From: Heather
To: Jamie
Date: Oct 25, 2007 11:11 PM
Subject: I just…

had the best food of my whole life.

and now, i’m going to a discotec with my waiter.

he has a cute bum.

(Further adventures at On the Road. For you, Kim.)

Stuck in Waterloo Station with an hour to kill, I ducked into a bookstore to find something to pass the time. My eyes, and then my hands, fell on a copy of Skinny Bitch, some sort of diet book in which the authors are rude to you, and then magically, all the tenets of weight loss will suddenly be easier to stick to. Um, okay.

They may be bitches, but they are skinny bitches. And you’ll be one too-after you get with the program and start eating right.

My first thought was, that if anything excuses being a bitch, skinny is not it. Funny, yes. But not skinny. Skinny just gives you the right to turn heads and wear the clothes the rest of us only dream of wearing. But bitchiness requires talent, not a low calorie intake.

Anyway, flipping through the book, I learned that to be skinny and (healthy, natch), you must abstain from sugar, meat and dairy products. Abstain from dairy products? Pfft! You’re not skinny bitches, you’re crazy bitches! I tossed the book back onto the shelf, like it was on fire.

“Uch.”

“Zat bad?”

A French woman, most probably in her 40′s, was standing behind me. She was, incidentally, skinny, and dressed head to toe in rich creams and taupes. She looked like a magazine cover.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s just… if cheese is wrong, I don’t want to be right.”

She laughed, and made a flicking gesture, as if mentally sweeping those skinny bitches right out of existence.

“Zey don’t tell you how boring it is being skeeny.”

I laughed, wondering if she knew from experience just how boring it is being skinny. We made a bit of small talk, then the woman checked her watch, and said she had to be off. But not before stopping by the checkout counter… to buy a chocolate bar.

Apparently, not.

I’ve just been madamed for the tenth time in as many minutes, and I must have frowned involuntarily, because the attendant stopped in the aisle and leaned over me.

“Something is wrong, madame?”

“No, no. Everything is perfect.”

The rhubarb raspberry cream tart was perfect. As were the marinated mushrooms and caramelized onion quiche. Ridiculously so, for train food. It’s all this madame business. It makes me feel old! The last time I was on the Eurostar, I was traveling with my mother. She was madame and I was mademoiselle and that was great. It made me feel very young and cute.

I’m still young and cute, dammit! At heart, at least. I mean, I obviously look every second of my (almost) 30 years. But still.

I’d suggest we just dispense with the formality altogether, but they’re all very polite here in first class, it might cause some sort of train malfunction. Did you catch that? First Class. Because I am a classy gal. Actually, when I was given a Eurostar voucher to get me from Point A (London) to Point B (Paris, to catch a night train to Barcelona), it was for a round trip ticket. And when Nigel, the friendly Eurostar agent, learned that I wouldn’t be returning to London, he sent me an email,

“Since you won’t be returning, we would be happy to offer you a one-way ticket in first class.”

And I’d be happy to accept!

Unless, of course, they don’t bother with this madame crap in standard class. And if that’s the case, I’m picking up my rhubarb raspberry tart and going to sit with the commoners. Where I will be blaming Nigel for making me suddenly feel very much my age.

Madame, my ass.

This afternoon, I sat next to Aaron Eckhart in a cafe on Piccadilly. The last time I saw him, I ran ran face first into his chest on a temporary construction sidewalk in New York. He had strangely orange hair at the time, but that didn’t matter — I loved him just the same. Today, his hair was normal colored, but he was busy reading a script and drinking coffee and it just didn’t seem appropriate to interrupt and inform him we were meant to be.

I think I’ll wait for him to figure it out.

I just want to be let alone.

This is not, by any means, a dig at my traveling companion. If not for her, my stupid German-accented driving commentary wouldn’t make a ripple. I love laughing ourselves to sleep and sharing desserts and playing the synonym game we play when trying to find new words for ‘pretty.’ Because, of course, Scotland is pretty. And gorgeous and exquisite. And… well, it’s Angie’s turn now.

