Over the last few days, I have had the opportunity to go through my old hotmail account (my main e-mail account from 2000-2001) and my current g-mail account (2006 to present) clearing out random e-mails from people, filing away important documents and general reminiscing.
I got about halfway through cleaning my g-mail account (1500 down to 750) and wondered if I should be clearing this stuff out. I guess because I stumbled across some adorable e-mails Justin sent me when we first started dating in the summer of 2000 (ah, the memories) and was so glad I kept them.
But do I really need google alerts, Pier 1 Imports sales fliers, random evites cluttering my inbox? Sigh – I just don’t know.
Luckily, the archive feature in g-mail gives me time to decide about some of them – and I’ve found a lot of good pics people sent me over the years I’ll be adding to Facebook, so look forward to those soon!
Oh – and I don’t know about you, but I’m about to pee my pants with anxious anticipation of Thursday night at 7 p.m. on ABC. I’ll be taking serious notes and recording the episode for a blow-by-blow blog breakdown of what happens in LOST, and some LOST theories Justin and I have been pondering for the last three years. Let’s just say, watching all of Season Three over the Christmas holidays will work in our favor. I’m sure of it!
Namaste!
1.23.2008
Day Three, Part Two: I’ve forgotten most of my Paris trip already
Sad isn’t it? I was so busy (or lazy) in December and January that I’ve already forgotten most of the trip. Regardless, here’s my attempt (and thank God I took good pictures to help remind me of everything).
After hitting up the good tasting coffee/awful bathroom French café, we ventured back to the subway and made our way to one of the more popular shopping districts in Paris.
Note: originally, I had asked Brandi if the Louvre was an option for today’s trip and learned that the lines are ridiculously long to get in and I really only wanted to see the Mona Lisa and apparently the painting is disappointing. By the time we would have gone through that, I would have had to go back to the train station bound for London. So my choices were culture or shopping. To those who know me well, I think it’s obvious the decision I made given the situation.
Apparently Champs-Elysées is something I should have known about/read up on prior to the trip… like in a history class, or in prepatory trip reading. Well, maybe not the street itself, but at least one of the most well-known monuments overlooking the street, the Arc de Triomphe, as some wonderful “friends” astutely pointed out in the picture section of my Facebook (cough, Kelly, Amy).
Sigh – to be honest, I don’t ever remember learning about either one in any history class in high school or college, which is a glorious testament to an American education ;) Or rather, my lack of long-term memory. I’ll admit it, anything I learned during school was placed in my short-term memory to regurgitate during a test and then quickly forget. I’m afraid the Arc de Triomphe and Champs-Elysées were two of these causalities.
My favorite parts of Champs-Elysées were as follows:
The Louis Vuitton store: I couldn’t afford crap there, to my dismay. I incorrectly assumed that due to import costs to the U.S., I could get an LV bag cheaper in France. I was quite wrong. In fact, someone could fly from France to the U.S., buy a buttload of dresses, couture, high-end purses and sell them in France for a huge profit. Stupid dollar.
The McDonalds practically next door to Cartier: what is the fascination with a Royale with Cheese in this town? I’m proud to say in the last two years, the only McDonalds I’ve eaten at was in Paris. Brandi asked if I wanted to take a picture next to the fast-food chain, I didn’t but she did!
Italian Food: Brandi and I had lunch at this amazing Italian restaurant. The service sucked (which apparently is the norm) but my four cheese pasta dish was incredible. Especially after eating an egg mcmuffin for breakfast! Who loves Gouda, feta, Brie and bleu – me! (I take after my grandfather)
After that, we went to another part of Paris where two popular department stores are located. Printemps was one and to be honest, I don’t remember the name of the other (maybe Galaries Lafayette – they were both on the same street, I think). I do remember that the food at these locations (particularly the pastries) looked delectable (and tasted delectable… I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth), and I got pissed off at seeing this BCBG dress I had been eyeing a Nordstrom’s back in the states for twice the cost. STUPID. But what was really breathtaking at both locations were the window displays – so intricate and ornate! Gorgeous! And seeing all of the people, particularly little children, happily gazing on made me quite happy myself.
After that, we headed back to the train station (I don’t think I mentioned that the train station had several lingerie stores… it was like Frederick’s of Hollywood but worse), and then I made my way back to London.
After hitting up the good tasting coffee/awful bathroom French café, we ventured back to the subway and made our way to one of the more popular shopping districts in Paris.
Note: originally, I had asked Brandi if the Louvre was an option for today’s trip and learned that the lines are ridiculously long to get in and I really only wanted to see the Mona Lisa and apparently the painting is disappointing. By the time we would have gone through that, I would have had to go back to the train station bound for London. So my choices were culture or shopping. To those who know me well, I think it’s obvious the decision I made given the situation.
Apparently Champs-Elysées is something I should have known about/read up on prior to the trip… like in a history class, or in prepatory trip reading. Well, maybe not the street itself, but at least one of the most well-known monuments overlooking the street, the Arc de Triomphe, as some wonderful “friends” astutely pointed out in the picture section of my Facebook (cough, Kelly, Amy).
Sigh – to be honest, I don’t ever remember learning about either one in any history class in high school or college, which is a glorious testament to an American education ;) Or rather, my lack of long-term memory. I’ll admit it, anything I learned during school was placed in my short-term memory to regurgitate during a test and then quickly forget. I’m afraid the Arc de Triomphe and Champs-Elysées were two of these causalities.
My favorite parts of Champs-Elysées were as follows:
The Louis Vuitton store: I couldn’t afford crap there, to my dismay. I incorrectly assumed that due to import costs to the U.S., I could get an LV bag cheaper in France. I was quite wrong. In fact, someone could fly from France to the U.S., buy a buttload of dresses, couture, high-end purses and sell them in France for a huge profit. Stupid dollar.
The McDonalds practically next door to Cartier: what is the fascination with a Royale with Cheese in this town? I’m proud to say in the last two years, the only McDonalds I’ve eaten at was in Paris. Brandi asked if I wanted to take a picture next to the fast-food chain, I didn’t but she did!
Zara: Technically, it’s a Spanish designer, but I loved the clothing and it is relatively affordable (stupid Euros to Dollars). I’m looking forward to visiting Houston in October for the sole purpose of going to the Zara there. (And I love the coat I got at the store there – my French Coat!)
Sephora: I have never seen such an amazing collection of perfumes in one location. My allergies were in overdrive!
Sephora: I have never seen such an amazing collection of perfumes in one location. My allergies were in overdrive!
Italian Food: Brandi and I had lunch at this amazing Italian restaurant. The service sucked (which apparently is the norm) but my four cheese pasta dish was incredible. Especially after eating an egg mcmuffin for breakfast! Who loves Gouda, feta, Brie and bleu – me! (I take after my grandfather)
After that, we went to another part of Paris where two popular department stores are located. Printemps was one and to be honest, I don’t remember the name of the other (maybe Galaries Lafayette – they were both on the same street, I think). I do remember that the food at these locations (particularly the pastries) looked delectable (and tasted delectable… I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth), and I got pissed off at seeing this BCBG dress I had been eyeing a Nordstrom’s back in the states for twice the cost. STUPID. But what was really breathtaking at both locations were the window displays – so intricate and ornate! Gorgeous! And seeing all of the people, particularly little children, happily gazing on made me quite happy myself.
After that, we headed back to the train station (I don’t think I mentioned that the train station had several lingerie stores… it was like Frederick’s of Hollywood but worse), and then I made my way back to London.
Quick sidebar -- I did not know this, but when I arrived in Paris, I didn't have to go through Customs, or rather, I couldn't find customs. I didn't realize this until I tried leaving the country. I tried explaining my problem to a French officer that I did not get a French stamp in my passport. I was a tad concerned about not being able to get back into London. Finally I found someone who spoke decent English and they informed me that the European Union countries don't have little in-and-out stamps like London/America does. Who knew? That tidbit of information would have been nice prior to departure from London and prevented me from experiencing a mild heart attack.
Overall, even though I can’t speak French, I loved Paris and being immersed in a culture I knew nothing about (my own fault, mind you). It almost forces your senses to become a little more attuned to what’s going on around you. I guess that’s a good excuse!
So, this past weekend, I was watching this movie called, “A Good Year” with Russell Crowe. He plays this Englishman who inherits his uncle’s vineyard in France. I’m watching it, and like the sap that I am, I start crying. Not because the movie is sad (it isn’t and I’d probably give it a B-/C+), but because I realized how much I enjoyed (and missed) London and France. In a way, I’m glad I waited almost two months to flesh out my day in Paris because it was almost like I was back, and it’s a good feeling.
At some point, I’ll post on our final day in London. Highlights of that story include this guy singing and dancing to Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” in front of the National Gallery. You won’t want to miss it.
