I'm Going to Climb Over that Anger Wall of Yours and It's Going to Be Glorious

And thus begins another installment of ‘People Jackie Meets on Planes’. We had the-world-is-gonna-end-I-know-I-work-for-FEMA guy, Noam Chomsky’s old colleague, Heliberto, the ridiculously profound and affluent Merck representative, the photographer, the dude from Michigan whose career I can’t remember, and now we have the dog trainer from LA.

…The dog trainer from LA.

Tell me you’re thinking something along these lines:

Well, you’d be pretty much right. Sarah, the 26-year-old born and raised in LA county, had 4 orgasms in a round of dry humping last week.

Do people do that? Not the orgasms part (hello, self-proclaimed proprietor of the coregasm here) but tell people  strangers these kinds of things? I mean, I suppose that makes more sense than telling an acquaintance – after all, she’s never gonna see me again; what does it matter? And I’m totally cool with it…I’m just a little taken aback, if you will. I thought about plugging her website in here, but I don’t think I gave her the best (or most appropriate) introduction--as much as I yearn for the opportunity to blog, “Does your dog pee on your bedsheets? Can’t take it any longer? If you’re in the LA area and would like the chaos and misery to cease, Sarah is the answer! Perky, audacious, open, fertile, and full of bravado, she can Pavlov the crap outta your pooch (and into a non-toxic, disposable container)!”

Plane ride aside, trip #7 to Californ-i-a was pretty great. I met a bird on the beach. She was super duper hungry. This is that bird, eating the hot dog I made for her:

I named her Sue because her life looked hard. And you know what they say: life ain’t easy for a bird named Sue.

OH. Another highlight I almost forgot about. On Saturday night, my mother and I ventured into the LA metro area to go to Hollywood Grove (super neat). Mexicantown turns into Koreatown seamlessly; after Koreatown, the houses get nicer by the block by the digit until you’re surrounded by…

…

…

Yarmulkes (yamakas?).

Seriously. The average property value of a house on any given block is directly related to the number of yarmulkes within hearing distance. This is when my mom interjected with a racist, yet informative, quip about how, back in the day, they would say, “Can I Jew ya down?” Well, I suppose that depends on if I can Catholic your balls.

And now I’m going to end this post with examples of how goddamn polite I am. I know you were hankering for this moment. Before Sarah and I were speaking, I went to take a little in-flight nappy-poo. I set down the book I was reading (‘Bringing Down the House’—the book version of ‘21’; it’s obviously better than the movie, though I do enjoy the majority of Kevin Spacey’s work.), turned my iPod on and shut the window. Two seconds passed and I realized Sarah was reading (Skipping Christmas by John Grisham) so I opened it back up for her lighting needs (once you damage your retinas, you ain’t gettin’ new ones) and did not get my desired rest (but I did, however, get to learn about her sex habits).

On my next flight, I got to my seat before my seat buddy. I’m reading my book, I’m totes hogging the arm rest (armrest?), I’m having a good time, and then my seat partner arrives so I systematically move my arm to establish a peaceful treaty and make her feel welcomed. And, lo and behold, that bitch takes full advantage of the opportunity to relax her elbows. She bogarted that 9-inch block of plastic like it was her first-born son and she just ran out of lamb’s blood. I’m not saying I wanted the whole armrest (arm rest?), but sharing is caring, kids. Just because I’m not using it doesn’t mean I enjoy bearing the burden of supporting the weight of my right arm, thanks. Which brings me to an episode that happened on the flight back from A*dam: I’m chilling with Jim Henson. I get my vegetarian lasagna while Jim Henson remains foodless. And foodless. And still foodless. I’m waiting. The lasagna is getting cold. The stewardess comes up to tell Jim what’s taking so long and notices that I’m not eating and offers to take my food to warm it and bring them both out simultaneously, which I gratefully accept. Sans hyperbole, Jim seemed a little creeped out. He kept on going about how no one does that (Jim and I do have a very odd dynamic, sure, but we’re ‘friends’ nonetheless) and that struck me as super weird.

That is how polite I am. I personally think I sound like an awesome seat-buddy. If you would like to take me on any flights with you (destination permitting, though I’m pretty open minded), just give me a week’s notice or so. The only thing I require is the window seat.