I’m just not used to this. Eating, sleeping, teeth-brushing – I’m accustomed to doing it all alone, on my time, and to no soundtrack other than the thoughts in my own head. And Angie isn’t really one for companionable silence. And that’s totally alright – not everyone prefers to sit in absolute quiet. But boy, I sure do. I love quiet in the car, and quiet while I’m wandering, and I don’t necessarily want to have the street signs read to me. But saying this kindly and diplomatically can be hard — if not impossible — because it’s usually at wit’s end that it occurs to me to mention it.

Speaking of the car and wit’s end: Driving on the left side of the road is, incidentally, totally nerve-wracking. The streets here are incredibly narrow. And if it looks like a turning lane, it probably isn’t. And if your GPS tells you to go right, she probably means left – so that’s no help at all. And by the end of the day, I’ve very nearly had three strokes and a total emotional melt down, and then, I still have to buy gas at EIGHT DOLLARS a gallon. Man, am I glad I’m done with that whole thing and back on the train, letting someone else do the driving.

And even in all this missing my alone time, I know that when Angie leaves on Sunday, I will wish her back again to read me road signs.

As a side note: I have to say I’m amused by the comments that express displeasure that I’m blogging about traveling (and, god, the nerve, linking to where I’ve posted the photos I’ve been taking). I’m not sure what I’m expected to write about… when this is a personal blog, and personally I’m traveling right now. For the next several weeks. I’ll be staying put in Barcelona next week, so I hope to be able to get out, meet the locals and have some fresh, funny stories. In the meantime, jump ship if you must, or stay and have a look at some photos I took in the shire and on the moor.

“I was just wondering if it would be impolite to lick the plate,” I said, when he came to check on us.

“I won’t tell if you won’t tell,” he said, smiling.

We were just spooning the last bits of desert into our mouths, seriously considering the plate-likcking thing, when he made a sweeping gesture with his hands.

“I could put a curtain up right here, so no one else can see.”

Apple crumble. Toffee sauce. Rich vanilla ice cream. It was exquisite. And after a disappointing day, it was miraculous, too. I learned years ago, while traveling with Jen, that if you want to save a bad day, you eat it out. Spend too much money on ambiance, wine, and food that will go straight to your backside, and can undo whatever ills the day has done.

And Aberdeen was ill. Whatever degree charm Edinburgh possessed, Aberdeen had it crowded chaos. We walked the city with a “This is it?” cloud hanging over us, sorry that we’d made the detour. Turns out, we’re Aberdeenshire people. Country not city. Can’t win them all, I thought. And then, I turned to Angie,

“I think my credit card should buy us dinner and rescue what’s left of today.”

She didn’t argue. We arrived at the restaurant expecting upscale Italian, only to find it had been replaced by an uppish scale not Italian place. Sea bass with carrot puree, chicken stuffed with broccoli mousse, cream of broccoli soup, warm bread and olive oil and apple crumble – steaming hot and heavenly.

I only wish there were more days that needed such saving.

(More travel adventures at On the Road.)

“Are you girls from here, then?”

“No,” we laughed. “Texas.”

“You’re easily mistaken for local girls,” the man told us, before offering us a round of drinks.

Pleased and flattered, we politely declined and went back to listening to the band that had assembled in front of the pub window. Angie does fit in here, with her ginger-colored hair and warm freckles.

“Sure, I look like I belong here,” she said, under her breath. “Until I open my mouth and Texas comes out.”

By 9PM, our bellies were full of warm food (shepherd’s pie) and good drink (rich, red wine) and the pub was full of local patrons and a folk band – a guitar player, a fiddler, a bagpiper, a bodhran player, and an elderly storyteller. The old man sang a Capella, traditional songs about wars and famines and death – as all good storytellers do. But the guitar player, whose vocals were thick and mellow – not unlike John Denver in tone – sang of pretty girls with hair swinging about theirs shoulders and sunlight in their eyes. The feeling that invaded the room was, for lack of a better word, generous. It felt like a gift.