Overall, even though I can’t speak French, I loved Paris and being immersed in a culture I knew nothing about (my own fault, mind you). It almost forces your senses to become a little more attuned to what’s going on around you. I guess that’s a good excuse!
So, this past weekend, I was watching this movie called, “A Good Year” with Russell Crowe. He plays this Englishman who inherits his uncle’s vineyard in France. I’m watching it, and like the sap that I am, I start crying. Not because the movie is sad (it isn’t and I’d probably give it a B-/C+), but because I realized how much I enjoyed (and missed) London and France. In a way, I’m glad I waited almost two months to flesh out my day in Paris because it was almost like I was back, and it’s a good feeling.
At some point, I’ll post on our final day in London. Highlights of that story include this guy singing and dancing to Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” in front of the National Gallery. You won’t want to miss it.
1.17.2008
Happy New Year!
Happy New Year!
So it’s been awhile since I’ve last posted, and really, it’s because I’m lazy. Here’s the breakdown on what I haven’t accomplished since Jan. 1 due to this bout of laziness:
Laundry: I won’t tell you how long since I last did all my clothing instead of just one-offs of desperation
Indoor Christmas decorations: I did take down the outdoor lights and decorations on Jan. 2 – I don’t want to be THAT person in the neighborhood – cough – you know who you are on Othello Cove who not only has their lights up, but still has them on at night
Cleaning: I think those of you who know me well, know this is a constant battle for Justin and me.
Painting: I actually started painting our front bedroom and guest bathroom right after the New Year’s and quickly stopped after a regrettable incident that ended up with both Walter and me in the same bathtub rinsing blue paint off of ourselves. Neither of us was pleased. I also can’t figure out how to paint this corner of the bathroom without removing the toilet.
Working out: Actually, I remedied that on Sunday and have worked out every day since, so I think I’m un-lazy now in that category. And to make sure I stayed on track, I signed up for the Capitol 10K on March 30.
And then obviously blogging (Arnold, you probably think I’m dead and have stopped reading… *teardrop*).
So what better way to start back blogging then to discuss my joy and subsequent fear in attempting to killing a creature this morning.
The situation began last night. I had just gotten back from working out (i.e. ridding myself of the lazy bug I had been plagued with for the last three or four weeks), and I’m talking with Justin at the foot of the stairs inside the house. We heard this weird buzzing noise, but couldn’t find where it was coming from because it was dark, and well, we’re lazy so we didn’t try very hard.
Flash forward to this morning when I’m getting ready in my bathroom and Walter starts barking crazy-like. He’s not much of a barker, so I take his “I am dog and I will defend the JB-House honor” bark pretty seriously.
He’s over at the front door and so I check to see if anyone is at it – no one. In fact, not a single “person” was there.
What was there could only be described as the biggest flying roach I had ever seen perched on the window right above the front door.
After a slight shriek, I think quickly and grab the Raid under the sink, the three-step stair thingy from the bathroom where we are/were painting and make haste towards this evil flying demon of rodents.
I’ll admit it, I’m pretty sure Walter was weirded out by my odd laughter and profanity-filled threats towards this otherwise innocent rodent while I was spraying liquid death at it. But my laughter quickly ended and confusion and slight fear set in when I realized the thing wasn’t dying. Maybe it weakened him, but spraying a fourth can of the Raid didn’t kill him.
I didn’t know what to do. So I left the mess I had made (Raid dripping from the top window) and gathered my stuff to go to work. At one point, I went to check on it, thinking he had finally bit it. But as I approached it raised its head and looked right at me.
I quickly chalked it up to coincidence and continued gathering my stuff, but as I made my way to the coat closet that’s right next to the front door, the crazy roach lifted its head again from its deathbed and looked right at me. And then it telepathically informed me I’m next. (or at least, I fell like it was sending me some type of equally horrible death threat)
So I yelped and ran out of the house and haven’t gone back. I hope Walter is okay. If I don’t blog again, you’ll know why.
12.14.2007
American in Paris, Part II.... not really
I've been really busy at work and at home (Justin's been sick a lot lately) so I haven't had a chance to write much.
But I wanted to tell you about a horrible thing I witnessed yesterday.
I was sitting at the light at William Cannon/290, and I see a big 18-wheeler truck go by in the right hand lane. There is this big, old tree that hangs over part of the intersection, and I guess when he hit one of the limbs in the tree, it knocked this poor squirrel out of the tree and into oncoming traffic.
He's trying to get away, but part of his body is paralyzed from the fall, and a car is coming! I look away, because I've never killed an animal with my car before, and I just can't watch this poor little squirrel go like this.
I wait a few seconds -- and it turns out the car that was about to hit him stopped and waited for the poor squirrel to get to safety. YAY! That's why I love Austin -- any other stupid town, the person would have just run over the little guy.
The end. It ended up being a fairly non-horrible story.
But I wanted to tell you about a horrible thing I witnessed yesterday.
I was sitting at the light at William Cannon/290, and I see a big 18-wheeler truck go by in the right hand lane. There is this big, old tree that hangs over part of the intersection, and I guess when he hit one of the limbs in the tree, it knocked this poor squirrel out of the tree and into oncoming traffic.
He's trying to get away, but part of his body is paralyzed from the fall, and a car is coming! I look away, because I've never killed an animal with my car before, and I just can't watch this poor little squirrel go like this.
I wait a few seconds -- and it turns out the car that was about to hit him stopped and waited for the poor squirrel to get to safety. YAY! That's why I love Austin -- any other stupid town, the person would have just run over the little guy.
The end. It ended up being a fairly non-horrible story.
12.06.2007
Day Three, Part 1: My Cherie Amor
(So technically, I don’t think this is French; in fact, I looked up the song on Wikipedia and it turns out Stevie Wonder wanted to call the song My Marcia after a girl he met at the School for the Blind in Lansing, Mich. I just really like this song a lot and the cab driver did a comical rendition of it)
I think this trip needs some back story before I go into the whole day.
So, in fourth grade my BFF Brandi was way cool – all the boys were in love with her, she had the greatest personality and more importantly for slumber party purposes, was the only kid in our class who had a subscription to Teen Magazine. (I couldn’t get one until I was 13 – an official teen – so having access to one at the age of ten was a big deal. And if you were a real rebel like me, you’d sneak some peaks at Seventeen Magazine while at the library.)
Flash forward 16 years (dear God, that is sobering), and Brandi is still way cool and living in Paris where she works as a marketing intern at a cosmetics/facial company while pursuing her master’s degree at the university there. I’ll admit it, I’m totally jealous. Paris is way better than Texas.
When I found out I was going to London way back in September, the first thing I did was e-mail Brandi to see if I could come and visit her in Paris. A few exchanges later (more like 24 e-mails, but we were also catching up!), I had bought my $170 round trip train ticket from London to Paris and eagerly awaiting a stamp in my passport.
But on Sunday night, an e-mail from Brandi had my dreams of sipping coffee (in my case, Diet Coke) overlooking the Eifel Tower crashing down.
That sentence is beyond overdramatic; I just freaked out because her subject line, in all caps said: “MINOR COMPLICATION – DON’T PANIC.” So of course I panicked.
Long story short, Brandi forgot about a class she had that morning, and was just going to be late picking me up at the train station, which was fine. I was to meet her at 10:30 a.m. (my train got in at 9:00 a.m.) at the McDonalds across the street from the train station (obviously, my Yankee self would have no trouble finding that), and then we could go sightseeing from there.
One line in that e-mail that perked my ears/eyes/whatever, was that the train station isn’t in the best part of town, so I am not to go wandering about. Knowing that I’m a wanderer, I’m really glad she told me that.
So Monday night, I stupidly decided to try another NyQuil to get some sleep (because I was so excited and I had to wake up at 3:45 a.m. that morning). Unfortunately, the same NyQuil affect I had on the plane (racing heart, no sleep) happened again, and I maybe got three hours of sleep before my wake-up call from the hotel rang… twice.
After a quick ten pound/$20 cab ride to St. Pancreas train station, waiting in line for awhile, I was finally on the train for departure at 5:21 a.m., traveling 186 mph to Paris.
The train ride, in the dark, wasn’t exactly the most pleasurable experience. At first, I thought I would be able to get some rest. I realized that wasn’t going to happen by the second train stop on the England side of the Channel (and the fact that every tunnel we went in, my ears were popping constantly). In a train where there were literally rows upon rows of empty seats, a family of four had to sit right behind me. And their three-year-old kid HAD to sit in the seat right behind me (I know this, because of all the kicking.)
It is my understanding that in London there are nearly 12 different dialects of English spoken. That’s just in the city. This family must have been from the same family that Audrey Hepburn’s character in My Fair Lady was from. At one point, the children decided to sing their alphabet and I thought I was going to shoot myself.
