I experienced danger.

At 5:45 last night, I boarded an M42 bus at 42nd and 2nd. I had twenty minutes to get across town.

Here's what happened as my bus crossed Lexington Avenue (thank you, New York Times):





When I heard the ruckus, I put my Blackberry away and did what everyone else on the bus was doing, which was leaning out the window, watching people sprint across 42nd street and west, the direction my bus was headed. The bus driver got on the intercom and told us there was some kind of fire and that we might have to disembark (yes, he used that word) and continue on foot. We made it another block before he stopped the bus, turned on his "not in service" light and told us to... disembark (this time he used less polite vocabulary). Then he too abandonned the bus. I walked to west 42nd street and 7th avenue and looked east:



I continued west a few steps, and then my phone started ringing. First, it was Lola, wanting to know if I needed a place to stay. Then it was Sri, who was waiting at the climbing gym for me and knew I was on a bus trying to get across town. Then Bibi, same issue. Then my parents called. My brother called next, all in a row, like ducks.

I still didn't realize how, um, serious the problem was until I left Bibi, Sri, and Pax at the restaurant and attempted to walk home. Here are some photos (thank you, cell phone camera) from my journey:









What the point of upending a mail bin on a fire hydrant is, I have no idea.

However, since it was never my intention to live in New York City forever, and since I know that at best, I will be here another two years (tops), I picked up a piece of the debris in that second photograph there and brought it home. I now own a piece of 41st street.



I am not bothered by the fact that NORMALLY the bus is too much trouble and I just walk across town on the decidedly less congested 41st street to the NYPL before I hang a right onto 42nd. I do not have a witty summation. I experienced danger. And that is all I have to say.

Position Vacancy: Stalker, long term.

Compensation: your desperation, my rage. Apply and be crushed. Apply again and be crushed with venomous, vituperative, venus in furs contempt. Apply again and beg for my scorn. And the furs. Apply again and be ignored. Apply again and again. I will always hurt you. It is what I do.

Reader, after three years of bi-annual phone calls and emails begging for another - or was it another? or another?? chance, my boyfriend circa 2002, the one I went out with approximately three times, has finally given up. I have not received a desperate, suicide threatening email from him in what appears to be twelve months.

Everyone hates a stalker: that's true... but a harmless one... one who simply adores me from afar? Maybe I could use another of those... I know it's wrong to enjoy the pain of others, but I have to be honest, here: most men like me when we are dating ad LOVE me after it's over. Can anyone get the memo and feel the love part during the actual relationship? Probably, it says something about me. I am not sure what. But indulge me this vice: I have enjoyed years of grim, prideful, sinful satisfaction from his God-awful pathetic emails and phone calls for all these good years.

All good things must come to and end, I see. It does not follow, however, that I might not hope for a new beginning.

Anyone willing to lavish me wirh praise: re: my intelligence, angelic virtue, beauty and rare bursts of sweetness is welcome to email me at : readerwritesmith@gmail.com.

Fail. as all but one of you will, and you must be content to read my blog and weep for love of me in silence. Succeed, and you must be content to read my blog and weep silenty for love of me in silence.


May the best man win.

I will get some. Or at least try.

I am a coward (and really boring). I don't even make out with strangers in bars anymore, let alone have actual sex. But if I did... wow.





I would go get bagfuls of these. When I clicked on the, ahem, "get some" link, I discovered that the only distributers are bars. Since nothing says romance like a condom that is only obtainable after 4pm... in a place that sells little but a product known to impair judgment (!), and since I have been trying to be less boring and have more courage in all areas of life, including the dating/romance/love/making out part, I have decided to visit at least three of these establishments this week and ask for condoms. What I will do with them once I have them, I have no idea. But I will disclose the results of my "get some" quest here.

$28

I have three of these in different colors. My brother also carries one, and so does my dad. One of my sisters has two of them. When we all get together and Christmas and throw our stuff down on the table, we have to check the names on the credit cards to tell them apart.

Does it bother me that I carry a men's wallet? No.

Does it bother me that other people think my wallet is mannish? No.

Wouldn't I rather have a change purse, too? NO.

