crazy cat lady

is this what it has come to? me writing about my cat? i guess now that i'm in situ, my topics of interest have waned considerably. i do want to give a shout out to my lungs for no-complaint performance during the inhalation of a significant amount of toxic paint fumes over the past few days and another to the muscles of my forearms and right hand for expert wielding of the crowbar and staple puller during floor removal. but, back to the cat.

she's a pretty stellar cat, as far as cats go. somewhat stupid and completely un-stealthy, she is generally good for hair loss and hilarity (like when she decided that our air ducts would be fun to play in. ha. ha.). when i picked her up in baggage claim she was calm, unruffled, and covered in her own...well, it was eight hours. gross. i immediately tossed out her nasty fleece bed, gave her a bath in the airport bathroom, and went on my way.

the next day i picked up a super plush microfiber bed at target. soft, comfy, and $15. she hated it. pushed it off chairs. never sat on it. didn't even use it to scratch up or piss on. stupid cat. instead she camped out on top of our suitcase or curled up in a giant box of crumpled paper leftover from our moving process.

i went to the store on thursday and found a bed similar to the one she destroyed over the atlantic. i sprayed it with a bit of catnip, put some treats in it, and set it on top of her favorite suitcase. (yes, we are still living out of our luggage.) she still hated it. i left the tag on, thinking that this might happen. just as i was about to put it back in my "return" pile, dan's genius took over. he went to the garage, pulled out a wad of moving paper, wrapped the bed in a crunchy duvet, and it was like flies on stink.

now, every night around 2 a.m. i hear "crumple, crumple, crumple" as she makes herself comfortable in her new home. next step: try to help her overcome her fear of the Great American Outdoors.

fin

i am in America. no, wait. i LIVE in America. although the jumble of my life will most likely remain, the location will cease to be so exotic.

when we moved to the U.K. 41 months ago, our goal was simple: fill the passports. i hoped to average one trip per month over (what was originally supposed to be) 32 months, instead i averaged 1.25 trips per month during our year-point-five and had to have extra pages sewn into my passport. (i did make the mistake of totaling the "travel" category in our Quicken budget. but, really, i would rather have my full passport than that brand new car i could have paid cash for had i spent every night at 39 Garland Street.)

it was bittersweet leaving the island, with no return ticket booked. no more cask ale and $40 flights to dublin. no more weekly market and queues, bins, rubbish, cricket, footie, give-ways, tubes, and half-pints.

now we need to make a new goal. hrm. this could be tricky.

the final list -- number indicates overnight trip, cities during trip next to number, "A" for airport.

1. london
2. canterbury, dover
3. venice (A)
4. tonbridge, hever
5. sevilla, granada, marbella, nerja, gibraltar (A)
6. hong kong, chengdu, tongren (A)
7. k-town, portland (A)
8. dublin, cashel, killarney (A)
9. amsterdam (A)
10. brugge
11. rome (A)
12. edinburgh
    >> end of 2007
    
13. mannheim
14. boleslawiec (A)
15. naples (A)
16. prague (A)
17. dublin (A)
18. san francisco, santa rosa (A)
19. brugge
20. florence, pisa (A)
21. portland, k-town, boise, CDA, las vegas (A)
22. the cotswolds, stratford-upon-avon, warwick
23. rome, amalfi (A)
24. istanbul, ephesus, mykonos, santorini, crete, alexandria, gisa, corfu, olympia, athens (A)
25. stonehenge, salisbury (day trip)
26. zurich, lucerne, interlaken, murren (A)
    >>> end of 2008
    
27. provence (A)
28. bath
29. copenhagen (A)
30. madrid, segovia, avila, toledo (A)
31. london
32. paris
33. rothenburg, bavaria, munich (A)
34. wales
35. kas, turkey (A)
36. scotland (A)
37. yorkshire
38. boise (A)
39. normandy, brugge
40. heidelberg (A)
41. morocco (A)
42. krakow (A)
43. chiavenna, italy (A)
    >> end of 2009
    
44. london
45. las vegas (A)
    
46. norway (A)
    
47. south africa, zambia (A)
    
48. washington, d.c., las vegas, oregon, road trip to north carolina (A)
    
49. romania (A)
50. red sea, egypt (A)
51. brugge
    >> end of 2010
    

at sea

a cruise:

The practice of loading up an enormous floating replica of Las Vegas with a bunch of fearful Americans and whipping them past a dozen tourist-oriented ports of call at thirty knots. (Michael Chabon, Wonder Boys)

true.

although i enjoyed my one cruise immensely, it was exhausting trying to escape the throngs of shipmates to find a secluded spot to enjoy a Greek afternoon, just to turn around and sprint back to the boat before sunset. i believe that on a truly luxurious vacation, one shouldn't have to wear a watch.

on our one cruise, two of my favorite words were "at sea." this simply meant that we could sleep late, eat lots, lounge by the pool, and not worry about Heraklion's shitty museum or getting the Pharaoh's curse in an Alexandrian alleyway.

another Corona with lime, please, waiter.

if i played up the adventurer in me too much in the last post, i would like to apologize. for every yin there is a yang. and after five days of navigating the backwoods of Transylvania, we were ready for seven days of sunscreen on the shores of the Red Sea.

hello, Hurghada.

although "five-star" in Egypt is more like "4.5 star" in America, it was still FOUR.POINT.FIVE.STAR! marble, a/c, cold beer, all-you-can-eat, sun loungers, palm trees, and so much luscious green-grass sod in the middle of a Saharan landscape, that it made Las Vegas look eco-friendly. the hotel even sort of looked like a huge boat.

ahhhh....decadence.

here's what we did:

• apply sunscreen
• eat
• sunbathe (three days), scuba dive (three days)
• read book
• eat
• float the lazy river (our pool had a LAZY RIVER)
• drink
• eat
• drink
• sleep

talk about well-rested.

today begins day 1 of "Operation Move to America."

as they say, the party's (nearly) over.

time travel

there is something about "backpacking through europe" that appeals to most Americans. i think we may be stuck on a 1970s adventure ideal where the exchange rates were favorable, backpacking involved backpacks, and there were no motorways, McDonald's, or mobile phones.

for better or worse, the idealistic adventure has somewhat faded. now, with an international plan on the iphone, a rental car, and a GPS, one can travel through europe in nearly the same manner as one can travel through Texas. book online, set the route, order a big mac.

in many ways, this is nicer than times past. there is much less stress for the newly initiated traveller, and they still get to experience French hospitality, German castles, Spanish sangria, Roman ruins... but, lately, we've been seeking outings that inject a little tiny bit of the adventure back in - the mountains of Morocco, a village in Turkey, the African bush, and now, Romania.

for the first time since 2003 on a trip to mainland europe i felt like i was sort of backpacking, albeit via rental car. we were challenged, lost, and mildly uncomfortable. it was more travel, less vacation.

our trusty GPS only had major roads on it, and by "major" i mean paved, of which there were just a smattering. we had to actually purchase a map. we could never find our lodgings and had to call people, converse with them (mostly pointing since few spoke english), ask directions, and interact.

driving 100 miles took three hours, at least, but we enjoyed gawking at roadside prostitutes, crumbling pastel-colored buildings, and massive abandoned factories. the wreckage of communism.

we passed farmers on their way to work, riding along Romanian highways in their horse-drawn carts. we saw people stacking hay and digging potatoes by hand.

we sat in clouds of cigarette smoke and ate pizza or potatoes and drank Ursus pilsner at less than $2 per liter.

we saw houses with no electricity, roads with no pavement, and grannies wearing wool leg warmers.

the locals were grim faced, mostly, but who wouldn't be if your occupation involved a wooden rake?

we got the stink-eye for 400 miles in our Avis rental, but we pressed on.