On top of that, they were going to Disneyland Paris, which means they wouldn’t shut up about “princesses” and randomly, “big hotels.”
Luckily, I had downloaded the musical White Christmas – quite possibly the best Christmas musical EVER – onto my iPod and tried drowning out the poorly spoken English with Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye. Sigh. I’m tearing up, singing along softly to “Count Your Blessings Instead of Sheep” (gets me every time). And then my stupid iPod dies (damn first generation video iPod and your crappy battery power). Once again, I’m stuck hearing yelling and screaming and feeling the kicks of two bratty children against my seat.
We finally get to Paris two and a half hours later (there is an hour time change if you’re doing the math) and I’m so excited. That gets quickly shot down when I see that practically everything is in French. I see the money exchange place, but it looks like they are only speaking French, and I don’t want to look like an idiot, so I decided to wander outside and see where the McDonalds is.
Well, apparently, the McDonalds is just north of the “Sex Shop” in case any of you are wondering. Oh, and all of the blue sleeping bags cuddled up outside of the train station aren’t there for looks either – they have people in them.
I go into the McDonalds, find the breakfast menu, and realize I have no way to pay for anything. So I trot back to the train station, walk around a few times before I get the courage to ask for Euros at the money exchange booth, then proudly, and confidently hand over my $200 American dollars and say, “Euros.”
And it appeared to work! Glorious! Then she asked me a question. I’m thinking, “Shit – I’m going to have to speak in stupid American, and then she’s going to say something rude in French and I won’t know it.” After a few tries, I realize she’s just confirming I gave her $200 and so I nod my head yes, and I’m on my merry way… back to McDonalds.
As I’m walking back, I look at the receipt the lady gave me – for $200 American dollars, I got 107 Euros! (I just noticed there is a Euro sign next to my “5” on my keyboard – but I’ve tried shift, control and alt with no luck.) Piss – this trip is already expensive.
Back at the McDonalds, I’m letting people get in front of me in line, because honestly, I can’t read the menu. Rather, I can read the menu, but can’t pronounce anything without giving away I can’t speak any French and I’m a dumb American. So, despite not wanting this item (but I haven’t eaten in 10+ hours), I order a bacon egg McMuffin because it’s the only thing I can pronounce. She asks me if I want one or two (I think) and I hold up one finger and say one (because apparently I’m three).
As I’m waiting for my food, a true dumb American orders egg McMuffins as well. I call him dumb because well, the lady is clearly asking him if he wants napkins, and he yells at her, “I can’t speak this, I speak English.” No wonder French think we’re stupid. I mouth “I’m Sorry” to the lady and give them man a dirty glare. And for some reason, I get two egg McMuffins.
At this point, it is only 9:20 a.m., and I still have another hour before Brandi arrives. So I proceed to eat the disgusting egg McMuffins as slowly as possible, making me realize that this tastes a lot better than in America. Odd.
At 9:45 a.m. I finally finish and out of the corner of my eye I see a squatter headed my way. Unfortunately, I not only see him, I smell him. Yuck. Luckily, he just sits next to me and doesn’t say anything so I continue looking out the window, watching people walk by – which was sort of fun.
At some point, this lady taps me on the shoulder and starts speaking to me in French. I have no clue what she’s saying, but she points to her palm. So I say, “Money?” and she nods. So I nod “no” back. And then she keeps pestering me. Seriously, have the French never heard of “No Loitering” signs before??
I give up, and finally gave her a Euro and some pounds (all of the change I had). And the stupid bitch asks for more. Seriously, more! And I say no and try to ignore her. I thought that it worked, and it did for about five minutes and she comes back to me and tries again. Then she starts yelling at me in French.
I’ll be honest, part of me is wondering where management is, because a paying customer is being harassed right now. The other part of me is wondering why the smelly squatter isn’t telling her to shut up, but I think he found it funny.
I finally got up and went back to the train station and just walked around aimlessly until about 10:25 a.m. and walked back, again, to the McDonalds. I’m not going to lie – in my head, I’m trying to figure out a way to get back to London without offending Brandi. Hehe… she doesn’t know this.
And I walk back into the McDonalds and that stupid evil beggar girl is still there! And she almost asked me for money, but I gave her a look of death and she didn’t. Shortly thereafter, Brandi arrived and we headed… back to the train station.
Turns out, the train station is multi-floored because it also serves as a subway stop. It also turns out that you can by lingerie in a train station – which is just funny. We got a day pass for the subway system (6 Euros/$12) and headed to the Eifel Tower.
Surprisingly, the subway was fairly clean, and smelled pleasant enough. I’ve heard in the past that Paris is really smelly, and the people sort of smell, but really the only person who stood out during my time there was the squatter at McDonalds.
The Eifel Tower isn’t all that impressive. I mean, it is – but it’s like going to the Statue of Liberty for the first time and being, “Huh. So that’s it.” Don’t get me wrong – it’s huge and I’m glad I got to see it. It just didn’t do anything for me.
After taking some obligatory photos (shown here), we headed to a café right across the street. I’ll admit – I’m not a fan of coffee. My whole life, people were always like, when you grow up, you’ll like coffee. Once you pull an all-nighter in college and you need something to keep you up, you’ll like it.
But I never grew up I suppose, or pulled a full all-nighter, so I never liked it. And when we got to the café, I did what anyone else would do, I ordered a Diet Coke. (mmm) FYI – Diet Coke, for whatever reason, is way better in Europe. Coke must use a different sugar substitute.
Brandi did let me try her coffee – and if coffee tasted that good in America – I’d be drinking it.
The weirdest part of the café – the parking meter-like device on the bathroom door handle. If I have to pay for the bathroom, it should look better than this pitiful mess. At least I didn’t have to pee in a hole in the ground, like some places have (Ewww.)
Okay – this is getting pretty long, and I’ve still got a few other things to discuss about this day. I’ll post Part II at some point.
I think this trip needs some back story before I go into the whole day.
So, in fourth grade my BFF Brandi was way cool – all the boys were in love with her, she had the greatest personality and more importantly for slumber party purposes, was the only kid in our class who had a subscription to Teen Magazine. (I couldn’t get one until I was 13 – an official teen – so having access to one at the age of ten was a big deal. And if you were a real rebel like me, you’d sneak some peaks at Seventeen Magazine while at the library.)
Flash forward 16 years (dear God, that is sobering), and Brandi is still way cool and living in Paris where she works as a marketing intern at a cosmetics/facial company while pursuing her master’s degree at the university there. I’ll admit it, I’m totally jealous. Paris is way better than Texas.
When I found out I was going to London way back in September, the first thing I did was e-mail Brandi to see if I could come and visit her in Paris. A few exchanges later (more like 24 e-mails, but we were also catching up!), I had bought my $170 round trip train ticket from London to Paris and eagerly awaiting a stamp in my passport.
But on Sunday night, an e-mail from Brandi had my dreams of sipping coffee (in my case, Diet Coke) overlooking the Eifel Tower crashing down.
That sentence is beyond overdramatic; I just freaked out because her subject line, in all caps said: “MINOR COMPLICATION – DON’T PANIC.” So of course I panicked.
Long story short, Brandi forgot about a class she had that morning, and was just going to be late picking me up at the train station, which was fine. I was to meet her at 10:30 a.m. (my train got in at 9:00 a.m.) at the McDonalds across the street from the train station (obviously, my Yankee self would have no trouble finding that), and then we could go sightseeing from there.
One line in that e-mail that perked my ears/eyes/whatever, was that the train station isn’t in the best part of town, so I am not to go wandering about. Knowing that I’m a wanderer, I’m really glad she told me that.
So Monday night, I stupidly decided to try another NyQuil to get some sleep (because I was so excited and I had to wake up at 3:45 a.m. that morning). Unfortunately, the same NyQuil affect I had on the plane (racing heart, no sleep) happened again, and I maybe got three hours of sleep before my wake-up call from the hotel rang… twice.
After a quick ten pound/$20 cab ride to St. Pancreas train station, waiting in line for awhile, I was finally on the train for departure at 5:21 a.m., traveling 186 mph to Paris.
The train ride, in the dark, wasn’t exactly the most pleasurable experience. At first, I thought I would be able to get some rest. I realized that wasn’t going to happen by the second train stop on the England side of the Channel (and the fact that every tunnel we went in, my ears were popping constantly). In a train where there were literally rows upon rows of empty seats, a family of four had to sit right behind me. And their three-year-old kid HAD to sit in the seat right behind me (I know this, because of all the kicking.)