Am I not ashamed that I sometimes stuff that wallet in my back pocket, just like a man? NO NO NO.

Does it come in pink? Why, YES, it does!

Where can you get one? Click on the link above.

Sin of the Week, 7/15/07

This is so embarrassing.

On three nights (days) I was still awake and churning when the sun arose. On one of the nights (days, whatever), I decided I would self medicate.

Guess how that went?

12:30am: half a xanax.

1:30am: half a glass of wine.

2:00am: more wine.

3:00am: other half of the xanax.

4:30am: two more glasses of wine and a lot of crying.

5:30am: dawn. Friends with normal jobs arise and get on IM and I am drunk and typing at them.

7:00am: send email to my boss telling her we "need to talk"

9:00am: send text message to Sri telling her I can't work out that night because I am pretty sure I will be dead by nightfall. Then I fall asleep with my Blackberry in one hand and the last glass of wine in the other. I sleep for a total of three hours and am awakened by my boss who is very REASONABLY wanting to know what she can do for me today.

I have no answer. I tell her I was just having a moment - and we got off the phone.

I can't wait for my performance review next month. I am sure we'll have LOTS to talk about - then.

WOW.

I'm sorry... are you upside down? Am I upside down?

This weekend, Bibi, Sri, Lola, Tex and I are going to the Gunks. For those of you unaware, Gunks is short for Shawangunks - a series of cliffs and crags perfect for rock climbing.


toothpastefordinner.com



Seriously, I have no idea why I hike or rock scramble or rock climb. Do I enjoy it? Yes. But is it also very, very upsetting for my amygdala? YES.

With further adjective, some pics from our last rock climbing trip - NOT in the Gunks, but will still give you some idea of what my amygdala gets so excited about.

A few friends sitting on a cliff. Behind them is a drop off of about 1000 feet. Horray!




Here is one of the very very top of Bibi's head. Also, Rob is climbing there, in the background.




Take a look at the guy in the red shirt - the belayer. Then take a look, to the left, at the horizon line.



And just so you know what is behind him:



So this is how I will be spending the weekend. If I live (as I reasonably expect to) I'll post more pics (or maybe not, whatever) on Monday.

Thank you for reading. And have a great weekend.

You be the judge.

Here's a pic of the line I stood in for approximately three minutes:



Here's a pic of my feet after I consumed half a pitcher of sangria and half a quesadilla:

\

Was it an ERROR for me to opt out of spending four hours in line to see the *free* Courtney Love concert?

Could anything be more stupid than "coming early and looking good to avoid disappointment"?

Especially since the "ballroom" is approximately thirty feet from a major road work project?



THIS is supposed to be an opportunity for me?

Opportunity: quesadillas and sangria at Rocking Horse Cafe.

A successful evening.

And guess what? This morning, after all that cheese, I am still measuring appropriately.

Just Say Yes

I promised myself that I would sometimes write about all the work I am supposed to be doing on my dissertation. So here's what I am going to say:

I have taken ten courses toward my PhD. In three of those courses, I have pending "incomplete" grades. The details of each incomplete vary, but basically, I have incompletes because at precisely the moment I am supposed to be writing the term paper titled something like "Why I am Down with Absalom, Absalom", I am also forced to be grading roughly, ahem, one hundred and sixty term papers with titles such as "Gun Controls Rock(s)" (re: how gun control would have saved X's buddy Y's life) to "My Girls Gone Wild Moment" (re: how A and B's spring break was revealed to be the best ever).

There's also the ongoing issue of my difficulty discerning my priorities... and my laziness.

Actually, my laziness is the primary cause of everything that has ever gone awry in my entire life.


toothpastefordinner.com

But where was I? Oh yes: I promised myself (and Mamacita, and Dad, and Jesus) that I would WORK ON MY INCOMPLETES so that I could GET AROUND TO WORKING ON MY DISSERTATION this summer.

I promised myself that I would awaken each day, go for a run, shower, put on my nice girl skirt and my nice girl blouse and pack myself off to the NYPL to secure my future and develop my mind and BE NICE.

What have I done instead?

