Sometimes I Wish You Didn't Beat That Cancer, Frank.

I've been searching the depths of my brain for something bloggable. Some random event that I could turn into something super ridiculous and, possibly, incorporate another picture of Hillary Clinton into. I suppose I was lucky to find that instance just once. Then, I realized, my blog is more like Seinfeld. Seinfeld...with more Jesus.

Maybe God is trying to tell me something. I mean, this stuff is just too much to ignore. First, in a sheer moment of brilliance, the idea of Bible Character night comes to my head (I know, right?). Then, my cat (or Jesus?) finds the froyo coupon (see previous posts) and the cats-to-bipeds/or-is-it-just-Jesus theory arises. Thirdly, my boss just discovered the parable of the Good Samaritan last Sunday; I spent a solid half hour contemplating whether I was just naive in my lackluster religious knowledge or rather that my boss was just another C & E Christian that, ultimately, is no different than I am. BUT THEN, the un-ignorable happened.

As I was walking into my workplace, my top split wide open.

Right now, I'm googling 'bad show choir outfits' to show you what my cocktail waitress uniform looks like. Alas, all I'm coming up with is (apart from the first 3 pages of Glee pictures--what was show choir before Glee, anyway?):





My outfit looks nothing like this first one, but you get it. This one's lacking in sparkles in comparison. I feel bad for the kid who got stuck with the flute.

It must be noted that 1)it was the zipper that just let 'er go, 2)I have not gained any weight (yes, I'm sure), and 3)after I struggled to keep my top on and went to the dressing room it eventually zipped back up and ceased to cause me more trouble. Conclusion: God thinks public nudity is funny. God also wants you to know He exists...but only in the clever, meaningful ways.

Completely off topic, but worth saying: I forgot to mention one of the absolute highlights of my Europe trip. My dad and I ditched out of the goodbye reception to go take the Eye (love you, Dad. I don't think he really wanted to, but I did. For the record, I was right and it was awesome) around 930 at night. We had to take the subway, obviously. We're all swankified and he turns to me and says, "You know, I'm sorry to have to tell you this...and I never thought I would...but I bet all these people think you're a hooker." You go, dad. You. Go. Is your dad that awesome? In a roundabout fashion, this is connected to the title of this post. Sometimes people say things that you hope you never forget (no, not like "I luv u soo muchh babi" or "Whose is it, bitch?" or "righty-tighty, lefty-loosy"). Like last night. With my top completely on, I witnessed my roulette table cheering outrageously (my roulette table happened to be the reason I made roughly $35 an hour last night--and I'm quitting?!) and I was all,
"Man, I love it when they do that!!!"

Adara looks off into oblivion and mutters, "...I love it when they cry," in what I can only assume is her best Clint Eastwood impression.

The cancer comment was only a few minutes later. I read something where an English woman used the word 'awesome' all the time to sound American and this one sad, sad article about how the only adjective we'll use in 50 years is 'awesome', but man, that moment was...fantastic.

On a much more educated note, I recently finished Malcolm Gladwell's 'The Tipping Point'. If you haven't read anything by him, DO IT NOW. All his books are fascinating and super-easy reads. The way he writes is like talking to an intelligent friend who doesn't require you to respond with witty asides. Along with all the other concepts, he states that:

"The success of any kind of social epidemic is heavily dependent on the involvement of people with a particular and rare set of social gifts."[4] According to Gladwell, economists call this the "80/20 Principle", which is the idea that in any situation roughly 80 percent of the 'work' will be done by 20 percent of the participants."

This 20% is divided into three categories:

--Connectors: People with lots of different friend groups, that link us to different worlds. These people spread things the quickest.

--Mavens: Information specialists; information brokers that share and trade what they know. I would call Megan Moore a Maven. At least a pop culture Maven. =]

--Salesmen: "Persuaders", charismatic people with powerful negotiation skills, an 'it-factor' that you can't really place. Aka Peter Jennings.

I just like thinking about it. Who are these people in my world? Am I any of these to anyone else? Are you 80 or 20? Anyway, read his stuff. 'Blink' is even better in my opinion.

One last thing before I end this pointless post: this woman called the box office today and proceeded to chat with me for a solid ten minutes about absolutely nothing. However, something she said struck me as quite...saddeningly poetic. She was talking about her perfect Saturday night and she said, "I like to gather up last week's papers, sit down, read all the bad things, and know everything got resolved."

If you haven't already seen this picture on my fbook (or if you have, one more time won't kill you), let's lighten the mood:



=].


P.S. -

Mais ce soir, nous sommes dans Paris.