It is my understanding that in London there are nearly 12 different dialects of English spoken. That’s just in the city. This family must have been from the same family that Audrey Hepburn’s character in My Fair Lady was from. At one point, the children decided to sing their alphabet and I thought I was going to shoot myself.
On top of that, they were going to Disneyland Paris, which means they wouldn’t shut up about “princesses” and randomly, “big hotels.”
Luckily, I had downloaded the musical White Christmas – quite possibly the best Christmas musical EVER – onto my iPod and tried drowning out the poorly spoken English with Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye. Sigh. I’m tearing up, singing along softly to “Count Your Blessings Instead of Sheep” (gets me every time). And then my stupid iPod dies (damn first generation video iPod and your crappy battery power). Once again, I’m stuck hearing yelling and screaming and feeling the kicks of two bratty children against my seat.
We finally get to Paris two and a half hours later (there is an hour time change if you’re doing the math) and I’m so excited. That gets quickly shot down when I see that practically everything is in French. I see the money exchange place, but it looks like they are only speaking French, and I don’t want to look like an idiot, so I decided to wander outside and see where the McDonalds is.
Well, apparently, the McDonalds is just north of the “Sex Shop” in case any of you are wondering. Oh, and all of the blue sleeping bags cuddled up outside of the train station aren’t there for looks either – they have people in them.
I go into the McDonalds, find the breakfast menu, and realize I have no way to pay for anything. So I trot back to the train station, walk around a few times before I get the courage to ask for Euros at the money exchange booth, then proudly, and confidently hand over my $200 American dollars and say, “Euros.”
And it appeared to work! Glorious! Then she asked me a question. I’m thinking, “Shit – I’m going to have to speak in stupid American, and then she’s going to say something rude in French and I won’t know it.” After a few tries, I realize she’s just confirming I gave her $200 and so I nod my head yes, and I’m on my merry way… back to McDonalds.
As I’m walking back, I look at the receipt the lady gave me – for $200 American dollars, I got 107 Euros! (I just noticed there is a Euro sign next to my “5” on my keyboard – but I’ve tried shift, control and alt with no luck.) Piss – this trip is already expensive.
Back at the McDonalds, I’m letting people get in front of me in line, because honestly, I can’t read the menu. Rather, I can read the menu, but can’t pronounce anything without giving away I can’t speak any French and I’m a dumb American. So, despite not wanting this item (but I haven’t eaten in 10+ hours), I order a bacon egg McMuffin because it’s the only thing I can pronounce. She asks me if I want one or two (I think) and I hold up one finger and say one (because apparently I’m three).
As I’m waiting for my food, a true dumb American orders egg McMuffins as well. I call him dumb because well, the lady is clearly asking him if he wants napkins, and he yells at her, “I can’t speak this, I speak English.” No wonder French think we’re stupid. I mouth “I’m Sorry” to the lady and give them man a dirty glare. And for some reason, I get two egg McMuffins.
At this point, it is only 9:20 a.m., and I still have another hour before Brandi arrives. So I proceed to eat the disgusting egg McMuffins as slowly as possible, making me realize that this tastes a lot better than in America. Odd.
At 9:45 a.m. I finally finish and out of the corner of my eye I see a squatter headed my way. Unfortunately, I not only see him, I smell him. Yuck. Luckily, he just sits next to me and doesn’t say anything so I continue looking out the window, watching people walk by – which was sort of fun.
At some point, this lady taps me on the shoulder and starts speaking to me in French. I have no clue what she’s saying, but she points to her palm. So I say, “Money?” and she nods. So I nod “no” back. And then she keeps pestering me. Seriously, have the French never heard of “No Loitering” signs before??
I give up, and finally gave her a Euro and some pounds (all of the change I had). And the stupid bitch asks for more. Seriously, more! And I say no and try to ignore her. I thought that it worked, and it did for about five minutes and she comes back to me and tries again. Then she starts yelling at me in French.
I’ll be honest, part of me is wondering where management is, because a paying customer is being harassed right now. The other part of me is wondering why the smelly squatter isn’t telling her to shut up, but I think he found it funny.
I finally got up and went back to the train station and just walked around aimlessly until about 10:25 a.m. and walked back, again, to the McDonalds. I’m not going to lie – in my head, I’m trying to figure out a way to get back to London without offending Brandi. Hehe… she doesn’t know this.
And I walk back into the McDonalds and that stupid evil beggar girl is still there! And she almost asked me for money, but I gave her a look of death and she didn’t. Shortly thereafter, Brandi arrived and we headed… back to the train station.
Turns out, the train station is multi-floored because it also serves as a subway stop. It also turns out that you can by lingerie in a train station – which is just funny. We got a day pass for the subway system (6 Euros/$12) and headed to the Eifel Tower.
Surprisingly, the subway was fairly clean, and smelled pleasant enough. I’ve heard in the past that Paris is really smelly, and the people sort of smell, but really the only person who stood out during my time there was the squatter at McDonalds.
The Eifel Tower isn’t all that impressive. I mean, it is – but it’s like going to the Statue of Liberty for the first time and being, “Huh. So that’s it.” Don’t get me wrong – it’s huge and I’m glad I got to see it. It just didn’t do anything for me.
After taking some obligatory photos (shown here), we headed to a café right across the street. I’ll admit – I’m not a fan of coffee. My whole life, people were always like, when you grow up, you’ll like coffee. Once you pull an all-nighter in college and you need something to keep you up, you’ll like it.
But I never grew up I suppose, or pulled a full all-nighter, so I never liked it. And when we got to the café, I did what anyone else would do, I ordered a Diet Coke. (mmm) FYI – Diet Coke, for whatever reason, is way better in Europe. Coke must use a different sugar substitute.
Brandi did let me try her coffee – and if coffee tasted that good in America – I’d be drinking it.
The weirdest part of the café – the parking meter-like device on the bathroom door handle. If I have to pay for the bathroom, it should look better than this pitiful mess. At least I didn’t have to pee in a hole in the ground, like some places have (Ewww.)
Okay – this is getting pretty long, and I’ve still got a few other things to discuss about this day. I’ll post Part II at some point.
12.03.2007
Day Two: All By Myself, Don’t Want to Be
(I’ve decided to try and name all of my blog entries after our memorable taxi driver music from the previous day… this particular song just happens to perfectly match my day)Note: Obviously my effort to blog each day that evening was a lofty goal I wasn’t going to come close to reaching – seeing as it is exactly a week later. My bad.
Given the great weather in London (Sunny and highs in the lower 10 degrees Celsius, fools!), I was really excited about venturing out into the city in the broad daylight.
Originally, I was planning to go on an early morning run, but my ankle was still bothering me, and I wanted to exert my energy site seeing. Additionally, cough cough, my butt didn’t get out of bed until after 9 a.m.
I forced Justin out of bed via loud banging in the bathroom at roughly 10:30 a.m., mainly because I didn’t want to waste our day sleeping. You can sleep in America, you lazy American! (Granted, in the paragraph before, I also would be considered a lazy American, but that’s beside the point.)
After Justin got ready, we headed out down the same path we took the night before. Once we got over the Waterloo Bridge, Justin started feeling sickly, so unfortunately, we headed back to the hotel. Literally, at one point, I thought he was going to hurl. And given the fact that the one time I’ve seen him puke I almost followed suit, this was not a good sign for me either. After some room service for lunch (where Justin had the same food for EVERY meal while we were in London – poor guy and his food allergies), I headed back out without the better half. Because, let’s face it, I won’t be spoiled by a party pooper :) Plus, Justin really did need his rest and needed to get some work done.
I had two goals in mind on this particular excursion – must see Buckingham Palace, and have to go to Harrods. As an avid shopper, it’s my duty.
Seeing that this was a self-guided tour, with really no idea where I was going, I walked through St. James Park, where a lot of tourists are – oddly enough – looking at squirrels. Seriously, I have never seen so many people so excited about feeding dumb squirrels. I later found out that people in London and other parts of Europe don’t see squirrels that often and think they’re pretty awesome. Ugh – live in Texas for a minute and you’ll see more squirrels. Although I must say, London squirrels are big and grey. So slightly different than our poo poo brown ones here.
Buckingham Palace is just past St. James Park, and it wasn’t quite as regal as I was hoping for. I expected it to be bigger, I guess. The front gates were pretty spectacular, but really, there are nicer looking buildings in London (including our hotel). I stopped in the gift shop and bought a few items (including a spoon set for Justin’s grandmother), and kept walking.
At some point, I notice that the sun is setting, which is odd, because it’s only 3 p.m. After some interesting turns, and a few moments where I thought I was lost, I made it to Harrods at dusk. By now, my ankle is killing me (I had sprained it the week before) and it is pretty dark outside. It took me roughly two hours to walk there – whoops – so much for Harrods looking like it was relatively close to our hotel. Stupid tourist map.