My Wallet's Too Small for My Fifties and My Diamond Shoes Are Too Tight

Part One: Si Hoc Legere Scis Nimium Eruditionis Habes

I think life would be better (easier/happier/more fulfilled) if we could remember all the little awesome things we do. Since I might as well be amnesiatic, this may not apply to everyone. Maybe normal people do remember these things and build their self-esteem off of them. Either way, I was thinking about this after a friend had to remind me of this story; I was sad I had forgotten it:

In January, I went on this cruise. Of course, all I remember now was not really having a good time. I was broke (this means no excursions and no drinking. If you don’t take excursions on cruises in the Western Caribbean, you get a six-hour self-guided walking tour of the ghetto) and with people whose itinerary for Honduras was finding the closest bar and chatting up the bartender (from St. Louis). Believe it or not, this is building upon my point. To get to that bar, we got a cab. The cab provided a guide. The guide, of course, was a 13 year-old, 80 lb. girl. After my strawberry margarita (1 of 2 drinks the entire week) that tasted like jam (which was a-okay by me), I became restless and discontented. I decided a much better way to utilize my time would be practicing my Spanish with the guide girl, who was sitting by herself on the other end of the bar. I asked her what she liked to drink; she just shook her head. Orange? Grape? Coke? Finally, she mustered a shy nod to a Sprite. When I handed it to her, it felt like a band of carebears couldn’t’ve made her happier. After she laughed a few times at my lackluster Spanish skills, she took me to tour the shops, rarely leaving my side for the rest of the day, even after the other 6 joined us. Sometimes, I rock. Sometimes, I don’t. The ‘don’t’ instances are so much more salient; it’s relaxing to remember a non-‘don’t’ occasion. That story makes me simultaneously happy and sad. Those might be the best kind.


Part Zwei: Du Redest Zuviel Von Dir.

J: “If you could have your wedding anywhere, where would it be?”

A: “…You wanna know what I first thought?”

J: “Oh, God…Mordor?”

A: “Why would I want to go to Mount Doom?! IT’S IN THE LAND OF SAURON!”

J: “…”

A: “I’d pick Rivendell.”

J: “…”

A: “You?”

J: “Fictional?”

A: “Sure.”

J: “…Hogwarts? Nah, I can do better. …Heaven!”






Part Three: Would You Like a Piece of Mr. Hitchcake’s Cock?

That’s a line out of Lucille Ball’s biography (a recommended read, by the way. Unrelated, but I just went from trashy to classy in about 1.3 seconds). Funny how the habits your parents have rub off on you. My dad gave me that book, for example. But to make my daily inappropriate comment (this title) (I use parentheses a lot, did you notice that?) viable, I’ll tell you what I’m doing right now: I’m watching ‘Alfred Hitchcock Presents’ (a TV show from the 50s, hosted by AH, not written). My dad, in the closest he ever got to child abuse, would always force me to watch this stuff. And now I’m doing it voluntarily!!1!one!! ( <-- joke) This also adds weight to my ‘I’m-gonna-get-divorced’ theory; I have 14 aunts and uncles and I don’t currently feel like explaining it. I’m sure you can infer the information from my aptly titled theory name. If you pick up the habits and life practices of your elders, I wonder if that means I’ll develop an affinity for black men and/or Don Knotts. Boy, I hope so.

I interrupt this informative commentary to provide you with a word from the wise:

 
Thank you, Mr. Waters.

Meanwhile, at Pizza Ranch, the pictures on the wall and the napkins on the tables are ridden with typos (read: 3 ½, and that was experienced in only one sole dining experience; imagine the plethora to be discovered!). “Ya’ll come back!” Are we fortune tellers now, in addition to pizza mavens? I mean, I get trying to relate to your target demographic, but violating our sacred mother tongue is just taking it a step too far. I think France has it right with their language police. LMAO is in the mother-effin’ dictionary now, people! We must do something about this! If you would like to be added to my list of phone contacts that I send pictures of public typos to, please, do not hesitate to ask. And, yes, you can receive the archived photos as well.

Also, I am super cool, you’re right.

Trying to get my Usher on, but I can't let it burn.

GENIUS. That lyric is brilliant. BRILLIANT, I TELL YOU.

Amazing. Nelly is back, kids. It feels like nearly a decade since we so gratefully shook our tailfeathers and now the boy from the 'loo has returned. Man, sometimes black people rappers pleasantly surprise you. Take Eminem, for instance (not black) (I said that just so your face would look that way, ps). He also is full of pleasant surprises.