Each day, I awaken, and I check each of the fifty or so blogs I read (yeah, I am embarrassed, but... ok I read fifty or so blogs) and then I check them again. Then I review any new debits from my checking account and marvel at the steady outflow of funds for mojitos and martinis. Then I check the blogs again. Then I go down to the lobby and buy a cup of coffee for $1.35. By this time, it is usually about 9:30, and the stock market is open. If you did not know this about me yet... (which, how could you?) you are about to find out that I babysit the stock market because I have just a little tiny, teeny, infinitesimal over-interest in numbers.

Sometime after the market opens, I measure the circumference of my waist and hips and make sure that, once again, my waist:hip ratio is a .7 because if it is ever ANYTHING higher or lower than that...

Well.

I don't mind being bigger than Bibi and Sri. They don't weigh two hundred pounds between them. But if my waist:hip ratio is out of line, I freak right the fuck out. If that makes me stupid and scuzzy and vain, if that makes me a bad person and shallow and self-absorbed, if that makes me a total idiot and woman of foolish ambitions and low character...

Well. So be it.

Reader, I must measure appropriately. I am not a tiny little wisp of a thing, but I MUST MEASURE APPROPRIATELY.

If, after I measure my waist:hip ratio, I am a .69, or a .71, or, really, ANYTHING other than a .7, I spend the day drinking gallons of spring water and climbing, climbing, climbing at the gym. Then I do yoga until I can see all the way to China with my third eye. And then I do cardio until I am crying. And then I unhinge my jaw and pour another gallon of water down my throat... and then I reach for the tape measure.

Where was I? Oh yes. My dissertation... and how I am not working on it.

Never, ever does it occur to me, ever, whether I am measuring appropriately or not, to DO SOMETHING to secure my future as an academic, by oh, say... working on academics. Being turned down for tenure, or say, fired for neglecting to do ANY professional development?

Whatever.

But the risk of diabetes, cancer, and God forbid... ugliness! which increases ever so slightly if one is not measuring appropriately?

Reader, I am measuring appropriately! Every single day!

There was a time when life was more sane. More balanced, less surreal. This was a time, I admit, when none of us knew Larry, when most of us had boyfriends who knew they were supposed to do things like open doors and offer to fix things that squeak. This was a time when I didn't really care what I would be doing in ten years and was simply less anxious. I didn't have student loan debt then. I didn't consider the smallest blip of an issue justification for gathering the girls at the local pub for a pitcher of mojitos. I did not own a dress-makers' tape measure. I was... a much nicer person. (Probably).

During those years, I worked out and then simply went to the library and worked on papers. I endured the pain and pleasure of the gym, and then I indulged in the pain and pleasure of my actual life - and worked on my actual work at the NYPL. I got things done. I liked myself. My advisor liked me. Back then, he wasn't threatening me with expulsion from my program.

And probably, I was measuring appropriately the entire f-ing time.

This is the life to which I aspire to return. *

OK.

*breathing. breathing. breathing*

I am off to spin class. Then I will shower. I will wear the nice girl skirt and the sensible shoes and the nice girl blouse. My lunch will be packed. And I will spend the day at the library.

*Take a look at this sentence. Do you see, reader, how full of shit it is? Marvel not just at the meaning, but also the absurd syntax. Do you not see that it is about time I got back to work... at the very least, so that I can actually practice my (oh for the love of God I can't believe I am typing this) craft and not inflict upon you (inflict upon you!) posts as poorly written as the one yesterday about the hot (measuring appropriately) cab driver? Just say yes.

Alert! Alert! I almost liked someone!

I went to dinner with Jib last night, and he told me that since I have not kissed anyone since my last break up, aside from him (he has no idea about Tex... don't tell!) that I ought to get OUT THERE.

I can only assume that by OUT THERE, he means I should be selecting men off an internet dating site and inviting them, one at a time, to disappoint me with their selfishness and stupidity.

I am sorry. Where was I?

Right! I almost LIKED someone!

After Jib and I left the bar, I got into a cab and said "blah di dah, and dah" (which is what we say here when we are directing a cab driver to our homes).

"Where again?" said the driver.

"Blah di dah, and dah" I said.

"Right," he said. I looked at his indentification.