I kept my head long enough to save a bit of the gift for you. Have a listen.

Update: the player isn’t working. Sorry! I’ll try again later.

For more adventures (and photos!) check out On the Road.

“Ooh! I know! I have a protein bar!”

“Yeah, and I have a big old bag of Shut Up,” Angie said under her breath.

I snorted at Angie. The two rows of women behind us had ceased talking hours before and had taken up squawking. That’s really the only word for it. It was infuriating. Our plane had been diverted to JFK because of something to do with a computer glitch and a fuel gauge or somesuch – the crew had been sent to their seats mid-dinner service. And now, four hours later, we sat there on the tarmac trying to sleep off our frustration and hunger. And the crows behind us would not shut up.

“I eat a power bar every day!”

“Don’t they like, make you fat?”

The crow directly behind me was now standing up, yanking at the back of my chair as she went on and on about protein and calories. As my head bobbed from its pillow, I declared I’d had enough. The entire plane was full of exhausted passengers, plunging ear plugs deeper, trying desperately to sleep. And these four were making it impossible.

“Ready?” I asked Angie.

“Mmm hmm.”

I pushed the button on my armrest and leaned back with as much force as my 5AM body could muster, sending the Protein Crow tumbling to her seat.

“Well that was rude!”

I swallowed a laugh. Angie bit her lip.

“She did it on purpose,” Friend of Crow cawed. “I saw her look back.”

I rolled my eyes into the back of my head. I was disappointed she’d only seen me look back once. I mean, I’d been sending withering glances for a solid hour.

They were pissed. But a mighty miracle had been wrought. The crows, who’d been shushed by everyone row 30 and back for the better part of… I don’t know, eternity had finally shut up. They spent the rest of the flight talking in low(ish) tones about what a raging bitch the girl in 37J was.

A raging, immensely satisfied bitch.

I leave for the airport in about, oh, five minutes. My hair is still wet, I haven’t brushed my teeth and… well, a dozen other things. But I wanted to announce the birth of the new travel blog! Go over and have a gander. I’ll be updating it regularly on my trip with tips, lessons learned, what to love about each place I’m visiting and, of course, photos.

There will be an actual blog post coming later today – from my layover in Chicago, most likely. But for now, it’s ready-or-not, here I come. And good grief, I hope I’m more ready than not.

I started a post about the varied and interesting characters I see on the Katy Trail in the mornings – the Giantess, the heavy-set man who sweats Rorschach tests into his gray t-shirt, and the Adonis of the Katy Trail (or Donny, as we’ve come to call him), but then I got distracted. Lost my train of thought completely. And just like that, the title of this post went from “Trail Mix” to “Boob Jog.”

This has to be what men feel like – having their senses take leave over a pair of boobs.

And today? My boobs look amazing. Simply amazing. I admired the ladies in the mirror this morning before I left to run errands. Hello, darlings. And then, as I was walking into CVS just now, I caught my reflection in the automatic doors.

“Holy shit!”

I said this out loud, not caring in the slightest if anyone within earshot took offense to my language or my unabashed vanity. After all, there they were, sitting atop my rib cage, peeking over the top of my tank looking perky and, with each step, bouncing just so. A sight to behold. Even the pharmacy patrons had to be enjoying the view. I mean, they’re like Halle Berry boobs. Only, pre-pregnancy and with not-quite-as-ravishing skin. But you get the idea.

Jamie and I have been diligently (and daily) working our way up and down The Katy (I’m prepping myself for Cinque Terre) and after all this work (seven miles! every day!) I’d expected to see a little change in my thighs. And maybe my butt. You know, the parts that the slimming of makes you dig into your bottom drawer for those jeans you can only hope to wear after a good bout of food poisoning. But I completely forgot about the effects those long miles could have on the rest of my 2,000 parts. Like, my waist. And my ta-tas.

Phenomenal I tell you. If only I had somewhere to show these off.