"Now you get to watch her leave out the window; guess that's why they call it window pane."

Man, guess you gotta grow up in Detroit to write shit that deep. I bet Marshall didn't have the semicolon in there, though.

I really have nothing to blog about; I only really really really really really really wanted to use that Nelly lyric as a title. I thought about using (every time I go to type the word 'use' or a form thereof, I type 'you' and have to erase it--I wonder what that says about my language centers) that as my facebook status, but that would make me a giant hypocrite and homie don't roll that way. I hate Emo facebook stati (?) and absolutely positively refuse to do it, even in a comical fashion or with the band-aid of a '=]' afterward.

Let's try to give this post a point, shall we? Maybe to differentiate it from the others.

I just booked my 6th California trip (for $195! I had a voucher for the time my flight was canceled.) (I did not pay for it. Still broke.) for late October. Not a day goes by where I don't ask myself (and someone else asks me) why I'm not there. I can give you a million reasons, but none of them are very good. I wonder how many mediocre reasons a person needs to not do something. Part of me wonders if I could just go and not come back. They have a solid public transit system, right?

The world needs more theories. Here is my pea-sized contribution: you know how kids have the "terrible twos"? I propose that that phenomenon repeats itself (only so I can use the cleverly alliterated name) two decades later. The "terrible twenty-twos", the "villainous vingt-deux", the "zoetic (I totally had to look that shit up) zweiundzwanzig". Let me explain: 22 is the postmark date of the pre-midlife crisis. Up until that point, life was like 'The Giver'. While under this sparkly, voluptuous umbrella of naivete, life will always be like 'The Giver'. Here is the designated, default timeline of Plan A:

14: go to high school.
18: go to college.
22: get a real job.
24: get married.
26: pop out a cute kid.
28: (optional) pop out an even cuter kid.

[the previous four steps have all been while simultaneously bettering your career (neglecting smaller, albeit important, life events, like buying a house and/or a car)]

30-65: (35: get divorced.) (40: remarry.) work your ass off.
65+: retire.
70: vacay in Florida.
80(ish): die.

22 is when you realize that NONE OF THIS WILL HAPPEN. At least, not on your handy-dandy schedule. You'll probably get married, have kids, and (if you live in America) you'll probably get divorced. 22 may also be the point when you realize you don't really want it to [happen like that]. Where did being conventional get anyone ever, anyways? However, the alternative (Plan B) schedule is this:

14: go to high school.
18: go to college.
22: (optional) find a job.
23: start paying off loans.
23-80: (30: (optional) marry. 32: (optional) pop out an average-looking kid. 35: (still optional) get a divorce.) work your ass off. Still paying off loans/mortgages/that bet you lost about Dakota Fanning ever becoming hot/ex-wife's/husband's/children's debts.
80(ish): die.

I totally get that this does not apply to everyone. Does my pessimism offend you? (Why are you beset with gloom?/'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells/Pumping in my living room.) If so, get off my blog. And I totally get, now, that I don't want it to apply to me. I don't want to marry the first dude I screwed in college. I don't want to work behind three walls, next to Toby, at a failing paper-supply company (unless Jim is there). I don't want to get a house 7 1/2 blocks from the one I grew up in. Not that any of these things are bad; I just don't necessarily want them for me. Not right now. Maybe later (but I doubt it). At the same time, a life plan would be nice. Does Northwestern Mutual sell those? Can I get the one where I'm an international spy  (until I decide to settle down on some oceanside cliff; after that, I'll write my autobiography.) whose most difficult decision is to decide which passport to use on my assignment to threaten the Pope? Obviously, I was picked for this assignment because of my proficiency in Latin. Duh. Gratias ago.

Back to real life:

And maybe some of you came to this conclusion much, much earlier. Maybe some of you never will. Those of you that are living Plan A to the fullest, hats off to you. In my world, you are the minority. I have so many friends that are in such similar situations that I honestly feel like some supernatural force (...grandma?!) is trying to get me to notice something. Or, at least, grant me the solace of knowing that I'm in good company. I blame technology and the Industrial Revolution. More on that later.

Maybe...just maybe there's a secret, awesome, secretly awesome Plan C. MAYBE THAT'S MY MISSION. I am off to find it (I acknowledge that it can't really be 'found'). I will find it whilst simultaneously using my degree to be a waitress. To which my father's response was, "Yeah, you and a million other people, Jackie." Dad, you're awesome, I get it, but shut up. Allow me to live my revelation in peace, damnit.