Harrods is interesting, as it is HUGE. I walked in a side door, and went through a huge make up section, then through the food section, purse section then back into the food section to get a few things for my mom and Gran. After that, I headed upstairs where I saw bed linens, rugs, Christmas stuff and a pet department. And that wasn’t even all of it – I still had several more floors to go! My ankle was really killing me by now, so I headed back to the hotel via taxi.
Sidebar One: London is expensive. A bar of soap for my grandmother was the equivalent to $12. A small box of chocolates are $20. Conclusion: the dollar sucks. In fact, there were even travel agencies in London advertising “Shopping Excursion Trips” to NYC.
Sidebar Two: After I got back to the hotel, I needed to get ready for Paris – I was getting up at 3:45 a.m. to catch the 5:21 a.m. train. Lesson learned: never take NyQuil ever again, as it causes my heart to race and won’t let me fall asleep. And for anyone who knows me, me NOT falling asleep easily is quite impressive.
Sidebar Three: BBC owns. During the course of the trip I was able to hear more cussing, see more boobs (in a respectable fashion) and laugh louder than I ever had on regular American television. Conclusion: Americans are self-righteous prudes and/or British are vulgar whores. Kidding! (well, not about the American part)
11.25.2007
London, Day 1: I can’t live, when living is without you.
Today was our first day in London – and I think most of it was spent sleeping. I tried taking a nap on the plane (with the help of my friend Nyquil), but unfortunately, I just had a messed up 20-minute nap every hour.
We landed at London-Gatwick around 7 a.m. local time/1 a.m. Texas time. After going through immigration, we headed to the taxi stand, where we learned that the dollar does, in fact, suck. The countryside between Gatwick and London is gorgeous, with the greenest rolling pastures and adorable farm homes. But the most enjoyable experience of the trip to our hotel in Central London was our taxi cab driver. I have never met a man before who listened to only ballads – and then willingly sang these songs quite loudly in front of strangers. He also belted out some Michael Jackson, but for the most part, we got stuck with such classics as Bette Midler and quite possibly every single song from the Bridget Jones’ Diary soundtrack.
Once we arrived at our hotel (The Savoy, which backs up to the river and Strand Street), we were lucky enough to have a room ready for us. After collapsing and passing out for six hours (with a random interruption of room service trying to clean our rooms – I think Justin started yelling at them in his sleep, which was endearing), we woke up, grabbed some dinner and went for about an hour stroll around the hotel.
Overall, I love the architecture here in the town, because it just reminds me of so many fun movies I’ve seen that were based in London. (Cough cough, Harry Potter)
Tomorrow we’ll trek around in the daylight and see Buckingham Palace and I think there is a casino down the street too… haha. I laugh, yet I think I’m serious too.
In the meantime, I’m stuck in the room with Justin while he is watching football and managing his fantasy team. Some Sundays never change, no matter where you are.
We landed at London-Gatwick around 7 a.m. local time/1 a.m. Texas time. After going through immigration, we headed to the taxi stand, where we learned that the dollar does, in fact, suck. The countryside between Gatwick and London is gorgeous, with the greenest rolling pastures and adorable farm homes. But the most enjoyable experience of the trip to our hotel in Central London was our taxi cab driver. I have never met a man before who listened to only ballads – and then willingly sang these songs quite loudly in front of strangers. He also belted out some Michael Jackson, but for the most part, we got stuck with such classics as Bette Midler and quite possibly every single song from the Bridget Jones’ Diary soundtrack.
Once we arrived at our hotel (The Savoy, which backs up to the river and Strand Street), we were lucky enough to have a room ready for us. After collapsing and passing out for six hours (with a random interruption of room service trying to clean our rooms – I think Justin started yelling at them in his sleep, which was endearing), we woke up, grabbed some dinner and went for about an hour stroll around the hotel.
Overall, I love the architecture here in the town, because it just reminds me of so many fun movies I’ve seen that were based in London. (Cough cough, Harry Potter)
Tomorrow we’ll trek around in the daylight and see Buckingham Palace and I think there is a casino down the street too… haha. I laugh, yet I think I’m serious too.
In the meantime, I’m stuck in the room with Justin while he is watching football and managing his fantasy team. Some Sundays never change, no matter where you are.
10.28.2007
Cell Phones, Pagers and Halloween Candy at Target
I was at Target this morning, shopping for a wedding gift for a fellow friend of mine, when I overheard the following conversation between a mother and her eight-year-old son:
“Mom, I really need a cell phone.”
“Son, you know you can’t get a cell phone until you’re 13.”
“Ugh, I know, Mom. Will I get my own personal computer then too?”
“We’ll see.”
Obviously, my first thought was, “what a spoiled little brat!” (Granted, I was shopping at the "good part of town" Target). But then I thought about it. Yes, I didn’t get my own cell phone and computer until I went to college (after much begging and paying for the majority of both items myself), but God, how things have changed in seven years to where this conversation is somewhat of a commonplace.
As I’m walking towards the Halloween candy from electronics (seasonal section where the Christmas stuff usually is, or back-to-school items, Easter, Valentine’s Day, etc.), I’m wondering if a cell phone will be listed on my own child’s kindergarten school supply list. (Doing the math, that ends up being about seven or eight years from now, so that time table is somewhat realistic.)
The whole thing reminds me of when pagers were da’ bomb in middle school (might as well throw in some 1995 terminology to describe this). Those got banned from school because you were deemed a drug dealer, which was kind of funny. Gosh, I wanted one so bad too, even though I still don’t quite understand its point.
So, your mom pages you because she wants to know where you are. But what if you’re at Celebration Station or something (another 1995, Mesquite, Texas reference) and you can’t get to a phone? Seriously, what is the point? Cell phones are so much more ingenious really. Especially with the GPS technology built into practically every phone where you (or the government) can monitor your kid’s (innocent citizens’) every move without them realizing it. Sidebar: I'm reading this book Justin has called 60 Greatest Conspiracy Theories of All Time. It's awesome and at some point I'll blog about it.
So, that’s just my random thoughts for a Sunday afternoon and a look into my mind on just how quickly it processes information and seemingly goes off subject. I was already done thinking about all of this and I hadn’t even gotten to the linens section yet. (hope I didn’t give away what I got you, SPFL)
“Mom, I really need a cell phone.”
“Son, you know you can’t get a cell phone until you’re 13.”
“Ugh, I know, Mom. Will I get my own personal computer then too?”
“We’ll see.”
Obviously, my first thought was, “what a spoiled little brat!” (Granted, I was shopping at the "good part of town" Target). But then I thought about it. Yes, I didn’t get my own cell phone and computer until I went to college (after much begging and paying for the majority of both items myself), but God, how things have changed in seven years to where this conversation is somewhat of a commonplace.
As I’m walking towards the Halloween candy from electronics (seasonal section where the Christmas stuff usually is, or back-to-school items, Easter, Valentine’s Day, etc.), I’m wondering if a cell phone will be listed on my own child’s kindergarten school supply list. (Doing the math, that ends up being about seven or eight years from now, so that time table is somewhat realistic.)
The whole thing reminds me of when pagers were da’ bomb in middle school (might as well throw in some 1995 terminology to describe this). Those got banned from school because you were deemed a drug dealer, which was kind of funny. Gosh, I wanted one so bad too, even though I still don’t quite understand its point.
So, your mom pages you because she wants to know where you are. But what if you’re at Celebration Station or something (another 1995, Mesquite, Texas reference) and you can’t get to a phone? Seriously, what is the point? Cell phones are so much more ingenious really. Especially with the GPS technology built into practically every phone where you (or the government) can monitor your kid’s (innocent citizens’) every move without them realizing it. Sidebar: I'm reading this book Justin has called 60 Greatest Conspiracy Theories of All Time. It's awesome and at some point I'll blog about it.
So, that’s just my random thoughts for a Sunday afternoon and a look into my mind on just how quickly it processes information and seemingly goes off subject. I was already done thinking about all of this and I hadn’t even gotten to the linens section yet. (hope I didn’t give away what I got you, SPFL)
10.10.2007
The Definition of Sharing
After an incident this weekend, I decided to go to the source and figure out the exact definition of “share” or “sharing.” (Which, by the way, I find it highly amusing that when you type “Webster” into Google, the t.v. show isn’t event listed until the eighth entry… just thought you should know)
Inflected Form(s): shared; shar·ing
1 : to divide and distribute in shares : APPORTION -- usually used with out
2 a : to partake of, use, experience, occupy, or enjoy with others b : to have in common
3 : to grant or give a share in -- often used with with
4 : to tell (as thoughts, feelings, or experiences) to others -- often used with with
Synonyms: SHARE, PARTICIPATE, PARTAKE mean to have, get, or use in common with another or others. SHARE usually implies that one as the original holder grants to another the partial use, enjoyment, or possession of a thing. PARTICIPATE implies a having or taking part in an undertaking, activity, or discussion . PARTAKE implies accepting or acquiring a share especially of food or drink .