Romania today may be that hybrid between 70s backpacking and the Eurostar to Paris. one foot in the EU and one foot out. although we didn't eat a big mac on the piazza in Sibiu, we could have. but, at the same time, we couldn't have found an english menu within 100 miles in Maramures.

for the medium-core adventurer like me, this dabbling in a foreign place was just right.

the loophole of monogamy?

there was blood everywhere.
my liver, in attempt to escape the prison of my body, had fashioned itself a shiv made from cirrhosis scar tissue and the crystals formed when alcohol mixed with advil. the poor organ wanted out, bad.
luckily, the thought of leaving a comfortable ménage à trois with my kidneys, combined with my sincere begging and pleading, helped convince her to give me another shot.
off to buy some new sheets and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
what a mess.
at least that's what i imagine would have happened if my liver had opposable thumbs.
it all started innocently enough last saturday morning with bottomless mimosas at 11 a.m. it was "girl's weekend" with our visiting friend Nora* from Boston* (*you know who you are).
from pizza and champagne to pedicures and beer, the day was off to a roaring success.
as our male roommates have mentioned many times over the past few weeks, "you women sure know how to talk."
it's true.
Amy, Nora, and i drank, ate, and talked our way across NW DC for eight hours.
around 7 o'clock, over beer and oysters at Harry's in Dupont, the talk turned (back) to s-e-x. namely how yours truly isn't getting any.
"well, let's go to a strip club!" Nora says. "it's sexy, it's safe, it's interesting. it's the loophole of monogamy!"
the theory goes: since i am affection-starved and can only hug Amy so many times before she becomes uncomfortable, i should supplement my needs through purchasing.
need a hug? go get a massage.
need a cry? go rent a sad movie.
need an active listener? go see a counselor.
need some attention? get a pedicure or see a hairstylist full of flattery.
so, when it comes to the intimate, strippers are as close to acceptable as i am going to get. or so goes the argument.
(what about the part where i'm not gay? not to worry, these ladies are hot enough that it's not so much about the gender as it is about the gyration. how do they do that? wow.)
off we go on a daylight sojourn to DC's finest full-nude establishment. oh, the decisions we make when we've been out in the sun too long.
as promised, the ladies were gorgeous, but the beer was $7 a bottle, and there are no lap dances in the District. (the girls did enjoy chatting with us instead of the creepy fat guy eating a steak across the room, though).
it was quite an interesting experience. yep, there is some sex on sale at Camelot on M Street, and like Playboy and porn, it can fill a certain void in a person's life when called upon.
but i'm not sure it satisfied my core problem: i miss my husband.
although i understand the commodification of certain types of attention (foot rub? yes, please!), i think i'm going to have to add intimacy to the list of things that money just can't buy.

breaking all the rules

friday night we went to a fab happy hour with a group of 30-something women - doctors, lawyers, MBAs - this place is crawling with an accomplished set. but it doesn't matter how stellar your C.V. is, everyone seems to be on a level playing field in the dating world.

they've all been on "Match," they've been on blind dates, they've had the one-night-stand(s), they've had the bad breakup and the good breakup and some equivalent to the "post-it breakup."

the worst part for them: DC is 60% female, 40% male. and my new gay husband confirmed that at least half of the dudes in DC are seeking other dudes. odds aren't in your favor, ladies.

this makes it imperative that they follow the rules of dating - to help increase the chance of meeting mr. right (or mr. "eh, he's all right"). they first concentrate on increasing date quantity. just like in sales, it's a numbers game. second, if if there is a hint of possible spark, don't screw it up by dumping gasoline on the ember. you'll singe your eyebrows and probably smell funny for a week. in other words, take it sloooooow, and remember you can't fall in love with every first date or you're gonna get burned.

rule 1: log on. online dating isn't for pasty comp-sci majors named Lars anymore. at least not in DC. everyone is a newcomer, and high-value time away from the stressful job is spent with good friends (or trolling for quick lays). it follows that since we spend so much time in the virtual space anyway, meeting Mr. Possible there is an obvious next step. and unless he's a total douchebag, he's going to honestly say what he's looking for - friends, sex, dating, something serious - in his profile. it's so much more efficient than waiting for your friends to fumble around with matchmaking. time is money, folks, so let's weed out the losers with the power of google. (note: on most online sites you can instant message. listen up, boys: online dating is for DATING, not chatting a la 1998. just invite her out for coffee already).

but what if you aren't a writer? how will he know that you're the one? get professional help. yes, you can find professional online dating profile writers to accentuate your positives. seems creepy, right? (note: no matter what, don't put up the glamour shots with your ex-fiancee photoshopped out or the sensitive close-up done by the folks at the Sears Photo Studio. those are also creepy.)

rule 2: keep your ankles crossed. confirmed by Mr. Martin - if a datable prospect gives it up on the first couple of dates, then she's immediately shelved, or added to the text-only list (see below). sure, flings don't have the stigma they once did. (everyone's boning and everyone's loving it, owning it, lubing it up. yay, promiscuity!) but if you want a relationship, find someone else to screw until you make the transition to "been dating awhile."

rule 3: put the mobile away, already. no, we're not talking about taking calls at dinner. that's common courtesy these days, right? the real issue is, if you go out with Mr. Possible and think you might want to score a third date, then you better not send him a text on Friday night when you're out in Adams Morgan. it's simple: text is the new booty call. in fact, the Harpsen's (that's mine and Amy's celebrity name) got a booty text last thursday: "Come over and help me finish this bottle of wine." Translation: "Take off your pants." this dude wasn't too subtle (and, obviously Amy and i were laughing. no shot in hell, dude), but even something innocuous like: "My friends and I are at Solly's drinkin' PBRs on the patio" to someone you just went on a date with last week translates thus: "I'm getting drunk and want to take you home with me tonight." just give the thumbs a rest.

rule 4: FB is the enemy, google is the friend. i have been facebook-friended by people i've met for 10 seconds. just because my husband shares a cubicle with yours, doesn't mean we need to see each other's vacation photos. however, i do like the fb in the appropriate situation. dating is not that situation. you'd spend 30 minutes a week friending and un-friending these people. that would just not be a good use of your time. but you should definitely google-stalk. most of the time you can discover a few photos, find out that he's a "successful, goal-oriented Attorney skilled in legal research, writing and public policy analysis," and learn that he's not good with punctuation since "attorney" isn't a proper noun.

rule 5: no dating on weekends. what about the rom-com when he goes knocking on all the doors in your neighborhood before he finally finds yours, just to ask you out for a dinner on saturday night? he or she most likely will say no, because saturday night is not a night for dating. why? because you obviously already have plans with your social set and don't want to waste a precious weekend evening with a stranger. "if the past is any indicator of the present" it probably won't work out, so first dates are relegated to days that don't begin with S. you have to earn saturday.

rule 6: no meeting the friends. this is the rule that's been killing me out here. i get to read their profiles and hear the post-date debrief, but i don't get to meet them? i even got to sit at the controls at a brief instant-messaging session with Dr. Possible for a few minutes. (Amy soon realized that that was a very bad idea. apparently i lack both a verbal and a keyboard filter. oops.)

although i was begrudging the rule, i learned on thursday why it exists. there's nothing that's going to kill your chances like your chatty married friend plopping down after a romantic dinner and insulting a dude's iPhone. i guess "it's so slow" ranks up there with "it's so small."

anyhoo, "Tony" was awkward with the date crash (even though it was really a miscommunication. i was told the date was over and Amy and i were going to walk home. T didn't think the date was over and wanted to walk Amy home. read: one-way walk home). and Amy made it worse by suggesting THE THREE OF US stop by the Red Derby for an after-dinner drink. ugh. nightmare. i had to sit alone at the bar talking to Ralph and Tara (strangers who were nice enough to adopt me for an hour). i think T slooowly realized that i was the only one going home with amy, as she's not that kind of girl.

when it finally came time to say good night and T was wondering just how far north of Columbia Heights we lived, thinking he could still swing the "i'll escort you ladies home" bit, i said, "T, don't you even think about crossing Quincy Street with us. we live so far north that if you tried to follow us it would make your nose bleed."