On Friday evening, I will be tired (we arrive at 7AM Friday morning), and a glass of wine or two is bound to turn making it my bed into quite the effort. So, in an attempt to keep an effort from turning into an ordeal, Friday’s London Meet-up will take place at the King’s Cross Holiday Inn bar.

I know. Boring. But you’d be much less impressed if I fell asleep face down at the bar. I promise.

London Meet-Up
Friday October 12
8:30 PM
King’s Cross Holiday Inn

Dear You,

I didn’t even realize you were on my mind until my phone lit up with your name. I smiled, and said to my empty living room, “Oh, hello you!”

I like how it’s almost impossible for me to keep my hands at ten and two while you’re telling a story. I want to throw my hands in the air; one to cover my mouth and the other held out in front of me as if to say, Stop! You can’t be serious! I like that you’re embarrassed to say “sex” in front of me.

“I’m not delicate,” I say.

“It’s graphic…”

“Tell it out the window!”

I like how I don’t have to worry — or wonder, for that matter — what you think about me. You tell me. No one does that. You’re proud of me; you’re happy to introduce me to your friends; you like my pink dress and my hair worn down.

I like how when we’re drunk, we can say ridiculous things and not be embarrassed. I like that I get to act like I’m living in a movie and you just hand me another drink. I like that you know the answers I don’t. That you let me bust your chops. That we grew up, and now we get to be friends.

I think maybe that’s what I like best.

Like,

Me

Ari: Does the Internet know about your first time? Because I’m realizing I do not.

Heather: Yeah, I think they do.

Ari: No, no. We don’t!

Heather: Oh, come on. It’s very uninteresting and anticlimactic… but I’ll tell the story, just for you.

Ari: Oooh, yay!

As firsts go, I’m not kidding when I say mine was uninteresting and anticlimactic. It was, because I planned it to be that way. The story goes a little something like this:

I’d just gotten out of a several month long, high drama relationship with an older man. He was 11 years my senior and a highly experienced control freak. He didn’t want to do the actual deed if I wasn’t on birth control. I had grown a little tired of his charmless ultimatums and Guinness fueled temper, so I said no and settled for everything but. By the time I got out of that mess, I’d come to the conclusion (which, I suspect, will be unpopular with this crowd) that I wanted to do it and I wanted to have no lingering emotional attachment to the experience. I’d had emotional and wasn’t cut out for it. One night, my roommate and I were at a party. I’d had a few to drink, and from the cab made a drunk dial to a friend. “Hey, I’m drunk. Wanna make out?” I knew what his answer would be, and I knew how the evening would unravel. His reputation as a ladies’ man, and the fact that we’d found ourselves tipsy and making out on street corners on several occasions, made it a sure thing.

And that was that.

I walked home the next morning, laughing. It’s a memory I hold with absolutely no regret. And regret, I know. I regret the night that J carried me up my front steps, not because I was drunk, but because I was crying too hard to walk. When nine months into us, he said he was so sorry, but he couldn’t love me. He couldn’t stand the thought of being without me, but he couldn’t love me. That, I’d rather not have experienced. Or the time, when after a night of wildish sexcapades, the man I’d been involved with for over a year made fun of something I’d done in bed. In front of his friends. He mocked my voice, my facial expressions, and I stood there betrayed and humiliated. I’d love to make that one go away. It affected me so profoundly – broke my trust mechanism, perhaps beyond complete repair. Every once in a while, I think about retaliating — exposing him as the Oedipal mess that he is and revealing to the world his confessions about mother-lust. But then I think, that would be mean. And exceptionally satisfying.

At any rate, I understand that there’s great value in the sex/love connection. But I also know the value of sex without love. Or hate. Or embarrassment. Or envy. Or guilt. Sex without anything but warm, naked flesh and twisted sheets. I know it’s not something to build a lifetime of love on, but for me, it can be a lot more palatable than mornings spent sobbing in the shower over lopsided love affairs and good things gone bad.

I think I just fell a little bit in love with the guy behind the counter at Whole Earth. I’d stopped in there for ultra-glamorous items such as fast-drying underwear, a clothesline, and long johns, and somehow stumbled on a cashier crush. Monday, I might become a fan.

