sanguine spice

Zach Galifianakis Does Vegas

2009-05-12T07:21:00.002+08:00

The fact that this movie is opening on my 31st birthday feels a lot like the universe loves me.

GO!

2009-05-02T08:52:00.003+08:00

Look, I'm late to meet Blythe for happy hour, but this can't wait: READ THIS BLOG.
WARNING: Will probably make you cry. If not, please see cardiologist immediately.
Thanks.

On Not Sipping Gin and Juice. . .yet!

2009-04-30T08:07:00.005+08:00

Suffice it to say things continue to be a little whack-a-doo around the Sullivan sphere. Thankfully my BFF continues to keep a roof over my head while my boss and colleagues are rotating out like greedy little post-season free agents. At this writing, I am supposed to report to a new head honcho yesterday and my only other cohort just went on bed-rest 8 weeks before her due date (sooo O-O-O good for her + baby - REALLY; just kinda cray-zay work-wise).

While I could/should pen a post about how I'm still without wheels on the west coast, which is a lot like going without water or Taylor Kitsch or any other thing necessary for survival -- I cannot. (This car-less-ness is mostly due to my own indecisiveness/desire to buy a non-horrible old skool Jeep Cherokee Grand Wagoneer with the wooden sides, a feat that takes time, apparently). Or perhaps a post about the fact that every morning I pilfer one of two suitcases for matching socks, with very varied results. (Too boring. You don't care and neither do I, really.)

Nope, I can't write much (more) because tonight have yet another rec volleyball game to lose. Last week we were beaten by a team of AARP All-Stars, featuring a 55+ year old outside hitter who wore a brace on every.single.one of his joints and he played like Iceman in Top Gun. Thankfully, he never took off his shirt.

On the upside, I'm seeing my family a lot more often and eating delicious Mexican food WHENEVER I WANT TO and also enjoying the genius of recent (to me) cultural developments like "Dancing With The Stars" and the Blazers actually being decent guys with decent game (vs. spoiled jerk thugs circa 00-05ish). It's mighty hard to concern myself with neglecting my blog when those sorts of good nuggets abound, but for those of you still checking in, thanks for sticking with me during this post-Europe/China transition phase!

I'll move back into my house come July first, and with any luck, have a right-on little blog writing nook established just as soon as I unpack everything that’s been in storage for ALMOST A YEAR NOW (except all my CD's which I never unpack, apparently). Can you tell I’m counting down the days? T-minus sixty-two!

Mostly Good Times, To My Infinite Surprise

2009-04-13T19:00:00.003+08:00

For a little more than a week I’ve been in Shanghai on a business trip. Between the gorgeous spring weather (there have even been long-ish spells of blue sky,) and me being almost through watching the first season of Lost**, I’m thisclose to convinced that I haven’t really landed in the real Shanghai, but am in some other bizarro world version of it where the weather is pleasant and work runs smoothly and on more than one occasion, you can see through the pollution to the other side of the street.

**key to evading death by shitty television in Chinese hotels is bringing your own entertainment. We’re talking about television that’s not even the good-because-it’s-so-bad category of crap television. We’re talking non-stop episodes of Kyle “not yet the ever-stellar Coach Taylor” Chandler in the insipid “Early Edition”, or, Steven Segal movie marathons. Gag me with a spork.

It still kills me that it’s totally impossible to ever be alone in this country. Last night after working out I decided to take a dip in the pool, which was wonderfully empty and all 18 meters long and infinity edged (is there anything sexier than an infinity edge pool?) Just as I was just enjoying a good old-fashioned zone-out, floating on my back and staring up at my Chagall-esque reflection in the glass ceiling above, I noticed that the lone gym attendant was staring at me from the side of the pool, all arms crossed and serious as if he were Ving Rhames and shit. Talk about a killjoy.

What? Did he think I was going to steal the thermometer? Do an illegal cannonball? I’d like to believe he was there to be sure I didn’t drown, and yet, in a country with this sort of over population, wouldn’t one be a bit relieved to lose the sort of nimrod who’d drown in a 4ft deep pool?

He never unfolded his arms or broke his Spartan Spirit stance, and I opted out of doing any handstands, roll-overs, or my little George Washington hair pool trick, much to my chagrin. Thanks a lot, fun sucker.

Tina's Terrific Tweets

2009-04-01T02:32:00.003+08:00

Between these & Rob Corddry's little golden missives, I'm loving Twitter already.

TINA FEY
Let's put our cards on the table: I dutch oven you -hilarious. You dutch oven me -I barf in the bed.
5:44 AM Mar 11th from web

Amos probably didn't start out Famous, but with cookies this good, it was a self-fulfilling prophecy.
10:55 AM Feb 12th from web

Am I eating a Caramello bar for lunch? Yes. Yes I am.
12:06 PM Feb 3rd from web

What does Monica Lewinski say to her new boyfriend? "It's close, but it's no cigar."
8:28 AM Jan 20th from web

I like my men like my peanut butter: chunky.
7:45 PM Jan 19th from web

Are Eggrolls just Chinese Hotpockets?
2:22 PM Jan 16th from web

I don't know why I even bother chewing corn anymore.
2:45 PM Jan 13th from web

I'm not ashamed to admit this can of cheetos has been rolling around my desk drawer since 2006. And they're still good.
7:26 AM Jan 9th from web

I love the happy laundry day accident of putting on what you think is unmatching, and then realizing you look more stylish than usual.
1:55 PM Dec 23rd, 2008 from web

You tell the sandwich artist "a dab of mayo" and they slather it. It's almost like they're not being paid a living wage or something.
8:44 PM Dec 22nd, 2008 from web

It's not Christmas with out Karen Carpenter.
11:37 AM Dec 12th, 2008 from web

Phew! Macbook back from wherever they send these things. Interwebz here I come!
4:45 PM Dec 9th, 2008 from web

Somewhere a man named Barack Obama sits on a toilet and thinks the same thing I do: I need to trim my toe nails.
11:11 AM Nov 15th, 2008 from web

Why do they say, "I'm Prairie Doggin' it", when "I'm doin' a turdle!" would make more sense. And be punny.
9:37 AM Nov 13th, 2008 from web

You may all return to your previously scheduled poop jokes, sex references, and general vulgarity.
9:40 PM Nov 4th, 2008 from web

"But Daddy, Obama's kids are getting a puppy, why can't I?" Because Daddy voted for McCain.
9:05 PM Nov 4th, 2008 from web

I can't remember the last time I was this proud to be an American. I am so proud of all of us.
8:03 PM Nov 4th, 2008 from web

READY THE SHOT GLASSES AMERICA.
8:02 PM Nov 4th, 2008 from web

When they call it for Barack, we all do a shot.
6:46 PM Nov 4th, 2008 from web

Corned Beef Hash

2009-03-18T01:36:00.006+08:00

The other night Suez, Norby, KB and myself gathered in Norby's cozy attic to eat Girl Scout cookies and watch Steel Magnolias.The estrogen was palpable. At one point, my thumbnail caught a thread on my sweats but I hesitated to bust out an emery board for fear the house might actually start to emanate Jean Nate or, better yet, a business plan to resurrect SASSY magazine.

If you haven't seen Steel Magnolia's lately, I've got more good news and bad. It's still as touching as hell and the latest DVD version includes a commentary by the screenwriter (the real-life brother of Julia Robert's character) so sincere you're sure to cry AGAIN. The bad news is, you'll find yourself relating a lot more to Ouiser Boudreaux than to Shelby Edmonton.

* * *

In addition to our shared love of Tod's and Aaron Eckheart, Gweneth Paltrow has also taken a cue from me and started a blog*. Here's a link to the bit she wrote about Paris, a city that grew on me like a wart, and the story with which she introduces her affection for the city is also the story that made me a forever fan of hers (although, really, the anecdote says more about the character of her father and the lovely relationship they enjoyed than much about GP herself).

Meanwhile, my Dad sent me a sweet St. Pat's care package with two t-shirts (both XL?) one of which says: SHIT ME, I'M KISS FACED!

Aw, pitter pat.

Happy St.Patrick's Day all! (If you're looking for a way to go green today, take a cue from our friends across the pond and take your own grocery bag to the store.)

*speculative. Also, this is old news. Unlike me, GP is NOT regularly late to the party.

An A-Hole Gone Good

2009-03-13T09:47:00.010+08:00

In a weak sauce attempt to, I don't know, actually pick ONE team that'll make it to the Sweet Sixteen, I started listening to The Fan when I got back from China. On my way home today I heard the best interview EVER with Billy Zapka, aka, Johnny Lawrence from The Karate Kid.

He could not be cooler. Check out the audio interview at 1080 The Fan HERE.

Totally worth 8 minutes. . .thought I can't really say the same about the song or the video.

Working It

2009-03-09T18:32:00.008+08:00

Michael Kors has my number and it's pretty annoying considering I cannot (and would not) spend the kind of money his work demands. He is relentless! Between the 80's aviator shades and the tortoiseshell wayfarers -- it's like like he's all cozied up in the tiny (fine, fine, sizable) section of my brain reserved for reveries about Things I'll Never Have Because I'm Just Not That Chic (Or Loaded). Or an officers wife in the 1940's. I mean, it would have SUCKED to be worried sick about the whole Your Fella vs. WWII bout day in and day out, but busting out the glam and gams when he came home? I kind of suspect it might be totally worth it.

I mean, LOOK AT THIS LOVELY SUIT:

Can you not just imagine making out on the docks in that? You know you can.

I've spent the better part of the last week doing all kinds of fasion-ish research and somewhere between pouring over a bridal magazine (easy, I was there for the ruching and ruching alone) and trying to figure out just what the readers of Harpar's Bazzar could possibly do for a living to be able to afford anything in there, the fashion world quit seeming like a whole lot of superficial frivolity and a lot more like some kind of art. For as much as I hate surprises, it's pretty wondrous when a world I wasn't sure I was privy to suddenly opens up, not because I was specifically invited, but because I finally quit assuming that I wasn't.

This doesn't mean I'll be pulling together a look-book tomorrow or beating down Nordy's doors for the next Half-Yearly sale (kill me now), or that I'll ever stop preferring to shop alone (with a list of what I want in mind and a will to walk out with only that). It's probably not in me to become appreciative enough to just go and look and coo. I think it just means I'm all the more eager to win the lottery and thus have a personal shopper, Laundress (or Laundman?) and insanely huge custom closet. With pieces like this, can you really blame me? Shhhhiiiiiiiiiiit.

That's MRS.Man Eater To You!

For More Practical Recession Chic Days:

For The Big V-Day Party:

Reunited, And Yeah, It Feels Good

2009-02-21T10:08:00.004+08:00

So.

I am back in the USA.
I am living with KB and pouring out of my suitcases.
It's surreal, but most days are awesome.

Last night we had two guy friends over for dinner and not five minutes after walking in the door one of them pointed out a lightbulb that has been burnt out for weeks. KB couldn't reach it, and neither could I, but Boy #2 pulled a chair right over and said, "Let me fix this for you," and KB and I exchanged a look which pretty much said GUYS: FUCK YEAH!

Which reminded me of a thing I'd written awhile ago, when I was feeling more than charitable toward the hairier sex. I'd meant to post this on Valentine's Day, but then I got too busy falling head over feet all over again for my neice and nephew, whom I babysat that night, to remember to post some pithy list of a few of the things I love about fellas.

So dudes, (if there are any of you reading this) I hope this list reminds you of why you're great and that no matter what anyone says about you, a good chunk of half the population can't help but dig you, constantly, whether they'll admit it or not.

Some Things I Like About Men

*Their do-er spirit* I can’t even count the number of times I’ve been around a group of people who are pissing and moaning about something and then, out of nowhere, some guy (really, a lot of time it IS a guy,) will just do something about it. Then everyone is sitting there going, Oh, I guess I could have done that, but thanks, thanks man, for taking care of that. The converse of this, of course, is that when you’re having a problem and you’re trying to tell a guy about it all he wants to do is solve it and all you want is for him to bitch about it with you and tell you how awesome you are for putting up with said crap, etc. I’m willing to forsake the latter for the former, because commiseration is where girlfriends really shine.

*Putting up with our shit* Often I hear women complaining about their boyfriends, fathers, husbands, brothers or bosses, sometimes just shortly after the guy leaves the room. But you know what? I almost never hear those men complaining about their girlfriends, daughters, wives, sisters or bosses after they leave the room. Maybe they only do that sort of thing with other men, but I like the idea of everybody keeping the negativity to a minimum. Why not stand by your girl or guy?

*March Madness*

*Shoulders*

*Five o’clock shadows*

*That David line/muscle whatever that thing is that’s so hot you almost need oven mitts to touch it*

*Bad handwriting* It’s a stereotype, I know not all men have bad handwriting, but at the very least there is something very gender specific about handwriting.

*Chivalry* Once upon a time in high school the guy I’d been hanging out with (we never were officially dating, which was more my doing than his,) noticed my car had a flat tire. He offered to change the tire, but I said I would just call AAA after practice because I knew he had to work after school, and also because if he changed my tire for me would that mean we were going out? Would I have to let him touch my boobs? We didn’t speak anymore about it and went on with our respective days. When I walked to the payphone by the parking lot after practice he was waiting there with my car keys. He had found someone to cover for him at work, snuck into the gym after school, stole my car keys and changed the tire so I could drive home. And then, without my saying a word he said, “I just wanted to take care of it for you. Don’t worry about anything. Okay?” And he was as good as his word.

*The bag carrying* I swear, the next guy who will pick me up at the airport, carry my bags, or drive after dark is the man I brake for.

*They Let Stuff Go* My worst trait, hands down, is my willy-nilly sensibility where forgiveness is concerned. Hell hath no fury like a Katie Sullivan scorned. If another girl gets on my bad side (and really, only one sorry excuse for a chica comes to mind,) I’d be hard pressed to piss on her if she were on fire. Whereas guys, well, I’ve seen two male co-workers scream at each other in a meeting and buy one another beers after work. I once missed a flight home at Thanksgiving and my Dad couldn’t have been more furious with me, a fact he mentioned in no small detail – and then proceeded to never, ever, bring it up again. I don’t know how they do this, but I admire it greatly.

*Big hands*

*Loyalty* Years ago my friend, let’s call him Tom, decided he wanted dogs and adopted two cutie Australian shepherds. Turned out, the puppies were a lot more work than he was up for so he forked them over to another friend, named, uh, Joe. A few days after the transfer I overheard Joe talking about his new dogs with a colleague, who couldn’t get over the fact that Tom had “carelessly abandoned his responsibility!” and before he could finish his sentence Joe cut him off saying, “I’m really happy and the dogs are happy. Let’s not bring Tom into this. Thanks.” Solid.

KES + USOFA* = MFEO!

2009-01-21T11:52:00.009+08:00

As Chinese New Year quickly approaches the sound of construction is increasingly drowned out by that of fireworks throughout the night. Red lanterns, lights, banners, and pink blossomed cherry trees abound. The awning of my apartment building has been strung with red icicle lights, which makes me feel a bit like a mid-level hooker reporting to the bordello conglomerate each night.

Speaking of which -- can I tell you something awful? I absolutely can’t stand one of the front desk workers in the building. It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes after I’ve passed her with my worst courtesy smile. She doesn’t work too much but often enough that anytime I ever need anything invariably she’s the one on call and I’m just like OH YOU AGAIN. And by ‘need’ I’m talking about such arduous tasks as merely pressing the ‘open’ button for the front door when I’m scrambling with groceries in the rain.

She is a champion giggler and useless taxi caller. She says yes to everything but delivers nothing. If she lived in the States she’d spend her working days at Claire’s saying she'll untangle the necklaces and sort out the earrings but actually spends the time txting her srlsy NOT HOT boyf msgs like: “H4U! CUL8R! G2GLYS <3 ! WFDWE!”*

*Hot for you! See you later! Got To Go Love You So! Heart, Worst Front Desk Worker Ever!

The point in telling you this is that Saturday morning I’m going to need a taxi to the airport and I just know she’s going to be "working". I’ll be schlepping two suitcases at 70lbs each, a big backpack (approx 3 or 4 tons), and a ‘personal item’ otherwise known as a purse the size of Roseanne but which I will deem a more than small enough to meet carry-on standards. WFDWE will giggle and smile incessantly and proclaim to call a taxi and I will grit my teeth and smile while I wait until 5 minutes 'till the last second before I absolutely must get in a cab to make it on time before huffing off toward the taxi stand at the mall where the line will be 81 deep and I will be sweating. The whole thing just makes me want to GABA**.

**Get A Beer Already

On the upside, I am going home! Six months in Shanghai has been enough. Maybe we (me and China) just met at the wrong time, but I am SO DOWN for some fresh air, customer service, democracy, and organic beef. That last one might sound weird, but if you love meat like I do, and cannot hang with eating it in a country where carcasses of pork and beef are stacked six high on the back of mopeds UNCOVERED, well, you'd be pretty dern excited to buy yourself a delish 4-H steer at the county fair too!

I want my family to be less than a 3 hour flight away, my nephew to really know his Kiks, and my friends to be able to count on me personally being there to cheer their regular accomplishments and I want it all RIGHT NOW. It’s like that part at the end of When Harry Met Sally when Harry says that when you know what you want for the rest of your life, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible. Shanghai will long occupy a cozy cranny in my heart for teaching me more about what I want, and motivating me to go about getting after it, like, yesterday.

*US of Fuckin' A!

Three Week Scramble

2009-01-19T00:01:00.001+08:00

I’ve been developing a theory the past few years that people from the Great Lakes region are THE BEST. When I lived in Nurnberg I befriended a couple from Detroit. They told me the story of their first trip home together from Germany at Christmas wherein she wore a dirndl and he sported lederhosen.

“That must’ve been hard to change into in that tiny plane bathroom before landing!”

“No way man. We wore them the entire way. There’s nothing like walking off the plane in Detroit in full Bavarian costume.”

I looked at these people and thought, “Please, breed.”

Flying back to Shangers from Portland a couple of weeks ago I found myself stuck in the middle of a 5 person row. The airline had played yahtzee with the seat assignments and everyone was separated from their family/friend/US Marshall. While I sat there grossed out at the thought of having blood clots just like Dick Cheney the guy to my right introduced himself as “Dan from Wisconsin” and would I mind moving to the aisle so he could sit next to his girlfriend? “Not at all, Dan! I not only want you to sit next to your girlfriend, I want you to marry her and have a million middle-seat loving babies.”

YAY 2009!

**

I’m loving the first two seasons of 30 Rock on pirate DVD. (I live in the red. Just like Dick Cheney! Excellent!) Are you watching this show? It makes me laugh out loud. Alec Baldwin is so amazing; I almost want to make out with him.

Exhibit A:

Jack: Never go with a hippie to a second location.

Can I get that on a bumper sticker? Is this the parting advice I’ll give my children before dropping them off at college? Absofuckinglutely.

**

A passage from my latest non-fiction read references a resort in the Catskills just “two and half hours from New York City”. WTF. I don’t get east coast geography. All I know is when I took Mrs. Perrault’s 5th grade USA exam –- an intense exercise requiring each student draw and label all 50 states within an outline of the country -- I drew a bunch of huge waffle like states on the left, some Pop-tartish ones in the middle, and a bunch of little Pez dealios in the upper right-hand corner. Lobster. Big cities. Yachts. Snow. EAST COAST!

There are no mountain ranges anywhere near New York City. Gaaaaaaaaaaah!

**

While home for the holidays I went out for breakfast/lunch (BRUNCH!) with my girls. I ordered the scramble special but was served an omelet.

ME: “Oh, I ordered the scramble…”

MEAN WAITRESS: “Well, this is a scramble, just folded.”

ME WUSSING OUT AND THINKING TO MYSELF: No, it’s not. An omelet is an organized egg dish with ingredients often cooked prior to being folded into an egg. An omelet is methodic. A scramble, on the other hand, is bunch of disparate flavors jumbled up together and cooked haphazardly but nevertheless appealing, like jazz. Do I have to do everything around here?

More Than You Could Ever Know

2008-12-18T16:37:00.002+08:00

There's not a damn thing in this world I want or need more than to squeeze the ones I love. SEE YOU SOON!

#1 on Katie's Carol Countdown: "All I Want For Christmas Is You" Written by Mariah Carey and Walter Afanasieff.

Already Printed My Boarding Pass!

2008-12-17T12:48:00.001+08:00

ONE MORE DAY IN THE OFFICE! ONE MORE DAY IN THE OFFICE!
ONE MORE DAY IN THE OFFICE! ONE MORE DAY IN THE OFFICE!
ONE MORE DAY IN THE OFFICE! ONE MORE DAY IN THE OFFICE!
ONE MORE DAY IN THE OFFICE! ONE MORE DAY IN THE OFFICE!
ONE MORE DAY IN THE OFFICE! ONE MORE DAY IN THE OFFICE!
ONE MORE DAY IN THE OFFICE! ONE MORE DAY IN THE OFFICE!
ONE MORE DAY IN THE OFFICE! ONE MORE DAY IN THE OFFICE!
ONE MORE DAY IN THE OFFICE! ONE MORE DAY IN THE OFFICE!
ONE MORE DAY IN THE OFFICE! ONE MORE DAY IN THE OFFICE!

We're down to only 2 more carols folks, let's review:

#18 The Christmas Waltz
#17 Little Saint Nick
#16 The Hanukkah Song
#15 The Holly and The Ivy
#14 Christmas in Hollis
#13 Please Come Home For Christmas
#12 Happy Xmas (War Is Over)
#11 Sleigh Ride
#10 Hark! The Herald Angels Sing
#9 Someday At Christmas
#8 Celebrate Me Home
#7 A Christmas To Remember
#6 Angels We Have Heard On High
#5 Last Christmas
#4 Christmas Wrapping
#3 O Come All Ye Faithful

This next-to-all-time favorite Christmas carol is all about three things for me:

1) Home Alone. My sister and I are a little obsessed with the scene where Kevin fakes a big party and dances around to this song as the Michael Jordon cut-out circles the room on the train. The way Kevin dances like a Muppet is fantastic. That scene is second only to the one in the church where he admits that he's afraid of the furnace in the basement, a fear that's "bothered him for YEARS." Classic.

2) Grammy & Boppa's annual Christmas party. When I was little-little my Grammy and Boppa lived in a Spanish style condo near San Diego where they'd throw a huge Christmas party. Or it wasn't that huge and I was just really short. Whatever. This shindig always involved petit fours, fancy dresses, records stacked 3 high and those iddy biddy beenie weenie hoer 'd oeuvres. The music was always along the lines of Johnny Mathis, Sinatra (whom Grammy had seen perform at some backwoods place in New Jersey before he'd hit it big - a cocktail story she'd like to tell), Barbara Streisand, Tony Bennett, etc. It also involved a lot of people staring at us grandkids and the pinching of cheeks, but who cares because I was up after my bedtime in a twirly dress eating every sweet thing in sight! MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ME.

3)Upright Bass. Hot damn, as always.