DISCLAIMER: This post recounts my travels in a not-so-readers'-digest-fashion. Leave now before you get disappointed and/or cannot time commit.

This one's for you, Stephanie. You whore. You excuse for a cocktail waitress, you. You said I would hate London--the food would be bad and the people are mean. Well, guess what, loser? The food was more than fine and the men were ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL. I'm sorry if they don't like you but that's your fault.


As most of you know, I've spent the last ten days in Europe. Specifically London and Paris, with side trips to Bath, Stonehenge, and Versailles. It's been my dream since I was a little girl to go, and I finally did. My dad (in all his glory) married up (can I get a 'hallelujah'?) and his wife 'wins' these epic trips through her employer, Edward Jones, every 6 months or so. This is the third time they've been gracious enough to let me tag along. It is only recently that my exploits (though there may be many, what with California and all) have involved planes and swanky hotels. Let the detailing commence:

Day 1: Getting back to the hotel and getting a room took a greater part of the day. Edward Jones always has their employees stay in these super duper nice hotels; however, because of this, the clientel of these hotels could give a rat's ass when they check out. They'll check out when they want to, be it another $500 or what have you. That being said, most of them are rich, old, Arab men. If I've walked away with anything from this trip (aside from 350 pictures, a sweatshirt, and a couple of mugs (man, I love mugs), it's a newfound fear of old, fat, Arab men behind tinted windows in their 2014 Italian-imported sports cars. I don't mean this offensively or stereotypically...it's true. They're everywhere, and I don't think very many of them appreciate where they are. Including their five-year-olds with their iPhones. Having said that, once we did get in (the flight was epic. IcelandAir is pimpin'. They had this game where I started learning Greek and Tagalog. I suck at any language that doesn't use latinate symbols. More importantly, the stewardesses were all required to wear funny hats.) my dad and I went to Harrod's, got some brioche, and sat in Hyde Park, which is conveniently across the street. If this picture doesn't imply it already, my dad is awesome.



Hey, dad. Sup?

Which brings me to the finer point of this day: just as the Macarena was the theme song for California, June 2010, the theme song for this trip is Justin Bieber's 'Eenie Meenie Miney Mo Lover'. Or whatever the hell it's called. I know this may seem crazy, and I hope many of you have higher hopes for me than this, but

Justin Bieber is just better in Europe. I don't know why. But it's true! BEFORE YOU JUDGE ME...try it for yourself. It may be because the only other video they seemed to play on whatever show I was watching when Eggheads wasn't on (seriously the best game show ever. These way smart old people take on whoever is brave enough to take them on and answer questions about EVERYTHING and know EVERYTHING and always kick the visiting team's ass because they know EVERYTHING. So educational. No frills, no girls, just old balls to the wall.) was JLS' "The Club Is Alive".

This d-bag samples THE SOUND OF MUSIC. THE FREAKING SOUND OF MUSIC. Not some random clip no one's going to know, but ONE OF THE MOST FAMOUS AND CLICHE REFRAINS IN ALL MUSICAL HISTORY. Take a look for yourself: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-w6cYoEu_P4. He really puts Gwen Stefani to shame. It's better than yodeling, I suppose. Also, all BBC is good television because of their accents. Moving on.

Day 2: This day we took a tour of London (seeing everything tourist-y) with Edward Jones. Afterwards, we went to the original Hard Rock Cafe and went into their vault. It's awesome until the guy asks you for 10 pounds to sit on Jimi Hendrix's couch. Apart from this, two main things happened this day:
1) As we crossed the Thames, I almost started crying. In all seriousness...it was a moment that meant a lot to me. It really was achieving a bonafide dream. Words cannot describe it.
2) However, words can describe this asian/laotion/who knows girl who had her dress tucked into her panties. This, my friends, was upon exiting the London Eye ticket office. I'm sure you can surmise that there's about a bajillion people there; she had to have walked past a solid 15 or 20 before exiting. I totally broke the girl code. Man, racism seems to be abundant in this post. The main reason I didn't tell her was because I was afraid she wouldn't understand me and it would be awkward. And this is in England where the national language is English, which I speak quite well. And I was nervous. Nervous. There were easily 500 people withing 1000 yards of the door I saw her walk out of. I'm still sort of angry at myself. I suck sometimes. At least I don't tuck my dress into my underwear?