So here’s what I find the most interesting about the definition share, and may give insight into why it’s so difficult to do/practice: the usage scenario we as humans normally associate with the term “share” or “sharing” isn’t really an exact definition, rather it is implied, and typically implied poorly or flat out wrong.
Take for example the “incident” I’m referring to. So I’m inside of this small built-in cabinet (think a kitchen cabinet but within a living room) with a three-year-old, a five-year-old and an eight-year-old (shockingly I have the picture to prove it, which I will post at some point) and they are all arguing over who gets a nice flashlight versus the crappy wind-up flashlight.
(I swear, I’m going somewhere with this)
To keep the screaming down to a dull roar, I calmly ask the seemingly most logical of the three (eight-year-old) to share the flashlight with her two-year-old cousin. I get a resounding “no way.” Of course I ask why, and I don’t really get an answer (mainly because I feel at some level she realizes how stupid it is to be arguing over a flashlight in small cabinet with three other people in the first place).
I try rewording my ask a few different ways with no luck, trying logical reasoning techniques I’ve learned in very expensive work seminars. What I learned is that these techniques cannot be used against individuals under the age of 10. Sigh.
But after looking at the definition of sharing, particularly #3 and the bolded part in the synonym section, kids think of sharing as “giving up” something that they feel is rightfully theirs. And they don’t think, despite your desperate pleas, that they’ll get it back. Rather they associate “sharing” with giving away something for good.
So the next time you’re in a cramped space with multiple children and they start fighting, either remove yourself completely from the situation, or get earplugs. There is just no way out.
Inflected Form(s): shared; shar·ing
1 : to divide and distribute in shares : APPORTION -- usually used with out
2 a : to partake of, use, experience, occupy, or enjoy with others b : to have in common
3 : to grant or give a share in -- often used with with
4 : to tell (as thoughts, feelings, or experiences) to others -- often used with with
Synonyms: SHARE, PARTICIPATE, PARTAKE mean to have, get, or use in common with another or others. SHARE usually implies that one as the original holder grants to another the partial use, enjoyment, or possession of a thing
So here’s what I find the most interesting about the definition share, and may give insight into why it’s so difficult to do/practice: the usage scenario we as humans normally associate with the term “share” or “sharing” isn’t really an exact definition, rather it is implied, and typically implied poorly or flat out wrong.
Take for example the “incident” I’m referring to. So I’m inside of this small built-in cabinet (think a kitchen cabinet but within a living room) with a three-year-old, a five-year-old and an eight-year-old (shockingly I have the picture to prove it, which I will post at some point) and they are all arguing over who gets a nice flashlight versus the crappy wind-up flashlight.
(I swear, I’m going somewhere with this)
To keep the screaming down to a dull roar, I calmly ask the seemingly most logical of the three (eight-year-old) to share the flashlight with her two-year-old cousin. I get a resounding “no way.” Of course I ask why, and I don’t really get an answer (mainly because I feel at some level she realizes how stupid it is to be arguing over a flashlight in small cabinet with three other people in the first place).
I try rewording my ask a few different ways with no luck, trying logical reasoning techniques I’ve learned in very expensive work seminars. What I learned is that these techniques cannot be used against individuals under the age of 10. Sigh.
But after looking at the definition of sharing, particularly #3 and the bolded part in the synonym section, kids think of sharing as “giving up” something that they feel is rightfully theirs. And they don’t think, despite your desperate pleas, that they’ll get it back. Rather they associate “sharing” with giving away something for good.
So the next time you’re in a cramped space with multiple children and they start fighting, either remove yourself completely from the situation, or get earplugs. There is just no way out.
10.06.2007
See. Jenni. Run
Last Sunday I got to run! Wee! And despite the ridiculous heat and humidity that comes with running at 11:45 in the morning, I was able to go 3.5 miles under 38 minutes. Now while the guy that won the 12k portion ran that in 34 minutes, I'm not down. I can't wait to run it again next year and try and shave more time off.
Here's a link to the results from the race: http://www.doitsports.com/newresults3/client/100525_214360_2007.html I was in the WE are Family group -- or you can just do a search for my name.
Anyways, the next race I'll be running is the Jingle Bell 5K -- so if you want to join in on the fun, let me know.
And for anyone thinking about Birthday/Christmas gifts -- a gift card here would make my day! http://www.runtex.com/
Pics from the race are on Facebook!
Here's a link to the results from the race: http://www.doitsports.com/newresults3/client/100525_214360_2007.html I was in the WE are Family group -- or you can just do a search for my name.
Anyways, the next race I'll be running is the Jingle Bell 5K -- so if you want to join in on the fun, let me know.
And for anyone thinking about Birthday/Christmas gifts -- a gift card here would make my day! http://www.runtex.com/
Pics from the race are on Facebook!
9.28.2007
Ask and You Shall Receive
So after last night's quick post, apologizing for my lack of writing on here, I spent the evening and the better part of the morning trying to think of something to blog about.
Then this fell in my lap on the way to work this morning, and really, how could you not post something about this ridiculousness:
http://www.wescooppoop.com/
Yes, I passed a pick-up truck for the "We Scoop Poop" people, better known as "Dog Duty." For only $9 a week, you can rid your backyard of all of that poop your dog does.
Or you can save yourself $9 bucks and bag it up yourself. OR, do what Justin and I do, just leave it -- and in a few weeks it goes away on its own, and your grass is greener for it.
I think my favorite part of the Web site is the FAQ section. For example, the first question in my mind is, "What in the heck do you do with the poop after your scoop it? Do you have a manure pile somewhere?" And that just happens to be the first question! Their answer:
"We leave the bag at your house in the roll-away trash can. If you keep your trash can inside your garage, then we leave the bag next to your garage door farthest away from your front door."
Personally, that's just asking for some stupid 14-year-old to walk by and set it on fire, but that's just my opinion.
Another good question, "I have a scary dog. Will you still scoop my yard?"
My answer -- why would you make some poor individual pick up scary dog poop? Why do you have a scary dog in the first place? Anyways, their answer is pretty much yes.
Now, to be fair, after looking at their site, they also provide lawn service and pet sitting -- so they aren't exactly hanging their hat on trying to make a buck picking up just dog crap.
Then this fell in my lap on the way to work this morning, and really, how could you not post something about this ridiculousness:
http://www.wescooppoop.com/
Yes, I passed a pick-up truck for the "We Scoop Poop" people, better known as "Dog Duty." For only $9 a week, you can rid your backyard of all of that poop your dog does.
Or you can save yourself $9 bucks and bag it up yourself. OR, do what Justin and I do, just leave it -- and in a few weeks it goes away on its own, and your grass is greener for it.
I think my favorite part of the Web site is the FAQ section. For example, the first question in my mind is, "What in the heck do you do with the poop after your scoop it? Do you have a manure pile somewhere?" And that just happens to be the first question! Their answer:
"We leave the bag at your house in the roll-away trash can. If you keep your trash can inside your garage, then we leave the bag next to your garage door farthest away from your front door."
Personally, that's just asking for some stupid 14-year-old to walk by and set it on fire, but that's just my opinion.
Another good question, "I have a scary dog. Will you still scoop my yard?"
My answer -- why would you make some poor individual pick up scary dog poop? Why do you have a scary dog in the first place? Anyways, their answer is pretty much yes.
Now, to be fair, after looking at their site, they also provide lawn service and pet sitting -- so they aren't exactly hanging their hat on trying to make a buck picking up just dog crap.
9.27.2007
Well, hello there
I guess it’s been awhile since I’ve last posted. It’s funny, because I’ve wrote a few posts, but ended up erasing them and/or not posting them. Guess it’s like calling an old friend you haven’t talked to in awhile. You think about it, and eventually you do it, but it takes a few tries.
So, hello. Long time no talk. ;)
Maybe this posting is more like an answering machine message.
So, hello. Long time no talk. ;)
Maybe this posting is more like an answering machine message.
8.22.2007
Oh, bother Solved!
Okay, after I calmed down, I went to the ever-wonderful Fitness Magazine Web site (love that magazine!) at found the following document: http://images.meredith.com/fitness/images/pdf/6WeeksTo30Minutes.pdf
It's a workout plan designed to get the beginner runner in shape and kickin' it in time for a 5k. They also had a section for preparing for a 10k, triathlons, marathons, etc. I doubt I'll get that far, but now that I have a plan and direction, my goal is to not look like a running idiot in front of my co-workers ;) I'll keep you guys posted on how I do.