#2 on Katie's Carol Countdown: "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" written by Johnny Marks. Performed by Brenda Lee.

Joyful and Triumphant

2008-12-16T14:17:00.008+08:00

By the time I quit playing basketball, I almost hated it. After years of year-round devotion it had started to feel like a job. We’d endured some defeats so wretched as freshman that I’d pray to get mono over night to avoid the humiliation in the halls the next day (90-9 anyone?). By the time senior year rolled around, a handful of us had devoted ourselves so wholly to building the program that we not only had a winning season, but a record good enough to earn a home playoff berth.

We lost in the first round.

We hugged and cried and then all high fived one another because we knew we would not be running another liner for at least another six months. (Our coach was infamous for running players at the end of practice until they puked. Just ask Estee Holland. We’d cope by joking that while we might lose games by 20+, we’d beat every team in the league in a track meet.) For #25 and I, who had forged our lasting friendship at basketball camp back in 4th grade, the emotions at the end of our senior season were more complex .

On the one hand, we’d finally known a winning season. We had been in it together from the beginning to the very end and had given everything we could and then some, so we knew we should feel happy, and we did. A little bit. On the other hand, we were beat. Leaving the gym that night I knew I was done.

These days I’m pretty horrible. I’m the player who falls back on defense, could give a shit about weak-side rebounding, and scores best from the foul line. Up until last night, I thought my ugly knees were about the only thing I could show for my former basketball jones.

Yesterday I caught someone at work in a lie – in practically the stupidest way - but nevertheless a lie so reprehensible I left work a restrained bundle of fury and frustration. I went straight to a pick-up game organized by this local expat sports league where I knew that at the very least, I could take my mind off things. (In that way, basketball has long been a tiny bit like church. It’s nice to have some thing in your life that remains the same over time. I find such rare consistency a comfort.) I figured I’d find some familiar faces, having played in the co-ed league this fall, but I walked into a gym full of guys I’d never seen before, all staring at me with not a little bit of indifference.

Everyone shot for teams, then we started playing: games to 15; win by 2; king of the court; winners outs. Toward the end of the night my team had won twice in a row and were trying to go out on top, but I was easily our second worst player, dragging my unfit ass up and down the court with some effort and not scoring much. (A sweet yet all-thumbs guy from Taiwan was my only saving grace.)

Catching my breath in between games, I thought about all those horrible losses, all those fucking liners (and they were fucking liners, no two ways about it,) and how team sports are as self-aggrandizing as they are humbling. I thought of how even though there were times I hated all the drills and the crack-of-dawn practices, I cared deeply for my teammates and the way in which we held each other up, never selling each other out, win or lose. I thought about how hard I used to be on myself back then for not being better, faster, stronger, more, and how nice it is to be far less critical of myself now that I'm a little more grown up. I thought about the pure pleasure of doing something physical that requires almost no thought; just action. To my mind it feels sort of like swimming underwater: everything goes quiet and calm; you're really half a world away.

I sat there thinking about how, for all the ways in which basketball once frustrated me or broke me down, it has never lied to me. You work hard, you win. You slack off, you lose. You forget your practice jersey? Line up on the line. Someone messes with your teammate? Not OK. It's pretty black and white. You get what you give.

So the last game begins and right off the bat I score. I don't even know what I'm doing. I'm running and sprinting and even clipping a pass that gives us a fast break. Shoes are squeaking, joints are jumping and nothing really matters -- not a lie or a slower step or the fact that I'm still not packed. We win. We won three in a row! King of the court! And I’d scored 10 of our 15 points. My team mates --nice guys all -- are high fiving me and looking at me like, Where the hell did that come from? And I'm thinking, I don’t even know. . .but it's been a long time coming. Amen.

#3 on Katie's Carol Countdown: "O Come All Ye Faithful" or Adeste Fideles written by John Francis Wade. I like Nat King Cole's version best.

Most of '08 Passed Along These Lines

2008-12-15T14:57:00.010+08:00

No other holiday song makes me want to play wicked bass and go all Annie Potts circa "Pretty in Pink" than this gem of a yuletide tune. I say, indulge your inner punk, crank this one up past the red line and make yourself some stacks of snickerdoodles! You never know, you might find you’re out of cream of tartar and run into that guy you’ve been chasing all year at the only all night grocery!

Snickerdoodles! Makes 72! from the Flour Garden Bakery

6 1/4 cups plus 2 tablespoons sugar
4 1/2 cups butter
10 eggs
4 1/4 cups unbleached white pastry flour
2 1/2 tablespoons cream of tartar
3/4 tablespoon salt
2 tablespoons baking soda
4 1/4 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
cinnamon and sugar for sprinkling

Cream first two ingredients together until light and fluffy. Whip in the eggs. Sift together the dry ingredients and slowly add to the creamed mixture. Blend. Scoop the finished cookie dough with a spoon or small scoop, placing small balls of dough onto lightly greased cookie sheets. Before baking, sprinkle with cinnamon and sugar. Bake at 350 degrees until golden brown around the edges, about 12-15 minutes. Makes 6 dozen.

#4 on Katie's Carol Countdown: "Christmas Wrapping" Music & Lyrics by Chris Butler. Performed by The Waitresses.

P.S. I would love to be linking these songs WITHOUT insipid You Tube videos, but I don't know how and haven't made the time to teach myself. So, if any of you out there know how I can add some sort of 'song player' to my blog, I'm all ears!

***WRAP ALONG!***

"Bah, humbug!" No, that's too strong
'Cause it is my favorite holiday
But all this year's been a busy blur
Don't think I have the energy

To add to my already mad rush
Just 'cause it's 'tis the season.
The perfect gift for me would be
Completions and connections left from

Last year, ski shop,
Encounter, most interesting.
Had his number but never the time
Most of '81 passed along those lines.

So deck those halls, trim those trees
Raise up cups of Christmas cheer,
I just need to catch my breath,
Christmas by myself this year.

Calendar picture, frozen landscape,
Chilled this room for twenty-four days,
Evergreens, sparkling snow
Get this winter over with!

Flashback to springtime, saw him again,
Would've been good to go for lunch,
Couldn't agree when we were both free,
We tried, we said we'd keep in touch.

Didn't, of course, 'til summertime,
Out to the beach to his boat could I join him?
No, this time it was me,
Sunburn in the third degree.

Now the calendar's just one page
And, of course, I am excited
Tonight's the night, but I've set my mind
Not to do too much about it.

Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!
But I think I'll miss this one this year.
Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!
But I think I'll miss this one this year.
Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!
But I think I'll miss this one this year.
Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!
But I think I'll miss this one this year.

Hardly dashing through the snow
Cause I bundled up too tight
Last minute have-to-do's
A few cards a few calls
'Cause it's r-s-v-p
No thanks, no party lights
It's Christmas Eve, gonna relax
Turned down all of my invites.

Last fall I had a night to myself,
Same guy called, halloween party,
Waited all night for him to show,
This time his car wouldn't go,

Forget it, it's cold, it's getting late,
Trudge on home to celebrate
In a quiet way, unwind
Doing Christmas right this time.

A&P has provided me
With the world's smallest turkey
Already in the oven, nice and hot
Oh damn! Guess what I forgot?

So on with the boots, back out in the snow
To the only all-night grocery,
When what to my wondering eyes should appear
In the line is that guy I've been chasing all year!

"I'm spending this one alone," he said.
"Need a break; this year's been crazy."
I said, "Me too, but why are you?
You mean you forgot cranberries too?"

Then suddenly we laughed and laughed
Caught on to what was happening
That Christmas magic's brought this tale
To a very happy ending! "

Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!
Couldn't miss this one this year!
Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!
Couldn't miss this one this year!

Shanghai Pictoral

2008-12-14T13:30:00.013+08:00

*

There's a bit of a pollution problem around town, so much so that I once walked out of a windowless meeting room only to glance outside and ask, "Are we in the ocean? Has there been a tidal wave?" because it was that wet pitch brown that the Pacific looks like if you're ever silly enough to open your eyes under water. Nope, no tidal wave, just brown rain such as I'd never seen before. But that was October; December seems to be the month for seeing your breath and squinting in the sunshine.

These days the Shanghaiese are bundled up on their scooters with scarves and ski masks, and the flower peddlers have wrapped all bulbs in tissue paper for warmth. I'm surprised by the amount of Christmas decor and carols blaring in the shopping areas, not to mention Christmas lights strung on every retail surface. I haven't felt so Christmassy in years, even in Nurnberg where I had a real tree and a world-famous Christmas market right down the road.

Yesterday I finished up most of the errands I need to run before jetting this coming Friday. Since the visibility was so great, I took a few shots from my balcony just to give you an idea of the hood, as well as a few as I made my way through the wonderfully tree lined streets of the French Concession toward the fabric market downtown. Enjoy.

#5 on Katie's Carol Countdown:"Last Christmas" music and lyrics by George Michael. Performed by the ever-epic hit makers -- Wham!

*This pic of the Pearl Tower was taken over Thanksgiving weekend when my Dad & I went to the top of the Jinmao Tower in Pudong.

Bedtime Story (Since This Will Put You To Sleep)

2008-12-13T00:02:00.000+08:00

I continue to steal my own mail. I haven't found the mailbox keys. Yet.

Today there were three letters from Princeton for the girl who lived here before me. Ms. Over Educated (she left her Harvard Business School nalgene in the kitchen, too,) was part of the 2005 graduating class at Princeton University. MOE is obviously doing well for herself, because when I finally started opening her mail (about a month ago - when the stack reached more than 10 letters, none personal, I was like, OK, I've got to know what's going on here!) I learned that the following departments want her money:

Princeton Tennis Team (4 Blue Chip recruits!)
Princeton Wireless Fund
Princeton Sustainability Management
Princeton Global Scholars Fund
Princeton Anthropology Team (??)

Tonight there's a letter all about Aspire: A Plan for Princeton which aims to raise 1.75 billion over the next five years. I read it twice. A billion. I feel like I oughtta try and make an effort to forward this one to her, because that's a lot of money. They're going to need all the contributions they can get! (At four years out from institutions that cost slightly less than 1 billion a year to attend, I'm sure she can spare the change to hook a uni up!)

Meanwhile, I looked for Christmas cards in English today. I'm thinking they'd be a good thing to knock out on the 187 hour flight home. No dice as yet, but the weekend is still young!

That's it, man. That's all I've got today. Tomorrow I'm working (I know - but with only 4 days in the office next week it's worth it...), playing basketball, finding Christmas cards,going to the fabric market and showering - not necessarily in that order. I'll see if I can't fight crime and save GM & Ford (Sorry Chrysler. If I never have to see a PT Cruiser again it'll be too soon) to spice things up. Wish me luck.

#6 Katie's Carol Countdown: Angels We Have Heard On High
Music & Lyrics by Edward Shippen Barnes & James Chadwick.

(Um, WOW. I couldn't find a link to just a normal choir singing this song, but I could find the world's craziest Christmas display. Can you imagine their electricity bill? Wow.)

SSB

2008-12-12T12:06:00.009+08:00

There's a great episode of Sex and The City that address Secret Single Behavior, which is the stuff you do when no one else is around that would prove slightly embarrassing if your partner knew about it. Various SSB included Charlotte staring at her pores in a magnified mirror for hours on end; Carrie standing in the kitchen eating a stack of saltines with jam and reading Vogue; Miranda watching infomercials whilst moisturizing her hands in some special gloves. And then there was Aidan with that mysteriously giant collection of Speed Stick deodorants and Rogain.

The moral being: everyone has their quirks!

Some of my SSB habits include cutting up pics from fashion magazines and making collages while watching really great episodes of Moonlighting or Magnum P.I. on DVD. One former roommate, let’s call him IronMan, COMPLETELY ousted my post-college SSB of enjoying a PBR 40's and watching Scarecrow and Mrs. King re-runs after work. He divulged this in a speech at another friend's wedding rehearsal dinner, carefully neglecting to point out that he sat right there on the couch with me! That's not how SSB is supposed to roll.

SSB is between you, yourself, and maybe your roommate/partner/pet if and ONLY IF the latter have sworn their allegiance in blood on a lead document which is then fired in a clay envelope and stored at Hogwarts savings bank where it is guarded by no less than four thousand ferocious 3-headed lion/wolverine cross breeds. (In the end Mr.Iron Man made it up to me by giving me a framed glossy 8x10 photo of himself doing this hilarious thumbs up/ “I'm-the-guy” pose before I left for Germany, which proved to be quite a hit with house guests abroad. Everything is fine between us now.)

When I move back to the States early next year I’ll move in with my friend KB and cease to live alone for the first time in well over 5 years. That’s 5+ years of absent mindedly singing country songs while sorting the recycling; 5+ years of sitting in a facial mask and tube socks reading Carolyn Hax; and 5+ years of enjoying the occasional evening where I do nothing but enjoy a huge glass of milk and peanut butter toast for dinner before sitting down to do my nails. I've learned that the only thing I enjoy more than being super social is living like an 87 year old well-groomed hermit. Despite the fact that KB and I once shared a dorm room roughly the size of a Chevy Suburban --I know I need to get my SSB under control before moving in.

I thought about all this stuff when I reached #7 on my Carol Countdown, because this song is TOTALLY related to the part of my SSB that involves frequently getting sucked into cheesy holiday specials or becoming immobilized by that interesting woman with pink hair extensions on the evangelical channel. Still, I love this song. I just do.

So please, after you have enjoyed the video, I welcome your comments about:

1) Dolly’s shoulder garlands: inspired by Rainbow Bright or Princess Leia?
2) Sexy bibs?
3) Mannequins? Did the prop department go broke or what?
4) Your own SSB (feel free to be anonymous!)

I promise it’ll just be between me and the interwebs.

#7 on Katie's Carol Countdown:
"A Christmas to Remember" Music & Lyrics by Dolly Parton.

On Kicking Ass and Taking Names

2008-12-11T10:05:00.012+08:00

ELLE Daily GEMINI Horoscope for December 11:

You can have things any way you want today. [KES:] Tell me about it. That's why I had a slice of cold pizza and chocolate soy milk for breakfast.

Your secret is your undeniable gift for persuasion. You cajole others until they relax and let down their guard, and then you plaster them with details and facts that stun them into silence and submission. Afterward, all that remains to be done is to get signatures, checks, keys and other booty. So decide what it is that you want - and it's yours. [KES:] That's exactly how I got a Coke Zero with ice at lunch. At first the waiter said they only had hot green tea. Oh really? [sweetly confused] You don't have watermelon juice? [wink] No beer? [mock shock] Not even plum wine? [raised eyebrow] Do you have lemmonade? [slight pout] That’s right, I'd LOVE a Coke Zero on the rocks! [huge smile!] Because it's all about: “No. Just the pie, but then NOT HEATED." Thanks.

Psst: You've got a real advantage over Virgo, Sagittarius and Pisces today. [KES:] Guess what the signs are for Every. Single. One. of the designers I work with? PUTTY IN MY HANDS, BABY. Putty.

You're in sole possession of the contact or key that leads to whatever they view as Nirvana. That's power, baby. Embrace it and use it wisely. [KES:] Oh, kinda like the phone conference I had with my boss this morning? WHICH I OWNED.

With a snap and a wink, you can open doors or slam them shut. You got it, baby! You're so good at this that it's almost scary. [KES:] Or AWESOME.

#8 on Katie's Carol Countdown: Celebrate Me Home, music & lyrics by Bob James and Kenny Loggins.

Someday at Christmas

2008-12-10T10:05:00.009+08:00

According to my calendar, today is Human Rights Day. What better day to talk about the fact that last week, some members of the Episcopal church (of which I am a member) made a move to break off into a group that will not bless gay unions, like the rest of the Episcopal church does? I am disappointed. I have a lot of questions.

Is not a union a union? Are we not all children of God and therefore worthy of one another’s love and affection? And hey, aren’t there enough churches shutting their doors to the very same marginalized peeps they’re called to embrace? What’s that old line about the meek inheriting the Earth? Wasn’t there a bit in the book about ‘judging not lest ye be judged'? And don't even get me started about the potential change of our longtime slogan "The Episcopal Church Welcomes You!" to, perhaps, "The Episcopal Church Welcomes Some Of You!" How will they test this at the door? Will I be turned away because I love Jason Statham movies, the Indigo Girls, and March Madness?

Lord, I don't even want to know. I just know it breaks my heart -- and not because I happen to have some dear friends who happen to be gay, or because I had a cat that was gay or because I think Will & Grace is absolutely hysterical, or because I don't want to marry my boyfriend so I am using the plight of the nuptuially challenged to keep my distance from the chapel (this means you Charlize Theron! Brangelina! Sinners.)

No, this is about the fact that *not* speaking up about this isn't something I can live with. It's about one group of people saying they're worthy of hospital visits, matching dinner plates, tax breaks and official love by Lord and Law while others are not. Seriously, when you think about the fact that there once was a time where certain people had to use certain bathrooms and sit in the back of the bus it’s just fucking absurd. This is blatant discrimination too, and I damn well want to be clear about where I stand.

Someday at Christmas my grandson might ask me where I stood back in the day when folks thought gay people shouldn’t be allowed to marry and have their own monogrammed towels. I want to be able to look him in the eye and say, “I was on the team for love, sugar. Now, run along and tell your sister Katie to bring Granny some more bourbon – I wanna talk about the flowers for your and Tom’s wedding.”

#9 Katie's Carol Countdown: "Someday at Chrismtas". Music & Lyrics by Ronald N. Miller and Bryan Wells. My favorite version is the one recorded by Stevie Wonder.

Someday at Christmas men won't be boys
Playing with bombs like kids play with toys
One warm December our hearts will see
A world where men are free

Someday at Christmas there'll be no wars
When we have learned what Christmas is for
When we have found what life's really worth
There'll be peace on earth

Someday all our dreams will come to be
Someday in a world where men are free
Maybe not in time for you and me
But someday at Christmastime

Someday at Christmas we'll see a Man
No hungry children, no empty hand
One happy morning people will share
Our world where people care

Someday at Christmas there'll be no tears
All men are equal and no men have fears
One shinning moment my heart ran away
From our world today

Someday all our dreams will come to be
Someday in a world where men are free
Maybe not in time for you and me
But someday at Christmastime

Someday at Christmas man will not fail
Take hope because Your love will prevail
Someday a new world that we can start
With hope in every heart

Someday all our dreams will come to be
Someday in a world where men are free
Maybe not in time for you and me
But someday at Christmastime
Someday at Christmastime

Yo, I'm About to Get Heavy

2008-12-09T09:53:00.003+08:00

So, the post I've been working on for tomorrow has been many days in the making. It started off as an outraged diatribe after this annoucement last week, but I have tweaked things here and there and am doing my darndest to get it down to less than, oh, 3,000 words. Srsly!

Thus, a little levity & brevity for today!

What did one snowman say to the other snowman?
Can you smell carrot?

#10 on Katie's Carol Countdown: Hark! The Herald Angels Sing, written by Charles Wesley.

Of What? Her First Name Could Be Doctor!!

2008-12-08T11:36:00.001+08:00

Awhile ago KB told me about this spurious segment on The Today Show talking about how women neither know nor quote movie lines in their conversations.

I was all, "8:05???"*

And she was all, "Natasha. What a bullshit name."**

"Seriously. I'll go Sean Young on their ass for saying that."*

"Totes. I mean, do they even know how to drive an automatic?"***

"As if."****

And that was that.

Last year, on a hellish road trip with two people I didn't really know, we came to pass a semi whose trailer trucks were decorated with huge painted horses. Just then, and perhaps more imporantly, AT THE EXACT SAME TIME, the driver and I began to sing, "horses, horses, horses, horses, horses!"***** and that was that. Instant friends!

The point is, I think the people who work on The Today Show have to get up way too early to spend their nights memorizing movie lines with the girlfriends. Sadcakes for them.

#11 on Katie's Carol Countdown: Sleigh Ride Composed by Leroy Anderson, Lyrics by Mitchell Parish

(I like the Boston Pops version the best. I don't know the name of the percussion instrument they use, but how fantastic does that horse trot sound? The horns crankin' up around 1:45 is the musical equivalent of the crazy loud Uncle barreling into the family Christmas party late. Sure, he's more than a little garrulous, but then again -- did the party NOT just get A LOT more fun?!!)

*Drive Me Crazy
**SATC
***What Happens in Vegas
****Clueless
*****Sleepless in Seattle

And What Have You Done?

2008-12-07T18:10:00.007+08:00

Earlier today I took a super big long Sunday walk, something I used to have a habit of doing in Germany, but hadn't done here since September when doing so nearly sent my sweat glands to the picket lines.

It was too sunny and blue skies not to go for it, so I tackled all my errands on foot over a nice 4 hour stretch. The traffic seemed especially bad today, and it felt fantastically healthy to be passing one cab after another on my own two feet. A woman on a city bus sat with her arm out the window, brandishing her mini Chinese flag like a lariat and taking it to the bus as if it were some stubborn horse. Oh lady, hang in there!

Last night I slept with about three gallons of chapstick on my lips and woke up with some semblance of a de-Saharafied mouth. It was one of the nights where the heat in my bedroom decides not to work, which is par for the adventure, but also meant that I slept in the following layers: soccer socks pulled up past my knees, sweat pants, tank top, long sleeved top, sweashirt, and inside my sub-zero sleeping bag, beneath two duvets. This is the only time I've had to do that this week though, so I'm either subconsciously learning which Chinese buttons on the heat remote do, or, the guys who come up to fix the heat in my place about once a week are slowly but surely making progress.

#12 Katie's Carol Countdown: Happy Xmas (War is Over) Words & Music by John Lennon and Yoko Ono

Because it asks a simple yet paramount question that never leaves me.

My Lips Hurt Real Bad!

2008-12-06T14:47:00.003+08:00

Yesterday, and every day before that this week, I drank no less than TWO LITERS of water. I am running to the bathroom constantly, applying Burt's Bees as often as possible (whilst rationing it, because once this tube is ovah it's OVAH!) and my lips are still cracked. How do people in Michigan do it? I cannot eat salt or pineapple comfortably. Time for a blues song, huh?

#13 Katie's Carol Countdown: Please Come Home For Christmas, The Eagles version. Words & lyrics by Charles Brown and Gene Redd

P.S. - For those of you who call me, check out the new World Clocks over there! You can always tell if I'm asleep or not :-)

Just Take My Word For It

2008-12-05T00:04:00.001+08:00

Ladies and gentlemen, I just got back from going to PartyWorld with my Chinese colleagues and it was TREMENDOUS! The top two floors of this super fancy pants mall was nothing but fancy pants individual karaoke rooms (think: Lost in Translation)where we sang our lungs out for the past 5 hours. FIVE. Please don't hate me, but I totally killed with my version of Stevie Wonder's "My Cherie Amour". Next time I'll take my camera. Promise.

#14 on Katie's Carol Countdown: Christmas in Hollis, words & music Run D.M.C.

Because of the time my sister and I re-vamped this for our fam answering machine to say "Sullivans say Merry Chritmas and leave your message heeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrreeeeee!"