BAM! i am a walking #*$(@block. aaaand goodnight, buddy.

Amy and i think some rules are made to be broken.

(note: i am aware of this blocking factor, and it is encouraged in my present situation by Amy, as she is looking for *love,* not sleazy late-night texters. i am Jiminy Cricket to Amy's Pinocchio. i am also an excellent Bad Idea Bear if need be. just doing my job here, folks.)

no more words

it always happens that i'm running through life so quickly that i barely have time to sit down and process what just happened. and when i'm doing a lot of writing for work, the last thing i want to do is write some more. i may be almost out of words.

so how am i going to explain my trip to the shore? let's just use the fewest words possible:
roach motel, one-armed man named roscoe, "tournament regulation" horseshoe pits, russian immigrants (possibly in the sex trade), the cleanest pool in Ocean City (certified by the health department), all-you-can-eat snow crab, two cars, eight people three bikes, and enough sleeping space for six.

quote of the trip: "well, the carpet's brand new. just sleep on the floor... no extra charge."

and my internship:
writing about shit that i know nothing about. guessing mostly. reading a lot. learned today what SEO was. overwhelmed. sort of excited. mostly overwhelmed.

essence of experience: there's nothing like learning than learning by doing.

and my roommate:
yin, effortless, teacher, supportive, exciting

latest development: she has a second date tonight!

other things:
effing hot, love the bike, happy hour capitol of the universe, block party this weekend, moving to north carolina in november, worried about life plan, need job, miss e. bott and BDL and dan (in that order? hm...), hungry.

coldest place in the city: the bus

ok. that's about it for now. i'm off to a reception at the czech embassy tonight. oooo. classy.

i could get lost here.

please don't leave me

there has been some confusion from my target audience (i.e. dad) about my antics thus far in the city. just to be clear, i am not in D.C. to date while my poor husband is away. in fact, the mere thought of being a single person makes me want to vomit. not because being single is bad, but because my particular personality characteristics make me being single a horrible experience (not to mention i am desperately in love with dan).

amy and i went to lunch on saturday with one of the most fun and interesting women i've ever met, ENTJ Lou. if you're not aware of the Myers-Briggs personality test, ENTJ is short for "insufferable." Lou doesn't mind me saying this a) because it's true and b) because i am also an ENTJ. we are extroverts (talk, talk, talk) who move so fast, steamroll over people, always organized, and have a tough time sitting still.

common word used to describe us: abrasive.

sound familiar? yep.

i learned all about my "letters" during my master's program and am very, very aware of how ridiculously overwhelming i am. not to mention that i am a "monogamous extrovert" (a phrase i think i just invented). it is defined as an extrovert who is most comfortable with one or two people, versus being in large groups of people. see also: suffocating.

and you know what that means...if i get you in my clutches, you're going to have a tough time escaping. ask erin. i save up all my words through the week and then talk her ear off until she shoves me out the door.

in light of that, when an ENTJ finds "the one" who can put up with her for more than 20 minutes, she knows to dig those claws in real deep and hang on. that being said, there is absolutely nothing i would to to jeopardize the relationships situation i am in. i often compare dan's personality to a nice steady line. whereas i am more like the sine wave. i don't know how it works, but it DOES, and i am unbelievably happy. frankly, i am also lucky that dan hasn't run away in terror long before this moment (i love you, huzzy. smoochie, smoochie, where are you going? why? what do you want to do now? how about now? what are you thinking about? do you miss me? i miss you. come home now! no? how about now? agh!).

and to all of my friends out there, thanks for sticking around with me as well. if i annoy you even half as much as i annoy myself, then i feel for you.

but back to facts, i am in DC to network and learn about marketing and sustainability. coincidentally, i am enrolled in Single-People Boot Camp-DC because of a clerical error. let's just say that i'm auditing the course.

i'm pretty sure the real reason that my pops is so concerned is best put in his own words:
"i have a vested interest in helping ensure that this marriage works," he said, pointing at dan and i, "because I don't want that [pointing at me] moving back in here [pointing at his house]."

i can't imagine why not? really? why not? but, but, D? so, wait! where are you going? come back! let's talk about it! agh!

ten-hut!

i somehow have signed up for a 12-week stay at the Single-People Boot Camp-DC, it's the Marine Corps meets Match.com. i've tried to explain that i probably was meant to register for the Lady of Leisure program at Camp Old Cannon Brewery in in England. but since this is a non-refundable program, i'm stuck.

Here's what i know so far:

"SPBC-DC, commonly referred to as Camp C'moniwannalay-ya, is a 12-week summer program where you will learn the ins and outs of the 2010 dating scene. At least five nights per week you will attend engaging excursions where you will be required to mingle with potential suitors. Each event is followed by one-on-one debriefing session with your program cohort partner.

In addition to excursions, you will be offered a variety of workshops, a personalized trainer who leads your mandatory exercise program, the excitement of rooming with other young singles and couples who can serve as mentors and wingmen, and the joy of a perpetual hangover."

sounds like 1999-2004 to me, but with more bicycle miles.

so far my drill sergeant/cohort partner is quite pleased with my progress, except for the actual 'me getting a date' part. i have emphasized that i'm married, so we've re-focused to the 'getting HER a date' part.

it's lucky i have the bike to quickly transport me to all of my events, carefully charted on our shared google calendar, or i would be in big trouble. for example, Monday - dinner at Red Derby; Tuesday - World Cup Kickoff networking; Wednesday - Workshop: Effectively Sending and Receiving E-mails to Secure a Second Date; Thursday - Happy Hour at Poste; Friday - Jazz in the Sculpture Garden...holy crap, I can barely keep up with my own self. we're pretty much booked up until after the Fourth of July...

the mandatory exercise part -- morning runs, biking everywhere, sweating my balls off in this heat -- has already lost me 2 lbs., supposedly increasing my overall match-ability (and i have heard that the guys dig chicks on bikes).

our Saturday workshop was Navigating Your Online Dating World. it turned out to be quite informative. i learned all about profile-writing, checking messages, ranking guys, and (very important) vetting out un-dateable guys who include:

• including anyone under 27
• anyone living in MD or VA
• anyone who looks like a douche (wife-beater or moustache are immediately out)
• anyone who "winks" or "waves" instead of getting the balls up to write a personal message
• anyone who has no job
• anyone who has joined in the last three weeks (read: i just broke up with someone recently)
• anyone who has glamour shots of himself on the site (waivers acceptable for some candidates)
• anyone who is too snarky or painfully funny in profile text
• anyone hideous
• and anyone who has already been e-mailed and never responded because our profile didn't meet their requirements

who did that leave: Thom and Iceman (code names).

Thom has potential, but a dumb name. first date went well. now i am helping craft banter-y e-mails to try and score a second date. i am getting personally vested in living vicariously here at 'camp.' (my writing skills, my honest wingman opinion, and an iPhone are the positive things i bring to this relationship.) hopefully the second date is on Google Calendar by tomorrow...

tonight we might craft a message to Iceman (fingers crossed!).

next post: Inside an SPBC-DC Workshop: The 2010 Rules of Dating (for all of those who stopped buying after the 2000 version came out)

standard excellent

yesterday was somethin' special, that's for sure. today, standard excellent. it's interesting to note that i've had my fair share of lost-pants, stolen disco-ball, trip to "Vision," dance party type nights in my life. my friends are fucking fantastic. and Amy is no exception.

frankly, i couldn't be here without her.

i showed up on Friday to my own little room fully furnished with drawers and quilts and a cozy futon. i have my own shelves and plugs for charging and a drawer in the fridge. all because Amy is Amy.

after giggling through my post about last night, amy spent the day laughingly petitioning me to write a proper character piece on her, i guess to make sure that my "reader" doesn't think that she's some drunken slag.

"can you just take out the part about when he mentioned motorboating? i don't want to have to explain to my mom what that means," she asked.