Quick tangent: Let me just break here to get into the whole fast-drying underwear thing. First, rock on, you clever inventors! You sure saved me some space in my backpack. But for a girl who hasn’t purchased anything but itty-bitty thongs in eight or nine years, the selection process was just plain ugly. Now, I’m what you’d call a lobster (all the meat is in the tail) and that’s why I gave up regular seat covers in the first place. I don’t like buying things in size large. It makes me feel perfectly crappy. Sure, the store gives off a nice Love your body, love the Planet vibe, but you might as well plaster the package with a bright red sticker that says, “Junk in the Trunk!” so the adorable cashier knows exactly what he’s dealing with.

Anyway, up I went to the counter with more than I’d come in for (a lock, a quick-dry towel, some very earth lip balm) and the tall, dark, and witty guy at the cash register wanted to know where I’m going with such remarkable purchases. So, we chatted about that. About Italy and how stupidly lucky I am. Then he took my credit card, and asked for ID.

“Ah, New Yorker, huh?”

“Kinda. On and off. Mostly off, now.”

“You know, I have to disagree with people when they say that New Yorkers are rude. I think that if you take the time to understand them, and what it’s like living in all that hustle and bustle, they’re some of the greatest people out there.”

“We are pretty splendid,” I said, with a half-smile. “Until, you know, we’re late for work and you step in front of us with your gigantic map and your stupid fanny pack. Then we get cranky.”

Soon, I’d signed the credit card slip and I knew our time was drawing to a close. How could I tell him what was in my rapidly beating heart? Let’s go away somewhere and make snide, perverse comments about the general population. We could share silly stories and very earthy lip balm and maybe you’d let me wear your leather wristband. Ooh, let’s!

He finished a rant about grocery store idiots and stapled my receipt. My heart said, Let’s go make grocery store enemies together! but my mouth said, “Thanks.”

“Well, I guess, um, have a great day,” he said. “And come back and see us. Soon.”

“I think I just bought every provision I’ll ever need,” I said. “But I’m sure I can invent a reason.”

And then I went out to my car to daydream about our very earthy, very sarcastic babies and how I’d look wearing that wristband.

We were in the middle of a round tequila shots on Wednesday night when the khaki-clad stranger took a look around the bar and said, “I’m definitely headed for some trouble.”

I laughed and handed off my shot to Mike J. Tequila and I are a combustible combination, and out with Mike’s uncle and his coworkers, I didn’t think it was the best time to introduce Angry Drunk Heather. I like to save that for special occasions.

When I turned back to my martini and the man headed for trouble, I spied a wedding ring on his left hand.

“Looks like you’ll be keeping trouble to a minimum,” I said, and winked.

“We’re about to get divorced.”

I said nothing but raised my eyebrows. I didn’t buy it. And I was right not to. According to his coworkers, Trouble Guy is nowhere near divorce; he’s just a dick. Okay, they didn’t call him a dick. That was all me.

Sometime later, during the fuzzier part of the evening, Trouble Guy, obviously (and erroneously) thinking I’d be on board with such a maneuver, waggled his fingers at me. His very naked fingers.

“I put it in my pocket!” He looked very proud of himself.

“You’re an asshole.” No sense in mincing words, I thought.

“Have you ever been married?” he asked, leaning closer.

“No.”

“Then you don’t have any idea what it’s like.”

This! This is why the older I get, the less I want to be married. I mean, if you can’t trust a guy in pleated khakis (the ultimate indicator of gamelessness) who can you trust? You think you’re sending your dopey husband off to a pharmaceutical conference, with no thought as to whether he’ll keep it in his pants, because he’s your pleated khaki-wearing man! He’s safe. Instead, he’s out on a school night, taking shots from college girls.

Oh, he’s keeping it in his pants, alright. But it’s his wedding band in there. Not his dick.

Heather: I have a game for you.

Ari: Ooh, fun!