Day 3: The breakfast at the Grovesnor House Hotel in London (in Mayfair, arguably the nicest area) is a piece of shit; however, on this day I noticed that it cost more than the outfit I was wearing. And I don't wear t-shirts and Soffees in London, kiddies. I thought the apple chassons were decent, but this is before Paris. On this day we did:

1) The National Gallery. It was here that I got to see one of my all-time favorite paintings, Jan van Eyck's "The Arnolfini Marriage". Speechless.
2) Indian food. When we asked the English lady that Edward Jones provides for a good restaurant, she replied with, "Oh, I didn't think Americans liked Indian food." Sucker.
3) Phantom of the Opera. Chills. More tears.
4) I looked for a barber shop on Fleet Street...there are none.
5) $10 goes to the person that recognizes this restaurant. It was seen in one of the biggest recent movies ever:



It's beautiful. On the tables is a little card that talks about all the famous people who've conceived their visions there: Winston Churchill, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, H.G. Wells...the list goes on.

Day 4: Bath and Stonehenge; I overheard, on several occasions, teenagers saying, "I don't get it. Why would I want to see a pile of rocks?" Verbatim. Oh, the youth of America. The attitudes weren't much different for the Roman baths, both of which I thought were encroyable.

Day 5: Man, I'm getting tired of blogging. Okay.
1) Climbed to the top of St. Paul's Cathedral. Bitchin'. Sad, but the whole time I kept thinking how much easier it would be to be Catholic when surrounded by such beauty. Pretty things are nice to be associated with. When St. Paul's was being bombed in WWI, citizens of the town spent nights on the roof putting out fires. I can see why; it was one of the most beautiful places I've ever experienced. In the dome is a whispering gallery, where you can hear the whispers of the person all the way on the other side, as it carries along the wall.
2) A brief stint at the Museum of National History. Lots of DINOS!!!!!!
3) Royal Albert Hall. An incredibly beautiful venue. The main reason we went was because it was showcased in Alfred Hitchcock's 'Frenzy' and my dad is a big Hitchcock fan, but I'm super glad we went, because it was super neat. Albert, the husband of Queen Victoria, wanted to build a place where all peoples could appreciate art. RAH still keeps that notion today, having tickets for as low as 5 pounds to their BBC proms. It's very similar to the personal mantra I have in my career aspirations.
4) The British Museum. The Rosetta Stone, mummies, other cool things that I can't remember right now...but I do have written on my iPod (I have the memory of a goldfish, so I took notes) that it was epictastic.
5) Fish and chips at a legit English pub with mushy peas and John Smith Ale.

Day 6: This blog is so long even I'm losing interest.
This day we did the Tower of London, Tower Bridge, Westminster (also super beautiful), Thames rivercruise, and thank God, the London Eye at night. This is the last London day, so I feel it is appropriate to tell you that my libido is alive and kicking in this town. So alive. Dear God. Yes, please.





"Gentil papillon, va dire lui que je l'aime."

Day 7: Chunnel to Paris. We just so happened to arrive in Paris on Bastille Day, of all days. As luck would have it, our apartment that we rented from AirBnB.com is about 30 seconds from the top half of the Eiffel tower and 5 minutes to the whole thing. Also, on Bastille Day, Paris has fireworks. Who woulda guessed? Paris fireworks is no Reinbeck fireworks show, my Iowa friends. For some reason, firework shows are a common theme in my travels--in our trip to Vancouver in 200...8, we caught the International Fireworks Competition between China, USA, and Canada. Oh, this day was also Notre Dame and un croque monsieur.



Day 8: Sacre Coeur, Versailles, l'Arc de Triomphe, champ de Mars...





Turns out drinking alcohol in public is illegal in France; selling is not. So, after we bought some, popped 'er open, and got accosted by the police, we (read: Dixie) started telling all the foreign, creepy men trying to sell us more, "WE ARE THE POLICE!" =] I got into a fight with one in French! Who knew my education would ever come in handy?! I was surprised at how much I used it, but moreso very happy. Every morning, my dad and I would go shopping for the day's food (because we are tres Francais) and I did all the dirty work. But man, it paid off. Those apple chassons from Poilane are duh.lih.shush. Anyway, the only thing that ruined the Eiffle Tower (and several other landmarks) were the sad solicitors.

Day 9: Cheese shopping at un fromagerie. The guy did not speak English and I tried my hardest with my broken French. We also did a Seine river boat cruise, going from the Eiffle Tower to the Louvre and the Musee d'Orsay. Those effers are huge. At night we went up into the Eiffle tower and it took my breath away. I also ordered a hot dog and made conversation (IN FRENCH) with the hot dog guy. Never a word of English. I'll leave you with a few photos of that night:





Oh, and the guy that I sat next to on the plane from Reykjavik to Minneapolis worked with Noam fucking Chomsky.

OMFG.

Fate.