The name was long and ended in "ski"- and I liked it. I also liked the green eyes flashing in the rear view mirror. I looked at the ID tag again - and had a moment.

The fact is, I look at the ID tag in every single cab I get into. I do this because my brother has trained me to memorize the names of cab drivers in case one of them decides to drive me over a bridge and attack me. That way if I live through it, I can identify my attacker and my brother can defend my and my family's honor by shredding the driver into little tiny bits.

I am sorry. WHere was I?

The ID tag: I look at the ID tags so as to know my enemy. But on this particular occasion I found myself looking at the ID tag because I actually wanted to know who my driver was. Reader, he was... hot.

We made eye contact in the rear view mirror. He smiled. Oh... lord. Good teeth.

"Are you from Ireland?" he said.

The answer to this question is, obviously, no. However, my ancestry is nearly all Irish. Since I do not have an Irish accent, I thought he must have been looking at the fair skin and the big ears and the strong jaw. So I said yes rather than explain.

"Yes," I said.

"I can tell by your accent," he said.

I nodded silently. We were now four precious blocks from being torn from each other forever, so there was no point explaining that my family has been in this country, on both sides, for upwards of three-hundred years. I cannot possibly have an accent, other than upper-mid west news caster nuetral. Obviously, he was just talking to me.

Guess what I did next? You're not going to believe it. I don't quite believe it myself. I talked to him.

"Where are you from?" I said.

I even smiled back at the rear view mirror. I checked out the hand-wrist-forearm ratios as he turned onto Madison Avenue. Measured very appropriately. I sat back and collected myself. Heart banging around in my chest a bit. Hands a bit restless. Began having feelings.

"I'm from Brooklyn, but my family is from Russia. We've been here four years."

For the first time I noticed the peculiar lift in his voice around last syllables - almost imperceptable, but definitely there. He smiled again. Glossy black hair, five o'clock shadow, shoulders like...

Look, it was really bad. Or was it really good?

He stopped the meter about three blocks away from my apartment. I had a moment, yes, when I thought that perhaps my heart was banging around in my chest because he was, in fact, about the drive me over a bridge and murder me, but no. He drove me up to my place, and I paid him.

As I gathered my belongings and my composure, he turned around in looked me right in the face.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you're adorable. Your accent too." Shy smile. "You're adorable."

"Thanks," I said. Safe out on the sidewalk, I looked back into the cab and said, "so are you."

He winked at me and drove away. And right now, my brother is weeping silently and wondering what the family did wrong to have raised such a impudent slut. Sorry, dude. I couldn't help myself.

Reader, I almost liked someone. In fact, I think I might have ALL THE WAY liked a New York City Taxi Driver. That's either totally disgusting or totally um, whatever. But...

Wow.

A little light goes out

I know this post is long, but trust me: you'll want to read it. If you do, you'll feel a little like I feel after I watch Jerry Springer: glad I am myself instead of certain other people. All set then?

I have lived, for an embarrassing number of years, in a tiny studio apartment. I live here for one simple reason: when I moved to New York, my brother was convinced that within one hour of my arrival, I would be murdered and stuffed into a dumpster behind a strip bar. It was, therefore, he who chose my apartment. He chose this particular apartment because the location is usually overrun with secret service agents and others with law enforcement training. He loves this about my place. Me too.

And there are other things to love about my place: 24-hour doorman that does everything from feed the fish to collect the mail to take my laundry out. A perfect view of the river, thick walls, (or quiet neighbors?) a gym, a park across the street.

However.

I have a problem,* which I will now explain by describing a downside to living in my building: the elevators,** and the people who are in them.

There are four elevators in my building, serving roughly 1000 people who live here. That means that I rarely get to ride the elevator all by myself.*** And that means that when I get on the elevator, odds are better than 50/50 that I will have to have a useless conversation with someone I do not really know and wish I knew even less.

You see, no one in my building seems to have gotten the NYC memo about privacy, about being in a perpetual hurry. About unfriendliness being a form of respect for other people's time. It's like everyone who lives here is from Alabama (and no, there's nothing wrong with acting like you are from Alabama - but it's WAY better, if you are acting like you are from Alabama, to actually be LOCATED in Alabama, where people have time for that sort of thing), without the drawl. They chat in the mornings on the way down to get coffee or on the way to their places of employment. In the evenings, they describe how the day went. If they are work-from-home people like me, they talk about how their pets are the cutest ever and ask me why I never attend the building social functions, since I am obviously here all the time. An elevator filled with five people sounds like a Junior League meeting.