Heather: Guess what I’m wearing.

Ari: Grey or black yoga pants, tank top, and Hal.

Heather: No. It’s so out of character, you’ll never get it.

Ari: Okay, a nun habit and cat o’ nine tails?

Heather: Close! It is a torture-related device.

Ari: A Jewish star, yarmulke, and nothing else.

Heather: Shit, is today a holiday?

Ari: A corset?

Heather: No. A WATCH! I’m wearing a goddamn watch.

Ari: WHAT?!?

Heather: I know.

Ari: That makes it more of a holiday.

Heather: Did you feel it? The world just started spinning in the opposite direction.

This watch thing is a big deal for me. During my first week of my freshman year of college, my mom bought me a watch. Nothing fancy. Just a timepiece to help get me to class before roll call. When that sucker died two days before graduation, I believed it was a sign. I took off the watch and never replaced it. But now that I have places to be, trains to catch, and I won’t be glued to a cell phone, wearing a watch is sort of necessary. Hateful, but necessary.

And, as it turns out, totally awkward. It feels weird. What’s more, I’m not exactly sure where on my arm it’s supposed to go. Right at the wrist? A little higher up? Is it too loose? Should I have a link removed?

People, there is just no end to the list of things I can worry about. I mean, a watch should not require this much pondering, but I put in the effort, because that’s the kind of neurotic mess I am. Who knew I was one Timex away from a complete mental meltdown?

The Indiglo sure is pretty, though.

“Why does it always seem longer going back?”

“Because we’re tired?”

Jamie and I were on our return trip on the Katy Trail – it’s part of our on-going attempt at not being lazy – and the last two miles were really dragging. But I wasn’t really feeling tired. Sweaty, yes. But not tired.

“Oh! I know why,” I said. “I spent the first forty-five bitching. The miles just flew by!”

Jamie laughed, but it was one of those laughs that said, “It’s funny ’cause it’s true.” It might have even been laced with a hint of “It’s a good thing you have such nice hair, or that might have strained our friendship beyond repair.”

Boy, is she a trooper. I may suck at a few things, but that is one thing I do really well – choose friends. Really great amazing friends who put up with my antics. These days I’m a real treat. Either I’m staring off into space making mental To Do lists or going on stress-fueled tirades about the bathroom scale or incompetent customer service reps. Seriously, how hard can it be to find a grounded plug adapter that works in Italy? Huh, Dell guy? Huh?!

Anyway, I told Jamie I was going home to search my brain for something to blog about. Something that had nothing to do with travel or hostels, because the internet, as great as it is, makes it impossible for me to use my feminine wiles (and luscious locks) to trick you people into sticking around. Unfortunately.

I’m not so sure this post counts. But! Since you all have been so helpful these last couple days, let me try to return the favor. My piece of advice: Do not spend money to see Good Luck Chuck. See Superbad twice and you’ll be ahead of the game. Way ahead. Trust me. I do love a good raunchy comedy, but Chuck was just lots of naked boobs without any context. Even Jessica Alba (totes adorbs!) couldn’t save this movie from how unfunny that bad-skinned, so-called comedian guy is.

You know what? See Superbad twice anyway. That shit’s just funny.

I had a giant list of To-Dos to tackle this afternoon (blog stuff, calling the airline, booking hostels), but first, Jamie and I had a date with the White Rock Lake jogging trail. The trail is somewhere between nine and eleven miles around – depending on which path you take. And we thought, nine miles, no sweat. We weren’t punching a clock, so we’d just take our time and have a nice walk.

A nice walk? Holy crap, I’m tired! Turns out, nine miles is a sweat. A really big sweat. I have an interesting sunburn pattern on my back, seven (seven!) blisters on my right foot alone, and just getting up from the couch is becoming a major ordeal. This is clearly the price of getting old.

So instead of booking hostels, I had dreams about booking hostels during my three hour nap. I know I should be embarrassed about napping for three hours, but mostly I’m annoyed that even in my sleep, I’m still working. Planning. Prepping. There were spreadsheets in that dream, for Pete’s sake. Anyway, now that my itinerary is worked out, I thought we could arrange some over-the-pond meet-ups.