"uh, amy, why would your mom be reading my blog? there are like eight people who actually read this. are you going to forward it to her?"

"no, but. well, he did say it, i guess. wow. what the fuck? what was i thinking? who is going to read this, again? ugh. maybe if i see it in writing i will see how ridiculous it is. 'it' being my life." she chatted on laughing at herself and laughing about last night.

so, reader, if you know me, then you know Amy. she's sort of like we all are (or were) and, of course, i love every minute of it.

our conversation today went from happiness about finding the lost wallet, silly choices, and hangovers to a new found joy in mixing compost, a potential second date next week, and planning our dinner menu. i've been delighted and amused with how her entire wardrobe is made up of pretty stuff given to her by same-sized friends. or, instead of tupperware, the kitchen is full of jars of all sizes filled with leftovers and lunches for the next day.

"is this really almond butter?" i asked.

"yes, but that's not jelly, it's salad dressing."

this morning we rushed out the door at 9 a.m. to go pick up an Ikea-closet that one of her friends had donated to Project Room. although i was less than pleased to be upright at 9 a.m., it was just like Amy to be awake and ready for the opportunity of Saturday, full of that electric Amy energy that she carries with her all of the time.

by mid morning we were already on the bikes and off to the farmer's market to pick up some tomato plants and herbs for the backyard. although it was Amy's idea to make a small garden, she was like, "hmmm...what do you think. i have no idea what i'm doing." unluckily for her, i have no idea either. we just wandered a while before i made some decisions. it's just so easy to make decisions together -- sometimes i did it; sometimes she did. after a bit of digging and watering, things were haphazardly planted.

as we cycled through the city, we ran into five people amy knew -- from work, from volunteering, from her network. she's only been in this city for 10 months, and she is NW DC. she grows roots and makes connections. her calendar and her life is full.

the afternoon was spent with one of amy's many friends, talking about relationships and eating chips and salsa. it's just so easy to be with amy and her friends. an instant, easy familiarity.

now we're home. exhausted and enjoying some Pandora. as i click-click on the keyboard, she keeps pulling up the jumble.life. asking me why i keep giggling.

"did you make a new post? it makes me nervous when you ask me a question about my life, and then 'click-click-click,'" she says. "are you writing about me?"

of course i am. you're totally worth writing about.

maybe this was a bad idea

a really eventful day segued into a hopelessly crazy evening. my liver and i are sort of hoping that friday night was the exception, not the rule.

first up, out with Amy to a "happy hour" where they bring you a full glass of gin and ice and small bottle of tonic on the side. this was followed by a nice walk through Dupont circle where free wine was on offer from some local galleries. after the gin and wine we hopped on our bikes, out for some PBRs in cans at Solly's on U Street.

it was at this point that i began to worry. nothing good happens after cans of PBR. (see also my bachelorette party in Portland where i woke up on the lawn with timmi and couldn't find my pants.)

anyhoo, we met up with roommate Aaron and went to Adam's Morgan where we had pitchers of PBR (is this better? no.). some creepy guys from Cincinnati started hitting on Amy (since when is "motorboating" used in pick-up lines?). Aaron and i agreed that Amy's fella was a douche, so we attempted to ditch him quickly, heading for Amy's friend's house party nearby.

the house party was chalk full of warm beer, over-achieving DC 20/30-somethings, and dancing.

not minutes had passed when Cincinnati walked in -- Amy had told him the address, brilliant. i wondered at that moment -- am i to be a cock block or am i a disinterested observer? Amy confirmed that in exchange for a place to stay, i am her sane, married chaperon for the summer. oh, lucky, lucky me.

so, i allowed the dancing and maybe a kiss, but after that it was "grab your purse and get on your bike, girl. time to call this thing a night."

i think i earned my keep last night, even though i couldn't prevent amy from losing her wallet.

mom can't take care of everything, i suppose.

busy day

after a lovely morning of coconut coffee and the Washington Post, i took the S2 bus (air-conditioned!) to 16th and W Street where i found a trendy little bike shop and a hot floridian named Adrian. Adrian talked me into a bright blue commuter cycle for my summer adventure.

i know that i could have scoured the craigslist or went to Target and got a lead-filled cheapy, but i have an unhealthy attraction to bikes. and i know how awful it is to pedal 62 lbs. of rust and steel up the slightest incline. so, my summer wheels are light and trendy, and probably begging to be stolen. oh, please bicycle thief ring, wait until august at least.....hopefully the Kryptonite U-lock will keep me safe.

after Bicycle Station, i pedaled around in the hot-hot-hot-humid-humid-humid DC sun (spf 30 for sure) and up the 14th St. hill to urban Target.

shopping complete. first ever Chipotle for lunch. and i'm feeling like a pro at this city living.

on my way home, i googled hardware stores (iphone rules!) because i needed to make myself a copy of the house key. my Target goods were bungeed to the front of the bike (aren't i genius?), and i whizzed over to a mom and pop shop in another ridiculously trendy 'hood.

i was standing inside the shop, enjoying the A/C, feeling ever-so-cosmopolitan, and waiting for 'pop' to cut my key. a couple of customers come in.

the guy behind me asks me, "is it too hot to ride your bike in this weather?"

"i'm not sure. i'll know once i get home! i just got the bike today."

"i need to get myself one."

"yeah, you should. it's pretty fun times, so far."

chat, chat, chat.

pop passes me the key and i hand over my $1.84.

outside for the trip home.

as i'm unlocking the Kryptonite, mr. chatty comes out and --- asks me on a date.

what the hell? i've only been here for 18 hours.

it was so awkward. i've never been asked on a date before by a complete stranger.

"um, uh. actually, i am married. but i am also really flattered. i appreciate the offer."

"reaaallly, married?!?! wow. well, i didn't see that coming, i guess."

come to find out, Osama (haha! Osama) is also new in town. getting his Ph.D in engineering from George Mason and thought i was cute, smart, and date-able. i, on the other hand, thought i was sweaty, too talkative (nerves), and now horrifically embarrassed.

i thanked Osama again for his boosting my self-esteem and pedaled like hell out of trendy-land.

i think i might just lead with the left hand from now on.

rainy day craft project

i am so lame and the worst seamstress in the world. but putting things together provides some diversion during cold, rainy spring days. i love my little union jacks! and a matching bench cover.... (don't look too closely. it's a complete disaster).

Who teabagged what? So to speak.

In an interview last year, President Obama referred to the conservative political movement (the self-proclaimed Tea Partiers) as teabaggers. The interview, featured in someone's new book, has caused a little semantics ruckus amongst said tea people. Apparently teabagging and tea partying are very different activities. (Although I could argue that there is a place for both at certain types of events.)

Anyhow, some Obama critics are now sticking it to the president about what passed between his lips. Some even have nailed him hard by comparing his use of the term as equivalent to using a racial slur.

I think that comparison is taking it a little far. Sure, teabagging may be considered a derogatory term to some, but it surely can’t be compared to ignorant, hate-fueled racial slurs.

Although it is important to note that insults of a sexual nature can be offensive, in this case I don’t believe it is a rock hard, oh-so-hard, analogy. Unlike many minority groups, I just can't remember the last time that a group of people with balls in their mouths went marching on Washington asking for equal rights. In fact, teabagging is so inclusive and equal opportunity, it can be enjoyed by practically everyone (sorry, lesbians).

And it’s only derogatory if used intentionally as an insult, not just poor word choice.

Case in point: I was eating out...today at a local pub, The Prince Albert, and asked my friend what she thought. Between mouthfuls of sausage (bangers, they’re called here), she acknowledged that tea wasn't her favorite beverage, but doesn't object to it being on the menu. A man nearby smoking a fag agreed.

True, true, friends. Although teabagging may be icky for some, for others it’s just Wednesday night.