Picture this: I come home at 8pm after ingesting four cocktails. I smell like sour apple jolly ranchers and second hand smoke, and all I want to do is stagger into my apartment and begin eating something salty. Well... no. Because on the elevator, I have to talk to Mrs. K, about how her daughter's gymnastic camp is the GREATEST - and the ongoing debate over whether they should welcome a kitten into their family.

And don't you have a cat? You do?? OH, that's so great. Hey, do you mind if I just come in for a few minutes and meet your cat? It might help me make a decision, and besides. I have ALWAYS wanted to see your place. It's a studio, right?

And so there I am, reader. Drunk, in an elevator, with a woman so lacking in the memo that I am forced to tell her that, no, she may not come in and see my cat because my cat is on holiday in Scotland until next weekend. Fortunately, she is stupid enough to believe this. The real and actual truth is that my apartment, while charming in its way, is usually so littered with empty liquor bottles, unfolded laundry, moldy take out containers and assorted climbing gear that any sane person who happened to drop in would automatically assume that I had been robbed (and that the thieves had apparently decided to live in my place for a few days before taking off with the television and the stereo).

It is for this reason - in case you're lost, (and how could you not be? what a stupid post!) the reason I refer to is the absurdly friendly, wholesome people who live in my building talking to me every time I get in an elevator - that I get a whole lot of pleasure out it when THEIR LIGHTS GO OUT.

No, I do not refer (metaphorically) to their deaths. I am not quite that mean (yet). I refer to the delicious moment when they press the number in the elevator panel denoting the floor they live on, only to discover that the bitty light residing behind the number denoting the floor they live on has burnt out.

Because when that happens, the press their own special button, over and over, nervously watching the top panel to see if the elevator will exhibit the much more serious malfunction of refusing to stop on their precious floor.

It doesn't, of course. The elevator stops on the denoted floor, they exit. And I all the up to floor fourteen, I gaze at by own, personal beacon:




Because my building is almost a hundred years old, and because I am pretty sure the elevators are at least fifty, other people's lights go out ALL THE TIME. And due to my meanness, it never fails to give me pleasure.

Until, that is, today. Can you guess, reader, what happened to me today?

I got on the elevator, loaded down with three grocery bags and a pizza box. Right behind me: Mrs. K, her daughter, Mr. X, and someone's unattended eight year old.**** Everyone pressed buttons. I angled my pizza box corner into the proper position and pressed.

*pausing for dramatic efffect.*

**still pausing. You know what happened, don't you?**



My heart cracked. I, who have pressed button fourteen with the corner of many a pizza box, was forced to accept the appalling truth: my light has gone out.

Reader, MY LIGHT HAS GONE OUT.

***I know. I know. I'll give you a moment to collect yourself.***

I tried really hard to refrain from pressing the button again. But I couldn't stop myself. I jammed corner of that pizza box into button fourteen, nervously watching the top panel, until the corner of my pizza box went dented and crushed and the pizza was crying. Mrs. K was laughing at me. Her daughter was looking at me as if I belonged behind a slab of thick glass at the zoo. Mr. X was congratulating himself on the good judgment he'd exercised when he'd decided I wasn't hot enough to ask for a date all the years ago. And the lone eight year old, bless his heart, said nothing. He silently lifted a hand to stabilize my grocery bags, which were careening back and forth and threatening to knock us all to the floor.

And then floor fourteen. And the door opened. And away I went to put salt on my pizza, eat it, and think tearfully about why I turned out like this.

Why did I turn out like this?


* yes. yes, I know. I always seem to have a problem. So what?

** yes. yes, I know. I am fortunate to have an elevator. Fortunate to have a roof over my head. Fortunate to live in a country where most people's biggest issue is whether to save for a boat or buy a bigger SUV. Can you stop thinking about how selfish I am and focus on my problem, as I so reasonably requested? This is about me. Not you.

