…endearing. The neighborhoods of this city are just that, neighborhoods. And the difference between these London and New York neighborhoods, it seems, is that the people of London make you feel at home. When you’re in New York, the natives make sure you know you’re just a visitor in their city. When you’re in London though, the locals are welcoming of everyone and make you feel as though you’ve lived here your whole life. Though it’s just as massive a city as New York, I feel safer in London. Maybe it’s the accents, maybe it’s the upholstered seats on the Tube, maybe it’s the fact that they have about 1% of the amount of guns New York has. Whatever it is, I like it. And now six months doesn’t seem like such a long time.

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.

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.)