It's a workout plan designed to get the beginner runner in shape and kickin' it in time for a 5k. They also had a section for preparing for a 10k, triathlons, marathons, etc. I doubt I'll get that far, but now that I have a plan and direction, my goal is to not look like a running idiot in front of my co-workers ;) I'll keep you guys posted on how I do.
Oh, Bother
I’m freaking out – it’s a month before and I’m freaking out!!
Okay, so here’s the deal – my work is the sponsoring a group of employees for the annual Silicon Labs Relay Marathon. Relay marathon means that you split up the 23 miles for a marathon among five people (I think five people)… So something like, two people do a 10k, one person does a 12k and two people do a 5k. One of the 5k co-workers will be out of town this weekend and I stupidly raised my hand to replace her yesterday afternoon.
And less than 24 hours later, here I am, freaking out. To clarify, I did the 5K Bun Run back in April in about 36 minutes, which is great considering it was my first 5K ever and I’m not that great at running. The problem is, everyone on the team that I’m running with are seasoned pros at running (you know, the ones that are at Town Lake every day or that I see running in my neighborhood with her husband at seven in the morning). So essentially, I’m totally ruining their chances at winning because I suck.
So I have four weeks to prepare (it’s Sept. 29) starting today (I would have started last night, but my piano lesson went to two hours). I’m going to puke, and I haven’t even started running yet.
Okay, so here’s the deal – my work is the sponsoring a group of employees for the annual Silicon Labs Relay Marathon. Relay marathon means that you split up the 23 miles for a marathon among five people (I think five people)… So something like, two people do a 10k, one person does a 12k and two people do a 5k. One of the 5k co-workers will be out of town this weekend and I stupidly raised my hand to replace her yesterday afternoon.
And less than 24 hours later, here I am, freaking out. To clarify, I did the 5K Bun Run back in April in about 36 minutes, which is great considering it was my first 5K ever and I’m not that great at running. The problem is, everyone on the team that I’m running with are seasoned pros at running (you know, the ones that are at Town Lake every day or that I see running in my neighborhood with her husband at seven in the morning). So essentially, I’m totally ruining their chances at winning because I suck.
So I have four weeks to prepare (it’s Sept. 29) starting today (I would have started last night, but my piano lesson went to two hours). I’m going to puke, and I haven’t even started running yet.
8.08.2007
Why I Blog
I was going through some old boxes my Mom had in a closet a few months back, and stumbled across journals and school projects dating back to elementary school. My favorite document was something my fourth grade teacher sent back to me a year or two ago as she was cleaning out some of her files. Apparently I created this personal dictionary and my own bound book. I’m not going to lie – the stuff was total crap. I mean, how did my parents allow me to turn in such blatant misuse of English for a grade?
Point being – I love writing. I enjoy expressing myself via words – even more so than playing my violin or piano (which honestly, is more like interpretation than expression [as you’re playing someone else’s music for the most part], so it probably isn’t an apples to apples comparison). I remember going to creative writing classes, submitting poems and stories growing up for local contests, and sadly, writing the worst lyrics to songs that I never put music to ;)
That love of writing (and incorrect English usage) got tested my senior year of high school, when a requirement in one of my classes was to write in a journal every other day and submitting the stupid thing for a grade (1-5 scale).
Before we began this year-long assignment, I remember the teacher saying that she rarely gave out 5s. Once that tidbit was revealed, my personal goal for this class (a.k.a. competitive side) suddenly became how many 5s I could get.
I tried everything – sad, happy, wit, humor, insight, death, one page, three pages – to no avail. I never got a single 5, and usually hovered around the 2-3 range, with the occasional 4. Most of the time, the teacher would just complain what a poor writer I was, which I now find slightly ironic since I write for a living. (So, odd thank you for nearly train-wrecking my career path – you made me work that much harder.)
But thinking back, I do think it’s a little wrong to rate a student’s (or anyone else for that matter) equivalent to a forced-personal journal. It’s almost like judging this person’s thoughts, emotions and experiences based on your own set agenda. Now, if she had given us assignments (I want you to write about your thoughts of Chapter 8 from “Cry the Beloved Country”), I could see justification for such grades. But really, it should just be a simple completion grade more than anything. Especially if this perfect score was so subjective. I could probably go into a longer discussion about how most grades are subjective, but I don’t feel like talking about it right now.
Tying it to my present writing, it’s different than a blog – writing that I choose to share and fully expect you to judge how poorly or well-written and insightful each post is based on your own internal criteria that I may or may not be fully aware of. (Talk about a run-on…) Part of me will always care what others think, but at the end of the day, I write this blog for me – to allow the free movement of creative juices, let off steam, express the randomness in my head, voice my latest triumph (or failure) and share who I am and who I want to be.
The End
Point being – I love writing. I enjoy expressing myself via words – even more so than playing my violin or piano (which honestly, is more like interpretation than expression [as you’re playing someone else’s music for the most part], so it probably isn’t an apples to apples comparison). I remember going to creative writing classes, submitting poems and stories growing up for local contests, and sadly, writing the worst lyrics to songs that I never put music to ;)
That love of writing (and incorrect English usage) got tested my senior year of high school, when a requirement in one of my classes was to write in a journal every other day and submitting the stupid thing for a grade (1-5 scale).
Before we began this year-long assignment, I remember the teacher saying that she rarely gave out 5s. Once that tidbit was revealed, my personal goal for this class (a.k.a. competitive side) suddenly became how many 5s I could get.
I tried everything – sad, happy, wit, humor, insight, death, one page, three pages – to no avail. I never got a single 5, and usually hovered around the 2-3 range, with the occasional 4. Most of the time, the teacher would just complain what a poor writer I was, which I now find slightly ironic since I write for a living. (So, odd thank you for nearly train-wrecking my career path – you made me work that much harder.)
But thinking back, I do think it’s a little wrong to rate a student’s (or anyone else for that matter) equivalent to a forced-personal journal. It’s almost like judging this person’s thoughts, emotions and experiences based on your own set agenda. Now, if she had given us assignments (I want you to write about your thoughts of Chapter 8 from “Cry the Beloved Country”), I could see justification for such grades. But really, it should just be a simple completion grade more than anything. Especially if this perfect score was so subjective. I could probably go into a longer discussion about how most grades are subjective, but I don’t feel like talking about it right now.
Tying it to my present writing, it’s different than a blog – writing that I choose to share and fully expect you to judge how poorly or well-written and insightful each post is based on your own internal criteria that I may or may not be fully aware of. (Talk about a run-on…) Part of me will always care what others think, but at the end of the day, I write this blog for me – to allow the free movement of creative juices, let off steam, express the randomness in my head, voice my latest triumph (or failure) and share who I am and who I want to be.
The End
8.05.2007
Right out of a sitcom
This weekend, Justin spent the whole weekend studying and writing for his graduate paper that’s due Tuesday, which meant I was free to go and party! (Note: I would have been free to do that no matter what Justin was doing, it just sounds better that way for storytelling purposes)
After some discussion earlier in the week, Ashley and I decided to go to Hamilton Pool – it is this natural watering hole about 40 minutes West of Austin (between Bee Caves and Dripping Springs). You hike about a quarter of a mile down a fairly steep hill and can either go to the left – where you can continue hiking to the Pernadales River – or take a right towards the watering hole.
I’m not going to lie (my new catch phrase if you’ve been around me the last few weeks), it’s gorgeous. Literally, this amazing, God-created goodness for city folk like myself.
We got there super early, and stayed for about an hour – once people start coming, the area gets a tad crowded and kids are yelling, ruining the serenity of it all.
So, um, we decided to spend the next three hours laying out the country club. Total 180 right? About three weeks ago, one of my friend’s, Kim, told Ashley and me that we look iridescent. So we stayed out about an hour too long at the pool and our backs are red as some random metaphor I can’t think of at the moment.
To make our backs a little worse, today we decided to go hike the Greenbelt and then layout (only on our backs) at Barton Springs. We’re really asking for it. And apparently this 10-year-old walking by us thought we were too.
I’m laying there with my eyes closed, and I hear this voice from in front of me say, “You know doin’ that causes skin cancer, right?”
I open one of my eyes, look around, find the girl through my squinting, and respond, “The key is moderation – if you don’t do this all of the time and use sun screen, you’ll be fine.”
I thought, honestly, that would shut the kid up. I mean, how hypocritical of her – standing there, in the same sun as I am – telling me I’m going to get skin cancer.
And then she’s like, “I’m serious. You’re going to get skin cancer.” At this point, I’m looking around for her parents so she can leave me to my sun/skin cancer.
I politely smile at her and lower my head back onto the towel, hoping the gesture will signal her to try the next group of sunbathers to my right.