Let's liven up the mood:

Superhero Pickup Lines

    My metal suit isn't the only reason they call me Iron Man.

                  Ever hook up with a god? Didn't think so.

                                              I'm Batman.

I was going to be finished, but it's my blog and I change my mind:

Only Sold at Wal-Marts in China

Crocodiles.

??

Wal-Mart Brand alcohol. $0.15 equivalent.

Gross.

I don't want to end this blog on a box of ribcages.

Better.

Can I get the hotel room in cornflower blue?

To mom and dad - sorry I told you otherwise.

To my facebook friends that know my dad - I'm trusting you.

Now that the disclaimer is over with, the following is based on a true story:

I AM JACKIE'S MIND; I GO CRAZY, I COMMIT JACKIE.

I had this giant blog that spelled out all the details saved in a Word doc (my internet likes to be fishy since it's stolen, I guess) but then I realized that that's boring (and boy, do I hate being boring, as the following will elude to) and no one likes reading large chunks of text anymore (oh, the youth of America), so here is the abridged version of my fairly awesome story.

Chapter 1: Bros Icing Bros

Friend (from here on deemed Jim Henson (if you don't understand, don't worry about it)): Dude, let's go to Amsterdam.

Me: ...nope.

[Jim and I sit for a while. Jim exits room, closes door behind him.]

[I get up, open door. Am presented with a Smirnoff Ice (I think it was grape, but that defeats the purpose of BROS ICING BROS)]

[I get down on one knee and chug, as is my duty.]

Jim: So. Let's go to Amsterdam.

Me: ...Okay.

Jim: Leave tomorrow?

Me: Okay.

[Jim makes phone call to book flight. Success.]


Chapter 2: You know why they put oxygen masks on planes?

[Jim and I flew business class, standby. The nuts were warm. There was champagne and Bailey's everywhere. When you ran out of warm nuts, you were presented with nuts that were even warmer. The seatback ahead of me was so far away I couldn't reach it WITH MY FEET.]

Chapter 3: My God. I haven't been fucked like that since grade school.

It rained pretty much the entire time. I bet the prostitutes didn't much care for that. The Red Light District is creepy. The city is absolutely gorgeous. The people are pretty neat and laidback.

However, it was the opening of the cultural season and 30598 things were going on; of the 37,000 hotel beds, all of the ones less than 200 Euros in the city center were booked. We got a hotel by the airport and decided to leave early.

Chapter 4: How's that working out for you? 'What?' Being clever.

We get there two hours early and still miss our flight. We passed through 5 people without actual boarding passes. They told us we 'weren't allowed on the plane' but no one would tell us why until it was too late. Oh, Schiphol airport.

Chapter 5: If you wake up at a different time in a different place, could you wake up as a different person?

So we have to get ANOTHER hotel out by the airport. Only this time...this time the hotel is in

CORNFLOWER BLUE.

I hate cornflower blue. It's easily my least favorite crayon in the 64 Crayola coloring box.

Chapter 6: Single-serving sugar, single-serving cream, single pat of butter. Single-serving friends.

I did, however, meet a guy that claimed to be on the Yorkshire cricket team. I think he gave me a fake first and last name. It's okay, I did the same.

Chapter 7: Life insurance pays off triple if you die on a business trip.

We flew business on the way back. Still pimpin'.

Chapter 8: What kind of dining set defines me as a person?

I forgot to mention we went to the Anne Frank house. For those of you that are not familiar with 'Icing', here is the perfect video for this trip. It's only funny because it's pertinent. Anne Frank is the new Helen Keller.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CuzCGkusqYg

Chapter 9: Shatner. I'd fight William Shatner.

Proof I'm not making it up:





See those? Those were the warm nuts!

They were so warm.

Aww, guys, I got weenie juice on my Snuggie™!