*** in case you haven't noticed, I am very into myself. I think about myself all the time, more than anyone else in the whole wide world. So I don't LIKE it (sometimes) when I have be AMONG OTHERS. Me. Me. ME!

**** what the fuck is wrong with people?

$65

And worth every penny. *




I spend a shameful amount of energy trying to find ways, short of hiring a plastic surgeon, to NOT look like I am as old as I am. Which is 37. Philosophy's Microdelivery Peel: It makes me feel, for at least twelve hours, as if I have the skin of a four year old. If I use it once a week, I get far more than twelve.

* Monday posts will typically be about stuff I like (and sometimes buy). Not all products I mention will be womanish - in fact, the next three will be gender inclusive.

Even if you don't want to spend your money as (what is the opposite of wisely?) unwisely as I do, you might find something useful. If not, you can marvel at what an idiot I am for spending more than I make. I marvel at it too... all the time.

Sin of the Week, 7/8/07

The worst thing I did this week was sneak Bibi and Sri into the climbing gym. We spent a few minutes standing in the vestibule talking, so the check in guy got distracted and forgot to ask them to pay for their day passes. I (being the paying member of the gym) should have reminded him so that the gym would get paid and so that we would not be STEALING, but I didn't.

Close runner up: About three seconds after I got a text message from Pax, letting me know that Larry was home safely from his recent Mont Blanc climb, I texted him to ask him if he had summited, even though I already knew he had not. I did this partly because in spite of my hatred of Larry, I have a tiny bit of love for Larry, and partly because I am a just a little bit mean and I already know that he did not summit, and I loved the idea of him having to try to text me back saying that he didn't summit because I know how bad he wanted it and how much he will dislike telling me that he did not make it. And no, the fact that he was forcibly turned back by the guides due to the weather does not matter, not to him. It's a yes or no question, and I know he is crushed.

Now that I think about it, the runner up is the winner. That text message was mean. The fact that he hasn't answered it yet assures me that it had the effect I was (meanly) going for.

Vacation Recap, Part Two. "Ah," said Rodrigo.

On our recent trip to the Bahamas, Bibi, Sri and I were having coffee and talking, as we do for at least ten minutes a day, about how disgusting Larry is. During our chat, I noticed that a man standing a few feet from our table, eating an ice cream cone. He had a look about him I know well: the look of someone who is not from here - or there - or anywhere in particular, but everywhere.* He was working hard at hearing every word we said while attempting to have every appearance of not doing so. After ten minutes of this, I turned and gestured that he might as well go ahead and take the fourth seat at our table.

We told him about Larry. He responded appropriately, was shocked and amazed, etc.

He was from Ecuador, but explained that he was half Austrian, which accounted for the unique accent and startling blue eyes. Rodrigo was his name. He was in the Bahamas for the summer, doing construction work on a hotel renovation -- ours, as it turned out. When we told him we were staying in the recently completed wing, he looked thrilled.

"I worked on that hotel!" he said. "I was in every room. What side are you on?"

"Ocean side," said Sri. Sri was doing what she does when she likes a man, shrugging her shoulders and pressing her hands demurely into her lap. So cute.

"Ah," said Rodrigo. "What room number?"

We all hesitated, even Sri. But finally, Bibi said "553."

"Ah," said Rodrigo. "I see. Well, it was very difficult to renovate. Watch out for the ceiling. It leaks."

We didn't really know what to say at that point. The room was in perfect post-reno condition. We changed the subject... and I took Rodrigo's phone number so that we could all go out for drinks, and uh, whatever else, later.

Fast forward twelve hours.


toothpastefordinner.com

We tried, about ten times, to call Rodrigo, but he never answered. We went out. We stopped at the casino and spent $20 apiece on the slot machines so we could drink for "free" for an hour. Then we took a cab to "Fish Fry" for dinner (and ate, obviously, fried fish) before walking down to Senor Frogs to find us some trouble and get right in it. Sri was a bit disappointed re: Rodrigo, but we DID meet three Turkish pro-soccer players, measuring VERY appropriately, who bought us drinks all night and threw us around the dance floor until we were all exhausted, sweaty and giddy with tequila goodness.