And what's next? Will PETA make us guilty parties call ourselves the downward-facing-people-stylers so as not to slur man's best friend? Will we no longer be able to use the head or let our children add 52 and 17? What will those cadres of offensive plumbers do with all their spare time, become bricklayers? Will the French no longer be able to shower? Heaven forbid if the University of South Carolina has to host Oregon State in a NCAA tournament baseball match someday. OSU taking the mound; best catcher in college baseball. USC pitcher tossing a fast slider. Triple-X SI pages full of slur-tastic sports references.

I think that the true solution for Tea Partiers, the makers of Nads hair removal cream, Apple, the manufacturer of the iPad sanitary napkin computing device, and the creators of Horlick’s hot malty drink is this: do a little Urban Dictionary search before you give yourself a multiple-entendre-loaded moniker such as these. It might prevent unplanned word ejaculations.

I think Mr. Freud would agree that the president was victim of a simple slip of the tongue. And I can't blame Obama. Not only are the two terms similar, but trying to navigate the innuendo of our loaded language is like trying to drive in England -- she's always so wet that you're eventually going to ram your Woody into some thick bush.

Tomorrow's blog: Favorite recipes, featuring fish tacos, salty meatballs, and spotted dick.

a first time for everything

last night i sat down to watch some telly and found myself deeply engrossed in none other than the 2010 Prime Ministerial Debate on the BBC. (it's online in case you want to catch up). i realize that it is odd that i didn't watch a U.S. presidential debate in '08, but couldn't stop staring at Gordon Brown as he did this wierd thing with his chin after each full stop.

GB: "blah, blah, Labour, blah, I hate you Mr. Cameron,
blah." (uughlt) <--chin thing.

for a sample, check this out:

as i watched the three british politicians jabber on about jobs and banking, immigration and welfare, i became aware of two ridiculous facts:

1) this was the first time that the UK had had a televised debate between prime ministerial candidates. EVER. Seriously, UK, the US has been tossing the candidates to the wolves of broadcasting since sweaty Mr. Nixon was defeated by that sexy young guy from Massachusetts in 1960. it's like the british just now figured out that sex sells. what have they been doing all this time? reading? listening to the shortwave? how are they supposed to pick a qualified candidate that way?

2) other than one billboard off the A11 and a few colorful flyers shoved through my mail slot, i had no idea that a national election was actually taking place next Thursday. what happened to the endless reel of campaign commercials where an ominous voice shows the opponenet in black and white with sayings like "Vote No to Drowning Kittens; Vote No on Mandatory Heroine Use" (Music change, change to color, white man kissing baby) "Vote YES for freedom and sunshine, Vote yes for Happy Meal Toys! Vote for Heywood Jablome! -- Paid for by the fossil fuel foundation of America."

And why aren't there any "Browney Loves You" or "Clegg/Jesus 2010" stickers on the bumpers of the VW Golfs in my neighborhood? Do they not have those plastic signs stapled to wooden stakes to put in the front garden? How the hell am I going to know if my neighbor is a bleeding heart, amnesty-giving, illegal immigrant-loving, save-the-poor socialist or not?

Anyhoo, I think that Mr. Cameron and Mr. Clegg actually beat Gordie in this one (yes, folks, the Brits have THREE major parties and quite a few minor ones as well). Maybe this will be a repeat of 1960 America where the public realized that the more qualified candidate (on paper) was really ugly and decided to vote someone more eye-catching into the leading national office.

I guess it's Clegg and the Liberal Democrats for me, then. He's dreamy.

school of life

long story short.

2004 - get a job at a corporation. spend lots of money on cocktail parties and five-star hotels. feel bad about putting own energy to such a pointless endeavour, even though, turns out, am really good at it.

2006 - company starts a "corporate social responsibility committee." get interested.

later in 2006 - realize that company is full of crap, but still like CSR.

2007 - quit job, move to england.

2008-2009 - get master's degree, but realize that it is sort of useless with my current resume.

later in 2009 - remember how much i liked CSR. start researching the most recent developments. realize it is now called SUSTAINABILITY and it is really exciting, innovative, fun, and everyone who is anyone is doing it (even Wal-Mart!).

even later in 2009 - find a consulting firm that looks really fun, small, dynamic, and has internships.

January - enroll in the University of California- Irvine's Sustainability Leadership graduate certificate program. redesign resume.

March - apply for internship.

April - send writing samples. do interview. kick ass. take names (80 names, it turns out).

Today - buy a ticket to D.C. where I'll be working as a marketing intern for said consulting firm from June to August, living with the coolest roomie ever (shout out, Amy T.), using my iPhone, taking the Metro, and making my own way in the school of life. it's my own summer MBA program.

now let's hope that i can pull out some good writing...be worth my weight. holy crap, i haven't legitimately used my brain in weeks. maybe i should start to practice. maybe i should start with using capital letters in my blog. maybe i should just panic.

In to Africa

I didn’t know what to expect on this most recent travel adventure. I was actually intimidated at the prospect of a trip south of the Tropic of Capricorn, but, with the help of a fantastic travel agent, we had the best time during our two week visit to Livingstone, Zambia, and northeastern South Africa. Now that it’s all done and passed, I don’t even know where to begin. I’ve put together some random thoughts and highlights so I could help myself remember, but it may not be entirely interesting to read. Pick and choose; this could take a while.

South African Airways
Just don’t. They pretty much suck, but the booze was free, which I was glad for since my TV screen didn’t work on either leg of the 11 hour flight from London. The staff was less than helpful, two of the toilets in our section didn’t work on the way down, and we were almost cancelled on the way back because some of the cabin crew called in “sick” so they could go camping over the Easter weekend (one of the biggest travel holidays in SA).

In this age of heightened travel security, I am left to wonder whether any airline doesn’t suck. I am so tired of airports, airlines, and the irrational fear of a fiery death. As of this second I do not have plans to fly anywhere for the foreseeable future. This is truly remarkable since I’ve had some “upcoming trip” on the calendar every day for the last 41 months.

Livingstone, Zambia
We arrived to Johannesburg, SA, in the early morning and caught a connection a few hours later to Livingstone, Zambia. We wanted to see Victoria Falls and dip our toes into a predominately black African country. It was eye-opening. Like pretty much all of Africa, the vestiges of colonialism are everywhere: in language (English being one of the official languages of this formerly British colony known as Northern Rhodesia), architecture, religion, etc.

Of course we had no idea of this before we touched down. We had arranged for an all-inclusive stay including an airport transfer.

Brightone, a 27-year-old Zambian guy, was our personal driver for the three night stay. He loaded us into a 4x4 Toyota van and off we went. In his heavily accented English he pointed out spots in Livingstone town – the museum, the school, the shops, the church. The buildings were brick or cement, painted white with corrugated metal roofing. Most of the signage was hand stenciled and painted or produced by the Coca-Cola company. The day we arrived was a Sunday and the dusty, hot streets were mostly quiet.

Livingstone is a small town. As we drove down the main drag, groups of well-dressed Zambians were walking everywhere making their way home from Sunday service. Having a car is a major luxury for a population living on wages averaging $3 dollars a day, so the shoulders of all roads were always lined with pedestrians and cyclists in remarkably bright whites and vivid colors despite the heat and red dust.

Taita Falcon Lodge
We turned off the main road near the Victoria Falls park entrance and traveled 11km on the most difficult dirt road you can imagine. The six mile journey took 40 minutes in the van and we wondered what accommodation awaited us this deep into the bush.
The travel agent’s description of the lodge included info about a nice, six-bungalow place with a deck overlooking the Zambezi river gorge and views of Zimbabwe on the opposite shore. What it actually turned out to be is an astonishing eco-lodge carved out of the unforgiving countryside by a white South African farmer and entrepreneur, Faan and his wife, Ann Marie. More on Faan later.
The Zambezi (and South African – at least where we were) bush is thorny, nasty, and dense. There are tall marula, baobab, sausage, and other shade trees that grow 30-50 feet high, and below the trees are bushes with inch-long thorns, tall grasses, nettles, and other scrub packed in. Mammals, birds, snakes, and spiders (among others) call the bush home. When it’s dry, it’s bone dry. But when it rains, the clay turns to bog and roads can instantly become impassable.