The Running of the Deer

2008-12-04T18:15:00.005+08:00

The thing I always read at airport news stands, without necessarily buying, is the celebrity booklist section in O Magazine. There’s something kind of intimate about hearing which books matter to a person and why. Sometimes their choice tells me something I didn’t know about them; other times it confirms what I may have already assumed.

Last month I was pretty intrigued to find that Josh Brolin (who will always and forever be Brandt, Mikey’s older brother from Goonies,) is a devotee of A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn. I've long meant to read that book, and here it is, the basis for how this guy chose which school his kids would attend, based on whether or not the book was in the ciriculum. Who knew?

Herewith, a short list of books that changed me.

The Quiet American by Graham Greene
Greene’s detached protagonist skirts a line so fine between victor and villain that I found myself questioning my own motives for sympathizing with him in spite of myself. I’ve long had a feeling innocence is as charming as it is dangerous and no book cemented that notion for me more than this one. Also, eerily prescient having been published over 5 years before America would find itself embroiled in Vietnam.

Sleeping With the Devil by Robert Baer
This book might be totally responsible for me wanting to ride my bike more often. It made me angry, then sad, and finally – motivated.

The Awakening by Kate Chopin
The first time I read this book, I felt the pace of my life slow to something like a nice 33rpm record instead of a 45. There is nothing in the story that at all relates to my reality, and yet this book feels like home. Reading it actually made me want to speak French and I could kind of care less about speaking French. It makes me want to live on the bayou, have an accent, wear pantaloons, and take a young lover. Talk about an awakening.

When The Legends Die by Hal Borland
This is the first book that ever made me cry. It tells the story of a young Indian boy at the turn of the century caught between the old ways of his tribe and modernity. He turns to bronc riding in the rodeo, where his rage finds a home in the spurs he digs into every horse, eventually killing one. It is an utterly heartbreaking book and one I finally bought for my own library, but haven’t yet dared to re-read, because I’m a little afraid of how much more heartbreaking I might find it now that I know a little more about that sad part of American history.

A Mighty Heart by Marianne Pearl
Among a ton of other things, this book is about the kind of love & forgiveness I’d like to know. If I turn out to be anything like the wife & mother that Marianne Pearl seems to be, I’d be satisfied.

Gone With The Wind, by Margaret Mitchell
There’s no way I would have ever read this book if a friend I admire and adore hadn’t recommended it so highly. The theme that resonated most for me was that of freeing yourself from the past in order to better see not just the present, but also the possibility of your own future. If I owned a hotel, I’d put this in every nightstand

#15 Katie’s Carol Countdown:
The Holly and the Ivy

Because it sounds like the sunrise. And that baritone! Oy!

Jdnskm Ajnhihkyh Qkoasjf

2008-12-03T20:27:00.003+08:00

Seriously. That's what's going on in my brain right now. I knew it would happen, I just didn't expect it a mere 3 days into my self-imposed blogging bender.

I'm going to blame it on the meetings I've been in since NOON (it's now 20:30, soldiers!)and the fact that I'm dehydrated. I look like that cracked lip kid on the cover of the WAR album, even though I know for a fact I've drank two liters of water today. What gives?

And so it is I am posting this true turd of an entry, right along with the next carol in the countdown, which, incidentally, was the exact reason Jennifer Lucas and I got kicked out of Driver's Ed one morning, when we were passing the lyrics back and forth to each other and giggling when we should have been riveted by the finer points of parallel parking.

Enjoy.

#16 in Katie’s Carol Countdown: “The Hanukkah Song” Words & Music by Adam Sandler

p.s. "I've drank"? Maybe my brain is liquified, but that doesn't look right. Grrrr.

Little Saint Nick

2008-12-02T14:45:00.007+08:00

We had a wood stove in the living room of the house I grew up in. In our household my Dad was (mostly) responsible for the fire, and we usually had one going every day for the bulk of 'winter' (the air quotes there are for those readers from Minnesota or Montana who might take umbrage with the term winter coming from a Californian).

The first couple of years in that house were brutal, temperature-wise. First, the summer we moved in was one of the hottest on record in Nor Cal, and our air conditioner either wasn't installed yet or was broken a lot. It was over 100 degrees often, and, like every other year in the 80's, there was a severe draught, so showers & sprinkler runs were brief luxuries.

Then winter rolled around, a cord of wood was ordered, and the evening fireside fun could begin! Only that first winter my Dad didn't quite have the knack for how to build the fire without roasting us all out of the living room. In those days, we'd often find ourselves in front of The Cosby Show in tank tops and shorts, because it was 8,817 degrees inside, and he was going out to the porch to get another log, never mind that even the dog is panting.

Whenever I hear this Beach Boys song, with it's summeriffic riffs and the adorably daft line, "Christmas comes this time each year" -- a line so stupid only surfers could croon it with charm -- I think of looking out at the frosted fields from the picture window in our living room, wearing little more than a tee shirt as the ginormous fire inside crackled and roared.

#17 on Katie's Carol Countdown:
LITTLE SAINT NICK words & music by Brian Wilson and Mike Love, performed by The Beach Boys

Gobble Schmobble

2008-12-01T15:20:00.006+08:00

Considering I thought Thanksgiving this year would involve me, my Dad, a cold bucket of KFC and lots of vegging out to Anderson Cooper 360, I’d say Thanksgiving ’08 was a rousing success. I ordered a cooked turkey from the Marriott, since my apartment kitchen does not include an oven (??) and it was so painless AND delicious, I’d consider ordering a cooked turkey from the Shanghai Marriott for every Thanksgiving going forward, if it weren’t half way around the world and all.

The only thing now is what to do with the heat-insulated carrying case that came with the turkey. I’d left it on my balcony to de-turkify it, until I remembered the time my Dad threw a post-Thanksgiving turkey carcass on our “lawn” (see: half acre of mowed weeds) and a Mutual of Omaha-esque melee broke out between skunks, raccoons, opossum and owls. I mean, we’ve got bats in Shanghai to consider. So, I brought it back inside, cleaned it out with vinegar, but it’s sort of still reeking in the kitchen. Eventually the stink will be gone, so I’m just curious as to how can I re-use it: sweater storage? Or put it at the bottom of my bed to warm my feet at night?

In three weeks I’ll head home for Christmas. I’m nearly done with my Christmas shopping, between some fun finds around town & my three best online friends: Amazon, Amazon and L.L. Bean. I am my mother’s daughter. Only instead of being the catalog queen, I am an online shop-o-matic! No lines! No people! Free monogramming!

Speaking of shopping (and even though there’s not a single beach vacation on my horizon for the next 12 months), all I want these days is a chevron striped 1 piece swimsuit and a pair of over sized Vuarnet aviators. Basically, I want to look like my Mom circa June, 1987. The only thing I can find in the way of the former is faux vintage chevron stripes suits for the training bra set, or crazy overpriced vintage swimsuits on eBay. I don’t even really understand what eBay is or how it works; I can only see that it comes up in the search results. I’m not going to find out what it’s all about either, because hell if I am going to spend 4x the cost to buy some twenty year old swim suit some other girls’ hoo-ha enjoyed up at the lake.

In more hygienic news, I’m going to countdown the days ‘till my trip home for Christmas by linking to my 18 all-time favorite Christmas carols with each post (I jet December 19 at the crack of dawn). This seems like a fair replacement for the chocolate filled advent calendar NOT in my possession for the first time in three years (sniff, sniff, Nurnberg Christkindelmarkt!)

Let’s kick things off with a Sinatra classic. I adore this for the swing, and this verse:

It's that time of year
When the world falls in love
Every song you hear
Seems to say
Merry Christmas
May your New Year dreams come true
And this song of mine
In three quarter time
Wishes you and yours
The same thing too!

#18 on Katie's Carol Countdown:
The Christmas Waltz - Words & Music by Sammy Cahn & Jule Styne

Onward Brave Shoppers!

2008-11-28T11:10:00.001+08:00

"If you're automatically sure that you know what reality is, and you are operating on your default setting, then you, like me, probably won't consider possibilities that aren't annoying and miserable. But if you really learn how to pay attention, then you will know there are other options. It will actually be within your power to experience a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that made the stars: love, fellowship, the mystical oneness of all things deep down.

Not that that mystical stuff is necessarily true. The only thing that's capital-T True is that you get to decide how you're gonna try to see it." - David Foster Wallace

It's Been A Hard Days. . .Month?

2008-11-26T22:43:00.002+08:00

All day long I’ve been excited. Nearly bolted out of bed this morning and even broke my own cardinal rule by blasting Christmas music before Thanksgiving (!). In the elevator on my way up to work, it was all I could do to keep my toes from tapping when Mariah “All I Want For Christmas” Carey came on my iPOD.

When one thing after another came up all day long of every day this week, pretty much as it has 6 out of every 5 working days for the last – oh, well - since the minute I hit the ground here, I just had to laugh. This feels so much better than my previous MO, which involved keeping as cool as a cucumber on the surface while my heart pumped cayenne pepper to all my major organs, sometimes even keeping sleep at bay hours and hours later. It isn’t that things have abated; it’s that I’ve finally accepted the batshit crazy norm around here.

Tomorrow I’m taking the day off to celebrate Thanksgiving with my Dad, who used every frequent flier mile in his possession to jet over here and achieve his dream of seeing the Great Wall of China, not to mention yours truly. Since I don’t have an oven, I ordered a cooked turkey from the Shanghai Marriott, and hawked a few of my non-cayenne infested organs to buy all the ingredients for the choice side dishes at the expat store.

Sure, they didn’t have any shallots or mince meat pie (Get over it Dad! Also, your youngest daughter hates pie. Always has. Please note.) but they had just about everything else. Plus, when the guy at the counter saw me walking out with my two huge cloth bags digging into my shoulders, he chased after me explaining that delivery was free if you spend more than 100RMB. Thank you, Kind Grocer! (The store is about a ¼ mile from my place, with a few sets of stairs. It’s totally do-able, but not super awesome when your apartment is kind of at the times square of Shangers and you’re lugging 40 pounds of potatoes through the sidewalk masses.)

Sorry, still awake over there? I’m just jazzed.

The prospect of doing something more or less normal tomorrow seems so delicious. Getting up, going down, walking across to work, going up, sitting down, and grinding it out day in and day out hasn’t amounted to a hugely imaginative existence. Please know I'm thrilled to have a job right now, and that I consider work a blessing. Really, I do. It's just that while I thought I could empathize with my handful of friends who regularly work 12-36 hour shifts at their jobs, the truth is I really had no idea. I think a lot of what sees people through tough times is their belief in their work, themselves, the greater good, etc. and finding that balance here has been hard work on top of already hard(er) work.

But today, man, TODAY I finally broke through the surface. Instead of looking to the shore, in a panicked tread, I’m starting to swim. I can’t wait to give thanks for that tomorrow.

A Real Howler

2008-11-17T22:03:00.010+08:00

Tonight I found myself staring at a stack of letters through the little winow of my mailbox. Too bad I didn't have the keys. (I don't know where they are. They're around, I'm just in stage two where I know they're lost so I have to quit looking for them in order to accidentally find them. I've got a system.)

Fortunately for me I had some disposable chopsticks in my purse, so I jimmied the letters out of the slot like some grown-up version of Operation while the doorman tried not to glare at me. I guess there's nothing very grown-up about misplacing your mailbox keys, but that's not the point. The point is that if stealing my own mail weren't bad enough, the next thing I did was laugh hard, OUT LOUD (!) in the little mail vestibule at the letter below, which firmly establishes me as the resident lunatic.

First of all, who DOESN'T swing a layover in Figi en route to China? "Nor wind, nor rain, nor sleet, nor hail...unless after all, we decide to set sail!" ??? Secondly, do you think the Republicans stamp every ballot with that threat about raising taxes?

Work has totes been cramping my blog style, and it won't get any better until after this Wednesday, when I'll have completed a mondo project. Aren't you excited? Me too!

My Faith In America Has Totally Been Restored!!!

2008-11-05T14:44:00.001+08:00

Thank you!

Fake Butter. New President. Praise the Lord!

2008-11-04T14:28:00.011+08:00

[Ed Note: The rampant construction in Shanghai has inspired me to redesign my blog, which is something I've wanted to do for ages now. Since I'm pretty much a complete code moron, this will take some time. Thank you for your patience!]

My Halloween was pretty scary. I had a lousy case of MY STOMACH HATES ME and was curled up under the covers by 7pm, clutching my midsection in pain. Saturday I nearly gave myself a heart attack rolling over to see my darling, awesome, hilarious, all-foam, adult-size banana costume hanging outside the wardrobe -- a pool of banana milkshake tears on the floor. I’ll get ‘em next year, man. Next year!

Sunday was the 2nd anniversary of my Grammy’s death. She sent me the nicest sign, in the form of an excellent reading from Day By Day, the little devotional she would occasionally send me clippings from (and which I now subscribe to via e-mail.)

(At first I wasn't going to include a copy of the whole thing here, but I have decided to for two good reasons. #1: I have tested the link, and it doesn't seem to consistently go back to the Nov.2 DBD entry, which is so the one Grammy intended for me. #2: The only reason for not including it would be out of fear of looking like a Bible wielding wacko. Anyone who reads this with some regularity can deduce that I believe in God as much as I do humanity, astrology, evolution, and that the Kings will eventually beat the Lakers for the West Coast Conference Title prior to winning the NBA Championship. I do not believe that everything happens for a reason, or that you cannot swim almost immediately after eating. If there's one thing that really gets my prayers in a wad it's the often deafening silence from religious moderates [Yes, we exist!]. Sometimes it feels like there are atheists and there are zealots with no one in between. That sort of thinking is just one of the tragedies resulting from the 'us vs. them' rhetoric the Bush administration has preached for the past 8 years. Thus, the reading from Grammy on the 2nd is all the more poignant. Here we go. . .)

Day in History: SUNDAY, November 2 All Saints' Sunday or Pentecost 25 or Pentecost 25

Matthew 5:1-12. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Here is a day when we honor the saints, but this gospel reminds us that the kingdom of heaven belongs as well to the poor in spirit. Heaven is not just a big gathering place for the saints; it is also a crossroads where the saints and the spiritually impoverished meet.

Delightful! Finally, people who were perhaps slow to believe, slow to trust, or slow to pray are welcomed home. If there is a joyful place in heaven for those who struggled with their faith during their lives, then what do any of us have to fear?

I am a knitter. One thing I learned this past year is that it is silly not to take risks with one's knitting-really, what's the worst that could happen? If something is truly awful, you can rip it out or throw it out. What if we tried this with our prayer life? Why not take risks, try a new discipline like lectio divina, try chanting or meditation? At worst, we'll have had some quiet time. At best, we might enrich our spirits.

PRAY for the Diocese of Karamoja (Uganda)

A few additional eerie facts: I have been struggling with my faith lately; for the bulk of her life she worshipped at All Saints' Episcopal Church in Vista, CA; she was also a knitter who taught my sister and I how to knit. My sister knits beautifully to this day, while I was all thumbs. Once, after helping me to start-over on a stitch for the umpteenth time Grammy laughed and – without the slightest loss of faith in me – turned and said, “Katie, maybe we need to find you another hobby.”

Do you know what else? I found the Nucoa “The NO BURN Margarine” she swore is the key ingredient for making her truly killer grilled cheese sandwiches. If you’re not sure what to have for dinner while you’re watching the election results tonight, why not round up some sourdough, some plastic Kraft cheese, and some Nucoa NO BURN margarine for the best grilled cheese sandwich ever?

Have a little faith.

Focusing On The Issues

2008-10-29T15:35:00.005+08:00

It goes without saying that we’ve got a lot at stake these days. By “we’ve” I mean the world (does anyone need MORE than a global economic crisis to prove our human connectivity?) and by “these days” I mean the current US Presidential election. I already voted for Obama…but that was before I knew he harbored Laker sympathies. Fortunately, this sad reality is pretty much negated by the fact that his brother-in-law coaches at Oregon State. Phew. It was going to be a huge pain in my ass to rescind my vote.

Can I Get A Witness?

2008-10-27T14:16:00.004+08:00

Over lunch yesterday I sat near a woman who received no less than three phone calls, all of which were ignored. As a rather strident cell-phone loather (well, phones in general are not my bag) I appreciate cell phone users who don't blab away while I'm trying to grocery shop, eat, or generally exist. The woman's ring tone was Richard Marx’s “Right Here Waiting For You” which seems like the sort of ring tone one might assign to calls coming from a person one adores. Evidently for this woman the lyrics, “wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be right here waiting for you,” translate to: only if I’m not busy eating. Noted.

In the past three days I’ve had more deja vu moments than I can count. I’m vaguely aware that there are theories (studies?) detailing how bullshit deja vu is and that it’s really about your brain deteriorating, etcetera, etcetera, but I say BULLOCKS TO ALL THAT.

The first time deja vu seriously blew my mind was back in 1992 in the ladies bathroom at the Burger King in Grass Valley (there’s only one in that town). The specifics are blurry, but I know that we were heading back from Tahoe and that everything about that bathroom was exactly as I seen it before. Sure, I HAD been to that particular Burger King before, but this was different. One minute I was merely going to the bathroom, and the next I'm looking around the stall going, I HAVE BEEN HERE BEFORE. Not just here, in this particular place physically, but here,under precisely the same circumstances. Everything was entirely familiar, down to the roll of toilet paper being on to of the dispenser, rather than in it, as well as the woman waiting by the sink in acid washed jean shorts with a pink fanny pack and plastic hoop earrings, to my Grandma waiting for me in the car. Every motion felt contrived, and yet, there'd been no official rehearsal or preordained instruction. If the choice is believing my brain was already deteriorating at 14 or, say, believing in myself -- I am going with the latter.

Here’s what I want to happen. I want to tell someone my dream(s), or, some weird thought I have like, “I keep seeing a woman in red jeans carrying two flakes of alfalfa” and then for my friend to go, “You are so weird. [Pause. Chagrined.] I’ve made a mental note. Got it.” And then, however much time and space has passed later, (and this could be YEARS, YO) I want to find myself, bumping into an old friend from high school in red jeans carrying two flakes of alfalfa and to look over at my other friend, the good one who'd made the mental note, and be like “SEE!?!?!?” And then I will probably burst into marshmellow bits of happiness. This is definitely going on the life list.

Speaking of which, I’m almost done with it. Right now I’ve got about 200 items, so I’m separating them into “experiences” and “things”. I’m a little embarrassed by some of the stuff I want. I wouldn’t call myself materialistic, but apparently I’d really prefer to leave this Earth only after having owned a really solid set of stereo components and a pair of Tod’s driving loafers. Of course I once also wanted to have a huge perm, acrylic nails, a red Trans Am and a career as a checker at Raley’s. We all know how that worked out.

Step By Step, Inch By Inch

2008-10-22T17:59:00.011+08:00

When I saw that my wiki-how-do of the day today was HOW TO TAKE A PUNCH AND WIN THE FIGHT, I clicked on it immediately. This is advice I can really use right now, despite the fact that I’m not a professional fighter, although, you might think so based on the way things have been going lately slash today.

If you have time to check it out, there’s some really great advice in there, both practically and metaphorically speaking. If you don't have time the gist is: be not afraid and flex your abs before getting hit, as this prevents what is commonly known as a 'sucker punch' from befalling you and ruining an otherwise perfectly fine day. Nail those two, and you'll survive - but not necessarily win. I think the authors are kidding themselves on the whole winning promise. We all know no one wins when they resort to violence. (I'm talking to you, W.)

Monday though, man, that was a day where the notion of violence held it's charms, at least in terms of, oh, throwing myself out of a moving taxi.

The deal was that I was told to report to Jane, my Chinese handler, in the lobby of The Gianormious Building of Immigration Of The People's Republic of China in The Farthest Depths of Pudong at 14:00 and await further instruction. If you multiply the task of renewing your license at the DMV by 2 gatrillion x 1 black hole, you'll get an idea of going through any process -- any process at all -- in China.

According to Jane, the visa agency my company works with had scheduled an interview with Government Agent #005252 (not kidding, it was right there, in 2 inch high embroidered numbers on her perfectly starched shirt) so that I might obtain a multiple entry visa. Jane advised I allow one to two hours transit time from my office to said HUGE building. It took about an hour by taxi to get there, ten minutes to walk from the taxi through the doors, and 4 minutes to take the countless escalators up to the Sahara-sized lobby, where there were no free seats as the place was filled with hundreds of folks in wait, including the odd child screaming their head off because, dude, I would scream my head off in this place too were it socially acceptable. Since I had no idea what Jane looked like, other than Chinese with long black hair (thanks Jane. Grass:green::fire:hot), I was about to call her when my cell phone rang, and a woman said, "Come to window 17. NOW."

So I did, and so I sat, across from agent #005252 who spoke in staccato bullets to Jane, who fired back Mandarin missives after which #005252 swiftly stamped several documents, took my photo, stuffed said documents into an envelope and motioned for my dismissal. Before the trap door beneath my chair could open, sending me down a Jetson-style dressing slide concluding with me finding myself newly clad in a blue jumpsuit embroidered only with the word REJECTED at the chest, Jane turned to me and said "Is OK. Call you next week. All fine. Can go." Repressing every ounce of curiosity in me, I said, "OK", and walked out.

(And can I just say? A couple of times #005252 and I made eye contact, and she had an official, yet friendly enough look in those peepers to merit having a name on her shirt, I think. It's not like her elbows squeaked and begged for some W-40. She rather seemed like a person to me. Just a thought.)

What's weird about a lot of this bureaucracy stuff isn't that it's beyond aggravating tedium (it is) but that it's completely karmic. Were I still 7 years old, I would be ALL ABOUT THE COMMUNISM. Forms? Stamps? Bossiness? Once upon a time I ate those things for breakfast. What's that, Mom? You're going into town? Where? Post office? Bank? BRING BACK SOME FORMS, PLEASE. And Barbie, stop that! Now! . Ah, the good old days.

Just Like It's Supposed To Look

2008-10-14T18:29:00.015+08:00

What's a revelation? Holly Hunter as Tammy Hemphill in "The Firm"*. Also, hiking 6 miles of Great Wall of China with a couple of your favorite peeps on the planet.

It's no secret that things around the Spice Shop haven't exactly been The Good Ship Lollipop of late, mostly due to things related to my activity on days of the week not beginning with the letter ‘S’. This spy stuff, man, NOT ALL IT’S CRACKED UP TO BE.

Needless to say, when KB and Norby arrived in Shangers from Portland last week, with all their talk about high heels and cold beers, I stood in the doorway with my arms outstretched to the max. When I caught up with them last Friday night in Beijing (they'd gone up before me due to above mentioned s-p-y commitments,) and they said there was good news and bad news I didn't even blink before saying GIVE ME THE BAD NEWS, because as long those two are involved, I know it’s not going to be that bad. Turns out they’d merely booked a car to drive us out to The Great Wall at 6AM the following day and were just scared I was going to be all, WHAT!?!?! I HAVE TO GET UP BEFORE NOON ON A SATURDAY? Oh girls. Do I still look 29? Please. I’m so 30 and handbags at dawn these days, suckas.