A successful evening, in other words.

Fast forward to 9am, Sunday morning. In case you missed it, I woke up to this:




Now... here's the thing. OF COURSE the night before involved a lot of tequila. OF COURSE it is possible that I just somehow ended up with a party horn in my bag. But dammit, I don't believe that, and niether should you. The fact is, when we got back to the hotel that night/early morning, I spent ten minutes going through my bag looking for a Tylenol (pre-emptive strike, re: hangover). I can therefore assure you, reader, that the party horn was NOT THERE when I went to bed.

Additional data: Bibi awakened to find that her running shoes, which had been on the floor next to the dresser, were absolutely soaking wet. There was nothing ELSE wet in the entire room. It was literally as if someone had come into the room, filled up a glass of water and dumped it on Bibi's sneakers - and then repeated the process about nine times. Because only the sneakers and a small circumference of the carpet around the sneakers, were wet.

Additional data, part two: Sri awakened to find, beaded up on her comforter like rain on a newly waxed car, three or four drops of what appeared to be milk/half and half/whatever.

Grossed out yet? Disturbed? Weeping silently, perhaps?

Because we were.

There is NO earthly explanation for these events. NONE. I did not wake up in the middle of the night, sleep walk into the bathroom, pour nine glasses of water on Bibi's shoes, hijack and car, go into town, somehow find an all night quickie-mart that just happens to be selling party horns (and pinatas, for all I know) drive back to the hotel, stop in the kitchen for a thimble-full of half and half, come back to the room, tuck the horn in my bag, and dribble the contents of the thimble onto Sri's bed. And, no, my friends didn't pull that caper either.

The only conclusion to be reached is that someone, probably Rodrigo, was in our room while we were asleep. Why he chose to do what he did, instead of, say, murdering us, is God's own private joke with himself. We will NEVER get it.

However, if you are thinking we'd let a little issue like wet sneakers, half and half and a (green, shiny) party horn keep us out of the Bahamas in the future, you're totally wrong. We had a great vacation. So much so that we are planning another one - perhaps not to the Bahamas next time - soon. And of course, it will be recapped here.



* to get this look, be multi-racial, travel a lot, speak several languages, and be unsure yourself where exactly it is you consider "home." (sidebar: I like this look an awful lot.)

Vacation Recap, Part One, or "Watch out for the ceiling"

Lately, Bibi, Sri and I have had so much more than enough of Larry's grossness to make leaving the country for a short vacation necessary. So on Friday, we flew into the Bahamas for a 4 night, 4 day weekend of playing on the beach, snorkeling, drinking, gambling, dancing, whatever. Pretty much all of that happened, and we had a great time.

However.

We have a mystery, one that I would like help solving:



Take a good look at this photograph. Yes, I realize that it appears to have been taken by a drunk person with a cell phone camera the morning after a tequila binge. But focus, please. What is wrong with this picture?

Could it be... let's see. Could it be the green shiny paper party horn sticking out of the top of my bag? The one I have never seen before? The one that, ahem, no matter how much tequila I ingested the night before, there is NO WAY I could have simply picked up at random and tucked into my bag? But there is was, bright and early Sunday morning. Just as you see it here.

Reader, I have a theory about the party horn, but it requires a bit of back-story involving a construction worker named Rodrigo, a pair of sopping wet sneakers, and approximately three drops of half and half. Or was that milk? No, idea really. Before I pose my theory, however, I'd like to solicit your opinions as to how this could have happened. Emails and comments welcome. (And please, don't hurt my feelings by sending me an email about my drinking issues, or the ugliness of my handbag, or my love of talking to strangers. I know very well that I suck at life. But let's talk about that another time).

Sin of the Week, 7/1/07

The worst thing I did this week was go to the climbing gym with Bibi and Sri, and while climbing, permit myself to feel a envious of their perfectly sweet 85 pound bodies - go out to dinner with their sweet 85 pound selves, eat less than they did, drink more, and, upon returning home, eat half a pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream. Followed by almost an entire bag of chips and all washed down with half a Heineken. (Hint: I weigh more than 85 pounds. I bet you'd never have guessed.)