“Maybe this will cool you off!” And the kid, out of nowhere, pulls a water gun and sprays me. Then she turns and sprays Ashley, walks to the sunbathers next to me, and sprays them too.
I have to admit, the whole thing was funny, except for the fact I would never allow my child to do spray random people while lecturing them on skin cancer.
At the same time, that water sure felt good on my sunburn.
After some discussion earlier in the week, Ashley and I decided to go to Hamilton Pool – it is this natural watering hole about 40 minutes West of Austin (between Bee Caves and Dripping Springs). You hike about a quarter of a mile down a fairly steep hill and can either go to the left – where you can continue hiking to the Pernadales River – or take a right towards the watering hole.
I’m not going to lie (my new catch phrase if you’ve been around me the last few weeks), it’s gorgeous. Literally, this amazing, God-created goodness for city folk like myself.
We got there super early, and stayed for about an hour – once people start coming, the area gets a tad crowded and kids are yelling, ruining the serenity of it all.
So, um, we decided to spend the next three hours laying out the country club. Total 180 right? About three weeks ago, one of my friend’s, Kim, told Ashley and me that we look iridescent. So we stayed out about an hour too long at the pool and our backs are red as some random metaphor I can’t think of at the moment.
To make our backs a little worse, today we decided to go hike the Greenbelt and then layout (only on our backs) at Barton Springs. We’re really asking for it. And apparently this 10-year-old walking by us thought we were too.
I’m laying there with my eyes closed, and I hear this voice from in front of me say, “You know doin’ that causes skin cancer, right?”
I open one of my eyes, look around, find the girl through my squinting, and respond, “The key is moderation – if you don’t do this all of the time and use sun screen, you’ll be fine.”
I thought, honestly, that would shut the kid up. I mean, how hypocritical of her – standing there, in the same sun as I am – telling me I’m going to get skin cancer.
And then she’s like, “I’m serious. You’re going to get skin cancer.” At this point, I’m looking around for her parents so she can leave me to my sun/skin cancer.
I politely smile at her and lower my head back onto the towel, hoping the gesture will signal her to try the next group of sunbathers to my right.
“Maybe this will cool you off!” And the kid, out of nowhere, pulls a water gun and sprays me. Then she turns and sprays Ashley, walks to the sunbathers next to me, and sprays them too.
I have to admit, the whole thing was funny, except for the fact I would never allow my child to do spray random people while lecturing them on skin cancer.
At the same time, that water sure felt good on my sunburn.
8.01.2007
Drugs=Love
I think I was in ninth grade when I told a fellow friend of mine, “If I ever act like that when I’m dating someone, slap me.” I think girls notice it more than guys do – once your girlfriend starts dating someone, you take the back seat, and honestly, they act like idiots.
And I can say this, because the latter half of high school, I’m pretty sure I was one of those idiots. I had a few friends verbally slap me, but it didn’t do me any good.
Looking back at this period of my life, sometimes I wonder why I was such a dipstick. I’m sure my parents think that too. And apparently, now we know why. According to this study I saw on the Today Show this morning (no link is up yet, but I’ll post it once it’s available), researchers took the brain of someone who is spaced out on drugs, and compared it with someone who is in love. Apparently the brain shared many of the same characteristics as someone who does lots of drugs.
The whole thing makes sense, because breakups suck – it’s like you’re going through detox, or you end up with the guy again (can’t break the habit). In fact the more I think about it, the more love is exactly like some type of mind hallucinogen.
That said, I’m quite content with the state of things in my relationship. And I’m pretty sure I don’t act like an idiot or drive my parents bonkers. Of course, it could be that I’m not 17.
And I can say this, because the latter half of high school, I’m pretty sure I was one of those idiots. I had a few friends verbally slap me, but it didn’t do me any good.
Looking back at this period of my life, sometimes I wonder why I was such a dipstick. I’m sure my parents think that too. And apparently, now we know why. According to this study I saw on the Today Show this morning (no link is up yet, but I’ll post it once it’s available), researchers took the brain of someone who is spaced out on drugs, and compared it with someone who is in love. Apparently the brain shared many of the same characteristics as someone who does lots of drugs.
The whole thing makes sense, because breakups suck – it’s like you’re going through detox, or you end up with the guy again (can’t break the habit). In fact the more I think about it, the more love is exactly like some type of mind hallucinogen.
That said, I’m quite content with the state of things in my relationship. And I’m pretty sure I don’t act like an idiot or drive my parents bonkers. Of course, it could be that I’m not 17.
7.30.2007
Change
I love going to weddings with my husband – he’s a great date – but sometimes I get so embarrassed. Not by him surprisingly – he actually looks pretty sharp when he tries – but by myself.
Take this past weekend for example. We attended the wedding of a friend of ours – I’ve known her since about seventh grade, and Justin knew her ever since elementary Quest days (where the smart kids went during elementary school while the stupid ones got left behind – obviously I’m bitter).
So we’re sitting there looking at the program, and Justin’s holding my hand, and I’m already crying. I don’t even think the grandmothers’ had been escorted down the aisle yet. I just remember looking over at Justin, saying, “She’s going to have a different last name now!! Wahhhh!”
Thinking about this a few days after the fact, I’m still trying to comprehend exactly why the name change upset me. I mean, more than three years ago I changed my name and I didn’t cry over it (though I should have – my former last name ruled).
I guess what it boils down to is the idea of change. I hate change. But, at the end of the day, I’m getting older, parents are getting older, and the decisions and changes we make affect our lives far beyond the decisions we made even seven years ago as college freshman.
And I was going to finish this blog with a really good quote from someone knowledgeable and wax eloquent on change like no other. One of my favorite sites for digging for these types of quotes is www.quotationspage.com and I’ve used it ever since high school debate (see – I don’t change much).
So, I set the search button to only search “classic quotes”; that is, people that are smart and old (Plato, Shakespeare, Margaret Thatcher, etc.). And I come across this quote: “I won't change anything because I think the most important thing is being yourself and that's what I'm going to continue to do.”
Stupid Avril Lavigne. Who the heck told her she is a classic quoter?! And what kind of insight on change is that? Bullcrap. That is one change I would embrace and look forward to – her music and idiocy dropping off the face of the earth.
Take this past weekend for example. We attended the wedding of a friend of ours – I’ve known her since about seventh grade, and Justin knew her ever since elementary Quest days (where the smart kids went during elementary school while the stupid ones got left behind – obviously I’m bitter).
So we’re sitting there looking at the program, and Justin’s holding my hand, and I’m already crying. I don’t even think the grandmothers’ had been escorted down the aisle yet. I just remember looking over at Justin, saying, “She’s going to have a different last name now!! Wahhhh!”
Thinking about this a few days after the fact, I’m still trying to comprehend exactly why the name change upset me. I mean, more than three years ago I changed my name and I didn’t cry over it (though I should have – my former last name ruled).
I guess what it boils down to is the idea of change. I hate change. But, at the end of the day, I’m getting older, parents are getting older, and the decisions and changes we make affect our lives far beyond the decisions we made even seven years ago as college freshman.
And I was going to finish this blog with a really good quote from someone knowledgeable and wax eloquent on change like no other. One of my favorite sites for digging for these types of quotes is www.quotationspage.com and I’ve used it ever since high school debate (see – I don’t change much).
So, I set the search button to only search “classic quotes”; that is, people that are smart and old (Plato, Shakespeare, Margaret Thatcher, etc.). And I come across this quote: “I won't change anything because I think the most important thing is being yourself and that's what I'm going to continue to do.”
Stupid Avril Lavigne. Who the heck told her she is a classic quoter?! And what kind of insight on change is that? Bullcrap. That is one change I would embrace and look forward to – her music and idiocy dropping off the face of the earth.
7.23.2007
7.20.2007
My favorite moments from Seattle...
Here are two of my most favorite moments from Seattle:
We're crossing the street and I'm in my beloved Doc Marten sandals from college (rather, running across the street because cars were coming and we were jay walking), and the sole of my shoe comes completely off and I have no time to collect it because cars are coming. Luckily it wasn't run over by the 7-10 cars that went by, and I was able to go fetch it, and take a picture in the process. Yes, I know I'm in need of a pedicure.
We're crossing the street and I'm in my beloved Doc Marten sandals from college (rather, running across the street because cars were coming and we were jay walking), and the sole of my shoe comes completely off and I have no time to collect it because cars are coming. Luckily it wasn't run over by the 7-10 cars that went by, and I was able to go fetch it, and take a picture in the process. Yes, I know I'm in need of a pedicure.
Phuket Thai Cuisine. HAHAHA! It's like that South Park episode and the Chinese restaurant called City Wok -- but it's pronounced Shitty Wok. Okay, I'm amused easily and I know that.
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