So there we were, crack of dawn Saturday stopping to photograph frozen flowers on our way up to tackle a chunk of the Great Wall of China that rambles from Jinshanling to Simatai. We could not stop giggling about the typo on our tickets which promised The Wall would be "dreathtaking". Not only was the GWOC utterly dreathtaking, I also received some quite gushy love letters from my lungs and one rather blush inducing telegram from my pores. Sure, it’s going on two days later and my buns are still giving me the silent (yet painful) treatment and, yes, my calves are threatening to sue, but I can't even begin to care. You just can’t manufacture days this good:

Dreathtaking from Sanguine Spice on Vimeo.

(What's all that hoot n' hollarin' in the background? Just Norbs and me laughing at all the scree stuck to KB's bottom when she turned to nab the panoramic shot. We're the kind of friends who laugh behind each other's backs.)

An out-of-breath-update at the halfway mark:

Halfway There from Sanguine Spice on Vimeo.

As if that weren't enough, about two thirds of the way through our 30 tower pilgrimage, a friendly Aussie (is there any other kind?) caught up with us and spoke enthusiastically about a zip line at the end of the hike. "A zip line?", we said. "Yeah!", he exclaimed. "Over water?", we balked. "Sounds wicked, ay!" Um, whatever you say buddy.

Then we got there, many steep steps and near wrong turns later, to this little zip line kiosk where the Chinese woman only shrugged nonchalantly when KB joshed, "Am I gonna fall?". Oh! HA HA HA HA HA. By this time Aussie Adam was our friend too, and KB was the first to take one look and say, "Fuck it. I'm doin' it." At which point Norby and I followed suit and don't you know, it was just as fun as it looks.

KB Zips! from Sanguine Spice on Vimeo.

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*Srsly! Holly Hunter! I totally thought of that this morning, when I found myself saying "that's not the best feature," about a thing we were looking at at work, which made me think of her (because her character retorts, "it's not my best feature" after David "TOO HOT TOO HANDLE" Strathairn says he likes her crooked little mouth). And hot damn, that movie has EVERYONE in it: Holly Hunter, Tom Cruise, Gene Hackman, Steven "CLANG CLANG" Hill, Hal Holbrook, Wilfred "EAT SOME OATMEAL" Brimley and also Ed "I LOVE YOU" Harris. Next time you're home sick, might I suggest "The Firm" as your get well movie-on-the-couch?

Week 4: Oscar the Grouch Hits The Road

2008-10-07T20:47:00.004+08:00

One of my favorite observations of late is how a lot of people around here gesture or point to things with their entire hand instead of just one finger. It’s like you’re constantly being presented with gifts from the Magi; but really, some stranger is just trying to show you where the 2-n-1 Pantene travel size is located on the shelf RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR EYES. It’s also become my latest favorite physical joke, which KB and I are practicing relentlessly. “Where’s the map?” Oh here, its right here [slowly and graciously presents the map with two fanned hands, as if Star Search spokes model contestant]. This sort of movement lends an air of magnificence to the mundane. Did I mention how great it is to have your champ friends visit? It RULES.

Last time I mentioned that I’d been to Bangkok and Hong Kong, both for work. I’d love to tell you all about Bangkok, but I left the hotel just thrice (another favorite joke lately is to speak all British-Colonially in my head, as in, “Charles, bring the car round!” or “Though the help is both abundant and affordable, it is most inconsistent.” And other asshole statements like that). The first time I left the hotel was to go to a work dinner at Koi, of LA/Us Weekly fame, which served excellent sushi to my colleagues and easily the best steak I’ve had in at least three years to yours truly. The next two times I left the hotel were to go to dinner at this place:

Both times were equally stunning/delish. Two excellent things happened on the 2nd visit.

First, one of my long held fantasies was realized when I found myself seated at a long, beautiful, table with guests starting at plates covered with shiny silver domes. Then, all the wait staff came over and took off the silver dome-y things at the exact same time, which frankly was really the thing that excited me most about the idea of being a princess as a child (aside from all that power overseing my 'lands' yes, it was plurual in my head) – you know, this notion of dinner being an EVENT all the time rather than a taxing battle of wills with your parents regarding those oh so barf-o-rama lima beans they’re insisting you eat or ELSE. (What else? I never found out. But I did spend more nights than I can count sitting alone. In the dark. Not eating my veggies. While the rest of them enjoyed The Cosby Show and bowls of ice cream.) So anyway, the domed food BIG REVEAL delighted me, but don’t worry, I acted like that shit happens in my life all the time and was very Cool Tall Vulnerable Luscious about the whole shebang.

Right. The second thing. The second thing was that I rode home from that dinner in a tuk-tuk with a colleague whom I find terribly hilarious, and even more hysterical whilst cracking jokes in said tuk-tuk (“Katie, are you going to get yuk-yuk in the tuk-tuk?”). This is the man who had me in tears discussing where he was on 9/11, not because he was in NYC and devastated, which is what I thought he was going to say when he brought up the odd conversation, but because he was in Germany goofing around in an Olympic bobsled suit because what else do you do on a rando Tuesday night at work? His whole moral of the story was, when your country is under attack and you find yourself standing mouth agog in front of the TV wearing a skintight team Jamaica bobsled suit you wonder what the first order of business is. Take off the bobsled suit. The world is literally changing before your eyes, get serious. So he was just laughing at how he was watching the TV, and then running around trying to find the appropriate clothes in which to bear the bad news. So yeah, the tuk-tuk was great and dinner round 2 was as good if not better than round 1, but I still saw nary a block of Bangkok and look forward to going for non conference related reasons some other time.

Hong Kong sucked phat donkey. I’m sure it’s quite a lovely place under other circumstances, but I was there for reasons that entirely pissed me off, like procuring ANOTHER visa, because I’d only been granted a single-entry visa from China in the first place and when I had to attend a mandatory work meeting out of the country the only way I’d hoped to get back to Shangers was either some crazy-ass overland smuggle fest thru the Myanmar and eventually over Everest (seriously, how lazy am I about this blog? And you think I can scale Everest? As if.) – OR – to go to this CTIS office and…you know what? I HATE EVEN TELLING THIS STORY.

Let’s just say you know its bad when you leave your errand and are maniacally single minded about getting yourself to the nearest Hard Rock Cafe for the biggest plate of nachos and coldest beer ever, STAT. All of that craptastic food + reading the capital D depressing economic stories in the Harold Trib whilst Bryan Adams is blaring in your ears says something about my mental state at that point. Never mind that Hong Kong has ferries or cheap mani/pedis. In my Grouchy McGroucherson frame of mind, it was hell on earth with a side of shit sauce. Let’s face it, when you’re sulking down the street all without passport/visa/country and practically wailing “Everything Happens to Me” and overhear a prepified seersucker short wearing guy say, “I know it’ll all come back, but losing 4 million on a Friday just sucks” -- well, it’s awfully hard to find the bright side. I did see the building where they filmed that awesome scene in The Dark Knight which turned out to be just enough to keep myself from throwing said I-banker's Stella Artrois in his face. For Gods sake man, if you’re depressed order a Scotch.

Ah, but that was waaaaaaaaay back in week four. Week 5 saw me get above mentioned visa, pick up one of my all-time favorite people at the airport AND get my ballot in the mail. Life’s just grand like that.

"Dog Gone It!" I Never Want To Hear That Phrase In An Executive Debate Again

2008-10-03T18:03:00.005+08:00

I'm alive; fighting a weird stomach bug and otherwise preoccupied with hosting my excellent friend KB visiting this week. Last week (week 4, for those of you counting at home) kicked my arse a little bit, but more on that later; maybe.

Today was all about the VP debate, which both KB and myself could hardly stop discussing. Before I go any further, just wanted to say that my sister is the best teacher "in the year" and I would put her up against Pallin's brother ANY DAY AND TWICE ON SUNDAY!!!!

Secondly, you must read this recap of the debate -- as it is HYSTERICAL.

Happy Friday!

One Very Good Egg

2008-09-27T22:10:00.006+08:00

Just saw the news about Paul Newman. My heart dropped. It only took one look at a photo of him as a young man to grab my attention -- who could resist those eyes? Better still was discovering that he wasn't a performer who relied on his looks, but seemed to turn inward as if to spite them. Plus he was tortured over the death of his son, and while a part of him may have lingered in the fog of that loss forever, a greater part of him devoted much of his life to something better though his enormous charity work. And something about him reminds me of my grandpa, which never hurts. Shawn Levy puts it nicely:

For a half-century, on screen and off, the actor Paul Newman embodied certain tendencies in the American male character: active and roguish and earnest and sly and determined and vulnerable and brave and humble and reliable and compassionate and fair. He was a man of his time, a part of his time, and that time ranged from World War II to the contemporary era of digitally animated feature films.

...He was a giant-sized star who shunned celebrity, living in Connecticut, avoiding awards shows, refusing for many years to give autographs, and sometimes resentful that so much of his fame rested on the unearned blessings of a handsome face, a lean body and, most notably, those stunning cobalt-blue eyes. As he got older, he flatly refused honors. When he won a SAG award, an Emmy and a Golden Globe for his role as a town rascal in the 2005 cable TV movie "Empire Falls," he showed up for none of them, explaining that he had set fire to his tuxedo when he turned 70. And his proudest achievement, he often bragged, was being named number 19 on President Richard Nixon's infamous enemies list."

I admire the way he went out; on his own terms and on his own turf. I imagine he'd hate this sort of thing, which is precisely why I liked him so much.

Making It Count

2008-09-25T23:34:00.001+08:00

My friend Amanda hails from Idaho and now calls New York City home. Every now and then she shares a slice of her life there that makes me laugh out loud. For example:

First I would like to thank Sanguine for thinking my cute little story is good enough to be on this fantastic blog. :) She's a dear friend and I am flattered.

Living in New York I have discovered the characters on televisions shows like Seinfeld or Law and Order are not so far reality I assumed they must of been. I mean, Kraemer? Did anyone outside of NYC think he could be a real person? I remember the first time I went to Jersey and was served coffee by a woman with ginormous hair, cigarette in mouth, lee press-on nails and that accent. Growing up out West I thought surely no one really talked like that. Living in the city for the past six years I have discovered, almost on a daily basis, not only that they exist but that they thought the same thing about me. I've often been in the conversation "you talk like someone on TV." Hah!

Recently my favorite, perhaps only in New York story was relayed to me by good friend of mine who works for a large news agency here in the city. Like many large news organizations, they sit in a trading floor type environment - open space, lots of desks, no old school cubicles, etc. He recently overheard an altercation between two of his co-workers that is still cracking me up.

Picture two middle aged women from Queens who work closely and are going back and forth over the proper way to do some mundane office project. Both have heavy accents, too much make-up, really big hair, nails, earrings - the works. The conversation went something like this:

Lady (1): I need you do to this again. You filled out the form wrong, again!

Lady (2): What? Are you kidding me? Fill it out yourself!

Lady (1): Excuse me - just fill out the form. Do it right this time.

Lady (2) (yelling now): I'm gonna strangle you!!!!

Lady (1) (yelling louder): I'm gonna stab you!!! IN THE FACE!!!

Random dude walking by: That's how you make it count. In the face.

This conversation/exhcange was heard by half of the floor. I don't know if it translates well to email/written word, but it cracks me up. I'm gonna stab you, IN THE FACE!!! Random, dude: that's how you make it count...in the face.

Only in New York would this conversation happen and everyone around you continue to work as though it was just another normal day in the office. I love this city.

Observations: Week Three

2008-09-20T22:05:00.007+08:00

Although it would take some actual testing, I believe no matter where you find yourself in Shanghai you're no less than 100 yards from a KFC. Shanghaiese evidentally LOVE KFC. I can't believe their aren't more I (heart) KFC shirts on the streets, except that there's nothing ironic about the obvious affection for the place. Naturally, it's become my go-to locale for public restrooms.

There have been a few times I've found myself on the verge of gagging whilst smelling smells from the street side food stalls I've never smelled before, but then a guy pushing a cart full of fresh flowers rolls by, and all is right in the air again. So far, these flower cart guys are in the lead for Favorite Thing About Shanghai. It's like they've got a sixth sense for the second your nose jerks your head in their direction, and all of a sudden the guy sizes you up and thrusts the stargazer lilies in your face. Who can resist fresh stargazer lilies? Not me, and at less than 3 bucks for 5 stems I'm sold faster than you can say Bacon for breakfast?

Coming in at a close second to the flower cart fellows are the fresh fruit peddlers, especially those who labor under the weight of their livelihood, which is often carried in two buckets hanging from a wooden yoke they're bearing across their back. Earlier tonight I saw a fruit seller admirably walking down a jam-packed sidewalk so gracefully that not one of the apples nor pomegranates he had stacked above the brim of each basket were disturbed by the bustle. He'd even gonesofar as to beautifully slice open one pomegranate perched at the top like a teeny tiny Ton-Ton, just to reveal it's juicy gem interior for the hungry passer-by. I thought, now THAT'S a pageant talent.

It's also become clear to me that I'm living at pretty much the Times Square of Shangers. Sure, there are about 934 other neighborhoods I've yet to explore, but this place is crazy BUSY. Above ground 5 major boulevards convene, while below ground throbs one of the bigger subway stations, making this a kind of urban aorta once the bikes, mopeds, and pedestrians are thrown in the mix too. Elevated sidewalks aim to make traversing the area easy -- if easy means beating Dara Torres across the pool. And you're a house cat.

The number of things that could fall under the category of different seem incalculable but I know that there just as many things that could be classified as exactly the same as anywhere else, and I mean that in the best possible way. Most people are kind, if weary after work. A lot of mothers with infants or toddles look tired, and many old men appear bent. Teenagers giggle to one other conspiratorially while middle aged men congregate under dim street lights to play cards on an overturned crate. These scenes mirror those I've seen in Cairo, Moscow, and Seville, and probably dusty cities all over the map. It's the sort of stuff that feels like home, 6500 miles away and all.

I'll Say It: Mrs. Butterworths is the best syrup on the market!

2008-09-18T21:39:00.005+08:00

It might seem redundant to announce ON MY BLOG that I'm totally self-absorbed, but trying to open a Chinese bank account, cross the street with my life intact and suppress my Russel Crowe-esque urges where phone complications are concerned are just a few of the tasks keeping me fairly preoccupied. This is where Blythe, the friend largely responsible for bolstering my courage to fire up this blog, swoops into town to guest post. She's pretty rad like that.

Katie, who is apparently off recovering from her latest round of STD testing, asked me to write a guest post about how to start blogging. When she decided to write Sanguine Spice, she came to me for advice, probably because I am the only person she knew who was geeky enough to already have one of these things. After I looked up “sanguine” in the dictionary, I think I told her to read the how-to section at blogspot.com and made her promise not to post any of those widgets that start playing music as soon as you open the page. But, being a generous soul, she remembered my paltry words as the advice of someone who knows what they’re talking about.

But I know better. So, instead of giving you a tutorial on how to start a blog, I’m going to link to a couple of wise and successful bloggers who have written excellent posts on the subject:
Amalah’s Blog 101
Merlin Mann’s How To Blog talk
Brazen Careerist’s Blogging Instructions

And then I’m going to tell you WHY you should blog, which is much different than HOW to blog.

First, I’ll admit that a lot of people think blogging is ridiculous, self-indulgent, even dangerous. It seems scary to put your thoughts out into the world for anyone to read. It makes you think about privacy. And it makes you wonder what might happen if you wrote a post about how much you hate French toast and then you find yourself working for a maple syrup company and they find your old post and fire you because you railed on their product. It also reminds you of all your cool friends (and maybe you too) who have scoffed at people with blogs who presume anyone might want to read their thoughts and opinions on topics like French toast. And you worry that your mom might read it.

So first you have to just stop thinking about the reasons you shouldn’t blog. Because there are plenty of them.

Instead, start thinking about this:

-Writing makes you healthy. It can help you crystallize your thoughts. Writing regularly will probably make you better at your job, because better writing means better emails, and heaven knows there are too many poorly-written emails in the world. At the very least blogging will assist you in becoming a better typist.

-It’s a personal record. I’ve never been able to keep up a handwritten diary, especially if I assumed I was the only person who would ever read it. But blogging gave me a place to put my thoughts and an audience that expects me to post them. And now I have three years of memories in writing, and counting.

-It’s good to have a creative outlet. Writing can, of course, be a creative act. It can become very, very creative when you’ve promised yourself you’ll blog every day for a month and all you can come up with is a daily haiku dedicated to each of your house plants. But if it keeps you writing, eventually something great will spill out. And if you’re interested in visual creativity, blog design can be great fun. Templates are easily changed and tweaked and, if you have the skills, overhauled to your personal taste.

-You can become part of a community. I never expected to become real-life friends with anyone from the internet, but it happened because of my blog. And I’ve connected with some smart, interesting people simply because we both voted for the same reality TV show contestants and wrote about it on our blogs. Blogging and commenting on others’ blogs made me comfortable with other social media, like Twitter and Flickr, and I’ve connected with (and even gotten paying gigs through) great people I’ve met there.

-You’ll be inspired. Once you start writing a blog, you’ll probably start reading other blogs. And you will be amazed at the quality of some of the writing out there. It’s self-published and it’s unedited, and it’s incredible. You’ll also find many bloggers who are not incredible writers, but who keep at it because they love doing it, or because their kids’ grandma likes reading, or because it’s therapy. And that’s inspiring too, and should remind you that your blog writing doesn’t need to be perfect.

-It strengthens your faith in humanity. You’ve heard stories about internet weirdos and identity theft and maybe even read posts about cranky blog-haters. But most bloggers and their readers are just nice, normal people. In fact, they’re even better than you think. They’re bright. They send each other care packages, they give good advice, and you’d be amazed at the things they can do together. And I don’t mean just the warm, fuzzy, send chocolates to someone who writes a sad post, stuff. I mean they’ve put together companies and banded together to receive press credentials at political conventions, and raised money for people who need it.

I love blogging, and I think you might love it too.

Yes, I Want Cheese With This Wine

2008-09-10T22:02:00.000+08:00

Were there a Richter scale for aggravation, I’d have scored over an 11.5 for my initial response to today’s shenanigans (and they were shenanigans). Yesterday I learned I’d have to drag myself over to the Foreign Medical Office (really, it had a name like that) for another medical exam today.

Two choice scenes: Me, sitting across from the doctor, who is barely glancing through the extensive physical report my internist in Portland had prepared (on the Chinese Physical Exam For Foreigner Form 87.2 section 4 which I’d downloaded from the Chinese Consulate website, for those of you watching at home). Pfhit, phift, phift went the pages containing the results of the EKG, chest x-ray, blood type, unrine analysis, vison test, AIDS test, and general physical exam. Doctor looks at me, stone cold, and says: “No. How can I accept the results of an exam from private American doctor?” Not finding any sharp objects with which to end my misery, I simply shot her a look that said, “How about a Hawaiian punch to wash down the forthcoming knuckle sandwich?” For maybe the third time in my entire life I looked at a person and could think little more than, bitch. Terrible! So I’m feeling bad for thinking that, and shuffling toward the exam rooms to get on with the charade.

It didn’t help that I hadn’t eaten (per their instructions,) or that this test would involve me being herded through a series of charmless exam rooms containing equally charmless tests which were entirely pointless. Eight in total. (Oh don’t worry, I already know this is ridiculous and woe is a healthy person taxed with a pesky wellness exam. I get it, I got it, I know.)

That still doesn’t mean I had it in me to find the hilarity in scene 2 wherein the the ULTRASOUND lady shouted at me to “Roll left! Roll left for heartbeat!” as she pushed the gel beneath the ultrasound thingymajig around the lower right side of my rib cage. Apparently my heart is ever so slightly nestled in my waist? Who knew?

I left (two more stamps, and 732 RMB poorer) with the info that four working days from now and thirty four hundred thousand eight hundred sixty seven bureaucratic processes later, I might have a multiple entry visa and a work permit in my hot little hands. And milk-duds shall rain from the sky!

On the long way home, the taxi driver suddenly stopped , got out of the car, and gave me a look that I took to mean, “just a sec! I’ll be right back! please don’t panic!” Minutes later he returned with cigarettes for himself, and a cold bottled water for me, which he smiled and passed over the backseat. And then, for maybe the one millionth gazillionth time in my life I looked at a person and thought, aren’t you a gem.

This just in from the dept. of NOT FIT TO GOVERN!

2008-09-09T16:53:00.004+08:00

After a weeks worth of cold showers I finally told the super that I needed hot water in my apartment. Ten minutes later a woman from the building staff knocks on my door with tea kettle of hot water.

Oh.

Then comes the part where I eat crow (in my head) because months and months ago Dad "doesn't do PR" Sullivan was boasting about how he'll be able to navigate life in China despite not speaking Chinese (and by "life" I assume he means his week+ visit scheduled at Thanksgiving,)because he is fluent in sign language and that will suffice.

Oh, how I laughed.
Oh, how I howled.

And yet, that's exactly the language I tried to conjure as I pantomimed that no, I didn't need a pot of hot water so much as hot water for the shower [insert me channeling Janet Leigh]. Many bows and "Thanks, but no thanks" later and the woman with the hot water leaves smiling. (No doubt thinking I am Uber Idiot Extraordinaire.)

Ten more minutes later a couple of "engineers" arrive on the scene and go straight to the kitchen, where they promptly demonstrate the presence of hot water there. Charades ensue and eventually I guide them into the bathroom, turn on the water and then mime shivering as they stare back at me, blankly.

Guy #1 leans over, turns off the water. He then looks at me, turns on the OTHER knob and then begins faux fanning himself, as if overheated.

For hot water? TURN ON THE HOT WATER KNOB.

In my defense: I've been jet lagged, it does take awhile for the hot water to get up to the 38th floor (so I'm thinking I tried this knob once, like last Tuesday, and when it didn't work right away I assumed it was the other one,) and I don't know - I can't wait to name my children after sports or high school math courses?

Watching the Whites of my Eyes Turn Red

2008-09-04T08:54:00.001+08:00

I bolted awake at quarter to 5AM today, as I have for the past three days. I lay there trying to think of boring things that might induce sleep. Beets. The periodic table. A Jil Sander showroom. The problem though, is that even boring things fascinate me, even if just by virtue of trying to understand the interest vacuum in which they exist. Beets make me think about Dwight Schrute, and that makes me laugh. Thinking about the periodic table makes me sad, because I really only know that the symbol for potassium is K. That’s it.

Seeking to squash the periodic table doldrums, I surrendered to the raging sunlight and commenced watching this program on the Discovery channel about two white guys in the jungle. I came into the show midstream, so it’s hard to say what wonderful humanitarian project these men were working on, but this sort of thing gives me the creeps in general. You know, colonial-white-peeps-save-the-savages-shit. What’s so civilized about neckties? Or maybe I’m just over any show narrated by, or staring persons with, a British accent. I am ethnocentric that way. (Except Simon Calwell who is almost always right which makes him occasionally hot.)