Anyway, the Taita Falcon “lodge” is a traditionally-built reed and thatch pole barn with comfortable handmade furniture, a fully-stocked bar, a pool, and a lovely deck overlooking the Zambezi. Our bungalow was another traditionally built reed and thatch house, just like the ones in the local village nearby, but ours had solar lighting and hot water whereas the villagers have candle and fire.

There was a living tree growing in our shower, with a small hole cut in the roof to let the trunk out. Our bed had a necessary, and romantic, mosquito net to keep out the malaria-spreaders. There were no windows, just spaces at the top of the walls to let the hot air escape. The thatch roof came down low enough to ensure privacy. It was the most romantic place we could have chosen to begin our African trip. The food was great -- most of it home grown in Faan's garden -- the atmosphere was remote yet charming, and we had the place all to ourselves for two of the three nights.

While in Zambia we visited Vic Falls (and, no, we didn’t get to swim at the Devil’s Pool because the water was too high – rainy season. DAMN!), took an evening cruise up the Zambezi with a nice gay couple from Miami Beach to see the hippos, saw the game at the small Mosi-oa-Tunya National Park, and visited a local village.

Just a dollar a day…
At first I thought the local village near Taita Falcon was a tourist attraction, like Medieval Times or Colonial Williamsburg, but it wasn’t. It was a no-shit, thatched cottage, goat-filled, African village. You know those “just a dollar a day and you can provide clean drinking water to Ngwe for a whole month” commercials? Well, this was the “after” village.

A non-profit group has come in and installed three of those community water pumps for fresh water. Every time we drove through town we would see a child or adult with a plastic water jug on their head making a trip to the well. Another NGO has built an impressive K-8 school, but it still is too expensive for some families at $6 per semester. And yet another non-profit provides free mosquito nets to residents, 2,000 in all, and the government doles out malaria-prevention tablets. Although this place wasn’t in dire straits, it was still very poor. They are just now planning to build outhouses – the next project – and many young people still die of malaria each year. Brightone said it was one of the best traditional villages in all of Zambia in terms of quality of life.

Our guide, Ben, took us into homes, to the school, to the market (a shack with some spices and chewing gum and, ironically, the ability to add minutes to (top up) your mobile phone, which everyone seems to have), and introduced us to the village matriarch. We then spent some cash on curios at the little hut on “main street” near the donkey pasture. A group of 10 boys and men sat under two large shade trees in a pile of wood chips carving handmade bowls, animal figurines, and wall hangings that they then sell as a co-op to tourists and shopkeepers in the larger towns.

It was hard to resist the little children who followed us around town asking for “sweeties,” but we didn’t have sweeties, and the local custom is to not give them anything because they don’t want a Mexico or Egyptian-style army of kids wandering around selling “chicle” and postcards instead of going to school. The kids were shy and showing off at the same time, just like kids everywhere. Although they’re taught in “English” in school, they still could only understand about half of what we said.

Most Zambians don’t live in villages like the ones we visited. The country (pop. 12 million) is mostly urban, living in the capitol city of Lusaka or other metro areas. They, too, are very poor, but urban poor. More than 10 percent of Zambians are HIV positive. Brightone told us that he was sponsored by his older sister to the university ($600 per year tuition) to study electrical engineering, but when she died (of HIV or maybe malaria, I wasn’t too sure) he could no longer afford to go and now must work at Taita Falcon to support his wife and two-year-old daughter.


It was fascinating. I didn’t know how to feel. Brightone and Ben said something about how they, too, wanted to visit the UK someday (they’re all huge Arsenal and Chelsea fans), but how can they ever afford a plane ticket that is more than what they make in a year? And when they got to London, how would they react when a pint of ale is equivalent to a day’s wages? And what about Brightone and his dashed dreams of becoming an engineer? He is saving money to send his wife to become a teacher in hopes that she can get a “real job” and they will move up the economic ladder.

In all, the folks we chatted with in Zambia are the same as folks I’ve chatted with in Morocco or in the U.K. People are working to make their lives better. People are looking for an advantage – a tourist that will pay three times too much for a carved statue of a giraffe – and looking for a big break. I suppose most of us are just good people trying to make it. It just feels strange being the “rich white folks from America.” I think I would be a little offended if a billionaire wanted to tour my “quaint” house in Bury St. Edmunds. I just kept wondering whether I should feel guilty for having so much when others have so little.

Back to Faan
So Faan was awesome. A stocky, 60-something South African dude with a scruffy white beard always wearing the typical bush-man outfit – khaki cargo shorts, khaki or similar earth tone shirt with multiple pockets, leather work boots, and a farmer’s tan. He carries a loaded Browning pistol on his belt – life can be rough in the bush – and is full of philosophy and advice.

His story goes: Sixteen years ago, Faan was farming in South Africa and saw the agricultural market starting to crash, so he sold the farm and bought 250 acres of bush from a local chief in Zambia along the Zambezi River gorge. The property had no road (I would argue that it has barely a road now) and when he showed his wife her new home, she hightailed it back to South Africa.

Over the next two years, Faan hired some local villagers (part of the deal in buying the land is hiring the locals), taught them how to mix cement, pour foundations, wire the electricals. He said that the first few months the men could only work three hours a day because they were simply too hungry. He included meals with the wages; the guys grew stronger. Taita Falcon was carved out of the bush. His wife came to check progress and never left. It’s that nice.

Why doesn’t he have more rooms at the lodge? “Akch, I don’t do it for the money. I do it for the company. To share this. To enjoy it.” Each evening we sat at the bar, Faan drinking whiskey on the rocks and asking the barman to put on some of his favorite Western music. “I love the western music,” he says.

What he said when about the U.S.: “I disagree with your country’s policy in the Middle East. I think they should have just gone in and made the place a parking lot to start with.”

What should you do when you come face to face with a lion: “Keep facing the lion. Don’t run, then slowly take one step left, one step back. One step left, one step back. Repeating. Why? So you don’t step in your own shit.”

The spirit of South Africa is like the spirit of the American West or Australia. It makes a tough, self-reliant, down to earth person who loves the land, loves a challenge, and sometimes loves to share it with others. We loved Faan and his lodge and his hospitality.

On to South Africa
After three days with Faan, we didn’t want to leave. But we went onward to South Africa. We spent a day in transit and picked up a crappy Toyota Yaris rental car from the Kruger Mpumalanga International Airport. Why the heck they would give out plastic cars to people planning on driving on dirt-roads for two weeks, I’ll never know. When our bumper almost fell off on the highway, we thought about pulling it all of the way off, setting it in the backseat, and delivering it back to the rental shop in pieces. We beat that Yaris to hell. Don’t buy one.

Anyhoo, our first stop was Hazyview, SA. A small crossroads. Another town like Livingstone, but more lush. More rivers. More people walking on the shoulders of roads. More roadside fruit stands. Another charming B&B hotel, but this one with “Beware of Hippos” signs in the yard. A little surreal.

We spent two days touring the Blyde River canyon, visiting waterfalls, buying curios, and petting the local elephants at an elephant sanctuary. I love elephants, but who knew how destructive they can be! They need to eat 600 lbs. of food a day, and if they find a farmer’s crops are tasty, they’ll keep coming back for more. There aren’t a lot of fences that can keep out a parade of elephants. Anyhoo, some of the troublemakers are culled from the herd, some are put down, and others are rescued by sanctuaries, zoos, or sometimes circuses.

At the Car Wash, yeah…
Dan decided a detour on a rural dirt road would be “fun,” that is until it started raining. The road took us through some lovely ranchland along the escarpment and down in a valley. We saw monkeys and trout streams, cattle and sugarcane. It reminds me a little of an African version of West Texas. However, the rain made the red clay road a slippery mud pit. By the time we slid back onto the pavement in the little historical gold-mining village of Pilgrim’s Rest, the car looked like it had been pulled out of a swamp.