So, California is great. It really is. There are no bugs, the ocean is errwhere, and the people are beautiful (I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing). However, after being there about once every two months, you get used to the awesomeness. Therefore, I'm not going to bore you with the, "Ohmigod, my trip was soooo good; you really shoulda been there!" crap. Instead, let's go the better, more interesting route:

10 Reasons This Trip Sucked Like Vanessa Hudgens in Everything She's Ever Done Minus High School Musical Three Because That Was Bonafide Art:

10. Emily Loses Her Wallet: It happened. All because when we see car racing games, CARS MUST BE RACED. There were 17 laps; after 4 the machine cut us off. Emily must've been so stark raving mad that she lost all sense of logic and stormed out accordingly. Or it was the sneaky gay man with the sibilant s who uses Disney as a cover for sneakiness. We did not find Sassy Gay Friend. We found the upgrade! Sneaky Gay Man! I'm sure they're everywhere. You didn't miss out too much.

9. Jumpstart: The car dies at Pacific Vineland Drive-In. This place is G-H-E-T-O. They can't afford the extra 't'. The man at the concessions stand had a band-aid on his neck. I turned to Emily and said, "Dude, that guy has a hickey!" She goes, "Uhh, Jackie...I'm pretty sure that's where he got knifed." It's a good thing I don't spend my time on the east side of Waterloo or I'd probably be dead or crying right now. If you think Inception is good in movie theatres, try it in the middle of nowhere next to three dudes smoking pot.

8. Headlight busts.

7. Nebraska.

6. Megan's Epic Fail: It's 7 AM and the people who are awake are hungry. Maybe the Food God just really likes me (we are really tight, for good reason) (because I would've preferred to wait) because Megan could not find a McDonalds to save her life, even when guided by the GPS. The third time really is the charm. Maybe it was a test to see just how badly one can want an Egg McMuffin. But take this as a warning: THE MCDONALD'S SIGN IS JUST A MIRAGE.

5. Vom: Vom everywhere. Megan and Ashley suck at riding in cars with girls. Luckily, there was no vom in the car--only at the Phillips 66 and the Holiday Inn Express. But I was thankful. I had to pee, even if it was to a chorus of dry heaves. Megan's vom apparently tastes like daisies and apple juice, though, because the toothpaste she was given was not good enough. =]

4. DRIVER PULL OVER. DRIVE PULL OVER PAST THE GUARD RAIL. DRIVER. : Emily gets a speeding ticket going 8 over at 3:30 AM in Colorado. Megan was previously driving at a solid 95 mph. But PEOPLE HAD DIED THERE. So, I guess it was different. Going 83 in a 75 equals DEATH.

3. Bree has the worst luck ever: So. Setup. Towels and possessions a solid 25 feet away from the nearest high tide mark. Chillin'. Layin' outz. Havin' a ball. And all of a sudden...dun dun dun. WATER EVERYWHERE. An inch lower and I would've been responsible for Ashley's camera's funeral; Bree's phone wasn't so lucky. This is about 45 minutes after her sunglasses started their ridiculously long journey to what must be the Philippines. Maybe some kid will find them and be ecstatic. But Bree was pissed. Also, wtf random high-ass tide? Moon, what the hell did you do?! We're over. So. Over.

2. Vandalism: Megan's car got spray painted while chilling in Cedar Rapids. Fuckin' delinquents. I was super scared of the wrath of Paula and Doug Moore, but Doug has super buffing powers, thank Yahweh.

1. Flat Tire in the Mojave Desert: Self-explanatory. However, TEMPLE FOX came to the rescue. When he did (the first of three men), Emily is quoted to have said, "This goes against everything I stand for." Really, the entire time I was just waiting for some mullet-wearing dude to come along, change our tire, and then rape us. Here's a picture ( reenactment) of Temple Fox:



times



divided by



equals Temple Fox. PS - He claims he's on facebook, but apparently he spelled his name wrong.

Here is not a reenactment of Bree getting her groove on with the tire-changer-man from the TLE at the Wal-Mart in Mesquite, Nevada. We begged them (read: showed our boobies) to stay late as they were closed when we got there.



See? This shit happened; I'm not making it up.

Okay, so it wasn't all bad. On Sunday, I saw 'Rent' with my mom at the Hollywood Bowl, directed by Neil Patrick Harris. The entire cast is famous. Take a looksie.



Can you read that?

We also hit up Huntington Beach during the US Open of Surfing, had some kickin' beach bonfires, went to the Aquarium of the Pacific (IT WAS SHARK WEEK. COINCIDENCE? I THINK NOT.),

lived in these professors' house where I brushed up on my colloquial Czech, and went to the ghet(t)o drive-in, amongst other awesome things.

And my Snuggie™ still smells like weenie juice.

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.