Then I saw a little bit of this movie on TV, which will be at the top of my Netflix queue whenever I join it. It’s called Sword of the Valiant: The Legend of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. It took me about 10 minutes to find the title on Sean Connery’s movies on IMDB because it was so bad I was just SURE this was something he made in, like, the 50’s when he was trying to get out of being a dishboy and into being an actor. BUT HE MADE THIS MOVIE IN 1984! AFTER his turn as James Bond. I am all kinds of curious about the thought process on this one. Were his children big fans? Did he owe the mob money? Because from what little of the plot I could discover everyone was very high during the writing, shooting, editing and distribution of this film. Sean Connery in green glittery make-up! A newly crowned knight with a Monkee’s haircut asks his steward how he can to go the bathroom in the armour?! And his stewart hands him something lookling like a speculum! It’s true that rampant reruns of Dallas or some soccer game from 1873 are part and parcel of international television programming, but so are gems like this. Flop movies of the stars? Sign me up!

Still facing over 2 hours till startin’ time, I popped in a workout DVD and proceeded to question everything I’ve *not* done in the past 4 months to reach the level of muscle retardation I’m currently enjoying. I don’t have any memories of being carried around from place to place like Cleopatra, but that’s surely what must’ve been shaking down because I practically howled in pain just bending my elbows. So now I can add ‘become gladiator’ right beneath ‘learn symbol for magnesium” on my to-do list.

My apartment is right across the street from the mall/skyscraper where I work, so after 3 or 4 hours of "warm up" in my apartment yesterday, I took my non-coffee drinking ass straight past Starbucks and into this place called Element Fresh for a huge Coke Classic on the rocks. I noticed the man taking notes that were not related to my order whatsoever. Blond. UK? Blue eyes. USA? But before I could ask him what was going on he asked if I’d like it with ice so then we made out for awhile and when I got upstairs I asked on of my co-workers about the note taking, wondering if I had been described for a line-up or something, but she just said that they keep notes and if I go in the next day they’ll say “Coke on ice for you!?” Guess you know what I’m going to test out tomorrow!

Later on I wanted an ice cream, for the same reason I sometimes want a McDonald’s cheeseburger overseas; because sometimes you just want one thing to be familiar -- homogenized world be damned! So I waltzed into the Cold Stone Creamery and ordered a small thing of chocolate with chopped almonds, but the girl working behind the counter had so adorably perfected her customer service with perfectly rehearsed English phrases that I agreed to the addition of marshmallows (mistake) and brownie (great idea) quite easily. Her smile so charmed me when that when she handed me my change I think my uterus contracted.

Between this friendly exchange and the Coke guy earlier, I caught a glimpse of what urbanites the world over must love about their cities, which basically amounts to the instances in which their metropolis resembles a small town. I find that notion slightly hilarious, because sometimes all you really want in a small town is an ounce of anonymity and not one single comment about the fact that you haven’t been in church lately, or that so-and-so saw you going over the speed limit in town. AS IF JESUS NEVER BROKE THE SPEED LIMIT!

I Laugh In The Face of Jet Leg and First Impressions

2008-09-02T21:38:00.001+08:00

Two days in and my body is proving her mettle. Just yesterday it dealt with ascending and descending tens of thousands of feet twice in less than 24 hours, plus the stomach churning notion of crashing over Siberia. Call me Harry Burns but whenever I chance to notice just what part of the globe I’m over mid-flight, I always ask myself if I could survive there, assuming we would, however barely, survive impact. (Incidentally, I’m also known to cast this little Survivor game at the gate before takeoff. Who looks capable of felling a palm tree? Who best to orchestrate the construction of an igloo? Which man would look hot wielding a machete? Which person should NEVER touch the machete? Who would be power hungry? Who would keep the peace?)

Naturally I always presume I’ll survive in warm or tropical locales a thousand times more than, say Greenland or Siberia, the former of which is the place over which I’ve most often flown, and frankly should be the focus of my survival reveries. Seriously. Am I ready to stomach Narwhal meat? More importantly, am I prepared to deal with the karmic ramifications of slaying an oceanic unicorn? Although these questions are really only the tip of the iceberg (Wyatt, I am rolling!) they’re actually total bullshit all together because other than the effing cold, there’s probably a helluva lot more that can kill you in hot or tropical locales (disease leading the brigade) whereas Greenland and Siberia are so wicked tough they don’t even attract predators.

I don’t stand a chance.

But back to what I was saying about being a total Barbara Badass!

Basically my bod is doing some new things. Like living and working in skyscrapers, which means it’s ascended and descended so crazy much in 48 hours that on my way home tonight I thought some kind of “decompression” ala scuba diving would be a good idea. (PS, I do not scuba dive now nor can I imagine I ever will. Whole thing makes me feel claustrophobic, and no, I don’t even let myself *think* about all the cool sea life I’ll never witness.) So instead of going all the way to the ground floor, I got off on six and took 8 escalators down through the massive shopping mall at the base of the skyscraper to find the super mega market that had everything I was looking for except bread, nail polish remover, and the reason McCain picked Pallin (the last of these will never be found, and that’s okay). Overall, I’m feeling all right, but dude, it’s just weird to be so high without crampons or a squeegee.

Here’s what I had for lunch: bottomless hot tea, 1 lukewarm Diet Coke, sweet & sour pork, tofu with green onions and black sauce, steamed spinach dumplings Shanghai style, unknown object, unknown object, and unknown object all while my colleagues stared at my chopstick suckdom.

Already I’m catching myself making Shanghai vs. Nurnberg comparisons which are so unfair. Nurnberg is the small Four Square college with the killer liberal arts programs and notsomuch as a ping-pong table in the way of sports, whereas Shanghai does crazy renal research, invents hover boards AND wins the Big 10 every year. I’ve already found things here in 48 hours that took me two years to find in D-land. It’s unclear if this is because Shanghai has a quarter of a million expats and therefore more of the things they like on hand (gross generalization, but seriously, who doesn’t adore a shelf full of crunchy peanut butter?) or because I’ve learned where to look. Probably a little bit of both.

I’ve never lived in a city this huge. It’s got the height of Manhattan and the sprawl of LA with all the eerie façade of Las Vegas or Moscow. Anyplace so synthetic or shrouded in secrecy alerts my urge to scratch beneath the surface; just to be sure it’s real, even if what I see bums me out (abject poverty, corruption, waste, or worse, Tevas with socks).

I’m in the stage where everything is fascinating and I can’t stop staring, which reminds me of the time in between getting asked to the dance and actually going, where you’re so psyched about your dress and how you’re going to do your hair that when you’re date shows up with that weird hair lip you forgot he had going you’re sort of like, oh. Huh., but then again -- who cares? Why waste weeks of excitement on one little imperfection? I know it’s only a matter of time before I begin getting hate mail from my lungs and death threats from my pores and suddenly find my sleep filled with dreams of vast empty plains. The crunchy peanut butter and HBO shall do for now.

The End of the Fork As I Know It

2008-09-01T21:49:00.003+08:00

Six weeks and forty jillion mishaps later, I'm in Shanghai. My body thinks it's ten minutes to 7 am and is surprisingly spry, considering I am not a morning person. There's a ha-yooooooooooooge neon OLYMPUS sign visible from my room, which seems like some kind of cruel joke considering my camera didn't make it with me since the LCD on it decided to crap out. However, the fact that said sign reminds me of the Seinfeld episode when Kramer went batshit(ier) over the brightness from the Kenny Rogers Roasters sign in his apartment means I have no complaints.

In the spirit of firing ye olde blog up agian, I'm going to enlist the help of some guest posters this month while I busy myself figuring out where I can buy dental floss and the American edition of Elle.

For now, I'm here, and I'm glad.

Sweet and Savory

2008-08-21T06:46:00.002+08:00

I have been back on the west coast approximately 5 days now and feel pretty much as if I could cry a rainbow of fruit flavors and sweat sunshine. Hot damn, I love my home country.

Please note I will not speak any further about the Visa Olympics until I am delightfully cramped in my apartment in Shanghai. If you're feeling charitable, perhaps you can send vibes along the lines of "yay! Katie gets a visa!" or "big ups for needless EKGs" or things of that ilk. Muchas gracias in advance.

A short list of things I am loving about being home so far:

1. Seeing my family
2. Seeing my friends
3. Aaron Piersol
4. The Dark Knight on IMAX
5. turning right on red (illegal in Germany)
6. country music on the radio
7. customer service
8. small talk
9. irony in spades

Old Teenage Hopes Are Alive At Your Door

2008-08-14T20:07:00.005+08:00

The reason I can't go into details about a lot of what is going on with my, er, visa situation, isn't because my work makes Jason Bourne look like a staid accountant, but because so much of what is going on involves things way beyond the control any particular individual, and anyway, passing the buck isn't really my style.

Before I tell you how excited I am to fly to Portland tomorrow (so I can get a physical from an American doctor in order to take a day trip to the Chinese consulate in San Francisco where I will simultaneously pray to the powers that be will issue me a rush visa in one 8 hour period,) let me tell you a nice story about trying to hail a cab in the rain in Frankfurt, shortly after the Chinese Embassy sent me packing on Tuesday.

Hailing a cab in Germany means going to an appointed taxi rank. As Blythe long ago pointed out, one can be very happy in Deutschland provided one worships at the alter of order and logic. If you like to color outside the lines, or wear Tuesday undies on Friday, this is not the place for the likes of you.

Since I fall into the latter camp more often than not (despite the fact that I do not currently own, nor have I ever,Days of the Weeks Underpants.) I had the nerve to try and just hail a cab just outside the Orwellian facade of the unforgiving Chinese consulate. I stand for what seems like ages in the rain, feeling more and more pathetic with each drop until finally I spot a cab and wave him over...but he has a fare in the front seat. The driver smiles at me and shrugs, as if to say, Sorry!

Ha.

I begin to try to type the phone number from the side of the cab into my phone while he waits at the light. Perhaps seeing my dispair, or just having a heart, the driver rolls down the window and asks where I'm going.

"Train station", I say.

"Get in!", he says. "We´'re going there anyway!"

Small talk ensues (I'm a little shocked, this sort of thing doesn't happen so often in Franconian cabs) and before I know it I am telling him my whole sad flippin' story. He asks where I'm from in the US and I hesitate before saying, Northern California(dreading the Baywatch questions) and then he says, Oh, I am from Iran and there are a lot of us in LA. And I say, I know, my Dad lived there for 10 years and you guys have the best food and he says, Yeah, Iran has the best food and the worst politics and I say, Eh, a lot of countries are like that. The people are not the same as their goverments, look at us! And he was like, True, but only an American would admit that, that's why we love you even though we won't say it! and he then begins to laugh. Then I say, Well, I love Arabic food and then when he dropped me off he shook my hand saying he hoped everything would work out soon and wished me "safest travels".

Ah. Amazing how just one drop of compassion can wipe out a whole soul's worth of angst over alien living. Louis Armstrong was right. It is a wonderful world, particularly when you aren't too pissed off about your own tiny little BS thing to stop for five seconds adn see it.

I'm too superstitious to say just how good I feel about next week or to get into any kind of detail about the real possibility of everything working out REAL famously REAL SOON so how about we let this electric blue jumpsuit do the talking?

If You Can't Say Anything Nice

2008-08-13T01:15:00.002+08:00

Just say that you will be leave the breath holding to the synchronized swimmers.

People, I am still stuck in Germany.

The thing that is driving me most bonkers, is that I am thisclose to resenting my all-time favorite sporting event: the Summer Olympics! It's just that when the Chinese Embassy in Frankfurt flat out DENIED my visa earlier today, and I could feel the tears welling up, it was hard NOT to wonder if maybe it would be different if oh, this year's games were being hosted in, like, Canada.

But then I could also hear my high school coach screaming about the importance of heart and NEVER GIVING UP and so the supervisor trotted out to reject me as well, as I love to be kicked when I'm down (helps boost street cred). The only thing that kept me from losing my shit completly was thinking of that part in Tommy Boy where the gate agent cheerily says "I can get you on a flight BACK from Chicago?!!" That and, oh, the article I read about Chinese prisoners being killed for organ harvests. Humor and bone chilling fear will do it every time!

Anyway, my worldview is currently less rosy than I prefer so please, do me a huge favor: practice your balance beam routine on the back of your couch RIGHT NOW because that is what the Summer Olympics are all about. That, and rating cannonball prowess into the lake or suddenly having an interest in hurdling piles of laundry around the house. Diving off the counter tops? Let's not try that at home.

Two Things

2008-08-06T19:08:00.007+08:00

#1
I so wish I could say I've been trapped under a large table but in fact, I've been doing nuthin' but a whole lotta waiting when I'm not trying to work, or stay up late enough to talk to people in Shanghai. I wait for papers, official government documents, phone calls, and The !@#*(Y# Dark Knight to open in Germany, among other things. It's been a blast.

New best friends include the friendly checker down at PLUS corner market, who seems to enjoy my assortment of yoghurt, Coke Classic (that's what I need these days) and red onions. Every day she looks at me like I'm buying kumquats and salsa to sprinkle on my liver pate. Lady, I am sure you ring up weirder assortments of groceries, so keep the stink eye to yourself.

I've also grown closer to the two rando customer service agents at the DHL hotline in Germany. One doesn't speak much English, and the other does, but has a hearing loss. Hearing Loss Guy calls me Katie Fullivan but I don't correct him because he didn't ever skip English class to buy the latest Nena album, like Frau Only Speaks Deutsch did. She doesn't know where my visa papers are and doesn't care and if she hears my voice quivvering ONE MORE TIME is certain to come right over here and dump out all my carefully rolled clothes from my suitcase and make me re-pack, because that would truly be more torturous than the waiting. Also, she likes me to repeat the tracking number three times, every time, s-l-o-w-l-y.

#2
Are you watching Friday Night Lights? I just finished season 1 and boy, did I love it. The characters are so richly textured, the acting finer than fine (Grandma Saracen? Smash's Mom?), and the hand-held camera thing is easy to adjust to when you're on the edge of your seat. I shouldn't be so surprised by how much I came to like Tim Riggins (hello? He's Logan Echolls with legit baggage and nary a fey mannerism in sight), but I am. Matt Saracen is a welcome teen character (who has the sort of real problems Angela Chase could never bear) who stoically gets on with it with nary a complaint. I love that the writers don't cannonize him for it, it just is what it is. Oh and Landry? Matt's sidekick? STEALS THE ENTIRE SHOW.

ALMOST LOST!: Sense of Humor

2008-07-31T17:26:00.010+08:00

Since I thought I would be living in China by now, I'd marched over to the Deutsche Post a couple of weeks ago to request that any mail for me be forwarded to Sandra for the next 6 months. (Interestingly, the DP will only forward your mail to another address within DE for 6 months, and at a cost of 15 euros. Random USPS shout out: those ladies and gents will forward your mail anywhere IN THE WORLD. For free to a nominal fee.)

My proactive mail-forwarding has since proven to be problematic, as I'm eagerly awaiting the employment license and official invitation letter from China in order to finalize my work visa and board a flight bound for Shanghai. In fact, I've got a ticket to jet this Saturday, but I now know that aint gonna happen, because once I even have these papers in the hands of the Chinese conulate folks, it will take 2 business days for them to issue the visa. Which puts me at Monday night, at best.

Yesterday was the day I was told said documents would be delivered to my apartment, so I waited in the now empty echo chamber all day long whilst sweating my brains out because it was about a hundred and one, or one hundred and sixty seven if you factor in the humidity and my aggravation at having hair like Monica when they went to Barbados on "Friends".

Needless to say I was delighted when Sandra called after she'd gotten home to say she had a DHL slip in her mailbox, and that I could take it in in the morning to pick up the papes. sToKEd!

Well, the papers didn't arrive, nope. Just a handy note from DHL telling me I needed to show my face at customs in order to pick up a present from my Mom. And I had to go all the way to the post office for this? Now, nothing makes me give Mama Fratelli a run for her money than the possibility of having to pay a duty on a present. Jeeze guys, why don't you just kidney punch Santa until he bleeds out of his ears?

Thankfully, I am familiar with the looooooooooong wait at the customs office and so took the book that has been largely responsible for my sanity the last 10 days, The Spirit Catches You And You Fall Down by Anne Fadiman. I haven't been this riveted by a non-fiction tale since The Perfect Storm.

This book is amazing.

The more I read, the more engrossed I become. At first I thought I'd recommend it to my friends who work in social services capacities. Then I realized, actually, anyone who cares about humanity, connectivity, kindness, compassion, diversity, politics, medicine, spirituality, family, faith, responsibility, covert CIA opperations, social justice, history, parenting, priorities, health care, welfare reform, physicians, vetrans, globalization, or journalism (I think this might be the most objective in-depth reporting I've ever read) should absolutely read this book.

There's nothing like knowing a bit more about the Hmong struggle to sustain their vibrant culture in the face of rampant misunderstanding to remind one take a deep breath, conjure up their best German, and amicably explain that no, under no circumstances will they pay an import tax for their Mother being a rockstar who sent the first seasons of Friday Night Lights and Mad Men, respectively. I may be a foreigner, but I'm no idiot.

Also, welcome to K-prah's book club! I'm going to start recommending books I like, and if you feel like reading them too, knock yourself out! I'd be super glad to hear what you think of them here. Enjoy!

Daring to Care Again

2008-07-26T14:54:00.002+08:00

There are scratches and scrapes on my shins and ebows from having burrowed through the Tiergarten in Berlin to see Obama on Thursday. I'd rushed from the train, dropped my bags at the hostel, made an Australian friend who opted to join me, and then scurried over. The walk didn't look long, but like all things Vegas in proportion, took twice as long. Over the creek and through the bush, across the dog run and around the barricades we went.

So that's how I ended up shoulder to shoulder with a man from Seattle to my right ("Oh, my sister-in-law lives in Portland!" Small world.) and a beautiful couple to my left (he from Afghanistan, she from Iran).

I've felt pretty disconnected lately, without regular access to TV, the internet(s), phones, etc. and it's been nice and it's been crappy. Limbo isn't a place where I thrive, but I know being challenged to go with the flow is, for all intents and purposes, good for a control fan like me. Perhaps that's why, standing on the edge of a park in a city once so deeply divided by political ideologies, I was doubly touched to feel so connected.

I heard accents and languages I've never heard before. I heard the Afghan man laugh loudly when Obama said something about the complications and challenges of Afghanistan. Two German women said he wasn't blunt enough; that he played it too safe in his speech. The Dutch man behind me said he appreciates the sense of harmony Obama exudes. Two students, maybe poets, unfurled a banner that read GET OUT OF IRAQ. NOW. and then argued with each other regarding whether or not it was fair to block other people's view. A group of parents nearby took turns hoisting their children onto their shoulders to see 'O-ma-ma'.

It was that beautiful time of day, when everyone's head is crowned with gold, (my grandpas favorite time of day, actually,) and as I looked around at this crazy huge crowd of people it was not just easy to believe that peace is possible and that the world is mostly a very good place, but to know it.

Going into this election I've been equal parts thrilled (there is NO WAY Bush can win again!) and terrified (OMG, could we possibly do worse?). I mean, I was bummed in 2000 and devastated in 2004. Devastated. Could I risk my heart again? After Thursday, I know it's out of my hands.

I have hope for Obama. I want him to win. Bad. Whether I want to like him this much or not, it's more clear than ever that he's officially won me over, in spite of or maybe even because I still do admire McCain tremendously (the guy is candid, a vetran, and loves his country. I can't argue with a lot of that). I can't wait to see how these two ratchet up the final leg of their campaigns, who their running mates will be, and how we will decide to move forward. Lord knows the path is thick with brambles and we'll get a few scratches here and there, but if we look around and sill like each other, are still capable of seeing our own potential for goodness, well, that's surely worth a few scrapes along the way.

Ripping Off The Band-Aid

2008-07-22T18:34:00.006+08:00

A friend of mine recently confessed to not really understanding how fax machines work, a fact she'd shared to the ridicule of many co-workers. I said, Did I ever tell you about the time at work I thought I was just enjoying Ms.Spears singing "Drive Me Crazy" privately, but really, I hadn't pushed the headphone jack all the way in and it was blaring out among the entire department? Yeah. This is why people love us. Never be ashamed of not knowing how fax machines work, I say. Seriously, there are ones and zeros flying through the sky right now delivering this post across the Atlantic and the Rockies not to mention that horrible merge on I-84 near the Rose Garden? I wish I understood it all, but I am not ashamed to say I don't!

Thursday was my last day in the office here, the very same day I'd heard from Shanghai HR that my visa application wasn't even close to being processed. It was too late to reschedule the movers at that point, although Juan was typically enthusiastic even in saying "No! Can't do!" HA! HA! HA! [Here you see me laughing on the inside.]

Now that I've had 72 hours to digest all of this information, and as I write from a (mostly) empty apartment, I am beginning to see this as a blessing in disguise. I have a bit more time to get things just-so before I leave (see: finding more allergy meds somehow) and ramping up for me new job. Oh I know, I can't believe I just said "ramping up for me new job" either.

You wanna know what ISN'T a blessing in disguise? Totally hitting it off with a cutie patootie guy on Saturday to the extent that he walks me home, comes in, and we sit on my balcony and talk until well after 6:30, about all manner of, really, rather intimate things, and then he crashes here (not with me, on the futon, but still, here) and we get up & I made breakfast (it's about 1pm at this point) and he's all "look at you whipping that up" and then I ask if he'll give me a ride to my friends, because we had plans and I don't have a car because I thought I was flying to China yesterday, and he's like TOTALLY, and we're just talking and having fun & its easy the whole time and a little tense (in the best way) and then we talk and laugh the whole way to my friends and then I go to get out the car AND HE EFFING HIGH FIVES ME. WTF?

I think I need to officially change my name to Elaine.

Mother*%(ker!

Sigh.

Fax machines? Chinese visas? I say, bring 'em on. They cannot be more mystifying than dudes.

Note to self: do not provoke animals in China

2008-07-18T00:20:00.001+08:00

The other day I had to go get some vaccinations proir to ye old move to China. After I'd filled out the forms and waited for about an hour, it was shot time. The doctor held the needle about three feet from my shoulder before slamming it into my arm, as though he were doing a side-arm serve in volleyball instead of administering a shot. When I winced slightly he said "Sorry, it's just that I only bowled a 270 last night and I'm building up my strength." Okay, he didn't say that, but WHAT THE HELL ELSE WAS THE REASON FOR THE GODFORSAKEN WIND UP? After that the other shot felt, well, like a shot in the arm. Two bandaids and one dead arm later, he asked if I knew that China was the worlds second leader in death by rabies. Uh, no, I did not know that. Radical.