“Wash your car, sir? Wash your car, sir?” About five guys rushed Dan when we parked at a local eatery in Pilgrim’s Rest.

“No thanks,” Dan said about ten times. We had lunch and drove through town. It’s a restored gold-rush town, complete with iron mining carts, hitching posts, and wooden buildings like those seen in all the cowboys and Indians movies of the 1950s. We parked again to have a pint at the historical saloon in the old hotel – a wooden building with a broad front porch, tall glass windows, and corrugated tin roof. It is so much like the old west, but a tropical feel with shuttered windows and a slowly turning ceiling fan. We glanced out the window at the trusty Yaris midway through our pints of Castle and noticed that it was spotlessly clean.

We’d been hit by a drive-by car washer.

I asked a local guy next to me (come to find out he is sixth-ranked in the world at competitive gold panning. Impressive, right? I was actually more impressed that there is such a thing as competitive gold panning), anyway, I asked him: What is the deal with the car washers? He explained that the city has an actual problem with aggressive car-washing. There are sniper teams of men that wash cars without permission, then when you go to get in your car, they try to guilt you out of 60 Rand (about $9). He pointed out a 2 foot by 3 foot poster in yellowing paper tacked to the saloon door that had all of the rules about car washing and payments and permits.

I just kept thinking of a poster: “Wanted: Dead or Alive, last seen headed west with a chamois, a bucket, and pruned fingertips.”

And the law won
Throughout the trip we noticed that most of the hoteliers were white, all of the employees were black. All of the service people were black, most of the managers were white. All of the people walking along the roadsides were black, all of the whites had cars. It was such a strange separation of class and race. I am unfamiliar with the economic situation of South Africa, but it seems apparent that the black population is much poorer than the white population. We didn’t hear any racist remarks or anything, but it was still very separate. When we were in a shop or restaurant, the white South Africans would start up a conversation about our travels and ask us questions about the U.S. They were outgoing and friendly. A black person never spoke to us unless he or she was helping us as part of his or her job.

In the literature from our travel agent, she advised that if one gets pulled over by the police in Africa, the police officer should provide you with his or her badge number, then write a ticket, and then give a receipt for payment. The police officers were black. Sometimes the police will try to get you to bribe them, she warned – more commonly in places like Zambia, but sometimes in SA, too.

Of course we were speeding, and we see a policeman standing on the side of the road. He waves us down. We pull over along with two other cars, driven by white people obviously going camping for the weekend. He takes Dan’s driver’s license. He walks away.

He comes back and ascertains that we are going to Kruger park, we are from the USA, we are sorry. In thickly accented English he says something along the lines of “I will give you a ticket. It is 250 Rand (about $38). You will then have to go to the police station. It is a very big hassle. You don’t want that, right? No? Well, then, I will give you warning for just 100 Rand and then you are on your way. Ok? Just 100 Rand. Easy. Off you go!”

I pulled out the 100 Rand bill, passed it to Dan, passed it out the window, and off we went. It definitely made me scared. More scared than of a lion or a black mamba snake. If the cops are corrupt, then who can you trust?

No fences
So Kruger National Park is a gigantic place – 19,000 square miles – about the size of New Jersey. It’s bordered by another 10,000 or so square miles of parkland in neighboring Mozambique and Zimbabwe. Additionally, there are thousands of additional square miles that run along the western edge of the park that are “private game reserves.” Some of them are fenced off completely – cheetah sanctuaries or hunting reserves – but others are just extensions of the Kruger park itself, albeit with less rules about driving on roads and curfews. This parkland has similar geology and flora as the Livingstone area of Zambia – thick, nasty bush.

We spent two nights at a private game reserve in a placed called Gomo Gomo Game Lodge. Like Taita Falcon, we had our own bungalow, but this time with electricity and A/C. Gomo Gomo is twice the size of Taita Falcon, and was fully booked – 16 guests. The schedule was this: 5:00 wake up, 5:45 sunrise game drive, 9:00 breakfast, 12:00 – 2:00 nap, 3:30 sunset game drive, 8:00 dinner, 9:00 the guide escorts you to your room.

The reason for the escort: no fences. The lions and hippos are free to wander in and out of the space between bungalows on their way to the Gomo Gomo watering hole. If you decide you need to run up to the lodge for a late-night G&T, then you might find yourself a midnight snack for Mr. Leopard.

Although we didn’t get eaten whilst at Gomo Gomo, our Yaris wasn’t so lucky. As we packed up the car to leave, we noticed an obvious clean bite mark straight through the thick plastic of the rear bumper. It matched the size and shape of a hyena bite exactly, according to the hotelier. Our car was that much of a piece of crap that a hyena mistook it for prey. Either that or a tasty snack was sitting on the bumper and the Yaris got in the way. We were pleased with the awesomeness of having a hyena-bitten car, but the guys at the rental car returns weren’t so impressed.

Game Driving
It’s just like it sounds. You climb in the back of a Land Rover equipped with three rows of bench seating and look for wildlife. At night and in early morning you have a spotlight. Sometimes there is a tracker helping out the driver. Sometimes not. In an area the size of greater Kruger, it seems lucky that you would find anything at all, but there are so many animals: 130,000 impala; 31,000 wildebeest; 26,000 zebra; 16,000 cape buffalo; 12,000 elephant; 7,000 giraffe; and 2-3,000 each of kudu, lion, hyena, warthog, and white rhino. There are also 250 or so cheetah; 1,000 leopard, 350 wild dog, and 300 endangered black rhino. Of course there are a ton of other mammals (60 or so species in all), more than 150 species of bird, and plenty of creepy, crawly snakes, spiders, reptiles and bugs.

So we drove. Hours and hours a day in a Land Rover and/or our Yaris. I thought it would get boring – driving and staring at bushes for hours at a time, but every time you whip around a corner and come face to face with a two-ton elephant or a ridiculous-looking giraffe or even a spiral-horned kudu, it gets exciting all over again. Except for the impala. They were just like sheep in New Zealand.

We saw “the big five” – a million elephant, a herd or three of buffalo, a pride or two of lion, a dozen or so rhino, and even a single leopard. We wanted to see more leopard and maybe a cheetah, but we had just as much fun finding new and interesting birds from our bird chart or seeing mongoose and chameleons. It was amazing.

Probably the two major highlights, aside from the leopard, were our too-close-for-comfort encounters with some lioness. On one game drive in the Yaris, we cruised out to the lion hot-spot and saw from a distance of about 100 yards the pride snoozing in the shade. On our way back to camp (curfew is 6 p.m.) we stopped behind a pickup truck and about 30 yards off the passenger side of the car was a lone female lioness. She was drinking some water and stopping to take a pee. I got some great photos of her and then she began to walk right toward me at a very steady pace. Soon 20 yards, then 10, then she was so close that my camera lens couldn’t focus. I panicked and rolled up the window just as I ran out of memory card space. Holy crap. She was literally touching the front bumper of the Yaris and walking around to the driver’s side.

Dan grabbed the other camera to take another picture as she practically grazed the side-view mirror and I whisper-yelled “Roll up the window!” Click-click, goes the camera shutter. And she just kept right on walking, across the street and out of sight. It was awesome.

We learned that a car registers on the animal radar as giant, harmless beast. Too big for prey; too boring to be scared of. So the animal may give you a look or wander off (or run if it’s a skittish animal like the black rhino), but mostly they just glance at you to make sure you’re not doing anything sudden, and then keep on doing what they were doing before you showed up. Now if you get out of the car, you’re lunch or the animal charges you or runs away. Humans are the enemy.