London Meet-Up
Friday October 12
8:30 PM
Location TBD

If you’re a Londoner with a suggestion for a location, I’m all ears. Or, um, eyes. Also, I’ll be spending a few days in Avignon, Barcelona, Turin, Milan, Venice, Florence, Rome and Naples, if there’s any interest in getting together in those cities. Hostel recommendations in those cities will be equally appreciated! Since, really, so far, I’ve only gotten around to dreaming about them.

Yesterday was chaos. You can see it in my apartment. Laundry strewn around the bedroom; dishes in the sink – six inches away from their intended resting place in the dishwasher; the darkened half of an avocado, exposed and ruined on the cutting board. I would never waste an avocado! But things kept happening and I kept not getting around to putting it away.

First there was the Passport Freak Out of ’07. My passport expires six months after we leave for Scotland, and I’d just read an article about how a valid passport really isn’t valid if it expires in… you guessed it… six months. I shot of an email to my mom (two heads are better than one) and the Internet research began. And you know what I found? Not a single person, government website or travel agency could agree whether or not the countries on my fall itinerary would let me in. So then, I started calling travel agencies. And consulates. It was truly a reach out and touch someone kind of day.

Now, I don’t want to read any comments (not a one, do you hear me?) about how I’m going to be in trouble, stuck at some border because of my decreasingly invalid passport. I won’t. The British consulate told me they don’t care what people on the Internet are saying; so long as my passport doesn’t expire while I’m away, I’m fine. Same with the Italians.

Good. Great. Grand. Molto bene.

After that, I mellowed out a bit and got down to work. I know I’ve been teasing you with the details of the new gig, and here they are at last. I’ve signed on to do some travel writing for a student travel company. You know those international student IDs you get when you go gallivanting around Europe? That’s what they do. And what I’m going to do, is some gallivanting of my own. Then I’m gonna blog about it – the ins and outs of hostels and Eurail and eating on the cheap. On the Road with This Fish. The blog will be strictly travel – all the other stuff about life, love (and sometimes, the lack thereof) will be right here. Stories about tours and tourists? There. Stories about just what I did with those tourists? Here.

My trip to Scotland then, because someone wants to pay me to see the world, is turning into my trip to Scotland, Spain, France, Italy and possibly Greece. While some aspects of being away for so long are overwhelming, there’s always Tuscany in the fall. how lovely does that sound? Tuscany in the fall. I say that to myself when I’m stressed out over logos and blog design and wondering how Hal will take to living at my mother’s house for a month or so, and it all starts to melt away.

So, while things are a little stressful, they could certainly be a lot worse. I’m betting that whatever the word for ‘chaos’ is in Italian, it sounds perfectly lovely.

I got home from Phoenix around 11:30 last night, then twelve hours later, hopped in my car to drive down to Austin for ACL (Austin City Limits Music Festival). I made excellent time and decided to catch a catnap at my sister’s apartment before heading out to Zilker park. I woke up drooling on my arm an hour and a half later. Some catnap.

Hoping to get in a a little time with Stephanie and Family, I texted her husband Phil to see what they were up to.

Heather: I’m in town for ACLfest
Phil: Adding “fest” to any word makes it fun.
Heather:You should start referring to the kids as “twinfest”
Phil: Start? You mean continue!
Heather: Diaperfest! Teethingfest!
Phil: Yeehaw.

Heather: So what are you jokers doing for dinner?
Phil: Stephanie’s writing…. some would call it “writing fest.”

And a new, ready to run into the ground, inside joke was formed. I live for that stuff. It’s probably genetic. There are so many jokes in my family that have survived years of overuse. Jokes that I will someday program into my kids, jokes these unwitting children will on the playground and get blank stares and probably even a few beatings.

God, I can’t wait to be a parent.