Will Not Be Packing Harpoon

2008-07-14T23:28:00.003+08:00

I spent most of this morning waiting for Juan the Mover, who called several times from the autobahn with updates on the various accidents resulting in terrible traffic jams. It turns out that one heavy Spanish accent and three "update" phone calls obliterate any irritation I might have harbored at the dude for arriving over 2 hours late. Any irkdom was further mitigated by the enormous wayfarer glasses he wore and the fact that he scrunched up his nose and squinted deeply when he laughed his high pitched, school boy laugh, which pretty much happened after everything he said.

"You cannot pack your weapons or fireworks!" HA HA HA HA!

"It is important if you take spices, to put them in your carry on with your jewelry!" HA HA HA HA!

"We will store everything in the warehouse with air conditioning in the summer, and heating in the winter!" HA HA HA HA!

Ladies and gentleman, Juan is here all week. Tip your waitress! Try the shrimp!

Did I tell you I bumped into a pirate last week? Now that I know I'm moving, I find I'm less inclined to put up with any behavior Germans might classify as "direct" but I might classify as "rather fucking rude" - like people who bump into me with nary an 'excuse me' or, 'sorry' uttered.

Rewind to last week when I'm walking into a coffee shop to buy some water and am hockey checked by a tall dude to my right. In the spirit of No More Miss Nice Girl I'm about to say 'excuse you!' all pissed off but he grabs my shoulders and says "Sorry! I didn't see you!" and when I look up at him he smiles, with HIS EYE PATCH ON and says "See! I really didn't see you!" And oh, we laughed so hard (he was an older Australian guy, very jolly actually) and I felt like, you know, the eyepatch hasn't been that awesome since the days of Steve and Kayla.

This week is going to involve a lot more of the same 873,917 small but imperative Things I Need To Do Before Moving, which were mostly meant to be tackled on Saturday. Instead, Things I Need To Do Before Moving morphed into I Must Lay Face Down on My Bed FOREVER Because I Got Home At Five AM Again. More on that later. Swear.

You Can Bet The DJ Will Be Playing "'Mo Money, 'Mo Problems"

2008-07-11T18:18:00.004+08:00

If I was all Miss Mopey Pants earlier this week, sweating how much I'm going to miss my life in Germany, wondering how nearly three years went by in an instant, than I'm all Patty Simcox on speed today - so excited am I about the prospect of a big boogie fest later on tonight. Joel and Stella and I have rented a rooftop bar and we're all going to ring in our thirties in our semi-formal wear. I love that just about all the friends I've made here will be there, and that I can silently bid them all farewell with the pretense of a whole 'nother celebration going on. I never expected to feel so conflicted about leaving, but I'm thankful I do, because it means I had a really, really, good time.

On a completely unrelated note, when my Dad was here, we got to talking about the happiest moments in our lives, and both of us agreed that the wiffle ball games on our front "yard" (aka, an acre of mowed weeds) were some of the best. We'd all stay out for hours playing three flies up, and letting our dog, Honey, shag all the triples or home runs. In fact, getting the ball back from her was half the workout. Which is partly why I'm directing some of my rock-it-out energy toward whatever assholes in Connecticut aren't stoked about a wiffle ball field in their neighborhood. Really? This is a major problem and cause for litigation in America? I'm pretty sure wiffle ball is everything that's great about America. It's summertime for chrissakes, and the only thing more fun than playing wiffle ball until sundown might be dancing until sun up. Yeeehhhaw!

Don't Know When I'll Be Back Again

2008-07-09T19:44:00.003+08:00

In less than 10 days I'll work my last day in the office here and board a plane bound for Shanghai, a massive city in an even more massive country, neither of which I've ever been to before. There will be more pavement, skyscrapers, pot stickers, pollution, sights, sounds and smells in that one place than I've probably ever known in my lifetime, the thought of which I can't quite pin down. Despite this change being totally inked, I'm having a hard time believing this is really happening - - even as yet another person leaves my apartment with an appliance I've off-loaded and even after the movers have called to schedule the apartment survey.

Lately I've felt as though I'm on an assembly line doing all the necessary piecework to pull together the whole; a visa application there, some immunizations here, but that I am not actively engaged. I don't even know what I'm supposed to be building? It's like I'm putting the caps on the tubes of toothpaste as they go down the line, but all the while thinking about those random stones on Easter Island, or wondering how I'm going to get some Friday Night Lights DVDs before I move (I don't want region 2, I've seen enough on You Tube to know I want to own that series forever.) I'm just not here, and it frustrates me because I've only got a few weeks left. I feel like I should be running through the streets stuffing my face with those little Nurnberger sausages, singing PROST! and clanking steins of beer every chance I get. Garth is right, right? "Live in the now!"

People keep asking me to go to lunch - one last time! - but I don't want to go out like that. This already feels like a much bigger heave-ho than that from Portland, a city I left with the utmost self-assurance I'd return. I mean, it's quite possible I'll never live in Germany again, let alone visit more than once or twice. After all, it's expensive to get to Europe from the west coast. People get busy. Americans rarely get more than a weeks vacation. Who can say where my European friends and I will roam?

Last night I really would have skipped dinner with friends to mope in my quickly unraveling apartment if I hadn't overheard the host fighting back tears that afternoon while yet another guest called and cancelled. My friend had spend all day Sunday preparing a traditional Chinese meal for a few of us, particularly in honor of my move, and it took my listening to Enrique Iglesias ESCAPE over and over as I peddled to her house to ensure I could be a properly chipper guest.

While I'm not a person who necessarily believe everything happens for a reason (I tend only to think that when something stupidly good happens), I do believe in signs. When I saw a small praying mantis lying in wait above the door to my balcony when I got home, my heart stopped in my chest. There, I thought: fear. And not two seconds later: glee. Thrilled at finally feeling an emotion I could pin down, I steeled myself to walk over to the door and gently shoo it out, but in the end I just couldn't do it. I was just too afraid. Still, I went to sleep soundly, because it made me realize that even when I'm faced with immobilizing fear (really, my fear of those creatures is nothing I can explain, it's just . . .visceral) I know I'm alive, and that the things that scare us tend to be the things worth facing - however hard.

This morning the little bugger was in the exact same place, as if he were just waiting for me to open the door and head out. And so I did.

Alligators: New Sharks Or Not?

2008-07-02T18:57:00.009+08:00

Sometimes, when the day calls for a little levity, I head over to the Short Imagined Monologues section of McSweeney's.

This shark rebuttal never ceases to amuse me, and whenever I re-read it I like to pretend that it will be a great source of humor for me, if/when I am being attacked by a shark. That is, of course, providing I can possibly take a second away from attempts to punch it on the nose or gouge it's eyes out (see, when I imagine being attacked by a shark, it's only got my left leg in it's jaws, so I can still egg beat with my right one and claw furiously at it's face. Oh dreams!). How fun it would be to laugh, you know, underwater and in the face of death just thinking of this monologue and going, "Well, it's not like I hadn't been warned! Wish you were an alligator! Ha ha ha!"

Anyway...I turned Pam Polo back into the dealer yesterday. It was really weird to catch a cab from the dealer back into town. Did I ever tell you about Pam's stereo, and how it was the reason I decided to lease her? She had a tape deck, am/fm radio, and in-dash 6 CD changer. My dream car stereo. I was able to enjoy all my fave old mixed tapes, plus use a tape adapter for my iPOD AND enjoy The Eagle, the American military radio station when I felt like hearing baseball scores. It was also a stock stereo, which I enjoy precisely because nobody steals stock stereos.

Pam was named after Pam Beasley, of The Office fame, because of her plain gun-metal grey exterior, and super fun, yet practical interior. She couldn't keep up on the autobahn most of the time (she topped out at 160 kph with the steering wheel shaking) but she did have good gas mileage, which is rather clutch considering gas is roughly $8 a gallon here.

My Mom and her friend, Peggy, are visiting & so far have been a total hoot. We've enjoyed wine on the balkon most nights, and they've had their coffee out there in the mornings, too. Tonight they'll return from their overnight jaunt to Neuschwanstein, and I will ply them into helping me marry all my CDs with good wine and fresh chicken salad. Fascinating, no?

Here's something that I found fascinating: How To Trigger Green Lights. Now, there's some info you can USE.

Wait...something just came to me and I think a quick poll is in order. Please weigh in on the following contests:

Shark vs. Alligator?
Alligator vs. Killer Whale?
Killer Whale vs. Shark?

Assume that the alligator is in the ocean. Lord knows we don't need to give ourselves heart attacks imagining sharks and killer whales going up river. Also, assume the killer whale is wild; not a star at Sea World.

Working Girls

2008-06-27T23:26:00.008+08:00

OMG, this afternoon I was telling this Scottish girlfriend how I was, like, totally bummed that she can't come to this party I'm throwing with some people in a couple of weeks because I was fully stoked to introduce her my friend, Hot Ivy League Guy (HILG). She was all, who's that? Do I know him? And I'm like, here! This is him!As I pulled up his photo on Facebook. She's like, OMG, he's so totally news anchor cute!

And I was like, yeah, I know, RIGHT!?! And she was all, wait, why don't you like him? And I was like, well, he is my friend and yes, gorgeous, but you know how there are Rhett's and there are Ashley's? Well, he's an Ashley, and if there's one thing I know about me and guys, it's that I need someone Rhetty. You know, a guy who can wear a pink polo and wrestle a calf. A mans man with manners.

She was like, So you're a Matthew McCaughnahey kind of girl? And I was, uuuummmmmm, sure. Circa 1993 when he used to shower and keep his shirt on more often? Totally.

And then she was all, dude, HILG is REALLY hot, but way too preppy perfect for me. I like guys scruffy and pirate like. Maybe if you dragged him through a hedge a couple of times and didn't let him shave or cut his hair for a few weeks, I could get into it.

I'm like really? Prisoner chic? So you're a Fabrizio Moretti kind of girl? And she's like, TOTALLY! OMG! Like Jesus put through the wash a few times!

And then, almost at exactly the same time, we remembered that we were not, in fact, standing in front of our lockers in pegged Guess jeans clutching our Tiger Beat covered text books to our chests and then we both got red and embarrassed and back to business.

A Time To Dance

2008-06-26T00:42:00.006+08:00

Near to the top of my list of Foregone Amenities I Fantasize About is having a land line with an ancient answering machine, possibly paired with a rotary phone. And I hate the phone. Letters? Care packages? Cards? These are my milk. I cling to my Luddite tendencies like a sloth to it's branch, and yet lately I'm all over the Internet, for everything from black market Crystal Light Fruit Punch to finding handy conversion charts for cups to grams . Conquering my ignorance where most things technological are concerned was part of my motivation to create this blog (in addition to seeking an autonomous, creative outlet) but I did not (and still don't to a large extent), expect to find my sense of community increased -- but that's exactly what has happened.

This Friday two strangers will join a mutual friend and myself for dinner here in Nurnberg to discuss the highs and lows of living overseas, and possibly the sexiness quotient of Eddie Vedder. When I've felt marooned or maybe just unsure about how the Yellow Sack recycling program worked, I could look to other expat bloggers for commiseration, if not helpful advice. This little blogaroo has also been a boon to my family and friends back home, some of whom last saw me on a daily basis over 10years ago (Ahoy, Staci! Word up, Alisa!) & may have wondered what the hell I've been doing lately.

Then there are these completely random peeps you've never met in your life, but whom you just know you'd like if you did. One of my favorite discoveries has been the blog of one MetroDad, a man who lives with his family in Manhattan and writes mostly about raising their little girl in the big city, with the occasional anecdote about a friendly run-in with Adam Yauch at a city playground.

I'm always interested in knowing a tiny bit more about lives that seem, superficially at least, so different than my own. The icing on top is realizing that, really, whether you live in a skyscraper or a lean-to, almost everyone wants the same things in life: peace, love, shelter, food. . .maybe a good laugh now and then for good measure. When MetroDad posted a link to the video below today, I got misty-eyed finding my faith that we're all far more alike then we are different, affirmed.

Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.

As for my fears about the good of technology? More or less forgotten.

Yes, But What About The Dancing In The Streets? Or How To Coddle Inconsolable Neighbors?

2008-06-24T23:21:00.012+08:00

U.S. Embassy Warden Message: 6/25 UEFA Championship Semi-Final Match

June 24, 2008 Warden Message

On Wednesday evening, June 25, Germany and Turkey will meet in the semifinal round of the 2008 European Football Championship in Basel, Switzerland. Various cities in Germany have set up viewing areas for the public to watch the live broadcast of this game. The "Fan Mile" in front of the Brandenberg Gate in Berlin is expected to draw up to 500,000 German and Turkish fans, Frankfurt am Main will host a public viewing area at the Rossmarkt, and Munich is setting up a large public viewing area at the Olympic Stadium where 30,000 fans are anticipated. Similar events are planned in other cities and spontaneous celebrations or demonstrations related to the match may occur throughout Germany.

Because of the high fan interest in this prestigious semi-final elimination game between Germany and Turkey, there exists the possibility that disturbances, including violent disturbances may occur before, during or after the match, which begins at 20:45. At a minimum, post-game celebrations will likely result in traffic congestion in larger cities. Crowds celebrating previous German and/or Turkish victories have blocked streets and rocked vehicles attempting to pass through them.

We remind American citizens in Germany that even mass gatherings and demonstrations intended to be peaceful can turn confrontational and possibly escalate into violence. American citizens are therefore urged to avoid the areas of demonstrations if possible, and to exercise caution if within the vicinity of any demonstrations. American citizens should stay current with media coverage of local events and be aware of their surroundings at all times.

Demonstrations be damned, I am rooting for Turkey.

Maybe it's the contrarian in me, or the simply the indescribable solidarity of the alienated, but I just really want them to kick some German ass. Yes, it has been my pleasure to live here and for the most part, Germany as a whole has welcomed my stay. However, if I have an opportunity to shimmy down my street after Turkey wins, sashaying with that much more verve for every time I've had a finger wagged in my face for, I don't know, breathing incorrectly, well then, A-FRICKIN-MEN.

Just Full Of Opinons Today (As Always)

2008-06-20T22:53:00.009+08:00

Last night Germany defeated Portugal 3-2 in a helluva a Euro Cup game. While the Portugese may have lost, they still win the HOTTEST PLAYERS IN THE TOURNAMENT AWARD. (Oh yeah, that includes you, Italy. No amount of Armani can mask the fact that you're total babies about every call. NOT HOT.)

***

I had no idea how much it meant to me that the Celtics win the NBA Championship this year until LA came back for that one game and I felt like crying. Thankfully everything worked out as it should, and those CHEATING JERKS WHO STOLE THE CHAMPIONSHIP FROM THE KINGS IN 2002 got their asses handed to them. More on that another time, maybe months or years and years from now when just thinking about that game doesn't break my heart ever so slightly. (Incidentally, my sister and I were talking about that game the other night & she admitted to crying afterwards. I think I was just in too much shock.)

***

My own little victory last night involved successfully returning a 50 euro camera bag I bought & realized I hated. Why is this is victory for me? I used to loathe shopping so much I wouldn't even try things on, let alone purchase, test, and return things. Look, Ma! I'm growing!

**

The latest Padre Prattle? "W is still a huge asshole." See: subject of an email this morning with only this article attached.

***

ON A HAPPIER NOTE - Are you following the frugal traveler on his Grand Tour? Matt Gross's missive about Rome today is both spot-on and lovely. I've said it before --and I know it may sound gauche -- but Paris? Not all that. Rome rules as my all-time favorite European city.

A choice exerpt:

"Perhaps someday, a year or 10 from now, I’ll return to Rome and find all those big, bad, expensive things that I’ve somehow failed to encounter on this trip. But for now, I’m content to sit at the edge of a piazza — a moderately priced glass of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo in my hand and a plate of aperitivi in my lap — and watch everyone else rush around, trying to get four things done in a single day."

***

Attack of the Cloth Snatchers!

2008-06-18T23:35:00.009+08:00

A lot of things that require my cooperation with several other humans are going on right now. I mean -- that's always happening, sure -- but in the last 72 hours 735 people have asked me for 938 different things within the exact same 15 minutes. I have been compliant, polite and patient.

And it sucks.

All this asking, this pestering, this uninvited advising, this gathering of personal data are part and parcel of making an international move, but I'd rather fight off the flying monkey things from the Wizard of Oz than spell my last name one more time as though it were of Indian origin (sole-ee-van). (No offense to Indian origins, it's just annoying to go your whole life with an ostensibly common easy-to-spell last name that now must be painstakingly explained. Over and over and twice on Tuesdays. Remind me again to suck it up in China.)

The truth is I love to be around a lot of people -- especially around people I love!The only thing I like as much as being around tons of people I adore is the company of a good book and acres upon acres of solitude. I very much doubt I am alone in my thinking.

When our 7th grade reading teacher, Mrs. Douyon, asked us to memorize & recite a poem in front of the class, I knew immediately which one I would choose. Even though I'm sure my motivation for picking it then had a lot more to do with wanting to eat cookie dough for dinner every night instead of the well-balanced meals my mother prepared -- I love that I still find myself turning over these lines in my head when the world is a lit-tle too in my face for my liking. Like today.

LIFE

They told me that Life could be just what I made it -
Life could be fashioned and worn like a gown;
I, the designer; mine the decision
Whether to wear it with bonnet or crown.

And so I selected the prettiest pattern -
Life should be made of the rosiest hue -
Something unique, and a bit out of fashion,
One that perhaps would be chosen by few.

But other folks came and they leaned o'er my shoulder;
Somebody questioned the ultimate cost;
Somebody tangled the thread I was using;
One day I found that my scissors were lost.

And somebody claimed the material faded;
Somebody said I'd be tired ere 'twas worn;
Somebody's fingers, too pointed and spiteful,
Snatched at the cloth, and I saw it was torn.

Oh! somebody tried to do all the sewing,
Wanting always to advise or condone.
Here is my life, the product of many;
Where is that gown I could fashion - alone?

-- Nan Terrell Reed, "The Best Loved Poems of the American People," ed. Hazel Felleman (1936).

My All-Time Favorite Forward

2008-06-17T00:18:00.002+08:00

I realize saying that is sort of like saying "my all-time favorite strain of the flu" but seriously, this one is my favorite because it is so totally-otally true. Also because I want a dog so badly it's stupid. I will never have another cat in my life unless someone I love (but haven't met yet) insists on it, because Max, the Siamese cat I grew up with, was the best cat of all time. How many cats in contemporary American society let you put your dolly dresses on them while you push them in a stroller? Exactly. Obviously I am in an authoritative mood today.

Lastly, I don't know who wrote this, so I cannot give you credit here, but you totally nailed it. Good job.

***************************************************
The Dog's Diary:

8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm - Dinner! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

------------------------------------------

The Cat's Diary: Day 983 of my captivity.

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.
They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed
some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations
perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up
my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape.
In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today I
decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had
hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly
demonstrates my capabilities. However, they merely made condescending
comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. Jerks!

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was
placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I
could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my
confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this
means, and how to use it to my advantage. Today I was almost successful
in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his
feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow, but at the top
of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches.
The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released, and seems
to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded. The bird
must be an informant. I observe him communicate with the guards
regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have
arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe.

For now.

Still Classy, After All These Years

2008-06-15T22:53:00.005+08:00

Happy day after Flag Day everyone! I don't know about you, but mine was a real doozer. After going to bed at the saintly 3rd grade hour of 9pm on Friday, I sprung out of bed to mail my sister's birthday present (it takes a lot longer than necessary to mail things sometimes) and get some train tickets for my Mom's upcoming visit. The remainder of the day was spent running errands and pretending to be doing as much as I should be to prepare to move.

Sandra came over in the evening and I served her red beans and rice because she didn't believe me when I said there is this whole place in America called Louisiana where the French made a massive cultural impact and the cuisine is Cajun ("Oh! cay-zhoon!"). We made mojitos to enjoy on the balcony, but ran out of rum 2 drinks in. So then we made them with tequila and when the fresh mint ran out it was
margarita time.

Due to the fact that Sandra is a super social monkey and is more or less booked until the third week in August, this was pretty much the last time we could hang out mono-e-mono before I move. It has been agreed that we will host one another's children for at least a summer in high school or college, and that Guillaume Canet is so fucking hot he's almost blurry to look at. We both feel that Alicia Keys has stealthily edged out Gwen Stefani as our non-sexual pop crush and that the best part of our trip to New Zealand was when I puked in the sink on the ferry in front of the hot guy and spent the rest of the journey curled in a ball in the sleeping quarters normally reserved for long-haul truckers. Or maybe that was Sandra's favorite part?

I don't know. There was a lot of blended drinks and Whitney Houstan belt-outs before she left at 3 and I decided to read the Vogue with SJP on the cover before bed. Or at least that was clearly my intention since I woke up with it tented over my face.

About waking up...that happened at 8 o'fucking clock thanks to Joe Jumping Jacks upstairs. Seriously! CAN YOU NOT WORK OUT LATER THAN EIGHT AM ON A SUNDAY PAL?

I needed a Coca Cola Classic STAT so I wobbled onto my bike and rode to the nearest gas station to pick one up. A super cute dog was tethered up outside and when I went to pet him he barked in my face so furiously he snapped me right out of my hangover and convinced me to work out when I got back home.

Which I did. Which was, maybe, the worst decision of my entire life.

Now I want to do only two things: 1)go to the hospital and get an IV or 2) lay on the bottom of the shower for about an hour.

Number one is a way better idea, but you know how you never want to go to the doctor and/or hospital because you're afraid you're not really sick or badly injured enough to show your face? I don't really have that fear today because I'm 100% sure if a medical professional saw me they'd have one piece of advice: quit being an asshat and drink some water. I already know that, so I'm headed toward the shower.

Don't Worry, There's Still Time - I'm Just Getting Ahead of Myself

2008-06-13T23:51:00.004+08:00

I had my last German class today. There are only 3 of us, plus the teacher. There used to be four, but the Italian girl with the crazy knack for the past tense dropped out to plan her ginormous wedding. That left me with the Finnish former soap star/polyglot (8 languages and counting,) and the lion haired Frenchman I never stopped finding inexplicably attractive.

(You know how you think it's just a little crush and then all of a sudden he's 15 minutes late and you know it's totally possible he's the reason you've kept coming to class even when you didn't do your homework and cannot care less about the proper conjugation of "is". Of course he has a girlfriend and an ass as wide as my wrist, but WHATEVER, see INEXPLICABLE above.)

As the lesson came to an end and we were all saying our goodbyes, it occurred to me how much I'm going to miss the German language, among other things. (Also how totally right I was to think Fine Frenchie would be a good hugger. What he lacks in buns he makes up for in arms.) Sure, it's not the sexiest of languages -- it's not a romance language, yo -- but there is a sweet lilt in certain dialects and a good spirit that regularly lingers in the enthusiastic "JA!"

I've always felt delightfully mischievous uttering schlussel (key) or ananas (pineapple) because they are a pair of those great words that make your brain smile in spite of itself. It's a fun point to get to in a new language; when there are words you're totally excited just to speak because you like how they feel in your mouth.

"How are you?"

"KEYS AND PINEAPPLE!"

Suddenly the speech of two year olds make perfect sense.