A couple of nights later on a game drive, we came up on a pair of female lions lying in the road. As the truck crept closer, we saw one of the lions had three little cubs with her. They scampered off into the bushes as the car pulled up, but the mama and her friend just lounged on the cool pavement. A few minutes later, the female made a low growling noise and the cubs promptly returned to her. They started nursing and then playing and then cuddling. The camera flashes were no bother and the lioness just kept a close eye on the big truck. It was amazing. If they ever figure out that inside the open truck was a happy meal waiting to happen…



Jurassic Park
Staying in the actual Kruger park is sort of like staying in Jurassic Park or on the set of LOST, without the velociraptor or the “others” of course. You’re not allowed to leave the road. You’re not allowed to alight from your car, except in marked places, and even then it is “at your own risk.” Each night the gates lock everyone inside enclosed circular camps at the 6 p.m. curfew. The camps range from 10-30 acres in size, with places for trailers and tents, with bungalows, restaurants, and swimming pools, all with 15-foot-high electric fences keeping the wildlife at bay. Hyenas stalk around the camp edges at night, coming in and out of spotlights, waiting for scraps or brave South African rednecks. It is crazy.

To conclude
We didn’t see the infamous black mamba, or any snakes for that matter, although some of the other game drivers did during our stay. We didn’t see a cheetah or a leopard in the daylight. We didn’t see a baby rhino or a black rhino at all. We didn’t see enough. Even with two weeks, we didn’t even touch the surface. There are other countries. More people. Different landscapes, languages, food, animals, and dangers. They say Africa gets in your blood. I think it might be true; I could see myself going back. Maybe back to Zambia or to Botswana or Namibia or Mozambique. Africa may just be in my blood; I just hope it’s a “travel bug” and not malaria.

I’ll let you know in 7-14 days.

i was on a boat

Aww s***, get your mittens ready it's about to go down
Everybody in the place hit the deck
But stay on your toes
We running this, let's go

I'm on a boat; I'm on a boat (I'm on a boat)
Everybody look at me 'cause I'm sailing on a boat

Straight flowing on a boat on the deep blue arctic sea
Busting five knots (and polar ice caps), wind whipping out my coat
You can't stop me --- I'm on a boat

I'm flipping smoked salmon and dried cod fish
We drinking cocoa and Bailey's, champ, Cause it's so crisp (crisp)
I got my hat, gloves, swim trunks
And my snow booties.
I'm on a boat, I'm on a boat, don't you ever forget

I'm on a boat and It's going fast
I got a Norwegian themed wool sweater and a hat

I'm the king of the world
On a boat like Leo
If you're on the shore, then you're sure not me-oh
Get the f*** up, this boat is REAL!!!

I'm riding on a dogsled, doing flips and s***
The dogsled's splashing, getting everybody all wet.
But this ain't Seaworld, this is real as it gets
I'm on a boat, motherf***er, don't you ever forget.

Yeah, never thought I'd be on a boat
It's a big blue watery road
Poseidon Look at me, (and pour ice water down my neck, yikes!)
Never thought I'd see the day
When a big boat coming my way
Believe me when I say I f***ed a mermaid.

Inspired:

he loves me. he loves me. he loves me. he loves me?

it seems so trendy to hate valentine's day. sure, it mostly deserves it; it has set everyone up for some failure or another:

• luring me with cheap, delicious chocolate (although i could say that Halloween and Easter are equally culpable.)
• embarrassing the shit out of me when i accidentally gave a 'personalized' valentine card to the boy that no one had a crush on in fourth grade instead of the boy i actually had a crush on. (turns out, the other boy didn't say anything and the big crush declared his love for someone else that day, so i guess this can be seen as a draw, and is mostly my fault, not V Day's.)
• shoving FTD commercials so far up my hoo haa that i do finally wonder when the last time i actually received a bouquet of flowers was. (it has been awhile. hint, hint).
• unfairly leading single people to believe that they are the "only ones" left single, making them feel like they're in a romance Death Valley and are more likely to get hit by a car than get laid this fiscal year. (untrue, friends! keep the faith! i know V-Day isn't doing you any favors.)
• setting expectations that can be unrealistic, especially for my man who also has my birthday in the same week. (poor fella.)

sadly, even when i talk it out i find that i, too, could make a case for being a V-Day hater.

but i'm not. although i hate the sickening heart-and-cupid-filled aisle in the supermarkets that show up the week after Christmas, i just remind myself that i also hated the Santa hats and reindeer wrapping paper that popped up in stores in late October, too. and i still love Christmas.

Valentine's Day, as it is, is mostly crap. but Valentine's Day does have its place. who didn't love the cupcake parties in elementary school and getting a bouquet of red roses for the very first time? i also love conversation hearts, escapism through romantic comedies that seem to come out this time of year, the aforementioned chocolate, and a little reminder to say an extra 'i love you' to my huzzy, family, and friends.

i think the biggest danger of Valentine's Day, or any sort of love-related consumer behavior, is starting to believe that what happens to you on Valentine's Day is somehow a testament to the actual love in your life. i know, this is totally obvious to those of us who have had both Valentine's Days full of roses sent to the office and romantic dinners, or just a quick phone call or e-mail (xoxo), or nothing at all because one of us was far, far away. regardless of how we've spent february 14, we remain confident in our love for each other and in all of the love in our lives.

but apparently it isn't always this way. the reason i was thinking about this was because i went and saw the movie "Valentine's Day" with a couple of girlfriends this weekend. one of the characters had this to say on the topic:

"Love doesn't exist for some people unless it's acknowledged in front of others."

it reminds me of that old question, when you're talking aloud about your rationale for doing something, justifying it vehemently to someone and they ask, "Are you trying to convince me, or are you trying to convince yourself?"

so, getting that bottle of expensive perfume may be the most romantic thing he's ever done for you, and happily sharing that with those who love you, who will be happy for you, too, is lovely. but then spraying it all over your office mates, gushing about how great he is, posting in on Facebook, sending out a freaking emergency broadcast message, makes me wonder just a teensy bit about why the heck you feel the need to do so.

it isn't me you should be gushing on; go gush on him. it isn't the entire FB community you need to convince that he is madly in love with you; it's you!

(besides it isn't nice to make all of your single friends, or those with neanderthal partners feel bad because that's not how they roll. maybe they haven't found their V-Day groove yet.)

so, next year, do your V-Day thing. enjoy the love. enjoy each other, but before you go out smothering your unsuspecting cube-mates with the heart-shaped pillow of love, ask yourself whether your energies might be better spent smothering, with your naked body, the person that made you feel so special in the first place.

upgrade, my a$$

i am already a teensy bit age-sensitive -- heightened by my turning 30 in mere days. and i am pretty sure my age karma is in the toilet right now, since i have been making fun of all the old-balls in my household for the past year or so. this bad mo-jo came back around earlier tonight when Budget hit me below the muffin top with a"free upgrade" to my Vegas rental car.

yes, people, for the next six days i'll be driving around fabulous Las Vegas in a brand-new MINI VAN.

i was shocked when the lady behind the counter dropped this bomb on me. holy crap. i am going to look like a soccer mom and i don't even have freaking kids yet! what have i done to deserve this?

and i'm in vegas, of all places! i should have a convertible, a spray tan, and loads of shopping bags piled in the back seat as i cruise the Strip.

"seriously? that's the only thing you have left?"

"yes. ma'am."

"that totally ruins my already iffy image. does it at least have spinners?"

(confused look)

i think she was pissed because i didn't opt for the $47/day extra insurance.

i am NOT driving anyone around in this. i am not happy about having to be seen in it at all. i guess i will just do all of my soccer-mom errands (yes, i haveto drive my Kia Sedona to Babies R Us tomorrow), and hope that i can rebound from this major psychological setback. my ovaries are recoiling in horror just thinking about driving tomorrow.

on the bright side, it is tricked out with power gadgets, iPod USB ports, digital things, safety devices, interior lighting, a heater, and only has 6 miles on it. a far cry from the soldered-together hunk of steel i call "the mini" (which i could comfortably pull into the bag of the MV with its fold-flat seating).

what am i saying? it SUCKS. i am going to go lay behind the rear tires now and hope someone puts me out of my misery.