When I was a kid, grown-up importance was determined by two things: you carried a briefcase (god, I love you, Alex P. Keaton) and you went to meetings. If you ran to meetings, jerking your briefcase up and down as you checked your watch every few steps, you were about as important as they came, in my seven-year-old mind. Silly kids. Had I known then that people flew to other cities for lunch meetings and then flew right back home, I’d have rethought that bit about the briefcase. Who needs a stupid briefcase when you have frequent flier miles? That cyborg guy was right. It really is all about the exec platinum.

Tomorrow morning, I’m heading to Phoenix — just for the day — for a meeting about this new! exciting! freelance gig! I’ll be starting. I’m still holding back on the details, but let’s just say it involves travel. And writing. And did I mention travel? To Europe? Yesssss.

The three of us had just come from Girl’s Night dinner in the Bishop Arts District and were holding court at an out-of-the-way table at the Old Monk. It was one of those nights where everything we said seemed brilliantly funny and became an inside joke that we were determined to run into the ground.

Did you know that the phrase “right up my alley” was dirty? It is. On par with, “that’s what she said” and so much funnier.

Anyway, sometime around midnight, a couple of guys asked to join us. Sure, absolutely, why not. So Keith and The Guy Who Hates Sarcasm sat down. Obviously, they came over because of the stunning display of cleavage at the table – we’d all gotten dressed up for dinner in our end-of-summer finery – but ended up leaving with a heaping serving of smart ass.

Conversation was quick, witty and funny and the guys were holding their own (though, someone did leave that table with the unfortunate nickname Goulash). When it was nearing closing time, Keith slid a pen and an upturned receipt across the table and asked for a phone number. Whose, he didn’t seem to care. Just a phone number. A flicker of Oh-no-he-didn’t passed between us girls. A few awkward jokes were made and Keith took his receipt back just as empty as he’d offered it.

“Well, he was sure casting a wide net, wasn’t he?” Jamie said, the moment we hit the sidewalk.

“Right? He really knows how to make a girl feel special,” I said, shaking my head.

“Even if he’d said, ‘Hey, you girls are a lot of fun. Can I get your numbers so we can all hang out again?’ that would have been fine,” Laura said.

“At least then he could be non-discerning where we can’t see. That Anyone? Anyone? routine was just sad.”

We agreed that what Keith clearly didn’t realize was any one of us girls, had he asked us directly, would have gladly give him a phone number. Because until that point, he’d been charming enough. But then… well, I’ve never seen anyone crash and burn so thoroughly (excepting, you know, Britney last night).

Choosing sucks. I get that. What if the girl you prefer doesn’t prefer to give you her number, what have you got then? Well, no digits, for sure. But you’ve got three girls who think you have the appropriate number of testicles, as well as pretty decent assurance that they won’t spend the whole ride home discussing your bad, bad move.

I know it’s late, and I’m a little bit drunk, but seriously, how much do you want to make 23 comments - (Comments are closed)   Uncategorized

Team Samesies was rocking Tuesday night trivia. Between the six of us, we had seemingly limitless knowledge of ulnar nerves, The Wonder Years and James Joyce. Curious about Superbowls past? We had that covered, too. Still, when the MC announced our first place position, we were the tiniest bit surprised. We’d blown that question about Wonder Woman’s costume. And the one about four presidents who’d kicked the bucket in office (unassisted by assassins). But first we were, and as we geared up for the final! sixteen point! question! totally, absolutely certain we’d stay there.

But then… well, damn you Meryl Streep. Damn you for making so many movies! We’d never even seen Heartburn, much less been able to decide if it came before Out of Africa and after Sophie’s Choice or… well, screw.

We agreed that it felt nice to be in first place, even if it didn’t last, or get our bar tab paid. We also agreed that we were coming back next week to set things straight. Team Samesies is going to bone up on totally useless, trivial information and take back the night. Trivia Tuesday is ours. I’m going to surf IMDB and watch lots of television to smarten myself up.

Speaking of, I have to go now. Shania Twain is on my TV and I should be paying attention. I mean, really, is there anybody more trivial than that woman?