Years ago an American friend of mine mistook the German farewell, "TSCHUSS!" for, "SHOES!" and so would often holler back, "JACKETS! PANTS!" (His logic being that people were saying, "I've got my shoes on! I'm going!")

Anyway.

Scarves! Hats! Keep in touch!

I am already starting to miss this place.

Political Cliff Note

2008-06-12T14:52:00.000+08:00

If you're living under a rock, or maybe just overseas, I think this is a super helpful way to get up to speed. Also, mildly entertaining.

In Which Mutual Affection is Infectious

2008-06-09T21:39:00.000+08:00

When the sun hit my eyes this morning I was pissed. Angry bear pissed. Not because it was sunny, but beacause it was quarter to 5. WTF!?! So I watched this the second I could, as it's my go-to cheer-er upper.

Perhaps you too enjoy seeing Jon Stewart laugh so hard he falls out of his chair.

three.oh.

2008-06-06T16:06:00.010+08:00

Sometimes my weekend horoscope portends such radical ass-kicking that I am as fired up to measure up as I am terrified to operate below even the most blasé of planetary projections.

It aint easy bein' THURDY, but someones gotta do it!

This week has been quite the social hurricane, with parties left, right, center; in the Tupperware in the back of the fridge, etc. When the bartender played WIPEOUT Wednesday night, just as the clock struck down the final seconds of my twenties, I had a wonderful case of the hippy-hippy shakes because the irony of that song playing at that exact moment? Not lost on me.

Turning 30 was as spectacular as it was ordinary. My Mom called, as always, to tell me the (carefully selected) details of my birth. My niece phoned to invite herself to my party, even after I explained that if she began walking right after hanging up, it'd be almost her birthday by the time she got here. But she could not be convinced otherwise. She feels it's important to celebrate.

I took a shower, brushed my teeth, combed my hair - had some scrambled eggs. My padre sent an email reminding me to wear the earrings he bought me in Rome, just for luck. Friends sent cards, text messages, and care packages. One flew here from New York and another baked me the best chocolate chip cookies I have ever tasted.

I went to work, came home, took my shoes off one at a time, had a glass of water and a few friends over to enjoy my Mom's enchiladas. Later I soaked the pan, wiped up the crumbs, recycled the wine bottles and slid into sleep.

This morning I woke with a prayer in my heart for the first time in many, many, moons. As I lay there in the half-light, penning a phat thank-you card to the big JC for all the love in my life, I felt downright delightful about my future. Which reminded me of something a stranger had said earlier in the week, when I found myself discussing English idioms with two German gents.

If you took the wide open stretches of Texas, Australia, Russia, and the entire expanse of the Sahara you could still not contain my happiness at hearing one of them surprisingly rattle off my all-time favorite: "A ship in harbor is safe, but it is not what ships are built for."

If that's not an excellent maxim for anyone riding off into another year around the sun, I don't know what is.

My Girlfriends Are Trump

2008-06-02T13:26:00.003+08:00

My friend Amanda arrived on Saturday evening and hit the ground running. Not only did she opt NOT to face plant five seconds after we walked in the door, she threw on a skirt and heels and joined me in going out well into the wee hours of Sunday morning.

At one point, I had to excuse myself from the bar to take a phone conference from the lady laids in Portland who needed to recap SATC just after they'd seen it. When I walked back to our party, explaining that a SATC recap had been in order, everyone nodded gravely, as if that were the biggest cultural event of our time. People who get it are the best.

As if Amanda's energy that eve weren't champ enough, she groggily rallied for a day at the lake on Sunday (unlike me, she's not the biggest fan of long days in the sun) where not 15 minutes after laying her towel down, she took a soccer ball TO THE FACE. "Well, guess that takes my mind off my hangover." Many tears of pain and laughter later and she was rocking a nice scab and a hefty bruise.

Catch phrase of the day: "Keep your balls out of my face!"

That's all I've got heute.

Oh, and this fun little diddy I learned about from Blythe.

Click on the mosaic to see a larger version.

a. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search.
b. Using only the first page, pick an image.
c. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into fd's mosaic maker.

The Questions:

1. What is your first name?
2. What is your favorite food?
3. What high school did you go to?*
4. What is your favorite color?
5. Who is your celebrity crush?
6. Favorite drink?
7. Dream vacation?
8. Favorite dessert?
9. What you want to be when you grow up?
10. What do you love most in life?
11. One Word to describe you.
12. Your flickr name

*Sadly, the art deco words of the ancient FIELD HOUSE at Marysville High were cut-off in the mosaic. I can't count the number of miserable liners I ran in that place, but enough to think I'd be happy never to see it again.

You know what happened when I saw those familiar words. Suddenly I could smell the sweaty socks and varnished wood and hear ancient swamp cooler sputtering to life over the din of sneakers squeaking across the courts. AND I SMILED.

The Final Countdown

2008-05-31T15:25:00.001+08:00

June 5, 1978: It was so hot that my Mom, wearing a muumuu, plopped herself into a kiddie pool to cool off. When it was finally go time, it didn’t take much more than an hour (and 9 months) for yours truly to join the party on planet Earth. Of all the traits I hope to have inherited from my mother, her penchant for quick delivery ranks toward the tippy top.

Two significant traits reveal themselves early. 1) I am fussy. 2) I cry every time I see my snowsuit.

1979: Feb or March we leave British Columbia for Palm Springs, California. If my snowsuit made me cry, the combination of constant sunshine and rampant nudity thrills me. We rent house with a big swimming pool and are often in it. Grammy & Boppa and Grandma Benita all live in So Cal too, and it’s nice to be closer to them then in, say, Canada. In less than a year we make the first move toward settling in Northern California. Around this time I begin to pose for pictures like Kevin Arnold bored to tears in Ben Steins class. It’s an expression I stick with for pretty much the next 20 years

Many Things; Few Significant

2008-05-29T15:20:00.009+08:00

NO SATC SPOILERS. SWEAR.
Oh you guys,
The man and his wife who own the English theatre were so cute last night. They made us all wait outside, then they collected tickets one at a time (they never do that normally) and PASSED OUT GLASSES OF SEKT as we walked in. How cute is that? So the whole audience of us (about 45 people?) got these little glasses of bubbly before the German ice cream commercials came on and then the man asked us all to raise our glasses as he took a bunch of pictures of the crowd cheers-ing before the film began! I just thought it was a really sweet little European touch. My only regret? I didn't bring a camera!

So...if you're getting gussied up for the flick, take pics!

KES LIFE SPOILERS START HERE:

Yes, I'm moving to Shanghai. My life in one of the biggest cities in China will commence around August 1st. Although I am not a spy (as far as you know,) I won't get into details about it here.

Let's just say it's a great opportunity and that I'll relocate to Portland at the end of January. Six months of expanding my palate (see: Fear Factor ASIA!) and learning a little more Chinese then GUNG HEY FAT CHOI, oh hey! Sign me up!

The only downer is that this means moving again, which is something I do a helluva a lot for something I profess to hate. I do think though, that it's an excellent opportunity to jettison my twenties, particularly since I'll turn 30 next week. Don't worry, I've heard that all before too so all I'm saying is: maybe if I don't make any big pronouncements I'll actually throw away the manila envelope full of Christian Laettner clippings from THE EARLY NINETIES. Could be good. Also good? My Madre and Miss Piggy (her BF Peggy) are coming at the end of June. There's nobody like my mother to make me clean up my act. True.

CLASS ACT, YO. CLASS ACT!
No, I am not going to Lake Como to console George. I haven't formulated my POA yet, but am leaning toward Fed Ex-ing him a slice of my Mom's carrot cake, which is so good it could probably do a lot to bring about world peace, let alone heal hurting hearts. Thanks though, for those of you who encouraged me to make my move. It's nice to know you're keeping the faith.

YOU'RE KILLING ME SMALLS!

2008-05-28T22:08:00.007+08:00

Do you know what happens the day after you resolve to get fit for life and sign a contract to move to Shanghai?

They put a #@*(+$! cooler full of Ben & Jerry's in the cafeteria at work. You can't say you weren't warned.

You Can't Keep An Optimist Down. But You Can Sure Kick Her In The Shins Sometimes!

2008-05-28T03:15:00.013+08:00

All day long I've been twitterpated about the fact that tomorrow I'm going to see Sex and The City: The Movie. Here! In English! In fact, I've been looking forward to it for quite a looooong time, which is dangerous in terms of ratcheting up potential disappointment quotient, but I don't care. Hope is essential.

Imagine then, how much more than disappointed, in fact, downright livid I became when my uber optimistic vibe was deflated by the usual suspect: President Bush. How the man can oppose a new GI Bill of Rights is beyond me.

I know there's likely a lot more going on here. (Isn't there always?) But short of syntax tucked into the bill that advocates puppy kicking, I really can’t see how passing an improved GI Bill amounts to anything more than a no-brainer. How can the President possibly think it is okay to deny improved benefits for those citizens from whom he asks the most?

They say that war is hell, but it's not like President Bush would know. Perhaps that might explain his disinterest in helping create a haven for those who do. After all, he never had to worry about being able to afford college, only whether his silver spoon was polished enough to scoop up the cocaine. I can only imagine the stress!

Just as I can only imagine that all those weary-eyed, baby faced, soldiers I see exhausted at the airport are busy socking away every penny for school, you know, when they're not otherwise preoccupied dodging bullets and IED's. Surely they're not hoping for any more from the nation they serve than three hots and a cot?

I could (and probably will, in some respect) spend the rest of my life trying to unravel and understand the consequences of what the current administration has done, which I fear is far, far, far, far, more harm than good; but for now I will only pray that the veto-proof votes hold and that Americans go ahead and invest in human potential. This one thing might be the thinnet of silver lingings, but it's a silver lining nevertheless.

You Probably Think This Song Is About You

2008-05-22T16:43:00.000+08:00

Yesterday I noticed these super weird black hairs on the heretofore smooth skin that covers my radius. Any hair on my forearms tends to be blond and/or invisible these rando weirdo hairs were an unwelcome discovery. What could be next, distended eye teeth? Mid-digital hair? Then I remembered that the night before I'd scrubbed the last remnants of the black henna tattoo I'd gotten in Cairo and deduced that the poor little dears were probably just dyed in the process. Looks like there's no Teen Wolf in my future after all. Crisis averted.

Speaking of Cairo, several people have asked me what I thought of the place and it turns out I thought many, many things about it rendering the trip tough to sum up. Since you haven't got all day and NO ONE ACTUALLY REALLY CARES, I will just talk about the few things that struck me most:

MEZZA. I used to feel sure that if I could choose my last meal on Earth it'd involve a beautiful cut of fillet minion and the rest would just be details. However, after eating various versions of mezza at every single meal (even breakfast) for 4 days running and not tiring of it, not at all, well, that just totally blows the doors off the whole final meal conversation. That contest is now WIDE OPEN.

MEN. Men men men men men everywhere. It's raining men! Only not so hallelujah. Yes, there are women in Cairo, but you just see 457,081 men for every 1 woman. If the ladies are out and about they're either with other women, children, or with their man (hubby/bro/uncle/pops). I felt like I wasn't really getting the whole picture - only seeing half the society. Not bad; different.

EYES. Lovely peepers on those Egyptian peeps, I must say. Not brown, blue, hazel or green -- but "God I hope we don't crash in this part of the ocean because it looks really effin' cold down there" GREY. Very kind eyes, actually, and often dusted with friendly sun-soaked wrinkles.

CLUSTERFUCK. Sorry Mom, but that word fairly honestly describes the whirlwind of traffic -both mammalian and auto- throughout greater Cairo. If NYC comes at you, and you either love it or hate it, well then, Cairo sucker punches you when you're distracted by bolts of fabric and begins tapping your sternum incessantly until you name the last 10 vice presidents. But the weirdest thing is: you like it.

Most days we walked everywhere and sidestepped horse pucky along with the standard urban obstacles of gum and litter. With traffic lights numbering zero to none, walking amounts to one big game of Frogger. Somehow it all works though because when everyone buys into anarchy then it's not so much hardcore punk as it is organized chaos, which is EXACTLY my approach to laundry and therefore totally acceptable.

CONTRADICTIONS. The pyramids are on the edge of the city limits, just next to the suburb of Giza. There's the big ole desert over there, full of sand and camels and horses with no names and then, over there, just past the KFC and Pizza Hut, are 20+ million people pushing the volume knob over the red line. I felt the strange sensation of being simultaneously in the ancient and modern world. So, PLAY ANYTHING JUST PLAY IT LOUD, OKAY!!!!????!!!!!!!!!

Later that night we were in our hotel, preparing to head out for dinner, when the sundown call to prayer began, and the cacophony that arose from the city was unlike anything I'd ever heard before...

Cairo Caco from Sanguine Spice on Vimeo.

With the heat rising above 100 the following day, the Canucks (aka heat wussies) in our mix insisted on splurging for an air conditioned taxi to take us out to the pyramids at Saqqara. Driving along the most beautiful song came on the radio, and suddenly both our car -and the city- were very, gorgeously, quiet.

Cairo cruise from Sanguine Spice on Vimeo.

I Spy, Nurnberg

2008-05-22T05:00:00.001+08:00

On my way home tonight I did something I almost never do, which is stop by the bank. Mostly because the banks here are open for 8.5 minutes, when the moon is waning, during months beginning with letters in the last third of the alphabet. Also because I pretty much get money from the ATM near my apartment, which is only accessible on foot. Oh hey, are you still reading? RIGHT.

So I stopped at a branch on my way home - a place I'd not even noticed before tonight- and when I walked back to my car I noticed this car parked in front of mine. While it wasn't the first time I'd seen this sort of thing, it did strike me as a great way to tell you about the level of crime in this area, which is basically slim to NONE.

The Eternally Surprising City

2008-05-13T01:02:00.008+08:00

Not so long ago my best friend suggested I write down the things my Dad says, but since I can hardlòy [note:I am writing this at a hotel in Italy on a keyboard covered in Saran wrap and if you think iàm going to worry about hunting and pecking for the right punctuation on a Euro keyboard than you have more faith in me than I do]...but since I can hardly believe most of what he says myself, writing them down would only serve to strain my neck what with all the head shaking nonsense.

On beauty: "Eat a lot of nuts. That's the key to supple skin. Also, throw in some raisins now and then. For fiber."

Eating the burnt pizza crust: "Great for the colon."

On seeing Dennis Hopper at the COloseum (yo, not spell checking): "Great in Hoosiers. Great." Me: Are you going to say that to him? "Nah. I lived in LA for long enough. You just leave 'em alone."

In an effort to salvage his soul (on my part) and sate the curious, dusty annals of his (lapsed) Catholic heart, we hit St.Peter,s this morning where I was shocked to learn my Dad is a devotee of the Antiques Roadshow on PBS.

Apparently his friend Jim Malone (former groomsmen, been around forever) turned him onto it when they were on a trip to Vegas. Now, those of you who know my Dad know he goes to Vegas for pretty much one reason every year: to play the sportsbook during the first weekend of March Madness. Doesnàt play tennis or golf, does not play cards --- just hits the sportsbook and the buffets with 20 other 60 year old guys from the U of A and probably complains about the quality of the potato salad. So you can only imagine my face when were standing there in the line, staring up at Bernini's saints and he says, "you can't even imagine how much one of those would go for on the Antiques Roadshow." Meanwhile I am looking around for the mother ship because This. Is. A. Replacement.

My Dad carries his money, credit cards, and pictures of his grandkids not in a wallet or a sterling silver money clip but a giant paper clip...the kind you might manipulate in the back of chemistry class to flip up off your desk if you pressed it just right. He rationalizes any crude behavior with the same three words: I'm a guy. He swears like a sailor and judges like Judy with zero consistency whatsoever.

When I told him I was going to write about this on my blog he said, "Fine. I don't do PR." Maybe. But you DO watch Antiques Roadshow. If he tells me tomrrow he prefers the contraposta stance of Michelangelo's David to the slingshotting Bernini, I am going to have 16 heartattacks on top of a bad case of ricketts and die right on the spot. Which is a shame, becasue as my Dad so wheezily pointed out earlier, "Jesus Christ. They've got ambulances everywhere pickin up old farts having heart attacks who didn't train like me for these stairs. This city will kill you if you're not prepared."

No shit Red Rider*.

*This is another thing he says all the time and I donàt know what it means, at all.

The Bag He Carried

2008-05-09T04:21:00.006+08:00

"Hey!"

"Heya kiddo!"

"Wow, I can't believe you only brought that."

"I hate baggage claim. I got no baggage."

"Go you."

***

"I got your toothpicks."

"No, those are round. I hate those."

"So...I got you coffee, the good brick kind. Mom likes it, I think its a good kind."

"Good, good. I brought my own toothpicks. I like the flat kind. You can really get the meat in between your teeth, you know?"

"I'll take your word for it."

"'Shut up, Dad?' Is that what you're saying?"

"A little bit. Gift horse; all that."

"Touche."
***

"You all right out there?"

"What?"

"Well, I don't know! I didn't hear anything for awhile, I didn't know where you were!"

"What, did you think I fell off the balcony? Christ, I'm not that old."

"Jesus. Remind me to hang out with you when your jet lagged again."

"Hey, you've got a crack in the wall out here...."

***

"So hey, I put the coffee thing out for you in the morning. Two requests-"

"Did you get the good filters?"

"Uh..."

"Yes??????"

"Yes."

"'I don't give a shit, Dad! Make it yourself, Dad?' Is that what you're saying?"

"Basically."

"Fair enough."

"So, the two things. PLEASE-"

"I know, I know. Don't leave the filter with the grounds in the sink. Two?"

"Just please please just wipe up the crumbs-"

"Grounds."

"Whatever. Just the accessories, the smell, the bullshit - I don't know, the less evidence the better because-"

"You'll be pissed? I'm on it Kate."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Goodnight. Love you."

"Love you too."

Gold Crocodiles (oh whey oh!)

2008-04-30T07:35:00.008+08:00

As mentioned previously, I grew up in a very small town. Less than a thousand people; 1 four-way stop sign (no lights!); Julie's Burger Barn; Pizza Round-Up - that sort of thing. It was a really big deal when we got our own market with two gas pumps and a hot section of the deli that had Jo-Jo's. Our lovely hamlet also included one elementary school and one middle school, the former of which burned down the winter of my 2nd grade year. This meant an extended Christmas break for me (yessssssssssssssssss) and a lot of headaches for the school district (not to mention my family, who had to put up with a stir crazy 7 year old for weeks.)

As a result of this minor tragedy (someone left the boiler on over the holiday,) when we returned to school in mid-January the place was lousy with tension. Four classes were taught in four corners of the still-standing cafeteria, while other classes crammed into portables on the edges of the rubble. Now that I think about this...I just cannot even imagine how many gallons of bourbon those teachers must have downed after work everyday. Over 120 children in one big building without any carpet to absorb the shrieking? For half the school year? WOW.

Anyway, it came about that the reconstruction was slow and the school would be vastly overcrowded again the following year, so myself and several other soon-to-be 3rd graders were asked to moved up to the middle school where we'd be folded into a 4th grade class. I believe my parents asked me about this over dinner one night and because I was utterly twitterpated at the notion of going to school with my big sister for the first (and last) time ever, I completely blocked out the part about me being the only girl in the class (but that's a whole 'nother post.) Basically, I took 6th grade for a few years in a row, which was fine because I got to read Bridge To Terabithia for three years running, each time acting like I'd never read it before and every time moving my (new) teacher with my uber detailed book report.

It should also be noted that an additional perk of constantly being privy to coursework above or below your age/intelligence/maturity level was that for at least two years we'd done units on Egypt and or Egyptology in history class. What kid does NOT like learning about ancient Egypt? There are mummies, cool jewelry and hair, girl leaders, funny comics and very strangely shaped buildings. How did they build the pyramids without cranes? What made them decide to invent paper? What's with all the eyeliner? I secretly hoped we would spend the rest of the year studying more about Eqypt instead of the boring old Gold Rush or the wackadoo Donner Party (again).

Another plus at this particular intermediate school was that on hot afternoons the 8th graders were allowed to roll the big stereo out onto the grass behind the band room and play records during lunch. It was as awesome as it sounds. Not only was my sister an 8th grader, she was also on the student council and so could pick the records sometimes. One day she played "Walk Like An Egyptian" and asked ME to dance with her and her friends. I was beside myself. As we giggled under the sun and strutted like Egyptians, I felt like I really belonged, maybe for the first time that year.

All of this came rushing back to me earlier tonight as I packed my bags for a long weekend in Cairo. It's funny how memories work. One minute you can't believe you're bound for a place you never thought would amount to more than a daydream, and the next you realize just how quickly a frothy pop song can take you, rather lovingly, right back home.

Nothing An Anvil To The Temple Can't Fix

2008-04-29T19:50:00.002+08:00

Years ago my friend Will coined the expression, "Complain, complain. Shampoo, shampoo" as a sort of riff on the old (and wasteful) "rinse and repeat" mantra printed on the back of so many hair cleansing products. Like a lot of friendly vernacular, this makes little sense to anyone else, but it cracks me up every time I find myself airing a list of grievances outside of Festivus. Which is precisely what I found myself doing on my commute today when my right eye was weeping inconsolably.

"My eyes are burning!"

"I can't breathe!"

"Everything is getting so blurry!"

"I can't see the road!"

"IT BURNS! MOM! IT BURNS!"

AKA: Complain, complain. Shampoo, shampoo.

Rapeseed is rife in these parts, and although its cheerful yellow color does much to jazz up the farm scape, it wrecks havoc on my allergies. The attack escalated to the degree that I detoured to an Apotheke for some allergy meds; maybe an epi pen? The wide-eyed pharmacist hooked me up with the strongest stuff she could sell over the counter, and I was back on my merry way. I paused by the archery store though. It's probably the best they were closed because at that point, an arrow to the face would've been more palatable than continuing to exist.

Thank You, Alligned Planets!

2008-04-28T22:34:00.003+08:00

There's a big bright yellow star on my calendar today because according to Astrology Zone dot com, this is the day I'm meant to be the human equivalent of a super nova putting out forest fires whilst administering to the needy, all without ringing an irksome bell outside Macy's. It's only early evening at the time of this writing, but I think my stellar moment might have already come to pass.

Without putting too fine a point on it, I'll just say that a Snickers was in order this afternoon. So I made my way to the vending machines in the basement, a trek involving four flights of stairs and which, in my cute little "can rationalize anything" brain, totally cancels out the negative nutritional value of a Snickers since said stairs amount to a heart-rate increase. That's all it takes to call it a workout, right?

I scan the machine, note the corresponding letter and numbers and begin to put my coins into the slot. The little silver coil moves and I see that I'm one step closer to getting some satisfaction. Less than seven seconds into this operation, I can tell the Snickers isn't going to make it. As predicted, the coil stops moving forward and my Snickers is marooned at the very tippy tip edge of its row. Fortunately, I see that the machine says "one euro credit'. All is not lost. I hit A-23 again. The coil moves, and my Snickers drops.

Since today is MY DAY I can't help but notice that another Snickers moved forward in the line when I hit the credit button, just like the one before it. In fact, it is now precariously perched on the edge of the A-23 line.

I consider this. I consider my vending machine prowess and it's decided: that Snickers will be mine! Oh vending machine, you never even stood a chance! How could you have known I used to spend 3 afternoons a week refilling the vending machines at MHS?! I OWN YOU! I know you from the INSIDE out. [Here the mischievous smirk of Mike Seaver comes across my face.]

All it takes it one solid nudge on the upper right hand corner of the machine and I've got two Snickers for the price of one. BAM.

If that's not livin' right - I don't know what is.

Swedish Babies: As Cute As If They Were Plucked From An IKEA Shelf!

2008-04-27T22:32:00.008+08:00

Yesterday I went down to Ingolstadt, home of Audi, to visit Maria and Daniel and their new little bebe boy, Viktor. If there were any doubt in your mind that the Swedes are the Kings of Genetic Lottery Winners, surely these pics will put those thoughts to rest.

Me And Blythe Down By The Schoolyard

2008-04-26T15:42:00.005+08:00

Today was one of the nicest Saturdays we've had this spring, so the city was bursting at the seams with smiling folks. It made me think of those 19th century English stories where society ladies would meet and greet during "the season".

Breakfast Is The Most Important Meal of the Day

New Bacon Truth Table

This tiny little Italian cafe serves Prosecco and esspresso to the delight of those interested in drinking al fresco.

The little chocolate cone was filled with homemade marshmallow, covered in dark chocolate and dusted with coconut. I put the whole thing in my Spanish hot chocolate and got to know nirvana a little bit. Oh, and that's Blythe, rockin' the green.

I'm not sure if he's retired from the Cirque d' Solei or just an inspired soul who truly, madly, deeply earns his nickels from an utterly original street performance. He's always impeccably dressed and carrying his champagne bottle like a bouquet of the most exquisite roses. Then he drops down to the ground, and does this:

Mom Saves The Day, Again

2008-04-26T04:24:00.002+08:00

The wireless Internet service in my apartment cuts out with merciless frequency. Like when I had worked on a draft of a post for today for quite some time, then hit "publish" only to meet with an error message about the server being unavailable. When I went back to find my post, which I'd so diligently crafted for like, an hour, it was gone.

This is the reason why I am such a Luddite most of the time. Technology lets me down! Times like this make me want take to the streets with my old fashioned paper, pens, envelopes and stamps hoisted above my head shouting, "SEE THIS WIRELESS INTERMITTENT INTERNET?!? DO YOU SEE THIS?!? YOU HAVE TO BURN IT TO DESTROY IT!"

*Ahem.*

In honor of my all time favorite former government institution (the United States Postal Service! Everybody!) I shall share my favorite sentence from an article my Mom sent me in the mail today about my ex-boyfriend.

"Clooney is America's national flirt, a pitchman on talk shows and red carpets who, against the background hum of the world's lust and envy, is lightly ironic, clever, and self-depricating, with furrowed brow and bobbing head, and a gyration in the lower jaw suggesting something being moved around under his tongue. This busy charm --a man on his way to a party, feeling pretty good about his hair-- was profitably packaged in "Ocean's Eleven" and its two sequels, films that, more than anything, seemed to be oblique views of the A-list esprit de corps, real or imagined, that went into making them..." --Ian Parker, "The New Yorker", April 14, 2008

TAKE THAT, WIRELESS INTERNET! And thank you, Madre, for the sweet care package.

My Brain Is Like The Remnants of Your Junior High Locker After Locker Clean Out Day

2008-04-25T04:29:00.008+08:00

In case it isn't already abundantly clear, I'm totally in over my head here. Signing up to write something here every day? I haven't the talent for morphing the mundane into the magnificent. Instead of driving me to some sort of blissful distraction, thinking of what to post daily is driving me a bit batty -- and not in a fun "now capable of using sonar" sort of way.

Herewith, Things I've Been Thinking About This Week:

-What's with the inconsistency of handshakes? Why don't all dudes know how to shake hands like a man? The majority of bad handshakes I've encountered lately have been from guys who grip merely the last third of my hand and barely look me in the eye. I'm talking broad shouldered Celtic/Anglo-Saxon if not Germanic guys here. The Southerners are off the hook because those guys go straight for the double kiss hello, if not a smooch smack on your mouth whilst gripping the small of your back. They get away with this because they can. Either way, both methods throw me off.

-Will I ever know the reality of an endlessly proficient printer/copier? Would I be better off investing in one of those old manual ditto machines? I think I'd take ripped forearms and ink stained fingertips if it meant never having to decipher incoherent blinking lights or the ever-infuriating "PC LOAD LETTER".

-My friends rule. MSari sent me girl scout cookies the other week; KB hooked me up with a "What Would Bacon Due?" folder. Also, a box of red vines which I promptly opened so they can get a little stale before consumption. MMMM, red vine jerky!

-Norbs told me the other day that crude peaked at $120 a barrel. ARE YOU FOR REAL?

-Doris Day was married THREE TIMES. For some reason, I love this fact.

This Just In: Stephen Colbert Funny AND BRILLIANT

2008-04-23T16:08:00.001+08:00

Also, grass is green. Fire is hot.

"Now will saying 'yes' get you in trouble at times? Will saying 'yes' lead you to doing some foolish things? Yes it will. But don't be afraid to be a fool. Remember, you cannot be both young and wise. Young people who pretend to be wise to the ways of the world are mostly just cynics. Cynicism masquerades as wisdom, but it is the farthest thing from it. Because cynics don't learn anything. Because cynicism is a self-imposed blindness, a rejection of the world because we are afraid it will hurt us or disappoint us. Cynics always say no. But saying 'yes' begins things. Saying 'yes' is how things grow. Saying 'yes' leads to knowledge. 'Yes' is for young people. So for as long as you have the strength to, say 'yes.'"
--Stephen Colbert to the 2006 graduating class of Knox College.

Eyes That Burn Like Cigarettes

2008-04-22T21:31:00.009+08:00

I woke up today with very itchy eyes and a plugged left nostril. Just after I'd sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed, I sneezed three times.

Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit's Springtime!

Hip-hop-hooray! Ho! Hey! Ho!

I found some nasal spray from America (!!) in the bottom of my medicine box (no cabinet fixture over here) that expires next month (score) and so took a few hits. Then I sprinkled Japanese mint oil on the shower floor to steam it up and clear my head, because that involved a lot less work than scrubbing the kitchen floor with ammonia. I kept trying NOT to think about how different my life might be during this time of year, every year, had the following conversation with my GP back in Portland gone differently:

"I think you have allergies,"

"No. I don't."

And that was in 2003. Oh, who's sorry now? Also, which one of these people DID NOT go to medical school?

The point now is this: Dear Kerry, I'm really sorry, for any time when we were little and I wanted to play outside but you said "Nah" because you felt like ass because you had allergies and I was a total pouty baby about it. Had I known then what I know now, I would never have stomped around so much or cursed the God Of Seemingly Too Cool To Play With Me Older Sisters for not making Theo "Fun times!" Huxtable my older sibling instead. Allergies are LAME.

In fact, this really should be a thank you letter for having never - not even once - hit me in the face with a mallet when I was pestering you. Because it would have been totally understandable, if not justified. You really are the best. Whereas karma? Not so much.

It's gotten better throughout the day today and I think if I can find whatever witch doctor stuff the German GP gave me last year, I should survive the rest of this bloomin' season without needing a face transplant. Or two weeks in St. Lucia.

Then again, a Chinese friend just told me that a lone sneeze means someone is missing you; two sneezes mean you're cursed; and three sneezes means you have a cold, so what do I know?

Two Things That Made Me Laugh Out Loud Today

2008-04-22T00:44:00.003+08:00

1. An email from a friend containing the following:

"At this point - I'm like, crap - I need a bandaid. This isn't just going to stop. So when I get off the subway I go to the only place I know where to get one - the student health center. Which of course, I am dreading - becuase you go in complaining of your elbow and they want to screen you for syphilis."

". . .which brings me to yesterday. When I wore a formal dress for a couple of hours in my apartment....because I couldn't get it off. I was grateful I had no where to go and nothing going on - but at the same time - really? I can't make this stuff up - who gets stuck in a formal bridesmaid like dress for a few hours on a Sunday afternoon?"

2. Checking out the view from my desk. What, elephants can fly now?

Top Seven

2008-04-20T22:36:00.001+08:00

Freshman year of college I found myself living in room #107 with an ebullient girl from Longview, Washington. We shared a penchant for list making and time wasting. We'd lose an hour making up the 107 hand gesture (see me for demonstration), a couple of hours pretending to read, and six more hours discussing certain boys down the hall. Next thing you knew it'd be time to stumble into breakfast, having never gone to bed.

When we did get sleep, it was usually after an eventful social affair (see: drinking PBR whilst dancing in a dank NoPo basement). Those groggy Sunday mornings quickly turned into fits of panic as we scrambled into sweats and hoodies and sprinted into the university cafeteria not 5 minutes before they'd quit serving brunch. Yeah, we could sprint the morning after.

When I woke up on the couch yesterday somewhere around noon-thirty, fully clothed from the bachelorette hijinks's the night before, I laughed thinking about the vast difference between those hung over collegiate Sundays of yore and the complete train wreck that is a hangover for me now. As I lay dying, I thought about all the awesome things I wouldn't be doing that day, easily one of the nicest days of the year so far (of course!). Not going on a bike ride around the Worderwiese See, certainly not doing any jumping jacks or round-offs, and definitely would not be writing a new post.

This line of thinking got mildly depressing pretty quick, so I cajoled myself off the couch long enough to shuffle over to McDonald's in my sunglasses for the necessary grease. I may not have been able to write much, but I could at least list the best things I've read online lately.

Without further adieu...here are the Top Seven Things I've Read Online Lately:

#7 This post was a friendly reminder to keep sending my niece post cards and presents designed specifically to remind her that she is the cutest, smartest, funniest, most warmly spirited girl I know.

#6 Aside giving me the Spice Girls moniker you see up at the top,
the author of this next post also happens to be the girl who spent countless nights in the basement of the aforementioned dorm swapping thesis statements about Keats with yours truly. She is, emphatically, not pregnant.

#5 Speaking of which, High Five! No Babies! How have I not heard this before? AWESOME.

#4 Part of why I challenged myself to post something every day this month, was to distract myself from trying to map out my life far too precisely, a habit that's been rather en fuego of late. This little gem is a tasty reminder as to why it might be worth slowing down and enjoying your chips.

#3 Because I wonder this very same thing ALL THE TIME.

#2 There's nothing like a hangover to make you crave a Double Decker Taco Supreme and suddenly start missing America, but then you read this and go, hey, it's not so bad to live less than 3 hours from 17,389 other countries.

#1 Sometimes when I'm struggling to find button-down shirts that don't gape at the bust I grumble about doing something drastic, like getting a breast reduction or doing push-ups. Anything, really, to go back to the days when J.Crew tops were my own special reward for being utterly flat chested (which I would like to state FOR THE RECORD was MY VERY HAPPY LITTLE DOMAIN ALL THROUGH MY TEENS! Why GOD? Why?! Getting boobs after high school and college is like winning the lottery after you're dead.) Then I read something like this and think, no, no. These things bring joy and happiness to the world, or at least half of it.

Bachelorette Fete

2008-04-19T23:35:00.002+08:00

Got home at 5:30 today (Sunday). Fun times with good peeps are totally worth it.

Wanna know what's not worth it? That proseco with Red Bull biznass in my paws below. Go ahead and pass on that next time you hit the town.

When It Comes to Glasses, I Think They're Half Full

2008-04-18T15:13:00.002+08:00

Although the primary function of my travel this past week was business, I'm not a robot and therefore came away with my own personal impression of Istanbul. It is utterly lovely.

At first all the shouting and smiling and marriage proposals were jarring, but honestly, are those sorts of things any more terrifying than rampant customer service at the Gap? Can you even order a PB & J in America without being asked which of the six kinds of available bread you'd prefer? It's mostly not so bad when people are trying to make you happy. Even if they do take your money for their trouble.

I like to help out society. Or that's the rationale I invented for why I so wisely left my bank card in the ATM just outside the entrance to the Grand Bazaar the other day. Why not just douse yourself with honey in front of the bear enclosure? Shake it up!

Jacqueline had mentioned something earlier about splitting money or stuffing some in your bra to avoid theft or whatever. I don't do stuff like that. I think if my stupid wagon wheel linebacker shoulders are big enough to make shopping for a jacket damn near impossible, then they sure as shit better scare off any puny robbers. So after I'd taken my WADS AND WADS of Turkish money from the machine I went to put half of it in my magic wallet and the other half in the small coin pocket on the front of my pants.

Well, my little coin pocket was sewn shut. GRRRRRRRRRR. BANANA REPUBLIC! So I stood there ripping the seam open with my index finger and trying to act like it was no big deal. (Incidentally I recently discovered that my fingers? WEAK SAUCE. The other day I found myself typing on a keyboard with sticky keys and practically sweating from the digit strain. Sorry El Capitan, I shall never know your velocity.)

Money safely split in two locales, I made my way back across the square to the little cafe where Jacqueline was sitting in the sun. Here is where I could lie and say I didn't join her in having a Diet Coke and a cigarette, but as this whole thing amounts to having good karma, I shall shamelessly cop to the wretched truth. Not proud -- just sayin'.

Just when I'm about to get to the part where I tell Jacqueline how I'm taking her advice and not putting all my money in one place, three police men show up. They're practically leaning on our little table, but hey, what's a lack of personal space? Who needs THAT on this continent? So I kept right on talking, like I never ever learned anything in detention.

Finally one of them said, "Excuse me ladies, you like to shop, no?"

I'm annoyed. Jacqueline is feeling friendly and says, "Yes. We like to shop."

"Well, it is not so easy with no money, no?"

"No, it is not. We are fine. Just enjoying the day, thank you." H & G! Hi and Goodbye!

"Well, perhaps Kaaay-teee Aye-Wrin Sole-ee-van is missing her bank card? From the machine?"

My hands shot up to my face and my mouth dropped. The police man is holding up my ATM card. Honestly, if my head weren't screwed on. . .

"We are very careful in this area for our guests. Please to watch your things. Thank you and enjoy Istanbul."

I'm beaming with gratitude and (badly) saying tesekkür ederim!!! tesekkür ederim!!!over and over when Jacqueline turns to me and says, "Now, what were you telling me about watching your money?"

Proust Questionaire

2008-04-17T17:02:00.001+08:00

I was able to get the new (see: current!) issue of Vanity Fair at the airport before leaving Istanbul today. Other travelers shrieked joyfully about the dirt cheap cigarettes in duty-free while I swooned over the latest editor's letter from Graydon WHAT IS THAT HAIRCUT? Carter.

1. What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Laughing and dancing with people I love.

2. What is your greatest fear?
Toss up between living in fear (yuch) and actually being attacked by a shark (aaah!).

3. Which living person do you most admire?
Marianne Pearl and anyone trying their best.

4. What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Self-doubt.

5. What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Arrogance, indifference.

6. What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
Piety.

7. On what occasion do you lie?
Whenever I say I'm going to work out in the morning. Total BS.

8. What do you dislike most about your appearance?
My inability to tan.

9. What is your greatest regret?
Being afraid of love when I was younger, "...but then again, too few to mention."

10. What or who is the greatest love of your life?
My Grammy and my dogs who passed away too soon.

11. Which talent would you most like to have?
The ability to remember jokes.

12. What is your current state of mind?
Resolute.

13. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
A greater capacity for vulnerability.

14. What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Moving forward, letting go.

15. If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?
A rusty key.

16. What is your most treasured possession?
Sentimental gifts from my family.

17. What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Hopelessness.

18. Where would you like to live?
In the western US, in or near an open space, were the sun shines about 300 days a year.

19. What is your most marked characteristic?
My smile, friendliness.

20. Who are your favorite writers?
Graham Greene, Kate Chopin, Gretel Ehrlich, Sebastian Junger, Barbara Kingsolver, David Sedaris

21. Who is your favorite hero of fiction?
Atticus Finch, Rhett Butler

22. Who are your heroes in real life?
I don't believe in heroes like that. I believe in ordinary people doing extraordinary things.

23. What is it that you most dislike?
Bullies and snobs.

24. What is your motto?
Even a shit sandwich has bread.

25. Favorite Journey?
Going home. Stopping for ice cream at Rice Hill; the bull sculpture in the pasture; getting Taco Bell in Weed; taking the curves near Lake Shasta; passing the deserted old dance hall after the Corning cut-off; the one lane bridge on Los Verjeles and then finally - after almost 10 hours - the smell of the creek down by the mailboxes. I don't live there anymore, but I'll always love that drive.

26. What do you value most in your friends?
Understanding without explanation, loyalty.

27. Which words or phrases do you must overuse?
Long story short, anyway, annoying, like, totally.

28. Which historical figure do you most identify with?
I don't.

29. What is your greatest extravagance?
Choice.

30. What is your favorite occupation?
Creating a present for someone.

31. What is the quality you most like in a woman?
Camaraderie.

32. What is the quality you most like in a man?
Masculinity.

33. How would you like to die?
With beautifully deep smile lines.

34. If you could chose what to come back as, what would it be?
An old oak tree.

Overheard at the Grand Bazaar

2008-04-16T16:52:00.004+08:00

"Hello! Charlie's Angles hello!"

"You smell! (Leaning in and sniffing you.) You buy perfume! Perfume? What's your price? Dolce & Gabanna! You smell! You smell!"

"Stay close to me and DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING. DO YOU HEAR ME JAMES?"

"Hey lady! Lady! Excuse me, lady, you smoke? Three for six lira! Your price! Three lira!"

"Excuse me, lady! British lady! (Insert death glare from moi.) Excuse me lady, AUSTRALIAN LADY!!!"

"White pants! Excuse me lady white pants!" (White pants + Istanbul = fraternal twin to Bad Idea Jeans.)

"Martha, if you buy ONE MORE BLOODY TEA CUP we're going to have fly cargo back!"

and the winner...

"Helloiloveyou! I love you so much!"

Exchange between me and a carpet seller:
"It is a pleasure to have tea with you. When do you leave Istanbul?"

"Tomorrow."

"Will you come back?"

"Yes, definitely."

"I will wait for you."

YOU ARE KILLING ME SMALLS!

Treason

2008-04-15T21:56:00.007+08:00

Turkish Colleague: "So you are from Portland?"

Me: "Sort of. I grew up in Northern California, and lived in Portland for about 10 years."

"Do you know those places in Portland they are showing on 'Lost'?"

"Um. Actually, I have never seen 'Lost'."

"WHAT!"

"I know! It just came out when I was already way into some other shows, so I never watched it. My sister loves it though. Everyone I know who watches it, loves it."

"It is soooooooooooo good. Honestly, the best program I have ever seen. It is very popular here. I cannot believe you can see it whenever you want, and you don't watch it!!!"

"I know, I know. I am all about renting the DVDs and catching up one of these days."

"You have no idea. You will love it. And it will obsess you very much. I have so many questions!"

"I hear ya. I'll get right on it!"

"Good. Coffee?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Have you had Turkish coffee yet? It's very strong."

"Actually, I don't drink coffee."

"Are you sure you're an American?"

When In Doubt

2008-04-14T21:23:00.000+08:00

Cute Waiter: "Is it your first time to Turkey?"

Me: "Yes."

"How long you stay here for?"

"Just a few days."

"Are you here for tour or business?"

"Business."

"Ah, so you need to see the city in the evenings. Perhaps I can show you?"

"Uh, gosh. Oh. Thank you. Uh, actually, I have business meetings with colleagues in the evenings. But thank you, that's very nice."

"What are you doing tonight?"

"Oh, I have an early meeting tomorrow. I go home after this."

"AAaaaaaah! Please to let me show you the city! Please, it is my pleasure!"

"Thank you, but I can't."

"I can take you any night you want! Perhaps you give me your card, your number?? Please, let's to see the city together! We must! It is once in a lifetime experience!"

True. Same goes for kidnapping.

"Actually, I have a boyfriend. I can't."

He frowns.

"And you go nowhere without your boyfriend? Come on! Lets to see the city!"

"No. I don't go out, alone, with other men, without my boyfriend."

"Ah, but you are in Istanbul! Come, we must to see the city!"

"Thank you, but NO. George wouldn't like that. Not at all."

"George?"

"Hey, could I just have the bill please?"

Happy 1st Birthday Pumpkin Pie!

2008-04-13T20:27:00.002+08:00

Dear Nephew,
Today you are 1! Can you even believe all the crazy things you've learned to do this year? Like eating and going potty and blowing spit bubbles and standing on the dishwasher door?

Next year will be even more exciting. Walking all around as your babbles become words and maybe even stretching far enough to scratch Jackson behind his ears. Your sister will read to you and teach you how to dance (as all the best big sisters do) and you will also be one year closer to getting your butt kicked by your auntie in Nerf basketball. You have been warned.

Meanwhile, please enjoy lots of cupcakes and giggles on your birthday. You are one of the best fellas I know, and I am so excited to watch you grow!

Love you lots and lots and sprinkles on top!
Auntie Kiki

Bloglar (Blogger in Turkish)

2008-04-13T02:56:00.004+08:00

Greetings from Istanbul! Home of a very huge isthmus! The Bosphorus! It's a lispers dream!

So far customer service is most impressive. I wonder how all the Teutonic dwelling Turks manage to tolerate pretty much the polar opposite in their daily lives.

After waiting in the long "all other nations" line at passport control for 20 minutes, I reached the kiosk only to learn I needed a visa. Get this: the guard APOLOGIZED, told me where I could go get one, and told me to come back to his line and I could be waived forward without having to wait again. I did as much and guiltily made my way back to his line. He saw me, sent the next person waiting back BEHIND THE RED LINE and called me forward.

Tukey, you are all right with me.

Shortly after exiting baggage claim I made my way to the taxi stand, only to be interrupted by a man in a suit with an airport badge. At first I didn't see his badge though, so I ignored him. Then he said in perfect English, "Taxis are very costly to city. Miss, please go to the right for airport shuttle direct to hotel, only 15 Euros. I will walk you there." Oh, thanks.

Met a guy and his wife on the shuttle who are here for business, then pleasure (her words, not mine). He works at the World Bank, and they'd just come in from D.C. How come I keep meeting people from the World Bank? Is the World Bank where it's at, globe trotting-wise? This is the 4th person I've met from the World Bank in as many months.

Lastly, I tried something new for dinner that I can emphatically tell you is a BAD IDEA: never eat strawberry soy yogurt scooped out with a nacho cheese Dorito. Let me explain. The hotel is near the marina, a ways outside the city-city and my colleague has a migraine, thus I found myself at the nearest grocery store searching for Excedrin (or a hammmer) and some dinner. I felt proud that I'd purchased some protein. Aggravated that I spaced on the spoon. C'est la vie. Just don't try it at home.